Disclaimer: As always, they're not mine and never will be. These characters and places belong to Alan Moore, DC Comics, Wachowski brothers, and Warner Bros.
Author's Note: This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website. Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.
Special notes: Occurs the night that Evey runs from the Bishop's cathedral to Gordon's house.
-----------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------
Appearances Can Be Deceiving
10:30pm, and Gordon glanced anxiously at his watch.
A red coded curfew would be in effect soon ... only one step below an all-out military state. And here he was, risking life and limb on the nearly deserted city streets.
Did he appear innocent enough, as he peered up and down the length of this dark, London throughway? Did he look like an average city-drone, waiting for an acquaintance or a ride? Or did he look like someone of a quite dubious nature, skulking through the shadows, enroute to a clandestine, probably illegal, meeting? Was this his cloak and dagger moment?
... ... The showman smirked to himself, never having realized the appropriateness of the old clichИ. ... ... 'Cloak and dagger'. ... ... He'd have to remember that.
But what would he do if a Fingerman should pass by? Could he come up with an adequate excuse? Or would he have to fall back on his famously witty repartee?
... ... What an evening. What a nerve-wracking, God-awful evening.
... ... And he really could not risk a run-in with the authorities tonight. While a cursory search of his home might narrowly avoid his secret treasures, the authorities would be hard pressed to miss a fugitive, one Evey Hammond, answering the bloody front door.
Hopefully she was asleep by now, rather than still fretting over what he was doing. His excuse of running an errand for a co-worker had gone over moderately well. ... At least Evey was unlikely to pop up at the BTN tomorrow and discover the lie. But what else could he do? Once that message had popped up on his computer screen, what alternative did he really have?
The communiquИ had been cryptic, but short. Gordon's acquaintance -- -- he who lived in the shadows as some ethereal god of rebellion -- -- had requested a covert exchange. ... ... Well, demanded it, more accurately. And Gordon knew better than to argue when V's words were so unbelievably terse. The masked man was apparently quite distressed, and Gordon had a pretty good idea why.
... ... ... ... Evey.
Gordon had suspected V of hiding the girl, low these past weeks ... ever since the news had angrily blared reports of their linkage. He did hate to use the word 'involvement'. -- -- Sounded too much like he was assuming Evey's guilt. Of course, even 'guilt' was a relative word in this day and age. But Gordon was indeed friendly enough with the young girl, to know she would never be 'involved' in a revolution. Watching from the sidelines, perhaps. And quite probably protected by the masked man if she'd become unwittingly linked to the situation. ... But 'involved'? ... Hardly.
That V had been holding her against her will -- -- now that had been a surprise. But V was focused ... and obsessively so. Yes, Gordon could easily see how Evey could spell the masked man's demise. Within a matter of hours, even, if she wanted to.
Still ... this 'cloak and dagger' stuff just was not Gordon's genre.
For the fifth time in as many minutes, the nervous showman peered up and down the throughway, wondering who would find him first -- -- he who had called this little soiree, or a roving pack of Fingermen, demanding why the hell a television personality would be lurking about at this hour.
And finally, that question was answered ... ... in a way that nearly gave Gordon a heart attack. ... ...
"Is she well?" came a resonant voice from the other side of the nearby wall.
Gordon turned around, his eyes frantically searching the side of an old, rundown building. Silent stone and mortar stared back, but he knew he'd heard something. ... ... "Excuse me?" he asked, realizing how ridiculous he must look. -- -- Alone, lurking in a deserted London throughway, dangerously close to curfew, and now having a conversation with a wall.
"Is she well?" ... ... The question was repeated, and with a tone of considerable patience.
It was V ... no question. And there was only one 'she' who could be the current topic of discussion. ... ... So, V did indeed know Evey's whereabouts, did he? ... ... Interesting.
Social niceties were foregone this night, and Gordon answered succinctly. "She's shaken, and rather badly. ... Obviously. ... But physically, she's fine."
Again, Gordon glanced at his watch. -- -- 10:33pm. Curfew was three minutes closer.
On the opposite side of the wall, the mask bowed sorrowfully. ... "She attempted to reveal me. I predicted as much, but ..." ... V's words trailed off and his shoulders sagged. In some ways, the day had unfolded almost exactly as he'd expected ... ... yet there remained those wishes and whimsies within him that refused to believe Evey would have done such a thing. Even in hindsight, when the proof was no less than a bullet fired by the priest ... ... still ... ... V's thoughts rebelled.
... ... Ties had begun to form, had they not? Between V and the girl? Surely the entirety of their friendship -- or at least, their friendly cohabitation -- could not have been pure illusion. All those days of friendly chatter, and the peaceable, leisurely passage of time, were not some lone, fanciful dream. And so, acceptance that those ties had been broken -- and broken, no less, by Evey herself -- completely eluded the solitary man.
"She's scared," Gordon replied. ... ... How well he could sympathize with Evey's helplessness. With V's. Hell, with the helplessness of most Londoners who were herded through their day like sheep. "You know the fear so many people live under. You have to understand that fact, V. Not merely pay it lip service."
