Languages, a v for vendetta fanfic

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: This will be a large special notes section at the bottom of the story. But in order to really 'get' some of the subtext in here, and what's really going on, you do need to understand a few things. If you bear with me, it should be worth it.

This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Languages".

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Languages

6:24am, and black boots landed with a muffled thump atop fine steel grating. Then the rustle of thick fabric as the flap of a cloak was tossed back, the man in black adjusting his hat.

No one was likely to hear him though, despite V's proximity to some couple dozen Londoners. -- -- Most had lain sleeping behind closed windows, or sat bleary-eyed over early morning cups of coffee, while he'd deftly scaled the outside of their flat-building. And as for his own lady, on whose fire escape he now stood -- -- her alarm was due to ring in just less than six minutes, according to the small pocket watch he stored in an inner cloak pocket.

This was an acceptable action on his part ... wasn't it? For an early Valentine's Day morning? Should he not, as a proper suitor, come to greet her? Especially since climbing a building in the dead of an icy winter night, actually posed him little difficulty?

... ... The flowers though -- they had made the stunt a bit trickier. Climbing with one hand was easy. Trying to keep an entire arrangement of blooms in pristine form, was a bit harder. ... ... And yes, he remembered similar journeys in the past, involving single, blood red roses, and a much more calculated purpose. He could only push such recollections from his mind. -- -- This was much more wonderful, and truth be told, he wasn't confident enough to feel 'calculating'.

Should he tap on the window or shouldn't he? He'd visited her flat only a few times in the past, and never before she'd awoken for the day. Dare he try to peek around the curtains, half-way drawn on the other side of the glass? Which was better ... unknown noises on her fire escape, suggesting she might soon be burgled ... or her first, confused sight in the morning being that of a white mask hovering against the black, nighttime sky?

She would want to know why he was here so early ... that was another thing. And what, in heaven's name, should be his reply?

... ... That he was simply using the cover of darkness wisely, and time efficiently, by arriving at the hour of her waking? ... It was true.

... ... That he was anxious to bring his lady her bouquet, so that she might begin enjoying their first Valentine's Day even before rushing off to the office? ... That too was true.

... ... That he knew what the old customs had to say regarding a woman's first social encounter on this particular morning? That even if the rest of the world had slowly forgotten, he'd read Ophelia's song far too many times to count? ... Yes, even that motive was true, though he would never admit to it aloud. ... After Mr. Viedt, V saw no point in taking unnecessary risks or challenging old wisdom.

Well he certainly wasn't going to crawl in through the window and loom over her bed. That would be not only rude, and horribly disconcerting for her, but the height of impropriety as well. So the decision was finally made. And as the last few minutes ticked down to the half-hour mark, a collection of brightly coloured blooms was hidden away, a tunic was smoothed, a throat was cleared, and a black-gloved hand was raised, one knuckle crooked to knock politely on the window pane.

6:30am arrived.

Evey's alarm waited another five seconds ... rarely is anyone's clock entirely accurate.

Then a buzzing noise, so offensive and grating that the masked man could hear it right through the glass.

Inside, Evey's hand emerged from the covers to blindly locate the off button. And she would have just enough time to yawn, cover her eyes with her fingers, and let out a deep breath of frustration at the morning -- -- even Valentine's morning, when it insisted on arriving this early -- -- before a light trio of thumps was heard at her window.

A bird?

What was a bird doing pecking at a window before dawn?

Unless it was that flock of pigeons again, who had begun roosting on this side of the building.

When the taps came again though, and with such a perfect cadence, she had a much better idea of what to expect. That was enough to pull her from the bed. And indeed, she would catch a glimpse of steel blade before she'd even reached for the curtains.

Fawkes's grin beamed with far more happiness than any one person should be allowed at this hour of the morning, and the gentleman in black politely doffed his hat. Above all, today would be done properly.

"Good morning, love," he greeted cheerily as the window was opened. "I hope it finds you well?"

One feminine eyebrow cocked cynically ... ... it was way, way too early for such chipperness.

"It took me a minute to realize," she admitted, wrapping her arms around herself and backing away from the sill. That air was cold! ... "I thought you were a bird at first."

