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There’s nothing much about me to like.
It’s a vague passing statement she makes in one of her maudlin moods, weighed down by work and the general heaviness of life. She’s always been a bit sensitive to criticism, malicious or otherwise. Her colleagues don’t make it any easier. While he’s happy to note that her relationship with them has improved significantly since they’d first met, they were still prone to feeding her brain with literal nonsense. Contrived expectations of what a woman should and shouldn’t do, how a wife should and shouldn’t behave, or when a stepmother should and shouldn’t interfere. The list was endless (and, in his humble opinion, entirely useless). He was happy for Yor to simply be. He found her to be best when she was herself, and hated to think she might feel inadequate in any sense.
“There’s plenty about you to like, Yor.” He smiled patiently, enveloping her hand in his as she hiccuped and turned wine-red. Redder than the glass in her hands. “You’re wonderful as you are.”
That was a little forward, even by his standards, but it wasn’t untrue. Even the less observant wouldn’t have missed her compassion, which shone through especially with Anya and Bond; members of their family that stood firmer than roots. Fluffy ones, and pink-haired ones.
Yor hiccuped again, burying her face in her hands. “You’re too kind, Loid.”
He chuckled and patted her shoulder lightly, before extricating the drink from her hands. “That’s enough for one night, I think.” In truth he was hardly kind. Callous bastard was more like it, if the scathing reviews of broken-hearted women he had broken up with in the past after achieving his missions’ objectives were anything to go by.
Yor, on the other hand, was genuinely kind. One of a kind. And if she needed additional proof to verify that as fact, then who was he, as her husband, to deny that longing?
—
Kindness, of course. At risk of sounding like a broken record, that’s the first thing that always comes to mind. It quite literally spills from her pores, bordering on naïveté. So much so that it had a tendency to attract unwanted attention and, in some cases, cause her to be fleeced. Taken for a ride.
Not on a magic carpet, but through shady back alleys.
“Back off,” Loid growled, instinctively pushing her behind him as he towered over the diminutive, hoary rake. “She’s my wife.”
“Loid,” she whispered anxiously. “It’s okay. He was just asking for directions. He’s harmless—“
Evidently not, from the way the man was now eyeing his wife up and down like she’s meat, gaze unashamedly fixating at last on her chest. It took everything in Loid to not rip him to shreds here and then; some men truly had no shame, even with age.
“Leave her alone, or else.”
“Aw, come on,” the man slurred, breath reeking of cheap booze. “I was just asking for directions.”
Totally false. “Home is that way,” Loid gritted out, thrusting a finger in the direction of the closest police station. He doubted they would be of much help; allegations of harassment were often the quickest to be dismissed, but perhaps Yuri could have a say or two. “Now go . Unless you would like to have concrete for dinner.”
“Loid!” Yor gasped softly, tugging lightly at his sleeve. Perhaps sensing a winless fight, the man backed down at last, though not without one last sneer.
“You lads these days are so rude to the older generation…”
Perfectly warranted, in his humble opinion, when these old fogeys behaved like roués. Then he slunk away, tail between legs, leaving him alone with his wholly unshaken wife.
“Loid,” Yor called again, and he plastered on an expression of placidity before turning around to face her. God forbid he misdirect his wrath towards his wife, who was obviously innocent in this situation. “I’m fine, really. I don’t think he meant any harm…” she paused, wrangling her hands. “But I’m sorry if I made you mad.”
“You didn’t,” he sighed, smiling strainedly as he steered her back towards the main street, now drenched in a healthy dose of sunlight. “I’m just glad you’re unharmed.”
“M-me too,” Yor squeaked. This time, he led her home hawk-eyed, scrutinising the streets for leeches and lechers. Such was the problem with kindness: it attracted the unkind. Eventually the kind would have to deal with the attendant aftermath of burgeoning cynicism. It simply wasn’t worth it.
