Love & Other Sharp Things
She felt wrong.
Her body started shaking, as the last of adrenalin poured out and was replaced by fatigue and anxiety.
She wondered how V did it. How he had done it for so many years. Dealing with death, that is. Delivering it. Witnessing it. And never flinching.
She wished she had his ability to heal - both body and mind. Perhaps that’s why he was so eccentric - the scars ran through his soul, too. They were not only delivered by his captors at Larkhill but by himself, too, every time he had taken a life or seen one taken.
And now she had already started to go down that path, too. She had not killed today, but she had before - and she would again if needed. Already the scars on her soul were taking shape and her skin too now bore scars - one close to her hip, the other close to her heart. She wondered how many more would come over the years. So many, perhaps, she would one day be covered in them, like V. Perhaps then the cycle would be complete.
She felt very sad suddenly. Very sad and lonely.
She allowed herself tears, knowing that the water - her faithful ally - would wash them all away.
Fire.
Fire is so pretty when it dances.
V sat in the kitchen of the Shadow Gallery, intently watching the little flames under the teapot. It never ceased to be a mystery to him how something so deadly could be so beautiful. He too had gotten rid of his wet clothing. The new garments that replaced them looked suspiciously like the others, just less elaborate. Simple black trousers and a simple black long-sleeved t-shirt that were functional in their simplicity. He had on his boots, too, not separated from them even in the safety of his own home. A new wig - identical to the other - now sat on his head. Only his gloves were removed, allowing him slightly more dexterity in handling his tea.
It was strange, really - usually he considered his full-body wear as a restriction. Especially in the beginning, not long after Larkhill, he had found his new wardrobe hard to get used to. He often took it all off after entering his home, letting what was left of his skin breathe at last. That was of course long before he’d had Evey living there.
On this night especially the tight clothing even gave him comfort, like a second skin protecting him. He felt cold, which was rare for him, and he suspected that the chill came from the inside rather than from the outside.
The teapot whistled, asking for its owner’s attention. V took it off the fire and poured in some tea for himself. He could still hear Evey’s shower running in the distance and decided he was safe. He tilted up his mask and brought the cup to his damaged lips, enjoying the taste of fine jasmine tea.
As much as he was trying to concentrate on simple tasks, he found himself failing. His mind was on Evey and on the picture she had shown him in the apartment. He honestly did not know what to think of it. While he could not remember the event - in his heart he knew that he was the man in the picture. A handsome man, he was, and it was exactly that what killed him inside. In his most secret of fantasies he wondered what would have happened if Larkhill had never came to pass. Would he still have met Evey, perhaps on some political rally with her father? Would she have found him attractive? Could they, perhaps, have fallen in love like normal people do?
Painful questions they were, running through his mind like little cruel razorblades. Questions he’d never know the answer to.
And then there was poor Evey. What had he done to her? All the things he craved to protect her from were now a part of her everyday life. There was so much violence, so much death - and he could not save her from it.
His hand clenched around the delicate teacup and the china, unable to bear the pressure, fell apart in pieces.
Both tea and blood dripped on the kitchen table.
Snow.
Snow in October.
Eric Finch could not recall witnessing such an event. Sure, scientist did keep saying how we destroyed the environment, but it’s different seeing it with your own eyes. Besides, wasn’t it supposed to be global warming? It was strange really - first the streets of London had been invaded by walls of rain, then slowly the thick drops had transformed into fluffy snowflakes. Children had run out into the streets to play in the snow, but Finch himself was not impressed by Mother Nature’s whims. Snow simply meant his job would last a little longer - and he would be a little colder while doing it.
Evey had called him earlier, explaining the attack on her apartment. He promised her to take care of it. He still knew people who knew people, as they say and he had just enough influence to ask for a few favours. Now he was standing in Evey’s old flat, surrounded by a few trusted officers who took to investigating the matter before more unwanted guest got hold of the news. However, Eric Finch feared it might already be too late for that. This was England after all - the gossip press grew rampant here and there truly would be no way of stopping them if they wanted to run with this story.
