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Chapter Text

The epiphany occurred while Twilight was seated at his work desk, feigning interest in forged intake forms and case reports from his 'hospital' and casting occasional glances in Anya's direction as she cuddled with Bond before the television.

The little orphan girl had to be reminded to sit at least three feet from the screen; inevitably, she crept closer and closer. If not properly chastened, she would probably just plant her cheek to the glass as if hoping that she could sink through it, squirm past the cathode ray tube, and wind up inside that ridiculous and utterly unrealistic Spy show.

Children and their strange ideas.

Twilight indulged them as a matter of course.

But sitting too close to the television could damage her eyesight.

Not while he was her father though, fake or otherwise.

Such lax parenting would not go unnoticed at Eden Academy, jeopardizing the mission. 

All for the mission.

Besides, protecting the innocent, especially children - which included their eyesight - was precisely the reason he'd become a spy in the first place.

Rubbing at his eyes in sympathy pains for Anya, Twilight sighed at the girl and her canine companion. The gesture turned into a vigorous pinching of the bridge of his nose, palm over his mouth - which was most assuredly not quirking into a smile - as a quivering Anya squeezed the massive ball of white fluff in an explosion of eager, juvenile suspense.

On the screen, a mustachioed man who, Twilight assumed, was the villain of this particular production, lit the fuse to a comically large spherical bomb and left it beside the bound Bondman.

“You can do it, Bondman!” Anya cheered into Bond's fur as if the poor wretch on screen could not only hear, but be heartened by, her cry.  

He contemplated reminding her to scoot back from the television, but resolved against it, as the show was nearly over anyways.

Hopefully this wasn't a cliffhanger.

While Anya adored them because of their dramatic weight, she did get rather talkative when it came to her speculations and repetitive summaries of the 'so cool!' previous episode. Throughout the following day – or, God forbid, full weekend – while waiting for the next broadcast, she would replay events with grandiose special effects presented in pantomime, explosions mimicked by flailing arms and sputtering, uncouth guttural sounds popping from her little grinning mouth. 

Twilight listened intently, of course, usually, when they were at home, with her sitting on his knee.

It was exceptional speech practice and helped develop her skills at memorization, both of which would avail her at Eden Academy.

All for the mission.

Only a fool would suggest or even think otherwise.

Twilight was all about that mission. Ever on point.

Having completed one of her relatively infrequent shopping trips, Yor had just finished putting away the last of the groceries she’d purchased, and passed him in his chair as she crossed the living area to retrieve a recently-released novel that she had been reading.

He’d thought nothing of it, of course, but an undercover agent remained aware of his surroundings at all times, attentive to every detail and their implications.

Details such as:

Luscious black tresses that had been styled and straightened into a flowing river of silk to frame Yor’s face.

High cheek bones and delicate features, including a classically styled nose and ruddy cheeks that stood out against the general peach perfection of smooth, well-exfoliated skin.

Melting ruby eyes like red honey flowing with sweetness ready to be poured out on any soul lucky enough to be so graced.

The edge of a tan along her arching collarbone fading into alabaster skin in the little hint of the swell of a breast that swished into view as the low-cut, backless red sweater he loved respected in a platonic fashion, which was odd for clothing but nonetheless, tugged forward.

A subtle mélange of odours with notes of clean skin, a fruity shampoo that she worked into her hair during her exceptionally luxurious showers that seemed to run for hours while he gritted his teeth, and that added complexity to the-   

The perfume.

Twilight blinked and ran through that mental catalog once again.

Which took a while, particularly because he got caught up in recalling the potentially suspicious interstitial zone between Yor’s collarbone and stomach.

Highly relevant to the mission. Of that he was certain. He just had to figure out why.

And, now that he attended to the matter, the understated makeup, a certain fresh glossiness to the lips, the hair clips repositioned as if she’d let loose her coiffed mane and then done it up again, and the perfume.

Newly applied. Stronger. More pronounced than they had been before she’d left.

Two hours ago by his internal clock.

Too long even for Yor to spend at the grocery store, he realized while watching her, book on her lap, settle in next to Anya.

Could the trip have really taken two hours to complete? What might have distracted her? What could she have been doing all that while? A burning sensation crept up from his sternum to his throat as he debated within himself.

Shopping trips were, on Anya's request, typically family outings – the girl adored marching down the aisles, examining the various products on offer, and had, recently, taken a strange, inexplicable delight in reading off ingredient and nutritional value information.    

Yor only went shopping when he gave her a list and explicit instructions to purchase nothing but the items so identified, from the aisles indicated, using the photographs that he had cut out from the relevant store's weekly flyer.

It was flirting with disaster, but ever since she had resolved to be a 'proper' mother to Anya and 'do the shopping right,' Twilight had indulged her by facilitating the affair, rendering every shopping trip completely foolproof.

All for the mission.

Yor's success as a mother could only bolster the family's reputation at Eden academy and foster Anya's healthy psychological development as she watched her 'papa' being dutifully attentive to her 'mama' in a demonstration of a mutually-supportive and satisfying relationship, even if it was all fake. 

All just a part of the grim calculus of spy-craft, the machinations of a clandestine puppeteer who slunk and skulked through the grey areas, the grimy cracks and bleak colourless voids of the world, so that others could live safe and ignorant in the light.  

Paradoxically, he was in the midst of complete darkness now as the light of knowledge shone upon him. When the insight finally came, and as all dread glimpses of truth, the recognition was the product of the deliberate piecing together of disparate clues, he took it like a spy and like a man.

By slamming his fist into the desktop before him, cracking off a chunk of wood.

“Goodness!” Yor was at his side in an instant, her eyes unnaturally cool and focused while the fingers of her right hand were crooked in the most awkward of ways, before her shoulders slumped and she scooped up his hand to examine him for split knuckles or lacerations and splinters in the edge of his palm.

“Are you alright, Papa?” Anya was now half hidden behind the sofa, the crown of her pink hair and wide eyes poking out from above the cushions.

At least her concern was genuine.

Someone in this house cared for him.

“We should bandage that hand.”

Not that Yor wasn't doing a relatively good job at feigning such, putting down his hand gently so that she could race to the bathroom to retrieve the visible first aid kit. It was hardly as well-stocked as the one that he had set up in the secret cache behind a false panel in the closet, but, well, she would never have need of that.

After all, his unassuming wife wasn’t imperiling her life daily.

“I'm quite alright.” Anya didn’t seem to be convinced. He tried to shake feeling back into his hand, which was beginning to throb now that the shock had worn off. “And I apologize for disturbing you while your show was reaching its climax.”

“That's okay, Papa,” Anya said sweetly, popping up from behind the sofa to race over to him and clasp onto his leg with a tiny hug, in response to which he patted her soft pink head awkwardly. “You're more important than Bondman!”

Again he was heartened by the fact that someone appreciated him. 

Which did not result in his tearing up.

“Here,” came Yor's voice from the bathroom as she emerged with the small satchel, setting it down on the table to retrieve a pair of tweezers, antiseptic ointment, and gauze. “Let's clean that up to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

As she cradled his hand in her delicate palm, she only threatened to snap three of his five fingers due to accidental over-application of force. He managed to play off the pain as inconsequential while drinking in every detail of her features, committing the myriad expressions to memory, including the pink dusting on her cheeks.

That perfume was a taunt, a provocation and a challenge that had him stiffening, unable to restrain the slight agitated tells that leaked through.

Because the perfume was the issue.

Or the window through which he caught sight of reality for the first time.

She had reapplied it after being gone, he realized, far too long at the store to account even for her struggles with grocery shopping.

She shuffled on her knees in front of him, focused so intently on her work while every faint brush of her fingertips had him shivering. Minute, even puffs of breath washed over his forearm, prickling fine golden hairs.

In a gesture of concentration, her dainty pink tongue poked from her mouth.

He had to shut his eyes.

That seemed wise.

To think.

About the mission.

Just lean back and think about Westalis.

He wiggled his rear in the chair, repositioning himself. 

There was only one conclusion he could reach, then.

Twilight's extensive experience as a clandestine operative, skilled in the assessment of his targets' weaknesses, the reading of all the subtle symphonies composed by body language, left him with unerring certainty as he mentally aggregated all of the relevant data.

He was going to have to murder someone.

Granted, he didn’t know who this savage and execrably odious individual actually was, but his murder was a necessity.

Actually, that bore some judicious mental rephrasing, he realized, as Yor finished bandaging his hand.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She shook her head as if she was being silly. “Yuri never let me go without one of these.”

With that, she leaned in again, and Twilight grit his teeth when he realized what was to come; steel himself though he might, his efforts were fruitless.

Nothing could quite prepare him.

Her luscious lips were soft as they ghosted over the gauze wrapped around his palm and threaded between his fingers, the edge of her mouth catching the branching point of the bluish veins in the back of his hand. Electric shivers shot up his arm, causing his fingers to twitch.

Her lips lingered there for a second, then two, then five, as they locked eyes.

He squirmed again.

A motion that she emulated while on the floor before him.

The spell broke. As if struck by some terrible existential horror, Yor shot to her feet, which had the unfortunate consequence of leaving her bosom at roughly face level. The way in which she then fussed over him probably would have had Yuri running through his repertoire of enhanced interrogation techniques.

At that juncture, with a few assurances to his wife, he was able to return to work, using the undamaged portion of his desk.

Yor, ever oblivious, pried Anya off his leg to rejoin Bond on the floor, giving him the time and space that he needed to work.

Taking a cue from Yuri, he spent the next few minutes doodling torture methods with a faceless stick figure man having the colloquial screws put to him. At the same time, he shuffled his papers absently, mulling and casting surreptitious and suspicious glances over at the pair of girls petting Bond's mane. 

The death wouldn't be murder, per se, as it was more a matter of ensuring the peace and stability of the region and the long-term security of his nation, so justifiable homicide in service of one's country was the more accurate and inoffensive phrase, something like that one fellow had said in “Politics and the Westalis Language.”

A cool, clean, concealing dusting of snow to cover over that unsightly term.

His resolution to snuff out some as-yet anonymous man's life was only a concomitant conclusion, though.

The central one was just as evident and inescapable in light of his keen insight into the human condition and ability to identify and classify patterns of behaviour. All her absences. The bevy of, in retrospect, irrational excuses. The makeup. The reticence he had noted and passed of as social awkwardness.

That seductive perfume – that, just because it smelled so sweet and he was now feeling a mite peckish, left his mouth watering – to cover up the now evident fact:

Yor was having an affair.

Chapter Text

With abnormally vigorous chomps on the plastic stir-stick that he was using to help curb his cravings for a cigarette while out on his morning stroll, Twilight went his way through bustling Ostanian foot traffic towards a singularly important, if infuriating, tobacco seller.

A low fog had settled in, leaving the entire city in a humid chill of the worst sort, with every scrap of fabric and paper growing soggy. Even Loid Forger's traditional fedora drooped, moisture building up under the brim just as it collected underneath the man's arms, leaving his clothes sodden inside and out.

After being apprised of the situation, Franky scratched the back of his neck, staring out at him with a dubious and aggrieved expression Twilight often wished to send in his direction, but restrained himself because some men had tact.

“So,” Franky began, slumped lackadaisically against the wall of his stand while tapping off the ashy butt of a nearly finished cigarette, “the gal who was so hard up on finding a date to a dinner party that she had to turn to your sorry behind is cheating on you?”

The nerve, really! Franky knew that Twilight was trying to quit due to the dangers second-hand smoke posed to Anya's wellbeing. Healthy lung capacity might be vital to the mission.

“It's the only logical conclusion based on the available evidence.” The chill air was creeping down his collar, sending goosebumps scattering across his chest. It soaked in deeper than he'd expected, leaving his heart pounding frantically to try to warm his blood that had gone ice cold. “And Yor has grown immensely as a person since first we met. ”

“Yeah, no. It's like the least logical thing that you've ever said.” Apparently, Franky ignored the defence of Yor's exceptionally impressive personal growth. Twilight was uncertain as to why that dismissal provoked a desire to throttle the man.

Franky was not being particularly helpful today.

“If the possibility of disaster exists, however slight, it is incumbent upon us to act.”

“That's not part of my job description.” The affirmation of his disinclination to render Twilight aide was punctuated by a puff of smoke. “I'm not helping you stalk your wife.”

Well that was just offensive.

“It's not stalking.” Twilight refrained from scoffing in both indignation and a touch of amusement as he folded his newspaper under his arm in a distinctly aggressive fashion that only he (and unbeknownst to him, the Thorn Princess) could. “It's continual clandestine observation for the purposes of ascertaining her whereabouts and activities at all times.”

Franky scratched his nose, giving Twilight a sardonic glare. “That sounds like a you way of saying stalking.”

“Preposterous.” Twilight would never stoop so low as to trail his wife for purely personal reasons. “It's all about the mission.”

“The mission is not getting you laid with your hot wife.”

“That's an injudiciously discourteous way of referring to her,” Twilight threatened, which was less in the words and more in the looming bodily over the diminutive man. “And I have no desire to copulate with her.”

Strange how his tongue got caught up on so pedestrian a term as 'copulate' when applying it to Yor, stripping to clamber into a bed with some random blond-haired, blue-eyed, robust, reserved, suave gentleman whose mouth was going dry at the thought of making sweet, adoring love to her throughout the night.

The near pubescent vocal fry and uptick in pitch was just a result of the frog in his throat, surely some kind of rare tobacco withdrawal symptom.

Also, he needed a drink of water.

The moisture in the air was getting to him.

“I don't know if there's a man alive who wants to copulate.” Franky offered the most ... inelegant leer that Twilight had ever seen this side of a brothel – which he only visited, much to his discomfort, while tailing a mark. “But if we're talkin' about-

A glare and flash of the fibre-wire hidden in Twilight's wrist-watch cut that off as effectively as it would Franky's airway had he not elected the prudent course of shutting up.

A man didn't allow his wife to be spoken of in such terms.

... so Twilight's research informed him.

He knew how to get into character.

“Okay. Okay.” Franky put up his hands in a due demonstration of penitence. “I'm just saying that this isn't as big a deal as you think. Not going to affect the real mission at all, even if you weren't being a weird paranoid... you about it.”

“Of course it affects the mission. Yor's ...” - the word was bitter like ash from blasted out buildings, still flaming, on his tongue - “dalliances cannot be countenanced. Emotional entanglements introduce an unstable and unpredictable element into an already volatile situation.”

“Trust me,” Franky sighed, struggling to roll another cigarette in the moist air, “I noticed.”

“Furthermore, if news of her actions became public knowledge the scandal would draw undue attention to our family and compromise our reputation, making it more difficult for me to insinuate myself into Donovan Desmond's circle of confidence."

With shaking hands, and seeming to badly need it, Franky lit his cigarette and appeared to attempt to inhale a full half of it before releasing the entire lungful in a plume like a mushroom cloud.

“See all of this depends on you being right about your wife hopping in the sack with another guy.”

Uncouth, but apt.

“Which has all but been confirmed at this juncture.”

“No wa-”

“And thus we have no recourse but to find him and kill him.” Twilight nodded in affirmation of his own impeccable reasoning, as firm as dogma, built up on the pillars of pure reason like the metaphysically certain syllogism of an accomplished philosopher in the classical Hellenistic tradition. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Parmenides, Zeno, and Plotinus, despite their many and varied disagreements, would count Twilight among their ranks, really.

“It's the only way to be sure.”

Franky did not appear to share Twilight's capacity for coolly detached logic, his mouth creaking open like a rusty hinge until the cigarette held between his lips tumbled to the ground. As he was quite the generous soul, Twilight afforded him the time that he needed to grapple with the objections of his conscience.

“O...kay,” Franky began slowly. “That just went from zero to murder quicker than I expected.”

“I've had time to mull and determine that it is the only rational course of action to ensure the success in the mission. Men in our position do not have the luxury of emotional weaknesses or attacks of conscience.”

