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Dressed in his elderly janitor disguise, Twilight blends seamlessly into the background, wiping an already spotless window in the break room. He glances down at his left hand: 1300 hours—the scheduled lunchtime for employees at Berlint City Hall. Today, Agent Twilight is spying on his wife. At home, he’s noticed that Yor seemed more spaced out than usual. She’d wear her clothes inside out, forget to wear her coat, and even scrub poor Bond too hard during bath time until there were more foamy bubbles than fur. Therefore, he decided that monitoring her at work would be a sensible starting point to find the cause.
Twilight whistles the tune of an Ostanian folk song, pretending not to watch as a random man makes himself welcome opposite Yor, who’s busy eating her hearty lunch that Loid packed. Random to Yor, but well-known to Twilight—the man, known as Dylan Wrexton, age 26, has been working here for the past week. A charismatic fellow unafraid to himself out there, even chatting up his higher-ups with the ‘correct’ political opinions. All the more reason for Twilight to keep a close eye.
A charming simper plays on Dylan’s lips before he tries making conversation. “Mind if I sit here, pretty lady?” he asks, despite already being seated. He rests his elbow on the table as he leans into her space.
This causes Yor to blink out of her previous daydream, and she nods her head. She is unable to speak with her mouth full, so she brings a hand up to cover it politely.
Is he unaware that Yor is a married woman? No. He sees him glance at her ring yet doesn’t back away. Dylan’s next move will decide whether he poses a threat to Operation Strix. Dylan is a bachelor, after all, and Twilight did see him try to mingle with ladies from a different department earlier, to no avail. Still annoying that he’s moved onto Yor as a target. Twilight remembers to school the frown forming on his face.
“The name’s Wrexton. Dylan Wrexton,” he says with a flick of his hair, as if that was attractive, or something. Dylan makes a poor attempt to hide the way his eyes drag up and down her figure.
Twilight rolls his eyes at the blatant display. He would do much better to charm her, hypothetically. He lets the movement disguise where he's looking and scrubs as if he’s found another dirty spot to clean.
Dylan continues, “May I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”
“I’m Mrs. Forger,” she replies, acknowledging him with a well-mannered smile. “You’re the new hire, aren’t you?”
Dylan nods slowly in thought, deciding to ignore her chosen talking point. “A missus, huh?” he echoes, and Twilight wonders what this man could possibly have in mind. “I noticed that you seemed rather distracted today. Is everything okay?” he asks with feigned concern. “Home life? Workload? And what about your marriage?”
“Thank you for worrying, but there’s really no need! Life just keeps me busy, and all,” she insists with a bit too much enthusiasm. Then, she pauses when his last question sinks in. “Wait, what about my marriage?” she asks, her eyes widened in alarm.
Dylan shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, sipping noisily on his coffee. “Are you happily married? Or just… married?”
Yor’s face alights fiery red, eyebrows shooting up behind her fringe. “Whaaaat?! I– I, um, well,” she stammers, and Twilight’s eyes narrow behind his non-prescription glasses.
What could that reaction possibly mean? Interest in Dylan? Or purely surprise? Better yet—could this Wrexton character be a secret agent meddling with Operation Strix? The notion that another party knows of his fake marriage is a dangerous one. Twilight keeps himself busy, dusting a corner in the room.
In an attempt to rid herself of nerves, Yor shakes her head animatedly. “I am happily married,” she declares. “To a handsome, intelligent, and patient man who happens to be a prestigious psychiatrist. He really is the whole package,” Yor says with a stiff laugh. She resumes eating her now cold lunch, clearly wishing the conversation would end.
“He’s a doctor? Well then, surely he's too busy for you…” Dylan adds unhelpfully.
