PAIRING: Hitman!Junhui x Spy!Reader
SUMMARY: You and Junhui have the perfect life together. Sure, you've failed to mention you're a spy for Clockwork and he never mentioned being a hitman for Protocol, but what couple doesn't lie? The lies work - until Junhui is tasked with killing you, his perfect wife who has secrets he never dreamed of.
TOTAL WC: 15,647
AU: 1920s Era, Action
GENRE: Established Relationship, Angst, Smut, Romance
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: General violence, fighting, action sequences, shootouts, illegal activities especially for the 1920s, attempted assassination between spouses, mild depictions of blood and gore and death, mild bullet wounds and stitching, a lot of internalized guilt and shame, both characters are lying to each other about the same thing, some angst throughout, explicit sexual content including oral (f. rec), unprotected vaginal sex, mild overstim, mild praise kink, vaginal fingering, lil bit possessive during sex, multiple orgasms, multiple positions... I think that mostly covers it.
AN: I am so excited to be releasing this today! I hope that Junhui's debut on my blog is as good as the people deserve and lives up to the hype! More Junhui to come soon, but for now, enjoy my Mr. and Mrs. Smith inspired world :) This is not beta-read sorry :/
A/N 2: This is for the Puttin' on the Ritz collab by @studiosvt and I could not be more honored to be apart of this project.
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | PUTTIN' ON THE RITZ COLLAB
JUNHUI ALWAYS SAYS YOU'RE A GOOD WIFE, BUT YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT. Junhui excuses a lot of your behavior though, because he is a good husband. He is everything a good husband ought to be - hard working, intelligent, kind, strong, and doting. Better even, is that he's not exactly a traditional husband, which might make the neighbors think he isn't a very good one. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't chastise you when you keep unexplainably strange hours and business travels, and he doesn't get mad at you.
Ever.
You know you're not a good wife. You're a decent cook and you cook meals as often as you can. You always send holiday cards to his coworkers. You make sure to pack him lunches. You kiss him when he goes to work. You sit through tutoring sessions with him, letting him think he's teaching you Mandarin. You show up for all of the neighbors party's on his arm, and you leave him to his hobbies without pestering him to clean up the house or do chores.
But you're a liar and good wives don't lie to their husbands.
Outside, the city that never sleeps is wide awake. The cab rattles up Fifth Avenue, the horn blaring as a Model T Ford roars past, the chrome reflecting under the glow of the streetlamps. Overhead, the skyline is filled with shadowy outlines of the buildings, the Woolworth Building tallest among them, watching over the city. Your eyes snag on a billboard for Lucky Strikes, bright and bold against the night sky.
Glancing at the slim watch on your wrist, you realize you're late again. Your business meeting had run long, and though Junhui thinks you were off in Brooklyn selling medical equipment, it's a far cry from your real job spent tangled in coded messages and back-alley assassinations for Clockwork.
Your agency demands perfection. Your husband does not, thank the Lord. He had agreed to meet you at the Harringtons' holiday party in their Upper East Side townhouse - probably because he expected you to be late - and he was probably fending off back-handed compliments and inquiries about where is your slippery wife?
Junhui wouldn't mind. He never did.
That was because he was the perfect husband. Your perfect husband that you lived with in your perfect home, a graceful brownstone on East 77th Street. It was a late-Victorian building made of warm brown sandstone, flanked by wrought-iron gates and a manicured front stoop. It was the perfect home inside and out, with parquet floors and walls paneled in dark walnut and decorated with the perfect art.
It was a perfect home for a perfect couple. You'd chosen it together three years ago, shortly after your wedding when Junhui's investments in radio stocks and automobile companies began paying well. He traveled nearly as often as you did - Chicago, China, Paris, London - but the house waited in its perfect little shadow.
Pretending to be perfect was a requirement. Junui didn't have to play the part, though. You did.
The taxi pulls up to the curb and you pay the driver with a crisp bill. The air has a chill bite to it when you step out, the faint scent of coal smoke drifting from nearby chimneys. Your heels click on the pavement as you hurry up the steps, the fur stole around your shoulders scratching against the silk of your dress as you go.
You briefly touch the necklace at your throat to ensure it's there - a gift from your husband when he had visited his parents in Shenzhen. You'd changed in a hurry at an agency safe house downtown, but you made sure to look every bit the part of a dutiful wife to a successful financier, including wearing the beautiful and often thoughtful gifts he showered you in.
As you reach the door, it opens. You startle when you see Junhui smiling at you, as though he had been waiting by the window for your arrival to time welcoming you just right. Which he had been. You'd seen his familiar silhouette on the second floor, but you hadn't expected him to beat you.
"There you are," he says softly, smiling.
He's dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket that pulls tight across his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with a wing collar underneath. The silk bow knotted at his throat is knotted with precision, but you reach up to tweak it anyway, just because you can.
Junhui's hair is slicked back, the lamps in the hallway turning his skin gold. Your heart skips a little as he escorts you inside, a strand of dark hair escaping his slick back to brush endearingly over his brows. You can't help but stare a little at his face - handsome and expressive, and a large part of the reason you'd noticed him at a gala five years ago.
A little flare of possessiveness goes through you. You wonder if he has any idea how all the wives of his friends wish they were married to him instead, the handsome and mysterious businessman from overseas.
As always, he doesn't ask where you've been. He never does. Instead, he reaches for your hand and leans forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "You look stunning, tiānshǐ. The Harringtons will be envious. Mrs. Harrington was asking about you - said she missed your deviled eggs at the bridge club."
You force a smile, the guilt twisting like a knife. "I'm sorry I'm late. The client in Brooklyn was particular."
He waves it off, helping you out of your stole before hanging it in the hall closet. "No need to say sorry, my love. I finished up early at the office today. Seungcheol was in a mood about the margin calls, but nothing a good lunch at Delmonico's couldn't smooth over."
Your heart squeezes when he chuckles and shuts the closet door. If your husband had any idea how often your business dealings brushed against the very financial world he navigated, he'd be dizzy and confused for days.
Junhui is intelligent, which makes your role as his wife more challenging than most people of your profession were willing to take on. He dissected market trends, turning modest inheritances through calculated risks in utilities and aviation stocks. He's the kind of husband who notices things but doesn't say anything, and you love him for it.
You shouldn't love him. You do anyway.
It's hard not to. He's unwaveringly kind, always tipping waiters generously, remembering birthdays for neighbors and secretaries, volunteering on the weekends to tutor kids in English and Mandarin alike. And doting - flowers delivered just because, notes tucked into your pockets, evenings spent rousing you from the couch to move you to bed.
And he is stuck with you for a wife. He calls you a good wife, but good wives don't lie. Spies do, though.
The Harringtons' part waits, full of jazz and bootleg champagne. Another evening of playing the perfect couple. Another evening of secrets.
Inside the Harringtons' home glows bright against the December night. The air is thick with the scent of pine from the massive Christmas tree in the corner, cigar smoke, and sweet perfume. A jazz trio plays in the corner of the parlor where Junhui escorts you, his hand steady and warm at the small of your back.
The moment you step into the room, heads turn. Not dramatically, but you feel every eye flicker to you - you're trained to know that kind of thing - every gaze appraising.
"There she is!" Charles Harrington’s voice booms from across the room. "The elusive Mrs. Wen at last. We were beginning to think you'd been kidnapped!"
The small circle around him chuckles quietly. You smile but he has no idea that you have been kidnapped. Thrice, in fact, when you were younger and less experienced with the agency. Once recently on purpose as part of an interrogation.
"What a ridiculous notion, Charles," you laugh back, approaching with Junhui. "Only delayed by a very stubborn client. I'm afraid Brooklyn doesn't keep the same hours as Manhattan."
"Brooklyn," Caroline Harrington scoffs. She glides toward her husband in a gown of silver lamé that catches the light. "You're so terribly modern, darling. Most of us wouldn't be caught dead on that side of the bridge at night."
Junhui laughs that low, easy sound of his, dispelling tension before it can gather. "She's braver than most."
You think your husband would make a good spy. He works the room without even trying, nodding here and shaking hands there, dipping to compliment women appropriately and warmly. People like him because he makes them feel seen without ever making them feel studied, which is important in crowds like this.
You accept a teacup from a passing tray and sniff lightly. It's bootleg gin with a twist of lemon and when you take a sip, you wince. It's not very good gin, but with the laws around alcohol, who really can get good gin? You sip while Junhui drifts toward a knot of brokers near the fireplace,
Caroline tucks her arm through yours, steering you toward the buffet. "Come, let me show you what everyone's been raving about. The oysters came in this morning straight from the Sound. By the way, your deviled eggs were the talk at bridge club last week - which you missed. You'll have to give me the recipe."
"It's nothing special. Just a little paprika and too much mustard."
"Nonsense." Caroline flutters her fingers at you. They're covered in rings, a mix of antique and new. "Everything you touch turns gold, it seems. Junhui is a lucky man. And so patient, too! Most husbands would be positively feral if their wives were running around Brooklyn."
