Rushed through the ending- needed to finish this excuse of a procrastination tactic. Was meant to be a 200 word drabble.
Warnings: OOC, fluff, rushed pacing. Quotes from William Blake, J.M. Barrie. Line also borrowed from Audrey Niffenegger.
Thanks for all feedback, as always.
She comes to his room three hours after he retires to it. He is expecting her and so catches her hand easily, the curved blade stopping in its deadly sweep downwards.
She has even blackened his dagger with soot from the oven but there are patches glinting weak copper from the dim oil-lamp in the corner of his room; he hopes it means she has just awakened disorientated from her nightmares rather than this being a clinical assassination of deliberation.
He moves quickly, before she can speak- passing her hand over him so the razor tip traces its way across his chest. He stops it over the hollow pulse of his throat and her hand shakes slightly, reaping a drop of red blood that wells up and spills a silent dark trail down the side of his neck.
Then he lets her go, and waits.
In the dimness, her silhouette barely bleeds faint gold but he can't tell if she is crying, she is so still and silent. For one heart-stopping moment, the chilling bite of the edge presses red pain into the soft of his throat, but then it stops, the foreign metal still lingering in his flesh.
V feels the warmth of his life trickling down his neck and thinks he might go deaf from the silence.
An eternity, then: 'You- complete- bastard-'
She leans down, and her voice is almost breaking in its raw emotion. There is spike of pressure, and more warmth trailing down his neck, and then- 'You think I won't kill you after all you've done to me? I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you! You- arrogant- bastard!'
She is crying. He is horrified to see she doesn't even seem to notice. How many nights had he woken up, raging and screaming and hating so intensely he could almost taste the acidity, and then finding his eyes sore and tired in the morning? It is sick, watching himself in her; he wants to reel back from the tide of her vicious fury, from the haunted wildness of her nightmares still in her eyes.
And he didn't think… he had not even treated her as badly as… There is the old horror swallowing him up but monster, monster- who is he to feel shame now?
'Evey,' he says quietly. A weak apology, almost; it is so unworthy. A bitter taste, like bile rising.
She falls silent, shuddering. Her name stirs her when pleading would have enraged. He would know; this part of the human psyche is disappointingly familiar to him. Mercy is but sour wine when vengeance is hungered for.
The blade presses once more, half-heartedly, into his neck, but she is already starting to wake up from the last tendrils of her half-dreams and he can see the anger draining out of her. For a moment, he is almost disappointed. But, no surprise…
The knife slips to the bed sheets, he takes it and places it carefully on the small table beside the bed, in full view.
'You were expecting me,' Evey says dully, after she has gathered herself. She passes a hand over her eyes and looks surprised to find her palm wet. V makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat and lets the silence fall like a curtain between them. He's determined to distance himself; if she wants to hate him, he doesn't want to make it any harder for her.
But she doesn't co-operate- the bed dips when she sits by his side, still rubbing her eyes and staring blankly ahead when all tears were wiped away. Her eyes are ringed and the bruises are darkened into craters on her thin arms in this dusk half-light. If she was slim before, then she is brittle and terrifying small now. There is only the briefest of agonizing between thick guilt and longing before he sits up carefully and drapes a light blanket over her shoulders. And she is so fragile … He is careful not to touch her.
Evey turns her head around, almost lazily. 'You even exposed your neck to me…' she murmurs.
It has been a long time since any part of his skin has been freed to the air for this long; he resists the impulse to cover his neck. Instead, he shifts awkwardly. 'When I was imprisoned, the only thing that kept me sane was dreaming of how I would spill their blood with my bare hands,' he says. Gravel low in his voice. 'I thought you might want to the same, though hopefully to a lesser degree.'
Her body is silhouetted against the faint glow of the far light; he can't see her expression for the shadows. But he strains to see her as she speaks anyway. 'You mean you thought all this even though I know you had done all that for my sake? Even though it has been nearly a week?'
It can't be helped- his breath catches in his throat. Known? How could he? She was so angry, she had every right, and he had dreaded…
He is smiling under his mask, despite himself. 'Easier it is to forgive an enemy than a friend. After what I've done, death would have been generous of you.'
