Anya paces from one side of the sidewalk to the other. The sky is on the cusp of lightening, the invisible moon beginning to take its leave. Bond sits at the center, watching her tread a trench into the ground like he 's watching a tennis match. She 's been at it for thirty minutes. They 've been waiting for several more than that.

'What do we do, Bond? ' she whines. 'How do we get in? What if they kill each other?! They don 't kill each other, do they? They won 't! They can 't. They love each other! ' Bond huffs like he 's not so sure about that, and she shoots him a dirty look. 'They flirt! They

almost

love each other. It 's because of Papa 's stupid rules that they 're not in love yet, but they almost do! They can 't meet, Bond! They can 't meet! '

Before her anxiety-riddled train can chug straight off its tracks, the double doors she 's hovering before press open. Twilight and Yor exit, shoulders brushing. Anya stops in her tracks, eyes flickering to Yor 's, then Twilight 's. Papa doesn 't look like he did in Bond 's memory. Her heart slows. She looks down.

Their hands are intertwined. Mama is wearing her work uniform. Anya could die of relief. Quickly, she looks back up, only to recoil at the look on Papa 's face.

'What happened? ' asks Yor as she hurries forward to crouch before Anya, taking her hand. Her gaze glows with only concern. 'Are you alright? '

'I 'm okay. '

'What are you doing here? ' asks Twilight. His voice is flat; his expression, unreadable.

Anya 's heart stutters in her chest. Papa has never seemed so imposing. 'A walk. I ' I was taking a walk. Walking Bond. ' She gestures behind her, and Bond thumps his tail. His bark is higher than usual. Anya winces at the tell.

'15 miles from home. '

His voice is cool. Yor looks between the two of them, understanding beginning to crease her brow. Anya swallows, frantically combing her thoughts. 'A long walk! '

The silence between them is thick and viscous. She could swim in it. Chew it. Choke on it. Twilight 's gaze hangs on her before trailing to Yor 's. His eyes grow hard. Impenetrable. Yor stands and returns his attention, features growing distressed. Something about the exchange sets off a spark of recognition in Anya 's brain.

Like she 's been hit with a brick, Anya gasps, stumbling back into Bond. The door she 'd seen in his premonition is the same one they 're standing outside right now. 'Oh no, ' she whispers, eyes tight. She glances frantically at Bond, who lows despairingly at her. 'I messed up. No, no, no. I messed up! '

Twilight frowns.

Perhaps she 's related to Yor,

Anya finds herself thinking. But in Papa 's voice. Papa 's thought. She spins back around to face him. 'Anya doesn 't 'I don 't know Mama. Not before, not yet, not until you met her! '

She realizes her mistake when Twilight 's brow ticks. Yor remains confused. 'Of course you know me, Miss Anya. '

Trapped between a rock and a hard place, all Anya can do is stammer out 'no 's and 'yes 's. In the midst of her frantic non-answer, Twilight asks, 'How did you know? '

'Kn 'know what? ' answers Anya, voice stilted.

'What I was thinking. ' His words are careful, chosen with the utmost thought. His gaze is searching.

'I didn 't! I was just ' saying. '

Twilight 's mouth thins. Anya knows he doesn 't believe her. Night could stretch into day. The air in the atmosphere could disappear; the water on the surface, evaporate. Finally, Anya tears her gaze from his, staring at the ground. 'I ' I knew. ' She hesitates, shoulders rising and falling on a deep breath in. Turning her gaze back up, she looks at Twilight pleadingly. Sadly. Scared. 'I knew because I can see thoughts. '

'

It 's not the answer he 's expecting. In fact, it 's so ridiculous, he questions if she 's telling the truth. But the panic in her eyes and the wobble of her bottom lip is too authentic, and the sheer absurdity of her confession is telling in and of itself.

The seconds tick by as he turns this information over in his head. Dots begin to connect. Coincidences that verged on miracle begin to make sense. Throughout this exercise in recall, Twilight notices how Anya 's gaze continues to dart to Bond 's.

A steeliness seeps into Twilight 's bones. Surely there 's no way. Surely. 'Why do you keep looking at the dog? '

Is the dog a plant, too?

