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It takes near the last of Twilight’s strength to herd Yuri out the door. His brother-in-law had arrived with a giant bouquet of flowers, an elaborate birthday cake, and an equally extravagant gift box and had stayed for hours after dinner swapping stories with the family and gulping down several glasses of wine.
Twilight sits down on the couch just as Yor exits Anya’s room. “She’s down for the night,” she confirms. He nods in relief. She nods back, walking to the couch and sitting next to him, taking a deep breath. Her face is flushed a deep red, as it usually is whenever she has alcohol, and strands of dark hair are falling out of the neat bun she keeps it in around her face. He resists the urge to do something silly like tuck them behind her ear.
“Happy birthday again,” he says instead, scooching closer and nudging his shoulder against hers.
She smiles back at him. “Thank you,” she says. “I know you put a lot of work into making today special.”
He shrugs. “Of course. It’s the least I could do to show my appreciation.” The Handler had rolled his eyes when he’d justified the tickets to the cinema, then to the observatory, and finally for the dinner he’d prepared for the family. “Of course, taking your wife out on her birthday helps keep up appearances,” she had said. “But do you really need these prime cuts of filet mignon?” But Yor had been smiling happily throughout the day, and that had made all the difference.
“Twenty-eight,” he adds, recalling her pointing out constellations to Anya at the observatory. She had been off about most of them, but Anya had been laughing in delight. “Big year.”
That makes her giggle. “Not really. It’s rather average as far as birthdays go.”
“But it’s your first as a married woman.” Alluding to the flimsy legitimacy of their marriage is always a dangerous line of dialogue, but he doesn’t bother filtering it. Yor had never mentioned what birthdays had been like growing up, but it doesn’t take a spy of Twilight’s caliber to guess. Yuri had alluded to enough earlier as well.
“Big year,” she echoes. Her palm drops next to his on the couch cushions. He wonders, idly, if she’ll try to take his hand. But then she lifts it again to cover her yawn. “I think…I’ll have a cup of tea,” she says. “I don’t want to wake up with a headache.” She gets up and wobbles a bit, making him stand and grab her shoulders to steady her.
“I’ll get it,” he tells her, sitting her down again and walking to the kitchen. There’s still hot water left in the kettle, so he puts in some leaves to steep in their trusty teapot and sets it down to the coffee table. In his brief departure she had relaxed further into the couch cushions, and he watches her watch the teapot.
“Loid,” Yor murmurs. Her voice is breathy, sounding very much like thoughts and dreams he had known better than to entertain.
“What is it?” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t come out hoarse.
Yor turns her head to look at him, her eyes half-lidded, the lone living room light casting long shadows across her face. For a moment, both are quiet.
“I don’t know when your birthday is,” she says suddenly.
“W-What?” he sputters, jolting back to sobriety.
“Your birthday,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So I can do this for you, too.”
“Oh.” Despite himself, Twilight feels his heart warm. “April 14th,” he says, rattling off the date on all of Loid Forger’s files. “I’m turning 31.”
It’s a lie. His real birthday is a secret, tucked away in his own memories and layers and layers of <WISE>’s confidentiality. It’s something that was thrown away along with his name, kept alive only in the few brief memories of his mother baking a cake, setting a candle on top of it, telling him in her dulcet voice to make a wish and blow it out.
Yor hums, pouring tea for the two of them. “Ah, a spring baby,” she says, smiling sweetly as she raises the cup to her mouth. “That makes sense.”
It makes sense for Loid, he muses. A real family man, this guy. He imagines what Yor will put together for the two of them, considers what the neighbors will think. It will be picturesque. Good for the mission: the hardworking, dutiful wife setting something up for her equally hardworking, dutiful husband. He wonders if it will feel at all like that evening in the park, Yor’s humming taking him back to his childhood home. For a brief, irresponsible moment, Twilight wonders what would happen if he told her everything – his name, his birthday, his job, see if she still wanted to celebrate him then. He would never, of course. It had been his decision to give that up.
She sets the cup of tea back down on the table and slumps next to him. Her movements are starting to slow, and he supposes the tiredness and the alcohol are both getting to her.
“Do you need help getting to bed?” he asks quietly.
Yor shakes her head but makes no move to stand. “Can we sit like this for a little while?” she says instead. Her slender, muscled arm is brushing against his and her lips are moist from the tea. Her face is still that deep shade of red. He wonders if it’s embarrassment. He wonders if she’ll wake up tomorrow and regret or forget this display of affection like she always does. He wonders if it’ll hurt this time.
He blinks. “Of course,” he says. It wouldn’t do if he didn’t give his wife physical comfort…He doesn’t let himself second-guess it.
She nods. Out of the corner of his eye her dark head dips closer and closer to his shoulder before it finally lands.
“Yor?” he murmurs, but her even breathing tells him everything he needs to know. It makes him smile. Eventually he’ll have to get up, carry her to her room, tuck her in under the covers, and prepare for bed himself. It’s what Loid Forger would do. But it’s also what Twilight wants to do because it’s what his lovely, strong wife deserves.
She’s not even my real wife, anyway.
The thought returns, traitorous. Instead, he looks straight ahead, inhales Yor’s light scent of jasmine and vanilla, and lets the tea grow cold on the coffee table. “Happy birthday,” he says again to the living room.