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He wakes slowly to quiet, rhythmic breathing, excited chatter fading into his ears; soft skin moulded around the hollow of a collarbone presses into his cheek. He's strangely relaxed in a way his body isn't used to, so foreign and yet so comfortable. His mind climbs to wakefulness through grogginess, thoughts swimming in laps of molasses. He's unusually well rested, a pleasant heaviness over his muscles and a fog over his brain. 

As he opens his eyes, sunlight streams from his right in warm lines, heating his skin through his shirt and vest. Red then fills his vision: red thread knitted into intricate stitches, pooled on the couch where she sits. He finally breaks the surface of consciousness, blinking the remnants of sleep away. He lifts his head a little to blankly stare at Yor's smile. 

Her mouth moves, “Oh! Are you awake now? You must've been exhausted, Loid." 

He gazes through hooded eyes, weighed with fatigue. Then, Agent Twilight promptly snaps awake to find his body leaning heavily on his fake wife’s shoulder. His heart beats loudly in his ears.

"Whu—!” Twilight startles away from her, spluttering gracelessly all the while. His mind runs amok with endless thoughts—when did I get here?! How long has it been!? Was I asleep??? I know I was tired from those missions but I never fall asleep in front of Yor! Much less on her!! Why was I sleeping on her shoulder!? 

Before he can spiral further into dangerous territory, Yor speaks again, “If you were comfortable, you didn’t have to move," she says so kindly, so simply, like this isn't an earth shattering moment for Twilight. 

It isn't for Loid Forger, a normal, widowed psychiatrist with a single daughter, “Ah—I’m sorry for falling asleep on you like that, Yor," hastily sliding “Loid’s” mask on, he offers her a sheepish laugh that feels a touch too genuine in his predicament, "How long have I been asleep for?” 

"About an hour and a half?” Yor pensively hums to herself, much to Twilight's growing, confused shock, "You were already nodding off when you sat down on the couch. Honestly," she huffs disapprovingly in his direction, her brow turned up and lips shaped into a concerned pout, “The hospital overworks you too much. It's meant to be your day off yet you still had to come in so early." 

Right, “Loid Forger" had an emergency patient to attend to around five in the morning. Twilight had a mission to deal with some smugglers a little ways away from the hospital. He'd returned some time before lunch, unceremoniously dropping the groceries he'd picked up on the way and collapsing on the couch for a second of rest. 

Evidently, that ‘second’ had been stretched to ninety minutes, somehow. He can't compute it. That's almost the normal amount of sleep he gets at night. 

“Ah, well unfortunately we can't choose when our patients have emergencies," Loid runs a hand through his drooping blonde locks, tousled from using Yor as a pillow, “And as doctors, our patients are our top priority, even if it means sacrificing a few hours of sleep." 

He's managing to drag the confusing revelation of his impromptu nap to the back of his mind where he'll analyse why and how it even occurred later. For now, Twilight's saving grace comes in the form of Anya's rumbling stomach and demands for lunch. 

Loid stands from the couch, dusting his pants (almost wincing at the crick in his neck) and heads to the kitchen to prepare a buffet. Yor follows after him while offering her help. She's gotten better, so why not? 

Together, they cook and chat amicably, occasionally interrupted by Anya trying sneak appetizers or Bond weaving between their legs. 

Which is perfect, because it gives him time to start thinking about what that was. 

Agent Twilight is Westalis's best spy. He is their best spy because he fulfills almost all missions perfectly: he's efficient, swift, smart, resourceful, and keenly aware at all times. He's a master of disguise and a flawless liar. He meticulously keeps track of details and memorises information within seconds. By all means, he's always alert. 

Twilight has not woken up that slowly - blinking through sleep and taking an agonising eternity to even scrounge a single coherent thought - in years. He can't remember a time he'd felt that well rested, waking up drowsy. A sensation so alien—

(Asleep by her side, curled like a cat on her lap. Her hands par his back as he slowly melted into the realm of sleep, an angelic lullaby caressing his min—)

Twilight shakes his head, serving up lunch for his daughter and wife. This is just a one off; a slip up he'll correct. He was just tired from the non stop missions cutting into his measly 2hrs of sleep at night. 

This won't happen again. 

—

Only it does. 

Before dinner on a normal day, a very rare day where he only had a couple of missions, Twilight once again finds himself waking up dazed. 

This time, he stirs to hands secured around his shoulders gently manoeuvring him. Legs limp on the floor, arms pooled on his lap, and head buried in the crook of someone's neck. The scent of sweet roses, familiar and soothing, surrounds him—Yor’s shampoo, he recognises amidst the haziness in his mind. Her hair falls in strands over his cheek, tickling his skin. 

He opens his eyes to the living room’s light dousing it in warm orange, a sliver of the moon peeking through the curtains. It takes a few seconds of muzzy blinking before he snaps awake, “Dinner!" Twilight yells all of a sudden, reminded of tonight's Sauerbraten he planned on making. 

Yor flinches next to him at his outburst, shaking off the echoes of his voice. The hands on his shoulders snap away, leaving warm imprints through his clothes, "Oh! I-I'm so sorry Loid, I d-didn't mean to wake you up!” Yor fumbles out through panicky hands and red cheeks.

Twilight stares, uncomprehending, thoughts coagulating into a tangled clump of confusion and self flagellation. 

This is the second time. He wasn't up as early today. Yes, he is still exhausted, but that is a norm Twilight is used to. 

And yet he's fallen asleep on Yor again—leaning almost his entire weight on her! It must've been incredibly uncomfortable for her. As the perfect fake husband, he can't afford to slip up like this, lest she grow some real gripes about him. 

(Twilight distantly remembers her expressing her wish to care for him, but that's not something he can allow in the world of spies.)

“Yor," Twilight swallows, rubbing sleep out of his eyes (an action he barely recognises—barely remembers doing in the past 10 years of restless nights), “I'm so sorry. You must've been uncomfortable." 

She waves him off frantically, cheeks burning a deep magenta, “Oh, not at all Loid!" Her nervous expression softens into a smile framed by the softer shade of rose dusting her face, "I'm just happy you're getting more sleep. You're always up early and sleeping late, and with all the new emergency cases and long hours at the hospital, you've been looking beyond exhausted.” 

