Nitrous: V's Side

By Kryss LaBryn

This is V's side of Six Glittering Erections. As usual, I own nothing. Not even pigeons...

He must have knocked against it without noticing. The problem was that, if he had banged the valve loose without noticing, he hadn't noticed, so he had no idea when he might have done so. It must have been when he first entered the room, though; he hadn't been near it since he squeezed past the canister on his way to the wiring bench at the end of the rather close room. He was sure the valve hadn't been faulty when he retrieved the canister, anyways. So it must have been somehow knocked loose on his way by. And that must have been at least, oh, forty minutes ago?

He peered at the dial adorning the top. Mostly empty. It had to have been a slow leak, or he would have heard the hissing and investigated. He then could have shut the dratted thing off and aired out the room, and then simply gone on with his wiring. Instead, he'd spent the past, oh, forty minutes or so inhaling the better part of quite a large tank of nitrous oxide. A gas with very little smell. A gas that took seconds to take effect. A gas that was seriously hampering his ability to focus…

He might not have even noticed if he hadn't suddenly found it so difficult to do the fine soldering his current project required. But he had, and had eventually tracked down the cause of his sudden… inability to… thingummy, what did you call it… ah, yes. To think.

I should shut it off, he thought suddenly, and giggled. He reached out a rather unsteady hand—Blast it, look at me! No wonder I couldn't bloody well solder! It's a lucky thing for you, my fine son, that you weren't handling the gelignite today!

Drat it, anyways. Things were going so well, too, that he hated to stop working. He was on a bit of a roll, he felt. Definitely things were proceeding to plan. He could probably afford a little bit of time off, to, you know, stretch his legs, clear his head, get some fresh air…

I really must shut that damn thing off. With exaggerated care, one eye screwed shut in concentration, he very deliberately tightened the knob back down. Good. Now. Is it still leaking? There was so little left in the tank it really wouldn't have made that much difference; but still, waste not, want not. Right?

He removed a glove and raised his mask a hair, licking a finger and carefully feeling all around the valve and stem. No leaks. Good. Absently settling his mask back in place, he shrugged his cloak more firmly into place against the chill of these deeper levels, placed his hat firmly onto his head, and wandered into the corridor, only just remembering to leave the door open to air the room out.

Fresh air, that's what I need, he mused, and lurched towards the stairs. Or a nice cuppa. Yes. Cuppa first, get my sea legs, and then fresh air. I'll go shopping. He giggled slightly again at the image of himself, the cloaked and masked terrorist, wandering about the local market with a basket over one arm, fighting his way to the check-out through a sea of fat women with fat babies… I should see if Evey wants anything while I'm out. Evey. He paused on the landing and tried to get himself in some sort of order. Right. Right-Oh. Everything's just tickety-boo. Right. He'd made her a pot of tea, and left it in the kitchen with her breakfast. He doubted she'd still be asleep, but perhaps she hadn't finished off the pot yet…

He paused outside the kitchen door to once more gather himself, then swept in. Evey, at the table, had her back to him; she jumped, almost guiltily, when he entered. "Good morning, Evey!" he said. Bleary eyes stared back at him from beneath rumpled hair. "You look very… nice this morning," he added, hoping she wouldn't notice his expression. She sat motionless, her spoon still hovering half-way to her open mouth. "Everything to your taste?"

"Yes, V; it's great." She put her spoon of porridge, uneaten, back into her bowl, and eyed him strangely. "You seem remarkably… chipper this morning."

"Do I?" he asked vaguely, heading for the teapot. She'd moved it to the table, but perhaps… "Ah! Still some left. Do you mind if I..?"

"No, go ahead." She was still looking at him oddly. Surely he couldn't seem that off, could he? Even if it did seem his face was going numb…

"Er, V…" she began, then hesitated. Fetching a teacup, he returned to the table to doctor it accordingly. "Were you ever an actor? I mean… before."

He paused, thrown off by the non sequitor. "I have no idea. Why do you ask?"

"Oh! Um… oh, no particular reason… I just thought that, you know, with the quotes and all…"

"Ah!" He stirred his tea, and remembered in time to not lick the spoon off in front of her. He pondered for a moment. "Well. Not so far as I am aware… Although," he mused, "I might actually be Sir Lawrence Olivier. Actually, that makes quite a bit of sense…"

"I suppose," said Evey, "Except, of course, he's dead."

"Ah, yes. There is that. Pity, though," said V, raising his teacup. Tea, that's the thing. A nice cuppa cuppa, and then some fresh air…

"Er, V… Er, you haven't had any… you haven't partaken of any interesting substances lately, have you?"

"No…" drat it drat it drat it! "What makes you ask that?"

"Well, you seem a bit… off this morning."

"Do I?" Drat it! "In what way?"

"Well, there's the way you keep saying 'actually'."

"Do I?" Am I? Drat, he had been so careful to be normal… Well, normal for him, anyways…

"Yes. Plus, well, you're trying to drink your tea…"

Ah! A comment he could cope with! He was on firm footing again. "That was quite on purpose, I assure you. What else did you think I was going to do with it?"

"Well, yes, of course. But with your mask on?"

"My mask..?" He raised a hand to his benumbed face. "My mask! Of course! Dear me, whatever was I thinking?" Oh, thank god. My face isn't going numb. It's just my mask…

Drat it all! I really need a cup of tea now. Wait—he had just the thing… Quickly rummaging through a drawer of odds and ends he found a straw. Whence it came, he had no idea; straws just seemed to appear in the back of kitchen junk drawers in a strange sort of spontaneous generation. He only remembered about it because of the irritating way the claws of the hammer kept hooking on its curves every time he wanted to hang a picture. "Ah, Anoia," he murmured, shaking the drawer closed past an abandoned manual egg beater, "How we do rattle our drawers in praise of Thee!"