They sit in silence and darkness for a long time; she is looking at him but he can't bring himself to meet her frankness. She has not killed him, she understands… he should be glad but instead, there is a strange, heavy weight in his chest. Just a foolish sorrow, he thinks. A madman's ache. Evey, who he has made. Evey, who he had no right…
'Evey,' he says at last, when he can't take the weight of her eyes any longer. 'It is late--'
Maybe it was the dimness that had shadowed his vision but more likely it was his disbelief- that she, his prisoner for the past month and who should despise him, would never reach out and touch him so gently, almost tentatively. But then here are her fingers trailing over the sensitive underside of his jaw, caressing the scars with such infinite tenderness, skimming over his pulse… Lightly, almost wondering- he thinks, hazily, that he shouldn't be leaning into her touch but it isn't it instinctive, this desperate pleasure-isn't everyone owed human contact, even him?
When is the last time…?
'So arrogant,' she breathes, and it is strange how tender—but then it is over as soon as it has started- the lightening bolt of warmth disappearing into the shadows with the quiet padding of bare feet. There is a vision of her body outlined through her thin shirt in muted copper glow as she bends over to switch off the lamp, then her footsteps leading away and finally the quiet click of the door shutting as she leaves.
V starts to breathe again.
Oh god, gods, god… what is she doing? What was he thinking? She might just kill him… at this rate… it is even-- as if…
No, foolish. He shakes his head, slipping off the mask and clattering it on the bed table in one fluid movement. It is--
--wait. Wait... A coldness, clutching his heart. His dagger, stained with red vengeance, placed on the…
He stretches his hand and feels the small top of table. Explores it from side to side. His mask, yes. But where—
It is the absolution of pitch black enveloping his senses, but still he can feel her by him, can almost see her outline like chalk in a murder scene.
Can almost hear her heartbeat as she stands over him with his dagger.
She must look so beautiful.
'Now you aren't expecting me,' she says lowly and it is her tone more than anything else that stops him from reaching for his own knives. Not triumph or vicious satisfaction but…uncertain, a plea…
Something presses into his hand, heavy and immediately familiar. He grips the hilt, dazed, and listens to the impossible and unmistakable sounds of a woman undressing.
He is not afraid of death but this is something else altogether- there is the soft whisper of cloth over skin and rustling to the floor, and there is her scent, insanely intangible, and there is his imagination… it is surreal, this blackness. She must be in trauma, still; he must be dreaming, now.
'Evey —please, stop,' he rasps, and his voice is strained. His breathing has quickened into ragged intakes of air- they are harsh in the darkness. The whispers of cloth continue, persuasive and pervasive, a subdued symphony, the hitching of her breath in staccato. He is V, he is an idea, he is already half-mad with desire, his thoughts are spiraling and chaotic- sharp, intense flashes of longing and panic. Too fast, too impossible; wasn't she the victim?
He wants her so badly it appalls him.
'Evey, stop, you—'-know better.
The rustling stops; there is a brief flare of disappointment. He almost reaches out to pull her down, hungrily, before she can leave, but the cold weight of his knife is still heavy with guilt in his hand. He feels naked without his mask.
It is the depths of the sea, this silent darkness. And then he hears, impossibly- 'I'm sorry. I just— I'll leave now' and dear god, it nearly breaks him, that quiet shame, as if she thought he had rejected her, as if she'd thought anyone would ever reject her.
And she is still so…
He nearly stumbles down, a wrench of heart-breaking joy and strange despair, a hand reaching blindly and instinctively to stop her. 'No! Wait, I didn't-' Then his hand touches something soft- he draws it back immediately as if he'd been burned.
There is a brief, deafening silence.
'You're still wearing your gloves,' Evey says finally, and her voice sounds strange.
There is still the knife in his other hand, he realizes dimly, and he fumbles and lays it on the bed table as if it was at fault. He wonders wildly whether he should apologise.
'I didn't—I was just—you were so--' He is rambling, panicking. He takes a deep breath. Words have never failed him before but they are doing so now, when actions and their possibilities are all that are lurking silently in the dark.
And Evey- he can hear her breathing, shallow and rapid in this liquid darkness. And that something in his chest aches again, a tender mix of disbelief and fierce joy, because it is Evey of the rain and light and iron will, it is his Evey of fearless eyes, and she is actually afraid he won't have her.
