Work Text:
"Maybe we should do a Neo Strix operation with me playing the role of the wife."
"Yeah, maybe it would be safer..."
Why did Loid suddenly remember that? The memory quickly faded, but he couldn’t understand the bitter taste it left behind.
Uh, maybe that was it—Fiona was his "wife" now.
Strangely bitter as that sounded. But why?
The routine now felt different, even though it was exactly the same. They did all the same things, with the same breaks, the same activities and tasks. Fiona still had her usual professional demeanor, but she seemed less cold—she was energetic.
Anya, on the other hand, seemed stunned. She didn't properly respond to questions and often had teary eyes.
It was exhausting to look at Anya and feel her resentment. Sometimes it looked like she wanted to kill him, sometimes like she wanted a hug—but most of the time she isolated herself in her room and only talked to Bond.
Casually, she’d say things like, "If Anya doesn’t do this, will she be replaced too?" That hurt like hell. His routine already felt depressing enough, and Anya definitely didn’t help.
He was never like this, but suddenly the urge to drink became more frequent. He’d drink at the slightest excuse but held back just enough not to become an unpleasant drunk.
And why?
That was something he wished he knew. He hadn’t realized instability affected him this much. His life had always been the most unstable of all—but now it felt impossible to bear this damn routine.
Except for the rare moments he had with Anya—the little one didn’t make it easy, so they were rare—everything seemed horrible.
He was at a bar on an intel-gathering mission. He didn’t have to actively do anything, just listen carefully to certain meetings he knew would happen at that place.
But it gradually became difficult to process the information. The alcohol burned his throat at an alarming rate—maybe he was drinking too fast. Was it his body’s defense mechanism trying to disinfect something from inside him?
A scoffing chuckle escaped his lips involuntarily.
Maybe he should disinfect himself from the face of the earth…
What a stupid thought. I can’t be crying because Yor left.
What?
Hm?
Ah.
Maybe the bitter taste on his lips wasn’t from the alcohol—maybe it was simply how awful life felt without his wife.
“My wife.”
That phrase echoed in Twilight’s head, leaving him exasperated.
How the hell could he think something so absurd about Yor?
She wasn’t his—wasn’t anyone’s. She was a strong woman and not his possession.
Even if it was nice, sometimes, to think of her as his wife…
…Shit, Twilight had completely lost it.
Your disbelief should be about YOUR FEELINGS, Twilight. Not whether Yor is your possession or not.
Forget it. Just go home and take a shower. Tomorrow will be a tiring day if this continues.
And suddenly, the word home felt too abstract.
Before, he felt good going home.
Now it felt like the worst place to be.
Anya’s sad face, the distance Bond seemed to keep (Twilight must be crazy and hallucinating—had to be that), and finally, Fiona’s sharp and cold face waiting in silence.
He couldn’t forget the day he came home and saw the gentlest smile in the world—it was enough to make his legs give out and collapse on the floor.
He wanted so badly to return to that smile, those kind and warm eyes.
Back then, the house felt warm and welcoming.
Now it just felt like another field mission.
The house that once was so colorful was now dull, cold, and depressing.
There were days he wanted to hug Anya and cry into her little arms, but he’d never admit that out loud.
He felt horrible for taking away the only mother Anya had probably ever known.
It hurt too much to remember Anya resting in Yor’s arms, while the woman lovingly stroked her pink hair.
They looked like mother and daughter for years.
Walking home felt like a difficult task, but also inevitable, so he forced himself to walk.
The night felt stupidly cold, in a way that made him cling to his overcoat like it was his greatest protection.
And then the crowds seemed to return to their homes—children with their mothers, old folks with their dogs, and many couples...
He never expected Yor and him to become a couple, but it hurt to imagine a universe where they could’ve been one—even if she clearly stated there were no romantic feelings involved... his chin could attest to that. Ouch.
He smiled a little. The memory was sweet and funny.
The song Yor sang that day was beautiful—it reminded him of his mother. What would she say if she were here now?
Then Loid stopped. His face began to get wet. He clenched his coat pockets with immense force. His chest began to rise and fall.
Soon, sniffles could be heard.
Some people looked over, seemingly amused by such a big man crying like a little boy.
Because that’s what he was in the end. A little boy.
He ran, trying to get away, fleeing from everything.
And when he least expected it, he smelled that sweet and warm fragrance—it was almost like the cold night had gotten a bit warmer.
It was Yor’s perfume.
He began to look around for the source of that pleasant scent. And he saw a Yor happy enough to shatter his heart into a thousand pieces.
She was hugging a tall man. He looked young, had reddish-brown hair and kind green eyes.
She caressed his face with her delicate hands and raised on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.
The feeling burned inside. His stomach turned, and he wanted to scream.
Actually—was he screaming?
It felt like he was, but no sound came from his throat.
He was calling for Yor, but she seemed farther and harder to reach.
And suddenly, she looked back at him—but her eyes no longer held any affection or kindness.
She turned with sad eyebrows and seemed to want to ignore him.
The man’s arms wrapped around her slender waist.
That damn man seemed to like it. Bastard.
"Loid, I wanted to stay with you... Why did you push me away? Why didn’t you want me?"
‘Yor, please, come back to me. Anya and I need you more than anything. I need you. I need—’
But those words never came out. She walked away, farther and farther, until she disappeared from view.
And Loid wanted to scream and throw a tantrum.
He’d never thrown one before, but he wanted to—like a spoiled child.
"Loid?"
His eyes felt too hot, and everything was dark. He opened his eyes.
He was in his room, being called by a sweet voice that comforted him so much.
"Loid?!"
"Y-Yor?"
His eyes widened, tears still falling, and his chest heaving. He was sweating like never before.
"God! I’m sorry for intruding, please, Loid! I was going to do some chores in my room when I heard groaning. I thought you were in pain. I knocked, but you didn’t hear! I was so worried, and I—"
Her awkward speech was cut short by Loid pulling her into a tight hug. The woman turned red like a tomato.
"Lo-Loid?"
"Yor, you're here."
She gave a confused look, as if saying ‘Of course, where else would I be?’
He smiled. She was there, with her beautiful smile and angelic gaze.
"Loid! You’re burning up with fever!" Yor said, gently placing her hand on his forehead.
He felt embarrassed, now aware of how close they were—but Yor didn’t seem to mind due to Loid’s state.
"Wait here, dear, I’ll be right back!"
He knew Yor sometimes used that term as a form of affection, but he wanted to hear it forever—like a wife says to her husband every afternoon when he comes home.
His face burned—hotter than it already was.
She returned with a wet cloth, some fever medicine, and water.
She helped him with everything, even things he knew he could do himself.
And it was nice to lie in bed with her, even for that brief moment.
Maybe he wanted that for longer...
Yeah, maybe it was the fever, but Loid could swear he wanted to stay there with Yor forever.