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Gravity	By : JackHawksmoor Category: DC Verse Comics > V for Vendetta Views: 3533 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own V for Vendetta, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Gravity
- 2-two
- 3-three
- 4-four
- 5-five
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She didn't think he could have got her to leave if he hadn't said please. If he'd demanded, if he'd insisted she let him be... she imagined she'd have stood there until he passed out from blood loss, and then helped him anyway. It was unnerving. Something about the tone of his voice.

Please. As if he had no right to ask her. Please. There was no fear in his voice, no pain. Not ashamed. Something softer.

Was it just his need for privacy? She stepped back from him, once he had everything he might need spread out in front of him. She offered him help, and he thanked her for it, and asked her, quietly, to leave him.

She shut the door to the infirmary with uncertainty twisting in her stomach for the first time in what felt like a long time. She leaned against the door, shut her eyes, inhaled slowly. She stood on shaky legs in her former prison, listening to the silence, as she had so often before.

Then, from behind the door, a sound, a pain sound, quickly choked off.

Outside the door, Evey abruptly sat down. Not silence. There hadn't always been silence. She put a hand to her mouth.

When she had still thought her life over, when she had been trapped and dying in a cage little things became more important. Small routines to hang her sanity on. She had thought she was in some sort of solitary confinement wing. She had so rarely felt even a hint of any other prisoners.

Except...

She'd thought they must have a routine as well. That they went around to the prisoners in the same order. They would torture her-not every day- but, after they finished with her, she would always hear him. The next prisoner on the list, she'd thought.

She would clamp her hands over her ears for hours, to muffle the screaming. Trying to sleep while it was going on was worse than impossible.

Every time. After they were done with her she would hear it. One lost soul screaming a lament into the early morning hours. V. V's voice.

“My god,” she breathed, and walked out. Her stomach was churning with an unappetizing twist of horror and triumph.

She fell onto the couch because it was closer, rested her head back with a sigh of purely physical relief. She knew she should stay awake for him. If he didn't come out in half an hour she should go back in there and make him take her help. He might...he...

-----
Evey woke up on the couch under a violet afghan. She blinked, bemused. Then, with a sudden lurch of her heart, she sat bolt upright, before her memory had even fully returned to her. Instinct before thought. V....

She looked at the blanket under her hands. She hadn't put it there. When she turned her head she saw, on the table, a glass of water and a bowl of fruit which she had also not put there.

Evey sighed from somewhere back in her spleen and deflated against the cushions. He was all right. He'd brought her tangerines, for god's sake, he had to be all right. She rubbed her hand over her face, then back across the fuzz of hair growing in on her scalp.

It was getting so she couldn't sit down on a flat surface for more than five minutes. If she wasn't eating, she was dozing off. V had said her body needed to heal, but it was becoming bloody inconvienient.

Then she reached out and grabbed fruit out of the bowl, because she wasn't sleeping, which meant she was famished. She threw off the blanket and went to look for him, stuffing little orange wedges into her mouth, the peel curling gently through her fingers.

She was pleasantly surprised to find her feet a good deal sturdier than they had been, and started to wonder about just how long she had been out. Her eyes touched on a door that had always been locked as she headed to the kitchen. No real reason for it, she just found her eyes catching on it for a moment. She dropped the peel in the bin, dusting off her hands. He wasn't in the kitchen, though she hadn't really expected him to be. She'd have to go back to the infirmary, just to check.

But...it was odd...

She walked out of the kitchen, frowning at that locked door. At least, it had been locked in the past. She walked up to it, touched the handle. No reason to...no reason to wonder about it now...

Good god, he was in there.

She stepped back like she'd been slapped. No. No, she had no reason to... she couldn't possibly know any such thing, she was...she was just...

Evey hugged herself without thinking, then turned herself completely around, spinning on her heel with all the confidence of a human being raised nominally logical. She found herself looking almost directly at the door that led to her false prison, and the infirmary.

Evey muttered something unladylike under her breath and thought dark things about the concept of coincidence. Then she took her blackest memories in hand and went to enter the place they lived.

She touched the walls as she walked down the hallway. She touched the walls with something like tenderness pushing up against the back of her throat. Utterly bizarre.

He wasn't in the infirmary, though he'd pushed the table up against the wall and cleaned the blood off the instruments. She looked in the sink, touched the bottom of it with a fingertip. Bone dry.