(But if Yor wanted to help the helpless, then he would gladly help, too.)
This aside, her compassion was also evident in the way she treated Anya. In truth he hadn’t been expecting much—nonchalance at best, or cruelty at worst—when he had first proposed to Yor and asked her to undertake the herculean task of motherhood without any prior warning or experience, but his wife truly epitomised the virtues of going above and beyond. Always sedulous, and always kind, even when Anya badgered them with countless requests of hot cocoa and drawing-time and ootings, to parks and beaches and aquariums and gardens and museums.
And it’s in the way she even invites Fiona in for tea, even though his colleague has been strangely… discourteous.
“Would you like some biscuits to go along with that?”
“No,” replied Fiona frostily, living up to her namesake. Loid shot her a glare, which she pointedly ignored. “That won’t be necessary.”
Yor faltered and sank into her seat. “R-right. Um, okay.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Yor,” he supplied, in hopes of boosting her morale. No need for Fiona to waltz in and bulldoze into her already brittle self-esteem. (He had no idea why she was even there to begin with. Some ludicrous claim of checking in once again on Strix, but that hardly seemed necessary or urgent.) “It’s really good.”
“I-oh! I’m glad you like it!” Yor beamed, clasping her hands together in the pit of her dress. “I used the new beans that Camilia introduced to me last week. I think it’s a Hugarian import—“
Fiona scoffed. “I have it fresh and direct, if you so prefer—“
“That won’t be necessary,” he cut tersely.
“Yeah! Mama’s cocoa is the best!” Anya piped in, and bless her heart, the girl snuggled right into Yor’s lap, every bit the needy kitten, until Yor’s eyes began to brim with joy and relief.
Mood improved, she stroked their daughter’s hair and began to hum a soft, happy tune, her own tea forgotten. Fiona just eyed them with mounting hostility, no doubt believing, rather groundlessly, herself to be a better parent.
Loid sipped his coffee and tried not to stare. Add tenderness to the mix, and it’s almost enough to bring him to his knees.
But surely this was normal behaviour for a husband. Nothing out of the blue. He was a married man now, after all, and had a role to maintain. Such affection—no, affectations—were certainly befitting of a devoted family man.
… right?
—
“Right. Off to bed you go, Anya.”
“I don’t wanna!” Anya screeched, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she fixed herself in front of the TV, refusing to budge even as a yawn crosses her. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Anya,” he warned, temper starting to rise. Arguing was futile. It’s the third time he’d asked her to go to bed, but tonight she was adamant on fixturing herself in front of the TV. “Good girls don’t stay up past midnight.”
Her mouth twisted into a petulant pout. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Yes, you are. I saw you yawn earlier.”
“It was just some dust in my eye!”
Loid rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. “Come on. You’ll be late for school tomorrow if you don’t go to bed now.”
“No I won’t! I’ll set my alarm.”
“Anya…”
“Well, if you go to bed now, you’ll have more time to enjoy your Papa’s breakfast tomorrow,” Yor coaxed. “That way you won’t have to eat your toast at the bus stop.”
“I won’t be late!”
“Well, yes,” Yor caved, yet still patient despite Anya’s sudden tantrum. “But it’s always good to have more time to spare in the mornings, isn’t it?”
Anya ignored her pointedly. “Don’t be rude, Anya.”
“It’s okay,” Yor whispered, rising from her usual spot on the couch to sit beside Anya on the floor. “Are you alright, sweetie?”
The girl jerked her head in what looks to be a nod, and Loid sighed again, having now half a mind to admonish her for being so… mercurial. Usually she tended to do as she was told, unless it was the menace that was homework, or carrots, but shying away from sleep? That was practically unheard of. Unless–
“Is there a reason why you don’t want to go to bed?”