V's leg had just begun to rise, one hand grasping the window's edge. He paused though, at her comment, his expression of surprise held safely behind the mask. ... ... Yes, he knew of that custom too. Ladies and Valentine birds. Hopefully his voice maintained its veneer of casualness as he asked, "Really? What type?"

"Huh?"

"What type of bird?" ... ... Was that even half as laissez-faire as he hoped?

She shook her head ... shook her entire pajama-clad body actually, against the draft still blowing in. "Pigeons. There's a flock that lives nearby. ... Come inside!"

Still he hesitated ... just long enough to ponder a flock of wild pigeons -- wild rock doves -- likely to be outside her window come dawn. And when he'd found his voice again it was surprisingly level, softened with unspoken affection. ... "That would be a lovely sight for one's morning, I dare say. But for now, I hope that I will do in their stead?"

"You're much better," she laughed, the fog of sleep starting to clear from her head.

His entrance was as graceful as she expected it to be, and she waited while he closed the window behind himself. That's when she issued her proper greeting -- -- a softly cooed "Happy Valentine's Day," and an embrace that was sure to make him forget the February wind.

V, however, offered only one arm in return ... enough to hold her while the same holiday greeting was murmured to the crown of her head. His other hand emerged from behind his back ... a flash of colour revealing itself.

"Oh V," she smiled, stepping back and accepting the bouquet. "They're beautiful."

... ... And this ... ... this did not surprise her. While she had not expected his arrival on first thought, the flowers just seemed to fit. For him. ... ... Just like Fawkes's grin seemed so utterly appropriate as his head tilted modestly.

"Come on," she coaxed, taking his hand in hers. "Let's go sit down." And it was admittedly to V's relief when she led him from the room and out into the rest of the flat. -- -- Her bed would still be warm from the night, and for a moment he'd worried she would want to sit there. He could barely perch on her bed in the Gallery. Doing so here would seem far too presumptuous.

"I of course did not mean to upset your morning routine," he assured, removing his hat, cloak, and belt of knives, to place on the edge of the sofa. "But I did want you to know that I was ... thinking of you."

Evey was switching on a lamp -- the flowers safely in her possession. And when her attention returned to his, her smile had softened. Gone almost dreamlike. Not from lost sleep, but rather from the knowledge that she wasn't dreaming. That he'd really arrived at 6:30am on February fourteenth. "I think I would have guessed that," she answered demurely. "But I'm glad you're here."

Sitting down, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply from the bouquet. Then a hum of enjoyment, while shifting cushions announced his arrival beside her. ... ... His arm curved around her shoulders, drawing her against his side ... a small chuckle muffled behind the mask.

... ... He'd pleased her.

... ... And thus pleased himself.

Had she noticed yet, that the bouquet included no roses?

It was certainly rich in colour. Small, creamy blossoms were interspersed with bright red tulips, the ensemble then accented with dainty violets and tiny bursts of a corn blue flower.

No roses, however. Traditional though they may be, he knew he could never bear the image of his own hand, offering a red rose to the woman he loved.

She either understood, or thought nothing of it, her fingertip tracing carefully across plush, cream-coloured petals. "They're beautiful," she cooed. "I guess I probably should have expected this, shouldn't I have? Knowing you?" Her head leaned to his shoulder, to find his face drifting close. So close that her caress instinctively left the flowers, offered instead to white-enameled chin.

Of course, the obvious possibility did occur to her. ... "Has something happened that I shouldn't come down this evening?"

"No, of course not," he hushed, touching her hand as she touched the mask. For two decades, this particular date had been a complete non-issue. And now ... ... who would have thought that a simple calendar could pinpoint such a moment of heaven? ... "I thought you might enjoy these before rushing off to your office." ... Then his head tilted coyly, his voice taking on a similar lilt. Not entirely insincere though. ... "I also wanted mine to be at least the first of such offerings you may receive for the day."

"The only offerings," she insisted, her fingertip tracing a new path along Fawkes's cheek. "The only. You know I'll make sure of that." And yes, he did believe her, as she sealed the words with a kiss to the mask.

