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"So technically, your 'wife' is single and available, right?"
It takes Loid a few extra muscle strains to keep his coffee contained within the esophagus, and not splattered all over the smirking face of his fellow WISE agent, currently seated across the cafe table.
Not that he actually wanted to control the impulse right then.
"Co---correct. Our relationship is all for show."
"Excellent!" His colleague's reaction nudges at a segment of Loid's patience that he thought immovable. The implications of such excitement is obvious, and though he has always analyzed human subjects to the Nth degree, seldom has Agent Twilight invested such abrupt energy into an inspection.
Codename: Noontide
Height: 182cm
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Specialty: Stealth
Weakness: Volatile; Tends to go rogue
Other Descriptors: Handsome (Admittedly); Forward (Apparently); Charming (Annoyingly)
What kind of codename is "Noontide" anyway?
"I presume you are romantically interested in Ms. Bri--Mrs. Forger?" Loid exercises forwardness in kind, with acute emphasis on the surname he also happens to possess. "Is this why you requested to meet in private, Noontide?"
To his chagrin, the brunette chuckles, each sound too full of presumed success. "Ever since she visited our ‘hospital,’ I’ve been…intrigued. If that’s not an issue with you, of course."
"No. Why would it be?" Why would I care? Down goes another gulp of hot liquid, its sear against Loid’s tongue and throat somehow harsher than usual. "Just remember that the lady has the right to her own choices."
"Of course, of course." The assurance, at least, appears sincere. "But considering your mission, there isn't any competition for her hand these days to start with, no?"
Loid feels one corner of his lip twitch.
No competition?
==
For days, the conversation unnerves him to no end. Even his tedious mind fails to put a finger on exactly which part - until Yor returns home from work one evening.
"Ah, Loid!” So often has she called that name tenderly, that he wishes it were actually his. “Your co-worker at the hospital seems to have mailed me a nice care package."
The box already sits open in Yor’s arms by the time Loid’s sight reaches it, and he catches the presence of several dried apple snack packs, a bottle of wine, and a ball of red yarn.
“In case you need to repair your favorite sweater” - an accompanying note reads, not escaping his keen vision.
“You must’ve told him so much about me, Loid!”
The cheerfulness in Yor’s voice troubles him, while the audacity of his associate downright stuns him. Beyond the peril Noontide will potentially place them in, he knows now that the man has done his share of research - and does not plan to take things slow. All matters considered, the false assurance at the end of their exchange must have been the irksome detail that refuses to fade.
Is he an IDIOT? Going after my wif–jeopardizing this mission?
"Yes. This is very kind of him." On the surface, however, Loid conceals indignance with the usual success. He’s glad that Anya is currently studying in her room, as her perceptive nature may have caught his tinge of dismay.
"What a sweet gesture!" Yor clutches the red yarn, blissfully unaware. "I should call him later and say thank y–"
"Yor."
It had never been in his nature to interrupt her, yet in that moment, a host of emotions births a lone thought - made in strategy but based on something else he cannot identify.
"Do you want to go out Friday night? Dinner, a performance - whatever you'd like."
There is strange relief in the way Yor’s cheeks flush right then, a condition her new gifts had failed to inspire. "Oh? Wha...what's the occasion?"
"We...we should engage in pretend date nights more often." He states matter-of-factly. "Being seen in public together always helps our facade."
Confusion dims from crimson eyes, replaced by enthusiasm. "That's true! And dinner sounds wonderful. Thank you, Loid.”
There. I got my thanks first.
Loid nearly shakes his head at the uncharacteristic pride, this need for triumph unrelated to any particular operation.
I’m only alarmed by Noontide’s unprofessional behavior. He persuades himself, whilst still throwing glares at the unwelcome box of favors.
I cannot risk this mission being compromised, that's all.
==
Despite the minor victory, Loid rushes to review the internal dossier as soon as he arrives at work the next morning. Noontide is “out on assignment,” according to the encoded schedule, and he secretly hopes that the location is somewhere very, very remote.
For months, the faux hospital has doubled as his headquarters and home-away-from-home, but today, its latter role begins to feel insufficient. There is a new urgency to preserve his idyllic, duty-curated household, even if its four walls contain only falsehoods in the end.