Anya 's eyes well up. She crouches beside Bond, circling her arms around his neck and pulling him close to her. 'I 'm not a plant. Neither is Mama. Neither is Bond! '

'Why do you keep looking at him? ' Twilight repeats, words honed to a point.

What does he do?

'Bond sees things that haven 't happened yet! '

Crickets. Owls. A fox shrieking somewhere in the distant wood. Twilight swallows 'hard 'and stares at Bond. The ever-pleasant curl of his canine mouth is gone, replaced with a solemn, sorry curve. This can 't possibly be real.

Glassy green runs over. Anya buries her face in Bond 's scruff, which muffles her voice. 'Bond is real! Bond is mine. Bond is ours! '

Twilight looks at her sharply. It feels invasive, now that he knows. The only thing that he 's ever believed to be his and his alone, that nobody has access to, that nobody is

supposed

to have access to, pried into like a weak lock box and scooped clean without his knowing. For four years. Despite her tears, he feels removed from this girl.

She 's just a child,

a part of him sighs. But is she? She 's slipped under his radar for four years. Played parts in efforts beyond her age that he thought he 'd been handling alone. What else is she capable of?

Like she 's heard his thoughts 'and she likely has, Twilight thinks bitterly 'Anya 's body begins to shake. She looks up, eyes glistening. 'Only sometimes, ' she whimpers. 'Only sometimes, Papa. Bond, too. Only sometimes. '

Sometimes is still too much more than never. Biting his tongue, Twilight trudges past his family. This family. He clears a thicket, pushing leaves away and snapping stray branches to reveal a car, one he 'd parked here as his getaway vehicle. He opens the back door and clenches a fist. 'Get in. '

The ride back is silent. His knuckles burn white against the steering wheel. Twilight wonders how he can know everything about his supposed family and feel farther from them than ever. He glances in the rearview and finds Anya peering at him sadly.

'Not everything, Papa, ' she whispers.

He looks away, gritting his teeth. He reminds himself to stop thinking.

'

Mornings in the Forger household are only this quiet when Anya hasn 't woken yet 'but Anya is idling at the liminality between the living room and the hallway, twisting her hands, fidgeting in place as she watches Yor. Her mother 's hands are as steady as ever as she makes Loid 's coffee. Brews her tea. Arranges cookies for breakfast.

Loid is never the last one up, but Loid is nowhere to be found. One of the doors behind Anya clicks open, and she scuttles forward, hugging a chair and glancing back. Bond pads up to her feet, curling around the legs of the seat. Loid finally steps out, already dressed for the day in his green three-piece suit, the usual pin on his lapel gleaming. His hair is gelled back, jacket slung over his arm. His face is a void and his mind is blank. Anya climbs into her seat, looking up at her father with the discomfort of somebody who 's encountering him for the first time. Like she 's too afraid to stare straight at him for too long.

'Your coffee, ' says Yor, sliding a mug his way. He only glances at it. Then she sets his usual pot of creamer beside it. 'And your milk. '

Yor smiles at him the way she does every morning. Loid frowns. Turning away, he grabs his suitcase and hat, pulling the door open. He hesitates. 'I 'll be back late. '

Then he exits, ducking his head to place his hat upon it. Anya 's stomach sinks. She turns to look at her mother. There 's a faint line between her brows, and her lips are pursed. Her gaze is distant as she stares into the black depths of Loid 's typical morning habit. Anya has never seen her face like that.

Suddenly Yor looks up, brows canted upwards and eyes apologetic. 'I 've forgotten your lunch! ' She shuffles off to the kitchen, and the hum of the fridge becomes the only sound to fill the dead space surrounding the apartment.

Bond 's wet nose presses against Anya 's shin. She looks down at him, and he whines when their gazes meet, cocking his head in question. Shaking her head, she says quietly, 'I don 't know. ' Because it certainly doesn 't

feel

like it will be okay.

'

He sits in absolute silence, hands prayered over his face, chin resting on his thumbs. The paperweight clock on the desk ticks like a bomb, each snap of the hand bouncing off the walls. He breathes in. He breathes out.

When he opens his eyes, Sylvia continues to stare at him with her cheek resting on the back of her hand. She spins the pen dangling between her fingers and watches his every move. Twilight drops his hands to the arms of his chair. After a beat, he massages his temples.

