Knives
Disclaimer: I do not own V for Vendetta in its entirety, including porcelain Guy Fawkes masks, swirly black cloaks and extremely cool knives. But nothing can stop me dreaming…
Evey knows as soon as she enters the room that it is one of those nights.
Nights where their usual conversations seem more intruded on by the eternal grin of his mask.
Nights where shadows play across his porcelain face and it becomes more savage, more fierce and more alien to her.
Nights where she remembers he's a murderer.
She spies his dark wig in the movie room where they once watched The Count of Monte Cristo and she approaches on silent footsteps, sleep robbed from her by winged shadows. For some reason the Fingermen's near violation of her body seems nearer and more real tonight then the memory has been for a long time. She needs to hear his voice tonight.
A flash catches her eye as she ventures into the room, hesitant on disturbing his thoughts. He is sharpening his knives, his belt spread over one knee with the weapons hanging from it like exposed fangs. The sharp rasp of the blades makes Evey's spine tingle and V appears focused on his task, not acknowledging her presence in his usual courteous manner. Evey decides to leave again, preferring even her dark and lonely room to his silent brooding but suddenly she is sitting across from him, watching the hypnotic movement of his gloved hands.
Silence grows between them. The Shadow Gallery appears for the first time to be both unwelcoming and distant. Knives, their deadly tips polished to icy pinpricks, are lifted and replaced in their corresponding sheaths. A thought forms in Evey's sluggish mind, numbed by the warmth of the room and she speaks it aloud, even though she regrets shattering the silence as soon as it has been released.
'Are you going to kill someone?'
The hands stop. For the first time the mask turns in her direction. The grin mocks her. She knows he is not smiling.
'Yes.'
The word is barely a murmur and it hangs in the air between them. A chill shudders down her spine. Such a simple answer, yet weighed with all the threat in the world.
He leaves the room like a ghost, his black cloak swirling around in rippling waves.
Tomorrow he will be in a pleasant mood, quoting Shakespeare, making her breakfast, wearing aprons, his music filtering through all the passageways of the Shadow Gallery and summoning her from sleep.
Tomorrow she shall be once again confused and intrigued by him, listening with delight to the sound of his voice, wondering at his seemingly boundless energy, amused by his feline grace as he fences enthusiastically with thin air.
But tonight he is a monster and a murderer. This Evey must never forget.
And sometimes it is so easy to forget.