[ The thought strobes into Hei's mind as he pads about the sunny flat in faded jeans and a T-shirt. What was he thinking? Offering Korra cooking lessons. On his day off. In his kitchen. It's like some kind of cosmic joke. Mechanically, he's assembled the ingredients for today's meal. Two large lobsters -- live -- in ice coolers. On the counter -- herbs, lemons, a plate of butter, for the sauce. Three pears and a bottle of red wine (already a quarter empty; there's a reason Hei prefers staying busy) for dessert. ]
[ Resting his elbows on the counter, Hei takes the spread in with the ridiculous sense of preparing a tea-party for Pai's dolls. He remembers perfectly well the last time he'd helped a woman cook dinner. It was in Beijing. He'd bought her lobster then too. Served it with pasta, angelic shrimp and glasses of white wine. Had sex with her until she was half-stoned from exhaustion. Then he'd cracked open her safe and taken off with her money, jewels and anything else that wasn't nailed down. She'd been a storm-port. An easy way to evade enemy surveillance until he could smuggle himself to a new city. ]
[ This is different. ]
[ Returning to the livingroom, Hei slumps on the couch. A paperback novel on the table, spine cracked as it sprawls facedown, vies for space with a juice glass smudged red with wine. Hei doesn't touch either. Just watches the sunlit dustmotes glittering through the slatted blinds. Vaguely, he knows why he's uncomfortable. He isn't pretending to be someone else. On assignments he's always undercover. Cover, that is the perfect word. Something you can hide behind. Something without which you feel naked. ]
Dated to Saturday Afternoon
[ The thought strobes into Hei's mind as he pads about the sunny flat in faded jeans and a T-shirt. What was he thinking? Offering Korra cooking lessons. On his day off. In his kitchen. It's like some kind of cosmic joke. Mechanically, he's assembled the ingredients for today's meal. Two large lobsters -- live -- in ice coolers. On the counter -- herbs, lemons, a plate of butter, for the sauce. Three pears and a bottle of red wine (already a quarter empty; there's a reason Hei prefers staying busy) for dessert. ]
[ Resting his elbows on the counter, Hei takes the spread in with the ridiculous sense of preparing a tea-party for Pai's dolls. He remembers perfectly well the last time he'd helped a woman cook dinner. It was in Beijing. He'd bought her lobster then too. Served it with pasta, angelic shrimp and glasses of white wine. Had sex with her until she was half-stoned from exhaustion. Then he'd cracked open her safe and taken off with her money, jewels and anything else that wasn't nailed down. She'd been a storm-port. An easy way to evade enemy surveillance until he could smuggle himself to a new city. ]
[ This is different. ]
[ Returning to the livingroom, Hei slumps on the couch. A paperback novel on the table, spine cracked as it sprawls facedown, vies for space with a juice glass smudged red with wine. Hei doesn't touch either. Just watches the sunlit dustmotes glittering through the slatted blinds. Vaguely, he knows why he's uncomfortable. He isn't pretending to be someone else. On assignments he's always undercover. Cover, that is the perfect word. Something you can hide behind. Something without which you feel naked. ]
[ This won't end well. ]