Belong

One of the first things to be noticed about the Shadow Gallery, to even the most casual observer, is that it lacks windows.

There are no panes of glass showing even the tunnels in which it is buried, no glimpses of brick or mortar or rusting tube track. Just smooth, seamless, wheat-colored walls, stretching into the recesses of shadow or crimson velvet drapery.

Of these things, Evey Hammond took notice, for she was more observant than she gave herself credit for. And it was this knowledge, that the Gallery was impenetrable, impermeable, and, to some, unlivable, that made her suddenly miss her tiny flat in Paddington.

Her apartment had been nothing of note, nothing to be extremely proud of, but it had still been a home to her when she had been denied a proper one for years.

The Juvenile Reclamation Project did not create a home, but rather a prison. Every move and breath was dictated, and from the making of the beds to the wearing of uniforms, every element of her life was as same as that of the girl next to her. She had been a number then, a faceless drone, a cog in the machine. The kind of machine that turned out timid adults and gun-shy youth, that produced those with panic disorders and PTSD. Before the Reclamation, they would have been treated in therapy, cared for, made to feel safe again. Now, each was just one of many suffering the same silent fate.

Evey sat on the couch in the living area, hugging her knees up to her chin and closing her eyes. If she concentrated, she could almost feel the breeze sliding through the fissure in her wall, in the crack of plaster between the window and her television set. She could almost smell the mix of must and cinnamon that had become the aroma of her apartment, because she was always baking to keep it warm.

She felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye. She had left the cream-colored blanket her grandmother had knitted for her on the floor in a heap, the morning she went to work, the morning V had decided to broadcast at Jordan Tower. She had been curled in it the night before, drinking chamomile tea and watching a film on television without sound, trying to stay warm. Sitting blankly, she had reflected on the explosions of the Old Bailey, the mortar and stone flying into the cobalt night sky, and how she was somehow, inescapably, a part of it.

She had left that blanket there so unashamedly, knowing that she would return to it later, to snuggle in its knobby, thick-threaded warmth once more, perhaps this time with a hot chocolate and a novel. She had gone to work, leaving it there, a shell of comfort for her to crawl back into.

Now, who knew what had become of it? The Fingermen and members of the police force that had been searching for her probably ran it through some sort of chemical scanner, searching every fiber for anthrax and SARS. Or they had simply burned it, along with everything else she owned that was of any value. And there wasn't much.

Sitting there, she suddenly felt hopelessly lost and abandoned. All her life, she had drifted between the arms of those who had to care for her, either lovingly or with distaste. First her parents, warm and soothing, then the JRP, where she had learned to become a pale, droll girl in gray who ate little and spoke less, and then life on her own…where no one cared for her. Where barely anyone knew she existed. The corner grocer where she always bought apples and the baker where she bought fresh bread would simply assume she had run off, like any other young person with a flighty mind. Would they remember her now?

The baker…he had been such a kind elderly man, with crinkled blue eyes and wide silver glasses. He had always given her extra biscuits or buns, and though she had tried to pay, he had simply raised a wrinkled palm pale with flour and shaken his head. She smiled softly as she remembered his voice telling her, unabashedly, " Seeing your lovely face every mornin' is enough of a treat for a man such as meself."

She bit her lip, finally letting the tear fall. It trickled down her cheek and she caught it in her fingers, letting it roll between them.

Home was a place she hadn't been in quite some time. The Shadow Gallery was a comfortable place, but only to an extent. She needed the sun, she needed flowers…she needed real air. But most of all, what she needed was the feeling of home.

She stood and walked slowly into the kitchen, eyeing the cabinets and countertops. V was expected to be out until one that afternoon, repairing things in the tunnels. She had spent months in the Gallery and still did not know for certain what he did out there.

Opening a mahogany cabinet, she peered inside. A stout bag of white flour stared back. She dragged it out and set it with a thunk onto the table. Wiping her hands, she searched for other ingredients.

After five minutes of rummaging through the kitchen, Evey had found all that she needed. Trying to recall how to bake from memory, she hesitantly poured the milk, flour, and eggs together. Stirring with a wooden spoon, she let her mind wander.

V had told her this place was his home, but had anyone else ever been here? Why were there extra bedrooms, accommodations made for her so easily?

She knew she rarely invited people to her flat, only several trusted co-workers who lived in equally shabby conditions and could keep a secret. They would drink conservatively and chat, flicking through the television and trying to find a romantic movie. Of course, there would never be one. The government had banned love long ago.

Mixing the other ingredients absently, she rolled her neck, stretching the sore muscles there, reminders of when she was sitting hunched on the couch in destitution.

Pouring the batter she had made out onto a sheet, she kneaded it, digging her hands in and not caring how filthy with oil and butter her sleeves, though rolled up, became.

She only hoped she could do this right.

--

Evey spread icing carefully over the misshapen, messy cinnamon buns she had managed to make over the course of an hour. They were hot, and still moist in the center, but she wanted them to look perfect. She glanced at the clock, blowing a bit of hair from her face.

It was two o'clock.

She shrugged, sighing. She was used to being alone at home, doing menial tasks and tidying up her living space, waiting for guests to come uninvited. She had often imagined the Frenchman down the hall knocking on the door with a baguette and a bottle of Merlot in hand, offering to dine with her. He was a kind neighbor, and well-meaning. The lovely accent didn't hurt, either.

It had not happened, of course.

Here, she had no neighbors. She could not hear laughing children, barking dogs, the rush of wind outside of her window, the murmurings of the people around her. There were none.

She arranged the buns on a plate and sat dismally, heavily, picking one up and taking a tentative bite; the icing scalded the roof of her mouth, but she didn't care. They were comforting to her, something to remind her of what she had inadvertently--or perhaps intentionally?--left behind.

