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There is laughter coming from inside his apartment. With lead in his bones and a held yawn in his lungs, he stands there by the door, listening to the different voices. The ones tinny and crackly: the television. The small, bubbly one: his daughter. The delighted tinkle of bells: his wife.
And a man’s voice, familiar and strange at the same time, saying some nonsense that’s quickly drowned by more laughter.
He doesn’t remember his family ever laughing like this, with him.
His daughter shrieks; he snaps into action. Drops his suitcase and bursts through the door with a hand in his jacket, gripping his pistol as he comes face-to-face with—
“Papa!”
“Loidman!”
Anya hops off from Franky’s lap, running until she collides with Loid’s leg. “Papa, welcome home!”
Loid releases his gun and bends down, scooping his daughter up, checking her all around as she squirms in his arms. “Are you alright?” he asks, all traces of exhaustion gone from him. “I heard you scream.”
Anya stops wriggling and looks at him solemnly. “It’s just Unkie Scruffy, Papa,” she says, very slowly like that one time she tried teaching Bond how to count, so she didn’t have to do her homework herself. “He was tickling Anya.”
“Oh,” he says lamely. Adrenaline drains from his system, all in one go. He puts Anya back down and takes a step outside the door to pick his suitcase up, but Yor comes up to him, gently peeling his fingers off the handle.
“Let me,” she says, smiling so warmly he cannot help but smile back. “Welcome home, Loid.”
“I’m home,” he says. He’s used to saying it, at this point. It’s become a reflex, a thoughtless thing. Some days, he even believes it.
From in front of the TV, Franky raises a hand. “Yo,” he says, and nothing else, but his eyebrow is raised in a way that tells Twilight that they’ll have to have a talk to straighten up whatever just happened now.
“Hey,” Loid replies, trying not to show how prickly his skin feels. “I didn’t know you would be here.”
“Ah, that’s my fault,” Yor pipes up. “I had something come up at work, and so I called Franky to help watch Anya for a bit. Thankfully, he didn’t mind the short notice.”
“Don’t mention it,” Franky says, exchanging smiles with Yor. He actually sounds earnest, though he ruins it quickly by saying, “Your husband will foot the bill. Won’t you, Loid?”
“Tomorrow. I don’t have much cash on me right now.” His fingertips are cold, twitchy. The sleep deprivation, he thinks. The mission had taken only three days, but felt much longer. He could’ve taken another night at the safe house to recover before going home, except he’d wanted—
Well. Wants are silly things, anyways.
“S’fine,” Franky says around a yawn. “Yor fed me dinner, you can count that as down payment.”
All of a sudden, Loid keenly feels how empty his stomach is. “Oh?” he says, keeping a tone of mild interest. “What did you cook?”
“My mother’s stew,” Yor replies. “But—I’m so sorry, Loid, I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow and I hadn’t gone grocery shopping, so I made just enough for the three of us, and—well—”
“Yor,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m not hungry, anyway.”
Yor gives him a little apologetic smile. “Can I make you something to drink, at least? Tea, coffee?”
Coffee would be terrible on an empty stomach, and he’d have even more trouble sleeping than usual. He opens his mouth, ready to refuse her, but then notices the way Franky is watching him.
Loid plasters on an indulgent smile on his face. “Coffee sounds lovely.”
“Alright, then. Will you have one too, Franky?” Yor asks.
Franky takes one glance at Twilight’s face, then shakes his head. “Nah, I know when I’m overstaying my welcome. Night, Yor. Kid.”
“Bye, Unkie.”
Franky indulgently ruffles Anya’s hair one last time before leveling a look at Loid. “Don’t forget my money,” he says, a final parting shot before he closes the door behind him.
“Papa,” Anya says reproachfully. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m never silly,” he says, scooping his daughter up and carrying her to the sofa. He sets her down on her usual spot before sitting down on his armchair. Spy Wars is just beginning to air. Soon enough, her attention is stolen by whatever adventure Bondman is going through tonight.
Twilight leans back, head tipped upwards. None of the sheer panic from earlier remains in his body, but he’s not quite back to normal, either. He is familiar with exhaustion; he knows what it is like to be thoroughly drained. But this hangnail of a feeling at the edge of his mind, well. He’s not sure what to make of it, except what he always does with a hangnail, though ill-advised: he picks on it.
