Work Text:
“I’m home!”
Sighing, Loid closed the front door behind him. It had been an unusually long Friday at WISE. While attending to a patient at the hospital, he had been instructed to complete not one, but two, one-off missions elsewhere in Berlint. After tracking down an arms dealer near the city border and chasing a black market operator right into the arms of the SSS, he hurried back to the hospital in record time to make his final appointment of the day. In the end, counseling the supremely out-of-touch politician who had gone to Dr. Forger for relationship advice, but used the entire session to recount tales of his golden days in politics, had been far more draining than the life-or-death missions earlier in the day.
Loid rolled his neck, wincing at the cracking sounds. While he had never expected playing the role of Loid Forger to be easy, he hadn’t imagined that it would be this challenging either. Most days at WISE were physically and mentally taxing, but his life as Loid Forger was arguably the most exhausting mission he had ever taken on. Maintaining the facade of a dutiful father, husband, and psychiatrist, all while attempting to monitor Donovan Desmond and complete additional missions on the side?
Yor was right. He could feel the wrinkles forming on his face. Speaking of Yor…
Sniffing the air, he frowned. That didn’t smell like Yor’s cooking. No, it smelled far worse. (A rare feat for anyone.) It was a strong, chemical scent. Ethyl acetate? No, he hadn’t smelled it in years…unless…
Loid stiffened. Was it a signal from WISE that an old mission— that one from five years ago—was being resurfaced? Tense, he crept down the hallway and turned the corner to the dining room.
Huddled around the dining table were his wife and daughter, hunched over and peering closely at something. As Loid moved closer, the chemical scent grew even more pungent.
He coughed, and Yor whipped her head around. “Oh! Loid-san!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry—we must have not heard you come in.”
“Mama is painting my nails!” Anya declared, nodding enthusiastically at Loid. So that was the source of the smell. He looked down at the table.
“Painting” was generous. Anya’s hands were covered in various globs of pink nail polish. It almost looked as if the polish had gotten everywhere except her nails. As Yor tried to dab off the excess nail polish, she only spread it around more.
“Sorry, Anya-san!” Yor rubbed Anya’s hands frantically. Now there were cotton balls stuck to the drying nail polish. Anya picked up her hands, holding them in front of her carefully.
“Mama is not an artist.” Anya stated, looking at Loid with a grim face.
Yor laughed awkwardly, rubbing her neck. “No, I’m definitely not…” She met Loid’s eyes before looking away quickly.
There was a shoebox on the other end of the table. Stepping closer, Loid looked inside and saw several bottles of nail polish. Miscellaneous nail supplies were scattered across the dining table, as well as some…kitchen utensils and knives? He frowned. What on earth did they need knives for?
“I think we should start over again.” Yor sighed, letting go of Anya’s hands. Looking up, she noticed Loid peering at the nail supplies curiously.
“Oh, Sharon asked if I wanted some of her unused nail polish. Apparently she has quite the collection, and her husband said it was taking up too much space in their house.” Yor explained. She gestured to the knives on the table. “And I wasn’t sure what other equipment we would need for painting nails, so I grabbed what I could find from the kitchen drawer.” Loid held back his array of concerned follow-up questions when she let out a long sigh.
Glumly, Yor looked at Anya’s now-sticky, colorful hands. “I should’ve asked for some instructions on how to use the nail polish. The other girls at city hall always have such pretty nails.” She slumped down in her chair.
Observing his dejected wife, Loid gripped his briefcase tightly. Yor had come a long way from when he first met her. In the past few months alone, she had made so much progress in bonding with her coworkers. For her to lose confidence now would negatively impact her standing at city hall, and therefore, Operation Stryx. He grimaced. This would not do—for the sake of world peace, he had to act fast.
Setting his briefcase down, Loid sat down in a chair and flashed a bright smile at his wife. “Here, let me help paint your nails.”
Yor’s eyes grew wide, while Anya’s narrowed in suspicion. Right—the average gentleman in Berlint likely knew next to nothing about nail polish. He needed to come up with a convincing story that explained just how he acquired this knowledge. “Oh, I…am very adept with paintbrushes. I actually used to be a hobbyist painter back in my day. It can’t be that different from nail polish,” Loid fired off.