"I understand the fear well," the low voice returned, with a hint of something -- -- something a bit too knowing; something a bit too ominous -- -- that sent a chill down the traditionally jovial showman's spine. "Fear is the tool of the enemy. What oils their machine as the cogs turn. ... Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly." ... ... V's voice paused from the quote, as if in great thought. ... ... "And yet ... to fear the worst, oft cures the worse."
... ... There was something calculating, in the masked man's voice. ... ... There was something grieving, in the masked man's voice.
... ... And there was something terrifying, in the masked man's voice.
... ... Perhaps the three were even one and the same.
"Let me speak with her," Gordon requested hastily. "She needs to understand that your fight belongs to all of us. That in some ways, you're no different from me; from her; from the man who parked my car this morning at the office." ... His voice dropped as he stated the painfully obvious. ... "Any number of us would have reason to be behind that mask ... but none would have the strength. That's what she needs to appreciate. -- -- What's truly behind the knife-wielding, dark vigilante. ... ... Appearances can be deceiving, you know."
On one of the bordering streets, a car drove by. From the front passenger side, an elderly woman looked toward the celebrity ... surprised to find someone standing there in the shadows. She probably was not one of his regular viewers though, and therefore saw him as merely an odd gentleman, passing his time by stupidly tempting fate. ... ... Or maybe she was a viewer, and came to the exact same conclusion.
Either way, the car passed with no repercussions -- -- other than Gordon's heart rate climbing still higher.
"Look, old chap," the showman continued pleafully -- -- bargaining for himself, bargaining for the young girl sleeping safely in his home ... and, in an odd sort of way, possibly bargaining even for V. "You know it's not you that she fears. Not really. If I can glean that, surely you can as well. ... ... It's being caught up in this whole mess. ... ... Does she understand? Not the political rhetoric, but truly understand what this country has been enduring? ... What you yourself have personally endured?"
Silence for a moment.
Gordon knew the dangerous territory onto which he trod. His knowledge of V's past was unbelievably sparse. -- -- Only a few details, offered gradually over time as the two men became partners in London's most underground -- literally, most underground -- art smuggling ring. But he had gathered enough to know the full story would probably make his toes curl.
A morose breath was taken on the other side of that wall. Even with the mask ... even with the stone and mortar ... Gordon could hear it. -- -- And there was such sympathy expressed within.
"Her parents were taken by Creedy's men," V stated solemnly. "I have indeed investigated her claim ... and I'm afraid it's true."
... ... "Oh, bugger," Gordon muttered. Every day, he seemed to find someone new with a similar story. Every damned day.
And it was at this low point -- a moment of shared, sad truths for everyone involved -- that V found the impetus to reveal even more of his connection to the young Evey Hammond. ... ... "She has seen my hands, although she knows nothing more. Her first accusation regarded my sanity -- or lack thereof. I could not allow her to believe she was being held by a mad man ... even if I question that fact myself, at times."
On the other side of the wall, V was nearly prepared to both weep, and laugh, over the incident. How foolish his last several weeks now seemed. How pathetically he must have behaved. And how simply so much of it had begun. ... ... "I prepared eggy-in-a-basket for her one morning," he mused cynically, ridiculing himself with his tone's undercurrents. "It was an attempt to assure her that my residence could truly be her 'home'. It was then that I allowed her to see. -- -- I needed her to know that my attire is not merely a matter of vain pretense. That I play neither in jest, nor in mental illness. But that the costume was for her protection as well. ... ... I ... see now, that perhaps I was in error, only giving her more nightmares from which to flee."
Gordon was left squinting at the wall. ... In shock. Confusion. Disbelief.
He himself had never seen the masked man's hands, nor had anyone else within their small circle of acquaintance. -- -- If clandestine meetings over Manet and Warhol could define acquaintanceship.
... ... That Evey had been granted that privilege, was nothing short of a miracle.
And yet, she'd said nothing.
For over two hours that evening, detail after detail had poured out of the girl. -- -- The danger she was in. ... The danger V was in. ... The deaths she knew him to be responsible for, and that she feared would be linked to her as well.
... ... Yet not once had she mentioned any familiarity with the man behind the mask. Neither his history, nor his plans, nor even such a unique glance beneath the gloves.
"V?" Gordon prompted. He used that one-syllable name only rarely, but easily gained the freedom fighter's attention, when he did. "She doesn't fear you. If she did, she really would have revealed you. ... She only wanted escape."
... ... ... ... Damn the wall, Gordon nearly swore. Was the man on the opposite side even listening? ... It was hard enough to decipher V's reactions as it was, without a God damn wall in the way.
"She'll be safe," Gordon continued reassuringly. "I'll see to it. And just give me some time to talk with her. She's already seen my contraband," ... his voice lowered on the last word, and he took another furtive glance up and down the throughway. "In all honesty, I don't think she's going to give either of us away. But what really matters, is that she knows there are others in agreement with you. Others who are now likewise protecting her. ... People she never would have imagined."