You feel the comment for what it is - a gentle probe. You're used to the women trying to ferret out your secrets, all of them more eager than the last to unwrap the mystery that is Junhui's wife. You meet her smile like you always do, unwavering as you sip your gin.
"He's very understanding," you reply. "I'm the lucky one."
She hums, agreeing but not liking your dodging of her question. She won't press until she's had more cocktails, at least. Caroline is not the boldest woman in the circle of people you tentatively call friends, but after a few drinks, she'll be demanding answers you won't give.
Across the room, Junhui catches your gaze. He tilts his head slightly, a silent question - are you alright? You nod once and he gives you a small, private smile. You smile back, heart still racing a little.
Stupid, traitorous heart.
The music shifts and turns the energy in the room, couples dancing. One of Junhui's friends - Chan, as you recall his name - offers you a dance. Junhui winks at you and you sigh, letting the younger man pull you into a dance.
You don't like dancing, but the muscle memory kicks in. Clockwork had you trained in all manner of skills, including dancing. It was a useful skill when you were at galas and parties, using it to move about the room as another form of surveillance.
You can't help but do it now, scanning the room over Chan's shoulder to take everything in. There's a banker who had been too friendly with a certain German attaché last month, a woman who touches her pearl choker like a nervous tick, a man in the corner who hasn't smiled a single time because his wife is giggling with a group of finance men, and there's Junhui, watching you watch the room.
When the song ends, your partner bows to you and you thank him for the dance, drifting toward your husband as he turns to you with another cup of gin. You step close to him and he leans down, breath fanning your ear as he murmurs, "Why is it you always look ready to start a coup?"
"It was only a small one."
He smiles and kisses your temple. "And this is why I don't play bridge with you."
"You don't know how to play bridge, Jun."
"I'd learn for you."
There he goes again. You don't know what to do with him. This song and dance is both familiar and strange. You'd married Junhui because you could and because it was allowed within your line of work. Marriages made people of your skill set seem normal. Harmless. And Junhui had been vetted and cleared, as normal as they could get.
You hadn't intended to marry him because you liked him, but you certainly did. Which is why you felt rotten guilt every time you thought too much about it, how he had no idea that his wife had an entire double life eliminating people that a secret agency deemed too dangerous to continue living.
Because that's mostly what Clockwork was about. World advancement and keeping humanity in a forward propulsion was Clockwork's main goal, which meant that the agency had its fingers in all manner of realms: political, financial, corporation, social, casual, cultural, environmental. There is no shortage of influences across the globe that your agency doesn't have, and you are only one of its thousands of agents.
You sip your gin, letting the burn ground you. The party swirls on, louder and looser now. Someone has opened the French doors to the terrace and cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and distant coal smoke. A few brave souls venture into the cold to smoke, the acrid smell of cigarettes drifting in with their laughter.
Junhui eventually sets his cup on a side table, turning to face you with a soft grin.
"What?" You ask, laughing as he pries the cup from your hand to set it down.
"Dance with me?"
It's not really a question but you nod anyway as he takes your hand to draw you into the slow sway of the next song. His palm is warm at your waist, his other hand cradling yours, fingers rough. You always thought it was strange that he had such rough hands for a financier. You ignore it, resting your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the bay rum and the faint trace of cigar smoke.
"You're quiet tonight," he notes softly, switching to his native tongue. You smile. It feels like you get a part of him no one else does. "Are you alright?"
"Long day."
It was. You'd killed a man today, but you can't tell him that. So you settle for this, swaying against him with the steady beat of his heart pumping underneath your cheek. He doesn't push you - he never does.
You look up at him - really look. The soft glow of the chandelier turns his eyes warm and dark, the single escaped strand of hair still brushing his brow. For a single, reckless second, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him how you'd been recruited right after you turned eighteen to an agency more secret and elusive than the CIA. You want to tell him sometimes your weeks on trips are spent overseas hunting people down. Extracting information. That even when you're halfway around the world, you hope your gentle husband is reading a book in his study.
You don't tell him. You can't.
Resting your head against his chest again, you think how nice it is to have the perfect husband and how sad it is that he has a rotten wife.
-
The clock strikes midnight as Junhui stands in the alley behind the speakeasy on Mulberry Street, a siren wailing in the distance. The air smells like the rotted garbage coming from the flowing bins and the metallic tang of the rusted fire escapes above him.
His gloved hands are steady, keeping his hands dry from the warm blood that flows from the neck of the man in his clutches. The Clockwork agent gurgles, wet and desperate before he sags forward. Junhui lets him crumple against the cold brick wall, blood spattering as he goes. The body hits the ground soundlessly - no noise, just how Junhui prefers it.
Silence is Protocol's highest priority, and tonight, he is very much that.
He wipes the blade methodically on the man's coat, noting that it's a nice make from Paris. He only knows fashion because you like fashion, and he thinks that maybe the next time he's in Paris he should grab one himself. You'd like that, he's sure.
Junhui tucks the weapon back into the hidden sheath at his ankle and stands. His pulse is even and his breathing is controlled despite the adrenaline rushing in his veins. He scans the hallway, but the only witness to the murder is a stray cat prowling near the dumpster with luminous eyes.
As usual, it was too easy. Clockwork operatives are often arrogant, too reliant on their skills and their agency's aura of inevitability. They always were. Junhui stares down at the man with a flicker of irritation. The self-righteous architects at Clockwork think they're better than everyone, molding the future and the world to their vision of engineered perfection.
Sighing, Junhui straightens his tight, the silk smooth under his fingers. You'd bought him this tie for Christmas a few weeks ago. He makes sure to wear it often and to make sure you see that he's wearing it. He likes when you buy him things, even though he certainly deserves nothing for you. You're the perfect wife buying her seemingly perfect husband gifts, but if you had half the idea of the rot inside of him, you might not spoil him so much.
He steps out into the alley, merging into the foot traffic on Mulberry, the chill January wind whipping at his overcoat. Horns blare from taxis on Canal Street and the faint sizzle of chestnuts from a vendor's cart reaches him as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets to keep the cold out.
The walk to the subway is brisk. Businessmen stagger from speakeasies, ties askew, breath fogging in the cold. Junhui pauses to buy a newspaper from a newsboy, tucking it under his arm as he goes. Blending in is as important as possible. No one knows there's blood on his gloves and a murder weapon hidden at his ankle.
Protocol had trained him well. They'd recruited him early at university as an economics theory major, his mind and intelligence surgical - exactly the type of agents they like. His background in martial arts through his childhood proved lethal as well, making him the perfect blend of already dangerous and easy to teach.
He'd risen quickly, specializing in clean hits that required little glamour or grandeur. Being unnoticed was his preference, and he was good at it.
Except when it came to you. You had noticed him at that art gala five years ago, wandering over to him and asking him what he thought of the art. He'd recited something rote from his flashcards he had looked at in case someone had asked him his thoughts, but he hadn't expected to need them. You surprised him like that all the time, and he surprised himself by wanting to see more of you after that night.
Surprised himself even more when he asked you to marry him.
Junhui's life isn't exactly fit for marriage, but it works. You're busy as a medical supplies seller, traveling around the boroughs and often other cities. It's a strange job for a woman to have, but he doesn't care. It keeps you happy and out of the house when he's gone, which is really all that matters.
He boards the uptown train, finding a seat in a half-empty car that rocks northward as it takes off. The lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows on the faces around him. He takes it all in with a single sweep, a habit that he will never let go. No one here pays attention to him - there's a pair of young lovers murmuring in the corner and a single hotel worker asleep, his head against the window.
Junhui leans back against the vibrating window, the cold glass pressing through his coat to his shoulder. There's no one here who can give him any trouble, so he shuts his eyes for a bit and lets his mind wander back to you.
You're probably asleep by now, curled under the heavy quilt in the brownstone you share together. The image brings a faint smile to his face. You're a good wife, despite the whispers from the neighbors about your erratic schedule and why you have a job at all. Women don't need jobs.
But your job makes you happy, and Junhui is in the business of keeping you happy.
On more than one occasion Charles Harrington has told Junhui he should be asking more questions about a woman who travels around Brooklyn at night. Junhui doesn't ask questions, though. He never does. You don't ask questions about why a financier needs to come home after midnight from meeting with a private client, so shouldn't he return the favor?
Sometimes he wonders if you have affairs. He can't help it. He wouldn't blame you if you did. You say and do all the right things - and yet Junhui isn't around nearly as much as he should be. Plus, you're not very intimate. Junhui's guilt doesn't let himself touch you often, too afraid to kiss you the way he wants and breathe you in like he desires, knowing that it's the ultimate betrayal to do so while lying to you.
Husbands shouldn't be liars.
But no, Junhui dismisses the idea of you stepping out on him. It's not in your character. You're loyal and steadfast, and you like to pack notes in his lunches. You send holiday cards to his invented coworkers, let him delve into hobbies without a word of complaint, even if it's piano sessions that stretch into the night. You never complain about the lack of intimacy, never push for more.
You're just you. Perfect.