Many feet below no snow could be seen, and temperatures gave no indication of the cold outside. Despite the heat, Evey Hammond draped a fluffy dressing gown around herself, feeling chilly again as soon as she exited from the warm safety of the water. She made her way to the Shadow Gallery, finding V there. He was still in the kitchen, accompanied by a first aid kit, out of which he had taken some bandage. He tended to his hand with a cold precision, seemingly impervious to pain. It was Evey, it seemed, who felt his pain for him. She could swear she could even feel her hand tingle. She wondered how it could be that she could feel so close to someone, while still being painfully aware of the divide between them both. Her hesitant fingers carefully touched his shoulder. The flinch she expected did not come.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
V inhaled a breath of air. “Oh, it was silly really. I had a minor disagreement with a teacup and I’m afraid the cup won.”
Evey knew instinctively, immediately, that there was more to the story. She also knew that he’d never tell.
In her mind she was braver. In her mind she stripped him off all his defenses - and off all his clothes, too. The real world Evey, however, contented herself with wrapping her arms around V’s shoulders and burying her face in his wig.
She could feel him tensing under her touch, the first steps towards pulling away from her. His scarred hands were already reaching for his gloves, seeking protection from her touch. This time, however, she would not let him. Her own hands reached for his. Her fingers wrapped around the fire-damaged flesh, creating and interesting contrast.
“Evey, please…” he breathed.
Ignoring his words, she brought him had up and kissed it. Again her action was met by a flinch.
“Trust me.” she whispered against his hand. “No games this time. No deceit.”
He brought his hands up to her face almost reverently. He places his palms on her cheeks, cradling her face lovingly. The mask looked at her and she wondered what expression lay beneath. A sigh sounded from beneath the white, grinning façade.
“I trust that you think you know what you are doing.” He finally said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Evey asked, irritation creeping into her voice.
“I’m not the man in that picture, Eve. Even if I was once, I no longer am now.”
Evey closed her eyes, nuzzling his hands.
“I know.” She whispered.
“Do you? Do you really?”
Evey opened her eyes again in a reflex to try and read his emotions. Of course, the mask revealed no secrets. She had no intention of playing this game with him. Anything she could say, he could counter. Neither of them could win this disagreement with words. Taking his hands again, she moved them away from her face, guiding them down to her waist. The masked man did not fight her. She was almost surprised, but in the most pleasant of ways. She wondered if she could push just a bit further. Still guiding his hands, she slipped one of them under the fluffy towel. What a strange sensation it was, skin on skin. Most people took it for granted, but not Evey Hammond. However, coherent thought was getting harder. Letting go of her self-control, she leaned in to kiss V. Real skin on porcelain, it did not matter; to her it was a kiss.
Finally he reciprocated, right about when she started fearing he would not. His strong arms wrapped firmly around her, pulling her on his lap. She went with the movement, embracing him in turn. Kisses followed; real lips on artificial ones, both trying to show their affection. Neither of them spoke, afraid to break the moment. V finally gained confidence, his hands moving up from her sides to her bare shoulders and back. His disfigured fingers explored the skin there, much to Evey’s delight. She rubbed her bare legs against his clothed ones. She quite liked the feel of his boots against her toes. She wanted to touch all of V, clothed or otherwise, as much as he’d allow. Her hands moved to his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the layer of clothes. He tensed.
At first Evey thought it was something she had done. She feared she might have crossed some unspoken limit. She wanted to say something, but V brought a finger to his lips, signaling silence.
Then she heard it too. It was a faint sound at first, and V’s heightened senses surely picked up on it sooner that she physically could. They were footsteps. Still not very close, but unmistakable. There was someone in the tunnels outside of the shadow gallery.
Evey felt suddenly naked. Not because of her lack of clothes, which was also a problem, but because she was unarmed. She wanted to search for her daggers, but V was ahead of her already. With a graceful display of strength he lifted her off his lap and reached for his blades in the same motion. V disappeared from her sight and seconds later she heard a petrified yell. It was not as much a yell of pain as it was one of shock, though, which led her to believe the intruder was still alive.
She wrapped one of V’s cloaks around her as it was the first thing in reach that could offer some protection.
What she found in the other room was a rather petrified Inspector Finch, who was only just recovering from nearly being impaled by V’s knives.
“Eric? What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.
“I have info I thought you might…appreciate.” he stammered.
Evey thought he might faint.
Some time later they were all sitting in the living room. Evey had dressed and had made some tea that she served in colourful china. V and Finch were sitting across each other as if they had been friends for years. It was all slightly surreal.
