lizzen says: fic! i say: how much?

[singleword]

"Peanut butter?"
"Hm?" the mask looks up at her. "Do you not like it?"
"I didn't say that," she sits down at the table as he places a sandwich before her. "It just seems a little.. frivolous."
Her every random comment seems worthy of his attention. "How so?"
"I remember hearing somewhere that if you're craving peanut butter, you need more fun in your life."
"Really?" He leans his elbows on the table, steeples his fingers. His head tilts. She has the impression of a raised eyebrow. "No wonder Sutler is in such a state."
She half-chokes on her mouthful, washes it down with tea. He'll say things like this sometimes, surprising and horrifying her with his humour and irreverence. If someone personified an opposition to the Articles of Allegiance, it would be him.
But then, she wipes her mouth. There was his broadcast. Prothero. Of course.
"Do you recall what a combination of peanut butter and jam may indicate?"
She's lost. "What?"
"Strawberry jam, naturally."
"Er," she recognises the lilt in his voice, the angle of his shoulders. He's playing. "Not enough sunsets."
"How about sweet chilli sauce?"
She gapes. "With peanut butter?"
"Certainly."
"Mental imbalance. No question."
He laughs, head tilted back. It reveals a chink between his collar and the mask, a glance of skin, and she stares at her plate. Crumbs of wholemeal bread. Shards of peanuts. Her face burns.
The laugh fades, he grows quiet. But he doesn't ask her if anything's wrong. Perhaps he knows how much trouble she has reconciling his jokes with his voice gently saying Violence can be used for good. In peripheral vision she sees his gloves pressed down on the table, hears his chair pushed back -
"V."
She doesn't say his name often. He stills. Stays silent.
"Read me something?"
There is a long hesitation, so long she thinks it may be his answer. But she holds gaze with the mask. Waits.
"Do you have a particular preference?"
"Something I haven't heard before."
He stands then, walks away. She watches him go, remembering the shadow of him in the alleyway and on the rooftop. Remembers his shape stark in the Jordan Tower lobby. He is darker than the stone, in the Gallery, but the gold light is warmer to him, welcoming. He belongs here.
She is cradling her tea when he returns. Lunch finished. She has little excuse to linger, but he sits down opposite her anyway.
"What did you choose?"
He holds up the book. "Roald Dahl, Revolting Rhymes."
She laughs in sheer surprise, and his shoulders relax.
Evey sets down her tea, and listens.