Twilight curses inwardly at his carelessness, chest tightening. But even he could admit WISE’s workload was starting to scratch his steel resolve after six months.

“So if resting means using me as a pillow, I'm happy to serve as one," Yor finishes, demure and soft; inviting a few more minutes of sleep. Twilight almost slaps himself, "A-ah, thank you,” wordless, strangely nervous and about to choke on air, he scrambles for a way out, "I suppose I'll… get started on dinner. Did you want to wash up in the meantime?" 

Yor agrees and they're off. Twilight busies his hands with familiar motions. He lets his mind sink into analytics and the complications of falling asleep twice in front of his fake wife, especially so deeply. 

Sleep is something he's struggled with for years: before he became a spy, back when the war echoed every night and he slept on the streets never knowing if he'd see tomorrow. Being alert has been a constant for years, even more so as a spy. Rarely has he ever allowed himself the chance to truly relax, especially not in the enemy country, and especially not during a mission. 

Granted, Operation Strix is different from his usual missions, but he's nothing if not adaptable. Even now, he knows he has to be vigilant of his cover at all times. The SSS lurks around every corner, and for him it bursts through the door whenever Yor has been missed too much by her brother. He has multiple missions and enough paperwork to make up for a lack of missions during the day. He keeps his mind awake, running rampant with thoughts and calculations at all times, as is the nature of a spy.

Being aware is the one constant he has never let go off. It's cost him before, scar tissue marking him where he'd slipped up; wounds disfiguring his skin where he'd carelessly allowed himself to relax. He never has… 

Until now. 

Until he had fallen dead asleep, twice in his own home. On Yor—not even in his own room - where he doesn't risk detection as much - but on his fake wife, in the living room. 

Twilight’s hands freeze mid motion. His brain halts, stuck at a puzzle lacking its pieces. 

Nightfall had warned him months ago of his rusty nature. Wheeler had stared him in the eyes, steely resolve rattling his flimsy one many nights ago. He's learnt his lesson to pull himself together.

He can't understand why now of all times he's slipping again. Maybe he needs more coffee—but anymore caffeine and his stomach will start revolting. Twilight massages the incoming headache banging on his skull. 

He thinks back to that tranquility overpowering his body as he awoke, limp like a marionette cut loose, muscles relaxing down to his bones, and mind floating in airy emptiness: only the sensation of warmth spreading like a blanket in his mind. 

He'd felt that sensation once before, coming home late at night after a certain gruelling emergency: on edge, leftover adrenaline still coursing through his veins; reeling from the undeniable blunting of his razor edge in the face of Yuri Briar. He'd opened the door expecting an angry wife… 

Only to be greeted with a soft sunshine of a smile. 

 “Welcome home, Loid."

He'd fallen the moment she'd greeted him.

She hadn't said or done anything in particular.

And yet he'd felt the way heaviness slammed into him, his knees buckling under his suddenly insurmountable weight. Relaxed and tired all at once, he fought the fog that suffocated his thoughts. 

Yor.

She was the factor underpinning all these situations—

No, he couldn't attribute his carelessness to Yor. A spy is responsible for themselves. This has only happened twice, maybe three if he counted that night after capturing Wheeler. For six months of living together, that barely counts as a pattern. 

No matter how much Yor throws him off his game and surprises him - sending him on the equivalent of a bumpy rollercoaster with ridges at almost every turn - Twilight will simply reinforce his defenses. He'll stock up on coffee, he'll keep away from his fake wife when explicit affection was not necessary, but he can't risk being too distant lest he triggers Yor's insecurities and make her drown in her feelings of unfounded inadequacy—as Loid Forger, he'd be a failure of a husband, fake or not, if he were to hurt her. 

Twilight will figure this out. He is Westalis's best spy, he's adapted to hundreds, thousands of situations before. 

—

Twilight does not figure this out. He's left with more pressing questions instead and a bitter taste at the back of his throat (that isn't just acid reflux).

Ocean eyes gradually ease open to a lovely smile framed by loose raven hair. The pillow he rests on gives way under his neck, soft and warm. Her voice hums harmoniously and her hand pats his chest, rhythmic gaps in between each gentle tap, like a steady beat that threatens to lull him back to unconsciousness. The smell of sweet roses tickles his nose gently. He almost considers letting himself fall back asleep, giving into the darkness softly tugging him under, her voice fading into the distance when a thought finally hits him—

He's sleeping on Yor's lap.

Twilight freezes, breath cut short. He tries to blink the blurry edges of his vision away, fighting the disorientation smothering his thoughts. He sits up abruptly—narrowly avoiding headbutting Yor in the chin. She yelps.

For a moment, Twilight stares at nothing in disbelief. Then, slowly, as if facing a beast, he turns to Yor. She smiles, but her brow turns up with concern at the edges. Her face is tinted a little pink, fingers toying with some loose thread of her dress, “L-Loid?" 

“Yor," he says like a moron, dazed. He shakes the sleep from his head and tries again, “Yor, I—I’m so sorry,” shame crawls up his throat, mixing with the panic of something being wrong, because something like this has never happened, and he's trying to stay alert and aware, it's in his nature, he's done so for a decade what is wrong with him—

“I-It’s okay Loid!" Yor is quickly to reassure him with her soft voice that rings melodically in his ears, “If-If anything I should be sorry," shyly, she fiddles with her fingers, looking away as if she had done something wrong, “You were nodding off, and since last time your neck hurt sleeping so uncomfortably—” 

‘She noticed?’ he thinks incredulously. Of course she did, Yor is scarily perceptive for someone so simple minded.

“I thought m-my uh, lap… would be more comfortable,” he hears the audible gulp—sees her throat bulge with a nervous swallow, the flustered beads of sweat trailing down her pink skin.

But still she offers him an angelic smile. 

And all it does is push away the panic that’s steadily built in the back of his mind. 

Twilight thinks there's definitely something wrong with him.

—

He tries to avoid her after he comes home from work every evening. He focuses on studying with Anya or making dinner, and when it's not him in the kitchen, he excuses himself to look over his patients’ cases. He's stocked up on coffee and downed maybe one too many cups a day - if his burning stomach and slightly elevated heart rate are anything to go by - but it keeps his mind forcefully awake, eyes pulled open by caffeinated forceps.