“Let's say that you're right and Yor is seeing someone else. You do realize that offing him is going to break her heart, right?”

A thoroughly repugnant reality that Twilight had, in fact, considered. After all that she had done for him, the eccentricities that she bore without complaint, the sincere sacrifices of her time and her heart, offered so freely to Anya, whom Yor treated with all the affection and attention of a real mother... because she was the little girl's real mother – the one who chose her, continued to choose her every day...

To be chosen as the object of Yor's affections – her love and tender care – was ... a treasured gift.

For Anya.

Who needed that in her life.

And was the only person involved in this situation who desired and required it.

Given everything awe-inspiring that she was, and that she had done, how could he break Yor's heart by killing this anonymous man she loved?

The answer was: for the mission.

Imagine allowing so vile and perverse a person, who wasn't good enough for her, to continue to interact with her! Someone who would engage in an affair with a married woman would only betray her in the end. In fact, he was probably taking advantage of her nubile innocence, inexperience, and generosity of spirit to exploit her physically.

Like a plaything!

Yes.

Yes, he had to die.

Twilight assiduously avoided contemplation of the fact that his mental monologue had suddenly started to be delivered in Yuri's voice.

“For the security of the mission,” Twilight vowed with the typical self-sacrificial nobility of a clandestine agent who would dutifully offer his life for the sake of his country, even in holy matrimony to a buxom and generous woman known for her tremendous sense of duty, honed maternal instincts, and low-cut red sweaters that showed off her elegantly and suspiciously well-muscled upper back. “I will afford her all the comfort that she requires. Whatever is necessary.”

Maybe he could forge a parting letter from her lover to soften the blow. Something about realizing that he was stealing her away from a man who clearly loved her intensely and it was wrong for him to try to impinge upon the sanctity of so firm and precious a union so he had decided to sell off all his possessions and enter into life of asceticism in an far off Abbey.

That might do.

“You're so generous,” Franky replied in a deadpan tone, slouching to rest his chin in his palm. “Probably going to need a lot of, uh, comforting alright.”

“Whatever. Is. Required.” Each word was punctuated with a jab of his index finger into the counter-top of Franky's tobacco stand.

“For the mission,” Franky affirmed wearily, looking heavenward as if in search of grace.

Twilight nodded primly.

“That is correct.”

Franky face-palmed without offering any further commentary or resources to assist in Twilight's efforts to identify the execrable degenerate who had seduced and beguiled Yor, perhaps through spells or charms or minerals that weakened motion.

With a snarl, Twilight realized that he needed to get hair follicle and saliva sample and have them sent off to WISE for testing.

Franky, however, did not rise from his slouch, even when Twilight poked him with the tip of a pen several times.

Ugh.

The burdens that Twilight was called on to bear in their professional relationship!

Clearly, he was on his own.

All for the best.

A spy couldn't rely on anyone other than himself, after all.

He would execute his mission without any assistance whatsoever.

And execute without any mercy.

Chapter Text

Anya was behaving in the most suspicious of fashions. Although children were, as a general rule, nefandous mysterious horrors beyond Twilight's capacity to understand even after consulting a myriad of parenting manuals, Anya took the proverbial cake at the best of times. And as Twilight sulked at his desk contemplated his position and appropriate courses of action, he could hardly consider this to be the best of times. Some eccentricities and maladaptive behaviours were to be expected of Anya due to the loss of her parents and upbringing in an orphanage, but the current manifestation of her fixation on Bondman was truly bizarre.

Even for Anya, skulking about the house to peer at him from behind corners, the golden hair-ties that bounced atop her head flashing as she ducked back whenever he turned to look, seemed excessive. As did the several times she had dive-bombed the spot under the love seat in the living room, propping herself up on her elbows and muttering to herself while pretending not to be observing him in what, for a child, passed as a clandestine fashion with all the subtly of a fog horn . Though physically impossible, her irises somehow seemed to narrow and sclera expanded to the point that her eyes looked like two milky white seas with a little dollop of colour drowning in each of them.

Before dealing with his daughter, Twilight took down a quick note: "Disposal of body at sea – effective method." In code, of course, using a cipher that rendered the message into an apparent shopping list for Anya's snacks, which he would have to pick up to make certain that she had her favourites for school next week. Twilight knew how to make the most of his investment of time and effort. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Three if the "drown Yor's partner in the middle of the cruel and never surfeited sea" matter panned out properly.

But for the moment, that was quite beside the point.

The actual point was that Anya was staring at him, half her body hidden by the door frame just outside his bedroom, hand pressed to her mouth while loosing a continual suppressed noise that sounded something like fufufufufufufu!

While he'd been content to indulge her up to a point, this behaviour couldn't be permitted to continue. She had to study hard so that she could get into a prestigious high school, receive a scholarship to an exceptional college, never meet a young man who would be incapable of treating her in the way that she deserved, graduate Summa Cum Laude from the program of her choosing, and then go on to live a marvelously fulfilling and emotionally stable adult life.

Who knew, after all, how long Operation: Strix might last?

Decades, really. If Twilight wanted to do a proper job of it – make certain that every 'i' was dotted and 't' crossed.

To get a better sight of her, rather than simply observing her out of the corner of his eye, he swiveled at his waist.

"Anya, are you spying-" he loathed the term because it likely meant that her obsession with Bondman was only growing more extreme and that ... hack-fraud-inferior-to-a-real-spy-like-Twilight-but-that-was-just-an-example-so-nothing-should-be-read-into-it hardly deserved Anya's adulation. Fu, indeed! – "on me?"

Although she had tucked herself back behind the door-frame with a mousy meep of shock, his daughter, seeming to recognize that the proverbial jig was up, Anya stepped forward.

"No, Papa." The little girl tucked into herself, arms held in front of her as she ground her sock-clad toes into the floor in a posture that screamed abashment and innocence.

So, that was how she was going to play this game.

"You know that you shouldn't lie," he chastised before he could think better of offering the platitude garnered from a parenting textbook.

Her brow cocked in judgment, provoking a quick sigh. It was a strangely demeaning thing to come up for a spot performance review and be found sorely wanting by a six-year-old

"I mean, other than all the lies that we tell about our family." He cracked his neck, drumming his fingers together.

Her brow rose further.

"Listen, that's beside the point at this juncture. Now, be honest."

"I was just... copying Bondman."

So he had been right!

Yet more infidelity. From his own daughter!

At least this time, he restrained himself from slamming a fist into his desk

It felt somewhat like a knife had been jammed into his gut, which, given that affair in Morocco, was actually something that he could reference justifiably.

That infernal fictional character was the bane of Twilight's life. Swaggering pompous fraud. Suddenly, that vivid mental image of a blonde man with vague, hazy features waiting in bed for Yor was replaced by a similar vision: a masked spy opening his arms to Anya, the little girl leaping up into his hold so that he could heft her onto his shoulders and walk her down the street, her legs kicking absently against his chest as she clung to the back of his head, giggling and pointing at displays in store windows and passing dogs.

...

Clearly the Bondman television show was a bad influence on Anya because it was ... distracting her from her studies! Yes. That worked. And didn't work due to the fact that it was a threat to the mission.

Just as he was about to jot down another coded note to that effect, this time taking the form of a reminder to escort Bond to the groomer so that he would smell nice and fresh for Anya to cuddle as learning to care for animals fostered stable emotional development and empathy – and that certainly wouldn't be encouraged at that woefully elitist Osterian Academy – he was distracted by the stomp and shuffle of feet.

"Papa!" came a gasp of shock and awe which caused him to turn back to the little girl who was offering him a sly look that hardly befit so innocent and tiny a child. "You're so jealous."

Twilight was utterly baffled as to what might have given her that ridiculous notion.

Children and their wild imaginations.

Evidently, she had misread the scant visual signals of his professional indignation for some kind of tawdry enviousness, unbefitting of a cool and collected professional such as Twilight, master spy of the Westalian nation and in every way Bondman's superior.

Especially when it came to his daughter's adulation and respect. .

“It's not a matter of jealousy.” The very idea had Twilight steepling his fingers together in front of him, leaning forward with his elbows planted on his thighs to gaze out at the shell-shocked Anya. “It's- it's just that you... your technique needs work.”

Yes. That was entirely it. A matter, again, of professional pride.

Apparently, his stooped, contemplative posture was disturbing her, so abandoning his chair, he knelt to the floor in front of his daughter while attempting to plaster a smile on his face.

“You cannot attempt to hide so obviously if you want to be an effective clandestine observer.”

Anya cocked her head, starting to rock backwards and forwards on her feet. “What's that mean?”

“It means,” Twilight explained, “that a good spy knows how to hide.”

Her eyes grew wide once again, though not half as broad as the grin that burst on her face like an absolutely darling – dazzling! Dazzling firework.

That didn't seem much better than darling in retrospect.

“Are you going to teach me how to be a spy?!” her enthusiastic holler rang through the apartment. Fortunately no one else was in range of hearing it. All that was necessary to confirm that to his satisfaction was a quick mental calculation that took into account decibel levels, relative positions, and the acoustic properties of common building materials.

Was he going to teach her how to be a spy, though? That was actually a genuinely good question. While Twilight was more than proud of his very particular set of skills; skills he had acquired over a very long career; skills that made him a nightmare for people like the man who was having an affair with Yor, whom he would look for, would find, and would kill, Twilight hardly wished for Anya to follow in his footsteps. Still, he mulled as he contemplated the eager expression on her face, lips spread wide in a grin that revealed her baby teeth, better that she learn from him than... Bondman.

Twilight, at least, knew what he was doing.

“A few pointers,” he elaborated with some reluctance that her enthusiastic hopping was eroding away. “That's all.” A cough rattled in his throat. “Based on, uh, mature spy fiction. From novels that I've read.”

“Ooooh!” Her tiny fists shook in the air, the girl vibrating with joy. “I take it back, Papa! You're not jealous. You're really kind!”

Now that was a lie, of course. This was entirely a matter of professional pride.

“Come with me to the window, and pay careful attention.” To ensure that she heeded his hortative, he hefted her up into his arms to carry her to the office window. Her hands clutched at the fabric over his shoulders in a warm hug that was so forceful that he could feel the pressure of it lancing downwards through his skin, collar bone, and rib-cage. All the way to his heart that felt as if it was being compressed.

As if she was holding it in her little arms and embracing it directly.

Must have been something that he ate.

“What do you see?” he asked as they arrived at the window.

Anya turned her head to gaze out at the street beyond, populated by a half dozen individuals of varying ages, and a red Chevy Bel Air parked directly across the way.

“Uh, I see some people and a car.”

Somewhat simplistic.

“Mm. What's the first thing that you see,” Twilight asked. “The first person?”

Anya considered for a moment, one hand slipping from Twilight's shoulder so that she could tap a finger to her mouth.

“Uh- that man, over there!” She pointed out a six-foot-one brunette in slightly tatty casual dress that suggested he earned approximately a thousand Dalcs a year, and who had clearly suffered a right anterior cruciate ligament injury around three years ago given his gait. He was jogging with a three year old Rottweiler who weighed between one-hundred and one-hundred-and-five pounds and appeared to be of mixed stock, likely from a puppy mill.

“He has a really cute doggie,” Anya continued. “I bet he'd like to play with Bond.”

“Ah, so you noticed him because he's unique. There's something obviously different about him.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You see,” Twilight continued in a gentle tone, far different from that which he'd use with a trainee if ever he was confined to desk-work or a teaching job at the WISE academy, “that's the trick.”

“What trick?”

“A spy shouldn't stand out in any way.” He drew her attention back to him by side-stepping away from the window, the little girl still and attention rapt. “Now, you have an advantage, Anya, because you're a child.”

“Being a kid's a good thing?”

“In a way,” Twilight granted while attempting to condense down the concept for a child raised on the pablum of mass media like Spy Wars. “You see, a child can act in ways that adults can't. Can go places that an adult can't. No one thinks it strange if a child begins mimicking an adult, or trailing after him or her. It's just a game, but for an adult, uh, playing spy, he wouldn't want people to know that he's being silly.”

“Being a spy is the coolest thing in the world,” Anya insisted, apparently baffled, “except maybe for being an assassin! It's not silly.”

Well, there was another reason that Twilight had to murder commit justifiable homicide in service of his country by killing assassinate Yor's lover.

For some reason, he had difficulty determining the way in which that shift in terminology actually comported with his avowed aim: the successful completion of his mission. Anya had a tendency to distract him. He'd figure it out later.

“That's not quite what I mean. A spy doesn't want to be seen, so he has to take steps not to hide, but to blend in.” Twilight jerked his chin back towards the man and sleek canine companion, who was now rounding the far street corner. “You want people to perceive you, but not see you. In many ways, that's the natural advantage that a child has over an adult.”

“But that doesn't really sound cool,” Anya objected with a pout. “I mean, Bondman never takes off his mask. It's what makes him a secret spy. Everyone knows who he is. He looks really cool with his tench-coat and hat and mask!”

“Well, that's the problem. Wearing a mask might help if you're discovered, but the best mask is perfect anonymity.”

“Am-nom-niminy?” Anya bit her lower lip as if chastising it for failing to form the right shape to produce the word properly, but Twilight only hefted her up higher.

“It means that people don't know who you are so you can hide right in plain sight.” He offered her a headpat for her efforts, shifting the forearm under her butt to bear more of her weight.

That appeared to be genuinely confusing for the little girl. He should have done a better job of simplifying.

“But if people don't know who you are, how can they thank you for being a hero?” she asked in a rush, perhaps a burst of confidence or bottled emotion.

“Spies aren't heroes,” Twilight explained simply. It was a fact that he had long accepted when he'd outgrown childish visions of service to his country – a soldier's uniform and medals pinned to his chest. Twilight would never receive a funeral with honours when – not if – his luck finally ran out. He would just disappear, fade like a dream as even his legend in the intelligence community wafted away with the gentlest of breezes. “They don't get to be. They have to remain anonymous or ... or people they care about might get hurt. Or their mission could fail.”

“Oh.” Anya mulled over the matter for a moment, an odd air of contemplative ennui radiating from her furrowed brow as the gears turned in her brain. Children were... mysterious horrors, but that expression of concentration, as if the world hung in the balance of her thoughts, was really rather adorable.

Even Twilight had to admit that.

Objectively.

To other people.

Who were affected by such things.

At last coming to some form of resolution, though Twilight knew not what that could be, Anya clutched at him more tightly

“I'm glad that you're not a spy, papa,” she said with a firm and strangely sagacious tone much like the one she'd used to so earnestly declare her love for Loid and Yor when they underwent the entrance interview at Eden.

Still a shot to the heart, but Anya wasn't done.

“Because you took me home, and were a better papa than anyone else. Lots of people tried, but they gave up.” Her hand, soft and gentle and smaller than his palm, rose to his cheek, and the little girl beamed up at him.

“You're my hero, papa.”

Something like an old mass of scar tissue from a knife-wound, the blade having been deflected by a rib away from vital organs, shifted inside of his chest as the girl looked up at him, her expression stern and grave.

Children's emotions were mercurial and incomprehensible, so there was no real way to understand them no matter how many parenting manuals and child psychology textbooks he read, but in that instant, Twilight was only struck by a vaguely nostalgic impression of fellow-feeling or sympathy that pressed against the boundaries of his skull, squeezing out thought.

“Uh-” He glanced away from those piercing little eyes back towards the window, the living room, his papers, the desktop clock, anything else, though everything that he looked at misted and he struggled to find both the words to deflect and the air he needed to speak. “Your... your mother should be home in about a half an hour... so go wash up and you can help me make dinner.”

“ Oooh , it's laze-on-ya night!” Anya barked, wriggling in his arms until he was forced to set her down so that she could scamper off to the bathroom.

He'd prepared the fresh pasta and homemade tomato sauce earlier in the day, so preparation and baking shouldn't take too long. It wasn't as if he was going to subject his daughter to the store-bought stuff.

