This was a mistake.

Nightfall doesn't stop to wipe at her tears. She hates how easily she cries around Yor. It's like seeing her kind, gentle smile just — unlocks something inside Nightfall, something she's been trying to keep down in all her years as an agent.

It doesn't even happen around Twilight. No, around Twilight, Nightfall is always perfect. Always performing at the best of her skill. She has to in order to impress him, after all.

But Yor — Yor Forger, wife of Loid Forger, a city hall worker who is nothing and no one —

Nightfall dodges another attack, then lunges to swipe at Yor's ankles. Low blow, maybe, but Nightfall is a spy at heart, and she's starting to realize that absolutely nothing in the standard fighting regimen can bring Yor down.

Yor catches her by the wrist — even though Nightfall is moving so fast that from any outside perspective she'd look like a blur — and hauls her upright, like she's holding a cat by the scruff.

Nightfall kicks at her.

Yor laughs — a gentle, tinkling laugh, oh god Nightfall hates her so much — and drops her. Doesn't even do her the favor of pretending to be surprised. Nightfall scrambles to put some distance in between them, to assess her next move —

It's too late. In the blink of an eye there's a hand on her throat, and grass under her back, and Nightfall is staring up into Yor Forger's brilliant ruby eyes.

There's something dark in them.

Nightfall blinks. She knows she can be biased, thank you very much Handler, but — no, she's not imagining things. Yor has the tip of her small knife to Nightfall's throat, is gazing down at her with nothing but blank darkness curling behind her face, like a predator looking down at its prey, like Nightfall's nothing —

She should be — calculating. She could tell Twilight that his wife was inhumanly good at fighting and was surely a risk to the operation. She could tell Handler. She could finally have her place…

But Nightfall isn't thinking about any of that. There is only Yor's kiss of metal on her throat, and Yor's ink-black hair falling around her like a curtain, and Yor's thighs bracketing her own, and Yor's eyes boring into her own.

"Do you yield?" Yor says. Her voice is the same and yet unrecognizable.

Nightfall should be terrified.

"No," she whispers.

The knife presses harder against her throat. Oh god. Oh god. Yor's face is inches from her own.

"Do you yield?"

Nightfall stares at her and — and wants —

She lifts her hand to try to pry the knife away. Yor slams her fingers down between Nightfall's own. A burst of pain fractals out through her bones.

She can't breathe. Not because of the knife. Yor's face is making her dizzy.

She has to get up. She has to —

"Mama!"

"Anya!" And the darkness, whatever it was, flees from Yor's expression in an instant. She stands up. "What's wrong?"

"Um." Anya's expression darts between Nightfall (still on the ground) and Yor. "Um, Bond, um, he saw… I mean! Bond fell asleep on Papa and he needs you to carry him to bed."

"Of course I can carry your father to bed, Anya," Yor says with a smile. "Alright! Thank you for the exercise, Fiona!"

A brilliant smile in Nightfall's direction, and then she's gone.

"I meant Bond!" Anya yells in Yor's direction, then turns to Nightfall. "Um… Miss Fiona… are you okay?"

Nightfall does not think she will ever be okay again.

"Yes," she wheezes. "Just — help me up."

"Oui!" Anya pulls on her arm. Nightfall stands and brushes grass off of her.

Oh. Her wrist might be sprained. Oh well, the daily life of a spy is never easy.

"Bye-bye then, Miss Fiona!"

Nightfall puts up a stoic hand in response, strides over to the gate of the lawn, and leaves.

(She dreams about Yor.)