Author's Note: Just a story about Evey one year after the Fifth of November (as in the one where the Houses of Parliament exploded), and giving a speech for a memorial. I'm working with the theory that Evey's voice-overs in the beginning and end of the movie are part of her speech. Also, this is going to be fairly short; three or four chapters, but no more. I would also like to give credit to Peahopeless, whom I have never spoken to, but whose stories helped to solidify what was already swimming around in my head. Love to everyone who reads this -- even if they don't review. Rated PG for very mild language.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING ABOUT V FOR VENDETTA AND GAIN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING FROM WRITING THIS WORK OF FICTION. I wrote it because I love the movie and the characters themselves.

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A Little Weakness

Evey Hammond was enjoying a quiet evening alone in her flat, curled up on her couch and watching "The Count of Monte Cristo". It was the older one made in 1934, the one with Robert Donat as Edmund Dantes. It was the version he preferred, which to her translated into the best version. She closed her eyes ever so slightly, listening to the film and remembering when she had watched it with him, her own Edmund Dantes...

She squeezed her eyes shut just a little bit tighter, willing herself not to cry and not to think about the masked man. Her masked man, no matter that all of Britain had adopted him as an icon. She had shed more than her share of tears over his death -- sometimes it felt as though she'd cried for all of London -- and she didn't feel altogether too enthusiastic about bursting into a fresh, uncontrollable bout of sobbing. Giving in like that wouldn't bring him back. If it did, he would be back a thousand times over. No, in the end it would help neither him nor her: he was indeed her Edmund Dantes, and he had chosen his revenge over his Mercedes. Unlike in the movie, he could not have both. There was no "happily ever after" awaiting them in a tree. Not for him, and certainly not for her.

So why had she done it? Why, when it was so close to the anniversary of England's revolution, England's rebirth... and his death? She had tomorrow, the day after as well, and then it would be his day. Why had she begun to pick at this particular wound? Perhaps she had thought that it would have been healed by now, that she had moved on. She hadn't really cried in months, after all. She had tried to dwell on him as little as possible (which, to be honest, was still everyday), not an easy feat to accomplish with posters and costumes of him all over the bloody city. But, if that theory was what had led her into this parade of pain, then she had been sorely mistaken. Her heart ached. She certainly was not over him. Would she ever be?

If that wasn't it, then was it that she wanted to make certain that he never strayed far from her thoughts, least of all around his day? Maybe she wanted to torture herself with ghostly memories of him, the good ones and the bad ones. After all, how many times this last year had she tearfully thought that she could have done more to save him? Maybe she had dug up the movie, whose lines she knew almost all by heart by now, to try and convince herself that she could think back on him without feeling like crying.

Whatever her reasons, her reverie was soon quite rudely interrupted by the harsh ringing of her telephone. In the short amount of time between the first and second ring, she held her breath and desperately hoped that she had imagined it. It almost worked. The person on the other end, however, had other plans that apparently needed attending to now. The foul device reiterated its plea for attention, and Evey was forced to acknowledge it. With a small growl, she groped for the remote control for her DVD player and paused Edmund Dantes mid-sentence.

"It's not my sword, Mondego, but--"

Hauling herself to her feet and padding over to the offending contraption, she realized just how obscenely loud the bloody thing sounded in the silence of her flat. She glanced quickly up at the clock that hung on her wall; it was 10:17 pm. A little late for calls, no? The phone rang again, stealing her consideration once again. She looked down at the shiny black thing that had disrupted her evening, reluctant up even though the reason for her getting up was to do so. She'd taken the week off of work for a reason, and it certainly wasn't to recieve house calls.

She hesitated for another moment before finally giving in and answering; her natural curiosity had gotten the better of her this time. She didn't want to miss anything important -- when one worked in a newly formed government, there was always the possibility of an emergency --, but it was just as likely that it would be just one of her friends wanting to chat about some meaningless little thing. She really, really needed to look into getting caller ID.

"Hello?" Her greeting sounded suspicious and agitated even to her own ears.

"Erm... Ms. Evey Hammond?" the masculine voice on the other end of the line sounded somewhat off balance, as though her tone had startled him. "This is Jacob Harris, of the Fifth of November Memorial Committee--"

Uh oh. The Committee? She'd spent most of the previous year avoiding this particular group of people, feeling as though assisting these people memorialize V was the ultimate betrayal. It didn't feel right; she knew some part of her hadn't accepted his death as fact. It seemed... unbelievable. "It's my day off," she interjected smoothly and, she imagined, coldly. When would these people leave her be? "If you want to schedule a meeting, do so with my assistant for sometime next week."

