Work Text:
“Finished?”
“Finished…Anya sleep now.” Above her homework, a fatigued second year yawns.
“Mama is setting up your bed. So hang on for another minute–”
Loid’s attention diverts, drawn to the strange, bolded letters on Anya’s scribbled worksheet. Collectively, they form an encoded message, its cipher marked by the “A” of the first correct answer. He has no idea why WISE would go through the trouble of doctoring papers within Eden Academy, but he assumes it’s to ensure his eyes won’t miss the memo.
Extraction Time: 0600 Hours
The solution turns his blood cold.
This is the end.
He had ensured world peace two days previous, after hours of conversation and varied levels of manipulation of the Desmond patriarch. Donovan, despite all the initial mental blockades, had grown to trust his advisory over a few months of convincing camaraderie, and his next political endeavors have officially shifted from the extreme. But even as Loid achieves his final target within the Eden Academy ballroom, he had somehow forgotten that success is also the means to an end - and more importantly, just how quickly he would be expected to move onward.
New Mission Objective: To be shared upon briefing
Briefing Location: Rostock Port
Soon, he must return behind the curtain of anonymity, cloaked by a codename and endless masks. Tomorrow will not be defined by school schedules or dinner recipes, but the fulfillment of orders, so often obscure.
“Papa?”
His beloved daughter, on the other hand, is transparent in every which way. Concern marks the undefined contours of her face, more severe than news of a Bondman episode delay. Their last few hours had been doused in innocence, with Loid playing the dual role of tutor and nurturer like any normal Forger evening. But also normal tonight is the protocol Twilight must follow - preparation for a wordless departure, without forewarning innocent collaborators.
But here Anya is, embracing him in the longest and tightest hug, as if she already knows the inevitable.
“What is it?” He puts on a guise of obliviousness.
“I’ll always be strong like you, papa.”
With that, their link breaks, and Loid catches sight of glassy eyes before his daughter - though soon, no longer - dashes down the hall to her bedroom. Their family dog chases close behind, ever the loyal companion.
With each pitter-pattered step, more fissures scar the surface of a stonelike heart, igniting foreign pains far worse than a broken rib or a bullet graze. He has never been one to reminisce, but as a tiny form disappears from view, Loid drinks in the pleasant hues of the wallpaper, the faint dips upon couch cushions where all their weights have rested, and the random placement of Anya’s pencil upon the table, itself the host to unforgettable family meals.
He knows how comfortable he has gotten, how dependent he has become towards the small delights of a regular life. They had all played their roles seamlessly, using each other’s acts to fortify their own, transforming imitations into expectations. Under this roof birthed endless routines that would have never existed without his careful maneuvers, yet now, Loid feels like the one who cannot function without them.
He mulls upon these sights and sounds, soon to be just another chapter in his history book, and wishes he could tear out those particular pages. But whether they’re to be destroyed or forever treasured, he cannot be certain.
The kitchen faucet abruptly turns on, akin to an alarm, and Loid realizes that once again, Yor had passed him from behind without detection. Layered atop splashes against unwashed dishes are her hums, carefree and familiar. He knows she’s continuing the tune that had just coaxed Anya to sleep, relegating to the lyricless version more pleasant to both their adult ears. There is just one stanza to sing and a few items to clean, before another typical night in the Forger household concludes.
Or at least, what should've been typical.
They had saved the world - supposedly - yet there are no accolades to be had. On the contrary, this improvement to his success rate only assures that assignments will never cease, and how he must continue to define life stages via a calendar of victories. Crossed out within its pages are not only date blocks, but also any inclinations towards the normal, towards the average: dirty dishes, lullabies, homework, “ootings,” - first Operation Strix, now Family, soon to be stricken from the record, with no strings attached.
The hums continue, beautiful yet melancholy, like hymns at a funeral he does not wish to attend. They draw Loid to look over his shoulder, to be captivated one last time at the wife and mother who had perfected his plans and, in many ways, perfected him.
Had his heartbeats always quickened this much at the sight of her? Or had he always convinced himself otherwise with feigned calms? In the face of a relentless conclusion, his analytical brain struggles, seeking links between chemistry and emotion.