Anya muttered something that sounded suspiciously like dreams . Of the worse variety, presumably; he’s had those too far too many times to count on both hands, and now it all made sense. No wonder she didn’t want to go to bed. Though his father had often hastily dismissed the fabled boogeyman as fiction in his younger years, he dimly recalled how the terror his name struck, and how he had clung to his mother for solace and protection from what he now knew to be, in fact, mere myth. And now he felt bad, too. Too easily he had snapped and lost his cool, when Anya’s fears–unfounded as they were–were a completely valid hindrance to sleep. At least for a child her age.
“That’s alright, sweetie,” Yor continued, in that endearingly soft, patient way that made him feel more than a twinge of relief and guilt. He only wished he was half as competent a parent as her. Motherhood suited her well. (Fatherhood, on the other hand, fitted him like one of Franky’s suits. Horribly ill-fitting.) “We’re here to protect you. Those bad dreams can’t hurt you.”
Wordless, Anya rolled back and forth and said nothing. “She’s right, Anya. If you…” If she slept with one of her parents, would it help? Would it help if he held her to sleep, as his mother did whenever he was haunted by one of those harmless, fantastical beasts in his head? Or would it help if Yor did so? That seemed a preferable option, considering the state of his room. (Sparkling clean, of course, but with several hidden weapons that no child should be going near. The last and only time Anya entered his room had been an utter disaster, and he was loathe for her to instigate another potential war.) “I suppose Bond–”
“You can sleep in my room, if you want. I’ll hold you and kick those monsters away, okay?”
“Really?”
Yor chuckled. “Really!”
Anya frowned, seeming to contemplate this offer, before yielding. “... alright.”
“We’ll get comfortable in our pajamas, and I’ll read you a book, and you’ll be snug as a bug in a rug!”
Anya nodded and moved from her spot at last to change into her pajamas. He had to give it to Yor; the way she made it look so enviably simple. Evidently she was well-versed in persuading kids to go to bed, but she’d handled all of that with incredible patience and tact, and it was rather a marvel to watch. He would have never gotten the truth from Anya–especially since interrogation and children did not go hand in hand. It was much like beans and cheese.
“Thank you, Yor. I really appreciate that.”
She giggled and waved it off like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about it. You should get some sleep, too. It’s getting late.”
“You’re right,” he chuckled. “Good night, Yor. Sleep well.”
“You too!”
Instead Loid sat at his desk, pondering over all his shortcomings as he flipped through a report. He had a long way to go before he could even call himself a parent, and—
“Good night, Papa,” Anya whispered softly from outside, and he softened.
“Good night, Anya. Sweet dreams.”
—
For all her patience, however, Yor was strikingly impatient when it came to herself, though tenacious to a fault.
Like on this particular summer evening. A frown marred her usually genial face, and she muttered unintelligibly as she stirred the pot of soup like it was a strange concoction. Poison, maybe.
Of sorts. The water was mildly gray, but he refused to point that out. Instead he added another cup of water and smiled placatingly.
“You’re doing great, Yor.”
“It looks strange.” She sounded remarkably close to tears, but nonetheless continued to stir restlessly, glaring at every bubble like it was venom. “Did I do something wrong?”
“It’s fine, Yor.” He patted her on the back of her unoccupied hand—a gesture which seemed to send her ears steaming like the wretched pot in question—and placed the lid over. Some rest would do it good for now. “Practice makes perfect, remember?”
“… You’re right,” she acquiesced, face twisting once more with determination. It was gone in a flash, however; Yor deflated abruptly, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just sorry to trouble you. This is the twenty-third time. You must be awfully bored by now.”
“It’s fine. You’re a good learner, Yor.” Not the quickest, but certainly the most dedicated. In this regard, he had some trouble empathising. As someone who took to most things like fish to water, he had trouble fathoming how someone could face so much trouble making soup, but all the same, it was almost endearing how hard she tried. Any lack of talent she may have had in the kitchen, she made up tenfold with her diligence and tenacity, and her devotion to diversity. I’m sure Anya and you will get bored of my stew eventually… I have to keep learning! This was untrue in his case, since he was not a picky eater to begin with, and could easily survive on her stew—or just one singular dish, really—for the rest of his life. Maybe except ration bars. And peanuts.
