Archive of Our Own ^beta

The setting is the warmth of the sun returning to its slumber, late afternoon rays filtering through slotted blinds. It’s the murmur of an old radio and the fizzy-pop static of the muffled song. It’s Loid sitting in near silence, eyes glazed over the psych-files-disguising-tomorrow’s-assignment. He flicks the remote and the silence is complete. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander.

He clocks her three rooms away. She’s vacuuming Anya’s bedroom. A pity that thing is so old – she always hums a little song while she works. Something sweet and foreign, something that has his stomach doing a somersault.

He’s not stupid. He knows why.

Yor’s not the first he’s fancied. She certainly won’t be the last. As a spy, he’s accepted the inconvenience of feelings so long as his mission takes priority. If he can conquer these desires and move beyond them, there’s no reason of concern. He is a steel sword – strong and firm against threats faced in this country. Whether they be abstract and political in nature or—

The vacuum overtakes his thoughts and overcrowds his senses with dust and dirt chasing lavender.

“Loid-san?”

The whirring motor ceases, opening the floodgates of Loid’s mind. His brain snags on her eyes -- twin rubies batting their impossibly long lashes. A small smile graces her lips, “Working hard?”

His gaze tracks to her slender arm, the vacuum cord winding tightly around her elbow, against the sharp curve of her waist. He catches himself staring and coughs, “Not as hard as you do. Anything I can help with?”

“You do so much already for us Loid – this is the least I can do,” She rolls the vacuum to the corner, picking up a small pink hoodie, “Did you get started on the laundry? I can help with that as well.”

A single, black tendril frames her face, free from its ponytailed prison. It distracts him, he thinks lamely. It’s the only thing that distracts him.

Nothing else.

He hides behind his hand and loud sigh, “No. We don’t have enough to warrant another load.” The domesticity makes him cringe. This isn’t playing house – these bills are paid for by WISE. Considering how much they run him ragged, they could stand to pay a little extra. A doting husband fretting water bills he is not – and has no need to be.

“Is there anything else we need to do? Miss Anya won’t be back tonight.” Last night, Anya had begged over the phone to extend the sleepover into Monday morning. She cited studying for exams with Becky, but Loid wasn’t born yesterday. Berlint in Love and Spy Wars Christmas specials both aired tonight. Potentially wasting study time? Bad. Anya getting closer to the Blackbell girl? Couldn’t hurt.

“It would be nice to take advantage of her absence.” The implication has his ears warming. Fortunately, Yor did not understand (or skipped over) the double entendre.

She chuckles, “She is quite the hurricane. It’s been so quiet without her.”

The silence has been unnerving, true. And it’s true Loid’s heart does a slight twinge walking into his room each night, peeking into the organized chaos that is Anya’s room. But, what Anya’s absence has also revealed was a tension. Thick and looming – a warmth coating the inside of his mouth. It’s the steam roiling from the furnace, radiator hissing. All it needs is an outlet.

They’ve been dancing around each other this entire weekend. Elbows knocking in too-small hallways, tilting each other off balance – like planets crossing into uncharted orbits, into something fuzzy and undeterminable. It blurs behind his eyes, swells in his chest like heartburn. He tastes bile and veers his train of thought from colliding with the truth.

The truth remains in that too-tender muscle.

His eyes refocus on the grandfather clock, “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

Her smile catches in his lungs, “Great! I can help with the chopping.”

He doesn’t need help, though appreciates it all the same. The pork roast proves annoying. It falls apart as he ties the kitchen twine. Sucking his teeth, he bastes more marinade than necessary and overloads the roasting pan with more veggies. He hopes his new, acidic marinade tenderizes and moisturizes the meat, stretching these leftovers over the next couple of days. He’ll be working long hours for a while – best to make sure his family is okay. He tosses that word around his head a little longer. Leisurely, like a baseball. And it is a baseball sized lump he swallows, soon forgotten as the premonitions of a cold.

The roast bakes in the oven and again the pair are left in their presence. Yor hunches over the sink, working furiously at a caked-on stain, wire on glass nicking tension like tiny papercuts. A barely-there distraction – just enough to keep his eyes from wandering. The paper’s pages distort, a headache knocking on his temples. Despite best efforts (or maybe just…efforts rather), his gaze tracks back to her, like everything else. This weight, this suffocation, this bow-tied ripcord across his neck. He’s losing control – losing focus – peering over a ledge he cannot fall over. Falling means a condemnation of a sort – jeopardizing his mission and therefore world peace.

It's what he tells himself. He is painfully deaf in the clamor of these feelings.

He fixates on a foreign envelope – one that he neglected yesterday, in a rush between real and fake identities. He examines it closer – elegant script, pale baby blue awash in snowflakes, familiar scarlet stamp and return address. “There’s a ball.”

By now, Yor has put the last of the dishware in the cabinet and is wiping down the counters with cloth. More locks of hair escape and she pushes them away as she asks, “Ball?”

The invitation is the same baby blue, with gold and silver glittering across the page. The details explain in delicate script, “Next Saturday – to celebrate the holiday season and end of term. It’s for the students and parents. It promises to be,” His eyes roll, “elegant.”

