"I could heat up some—"
"Yes, thank you."
She laughed as she perused the contents of the refrigerator. "I can't believe you're hungry—it's barely been three hours since dinner."
"I have an extraordinarily high metabolism."
"Lucky you, I'll be spending the rest of the weekend working off that cheesecake. I have some pizza I can reheat—or I could scramble some eggs or an omelet?"
"Whichever is easier. This kitchen is bigger than my apartment."
"This place is a lot for one person that's for sure. The first couple of days after I moved in, I actually got lost for a few minutes in one of the back hallways. Toast?"
"Yes, thank you. How long have you been in New York?"
"Almost three months. I was a visiting professor at the Sorbonne on loan from the WHO for the last two years, then I got the offer from ShelterHouse and Fordham."
"I did my under-grad work at the Sorbonne."
"I didn't realize they offered a degree in espionage," she said laughing.
"Actually, I have a PhD in Quantum Mechanics from Cambridge."
"Ah, Cambridge, that explains your accent. So, Dr. Kuryakin, how does one go from the hallowed halls of academia to jetting around the globe blowing things up?"
"It's a less ironic segue that it appears on the surface. A colleague…a friend… was murdered by members of an international criminal organization called Thrush—the same group that abducted you and your colleagues in Mexico. I became acquainted with Mr. Waverly during the investigation and a few months later he approached me about a position with U.N.C.L.E. in New York.
"To be honest, I found university life …unsatisfying. I was a scientist—but my work was being was being subsumed by an endless stream of pointless meetings, and teaching, and the pressure to publish fatuous articles—and then there was the petty, trivial, territorial squabbles. It was exhausting."
"You know they say, 'academic politics are so bitter because the stakes are so low'."
"Sayre's Law, yes," he responded with a soft laugh. "Yet you appear to be thriving in that milieu."
"A visiting professor with a short shelf life is far less threatening to those girding their loins for the tenure wars than a brilliant young Russian scientist—and I actually enjoy the teaching—I find the students energizing."
She gingerly slid the omelet onto the plate just as the toast popped up. "How about if we move into the living room? You can grab the butter from the fridge. The coffee needs another couple of minutes—black with an obscene amount of sugar, right?"
"More of your powder room intel?" he called back from the living room.
"No, boy-o, that was first hand observation. I was fascinated watching you fix your coffee at dinner. I think you were one sugar packet away from saturation—or diabetes."
"It's a habit I picked up in the labs at Cambridge. The sugar enhances the effect of the caffeine. Do you mind if I ask about the man who attacked you outside of the bookstore this afternoon?"
"The owner has been supportive of our efforts at getting young people off the streets. They let me post fliers back in the coffee bar about available social services. Miroslav views our efforts as a threat to his business model. I'd like to think he's correct in his assessment.
"So, you and Napoleon, how long have you two been together?" she asked as settled herself on the couch.
"Almost eleven years. The extraction of your team from the Thrush satrapy was one of our early missions as a team." He laughed. "We got off to a rocky start-I honestly didn't think we'd make it six months. Each of us had a bit of a reputation as not working well with others, and there were some who simply didn't want to have a Russian partner. The first couple of missions were…taxing. But Mr. Waverly was intractable—he saw something between us before we saw it ourselves."
"Mags said he's extremely insightful about people."
"Did she really say Napoleon and I suffer from sibling rivalry?"
"She did, but she says it's why the two of you work so well together—that you constantly challenge each other—push each other to outperform."
"I believe that we do have a certain complimentary dynamic which has been a tremendous benefit in our working relationship—though I have to wonder if Mrs. Waverly is onto something. Both Napoleon and I lost our fathers during the war—and Mr. Waverly has functioned as a sort of father figure to each of us in many ways. Perhaps, on some level, we do compete for his approval."
"Does Napoleon really have a yacht or was that just some clever story to trip me up?""
"Yes to both, actually. He does have a yacht. I believe he inherited from an uncle, no pun intended- and yes, it was an attempt to trip you up."
"How does someone with motion sickness end up in the Navy anyway?"
"Military conscription. I served seven months on a submarine. Fortunately, the seasickness is not as bad underwater as on the water. I was released from service to study at the Sorbonne."
"Paris must have been quite a culture shock coming from post war Russia."
"It was, particularly disarming coming directly from the military. The openness, the freedom to think and speak one's mind without repercussion was rather terrifying at first."
"But better than being on a submarine?"
"Considerably so."
"Will you return to Russia at some point?"
"I had hoped to but…that would no longer be an option for me. I was recalled by the party four years ago when my brother and his wife were killed in an automobile accident. My release to work for U.N.C.L.E. was contingent on having a family member remaining behind—collateral as it were, a reminder from the party that I wasn't entirely free of repercussions.
"I attempted to defer my return until Napoleon and I were finished with a very complicated case—my hesitance was seen by the upper-level party members as disloyalty. They attempted to force my return by revoking my passport—but Mr. Waverly came forward and arranged a US passport for me."