In Anya’s case, however… well, he suspected she was the same way, too. As long as it was a routine rotation between peanuts, hamburg steak, and her mother’s stew. She didn’t seem to displeased with that selection, and in fact sang great praise about Yor’s cooking these days, even preferring her stew to his cooking on occasion. Mama’s cooking is a lot better these days!
Maybe it was something to do with the heart behind it. Wasn’t love just as crucial an ingredient as skill, after all? Food made from the heart always tasted better than that bought from a store, no matter how fancy. Or so his mother used to say. As a child he often wondered if that was just a convenient excuse for their penury, but now he was starting to acknowledge its truth.
Especially when Yor succeeds on the twenty-fifth try.
“This is the best soup you’ve ever made, Mama!” Anya squeals, eagerly slurping up the rest of her bowl.
Predictably, Yor melts into sobs, and he chuckles as Anya shovels a hot potato into her mouth and mumbles something that could’ve been, don’t cry, Mama!
—
Or even when she’s trying to learn an entirely new thing altogether; dipping her toes into uncharted waters. Like cycling. A thing that had come up, inadvertently, when Anya had badgered them one afternoon to teach me, please! When he’d sighed, outwardly lamenting his burgeoning workload, she had strategically tacked on, I need to learn how to cycle for school! We have an inter-class cycling competition coming up, and…
And what kind of a father would he be, if he denied his child an opportunity to grow and excel as a student?
“Alright. We can go tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yay!” squealed Anya, already breaking into dance. “Will you come too, Mama?”
“U-um, sure! Of course!”
The thing about Yor is, she’s terrible liar. Painfully honest. Heart on her sleeve, an open book; the antithesis to everything he stood for as a spy (which really was a fancier way for saying conman ). It didn’t take a genius to deduce that she didn’t quite know how to cycle, though not knowing certainly hasn’t ever stopped her from participating with gusto.
In the end, he settled on the direct approach over their evening tea—a routine they had gotten into after tucking Anya in together every night. Tonight it’s a fragrant pot of chamomile. A natural sleeping aid.
(Add considerate to the list.)
“Can you cycle, Yor?”
“Um—well…” Yor sighed. “A little, I guess.”
“It’s ok if you don’t know how,” he smiled, brushing his knuckles past hers as she flushed scarlet. “I’ll teach you.”
“If you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
“Then… I would really like that.” She graced him with a small, bashful smile and, sipping her tea, gazed wistfully at the photographs above the mantle. Family photos, to be exact. Artificially generated ones. “My father tried to teach me, but…”
“But?”
“He… well,” Yor took another sip, quiet and unusually withdrawn. “He didn’t get to finish his lessons, I suppose.”
“I see.” Now he felt like a terrible husband. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”
“Oh, no—of course not!” Yor reassured hastily. “You’re not that kind of person, Loid.”
Was he? More than once he’d used his enemies’ weaknesses and fatal flaws against them; emotional foibles that a spy like him couldn’t possibly foster. “If you say so,” he said, tugging a smile. “I’m still sorry I brought it up. If you’d rather rest at home, I completely understand.”
“No, of course not,” she insisted. “I’m always happy to spend time with you and Anya.”
So they found themselves in the park the next afternoon as a family of four: Bond running wildly around the wide, grassy fields, and Yor and Anya, all geared up with helmets and knee pads, wobbling on their respective bicycles as they attempt to find balance.
“Bondman makes it look so easy…”
“Well, it is TV, Anya.” Now he was starting to suspect if perhaps the whole spiel about an inter-class cycling competition was completely made-up. “You need to pedal harder, otherwise you’ll have trouble balancing.”
“Oui.”
Gritting her teeth, she tried again, feet skidding her trajectory to a hard halt after another shaky attempt.
