Work Text:
Loid woke up exactly one minute before his alarm went off.
Faint sunlight filtered through the windows, basking everything in a subtle glow. He blinked at the clock on the bedside table, and then extended a lazy hand to turn the alarm off. He never really depended on it anyway. It was only something he used to give himself the illusion that he was human; not a conditioned creature who could wake up at a desired time, irrespective of the time period he spent resting his body.
He moved to sit up with a grunt, distastefully looking down at his injured wrist. He had pulled the tendon in his right arm and now could not adduct his hand because of the brace. He gave his hand a tender touch. The swelling had gone down along with the redness, and the pain was almost non existent. Almost, because when he had returned to wise cradling his arm(along with the recon reports, ofcourse) it'd hurt bad enough that he'd thought he’d broken it.
Sylvia had been cynical about the whole thing. Pulling muscles twilight, you’re getting old. But he did feel a tiny bit better thinking about the extra pressure that would be put on her head to reschedule his assignments to non strenuous duty gigs for the next few days.
Loid had woken up half an hour earlier than usual because he needed the extra time to prepare breakfast. He’d been reminded last evening that his ambidexterity wasn’t as smooth as it used to be. He trudged his way out of his room, recalling.
***
If you asked Loid if he was concerned about his injury, he’d tell you it was just another part of being an overworked spy/father/husband and if it didn’t functionally impair him, then it would not be something he worried about. But that did not apply to his wife or daughter.
His return home had been normal enough, with Anya grabbing on to his leg, Bond giving a bark of welcome and Yor emerging from the kitchen with the tea tray, mugs steaming.
“Welcome home, Lo-”
He only realized how much he’d been looking forward to his cup of brewed tea when Yor dropped the tray with a gasp-shriek.
The next few moments had been a flurry of activities, with Yor helping him with his coat, hat and briefcase and bodily settling him down on the couch. She had told him to stay put and gone to clean the mess on the floor. Anya, being uncharastically quiet, had flopped down next to him and he’d try to cheer her up with an “it’s really fine,” to which she had bluntly replied with a “pa’s a big, fat liar.”
Yor had returned from the kitchen to also join, and he’d parroted his rehearsed story to the two of them, and in the resulting silence, Loid could tell his wife bought it, but Anya only gave him goosebumps with her staring. But then she’d broken the tension by giving him a peck on the cheek and telling him to get well soon, and merrily gone with Bond to watch her show.
However plausible his story was, or how well his wife bought it, it wasn’t enough to wipe off the awful worry from Yor’s face. She had looked wrecked and it had made his stomach knot with guilt. In an attempt to take her mind off of the situation, he’d asked her to brew him another cup of tea, and to get ready to go out and have dinner. Loid’s heart wasn’t actually in the idea though; he hadn’t prepared a proper meal for them in weeks, and what a shit turn of events, he had actually been planning to do so, but he didn’t want to worry Yor anymore with his injury. He doubted if she’d even let him in the kitchen.
So he had decided to wake up early to prepare a hearty breakfast, taking things slowly so that he didn’t screw his arm, and to make up for all the meals that he had missed in the past few weeks.
He almost had a heart attack when he saw Yor in the kitchen. He must have made some noise, because Yor whipped around with a pot in her hands, eyes wild.
“Loid! What are you doing here?” she asked, face contorted into a grimace. But really, they both knew she was the one out of place. The fact dawned on Yor slowly and she picked on the sleeve of her dress. “I wanted to make breakfast before you, with your hand like that and all, I wanted to help…” she muttered.
Loid felt his insides knot again. It was definitely not guilt this time. He showed his wrist to her, carefully turning it in small movements. “It doesn’t really hurt too much Yor, and my fingers are just fine.” he said. She nodded like a child, her bangs bouncing, and Loid thought what the hell and asked, “but would you like to learn a dish?”
Yor looked excited with the idea, for a full hot minute, but deflated just as quickly.
“I am a terrible cook Loid,” she said, and the way she said it was too akin to saying she was a terrible person, and Loid couldn’t have that. He didn’t like that one bit.
“No, you just weren't properly taught,” Loid said and moved to take out utensils. “There's nothing wrong with that, everyone stumbles without guidance.”
He placed eggs, bowls, carrots and green onion on the counter and turned around to see Yor's big eyed face. “I believe I'm a decent teacher,” he said with an easy smile, taking the pot from her hands gently. “And with practice, you can only get better at it.”
Yor looked like she'd heard angels' hymn around her ears, and she fisted her hands spiritedly. “I'll try my best Loid!” she said.
He was sure she would, even if it takes her a hundred tries. Her unwavering resolve was equal parts scary and charming.
But something smelled funny.
“Ah ah ah! the oven!” Yor jumped, and hastily moved to take something severely burned out of it. Loid couldn’t recognize what it was.
I’m also a patient teacher, he reminded himself and moved to start his cooking lesson with a tiny bit of healthy apprehension.