“Not at all,” Yor says, putting her fork down with a soft exhale. “He's an amazing husband, actually. Sure, he's busy, but it's for a greater cause.” She holds the sides of her lunch tin tighter by a fraction. Yor continues, “With what little spare time he has, he puts effort into things like family outings, cooks meals when he can, and helps our daughter with homework. Even after a tiring day at the hospital.” She smiles to herself as she speaks, as if the mere thought of Loid is so fond. “I admire him. Truly.”
Dylan hums, trying to catch her gaze by ducking slightly. “S’that so.”
The silence settles between them for a moment as the quiet lunchroom chatter ensues. Loid feels an odd warmth in his chest at Yor’s earnest description of him—a tightness that makes his heart beat a skip faster.
Must be heartburn. He’ll pick up antacids at the pharmacy after this.
Finally noticing Dylan, her shoulders hunch again, and the mood dissipates. “And– and we both have strong romantic feelings for each other! Of course…” she exclaims clunkily.
Twilight has to hold back a facepalm at the bold-faced lie. Since Yor is terrible at those (for better or worse), her delivery is far from convincing.
As if he found a crack in her wall of defenses, Dylan jumps at his chance. “Hm, but you didn't mention anything about love. Does he? Do you? A beautiful woman like you deserves a man who does nothing but cherish you,” he says, inching his chair towards hers.
That annoying glint in Dylan’s eyes returns with renewed confidence. It makes Twilight briefly consider ‘accidentally’ knocking over his bucket of dirty soap water to deter the man.
Once again, Yor reduces into a blushing, stuttering mess. “He– he does love– er, I love, we…!” She flattens her cold hands on her flushed face to try to cool herself off. Squealing and unable to take more of the interrogation, she merely presses her palm to his chest, just to put some distance between them.
And success! Perhaps too much. Dylan is effortlessly propelled twenty feet back, crashing against the wall and coughing up blood. He’s knocked out stone cold.
“I’m so sorry! Oh my God, are you alright?! Please, forgive me!” Yor runs up from her chair to wave her panicked arms around.
Their coworkers at the coffee maker gasp at the scene. In no time, there are whispers of, “classic Yor,” “ugh, flaunting her happy marriage again,” and “he deserved that…”
“You see, I actually meant to high-five you, and, uh, I accidentally put too much force behind it because I used to do sled pushing–!”
Making his swift exit, Twilight pushes his cleaning trolley out of the room, whistling that old song as he leaves. One question remains on his mind: How does he make her feel loved?
…
As expected, the man works fast. Less than an hour later, Twilight has asked for his informant to meet at a dingy alleyway where stray ears are less likely to hear them. Since Twilight urged Franky to come in a disguise, he’s assumed it has to be a highly confidential matter.
Which brings them to now, the pair of them wearing seamless silicone masks and smoking cigs. Or at least, Franky is smoking—Twilight just has a fake cigar in his mouth. He’s broken the bad habit ever since Anya’s been around.
“What is it this time?” Franky sighs, a plume of smoke escaping from the corners of his lips.
“I need information. This is a topic you should be well-versed in,” he says cryptically.
“Alrighty. Is it someone you need intel on?” Franky asks, his voice dropping a pitch. “What strings do you need me to pull?” However, when met with shifty eyes instead of an actual answer, he raises a bushy brow in suspicion. “Hey, what's with the silence? You better not be asking me to be a babysitter again–”
Twilight clears his throat, interrupting him. “It’s not that. Not this time, at least.”
“Okay?” Franky prods.
“How do I…” Twilight looks down slightly, the rim of his hat shielding his expression. “How does one, say, make somebody feel… loved?”
Franky blinks dumbfoundedly at him. Once, twice, then once more.
He breaks into belly-clenching laughter.
“Did I hear that right?! The perfect genius Twilight wants to know how to make someone feel lov–!” The man can’t even finish his sentence, interfered by his own snort.
Twilight elbows him in the side, causing Franky to sputter on smoke. “Don’t go mentioning my moniker so casually,” he whispers with stern urgency.
“Is this about your wife? It must be… But don’t you already seem convincing enough of a husband?”
