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The door slams open.
Loid goes for his gun, snapping it up and pointing it in one smooth movement even though it sends a sharp spike of pain up his wrist, then lowers it the moment he sees Yor.
She leans against the doorframe, face a little red, and then quickly steps in.
“Loid!”
He blinks slowly at her, then glances a little self-consciously around the mess he’s made of the living room. He’d double checked everything before settling down; it’s the middle of the day, so he’d thought it was fine at least to dress his wounds at home in relative safety and a bit more comfort than the hospital.
Well, that, and Loid had been keen on avoiding another one of Handler’s lectures. A little bit of his wounds—and his pride—still stings with today’s failure.
“Yor,” he replies. “I… Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I thought you were at work?”
She shuffles forward, eyes fixed on him, and only just remembers to take off her shoes. An unconscious, habitual movement. He must look like a mess. The large trench coat he’d used to cover his form is discarded, leaving only the clothes he’d worn for the mission, long sleeves rolled up to attend to the nasty cut on the back of his arm. Strewn around are his medical supplies; the little dish of water and a clean cloth, some tweezers to pull out the glass, bandages, and some scattered things he’d dropped when he couldn’t control his hand.
“They called,” she manages. “To tell me that you were hurt—I ran home as fast as I could!—a-are you alright?”
They? He thinks, and then a moment later, ah, Handler?
Yor looks so worried, clasping her hands together and biting at her lip. Her eyes are blown wide with fear. She picks her way across the foyer to join him in the living room, then drops to kneel next to him.
“I’m okay,” he says, but she pulls the water dish a little closer and takes the supplies from him. She inspects the wound on his arm. “The mission didn’t go very well, but I’m alright. I’m sorry. I must have scared you.”
Her gaze softens. She tugs his arm to rest on his knee and cleans it for him.
“You’re hurt,” she says, jaw set. Anger flashes over her—for a moment he sees Yor, the assassin in those eyes, the tug of vengeance—then dissipates again.
He lets her fuss over him and feels a weight on his shoulders ease. Her shoulder keeps bumping into his knee, every little tap a quick if unintentional hello, and as she finishes bandaging his arm he can’t help himself; Loid leans down to briefly kiss the top of her head.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, staying there for a moment, long enough to feel her nod. He doesn’t realize until now that she’s trembling minutely, coming down from a rush.
Her fingers trace over the edge of the bandage. “When I got the call, I was just… I was so worried. Oh… you have another scrape here.”
That one really is no more than a scratch, but Yor treats it with the same care and gravitas as any life-threatening wound. Instead of a bandage, she smooths a band-aid over it; Loid huffs a laugh when he realizes it’s one of the ones they got for Anya, with little pink butterflies on it.
“All done,” she says in a sing-song voice, just like when she patches Anya up. He can’t help his smile.
How it’s possible to adore someone this much, Loid doesn’t know. She leans against his leg, tucking her head into his lap and takes his unhurt hand in hers.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Yor squeaks. “I—what?”
Yes, that’s right, Loid thinks, amused. There’s always one more thing Yor does tending to Anya. Their daughter always looks up with wide, watery eyes, her lip wobbling dangerously. Mama, won’t you—
“Kiss it better…?”
She turns red, but obliges, taking his hand to kiss the top of his knuckles.
“All better now,” she says.
“One more,” Loid counters, and leans down to kiss her.