His mind switches gears, running through scenarios and opportunities like a well-oiled machine. This is what this mission has been culminating to. A gamechanger. Foreign dignitaries, political leadership, military contractors – some of the most powerful members of society all gathered in one spot, pliable with port wine and egg nosh. Such amazing potential to establish contacts and gather intel – even Damian’s elusive father may attend. An event like this is not to be wasted. He resolves to tell Handler on their meeting Tuesday to plan.

He twists up and out of his chair and Yor yelps. He frowns, “Yor, are you okay?”

She waves it away. Her face flushes, “I’m sorry Loid, I was just lost in thought. I’m,” She bites her lip, “Nervous.”

About the ball? “Think of it as a big party. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She bridges an arm across her midsection, fingers gripping well-worn fabric, “It’s not that, it’s…” Her hands hide her face, fire inflaming her ears, “I can’t dance.”

She says it like it’s a great shame, a burden so heavy her shoulders quiver. Loid is simply confused. That’s it? He chuckles, surprising Yor. She blinks.

Loid shakes his head, “Sorry, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She sighs, hand over chest, “Really? I thought it was something people learned in school.”

Maybe in this country, “I’m certain it’s not. I didn’t learn until well after university,” His eyes lock on hers, onto that tiny spark he’s been eager to avoid, “I can teach you.”

Yor’s cheeks flush scarlet. A dazzling smile and determination, “Yes!”

Loid turns his attention to the seldom-used turntable in the far corner. The thing is old, cheap and years outdated. Does it still work? He selects from a sparse collection – full of classical and jazz – and selects the most modern record. A personal favorite of his, though not necessarily the best for a simple waltz.

The sultry voice croons, the turntable holding surprisingly strong. Yor moves the furniture back and rolls the rug into the corner. Their stage is set.

Loid coughs around a lump in his throat. The air thickens, her ruby eyes focusing through the smoky haze. Smoky? A sweet, spicy smell wafts through his nose, cutting through her floral sent. Dinner roasts with anticipation, “Ready?”

Loid doesn’t wait for an answer. He presses their bodies together, Yor gasping. His hand grips hers solidly. His arm snakes around her waist. Leaning forward, he whispers, “We’ll start with a box step.”

Her legs hesitate, double-stepping forward and back, lagging side to side. She’s flustered – hot and frizzy. Sweat drips down her face. Her tongue licks her upper lip. She isn’t looking up – their heads occupy the same space but refuse acknowledgment.

His collar constricts in just the wrong way and he snaps without anger, “Yor!”

She straightens to attention. Her lips part without words. He leans in, stopping short – reeling in and breathing in – finding his center in her breath. She’s a toxin drumming his nerves, burning his brain numb. He wants to drown in it.

So he counts on beat.

He leads Yor through a basic waltz, rhythm finding itself in the final lyrics. Her movements are stiff, but she loosens with time. It becomes enjoyable – easy and fluid – like they’d been doing this their whole lives. Like this whole thing wasn’t a fantasy, a farce that’ll be broken the minute his mission is accomplished.

The music stops. Loid dips her and they freeze above the floor. As the singer holds the final note, the air stills to a pinprick between them. Fire and fission, a supernova on the verge of exploding – all Loid does is stare. He loses himself in blood – those blown-out eyes threaten to swallow him whole. His breath fans out along her cheeks, a drop of sweat tracing a tantalizing trail down his nose, down her chin and disappearing beyond the slim groves of her neck.  She doesn’t blink – doesn’t do anything but wait.

His chest still heaving, he pulls her to solid ground. Her hand doesn’t leave his chest. In fact, it crawls hesitantly, to his locked jaw. Her fingers graze his cheek. She contemplates him. Scared – a deer caught in headlights and waiting for the collision. And what a wonderful wreck it could be.  He could wipe her sweat with his tongue. Clean and ravish her at the same time. Hormones spiraling, his lizard brain threatens to cross the line.

Yor’s eyes drift to his mouth. Hesitant. Expecting.  

His savior screeches its warning.

“Fire!” She slurs loudly, a drunk pulling herself away and getting her bearings in danger. She races to the kitchen, Loid directly on her heels, toward the black smoke emitting from the oven.

“Shit” He curses, checking the roast. Not much char – the butter might have burned? Or the garlic? He can’t care much – his eyes flicking to Yor, down her body, around her neck and back to the roast – but cheeks the temperature regardless. Lucky them, dinner is ready.

He spends his time eating and not tasting, wrangling his self-control. He’s jittery and ready climb out of his skin and into hers because of course that’s the answer. Screw the mission screw the rules damn it all to hell.

That ledge becomes a chasm and beckons a great fall.

Yor spends the rest of the night twirling her hair, chewing her lip, and driving him insane.

It takes a seasoned spy to move beyond basal urges and even he is having trouble. Deep breaths, quiet TV, chores, and RSVPs. Wasted efforts to ignore an earthquake trembling underfoot – a seismic reorganization of the universe they’ve spent over 48 hours ignoring. Like all those run-ins were coincidences, not the magnetic pull crashing them together, daring them to break this uneasy thing into something more substantial.

Something frenzied. Something real.

It’s 22:00 hours – it’s time for bed. She hesitates at the door. He does the same. For the first time in hours, their gazes lock and fuse. The spark is an inferno. The fever breaks. He’s crowding her, surrendering to something hot and heavy and coarse. Avoiding that tender touch of lips – nipping and biting and groping -- consuming heat and friction without committing to wasteland and ash.

He stalks her – she stumbles back – into her room without blinking and locks the door with a click.