Tonight, photographic memory becomes his Achilles’ heel, recalling every hint of joy they had exchanged as husband and wife, imprinting every faint contact of skin unto not Loid, but Twilight. So many idyllic days shared in harmony, so many evenings of her pacifying his adrenaline-driven thoughts with genial words. Two nights ago, their coordinated steps had graced the dance floor at Eden, drawing awe from the elites of the world. He remembers the way she had grasped him throughout their battle against prejudice and skepticism. Step after twirl after slide, a synchronicity - one all his former spy partners would envy. Together, they had composed the final act in the spectacular starring the Forgers, before the curtain would begin its descent.
Their first dance, but also their last. Tomorrow, she - they - will be no more.
It’s unfathomable, after so long. The way fate had entrapped them within its inescapable web, fabricating an encounter destined for tragedy. Now, he must disregard all the ties that bind, leaving bristles of torment that will never detach, memories so irremovable that they fragment into longing.
Legs haul Loid into a stance, before leading him to obey subliminal attraction. Rather than steps of rhythm and confidence, his tonight are saturated in doubt. It grows as he draws closer to that red sweater, worn by the woman he must soon forget.
Doubt suppresses temptation, even as his chest comes to linger right behind her spine. Careful to avoid contact, he extends both arms, until wrists push against countertop to apply a different resistance.
“Yor.” He breathes the name, one husky word that traverses along her earlobe.
The pot in his wife's hand drops with a clang, leaving bubble-laced arms dangling above the sink.
He hovers a cheek near her scalp, where smooth layers of hair prevent skin-to-skin.
“May I do this? Only this.”
A nervous nod precedes a whimper, before Yor silently washes her hands of any remnant suds. Absolute stillness follows, barely disturbed by a pair of deepening breaths and audible heartbeats.
As with their recent pas de deux, her rose-hinted scent comforts him from the inside out, while her body warms his in reversal. He absorbs it all in abundance, treasuring the final dose of what will soon be lost, this mirage of a life that had given his existence new meaning.
“What do you need, Loid?” Within tranquility, the mirage’s centerpiece speaks, and asserts her existence through a gentle clutch of his hand.
The touch delivers stinging aches throughout his chest. “Just this, Yor. Nothing more.”
The answer sends them both into silence again, but one shorter than the previous. Some seconds pass before Yor detaches, only to twist her entire figure within his improvised cage. The movement is languid, but its effects swift. As her forehead meets his chin, and as her breasts rub generously along his torso, Loid nearly retreats in surprise. But then and there, fingers fluidly connect at the small of his back, locking him in place.
She leans forward gently, until his collarbone pillows her temple.
“Anya…she isn’t really your daughter, is she?”
Multiple shocks reverberate throughout his system, nearly triggering the usual retaliation inflicted upon those who threaten his identity. Her tender embrace, however, manages to tame all his fight-or-flight responses, other than distress.
How does she know? How long has she known?
As he wrangles, Yor drops yet another bombshell.
“And soon, the Forger name will no longer exist, will it?”
Rather than raising more concern, this question serves as a painful reminder. Tomorrow. The initial truth imposes all its cruelty before a second, more personal one follows: for long, he has hoped that at least Anya will keep the name as hers. But Yor, with Briar at her roots, will have no reason to.
But here she dwells in his arms, the exquisite Mrs. Forger with unknown agendas that should bring about endless trepidation. Yet, it is she who has played her critical role with flawless precision, who now fits so perfectly into the crook of his neck, who stars as the sole counterpart in all his desires. If she were a genuine threat to his cause, or himself, Loid imagines he would not be standing here alive.
Quelling hostility for the moment, he enters a rare withdrawal.
“Do you wish to ask me who I really am?”
Yor pulls back, brows furrowed and eyes wide. Despite the penetrating shades of red, Loid detects no antagonism. Rather, she looks on with worry, as if wishing to protect him from harm.
“The only thing I want to ask is,” She enacts a benign confrontation, reiterating that which remains unanswered. “What do you need right now, Loid?”
The words hover close, much too close. Each accompanying breath gusts hypnotic against his mouth, as if they could coax it open and draw out every morsel of honesty.
I need, I need - I need what I want, I want what I have. Your arms around my waist, your head on my shoulder, your lips on my ski–
Loid pinches his forehead, shutting out both sight and fantasy.
No, not this. No more attachments this late into the charade. Restrain yourself, Twilight.
“I'm sorry, Yor.”
His trusted mask slips back on, activating self-protection instead of accepting whatever she offers. Withdrawing both grips from the counter’s edge, Loid takes a wide step backward in delayed retreat. To his surprise, the knot she had placed around him breaks without effort, as if never intending to restrict.
