There's little to say except that Spy X Family has been one of my favorite ongoing series since I began reading it at the start of the lockdown, and it helped to get me through. That the anime has been so great is all I could've hoped for, and it's inspired me to write something, even a little oneshot like this - a het oneshot, even!
As was the case with my recent LycoReco fic, I've been trying to get back into writing shorter, quicker works - I stall so hard on longer fics that I feel like I really lose something in the large gaps between works, and the disappointment of seeing tens of thousands of words sit without an ending. I'm hoping that a stint of shorter, quicker, more 'contemporary' fics, I might finally get out of that funk.
Enjoy ~
"And it's not that the past hasn't earned its weight, its weight just never helps with the pull."
- Strange Hotel, Eimear McBride
Loid's eyes lingered as he followed Yor into her office building's elevator. It was hard not to look, and really, who could blame a man for appreciating his wife? They spent so much time around each other that the lingering, longing looks seemed as natural a part of their relationship as relaxing together on the couch - and he could've sworn he'd seen Yor do the same to him. Little furtive glances around the island counter in the kitchen, across the hallway in the space of a closing set of doors. He stood a distance away, however, leaning his tired back against the wall. The silence was mostly comfortable, if not tinged with the stress of keeping up a constant disguise. As the doors slid closed Loid lazily took in their funhouse reflections from the scuffed stainless steel walls. He was glad he wasn't nearly so wide - so disproportionate, almost a bowling pin - and that Yor's head didn't balloon like that in their daily lives.
He was full from lunch and perpetually tired. When the elevator began its ascent he adjusted his hands in his pocket, the fall of his suit jacket, and gave Yor a quick, reassuring smile. He noticed over a few seconds the way she kept glancing back at him, worrying those pretty pink lips with her teeth. Loid could only wait patiently for when Yor would speak. That was alright; he was a patient man. And he liked to watch his (fake) wife's face, it's softness and sweetness. When he did, he could imagine that she was - that anything, really, was his, and for him alone.
Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.
"You didn't have to bring me back to my office. You already went out of your way to take me to me a wonderful lunch. I'd hate to take more of your time." she finally said, though the overall happiness she exuded bumped a bit against the sincerity of her words. She was glowing, her purse clutched before her like a school girl and a blush high on her cheeks. She tucked a strand of hair behind her head, and Loid wished, for a moment, he was the leather gloves she was wearing.
Loid watched the floor indicator blink from one level to the next before he answered. In the small elevator he stepped closer and squeezed Yor's elbow, letting his hand drop in between them. His observations of healthy, real, couples always included little touches of love, the physical reassurance of care. Natural, nameless intimacy. His intent might be different from love, but the action was the same.
"Taking my wife out for lunch is no problem at all." Loid replied.
Plus, making an appearance at the office would only help bolster the reputation of his family in the eyes of Yor's insatiable coworkers.
Settling back against the wall, Loid yawned. The night before he'd had to infiltrate a shipping depot to find hidden files pertaining to black market weapon deals. And just that afternoon, with barely enough time to make it to their lunch reservations, Loid apprehend a criminal sneaking top secret information out of Berlint. His shoulder, bruised from a fall off a roof during his chase, throbbed when he was still, and burned any time he moved. WISE really needed more agents. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up with all of the missions they sent his way. Loid yawned again, wider, eyes squeezed shut and mouth barely hidden with a hand.
"I'm sorry," he squeezed in between another gaping yawn, "Long day. It' s not you - don't worry."
Yor was quiet, until she wasn't.
"I didn't know that you smoked." Yor said. Her nose was scrunched up, as if he were smoking right beside her, but there was intrigue in her carmine eyes. Anyone, after all, would be interested in a new secret they learned about their spouse. Fake couples weren't any different.
It took a second for his mind to catch up with her words, with the pointed curiosity so unlike her usual hesitance to dig too deep into "Loid's" past. He was taken by surprise; he often forgot how observant she could be because of how often she wasn't.
"Uh,"
The problem was that Loid didn't smoke cigarettes.
Twilight did, though - or, more correctly, some of his disguises did. A cigarette added character to his characters, the stain of nicotine like a seal of authenticity. Smoking was a convenient way to socialize with different groups of people in different social circles. History proved that people naturally gathered and spoke around fire - even tiny, cherry embers. He could lean against a wall and eavesdrop on a target, or wait at a bus stop for a passing informant. Smoking meant having an excuse to walk out of a room or a building when tailing someone or being tailed. A cigarette was a versatile prop for an actor like Twilight.