Halfway out the door to his bedroom, Anya apparently thought better of her haste, even before Twilight could correct her because she might slip and hurt herself racing about like that. The girl spun around in one fluid motion and then raced back towards him, her arms outstretched in clear demand for him to bend over again, which he did as if following orders from the Queen of Westalis herself. Even if she was only a figurehead, he had some sense of national pride.

“I love you, Papa!” With that, the girl threw her arms around his neck and pecked his cheek, which, despite Twilight's reserve and composure as a spy, had him hugging her back shakily... just to keep up appearances for his audience.

Of Anya.

... It was good practice.

As if utterly unaffected, Anya merely skipped off towards the living room while Twilight pressed a finger to his face tentatively. It was so reminiscent of those times on street corners when Twilight had witnessed a little girl running down the sidewalk to greet her real father before leaping into his arms, both overcome with giggles because papa was home from work!

Twilight coughed to clear something stinging in his throat, though that did nothing for his eyes. He really had to clean the apartment more thoroughly.

It was obviously dusty in here.

He craned his neck backwards to stare at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to try to clear away the irritation.

“And don't worry, Papa!” Anya called, voice bubbly with glee, from the other room. “Mamma loves you too!”

At that, Twilight's mood fell as he slumped back into his work chair.

Preposterous.

He wiped at his nose with the back of his wrist, an uncouth gesture that he was fortunate Anya was not here to see.

If Yor loved him – No. If he'd played the role of husband better. Done better. Been better. She wouldn't be having an affair.

No matter, Twilight resolved as he returned to his plans, more certain in his convictions than ever before as he set into finalizing his clandestine observation of Yor schedule. If Operation Strix fell through, Anya would- would have to sent back to an orphanage, and Yor... Yor would live with the stigma of being abandoned by her husband. While her infidelity may have violated the sanctity of their marital bond that was still sacrosanct even though they'd both made a mockery of it in the first place with their fake-but-legally-binding nuptial of convenience, Yor deserved better than the scorn she'd likely receive from those harridans and harpies at City Hall.

The mission couldn't be allowed to fail!

His nation, his agency, his fellow agents at WISE, countless innocent citizens and soldiers who would suffer from a protracted war, and Anya and Yor were depending on it.

Expression cool and detached, creating an aura of malice only emphasized by an icy blue stare down at his tabletop, Twilight jabbed a knife-sharp pencil into the coded list of body-disposal methods.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Agent Nightfall, in accordance with the values inculcated into her when she first became embroiled in spycraft, appreciated decorum and precision above all else. Stoic reserve served her well in any situation from cordial dalliances on dance floors and verbal sparring at soirees among the Ostanian elite, to frenetic shootouts with members of an organized crime ring, the taste of sulfur and copper on her lips as she engaged in a running gun-battle, scrambling to reach a getaway vehicle.

In the smokey-dark confines of one of WISE's hidden rooms, buried beneath the innocuous façade of a psychiatric hospital in Berlint, that same penchant for calm and poise served her well once again. The exchange unfolded precisely as Agent Nightfall had envisioned in her dreams a thousand times before. It was perfect down to the smallest detail of Twilight's olive-green suit jacket, pressed with those fine starched creases she adored, to the gleam of his cuff-links and the faint scowl across his lips that made him appear every bit the man she could recall from their training sessions when she was a initiate in WISE.

Proper. Capable. Assured. Dominant.

Even on his knees. 

A position which she had, honestly, pictured him occupying for myriad reasons over the years – with his hands clasped before him in supplication. Quite frankly, he was utterly gorgeous in an icy refined fashion that nearly had her swooning, were she not well above such things.

“I should have listened to you when you tried to warn me,” he began with a smooth confidence that belied his prostrate position, shuffling forward an inch across the tile floor.

To encourage him to rise because she liked a tall man, Nightfall extended a hand to help him to his feet. Having used underhanded tactics herself when on mission, she recognized that the skillful wiles of a woman, who had clouded his mind and atrophied his capacity for good judgment, were more than even the most respected spy in Westalis could hope to resist.

A flicker of gratitude flashing across his face was all that two consummate professionals such as them required. Merely that was enough to say everything that was required between them, kindred spirits, a man and woman who had been forged of cold iron. The perfect Ice King and Queen to complete Operation Strix together once they displaced that conniving and duplicitous wife of his.

Effortlessly despite his greater bulk, she hefted him upwards, savouring the kiss of his palm in hers (which she might not wash again), until he stood before her. The additional foot of height that he had on her and the breadth of his shoulders, enhanced by the tailored jacket that strained across his muscled shoulders rendered her positively minuscule in compare, but that was a proper balance that called to mind the way his chest had felt against her back when he tackled her to the ground and took a bullet for her, his body hot and heavy atop her, driving her into the floor hard just as she needed.

The fact that it was a rubber bullet didn't diminish the romanticism of that act.

“It's quite alright, Twilight,” Nightfall assured him as she stroked a thumb over the back of his knuckles in an effort to soothe him, her expression still properly deadpan. “Together, we will be able to remove your wife and ensure that Operation Strix is an unqualified success.”

“No.” His head shook with unexpected violence, her mentor losing control all for her! “It's not acceptable. I allowed myself to become emotionally compromised.”

“A craven harlot such as that woman," Nightfall spat, lacing her fingers with Twilight's and giving him a squeeze as she marveled at the size of those warm hands that had actually seen a manicure more recently than hers by all appearances, “who insinuated herself into your life and took advantage of your injured state to extract a proposal of marriage from you, has wiles that could overcome any man.”

“No, Nightfall,” Twilight assured, his blue eyes like crystalline icy sapphires melting in the same way that the burgeoning heat inside their depths threatened to thaw the frosty sinews of Nightfall's heart. Said heart began to jackhammer inside her breast. “It's not her.”

Were it not for the years of impeccable training she had received from her senpa- uh, mentor, Nightfall might have been staggered by the sheer sincerity dripping from his tone.

“W-what do you mean?” she gasped.

“I could never have feelings for such a loose and inelegant woman,” he assured in return.

“Then-”

“It was you!” Twilight slapped the back of his hand to his forehead, turning towards the wall in a dramatic expression of emotionalism that Nightfall had never imagined her beloved mentor capable of.

“Me?” She clutched his hand in both of hers, almost incapable of believing that at last her equal, her Twilight, the man who inspired her to become a spy, devoting her life to personal excellence just so she could prove herself worthy of him, was finally acknowledging the throbbing biological and emotional urges that neither of them could ever hope to restrain even a moment longer.

“Yes! You! I had to be away from you, for my love was too great.” Even as he spoke, his voice hoarse with emotion, she had to bite down on her tongue to restrain it from attempting to silence him by penetrating his mouth. No interrupting the confession - everything that she'd ever dreamed! “I knew that were you to become my wife, it would be impossible for me to give you up no matter what happened! I would abandon our nation to run off with you!”

Such a self-sacrificial man - the consummate professional with whom to consummate a fake marriage, surely – breaking down like this all because of heady emotions too potent for him to endure or express!

This couldn't be allowed to stand any longer! Not when Yor had imperiled the entire future of both their nations!

“But for our nation,” Nightfall insisted as she clutched at his lapel, just restraining herself from giving him a good and solid grope – merely to affirm that he was incredibly sexually attractive and any woman would be delighted to have her way with him, healing the wounds Yor had inflicted on his heart and bolstering his pride as a man and a spy, “it must be done!”

“I see that now.” His voice was so contrite that it made her weak at the knees. Her! “Even if it means that we will have to remain together forever, with you raising Anya and all of our children with a firm hand so that they can become productive members of society rather than the indolent parasites that Yor would have reared in her image, and then retiring with me to a tropical island whereon we'll live out our Twilight years reminiscing over past adventures and laughing at the memory of the foolish woman who thought she could interpose herself between us!”

“Then marry me, my darling!” For some reason, and in a fashion that was vague and indefinable, this proposal was accompanied by Nightfall ripping off Twilight's shirt.

Well, one of the reasons was clear.

“My dear!” Twilight crowed, clutching her to his breast so that her cheek smooshed up to the robust curve of his pectoral.

“My heart!” she mumbled into muscle before turning up her face as he repositioned her, leaning in for a kiss with puckered pink lips.

“My-”

“Nightfall!”

With a start of shock, Agent Nightfall glanced up from the table, covered by notes, diagrams, and a strangely specific and detailed list of execution strategies that were as terrifying as they were ingenious.

With a few blinks to clear away the fuzz, her glazed eyes refocused on the passive features of her former mentor, Agent Twilight. In his hand, he held a notepad whereon he was still absently jotting down observations, working on compiling an appropriate itinerary for ... stalking his wife? That appeared to be the coded heading to his chicken scratch code. One arching golden brow was cocked in a display of either sardonic amusement or somehow judgmental indifference.

In an attempt to redirect his attention away from the faintest of blushes that prickled over her cheeks and the frantic beating of her heart, she shuffled about the documents on her desk, reviewing the assembled data points.

“Yes, Twilight?” she coughed while picking up one photograph, taken by way of a pinhole camera, depicting Yor in her nightgown. Vicious, jagged circles of red and black ink peppered the image of her body, and were accompanied by quasi-manic handwriting detailing speculations regarding possible signs of sexual intercourse or other intimate activities such as blemishes, suspicious bruising around her thighs – Nightfall had to pause to stare at those for a minute because even she had to admit that those were leg-goals right there - and hips, or love bites.

Unsolicited boudoir photography?

It was really rather romantic.

“What do you think of the evidence that I've accumulated and the plan that has been devised?” Twilight pressed.

The plan, such as Nightfall could discern as she shuffled through the collection of notes that had been presented to her, didn't extend particularly far beyond continual clandestine observation of his wife in order to determine her whereabouts and activities at all times, which, given manpower limitations, did seem somewhat impractical, if effective.

Still, a good spy didn't allow an opportunity to go to waste.

“The evidence is incontrovertible.” Really it was rather threadbare, but suspicion from a man as brilliant as Twilight was all the proof that she needed to start arranging a firing squad. If they executed people for infidelity. The SSS really had to start doing a better job at being a nefarious and oppressive secret police force that operated at the whims of a corrupt nation's ruling elite.

Letting women take control of their own sexuality like that. Sloppy for a totalitarian dictatorship.

“Your wife is cheating on you.”

Much as she might have regretted the tinge of sorrow that was surely professional aggravation as a result of his sham-wife's disruption of his mission when she had already proven to be such a burden – the woman couldn't even cook or shop for goodness' sake – the truth really had to come out. If Twilight believed it, it had to be true. Plus, he deserved a better wife. One who was properly trained and compatible, capable of assisting in his duties at the hospital, his mission by way of logistical support, and at home with a daughter who was clearly being allowed to run wild by his incompetent wife who probably got drunk during the day – Nightfall knew how easy that was for her – and prostituted herself at night.

Actually, whoredom was a distinct possibility, Nightfall realized as she stood from her chair, collecting a few pieces of the choicest evidence so that she could carry them over to a cork-board affixed to the wall and begin arranging them. That had been Yor's profession prior to her taking on a position at City Hall.

“Have you spoken with our handler about requisitioning resources?” She tapped a finger against Yor's bosom in the bedroom photograph as if attempting to judge their weight, and restrained a scowl as she came up… small. No matter. Any woman looked like she had impressive attributes if she was wearing something like that . 

With a final few strokes of his pen, Twilight set down his notepad, rubbing at what appeared to be weary eyes. That bitch had done this to him. Rather than alleviating his burdens, creating a safe home environment both emotionally and physically through the construction of myriad booby-traps for intruders and hidden weapon caches throughout their well-maintained home, Yor had added to his troubles!

“I did, submitting an eighty page report on the resources that would be required.”

“What kind of task-force do we have?” she asked as she contemplated various deployment strategies. It wouldn't be too difficult to sneak another operative into City Hall. “How many agents?”

Mournfully, Twilight shook his head as he joined her at the cork-board, pinning a photograph of Yor with Anya in her lap, the little girl's palms on her adoptive mother's cheeks, pinching them playfully.

“She denied my request.” His voice was a strangely wistful sigh. Really, he should have been utterly outraged by Handler's refusal. Imagine, letting down their best agent in his time of greatest need!

“When something as vital as Operation Strix is at stake?” Nightfall asked with barely restrained incredulity. Of course, all the better since the refusal forced Twilight to come to her for assistance. She was the only one worthy of working alongside him, after all, and this situation, simply gifted to her by his unfaithful wife who had no idea how thoroughly blessed she was as she squandered Twilight's generosity, was yet another chance to prove it.

“Her exact words were 'get out of my office.'”

Nightfall's nose scrunched up for merely an instant before she tamped down on the reaction. 

“That's it?”

“In stunned silence at the depth of my preliminary investigation, she did allow me to complete my full ten minute presentation,” Twilight granted as he contemplated the situation in a fashion that made him look stern and studious, which was a very appealing look, conjuring a few other visions wherein Nightfall had been on her knees rather than Twilight. “I even included the slide-show that I shared with you earlier.”

Well, the slides had been quite convincing.

“And that was how she responded? No analysis. No reasoning?” Obviously, spies were required to operate in the dark, compartmentalization of information vital to any intelligence operation so that a single captured agent couldn't compromise the entire organization. Was it possible that their Handler had some extensive Machiavellian plot in mind, pulling a dozen different gleaming silver spider-treads like razor-sharp piano wires, all ready to tangle around a target and slice them to bits?

“Well, no.”

Nightfall pressed a thumb to her lip as she mulled. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing.” His brow furrowed as if he was torn, debating something within himself. “Although...”

“Yes?” Nightfall asked.

A confused shrug was the first part of her answer. “She also laughed for five minutes to the point she started to weep.”

“Weep ?” Was that an expression of pent-up yearning and empathy for Twilight's pains? Such ignoble and odious betrayal merited it, of course. It was a tragedy, possibly leading to a genre shift into a whirlwind romance, though. 

Twilight blinked as if in confusion. Actually, now that Nightfall considered the matter, befuddled and bewildered on Twilight was rather sexy. “While pounding her fist on her desk.”

“Well, then, we'll simply have to address this matter alone.” That declaration was punctuated by a cool sneer.

With a studious air, Twilight folded his arms and surveyed the assembled evidence. After only a few minutes, she had already yoked several photographs and notes together with lines of colour-coded string.

“Your assistance in this matter is appreciated.”

“Operation Strix is vital to the safety and security of our nation.” How could she do anything less for her beloved mentor and fellow agent and future husband?!

Twilight appeared to inflate, swelling up in the most appealing and evocative of fashions. “I'm pleased that you, unlike Franky, have been able to approach this situation with the dispassionate rationality required to understand its importance.”

“Irrationality or emotionalism will only compromise the mission.” Nightfall had to keep a lid on that.

“And it's all for the mission.”

“Of course.” She nodded, confident of her dedication to the operation and its success which also required her to marry Twilight, aiding him in every endeavor including nocturnal stress relief after a difficult day.

“Of course.” Twilight nodded back with even more vigor.

See? Nightfall and Twilight, the two most formidable and accomplished agents in the Westalis Intelligence agency, were a perfect match in every way save for one, and by the end of this phase of the mission, if Nightfall had her way, they'd have that worked out in the most vigorous and possibly sweaty of fashions.

Several days worth of surreptitious observation yielded nothing untoward and no further evidence of Yor's infidelity. Between Nightfall and Twilight, the two agents handing off responsibly to trail his wife periodically so they could attend to their officially sanctioned duties, they had her covered at almost all times, Nightfall assuming the role of Ingrid Cognito, a secretary at City Hall, and Twilight taking on a janitorial position. He was nameless because no one noticed janitors.

Demands of her role with WISE coupled with two-agent twenty-four hour surveillance of a target, even one so dreadfully dull as Yor, took its toll on them over the week, however, and Nightfall could see the signs of stress and exhumation accumulating, growing more severe until, she knew, they would start to scream out to everyone like warning klaxons. Her reaction times were dulling, her mind fogging up and eyes beginning to throb. Each morning, she woke with that watery nauseous sensation in her gut that spoke to a complete absence of necessary rest.