Her willingness to let go proves more painful than he expects.
Before perceiving Yor’s reaction, he turns away, seeking privacy for heaps of thoughts now in disarray. In the midst, his brain manages to determine the best exit plan, mapping out an escape route towards their washroom. The journey forth, however, feels more arduous than navigating the labyrinths of an underground tunnel. Loid’s strides carry ten times the weight, working against forces imploring him to stay behind.
At last, a door shuts behind him, just light enough to not be constituted as a slam. The barrier, though limiting space, somehow relieves his lungs. He rushes to turn on the shower, answering the sudden need to remove layers of uncharacteristic sweat, and scrub away the rest - everywhere she had touched, everywhere her scent had invaded.
Clothes part from skin as Loid repeats the same mantra throughout years of vigorous training. He has always been the model spy, with zero potential to succumb to distraction, without “weakness” in his repertoire.
Get ahold of yourself, dammit.
But he knows, he knows - that stalwart persona has been compromised ever since she snuck into his life at the tailor shop, an imperceptible wraith captivating him the moment she voiced her confusion. Eighteen months since suspicion at first sight, he must now be the one to sneak away from her, and complete the final task of this mission.
Despite new, unresolved misgivings, he had known how unfeasible departing would be from day one.
Loid stills, topless and idle next to a pillar of water, camouflaging himself within the collected steam.
Yor Briar. 27 years old. No record of marriage or divorce.
Yor Briar Forger. 28 years old. Married. Beloved by a spy.
“Loid?”
Beyond his enclosure, said spy’s alias sounds above rhythmic splashes.
He shivers at the tenderness weaved into its lone syllable, so poignant that he craves for the same blessing upon his true name. Like a siren’s call, it lures his feet away from vapors primed to cleanse him of her, and he stumbles - stumbles back towards the forbidden, stumbles deep into that yearning.
Upon reaching the door, his hand obeys an order from his counterfeit self, turning the knob to eliminate blockades that had never been secure.
Yor stands centered in the doorway, expression skewing forlorn. Contrary to her usual flusters, she remains unfazed at his partial nudity, as if distracted by other thoughts. When their gazes connect, her lips open once, twice, but only manage to utter the same word again.
“Loid.”
Steam accumulates at their feet, creeping into the hallway. While their surroundings fog, she finally poses a single question, crystal clear.
“When?”
When will “Forger” vanish? When will “Loid” be gone?
“Tomorrow.” He answers immediately, subduing both reservation and regret.
Yor’s long fingers roll into fists, before joining just beneath her bosom. Those shy lips pinch shut, visibly holding back more phrases of impulse. Poised shoulders enter a rare slump, weighed down by defeat on one side and despair on the other. He realizes then that no matter her intentions, he hates seeing the backbone of their family at a total loss. And in cruel irony, it is he who has become the source of these sorrows.
Loid resists the urge to embrace her, lend support to his unconditional support. Blame, shame - so much has deteriorated his worth in the past hour. The guilt prompts him to reverse, nearly swinging the door shut again in the process. But just in time, she propels both arms outward, brazenly cupping his face like a savior granting reprieve.
The sudden touch penetrates through his mask, provoking shudder after shudder. Before reflexes separate them, Yor crosses the threshold to fully occupy his space. The steps number few, but each carries the same confidence as those during their dance, in pursuit of a target she refuses to abandon.
“Even without a tomorrow, we still have tonight.” The whisper, all persuasion - almost knocks him off his axis. “Show me what you need, Loid.”
Needs, not mere wants; her voice, her scent, her touch, her everything. So long had he deprived himself of these tangibles, that even their manifestation fails to resemble reality. But at his most vulnerable, here she perseveres, freely offering the grace Loid could never request, beckoning his true self beneath years of forged personas.
One everlasting facade falls away, permitting a truer him to come to the forefront.
This him shoves them both backward, soft yet rough at once. Their combined weights return the door to its obstructive state, confining them together in this tiled universe.
Atop the haze now is the clarity of a newfound intimacy, when bare skin presses into wool and calloused hands grip supple thighs. Where he tows her into him from below, she answers from above, and at last, two pairs of lips find refuge for whatever hours that remain.
She rapidly clings to him at every possible part, planting attachments physical and emotional. As he indulges in her taste - sweet, floral somehow - alarm seeds in his mind. Yor registers as addition and addiction, a new drug slipping into his reveries. Its strength proves palpable, for never again will he think of another during pretend seductions, and always will his mind retrieve this very moment, soon to be a mere memory.
