Chapter Text
"Brekky-breakfast, peanut-butter-apple pan-cakeys..." The Saturday morning was bright and sunny and the clock was half past eight -- or three quarters past six? No, she was pretty sure it was half past eight -- and the Fol-gers were together and Mama and Papa loved each other and Anya very much. Papa took Mama on a date last night and Anya had very much wanted to stay up until they got home, but she was too tired and Franky made her sleep. (Harrumph.)
And then, this morning she peeked out of her door when she heard Papa stumbling in the hall thinking about shame-ful walking (what makes morning walks shame-full?), and she'd giggled because he'd been so sleepy looking, but he'd actually slept a lot more than usual and had fuzzy static thoughts she didn't get much detail from. He'd given her the biggest, warmest hug he'd ever given her -- and his thoughts quieted down -- and Mama had come out to play with her and Bond -- and now there were pancakes. Well, almost pancakes, pancakes soon! Today was perfect already. Except for one thing.
Papa set a bowl in front of her with a whisk. "All right, Anya. Stir like this." His hands guided hers, warm and patient, while his thoughts spun a mile a minute.
She still has to work on her gross motor control. Most children can stir with a whisk by her age, but then again considering her time in the orphanage perhaps she was never asked to do these things, and missed out on a lot of experiences, which means making sure she has these experiences now is paramount. I was slacking on my .....
"Papa, this isn't gross. This looks yummy!" But Anya shut her eyes. "It's too noisy in here."
Today, everyone's thoughts rang deafeningly clear in Anya's mind--much louder and clearer than usual. It was annoying. Mama and Papa's thoughts are extra loud today.
"Ah-- I suppose I'll turn off the mixer, if it's too loud for you today."
We ... Don't need whipped cream, I guess, or... No, I'll just whip it by hand, once Anya's done stirring. Pancakes absolutely need whipped cream. Imagine if Yuri saw there wasn't whipped cream on Yor's pancakes; he'd accuse me of being a fraud again, can't have that. Funny, how being in a real relationship hasn't actually helped our cover much...
He stepped away to cross the kitchen, but Mama was in the way, chopping apples carefully. She set the knife down at his approach, turning around to stop him with her hand on his wrist. "Loid, stopp, I've got it!"
I wonder if I can get him to kiss me like this, again?
"It's a mixer. It's not exactly work to flip a switch.." but Papa's thoughts had turned to static, and he was blushing as Mama pulled his hand back and around her neck, and he laughed, a deep chuckle as he beat her to the switch on the machine with his free hand, leaning over her on the counter, and she kissed his cheek, and then he kissed her on the lips even longer. The warmth of the kitchen was from more than just the stovetop, where red apples were bubbling into compote with the rich scent of cinnamon -- emotions transmitted stronger today, too. Mama and Papa are flirting.
But Anya had so many opportunities to say this recently she didn't feel the need to announce it this time, just smugly watched as all her best laid plans had come to froo--mishun. Fruit-ishon... Fr--uh, success.
All right, can't let that sit too long, or I'll have to start over. Not like it's that much work, but I might have to get more cream, and that will delay when we can start eating...
Oh no ..The whipped cream is in danger? Mishun save the whip cream! Anya stirred faster, splashing the flour and batter, sticking her tongue out with the effort, until the batter seemed mostly smooth (she'd...hide the lumps). "Papa, Papa, is this done?"
"Ah! Anya, nicely done! It does look well mixed, and while there are a few lumps..." I saw her hide those... "...it's actually just right for pancakes; you don't want the batter too mixed or it won't rise. Though, we'll still have to work on getting less of it on your face..."
She's growing up so quickly... I wonder what she'll be like in a year? With four Stellas now after merely eight months, I may even have access to the Desmonds by then. I hope the alliance between WISE and Garden continues, and.. we can work together to bring Westalis and Ostania to peace. But... you're Loid, right now. And this moment is worth memorizing...
Papa shook his head and knelt down to take the bowl, looking in her eyes and setting his hand in her hair. "Now, can I have a turn with the whisk?"
Today, Loid had decided. It was time to .. start intentionally working on his emotions, knowing--... knowing that Yor would be there, that--she felt as he did, not just that she loved him dearly in a companionable way with sometimes-kisses, but that she wanted... considering last night... he blushed. (They still hadn't talked about what to do regarding their sleeping arrangements, but, would it be getting ahead of himself to think things might change soon? To hope they would?)
The Forgers were enjoying their breakfast together. Anya was slathering her pancakes with peanut butter in an alternating stack (too tall; he'd be eating the rest later, so he'd be... sparing with peanut butter on his own plate, for the sake of his palate), with copious maple syrup and a small mountain of apple. ("Take an egg or some bacon, too, for protein! Eat it first!" he'd insisted; she hadn't objected too strongly, this would keep her from getting a sugar crash later.)
Yor was neatly spreading her three pancakes, arranged in a circle, overlapping each other like flower petals, each with a different topping--one classic butter and maple, one entirely with the apple compote he'd made, and one trying Anya's peanut-butter apple combination, to get the full variety. Loid watched as she sank her fork into her apple-covered pancake first, arranging a perfect bite (a small square of pancake, apple just cooked enough to be soft but stay on the fork, topped with a dab of semi-sweet whipped cream), and raising that bite to her lips, her eyes closing with enjoyment. He could watch her make that face all day and all night -- would, sometime in the near future, if he had any say in it -- but it was breakfast time, now, and... I suppose I could eat.