Around 1pm - the hour he knows Yor prefers to take for lunch - Loid’s patience cracks, and his fingers dial City Hall.
The phone operator sounds far too giddy when she recognizes his name.
“It’s always so sweet when husbands call in the middle of the day!” Her compliment vibrates against his eardrum, even after the line clicks into transfer mode.
Note to self: call more often. The thought surfaces without warning.
Soon, Yor’s greeting echoes with dazed surprise.
“He…hello? Loid?”
“Hope I’m not disturbing your meal, Yor.” He leans back in his chair, hoping extra comfort would ease any sudden nervousness. “I randomly recalled that the last time we went to L'Opus au Château, you really enjoyed how…sharp their steak knives were. So, I wanted to call and see if I should make reservations there for Friday.”
And maybe, I also wanted to hear your voic–
“That sounds lovely! I do think they have the best knives, so easy to slice through fles—ahem!” Amidst Yor’s thrill, a string of unusual words escape. “By…by the way, I got a bouquet of irises at the office earlier!"
Both of Loid’s legs flail on reflex, nearly unbalancing him enough to topple from his seat.
“Oh?” Of course, he permits no sign of scramble to enter his response.
"It's from your co-worker again, and he wrote a very kind note wishing both of us well…but don't worry! I told the girls that they were from you, so the gesture wouldn’t seem odd."
“Yes, that was wise. Please enjoy them.” Though he maintains a calm tone, Loid’s free hand begins to imitate the one holding the receiver - only that formed fist grips nothing at all.
At least, Noontide showed restraint by gifting a flower that signifies friendship.
Nonetheless, he can unmask the intricate scheme: demonstrations of kindness that are modest yet memorable, an offer of platonic ties that allows space for bloom, the absence of a benefactor that potentially makes the heart grow fonder.
In this case, however, Loid finds determination to make absence a grave disadvantage.
“Will you be home for dinner, Yor?”
“Tonight? I think so? I should be back around the usual time…”
“Good.” He smiles to himself. “I’ll see you then.”
“Oh, alright!”
At her hesitant acknowledgement, the smile grows fonder than Loid ever intends, and yet another plan to rival Noontide’s begins to take root.
Hours later, he speeds through the streets at gazelle-like pace, leaving shelves empty at every fruit stand along the way.
Of course, it’s not all grocery thoughts as Loid doubles the daily revenue for multiple stand owners in the neighborhood. At this point, he knows that a formal reprimand for Noontide’s actions should be appropriate, necessary, and prioritized. But for now, he wishes to salvage something more important first.
Soon, he steps into the haven that is the Forger kitchen, ready to correct any unforeseeable parts of his current predicament. The growth of his culinary expertise years ago had not been optional, but as always, it proves advantageous. For there is one more thing Loid understands well from studying his fellow agent’s history: unlike Twilight, Noontide has never undergone training to pose as a top chef.
It’s far from the first family meal he has cooked, but the stakes of this one seem ten levels above the rest, with ambitions way beyond filling stomachs. As ingredients fall victim to slice-and-dice, sauces take form under simmering heat, and before long, the Forger household emits comforting aromas throughout its rooms.
One taste, and she’ll definitely forget about any flowers. Loid muses during the final garnishes.
As he places each dish upon the dining table, Anya makes her grand post-nap entrance, Mr. Chimera in hand.
"Chicken with apples and potatoes, carrot and apple soup, apple strudel..." As his daughter mumbles simplified names for deluxe cuisine, her enlarged eyes only represent a fraction of increasing awe. "Did you make all these for mama? She loves apples the most, right?"
Caught in the act, Loid’s cheeks turn the same color as his intentionally chosen fruit.
"Just wanted to test some apple recipes, that's all."
I’m keeping everyone focused on our mission, that's all.
Anya stares at him with a slight frown, but climbs onto her chair without complaint.
To his proper estimate, the front door swings open within a few minutes - Yor is as punctual as ever - and Loid spies the real-time shift from fatigue to pleasant surprise upon his wife’s face.
"Loid, everything smells delicious!"