Therein lies a conflict, not nearly as perilous as East versus West, yet chipping away at Loid all the same. From the dawn of time, this is all a spy can offer his beloved: a night without morning, a kiss doubling as farewell.
“Yor…” He breaks away with a pained gasp. “We shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.” You shouldn’t be mine.
Hooking wrists around his neck, she hauls him back at an instant, proposing herself as treaty. “Let me have this, Loid. Let me have you, even if it’s just once.”
He’s rendered speechless by the plea, spellbound by where her courage has replaced his lack thereof. It urges him to sign upon the line requesting commitment, giving their pact the term of once. Farewells are delayed as peace reinstates between their frenzied mouths, staunchly silencing months of doubt and hesitation.
Trained hands finally regain their skillfulness, making work of clothes he has seen Yor in dozens of times. His methodical mind has long imagined how to remove each piece she owns, some even as soon as he acquires them from the tailor shop. Tonight, he puts fantasy into practice while willfully blind, allowing instinct to act as guide.
Sweater: loosen ribbon, atop the back
Headband: push backward, from front to rear
Leggings: hook thumbs along waistband, gently slide downward
He detects her helping along, flexing and bending wherever his progress is slowed. The layers upon her soon pool at their feet, lying as still as casualties. Their mouths also enter stillness then, allowing a much needed intermission.
Enduring subpar recovery, Loid surveys not his surroundings but what lies right in front: that voluptuous body clad in black undergarments, every bare patch of skin glistening from a mix of sweat and condensation. Swollen lips part halfway as Yor moves to loosen her braid, and when her hair fully cascades, he thinks, no, confesses aloud–
“So beautiful.”
For a moment, his Venus reverts to her typical self, face flushing the same shade as her discarded sweater. Arms start a futile attempt to cover some reveals, but Loid leans in with careful grips to halt them. His lips change target, aiming for her jawline and neck. As he gives reverence along the sleek column, Yor relaxes into him, dulcet moans and sighs melding together in surrender. Seizing opportunity, his fingers journey up her spine to unclasp her bra, before gliding down to tuck themselves into her underwear.
“May I do this?” The words are identical to those from minutes ago, but present a vastly different outcome.
Once more, a nervous nod precedes a whimper, and he gingerly slides the last pieces of fabric from her most sacred parts. Though squeezed together at first, her legs fall docile, knees lifting one after the other to aid the downward journey. As her most natural form emerges, hands begin to travel along his waist, making cautious dips into the crevices of his hip bone. Loid patiently allows the voyage, giving her ample time to adjust and discover. But when she brushes his growing erection through the cloth of slacks, even he can’t hold back a hiss.
Fingers pause at his zipper, and he nods eagerly before the inevitable May I? ever sounds.
Yor locks their eyes as she tugs the metal tab, a blind, perhaps unwise act by his analysis. But little else matters while she undresses what remains of him, fingertips grazing spots untouched by another for months.
As his cock springs free, his palms swiftly find purchase along the curvature of her naked hips, pulling until they become one seamless form. The drag of his sensitive flesh along her thigh and the softness of her chest scramble his mind, but Loid quickly regains purpose, escorting them both towards the running showerhead with steady strides. Yor follows, permitting the puppetry, her usual strength non-existent.
Seconds later, endless droplets drench them both from above, a baptism not only through cleansing, but also renewal.
Humidity notwithstanding, Loid’s mouth runs dry as he beholds her. Over the years, he has seen dozens, hundreds of women in this same state, but only one has bewitched him to the core. For she is more than a siren, more than a Venus - she is a woman who may know his deepest secret, and all the complexities surrounding it.
And yet, she stays, and wants.
Yor leans against the tiled wall, lashes collecting liquid but never batting from the weight. The only movements stem from faint slides of her legs, the seesawed motions almost toying with his length.
Fuck… Loid’s eyes roll back, but the onslaught of water quickly revives his composure. Regained sight catches a shy yet curious smirk upon her face, and somehow, the expression makes her ever more stunning.
He knows he should be pleasuring her on a bed, traditional and chaste within human expectations. But human has never been adequate, for Yor’s godly like this - shimmering, statuesque, faultless - primed for his worship from head to toe. The shower has become an ally, removing facades and exposing his role not as spy, but as faithful devotee.