"And these are going on my desk," she continued, inspecting the ribbon-adorned plastic reservoir that supplied water to the stems. Their appearance would pique some curiosities of course, but curiosities be damned. These delicate flowers would be placed on guard before her, and God help any florist's deliveryman who might try to cross that line.

The mask was nuzzled to her hair in response; his murmured, "I would be honoured," truly meant. He'd hoped, and he'd suspected. But the reality of it was infinitely sweeter. -- -- A statement to the world, even if the world would not be allowed to fully understand. A statement whose truest meaning need reach no further than the length and breadth between them.

... ... Though its depth, Evey might not yet have realized.

"Are you familiar with the Victorian tradition behind such bouquets?" V questioned, as his beloved dipped her nose to a tulip. "It's a bit of an art form. A classic flow of language. Though it's rather fallen out of favour in this day and age."

"The language of flowers?" she guessed. "Yeah, I've heard of it. Not much though." She gave him a mischievous smile. "The violets are kind of obvious, but what do the tulips mean? That you think I'd look quite fetching tiptoeing through a field of them?"

V's head swayed lower in amusement. ... ... Humour. ... Good. ... Perhaps the extent of the true symbolism would not overwhelm her then.

"While roses are often considered to be the traditional conveyance for the heart's finer affections," he began, "and I'm sure you understand why I might personally find them inappropriate ... red tulips are just as strong, as a powerful, forthright declaration of love."

... ... Her eyes met his again, a small breath of emotion escaping her lungs. And this time when she reached for her beau, it was not to caress the hard metal facade, but rather curve her hand around his neck ... offer a kiss to the warmth of this throat. -- -- The vulnerable underside of his chin, where she murmured through the fabric that she did so love him too.

More kisses, as the couple pressed together in a way that had nothing to do with a winter morning's chill. She had already turned further into her beloved, the flowers held gingerly between them. ... ... Only when she settled back into his shoulder, did the blossoms regain her attention.

"And these?" she asked softly, indicating the five-petalled bursts of powder blue. "They're forget-me-nots, aren't they?"

"Very good, love," he congratulated. "Included in tribute to you. ... In gratitude. ... For every month that, though absent, I know I was never forgotten."

Evey's head shook briefly, two fingers reverently cupping one of the loyal little flowers. "Never," she affirmed. "Not once, and never could be."

... ... "And hence, too, the violets," he continued. "In this case, your familiarity with Shakespeare's Viola is merely, dare I say, a 'coincidence'? Violets signify faithfulness. My word that those months will never happen again." ... His grip around her tightened; another press of hard metal into the comforting wave of his lady's hair. ... "There will be more February fourteenths. If you'll have them. ... If you'll have me."

Evey's breath released in her own hushed promise, and she reached for another kiss ... another caress. It was, perhaps, the best gift either could give the other -- -- that of the future.

"And will the flowers change every year?" she asked lightly.

"But of course. Do you think I would not have new things to say?" ... Gloved fingers slid down her cheek, having long since abandoned the far inferior flowers. ... "New things for which to be grateful?"

Evey hummed her contentment, pressing one more kiss to his neck. "Just that you love me, V. That's all you need to say."

"And I do," was his whispered response. "Oh, I do."

More early morning minutes rolled by, as the pair curled in toward each other again. More endearments while the world around them continued to awaken.

Soon another buzzing noise was heard, this one from the flat below. An alarm clock set for 7:00am, and followed quickly by the toll of bells outside.

"It will be dawn soon," V had no choice but to acknowledge. "And I know you must be at your work today."

"Yeah," she sighed in defeat, sitting up, then forward. He was right. And like or not, she would soon have to face the winter chill, rather than stay within the warmth of his arms. At least these flowers would remain with her though, and she sought instant comfort in another deep inhalation.

... ... "Hey. What about these?" she asked, gently touching one of the creamy, thickly petalled blossoms. Just larger than the violets and forget-me-nots, they were scattered unassumingly between the large red tulips.

"Miniature Persian buttercups," V announced, obviously liking the name.

"Oooh, sounds exotic," she replied, then sampled its faintly sweet scent. "I've seen it before though."

"Very possibly. It's known more commonly as Ranunculus. 'Mini', in this particular case."