The story wasn’t far from the truth. Several years ago, he had infiltrated a nail salon where a notorious arms dealer was using nail polish bottles (unbeknownst to the salon owners) to hide noxious chemicals. The mission involved camping out at a nail salon, where he posed as an employee, for nearly a month. It was a success on multiple levels. Along with finding and disposing the chemicals, Loid had ended up gaining intel on other crucial cases at WISE as well, thanks to the sociable atmosphere and chatty, well-connected clientele. Best of all, most of the customers took little notice of him, which allowed him to collect information while silently working in the background. It was a spy’s dream.
Loid had been thoroughly impressed by how his nail salon co-workers were able to artfully pry clients for information. Once a customer sat back in the plush salon chair and placed their hands in a bowl of warm water, it was just a matter of asking the right questions. He watched in awe as customers divulged all the unsavory details about their family conflicts and work struggles, the salon employees nodding in understanding as they filed their nails. Something about the ritual of nail painting seemed to soothe clients and loosen their tongues. (The fumes in the air might have had something to do with it too.)
Nail salons were fine establishments, Loid had learned. Yes, he had left that mission as a better spy—one who now knew all the ins and outs of nail painting. An unexpected skillset that he could now use to improve the morale of his family and the standing of his mission. Determined, he sat up straight.
Anya stared at the nail polish bottles with wide eyes. “Painting nails brings world peace?” she inquired. One of her hands, smeared with dried color and pieces of cotton, reached out for a bottle.
Loid had no idea what she was talking about. He chose to ignore the question, grabbing the nail polish bottle out of his daughter’s reach. “I’d be happy to help paint your nails,” he repeated to his wife with a smile.
Yor wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.
“It’s not a bother at all.” he reassured her, reaching out and squeezing her hand. She turned pink. He turned to face his daughter, who was still eying him suspiciously. Children. An enigma that he would never understand. “Anya, let’s start with your nails.”
After using copious cotton balls and acetone to clean up the mess on Anya’s hands, Loid was ready to get to work. Anya requested a dark red color, something that looked “like Mama’s eyes.”
“Oh, Anya-san!” Yor had placed a hand on her heart, eyes shining.
Peering into the box of nail polish, Loid picked out a crimson bottle with a black cap. He recognized the brand—it was an expensive polish, requested only by upper-class clientele who visited the salon. Perhaps Sharon was wealthier than his initial investigations had revealed. As he rolled the bottle in his hand to mix the pigment, he wondered if she might have any potential connections to political families, perhaps even the Desmonds.
“Papa, hurry up.” Anya whined, kicking her feet and shaking him out of his mission-related musings.
“Be patient.” He unscrewed the nail polish bottle, nodding when he saw that the consistency was just right. “And don’t kick. Nail painting is a delicate process.”
Because Anya’s nail beds were so small, Loid had to use extra care while applying the nail polish. Dipping the brush back into the bottle, he frowned. Come to think of it, was it safe to paint children’s nails? He didn’t recall reading any warnings about nail polish or other cosmetics in his parenting books, but maybe the author simply assumed it was common sense for parents to not paint their kids’ nails. Oh no, what if Dr. Henderson saw the nail polish and reported Anya to the administration for violating the school health code? If Anya received another tonitrus bolt…he gripped the nail polish bottle, shuddering at the thought.
Then he remembered that Anya had been particularly diligent with her homework these past few weeks. Every night, he came home from work to find Anya already studying in her room on her own. Even without his supervision, his daughter was doing her best to improve her grades. As he observed Anya, who was presently sniffing the nail polish and scrunching up her face, he felt his shoulders relax.
And Yor had been encouraging him to let Anya have fun. Loid turned to look at his wife, who was currently bustling about in the kitchen. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Yes, there was nothing wrong with painting her nails today as a reward for her hard work—why, it might even motivate her to study even harder, thus benefiting Operation Stryx. Worst case, they could always remove the nail polish before school on Monday.
