Chapter Text
“We don't have a lot of time,” Loid murmurs, only just loud enough for Yor to hear. The gun presses insistently between her shoulder blades, and every shift of movement sends sparks of pain through her shoulder. It shouldn't comfort her, but Yor knows the chamber is empty. “I don't have all of the codes. We'll have to run soon. Can you?”
Yor nods.
She's starting to stumble. It hurts. The edges of her mind have gone murky, a bit numb, like she's reeling back from a heavy blow—the shock is settling in. Yor grits her teeth and focuses. The man behind her, gun to her back, under the stolen uniform and the mask is a person she can trust. Loid. The girl ahead of her is still waiting, listening for the whispers of her mind. Anya. Oh, God. Bile surges in the back of her throat. She wants to go home to them.
Yuri's gaze behind her lessens, then disappears as they push through a heavy set of doors, marching in time with the group of SSS agents surrounding her. She hears Loid breathe out. A quick, sharp thing. The pressure at her back pulls away, and Yor ducks to the right as Loid slams the stock of the gun down. The agent on her side goes down with a kick. Someone shouts, and Loid grabs her.
Yor runs blindly, trusting him. Her world narrows to just the point where his hand wraps around her uninjured wrist.
“I've got you,” Loid repeats over the blaring alarms.
Adrenaline and willpower are strong things—the only things, besides Loid's hand on hers, that keep her going.
They disappear. Loid drags her into a blind spot and tells her to hold still as he pulls at his face, dissolving one mask for another; then he's yanking a uniform over her head, darkness briefly obscuring her vision.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, glancing behind them as Yor muffles a sound of pain at the motion of getting her arm through the sleeve. “Sorry, it's just for a second. And—sorry for—my disguise. Okay. Good enough, come on.”
Her mouth still tastes sour, and when her vision clears her heart stutters. Loid's eyes look back at her calmly through Yuri's face; Yor can't help but flinch.
“It'll be over soon,” he says in his voice—the one that gently wakes her in the morning, the one that makes her heart flutter.
They burst into another sprint. There's clamping footsteps, and Yor squeezes Loid's hand—please, please, please.
“Lieutenant! I thought you went the other way.”
“You should get your eyes checked,” Loid returns smoothly. “You lot get a group and head to the north exit. I'll go south!”
“Sir—”
Loid whirls with a burning gaze. “Don't doubt me.”
“Sir!”
Clever, Yor thinks idly. The easiest way to clear an exit.
When they break out into the open, Yor gets in fresh air. Her eyes sting. Loid wastes no time; their disguises are discarded now that there is no more use to them, and then Yor's feet leave the ground as he sweeps her up in one smooth motion. Yor is too tired and hurt to be embarrassed.
“Stay awake a little longer,” he orders, harshness softened when he briefly touches his chin to the top of her head.
There's a car down the street. Another WISE agent nods as Loid gets them both into the backseat, peeling away as soon as the door shuts. He tucks a jacket around her.
Yor licks at her dry lips. “Are we going home?” Panic seizes her. “Anya—?”
“She's okay. You need to get looked at first. And we have to lay low for a little while.”
It's too big to think about. Fear grabs her and releases her in bursts as thoughts dart in and out again. She may have to cut off everything—her job, her friends. Loid and Anya are in danger, even more so with their own tangled history with the government. Shopkeeper… Shopkeeper will be fine, as long as she manages herself, but, oh, her hand. Perhaps soon she, too, will have to live a different lie: another name, cutting the long hair Loid likes brushing through with her fingers, uprooting herself from home. And Yuri…
“Hgh—”
She can't think about it; she can barely think straight, but they're in the back of a car slipping further and further away from her brother, and—
Loid takes her face in her hands, his palms warm against her cheeks. He kisses her cheek above his fingers, and then so lightly on her mouth it feels just like a breath of air, and Yor leans forward.
Her humming mind quiets, just a bit.
Loid takes care of everything, like he always does. He carries her out; he's there as she's treated in a private hospital; he keeps a hold of her hand.
Dressed with fresh bandages, pleasantly numbed by the painkillers Loid brought from her Gimpy-provided stash at home, Yor finally lets go.
“I messed up,” she whispers.
“Hmm.”
“I should have—”
Her breath catches.
She should have what? She should have left Director Wilker alive, a person who has hurt innocents? She should have killed Yuri, her brother? She should have cut off all ties with Garden, her life's work? Would any choice hurt her less? Is any option better than knowing, or unknowing?
“Did you know…?” Yor asks instead, her voice smaller than she intends. Loid gazes into her face for a moment, gauging her reaction, then nods once. She looks away. She can't bear to look at him, just for a second, but this betrayal feels barely like the sting of a papercut, compared to the fresh, still gaping wound of her heart.
“Okay,” Yor says quietly.
She took up killing as a means for survival, and more importantly, to ensure she could keep the roof over Yuri's head: their parents’ house, to make just enough she could buy a spice cake and give him the bigger half, so she could bring him books to practice reading, so he could do better, test his way into a scholarship. Her hands were constantly drenched in blood.
Yor's sense of right and wrong, she knows, is different from other people. She was prepared to always keep her own sacrifices for her brother to herself until death, natural or otherwise. But—Yuri—she'd only hoped back then that he could live a normal life. She'd been so proud, sending him off at the train station, after he told her he'd gotten work in Berlint as a civil servant. She wanted him to know as little as possible the aftershocks of war, for his hands to stay soft and clean.
“I don't know what to do,” Yor admits.
From the look on his face, Loid doesn't know yet either. He has plans upon plans, a million possibilities, but still. Not for this.
“Can I hold you?”
She nods, grasping at his shirt with her good hand. Pressed against his chest, Yor gets what she wanted, sitting alone in that interrogation room—the steady sound of Loid's heart, his breath tickling her hair. She leans against him.
It's best, she thinks, that they aren't with Anya right now. She still feels too strongly, is still reeling from the shock. Her head and her emotions are too strong. Yor can still protect her daughter from herself, at least. But at the same time, Yor wants desperately for Anya to be here too, sandwiched between them.
“We'll figure it out,” Loid promises.
“Loid.”
“Yor,” he replies.
“What if WISE ever… what happens if we… become enemies?”
He tenses. “We won't.”
Or so she thought.
“But what if…?”
“We won't,” he says again, tightening his hold around her. “There isn't an organization or person or single thing in the world that could make me hate you. I will never hurt you.”
No promises. Never promises, but Yor shuts her eyes, leaning into him and holds on. As long as she can.