Clutching the identity, he arches into her, ruts languid and sultry as he cups both her breasts. Even his vast palms don’t measure up to their ample size, and he buries the groan of realization within another kiss.
She reacts to every touch, spouting moans into his mouth as her globes welcome the exploration. For so long, she had been his world, yet still uncharted are the many plains of her skin, from shoulder curves down to the valley between thighs. Tonight, territories encounter discovery at last, and Yor grinds, grinds desperate against him, body weakened by landslides from a literal deluge.
The same curtain of water unclouds Loid’s eyes, washing away countless excuses he has convinced himself of. Within his very arms are long-ignored truths: that this woman fulfills every gap in his life, that this woman is one he cannot bear to abandon.
But the inevitable hurt of separation looms, and so he conjures up new excuses, justifications in the form of oaths.
I can satisfy you.
For only then could he feel deserving of her touch.
I can cherish you.
Temporary, but perhaps enough.
I can stay with y–
I cannot.
Shoving the last, dreadful thought aside, he lets a hand descend into that valley, aiming for the bare minimum of these feeble promises. As one finger tests an initial dig, Yor’s body begins to ebb and quake.
“Have you ever…” He thinks to ask.
Her eyes flutter open, then shut again. “Only in my dreams…whenever I dream of you.”
The confession doubles as a burst of adrenaline, stimulating him from conscience to fingertip. Fueled, the latter accelerates, seeking out hidden corners he knows she likely has never reached herself. Amidst the swell of her whimpers into moans, thicker substance coats Loid’s digits, blending in with their already dampened state.
“So wet for me, Yor.” He whispers aloud. “So beautiful.”
She responds with ardent passion, shifting every which way to welcome his probes. He accepts in kind, and two, then three fingers soon maneuver her folds like his golden gun, masterful in finding every possible trigger. They tease, retreat, then tease again, attracting every bit of tension to accumulate at her core.
Everything builds, amplifies - and in his concentration, even the ongoing splashes around them turn mute. The silence extends until Yor’s blissful cry finally penetrates through, signaling the first of his pledges fulfilled. Her frame threatens to fall pliant, yet never fully gives in, and she rides his caresses across the finish, answering every last push with an equal, fiery pull.
Gasps fan across the side of his neck, sending satisfaction straight into his ear. Loid’s cock stirs as he digests her unraveling through sound and sight, already aching to replicate it all.
As Yor reclaims stability, she confesses the same state of mind.
“More, Loid…” Comes the bold solicitation. “More.”
Blood rushes to his groin, but rather than rush anything else, he warns her against himself.
“More…will hurt.”
She shifts until their foreheads meet, half-closed eyes heavy with certainty. “Then I’ll remember it well.”
Loid has never questioned her penchant for pain, and he decides tonight would not be the time to start. With one hand massaging her waist, his hips readjust without distinct command. They position him right where other parts had just left in pleasure, not preparing to invade but - as his second oath attests - to cherish.
Slender fingers grasp both his shoulders, tugging them forward. He heeds by pressing all of his torso into hers, leaving no room for even liquid to seep in between. Just beneath this merge, the tip of his length nudges through that arcane entrance, seeking even more warmth than what their steamy surroundings ensure.
The union distracts Loid with rapture, threatens to wither his sturdy stance. But at the first sight of discomfort upon Yor’s expression, he moves to deliver assurance along her cheeks. Lips pursue wet trail after wet trail, savoring salty mixes of water and skin before capturing her mouth in the middle.
To become drunk has always been his impossibility, but tonight, each kiss is yet another lethal cocktail. Within this latest serving is an explicit purpose, and once he senses intoxication overcoming them both, Loid drives past that thin barrier with a firm lunge, stretching her to an initial limit.
There isn’t the cry of pain he expects, perhaps because Yor is too occupied by the rest of him, or perhaps because it suits her idea of delight. Either way, he suspends out of respect, forfeiting control and rhythm.
Only moments pass before she rolls her pelvis, demanding the rest of him. He obliges with care, pushing nearly to the hilt before reversal. Those seconds, though few, become possessed by the sensation of clenching walls. It renders him animalistic, and he breaks their kiss to mark her shoulder selfishly, defying his incognito nature to leave behind visible traces.
Methodology, strategy - all are cast aside as Loid yields to the most innate of movements, burying himself again and again into her tightness. Any attempt to restrain the snaps of his hips proves futile, for they succumb to a mutual need, entrapping him on a path towards ecstasy. At his sides, legs grapple between parting and clenching, until one lifts to grant the deepest access. As he ventures into the most hallowed parts, arms encircle him, squeezing ribs near the point of pain before a sudden release. Instead of withdrawal, the soreness only steers him further, further, accepting her eager invitation to lay claim.