His daughter squirmed. “Anya, be still.” Really, it had hardly been ten minutes since they began. Once, he had been forced to hide in the salon’s cramped supply room for two hours while waiting to intercept the arms dealer. This was nothing in comparison.
“My hand is tired.” Groaning, Anya flung her head back.
“You’re not even the one painting.” Loid rolled his eyes. Anya grew quiet, swinging her legs under the table as she watched him.
After another ten minutes of complaints from his daughter, he sat back and nodded at her. “Okay, we’re finished.” Anya jumped up, knocking the chair back.
“Anya is free!
Walking over, Yor knelt down to see and clasped her hands. “Oh Anya-san, it looks lovely!”
“Anya looks like a ce-le-brit-tee.” Anya threw her hands in the air, dancing around the living room. “Bond, look.” She waved her freshly painted fingernails in front of the large dog.
“Borf!” He wagged his tail, leaning forward to sniff.
“Don’t touch anything with your hands for the next thirty minutes,” Loid warned Anya as he re-organized the nail polish tools. “Otherwise they’ll get smudged and we’ll have to re-do it.” Something that he certainly did not have the time to do—there was a pile of paperwork waiting at his desk after this, and Handler would have his head if he didn’t submit them on time.
“Okay Papa.” Anya nodded solemnly. Then, she stuck her hands out straight in front of her, like a zombie, and looked to him for approval.
“There you go.”
Turning back to the table, Loid faced Yor, who was now sitting in front of him with two steaming cups of tea and a nervous look on her face. “Are you ready?” he asked. She gulped and nodded, scooting her chair closer. Loid swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling dry.
Gingerly, Loid took one of Yor’s hands in his own. She tensed, before relaxing into his grip. Her hand was soft, but lightly callused on the palms.
“I-is something wrong?” Yor asked hesitatingly. Loid blinked, realizing that he had been staring at her hands without saying anything.
“Oh no, not at all. I was just admiring your hands,” Loid said quickly. Yor’s mouth fell open, cheeks turning red. Carefully, he brushed a finger over a newly forming blister in the center of her palm. “Where is this from?”
Yor stiffened in her chair. “Oh! I, um, work a lot with my hands at city hall!” she said loudly, looking away. It seemed that city hall clerks were expected to do quite a bit of manual labor—more than he would have expected. No wonder she seemed so exhausted some nights.
Tracing the bandaid on her pinky, a souvenir from her recent cooking lessons, Loid felt a smile tug at his lips. Even with her busy schedule, Yor had been going out of her way to learn new skills for the sake of their family. Perhaps this could be his way of returning the favor, Loid mused, as he picked up the dark red bottle and met his wife’s gaze.
As he painted her nails, he tried to be as gentle as possible. Back at the salon, he had overheard a few clients complain about the overly rough treatment of their hands, to the chagrin of the salon owner. The last thing Loid wanted was to cause Yor any pain, no matter how slight. Slowly, he tilted her pointer finger, careful as to not twist it too hard.
Strange. His heart was beating faster than normal. And it was especially difficult to keep his hands still—they seemed to insist on trembling every time he grabbed one of Yor’s fingers.
Perhaps he was just tired after painting Anya’s nails.
As he reached over their arms for the bottle, he brushed against Yor’s wrist and she twitched. “You okay?” He looked up at his wife, whose face was less flushed than before but still noticeably pink. “Do you need a break?”
She swallowed. “No, I’m f-fine.”
He dipped his head. “Just let me know if you need to take a break.” Loid knew Yor was the type of person to remain quiet about her discomfort, out of fear of burdening others. But telling the truth was an important part of building trust—it was necessary if they wanted their relationship to look real to the other parents at Eden Academy. Indeed, the success of his mission hinged on Yor’s wellbeing. He paused.
Yes, that was right. By spending this time with Yor, he was ensuring that Operation Stryx would succeed. Even something as mundane as painting nails served a larger purpose in the grand scheme of world peace. A peculiar, hollow feeling swirled in his chest as he picked up his wife’s hand again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Anya started kick-boxing the air. When he turned to look, she swiveled her head around, owl-like, and squinted at him, lips pressed together in a thin line. Was she disappointed? About what? He had never met a child with such complex emotions before, and despite his robust psychiatry training (courtesy of WISE), he could hardly begin to understand Anya’s unpredictable mood swings. As he and his daughter stared each other down, he felt the twinge of a headache coming on.