The train jolts to a stop at 77th Street, the doors opening with a hiss. He exits into the quieter residential part of the city, the wind carrying the promise of snow and the gas lamps lighting the way. Your home waits at the end of the block, the windows dark save for a single gold glow of the hall lamp you always leave on for him.
He smiles. It's a small thing, but it tugs at his heartstrings as he ascends the stairs. Coming home to you is far too easy when his marriage to you is mostly supposed to be a cover up. It makes him look normal in a world full of couples - that's what he told Protocol, anyway. It wasn't out of some silly attempt to make a normal life or anything beyond that except… he does like you.
Inside the house is dark. His shoes click on the parquet floors and he can smell lavender that you'd probably been burning again. He hands his overcoat in the closet and shuts it as silently as he can before he moves upstairs like a shadow.
The bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through. He pushes it open gently and sees you asleep on your side, one arm draped over his empty pillow, the quilt pulled to your chin against the winter chill. You look ethereal, your lips parted faintly, the tiniest snore leaving you.
Fondness surges through him. He has no idea how he ended up with someone like you, how he, with hands forever marked with violence, ended up with someone as kind and patient as you are. He creeps over to you and gives you a brief kiss on the brow, unable to help himself. It rouses you from sleep immediately but he hushes you.
"Y'okay?" You mumble.
"I'm fine, I'm sorry I'm home late. I'm going to shower."
"Okay."
He smiles at you. "Go to sleep, my love."
"Mhmm."
You thud back against the pillow and he smiles before heading over to the adjoining bathroom. He waits to turn on the light until he has the door shut behind him, unwilling to wake you again. He avoids looking in the mirror - he knows what he'll see: young, handsome, incredibly manicured. The perfect man who seems unassuming. It's all an act, the sins hidden beneath the curated surface.
Junhui strips methodically: jacket over the hamper, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the faint scar from a botched hit a few years ago. Thankfully it had happened before you, and he was able to use the excuse of surgery when you asked about the scar.
Steam billows when he turns the shower on as hot as he can get it. He feels like it's important to burn away the sin of the kill when he comes home to you, too afraid to get into bed like you'll smell the blood on his skin or sense the darkness in his shadow.
As he lathers soap, he thinks about the Clockwork agent briefly - the surprise in his face, the bubbling sound he'd made when the knife went in. Another life ended, another contract closed.
Protocol owns him. They have since they recruited him. Junhui never expected it to matter, but as the lies pile up, he feels worse and worse about it. You're as safe as can be with him, but sometimes he wonders if it would be a better life to give you over to someone who can be there for you more often.
When the shower is over, the silence is deafening. He rushes to pull his pajamas on, itching to be in the bed that smells like you and near your warmth. He exits the bathroom, letting his eyes adjust to the dark bedroom, smiling when he sees you're still sleeping.
He gets into the bed and you murmur incoherently in your sleep, shifting closer to him. He wraps an arm around you without thinking and your warmth seeps into him, chasing the alley's chill away.
For a fleeting moment, he lets himself forget the blade and the alley, pretends the kill didn't happen. Here in this bed with you, he's just Mr. Wen and you're Mrs. Wen. He's your husband, the financier, nothing shady, nothing nefarious.
It won't last long. Tomorrow morning he has to find an excuse to tell you he has to leave for Paris in two days. The assignment had come before he'd even completed his hit tonight, a terse telegram in one of the many safe houses assigned to him.
Two days to prepare for a hit isn't much, but he's used to it. It isn't a lot to go off of either, which meant it is a high profile hit. They hadn't even given him a name or affiliation, and he isn't sure what look for the flower meant. Junhui is smart though, and he has a feeling he'll know what it means when he sees it.
Tomorrow, he'll tell you over breakfast. Apologies, love. It's off to Paris. You'll nod and kiss him easily and pack his lunch without question. The cycle will repeat.
Junhui closes his eyes and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You sigh and melt into him, and for now, it's enough. But tomorrow, the lies resume like clockwork.
He smirks at the joke before finally giving into sleep.
-
Junhui perches on the narrow roof of a building overlooking the Île de la Cité, directly across from the Notre-Dame. The sacred dome of the church looms over him like a giant while the Seine slithers below, its twin towers clawing at the sky.
The wind coming off the river is sharper than he expected, the damp chill of water and the faint rot of algae wafting to him. Below, Rue du Cloître is a churning river of people. Parisians in heavy coats hurry past the cathedral's facade while tourists cluster together and snap photos with box cameras.
It's hard to hear anything up here with the wind, but the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the shrill honk of a black car trying to navigate the narrow bridge echoes to him as he finishes his set up, adrenaline pumping already.
He's set up on the flat roof of an old ecclesiastical residence, the kind of old and rotted place no one looks at. He wishes he had an overcoat, the thin shirt doing very little to keep him warm. Warm is a luxury he can't afford today, dressed in grey to blend in with his surroundings with a compression scarf pulled up to cover his lower face.
A rifle rests steady on its bipod, a sleek prototype from Protocol with a silencer and a modified Berthier with a German-made telescopic sight that lets him count the threads in a jacket on his victim if he needs to. It's obscene in its precision, and it required him several forged and real documents to get it through security and onto the private plane he took to get here.
Junhui watches below, shivering in the early morning. He's been here since first light, watching the cathedral steps, the parvis, the bridge. The crowd thickens as the morning wears on, and he watches a priest in a black cassock moving with purpose toward the side door.
No flower though. He's not sure what exactly it means, other than he'll know when he sees it. Not even the women here are dressed in floral, but the fleur de lis is everywhere. Somehow, he thinks that's not what the message meant, though. So he waits, mind straying errantly to you on occasion.
He'd felt his usual stab of guilt when he told you he was going to Paris. You'd simply smiled and told him to bring you back something pretty. The perfect wife, letting him disappear like always. He doesn't deserve you. He thinks he never has.
Sighing, he moves the scope, strafing right and then left. A flash of gold flints in the sun, small but unmistakable. He thinks nothing of it first, adjusting the scope to fix the focus. He's got the scope on a woman's throat, the delicate chain of her necklace glinting in the light. The lotus pendant on the thin chain shifts as she walks and Junhui's blood turns cold.
The pendant looks exactly like the one he'd purchased you in Shenzhen. For my wife, he'd told the jeweler, smiling because you remind him of a lotus - pure and resilient. He adjusts the scope again, heart pounding as he zooms out.
And sees you.
His stomach drops. The rifle trembles for the first time in years and he readjusts, hoping his proximity to the church lends him a miracle as he prays that it's a trick of the light, that a stranger is wearing the same necklace. But the profile sharpens and he sees the line of your jaw, the way you tilt your head, the small scar on your chin you'd told him was from a childhood fall.
You're here. In Paris. At the exact coordinates that Protocol had given him, at the exact time. With a flower he gave you.
You stop in the middle of the parvis, suddenly still. The crowd flows around you like water around a rock, a vendor bumping into your shoulder. You don't react, though. Your head turns, sweeping the crowd like you sense danger. Junhui's heart is hammering, his hands shaking as he watches you through the scope until you suddenly lift your eyes, sweeping the rooftops.
Your gaze lands impossibly on his position. He knows you can't see him - there's no way. He's three stories up with the sun at his back, and his in shadow. But he recognizes the look on your face, a predator suddenly aware there is something bigger and scarier than them hunting. Your shoulders go stiff and he tracks the way your hand twitches toward your coat pocket.
Panic slams into him. Not you. Not the woman who kisses him goodnight, who leaves notes in his lunch, who makes the brownstone feel like home instead of a safe house. The rifle is suddenly too heavy in his hands. How can you be the target? And why are you here? Only a single answer makes sense, and he cannot even think the words, lest they come true.
Suddenly, you bolt. It makes Junhui lurch, jerking the scope to track your movements but you immediately blend into the crowd. He curses and tears the rifle away, shaking as he breaks the weapon down and shoves the pieces into its satchel with frantic speed.
Gravel scrapes under his boots as he bolts for the stairwell, heart hammering. The stairs are dark and narrow but he takes two at a time, bursting onto the street level and startling a flock of doves. The crowd is thick, bodies pressing close. He weaves through them, shouldering the satchel as he scans for you.
Terror grips him. What if you disappear? What if Protocol has a backup for you? What if you're here to kill him?
He cuts through a narrow passage off Rue du Cloître. He spots you up ahead, your coat flashing as you turn into a shadowed courtyard entry. He accelerates, boots splashing in shallow puddles, his hand slipping into his pocket for the concealed gun on instinct.
He steps into the courtyard mouth just as you whirl, a gun in hand pointed directly at him. His heart squeezes painfully, both of you freezing. A thousand emotions flit across your face in that second, the gun trembling in your hand as you stare at him, open mouthed. You look as terrified as he feels.
"Junhui?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, voice cracking.
A patch of sun hits you between roofs. You don't squint in the light, trained to stare at him. The light catches on your necklace, the lotus looking right back at him. Find the flower. He sure has, he just hadn't expected it to be his wife.
"Hi, love."