He's not running, he tells himself. He's simply extracting himself from the potential cause of his sudden problem to analyse objectively.

In his room, his bed does not look inviting at all. It's cold and neatly made. He usually only sleeps 2hrs in it, less if he has missions or paperwork due. It's firm and usually icy to the touch when he slides under the sheets. He doesn't mind it but he never feels the urge to sleep pull him under so fast. It takes time, it takes minutes of staring, cataloguing the future ahead into smaller dossiers of Anya, Yor, work, hospital work and so on and so forth, until his brain starts to trail off. 

But with Yor, he barely remembers falling asleep. Waking up is a hazy memory. 

Truly, what has him most concerned is the sudden, weighty fatigue he's starting to feel. No longer is he operating at that tiring but steady state of sleep deprivation, he's starting to slip in tiny ways: in the way his steps end up louder than he expects; the way his eyes start to shut against his will sometimes; the way he spaces out long enough for Nightfall’s heavy gaze to snap him out of it; the way his shoulders sink like lead; the way Yor’s comforting smile keeps beckoning him to sleep. 

Twilight can rationalise his body's visceral reaction pretty easily.

He's been sleep deprived for more than a decade, only occasionally fulfilling the adult quota of sleep on his rare off days. But even longer, restful nights were filled with nightmares or unease plaguing his overactive mind. It's been a long, long time since he's had deep sleep.

Now that he's had his first taste, his body wants more. His body wants to throw itself head first down a slippery, dangerous slope. 

Twilight rejects the urges tugging at him. Being a light sleeper has always worked in his favour as a spy. Now isn't the time to change that—Twilight is Westalis's best spy, and if correcting his nonexistent sleep schedule back to being horrible is the way to prove that, he'll do exactly that. 

—

Except he doesn't, and it turns out it isn't only Yor that induces such a change in him. 

The night prior, Twilight had readied himself for bed around 5am, having returned not too long ago from another impromptu mission and finally finished with the tower of paperwork taunting him on his desk. He's exhausted but lingering caffeine and avoiding staying too close to Yor has allowed him to get back to his regular rhythm. 

He's awake, alert, ready. 

Scratching on his door probes his mind from light sleep. He recognises it instantly as Bond, frowning. What would Bond need at this hour? He'd usually be asleep in Anya's room or in the living room. Twilight opens the door to a frantic and anxious dog jumping at him, “Woah—Bond?!” He hisses through clenched teeth as the canine grips his shirt, "What is it boy? An enemy?!” 

All he receives are blubbered borfs, much lower than Bond’s usual chipper tone. The dog eventually relents under Twilight's reassurances and petting, cowering under his hands, "If it's not an enemy… is there some kind of pest in the house?” 

‘Impossible, I always check the house before retiring to my room, and Yor is meticulous when cleaning.’ 

Bond shakes his head. Twilight belatedly realises the dog is sniffling, tears soaking his fur.

“Bond… what happened?” A useless rhetoric the canine can't answer. Nonetheless, Bond whimpers into his chest, head bowed low. 

Briefly, a thought pops into his head. It's not unheard of nor impossible, and knowing Bond’s past as an project Apple test subject… 

" Bond … did you have a nightmare?” 

The smart canine nods pitifully. Twilight finds his heart aching a little, hands coming down to stroke Bond’s fluffed up mane. Of course, after everything he'd likely experienced, Bond would struggle too. And as a member of the Forger family, he should have accounted for this. He's a failure of a spy if his family isn't happy at all times. 

… Really, he's alright admitting to himself that he does care about Bond’s wellbeing. He'd protected Anya long before any of them knew him, he's been nothing but loyal and a joy to their family. 

When he rises, Bond steps back anxiously, beady gaze eyeing him sadly, “B-borf…” 

Twilight yanks back his sheets with a small smile, "Just this once. Wanna sleep with me?” 

The dog pauses, before leaping for his bed, making himself at home on the side Twilight usually rests in. 

With a small cough, he slips in next to Bond, mentally going over his reasons for such a silly act. 

Sharing a bed is only a logical step to assure Bond. He needs to make sure Bond feels safe and accommodated at home, and it's normal for a dog owner to let their dog sleep with them. 

He does grumble a little at white hairs already adorning his bed. 

Bond shuffles closer to Twilight to curl around his stomach, fur tickling his face. Twilight allows it with a sigh, reminding himself it's all for Bond’s sake. 

‘For the mission, of course.’

It's definitely for the mission at he ends up encircling his arms around Bond’s luscious coat.

—

He awakens to soft hair tickling his face, a familiar scent enshrouding his nose. He's comfortably warm, like being hugged by his blanket, but he feels that draped over him and something else. The thing in his arms huffs before settling back into deep breathing. Eventually, he opens his eyes through the heaviness over them, greeted with white. He lifts his head slowly from the pillow of fur, blinking through the hazy fog of sleep. 

Then agent Twilight snaps awake, jaw dropping as he realises who he'd been sleeping on. 

Bond happily snoozes away in his arms. 

Twilight chokes on air before scrambling for a clock. He almost feels his soul leave him. 

8.52am

He'd… he'd overslept. He'd slept through his alarm at 6.30am and his backup at 6.45am. He'd slept almost twice the amount he usually did. And he was late. 

Twilight throws himself off his bed. 

To his relief, Anya is not sleeping in like him. He assumes Yor must've taken in that role in his absence. He'll have to apologise for that too. 

When he arrives at the hospital, his coworkers balk a little at his dishevelled appearance, “Dr. Forger! It's not like you to be late. Is everything alright?" One asks. 

Loid sheepishly rubs his hair, “Ah, my apologies. I…" his throat closes trying to actually explain why he's late. It's not even a mission’s fault, but… “O-Overslept…” embarrassingly, he feels the tips of ears burn. 

Then doctors and nurses simply laugh off his mistake with a pat on the back, "You're always working too hard, you should take a proper break!” 

Loid chuckles with them too, but Twilight can only stew in his growing concern. At his office, Nightfall is on his case immediately, “Sir, did something happen? A last minute mission? You should have told me—” 

"No, Fiona, there was no last minute mission,” in the privacy of his office with only her around, the shame of his slip up burns all over his face, "I… truly did oversleep,” he grits his teeth at the wave of shame that hits him under Nightfall's empty, sharp gaze. 