“Loid? Are you alright?”
Yor. He opens his eyes—when did he close them?—and meets her concerned gaze. He affects an easy smile for her benefit. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”
The furrow between her brow deepens. She holds his usual mug in her hands, but does not give it to him. “Maybe it would be better for you to go to bed early.”
His stomach churns. Hunger pangs, he thinks. He has some crackers stowed away in his room. They’ll do.
“Yeah,” he finally says, heaving himself up. “I suppose you’re right. Sorry for the coffee.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“It’s your coffee.” He has had coffee during the mission, yes, but not like how Yor makes it: warm and sweet and milky. Such luxuries were beyond WISE’s safe house pantry. He had to make do with stale, bitter brews.
“Oh, well.” Her cheek grows carnation-pink. He swallows down the urge to press his lips to where the color is highest. She wouldn’t welcome it. Even now, she grows increasingly uncomfortable where she stands, clutching his mug of coffee between her two palms.
He wonders: will she drink it in his stead? Touch her rosy lips to the rim, where he usually takes his sip?
He’s losing it, he notes clinically. Maybe he should check the DSM and see what sort of mental ailment he has. For now, though, he is content watching her blush prettily under his gaze.
“I’ll make a fresh cup for you tomorrow morning,” she eventually says. “As usual.”
“I’d love that.” As usual. Has he become so shackled to routine? A terrible affliction, for a spy. The smile on his lips does not waver. “Well, good night.”
His wife and daughter bid him good night.
He goes to his room.
He eats his dry crackers.
He does not sleep.
“You look even more shit than yesterday,” Franky says by way of greeting.
“Thanks,” Twilight says crisply. Sighing, he leans his hip on the newspaper stand’s counter and slides a thick envelope Franky’s way.
“We going to talk about—”
“No.”
“You sure? Cause you almost shot me.”
Twilight ignores the jab. They both know he has better trigger discipline than that. “I have another job for you,” he says instead, sliding a second envelope across the counter. “Next week.”
“If this is another job where I’m likely to get shot, I’m not interested.”
“You’re always likely to get shot,” Twilight says, because it’s true. The nature of their work is such that they can never sleep with both eyes closed.
“Shut up, you know what I mean.” Franky takes the envelope, peering at the wad of bills within. “Babysitting again?”
“A bit more than that. I’ve got another three-day mission and I don’t want Yor to overwork herself. I need you to help her with chores and with Anya, mornings and evenings. That amount should be enough.”
Franky stares at the money. Pushes up his glasses. Stares at the money some more. “You want me… to be your housekeeper?”
“Problem?”
“You know with this kind of money, you can just hire one for ten years? A great one, too. One who knows how to fold napkins real fancy, even.”
“I don’t trust them,” Twilight says, which is close enough to the truth. “Are you taking the money?”
Franky stows the money in his inner jacket pocket, scowling. “Fuck off,” he says, though it’s without heat.
“Nice doing business with you.”
It hadn’t exactly been a lie, when Twilight had told his informant that he had another three-day mission coming up. He’d just omitted the part where he’d designed, greenlit, and assigned the mission for himself.
It’s just a simple recon mission, really. The only reason he needs three days to execute it is that he considers consistency an important variable to measure, and he is nothing if not thorough. So he sets up the listening devices, finds himself a room with a view, ensures the occupants of the room would be out during the three days he needed—an all-expenses paid trip to Hugaria did the trick—and sets up camp, ready to observe and take notes and assess.
That the thing he is observing, taking notes on, and assessing is his own family is not really his informant’s concern, specifically at this stage of the operation. It’s far too early to draw conclusions, he reminds himself. All he has going at this point is a hypothesis that’s more like a hunch, a bruise of a thought he cannot stop himself from pressing tenderly.
The horizon shimmers gold. It is time. He puts his headset on and presses his binoculars to the bridge of his nose, peering at the apartment across the street. The curtains are still closed. He doesn’t need to glance at his wristwatch to know that that will soon change. Yor doesn’t wake up as early as him, but she is still an early riser.
True enough, the click of her door in his ears. It sounds nearby. Intimate. Less like he’s in the room with her and more like he is pressing his ear right against the wood. This piece of tech is a prototype from Franky. Smaller than ever. Clearer than ever. He can hear the sweet yawn from his wife’s mouth. He cannot hear her footsteps, but that does not surprise him.