Seconds later, she resumed her punches and kicks with a “Hiyah!” Slightly miffed, but relieved nonetheless that whatever had been bothering her had now passed, Loid turned back to Yor.
“Have you had your nails painted before?”
“Oh, no.” Yor shifted in her chair. “I never really thought about it before, until I heard the girls at city hall talk about their favorite nail salons in town. Camilla even has her own personal nail artist at one of the shops.”
“It’s a great way to treat yourself after a long week,” Loid told her, as he cleaned up the edge of the polish with a damp brush. “You deserve it, especially with how hard you’ve been working lately.” He smiled at his wife. The two lapsed into a comfortable silence.
There was a pleasant predictability to the nail painting process. Work in thin coats. Cap the free edge. Apply clear varnish to seal it all. As he worked, he listened to Yor’s quiet breaths. Loid blinked a few times, suddenly feeling sleepy. Odd. Usually, he didn’t start getting drowsy until later in the evening.
In front of him, Yor’s eyes fluttered closed as well, snapping back open and then sliding shut again. Loid paused mid-brushstroke, gaze lingering on his wife. He remembered their trip on the cruise ship, how Yor had fallen asleep on his shoulder after a long day of family fun with Anya. He had savored the peace of that moment, his wife’s sleeping form a welcome sight after the chaos that had ensued—unbeknownst to his family, of course—back on the ship. Resting his head on his arm, Loid took in the sight of the slumbering woman in front of him.
“Papa, Anya’s butt itches.” Anya whined. She was standing down in the hallway with her hands still held up stiffly in front of her. “Can I scratch it?”
“No, the nail polish isn’t dry yet. You’ll ruin it.”
“But it’s itchy!”
Loid sighed. “Just think about Bondman for a bit and it’ll go away.”
“Okay.” The girl went quiet and began to hum the Bondman theme song. Loid returned to painting Yor’s ring finger, rotating it gently as he worked and as she snoozed. She had such delicate hands, he mused. The deep crimson nail polish suited her perfectly.
A few minutes later, Anya walked up—arms still zombie-like—and knocked her head against Loid’s shoulder. Yor raised her head, eyes sleepy.
“Papa?”
“What?”
“My butt doesn’t itch anymore.”
“That’s good, An—”
“Now my forehead is itchy.”
Before Loid could retort something, Yor intervened. “Anya-san, come here.” She beckoned to their daughter, who bounded over happily. Picking up an unused paintbrush, she used the backside to gently scratch Anya’s forehead.
“Yay! Thank you, Mama.” Anya threw her arms around Yor, who pressed a sweet kiss to her daughter’s cheek.
As Anya scampered off to the living room, he turned to Yor. “You’re a wonderful mother, Yor.”
“Oh!” She beamed. “Thank you, Loid.” Lately, Yor had become much more receptive to compliments. When they had first begun their arrangement, any praise would send her into a tizzy of frantic denial and embarrassment. Now, she accepted his kind words graciously. Yor had changed, opening up like a blossom as she settled into life as a member of the Forger family.
Mindlessly, Loid rubbed the nail polish bottle between his fingers. Had he changed too, since he first met Anya and Yor? He supposed not. In any case, it wasn’t like he could ask. He took a sip of his tea, now lukewarm and faintly bitter.
There was only one more nail left to paint. As Loid positioned the brush over Yor’s hand, a wave of sluggishness washed over him. He tried to apply the polish in a single, smooth motion, but his hands moved clumsily, as if they were stuck underwater. Exasperated, he ended up applying an additional coat to cover up the roughness of his first layer.
As he checked the other nails, Loid’s eyes snagged on her empty ring finger. Would Yor want a ring? It would certainly reaffirm the legitimacy of their marriage to any outsiders. Though it had crossed his mind before, something—not guilt, but a twisting feeling he couldn’t pinpoint—always held him back from asking.
