Work Text:
“What’s your husband like, Yor?”
Yor stopped putting her lunch away as she straightened to attention. Break today had been relatively peaceful, her coworkers immediately descending into a maelstrom of gossip over developments from the afternoon before. Something about an accountant who snuck his mistress into the building last week only to be caught in a compromising position. The rest devolved from there.
She’d avoided the majority of the conversation, instead enjoying her lunch in her own bubble of peace. Last night had been her eighth and final straight day of contract work, and she’d been so exhausted that she barely managed to get out of her dress before collapsing into bed. Sleep had been a blessing that came with curses in the morning; she’d awoken refreshed but with a list of unfinished tasks that needed to be completed before she left for work.
When she’d rushed into the kitchen to see if there was anything she could scrounge together for lunch, Loid had handed her a lunch bag.
“It’s just leftovers,” he said, half a smile folded into the corner of his mouth as she stared at him. “I know you didn’t get a chance to pack anything last night, and we had plenty.”
There hadn’t been time to dwell on her surprise or the warmth that filled her chest – and, she suspected, her face. Yor merely thanked him with a flustered smile, and when she unpacked the lunch that afternoon, it had been strange to find that the warmth from before was still nestled beneath her ribs.
She had been trying to think of how to thank Loid – not just for the meal, but for the dozens of little things he noticed and did for her – when the storm at the table apparently turned its eye to her.
Blinking out of her thoughts, Yor tried to hold onto the question as she took in the faces that swiveled to consider her: Sharon’s bland attention, Millie’s mischievous smile, Camilla’s calculating eyes. Yor rummaged through her memory for pieces of the conversation that might have registered but came up distressingly blank.
Cautiously, she attempted to reply. “Well, you all got to meet him at the party. He’s a good man.”
Millie’s lips pursed as she frowned. “Sure sure, but that’s not what we’re asking. What’s he like in bed?”
Yor pressed her hands against her half-folded napkin while trying to pick apart what this meant. Her first inclination was that they wanted to know how he slept – maybe they, having to share beds with their partners, had thoughts about different sleeping positions. Or snoring. Or pajamas?
But she hesitated. There was something in the way Millie had said it and how one of Camilla’s eyebrows raised that gave her pause. Yor would have missed the cues not long ago, but she was starting to notice these signs – even if what they meant eluded her. She sensed that she’d walked into the den of something waiting to pounce.
Her mind whirred. What were they asking?
Camilla’s sigh bordered on a groan as she rolled her eyes. “What does that man see in you?” she muttered, head tilting to the side. “He’s handsome and smart. And you’re so… you.”
“Cut her some slack. Not everybody wants to talk about their sex life,” Sharon sighed.
Oh.
Oh.
The napkin strained under her fingers as Yor stared into the surface of the table. That’s what they had been talking about. Heat scorched across her face.
Of course. That’s… that’s what married people did. Usually. Usual married people. Normal, usual married people, like the normal, usual married people they were pretending to be. It should be a good sign that others expected them to… partake. That meant that they seemed normal, right? That they seemed like a true married couple?
Yes. Good. Great. They were selling it.
“Aw, look at how red she is,” Millie cooed with a giggle that she hid behind a fist. “You’d think she was a nun.”
“Or a virgin,” Camilla drawled, but her gaze was assessing. “I hope you don’t leave that poor man high and dry just because you get all embarrassed. He’s going to look elsewhere and you’ll end up as nothing more than a glorified nanny if you’re not careful.”
Regardless of the fire still raging across her face, Yor forced herself to hold Camilla’s eyes. “W-what do you mean?”
Even Sharon made an exasperated sound. “It means he’ll fool around. Or get a mistress.”
“Didn’t Lily’s boss end up marrying his mistress?” Millie asked, innocent tone at odds with her smile.
“He divorced his wife and went through the custody battle and everything,” Camilla said, and her corroboration was grave. “So make sure you’re doing enough. Don’t take your husband for granted.”
Camilla’s words lingered with Yor throughout the rest of her shift, dragging along her thoughts like an unshakeable weight. They stayed with her as she made the commute home, and when she tried to help Anya with her homework, and when she could do no more than pick at her dinner.
For a moment, she let her eyes flick up to Loid. Even her inner turmoil was not enough to keep her from dwelling on just how good he was. A good doctor, a good father, a good man. There was exasperation in his eyes and voice as he told Anya that, no, she could not keep digging out the carrots from her meal, but it was undercut by the soft smile on his lips.