"Yes, Ms. Hammond, we realize that and we do apologize," he reassured her, not sounding apologetic in the least. Rather, his tone had swiftly become one of impatience. "But -- and, of course, we also apologize for giving you such short notice on the matter -- we would like you to speak at the unveiling of the memorial on the Fifth in Hyde Park."

"I believe that I refused that offer months ago," Evey reminded him curtly.

"Yes, we recall. However, we would like you to reconsider. You were the person closest to Z, the revolutionary hero--"

"V," she interrupted again, gritting the single syllable name out between clenched teeth. How had this idiot ever gotten onto the Committee, when he clearly didn't know his ass from his elbow? Didn't they have any kind of standards? "His name was V."

"--V, the revolutionary hero," he corrected himself without missing a beat, "who we are trying to memorialize. We think that you would be the most appropriate speaker for the event."

"Well, that may be, but I'm still not interested. Good day." She started to hang up, feeling suddenly weary. Why couldn't these people just let her be for a little while?

"Wait!" Now Mr. Harris sounded quite delightfully alarmed. Was it really that difficult for him to believe that his "charms" had failed to entice her into accepting the offer of making a speech? "Don't you want people to remember him? How can they remember him when they don't know him, when you won't let them know him? Why won't you introduce us to him, so to speak?"

That made her stop, made her breath catch in her suddenly dry throat. Mr. Harris, in words eloquent enough to sound strange coming from him, had unwittingly brought to verbal life what her own mind had been fretting over as the Fifth drew closer and closer.

She wanted him to be remembered, oh how she wanted it! Oh, how he deserved it! Above so many other things that should be taking priority in her thoughts, what with her work in the fledgling government, she wanted Britain -- nay, the world! -- to remember her masked man, her Edmund Dantes, her love! She wanted them to remember the man, not just the idea. No matter how much he had insisted otherwise, he had been so, so much more than merely an idea. He had loved, hated, grieved, felt pain... ideas could feel none of those. How could she possibly have been trying to thwart the people's efforts, their efforts to immortalize, memorialize, her beloved? Was she out of her mind?

Despite herself, despite her earlier claims of disinterest -- to herself, the Committee in general and Mr. Jacob Harris in particular --, she was actually considering the offer of speaking. God help her, she was considering it!

But she had been silent for too long, and Mr. Harris had sensed his approaching victory. "I knew you'd see it our way," he purred, smugly. Too smugly, and that set off Evey's temper. This subject was too sensitive, too dear to her heart for her to hear it spoken of in that manner.

"You're wrong," she replied, tight-lipped with cold fury. How dare he? How dare he? "You're wrong, I'm afraid. I'll never see in a way that would mistake V's name, mistake anything about V." With that said, she slammed the offending phone onto the receiver and stomped back to her couch. The warm spot she had left when she had vacated it had completely cooled. Odd; she hadn't been up for that long, surely. She gazed at the piece of furniture almost affectionately; she had brought it up from the Shadow Gallery, with a determination fed of grief and aided by one Agent Finch. It was one of several items of his she had kept for herself, instead of donating it to a cultural museum or the department for such things in the government. She ran her hand appreciatively over the fabric, remembering the brief conversation she'd had with V after watching the very movie she now had paused.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. But it made me feel sorry for Mercedes."

"Why?"

"Because he cared more about revenge than he did about her."

She was overwhelmed, suddenly. Completely overwhelmed. She sunk into the cushioning of the couch, curling up into the fetal position and burying her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her body, tears streaming down her face unabated and unseen by another living soul. 'More tears?' a still calm portion of her mind mused, almost mockingly. 'You shouldn't, you know. You're supposed to be strong. V wanted you to be strong. He risked and received your hatred so that you could be strong.'

But it was too much, and she had been trying to be strong for too long now. Too long. There was no Shakespeare-spouting masked hero waiting and watching her in the shadows, providing her with something to be strong for. What was wrong with a little weakness now and then? Surely even he would have been able to understand that. How could he not, when he was both the cause of her weakness and her strength?

After that, her thoughts lost most coherency. She had to cry it out, let it all out. She fell asleep with tears in her eyes, and him in her thoughts.

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Footnote: So that's the end of chapter one, I hope you all enjoyed reading it. I love constructive criticism, suggestions, thoughts, ideas... just send them my way. I'll post chapter two as soon as it is written.