The curtain draws back; his living room comes into view. Yor is in her rumpled nightgown, the one with a bow on the collar. It hangs askew, half-unraveled. He flexes his fingers.
Yor slides open the door to the balcony and steps out. She tips her head back, closing her eyes. Enjoying the morning air, he thinks, but then her eyes open and they are narrow, mere slits with a gleam of red where the low sunlight catches them.
He holds himself very, very still.
“Hello?” she says, to no one in particular.
He drops to the floor, twisting his body until his back is against the wall. He should’ve expected this. Had she not noticed him covertly watching her, on their first meeting? He had thought her alertness endearing. A good trait to have as a mother. He still hasn’t changed his mind—she is an excellent mother—but.
He had a mission to run.
Closing his eyes, he turns the volume dial on his receiver until he can hear every single crackle of static, then waits for the moment Yor returns inside.
“Hello?” she asks again. “Is anyone there?”
She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves a quiet, unobserved life. She deserves peace and security. She deserves a husband who is there with her in the morning, instead of watching her from across the street.
The bell buzzes. A moment later, the slide of the balcony door, then click-click of her unlocking and opening the front door. And then, warm as honeyed tea, “Good morning, Franky.”
“Morning, Yor. Loidman’s left?”
“Last night, yes. He took the overnight train.”
Franky makes a sort of disapproving noise. “He’s been busy lately.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I told him you’ve got your own work and I can manage on my own fine, but he said—oh, it’s not that I’m ungrateful! I just mean…”
A pause, in which Twilight imagines his wife shifting her weight from one foot to another. He cannot see. He doesn’t dare.
Eventually, she says, “Thank you. For helping out.”
“C’mon, it’s nothing. It’s just a few days, and besides, it’s his money.” A few more footsteps. The fridge door opening and closing. “You go ahead and get ready for work. I’ll fix us some breakfast, and then wake the kid up.”
“Thanks,” Yor says again, and that’s that.
Twilight waits until he hears Yor shutting the bathroom door behind her before pushing himself back up and positioning himself by the window again. There he sees Franky by the kitchen counter, making eggs and toasting bread and doing a decent job overall. He accidentally breaks the yolk on the sunny-side up, yes, and he toasts the bread a little bit too dark for Anya’s usual taste, but he also looks… normal. A civilian living a perfectly mundane life instead of a spy playing house.
Franky has always been like that. Affable, funny, and—if Twilight doesn’t know better—seemingly unsuitable for any kind of shady dealings. Or rather, he has managed to keep his humanity despite the shady dealings he’s involved in. Even now, when talking to Yor, he looked more like a civilian than most WISE agents could muster.
Done with the egg and toast, Franky takes out two mugs and goes to open the cabinet where the coffee is kept.
Then, he freezes in place. “What the hell, man,” he mutters as he grabs the coffee jar. When he closes the cabinet door, he does it a little more forcefully than necessary, sending a ringing thump through Twilight’s earpiece.
Right. So he’s found one of the bugs, then.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Franky says, just loud enough for the exceptionally good listening device to pick it up over the trickling sound of water poured into the mugs, “and I agreed to do three days of this, so I’ll do it—but we’ll talk, after.”
Franky doesn’t wait for a response. He marches toward the balcony, eyes searching. Twilight is sure he hasn’t been spotted, but that doesn’t stop Franky from making a rude hand gesture in his general direction before going back inside.
And then, Franky carries on. He sets the table. Herds a sleepy Anya from her room to the dining table, greets Yor when she emerges from her room, has breakfast with the two of them. At some point, Franky casually slides his hand along the edge of the dining table and taps at the listening device Twilight’s put there, too.
That makes two.
Right after that, he asks, “Say, Yor, do you think Loid’s going to come home early again this time?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replies. “It’s not that I’m unhappy when he comes home early, but… he always looks so tired, sometimes I wish he’d taken the extra night to rest.”
“Think he’s just eager to come home to you both.”
“No! No, I—that is, I’m sure he’s eager to come home, and of course he must miss Anya a lot, but I’m not—he and I—you know, Franky.”