Her attention caught there. During that mortifying first meeting between Loid and her brother, Yuri had demanded that they kiss. Loid had been the one who was easygoing about it, regardless of how awkward the situation had been. Yor had been the one to freeze and panic. Over just a kiss.
So of course she had been embarrassed by the conversation during lunch. How could she possibly handle a conversation about sex when she could barely handle one about a kiss?
And what if, like her coworkers had implied, that was a problem?
She sighed, frustrated with herself, but the sound drew Loid’s attention. “Is everything alright?” he asked, his expression settling into an open invitation.
For the span of a heartbeat, Yor thought about asking him if they could talk later. Conversing with him had become so comfortable over the passing months, regardless of whether it centered on a problem they needed to work out or just the day-to-day happenings of their small family. Perhaps she needed to talk through this, whatever it was, and get it behind her.
But Camilla had been right – she was embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m just tired from all the overtime, I think,” she said with a smile that felt strained even to her.
If he noticed, he didn’t pry. The topic dropped as he focused back on Anya, who was now surreptitiously trying to feed her carrots to Bond.
In the spiral of her thoughts, Yor struggled to understand her own distress. Was it Camilla’s warning, that Loid would look elsewhere if she didn’t… take care of him? But hadn’t they already addressed this, more or less, because of Fiona? Loid had made it clear that he wanted to continue their marriage, even if Yor had looked at Fiona and seen somebody who presented poise and elegance she could never manage herself.
Or maybe it was because of the clear judgment of her coworkers, just a half step from suspicion, over the fact that she couldn’t handle the implication of being intimate with her husband. Even though such things were worlds outside the scope of their fake marriage, Yor felt a growing awareness of the threat presented by the yawning void of her inexperience.
But it was more than that. Make sure you’re doing enough. Loid had made it clear that nothing was expected of her other than being a mother to Anya. That had been a safety net, something that prevented her from having to dig further into her feelings – or his. He told her time and time again that she was doing well in the role she had accepted, in the arrangement they had made. He told her that Anya was safe and happy, and there was nothing else he could ask for.
Now she wondered, though. Just because he didn’t ask… did that mean he didn’t want, either?
Was this enough?
Maybe after the passing of his first wife, his real wife, he had not felt the inclination for any sort of intimacy. Camilla was right that Loid was handsome and smart, and in their time together he had revealed himself to be kind and attentive as well. Surely it would have been easy for him to find somebody who wished to be a true wife, in every sense, if that was what he wanted. Instead he’d accepted a marriage that had been constructed like a business deal. That must mean something.
But what if she was wrong? What if he actually did want more than this platonic wife he was stuck with? What if he had been so willing to commit to what was needed for Anya’s sake that he had foregone what he might hope to have for himself?
Yor tried to remind herself that it didn’t matter. The fact that he wanted to remain married was enough; it maintained her cover, allowing her the opportunity to continue her work and put her brother’s mind at ease. What difference did it make if her place ultimately was, as Camilla had worried, little more than a glorified nanny?
No matter how many layers of justifications she tried to construct, her thoughts were like water draining from a tub, a slow spiral that sank her mood regardless of her attempts to buoy it. She thought she did a passable job of cobbling pleasantness together through the remainder of the night, at least until Anya gave her a strangely somber look as she was tucked in and insisted that Yor was a good mother and a good wife.
Yor wanted to believe her, but with the circling vultures of her coworkers’ words it felt like there was little reason to do so and plenty of reasons to not. Part of her wanted to silence it all by slipping into her room and going to bed, but that was not the routine. At the very least she could keep to this. So she went into the kitchen and got the kettle heating for tea.
Loid was washing up, which at least gave her a few minutes of solitude to fortify her emotions. It was silly, really, for her to be so wound up; there had been absolutely no indication from Loid that he felt anything was lacking. She was likely creating problems where none existed and becoming despondent over nothing.
By the time Loid returned to the living room, Yor was just finishing pouring their tea. She took a bracing breath and left the kitchen.
Loid thanked her as he took his cup, and Yor sank back into her corner of the couch. In the quiet, the clock sliced away seconds that built up between them, a barrier that felt more impenetrable the more time passed. The silence was strange and tense in a way their evenings never were these days.
When Loid finally set his cup down, he shifted to face her. “Yor, what’s going on?” he asked, but there was something wary and cautious in his voice. Bracing, she realized.