"So, you can't return?"
"Technically, I could return, but as they convicted me of treason, I'd be returning to face a firing squad. What about you? Do you plan to return to Ireland someday?"
"I still visit when I get the chance, but there's nothing to draw me back permanently. My my da also died in the war—and my mom shortly after. My only family is my brother, and he's in New Zealand."
"Is he a physician as well?"
"Actually, he's an organic farmer. He married a girl from Donegal and they immigrated to New Zealand ten years ago. I got to spend a few weeks with them right before I came to New York."
"I really did have a lovely time this evening. I can't remember the last time I had a night out on the town in a beautiful dress with a handsome man on my arm."
"I find that hard to believe there aren't a dozen men lining up to spend an evening with you."
She sighed. "I'm apparently not relationship material either."
"I find that even harder to believe."
"Well," she said laughing, "you had to hire a prostitute to get a dinner date and I pretended to be a prostitute to get a dinner date. My own work life is pretty complicated as well—and men these days seem to prefer younger, less complicated women. Like your friend Napoleon and his fashion model—seriously, she's almost young enough to be his daughter. I doubt they're tucked away for the evening discussing particle physics."
"Napoleon knows nothing about particle physics. Honestly, I'm not entirely certain he understands why airplanes fly."
"Then there's this whole situation," she said making a sort of circular gesture over her left hip with her index finger."
"Your back," he responded. "I saw it at Madame Matilde's."
"Oh, boy-o, you only got yourself a sample back there at the dress shop. It's my lower back and my left hip halfway down to the knee. It's absolutely hideous, full on Frankenstein hideous—honestly, sometimes I'll catch sight of it in the mirror and it even scares me.
"That's always a fun conversation preparing a potential lover for the big reveal. At first, I thought, you know be upfront and take the bull by the horns and let them see it early on—they'd do their best to pretend not to be horrified, then make polite excuses of why they had to get going and tell me they'd call me and of course they never did.
"Then I thought maybe if I had them wait longer for sex they'd get to know me, maybe like me and be able to look past it. But after a few dates they'd just lose interest and move on to someone more accommodating. Except for the guy in New Orleans with the scar fetish, he was such a delight. I finally had to get a restraining order—which he totally ignored. I swear to God the legal system here is a joke. About five years ago I just gave up all together."
He set the coffee mug on the table beside the couch then stood up. Slowly, deliberately he unfastened each of the buttons of his shirt, then dropped it on the floor as she watched in bemused silence. When she didn't protest, he skimmed off the black silk undershirt and dropped it to the floor as well. He removed the trousers and folded them and placed them on the couch. He saw the puzzlement in her eyes shift to empathetic understanding as she studied the tangled collection of scars on his body.
"Yes," he said softly. "It's awkward trying to explain them to someone new, someone who couldn't possibly understand. They tell a story, a story that is difficult to share. It's not a story most people want to hear. People prefer happy stories, easy stories."
"Yes, uncomplicated stories," she responded.
"Stand up," he asked gently.
After a few moments she slowly complied.
"Turn around."
Slowly he unzipped the gown and it began to slip to the floor, but she grabbed it holding it to her body tightly, her eyes panicked.
"It's alright," he said. He touched her hand gently and whispered, "Please, let it go." She hesitated for moment then reached for the switch on the table lamp.
"Leave it on."
Hesitantly she allowed the dress to fall to the floor. He offered his hand and when she took it, he helped her to step out of the dress.
"Can I touch them?"
She shook her head yes.
Tenderly, he explored the complex patchwork of scar tissue. "Do you have sensation there?" he asked as he ran his fingertips along a wide surgical scar.
She gasped softly, "Yes."
"Did that hurt?"
"No—quite the opposite."
Tentatively she reached out and allowed her fingers to run along the tangle of healed flesh and artifact of stitches on his chest and arms. The unexpected intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, painful and yet unexpectedly beautiful; his instinct was to withdraw—but instead he forced himself to explore it, to open himself to the emotions.
"In Japanese," he said softly, "there is a word, kintsugi—its literal meaning is gold splicing. Instead of discarding a cracked or broken vessel, practitioners of the art repair them with gold to emphasizes the break lines instead of trying to hide them. It shows that the piece is resilient and unique and marked with honor.
"We are complicated people, you and I, with complicated stories. We're survivors, Moira. That is our story—we are resilient and unique and marked with honor." Gently he pulled her to him, looking for any sign of resistance—she moved the rest of the way to him and kissed him softly, tentatively. He responded by wrapping her in his arms an initiated a deep, lingering kiss.
"It's good to have that part behind us now," he said brushing his fingers along her cheek. "The awkward explanations—now we both know it doesn't matter and we can move forward at our own pace. And speaking of moving forward, I think that maybe I should be going."
"You don't have to go," she whispered softly.
"I think it might be better to wait until we are a bit closer to being in love."
"Are we going to be in love?"
"I suspect we will be." He kissed her on the forehead then retrieved his shirt from the floor.