Chapter 3

V had recovered quickly, barely showing any sign of having been shot. Whenever she asked him about it, he made a graceful non-committal gesture, and quickly changed the subject.

She had backed off a bit on her training, expecting that he needed a break because of his shoulder. It wasn't too long before he was asking her if she wanted to resume. She did, and had picked up the pace a bit again, but couldn't help feeling awkward about it with his injury. He assured her he was fine, but it made her uncomfortable. So she mostly worked on her own.

They spent most of their time together in the kitchen now. V had ambushed a very well stocked supply house, and there was so much fresh food, Evey was afraid it would go bad. They were both doing the best they could, cooking whatever recipes they thought sounded interesting. V had a whole shelf in the kitchen dedicated to cook books, and they often found themselves around the kitchen table, exclaiming over new recipes and sharing what they liked. When they found one they had all the ingredients for, off they went, cooking for hours.

She had been drooling over a recipe for stuffed mushrooms, when V had unexpectedly said, "I hate mushrooms."

She glanced at him. "You? That's a surprise."

He cocked his head, and his voice sounded puzzled, "Why?"

"Mushrooms are so… cultured. They seem gourmet, high-class. I wouldn't expect you to dislike anything like that."

He made a noise that might have been a laugh, but wasn't. "It's the texture. I can't stand shrimp either."

"Ah, so you're a textural eater." She shook her head, bemused. She hadn't even seen him eat. He would stay with her while she dined, and then she suspected he ate later, somewhere else.

"I'm a textural person in general. The gloves mask a lot, so when I do touch, I enjoy it. I guess that translates in to my food."

Evey was still, digesting this information. It took all of her willpower at that point not to approach him and take off his gloves, maybe entwine her fingers in his. She knew his hands would feel interesting. It didn't intimidate her. She could picture his reaction, if he would even let her get that far. He would flinch away from her touch. She suspected he was deeply insecure about his skin. She could understand it, if not condone it. So she said, "Why not take them off here, V, at least while cooking? I have seen your hands, you should not fear my reaction."

He turned away from the stove, looked at her, and was silent for a minute. She casually continued looking through the cookbook, trying not to put him on the spot. The silence grew till she looked up and said, "Never mind. I can see you would prefer not to with me around."

His voice purred in hum, expressing nothing specific. It seemed dismissive, like he was disagreeing with her last statement, but she knew it was the truth. Still, she glanced up at him, pausing at the sound of his voice.

"I don't know." He said softly. "I would hate to make you noxious."

"V." He voice was firm, deeply enunciating the syllable, showing force. She looked up at him and retreated in to her softer self, "Don't be silly. That is not possible."

His hips had been resting on the edge of the stove, but he pushed his body forward, and took a strong stance, legs shoulder width apart. His hands came up together at his waist, and she could see him grip the tip of one gloved finger with the other hand. Evey was surprised to find that her pulse had quicked.

He tugged on that one finger. She tried not to look at his hands, she stared at his mask, wanting to meet his eyes but finding only blackness. He tugged on the next finger, and the next. 'Don't stop…' she thought to herself.

As he slid the glove off his hand, she knew exactly how she wanted to react. She glanced once, quickly, and then pointedly looked back at his face, and smiled. It was genuine, if planned, and she hoped he saw that she meant it. "Good." Was all she said, and she looked back down at her cookbook. She never stopped smiling. V went back to cooking, gloveless.

V's heart was pounding in his chest. And then she smiled at him, a true smile that lit her eyes.

He found himself, inexplicably, scared. He had been nervous taking off the glove, sure, but scared? It was her smile, her casual acceptance of his grotesque hands. He remembered, before the fear, there had been a moment when relief washed through him. It had burned though him, like that fire that had burned around him, and one of his favorite quotes surfaced in his mind.

'My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon.'

He had always likened it to his tragedy, and the clarity of his revenge. But he could now see a different meaning for that quote, and it scared him. In this moment he had burned, and now all he could see was her acceptance, where he had never expected to see any.

No, no, no. He hardened himself, taking off the other glove, trying not to care. With a forced casualness, he turned back to cooking.

"My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon."— Japanese poet Masahide