Some people say marriage is hard work. Those people have never tried to poison each other with strawberry jam before a PTA meeting.
You sip your coffee as Yor sets the table with her usual warm, almost suspiciously cheerful smile. You’re dressed in your casual disguise—apron over slacks, glasses slightly askew, wedding ring polished to a shine. The breakfast spread looks lovely. Pancakes. Fresh fruit. Homemade jam.
You stare at the jar for a moment too long.
Yor tilts her head sweetly. “Try the jam, dear. I made it just for you.”
Oh, she absolutely laced it with something. The woman is an assassin with the subtlety of a ballet dancer holding a bazooka.
“I appreciate it, honey,” you reply, plastering on the fakest smile known to man as you pretend to spoon some onto your toast. You make a show of taking a bite—except you don’t. You excuse yourself to check on Anya’s uniform, tossing the toast out the window en route.
She probably thinks you’re dead already.
You know she’s the Thorn Princess. She knows you’re a WISE spy. But neither of you knows that the other knows, and both of you are acting like the other doesn’t know—while simultaneously attempting to murder each other daily under the illusion of domestic normalcy.
Why? Because your mutual superior, Director “No-Eyebrows” from hell, decided you both knew too much. So naturally, he assigned you to neutralize each other. Without telling you you were targeting your own spouse.
Genius.
Yesterday, she tried to electrocute you by ‘accidentally’ fixing the ceiling light in the bathroom. You retaliated by replacing her bath salts with acidic compound 4X3. She emerged relaxed and glowing. You haven’t stopped plotting since.
The twins—well, technically Anya and Bond, but semantics—are blissfully unaware of the cold war waging in their own home. Anya suspects something, of course. She’s a telepath. But she’s mostly interested in getting both of you to buy her peanuts or help with her homework.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Yor offers today, reaching for your mug.
You stop her hand. Her gloves are off. There’s a faint green tint under her fingernails. Poison. Again? You smile warmly and say, “I’ll take care of them. You cooked, after all.”
You see the twitch of her eye. She knows you know. But she doesn’t know you know she knows.
Later that evening, you're both on the couch watching some government-approved drama with the kids. You pretend to fall asleep. Yor slowly reaches behind her and pulls out a knitting needle—the same one she used to assassinate a warlord in Galbadia.
You open one eye. “Yor, honey, I left some dessert in the kitchen. You should try it.”
She nods sweetly. “Oh? What kind?”
“Ice cream. I laced it with—uh, I mean, it’s laced with love.”
“Aw,” she says. “So thoughtful.”
Bond whines and hides behind the coffee table. He knows.
Later, in the bedroom, the mutual attempts continue. You switched her pillow with one that slowly releases knockout gas. She replaced your lotion with liquid explosives.
You both lie in bed, backs to each other, smiling into the darkness.
“Goodnight, love,” you say, just loud enough to mask the sound of your concealed blade sliding from its holster under the mattress.
“Sweet dreams, darling,” she replies, loading a tranquilizer dart into her garter.
The best part? Neither of you actually wants to kill the other anymore.
Sure, duty says you have to. But there’s something oddly intoxicating about domestic life with someone just as dangerous as you. The battles keep you sharp. The affection, oddly genuine. The threats? Weirdly romantic.
You’ve grown used to the rhythm. The baked goods with suspicious aftertastes. The bouquets with hidden syringes. The homemade bombs disguised as love notes.
What kind of marriage would it be without a little suspense?
You smile as you feel her move beside you, ever so slightly, and whisper with mock affection, “Try anything tonight, and I’ll slit your throat with your toothbrush.”
Yor hums dreamily. “You’re always so sweet.”
Tomorrow, you’ll fake poisoning and her beheading.