Satisfied with both Anya and Yor digging in, he placed a precise pat of butter on his pancake, topped with a layer of compote, and a mug of coffee to wash it down (he'd made his and Yor's coffee with a dab of whipped cream, this time; no reason to waste).
Anyway, it's not that he didn't know how to identify his emotions, before... His training had made him hyper conscious of them, in fact, with the goal of elimination: each emotion was catalogued and excised, with surgical precision. Still appropriate during work, but if this was to be his family.... No, it was not identifying his feelings, but feeling them he had to work on -- letting them linger. Maybe the right way to .. to welcome them into Loid Forger's life is to...
He thought of his practice. What were some of the techniques they used for clients? I'll.. think of a color, with each emotion. Reinforce them with a second sense, assign an intensity to each one.
This warmth, first, a combination of things. This was pride, pride in the perfection of the meal, of having brought these smiles to their faces. On its own, it would be orange, but here it was merely an accent, a tint on ... the vibrant red of today, red of Yor's eyes and his complete, besotted love for her and the fire of the passion they were... exploring. Mixed together with the playful, magenta hue of his adoration of Anya.
Yes. Today was vermilion, to match the apples, and Yor's eyes, and her sweater. He'd think about vermilion when this is what he felt, and let it... no, make it... it needed to replace the stop lights that tried to flash and blur his vision when he..
No. Loid took a bite of his pancake, let the cinnamon apple spice warm his taste buds, and looked across the table at his wife and daughter. This is vermilion, my... love for them.
Anya was watching him, staring into his soul like she sometimes did.
"Have you eaten everything you plan to? You've still got lots of pancake left..."
"Shtill eating," she responded, as she quickly shoveled another peanut butter-filled forkful in her mouth. "Itsh jusht loud today, shorry Papa."
What on earth does she mean by that?
"Dishy dish, carry to the sink..." Anya was ready for a morning of cartoons on Papa's lap.
... A recognizable thought pattern appeared in the hall.
It was also approaching.
Twilight, Twilight... it should have been me, Twilight. It should have been me on this mission, me spending my life with you. Why did WISE decide to send you and this incompetent assassin to investigate project Apple? She'll just make a mess of things and...
Scary lady is outside! Oh no. Project Apple?? This isn't good!!!!
Anya threw the dish into the sink and turned around to catch him before he got to the door. "Papa! Don't open the door! No, no Papa. I want breakfast longer! I wanna... Don't... "
But he was already turning the handle.
"Good day, or perhaps good morning, Loid Forger." The standard WISE greeting did not need to be obscured, not when everyone in the room was either in the know or too young to get it (or so they thought). But the rest of the conversation occurred in code, between Nightfall and Twilight, while they maintained the pretense of a normal conversation, morning greetings and pleasantries.
The... vermilion... (so that's what that color is called) of Papa's thoughts began to be tinted a deeper, more irritated shade, one of blood and frustration.
I can't believe the nerve. My first weekend off in forever and there's a sudden follow-up mission to last week's? Clandestine scientists and organ traffickers, also performing illicit experimentation on animals, and the possibility of a lead on Project Apple continuing underground? This would explain the bomb dogs on our last mission, and there's no way to turn this down... But if Yor's on this mission, she should be hearing about it herself...
Anya's thoughts were red, now, too. No. No! Papa and Mama cannot know any more about --
"Anya, go to your room sweetie; we have to talk as grownups for a little bit. I'll take you to the park, later," Papa said, calmly on the outside, but Anya was not calm. She was... The red was clouding the sides of Anya's vision, and Anya felt like crying, no, screaming, no, Anya wasn't breathing. It was going to fall apart--everything, Anya's Mama and her Papa and world peace would...
(Scary lady's thoughts were loud, too.)
That child is throwing a fit again. The most incompetent ward he could have chosen. Unable to handle going to her room for two minutes like a spoiled infant. That woman spoils her.
"She'd behave if I was her mother."
Scary lady will never be my Mama. "No! No... I don't wanna! I won't!" Anya was on the ground, crumpled, hiccuping sobs between coughs when she ran out of breath. Going to Anya's room, letting scary lady talk meant world peace was in danger. It meant the world would go to war, and ... Mama and Papa wouldn't love Anya any more, and they'd go away, to fight each other, and..
How dare she, waltz into my home and tell my wife how to parent my child. What the hell has gotten into her lately. And now Anya is distraught. I don't understand why, but...
Papa's hand is on my back ... Anya hiccuped, and almost felt better, but it was still dangerous, scary lady was still there. And Papa's burgundy, blackening rage -- directed, not at her, but at the situation, at the messenger. Oh -- it went away, and he was tranquil, but the world had dulled again.
"...Anya, Anya sweetheart. Can you hear me?" His arms were scooping her up, and ..
"Too loud, Papa." Too loud. Everything is too loud today.
Anya passed out.