Chapter Text
I
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The pink backpack, stuffed with packets of crunchy peanuts and a chimera pajama, seemed to skip on the little girl's back with a life of its own, defying gravity and the common sense of any travel bag. The school bus, a yellow and noisy monster, waited with its engine rumbling, releasing puffs of smoke that mingled with the icy morning air. There was a cacophony of high-pitched screams, farewell hugs, and anxious mothers’ recommendations about wearing coats, but in the middle of that childish chaos, the girl spun on her heels, her green eyes shining with the promise of supervised freedom and adventures in historic castles.
"Bye, Daddy! Bye, Mommy! I promise I'll protect the bus from any enemy invasion!"
She gave a salute, crooked and enthusiastic, before running to the line, her backpack swaying dangerously.
Loid raised his hand, sustaining a smile he had rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror, that smile that conveyed safety, paternal pride, and unshakable stability.
"Behave. And listen to your teachers," he said, his voice projected to be heard, but not loud enough to draw unwanted attention.
Beside him, Yor waved with both hands, an expression of genuine sweetness on her face, although her eyes scanned the perimeter with an instinctive habit, ensuring that no threat approached the first-grade field trip.
"Have fun, sweetie!" she shouted, her melodious voice cutting through the cold air. "And don't forget to brush your teeth!"
The pneumatic door of the bus closed with a hiss. The vehicle pulled away, taking with it the inexhaustible source of noise and chaos that inhabited the Forger apartment. Loid kept his hand raised until the bus turned the corner, disappearing behind the gray brick buildings.
The instant the vehicle vanished, his smile came undone. Not gradually, as would be natural, but as if a switch had been flipped. His arm fell to his side, heavy as lead.
A gust of cutting wind swept the sidewalk, and Loid felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. It started at the base of his spine and rose violently, exploding at the nape of his neck like an electric shock. He inhaled, trying to oxygenate his brain, but the air seemed to scratch his trachea, going down like ground glass into his lungs.
"Shall we go back?" Yor suggested, turning to him. Her red scarf danced in the wind. "The weather is changing fast. The news said the temperature would drop before noon."
Loid nodded, avoiding speech. There was a metallic taste at the back of his throat, persistent and nauseating. He knew what that meant. He had ignored the signs all week: the excessive tiredness after the infiltration mission in the sewers on Tuesday, the wet clothes drying on his body during the twelve-hour surveillance on Thursday under torrential rain. He had rationalized everything. It was just fatigue. It was just the stress of Operation Strix. The body of an elite agent did not fail due to banalities like viruses or bacteria.
He took the first step toward home, and the world tilted slightly to the left.
"Loid?"
Yor’s voice sounded a little closer than it should have. He blinked, correcting his axis of vision.
"I'm fine," he replied. His own voice sounded strange to his ears, hoarse and distant, as if coming from underwater. "I was just thinking about the shopping list for dinner. With Anya away, we could make something more... spicy, perhaps?"
Lying was his second nature, his skin, his breath. He lied with the ease with which his heart beat. But this time, the lie required a colossal physical effort. He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his temple, despite the freezing cold.
Yor observed him. Her crimson eyes, trained to detect a target's muscle tension before an attack, noted the stiffness in his shoulders. They noted that his right hand was clenched in his coat pocket, his knuckles white, as if he were holding on so as not to topple over. But she said nothing. She only slowed her pace, subtly, adjusting her rhythm to his, which was becoming imperceptibly slower with every meter.
"Spicy sounds great," she agreed, keeping her tone light. "But perhaps something hot would be better. A soup."
The ten-minute walk to the building felt like a marathon through a swamp. Loid’s legs seemed made of wood and cotton. Every time the sole of his shoe touched the concrete, a painful reverberation shot up his shin bones. He focused on his breathing: inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth, control the trembling. It’s just the flu, he told himself with the arrogance of someone who never allowed themselves to get sick. A hot bath and two painkillers will solve it. I have reports to encrypt this afternoon.
They entered the building's lobby. The artificial heat from the central heater hit him like a solid wall, provoking sudden dizziness. The hallway lights seemed excessively bright, hurting his retinas. Loid pressed the elevator button and leaned against the wall, feigning casualness, crossing his arms to hide that his hands were shaking uncontrollably now.
Inside the apartment, silence was a physical entity. Without the television on the spy cartoon, without the footsteps running down the hall, without the requests for peanuts, the place seemed vast and sterile.
Loid took off his coat and hung it on the rack. The movement of raising his arms made his chest protest with a sharp pang, as if a long needle had pierced his right lung. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
"I'll make some tea," he announced, turning toward the kitchen. He needed something hot. He needed to compose himself away from Yor's analytical gaze. "Do you want some?"
"Yes, please," Yor replied. She was still standing near the door, watching him. She hadn't taken off her coat.
Loid walked to the kitchen. The wooden floor seemed to ripple beneath his feet. He reached the counter and leaned both hands on the cold marble stone, lowering his head. The air wouldn't go in. His lungs felt full of cement. A dry cough, which he had been repressing since morning, exploded from his chest with violence.