She heard a door somewhere beyond in the Gallery open with a slight creak. She turned, frosting caked onto her fingers.

Silent moments passed.

V stepped into the main area of the Gallery, without his hat or cloak, and regarded her, as literally sugar-coated as she was. " Good afternoon, Evey. I see your time here has been rather well spent." There was a hint of a smile in his voice.

Evey nodded, licking her thumb unabashedly. " Yeah…"

V took a few steps forward. " Is everything all right, Evey?"

Evey sighed, looking down at her sock feet beneath the table, swinging like those of a child. " I…I don't know how to say this."

V sat opposite her at the table, clasping his hands in front of him. The mask was as grinning as ever, but the way he tilted his head and held himself indicated that he was patiently listening.

" I…I miss being…being in my own home."

V nodded sagely. " We miss those things which are most familiar to us."

Evey struggled to phrase her thoughts, her brow furrowed and her eyes calculating. " No…no, it's…it's not even familiar to me. I've not had a real home in years. And for the first time I think I've realized that the shabby little flat in Paddington with my name outside the door was a real home. But I'm terrified to think of it. I'm terrified of change, but at the same time, V, I want it so badly."

" ' Perhaps life is just that…a dream and a fear'," V said softly. [I

Evey tapped the tabletop anxiously, her slender fingers moving in a staccato rhythm. " My whole life has been about fear. I can't escape from it. And every time something becomes familiar to me, or comfortable to me, I lose it. And I'm not strong enough to fight for it."

" I believe you are," V said, his tone of voice very soothing, but there was an eagerness in his words.

Evey shook her head.

" Perhaps you have to find it. Perhaps the familiarity you seek is a consistency, an inner peace, within yourself."

Evey sighed. " Perhaps. I just…I miss the rain, I miss trees and sunflowers, I miss little white dogs and the cracks in sidewalks and…I miss home."

V gestured toward the cinnamon buns, sitting patiently and succulently in the middle of the kitchen. He tilted his head. " Is that why you baked these?"

Evey nodded. " My flat…it wasn't a very nice one, so I had to turn on the range and keep it warm. I baked a lot…and it would always smell like cinnamon. It's…comforting to me."

V nodded.

" And I left so much behind there…all of the little things, all of the material things, that I thought didn't matter…they all have stories that they tell me every time I look at them. I feel like if I lose those stories, I lose part of myself. I lose my past."

V murmured, " Losing the past is one of the most painful tragedies we can attempt to endure." He sniffed. " And endure we must, dear Evey, for no one but ourselves can make us stronger."

She nodded.

V said quietly, " You look incredibly exhausted, Evey. Why don't you rest?"

" In the middle of the day?"

V tilted his head. " If it makes you feel more comfortable, it is overcast and raining in the world above."

Evey laughed softly. " The real world."

V shook his head. " Not to me. And right now, not to you. This is the world we live in. As Voltaire's Pangloss would say, it is the best of all possible worlds, because it cannot be anything other than what it is, and it is not anything else."

Evey quirked an eyebrow. " Candide."

" Indeed," V said with a hint of a smile. " One could argue in disapproval of Pangloss's ideas, and I am often inclined to do so, due to the current state of affairs…But tell me, Evey…how might I assuage your discomfort?"

Evey shrugged one shoulder, averting her eyes. " I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, V…and honestly, I can't tell you what you could do to make me feel any more comfortable."

V said softly, " I want to give you what this place has given me…a sense of belonging."

Evey whispered, " Thank you." She bit her lip. " I think I will take your advice and try to sleep."

She stood wearily, sliding a finger along the edge of the plate on which the cinnamon buns rested as she walked. She smiled weakly. " Please, have some. I hope they're good."

V tilted his head. " I'm sure they're excellent."

Evey lowered her head, thinking silently. When she spoke, her voice was soft. " Would you mind if I put some music on, V? I find it terribly difficult to sleep when it's completely quiet."

V nodded, standing. " I understand. And I know the perfect piece to set you adrift on the sea of dreams."

A smile played on Evey's lips. " Wonderful."

V clasped his hands in front of him. " Rest, Evey. I shall play the song for you. Simply relax and let it absorb you."

Evey nodded, moving away and walking to her bedroom. Closing the door, she slipped off her socks and t-shirt and crawled into bed, beneath the thin, cool sheets. Pulling the coverlet up to her chin, she snuggled in deeper. Closing her eyes, she waited.

A soft knock resounded on her door. " Evey?"

She straightened up in bed, startled. " V?"

" I wanted to make sure the realm of dreams had not captured you yet."

" I'm awake."

" Very good. My dear friend John is going to assist you in your descent into dream."

She raised an eyebrow, though she knew he could not see her. " Thank you, V."

" You are most welcome, my dear Evey. Pleasant dreams."

Waiting again, she closed her eyes, patiently letting the silence stretch, until finally she heard a voice, a voice she had heard many, many times, sing:

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

She grinned. He was singing to her.

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby …[II

--

The next morning, Evey awoke, feeling well rested and slightly giddy. Sitting up, she noticed a slight weight on her feet and toes. Groggily rubbing her eyes and stretching, she blinked the bleariness away and looked.

Her grandmother's blanket lay at her feet, neatly folded. She smiled, sniffing.

The air smelled like cinnamon.

Disclaimer: Any and all recognizable characters, quotes, settings, plots, etc are property of Vertigo, David Lloyd, and Alan Moore, as well as the makers of the film. No copyright infringement is intended in the writing, posting, or reading of this fic.

Quotes:

[I Joseph Conrad

[II The Beatles, Golden Slumbers