Absent-mindedly, Yor tapped her fingers on the table. Loid immediately placed his hand over hers, stilling her movements. “The polish is still drying, so it may smudge if you’re not careful,” he explained. Taking her wrist, he carefully propped her hand up against his forearm. Yor swallowed and nodded, her eyes glued to his arm.
“Papa, how do I make the nails dry faster?” Anya grumbled from the couch. “I wanna go play.”
“The sooner you stop complaining, the sooner they’ll dry.” He pinched his forehead. Reaching over, Yor gently squeezed his forearm. She smiled sympathetically at him.
“You’re doing great, Loid.”
Loid exhaled, ignoring the prickling sensation in his arm at her touch. Reaching out, he laced his fingers with hers, careful not to smudge her nails. “Thank you,” he murmured. Her lips curved up. He hadn’t noticed she was wearing lipstick—it was a soft brick red, more muted in color than the nail polish. It looked good on her. Really good.
Anya skipped over to them and tilted her head, curious.
“Holding hands makes nail polish dry faster?” she asked innocently. Loid glanced down, jolting at the sight of his hands rubbing slow circles on Yor’s wrists. Immediately, he snatched his hands away as Yor’s face turned beet red.
“Uh…no.” He managed, resisting the urge to slam his face into the tabletop. “Why don’t I turn on the TV for you so you can watch Bondman?” Quickly, he took the chance to get out of his chair and move away from the dining table.
“Okay!” Anya bounced over and plopped down next to Bond, in front of the TV.
It must be the fumes, he thought to himself. He set down the remote control and walked back to the table. Now his legs were feeling sluggish.
Yor’s face was still pink when he picked up her hands again. Her nails looked mostly dry now. Brushing his thumb gently over one of the nails, he confirmed that the polish had solidified. It had dried faster than he expected—or maybe spending time with Anya and Yor had made the time pass more quickly.
“I think your nails are done.” Why did he sound disappointed? He cleared his throat. “They turned out better than I expected. Thanks for bearing with me.”
Yor thanked him, though her eyes seemed glum as she looked down. Oh no, was she not satisfied with the manicure? Cold sweat beaded on his neck. She did say that Camilla had her own personal nail artist, who likely offered elite services that far surpassed his own. Perhaps Yor had expected more.
Panicked, he racked his brain for memories of the nail salon. An idea hit him. Snapping his fingers, he shot to his feet.
“I’ll be right back,” he told Yor, before sprinting down the hallway to the bathroom. After grabbing what he needed, he hurried back to the table.
Placing the lotion bottle on the table, he turned to Yor. “I know a lot of manicure services end with a complimentary massage. I’d be happy to give you one, if you like.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I, uh, briefly worked at a Thai massage parlor, so I know the basics of hand massages,” he rattled off.
Yor eyed the bottle, and nodded. “If it’s not too much of a hassle, I’d love one.” She smiled at him, face happy again.
Crisis averted. Relieved, he grinned back at her.
Just like he had done at the salon so many years ago, he squeezed a generous amount of lotion out and lathered it across her hands. Only this time, it wasn't for a nameless client, but Yor. His hands went through the familiar motions, muscle memory taking over as he proceeded, but his arms were more tense than usual. As he grasped Yor’s forearms and pulled his hands down to her wrists, he felt his face grow warm. He kept his eyes cast downwards, focused on his task but fully aware of the woman watching him as he worked.
“There we go.” Pulling his hands away—and noting the absence of her warmth as he did so—he finally allowed himself to look up at Yor. His cheeks were still hot, and he hoped she couldn’t notice.
Sweetly, Yor smiled at him. “That was so relaxing. Thank you so much, Loid.” Holding up her nails to her face, she grinned. “They look incredible! I can’t wait to show the girls at the office.” She clapped her hands, pleased. Under the light of the chandelier, she looked like she was glowing.
Loid leaned in closer, eyes fixed to Yor’s radiant smile. “I’m happy that you’re happy.” Their eyes met, holding each other in place. Everything went still. Though Loid could still faintly hear the hum of the air conditioner and the chatter from the TV, he hardly registered it as he and Yor gazed at each other. Her face inched closer.
“Kissy kissy?” Anya’s voice called over from the TV. Her lips were puckered.