Oh god, how he wants to feel this day and night, the heartstopping friction that renders him defenseless, deludes his mind into submission unacceptable of a spy. But Yor is neither enemy nor ally; she is the Safe House that he seeks - cherishes - in times of peril, the place that promises warmth, promises security, and, when nothing else can restore him: promises love.
Don’t go. He thinks he hears beneath her gasps. Be safe, here. With me.
And yet, she never speaks those wishes aloud, and Loid never responds with agreement. In place, he enfolds her against tile, letting bodily entanglements represent the shelter they both long for. The slight tilt shifts the angle of his thrusts, each slide now catering to spots that convey what voices cannot.
Closer and closer they drift towards nirvana, drenched on the surface and flooded from within. Just before overflow, Loid recalls the lack of protection, the necessity for him to detach and not burden her for life. But right then, Yor’s thighs tighten their vice grip to direct this endmost phase, limiting his range of movement to within her only.
She is trying to keep him inside of her, keep a part of him here.
“We can’t, Yor.” He chokes out. Maybe if I were someone else. Maybe if this were another life.
Within his blurred sight, her face contorts. And in the shift from elation to devastation, he thinks a tear camouflages itself amongst the rain.
Eyes of crimson twitch open, baring her most aching need.
“Then tell me…your real name.”
His thickest mask, made of invulnerable material but already partially melted by her heat. It symbolizes times foregone, never forgotten yet never spoken - akin to his ensuing presence in all of Yor Briar Forger’s days. And so Loid obeys, hissing his truth against her earlobe, an untamed thrust pairing with each syllable.
She shatters, moaning the forbidden words before chasing them with three more. Then repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Her walls cave in, clamping at him at a feverish pace, and Loid nearly collapses from within, a man broken down by his closing reveal and her heartfelt admission. It takes his entire will to extract himself below, but he compensates the void with his tongue, groaning the sounds of climax into her zealous mouth. Amidst euphoria, streams of come erupt between them, spilling across her stomach before blending with the downpour.
The mixture flows away into nothingness - disappearing, as he himself soon must.
Don’t go.
I cannot stay.
A thunderless storm continues, taming their fervor and tragedy with its gradual cascade. Loid holds them both upright, brain fogged by a thousand sensations, but one proclamation above all.
“I wished to give you so much more than this.” He tells of a future only in dreams. “You deserve so much more than this, Yor.”
His beloved smiles, tempering torment with acceptance. Delicate fingers skim across each imprinted bruise before tracking down the fading proofs of his essence, none left within her but painted upon her.
“You’ve given me more than enough.” She speaks with the same cherish he had hoped to give, as if these fleeting things were all the future she needs. “Mission accomplished, Loid Forger.”
==
Mission accomplished, Twilight.
The jarring cry of seagulls startles him back to the present.
Was even that a dream?
Sunrise illuminates Rostock Port, coating the surrounding ocean surface in prismatic color. Afar, waves ascend into their crests, before rolling in his direction. The splashes are of a different kind, but the echoes of each approach, so soft, so like that of liquid plummeting against skin.
No. A memory. Not a dream.
This morning, he walks onward as an agent of WISE, leaving Loid Forger and all his memories behind.
But even as everything enriches under radiance, no scenery here is as breathtaking as strands of daybreak upon Yor’s skin, sunkissed - and kissed by him a thousand times over not long ago.
“Forget me, Yor.” He whispers into the last touch.
Forgive me, Yor. He seeks what he does not merit.
His dearest shivers in slumber, unaware of their parting. Loid wonders if she dreams of him, the unmasked man who twirled her in his arms in that Eden ballroom, and made love to her beneath artificial rain.
Countless questions persist, but only minutes remain. For one night, he had chosen her affections, and to return them physically, emotionally, unconditionally. For one night, he had chosen husband over spy, foregoing instincts to inspect every clue, and root out every truth.
No marriage is without secrets.
And some marriages aren’t meant to last.
Fingers untangle from dark tresses still damp, severing all remaining ties, leaving him broken not in bones but in spirit.
Twilight steps across rigid wood, stifling agony to feign determination. Each plank groans a rough baritone under his weight, much unlike the squeaks of a child’s swing and its unoiled joints.