“Then perhaps poison–”

Twilight sighs, "No, I haven't been on a mission since yesterday, and I came out unscratched. It's unlikely anything influenced this… I'm," getting softer, slipping up, all unacceptable for a spy, “I'll make sure this won't happen again," he promises his hardy junior. 

She eventually relents, but he feels her gaze on him all day. He's sure she'll report this to Handler, leaving him with a future migraine on top of everything else. 

At least now he knows his problem isn't just related to Yor. He can't allow Bond on his bed again, even if the hound begs him. 

If this happens one more time, Twilight might have to bring this to Handler himself, a thought that leaves a chill crawling up his spine. 

—

It does happen again, with Anya. 

Loid had a day off. Loid Forger had been too busy to play with his daughter recently. He knew she missed him but diligently kept it to herself. He's been slipping up as a father trying to keep up with spy duties while simultaneously avoiding falling asleep near Yor or Bond. 

Twilight had a meeting with Handler sometime later. 

He has time, so he offers to spend it with his daughter. They work a bit, then Loid suggests playing. The way his chest flutters at her bright, face-splitting grin is something he does not ruminate on. Instead, he finds himself on the couch, bowl of popcorn by his side, curtains drawn to emulate a theatre as closely as possible. 

Anya wants to watch the new spy wars film he'd managed to get early access to, with all his spy connections. All for the mission, of course. Initially, his daughter sits beside him, jumping and cheering at action scenes, gasping at Bondman's unrealistic gadgets, all the while stuffing her face full of popcorn. Loid had barely touched any; his searing stomach has completely eradicated any appetite.

Around halfway through the film, his attention has waned more than he'd like to admit. He's as exhausted as ever. Loid has had to dial down his caffeine intake when his stomach started dangerously protesting, bile burning the back of his throat and leaving him with a perpetual cough everyone had noticed. He's left with a brain that builds up exhaustion faster than stacks of paperwork wrack up on his desk. 

Loid finds himself blinking back into focus when two little hands tug his arm. He looks at Anya's curious expression, emerald eyes wide, “Can Anya sit here?" She asks shyly. Her voice is tiny, unlike her boisterous excitement. Loid feels his chest twist at her tone. He often forgets the trauma she carries at such a young, tender age. 

The perfect agent in him wants to simply ignore her, lest he fall further down a slippery path of compromises. 

But Loid Forger, the perfect father, opens up his lap with a soft smile, "Of course,” she climbs quickly, dragging his arms around her tiny waist. Loid let's himself relax just a touch with her in his arms. She sways and bobs as the movie continues. Loid tries to watch it with her, but his mind is on the list of work ahead of him instead.

His meeting is first and foremost, a few hours after the movie should end. He'll let Yor know to get takeout if he's back late, not that he should be for a simple briefing. His eyes are starting to drop a little. Hopefully he can turn in early tonight. Then he'll—

—

The shutter of a camera is what he wakes to, the sound drowned under layers of molasses. Sensations return to him like a dripping faucet. In his arms is a warm bundle he wants to snuggle into, her hair fluffy like his. Someone giggles above them, melodious and beautiful. All he wants to do is sink further into the cushion his face rests on, fabric pillowing his aching head. 

“Cute, aren't they, Bond?" Someone whispers, sounding a lot like Yor. 

He does eventually manage to open his eyes, greeted by afternoon sunlight spilling on the floor in golden streams, peach orange painted across the horizon. Hints of purple have started to take over the sunset. 

He looks down at the snoozing child in his arms, curled into a ball. Anya's tiny hands clutch his shirt. Then he looks up through hooded eyes at Yor's apologetic smile. 

"Sorry, Loid, did I wake you up?” 

He stares, thoughts slowly growing clearer as the haze over his brain clears; when his eyes find the living clock, Agent Twilight snaps awake. Yor is on him before he can accidentally dislodge Anya, her hands pressing on his shoulders.

"Careful Loid—!” she whispers.

In his moment of inaction, frozen by the feeling of another earth shattering revelation on its way to give him the worst headache, his fake wife takes it upon herself to carefully extract their daughter. 

Twilight manages to sit up while Yor places Anya on the other side of the couch, draping the bank let over her. He rubs his eyes from remaining sleep.

The clock reads 7:13pm… he was supposed to meet with Handler at 6.15pm sharp. 

Oh, she was going to kill him.

—

Sylvia Sherwood, his and many others at WISE’s Handler. Known as the Fullmetal lady, the woman who whipped him from a bitter, angry teen to the rational, efficient spy he is today. She may have done it through harsh and sometimes inhumane methods, but such is a necessary sacrifice to mould a top rate agent. Without her training, Twilight is sure he wouldn't have managed as many successful missions nor survived as long as he has. 

Maybe on some level she still terrified him, but his respect has grown to outshine that fear. Over the years, he's become capable enough to not draw her ire as much, and he certainly doesn't miss his rookie days where everything he did and said elicited some kind of frustrated lecture.

And yet here is, standing before a fuming Handler whose manicured nails impatiently tap the desk that may or may not have Twilight’s face engraved in it soon, “So, Agent, care to explain why you're two hours late to our meeting?" 

His only defense are the words "I overslept”, currently shrivelling on his tongue like poison ivy, leaving him numb. Twilight isn’t religious, but he should've prayed before rushing over. 

“Well?" She raises an eyebrow.

Almost everyone in the - which really only consisted of Nightfall, the newbie and the older senior - had their eyes on this incoming train wreck. Twilight had a reputation among these people as the perfect one, the best. It was beyond rare that he ever showed such sloppiness. 

Maybe he could shrivel up and die on the spot. 

Handler's eyes narrow further behind the rim of her glasses. 

Twilight gulps audibly, finally managing to find his meager voice, "I… fell asleep while watching a movie with Anya.” 

Silence follows his sentence: tense, taut like rope, rope that would probably find its way around his throat soon. 

"... You're joking right?” Handler's icy tone sends a chilling shiver down his spine. He hasn't heard that tone directed at himself in years. 

‘I wish I was.’