She does not know me at all, he thinks distantly, and knows this is a love he will die for.
'Please stay,' he says lowly, as if he doesn't want her to overhear. 'But you must understand, I can't… You must be sure. When you wake up, I am still-- after all I have done…'
There is a sound in the solid blindness, like a cry quickly muffled.
His eyes strain in the darkness, uselessly. And he lets go- 'You are so very beautiful, Evey,' he says lowly, a dark confession, and he should be ashamed of how forlorn that sounds.
There is silence again. This wait is nothing compared to the one before; death is swift and absolute, this is not.
Then he hears it: an incredulous rush, the secret nothings murmured to a lover, an epiphany to his ears. She is undressing again, cloth whispering over skin, cotton sliding over curves, the universal dance.
Something touches his shoulder tentatively; he catches them automatically before her fingers can find his face. She hesitates.
'At least, your gloves…?'
It is a wonder, he thinks dimly, how she actually wants to touch him, after all this. It is almost as if…
Such idealism. He is still holding her hand, unsure. But her other hand wraps around his, insistent, pulling at the stiff opening, working their way to his palm. He pulls them free himself- the opaque darkness is heightening his senses into near agony and the exploratory warmth of her fingers burns too much. Her breathing has become steady, it is too real in the darkness. He is suddenly painfully aware of clothes: the lack of it on her, the layers on him.
She is so close, her body heat.
The touch of her fingertips light on his face is an electric shock, his head snaps back and his blood sings, the old fight or flight. 'Evey,' he warns, almost miserably; he almost wishes there is enough light to see but that would mean he would be seen too.
She sighs, ends it with an irritable click of the tongue. 'It's only you, V,' she says, and twists her hand so she is the one gripping his; he had caught her hand again in an instinctive, defensive movement. He is momentarily disorientated by her smooth transition from vulnerable to hesitant to confident, but then she leans into him- she is leaning into him- and all thoughts fall away.
… her hand is warm and real in his.
How long since… An eternity. She is so real.
She is so warm.
He can't tell if his eyes are closed; it doesn't make a difference, either way. So he stares with eyes shut, skywards: a silent prayer to the indifferent gods, of thanksgiving and threatening and pleading. She is small and exquisite against him, one arm around him and a hand in his, as if they were waltzing. Her body, pressed against him in all its unconscious femininity; the warmth of her breath condensing through the cloth, her smooth head on his chest, her wonder of her pulse and tremors under her skin—twenty years for a single, heart-stopping moment of her body language in all its infinite and devastating sensations.
He is drunk on her touch, her very breathing.
'I can hear your heartbeat,' he hears her saying, belatedly. 'It's fast,' she whispers, and there is a hint of gentle teasing. He is distracted by her body's subtleties when she speaks, by the unconscious pressure of her hand. 'What?' he says, abstractedly. 'Oh. Of course, its you.' And falls back in silent concentration of her touch, her body so alive that moves of its own accord: the mysteries of her femininity.
Evey is laughing now, low and wicked in her throat. It is almost enough to make him snap- does she know what she is doing to him? She must-, and surely she can hear his heart's desire now, the violent need to have her now, damn the consequences.
'I've never heard you speak so bluntly before,' she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. 'The great, mysterious V,' she whispers again, and there it is- that secret smile in her voice.
It is a flash, a split-second of illumination. Did she… does she really think that…? For once, he is thankful of the body's small betrayals; how incredible that Evey of all people would think that he has some sort of… status, as if the mask and daggers were some sort of badge. It is all illusion, manipulated ideas… it would almost be a return to normality, if the proof of his uncertainty would ease hers. Almost.
'Evey,' he says thickly, remembering slowly as if drugged. She is still so close against him. 'My hands… I'm sorry, I forgot. Do they--'
'No,' she interrupts fiercely, and her intensity startles him into silence. She draws back, the sudden withdrawing bringing a rush of cool air and abrupt disappointment. Her other hand grasps for his and before he realizes, there is a heat on the back of his hands, moist and deliberate and…
Her silence is defiant, almost embarrassedly triumphant. His head is ringing strangely.
Somewhere in the darkness. She had held his soul in her hands.
And she had kissed it.