Through soundless tactics, he moves onto Anya’s room, and finds a bundle comfortably settled beneath her duvet. Their loyal dog snores bedside, unperturbed by the added presence.
My wild, wonderful daughter. Loid caresses a sleep cap-covered head, gives in to one last smoothing of unruly pink. If only I had more to give.
Eighteen months previous, his timeline had possessed two distinct halves: before and after WISE. But now, it sits in a divide of thirds: before Forger, during that forgery of a life, and now, a lonely after.
He treks further west towards his goal, designated by a structure at the end of the port. Its exterior resembles that of a house, but the rest embodies few qualities of a home.
At 0550, he leaves the estate deed - fully paid for, if they wish to stay - on their dinner table, today devoid of the usual breakfast he prepares. Right on schedule, his communicator discloses directions for the extraction site, located just far enough so plane engines could not disturb asleep souls.
As Loid shuts the front door, closes the During chapter, his only solace emerges in the form of a mirage: mother, daughter, and pet, residing happily together, building a definition of family on their own terms.
Those will be decades without him, or the burdens he carries on behalf of this world. It’s a worthwhile trade to ensure their joy, for the eternal fragility of peace requires complete commitment no treaty can repair, from this morning all the way to the end of his days.
A distance behind, the plane that had brought him seaside takes off again.
“Congrats, Twilight.” His pilot comrade flashes a thumbs up as soon as he climbs in. “Forever minted as a national hero now!”
The compliment rings hollow - such accolades always had. He prefers to move on and on, never measuring the exact weight of his successes. But as the plane ascends, separating him from the first desirable reward he has ever known, Loid considers the hours that had been jubilant, the wounds that may never heal, the endmost storm that will shadow him for life.
He enters the building with a heavy heart, distracted by a gut-wrenching sense of loss. It emits interference within mind and reflex, and the smell of blood in the air takes Twilight more than the usual nanosecond to detect.
Ambush.
Two silhouettes lie motionless on the ground, red-soaked suits giving away the danger ahead. He ducks behind a batch of crates just before the first bullet flashes past, its trajectory aimed directly for his skull.
He knows he’s likely the primary target, but no time exists to mourn for the agents who have become sacrificial lambs. Whipping out his pistol, Twilight loads it with precision, moving at the same speed as his brain’s analysis.
Briefing: likely real; Pilot: likely innocent; Communications: compromised, somewhere.
Briefing Location: now a trap.
Gunshots continue to land all around, each originating from the scaffolding above, relentless in their pursuit for his demise. Within his briefcase rest more weapons and magazines, potentially enough to survive by. But floods of noise render it impossible to decipher the exact number of enemies, and without the high ground, everything becomes guesswork for a sitting duck.
Applying best estimates, he engages in a quick turn before draining his bullets. But even as three, then four bodies thud against metal, another barrage of gunfire charges his way, with no clear reduction in quantity.
This is the end had been his first thought upon receiving the extraction notice.
He hadn’t realized how literal that could become.
Don’t go.
So sounded the plea in Anya’s hug and Yor’s muted cries, simple words splintering into a complex web. The strands expand in reach, hoping to tether him to his own mirage, where four reside together rather than three, and no lonely afters exist.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Give me back my tomorr–
A nearby explosion staggers him from head to toe, sucking air out of both lungs as his upper body slams into concrete. The whiplash prevents any scramble for additional cover, and his ears ring, trying to reframe this near-fatal cacophony.
Many months ago, one romantic proposal had been set to the same background noise, marking a new beginning.
Now, as he anticipates a savage ending, Twilight sinks into a somber reverie.
Yor. Anya. Bond.
In that moment, he wishes to die a Forger - to enter the pearly gates under a name that has given him humanity, and shown him the greatest love.
Blood seeps into his eye socket, flooding sight with impending darkness. As senses surrender to oblivion one-by-one, smell somehow persists the longest, and he thinks that strangely heaven - or hell - plays home to many, many roses.
==
“Finished?”
“Finished.”
His hearing captures the exchange, signaling the return of perceptions lost. Though a fresh word within his recollections, it’s not Anya who speaks it, nor does it refer to the state of homework. His sight knows this is not the Forger living room, for it has never been furnished with so much greenery. His nerves know this is not the afterlife, for they recognize the stretch of fresh gauze around his scalp.