-
You circle the parvis of Notre-Dame slowly, the cobblestones uneven beneath your low heels. The cathedral looms above, its twin towers dark against the pale sky. Gargoyles leer down at you, watching you as though they know what you're here to do. Perhaps they do. You're not particularly religious, but the marvel of Notre-Dame inspires a healthy respect for religion as you eye the stone facades.
The air is sharp with the smell of the Seine, the damp stone and river mud serving as a faint undercurrent to the coal smoke from barges sliding past on the water. Tourists cluster together near the main facade, collars turned up against the wind. You duck your head as you walk, your necklace swinging with every step.
Clockwork's instructions had been simple, delivered through the encrypted telegram in your hotel room: enter the cathedral, eliminate the woman in the blue coat near the altar, no witnesses, vanish.
Bone-deep anxiety has clung to you since you docked in La Havre. Junhui had mentioned his business trip was in Paris as well, though you know he's off doing finance deals or something in the Bourse. He's somewhere buried in tickers and ledges and here you are walking toward a holy place to will a stranger.
Still, the feeling won't leave you.
The anxiety gets worse, turning to a sharp prickle at the back of your neck, the same instinct that has saved you in back alleys and safe houses over the years. It's the instinct that tells you someone is watching you.
You pause near a vendor cart selling postcards of the rose window, pretending to browse. Your eyes sweep the crowd, but there's no one obvious or lingering too long. You move again, circling as the wind picks up, carrying the scent of chestnuts.
The prickle sharpens.
You stop in the middle of the parvis, the crowd flowing around you. A vendor bumps into your shoulder and murmurs a quick apology in French, but you don't listen to him. You tilt your head, eyes lifting slowly as you scan the rooftops across the way. There's a bunch of old ecclesiastical buildings, their grey roofs slick with frost and chimneys.
Sunlight catches something - metal bright and brief. Your heart lurches when you realize it's the unmistakable flash of a rifle scope glinting from a high vantage point.
A gunman. Your stomach drops. Clockwork hadn't mentioned backup, which means this is opposition. Protocol, most likely. Their agents have been trying to kill you for years, but the paid thugs aren't nearly as refined as they think they are.
Without thinking twice, you bolt.
You weave through the tourists, shoulder clipping a man, apologies lost in your flight. The parvis gives way to a narrow street and you fash down it, your breath coming out in short gasps as you run, coat flapping. You hear nothing but your own pulse as you turn right and then left, ducking under an archway and past shuttered shops with faded signs.
What you need is a dead end, somewhere to wait and eliminate whoever follows. The gun in your pocket is loaded with two shots - enough to get the job done.
The alley narrows further, the walls high and mossy, sunlight barely reaching you. You spot a courtyard up ahead, a small and forgotten space behind an old residence, the iron gate half opened with ivy crawling over it. Perfect. You slip inside, drawing your gun and turning, ready.
Footsteps echo, fast and deliberate. You ready yourself, widening your stance as a shadow appears at the gate and -
Your husband stands there in a gray shirt, compression scarf pulled down around his neck, pistol in hand but low. His hair is mused from the wind, strands falling in his eyes that widen when they see you - shock, followed immediately by something raw and pain.
You freeze.
"Junhui?" The word comes out cracked, a million thoughts racing through your mind.
He doesn't move closer, gun still raised. "Hi, love."
The courtyard feels too small, the walls pressing in. The damp air is thick in your throat, and the lotus necklace burns against your skin like a brand. You stare at him - your husband - the man who kisses your forehead, who plays piano in the parlor, who never asks where you've been. Here. In Paris. With a rifle bag on his shoulder.
The pieces crash together.
"You were on the roof." Your voice was shaking. "That was you."
He nods. "Assignment."
The word turns your stomach to acid. Assignment. Not finance, not stocks. Assignment.
"Protocol?"
He swallows, gun lowering a little as he nods. "Clockwork?"
Understanding hits you like a physical blow. His agency has hated yours and vice versa for years. Clockwork's vision of controlled progress doesn't quite match with Protocol's military pragmatism, and somehow despite both agencies vetting, the two of you have married enemies.
Or have you? Has he known all along? You're not sure, but the horror on his face is either well practiced or genuine. You don't lower the gun just in case, despite the fact that he sags, defeated.
"You're here to kill me," you tell him. It isn't a question.
"I didn't know it was you. Until I saw the necklace. The flower." You don't move. "I'm not going to kill you."
"How do I know that?"
"I guess you don't." He puts his gun in his coat pocket and holds both of his hands up, a white flag. "Kill me if you wish."
His words hit like a slap. You recoil physically, your arm dropping as you lower the weapon. He seems a little relieved, but you're horror stricken. Kill him? You don't think you could, even if your life was on the line. Which it is, the two of you facing each other, breath misting the air.
"What about you?" He asks, drawing you from your whirlwind thoughts. "Why are you here?"
"Assigned to some woman. I obviously didn't complete it." You tuck your gun away carefully, eyeing him carefully. "I saw the flash on your scope."
He frowns. "The sun was behind me." You lift a shoulder. You're unsure what reflected off his scope, but perhaps it had been divine intervention after all. "We have to get moving. They're expecting confirmation. If we don't, they'll send someone else."
"We?"
He nods, checking a watch. "You're my wife."
"I'm… I'm Clockwork. You're Protocol."
He lowers his wrist and looks at you - really looks at you. You study him, your heart hammering, a dull ache in your chest blooming. He's still Junhui - at least he looks like it. He's your husband with warm brown eyes, who speaks softly and loves to kiss you on the forehead, who is patient and kind and steady.
And apparently he's a contract killer. But he didn't kill you. You hope it means something.
"You're my wife," he says again, softer this time.
Junhui extends his hand, slow and careful. He's wearing gloves but you take a few tentative steps toward him, placing your hand in his. His fingers close around yours, and even through the leather, they're warm. You step closer and he pulls you through the gate and into the alley, keeping you close.
"We're going to need to run," he murmurs looking down at you. "Just trust me enough to get us somewhere. Then we can talk. Can you do that?"
You think about it. Your training is telling you to kill him and run, to save yourself. But every instinct you have that is not the rained spy is looking at him - the man you married, the man who has rubbed your back when you were sick and warmed your hands in his pocket - is looking at you with nothing but honesty.
It's stupid. You know it is. Protocol isn't known for their spies as much as they are for their hitmen - Junhui would have been taught to blend in and run, but they're not an intelligence agency the way Clockwork is. They aren't taught to manipulate to the degree you are.
So you nod. You see the relief pass on his face as he tugs you gently, both of you breaking out into a run.
The city presses in, the narrow passageways smelling like damp stone and yesterday's rain. Your breath syncs with his, footsteps matching, the panic there but shared now. Not once does he let go of your hand, tugging you out of the way of a passing bike and into the safety of his arms for a brief moment.
Junhui leads you to a small doorway behind a boulangerie, the scent of fresh bread wafting out. He pulls out a compact telegraph key from his pocket, and for a second you think he's going to notify Protocol he has you in his hands. Your heart starts to slam in your ribcage, realizing that the love you have for him - that you're not supposed to - has been your undoing. Still, you don't reach for your weapon, unwilling to kill him even if-
He catches your panic. "I'm telling them you're dead," he notes, voice dry.
"Oh."
You do the same, tapping out a coded message to your operatives at Clockwork. It'll only buy you hours - maybe a single day. You're not sure.
"We need to get out of Paris," he says. "Home will be dangerous, but if we're going to survive we need to go there first." You hate that you agree. "Le Bourget? Private flight?"
"Yes."
Junhui hails a taxi near the river, the water dark and choppy under the bridges as an afternoon storm rolls in. You sit close to Junhui as the driver navigates the city, but not touching, the space between you heavy. Your mind spins - the brownstone waiting back home, its walnut panels, the piano - a life of mutual lies catching like tinder and burning down around you.
-
Le Bourget airfield is bustling with activity in the afternoon gloom, hangars looming like metal beasts under the gray sky. The smell of fuel hangs heavy in the air and the hum of propellers whirring buzzes in your ears as you cross the wet tarmac.
Junhui's hand hovers at your elbow as you walk, not quite touching. You feel the loss of his touch acutely, a small ache at the sudden distance between you. You don't know where you stand now, the man you've known for the last five years suddenly a complete stranger.
Somehow, you feel it only serves you right.
Junhui leads you to a waiting plane, the engines warming with a low rumble that vibrates through you. The plane is small, the cabin cramped with leather seats worn from use, the air inside tinged with tobacco. You climb aboard, settling into a seat by the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. Junhui sits across from you, the space between your knees too close in the small plane, knocking awkwardly.
Tension threads your shoulders as the plane readies for takeoff. You feel exposed and out of control - it was Junhui who arranged the flight, assuring you that he could do it discreetly and safely. Still, there was no guarantee there were Clockwork or Protocol agents already working on knocking your plane out of the sky and into the Atlantic.
The thought unsettles you as the plane taxis and takes off, your ears popping as the city falls away below Paris, a patchwork of stone and river. You watch it shrink, the Eiffel Tower a distant spike on the horizon.