“... No," he manages. The familiar crawling spider of fear scuttles in his chest as Handler wordlessly gets up. In the next second, he finds himself choking under her iron grip, arms locked around his trachea.

“H-Handler—!" 

Her hold doesn't waver under his desperate tapping and coughing. Someone sighs around them and warns Handler he's turning purple. 

"That'll teach you to come up with such a ridiculous excuse. You know better than that, Agent,” She eventually lets go with a huff, leaving Twilight gasping for air. He trembles under her cold glare, “I… I'm not joking. I've been having some trouble with staying awake recently…” 

Handler's silence grants him permission to keep going, "I'm starting to think I've developed some kind of acute narcolepsy. I've never had this problem until recently but I've been falling asleep randomly and unpredictably. Even stocking on caffeine at the cost of my stomach hasn't helped keep me awake,” the theories he's been working on quietly slip from his tongue as an endless ocean of mumbling, "I'm not sure what could have caused given I've not suffered anything damage to my head recently, not am I feeling any pains. My diet is mostly fine and sleep hasn't changed from the usual, and yet I keep finding myself waking up from deep sleep.”

"Nightfall reported you came in late to your hospital shift once,” Handler points out. The crowd around them has slipped away at the flick of the auburn haired woman's wrist. 

Twilight feels the tips of his ears burn a little, an old habit he's supposed to have kicked to the curb, "Yes… I believe it was the same problem. I almost slept twice my normal amount." 

He recounts the couple other times this has occurred all the while gripping his chin, deep in thought. The scariest part is—

"Is there a correlation to all these ‘events’?” The ginger haired woman probes curiously. Her gaze has softened into thoughtful pools of azure, “Are you sure you're not just tired? Not that I can afford you any time off." 

He hesitates for a second too long, “No. I'm alright. I don't need any time off. I'll simply have to investigate this issue further and—”

"Twilight, you know better than to lie,” his boss easily cuts in, and Twilight knows there's no point denying the connection underlying his frequent bouts of deep sleep, "My… family… seem to be a trigger of sorts. I still think there must be something wrong, but every time I'm around them - especially Yor - even if I don't feel tired I fall asleep. I can't imagine this to be normal, so I've started looking at research papers and books, none of which have proved fruitful yet, but surely there is something to describe my current condition—”

He keeps waffling off the top of his head when a sigh interrupts him. The woman before him looks positively tired and done, but Twilight is very serious about this.

He says as much, to which Handler sighs again, muttering something under her breath as she rubs her temple, “Whatever. Let's get on with the real purpose of this meeting." 

Twilight straightens, “Right," he's able to push behind the confusing and befuddling issue of his sleeping to the back of his mind. 

At the end of the meeting, Handler calls out to him, “Make sure not to oversleep and miss missions. Find a way to navigate that habit. I won't be nearly as merciful next time." 

"Of course not,” comes the automatic reply. He'd been hoping Handler would take this more seriously, and perhaps he'd expected her to be more frustrated or concerned with the developments in his sleeping patterns, yet she seemed nothing but tired. 

Twilight returns home to the warm, delicious scent of Yor's stew, "Oh, welcome back Loid. It was getting a bit late and Anya was hungry, so I made my mother's stew. I hope you don't mind," she smiles, shy and bashful and beautiful.

It's almost imperceptible to him—the way built up tension in his shoulders loosens just a little. 

Loid puts that worrying thought to the back of his mind and grins. 

“That's wonderful. Thank you, Yor.”

—

It occurs and occurs and occurs against his will. Now that he's at least aware of the cause, Twilight can avoid sleeping at important times - in the morning or close to spy-related work - but the main problem has not stopped. 

He wakes up at the end of their four hour train journey, head resting in the crook of Yor's neck again. The distant chugging of the train and rumbling of tracks faintly registers in his ears, “Loid, we're almost there," a hand gently shakes his shoulder. He starts to stir awake despite the warmth lulling him back to sleep. 

"Papaaaa! Wake up!” 

“I'm awake I'm awake," he mumbles, words dragged out of his mouth with a slur. Sitting up leaves him dizzy, a pounding headache forming at the front of his skull. Soft fingers combs his falling bangs back in place, easing the pulsing a little.

He’s so groggy that Anya has to lead him out by the hand while Yor carries all their luggage. Later, standing on the station platform, Twilight's face burns as red as Yor's. Anya interrupts his spluttered apologies and Yor’s reassurances with her usual quip of "Mama and Papa are flirting,” effectively silencing them.

All he remembers is the feeling of Yor's dress cushioning his cheek, her arm wrapped around his shoulders to steady him through the bumps. All he can think about is her warmth and scent that swirls around his head all day. 

The uneasy two hours of sleep he's scratched from his tumultuous days have been whittling down each day. He struggles to find a semblance of rest at night by himself. 

It happens again at a picnic. Just after a filling lunch, he stirs to chubby hands patting his face, "Papa! Papaaaa I wanna play with Mama! Stop hogging her!” A childish voice whines. He tries to shy away from the fingers over his hair and face. 

"Anya… tired. We should… sleep some…. I'll join you… alright?” 

"But Papa… allllll the time!" 

“I-It’s not… always up the earliest and goes to… I don't think… much sleep, especially with… schedule.” 

The tiny hands leave his face, replaced with trickling fingers running through his hair. He considers letting sleep take him under again, curling up a little when a breeze sifts through his clothes.

"Papa’s always... His tummy hurts...” 

“Is that… should stock up on antacids… of coffee.” 

The voices drag him from the edge of sleep. He eventually opens his eyes, blinking away the blurry edges to his vision, "Yor… I'm so sorry,” the words slur together, chained by the sleepy haze in his mind, "I fell asleep again,” he pushes himself up on heavy limbs to Yor's smile. 

"Not at all, Loid! It's no problem. I'm just happy to see you rest more. You've been looking better recently.” 

He must, he thinks bitterly. Twilight's reflection’s gaze doesn't carry as heavy bags as it used to. He doesn't feel the dry itchiness of sleep deprivation clawing his eyes as much. His stomach complains less. He's more alert in missions and faster with paperwork.

She reassures him and all he can think about is the anxiety gnawing in the back of his mind. 

He doesn't know what about them eases him so much, but Twilight's job is to know. 