Cheerful energy pours out of each spoken word, flows across the space between them to rewire his apple-marinated neurons. Their marriage may be false, but never faulty, and Yor’s joy towards even trivial matters has always ringed true. Tonight especially, that reflection of her delight is a wonder to behold, and a stark reminder that his goal had never been to win over paltry flowers - it is to earn a glimpse of Yor at her happiest.
“Come enjoy.” He extends the invitation, craving more than just a glimpse.
Onward they dine and converse, each exchange as warm as their meal. Three sips of the soup, and Anya confesses that her favorite fruit might be apples now, too. Loid, on the other hand, barely touches his plate throughout. He indulges in sight rather than taste, mesmerized by how Yor savors each bite tonight. These are the scenes and sounds no spy headquarters could ever accommodate, a definition few places in one’s lifetime could ever embody.
Home.
Though he breathes sharply at the conclusion, the sweet scent of dessert tingling his nostrils feels almost bland in comparison.
While Anya wolfs down her peanut-sprinkled strudel, Yor makes prudent cuts at her share of the pastry, before something appears to dawn.
“You know, Loid, Sharon found it suspicious that ‘you’ sent me irises instead of something more…romantic, but I made a great save!” Prodding at flaky layers, she retells the memory, unable to resist a light giggle in the process. “I told her that we’re not only husband and wife, but also still the bestest of friends.”
Still friends. Though he responds with an approving smile, irony begins to permeate: here is Yor, giving her best to maintain their charade, while Loid is the one derailing from long held convictions.
A clink sounds as Yor lowers her fork, expression turning thoughtful.
“Even after all this ends…we can still remain great friends, right Loid?”
The yearning in her voice stings at a part of him hidden away for years, guarded from overt optimism in favor of firm practicalities. When all is said and done, he has been trained to leave nothing behind - rendering friendship impossible, much less any chance of sustaining this nuclear family. But within these latest household memories, the scent of apples threatens to endure as it seeps through skin, heart, and soul. Within the dishes he has curated is Loid’s own yearning - for a semblance of reality within the pantomime, for the permanence of a home.
He meets Yor’s expectant gaze, memorizing every shade of its glittering hues.
“We can certainly remain friends.” Even within his vast lexicon of lies, this one proves rare in its complexity, as does his immediate attempt to compensate. “And after all this ends, I’m happy to also send you flowers at work, if you’d like. What’s your favorite kind?”
Next to him, Anya releases a short gasp that echoes her mother’s momentary shock.
“Ro…roses.” Beneath flushed cheeks, Yor mutters as she finds recovery. “The more thorns the better, I think.”
Per usual, the peculiarity of her choices fails to deter him. “Roses with thorns it is.”
As Yor unveils her sublime smile again, Loid’s mental database flips through its rolodex of memorized connotations.
Yellow (Friendship); Peach (Gratitude); Red (Love)
Red (Like Yor’s eyes)
Within the prism of mother nature’s palette, he acknowledges which color he’ll be expected to gift - but also which color he wishes to gift. Today. Tomorrow. Every single day.
Even if he must leave nothing behind.
Red just looks the most beautiful, that’s all.
==
With a single examination of the care package, and one photo from Yor of her flowers, Loid figures out the grand scheme.
While neither bears sender details, an even more crucial observation does not escape him: the lack of postage.
Bearing that omission in mind, he departs his faux office a few hours early on Friday afternoon, footsteps brisk as they follow a predetermined trail. Soon, he treks along the known mail delivery route surrounding his neighborhood, intent on dispatching a more personal message.
Only minutes pass before Loid spies a uniformed courier, rushing via bicycle in the direction of the Forger home. Attached to the rear are standard canvas mailbags, only these - he can tell even from a distance - are far from filled to the brim. And though the rider crouches in pose, Loid’s sensitive sight still manages a rough estimate.
Height: 180-182cm
So much for stealth as specialty.
Lowering the rim of his hat, he marches towards the fast-approaching agent in disguise, taking care to conceal his own identity. Right as their paths cross, Loid snaps one arm upward, extending the length of his umbrella to form an improvised trap.
His target, clearly focused on other goals, is caught by complete surprise. The bicycle speeds forth a few more meters while a weighted torso’s momentum abruptly halts. As both rider and ride plummet to the ground, a choked gasp sounds from the former.