“Keep going, Anya.” He turned to Yor, who abruptly braked and ceased her three-second streak before she could crash into a tree. “How are you doing, Yor?”
“O-okay, I think? I just feel, um, a little unstable,” she admitted, finding her footing again before adjusting herself on the seat.
“That’s normal. It feels better the faster you go.”
“Right.”
He could sense her hesitation in adding speed and strength, however. Those were usually a bad mix for her, because she simply had too much of both. Like that time they went skiing and she’d nearly catapulted herself off an actual cliff . (That was the closest he’d ever been to cardiac arrest. Actual arrests, he’d experienced before, and successfully weaseled himself out of, but matters of the heart were another.)
“Don’t worry, Yor. I’ll be here to catch you if you fall—“
Right on cue, Anya yelled and flailed her arms wildly. “Papa!” He dashed forward and steered her back on track, narrowly avoiding a neighbouring bush. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Not too fast, okay?”
“Oui.”
When he turned back, Yor’s face was lit with fiery, renewed determination, and she began to pedal—a little unsteady at first, but nothing he couldn’t manage.
“You’re doing it, Yor. Keep going.”
“I will! I’ll master it by the end of the day, Loid,” she nodded, more to herself than him. “I promise!”
He chuckled and stifled his mirth. “I have no doubt you will.”
On and on she went, for hours at end, stamina and strength seemingly endless—until the sun was starting to set, and Anya was sprawled out on the field with Bond and a pack of peanuts, panting from exhaustion. Loid sat beside and fed her a peanut, watching his wife closely as she manoeuvred herself back into the designated paths and rockily avoided snails and stray branches. He kept close so that he could stabilise her if necessary, though he’d only had to do so twice so far.
When she finally got the hang of it, Yor beamed and zipped past the rows of trees with ease, smile so bright it could’ve lit an entire garden.
—
It’s unequivocal fact that Yor is strong in many ways. Physically, of course. She’d established that since their second encounter, when she’d gone and sent a poor guy flying down the street with a single kick. And then when she’d lifted sacks of rice like they were air, and quite literally knocked out a cow, and then cycled for hours without so much as a single wheeze.
But she’s also mentally hardy. Like a cactus, really—or perhaps a rose was more befitting.
This, he learns from Yuri one evening when she’s nursing a sudden headache in her room. Meanwhile, Yuri refuses to leave.
“I have to make sure you’re not trying anything untoward towards my sister.”
“I can assure you, I have no such intent.” They’d barely even held hands or shared a hug. “I have nothing but affection for your sister.”
“You sound like a conman, Loid Forger.”
Bingo. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps her brother knew—though he’d already put any suspicions of Yor to rest. She was too good for this. (For him, too.) “I’m not. I care for your sister as much as you do.”
“You…” Yuri jabbed an accusatory finger at him, and Loid raised a brow. This man was definitely plotting his death, SSS or not. “No you don’t. You don’t know how much we’ve been through.”
That he didn’t. “You’re probably right. I don’t.”
“No one cares for her as much as I do,” he continued, unfaltering. “I owe everything I am today to my sister. She gave every semblance of a normal childhood up so that I could have one. She made sure we always had food on the table, and she never complained even when she didn’t have any for herself. She never blamed me for stealing her youth, even though she could’ve easily walked away like our father did. And…” Yuri inhaled sharply, and Loid clung to his every word, waiting with bated breath for the revelations he would reveal next. He’d presumed her father died. This felt worse. This felt close to home. The flighty father leaving his family behind: a fate he’d experienced, and a fate he might yet possibly create for his own daughter. He shuddered at that thought and sipped at his tea; a pleasant blend of lavender and mint. Yor’s creation. “She really is incredible, you know,” Yuri trudged on. “I remember one winter her coat was so thin, and we were surviving just on lettuce and potatoes—no, I was surviving on those, she barely saved any for herself. She was practically stick and bones, and still she went out everyday to work. And when she came home obviously knackered, she still smiled at me and inquired about my day, even when hers was obviously horrible.”