Given their other responsibilities, it was clear that they wouldn't be able to last very much longer, a reality that she expressed to Twilight as they effected their customary changing of the guard one afternoon, meeting in an alleyway.

Currently, she was leaning against the far wall, brickwork rough and sharp against her aching spine. Despite perfect posture, secretarial work was backbreaking. It was possible that Ostania was testing new methods of interrogation and torture with those city hall chairs.

Twilight was similarly positioned across the alley from her, his eyes shut in contemplation with his hat sitting low on his brow.

“I am afraid that this strategy may not be viable for two agents,” she admitted.

“I begin to suspect that as well, but what other choice do we have?”

“Do you have any idea what might precipitate her meetings with this... lover of hers?” Nightfall inquired even as she tried to catalog Yor's interactions over the past days on the schedule sheet that she withdrew from her pocket. Nothing about people was truly random. “Perhaps we should review the data points you've collected again in order to attempt to determine a pattern.”

The smooth flesh of Twilight's brow pinched up, giving him the faintest appearance of strain that Nightfall really wanted to see in a different context. “I've not been able to find one thus far, but another pair of eyes may help.”

“Did you consider her reproductive cycle? It's possible that she has ... desires that wax and wane.”

“I... hadn't taken that into account.” Twilight admitted that with as much sheepishness as she'd ever seen from him, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as he heated up with clear frustration at the situation. Nightfall could empathize.

Yor's behavior did bear some explanation, and Nightfall was in precisely the position to provide it. "There are simply some women, Twilight, whose ... appetites cannot be satisfied by one single man, no matter how capable."

Twilight's eyes fluttered open, yet remained dangerously narrow in the most demeaning of ways that now had Nightfall squirming, her thoughts spiraling out into a completely different direction.

"I do not care for what you're insinuating, Nightfall. It must be emotional. I've failed to offer appropriate emotional validation and support. After all, she's never once expressed even the slightest concupiscent inclinations towards me."

Nightfall rocked backwards, knocking the back of her head into the wall behind her, as if struck by the revelation, though years of training under Twilight – though, sadly, never “under” Twilight – had granted her the ability to conceal anything more than the most minute expression of shock as she brushed a blonde bang away from her widened eye so that she could stare down her resolute and sober mentor.

That explained so much, really.

The inability to find a boyfriend or husband.

The necessity of concealing her relationship status from her brother for years, as Twilight had reported.

Entering into a sham marriage.

The fact that she seemed to cling on to that gaggle of harpies and sirens and medusas - whose ugliness would turn men to stone - and other such suitably hideous and dangerously beguiling mythological creatures at City Hall.

Yor was a lesbian.

"It's entirely possible that she is one of that perfidious and perverse sort who requires a form of ... illicit stimulation.” That served as an appropriate euphemism. No need to unveil her earth-shattering discovery to her professional – and soon sexual, uh, personal partner – prematurely. Given Twilight's skill, there was no room for anything premature in their relationship. “The thrill of the taboo."

There was no way that Loid could possibly remain committed to Yor, even if her infidelity was curtailed, once they proved that she was actually seeing another woman. Whatever the social taboos, Nightfall didn't quite judge others' inclinations, even if she found it impossible to understand quite how any individual could fail to be enamored with Twilight.

Twilight scoffed as if the idea were as ridiculous as the notion of living in an undivided Berlint. “I would have noticed it, were that the case.”

“The depraved depths of a wife's heart are only something that another woman can truly understand.” Although no one would understand the dark and fathomless abyss of abject degeneracy that would be opened up when Nightfall finally succeeded in displacing Yor from the sham marriage with Twilight. He simply had to be so frustrated, never being able to find relief or satisfaction due to his wife's inclinations.

“I've spent my entire adult life studying the human condition for precisely this reason.” Possibly to pause for thought, Twilight reached into the sagging and creased breast pocket of his workman's jumpsuit and withdrew a packet of cigarettes to light up. “I've seen into the very heart of darkness, and would know if Yor were such a woman.”

“Regardless, your concerns were well-justified.” An absolute certainty, given Nightfall's keen insight into the female mind. “But we may need to find an alternative means of identifying her partner.”

“Do you have anything in mind?”

“Not as of yet, but I will give the matter some thought,” she said as she turned towards the end of the alleyway, straightening the collar of her coat.

“As will I.”

That sufficed for their exchange, Nightfall leaving her fellow agent with nothing more than a perfunctory nod.

Yor's lack of attraction to men was obvious, given that she'd managed to keep her hands off Twilight – Twilight , of all people! – rather than throwing herself at him or, somehow, accidentally crawling into his bed naked to wait for him to get home from work.

That predilection could prove a positive, really, Nightfall realized as she mulled over the matter in her apartment later that day. After an evening jog and an hour in the gym to maintain her figure and keep herself sharp, she had indulged in a very lengthy, steamy-hot shower and settled in with a cup of chamomile tea to help her relax before bed. Thoughts of Twilight had been an inspiration throughout, provoking her to work most vigorously.

Leaning her head back against the sofa cushions, she stared up at the white paneling of her apartment ceiling.

This situation was ideal, really. Not only would Twilight be forced to admit her superiority as a partner in Operation Strix, but the infidelity would leave him with a naturally bruised ego. Inflated pride was a failing that all men, even her beloved and nigh-perfect mentor, tended to possess. That kind of vulnerability would inspire an impulse to reassert his own masculinity and virility, particularly if, as Nightfall had surmised, he had been displaced not just by another man, but by a woman with a hunk of plastic and rubber.

But she had to prove that Yor's dalliances were with a woman – possibly multiple women as Nightfall wouldn't put anything past her – in short order or she and Twilight would be too exhausted to continue their operation. That made it a gilt-edge priority that she act quickly.

Never let the enemy dictate the terms of engagement; never allow the target to control you. Rather, a good agent could manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard and then swoop in as an ice-white queen to knock off each vulnerable piece on the board.

Yor was a lesbian.

That was what she really had to prove and the rest would fall into place. All she had to do, and quickly since neither she nor Twilight were going to last much longer on this schedule, was give the line of dominoes a quick little push.

And the best way to do that?

Was simply to seduce Yor herself.

It was the only reasonable solution.

As she dozed off on her couch, Nightfall was stuck by the wispy trail of a thought that she might be allowing her emotions to compromise her judgment in this situation and that she should really reevaluate the evidence that they had accumulated, and the resultant plan, when she was not suffering from intense sleep deprivation alongside two other forms of deprivation that even her vigorous and lengthy shower had failed to assist her in addressing. 

Sadly for her, that notion was lost in the mists of sleep, forgotten, like a bad dream, in the light of the morning.  

Chapter Text

Seducing Yor would be absolute child’s play for an agent as accomplished as Nightfall; she’d twisted dozens of targets around her finger, and planted them under her grinding heel as befit the type, be they swaggering braggarts or simpering man-children. Just because she’d never had to adopt a persona tailored to affect a homosexual woman before didn’t mean that Nightfall wasn’t up to the challenge.

Which is why “Ingrid Cognito,” while making her rounds and feigning interest in her new co-workers’ prattle, giggling and mispronouncing simple words as if she was every bubbly blonde dolt stereotype rolled into one, set her attention on Yor. 

It was merely a matter of determining the unassuming woman’s tastes through even more focused observation, which Nightfall effected while gabbing around the water-cooler. The disguise really was one of her best, both in terms of appearance and affected personality. Nothing more than minor alterations to her nose, cheekbones, eye, and hair colour – overly-sweet strawberry blonde, rather than cool, lavish platinum - by way of several ingenious prosthetics and a good wig rendered “Fiona Frost” unidentifiable.

In keeping with the fact that the woman was utterly unexceptional in every conceivable way, and thus wholly mismatched with Twilight, the epitome of grace, sensibility, and distinguished poise, Yor's routine was largely unremarkable. Daily tasks filing papers and filling out reports or retrieving information from the city hall archives made for dreadfully dull observation, particularly when Nightfall was feeling the effects of her many long days and nights. The only way she got through those now was by stimulating herself with multiple cups of black coffee, engaging in vigorous callisthenic breaks, and fantasizing about Yor on her knees in front of her (Twilight, now Yor? Was that a kink? No matter.) weeping the consequences of her folly.

A slight sympathy pang shot through her chest and crept into her belly at that thought, the sensation sufficient to cause her to skip lunch, subsisting on caffeine that bubbled and boiled inside her stomach. She knew what it was like to be ignored and discarded by Twilight, but since Yor had spat in his face, had betrayed the covenant she'd forged with him – even if it was a sham – she deserved no less than utter, merciless retribution and destruction.

When their lunch break finally rolled around, Yor took her boxed meal, the container wrapped up in one of Twilight's handkerchiefs, off to an empty corner of their break-room and settled herself at a lonely table. For her part, while maintaining the aura of a ditsy dullard, “Ingrid” flopped and flounced in after her, chatting away with the abjectly intolerable trio of women headed up by a blonde whose name Nightfall had actively suppressed.

This harpy didn't deserve to occupy a place inside her brain. Nor did her equally insufferable compatriots.

Perhaps the most shocking thing about this investigation was the revelation that Twilight could have done a lot worse than Yor.

At great length, roughly halfway through their collective lunch break, Nightfall had finally been able to extricate herself from the talons of those malignant vixens. It was a wonder that Yor could remain lesbian after being beset by such repugnant creatures day in and day out. Their presence, let alone their screeching voices, was enough to render anyone a misogynist.

Finally free on the pretense of having to powder her nose, which took her roughly sixty seconds, fifty-five of which were just for show – women took too long in the bathroom – Nightfall was able to join her target at her table. A properly pressed – probably by Twilight – olive green jacket vest hugged her curves and flattened out her stomach, the contrast made even more obvious by the way she stooped slightly over her meal. Whatever Nightfall's feelings regarding this degenerate ingrate, whom, to use a rather uncouth phrase, she was going to cuck and cuck hard by stealing her husband, even the taciturn spy had to admit that the pinkish head-band that held back her flowing, silky hair was a rather flattering accessory, in part because it exposed the flesh of Yor's throat. Creamy, pale skin disappeared underneath the tight collar of her blouse.

Even Nightfall's hands itched with the temptation to pluck out that top button.

Spy instinct, of course. Nothing more.

Any spy would have that inclination. Especially Twilight.

There was ample hiding space inside a bosom of that magnitude for a SSS agent to hide a wire.

“Oh, Yor,” she chirped as she took the seat opposite her dastardly rival, the woman whose unbridled concupiscence was threatening the entire region.

Imagine going down in history as the woman who started a thermonuclear war because she couldn’t keep it in her pants. 

With knife and fork in hand, Yor looked up from her meal, which appeared to be leftover roast beef with a side of white rice. Desert came before and after lunch, apparently, because next to the little box of food lay a half-eaten slice of banana bread.

“Yes?” Yor asked, seemingly bewildered for a moment.

Nightfall wasn't about to allow that destabilization to go unexploited. It was always best to keep a target off balance, so she leaned over the table, giving her a slightly better angle on that cleavage and thus violating Yor's personal space.

“You know, I don’t think that we’ve had the chance to talk since I arrived.“ Nightfall hummed in feigned thought, eyes screwing upwards to make it seem as if that was difficult for her. “Always so busy.”

Yor set down her cutlery next to the box of half-eaten beef and rice, nudging her knife until it was at a precise angle.

“Oh, I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve been ignoring you. I haven't been living up to my responsibility to help new employees.” A quick bow, hands clasping together, accompanied the apology. “I didn’t mean to make it seem as if I wasn’t interested in your progress.”

“Not at all!” Nightfall's assurance had Yor's face lighting up, as if she'd been conditioned to expect the worst from those weird harpy-women. It was at that juncture that Nightfall began to suspect that she had a bit of a complex when it came to said women, but that was something to not investigate later. “It’s just that with the way that the other gals talk about you, I knew that I wanted to get to know you. It just took me this long to work up the courage.”

Obviously that was the wrong thing to say because Yor's smile immediately became strained, her hands slipping down to the table to grip its edge. “Was I that intimidating?”

“No, no.” Salvaging the situation would still be effortless. All Nightfall had to do was weave around that pressure point. Turn it back on herself so that the fault was hers. “You looked like you enjoyed your solitude, and I really didn't want to disturb you, but then the other girls said you might like some company.”

Yor's brows pulled together as if she was puzzled by the shift. “It's just what I'm used to. I don't have any girlfriends at the office.”

Ah-ha! Girlfriends. An obvious Freudian slip in the face of a woman as drop-dead gorgeous as Nightfall, even in disguise. Of course it was a Freudian slip. And Freud had to be respected. Every citizen of Ostania knew that Frued's theories of psycho-sexual development were iron-clad. Who could doubt the veracity of his discourse surrounding the stage of Penis Envy? Recent experiences had clearly confirmed the Electra Complex too, given that Nightfall had had those few dreams wherein she called Twilight “Daddy“ and those nattering ninnies at city hall regularly referred to Yor's husband as a “DILF.”

“Well, we're just meeting, and I can already tell that you're a lovely young women.” Nightfall affected a blush and shy smile, glancing down at the desktop between them. Push forward, violate boundaries, then pull back. Keep her off balance and play on her sympathy and sense of isolation.

“And I don't just mean physically . T-that's not important between us girls.” A quick glance towards Yor's face, the skittering motion of her eyes designed to imply abashment, confirmed that the other woman was quite intent in her focus, her smile one of tender and sincere interest and, perhaps, a dusting of pity. Perfect. The stuttering and blushing was working. “I just mean that you're so dedicated to the job. That- that's lovely and obvious from how you carry yourself when we're on shift.”

Yor appeared to puff with pride, though it mingled with something else, hidden behind a show of teeth that should have been friendly.

“I think that it is a privilege to work for my country, in whatever way I am able. My work may not be personally rewarding, or something that I wish to do for the rest of my life, but every day, I know that I am making a difference – helping, in my own small way, to make my nation better.”

Well that was... distressingly admirable and heartfelt in a way that had Nightfall's cheeks growing warmer at the sheer dedicated sincerity of it. Just where did this woman get off being so self-sacrificing and self-effacing in service of her country? That was- that was almost something that Twilight would say!

Revolting.

Probably stole it from him.

“Oh, yes. You see?” Nightfall gushed, pressing her boundaries by sliding her hand along the tabletop until her fingertips just kissed the faintest edge of Yor's palm. “That's exactly the kind of thing that a person I would love to be would say.”

“I'm quite flattered.” While the response was what Nightfall had hoped for, it was accompanied by a slight withdrawal of the other woman's hand, under the pretense of brushing up some crumbs left behind from the slice of sweetly-fragrant banana bread that Loid had obviously packed.

Frustrating reticence.

Did “Ingrid” have to come in wearing one of those slutty scarlet sweaters that she'd seen Yor sporting, sexposing – exposing! just a hint of the sloping sinews that snaked their way around her shoulder blades, bunching up when she reached for a coffee cup that day that “Fiona” had visited her rival all those weeks ago?

To say nothing of the deep-cut recesses of that cleavage that was also put on display.

No.

Probably best not to say anything about Yor's ample cleavage.

Or think anything about it.

Other than the fact that it was, most assuredly, the cleavage of a slut.

That couldn't cleave any harder if a woodsman took an axe to it.

“That means so very much to me,” Nightfall insisted with a deliberately soppy tone. “I can already tell that you and I are going to be such close friends! I don't suppose that you'd have time for a ladies' night sometime? Just two ... girlfriends going out for some fun together. Leave all the other girls and husbands at home?”

“Oh, you're married? I didn't see a ring.” Yor appeared to falter. “If you have a child of your own, they might want to meet my daughter. She can always use more friends outside of school.”