“Noontide.” Loid greets flatly at the uncouth - or, as Master Henderson would critique: most inelegant - scene.
His disheveled colleague continues hacks and coughs, the prolonged struggle to respond actually inspiring slight pity.
Perhaps, he deserves minor credit for not letting anything enter the postal system and risk our exposure–
“What the fuck was that, Twilight?” The hostile hiss instantly removes any sympathy that had emerged.
Similar to the forwardness from their previous meeting, such lack of restraint becomes yet another cause for alarm. Even if he had stepped aside to allow others access to Yor’s affections, Loid cannot imagine her warmth resonating with what he confronts now. She deserves patience, comfort, stability - things no dedicated WISE agent can possibly provide.
Things I can’t possibly provide.
A cloud of reality looms above, raining down this undeniable fact. Within all his displeasure towards Noontide’s efforts is, ultimately, a subliminal frustration at what could never manifest for himself. The home he has painstakingly built rests on fragile foundations, while the home he has come to desire remains a mere mirage.
Yet, this reality still includes a trio seated around a dinner table, sharing everything both tangible and intangible. To date, the food he replenishes Anya and Yor with never fails to connect them together, and they have always reciprocated through sheer joy - a form of healing no infirmary could match.
No, I should provide what I can, for now.
Finding resolve, Loid crouches down, leaning deep into Noontide’s personal space. Though he avoids physical contact, he knows well that the lack thereof can be just as menacing.
“For the sake of world peace.” Both eyes narrowing, he speaks - orders - with measured intimidation. “Quit trying to court my wife while she’s still married.”
“I…I thought you didn’t mind!” The other man’s face pales, any formal training to counter coercion nowhere to be seen. “Covering my tracks is my specialty, Twilight, I wouldn’t have compromised—”
Lifting both hands, Loid tugs sharply at one glove, the quick snap of leather implying more doses of threat.
Noontide visibly recoils. “Sorry, sorry! I won’t send anything to her without permission from now on.”
As if you’d ever get permission. Halfway satisfied, Loid restores his stance before moving to retrieve the fallen bicycle nearby. As he returns it to an upright position, a nervous inquiry sounds from behind.
“You’re…not going to tell Sylvia about this, are you?”
Scoffing to himself, Loid ushers rubber tires forward, until they come to a stop next to the guilty perpetrator.
“Put the mission in jeopardy again.” With a shove, the metal structure topples sloppily onto its disgraced owner. “And demotion will be the least of your concerns.”
Noontide stretches limbs outward, just in time to cradle what has turned into his getaway vehicle. “At least…tell me when you think this fake marriage will end. I swear I’ll stay in my lane until it does.”
Loid’s next response materializes on utter reflex, as if it had always been part of his intended future.
“You should expect to stay there forever, then.”
At best, he vocalizes a feeble hope. After all, ahead is a wholly imagined path, lined with roses on one side and empty promises on the other, leading him into timelines unknown. Forever is a word he could never stake on, a concept he could never afford. But maybe, when the fruits of his labor eliminate other words like war and loss and tragedy, he can harvest them all, preserve them for life - and offer endless family meals for the rest of his days.
Down below, his colleague’s face becomes transfixed by revelation. There is also a detectable hint of horror, as if he finally understands the exact level of offense he had committed.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Turning away to hide his own softening expression, Loid pretends to fix a cufflink that had never come loose. “I have a date with my wife, and afterwards we need to tuck our daughter into bed.”
With that, he strides off in the direction of home, heart somehow both heavier and lighter than the previous few days.
Just performing my family man duties, that’s all.
==
“Loid!”
He breaks from concentration to witness Yor’s arrival, her usual black dress billowing behind.
“You look nice.” Compared to his genuine sentiment, the praise is suppressed tenfold.
L'Opus au Château’s foyer lights illuminate her, lending an existing glow even more rings of halo. He has never ignored Yor’s beauty, but tonight, at the crest of all his reflections, she is a bewitching bloom in otherwise barren fields, tempting him to collect her for himself. But as they’re ushered to their table, Loid refrains from even extending a hand, for even if he has defeated a rival in secret, she has never, ever been a mere prize to be won.