As the last to wane, smell is also the last to return. At his side, the kneeling figure of an elderly man is replaced by a standing one, and that rosy scent - particular, familiar - strengthens alongside the approach. A silhouette clarifies in detail, revealing a dress he has laid eyes on dozens of times, unmistakably his favorite of Yor’s entire wardrobe.
Yor, or whoever she really is, crouches down, her gloved hand careful as it strokes his matted hair. Something menacing thrives in her eyes, more scarlet than usual like remnants of a bloodbath, but her touches deliver the opposite of violence.
“Who…are you?” His dry throat chokes out.
The smile he receives back does not withhold melancholy. “I’m your wife, Loid.”
Ah. Yes. Yor. “Yoru.” The Night that all Twilight pursues at every dusk - and will always manage to find. Its darkness runs silken like her skin, the mysteries it conceals discreet like her whispers. Even amidst the luster of this greenhouse-like space, she asserts dominance through enigma and shade.
“What is this pla–”
“This is my…this is The Garden.”
Garden? The Ostanian paramilitary–
“My usual objective isn’t to save, but vice versa.” Her other hand moves to grasp his. “Today, I was granted an exception.”
It all rushes back then, flashes of a skirmish that bridge into coherence. The clash at the port, the floral fragrance, the remedy upon his injuries. How had she found him? Had she defeated what he could not?
So recently had this body fallen apart in his embrace, that he has forgotten about all her strange capabilities. For months, he had ignored, overlooked, excused. This moment proves opportune, ripe for those suppressed questions to take form as interrogation. But such intentions stem from Twilight, stem from his training through WISE.
He asks the question most pertinent to Loid Forger.
“Why did you save me?”
The arches of Yor’s brow soften.
“Because Anya sobbed as she told me where you would be.” Her head lowers to bed level, offering equivalence. “And because even if you left, you weren’t supposed to go and get yourself killed.”
A whole other set of Anya-related questions emerge, but Loid shoves them to the back of his mind. For he realizes right then why Yor’s eyes appear redder: the sobs likely weren’t limited to their daughter alone.
“I lied, you know.” In his pause, she continues. “I thought one night would be enough, that our mission was accomplished…but without you, peace for us doesn’t exist. Tomorrow doesn’t exist.”
For years and years, he had lived each day with no regard for tomorrow, never considering the value of permanence. But her words give appraisal to what he now wishes to afford. Through shared love and mutual wish, a makeshift family returns a bygone chapter to him: during, During, an ongoing harmony with incessant tomorrows, and within the safest of houses.
His eyes brim with redness, before shedding emotions contained for months.
“I’ve been the liar, Yor, and I’m beyond forgiveness.” Regret chases each tear. “You already knew that, it seems, yet–”
A thumb glides along his cheek, wiping away the outpour. “Because you’ve always just been Loid Forger. No matter what you’ve done or what personas you’ve been - that’s who you’ll always be.” Her serene voice trembles. “Our Loid.”
Indeed, that should be his destiny: not to die as a Forger - at least, not yet - but to live as one. By the alignment of all fates, he has been given another chance to not squander everything away. Doubts be damned, questions be quelled. For now, he only needs to understand how to succeed at this mission, perhaps his very last.
“So what now?” He requests further instruction, reverting from master spy to rookie.
“I don’t know. But I know Anya and Bond are waiting for us at home.”
Every unspoken secret falls wayside to this most basic of truths. Behind masks removed overnight, he is simply a family guardian, simply his wife’s devotee. Who they are behind other concealments no longer matter, for it’s who they wish to be that defines destinies. He already foresees those days, when he can trade smiles and emotions with his lover - a princess in black who will always usher them through twilight, fortnight, and into new dawns.
He sets his free palm along said princess’ jaw, declaring his devotion. Prompted by the touch, her mouth opens, uttering the first sound of his real name.
“No.” He halts her before more syllables form. “From now on, let me simply be the man you already know.”
Yor nods, fulfilling his desire for the present, before reiterating a fateful question.
“So what do you need, Loid?”
He considers the only valid strategy, and initiates their new joint mission’s first phase.
“I need you to marry me, Yor. Again.”
No explosions blare around this proposal, but as she delivers a kiss in place of spoken agreement, his brain detonates with a different force. Yes. Every version of her pledges to every version of him, through thunderless storms and sunkissed mornings. With one vow, they mend all severed strings. The threads weave not another mask, but the beginning patterns of his truest, purest self.
Loid Forger. Married. Precious to his family. Beloved by his wife.
[Fin]