A/N: I couldn't decide if I wanted to include this as a bonus chapter or not. This is an adapted version of "Can't a Lady Read?" It's rather silly, but hope you enjoy.

-K

Fiona Frost thumbed the spines of the book stack upon her desk at Berlint General Hospital. Her break was about to begin in 57 seconds.

Her tea was ready.

Her bag of roasted nuts was ready.

Now which book to read?

The new Vicky Holton? A luscious tale of an ingenue living in a tropical isle only to be swept away into a whirlwind romance with a tanned stranger to be his bride and live in an isolated estate? Or to wander the lonely halls of Manderley again, as she had, twenty times and counting?

The moors, the wild, purple moors? Wuthering Heights would do nicely.

Counting the minutes spent each day with Agent Twilight had lost its luster. In a serendipitous twist, she had found a new consolation. For during her breaks and lunch, as long as she had no interuptions, she could read and return refreshed to tackle anything work or Twilight—oh, my pitiable, dearly-wedded, domestically dulled Twilight—could throw at her.

Nightfall opened her book. She crunched a nut and plunged into the tragedy, peering through the windows at Thrushcross Grange with the ghost of Cathy, smelling the dank air of the moors.

She crunched another nut and turned the page.

How could two odious, toxic lovers such as Cathy and Heathcliff be so fascinating? This Lockwood would make a poor informant, getting his intel from an unreliable source like the Nelly the servant. And given the spongy, misty nature of the moors, how could one track an enemy there without falling victim to its treachery yourself?

Fiona shrugged away her questions. She crunched a nut and turned the page. She sipped her tea—

"Hello, Fiona."

"D-Dr. Forger?" She spit out her tea at the sound of his voice. She regained her composure and sat up straight. "Pardon me, I was reading."

"Sorry to interrupt. I see you're enjoying them."

"Please thank Yor Briar—Ms. Forger—for the loan."

"I will." Twilight, his hands in his doctor's coat pockets, shifted on his feet and flashed her an easygoing smile. Whether it was a Twilight smile or a Loid Forger smile, it didn't matter.

His smile and its relief were genuine. It tickled Fiona. She crooked the corners of her lips the tiniest bit upwards.

Twilight's eyes widened. "Fiona?"

"If you'll excuse me, Dr. Forger, I'd like to return to my book."

"Sorry." He scratched the back of his head. "That reminds me, Yor said she'd be happy lend you more Vicky Holtons."

"Ms. Forger is a fan?"

"Yor's got all her books."

The smile on Fiona's face grew a fraction wider. "She has good taste. How'd she know Rebecca is my favorite book? And Daphinia Du Maurier, my favorite author? Did you tell her?"

Twilight put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "I suppose you can thank me for that...I suggested Rebecca to Yor."

"How'd she like it?"

"Yor loves it. She thinks Manderly is wonderfully mysterious. She doesn't care for Rebecca...she asked if we could read it aloud together."

Fiona clenched her book. With a deep sigh she relesed her hands and adjusted her poker face into a look she felt was sad, softened with benevolence. Twilight, always bringing out the best in people.

He blinked, confused. Then he put on his friendly face. "What are you reading?"

"Wuthering Heights."

"Such an interesting story about a doomed couple."

"Indeed."

Twilight. Such a well read man.

What good discussions they'd had squeezed in during quieter missions when action or intense focus wasn't required. He framed them as practical discussions meant to hone their spycraft. Books gave valuable insight into human nature. A good story never failed to engage his interest. Twilight had the endearing, annoying habit of wanting to make the discussions abstract, while Fiona wished to focus on the practicals.

"Come to think it, Fiona, you can have that. It's my old copy."

"Thank you."

Fiona shut Wuthering Heights., her finger tucked in the bookmarked page. She brought it to her chest.

A book caressed by his own hands? What a treasure.

Fiona opened her book to read it. The minutes were ticking away. That dear daft Twilight still hung in her doorway, hands in his pockets

"Yes, Dr. Forger?"

"How do you like Vicky Holton? She's quite popular."

"I like her." Fiona straightened herself. "Simple, but enjoyable."

"I tried reading some. They're all same."

These Gothic romances did have similar elements...innocent heroines married to a mysterious strangers, dark places, forebodings, the miraculous escape...things Nightfall had experienced in spy missions...minus the marriage. Now her hero would only be her comrade.

Nightfall huffed. "Don't you have any guilty pleasures?"

"Spy Wars. That's different."

"Is it?" Infuriating man.

He shrugged. "Maybe not. I thought you liked Hemingway."

"He's depressing. You barely finished A Farewell to Arms."

He looked down. "That was a...hard book to read."

She'd only read Hemingway because Twilight seemed enamored by it. Seeing him struggle through the pages of that book with a light sweat was on his brow, perhaps reliving war memories of his own, had only won him more of her respect. She'd go easy on him.

"Thank you for helping me discover good books. Like the Brontë sisters."

"You're welcome. And Fiona..." That way Twilight's plastering on a dumb grin and blinking like there's an eyelash stuck in his eye?

"Thank you for your gift. The painting?"

"Think nothing of it. In fact, you never need mention it again. Ever."

"N—Fiona?"

Fiona spoke in code talk. "Dr. Forger. Thank you and yor for sharing these wondeful books with me. [Twilight. I wish you all happiness with your wife.]"

Twilight forgot to respond in code talk entirely. "Someone will hear—"

"Relax. I'm just telling you how much I enjoy them. [You dolt, I checked. Tell Yor Forger they are a balm of comfort to me.]" Fiona switched out of code-talk and fished a book from her desk drawer. "I'd be happy to borrow more books. Or she might like this Edith Eden?"

A dumbfounded Twilight took the book and stuck it in his doctor's coat pocket.

"Thanks.. Fiona—please take care not to push yourself to read them all at once. [Nightfall, are you fine? Please don't push yourself over the edge.]"

"It's fine. I'll take care to not let them be a distraction to my work. [I'm fine. I'll work hard and get the job done. That won't change.]"

Twilight scratched his head. "Seriously, this isn't anything to do with your tennis match with Yor?"

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Dr. Forger, I'll inform you of your patient load [and a small mission] in exactly five minutes, and twenty three seconds.." She glanced at her watch. "Please, excuse me."

Fiona flashed him a large grin. She dove stone-faced into her book in an instant.

Dr. Forger backed out the office and shut the door. Outside her door, he muttered. "Fiona...smiled? I don't understand women."

Fiona gave a light shrug. She would talk to Twilight in precisely three minutes, sixteen seconds.

A film of tears misted her long lashes, making it impossible to read. She squeezed the book and spun in her chair. This was hers to keep. This was hers to keep. This was hers...

Oh, Twilight, I—

Nightfall stopped spinning, slightly dizzy.

—I used to. You've found yourself a wife somewhat more worthy than me...with unexpected generosity and good taste in books. How bittersweet.

Yor could support Twilight in all the moments, she, Nightfall, could not. She, Nightfall could support Twilight in all the moments Yor could not. Capable as he was, the man needed gentle and firm support. That would not change.

How silly of Cathy to say, "Nelly, I am Heathcliff."

Twilight would always be Twilight. Fiona would always be Nightfall. If he was ever no longer content to be Westalis' greatest spy, that would be a role she would be glad to fill.

Fiona Frost, Westalis' up-and-coming greatest spy...

What better way to repay Twilgiht than to keep working and fighting for him? She had his respect. Besides, the Forgers were willing to lend—and let her keep—more books.

She buried her nose into the story, lost in the Anglian moors.

For precisely one minute, three seconds, and counting.

Reader, Fiona did not marry him. But they all found solace between the covers of a good book.