“No, no. I mean, word gets around about your husband, so I was thinking about you. I don't really have any interest in getting married,” Nightfall waved off the suggestion as if it was repugnant. Had Twilight not appeared in her life, it likely would have been. “Men can be so ... unloving. So neglectful. They have it so lucky, being doted upon and spoiled by us girls. We deserve that too, sometimes. That's what girls' night is all about, I think.”

“I've never really been invited on a ... girls' night,” Yor offered with a dubious glance towards the far table where the other secretaries and officer workers were sharing cigarettes and gossip, both of which were clearly carcinogenic. “I wouldn't want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense!” Nightfall had to nip that concern in the bud immediately, so she dared a quick jerky motion to capture Yor's ... shockingly cut bicep in a comforting squeeze while something watery sloshed in her stomach. Kind of like ice melting. Little chucks floating off. “I'd quite like it if you bothered me in any way that you needed. It wouldn't have to be anything too extreme. I'd be happy to take it slow. Teach you how to have fun. Just us girls.”

An innocent wink sealed the deal, but it didn't appear to have any effect on Yor, much to Nightfall's consternation. What kind of signals did lesbians send each other?

Perhaps she should have figured out what female friends actually did with each other before trying to seduce a woman.

Maybe this plan hadn't been all that well thought out.

Or executed.

Slapping on a tight dress with a low neckline and flashing some thigh typically was enough to rope in most male targets.

Maybe she should have just gone with that, despite the dress code at city hall.

Yor responded with a thoughtful hum that had Nightfall sliding her hand down the length of the other woman's arm, the withdrawal concealing – poorly – a caress. “Well, I suppose that would be nice, if my husband and daughter don't mind. There are so many responsibilities at home.

“Wonderful!” And indeed it was. Yor had taken the bait. They'd be making out in the back of a bar with Loid watching through a miniature camera in no time. “And if your husband doesn't let you get out for some relaxing time with your girlfriends, well, he's not worthy of you.”

Yor's lips pursed in a strangely aggressive fashion that nearly made Nightfall want to weep or spontaneously develop the ability to change color and blend into her environment like an octopus, just to hide. A certain aura of deadness, a lack of discernible affect that called to mind Nightfall's own imperious visage at the Hospital, passing over her face like a shadow and vanishing immediately. Shivers raced up and down Nightfall's spine, some instinct provoking heart palpitations. She had practiced that look for years in front of her mirror, but her best was almost... like a child playing pretend compared to that.

“That's ... certainly not the case,” Yor began with a hauntingly level tone before perking up sweetly – so sweetly that Nightfall was forced to banish that bizarre impression and tamp down on the twisting sensation in her gut. That look had to have been nothing more than her imagination.

“But be that as it may, did you... have a particular day?” Yor asked.

As soon as possible since Nightfall could really use a good sleep and not-sleep in Twilight's bed after an enervating week.

“Why wait?” Particularly because Nightfall wasn't liable to be able to keep up this schedule for much longer. “This Saturday night!”

Unalloyed trepidation caused the most obviously fake smile to cross Yor's lips.

“ This Saturday?” she asked, pulling backwards like she wanted to cower away.

“Is that a problem?” Nightfall's tone is laden heavily with extra syrupy sweet confusion and a little edge of hurt, in the interests of provoking guilt.

“Oh, not a problem,” Yor assured in a rush, her eyes growing wide as she began fiddling with her napkin nervously. “It's just that... I have plans with- with my husband! Date night, you know.”

And that was precisely the kind of thing that Nightfall had been looking for without even knowing it. It was even more than she'd hoped really, because Twilight did not have regular date nights and would have informed her of an appointment scheduled with his wife.

Which meant that Yor was meeting someone else entirely.

“That's so sweet,” Nightfall cooed while suppressing her disgust, which was the most challenging thing about this entire affair considering that she rarely restrained that when projecting an air of confidently smug superiority. “You investing the time in making sure that you look after each other, keep the connection strong.”

“Y-yes.” A few chuckles burst from Yor's mouth as she began twisting the bunched-up napkin in her lap. “That's the foundation for a strong marriage.”

“Any marriage that's going to last.”

A sharp shredding sound echoed through the break-room as a sudden burst of strength from Yor rent her napkin in two.

Which wouldn't have been all that impressive if it were made of paper, but, as 'Ingrid' blinked and struggled to salvage the remnants of a vacuous smile, she still fretted over the fact that it was, indeed, cloth.

“Shared interests and time spent together,” she continued, pretending to ignore the little faux-pas. “Not letting other people – or things – get in the way.”

“Right.” After tucking her shredded napkin into her pocket, Yor glanced down at her hands, rubbing at her knuckles. “That- that is important if you care about someone. To make sure you don't grow... distant.”

“That happens so easily.”

Nightfall might have lost the plot slightly, as it almost sounded as if she was encouraging Yor to spend more time with her husband, which, on reflection, would likely only heighten Loid's suspicions now that the prospect of infidelity had been all but confirmed.

It was amazing how some people, even her mentor, amalgamated evidence, perceiving it through a lens that caused a person to fit every new detail together all to support a predetermined conclusion.

Fortunately, Nightfall was above that, and quite adaptable.

A date seduction, or attempt to insinuate herself into Yor's life at work, when her defenses were at their apex due to the presence of those nattering witches who gawked and yammered and pried into everything, would be impossible.

“Well, if not this weekend, why don't you set the time. You get take a few days and get back to me.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Yor put a hand to her not-insubstantial bosom. “ I hope that wasn't rude.”

“Not at all,” Nightfall assured in a gregarious bubble. “You can't help it.”

The bubbliness didn’t have to be entirely feigned, rather loosed as, Nightfall thought that given Yor's incompetence, she probably couldn't help anything or anyone.

Least of all herself since Nightfall was going to destroy her.

“Enjoy the last of your lunch break.” With a slap of her palms to the table, Nightfall rose up from her seat. “I'm sure that we'll see each other around the office.”

“Of course.” Yor’s tone was slightly distant, probably because she was caught up in plotting whatever debauchery she had scheduled for the weekend. “ It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

Born solely out of the acknowledge necessity of maintaining her cover, Nightfall offered a kind and deferential nod towards her unwitting rival, and retreated to 'Ingrid's' compatriots, who prodded her for more information about 'that weirdo Yor' and both teased and crowed over her efforts to ingratiate herself with 'the freaky screwball.”

Judging solely from the calibre of the people in the Berlint city hall, Westalis would be doing the world, and the human gene-pool, a favour by bombing this metropolis into dust.

Despite the chatter and the perfunctorily bubbly answers Ingrid supplied, Nightfall honed all of her trained senses on Yor, relying on years of training to assess her mood and speculate on her thoughts and the potential machinations that she was plotting.

Apparently deep in thought, Yor merely stared at the remnant of her lunch and stroking the rent napkin – actually the handkerchief that Loid had used to wrap up Yor's lunch - in a forlorn fashion.

That extensive funk lasted a few minutes before, glancing up at the clock, Yor appeared to realize that their lunch break was soon to end, and thus tucked into her meal. Dry and dull, for the most part. Watching people eating generally was.

The only thing that stood out about Yor's actions in her daily routine – carefully crafted to avoid the appearance of interest in all of her fellow secretaries and workmates, no doubt – was her studious fixation on the cutlery that she was using during lunch.

Stainless steel knives and forks danced in her hand as Yor grew increasingly breathless while carving into the roast-beef that Twilight had packed for her lunch. The bustle and chatter of their break room buffeted “Ingrid” about as she mentally mocked the insufferable dullards who accosted her, but Yor merely paused between dainty bites, her knife-work precise, dicing up each slice of beef into picture perfect squares before spearing each one, her face flushing – likely with some debauched fantasy – as she slipped each hunk of Twilight's meat into her moist lips that gleamed in the flickering florescent lights.

Those lips, Nightfall noted with complete and utter detachment and not the least jealousy, were plump and glistening with gloss that Yor reapplied after polishing off her meal.

A seemingly unconscious flourish with her steak knife as she was clearing her table sent the gleaming blade flying through her fingers, dancing and twirling like an acrobat in flight so that it almost appeared a living thing, an extension of Yor's fingers like they had been born and raised together, even though the motions were absent and easy – an unconscious series of twitches and flicks.

Nightfall's fake grin and insipid comments grew slightly more strained, teeth and thighs alike grinding together. Such skill in an untrained civilian had been utterly unexpected, despite the demonstration of Yor's impressive strength on numerous occasions. An acidic wave welled up inside Nightfall's chest, though for the life of her, identifying its cause and nature was almost impossible, even as the hairs of the back of her neck stood on end.

Probably too much coffee on an empty stomach.

Hot coffee.

Which was why her belly was growing a bit warm, a watery sensation curling and spinning like her insides were caught in a heated whirlpool as she fake-giggled – in no way a product of giddiness at those expertly flourished knives– at a joke offered by one of Yor's coworkers. At least they hated her; that was their only saving grace.

Still, despite that antipathy, Nightfall could respect impeccable knife work.

Of course, it was probably due to some bizarre fetish.

Just how degenerate could Yor be with her... deft-knife, blood-play lesbianism?

This was a world to which Nightfall would sooner not have been exposed.

Clearly Yor's reticence at work would render any attempt at currying her favor, and, ultimately, seducing the buxom brunette into some debauched, carnal escapade that would be required to drive home to point to Twilight as he watched for the mission – which, strangely, was emphasized in Nightfall's mental monologue – would prove fruitless for Ingrid Cognito.

While “Saturday” did afford her and Twilight an exceptional opportunity to investigate Yor's potential lesbian lover, and catch in the midst of the act itself, Nightfall's professional pride wouldn't be satisfied if she just left Yor unseduced.

Which simply meant that Fiona Frost was going to have to pay the Forger residence another visit.  

Chapter Text

Liaising with Agent Twilight became a gilt-edged priority at that juncture for agent Nightfall. While both of them may have been suffering from extensive sleep deprivation, surviving on coffee and willpower, they had to pool their resources in order to determine precisely what momentous event was set to transpire on “Saturday night.”

During their regular alley debrief between city hall observation tours, Twilight was able to confirm her suspicion that no “date” had been arranged for Saturday evening. Review of the relevant recordings and wire taps from the Forger apartment would be conducted that evening; it was entirely possible that one of them had blacked out while listening to the tapes and missed some critical detail, and they had yet to inspect the material gathered yesterday, which Twilight handed off to her before they parted.

“It's imperative that we ascertain the nature of this rendezvous; each of Yor's .... encounters brings us one step closer to international disaster.” Twilight's face scrunched up in what Nightfall assumed must be unadulterated disgust at the utterly revolting thought (which likewise flashed through Nightfall's gut and brain, hacking into them like a psychotic butcher and leaving her thoroughly ill) of Yor coupling with a man.

Of course that was a ridiculous thought.

Twilight was still ignorant of Yor's sole susceptibility to sapphic seduction.

Odd that the idea should be so repugnant, churning her belly, but it made sense in a way. Betraying the ideal male specimen, agent Twilight, because she was unable to restrain her libidinal longings for licentious lesbian lovemaking?

Ludicrous.

“Of course, Agent Twilight.” She found her mentor's nod of approval quite affirming as he straightened the collar to his janitor's uniform and slipped in thorough the alley service door to city hall.

While in bed that evening, her sleep fitful, Nightfall stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes and concluded that alliteration was likewise a product of her distressed, overworked state. An issue that was exacerbated in the coming days, Nightfall would find, because she started waking up with night sweats time and time again, with only the vaguest impression of what were assuredly hideously grotesque nightmares.

All she could recall were flashing knives.

The horror.

Between secondary and primary operations, Nightfall and Twilight were able to split the recordings between them and review the necessary material in hopes of ascertaining the precise nature of Yor's likely undercover rendezvous with her lover.

Whom Nightfall would have to kill.

For the mission.

And for Twilight.

Yes.

It was all for Twilight.

And the mission.

Twilight was the one who uncovered the damning recording, but one that did not appear on the wire taps. Somehow, by inexplicable coincidence or enemy action, only the one-sided recording from the surveillance device that Loid had left in his apartment survived. Perhaps there had been some disruption to their wire tap. The bungling efforts of that SSS agent, Yuri, whose obsessive possessiveness and obviously debased and depraved lusts for his own sister had led him to spy on her relentlessly might have been the cause. Who knew what the bumbling dolts in the Ostanian SSS might have done to those wires?

Revolting totalitarian pigs.

Imagine, spying on his own sister like that! All because he was certain that “Loid” was a danger and negative influence on his sister.

What kind of degenerate would do something like that, Nightfall wondered that evening as she and Twilight concealed themselves in the shadows cast by a nondescript bridge on the outskirts of Berlint. In the smoky darkness, wisps from her cigarette curling upwards and soaking into the seats and thin fabric of the roof above her head, they huddled around a small tape recorder that lay on the dashboard of her car. Although Twilight had already listened to the recording, she was blessed with this opportunity to share the taste of the fruits of their continual clandestine observation and recording of Yor so as to ascertain her prospective whereabouts on Saturday.

The echo of the Forgers' house phone rang through the confined cabin of Nightfall's car, the sound hollow and tinny.

"Hello?"

A shuffle of papers and boots on the hardwood floors, the only sounds audible in the recording as the woman paused, followed. Yor must have been nervous if the subtle motions were something by which to judge.  

“Ten O'clock this Saturday evening, room seventeen at the Schlosshotel Berlin?" Yor's request for confirmation from, presumably, her lover on the other side of the line, was muffled by the distance between her and the bug that Twilight had slipped into the ceiling tiles, but despite its muted quality, there was a shocking lack of affect. "I will be there."

Despite his wife's apparent disinterest, the coolness almost seeping through their radio receiver, Twilight grimaced at the last confirmation that they required to be truly, unequivocally certain of his wife's plotted infidelity. Nightfall herself burned with the desire to hear the voice on the other end. Was it a guttural tone, somewhat butch and masculine? A tenor that was light and airy? Something cool and seductive as it was domineering, the voice of a woman who could whisper sweet nothings to Yor, drawing her tongue along the shell of the shivering housewife's ear, as the faceless woman cradled the blushing civil servant in her arms and their bosoms heaved together, the pair of paramours losing themselves in the unrivalled softness of another feminine figure, silken black hair overshadowed and mingling with platinum blond strands as plump, slick, luscious lips pressed low-

“Agent Nightfall?”

The agent in question responded by jerking upright, realizing that she had edged herself to the point that she was mere inches away from the tape recorder. Her recoil was so acute and forceful that she actually smacked the top of her head against the roof of her car with with a crack and popping that was either brain cells bursting or–

She checked, rubbing the rapidly forming lump on her head.

Yes.

She just put a dent in the roof of her car.

Bloody East Berlint-made cars.

“Yes, Agent Twilight?” she gritted out through her teeth, though the hiss of pain was quite clear.

Twilight merely arched a judgmental brow that made her feel like she was an ant under a magnifying glass, either being examined or finding herself inches away from the focused beam of light that would incinerate her like a death ray aimed at an agent strapped to a metal table inside some Machiavellian supervision's underground lair.

Good times.

Given how hot she felt at the moment, tugging at her collar and wiping at her sweaty forehead, the latter did seem well-substantiated by the available evidence.

“It would seem that this portion of our operation has concluded.” Depressing the play button on the specialized tape recorder on the dashboard, Twilight ejected the miniaturized spool that he'd taken from the bug in his apartment and sealed it up in a small plastic tube withdrawn from his breast pocket.

After waiting what felt like an interminable length of time for her mentor to pack away his paraphernalia, her gaze fixating on the cyclopean brickwork of the bridge beyond her windshield, Nightfall finally spoke once Twilight had secured the utterly damning evidence.

“How so?” There was an inexplicable sigh to her voice as it fell. Really, the operation was at its outset. She hadn't even necked with Yor in the backseat of her car, where a superabundance of listening and surveillance devices could be hidden for the purposes of creating detailed records. A spy had to be thorough, after all.