And still, she is so…
Somewhere in the darkness, something is aching. And yet…
It is the thickness of emotions, this blackness. A cloak drawing them close, filling his throat. The slow touch of his fingers, the softness under her jawbone. The tremors under her skin as she reaches up, on tip-toes; a breath, shared. A secret, breaking.
He wants to kiss her so badly that he might just hurt her. He barely stops in time.
'I'm sorry,' he rasps, and there might be fingerprint-bruises on her arms from the force he pulls himself away. One step, two, he is away. The ringing won't go away, it is filling his ears in harsh, incessant buzzing- white noise of the heart.
Of all blind, dreaming, lovesick fools, of all selfish—
--arrogant bastards. He had been wanting so badly he didn't think…
And he is missing her warmth, already. He has to speak before she does.
'This can't- I'm sorry, Evey,' and his voice is still rough, but it is under control now. 'I warned you. You know I can't--'
'No, I don't know,' she interrupts. Her voice is disembodied in the dark but she has always had a strong presence: her hurt is sharp and passionate, spreading like rays at dawn, unfettered and unrelenting. 'I don't care about your scars, V, why can't you see that? Why won't you--'
Her voice breaks. 'I want you,' she says quietly, at last, and his heart stops. 'You know that, right? V? I want you.'
It is the blackness that saves him; it swallows all sound and leaves only the static of breathing, only white noise roaring. It swallows her and prevents him from damning it all, from having her right then and there in hungry, desperate possession, from ignoring reality that will be inevitable in the morning.
It will kill him, the way she can hurt him like that. How can he explain?
'You should sleep here,' he says gently. 'You need rest.'
A few steps back and the bed table is behind him; an experienced slide of the mask over his face, weathered gloves over hands and he is fully clothed again. He is momentarily dizzy from the movements- he has to use the wall as a guide for balance, fight the sudden surge of longing and shame rising thick like bile in his throat. He isn't trembling, he is…
If she cries, he might just have to knock her unconscious and leave a sharper knife on the kitchen table.
His fingers trail the side walls as he moves towards the door.
Fool of him, to actually think the darkness might change—that it could be like a dream, like just a moment in time, disconnected… And to ask her to stay, to undress, and pretend they wouldn't…
She must hate him. It will be his only relief.
It is when he reaches the door that she finally speaks. He is determined not to turn his head and so he has to strain his ears to catch her voice; the pale orange glow of the corridor is spilling long fingers over his shoulders and into the room and must be illuminating her: a standing vision.
And her words… so soft…
'I could have killed you,' she says, but it is strange in undertone, not a threat. It is almost--
He pauses only briefly and shuts the door behind him.
The sudden light of the dim corridor light is blinding; the abrupt smell of leftover oil and old books in the air is almost a blow, it is too domestic. Too much like reality.
And he can still- why doesn't he just… just—
But he doesn't, and is nearly weak from the effort.
It must more than scars, more than it being too soon or twenty years too late, V thinks later, staring blankly at ceiling cracks over the sofa. In the distance, the background hum of the fridge is soundtrack to his thoughts, a subdued grating of undisrupted normality. Everything has changed so fast his head is still ringing in faint surrealism.
It must be more than that. And maybe… if he had kissed her…
Like a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. It would never be stopped, then. A pendulum chain, it will bring him to his knees, his self-control and her safety. Their convoluted relationship and the morning after, and it has not even been a week since—she must still not fully realize…
Its no use. He passes his wrist over the eye slits of his mask, grips the edge of the curved face. Shuts out the world, ignores the memories- phantom touches and heart-breaking warmth. God gave memories so we might have roses in Decemb- no. No. There is a weariness that doesn't come from exhaustion- what has he done? What was he thinking? But she was Evey and so…
No use. He doesn't understand himself, not when there is a plethora of snapshot reasons flitting at the edge of his mind, distracting from that single, simple negative of elusive truth. His head aches, he wants...
It is not even a week yet. And all he'd hoped for was acceptance.
Somewhere in the shadows, night still too early to be called morning is passing in the dusty, measured strokes of the grandfather clock.
Somewhere in the shadows, Evey is thinking he—
She deserves better.
V tightens his grip around his mask and tries to remember when this had become so normal.