She let her gaze cut to him. His expression was open and curious, waiting for her to explain the things he had not been able to make sense of on his own. Now that they’d come to it, Yor wished she had poured herself a glass of wine – or had brought over a whole bottle – to help with the rough edges of her nerves. The abuse her hem was taking as she tugged and twisted it was unwarranted.
“Are– are you happy?” she asked in a rush.
Whatever he expected her to say, that was clearly not it. His brows lifted, surprised. “What?”
“Are you happy, with the way our marriage is?” Yor said again. She forced her fingers to flatten against her legs; she was going to rip the sweater to shreds, and she’d hate to ruin her favorite one over something so silly.
“Yes, of course,” Loid said finally. “Anya obviously cares for you, and she’s been making more progress in her studies than I expected. And… it’s been nice to come home, knowing that you’ll be here as well.”
Her voice felt impossibly small. “And is that really enough?”
Loid straightened, blinking at her, before something more analytical settled over his expression. Yor wondered if this was how he looked while working with his patients. “What’s this really about?”
Somehow, now that she had started, the rest of the words began to loosen. With her eyes focused on her lap, she told him about the discussion at lunch, and she plowed through his derisive scoff when she mentioned her coworkers' warnings. She talked about how it had made her wonder, though, if he had sacrificed his happiness for his daughter’s, and that regardless of the parameter of their agreements she worried he was missing out on things he might want. She murmured an apology that she’d never thought of this before, that she had always focused on her own comfort and had ultimately not considered his.
“I hope I’ve at least been a good roommate,” Yor said with a self-deprecating laugh, and she ignored the brittle edges in her tone that betrayed the unexpected sting of tears.
Even that was frustrating because she didn’t understand why this made her feel so raw and fragile. She knew she could be oblivious and misread things and fail to understand situations, but she’d at least believed herself to have a decent grasp of her own heart. Right now, though, it felt like the most confusing piece of all.
“Yor…”
She swallowed hard and refused to let the tears surface. Waving a hand, she tugged on a smile. “You don’t need to try comforting me,” she insisted quickly. “I just… you asked. And I guess I felt I should explain. You… you’re a good man, Loid. You deserve everything you want.”
Before she could try to press into a new topic, Loid reached out and took her hand from where it hovered in the air between them. “Yor,” he said again, and there was a weight to his voice that forced her to still.
Even as her heart hammered, she looked up at him. His gaze was steady and determined in a way her jittering nerves longed to emulate.
“Have I done anything that makes me seem unhappy in our marriage?”
“No,” she murmured with a soft shake of her head.
“Then why are you letting yourself worry about it?” he wondered.
Yor would have let it stand at that, at one time. It would have been enough to soothe and reassure; in the past the same approach had worked. But it was different now. It was different because she had been assessing the things he said, the things he didn’t. He had turned all her worries into questions, letting her answer everything without ever directly answering anything himself.
“You never said that it is,” she said finally.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
The words rushed out of her like they were breaching a dam. “Is this all you want? Is this really enough?”
There was a beat. Just a stutter of a pause, a break in how seamless all his other replies had been, and Yor felt the confirmation of her growing suspicions. It didn’t matter that he immediately followed it by saying that, yes, this was what he wanted, this was enough. That moment made it impossible for the words to land.
It wasn’t.
And, oh, Yor hadn’t anticipated at all how much that would hurt. Especially when nothing about this should have been surprising. He had been married before, and he was still young. She should have been able to expect that he would want more than this polite but sterile relationship. Only…
Only, if he did want something more, that meant it was Yor he did not want. Why else would he have never considered her?
…Had she wanted him to consider her?
Everything about bringing this up had been a mistake. Yor tried to pull back her emotions and her hand, ready to duck into her room before the embarrassment rushing hot up her throat and toward her cheeks could give her away.
But Loid didn’t let go. Yor knew she could have gotten loose if she tried, but she watched as he lifted his other hand, holding hers between both of his. For the first time, she was aware of his calluses, the roughness so at odds with the gentleness of the gesture – but so strangely matched, pressed against those of her own hand.
“Things are fine like this,” he assured her, unwavering, firm. Almost too firm, like he was talking to himself. “Things are wonderful like this.”
He was so close. He was too close. He was holding her hand, so gently, and he was looking at her, so gently, and he was too close, and—
Yor’s leg moved of its own volition, slicing through the air and toward his face. Loid, miraculously, moved fast enough to deflect the blow with his forearm, his sudden grin sharp with triumph as he made an exclamation of success, before it was immediately cut short when her free hand made contact instead.
