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Twilight, the greatest spy of Westalis, is a man of many talents. A man that fellow secret agents and blissfully ignorant women alike are helplessly drawn to, like a moth to a flame.
Throughout his decade-long tenure as a spy, he’s found himself romancing many, those of all kinds. Countless men and women who couldn’t be any more different in their wants, needs, and desires. And Twilight, master of disguise, had perfected the art of becoming precisely what they were looking for. A process done so many times it’s become clockwork.
This particular situation he finds himself in at the moment, however, is anything but typical. And maybe it’s the fact that they’re in the middle of the Forger living room with the old fan buzzing overhead that he’s needed to fix for a while, relaxing on the well-worn couch and leaning back on throw pillows that have very well lived up to their name. Maybe it’s the whistle of the tea kettle and chatter of the TV as the afternoon news plays on in the background, the typical soundtrack of a normal life.
It’s the type of life reserved for ordinary people. Not for somebody like him.
For somebody like him, a normal life is anything but ordinary. And it’s one he must navigate with the utmost caution and deliberation, lest someone finds the blemish he creates in its image and realizes he doesn’t belong.
Loid looks over at Yor and her crimson eyes, too red and too earnest and too close to his own steel blue ones.
Something must have shown on his face, because Yor’s face turns the color of her eyes, and she immediately leans back away from him in mild panic. “I-I’m sorry!” she stammers, fidgeting in place. “I didn’t mean to make things, well, awkward.” She glances at the ground sheepishly. “I just figured you’d be the one to ask. There’s a formal work event I’m required to attend, and I’ve never been all that skilled at dancing...”
Loid swiftly realizes his mistake and schools his face into a warm expression. “Of course, Yor. I’d be happy to help.”
“Thank you, Loid!” Yor beams so bright Loid is forced to look away for a second, a moment of weakness he chooses not to acknowledge.
He rises from the couch with Yor following closely behind. He finds his way to the redwood record player next to the TV and turns it on.
Soft jazz plays in his ears, and when he turns around, Yor is right there in front of him, staring at him intently. She waits with bated breath.
A smile inches across his face as he takes a step closer and offers his hand to her. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Forger?”
Yor exhales and looks up at him, returning his smile. “Of course, Mr. Forger.” She takes his hand gently.
He lets the sway of the melody guide his movements as their fingers intertwine and his other hand finds the small of her back. Her hand is rough and at the same time, delicate in his own. It trembles restlessly, and so on a whim he decides to gently squeeze it once. Her eyes snap to his in surprise at the movement.
Loid chuckles. “You’re awfully stiff.”
Yor’s mouth opens and closes, and she looks at the ground bashfully. “I’m sorry. I’m quite terrible at this, I know.”
He sighs and leans forward so he can speak softly in her ear. “Just let the music, and me, guide you. The rest comes naturally, I promise.”
Yor nods, and he watches her swallow nervously, her eyes traveling to their hands laced together. Something in his chest aches at her gaze, something in it entirely warm and unfamiliar.
He lets their bodies sway to the rhythm, making sure his feet are well away from hers in hopes that she doesn’t worry about stepping on them. His thumb lightly brushes against her knuckles, and he notices the tension slowly leave her as she becomes more comfortable. Her free hand rests on his shoulder, and Loid is all too anxiously aware of the warmth radiating from it, from her .
Some part of him wants to bury himself in his bedroom and avoid this altogether.
But it’s no matter. Twilight must be whatever Yor wants him, needs him, to be. And if that person is Loid Forger, loving husband and expert slow dancer, then that he shall be.
They slowly waltz in their living room, with the windows wide open for the world to see. Everyone can see he’s encapsulated the role of the perfect husband, the ideal father. Everything his family needs him to be, the proof evident in Yor’s gaze, lifted to his own from where it was previously razor-focused on their hands.
He’s always understood that spies must never draw unnecessary awareness, must never allow themselves to become the center of attention. Most of what he does is done in silence, in the shadows. The very nature of his job requires that nobody can witness his work. Nobody there to show gratitude, to appreciate what he does, to validate the inherent worth of his actions no matter how much he may crave it.
But somehow, he discovers it’s not so bad if he’s at the center of her attention.
Loid’s eyes watch the way her hair cascades down her exposed shoulders as she moves, and he has to resist his wish to tuck it behind her ear. His mind is so elsewhere that he doesn’t notice that Yor has ventured closer, until her arm wraps around his shoulder, her hand cradling the back of his neck.
She rests her head on his chest, and he can no longer ignore the warmth of her presence, the fact that her closeness makes his ears burn in equal measure. He can’t see her face, but he can hear the steady beating of her heart so loud it drowns out the music.
They’re not really even dancing anymore—they're simply swaying—but Yor doesn’t seem to mind deviating from her original purpose.
“Thank you, Loid. For all of this,” she says, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her.
Loid’s breath hitches at her voice, too incredibly genuine to ignore.
“You didn’t need to do any of this for me. You’ve never needed to. And yet, you did. You do,” she says. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you. And Anya.”
He gets the feeling that there are other words left unsaid that she’s trying to tell him anyway.
He takes a moment to look around him—and he sees a scene he still feels entirely unused to and undeserving of. The curtains are drawn, and the golden rays of the sun bathe the living room in a warm, comforting glow. The aroma of freshly made tea permeates the air around him. The checkered blanket is draped over the armchair, a reminder of all the evenings spent together as a family, watching cartoons, reading Spy Wars, or watching new movies with steaming hot cocoa and gooey chocolate chip cookies in hand.
And so, Loid attempts to convey some unsaid words of his own in turn. “You helped make this a house into a home. For me, for Anya, for all of us. That will always be more than enough.”
Yor hums into his chest. He’s not even sure if she heard him, but he doesn’t really mind.
Suddenly, the front door bursts open.
Loid and Yor split apart, and his stomach twinges at the loss of contact.
Anya runs into the living room, haphazardly throwing her backpack onto the sofa. “I’m hooooome!”
She skids to a stop once she reaches them. She swings her head around, looks at the empty teacups on the counter that they were supposed to have filled up and finished a long time ago, at the record player that’s still playing music.
She grins. “Ooh, were Mama and Papa dancing?” she asks, her face bright and hopeful. “I wanna dance too!”
Yor catches her into her arms and tickles her gently. “Welcome back, Anya! How was school?”
Through breathless giggles, Anya says, “I can’t tell you anything while you’re tickling me, Mama!” She squirms, but the wide grin doesn’t leave her face. “Stoooooop!”
Yor laughs, finally releasing Anya from her torrent of tickles, putting her down and taking her into the kitchen where she can presumably prepare their daughter some afternoon snacks.
It hits Loid with the force of a freight train, the realization that he doesn’t return to the Forger house every night. He returns home . It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s the first time he’s been able to put something like it into words anyway.
After all, if Loid can convince Twilight himself, then surely nobody else stands a chance. The perfect husband and ideal father must be doing something right.
A home, indeed .