Franky raises a hand in apology. “Right. My bad.”
“No, it’s alright,” Yor says. “More coffee?”
Twilight can’t tear his eyes away from the scene. He watches as Yor picks Franky’s mug up and goes to the kitchen to fix them both more coffee. She doesn’t ask him how much sugar or milk he takes. He hums happily when he sips from the fresh cup she’s made him. They make casual small talk. Yor asks after a cat named Kopi, and Franky says the cat’s doing fine as far as he knows. Loid remembers: Yor had come home one day and told him all about the adventure she’d had trying to retrieve a cat with Franky. She’d been flushed and happy and all smiles. She’d said, “I always wondered what it’s like to have cats.”
“Ever thought of adopting a cat yourself, Yor?” Franky asks in the here and now.
Twilight lowers his binoculars, sits back down on the floor with his back to the wall, and listens as his wife talks cheerfully about how she’s always liked cats, as his daughter starts meowing at the dog, as the dog barks at her fondly, as they laugh and laugh and laugh.
Franky finds the third and final bug in the evening, over dinner with Yor and Anya. He’s excused himself to use the bathroom, stops somewhere on the corridor, and says, “You fucker. You know that’s too high for me to reach.”
Twilight has, in fact, placed the listening device on the top left corner of Anya’s door frame. He’d thought it would take the longest for Franky to find. It didn’t even last the day.
Good. He needs Franky to be sharp, to trust him properly.
Not that Twilight is entirely happy with Franky’s performance. There are certain things Loid Forger would never do that Franky would. Loid would be stricter with Anya’s sugar intake. Loid would not leave the TV on over dinner. Loid would clean Bond’s litter tray a little bit more often. Loid would draw Yor a hot bath as soon as she comes home. Loid would be perfect.
Loid is also not real. He’s a construction of Agent Twilight, tailor-made for a mission. He doesn’t actually know what real fatherhood is. All of his warmth to his wife is manufactured, assembled out of the many things he’s learned over numerous honeypot assignments. He has lied to them again and again, and he will do so however many times he has to.
This, too—the fake assignment, the bugs planted in his house, the information-gathering—he does because he has to.
And because he has to, he watches his family have dinner together with the informant he’s paid to watch over them.
Yor picks at her food, a frown knitting her brows together.
“Something wrong, Yor?” Franky asks.
“It’s probably nothing,” she begins, then pauses. Sets down her cutlery. “Franky, have you ever felt like you’re being watched?”
“Uh.” Franky leans back on his chair in a transparent attempt to appear relaxed. “Nah. Why?”
Yor forces a smile at him. “It’s probably nothing,” she repeats. “More chicken, Anya?”
From across the street, Twilight presses a hand to his twisting, knotting stomach. Next to him, his deli sandwich lies untouched.
Twilight learns more in the following days. He learns that Anya actually makes the least mistakes on her homework when Franky teaches her, compared to when Loid or Yor does. Twilight learns that Yor stutters less around Franky than around him. Twilight learns that the house is still spotless despite Franky’s mediocre cleaning skills, that the family still eats relatively nutritious food if not restaurant-grade, that everything goes exactly as they always do. Breakfast in the morning, getting everyone ready for school and work, an afternoon walk for Bond, dinner in the evening, homework time for Anya, and finally an episode of Spy Wars before bedtime. No chore goes undone; no real slack is perceptible. The house is lively still. More, even. Franky always knows what to say, always has a joke ready to make everyone laugh. On the third afternoon, they all go to the park and Franky brings with himself a mini-rocket that gets Anya ooh-ing and aah-ing. They launch it together; it leaves a bright cotton-candy pink smoke in its wake, covering all of them in pinkish dust. Anya declares the launch to be a national holiday—and please, pretty please, can they have cake for dinner to celebrate it?
They can, Yor says, and so they go and buy a whole chocolate-and-peanut cake for dinner. They crowd around the kitchen counter; Yor cuts a slice for Anya, then a much bigger slice for Franky. He thanks her, then taunts Anya over how much bigger his slice is. Anya wrinkles her nose and says she eats this cake every week—which is at best an exaggeration, Loid would never be so loose with her sugar intake like that—so Unkie Scruffy can have his big slice and shut up, thanks. Then, to her mother Anya says, save a slice for Papa, but Yor’s already done so, placing a generous slice into a container, then placing the container in the fridge.
