Work Text:
Even as a child, a distant and attemptedly forgotten part of his life, Twilight had often marveled at the simple yet exquisite joys that came along with winter. It was by no means his favorite season; but winter meant seas of white that swallowed any distant echoes, and specks of crystals that whirled in the sky and painted new horizons with each burst of a biting December wind. It erased mistakes of the past and left ground for the bloom of a new era.
What he liked most, however, was how infinitely more vibrant each color appeared to him, splashes of warm shades and hues that painted a stark contrast against the ever-ephemeral white canvas growing thicker with each night.
Even today, years and even decades later, he still felt compelled to stop and hold his breath at the small, unexpected beauty of colors that bolted of shadows – quite literally so, as it appeared today – to break that blank infinity.
And hold his breath, he did, even as he failed to stop his mind and eyes from wandering dangerously to each Christmas hue that stood before him, lethal and poised.
Gold – the tip of a stiletto, resting steadily against the column of this throat.
Silver – the barrel of his gun, poised under her chin.
Red – her eyes, fearless; yet wide with surprise.
Green – His sleeve, which he hoped covered the slight, unwanted tremor in his hand. Not fear – rather, bewilderment.
Neither of them had expected to run into each other.
How could they have ?
Just as he’d completed a last-minute request from his handler, running away to where he knew he had left his car, he’d met her at the corner of a poorly lit street. He’d been longing so badly to simply go home that he had been nowhere as attentive as he should have been. Muscles had acted faster than their brains had, and before they could even recognize each other, they’d drawn their weapons – coiled and ready to strike, stopping at a hair’s breadth from their respective vulnerable points, breaths stuttering at their minds finally caught up with the situation.
To say it was an awkward situation would have been the understatement of the century.
The heavy layer of snow that had recovered the town now cut them from the rest of the world – the secluded street they were in, dark if not for the lamp post in Yor’s back that casted a flickering orange halo of light onto the crown of her hair, was eerily silent, and Twilight was only able to make out the wild pounding of his heart against his ribcage amidst the rush of blood in his ears.
They stood there for a few minutes, that could as well have been hours – time lost its meaning to him, as the only referential became her, standing above him in her crimson and golden glory, crowned by coincidence or maybe fate as an uncanny angel, unraveled in the blood tainting the tips of her pins and the wavering ice in her gaze.
A huge, pristine snowflake landed softly on the tip of her nose, breaking with a feather-touch the uncertain tension that had held them still. Something in his chest fluttered painfully, fondly, as she twitched, eyelids fluttering in surprise.
She mercifully drove the blade away from his throat before she sneezed loudly, with the melodious, high-pitched sound that she always made when she was sick.
Yor, his mind finally supplied, and the meager will to fight that had until then clung to his skin melted at once at the sole whisper of her name on his lips.
He, too, lowered his gun. To keep a gun trained on his wife would have been terribly discourteous, after all.
He offered her his handkerchief ; she accepted it with a nod and a small thank you, before blowing her nose delicately. She folded the square of fabric neatly.
“I’ll wash it for you,” she promised, without looking at him.
He didn’t answer; again, they stared at each other without a word – alone and yet together, in the pocket dimension that was this isolated street corner curtained with walls and snow, their weapons lowered, unvoiced questions hanging in the crisp air.
One of them had to make the first step, he realized.
They could decide to fight, and taint the pristine street with another kind of crimson than the one of her eyes.
They could ask questions, and burn the cocoon of lies they’d weaved throughout the past months.
He thought of Anya, back home with Bond, waiting for the two of them to come back from their “sudden, urgent errands”, so they could enjoy Christmas Eve together.
It was a difficult choice, to anyone who would have pondered on it – to put at risk the most important mission of his life, or to destroy the bonds of the fake family they’d fabricated.
But to him, it wasn’t a choice at all. He liked the red of her eyes better.
He breathed in. Clicked the safety of his gun on, and tucked it inside his vest.
“I think I left the stove on,” Loid declared, breaking the silence. “We should go home.”
Yor watched him, expressionless. Her gaze flickered to where he’d hid his gun, and rose back to meet his eyes – searching, wondering.
“Of course,” she finally answered with a nod, just as the tension in her shoulders melted. “I’m not sure it’s safe to leave Anya unguarded too long, even with Bond watching over her.”
He rose up, slowly, unthreatening – only to slip on a snow-covered plate of ice, and losing all pretense of grace and equilibrium.
Yor’s arm shot up to steady him, stopping his fall with a familiar yet ever-surprising strength, and curled around his elbow to support him as he tried to get up again.
Her hand remained nested in the crook of his arm until they reached his car.
Loid opened the door for her. She smiled at him.
“Let’s go home.”