It was not at all how Eric Finch had imagined things when he had headed out to this underground home. Granted, he hadn’t imagined being threatened with knives either, but at least that was something to be expected.
He was toying with a piece of paper. He scrabbled down some info on it. Not that he really needed it. He had learned all info by heart.
He sipped his tea and scraped his throat.
“Your place will be all right, Evey.” He finally said. “I’ll make sure it won’t be looted. After I’m done investigating I’ll arrange for the window to be fixed, too.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Evey said. The smile on her face was a tired but genuine one. “Any clue who the bodies were yet?”
“Evey, I’m not sure how to tell you this…but there were no bodies.”
A frown crossed Evey’s face. Finch was quite sure he would see the same expression on V, had it not been for the mask.
“They made them disappear,” V stated, almost musingly. “These people have more power than I anticipated.”
“Now as for your woman with burn scars,” Finch continued. “I might have something on her.” He took another sip of tea. “I did not find anything on the name of Nancy Stephenson, but I dug deeper. You see, Stephenson is her second husband’s name. She was born as Nancy Rice, and then changed surnames again when she married a man called George Cleaver. Now Cleaver was a nurse who worked at…”
“Larkhill,” V finished the sentence for him.
Finch nodded.
“Is he…was he…?” Evey started.
“On my hit list? No. But I did kill him.” V said. “You see there was a rather big boom on the day I broke out. While it was not my intention then to kill anyone, my little experiment with explosives did take a few lives. And judging from Mrs. Stephenson’s burns, she was probably visiting hubby dearest when it all blew.”
“She wasn’t in that hospital by accident.” Evey said. It was not a question, but a statement.
“Most certainly not,” V agreed.
Eric Finch got the distinct feeling that he was disturbing a moment. In any case, he suspected V and Evey might need a moment alone. And he was not the kind of man who imposed himself.
He stood up, straightening his trench coat.
“I’ll let you know if I found out something more.”
Without much ado, Eric Finch disappeared back into the subway tunnels. The Inspector knew when to make himself scarce. Besides, the road home was still quite long ad he never felt quite at ease in the darkness of the underground.
Her body started shaking, as the last of adrenalin poured out and was replaced by fatigue and anxiety.
She wondered how V did it. How he had done it for so many years. Dealing with death, that is. Delivering it. Witnessing it. And never flinching.
She wished she had his ability to heal - both body and mind. Perhaps that’s why he was so eccentric - the scars ran through his soul, too. They were not only delivered by his captors at Larkhill but by himself, too, every time he had taken a life or seen one taken.
And now she had already started to go down that path, too. She had not killed today, but she had before - and she would again if needed. Already the scars on her soul were taking shape and her skin too now bore scars - one close to her hip, the other close to her heart. She wondered how many more would come over the years. So many, perhaps, she would one day be covered in them, like V. Perhaps then the cycle would be complete.
She felt very sad suddenly. Very sad and lonely.
She allowed herself tears, knowing that the water - her faithful ally - would wash them all away.
Fire.
Fire is so pretty when it dances.
V sat in the kitchen of the Shadow Gallery, intently watching the little flames under the teapot. It never ceased to be a mystery to him how something so deadly could be so beautiful. He too had gotten rid of his wet clothing. The new garments that replaced them looked suspiciously like the others, just less elaborate. Simple black trousers and a simple black long-sleeved t-shirt that were functional in their simplicity. He had on his boots, too, not separated from them even in the safety of his own home. A new wig - identical to the other - now sat on his head. Only his gloves were removed, allowing him slightly more dexterity in handling his tea.
It was strange, really - usually he considered his full-body wear as a restriction. Especially in the beginning, not long after Larkhill, he had found his new wardrobe hard to get used to. He often took it all off after entering his home, letting what was left of his skin breathe at last. That was of course long before he’d had Evey living there.
On this night especially the tight clothing even gave him comfort, like a second skin protecting him. He felt cold, which was rare for him, and he suspected that the chill came from the inside rather than from the outside.
The teapot whistled, asking for its owner’s attention. V took it off the fire and poured in some tea for himself. He could still hear Evey’s shower running in the distance and decided he was safe. He tilted up his mask and brought the cup to his damaged lips, enjoying the taste of fine jasmine tea.