“It's quite simple,” Twilight confirmed, patting his pocket. “We have determined the likely location of Yor's... abuser.”

“You mean her lover?” Nightfall reflected that the use of the correct term for Yor's mistress seemed really rather vital.

Like a wound opening up as her mentor began inspecting her car, running a finger along the dash to test it for dust before sneering in disgust while rubbing the pad of his index and thumb together, Twilight's lips peeled back. Really. Nightfall kept her automobile in impeccable condition, finger-print dusting and wiping down the surfaces regularly to see if anyone had accessed her car without her being aware of it. The cleanliness of her vehicle was matched only by that of herself. Her personal hygiene routine had only been expanded in recent days, just to ensure that she rewarded herself for all of the additional effort she had been investing into this ancillary mission in support of Operation Strix.

Yes.

The Brazilian wax had been a little painful.

But it was about justly spoiling herself.

Just ... indulging.

“Her exploiter,” Twilight yanked her from her reminiscence with his dark, gravelly-insistent voice.

“Uh, very well.” Why, exactly, was Nightfall squirming? “But irrespective of discussions regarding terminology, it seems that we have only taken the next step in our operation.”

Entwining his fingers, Twilight smiled more broadly, a hint of genuine satisfaction creeping into his expression. Little white and red patches formed under the pressure of his grip as the flesh around his knuckles deformed to the point that Nightfall was almost certain that she could hear bones shifting and screaming, almost as if Twilight was trying to crush them in a fashion that had her tugging at her collar and wondering what that would feel like on her throat.

“I've taken you from your assigned duties long enough,” he said. “From this point forward, the path is clear.”

“You mean to ambush Yor's ... exploiter and kill her?”

Twilight's neck jerked so that he was staring at her with corpse eyes, glassy and dead, a convulsion racing through his figure like he'd just downed an emergency cyanide capsule.

“Her?” His face somehow darkened even further.

Almost literally.

As if an ichorous umbral haze had passed over the sun and blotted it out in a sinister, unhallowed eclipse, newly cast darkness-visible rendered away the fleshy, taciturn mask of Agent Twilight to unveil some abyssal horror conjured from childhood night-terrors and antediluvian, ancestral revulsions and unnamabilities oozing and cavorting in a cavalcade of madness from out the eldritch abattoir of all sanity that lay beyond the known terrestrial spheres mankind was meant to tread, leaving behind only the unholy parody of humanity.

In short, Twilight scary.

The squirming was getting worse for several reasons.

“Him?” Nightfall squeaked, her blood somehow simultaneously freezing and boiling in her veins. “I- I misspoke.”

Her mentor brightened, smiling thinly while leaning back in his seat.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I will kill him. He's the only one who'll have to die.”

“S- so -?” she stuttered.

Blond hair bunching up as he folded his hands on his lap, Twilight leaned back into the headrest. His eyes drifted shut, mouth forced slack in an apparent attempt to master his emotional reactions using the very same calming techniques that he had taught to her when she studied under him.

“So your services are no longer required, Agent Nightfall,” her mentor explained, his voice threaded through with a hint of violence or threat, the subtlest of growls that was, frankly, as alluring as it was terrifying. That seemed to be a weird pattern for Nightfall. Maybe she needed to talk to a therapist about this sort of thing.

Probably better self-care than the Brazilian-for-no-reason.

“As soon as this unpleasant business is behind us,” Twilight continued, “everything can return to normal and Operation Strix will proceed as planned.”

Nothing could break through the icy wall of Twilight's composure, lest Nightfall risk slipping through the crack and plummeting to her death in the seething ocean of magma that seemed to lie just under the surface.

She dropped “Loid Forger” off at his apartment, the affluent and imposing building lined with windows like panopticon viewports into all the prison cells. A flutter of motion drew her eye away from Twilight's retreating form as he passed through the ground floor entryway, but when she surveyed the windows and rooftops for any potential assassins, SSS agents, or genuinely innocent civilians, Nightfall perceived only fluttering curtains and darkened rooms.

Still, that impression alone was enough to set her adrift and distract her during the entire drive home through evening traffic, her hands and feet working by instinct as her considerable mental prowess was devoted to parsing out the information they had gathered. Twilight's casual dismissal tumbled about inside her skull like a massive, barbed ball bearing, impaling anything that it failed to crush outright.

The reality was that Agent Nightfall was a woman of intense pride. Because of her penetrating and sagacious self-understanding, a product of years of reflection and interrogation of her motivations, inclinations, and needs in order to refine away any impurities that could compromise her as a spy, she knew that there was one great failing that she could not overcome. Pride was always the chink in her armour. While oftentimes it served her well, forcing her to exceed her limitations and hone her mind and body to be a perfect match to Twilight's own so that she could become his partner in both the professional and sexual senses, ego, when uncontrolled, became hubris, and hubris the vehicle for one's destruction.

It was the hubris that got to her.

She slouched about in her kitchen the next morning, her feet shuffling and scraping along the tile floor. Typical affairs turned to disasters as she missed the timer on her toast, leaving it a burnt husk, poured orange juice into her coffee, and filled up a bowl with uncooked rice rather than cereal all because she was starting at the gleaming silver knives in her dish rack.

Yor's knife.

Her pride as an agent- nay, a woman with needs for validation and affirmation and proof of her utter and complete and thoroughly satisfying dominance over Yor absolutely would not be satisfied if Twilight cut her out of the loop.

Were Twilight to expose Yor's infidelity without her, she would never have the chance to force the buxom woman to kneel before her.

No one dismissed agent Nightfall.

She may have been barred from Operation Adultery, but as a matter of pride, she was still going to seduce Yor before 'Saturday.'

Screw the mission.

Chapter Text

Friday evening was the only possible time to put the new plan into action. While cutting it down to the wire with “Saturday” only a few hours away was not ideal, a school night simply wouldn't work. Nightfall had to be certain that Twilight's foster daughter was out of the way, and a few coincidental accidents and quirks of fate saw to that. A magazine article about best friends and sleepovers had appeared in the Blackbell girl's cubby at Eden Academy. How coincidentally and fortuitous that a similar text, citing the psychological benefits of fostering close homosocial bonds in childhood, found its way to Yor's desk at City Hall. Subtle sabotage and a breakdown of the Forger's usual means of transport sealed the deal.

The little mewling ill-trained urchin that Loid had picked up would be occupied and out of the apartment.

That might have been far too cruel, really. Clearly, Yor had spoiled the child, and let her run wild, because of Yor's obvious delirious obsession with indulging her thirst for hot, sloppy, lesbian sex.

Such things could distract a woman from her mission.

...

As a parent.

With all those plans in place and a few nice sex toys in her purse, along with the negligee that she was now sporting under her clothes, Agent Nightfall was ready.

In the guise as the simple hospital employee Fiona Frost, which was an alter-ego far more pleasant and easily adopted than that of the flighty Ingrid Cognito, she found herself before the humble apartment door that would, in mere moments, open onto her most challenging, most exhausting, most critical, most ardourous, uh, arduous mission yet.

Banging Loid Forger's wife.

For world peace.

And her own professional pride.

With their handler having loaded Twilight's admittedly broad, well-muscled, and really rather sexually stimulating shoulders with a superabundance of work due to her having received an “anonymous” tip about his misappropriation of agency resources as he launched into his private investigation into his wife, Nightfall was perfectly convinced that he would be out until at least 11:00 this evening.

City Hall had closed down for the day, and, based on the schedule that Nightfall had acquired from Twilight, she was quite confident that Yor had already had a chance to shower and change after work.

As in rhetoric, seduction was merely a matter of manipulation. Logos had been covered through the application of Nightfall's impeccable and iron-clad logic. Yor's unslaked thirst for female flesh, surely at a peak as she contemplated her illicit dalliance next evening, would handle the pathos.

Now, Fiona only had to wait for her Kairos moment while generating some Ethos.

Or, rather, like any good spy, manipulate the situation. The ideal moment to act never came of its own accord; rather, the cunning agent orchestrated events in such a way as to ensure that it arose on her schedule.

So, she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles against the Forger family's door.

It took only a few seconds for her entreaty to be answered, the door opening up to reveal Yor, clad in a loose red sweater that was frankly a debauched spectacle, unveiling several inches of her collar bone and the milky white flesh of her throat and upper chest. Still slightly soggy but smooth as if she'd been indulging in a good brushing for hours, just savoring the self-care, her lustrous black hair spilled down her back, and it was enough to have Nightfall's toes curling. She'd never seen Yor with her hair down like that, fresh from the shower.

Of course, her hair didn't matter in the least to Nightfall when her eyes trailed down to the tight black legging that emphasized the sloping curves of her love-rival's thighs which the WISE agent studied with great care lest Yor proved to be carrying any concealed weapons.

“Fiona?” Yor asked at last, drawing Nightfall's attention away from those suspicious and potentially dangerous thighs.

“Good afternoon, Yor,” she responded smoothly with a deferential nod that was not an excuse to put her face closer to Yor-boob level. Plenty of time for that later. “Do you... do you think that I might come in?”

“Of course,” Yor said as she stepped out of the way and ushered Nightfall into the strangely cozy interior of Twilight's apartment, taking her coat in hand and hanging it from a hook on the wall while Fiona strutted over to the living-room sofa, offering Yor a good look at the pert backside that was nicely ensconced in a tight retro-fifties black business suit with a skirt down to her thighs.

Sadly, there was no indication of fumbling on Yor's part.

Maybe she was a breast woman, Nightfall mulled as she settled into place and waited for Yor to join her.

The other woman strode past the bathroom and kitchen area and took the seat on the right hand side of the coffee table, folding her hands in her lap. Her faint smile appeared to suggest a note of genuine pleasure at the company that mingled with trepidation that turned up her brows.

“Is everything alright at the hospital?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” It would be necessary for Nightfall to carefully skirt the knife's edge between rendering Yor anxious, and thus imbalanced and vulnerable, and relaxed, comforted by Fiona's presence. “This is just a... personal matter.”

“Personal matter?” Yor's head cocked in an expression of the confusion that she probably lived in most of her life.

“Well, I suppose that I'll cut right to the chase.” An affectation of contrition had Fiona lowering her head which also brought her gaze to Yor's crotch, which, sadly, was covered by her forearms and hands as she had her fingers laced on her lap. Bent and bowing shoulders conveyed a sense of insecurity and abashment ... while also smushing her boobs together to make them appear even larger. As if they weren't big enough! “I wanted to apologize for being so dreadfully blunt with you when we met a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, it's nothing, of course.” Vocal inflections wavering up and down as Yor's cheeks pinched in what Nightfall could only call a brave smile screamed discomfort. Nightfall had pressed too hard at the other woman's insecurities, possibly because she was thinking about pressing other vulnerable things really hard until the other woman spiralled, writhed, and broke.

That other thing being her marriage.

Which Nightfall had to destroy.

For ... some reason. It was really rather muddled at this point, but Nightfall had a good reason, to be sure.

“No, no.” Fiona waved off the dismissal, a kindness, surely, to diminish the deep wounds left by her past claims about Loid's disappointment. “It's- you deserved far better than that, and that's to say nothing of my behaviour at the tennis court.”

“Oh, no! Just a little healthy competition.” Yor chuckled, though the note of strain was obvious. Clearly, she would make a terrible spy, her heart splayed open just as her legs would be for Nightfall in short order.

“Far more than that, really.” A perfectly manufactured bashful grin tugged at Nightfall's lips.

“Oh?” Now Yor actually looked concerned as she shifted forward in her seat, bridging the gap between sofa and armchair. Perfect. Vulnerability was the track to take. “I thought that it was the start of a lovely match.”

“I- I hoped that too, though I'm ashamed to admit that I was- oh-” Nightfall scratched at her cheek to give Yor the chance to process and speculate – imagine – while making it seem as if she was concealing a flush. “You're going to think that I'm just so terribly silly.”

“Of course not.” Smooth and gentle, Yor's heartfelt tone actually did bolster Nightfall's mood and confidence. Everything was coming together except them but that - and they - would come later. When it came down to it, the coming culmination was inevitable. “You haven't even seen half of the silly things that I've done around the house, cooking especially. Whatever it might be, you can tell me.”

Probably because she was an incompetent in everything other than her affairs with other women.

“Honestly, I was... very eager to impress you.” Well, she'd been seeking to impress Loid and upstage Yor to the point that she compared her life, skills, and person to Nightfall's and stepped aside while failing to hold back tears over her utter inferiority.

“Me?”

“Yes,” Fiona continued before wiggling her fingers and adding, “well, your husband has spoken about you at work quite a lot.”

Yor's face darkened like a blood moon disappearing behind the clouds so that only a thin radiance leaked through the whispy gaps.

“I ... I know that he doesn't speak well of me there,” she admitted.

“He does seem to be quite... cruel, sometimes,” Fiona offered with a sympathetic tone.

“I... I probably deserve it, though. I haven't been able to keep a very good home for him.”

No. She hadn't. Not even attending to her husband's physical needs, even if she was a lesbian, she should have been bowing at that man's feet like he was the marble statue of the Greek God of spycraft assuming, as Nightfall did, that such a thing existed.

“Speaking of which, though, I've been so rude as a host.” With a jerk, Yor planted her palms to the seat cushion on either side of her deadly thighs and veritably leapt upwards like a Bouncing Betty ready to sheer Nightfall in half. “Would you care for something to eat or drink? Tea, perhaps? And Loid made some lovely banana bread. I'm not half the baker he is.”

Ingratiating herself with Yor by picking away at that insecurity, praising her tea and denigrating “Loid's” baking was probably a good plan. If there was such a thing as fate, it was presenting agent Nightfall with such marvellous opportunities.

Clearly God wanted to see her bang Yor for the mission too.

“Oh,” Fiona exclaimed, hand to her heart as she watched Yor rise up on those powerful legs and then turn to show off – Fiona nearly choked as she gazed upon the sight.

“I- I'd love some.” That was more of a croak than Nightfall had intended.

Turnabout was fair play, it seemed.

Those leggings did wonders for Yor's ass as she strode off into the kitchen.

Her reaction was pure jealousy, of course, at glutes that cute.

If Nightfall had a butt like that, she'd probably have seduced Twilight effortlessly.

“Of course.” Yor's voice cut through the minor stupor and had Nightfall shuffling and wiping a stray bead of sweat from her brow. “I'll set the kettle for tea and bring you a plate.”

The delay of only a half of a minute did give Nightfall the chance to recompose herself, drawing upon the well of reserve that she had built up through her training under Twilight. That was all she had to think about. Proving herself to Twilight.

When Yor returned with a plate of finely sliced banana bread, the powerful fragrance of overly-sweet fruit assailed Nightfall's nose; those bananas had likely been left slightly too long and developed black splotches before being tossed into the loaf. Next to the plate that Yor set to the coffee table, she also placed a ceramic butter dish, but she clung on to the butter knife longingly for just another moment.

That weird knife fetish.

Obviously it extended to blunt instruments as well.

Strange.

How were they going to engage in blood play with a dull knife?

Nightfall only just managed to restrain a twitch of shock and horror at the thought that flitted through her mind as she realized the implications of Yor's knife fingering.

Was there such a thing as ... butter play?

What would that look like?

The future of Westalis demanded that she find out.

“Sorry about that.” Eventually as Nightfall sat silently and sweat out the bad thoughts to no effect, Yor seemed to be satisfied by her knife-fondling and set down the cutlery before taking her seat again. “You were saying something about Loid and work?”

“Oh, yes,” Nightfall responded with what she hoped was the edge of a dreamy sigh. “Well, it's actually about what he didn't say that left me feeling so impressed.”

“Um, I'm afraid that I don't follow.”

“Well, for you to put up with Loid when he... he can be so cruel, saying all those things about you behind your back, ignoring you in favor of his work, not treating you as you deserve – and yet still you're so patient.” Nightfall winced as if she'd simply said too much. “You invest so much in his daughter.”