Drat it, he shouldn't have jumped up so fast. It made him feel quite light-headed. If I don't get some of this blasted tea into me right quick I'm just going to pull the bloody mask right off and down the whole pot in front of her. He expected to chuckle at the thought of her horrified reaction, but realized that he didn't want to see horror on her face. Not when she was looking at him… Steady, old boy, he thought, and carefully threaded the tip of the straw through Guy's lips. At last… There's little that can't be improved by a nice cuppa tea!

Evey suddenly went quite red. "Excuse me, V," she said, and stood, apparently about to flee. He frowned. He did still have the mask on, didn't he..?

"Are you all right, Evey? Is anything the matter?"

"No, no; I just… A bit of porridge…" She gestured at her throat.

"Ah, of course." V felt inexplicably relieved, until he realized… "Of course, you haven't actually eaten any of it since I came in… Are you sure nothing's the matter?"

Evey froze, gazing at him in apparent horror. Damn it! I do still have the mask on, don't I? Don't I? "Thanks, V; I'm fine." She shifted from foot to foot slightly, for all the world like a child caught stealing a cookie. "I just feel a bit… odd this morning. Nothing serious," she hastened to add as he began to rise. "Just… a girl thing. Finish your tea; I'll be fine."

"Very well, if you're sure." He finished his tea and rose. A nice cuppa cuppa and then some fresh air, that's the ticket. Stick to the plan, old boy; you'll be fine. Oh! He was going to offer to—"I'm going Above shortly," he added, "Is there anything I can fetch you?"

She seemed poised to run. "No thank you V I'm sure I'll be fine have fun bye!" She turned to flee.

She needs to keep more regular hours, he realized. All this… unstructured living was making her loopy. It was all very well for him; he was, truth be told, slightly sideways to begin with, but for her… "Evey," he found himself saying, "Mahomet found in the first heaven a cock of such enormous size that its crest touched the second heaven. The crowing of this celestial bird arouses every living creature from sleep except Man." He paused, then added, "And women who live underground. Perhaps I can fetch you an alarm clock…"

"Thank you, V," she didn't say, "That would be most helpful." She didn't even say, "Sorry, V; I know I'm a bit odd this morning." Or even, "Whoops! Up Mrs. Pibble!" Instead, all she did was mumble "Excuse me," and not run away. She was very deliberately not running away, he realized. She simply walked out. A moment later, he heard her door close, quietly and carefully. Then, silence. No; not quite silence. Bracing one hand on the doorframe for balance, he cocked his head. Muffled hysterics, he thought. She's having hysterics into her pillow…

He took one hesitant step towards her room, then stopped. She'd gone to some pains to not break down in front of him; he'd respect her privacy. As she would have his, he was sure.

Why hysterics?

Baffled, he carefully made his way to the lift. The nitrous was what, three levels down? More? He shook his head to clear it. Could it have made its way into her room? He stopped, trying to remember the path of the ductwork. Even if it had, if there were a connection, it would have been so dispersed that the laughing gas would have had no effect. Still… What else could it possibly be?

Wielding Occam's Razor with one hand, and propping himself upright with the other, V made his careful way to the roof.

Luckily, a few deep breaths of fresh air, with his mask off, were enough to clear the last few cobwebs from his head, although it still took some time for his legs to stop feeling rubbery. Still, it was nice to sit in a secluded corner of the roof, enjoying the feeling of the open air against his face, enjoying the view across the city in the morning light.

Ah, pigeons, he thought, as a couple flew down to keep him company. One knows where one is, with pigeons. Bit of bread and all's well. Not like young women at all…

Finally feeling himself again, V made his way back to his workroom to finish his work. He did, however, make a slight detour to dig out a particularly fine example of 18th Century French clockwork, and left it outside Evey's door.

He had paused for a moment, listening. All was quiet within. He had almost knocked, but deciding it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, he had simply left it slightly to one side, where she would be bound to see it, but wouldn't trip over it.

He hoped it would help. He was at a loss as to what else might…

He didn't see Evey again for the rest of the day, although he heard her moving about her room occasionally. When she did finally reappear, the next morning, she didn't mention the clock, although it had disappeared from the hallway.

She also didn't meet his eyes. In fact, she seemed to have difficulties being near him for quite a few days after that. She perpetually seemed to be choking back giggles, although he couldn't imagine why.

Pigeons, thought V; It's much simpler with pigeons.

He went to find some bread.

Spontaneous Generation: A Medieval theory that held that, while many major life forms reproduced in the usual manner, many of the minor ones simply and suddenly came into being when the conditions were right. For example, wild geese were thought to spontaneously generate from old driftwood planking washed by sun and waves, and, as anyone with a sloppy roommate knows, food left out will eventually spontaneously generate mice.

Anoia: A minor goddess of Things That Stick In Drawers, from Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, "Often, but not uniquely, a ladle, but sometimes a metal spatula or, rarely, a mechanical egg-whisk that nobody in the house admits to ever buying. The desperate mad rattling and cries of 'How can it close on the damn thing but not open with it? Who bought this? Do we ever use it?' is as praise unto Anoia. She also eats corkscrews." Terry Pratchett rocks.

Mahomet's cock: from E. Cobham Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1898

Occam's Razor: A 14th Century hypothesis that states, basically, that all things being equal, the simplest explanation is the best.