She wiped the palms of her hands on the borrowed apron, inhaling. The small kitchen was thick with the scent of basil, sweet with tomato. The pasta frothed in the saucepan and she switched off the heat, hefting the pot up to drain it in the sink. Steam billowed, dissipated. For an underground home the ventilation was excellent, and she wondered briefly if there was some grill in the pavement somewhere from which garlic and herb aromas would drift. She imagined bewildered passerby looking around for a restaurant and finding none.
The small pot of growing basil went back on the shelf. The cutting boards were stacked beside the sink for later. She took two of the simple, white plates out of the cupboard, and cutlery from the drawer. The pasta dinner was equally simple. She'd stopped being nervous about whether or not he liked the food.
White pasta on white china, red sauce pooling in the hollows. On a whim she reached for more herbs and shredded the leaves over the sauce. The rich green made it seem less macabre.
Evey leaned back against the oven, reaching for the towel over her shoulder to wipe her hands again. Her fingertips were stained a little green and smelt strongly of the meal - basil and garlic.
She hadn't seen V cook, much. After the first morning he'd arranged to have everything finished just as she got up - and he managed to keep it that way even though her waking hours varied. After that first morning she'd not seen his hands again. She wondered why he went to such effort to keep them hidden. Had her reaction been that bad?
He was reading in one of the small side rooms, and looked up when she came in. After all these weeks he still seemed taken aback when she cooked for both of them. (It was something about how his hands would hesitate.) She smiled slightly, set the plate down on the table by his elbow. He placed a slip of paper between pages and put the book aside.
"Merci, ma'mosielle."
He joked when something unsettled him.
She smiled again, but couldn't think of anything to say. To say nothing felt wrong, admittedly, but anything glib would be a waste of words, and such things should not be wasted with this man. So she only nodded and went back to the kitchen, silent in bare feet.
Evey ate alone at the table, wiping her mouth with a corner of the apron. It felt odd, taking food to him. The only face of his she knew was the mask, but it didn't make sense with the little things. It must make being human that much more difficult. He had to take it off to eat, obviously. Did he sleep with it on?
It seemed his whole life was lived in this second skin: the mask, long sleeves, and gloves. Was it only now she was here, or had he done the same thing while he'd lived alone?
There were so few mirrors, down here. The ones she'd seen were covered or filthy.
He came into the kitchen just as she was filling the sink to wash up, and set his empty plate beside her. She slid it into the water.
"You do well to keep the herbs growing down here."
"The lights help," he evaded. He lifted the towel off her shoulder and shook it open.
She kept her eyes on the water, kept her actions methodical. It was bizarre, this operation. This man had blown up the Bailey and laughed. He'd held Jordan Tower hostage. He'd killed Lewis Prothero, and blithely admitted that he would kill more people. Now he was standing beside her with a fleck of pasta sauce on his right glove, drying the dishes. Leather creaked with each flex of his fingers.
"Doesn't the water damage the leather?"
"I'm sorry?"
Wrist deep in suds, she nodded at his gloved hands carefully holding a wet plate, and repeated her question.
There was a long pause. A small cluster of bubbles slid along the rim of the plate. The mask was inclined downwards, still smiling, but the line of his shoulders was tense. At length he set the plate back in the draining rack and she cringed, thinking he'd leave entirely. Instead he only turned his back, and she heard the leather gloves easing themselves from his fingers.
She watched her own hands as she washed. With each small item placed in the rack she caught a glimpse of his; unevenly coloured, mottled with scar tissue. The movement didn't seem restricted, though. It must have hurt, keeping the muscles flexible while the skin healed.
"You missed a spot," he was handing the saucepan back to her.
She was torn between sorry and thankyou and for too long said nothing.
"Sorry."
The look he gave her was ambiguous. Was that surprise at her answer, or an invitation to continue speaking? She focussed on the pot, scrubbed fiercer.
"Evey."
She stopped. His fingers gripped the teatowel a little too hard.
"Yes, V?"
The moment stretched.
"If this..." the right hand clenched. "If it upsets you – "
"It doesn't," she cut him off. She wanted to say more. She wanted to ask about the fire and how it started and why he'd been in it, wanted to ask why he made such effort to hide the scars, wanted simply to tell him she was sorry he'd been in such pain.
Her breath, drawn for voice, stilled.
He seemed to be waiting, wary and on edge. His weight was on the back foot, scarred fingertips worried the hem of the towel. The mask watched her.
Desperately she looked away, back at the clean saucepan in the faintly steaming water. She lifted and rinsed it, feeling awkward under his eyes.
"Clean now?"
When he reached to take the saucepan she closed her hand over his, dripping water and leaving long dark streaks on the towel. The scar tissue felt irregularly smooth. Her hand looked so small beside his, but the hot water had made hers almost the same colour red. She wondered if he noticed.
He drew away, carefully, as if her touch had made him into glass and he could break himself through inattention. He said nothing, only looked at her. The smile remained unaltered.
The task was completed in silence. He dried his hands on the towel as she wiped down the bench. When he picked up his gloves from the table, he turned to her briefly. She expected admonition, or something like, this must never happen again, but he only inclined his head.
"Thankyou for dinner, Evey."