But his other hand was still holding hers. He didn’t let go as the force of the blow knocked him sideways off the couch, and Yor, too frazzled and surprised and mortified, didn’t think to pull herself free before getting dragged down with a yelp.
They landed in a tangle, Loid giving a little grunt at the twin impacts of the floor and Yor landing half on top of him. The leg she had tried to kick him with was trapped under him, the hand he still held curled between their chests, her other arm barely braced enough to keep her full weight from pressing into him.
But it had been a near thing. Near enough that she was fully aware of the heat of his body, of every place where they touched.
His gaze slipped across her features, the blue of his eyes still so bright even when bracketed beneath her shadow, and she found herself holding her breath. “Don’t you dare hit me again,” he warned, but the tone was edged with warmth, a sort of weary mirth just shy of a laugh.
It sunk into Yor’s heart, pressing differently upon the tender spot that had felt so bruised all evening. It felt like a leap from a balcony, like the draw of breath after she released her blades, like flying and falling all at once.
Oh.
Oh.
She didn’t move. She stared down into his face and wondered when it had all become so dear to her, the nighttime tousled hair across his forehead, the soft smile upon his lips, the subtle color high on his cheeks. Loid’s face, her husband’s face.
Her husband who she had never kissed. And who she suddenly, desperately, wanted to.
Yor fought for both her composure and her words. “I don’t really believe what you said before.”
“I could tell,” he said dryly.
Her hair slipped over her shoulders, a dark curtain settling around their faces. In the shadows of this small, close space, Yor forced herself to speak the words that tried to lodge in her throat. “S-so… is the problem just me? Is what you want… someone else?”
Nothing in his expression changed. Nothing in his position, either. But Yor saw the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She waited and felt the unsteady beat of her heart, once, twice, three—
“No,” Loid said, the word strained, almost as though he had not meant to say it at all.
“So before, when you kept saying this was enough…”
“I lied.”
She watched him. He watched her. And then, like the fall from the couch, Yor let herself tumble.
The angle wasn’t right, at first; she leaned in with her face too parallel to his, and her nose pressing awkwardly into his cheek. There was a moment, a thread of embarrassment where she almost pulled back, but then Loid’s hand slipped through her hair to rest against the nape of her neck, anchoring her as he shifted with a slow drag of his lips.
The breath shuddered out of her.
Oh.
Between the press and slide of their mouths, the shifting angles and changing pressure, Yor half-thought about what she’d heard about first kisses. It hadn’t been completely wrong. When his lips parted and she reciprocated with a little gasp, she tasted the bergamot from their tea on his tongue. Not lemon, but still citrus.
But it hadn’t been completely right, either, because this was all sweetness, all joy, no hint of lemon’s bitterness. Instead, Yor found something dark and rich in its edges, in the sigh that slipped from her and the press of Loid’s fingers against her hip. It was intoxicating, a potent rush, and it would be so easy to let it go to her head. She was suddenly grateful that she hadn’t drank the wine she’d wanted not so long ago, and that Loid was so level-headed and steady, an anchor against this strange new tide she knew could easily sweep her away.
He was thorough but unhurried, never demanding, never seeking more than she gave. Everything about it was so simple, so easy, the way they fit together unfurling like they had always done this. Like they always would.
When Yor finally drew back, his wide-eyed stare made her heart stutter, stop, before finding its rhythm again. For a moment she almost wondered if she had hit him without realizing, his focus dazed and surprised. As his gaze skimmed her features, it was almost as though he was seeing her for the first time, like she was something unexpected and wonderful.
But before her growing worry could pull together enough for her to form a question, Loid smiled. It was different, one she had never seen on his face before. Even though it was somehow quieter, more reserved than the flash of his usual smiles, the ease of it felt achingly genuine and open. It echoed something in her own chest, an odd mixture of contentment and resignation, and she tucked away every detail deep into her heart.
Distantly, she thought that this knowledge, of what it was like to kiss her husband, would probably allay some of her coworkers’ prying curiosity. It would be enough to divert the lingering of their attention, shore up the cracks they perceived in her married facade, ensure her ability to continue her work.
But as she smiled back while her happiness flooded her like a wave breaking on the shore, bubbling into laughter that she tucked into the crook of his neck, she realized she would never share her colleagues’ candor about this. With Loid’s own laugh a soft rumble under her hand and his lips turning to press against her temple, she knew she wouldn’t share these details, these moments. These weren’t for her work, or her peers, or her role. These were for her.
And it was more than enough.