As much as he was trying to concentrate on simple tasks, he found himself failing. His mind was on Evey and on the picture she had shown him in the apartment. He honestly did not know what to think of it. While he could not remember the event - in his heart he knew that he was the man in the picture. A handsome man, he was, and it was exactly that what killed him inside. In his most secret of fantasies he wondered what would have happened if Larkhill had never came to pass. Would he still have met Evey, perhaps on some political rally with her father? Would she have found him attractive? Could they, perhaps, have fallen in love like normal people do?
Painful questions they were, running through his mind like little cruel razorblades. Questions he’d never know the answer to.
And then there was poor Evey. What had he done to her? All the things he craved to protect her from were now a part of her everyday life. There was so much violence, so much death - and he could not save her from it.
His hand clenched around the delicate teacup and the china, unable to bear the pressure, fell apart in pieces.
Both tea and blood dripped on the kitchen table.
Snow.
Snow in October.
Eric Finch could not recall witnessing such an event. Sure, scientist did keep saying how we destroyed the environment, but it’s different seeing it with your own eyes. Besides, wasn’t it supposed to be global warming? It was strange really - first the streets of London had been invaded by walls of rain, then slowly the thick drops had transformed into fluffy snowflakes. Children had run out into the streets to play in the snow, but Finch himself was not impressed by Mother Nature’s whims. Snow simply meant his job would last a little longer - and he would be a little colder while doing it.
Evey had called him earlier, explaining the attack on her apartment. He promised her to take care of it. He still knew people who knew people, as they say and he had just enough influence to ask for a few favours. Now he was standing in Evey’s old flat, surrounded by a few trusted officers who took to investigating the matter before more unwanted guest got hold of the news. However, Eric Finch feared it might already be too late for that. This was England after all - the gossip press grew rampant here and there truly would be no way of stopping them if they wanted to run with this story.
Many feet below no snow could be seen, and temperatures gave no indication of the cold outside. Despite the heat, Evey Hammond draped a fluffy dressing gown around herself, feeling chilly again as soon as she exited from the warm safety of the water. She made her way to the Shadow Gallery, finding V there. He was still in the kitchen, accompanied by a first aid kit, out of which he had taken some bandage. He tended to his hand with a cold precision, seemingly impervious to pain. It was Evey, it seemed, who felt his pain for him. She could swear she could even feel her hand tingle. She wondered how it could be that she could feel so close to someone, while still being painfully aware of the divide between them both. Her hesitant fingers carefully touched his shoulder. The flinch she expected did not come.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
V inhaled a breath of air. “Oh, it was silly really. I had a minor disagreement with a teacup and I’m afraid the cup won.”
Evey knew instinctively, immediately, that there was more to the story. She also knew that he’d never tell.
In her mind she was braver. In her mind she stripped him off all his defenses - and off all his clothes, too. The real world Evey, however, contented herself with wrapping her arms around V’s shoulders and burying her face in his wig.
She could feel him tensing under her touch, the first steps towards pulling away from her. His scarred hands were already reaching for his gloves, seeking protection from her touch. This time, however, she would not let him. Her own hands reached for his. Her fingers wrapped around the fire-damaged flesh, creating and interesting contrast.
“Evey, please…” he breathed.
Ignoring his words, she brought him had up and kissed it. Again her action was met by a flinch.
“Trust me.” she whispered against his hand. “No games this time. No deceit.”
He brought his hands up to her face almost reverently. He places his palms on her cheeks, cradling her face lovingly. The mask looked at her and she wondered what expression lay beneath. A sigh sounded from beneath the white, grinning façade.
“I trust that you think you know what you are doing.” He finally said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Evey asked, irritation creeping into her voice.
“I’m not the man in that picture, Eve. Even if I was once, I no longer am now.”
Evey closed her eyes, nuzzling his hands.
“I know.” She whispered.
“Do you? Do you really?”
Evey opened her eyes again in a reflex to try and read his emotions. Of course, the mask revealed no secrets. She had no intention of playing this game with him. Anything she could say, he could counter. Neither of them could win this disagreement with words. Taking his hands again, she moved them away from her face, guiding them down to her waist. The masked man did not fight her. She was almost surprised, but in the most pleasant of ways. She wondered if she could push just a bit further. Still guiding his hands, she slipped one of them under the fluffy towel. What a strange sensation it was, skin on skin. Most people took it for granted, but not Evey Hammond. However, coherent thought was getting harder. Letting go of her self-control, she leaned in to kiss V. Real skin on porcelain, it did not matter; to her it was a kiss.