Watching Yor jog after Anya and Bond, Twilight ruminates on how much of the thin line between Loid Forger and himself is left. 

A semblance of reality in long term covers is inevitable. He'd rather find himself smiling genuinely by his fake wife's side or truly congratulate his daughter than fake it all, for authenticity would only reinforce his cover. He’s been taught to take advantage of the thinning line between cover and spy; the hallmark of a talented actor is someone who can improvise on the spot, and Twilight has always been adaptable. If he panicked, he would only cement the undeniable collision of compromise.

(How far away is he from that crash?)

—

The next time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. 

He awakens like he always does around Yor: slowly, consciousness drifting in the warm syrup of sleep, sensations creeping up on his brain one by one. Her scent is one of the first his senses awaken to: the smell of sweet roses; the detergent that leaves her clothes spotless. Mellow softness cocoons him like a blanket: he knows it's simply her arms wrapped gently around him—her kindness manifested physically. His head is tucked in the crook of her neck. The last feeling that returns is, confusingly, his fist clenched around her dress. He lets go as his eyes slip open. 

Strangely, he's not on her lap or on her side, but in Yor's arms, held against her chest, a hand cradling his skull, fingers carding through loose locks. 

He wants nothing more than to nuzzle into her comfort, to fall back asleep, letting his mind wander and drift in a gentle ocean of nothing. 

But he's awake, and he stares blankly at Yor's neck through half lidded eyes. He pulls back slowly while yawning, earning a small noise from Yor. 

“Loid," her tone isn't the silky melody he's used to, a rough stress to her voice. Something in her words loosen at his bleary gaze, "You're awake.”

"I… fell asleep again…” is all he notes as he rubs his eyes. One of his arms has fallen asleep from leaning on it for whoever long he napped. Pins and needles shoot up his nerves, earning a tiny wince. 

The final feeling he notices is the slick, hot trail of saliva on his chin. Embarrassment tinges his face pink at the realisation. But what horrifies him is the darkened stain on Yor's dress. He freezes when his gaze lands on it, the culprit still warm on his chin. 

He’s just drooled all over Yor's favourite sweater. 

It's a tiny little imperfection. Just a small human mistake, not unlike the usually meticulous Loid Forger, if a little gross of him. 

But the world Twilight exists in is a world of perfection. The tiniest slip up will kill him. He's learnt this lesson already—

(Glaring up at frozen chartreuse pupils, stomach freshly aching, Yuri's bullet stinging—

He lost to Wheeler that day. Were it not for Nightfall, Loid Forger wouldn't have come home.

Twilight would have been dead.

Imperfections leave tiny perforates in a spy's cover. One too many and it all spills in a split second. 

How many more holes will he carelessly allow to be poked through? Until he drowns? What is he doing?)

Horror bodies him like a tsunami. Twilight scrambles from Yor's hold, much to her shock, “L-Loi—”

"Y-Yor!” her name comes out a strained wheeze, strangled by the shame in his throat, “I-I’m so sorry I—I didn't mean to—that was unbecoming of me, and rude and I didn't mean to—you should have woken me up!" He stresses and stresses, hands yanking and tugging on his hair as the trembling tower of anxieties finally crumbled in the face of his incompetence. 

“Loid! It's okay—” Yor's reassurance falls dead on his ears. 

“It's not! That was gross of me, and it's your favourite sweater, I should have woken up—I’ve never drooled before, I—I promise I'm better than this Yor. All I've done is inconvenience you again and again over these past few weeks and it's unacceptable! You've done so much for Anya and I—" 

Twilight dares glance at the clock. It's almost evening. He remembers getting home just after lunch. All he can think about is the terrifying thought that plagues him every time he wakes up. 

How compromised was he? How far was he from becoming another agent buried underground, forgotten? 

Cold palms pressing onto his cheeks cut his spiral short. He releases shaky breath in the face of Yor's earnest gaze, wine red glistening, "Loid. It's okay.” 

"I'm—" 

“It's okay. I don't mind," she repeats firmly. Her tone grabs the part of his mind trying to retreat, "It's just a dress. It's just some saliva. I can easily wash it.” 

"But—I made you sit for hours while I droole—" 

She smiles, "You didn't make me do anything Loid. I chose to be there, to be your pillow while you slept.” 

Disbelief spills from his mouth, “Why?" 

Yor tilts her head; her gaze softens and her eyes fall to the floor, downcast, "I know I'm not that reliable. You're always perfect even when you don't have to be. But I've told you before, I wanted to help relieve that burden, even if a little. I'm always happy to help,” glittering rubies meet his dull azures with kindness he knows deep down he's not deserving of. 

He should smile as Loid Forger. Thank her for her reassurances and promise this wouldn't happen again. All he needs to do is smile and laugh it off. He just needs to put the mask on. 

Twilight bites his quivering lip.

—

He's not running. He's just extracting himself from the problem to find a solution. Twilight doesn't run unless the threat is insurmountable and he definitively knows he cannot overcome it. 

Handler had stared at his request curiously, “You want more work? I'm not against it, but why? Won't Operation Strix suffer?" 

Twilight does not swallow nervously, "It's only for a week. There is nothing of significance in regard to Operation Strix's progress that would be hindered if I were gone for that week,” Handler would understand his hidden plea. She would approve, surely. 

She does, albeit her judging, icy pupils drill holes in his back every second. 

So Twilight finds himself alone in a dingy room. The sight is familiar, not unlike his past abodes in-between missions. The cold, dark and damp nature of rooms tucked in the shadows of the world is as close as he’ll ever get to home for Twilight, where he truly belongs as an agent. He finds comfort in it for sure, in the minute ways: the way his shoulders relax a touch, the way tension rolls off his back as he stretches, the way he can finally drop Loid Forger's mask. 

Except dropping the mask doesn't come with the relief he's used to. 

Each cover burdens his mind heavily. Acting like someone else and peeling the mask off at the end always lifted a weight he grew accustomed to. 

But Loid Forger's mask isn't as heavy. It's quite light, in fact. His face feels a little off without it. 

Twilight is aware that this is an inevitable side effect of a long term operation such as Strix. If anything, it's a sign his cover is well maintained. A modicum of truth leaking into his words and face provides him a full proof cover. 