He adjusts his collar, a serious wrinkle appearing on his forehead. “I used to think that, but it has come to my attention that it may not be so simple.”
“Hm,” Franky ponders. “What brought this on?”
“It appears she’s distracted by something on her mind. Since our daughter’s giving us no major trouble recently, I went to her work to investigate any other root cause,” he tells him. “I witnessed a man flirting with her–”
Another bark of laughter—this time, almost in pity, which feels rather insulting coming from him. “Dear God. Can’t you tell that you care about her?
He blinks. “Of course I do. She’s crucial to the mission.”
Franky tutted, spinning the cig between his fingers. “Come on, Loidy. Don’t try to deny the obvious. You’re jealous! You’re jealous, and you want her to cling onto you and swoon for the new guy.”
“Can you just answer my question?” Twilight recenters.
“What, you wanna know how to make a woman feel loved?”
He gives a curt nod.
Franky pushes up his glasses, momentarily forgetting that in his disguise, he has contacts on instead. “It’s simple. You gotta love her.”
Twilight’s features harden solemnly and his shoulders sink with an invisible weight. “How do I love her?” he wonders out loud, purposefully disregarding Franky’s incredulous stare. “Furthermore, how would I even know what love feels like? I’ve been putting on a facade of it my entire life in the name of missions.”
“Well, do you think she’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Does he find Yor beautiful? Objectively, she fits the beauty standard. Long, glossy hair, striking eyes, ideal proportions, and a soothing voice just to name a few qualities. So yes, she looks beautiful. Any man would be honored to be her husband—even Loid is, albeit for additional reasons.
Any man isn't so intimately familiar with her favourite way to have tea, or her losing the tendency to hide her toothy smile. Only he knows the way her eyes light up from receiving a surprise bouquet of roses, or the way she melts into the couch after she and Loid finish putting Anya to bed and cleaning the dishes. She’ll forget about being presentable and slouch onto the couch to rest her eyes for longer than ‘five seconds’. He’ll lift her to bed, and in the morning, he’ll tease her about snoring, just to hear that bashful laugh again. That is what he finds beautiful about her. In an entirely respectful and platonic way.
Franky smirks at his silence, thoroughly amused at Twilight’s internal tug of war. “Does she bring you peace?”
“...” He wants to say no, because true peace can never be guaranteed. Even after Operation Strix is completed, that fragile balance never stays undisturbed for long. “It’s not certain,” he says instead.
Turning on his heel, Twilight walks out of the darkness and disappears into the footcrowd before Franky can get in another word.
1730 hours, Loid reads from his watch. As usual, his limbs are heavy with fatigue when he arrives home—all thanks to the countless sources he scoured in the name of researching ‘how to navigate romance in a marriage’. However, instead of spending hours behind the computer delving into theoreticals, he figured that face-to-face experience would prove more useful in the matter.
Before he unlocks the key to their apartment, he straightens his back and tries on a smile. It doesn’t come as naturally as usual. “I’m back,” Loid announces, putting on a cheery voice.
Emerging from the hallway, he’s greeted with the sight of a freshly-bathed Yor, her slightly damp hair staining her nightgown. He instinctively relaxes at the comforting scent of their shared bodywash, and immediately craves a shower.
“Welcome back, Loid,” Yor says warmly, wordlessly taking his leather briefcase off his hand and setting it on the kitchen counter. “It’s nice that you’re back early.”
“It wasn’t as busy at the hospital, thankfully,” he says, leaving his hat on the rack. “How was your day?”
“Oh, nothing special. Mundane as always,” she replies with a small scrunch of her nose. “How was yours?”
Loid takes a second to look at her, scanning her face for any hidden emotions. Finding none, he lets out a little sigh. “Well… I had one particular patient that had me reconsider things about myself. Quite the handful, that one. But it was interesting, I suppose. You’re always learning on the job,” he answers.
