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A man stood before him, clad in well-pressed, olive-green linen. Hanging by his thigh, in one gloved hand, was a pistol. It was shined. Well-cared for. Prepared.
Everything about the man spoke of preparation, of knowing exactly what he intended and why. Cold determination lay in his easy yet controlled posture. A ruthless edge gleamed in the angle of his shoulders, the way he tilted his head. His face was obscured, an unwavering blur familiar only to the unknown.
He did not have eyes, but he stared and stared.
Twilight awoke with a light gasp, disorientated and unsure of where he was. On instinct, he stilled his body, not wanting to alert any potential threats of his presence. His senses soon caught up with his nerves.
He was bare chested in a soft bed, thick white comforter hiked up past his belly. It was of the style typically used in hotels. A familiar warmth radiated soothingly from his left. Now recalling where he was, his body began to calm. He let out a sigh and rubbed his chest.
The cold air was sharp against his skin, radiating from a closed window with slightly agape drapes. Light from a heavy moon peaked through the gap, allowing for a glimpse at the white-capped mountains beyond.
Everything was fine. Everything was normal. He was on vacation with his family at a five star mountain resort. He’d done a successful security check of both the hotel and their room mere hours ago, he reminded himself.
With a sigh, he consciously relaxed his body, sunk further into the mattress, and stilled his movements. He slowed his breathing, shut eyes, and embraced the silence.
After a few minutes, his gaze was locked on the window once again.
A niggling unease, a sense of something not being quite right, stirred his gut, keeping him wired. It had his neck prickling, his skin tingling with every hint of movement. Though he knew nothing was amiss—he was semi-retired, on an actual vacation for once, and in one of the safest regions of the country—his mind could not be tamed.
In truth, the prospect of external threats wasn’t what was truly bothering him.
He huffed, dragging a hand down his face.
It was insensible to think that a dream, not even a nightmare, could leave him feeling so…off kilter. Like he’d stepped from one world to another. From one dream to the next.
The feel of a cold and all too familiar gaze pinned to his neck could not be shook.
He massaged his temples before sighing further into the blankets, stubbornly seeking heat and the rest of his eight hours of sleep regardless of what his mind was telling him. It was all he could do, if his mind would not cooperate. He wouldn’t risk waking his family by being up and about into the late hours of the night attempting to outrun his thoughts.
He turned to his side, and let his gaze wash over the only possible source of comfort he could reach.
His eyes traced the lines that made her. The arch of her rosy cheek, the length of her gently shut lashes, all the curves of her soft form. He already knew her by heart, but every glimpse of her felt as novel as a revelation, and as welcoming as home.
She is real, he reminded himself. This is real.
Yor was facing away from him, her shoulders peeking out from above their blanket, and her black hair fanning out across both their pillows. Her body was curled into itself, likely for warmth. He knew said position often left her with back pain in the morning, and he wouldn’t have that.
Shifting carefully, fully aware of how oddly light of a sleeper his wife was, he slid an arm underneath her waist and pulled her into his chest.
Yor sighed in her sleep, a light smile now growing on her face. Under her breath, she mumbled his name. His lip quirked at the admittingly cute gesture.
He uncurled her body and settled closer behind her until they were flush together. He maneuvered the comforter high over their shoulders to conserve more warmth.
After a moment of consideration, his other arm slid over her hip and settled underneath her abdomen. Fanning his fingers, he began rubbing soothing, hopefully warming circles along the swell of her belly, where their unborn child slept. The likelihood they could sense such a gesture was nil, but he hoped it’d brought them comfort through Yor’s own hopefully improved sense of ease. His wife softened in his hold, settling deeper into sleep. He pressed a light kiss against her neck, before resting his forehead in its crook.
He let his body and breathing fall purposely still and steady. Hopefully sleep would find him before morning, and spare him from that lingering feeling of unease. Of oddity.
Rather than sheep, he counted each breaths as they slid from his lungs. Soon, Yor’s as well. He listened to her heartbeat, until the quiet overtook him, and they seemed to breathe in unison. The silence yawned, like the quiet between stars, and his body was still.
Of course, his thoughts would not allow the peace.
Wisps of his dream returned, murmuring and weaving along the edges of his mind, suturing away his calm.
Tired eyes shuttered open.
He sighed through his teeth. It wouldn't be ignored, that sense of unease. No matter the pointlessness of acknowledging it, it spoke to a truth that burned to look at.
This was surreal.
This was...wrong.
He was sleeping beside his pregnant wife, in a room adjacent to their daughter’s, at a luxury resort with no mission wearing on his nerves. No imminent threat of capture or war hanging above his neck.
It was hysterical, actually, how far Twilight had come. How far he’d come.
His grip on Yor slowly stiffened, falling distant. His body slumped away till he was lying on his back.
The truth was, he didn’t deserve this.
Peace.
Peace with Yor and Anya and Bond and this new child.
"L...Loid..?" Yor murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “You okay?'
His heart thumped.