She opened every door that could be opened in that hall. She didn't enter any of the rooms, merely opened the doors that yielded to her fingers and gave the rooms therein the consideration they deserved. The last door that opened for her revealed the room that had taken her hair from her. She tilted her head, eyes picking out the details of the chair, the dirt on the tile. The stainless steel sink gleamed in the corner, several electric razors displayed neatly on a shelf beside it.

Absently, she touched the back of her head, an inch of hair prickling the pads of her fingers.

Her eyes lit on the blank wall above the sink, where instinct and habit told her a mirror of some kind ought to be. Ought to be. Wasn't. Her hand toyed with the door for a moment. She straightened, then took off towards the shadow gallery like a woman on a mission.

She glanced at the locked door that teased at her brain as she went past it. Had to admit to herself that she really wasn't looking for him anymore. Because she knew where...

At least she thought she knew...

Then she flipped on the light to her room, and for a split second had an outlandish thought that she might find him there, waiting for her.

Hah. Silly...

She went to the dresser, glancing up at the mirror for a brief instant, giving the latin glazed into the reflection a pass of her eyes before she started to search through the drawers. She'd seen it...she knew it was there...

Most of the drawers had clothes in them. Women's clothes. Her clothes. One of the small ones on the top was full of marbles. And one of them...

Ah.

She smiled down at the open drawer in her hand. It was filled with little bottles made of colored glass. Perfume bottles, inkwells, tiny, intricately decorated bits of nothing. Every color of the rainbow, twinkling up at her in the soft lighting. She reached a hand in and callously shoved them to the side, running her hand along the wooden bottom until her fingers bumped over cold metal.

She found the handle and tugged, pulling it free from glittering pieces of glass like a shell unearthed from beach sand. A hand mirror. It was tarnished, and not very pretty, but when she flipped it around, her reflection smiled back at her, well pleased.

---------------
She unbuttoned her shirt and hung it lightly over the chair, placed both of her hands flat against the stainless steel of the sink. The metal was cold, pleasant against her bare skin. She lifted one of her chilled hands and ran it one last time over the stubble growing on her head. Then she picked an electric razor, eyed the setting, and turned it on.

It buzzed cheerfully in her hand, and she barely smiled at it in encouragement.

She went once over her head completely before she lifted the hand mirror, checking for missed spots.

In front of her ears...The razor nuzzled up to the area in question, leaving only bare skin behind. She flicked off the power for a moment and heard someone breathe into the sudden silence.

It should have been strange that it wasn't a surprise.

She heard the inhalation. It sounded like a kick in the gut. A sharp word twisting like a knife. An old lover walking down the street with someone new. That first knowing breath of pain and want.

She turned the mirror, even though she knew. Just tilted it a little so she could see him at the door.

Hat off, cape put up, he was a slim form in black, watching her behind his mask.

She took notice of the way his fingers curled into a fist as he leaned into the doorway. Watched in mesmerized facination as his hand tightened, black leather clamping down on the doorframe. His face had always been hidden from her. He ought to seem a mystery, his feelings, his reactions kept away where no one could see them.

It would be mistake, she thought with rising tension, for anyone to think that. For her to think that.

Every line of his body, every slight movement told eloquently of a man ambushed by desire. Abruptly hit over the back of the head with it. How did she look to him? Standing calmly in the reflection of hell V had created. Shaving her own head with a steady hand.

The muscles of Evey's stomach tightened low in her abdomen.

He was staring at her, watching her breathe, watching her fingers trail over the nape of her neck, brushing away stray hair. Wanting her. The hunger was so blatant it was near blinding. Just looking at him, it almost made her teeth hurt. She set down the mirror.

If she turned around....if she turned around he was going to have her. Right there on the floor, if necessary.

The ice was popping and cracking under her feet, and she had about five seconds to get the hell off or ready herself for a swim...

She reached down and turned on the faucet. Took one step back for leverage, leaned down, and thrust her head under the spray.

Echoes of her captivity. She rinsed the hair clippings from her head as if she couldn't hear them. As if she didn't know his moment of romanticism was suddenly faced with a flat black reality. The memory they both shared of his hands shoving her face into a sink, a toilet full of water. Finally stood back from the sink with icy trails of water rolling from her neck down her bare back.

She dragged wet hands over a smooth head. Flicked beads of water from her fingers as she lowered them, satisfied.

She turned to look at him, but the echo had been too loud, and he'd gone.

Relief suddenly tasted rather a lot like disappointment.
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