Loid has never been partial to cakes. He’ll eat them, just as he will eat most anything, but he cannot say he has a sweet tooth.
And yet.
He can almost taste the cake, its sweet frosting melting in his mouth, the crunch of toasted peanuts scattered over it, the give of the moist, decadent sponge. He doesn’t crave. He doesn’t let himself. He has spent half his life burying his wants, smothering his urges. A good spy is not a person. A good spy watches and acts as is appropriate.
A good spy doesn’t salivate over a goddamn slice of cake.
Twilight runs his hand over his face. He’s lost his edge, if three days of recon takes this much out of him. Focus. He repositions his binoculars, leaning forward on the windowsill. His wife is picking cutlery for the table setting, humming a tune under her breath. He can hear it as if she is right there, leaning her chin on his shoulder.
And then, all of a sudden, the sound of her humming stops. Her gaze is fixed straight forward.
Right out the balcony, across the street, and at him.
He flees. He doesn’t even think. Hiding isn’t an option anymore; he has been spotted, and it doesn’t matter that he’s been wearing a mask since that first morning Yor sensed his presence. If she gets him, it’s over. He just knows it, in the pit of his stomach.
So, he runs out of the borrowed apartment. He sprints down the stairs. He weaves his way through dark alleyways until that prickling at the back of his neck vanishes, and then he runs a little bit more.
He finds himself in front of a different apartment that’s not his. Briefly, he considers picking the lock, but then thinks better of himself. Instead, he leans his back on the wall next to the door, slides down to the floor, and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Franky heaves out a long, beleaguered sigh. “Can’t it wait?” he says, kicking Twilight’s shin weakly.
Twilight looks up. “Yeah. Sorry.” He pushes himself to his feet. Steps away from Franky’s front door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Actually,” Franky interjects. He grimaces to himself. “I’ve been developing something I want you to test.”
He unlocks the door, steps back from the chalkboard eraser falling down from the ceiling, takes one step in, then presses a combination of numbers into a panel next to the lightswitch.
“Okay. You can come in now. Mind your steps.”
Twilight does. They go through a few more doors; Franky disarms a few more traps. Most of them are silly, but some—like the acid sprayer hidden in the seam of the wall—can be quite nasty. At the look Twilight gives him, Franky says, “If you didn’t have to play civilian, you’d want one too.”
Twilight scoffs. “If I didn’t have to play civilian, I wouldn’t stay anywhere long enough that I would have time to install this many traps.”
They stop in front of a steel door. Franky extracts a perfectly ordinary key from inside his jacket, but when he sticks it in the keyhole, he turns it counter-clockwise for thirty degrees first, then clockwise. The door swings open. Franky gestures at Twilight to come into his apartment, where—except for the various spare parts and half-assembled contraptions cluttering every surface—everything looks perfectly normal. There’s a sunken sofa in the middle, with a scuffed coffee table in front of it and a TV pressed against the opposite wall. The fluorescent light overhead flickers, sometimes. The radiator hums from the far corner of the room.
When the door closes behind them, the informant says, “Took me almost five years to build this place, you know. And it needs constant maintenance to make sure everything still works.”
“I know,” Twilight says. “I wasn’t insulting you.”
Franky wrinkles his nose. “Whatever. Here.” He tosses the three bugs Twilight had installed around his own apartment. “I had to use a chair to get that last one. Hope you’re happy.”
“You didn’t have to take them with you,” Twilight points out.
“Nah. Yor already thinks someone’s watching her—you’re welcome, by the way, I had to calm her down a bit earlier. Anyway, I can’t risk her finding these, too. So.” Throwing himself onto the sofa and stretching his legs onto the coffee table, Franky gives Twilight a look. “Care to explain yourself?”
“You said you wanted me to test something for you.”
Franky rolls his eyes as he pushes himself up. “Fine. Sit down.” He vanishes behind a doorway with beaded curtains, then returns with a bottle of something murky and two shot glasses.
“You’re making moonshine now?”
Franky shrugs. “There’s a market for these things.” He fills both shot glasses, then nudges one toward Twilight.
Twilight raises an eyebrow, but drinks anyway. It burns unpleasantly on the way down, leaving behind an almost metallic, rather bitter aftertaste. He pushes the glass away from him. “That’s disgusting.”