Another pause, during which Gordon assumed the masked man was silently mourning his position as the lead of this movement. The rally call had been given nearly two months ago, and now the final wheels were in motion. The weight on those black, cloaked shoulders must be immense. ... And now suddenly, here was a young girl to contribute her own list of worries to V's burden.
But the answer that finally filtered through the wall, was something entirely different. ... ... It was presumptive. Cryptic. And even a bit insinuative.
"I do understand, Gordon, why she would come to you. It was not by simply following her, that I knew she would seek refuge in your home. ... ... And I do understand why you would so eagerly protect her. ... ... As you have so rightly stated -- appearances can be deceiving."
10:43pm, and Gordon finally had a reason to crack a smile ... even if it was just a smile of utter and complete befuddlement.
"What are you talking about?" the showman questioned. "What do you mean, 'why she'd come to me'? I'm probably the only person she knows of with the adequate means to hide her, and who isn't bogged down in that corrupt cesspool known as the BTN. ... Of course, I'm certain that private access to my exceedingly humorous banter is also a perk."
... ... It was one of his better quips, in his opinion.
... ... But V wasn't laughing.
"It was only recently that I realized," continued V's low, controlled voice, seemingly ignorant of Gordon's confusion. These words had been carefully prepared and crafted ... V only needed to present them. ... ... "The night I spirited her away to the Old Bailey, it was to your house she had been traveling. Once I found your address among her things, the circumstances did become clearer. I do indeed apologize, Gordon. I did not realize the extent of your relationship with Miss Hammond."
... ... Well that raised the showman's eyebrows.
"Are you quite serious?" Gordon laughed. "Are you suggesting something of a more romantic nature?"
"I do apologize," V repeated, hastily trying to end this unusual discomfort in which he suddenly found himself. "My assumptions of the situation, and your own personal inclinations, have been entirely in error."
"V," Gordon announced outright, anxious to put at least this issue to rest. "Yes, she was coming to my home that night, but only for a very proper, very polite, very platonic dinner. She may not have known it at the time, but I assure you, she does now. ... ... She's seen all of my contraband. ... ... Including some of the photography that you so very generously liberated on my behalf."
The showman's voice dropped, knowing that the masked man was listening intently through the old mortar's cracks and crevices. "She knows that my tastes are not well-approved of by those in power. And she knows, as you will now also know, that the dinner to which she was invited was nothing more than a production. ... ... Masks. We all wear them. ... ... And so I stand by my earlier statement. -- -- Appearances can be deceiving."
The silence that came from the dark, shadow-filled side of that wall was utterly deafening. ... ... Something had been revealed about the elusive vigilante, and both men knew it. Something far deeper than V's current plan to dodge the authorities. Something beyond even the personal damage that the gloves had kept hidden to everyone but Evey.
... ... It was not Gordon's feelings for the young girl, that were to be questioned ... but rather, V's.
... ... Not that the poor showman, at thirteen minutes til curfew, speaking to a wall in the dark London maze of passageways, was going to approach that subject though.
For now, he would simply offer his best assurances, such as they were. ... "I'll keep her as safe as I possibly can. You have my word on that. Just give me some time to talk with her."
"Unfortunately," V replied, "time is a valuable commodity as of late." ... His voice had returned to its proper tenor and volume -- probably in relief that the topic of conversation had changed again. "And if it is truly understanding that she requires, mere conversation may not suffice."
... ... At that, Gordon felt his stomach twist. ... ... A spectre walking slowly across his grave. The beginning of something he knew he wouldn't like. ... ... "What are you suggesting?"
"Curfew is almost upon us," was V's tangential statement. "We will speak again soon."
And Gordon's comment was just as stubborn. -- -- "She's not afraid of you. Don't do anything to make her so." His head leaned nearly against the stone wall. The truth was, if some of Evey's earlier statements were re-considered in this new light ... the girl might actually be a bit intrigued by the masked man. Oh she was utterly terrified of the possible consequences, yes. But maybe ... just possibly ... a little intrigued as well.
A pause ... then a promise of safety, from the same man who so often wielded death. "I would do nothing to harm her," V stated with complete sincerity. "My only wish is to help her. ... ... You must go. I shall be in contact."
From the other side of the wall came the muffled sound of boots, hurrying away from the nighttime scene. -- -- Right when Gordon had more than a few new questions to ask the vigilante.
On the street, another car passed by, this time the passengers unaware of the television celebrity. ... Why? Because they had only scant minutes until the clock ticked 11:00pm, and were far too concerned with their own chances of making it indoors.
... ... And they were entirely correct, in Gordon's opinion.
Peering once more up and down the throughway, he took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. He would move quickly -- very quickly -- while looking as innocent as possible. A man out for a stroll ... a breath of fresh air ... nothing more. Merely trying to make it home before the curfew would promise safety and security to all of the grateful Londoners. -- -- And he would look just as grateful, and just as innocent as the next bloke.
After all, appearances can be deceiving.
-----------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------
Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.
[... To fear the worst oft cures the worse.
-- Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida
Author's Note: This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website. Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.