“Loid and I –“ Yor's tone turned wistful as she glanced towards the window that opened out onto a bustling Berlint street, but all that was visible from their angle was the facade of the apartment complex across the way. “We both know what it's like to grow up alone. To grow up without parents. If I've given Anya anything by trying to – to fill some small part of her mother's role, it's less than she deserves.”

“Oh, but what about what you deserve? The real apology that you're owed is from Loid, and from me for believing him?” To make herself seem to convivial and open, Nightfall plucked up the blunted butter knife and lifted the lid from a ceramic butter dish on the table.

She may also have made a show of spinning the knife between her fingers before cutting herself a small sliver of soft yellow dairy product, miming the motions that Yor had shown off yesterday and that her rival would have no clue Nightfall practised for two hours last evening to make certain that she could pull it off without accidentally putting out someone's eye.

Thank goodness for plastic cutlery.

“Believing him about what?” Yor asked, leaning back onto the sofa. Her smile, this time watery, churned Nightfall's belly.

“I... that you weren't a- a good wife. Lazy. Uncommitted.” Setting down her bread and knife, she reached out a hand to cup Yor's knee, a tingle racing up from her fingertips as her pinkie slipped into a groove of corded thigh muscle. Someone did not skip leg day. Yor could probably shatter someone's jaw with a solid kick from legs that robust. Maybe crush an entire head if she used the force generated by both her thighs.

“He's not wrong, though.” One of Yor's hands twisted into the fabric of her leggings, much as it might tangled and messy bed sheets. “I should be doing so much more.'

Well, yes, she should be doing Loid like any healthy, sexually and socially adjusted woman in her position

“Nonsense. Look at what you've already done,” Nightfall objected with all the tender compassion she could muster and a few dollops more that she did her best to feign, hand edging up an inch to test the full power of that musculature. “Anya loves you, even though you were tossed into her life without knowing the first thing about being a mother. Investment, care, sacrifice. You really are the most remarkable person, Yor. That's why, I suppose, that I just wanted to – to make it seem like I was worthy of your attention. Maybe... your friendship. You... you deserve so much as a person. A woman.”

It took a moment for those words to sink in, but in the time it took Nightfall to ponder an appropriate second Westalian salvo that would surely sunder the Ostanian dame's defences and force an unconditional surrender to sapphic seduction, the rattle of metal clattering against metal and a faint, increasing-loud sharp whistle rang out from the kitchen.

“Oh! The water's boiled.” Yor's hands clapped together. Nearly bounding from the sofa like a child on Christmas morning, racing down the stairs but without the disgusting lack of civility and propriety that Nightfall ascribed to children, Yor scurried off to the kitchen to begin preparing the tea. “Would you care for cream or sugar?”

“Neither please.” Nightfall indulged in a rather large bite from the banana bread, then dabbed her buttery lips with a napkin. Balanced sweet and savory flavours mingled on her enlivened taste-buds, all capped off and cut by a hint of lemon for freshness. It was practically orgasmic, really. Impeccable cooking, as was to be expected of her mentor.

Too bad she'd have to savage it to put on a show for Yor.

Because, considering the flavour and hardiness, Twilight could feed her his bread any day of the week and twice on Saturdays just because a hard-working young woman deserved to indulge herself on occasion.

She'd still savage it, though.

She busied herself with a careful inspection of the room, hunting for further signs of Yor's interests or inclinations, but the living area, at least, remained stubbornly opaque to her. Everything about the space seemed just too normal to be normal. Family photographs, carefully doctored and edited to imply that Loid had raised Anya since she was a baby, were littered about the desk and mantle. Books, generally classic novels befitting a DILF – uh - man of taste (Unfortunately, Nightfall began thinking about the taste of a DILF at this point, which short-circuited her observations for a few precious seconds)...

... a man like “Loid Forger” lined the bookshelves.

Those harpies at city hall had gotten to her.

Infected her with their perversion.

Rugs, tasteful curtains that fluttered in the cool breeze from the window that opened up onto the bustling street below, and the black upholstered sofa all complemented a modern kitchen with all the amenities that Loid would need to feign invested fatherhood, preparing his wife's lunch for the next day each evening.

It was all so normal.

But nothing of Yor herself, as if she wasn't really a part of the family, but precisely the kind of interloper that Nightfall had deemed her.

“I hope that you like a strong cup,” Yor announced sweetly as she returned and set down a cup and saucer before Fiona before returning to her armchair.

“I'm certain that it will be lovely.” Absently, Nightfall reached out for the warm ceramic cup.

Clearly, this was a good first step, but the plan didn't have time for subtlety. More direct action would be required now that the simple groundwork had been laid, Nightfall affirmed to herself as she took her first sip of tea, contemplating the best way to turn her early effort to cop a feel of Yor's thigh into a snea-

...

An incessant throbbing crashed into Nightfall's brain like an endless series of morningstars, spikes and blades piercing her skull even as it shattered under the assault. Whimpered gasps were all that emerged from her lips that felt tacky and raw, as if scalded by something caustic.

Like bombs exploding during an air-raid of the Westalian capital when she was a child, a rhythmic thud and thump resounded, rattling her teeth. Her sense of smell was entirely gone, lending no further information as she sucked down a breath, while her entire mouth and jaw felt numb as if with pins and needles. Insensate, her tongue flopped about, prodding at the roof of her mouth and sliding over her teeth.

When her gummy eyes finally creaked open, fluttering against the explosions of light, she found the spartan room was dark save for the sliver of illumination that cut across the tile floor and crossed the baby blue sheet that had been drawn up under her chin.

Through the haze, for only an instant before her lids slammed shut again to protect her from the barbarous searing hell that was curling fiery fingers into her sockets and attempting to rip out her eyes, a little sliver of heaven leaked through: Twilight, sitting with a newspaper in hand by her bedside.

“T-Twilight?” Her feeble mumble drew her mentor's attention, the blond man leaning closer to what Nightfall suspected might be her death bed. She could tell from the warmth that radiated off his body and the caress of breath against her cheek. These were, perhaps, her final moments, an unexpected end for reasons unknown, and that was what galled her more than anything else. In their line of work, death was a spectre who haunted them and the halls of their faux-hospital, but to not see it coming. To not know why or how or for what purpose. Knowledge was the last grace, the last luxury her beleaguered brain pleaded for before the merciful end overtook her, and she forced her eyes open.

At least Twilight would be the last thing she saw before leaving this world.

“Agent Nightfall.” Twilight took her hand, though she knew this only because she saw the motion; the touch of his fingers was just a dull and vague impression without precise sensation. “You-”

“W-what happened?” she croaked out with what felt like the last of her strength. That was even more important than whatever love confession was surely about to flow forth from Twilight's mouth.

A dying woman was entitled to her dreams in her last moments.

“You've been unconscious for four hours.” Her mentor just smiled almost... fondly and chuckled.

“H-how?”

“You drank my wife's tea,” he said as if abashed, patting the back of her hand lightly. “Don't worry if there's memory loss. It's likely for the best.”

It was then that Agent Nightfall found new resolve to live, a dedication and will to endure even the agonizing pangs of fire that were cauterizing their way through her intestines and the war drum beat of her own frantic heart, sending blood rushing into her head.

That witch, Yor, was good. Better by far than Nightfall had given her credit.

A masterful actor.

Nightfall wasn't just going to let someone drug her and get away with it.

She didn't even get to remember the sex!

Which had surely happened as Yor took advantage of Nightfall's compromised state after she had imbibed doubtlessly “specially-brewed” tea.

“Just thank God it wasn't her coffee.”

At which point, before she could instruct Twilight to review and save a copy of the spy camera footage from his apartment, Nightfall slipped back into unconsciousness for the next twenty-four hours during which she dreamed of her revenge, which absolutely involved bringing Yor to her knees.

Chapter Text

Identification of the individual Yor intended to meet on Saturday evening was far more challenging that Twilight had first anticipated. This was no casual fling, he'd realized early on in his meetings with Franky, who had, finally, been roped into assisting him in exchange for a favour to be called in at the scruffy little information broker's whim.

Small price to pay for the future of his marriage.

And of his country.

Which was the important thing here.

Because a spy's first and only love was his nation. It was an affection that transcended any tawdry concerns or trite physical or romantic impulses that one might feel towards his wife, her radiant smile, soft touches, angelic singing and reading voice, or buxom figure none of which were things that Agent Twilight contemplated save insofar as they created a safe and nurturing environment for Anya as part of the mission. For Twilight, his devotion to Westalis, a pure adoration, had been forged from the dispassionate and detached fires of civic pride. Nursing at the state's breast, being nourished by her magnanimity in squalid poorhouses and orphanages, taught you everything that you needed to know about love.

Was it any wonder that Twilight had grown into a veritable paragon of emotional and psychological adjustment?

No.

No it was not.

However well-reared he may have been, though, both as a parentless child and a spy by his spiritual fathers and mothers at WISE, he'd hit several roadblocks along the way to determining the identity of the degenerate cur with a shriveled up canker-ridden soul who'd been imposing himself on Yor. Time constraints not withstanding, they'd been able to slip a few Dalcs into the now-greased palms of the Schlosshotel Berlint cleaning and maintenance staff, sneak into the hotel office to review the clearly doctored guest registry, and release a swarm of bugs into the entire edifice.

The staff were surprisingly reticent, resistant to even his most charming personas. Those who were actually willing to share information lacked any intelligence of great value, unable to provide more than a general description of suspected security and bodyguards held up in the rooms surrounding Yor's paramour. Clearly, he was a man of tremendous importance.

Twilight simply didn't understand why.

Until now, at the very last minute on Friday afternoon.

Revulsion and horror curled up like dissipating clouds of battery smoke, expanding Twilight's chest, nearly cracking his ribs as he bloated up while reviewing the final confirmation by way of a spy camera photo slipped under his door by Franky. He'd torn open the nondescript tan paper envelop with fingers shaking as if he was holding his first firearm, awash in the adrenaline burst that trained marksmen learnt how to suppress.

And then, photo in hand, he was felled.

Like a bow to the kidneys so hard that they both ruptured, septic shock taking out his legs, the image sent Agent Twilight of the Westalis Intelligence Service Eastern Focused Division tumbling down to his butt on the cool tile floor of his office.

He'd anticipated a degree of relief and professional satisfaction, but there was a certain reality to the leering, bloated features of Heinrich Hartmann.

Everything had spiraled completely out of control, and there was nothing to be done. Nothing could fix this situation. If it had simply been another random man, some faceless school teacher or even a dilettante or winsome and suave heir to some Berlint corporation, Twilight could have dealt with that. The latter had flashed through his mind on occasion over the past weeks - some debauched lothario, rakish grin always at the ready and a smarmy, oily string of compliments spilling from his deft tongue, ready to ensnare and choke the life from any young woman he'd hoped to charm like a garotte. Twilight could have found a way to move forward even if that pathway yet again led him to pitiless and swift elimination of a threat to his mission if the person was just... normal. A philanderer who took advantage of a married woman, perhaps, but just another man. 

But it wasn't the threat to the mission, now.

Beady eyes were set deep inside bruised sockets, half hidden by the bangs and unkempt hair that even in the black and white spy photo seemed to glisten with grease. His attire was a monogrammed red robe that exposed the flesh of his upper chest – or, more accurately, the tangle of coarse black hair that obscured any skin below his bulging throat from view.

This wasn't a man.

And not because of his physically characteristics or even his preying upon Yor.

No. Twilight didn't even need to review the tiny strip of ragged-edged paper that Franky had slipped into the envelope along with this photo and the others that he now reviewed, just to be certain of his initial conclusion. Disbelief and a certain sense of professional pride, a need to examine every piece of evidence because the weight of the conclusion was too massy and crippling to bear when he thought of Yor- Yor being with this thing was too great to carry.

Heinrich Hartmann was a hedonistic gun-runner who'd equipped a dozen terrorist organizations across the globe with pilfered Ostanian weaponry trafficked through the black market.

Fleshpots the world over knew of him and his... predilections.

Any lingering hesitation about breaking Yor's heart by murdering- no.

Not murdering.

Not even committing justifiable homicide in service of one's country in order to secure its prosperity and future security so that children the world over could live without crying the loss of parents, brothers, sisters, homes, and innocence.

Rising to withdraw a lighter from his desk drawer, which he'd kept despite his attempt to quit smoking, Twilight flicked the trigger, a wavering orange flame sparking to life. Evidence had to be disposed of, and there was something cathartic about the tongue of cleansing flame licking innocently at the darkening edge of the photograph paper before it caught, blackening and curling as the tidal-wave of orange fire crept its way up to the top of the sheet, leaving ash to crumble into the wastebasket over which Twilight stood.

As the flame began to crawl over the first flabby roll of Heinrich's chin, Twilight, because he was alone and no one would ever know, allowed himself the indulgence of a sneer, thinking about Yor and Anya and Bond curled up on a Bondman bedspread, mother reading a bedtime story from Twilight's own childhood to the sleepy-eyed girl whose head nodded with exhaustion.

Children's happiness, a family's happiness ...

His family's happiness whether it was genuine or just a lie that they were telling each other and it was okay because they could enjoy pretending until it became true.

They were worthy of protecting.

The things- the people who made a man... happy.

Was it happiness, though? It couldn't be because he still felt it even now, a warmth lingering in his chest that even the horror couldn't quite quench. 

This wasn't a murder, Twilight reaffirmed as he moved on to the other photographs.

Not even an execution despite all the fanciful methods that Twilight had doodled in his work sketchbook and laid out in meticulous detail using his many codes that turned them into ideas for outings with Anya and potential dates between him and Yor because husbands totally wrote those out in their journals and he was just doing it for the mi-

No. Not with the way his stomach clenched at the thoughts of this degenerate thing touching Yor.

He wasn't doing it for the mission.

He was doing it because of how he felt.

Men were murdered.

Men were executed, even spies taken out in the dark woods or an abandoned building or a pier where they were to be shot in the back of the head and dumped without ceremony or funeral.

Vermin were exterminated.

It was then that Twilight got called away to deal with a plethora of menial tasks assigned to him by an utterly irate Handler who smacked him upside the head when he reported to her office and berated him for the next half-hour over something having to do with... the misuse of agency funds?

Odd.

The fact that Agent Nightfall was carted in on a gurney a few hours later, mumbling something about thick thighs and... cats for some unfathomable reason, further distracted him from his preparations to eliminate some pests at the Schlosshotel Berlint. Until she awoke, he left her and her affairs in the capable hands of the doctors and other agents. 

But for Yor, Loid, with the help of a some likely illegal stimulants filched from the hospital, was able to complete all of the necessary last-minute preliminary work to put a new plan into effect.

Exterminating Hartmann would resolve the temporary, immediate problem, but no clandestine operation or cloak-and-dagger deception could reach the... ironically, heart, of the matter. 

His. 

And Yor's.

It was nearly time for the final confrontation. 

Chapter Text

Securing access to the Schlosshotel Berlint proved easier than Twilight had anticipated given the security that had been set in place, for much the same reason that he and Franky had been able to infiltrate the hotel and plant their multitude of surveillance devices. The entire contingent of guards, whose eyes were almost uniformly concealed by dark sunglasses that seemed rather impractical, were loaded up into the hallway and rooms near suite 17. They were a twitchy and paranoid gaggle of thugs, despite the knock-off high-fashion suits afforded them by their employer, but all their focus seemed to be on the main entrance and hallways, which they had barricaded with fallback positions for groups of their men, as if they suspected a frontal blitzkrieg assault from an opposing army.

Even Twilight wouldn't have been able to break through those defenses through brute force alone.

However, myopia was a weakness, and strength in one area inevitably resulted in a diminishment of forces in another. As the great strategist's counsel went: “the way is to avoid what is strong, and strike at what is weak.” And Twilight was quite good at picking apart other's weaknesses with a scalpel and tweezers. Spycraft was, after all, the very distillation of the maxim that the supreme art of war was to subdue the enemy without fighting.