“How fascinating,” she remarks. “That’s something I admire you for. You’re always willing to consider new perspectives without judgment."
Loid holds her gaze for a bit longer than necessary, finding it oddly difficult to tear his eyes from hers. Perhaps, he’s considering that perspective once more.
Loid braves a step closer, watching the rise of blush on her cheeks when he’s in close proximity. Close enough that he can spot the speckles of black mixed with crimson in her irises, and the subtle dilation of her pupils. The sight is strangely mesmerising.
“Hm? Wh… what is it?” Yor asks, slightly jarred.
Instead of words, Loid carefully guides her hands to rest on his shoulders. Those pretty eyes travel to his shoulders, back up to his face, then finally, his lips. The pair of them stay impossibly still, neither of them willing to ruin the moment.
Slowly, Yor closes her eyes screwed shut and digs her fingernails into his suit.
You’re hesitating, his inner voice says. You never hesitate. But Yor is frozen in place, and he can’t help but want to make sure she actually wants this. Not just in the name of their ‘fake marriage’, and certainly not just because Loid started it.
Just at that moment, the front door swings open, revealing a deadpan-faced Anya. Yor flinches which is expected, but Loid does, too. How odd. He’s been letting himself slip, lately.
“I have returned,” she declares robotically. Before they can greet her, Anya waddles over to her parents.
“Mn? What is it, Anya?” Yor asks, stepping away and pointedly avoiding his eye-contact.
Anya glanced between them, her blank stare betraying none of her thoughts—that is, if she had any at all. Experience tells Loid to brace himself for whatever words she’ll grace them with next.
Then, she shoots three bullet words point-blank at them.
"... Papa loves Mama."
Loid’s eyebrows draw together. There it is again, that word is mentioned today. If he was a slightly less rational individual, he would almost believe it a thing of fate.
Yor laughs softly, bending down to be at Anya’s height. “O– Of course he does, Anya. That’s why we got married!”
That wide, observant gawk she gives them is somehow adorable and nearly perturbing.
Without even a blink, Anya shifts to face her father to blurt out, "Mama loves Papa, too."
The preposterous remark elicits a short chuckle from Loid, knowing it’d be better not to entertain that notion, even if a tiny part of him might want to. She’s always a silly child, saying silly things. And love, he knows, is the silliest of things. He couldn’t imagine himself in a life with it, well aware of how emotions can dangerously interfere with logic.
Could he?
“Yes, Anya. Healthy marriages tend to involve mutual love,” Loid says gingerly before the moment is over, patting his daughter on the head.
Anya doesn’t let up, despite the steam coming from Yor’s ears due to overheating. “Mama and Papa were flirting…”
“Where is this all coming from?!” Yor let’s out a yelp that is a mix of mortified and flustered, causing her daughter to smile smugly.
Loid allows the tension to release from his chest, temporarily forgets the worries crowding his mind, to just be present with his wife and daughter.
Just then, Bond comes stomping from his pet bed, barking up a storm at the oven… which begins to emit smoke between the hinges. “Oh no, I forgot about my cookies!” Yor exclaims, rushing to grab the mitts and retrieve her baking experiment.
Anya zooms towards the bathroom to “get a bucket to put out the scary fire!” Loid helps by opening the windows to let the smoke escape. By the time he’s turned off the angry-sounding smoke alarm, she’s returned with the glass cup that used to hold their toothbrushes—only half full after she spilled the rest while running.
In the end, Loid is left to console Yor with soothing rubs on the back while she sobs about the new addition to her culinary failures, and Anya is rinsing the bitter taste of a pitiful cookie off her tongue.
The world feels a bit closer to peace.
Loid catches a quick glimpse at the wall clock, considering ordering takeaway instead of cooking. 1800 hours. Restaurants would still be open.
“Let’s have take-out tonight, shall we?”
Anya pops back into her energetic self, Yor laughs when she asks for cake for dinner. And maybe, today wasn’t too bad after all.
Mission accomplished?