Your mind whirls like the propellers, skipping between the flash of his scope and your agencies turning you against the other. But mostly your thoughts are on the man across the way from you. Your husband. The man you thought was perfect, who called you tiānshǐ and kissed your forehead. The man who is Protocol, a killer like you, but from the opposite side.
You weren't supposed to, but you'd fallen for him along the way. You wonder now if that was on purpose, if he had lured you into his arms to act as a shield of normalcy. Your intention had been to seem normal and married, but you'd fallen for the way he smiled at your broken Mandarin, the way he kept the notes in his lunches, the quiet evenings where he'd play piano.
But now? Doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. Was any of it real for him?
The plane levels out, the rumble steady now. You turn from the window and look at him. He's watching you already, expression unreadable.
"How'd you charter this without Protocol?" You ask. "Sounds difficult."
He hesitates, then nods. "Someone in Interpol owed me a favor. From a job a few years back. Clean flight, no records."
Interpol. It shouldn't surprise you - he's Protocol after all, with connections in shadows you never imagined. It's another small layer peeled back, revealing the man you didn't realize was your husband all this time.
The cabin is silent for a long moment, just the hum of the plane and the rain on the fuselage. Finally alone, the questions he seems to be holding bubble to the surface.
"Can we talk?" He switches languages, watching you dubiously.
"Of course we can. You first."
His lip twitches. "So you do speak it fluently." You flush, caught. "You learned way too fast. I'm a good teacher but your accent was always good."
"I speak seven languages."
"I speak eight."
"Show off."
He leans back, the smile fading as he looks you up and down. "It started in college," he tells you. "I did study economics at Columbia. I was good at it. Money was tight with my family in Shenzhen and me in school. Protocol approached my senior year and said I had potential. Offered training, pay, and a way to send money home." He pauses, fingers drumming. "Martial arts from childhood helped. I specialized in going unnoticed."
You listen, heart aching. The man he describes is the one you married - intelligent, steady. But now this one is darker. Something else.
"And me?" You ask. "At the gala?
"I was there for a job," he admits. "You approached me and asked about the art and I recited flashcards but… I didn't anticipate you. You were smart and funny, and I liked you. After I checked that you were safe - which was wrong, I should add - the agency realized marrying you made me look normal. Protocol approved."
The words land like a punch even though you saw it coming. Cover. Normal. Not love. Not the way you'd fallen for him, piece by piece. You'd thought maybe it was real - that despite your lies, he loved you. But for him, it was a necessity. Fondness? Sure. But you were a tool to appear harmless.
It serves you right, you suppose, but sadness swells. You've been in love with him for years - or were, before this. The man who called you angel, who never pressed for intimacy despite your guilt keeping you from touching him most nights. And here you are expecting him to love you when he did the very thing you were supposed to do.
He's succeeded where you have failed.
It breaks something in you and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly needing it like armor. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.
"Your turn," he urges.
You swallow, nodding as you start, your throat tight. "Clockwork recruited me when I turned eighteen. Right after high school. Saw potential in my test scores or whatever. Trained me in everything - codes, killing, covers." You pause and look at the wedding ring on your hand. "The gala was a surveillance job. You stood out - handsome, different. I approached on impulse, which was rare for me. Didn't intend to keep seeing you until I did, and Clockwork thought a husband would help me blend in."
He nods, absorbing it. The plane dips slightly, turbulence rattling the cabin. You grip the armrest, mind still spinning. Three years of marriage, built on agency approvals. Lies on lies. And now, exposed.
Neither of you speak for a while. You watch out the window at the clouds, the grey Atlantic stretching below. Your stomach is in knots, the truth between you doing nothing to seal the gap. It only pushes you further apart.
Finally, Junhui breaks the silence. "I don't want to kill you."
"I don't want to kill you either."
"The agencies won't stop. We're loose ends now."
You nod, the reality settling like lead. They'll hunt. Aggressively. No mercy for traitors.
"I fear we're at a deadlock."
He nods. "We have to escape their reach."
"How?"
The urge to reach for him is strong. You don't, though. Not now that you know it's not the same, that this isn't the same for him as it is for you.
"Collect what we need. Cash, papers. Then go our separate ways. Safer that way and harder to track."
The words slice through you. Separate ways. It breaks your heart, a sharp, quiet pain that steals your breath. You'd imagined - stupidly, perhaps - a life together, even now. Running away as one. But he's right. And perhaps it's better for him to be fond and not in love so it makes this easier, to be at a deadlock in which no progress can be made.
"Agreed," you nod.
He looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes, but you turn to the window, watching the clouds. You reserve the part of you that wants to beg him to stay, knowing you don't deserve it and he doesn't want to.
The flight drags, hours of tension and unspoken words. You land in New York under cover of night, sleet slashing the tarmac. When you step out of the plane and he hails a cab, you know nothing will ever be the same.
-
The plane touches down with a jolt. Junhui looks at you but you're staring out of the window, face turned away. The cabin feels too small, air thick with the tension of unspoken words and the faint scent of fuel seeping in from outside.
Junhui stands first, offering a hand to help you up. You stand up on your own, movements reserved, eyes not quite meeting his. It makes his heart squeeze, knowing now that everything was a lie.
He'd fallen in love with you slowly and unintentionally. He'd thought maybe it was mutual - always felt guilty for it - but now? Doubt poisons everything. You're Clockwork - were Clockwork. The marriage was a cover. He was convenient. Safe. Normal.
The sadness twists in him like a blade, even though he was supposed to be doing the same thing to you. But for him it had turned real. Foolish, really. But he's glad there's enough fondness in you to let him live, to part ways.
He'd suggested separate ways not because he wanted it, but to save what little pride he had left. If you didn't love him, better to let you go without begging. Without admitting how much that it hurt.
The pilot nods as you exit, no questions, just like Junhui had paid for. Outside, the sleet stings Junhui's face, wind whipping through his coat as you both rush through customs and back out into the wind to hail a cab. The driver is an older man that complains about the weather, but he takes the cash as you both slide into the back.
Despite the small space in the back of the car, there's a chasm between you. He wants to bridge it - wish he could. He wants to reach for your hand and pull you close, to tell you that it was real for him. That he had been lying, but not really. Not all the time. But he doesn't. You're reserved now, words sparse, gazed fixed outside of the window.
The silence stretches, broken only by the slosh of tires on wet roads and the driver's occasional cough. Junhui's mind races, replaying every moment over the last five years with you - the gala where you'd approached him, your smile bright and charming. The proposal he'd made because he couldn't imagine life without you. He night's he'd held back from you, guilt over his lies making him afraid to take more than you offered.
He'd thought you were content, that what you'd had was enough. But it was all a facade for you. Cover. The word echoes, bitter. He loves you - fiercely, achingly - but it was never real for you. And he doesn't blame you one bit. He cannot hold you to trial for a crime he was also committing.
Sadness swells, a silent grief that makes his chest tight. He will miss you more than you know. It's the right call, despite the fact it makes him want to fall to his knees.
The brownstone appears like a ghost in the sleet. He helps you out of the cab and you let him this time, though you step away from him the moment you're outside. The stoop creaks under you both as you hurry inside, the key turning into the lock with a familiar click.
You head upstairs without a word, movements quick. Junhui follows, heart heavy, watching you rush into the bedroom to start packing. He stands in the doorway for a moment, the reality hitting him. This was his home, a perfect life that he'd clung to, even if it was built on lies. Now it's ending and you're eager to go.
He moves to his side of the closet, packing his own things - cash from a hidden safe, false papers tucked into a book spine, weapons from certain shoes. His fingers linger on the tie you'd given him for Christmas, silk smooth, a reminder of you. He keeps it, wanting to hold on even when you're gone.
In the middle of folding one of his shirts, something prickles at the back of his neck. It's the same instinct he's had before ducking before being shot at. The house is too quiet, the sleet outside rhythmic. He glances up, drawn to the window where your back is turned as you pack, the curtain half-drawn. A red dot appears on your bag, small and steady.
His blood turns cold.
"Get down!" He yells, lunging across the room.
You startle, but he tackles you to the floor just as the window shatters, glass exploding inward. Bullets spray through the bedroom, thudding into the walls, splintering wood. Junhui's body covers yours, shards of glass raining down on you both. Pain blooms in his shoulder - glass or a bullet graze, he doesn't know - but adrenaline surges.
"They know," he gasps, rolling off of you. He pulls a pistol from the nightstand.
You nod, gun drawn as you both turn. Another spray of bullets rips through, punching holes in the wallpaper, the chandelier downstairs crashing. The house shakes with the assault, sleet cutting in through the broken windows, cold and stinging.
Junhui crawls to the edge of the bed and looks over to see shadows moving outside. There are three figures in black downstairs advancing on the stoop, rifles up. He fires twice through the window, the suppressed pops lost in the chaos.
"Back stairs," You tell him, already moving.
A bullet whines past your head, embedding in the walnut paneling. Junhui's heart lurches but you don't flinch as you return fire, turning into a woman he doesn't know at all. He follows, shoulder burning still, pistol steady as he shoots at a figure bursting through the front door below. The man jerks and falls, but more come in, footsteps thundering.