'I know you weren 't able to dispose of Olif. ' she says, and he stops mid-ministration, eyes flashing to hers. The usual clear blue of his gaze is gone, replaced by a stormy grey that reminds her of when they 'd first met, that introductory lesson as his handler. Like a baby bird being forced out of the nest by its mother:

fly or die.

Determination warring with reluctance, uncertainty with resignation. 'Care to explain? '

He looks away, one clenched hand coming up to his mouth, elbow digging into the grain of the armrest. 'There was an unexpected obstacle, ' he explains into his fist, voice muddled.

'That 's never stopped you before. '

'It 's created a complication. '

'Again, that 's never stopped you before. '

'You don 't understand! '

Sylvia raises her brows. He hasn 't lost his cool in years 'decades, even. Twilight winces, falling into the seat he 's just launched out of. 'Then explain it to me, ' says Sylvia. 'That 's what I 'm here for. That 's what I 'm asking. '

His jaw clenches. She sees the vein in his forehead throb. After a minute, he shuts his eyes, takes another deep breath in, one long one out, and opens his mouth, eyes flickering to hers. There 's that youthful confusion again. As if he 's about to throw dice for the first time. Sometimes she forgets just how much her junior Twilight is.

But then he claps his mouth shut. He looks away. Sylvia drops her pen to the desk, and Twilight actually startles at the sound it makes. She folds her arms. 'I can do this all day, Twilight. '

'It 's nothing, ' he replies abruptly, words clipped. 'Just a complication. I can take care of it. I just need more time. I came to ask for more time. '

'Fine. ' Sylvia rises from her seat, turning to peruse the calendar on the wall behind her. It 's flooded with dates in red. One square is blacked out. There 'll be another black date months from now. She hears Twilight stand. 'I can get that for you. '

'Thank you. ' He 's standing by the door.

'But know that Roman will grow suspicious. ' When Twilight doesn 't answer, she sighs. 'That means I 'll need the truth eventually, Twilight. '

There 's a long, tense pause. Finally, he says, 'Fine. '

'Good. Now get out of here. And work on your lying. When did you get so bad at it? '

The door slams shut behind her.

'

It 's raining when he exits the headquarters. Donning his hat, he steps out into the sprinkle from under the awning, hurrying through the sparse streets. The pavement darkens beneath his shoes, the sky growing moodier by the second, raindrops gaining in volume as he finds his way to his usual cafe.

A bell chimes when he enters. The interior is warm with amber light and dense with the smell of steamed milk. He hasn 't had his morning coffee, which he suspects may be contributing to his uncharacteristically short temper today. Two of his fingers come up in greeting, and the barista at the counter returns the salutation, nodding and heading off to make his order. Twilight stops at his usual table. Takes off his hat. His coat. Drapes it over the back of a seat before sliding into the one opposite, his back to the window. Then he clasps his hands over his mouth, staring through the Impressionist painting hanging on the wall across from him. He doesn 't even notice when the barista drops his drink off.

He 'd meant to tell Sylvia. He really had. He 'd thought he could, that Sylvia, at least, could be trusted. But there 'd been a tiny voice in his head '

yes, and isn 't that what got you into this mess to begin with?

Which is ridiculous. Sylvia assigned this mission to him in the first place, why would she sabotage it? So he 'd tried again, only this time, he 'd had no idea where to start. He 'd opened his mouth, then realized that if he had no idea how to explain, he had even less of an idea of the consequences.

Consequences.

There are always consequences, and he 's always accepted them. He 's killed far more valuable people for far less, in scenarios more or less the same 'years-long honeypot missions, to say the least. What makes this one so different? Especially now that he knows the truth, that Yor is the enemy, and that Anya isn 't at all who Twilight thought she was?

Oh, right. And there 's the damn dog.

Rubbing at the tension between his eyebrows, Twilight picks up his cup to take a sip. It 's bitter, blacker than he 's used to. When he opens his eyes to check the roast, he realizes the barista 's forgotten his milk. Then he realizes he hasn 't been here since before he started taking his coffee with milk.

Three and a half years of coffee with milk. That 's not a habit. It 's a lifestyle. Maybe he

has

lost his edge.

Setting the porcelain down, he slumps into the seat and tips his head back. Combs a hand through his hair. Sighs. The art deco pattern embellishing the ceiling bears down on him, a hypnotic mess of curving shapes and crowded lines. He loses himself in them.