Now he was beginning to understand why Yuri was so protective of her as to be overbearing. It wasn’t a strange, twisted obsession as he’d feared; rather a brother’s admiration for a sibling’s noble sacrifice. Rightfully, he might add. They really only had each other, and it now made perfect sense why Yuri was so wary about some man who’d sprung up out of nowhere and claimed to be Yor’s husband. A husband she had also conveniently forgotten to inform Yuri about.
No wonder he was firmly in her brother’s bad books…
“Anyway,” Yuri cleared his throat, chewing aggressively on a peanut cookie. Likely because he’d realised it was made by him, and not his sister—who truly was incredible in every sense of the word. “I’m only saying this because I need to know you aren’t messing around. My sister deserves the world. If you’re just some… swindler, I don’t know—believe me, I won’t let you live it down.”
Neither would Loid himself, though he really was that: a swindler. Still he vowed that he would ensure Yor and Anya’s well-being—that they would never at least have to worry about having a roof over their heads, or three meals a day—even if his departure was about as inevitable as winter.
“I wouldn’t let myself live it down, either.”
Yuri harrumphed. “You’re being glib.”
“I mean it.”
“I guess only time will tell.”
“I’ll prove it to you.”
“Hmph.” Clearly unimpressed, he shovelled another cookie in his mouth and crossed his arms. “Why are you talking to me, anyway? Shouldn’t you be taking care of my sister if she has a headache?”
“You’re right.”
“You already failed her, you nitwit!”
Loid sighed. There was simply no winning with Yuri. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Make yourself at home—you’re welcome to spend the night if you’d like.”
Yuri glared at him and said nothing. He took this as his cue to leave. Her brother could spend the night on the couch or in the guest room (Yor’s); his chief concern now was Yor. Shrugging, he rose and knocked quietly on Yor’s—his door, since they had a ruse to upkeep and were forced to share a room.
A bed, too.
“Yor? Can I come in?”
“One second!” He heard a flurry of activity coming from within, and then five seconds later, a muffled okay !
At her assent, he entered, and found her only mildly dishevelled, headache notwithstanding.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.” Yor nodded and smiled, and abruptly got to her feet like a soldier at attention. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t impose. Um, I can take the floor. You can have the bed.”
That was patently absurd. “Of course not. I’ll take the floor if you’re uncomfortable–”
“No, I don’t mind!” she squeaked, redder than the tomatoes they’d had earlier as a starter to what he now hoped was a sufficiently elaborate dinner. Now that he knew she had spent most of her younger years scrimping and saving and surviving on famine foods, he felt she deserved better than best. “Really. Um, it’s your room, and your bed, so…”
Loid chuckled. “It’s our room for tonight. Which means it’s our bed.”
“O-oh. Right. Um… then I guess we could… s-share?”
Now she looked like she was about to combust any moment. Deciding to put her out of her misery, he sat on the recliner and smiled. “I don’t mind. But I’m not tired yet, so you can sleep first if you’d like.”
“R-right.”
Laying back down, she tugged the blanket up and shifted uncomfortably, like she was trying to ensure she would take up minimal space, and flicked her gaze back to him. “T-tell me if I kick you, okay? Or if I’m snoring, or…”
He chuckled again. “You don’t have to worry, Yor. It’ll be fine. You should rest.”
Nodding, Yor adjusted herself again and squeezed her eyes taut. He watched as her breathing evened out in a matter of minutes, clearly worn out from all the evening’s buzz. Then he smiled and, invigorated by his earlier discussion with Yuri, spent the night researching a myriad of recipes involving apples: what he knew to be Yor’s favourite food. In the morning he requested–no, demanded the weekend off, claiming it to be crucial for the mission, and while his Handler eyed him like he’d grown prematurely senile, it was well worth knowing he had that extra time carved out, without any possibility of a sudden emergency, devoted to making a lavish feast.