The back stairs are narrow and dark, the air thick with fust. You descend first, sweeping the landing as you clear it while Junhui covers you, exchanging fire. A shadow appears at the bottom but you fire once, the man crumpling. Junhui is suddenly thankful that you're trained and lethal.
The kitchen explodes into view. Bullets shatter the window over the sink as Junhui grabs a knife from the block, hurling it at an assailant charging through the door. The blade hits the man in the throat, blood spraying in a crimson fan as he falls. You snatch a revolver from a hidden drawer - Junhui realizes it's his - and fire at another in the hall.
"How did you know that was there?" He asked, stupefied.
"I thought you were just trying to protect the house," you admit. "I assumed you didn't know how to use it. It was sweet."
He doesn't have time to be offended as the kitchen erupts into chaos, men pouring in through the door from the garage. They're dressed in tactical gear like the rest, faces masked, rifles swinging to take aim.
You're too close for guns. Junhui shoves you around the island cojunter top as the first gunman shoots at you, the bullet pinging off the fridge. You squeeze the trigger of the revolver as you duck, feeling the click of the rotating chamber as you unload the full round into the first man, his vest catching them before you catch him in the throat, red spraying.
Chamber empty, you grab the cast iron skillet off the stove as another man charges Junhui. Your husband doesn't hesitate, ducking under the barrel of the rifle as twisting as he drives his elbow up into the assailant's ribs. You hear bones crack but Junhui doesn't stop, slipping behind the man and kicking out with a foot directly in his back, sending him forward.
The third man comes for you, dropping his rifle in the closed space to grab your arm. You swing the skillet hard, catching him across the temple. He goes stumbling, blood trickling from a gash. He recovers quickly, tackling you against the cabinets.
Pain flares in your back as things shatter, the drawers rattling behind you. You knee him in the groin, buying a second to scramble for a knife from the butchers block. His hand snaps out, iron clad on your wrist as he tries to keep you from the weapon. You snarl and throw your head forward, pain exploding behind your eyes as you use your head to crunch his nose.
Across the room, Junhui has turned into a weapon. His strikes are blindly fast, driving his palm up into his opponents nose before bring the knife down across the chest, the arms, the neck. He drops down and spins, sweeping the man's feet from under him as he goes down in a wet gurgle, vanishing on the other side of the island.
The man grappling you pins you to the counter and you scream, reaching for the knife, fingers slipping as his grip locks around your throat, squeezing tighter than anything you've ever felt. Panic flickers in your chest, air cutting off, vision spotting. You stomp on his instep and elbow him hard in the gut but he ignores it, dragging you across the counter and toward the garage door.
Then he's gone, thrown to the side as Junhui yanks him, chest heaving with rage. The violence in his face is raw as you choke down gasps of air, mouth wet with spit as you suck in breaths.
"Do not," Junhui growls, slinking forward. "Touch my fucking wife."
He collides with your attacker, sending them both into the wall. Plaster cracks under their weight as Junhui lands a series of strikes to the mans face, middle, ribs. The man gasps and Junhui grabs his head in both hands and twists violently, a loud crack echoing before the man goes limp to the floor.
Panting, Junhui turns to you, his shoulder wound seeping through his shirt, glass shards glittering in his hair. His eyes scan you frantically, rage morphing into panic. He storms over to you, cupping your face gently, turning your head side to side. "Are you hurt?"
"No," you rasp, voice hoarse from the choking. "Thank you."
He lingers a moment longer, something flaring in his face before he nods, hands dropping reluctantly. "Let's go."
You both plunge into the garage and you bolt for the motorcycle that Junhui never uses. It's a sleek, black Indian Scout. You'd never asked to ride it and he never really bothered with it, only using it on the summer nights when you were out of town. He assumed you didn't like motorcycles, but now you don't hesitate.
"Come on."
"Are you serious?"
"Get on," you demand, moving toward it.
You reach the bike first, swinging a leg over the seat without pause. The engine is cold, but the key is in the ignition. You twist it, thumb the starter, and the bike roars to life.
"You can ride?" He asks, as you kick the stand up and rev the throttle. "Since when?"
"Since I was twenty, get on."
Junhui swings on behind you, arms coming around your waist automatically. His grip is tight and he feels your hammering heart as he presses his chest to your back. You drop the clutch and twist the throttle, the scout lunging forward.
The acceleration is brutal, the front wheel lifting a bit before you muscle it down. He lets out a startled breath against your neck as you peel out onto the street, the bike fishtailing. You learn into it and the bike straightens, rocketing down the block as gunfire pops behind you.
Sleet and wind sting his eyes. Neither of you are dressed for this but he clings to you as you flick the bike through the street, taking the first corner harder, nearly laying it down. He lets out a shriek and a curse as you straighten out, gunning it.
"Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?"
"Clockwork," you yell. "Some of us learned more than guns!"
He laughs, the sound vibrating through him. He doesn't know what to think as the wind screams in his ears, biking roaring under him.
You weave through the late night traffic on Fifth, dodging Model T's and taxes, the bike's headlight cutting a white blade through the sleet. He turns to see a sedan following you and he curses. You steal the breath from his lungs again when you cut left onto a side street, narrow and barely wide enough. You downshift and fishtail as you come out of the side street and onto the road, swerving around a car.
Junui's arms flex around you, one hand sliding up to brace against your shoulder. "You're insane!"
You don't respond, but the admiration sings in his veins, nearly warm enough to fight off the bitter cold as you drive through back roads. He gives you directions as you drive, the two of you shivering as you lose your pursuers, cutting through the city.
His hands stay firm on you. He feels you shiver and he pulls you tighter, trying to keep you warm. At least, that's what he tells himself. He knows he's doing it to keep you a little longer, anchoring himself to you like he can keep you. He wonders if you feel the same fracture he does.
He wonders if it matters.
Dawn is grey and cold when you finally slow, the Scout's engine ticking as it cools. You're both shivering as you kill the engine and pull up in front of a farmhouse with a sagging porch and oaks surrounding it.
Junhui slides off first, offering a hand. You take it, shivering and shaking. You look up at the house, tears frozen on your face, lips swollen with cold. "What is this place?"
"Friend of mine. Not Protocol. From college. He's in Milan."
Minghao's place is cold as you step in. Junhui bolts for the fireplace, knowing it's dire to get it going. You stand in the threshold of the living room, trembling and freezing as he manages to get the dry wood lit. He turns and gestures you over. You come wordlessly, nearly collapsing as the orange flames lick over the logs.
Both of you hold your hands to the fire, trembling. It almost hurts to feel heat again, both of you shivering in silence as the fire roars to life. Slowly, you both sit, unwilling to move from the flames.
"We're safe," Junhui murmurs, tired, switching languages on instinct. "We rest first. Then plan."
You nod, slowly getting up to move to a chair, the distance between you vast.
-
You step out of the shower, steam curling around you. You dry off quickly and change into pajamas Junhui has given you - they're not exactly your size, but they work. Everything in this house belongs to Minghao who hadn't been preparing for you to stay, but Junhui swears he won't mind anyway.
Reentering the bedroom, you stop short. Junhui is standing in front of the small dresser mirror, shirtless. He's turned around, trying to look at the injury on his shoulder, the lamplight carving shadows across the muscles of his back, the narrow taper of his waist. He prods at the graze, wincing as he looks at it.
He sees you reflected and straightens, hand dropping. "Sorry, it's the only mirror in the house."
"Let me help," you say, setting your things down and rushing to him.
He nods as you riffle through the bathroom for medical supplies. Minghao thankfully has a simple one and you make Junhui sit on the edge of the bed as you wet cotton with antiseptic. He smells clean like the shower he took immediately before you, his skin warm as you near him, heart hammering.
Suddenly, it feels too intimate. You shake off the feeling - he's your husband. So you kneel on the bed, mattress dipping under your weight. Up close, the graze looks a little worse thank you though, jagged and angry. You feel a pang in your chest. He didn't complain once during the ride, didn't mention the pain. Just held on to you on the bike, arms tight around your waist.
Carefully, you start to dab at the wound. He doesn't hiss or make a sound, but his muscles twitch under your fingers. He turns his head to watch you, dark eyes intense. You swallow, feeling the tension crackle to life as you watch. You're close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, your fingers nimble and careful as you clean the cut.
"When did you get this?" You ask, voice quiet.
"The glass."
You realize what he means. A piece of jagged must have caught him while he was shielding you - protecting you - from the spray of glass and bullets that moment he saw the sniper before you did. It makes you feel guilty immediately. How stupid of you to turn your back to the window, even for a moment. You're lucky he was there - lucky he still cares.
The heat of him radiates toward you and you fight a shiver as he watches, eyes half-lidded. You could count every single one of his lashes this close, but instead you put down the pink-tinged cotton and exchange it for a needle and thread.
"It's not deep," you murmur. "But I think it needs stitches."
Carefully, you pierce the skin and pull the thread through. He doesn't react. Instead, he says, "You're pretty good at this. How many times have you done it?"