'

'Are you even listening to me? ' Becky huffs, folding her arms and leaning forward to examine her best friend 's face. She 's just painstakingly detailed the events in last night 's episode of

Enemies in Love,

but Anya hasn 't reacted at all. 'Anya. Anya! Listen to me, you bullheaded little frog! '

'Becky? '

Startled, Becky rears back. Anya 's eyes are wide and wet. It 's a departure from the mile-long stare she 's been wearing for the past few days, but Becky isn 't sure it 's any more welcome. 'You 're not a bullheaded little frog. I was just checking if you were listening. What 's wrong? '

'What do you do when your mama and papa are fighting? '

Becky blinks. Frowns. 'Well ' I don 't know. I don 't see my mother much. And Martha ' well, Martha would never fight with my papa. Well, except there was one time! My papa would check on me every hour of every day, it was quite claustrophobic. I think Martha could see what it was doing to me. She told him to stop smothering me, and why, my papa had quite the fit. But Martha didn 't back down, and now I get along much better with my papa. '

'But my mama isn 't Martha. '

Becky hums, frown deepening. 'That 's true. Your mother is quite reserved, isn 't she? Not that Martha isn 't, but Martha is more reserved like a brick wall. Your mother always seemed sort of delicate. But she 's strong. What 's that story? When the wind is blowing, and the reed bends while the tree breaks. Your mother 's like the reed

and

the tree, actually. '

Anya stares at her blankly. Becky fights back her sigh. Subtlety is always lost on her best friend. She takes her hand, patting it the way Martha often pats her back. 'It will be okay, Anya. Parents always stop fighting because they love their children. '

'Okay, ' Anya whispers. They both look out at the playground. Damian and his lackeys amble across the field, and Becky winces. When she glances at Anya, the girl appears similarly distressed.

'Most of the time they do, ' adds Becky quickly. 'There are exceptions. But most of the time. ' Anya nods, though she doesn 't look very reassured.

They sit quietly for a while. Becky mulls over just what could be creating the divide between Loid and Yor Forger, whether this might be an opportunity for her to wedge her way in, but more importantly, what could be bothering her best friend so much.

'But if the problem is me, what do I do? ' Anya asks suddenly, her voice the size and shape of a pebble.

'It couldn 't be you! ' answers Becky without missing a beat. 'Sure, you can be an airhead, even a little bit of a dunce at times. But I don 't make friends with truly troublesome people, Anya. So it couldn 't be you. '

Still, Anya doesn 't look hopeful. The bell rings, sending them back to their classrooms. Sitting beside Anya in the middle of maths class, Becky pays careful attention to the way her best friend stares out the window. She 's never seen her so distraught, and that 's saying something.

The teacher calls on Becky. She answers promptly, then looks towards the front of the room. Her eyes catch on another curious, concerned pair 'Damien 's, and he 's watching Anya like he 's studying for an exam. His stare flits to Becky 's, and he flushes beet red, features twisting like he 's just tasted something grotesque before he whips around to glower at the chalkboard instead.

'

She shouldn 't have told Papa. She shouldn 't have told Papa, but she did, because she 'd miscalculated and he and Mama had found out about each other already and nothing had gone according to plan and left with no plan, Anya had panicked. Panicked under Papa 's unfamiliar stare. And with so many truths revealed, trying to keep Bond 's hidden had seemed pointless.

Now she 's paying for it in late night anxiety and mute mornings. Neither she nor Mama have seen Papa for the past few days. Sometimes in the middle of the night though, she hears the chain lock on the door rattle, hears Bond 's soft

borf!

And the barely-there footfalls past her door. It feels like it 's all her fault 'everybody says lying is wrong, but if telling the truth feels like this, how could it be worse? Being a spy that lies about everything almost seems easier than being a normal person. Except she 's never been normal, either.

Pulling her stuffy closer to her face, she sniffles into its mane. Normally when Papa is being non-confrontational, she 'd force him to face his problem. This, though 'if she forces him to confront this reality, she may very well push him away. And Mama, too. She 'd break apart their entire family.

Maybe she should run away like she 's always said she would if discovered. That would at least be better than having Papa decide he doesn 't want her anymore.