“What’s the occasion, Papa?”
“It’s nothing. I just thought I’d try out a new recipe today.”
Anya giggled as she climbed on a stool to watch him stir the chunks of apples in the pot. “How come you’re cooking the apples?”
“I’m making a sauce, Anya.”
She cooed excitedly, and suddenly eyed him with devious mirth. “Mama loves apples.”
“That she does.”
“Papa and Mama are lovey-dovey.”
He cleared his throat and resumed his stirring, after depositing the pork into the oven. “We’re not. She just deserves a nice dinner after working so hard all week.” Anya giggled again and said no more, toddling around the cabinets in search of peanuts. “Don’t eat too much, or you won’t have space for dinner.”
“Oui.”
When dinnertime came around, he made sure to give her the best parts of the meat–only she refilled Anya’s plate just as quickly, neglecting her own in the process (despite singing nothing but praise all evening about his new dishes).
“You should eat too, Yor.”
“Thank you!”
“It’s nothing.”
He smiled and watched as she happily guzzled down peanut noodles, and the slice of pork, liberally coated with applesauce, and felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him—a sort of peace he found to be rather unprecedented.
—
It hit him again, that same wave of peace and contentment, when she dug into his homemade apple pie the following weekend. And then again, when he surprised her with that apricot-coloured dress she had been secretly eyeing each time they walked home together from work; an elegant number with ruffled sleeves and a skirt that draped around her like water.
He’d never delighted so much in another’s delight before. Perhaps the time he brought Anya to the castle was a narrow exception. And seeing her brighten up with excitement, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was in some ways tied to her deprivations. Nowadays he found himself frequently dwelling Yuri’s words (and rebuke), and in that vein, marvelling at Yor’s strength. It was no easy feat undertaking the role of two parents—one dead, and the other missing like his—at the tender age of thirteen, but she’d done it all without complaint.
Meanwhile he’d been well on the verge of tearing all his hair out during the first week of adopting Anya.
In a way, leaving aside all the heartbreak and cruelty of his younger years, he’d had it easier than her. Losing everything meant he had no one to provide for apart from himself. As a lost, malnourished boy, he could scarcely imagine having two mouths to feed, two bellies to fill. One was more than enough in times of war. She’d always had two, and never a complaint.
And now he was starting to understand that it took a certain kind of strength to choose selflessness above everything, when she could have simply ran away from everything and left her brother to fend for herself, as lesser men like their fathers had. She could’ve elected to be bitter and morose and resentful about the cards she’d been dealt. Kind of like he’d had, for a while, when he was left alone in the orphanage, then the dumps, then the trenches. (He wouldn’t have blamed her.)
It’s also the kind of strength that leads her to bear everything with a grin, despite the long, dreary days. It was a little bizarre to know that the City Hall worked its employees to the bone, when they were paid only an average salary, but Loid supposed Ostania’s regime worked a little differently from the one he knew as home.
So he takes on her share of the chores, and starts packing her lunch, and gets her flowers without explanation, indulging her the only way he knows how–because they’re not at the stage where they can intimate secrets (yet, or ever). For all intents and purposes, though, she’s still his wife, and would likely continue to be. At least for the foreseeable future. (He reasoned that it was good for the mission, and in any event, there was nothing wrong with fostering healthy relations.)
It’s the kind of strength that inspires strength, too: like when she cheers relentlessly on the bleachers, right on her feet the entire time, viscerally yelling encouragement as Anya ran around the field, chasing and only occasionally succeeding in catching the balls thrown her way.
And it’s that same strength that translates into everything else: kindness, and patience, and tenacity, no matter the cards she’s been dealt, and—
—
—warmth.
“You feel a little warm to the touch, Yor. Are you sure you don’t have a fever?”