"Oh? Are we exchanging work stories?"
His mouth curves. "Indulge me."
It makes your stomach flip when he says it. You pause as you think about all of the times you've stitched someone or yourself. It feels weird to think of a story to tell him, the barriers between you suddenly gone.
"I've done it a lot," you admit. "Sometimes on myself, but mostly on other people. One time in Vienna a partner I was working with was shot in the leg during an extraction. I had to stitch him up in an awful basement with almost no light. He lived but Joshua literally never forgave me for the scar."
"Well Joshua should mind his tongue when speaking to you."
Your mouth twitches as you pull another stitch through. "What about you?"
"Botched hit in Berlin. The one on my chest."
You pause, narrowing your eyes. "You told me you got that in surgery."
"I'm a bit of a liar, love."
Your heart races from the nearness of him, his knee brushing your arm as you shift to tie off another stitch. You've been this close before, but never like this, vulnerable and exposed, everything tripped away.
"I had to patch myself for the first time in Shanghai," you continue. "It was in an opium den. Could barely figure out where the hell I was from the contact high."
"I've been there." You give him a look. "Protocol sends me to a lot of places, angel."
The nickname makes your heart trip over itself. He's called you that since the early days of your relationship when you were pretending not to speak Mandarin and letting him teach you, the warmth and fondness for him just as strong as it is now, despite the lies.
"I'm sure you had lots of pretty girls to stitch you up." You don't know why you say it, but it's out before you can stop it.
"None as pretty as you."
You don't know how to respond, your fingers shaking. You tie the last stitch, snipping the thread, your hand lingering for a second too long, craving the warmth. He's quiet, watching you with an expression that you can't read.
"There," you whisper. "Done."
He flexes the shoulder, looking away from you to the injury. You use the break in tension to shift away from him, sucking in air, wishing you felt cooler than you did.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
You stand, suddenly too aware of the charged tension. "I'm going to start dinner."
Junhui nods, but his eyes follow you as you head out the door, clicking the bedroom shut behind you.
In the hall, you lean against the door, heart pounding. The closeness - the heat of his skin, the shared stories - it's too much. You love him, but you know that your marriage wasn't built on love. It was built on deceit and versions of yourself you never really let the other have, and now you don't know what to do with it.
The kitchen is sparse, but the cupboards are filled with canned goods and a variety of spices. You light the stove, flames flickering to life as you rummage for potatoes, onions, and spices. Stew is the only answer for dinner tonight, and you're thankful there's at least chicken stock in the pantry.
Your hands move automatically, chopping, stirring, but your mind is on him. The graze, his quiet admission of jobs, the way he let you help without protest. Footsteps creak and you flinch, turning with the knife raised. It's Junhui, shirt on and hands up.
"Sorry," he notes and you drop the knife, sighing. He watches you for a moment before walking toward you. "Let me help."
You nod, handing him the knife for the onions. He stands too close, his arm brushing yours as he chops. The space is small, the stove's heat warming the room as you work together. It feels normal, almost, the two of you working in perfect tandem that you've built over the years. You stir the pot, making room for him as he leans for salt, arm brushing yours.
Junhui is different now - quieter, more intense - but he's still him. His mouth curves when his eyes flicker to you, something fond and understanding. It makes you nervous, the desire and sadness gnawing at you. You itch to touch him but you're unsure you can.
When the food is done, you eat at the small table, stew steaming in bowls. The fire crackling from the living room is the only sound as you both eat quickly, avoiding his gaze that keeps finding your face from across the table.
After, you clear the plates, doing anything to put space between you, thoughts spinning and full of him. You don't know what happens now - where to go or how to leave him. You watch him as he grabs blankets from the hall closet, intending to sleep on the couch - away from you, away from everything you've built.
You feel the fracture in your heart widen, the separation between you looming and wider than ever. The question falls from your lips before you can think twice, unable to stop yourself from asking any longer.
"Did you ever love me?" The words hang there, Junhui freezing. "Or was it just a cover all the time? I assume the latter, since we were fond but never very intimate, I guess. But I just - did you ever?"
Junhui freezes, the folded blanket clutched in his hands. The firelight paints him in flickering orange and gold, catching the way his composure cracks. He sets the blanket down slowly, moving toward you as he shakes his head."
"I loved you from the start," he murmurs. "Before I even married you. Marrying you was convenient, but I fell in love with you at that stupid gala. You asked me about that painting and I panicked and recited an entire catalogue of notes memorized the night before and you laughed - not at me, in delight. Like you found something unexpected and wonderful. And I remember thinking that I was the worst thing that could happen to you."
He laughs once, a small, broken sound as your heart hammers in your chest, breaths coming fast.
"You made it worse by being you," he admits, softening as he takes another step toward you. "You did small things for me, made my life perfect in ways that mattered. You never asked anything of me, you just… were there for me. I thought if I stayed gentle, if I stayed careful, if I never asked too many questions, maybe you’d never realize what kind of monster was sleeping beside you. I thought the guilt would be less if I never took more than you offered. So I kissed your forehead and pretended that was enough.”
Junui's palm is warm when he cups your face and turns you to look up at him. His thumb swipes across your cheek and you realize you're crying. His face is pained as he looks down at you, freehand snaking around your waist to pull you chest to chest with him, warm. His heart beats in time with yours as he looks down at you, gaze searching.
"It was never enough," he admits. "I love you so much it makes me sick with it. Every time you came home late I wanted to pull you into my arms and ask where you’d been. Every time you smiled at me across a crowded room at one of those awful parties I wanted to drag you into a coat closet and kiss you until neither of us could breathe. I didn’t. Because I thought it would make me evil to take what I wanted and lie to you at the same time."
You hiccup a sob. "I thought you didn't want me. You said you wanted to go our separate ways on the plane."
"I suggested it because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought letting you go was the kindest thing I could do for the woman I love."
"You absolute idiot!" Junhui blinks as you hug him, pressing your face to his chest. He laughs, a little confused as you squeeze him. "I took the forehead kisses and the gentle hands and the soft words and tried to convince myself it was enough, because I thought that was all you wanted from me and all I thought I deserved!”
"Really?"
"Yes, you oaf! I was so guilty for lying to you that I accepted what love you offered and felt grateful for it. Asked no questions. Thought I was awful."
He laughs squeezing you tighter, arms warm and secure and home. The arms of your husband, the Junhui you've always known.
You pull away from him a little, looking up at him. "When you said separate ways on that plane, I thought my heart was going to cave in. I agreed because I thought that’s what you needed. Because I thought you didn’t love me the way I loved you. And I was going to let you go. I was going to let you walk away because I thought it was the kindest thing I could do for the man I love.”
He cradles your face again, eyes dark as he looks down at you. Tears cling to your lashes and you sniff unceremoniously. He smiles, fond - in love - fingers pressed to your cheeks.
"What do you want, tiānshǐ?"
You reach up slowly, fingers trembling as you brush the hair from his face, his eyes shining.
"I want my husband," you tell him, heart racing. "All of him. The man who tutors neighborhood kids on weekends. The man who remembers birthdays and tips too generously. And the man who comes home with blood on his hands. The man who shielded me from bullets tonight. The man who’s been carrying the same guilt I have for years.”
For a single heartbeat, the world narrows to just the space between you. Then he moves, pulling you in - not gently or careful like you're used to - but desperate, with half a decade of starvation. He kisses you like he's starved, his mouth warm and wet and tasting of the salt from your tears.
You kiss him back, fisting his shirt in your hands, the years of things you've held back crashing through you - guilt, longing, terror, the stupid, vicious love you have for him. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and pulls you in closer, desperate for you.
When you finally break apart, his mouth doesn't go far, his lips ghosting across yours as he murmurs, "Wǒ de Tiānshǐ."
"Lǎo xiàng hǎo."
He stares down at you, snorting, unbelieving. "We really need to talk about how you pretended not to speak Mandarin."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, but right now I have other things on my mind."
You raise your brows, heart skipping a beat. "Like what?"
His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile, one you rarely see. It's possessive and hungry, your stomach knotting as he knocks his nose against yours. "Making love to my wife."
The words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he scoops you in one fluid motion, his arms strong and sure beneath you. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands clutching his shoulders as he carries you toward the bedroom.
He moves effortlessly, body honed from years of training, muscles shifting under your touch. He kicks the door open with his foot, the wood creaking in protest, as he enters and throws you on the bed. You laugh, the breath escaping your lungs as he smiles at you while pressing you backward into the mattress, leaning over you.
Junhui shrugs his shirt off in a swift pull, revealing the scars you now know the stories to - the stitches on his shoulder fresh and delicate. There's no pain on his face now, just unrestrained hunger as he presses his waist to yours, leaning to kiss you again.
"You have no idea how often I've wanted this," he murmurs. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch toward him. "To claim you all the time. Often."
You reach for him, sliding your fingers through his hair as he kisses you again, teeth clashing. His weight on you is comforting, the mattress dipping under you both. He braces one knee between your thighs, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawn and down your throat. He nips the skin there, soothing the sting with his tongue. It makes you whimper and he groans in response, the flat of his tongue sweeping up your neck.