Franky chortles. “Another?” he asks, already refilling the glass.
Twilight knows he probably shouldn’t, for any number of reasons. Besides, it’s not like he can get drunk.
But then again… he can’t get drunk, so what’s the harm?
“Why not,” he says, and throws back the second shot.
He knows he’s well and truly drunk when he realizes that he’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had. Seven? Eight? The bottle is almost empty, and Franky’s had—his glass is full. Had he drunk at all?
“You poisoned me,” he says, pointing a wobbly finger at Franky. The room feels like it’s spinning, but he knows it’s objectively impossible. He’s the one swaying on the spot.
“Calm down,” Franky says, pushing his finger aside. “It’s just booze, man.”
“I shouldn’t—” Twilight pauses, swallowing. His speech is slurring. How embarrassing. “I shouldn’t be able to get drunk at all.”
“I know, that’s why I asked you to test this. Normal people would need to have their stomach pumped by now.” Franky peers at him, grimacing. “Do you need to throw up?”
“No.” Twilight would rather die first before he had to throw up in front of Franky Franklin.
“More?”
He considers it for a moment, then very gingerly says, “No.”
“Cool.” Franky flips open a notebook and starts scribbling on it. “This is useful data, by the way, so thanks.”
Twilight grunts in response.
“Don’t make that face. You should thank me, you know. Bet you can’t remember when the last time you got wasted was.”
He does. It was at the war, the day he was reunited with his friends. They were to be deployed the next morning; he was still on medical leave. They’d pooled what little money they had to buy two bottles of whiskey, and—no. He will not think more of that day. The boy they’d all called Advisor is dead now, anyway. Dead, along with all the other men he’d once been.
“I have to talk to you about something,” Twilight says. It’s hard to focus, but somehow easier to speak. The words that had been stuck in his throat in the past week or so have now been shaken loose, waiting to slide right off his tongue. “About… my family.”
Saying that feels right. His family. His. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have something that doesn’t fit in a shoebox to call his own. He hasn’t forgotten that like everything else he’d once had, he would have to let it go someday.
Franky watches him warily. “What is it?”
“When my mission is over,” he says, slowly so he doesn’t trip over his own words, “I’ll have to go to ground. Loid Forger will probably have to die.”
“Hey, man, what are you—”
“Listen. Just—listen.”
Franky shuts up.
Twilight continues, “When the time comes… I want you to take care of them.”
“What.”
“I’ve been observing you for the past three days. Your cooking skills are mediocre, you’re only halfway decent at cleaning, and you give Anya too much sugar, but—”
“Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“But, you’re good with them. You’ll do.”
Franky blinks owlishly at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I’ll do,” he says eventually.
“Yeah. I’ll leave you written instructions—ow!” Twilight scowls at Franky, who has just smacked the back of his head. “What the hell?”
“I should be saying that to you,” Franky snaps as he gingerly cradles his hand. “I don’t want your sloppy seconds, thanks.”
Indignation rises hot and full in Twilight’s chest as his hands curl up into fists. “Don’t you dare call them sloppy.”
“Right. Sorry, poor choice of words.” Franky raises both hands placatingly. “But what I mean is—you do realize I’m not trying to steal your family from you? I mean, what the fuck are you on about, anyway?”
Twilight reaches for the bottle; Franky jerks it away from his reach. Sighing in defeat, he leans back on the sofa, trying to parse sentences through the fog in his mind.
Eventually, he says, “They’re not really my family. It’s just for the mission, you know that.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“But they’re good. Anya’s a good kid. Yor’s a good woman. They deserve better than a pretend father and husband. And you’re… also good.” Good and smart. That’s Franky. Even back then at the war, when the both of them were still green, he had known better than Roland had. Franky had refused to fight, had seen through all the ruse and propaganda. “You’ve put down roots here. You’ve made a space for yourself where you’re not beholden to anyone but yourself. You’re also good with Anya, and Yor—” He pauses. Tips his head back. Closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yor’s more comfortable being around you than she is around me.”
Franky doesn’t say a word.
Twilight continues, “I’m not good enough for them, but you can be. And you won’t have to leave them. You can be the father Anya actually needs. And a good husband for Yor, too. Someone she actually likes.”