“No!” Loid and Yor jerked away from each other.
“Boo.” Anya slumped down, leaning against Bond. “Mama and Papa are no fun.”
Coughing, Loid stared resolutely at the table, then the fridge, then the chandelier until the light blinded him. She seemed to have the same idea, looking at everything in the room but him.
Loid broke the silence first. “Well…I hope you enjoyed yourself. I definitely did.” He rubbed his neck, forcing himself to look at her. “I know my nail polish work isn’t as good as a professional’s.” If only she knew.
Finally, her eyes snapped to his. “Oh, not at all!” she exclaimed. “You did an incredible job, Loid. It looks as beautiful as Camilla’s nails. I think they’ll be so impressed. Maybe they’ll want you to do their nails too.” She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.
He winced. Hopefully not—his nail salon days were long behind him, replaced by newer and more pressing missions. He was willing to make an exception for his family, and for his family only.
“Do you know how long the nail polish will last?”
“Ah, typically we recommen—I mean, I’ve heard that doctors recommend removing nail polish after about five days, then letting your nails rest for a day or two. After that, you can repaint them.”
“Oh, I see.” Yor fidgeted with her hands. “Would you…I mean could you…”
He leaned in closer, concerned. “Yes?”
Yor looked up at him, eyes determined. “Could you help me with my nails again next week?” She gulped, backing up a bit. “I mean, if you’re busy, I don’t want to bother you. But I had a really good time tonight.” She smiled, cheeks glowing pink. “I’d rather spend time with you than go to a nail salon by myself.”
Nodding, he smiled at Yor. “I’d be happy to. We can make it a date.” He blinked, before hastily continuing. “I mean, we can do your nails every weekend. If you like.”
As Yor’s face lit up, he felt a genuine smile pull at his lips. The nail painting had been a resounding success. Thinking about sitting in front of Yor and tending to her hands again next weekend, Loid felt a surge of energy course through him. He blinked.
Well, of course he was happy. His family’s happiness was the keystone of Operation Styrx. It made sense that after all the high-stakes missions he had taken on today, caring for his wife and daughter had been a welcome respite. He nodded, convinced.
Yor’s normally cheerful countenance was even brighter than usual. Her eyes sparkled. “You know what, I think I’m going to treat myself tonight.” She pumped her firsts in the air. “I think I’m going to watch some TV instead of re-organizing our kitchen!” She declared it with the gravitas of someone stating they were going to run a marathon, or climb Mt. Everest.
Loid laughed, glad to see Yor finally indulging herself no matter how small the “treat” was. (Besides, the kitchen was spotless.) “I’m glad to hear that. I hope you enjoy yourself.” He meant it.
“Good job, Mama.” Anya walked up behind Yor and hugged her legs, eyes darting between her mother and Loid. Loid met Anya’s gaze, and she squinted at him again. Odd.
Then Anya ran over and hugged him too.“Good job, Papa. I love you.” She seemed fine—a little strange, sure, but what was new? Affectionately, he patted his daughter on the head.
He wasn’t exactly sure what she was congratulating him for, though. Oh well.
Bidding his wife and daughter goodnight, Loid picked up his briefcase and walked to his bedroom. His steps were lighter than usual, and he still felt that same rush of energy from earlier. It had been a lovely night indeed. Because he was able to make use of some niche skills acquired from a previous mission, both his daughter and wife were happy. Operation Stryx was going smoothly. He stood up straight, pleased.
That mountain of paperwork waiting for him didn’t feel quite as formidable as it typically did. In fact, with how upbeat he was feeling, he might be able to finish filling out his mission reports more quickly. Then he could spend the rest of his night reading that book on cognitive therapy that Yor had gifted him. He grinned.
Without thinking, he began whistling. It took him a few moments to place the tune, before he realized it was the Bondman theme song. Anya had been watching it so much, no wonder the jingle was stuck in his head. He chuckled as he opened his bedroom door.
Yes, the Forgers were doing just fine, he thought to himself. All was well.
Lying in bed that night, Anya listened to Loid whistling and Yor humming from opposite ends of the house.
“Mama and Papa are idiots.”
“Borf.”