But Yor didn't know any of that. Yor had never seen Loid Forger smoke.
"I don't."
Loid didn't smoke. It wasn't in his case file (not that Yor read his case file). She must've thought his lungs sparkling clean until then, like his fake reputation or his practiced, winning smile.
"Ah, but," he watched her stammer, looking for words, weighing her options in keeping up the questions or dropping them all together. In that moment he was very happy that his fake wife was easy to read. From somewhere outside of himself he liked to watch the thoughts form on her face. They colored it better than any make-up ever could. "Your...breath." she finished. "It smells like cigarettes."
Then she grew redder, jazz hands boxing-glove large in the reflections from the elevator walls. "N-not that it's my business. I was just...I didn't know. I'm not trying to...smell you? F-forgive me for even asking."
In the span of a few microseconds Loid calculated. He cursed himself, then calculated. Normally he was more careful: a spare toothbrush, some breath mints at hand at all times. Apprehending that criminal, though - he'd stood in an alley, smoking as an excuse, while watching for the traitor. And afterwards he needed to rest his heart, he needed the cool rush of menthol and the electric smooth touch of nicotine. Every drag distracted him from the pain in his shoulder, the elation of the buzz setting the mood for lunch with his wife. But he'd gotten sloppy.
This was the longest elevator ride of his life. Time seemed to have stopped; the building wasn't even all that high! But what had been a joyride was now an emergency, threatening to unravel the lies called Loid like pulling a thread from a sweater.
Thankfully he was quick on his feet, as one would expect from a world-class spy. In a flash he had a plan.
With practiced clumsiness Loid dropped his briefcase to the floor. And in the same smooth action while bending down to pick it up, he pushed the emergency stop button on the elevator panel. He couldn't control time, but if he could control their motion, that would be close enough.
The elevator lurched, jerking to a stop on its steel cables. And, unsteady for a moment, Yor stumbled. She sucked in a breath ready to gasp, but the sound never came.
She was soft in his arms, face pressed close against his chest, head tucked under his chin. She smelled like linen and cheap office-appropriate perfume and home - the home they created out of lies and convenience like bricks and mortar, lovely all the same. So much for using this time to think of an excuse - and so much for calming menthol. What would really have been nice would have been holding Yor against him for sometime between then and the rest of his life. Even with her insane strength she was delicate, the muscles in her arms and back firm against him. He felt he could wrap himself around her, and an inner betrayal wanted to.
"Oh! S-sorry,!" Yor apologized, pushing herself off of him. He was enamored by the flush on her cheeks, wasted more time in thinking of how else to elicit that color, her tousled hair.
"It looks like the elevator's broken."
Distantly he heard an alarm going off in the building. They probably had some time before the fire department arrived to help them.
"I hope we're not stuck in here too long, Anya has to be picked up from school later." Yor worried.
it was a kind sentiment - and really, he was always pleasantly surprised at just how quickly she took to Anya - but he wasn't listening enough to give more than an affirmative hum. The cigarette thing seemed so small but he feared it the way one might fear a bad infection stemming from a small cut. Loid, a doctor (of some sort, at least), shouldn't be a smoker. Isn't, according to his actions around his family so far. Twilight wasn't really even a smoker. Cravings and discarded cigarette butts were both dangerous for a spy who didn't want anything to affect his performance or alert the enemy to his presence.
And now he had to lie to cover up a dissonance between who Loid was, and who Twilight was. He had to bridge a chasm that groaned with the foreboding threat of spreading farther apart. Somewhere in that chasm existed the real him, the man beneath all masks, and for the sake of Operation Strix - for the sake of world peace - he had to make sure that man was never, ever known.
A depressing thought, but the sting had been gone for years.
~!~
Twilight lied as easily as he breathed.
Right then, though, he couldn't breathe. He learned early on that the best lies contained an element of the truth, like the Ship of Theseus hanging onto its identity with a single, original plank. Lies themselves were failed imitations of the truth. So he ventured a half-truth, like throwing a rock onto a frozen lake to test its strength, and hoped that the answer wouldn't lead to more - worse - questions.
Being Loid was a balancing act between leaving things vague but solid, like the ground beneath a blanket of fog.