“Hey,” Franky says.
“What?”
“My turn to talk, so pay attention.”
Twilight sits up. Tries to focus his eyes on the topsy-turvy Franky in front of him. “Go on.”
“First of all, I’m not going to address the whole thing you told me about Yor. If you can’t figure that one out yourself, you don’t deserve to know.”
“What—”
“My turn to talk, I said. Shut up.”
Twilight shuts up.
Franky continues. “Second of all, families don’t just trade spare parts like that. You ever considered getting a replacement mom and dad because you lost yours? Yeah, me neither. For the record, Anya likes me because I’m the cool uncle who feeds her sugar and lets her watch TV instead of do her homework, not because she wants me as her dad. And third of all—” He heaves a long, long sigh. “Just go home, man. And don’t say one of your cool lines like I don’t have a home because you do, and you’ve been spying on it instead of actually being there. Go home, tell your family you love them, and sleep this whole thing off.”
“I don’t love them.”
“Bull. Shit. If you just ‘cared’ about them, you’d set up a good life insurance in Loid Forger’s name and leave it at that. Son—”
“You’re three years older than me at most—”
“Son, you love your wife and kid. Own it. Don’t make me smack you again.”
“You just don’t want to hurt your hand,” Twilight says.
“Yeah. Your skull is really fucking thick.” Franky pushes himself up, barely swaying on his feet. His glass is still full, untouched. “Go home, Loid,” he says, extending a hand.
Twilight stares at the hand.
Franky wiggles his fingers. “Come on, bro.”
Twilight takes the hand—Franky’s grip is surprisingly more firm than he’d expected—and stands up, letting go only after he’s sure he won’t fall. The floor tilts under his feet, but he thinks he’ll manage. “Thanks,” he says.
“Eh. What are friends for.”
Any other day, and he would deny it. I don’t have friends, he would say, because the ideal spy doesn’t get attached. He thinks it’s a little late to pretend he’s anything close to the ideal spy, today.
So instead, he says, “I’ll pay you the rest of the fee tomorrow,” and stumbles out of Franky’s door.
When Loid staggers through the door, it is to the sight of Yor picking up a sleeping Anya from the sofa. She jerks her head up warily, eyes narrow and sharp until she registers him. “Oh!” she says, smiling at him so sweetly, his chest aches. “Welcome home, Loid.”
He goes to his girls, one unsteady step at a time, unsure of what, exactly, he would do once he reaches them. But he does—it’s not a big apartment, theirs—and he’s swaying on his feet, and the decision is made for him as Yor’s free arm shoots out to pull him in by his waist until he’s pressed to her side.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, resting his head on her shoulder, opening his arms to wrap her and Anya in an embrace. He opens his mouth, the words ready on his tongue: I love you. I love you. I love you. But he’d walked through the cool evening air for an hour before he got home, and the effects of Franky’s moonshine have worn off, and once again he finds his mouth full of glue. And so, he says, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Being away.”
“You couldn’t help it,” Yor says. “You had work. Ah—did your trip go well, by the way?”
He laughs. “No.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Loid. Is that why you went drinking?”
“Mm.” He squeezes Yor tighter against him. “Can we stay like this for a little while?”
“What—oh! Oh, sorry, I—” Her speech bubbles away into incomprehensible stammers as she squirms in his arms, red-faced.
He loosens his grip a little; she relaxes, but doesn’t step away. Instead, she looks up at him, watches him with her bright, wide eyes.
And she says, helplessly, “Loid?”
“Yes?”
She opens her mouth, then frowns, then goes a little redder. Eventually, she says, “I… have to put Anya to bed.”
“Muh?” Anya says, hearing her name. She lifts her head from Yor’s shoulder—a patch of drool wets her shirt—and swivels it until she sees Loid. “Papa’s home?”
“Yes,” Loid says. He leans in, pressing a kiss on the crown of his daughter’s head as he holds his blushing wife close. Closing his eyes, he lets himself feel them, the proximity of their bodies, the smell of Anya’s strawberry shampoo and the softness of Yor’s shirt against his palm. He doesn’t deserve them, but here he is anyway, and here they are with him.
And so finally, he tells them the truth, as frankly as he can manage at the moment:
“I’m home.”