“No! I’m totally fine, I promise.” She grinned, a little too wide to be honest. “I never ever fall sick.”
This was not inconceivable, considering her superhuman strength and seemingly invincible immunity. But he was starkly reminded of the fact that she was human, too, and prone to falling ill—contrary to her exhortations of great health.
“Are you sure? I can make you some soup, if you’d like. I have medicine in the cabinet too, if you need.”
“I’m alright, really.”
And because he knew she would never articulate her needs aloud, he set out straight to making chicken soup, and a pot of apple tea, and lay it all out on a tray before bringing it into her room.
A week later, in a seemingly karmic stroke of events, he catches a cold. Just a mild one. Nothing too contagious or virulent—or so he hoped—but enough to embarrass him with the occasional sniffle.
“I’m so sorry,” Yor whispered, mood dismal as she set out a steaming mug of tea on their coffee table. (In the past he would’ve mentally kicked a fuss over the various, varicoloured stains—but now he found them to be rather… acceptable. It was proof of a home well-lived in, perhaps. His own tables in the past–if they could even be called as such, considering that he’d taken to using cardboard boxes storing his meagre possessions on several occasions–had always been spotless, because he was never at home.) Clutching the tray to her chest, she ducked her head and retreated a few steps. “I must have passed it to you…”
“You did nothing of that sort.” Loid smiled, and hoped the hoarseness wouldn’t very much dampen his picture of glowing health. “It’s probably just the dust. I must have missed a spot or two while cleaning.”
“No, you didn’t!” But he was so sure he did; his cleaning skills paled still in comparison to hers… “You’re always very thorough when it comes to cleaning, Loid. Or anything for that matter. I couldn’t…” she trailed off, and ducked her head further, so that her hair now shielded her gaze completely. “I couldn’t have asked for a better husband.”
“The sentiment is exactly the same, Yor.”
Her answering grin was brighter than the sun. Warmer, too. Suddenly he didn’t feel quite so chilly anymore, although his body seemed hellbent on disputing this when a sneeze escaped him against his will.
“Y-you should rest!” she exclaimed, and padded over to the kitchen, gaze still strangely averted. “I’ll make you some soup, okay? The last time you taught me, it seemed to be a… well, a moderate success.”
“It was great, Yor.” And it really was. She’d made remarkable progress over the past few months, and he’d even come to enjoy their little lessons in the kitchen together, because she was always such an eager, invested student–quite unlike their daughter, who often fell asleep as soon as he talked about maths and anything involving numbers or letters–and there was nothing quite like the joy and accomplishment on her face when she finally nailed a particular dish. All the same, he was loathe to be a burden. “And you don’t have to trouble yourself. I’ll get started on dinner shortly–”
“Nope,” Yor said, frowning for emphasis. He chuckled inwardly at the picture she made. “You should rest, like I said. I’ll handle the rest!”
His wife filled the pot with soup before he could say anything else and got straight to work. And maybe it was the flu messing with his brain; he felt it slightly boggy, like moss, and couldn’t seem to recall important things–like the details of his latest mission–at the drop of a hat.
Nostalgia, however, was something else. A powerful force, unearthing the buried and slain. Foggy, vignetted snippets of his time with his friends—back when he had people he could consider friends, and not just another thread in his networking web—and his family, his uncle, his mother. A hometown destroyed, and then another, and finally a life disposed of like expired film. His mother’s words seemed bent on resurfacing, a crypt’s purl, alongside Yor’s humming.
Find someone like me when you grow up, okay? Someone kind, and warm, and someone who will cherish your precious, precious heart. A little more plaintively, she would sometimes add, But don’t grow up to be like your dad. You’re better than that.
He sincerely hoped so. But when Loid looked at his wife again, so luminous in the setting sun, humming that same tune he once told her to be reminiscent of a past life, mouth turning up in a small smile each time their eyes met—he thought perhaps he’d already found her.