Yor had become startlingly—almost dangerously, he'd once thought—attuned with his emotional state. Even in her sleep. Once, her knowing eye had weighed heavy on his perpetually tense shoulders. But rather than his lies, her insight had unveiled unnamed burdens.
"Everything's fine, love," he shushed, drawing the comforter back up to where it'd slipped in her restlessness. "Go back to sleep."
With a shake of her head, she turned, shuffled closer and lay her cheek over his heart. It gave a small, aching, pulse. Every beat was a reminder of what had finally found home in its long vacant chambers.
“I know you better than that, Loid Forger,” Yor hummed into his chest.
His chest weighed with guilt. He kept his silence, hoping her curiosity would outwait her fatigue.
Though Operation Strix had not been completed, its ultimate goal had been a success. Donovan Desmond had died, and not by any political mishap, leaving his war-hungry party in shambles. By the compounding efforts of WISE, some shadier Ostanian organizations and natural cultural shifts, political tensions, and the threat of war, had begun to ease.
With bated breaths, WISE had waited for the cold war to finally come upon a spring.
Two years back, he’d been told Strix would become an extended, deep cover operation, meant to nurture and maintain an in with Ostania’s ruling class. Loid Forger would simply be an amiable psychiatrist, schmoozing and socializing with the parents of his daughter’s peers, but always with an eye out for any signs of unrest.
He’d taken his Handler’s commands at face value, like an untrained fool.
Yes, having a spy in such a position was extremely useful, but…he now understood what else it was also meant to provide.
A pseudo-retirement. A family. A cobbled together “happy ending,” where he would not have to leave the people he’d inevitably grown to care deeply for. A position that even gave him permission to love them.
While his mind had not recognized that reality, his heart had. The long simmering feelings between him and his wife, that had started to become unnatural for the both of them (and therefore, his cover) to repress, had sparked aflame quickly when the warding effect of a deadline was lifted. Yor had fallen pregnant within a year.
It had been a rattling revelation, one he’d smiled through while consoling a worried and emotionally overcome Yor. After they’d calmed, and spirits slowly rose, the family had celebrated with cake, listening to Anya, who had somehow overheard the news long before they'd thought it wise to tell her, describe all the heart-stopping adventures she intended to partake in with her baby sibling.
Overflowing with joy and gratitude, Loid and Yor had held each other close in bed afterwards, leaving Twilight to mull over the news deep into the night after they were both (supposedly) asleep.
It was that night, he realized what this was; an ending for him. A permanent home. A home, where he’d forever have to play a role.
Every identity he’d donned, life he’d lived, and name he'd claimed, had been shed and burnt, cast away to nothing once he left. But that was not possible, or even required of him anymore.
A baby, a whole life, could not fade to ash. And what he realized, was neither could Loid Forger. He’d raised Anya as a father. He’d cared for Yor as a husband. For years. He’d changed their lives irrevocably, would live on in their memories in a way none of his shallow and brief personas had with anyone else. He’d live on with them, his wife and daughter, because Loid Forger had not been a complete fiction.
After a few silent moments, in which he’d mistakenly began to ease, a teasing finger scratched at his ribs. “Loid…?” Yor questioned.
He sighed fondly, defeated. “I was thinking of names.”
“Hmm very important,” she hummed. “But, maybe better in the morning, no...? Baby agrees.” Her voice slurred on the final words, and he felt her body sink against his.
A chuckle escaped him. “Do they now?” He whispered, suspecting she may return to her dreams at any moment. Happy dreams, he hoped.
“What names?” She murmured after a beat, voice already returning to the quiet.
One echoed from the depths of his memory.
Following his revelation that the mask had become the man, he’d finally accepted that he would be staying. And following that acceptance, came his fear, and a profound guilt he’d been keeping at bay for over half a decade.
Loid Forger was one of the many names he'd carried, and the only one of three that were true to him.
Yor would forever believe she was his second love. Anya and her future sibling, would never know their grandparent’s names and stories, see where their father grew up, or carry his true name. When he awoke from one of his many nightmares to his wife's comforting arms, or felt as she traced his scars, he could never tell her the full truth of what he’d bled for. They’d never know why he had a weak shoulder, the name of the town where he was born, what he’d dedicated his life to fighting for.
“Abigail,” he finally whispered, as if it were secret. It was close to one. A name so old, it was lost amongst the ashes of classified documents, dust, and ruins long built over.
“Abigail. Our baby Abigail,” Yor whispered before falling silent, sleep likely overcoming her for good. His heart stirred at the love in her voice, the love in the way she spoke the name. He couldn’t help but smile, even if it was tinged with sadness. It was a sadness he could allow, for there would be no witness to it.
He'd have to lie and lie and lie until his death, to the ones he’d finally allowed himself to love, knowing full well of the manipulation and cold apathy that had ensured his presence in their lives to begin with, carrying the knowledge of how they’d come to loathe him if they knew who he truly was. It would be an unending betrayal.
It was a peace, of a kind. One none of them deserved.
And yet—he wrapped his arm around his wife, pressed his cheek to her temple and cradled her close—it was not one he would give up for anything.
He was still a man who’d tell any lie in the name of peace.