She glanced back at him again, noting that the technicalities were certainly flowing, but not the symbolism. "And what, pray tell, do they mean?"

... ... His head tilted, while Evey returned her attention to the plush, pale little flowers. They were really very mild in aroma, and the blossoms seemed to bundle up within themselves. -- -- Compact; modest; certainly not showy. Yet quite fascinating.

"That the receiver is radiant with charms, and rich in attractions," came V's low voice.

It took her a moment to think that through. But coming from V ... ... from her V ... ... yeah, she understood the sentiment. It referred to claims he had made in the past, when caught doing exactly what he was doing right now. -- -- His eyes were on her, watching closely. ... 'Drawn', as he'd often stated.

... ... There was really no physical contact at all, at the moment ... save the light brush of her hip to his knee. But he was absolutely touching her, the weight of his eyes known and recognized from months and years past. Perhaps she'd felt that gaze even during his absent months, she sometimes wondered? -- -- Now that she could look back on those days with a little less pain.

No, she had never once forgotten him ... remembering him so strongly at times that she'd nearly believed she'd summoned him. ... Conjured him. ... Felt him. ... ... ... Or maybe some of those moments had actually called for Persian buttercups, rather than forget-me-nots.

Though her beau could not see it, a bashful smile rose on her face. ... ... Then was carried in her voice too, as she asked, "And that's why you're staring at me?"

A faint, muffled chuckle came from behind her, followed by the affectionate caress of gloved fingers down her arm. ... ... "I'm sorry, love. I can't help but notice yet again, how appropriate those buttercups are in your possession."

She too laughed softly, and turned to find his head dropping ever so slightly. His embarrassed, humbly chastised gaze was shifting to the flowers, and her hand reached out to catch his chin.

"I didn't say I wanted you to stop," she noted softly, her attention holding his. And this time, that unyielding stare was shared equally -- -- between eyes hidden away from the rest of the world; revealing what little they would, to her alone -- -- and eyes still waking up to a most unique Valentine's day; seeing even more, perhaps, than her beau realized. ... ... Indeed, neither stopped, until another alarm went off overhead, from a clock just a few minutes slow.

Her face propped to his, nuzzling in surrender to the morning that just kept on coming. -- -- Even the sky outside was working against them, already turning pale from the sun's imminent arrival.

"I have something for you too," she commented, when she finally climbed to her feet.

She made her way to the kitchen, V rising politely in her wake. A large container was located, to hold the bouquet on its journey to her office. Then a vase, as she continued speaking from the other room. ... "I was going to bring it with me when I came down tonight. I initially thought we'd look at it together."

... ... She stepped back into his view ... her hands empty, her fingers interlaced -- fidgeting in a thoughtful, nervous sort of way. ... ... "But now, I think maybe you should see it sooner."

V's head bowed, respectfully accepting whatever decision she might make -- -- and yes, growing just a little concerned over the new undercurrent in her demeanour. Surely she didn't fear his reaction over a gift ... any gift ... from the woman he loved, on their first Valentine's Day?

She delayed a moment more, then moved hastily across the room. On the shelves beside her flat's main door, lay a small, leather-bound book, patiently waiting for its new owner. Evey retrieved it, and delivered it to her beau.

A first edition, maybe? That was his initial guess. Though it felt surprisingly light when he accepted it from her hands. Turning it sideways for further inspection, he soon realized there could be literally no more than a dozen pages within. ... ... An unusually short book.

"I'm afraid I don't ..." he began, clearly puzzled. But her hands stilled him. ... Stilled the book, in fact -- preventing it from being opened just yet.

"It's not what you think," she stated softly. "It's not a classic, or great literature. And it certainly isn't Shakespeare. But it's something you should have."

... ... V could only dip his head in a moment of silent acceptance. Whatever this was, it was important to her -- -- and was therefore of great importance to him as well.

She swept her palm one last time along the book's cover, pleased that she'd had it finished so richly. ... ... Soft, high quality leather. ... ... Reminiscent of V's own comforting hands.

"The keynote address I gave, at the Memorial to the People," she continued. "I'm sure you remember it."