That's as far as Twilight lets himself ruminate. He decides he'll turn in early for tomorrow's mission, plans already drafted up based on WISE’s information. 

Except sleep never catches him. His mind runs adrift in a sea of meaningless thoughts that inevitably all circle back to his fake family. 

To the ache that plagued him as he closed the door to Anya's frown, Yor's dimmed smile and Bond's sad borf. 

“We'll miss you," they said. Loid had smiled, promising he'd be back soon.

Twilight watched the exchange with distant eyes, wondering why the ache was still so strong when Loid Forger finally disappeared to the back of his mind. 

Closing his eyes only leads him back to Yor, to her beautiful face and innocent smile, to her warmth and her kindness, all blending into a specific feeling he misses. 

The same thing happens each night. He fulfills his designated hours of spying before returning to his bland abode. It's a perfect reflection of Twilight and yet it doesn't feel like it. He goes to bed but sleep evades him. It grates on him—leaves him frustrated and flustered and stressed. 

He's been trying to figure out what it is, the feeling that loosens his tense muscles like jelly, that relaxes the perpetual stress gripping his shoulders, that lifts the burden of Strix just a little, that blows away the thousands of thoughts from his overworked mind. It's unfamiliar, strange and new, dangerous too. It's not a sensation he should get used to as a spy. 

Going home to the Forgers became a calming routine he eventually sunk into quite easily. He'd come home and put on a mask but that mask gradually weighed less on his face. He'd cook but sometimes Yor would take up the mantle when he was exhausted. He'd spend mind numbing effort trying to teach Anya but now they had the Authens to help her. Everything melded into a nice little routine he sinks into like a plush couch. 

He lets his guard down at home. More than he usually would. Maybe a little more than his cover would dictate. He's noticed it bit by bit, turning a blind eye to the growing apprehension stewing in favour of his daily life. 

Now he's all alone, and that stress washes over him. He can't sleep. He can't enter that restless two hours of shut eye. Paranoia dictates he get up and sweep the room a third time. Twilight is meticulous anyways, he always sweeps more than once just to be safe. 

But he doesn't at home. He only ever checks once. Twilight can rationalise that he's there everyday and checking once a day is enough. He knows who it is that enters the Forger residence at what time and for what purpose. His house is a familiar place, a residence of six months. 

But he thinks he knows why he doesn't check as often. 

Bond can sniff out strangers and intruders. Anya is scarily perceptive sometimes, with how she guesses when someone is at the door. But it's not really them he relies on for security. It's up to him to make sure they feel at ease.

Most of all, Yor is strong. 

“Although I don't remember her face, I loved being in my mother's arms. Even through uncertain nights where bombs would ravage the town next to us, I could sleep soundly. 

My mother was strong.” 

His eyes widen. An epiphany hits him like an arrow, gently and suddenly tearing through his walls. 

That night, he'd told her Anya was only as carefree as she was because Yor made her feel safe. 

And yet… 

Falling asleep so deeply around her, relaxing just in her presence, trusting her despite not knowing everything about her…

…

When did he start feeling safe around Yor? Around Anya and Bond? 

When did he feel secure enough to relax, to stop thinking, to close his eyes? 

To sleep soundly?

He gets up, legs moving automatically, piloted by the feeling—the yearning that tugs his heart. His hands reach for the phone and dials on their own. He doesn't really know what he's thinking: his mind is blissfully blank for once. 

The phone rings. 

“... Hello? Loid?" 

Something in him relaxes. Twilight should be terrified. Maybe he is. Loid is relieved. 

A small smile slips onto his face, “Yor. Hi." 

“Hi!" Yor chirps a little nervously from the line, “Is everything okay? It's not like you to call during work. N-Not that I'm upset that you did!" 

“I'm alright," he simply responds. He doesn't really know what to say, busy basking in the relief that fills him slowly, each stressed kink in his muscle breaking free. He'd just impulsively wanted to hear her voice. 

"Papaaaaaa!” A squeal interrupts whatever Yor is about to say, “When will you be home already? I miss you!" 

A chuckle escapes him as Yor tries to placate Anya's whining, “I'll be home the day after tomorrow. Just hang on a little longer," warmth drips like honey from his baritone words. 

"Will papa bring Anya a souvenir?” 

"Anya, Loid is probably too busy with work—" 

“It's alright, Yor," he finds himself saying even though he does have work, his target has a strict schedule he can’t work around, "Anya. There's these donuts that are famous around here. If you've been a good girl, I'll buy you some, alright?” 

He hears an excited gasp, "Really?!” 

“Really." 

“Yayyyy!!!" 

The tiny smile on his face isn't too out of place, he thinks absently, “I hope you've been studying hard." 

Yor’s delightful chuckle crackles through the receiver, “She has been. I've been there everyday with her. She's been working very hard, Loid." 

Loid's eyes soften, “Is that so…" he whispers, letting the words drift in the warm silence of his apartment, “It's getting quite late. I'll see you all soon." 

“Goodnight Loid." 

“Goodnight, Yor." 

The call cuts with a click. He's left standing alone with his thoughts, a rampaging torrent whirling frantically through everything at once. 

Rationally, Twilight should be horrified by this revelation. He's fallen too deep into this cover. He's let his guard down, his walls are beyond cracked; the sun illuminates a spotlight on him, his shadow staining the floor in inky black, leaving a trail no one else is meant to see. He feels safe around them, but agent Twilight has never felt truly safe in his decade as a spy. Yet it's a new feeling, old, familiar, foreign, it's… 

"I could sleep soundly by her sides even as the war raged in outside." 

A feeling he knows off, yet forgotten. 

Another side of that barely surfaced, much less led him, fights against Twilight's natural instinct. 

Emotionally, he feels comforted in this safety blanket Yor has knitted for him. Wrapped in its warmth and cocooned in its soft yarn, he can relax and sleep as he did back then. He's not alone… he has a family now. A home to return to. A daughter and wife and dog to greet, to say “I'm home," to.

But they're not his family; they're Loid’s, and Loid is not real. Except parts of him are. Loid, who treats his wife when her mood falls. Loid, who always respects his wife's boundaries and privacy. Loid, who encourages his wife to keep cooking, even as her monstrous dishes irreparably damage his stomach. Loid, who always makes sure if his daughter has done her homework. Loid, who spoils his daughter as a reward for her academic leaps. Loid, who rented a castle to celebrate his daughter passing Eden's entrance exam. Loid, who makes the best meals for his dog on good days. Loid, who only buys the best food and soaps for his dog.