It wasn't a common cough. It was a spasm that curved his body, shaking every rib, scratching his throat, and bringing tears to his eyes. He brought his hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but his body rebelled. He coughed until he lost his breath, until he saw black spots dancing in his peripheral vision.
When the spasm passed, leaving him panting and trembling, he tried to reach for the kettle. His hand stretched out, fingers grazing the cold metal. But his motor coordination had disappeared. Tunnel vision closed in. The floor, which seemed so far away, suddenly rushed toward him.
He waited for the impact. He waited for the pain of his head hitting the hard floor.
But the impact never came.
Instead, he felt strong and surprisingly firm arms wrap around him. The scent of roses and a slight metallic touch invaded his senses. Yor was there. She had moved with a speed that no normal human should possess, crossing the living room in absolute silence to support him before his knees touched the ground.
"Loid."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of presence.
He was half-kneeling, his body weight almost entirely supported by her. His head lulled back, resting on her shoulder. He tried to focus, tried to formulate a plausible excuse.
"I... tripped. The rug..." he stammered, his voice fading.
"You're burning up," Yor said. Her voice She was alarmed and worried, although it was like smoke in her ears. She brought her hand to his forehead, and the cold touch of her palm was so shocking that he let out an involuntary groan.
"I'm fine. I just need to... sit for a bit."
He tried to pull away, tried to use the strength he had left to stand. The pride of Twilight, Westalis' greatest spy, did not allow him to be seen like this, weak, dependent.
Yor did not yield a millimeter. She didn't use brute force, but an immovable firmness. With disconcerting ease, she passed one arm around his back and the other under his knees.
"Loid, stop," she said.
And before he could protest, the world spun again, and he realized he was being carried. Not dragged, but carried in her arms, as if he weighed as much as Anya's backpack. The humiliation of being carried should have been unbearable, but the exhaustion was so great that his mind simply refused to process the shame.
She took him to the bedroom, her step silent in the hallway. The room was in semi-darkness, the curtains still drawn. She deposited him on the bed with a delicacy that belied the strength required to transport him.
As soon as his back touched the mattress, Loid's entire body gave way. The tension he maintained to sustain the façade unraveled, and the illness, now free from the shackles of willpower, took over completely. The cold returned with full force, making his teeth chatter.
Yor stepped away for a second, and he felt a wave of irrational panic.
"No..." he whispered, extending his hand blindly.
"I'm here," her voice came from somewhere near.
She returned with precise movements. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to unbutton his vest. Her fingers were agile, undoing the buttons of the dress shirt soaked in cold sweat.
"I need to take this off. You're soaked," she explained, in a desperate tone.
Loid tried to help, but his arms seemed to weigh a ton. He just watched her through half-closed eyelids. Her image wavered, duplicated. There were two Yors, both with expressions of absolute concentration.
She removed his shirt, exposing the chest that rose and fell in an irregular, wheezing rhythm. His skin was pale, almost translucent, except for the red patches of fever on his cheekbones and neck.
"I think it's a cold... Or the flu," she diagnosed. It wasn't a question. She had seen that breathing before. Perhaps not in a medical context, but she knew the sound of lungs fighting for air.
Loid closed his eyes. The word sounded like a sentence.
"I have a mission... the report..." he murmured, delirium starting to scratch the edges of his consciousness. He tried to sit up again. "The Handler will..."
A hand landed in the middle of his chest. It didn't push, just rested there, heavy and reassuring, anchoring him to reality.
"Work can wait, Loid. The world won't end if you sleep."
"You don't understand..." he insisted, his voice failing, transforming into another coughing fit, deeper and more painful than the previous one.
Yor waited for the cough to pass, keeping her hand on his chest, feeling the sick vibration of his lungs under her palm. When he finally stopped, exhausted, she stood up.
"Shh. Save your breath."
She moved around the room, getting the extra duvet from the closet. She covered him up to his neck, adjusting the edges with meticulous care. Then, she left the room.
Loid was left alone in the darkness for a moment. The silence returned, but now it was punctuated by the sound of his own noisy breathing. How pathetic, he thought. Defeated by bacteria. He tried to organize his thoughts, catalog the symptoms, calculate the recovery time, but his brain was a soup of fog and heat. Disconnected images floated in his mind: Anya's smile, the glint of a knife, rain falling in a dark alley, the smell of tea.
Yor returned. She brought a basin of water and a folded towel. The sound of water being wrung out was the only noise in the room.
She sat down next to him again.
"This is going to be freezing," she warned softly.
The damp towel touched his forehead. The thermal shock was intense, but soon followed by blessed relief. The throbbing headache receded a millimeter. Loid let out a long, trembling sigh.
Yor did not move away. She stayed there, holding the compress in place, her eyes fixed on his face.
Loid opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. For the first time, he didn't see the façade wife, the piece necessary for his mission. He saw someone who was willing to stay. Someone who wasn't there out of contractual obligation, but by a silent choice.
"Yor..." he tried to thank her, but the word died on his dry tongue.
"Don't speak," she whispered. With her free hand, she brushed away a lock of blonde hair that stuck to his forehead. The touch of her fingers was softer than the towel, more comforting than medicine. "Just rest. I'll take care of everything."
There was an authority in that phrase. I'll take care of everything. Coming from her, it sounded like an absolute promise.