So, with the knowledge of his rival's identity in hand, he merely concocted a passable disguise by way of largely accurate coloured contact lenses and a prosthetic mask, fashioned hastily with the tools on hand in the 'hospital' basement. Hartmann's lieutenant, Bruce Boxlighter, – the real man having been dropped off with Westalis intelligence since Twilight was going to ruin Harmann's whole career – passed all the defenses utterly unmolested. Quite unlike most of the girls whom the scum favored when visiting particularly repugnant brothels the world over. That thought had Twilight contemplating just dropping the charade and murdering every man he passed.

Quietly, of course, picking them off one by one.

He had to make use of that collection of execution techniques somehow, didn’t he?

He regretted that Hartmann had only one life to give in service of Twilight’s country. 

But there was no time for such indulgence; he had a mission to complete, and a wife to… save?

He'd have to find out.

Subduing Hartmann was, in fact, almost effortless once Twilight slipped into his room under the pretense of discussing developments in the negotiation with a cabal of doomsday cultists who insisted that they had to exterminate the entire population of a New England coastal fishing town that had fallen into decadent disrepute in the late 1890s because it was inhabited by some form of batrachian subspecies of human beings that were the product of miscegenation with an immortal race of undersea frog-men…

Odd the things that Boxlighter had told them, but his story – about the doomsday cultist if not the fish-men – checked out.

A swift and decisive blow to the back of Hartmann's head when he turned to the mini-bar to retrieve whisky left the man thoroughly unconscious, and, despite his corpulence, easily secured with some rope to a dining room chair, ankles neatly duct-taped to the chair legs, and mouth similarly sealed shut. Securely blindfolded, he wasn't even able to see Twilight peel off his mask and rub away the residual sticky gunk from behind his ears.

Originally, the plan had simply been to put a bullet in the back of the man's head, but that was before the revelation of his true identity and, perhaps, the one of the man behind the mask of Twilight.

Yor might never know what name the facade of Loid Forger concealed, but he now realized that that man hadn't even been honest with himself. Of course that made a good deal of sense. After all, there were few people that one lied to with more frequency than oneself.

And now? 

Now was the time for honesty.

Unfortunately for Twilight, he had very little practice, or familiarity, with honesty.

So, with Hartmann bound and gagged, Twilight waited, standing by the window should he need to rely on defenestration to make a quick escape, with his silenced pistol in hand.

His timing having been precise like clockwork, he didn't have to wait long for Yor to arrive, the door to the hotel room bursting open as if she was in a rush, to reveal his wife. As he'd suspected, even as his stomach fell and he twisted to conceal his pistol from her view, not wishing to scare her even more than was necessary, she had changed since last he saw her earlier in the day. The revealing black dress, which even an unattached and dispassionate agent had noticed was immensely flattering when first they went out for dinner with Anya, hugged her curves and emphasized her lean and supple thighs as it swished dramatically before she stormed in, the security mechanism of the door causing it to swing closed behind her.

"Heinrich Hartmann, may I have the-"

Whatever it was that Yor was trying to say by way of greeting to her paramour was cut off with a choked gasp, the cool reserve that rarified and refined her features giving way to open-mouthed shock and a modicum of terror. The expression pained him for her sake, much as her betrayal had wounded him deeper than even the pair of ... pin-like knives clutched in her hands ever could.

Pin-like knives?!

Just what was she doing with this degenerate?!

"L- w-what are you-" She shook her head as if trying to clear the ringing in her ears after a grenade went off danger-close. "How?"

"How is not important," the Westalian agent stated primly.

Yor stumbled at that, staggering forward with her arm rising up as if in a plea. "But I-"

"What matters now is this." Twilight pointed the muzzle of his silenced pistol towards the squirming, gagged reprobate, worse than he'd ever imagined, bound to the wooden chair by the windowsill.

Yor clenched up on her knives, her nostrils flaring as if she was an enraged bull. "I ... that's- he's why I'm here."

"Oh, yes,” Twilight said, noting the razor-sharpness of her eyes and resisting the urge to squirm. “I know."

"You do?"

"Of course. You're my wife." Loid took no pleasure in the way that Yor flinched like a kicked puppy that he wanted to scoop up into his arms and cuddle, telling her that she was a good girl, a pretty girl, a lovely voluptuous – It wasn't time to think of such things now. “I know exactly why we’re here.”

“Y- you're not with him?” she asked with a release of breath, slumping. A nearly manic giggle rose up from her throat. “Ridiculous. Of course not.”

“I'm here for you,” Twilight stressed, voice wavering at the revelation. “You couldn't hide this from me forever."

"I- I can’t believe you-” Yor bit her lip before taking an exceptionally long, calming breath to steel herself for what Twilight could only consider a bizarre quasi-couple's spat before their quite literally captive audience. “It wasn't supposed to be forever."

Nothing lasted forever, of course. Twilight's chin rose to project a degree of smirking arrogance and stave off the desire to go hug his distraught wife. "Then how long was it supposed to last?"

"I've thought about stopping every time,” Yor strained out, beginning to pace the room, eyes flitting back and forth rapidly between him, the door, and Hartmann, “but- but I just couldn't..I started so young, and it was so- so easy at first when I told myself that it was all for Yuri. That I was doing something good."

"But you had me ,” Twilight insisted, clutching up on his pistol even as he tried to suppress the unjustified, emotional quiver to his voice. For her, he had to be better than that. “I ... I would have given you anything that you needed."

She flinched from his gaze, sheathing those long knives in a pair of specially-designed holsters on her thighs, rendered bare as her lithesome legs hiked upwards and Twilight was irrationally relieved that he'd blindfolded Hartmann, however many times he already gotten to see more than this.

"I got ... caught up in it,” his wife said softly, folding her arms to hug herself. “I didn't know how to stop. It's just... been a part of me – been me for too long."

"I suspected as much. Then... I need you to know-" Twilight inhaled a calming breath, allowing the scent of pine, whisky, and cigar smoke to fill his lungs. There really was only one thing that he could do. Marital relationships called for compromise and mutual sacrifice. "That it's okay."

"It- what ?"

"I don't care what you've done," Twilight declared with a serious tone and toss of his arm, everything about him utterly dripping with bathos.

"But-"

"I can't imagine what was done to you as a child. What you were forced to experience just to survive, and I don't mean to be patronizing either, but it's as I told you the night that we agreed to marry. Who you are, and the sacrifices that you've made, are a credit to you. The scars you carry deserve to be seen, and ... touched gently-” His gaze rose to the ceiling; despite all the masterful deceptions he had effected throughout his career, no matter how odious or manipulative the skein of lies he unraveled around the throats of heiresses and enemy agents whose deaths he was plotting, nothing had been as bitterly hard as this single moment that left his heart hammering, his blood boiling like a caustic acid ready to eat through his flesh.

Because all the pretense and all the lies and all the thousand, thousand diaphanous shields of Loid Forger and Twilight, each as thin as the layers of an onion, were falling away in this one moment of ... vulnerability.

Twilight didn't allow himself to be vulnerable.

Twilight was the bulwark against the world and the self, keeping everything out and everything in.

“And,” he choked on the word and then found strength and courage by turning his face from the wood panel ceiling to gaze on her. Of course, Yor, even standing there agog and befuddled in her revealing dress, fingers nearly bruising her upper arms with the force of her grip, made it easy. “And your scars only make me love you more."

Going slack-jawed, she gasped like an agent breaching the surface of the water after an aquatic insertion for a mission. "You- you love me?"

"I have for a very long time.” Twilight smiled ruefully at himself. “It merely took... this for me to realize it."

"And you still love me... despite it?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, ruby eyes glistening in a way that made him want to kiss a trail around them until the lids fluttered closed in contentment, just so they could open again, bright with warmth. 

"I do,” Twilight insisted as gently as he could muster while watching his wife tremble, her face pinching up even as her eyes blew wide with shock and awe of the sort that might result from a wide-scale bombing campaign. “It matters to me only insofar as it's affected you, because... because you're the one who matters to me. I realized that when I started to think about what he'd done to you. How... gentle and kind you could be after suffering as you have. Each day, every new inch I see, I only become more... awed."

Her reaction was muted, though he took it as a good sign that she stepped towards him gingerly, waving around the corpulent cur confined to his chair. A keen intelligence shone from her focused eyes as she mulled while Twilight awaited her reaction to the revelation, his intestines twisting up like he'd been put on the very torture rack that he'd envisioned – and sketched – for her mystery lover.

"I- I don't know what – what that kind of love is,” Yor admitted in a soft voice, tremulous with a kind of restrained vulnerability, like his vibrant and indefatigable and lusty – No. Not lusty. Scratch that. – wife was a wine glass, transparent and ready to shatter with the right tone. “Anya, Yuri, Ostania. Even Bond. I love them, but-"

Twilight wasted no time in extending his free hand, palm open in invitation. "I don’t know if I understand it either, but … we can find out together, if you want to?"

She smiled at him, and the sight was like drinking liquid honey, saccharine but going down smooth and refreshing as cool spring water. "I do."

A cocked brow answered her. "Apt."

"I- I suppose so," she said with a charming little giggle of embarrassment as she slipped her fingers along his palm, tracing the stitched seam of his white glove.,

"Then the only thing that remains is him.” Twilight turned to gaze at the shuffling pile of human excrement beside them. Much as he longed to simply do away with him summarily, a man did have to take his wife's feelings into account.

For the mission.

Which was now, apparently, saving his marriage.

“What do you- what are your feelings about … this?" Twilight asked.

"It was never about feelings.” Yor's assurance was just the cool spring rain, tumbling down from the heavens like a divine gift, that Twilight needed to put out the fire in his throat. Of course, she had to go re-stoking it tenfold by what she said next with shocking flippancy. “It was the job, something I felt that I had to do, and was proud to do for Yuri, but recently it's just been... because I don't know how to do anything else."

"So this was... forced." Somehow, he managed to keep the pure and unbridled rage from twisting up his voice, merely due to the thought that an untoward expression of aggression might frighten his occasionally overly-sensitive wife.

"Well... under some degree of duress,” Yor admitted, seeming to note the increased tension in his shoulders and giving his hand a squeeze to mollify him.

"I see.” Twilight pursed his lips and steeled himself for the task ahead, already distracting his racing and nearly unruly mind, a rarity for him, by creating a mental catalog of all the psychologists and therapists in Berlint and WISE's employ to whom he could introduce his wife. She deserved the best as she worked through the long process of recovery from the nightmare of a life of exploitation at the hands of vermin like Hartmann. “Then I will take on the responsibility of killing him. You'll never be safe if he's alive and free."

"You- you'd do that for me?” Yor gasped, tugging free her hand to clasp them both over her mouth in what Twilight only hoped was not a show of abject disgust. Honesty now, though, was all he could offer. Her next words were muffled by her fingers. “But you're a doctor. A- a good man. A healer."

"I'm your husband, and, to be fair, he runs an ...” Twilight licked his lips and then offered a euphemism through gritted teeth. “Odious business. It's nothing less than he deserves."

Yor nodded as if he'd just told her that they should take second avenue on the way home from the Berlint opera house to save time with traffic, like murder was a mundane thing. “You're right, of course."

Strange and disquieting. Still, he had a responsibility to preserve his wife's innocence.

"Perhaps you should leave.” The offer of escape was punctuated by a broad sweep of his hand towards the hotel room door. “This isn't something that you need to see."

Much to his surprise, Yor just waved him off like he was Anya, saying that she was going to eat nothing but peanuts for every meal, just like an el-elf-ant. 

"Oh, that won't be necessary. Like you said, not after everything I've already been through." Her crystalline clear laughs rang out like a harmonious series of wedding bells tinkling. 

It was possible that Loid had underestimated the horrors that Yor had witnessed as a child and teen. Prostitution was typically associated with organized crime, at least when it involved someone who could draw in high-class customers (Twilight made a note to take up a hobby that involved the systematic elimination of organized crime in Berlint). 

She may have been exposed to just a smidgen more violence than he'd suspected.

After the execution was, well, executed with a single clean shot to the back of Hartmann’s head for expediency's sake, after which Twilight made certain to retrieve the shell casing, the Westalian agent turned back to his wife.

"Now, shall we head home?" he asked while joining her at the door, only moderately distracted by the starry-eyed expression on her face that almost made her look like a child.

Considering the thoughts he’d been having about her curling up in his lap like a buxom puppy, the neoteny was slightly disconcerting.

Yor put a hand to her heart as if it was threatening to beat its way out of her chest, and sighed wistfully. "Loid, that was so… efficient."

"I ... suppose," Twilight offered hesitantly. An odd compliment considering the situation, but Yor might still be in shock.

"You know, given how you sneaked into the hotel and killed Hartmann so easily, you have a lot of potential," Yor offered with an inexplicable degree of chipperness and even less fathomable dusting of rouge on her cheeks, as if she was thoroughly proud of her baby boy for having gotten a gold star on his assignment in kindergarten.

Twilight's brow quirked as he paused while taking hold of the door handle, a shiver creeping up his spine. "What do you mean?"

Yor's hands clasped together before her chest while a sequel of excitement that Twilight committed to memory so that he could be certain to encourage her to make precisely that same sound again bubbled up from her throat. "Well, after you get some training, we could go on missions!"

"What missions?" Loid asked slowly with a cracking smile, which was somewhat appropriate since it felt like his skull was going to split open as his brain was overheating.

And not just because of the smooth alabaster flesh that was completely exposed along Yor's throat and bosom, or the burst of honeysuckle perfume that tickled his nose erotically.

Yor looked at him, apparently uncertain.

"As assassins?"

A quick mental recategorization of available data transpired at that juncture.

Around the same time that Twilight realized that he was an unfathomable dumbass, but as he did with many facts, he suppressed the acknowledgement of it.

Just swept it under the mental rug where it would find a nice home next to the repressed childhood trauma.

Pausing to brace his back against the wall beside the hotel room door, Loid raised his fingers to his temple and squeezed as if trying to crush his own skull.

"Assassins?"

"Yes.” In confusion that scrunched up her face, still flushed with ... something that Loid didn't want to think about until they'd returned to their apartment, Yor blinked those radiant ruby eyes, a match for the streak of actual human blood that had actually splashed over her cheekbone and that he felt compelled to wipe away with a gloved thumb. “You figured me out, and, oh! You'll be so dashing in one of the Garden's tuxedos. We'll make such a lovely pair."

Loid stared at her for roughly sixty seconds, all of which she seemed to spend caught up in some girlish fantasy, a faraway look in her glazed eyes, before he shrugged and offered her his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.

"You know what?" Loid began as he fired off a pistol shot dead-center into the forehead of a guard, who had been hiding in an adjoining room and burst out on them with a knife, poised to sink it into Yor's throat. Late, but at least he showed he had spirit before he gave up the ghost. A thrown dagger also embedded itself in the dead man's heart before the bullet had finished passing through his skull.

At which point Yor may have transitioned from pink-faced to fully beet red and taken a firmer hold of his arm, setting her head to his shoulder and sighing as she snuggled into him before, together, they strode out into the hallway.

A hallway littered with corpses of nondescript suited bodyguards, none of whom, it seemed, had even had a chance to fire off a shot despite their preparations.

Quieter than a silenced pistol.

"Yes, Loid?" his darling wife murmured peacefully, cuddling him, as another two guards, who sprung upon them from a hotel room to their left, caught miniature throwing knives to their jugulars and two silenced shots center mass of their chests.

Yor fanned herself lightly with a hand, though that did nothing to dispel the apparent heat from her face... and now her bosom because the flush had spread all the way down to her boobs.

Agent Twilight of the Westalis Intelligence Service Eastern Focused Division, the pride of his nation and scourge of Ostanian dictators, counterintelligence agents, Mafiosos, and general threats to his nation's sovereignty and security and the wellbeing of children everywhere, shrugged and resumed staring at his wife's bust because he was absolutely entitled to do that now.

"That's close enough."