And maybe, a little voice inside of him whispered from that cavern between Twilight and Loid, he wanted Yor to know more about him - the man behind the man behind the man. He wanted to be colored, more and more, with her understanding. Then maybe he, the man of a thousand faces, wouldn't be so clear. So transparent. So insubstantial beneath the masks.
All of this panic in Loid's racing mind only took a few seconds, despite the eternity it seemed to be. Yor was still growing accustomed to the stopped elevator when Loid spoke again, drawing her attention back to him.
"I smoke, sometimes." Loid admitted with an expertly shameful half-smile, "Or really, I used to, but sometimes I get a strong craving. I'm sorry for keeping it from you. I just didn't want to set a bad example for Anya."
Yor nodded, understanding clear in her eyes. "What a good father you are, fighting addiction for your daughter."
The praise cut deep, as usual. He didn't deserve it. And he couldn't help it either when he continued past his half-lie. Guilt was a lubricant for his tongue, making the words slide out easily. Like any professional criminal, all he really wanted to do was to confess.
"I was in the army when I was younger, during the war."
He regretted it immediately. Yor became so quiet, so stricken after the confession that he could hear the elevator around them swaying in place. Quickly he added, "Drafted. And I was only a cook, not a solider. It was...difficult not to start when everyone around you was doing it. Smoking, I mean."
He'd never admitted it to anyone; in truth he tried his best to forget everything from his past besides the desire it instilled in him to help create a better world. The words pulled memories he'd left buried like old friends and old enemies alike. He remembered days full of patrols, lovely boring hours when he leaned against a tree or a fence with little but a pack of cigarettes and the Sun to count the hours away. He remembered too hurriedly stomping on lit cigs in the dark of the night to blot out the orange embers before the enemy could see them like signals. Like targets. Little orange starlights guiding the enemy right to them. Smokes were a commodity, a currency, convenient and demanded. Everyone smoked.
"The army, huh..." Yor said. He wasn't sure that she'd heard anything else. Her eyes were distant, cloudy. And so was her past, he thought. Though in that way, she and he - and most people of their generation - were the same; the war was a conflict clouding up all pasts, and it deserved to be left murky and indistinct where it belonged.
"Just a cook." he defended, though his voice was feigning lightness, casualness.
Silence. Awkward now. Yor crossed her arms against her chest and appeared lost in thought. The elevator began to feel suffocating. He suddenly feared her disapproval, the loss of her respect. What if this was the breaking point? What would happen to Operation Strix, to the fake little family he knew he needed now for more than as just a mission, no matter how he tried to explain that to himself in any terms besides love?
"I-it's where I came across the idea of my percussive therapy treatments." he ventured another lie. "The army. I wanted to...to help people. Bring them out of the dark places they fell in."
That seemed to work. Yor smiled, something small and understanding, and Loid felt his heart lurch the way that the elevator had. He'd never get it under control, he thought, always one step behind wherever his heart wanted to lead.
"Really?" she asked. "It's nice to think something good came from all of...all of that."
"Yeah. Some of my earliest patients were fellow soldiers. They responded better to the physicality of the treatment."
"I see, I see. You'll have to tell me some stories," She joked, and with her bright, bubbly laugh it seemed the storm passed. She let her arms fall, took back up the open, accepting look she held for everyone with that good soul of hers. Loid was almost jealous when he saw it sometimes. He didn't want her to look at other people that way, but he didn't really feel like he deserved it either.
"I will, over dinner on our next date." he lied. He would do his best to bury all of this, to never bring it up again. "Wouldn't want to talk about that kind of stuff with Anya around."
"On our next...," she cleared her throat, but beamed. "I'll look forward to it." She looked up at him through her lashes, the blush coloring her cheeks again. Loid knew he was in the clear. That would be distraction enough.
As if on cue, the elevator started back up again. This time Loid was ready to grab Yor when she stumbled. Her shoulders were solid in his hands, her body firm and soft and all good things, and for much too long their eyes connected. He hoped she couldn't read him the way he so easily read her; if he was the only one aware of his feelings they'd be easier to deny to himself.
Eventually he let her go and they slid out of each other's space - or they would have, until he wrapped her hand in his. The elevator dinged up, up, up, and his mood did the same. Later he'd tell her he held her hand so long because he wanted her coworkers to find them. Which, like all of his lies, was only half-true.
Thanks for reading!
Reviews, criticisms, and responses are all welcome!