All those fragments are carefully clutched between Twilight's fingers. They remain even as everything else falls away like sand in an hourglass. These will last, as long as he holds onto them, as long as they beat within his heart, etched into his mind.

He doesn't know which side to follow. 

It should be easy. He is Twilight, Westalis's best spy for his callous, cold, efficient approach to his work. His unwavering dedication and steals resolve that drag him through any hell. He's avoided attachments each time, let go of every chain that weighed him down, walked away from every disappointed mentor, heartbroken partner and devastated friend. 

He's suddenly hit with horrible dread that cuts through the calm of the room. Shadows of the past creep up his feet, of dead friends and mothers, clutching his legs. Grief is the tendril that encircles his neck and squeezes. He chokes on an old fear he's thought he'd eradicated. 

When he leaves… he'll lose it all. At the end of Operation Strix, Loid Forger will die. And Twilight will leave. 

The ache from before returns tenfold as a bleeding wound, stifled under years of masks and layers. A wound from childhood that stings every time he leaves. He was supposed to have buried it the day he became a spy, the day he threw all that was left of that young man who had nothing. 

He's failed as a spy. To fear leaving, to fear loss, his heart has grown roots, entangled deeply to the unknowing accomplices of Operation Strix. 

A heavy sigh sits on his chest. If Handler knew, surely she would punish him for his foolishness. Maybe drag him down the streets tied to a car, or truly put him in a chokehold until his brain reset from a lack of oxygen. 

It's getting late, and like every other night, sleep does not find him. He stares at the smooth surface of the ceiling, counts the wood chippings of each floorboard, embarrassingly enough he falls on an old childhood habit of counting sheep as a last resort, but his closed eyes always eventually open to a silhouette of shadows.

It's been like this ever since he started falling asleep around Yor. He rarely gets his two hours, left with a burdening fatigue pressing on his eyes and mind at all times, an exhaustion that only feeds into him passing out around his fake wife. He's either tired or craving more sleep. It's only after he wakes up in her arms, once the haze of sleep has passed, that he feels awake, well rested in a way that isn't meant for an agent like him. 

He knows it's selfish to want more. It's a sign he's compromised. A top rated agent would have distanced himself, killing those emotions in rapid succession until nothing reached his heart. Until the walls were back up again, until they stood in the shadows, until their face was blank and no remnants of a mask cling. 

But all leaving has done is make him yearn. Those feelings he's trying to suffocate fester and desire more, watered by the loneliness he's come to know as foreign; fed by the weariness that begs to curl up on Yor's lap just once more. 

What is he supposed to do now? 

—

When he gets home, promised donuts in hand, suitcase in the other—when he opens the door to Yor's radiant grin, Anya's excited open arms and Bond’s wagging tail, he supposes he’ll just sink back into Loid as he always does. The mask fits around the grooves of his smile. 

He'll keep this secret of this new revelation to himself. He'll take it to his grave. When he inevitably leaves, he'll write it down for them to find one day. He'll carry the guilt everyday to remind himself of the love that was never meant for him. 

After dinner, after he's showered, Loid settles on the couch for a bit, next to Yor. The simplicity of their domestic life is painfully soft. A week of sleepless nights leaves him leaning on Yor like a magnet, pulled in her by irresistible, pleasant warmth. He feels her flinch minutely—considers moving until her hand reaches up to comb his fluffy locks. 

“It's nice to have you home,” her delicate whisper sings like the chirps of a warbler, “I know Anya missed you a lot." 

‘Did you?’ he wonders curiously. 

“I'm glad to be back too," Loid whispers back, sleep-laced words slurred. He feels the fuzzy edges of sleep crawling up his mind. 

It takes minutes before he's out like a light, Yor tells him in the morning.

—

He wakes to hands in his hair, gently scratching, long fingers and manicured nails raking tenderly over his scalp. He melts under the sensation. Her scent is what hits him next, that sweet, fresh smell of roses and clean detergent, familiar, homely. Under his cheek is the fabric of her favourite dress, a finger loosely hooked around it. He's always loved the delicate threadwork of her dress, pleasant to touch.

His mind drowsily registers each feeling, lost somewhere in a warm, airy haze. In the distance, he thinks he hears Spy wars playing. He has no idea what time it is. He barely remembers what he was doing before he fell asleep on Yor. He should get up—open his eyes and check the time.

Loid groans and nuzzles further into her lap, legs curling. Her hands briefly freeze mid motion. He misses the sensation almost immediately. She resumes and he relaxes, limp like a doll. 

Maybe he could stay a little longer. Five more minutes. 

He gives in to the kind pull of sleep, lulled by Yor's nimble fingers.

—

Omake.

“It seems like Loid won't be up for a while,” Mama comments, her eyes on her snoozing Papa.

But Anya knows Papa was awake a moment ago. She heard his groggy thoughts melt back into silence. Silence was unlike Papa, a super spy that worked and worked. She usually found his yapping to be annoying and distracting. But silence was weird for him. 

What surprises her though is his willingness to sleep. Papa before never slept around others. He started awake that time Anya snuck under his arm and she fell. After that, she never saw him fall asleep in front of them. For a while, she believed he didn't even need sleep, but then she started coming home to Papa dozing on Mama. 

“He was exhausted after that work trip, so we should let him sleep. Instead, I'll make lunch for us today," Mama decides, hands cradling Papa's face. 

Anya flinches, her jaw dropping. While Mama care-fu-lly eggs-traks herself from Papa, she wishes he was awake so she could have omurice or hamburger steak. 

But seeing Papa snoozing so peacefully - face smoothed, unlike the usual wrinkles or grimace - Anya decides that another bout with Mama's poisonous meals is worth it if Papa can rest. He came home really, really tired from that week of missions.

"Anya, lunch is almost ready. Could you help me set the table?” 

“Okayyyyy!" 

She hops up from her designated seat. Before skipping to the kitchen, Anya stops by papa. She smiles at him and places a kiss from his forehead, 

“Sleep well, Papa."