"Jun," you whisper, shivering.
He pulls away just enough to strip away your top, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you bare. "So beautiful," he growls. "My wife. Mine."
Junhui's hands roam, calloused palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into the touch, heat pooling low in your belly as he lowers his head to catch a nipple in his mouth. The sensation makes you writhe, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you. You gasp, hips bucking instinctively, making him chuckle.
"Patience, my love," he teases.
His free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your pajama bottoms and panties, tugging them off in one rough motion. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire inside of you. He tosses them aside, gaze fixed between your legs where you're wet and aching for him.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Have you been waiting for this too? Waiting for me to take you apart like you deserve?"
"Yes." His fingers trace the inside of your thigh, teasing higher but not quite touching where you need him most. "God, yes."
He hums in approval, shifting down the bed until he's kneeling between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing your knees apart. You feel exposed, breaths coming in quicker as he looks up at you, pupils blown and fucked out when he hasn't even touched you.
"I want to taste you first," he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your knee. He kisses your inner thigh, your muscles twitching. "Want to make you come on my tongue. Can, I love? Will you let your husband devour you?"
"Please," you laugh, breathless and desperate. "Please, Jun."
He doesn't need more than that. His hands grip your thighs, holding them open as he leans in, his tongue flattening against you in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. The sensation scrambles your brain, his tongue hot and wet. Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a harsh breath, his mouth closing against you as he groans. The vibration goes through you, making you squirm. He holds you harder, tongue diving in deeper before circling your clit lazily.
"Shit," you gasp, the curse leaving your lips before you can stop it.
Junhui laughs as you twist your fingers in the sheet, his mouth lethal against you. He switches between broad strokes and pointed pressure, sucking your clit into his mouth gently before releasing it with a pop that makes your toes curl. You feel the way you melt in his mouth, arousal and spit dripping from your cunt to the curve of your ass. He chases it, tongue hungry and greedy and you let out a broken sound.
He's relentless, possessive in a way he has never been with you all this time, tongue fucking you in shallow thrusts that have you grinding against him. One of his hands leaves your thighs, drifting to slide two fingers into your heat, curling upward to press against your front wall. Stars burst behind your eyes, one of your hands going to his head, fingers twisting in his hair.
"So tight," he murmurs, words muffled against you. "So perfect."
He suctions his mouth on your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers. Pleasure curls in your stomach and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, squirming in his hold.
"I'm - shit I'm gonna-"
"Come for me," he pants. "Let me taste you."
His fingers thrust harder, tongue circling your clit until you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as you ride it out. He doesn't stop, licking you through it, drawing out over sound until you're shaking and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release, grinning.
"You taste like heaven," he rasps, leaning up to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself in his mouth. You moan into it, nails dragging down his back.
Junhui's fingers drift back between your legs, pressing in again. You whine and he hushes you with a kiss, stretching your cunt around three of his fingers, thrusts gentle.
"You can take it," he whispers. "Want you ready for me, yeah? You can do it, my love."
You nod as he pumps them slowly at first, scissoring to open you up. It feels so good, the edges of your vision blurring while his thumb circles your swollen clit in lazy strokes. The overstimulation borders on pain, but it melts into pleasure, your body singing.
"You've been holding back too, hm?" He asks. "All those nights I could have had you like this writhing for me."
"Yes," you pant. "Wanted you so badly but didn't know how."
Cur curls his fingers again, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. Sweat beads on your skin and it feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest, slamming in your ribcage as you arch, head pressing backward into the mattress.
Junhui attaches his mouth to your throat, sucking the tender spot underneath your ear as he works you toward another orgasm. The slide of his chest against yours, the way he groans - it all makes you come again, squeezes his fingers hard as you flood his hand, making him curse.
"That's it," he praises. "Just like that, love."
He withdraws his fingers with a wet slide, bringing them up to this mouth, sucking them clean with a hum of satisfaction. You look at him, dazed as he grins and kisses your forehead. You press your hands to his shoulders, anchoring your knees to his hips and he only has a second of warning with your grin as you roll, flipping him under you.
Junhui looks up at you with stars in his eyes as you lean up on your knees, panting. His hands automatically go to your hips, squeezing as you catch your breath, looking down at him. His mouth is swollen and covered in spit and slick but you don't care - he's the most beautiful creature you've ever seen.
With shaking hands, you help him out of his pants, only making room so he can kick them down before you have him pinned under you again, letting you grind against his leaking cock. He groans and you grin, watching as his eyes squeeze shut as you tease him, the heat of your cunt nearly unbearable.
You reach between you, grabbing his hard cock, pumping a little before you line him up at your entrance, the thick head pressed tight against you. He hisses, watching as you sink down slowly, taking him inch by thick inch. It's a lot and you feel the air punch from your lungs until you're ass it flush to his thighs, stretched so tight you can barely breath.
"Fuck," he bites out. "You are fucking perfect. I love you."
You grin. "I love you, even though you were going to leave me."
"I'm an idiot."
"Yes," you agree, gasping as you start to move. "You are."
It's slow at first, your hips rolling in languid circles. The friction feels so good, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. His hands roam, squeezing your ass, thumbs digging into your hipbones to urge you a little faster.
"That's it," he rasps. "Use me."
Emboldened, you pick up the pace, bouncing now. Every thrust feels like it knocks the sense out of you, sweat slicking down your body as you try to catch your breath, thighs trembling. His hips thrust up to meet you, driving deeper, and you lean forward, nails raking down his chest.
"Mine," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your back to hold you to him. "No more holding back." You whimper and he thrusts up harder, gasping. "You're going to come on my cock, aren't you?"
You nod, unable to find the words, the angle letting him hit that spot inside of you that renders you useless. He takes over, banding you to his chest as he thrusts up hard and fast. It's too much, making you clench around him as you come with a scream, body sliding against his.
In one smooth motion, he rolls you, pressing you into the mattress. He's buried deep till, the weight of him pressing into you makes you delirious. He uses a hand to pin yours above your head, his hips grinding into yours, public bone pressing your clit as you whimper his name.
"One more," he begs, his thrusts turning deeper and slower. You nod as his free hand slides between you, gently circling your clit. "One more for me, love. My perfect fucking wife."
The overstimulation is torture, your body on fire, every nerve singing as he pulls you toward another high. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, hands squirming in his grasp as he pins you.
"That's it," he whispers, pace faltering as he starts to fall apart.
You come together, vision whiting out as you squeeze around him. He lets out a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside of you as he twitches. You can barely breathe, both of you tangled together, hearts pounding in sync.
He presses gentle kisses to your shoulder, murmuring in Mandarin, all the things he's always wanted to say - everything you needed to hear. You hold him close, never wanting to let go, uncaring that you were never the perfect wife and he was never the perfect husband. You're perfect for each other, two congruent pieces of a puzzle.
"I love you," he says again, voice rough. "From the moment I meant you."
"I love you," you whisper. "Before I even approached you."
-
The sun hangs low over the Aegean, painting the whitewashed walls of the stone house in gold. Naxos is beautiful this time of year, the sun painting the small kitchen with cracked blue tiles in the perfect light.
It's a simple thing - two bedrooms with a terrace overlooking olive groves that slope down to the sea. Junhui stands on the terrace now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, nursing a cup of coffee from the beans you'd found in Chora. You watch him from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, still wearing the faded linen dress you'd thrown on after your morning swim.
He glances over his shoulder and catches you staring. A smile curves his mouth, the same one he used to give you at flashy New York City parties.
"What are you staring at?" He asks.
"My very beautiful husband." You step closer, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressed to the warm plane between his shoulder blades. "You know the ladies in Chora love you?"
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Do the ladies in Chora know I am desperately in love with my wife? And also that she could kill them without a second thought if she got jealous?"
Junhui turns in your arms, careful not to spill the coffee on you as he sets it down on the railing. He cups your face with both of his hands, warm from the mug. The callouses on his hands are the same calllouses you've always known, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"I'm retired," you tell him, squeezing him tighter. "No more killing for me." You pause. "Unless they keep staring at you, then perhaps."
Before the computing era, ILM was the master of oil matte painting, making audiences believe that some of the sets in the original Star Wars and Indiana Jones trilogy were real when they weren’t. They were the work of geniuses like Chris Evans, Michael Pangrazio, Frank Ordaz, Harrison Ellenshaw and Ralph McQuarrie ! Forever thank you, to their handmade art and the work of their colleagues, that made us dream of impossible worlds and fantastic places across Earth and the Universe.
There are more background paintings on this article, featuring comments by the masters/artists themselves !
Some of the following pieces were made by other artists 2:
I love this because I’ll be watching a movie and think “how did they do that? Is that a building they built for this movie? Was it there beforehand? Is it cardboard or CGI? Is that actually some place on Earth that they’re filming?” And the answer to all of these now is “nope, that’s a painting”. I can’t believe some of the most iconic, familiar shots were paintings!
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