As they stroll through the main chamber, glances and whispers trail them, conveying the envy of patrons and waitstaff alike. Loid can’t help but wonder if his strict facade has actually vanished in their eyes, whether his emotions are on display even without physical signs of affection. This relationship, “all for show,” now showing him that the real performance has been the act of denial all along.
They order swiftly - whitefish for him, rare steak for her - and settle into a serene intermission. It is then that Loid retrieves a single thorned rose, yellow but red-tipped, from a hidden compartment of his suit.
“Consider this an early delivery.” He initiates from across the table, careful to not provoke the flower’s sharper sides.
Yor’s jaw slackens briefly, before her lips curve with pleasantry.
“Thank you, it’s so beautiful.” Upon reception, she inadvertently describes not only the gift, but also herself. “You were serious, then? When you said you’d still send me roses after everything ends?”
Loid freezes.
End. The opposite of the forever he had so boldly claimed hours ago. Though he now operates without the threat of a human rival, another fleeting enemy appears in the form of self-doubt.
Indeed, even so chaste a vow is unbecoming of one who has dedicated his life to service, to lead an existence without selfish intent. Selfish is to want a home to return to. Selfish is the growing desire to embrace this woman and never let go. Selfish is deterring suitors like Noontide when he himself cannot promise her a damn thing.
Yor caresses every petal, oblivious to any ongoing turmoil. The tender action disheartens rather than comforts, for it adds another element to Loid’s earlier visual: a rose should never stand alone within a pretend, sterile existence, but thrive within a blooming meadow.
His hidden hand grips the napkin upon his lap, wrinkling its fabric in place of contorting facial features into a pained frown.
“Maybe…it hasn’t been fair to require your absolute loyalty to me these past months.” Calm countenance activated, Loid lays out the most logical compromise he could conjure. “You deserve to experience genuine happiness, Yor.”
An elongated silence follows, accented only by Yor’s expression of surprise. Amidst the pause, a waiter stops by to place down a steak knife for her imminent meal. But even as her favorite object in the world comes within reach, for once she seems to ignore it completely, clutching the rose instead.
All noises around them fade away as Loid regards this unexpected scene, one his analytical mind fails to decipher.
Moments later, Yor’s next words solve - and resolve.
“But I am genuinely happy, Loid.” She delivers the correction like a gentle ultimatum. “I’m with someone who gives me a home, and brings me to nice dinners, and calls to check on me at work, and cooks my favorite foods. I really feel selfish sometimes, because the truth is - I don’t want all this to end.”
What he could not confess aloud, she effortlessly echoes. Before Loid comprehends the shock convulsing through every system, Yor finally removes a hand from thorned stem, and envelops it delicately over his upon the tablecloth.
“I don’t wish to look at anyone else while I’m with you.” Crimson eyes ignite with sincerity. “Our agreement aside, you’re already a wonderful husband, an even better father, and…a good man.”
Assurance after assurance uplifts him from the core, laying all worries past and present to rest. As he cherishes the temperate warmth from Yor’s palm, Loid marvels at how this recent conflict turns out to be one he would’ve never lost, no matter the opponent. And though the woman in front of him - his wife, partner-in-crime, friend, so many roles she bears - remains vague in voice and action, she outright rejects the foundations Loid had thought fragile, allowing him ample opportunity to rebuild from scratch.
“Would it be alright then, Yor?” At last, he musters up the courage expected of the Best Spy in the West. “Could I send you more roses, as soon as tomorrow?” And the next day, and the next.
She nods, giving him her absolute happiest.
At that instant, Loid Forger recognizes what love is - and how he has long dwelled in its essence. It has been there, in the efforts to win her favor, in the yearning to see her smile, in the determination to voyage alongside her into parts unknown.
There are still countless things he wishes to say, but akin to the years of training that perfected “Twilight,” Loid grants time another chance. For now, he will simply buy out flower stands and fruit stands both, relaying affection via the bona fide gestures only he can perform. Perhaps then, their chance for a future, no matter how slim, can truly be preserved.
Optimism returns to rejuvenate a practical mind. With vigor, it begins to list everything he desires - everything he will refuse to leave behind.
Home. Family. Love. And that’s not all.
Not by a longshot.
[Fin]