Finally he reciprocated, right about when she started fearing he would not. His strong arms wrapped firmly around her, pulling her on his lap. She went with the movement, embracing him in turn. Kisses followed; real lips on artificial ones, both trying to show their affection. Neither of them spoke, afraid to break the moment. V finally gained confidence, his hands moving up from her sides to her bare shoulders and back. His disfigured fingers explored the skin there, much to Evey’s delight. She rubbed her bare legs against his clothed ones. She quite liked the feel of his boots against her toes. She wanted to touch all of V, clothed or otherwise, as much as he’d allow. Her hands moved to his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the layer of clothes. He tensed.
At first Evey thought it was something she had done. She feared she might have crossed some unspoken limit. She wanted to say something, but V brought a finger to his lips, signaling silence.
Then she heard it too. It was a faint sound at first, and V’s heightened senses surely picked up on it sooner that she physically could. They were footsteps. Still not very close, but unmistakable. There was someone in the tunnels outside of the shadow gallery.
Evey felt suddenly naked. Not because of her lack of clothes, which was also a problem, but because she was unarmed. She wanted to search for her daggers, but V was ahead of her already. With a graceful display of strength he lifted her off his lap and reached for his blades in the same motion. V disappeared from her sight and seconds later she heard a petrified yell. It was not as much a yell of pain as it was one of shock, though, which led her to believe the intruder was still alive.
She wrapped one of V’s cloaks around her as it was the first thing in reach that could offer some protection.
What she found in the other room was a rather petrified Inspector Finch, who was only just recovering from nearly being impaled by V’s knives.
“Eric? What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.
“I have info I thought you might…appreciate.” he stammered.
Evey thought he might faint.
Some time later they were all sitting in the living room. Evey had dressed and had made some tea that she served in colourful china. V and Finch were sitting across each other as if they had been friends for years. It was all slightly surreal.
It was not at all how Eric Finch had imagined things when he had headed out to this underground home. Granted, he hadn’t imagined being threatened with knives either, but at least that was something to be expected.
He was toying with a piece of paper. He scrabbled down some info on it. Not that he really needed it. He had learned all info by heart.
He sipped his tea and scraped his throat.
“Your place will be all right, Evey.” He finally said. “I’ll make sure it won’t be looted. After I’m done investigating I’ll arrange for the window to be fixed, too.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Evey said. The smile on her face was a tired but genuine one. “Any clue who the bodies were yet?”
“Evey, I’m not sure how to tell you this…but there were no bodies.”
A frown crossed Evey’s face. Finch was quite sure he would see the same expression on V, had it not been for the mask.
“They made them disappear,” V stated, almost musingly. “These people have more power than I anticipated.”
“Now as for your woman with burn scars,” Finch continued. “I might have something on her.” He took another sip of tea. “I did not find anything on the name of Nancy Stephenson, but I dug deeper. You see, Stephenson is her second husband’s name. She was born as Nancy Rice, and then changed surnames again when she married a man called George Cleaver. Now Cleaver was a nurse who worked at…”
“Larkhill,” V finished the sentence for him.
Finch nodded.
“Is he…was he…?” Evey started.
“On my hit list? No. But I did kill him.” V said. “You see there was a rather big boom on the day I broke out. While it was not my intention then to kill anyone, my little experiment with explosives did take a few lives. And judging from Mrs. Stephenson’s burns, she was probably visiting hubby dearest when it all blew.”
“She wasn’t in that hospital by accident.” Evey said. It was not a question, but a statement.
“Most certainly not,” V agreed.
Eric Finch got the distinct feeling that he was disturbing a moment. In any case, he suspected V and Evey might need a moment alone. And he was not the kind of man who imposed himself.
He stood up, straightening his trench coat.
“I’ll let you know if I found out something more.”
Without much ado, Eric Finch disappeared back into the subway tunnels. The Inspector knew when to make himself scarce. Besides, the road home was still quite long ad he never felt quite at ease in the darkness of the underground.