V took a breath, recalling vividly that large room of somber guests. Some, family members of Norsefire's victims. Some, dressed like V himself. ... ... Rows and rows of miniature, black silk bags. Other mementos too -- --left in honour of loved ones, and often carrying the most heart wrenching words of farewell. ... ... And Evey, behind the podium. Trying to offer her own farewell, to the fallen hero who'd secretly watched from the crowd's periphery.

"Yes ... I ... recall it in great detail," he admitted. "And again, you have my deepest apologies for ..."

"No, V. You don't have to do that," she interrupted. She met his eyes. Even managed a faint smile. ... ... Yes, the memory was sad, but at least it was only a memory. At the moment, the image of this man -- climbing through her window on this special, wintry morning; bouquet of flowers safely in hand -- was much, much stronger.

He fell obediently silent, awaiting her explanation. ... ...

"The speech I gave that day was actually my second version. My second attempt. It was honest. It was cohesive. And most importantly, it was the version that I knew I could actually get through, up there at that podium. ... ... ... This here, is the first."

Her attention dropped once more to the thin but ornate book, as did V's -- his surprise apparent in his body language.

"I wrote it in one night," she elaborated. "The same night they'd approached me about speaking. And the words just fell right out. But I knew I could never repeat them in public. ... ... They weren't meant for the public. ... ... I dug it out and looked at it again a couple months ago. Just after the fifth. And I decided you should have it. So I had one of our experts in archive restoration do the binding. He was the only one I trusted not to read it himself."

V was silent at first, suffering an unusual loss for words.

He turned the book within his hands, noting that even on the spine, there was no title. No markings. The words inside were meant to stand on their own. Indeed, were probably strong enough to stand on their own. ... And that gave him pause. ... "Evey, I would never expect you to reveal such personal moments to me. Especially when those moments were based on falsehoods, brought about by my own ongoing deception."

Evey's head was already shaking, her hand returning to the leather cover. Her perception of that speech -- of both versions of that speech -- was changing, now that she and her beau were healing. "You don't understand. None of what's in here is a falsehood, and that's what matters. It's all truth. ... A lot of it isn't very coherent, I admit. But it's all truth. ... And it doesn't hurt like a goodbye anymore, because you're right here." ... She managed an even bigger grin this time, and motioned toward her bedroom. ... "I found you knocking on my window like a pigeon this morning, before the sun was even up. Had to let you in before you or the flowers froze to death."

His gaze fell to her again, and she knew he was listening. Believing. Maybe even smiling a little at her description?

"Trust me? V?" she requested. "There are things in these short, few pages, that you should hear. Or read, as the case may be. Things I should have said long ago, and things I need to say now. ... It's the 'I love you' that always should have been yours."

... ... She stepped closer, her arms in search of his waist. She would recast the sentiment in his own sweetest of terms. "Think of it as a bouquet of forget-me-nots, violets, Persian buttercups, ... and lots and lots of tulips."

His breath paused for a moment ... then released as a puff behind the mask. Their first February fourteenth, and so much had already been said -- in different ways, and different 'languages'. Even before the sun had found her flat. ... ... And there would be more. ... ...

"Then I may read it today?" he inquired with hope, his head dipping to hers.

"Mmhmm," she agreed. "And I'll be down as soon as I can."

V nodded, Fawkes's hard metal nose brushing gently to hers. The book was moved to the side so that it was she he held first and foremost. ... ... And he didn't want to leave. Just did not want to. ... ... The sun's rays were entering the room, and yet another alarm had gone off nearby, signaling what was presumably 7:15am. ... ... He just did not want to leave. And from the lean of her body into his embrace, she didn't want him to either.

But he had to.

One more kiss -- prompted silently by him and offered easily by her -- before he forced his hands away. -- -- To retrieve his belt. To retrieve his cloak and hat.

And once he'd swept the cloak back around himself, storing the treasured book safely inside, he retrieved one last red tulip -- -- tied with its own bow and replete with a tiny bulb of water. How gallantly he presented it to his lady, as if it were the entire bouquet itself.

Evey laughed, taking it from his hand. "Did this one escape the rest?" she teased, then took a whiff from the bloom.

"I intended to be prepared, love," he explained. "Had you been away from your flat, perhaps visiting your elderly neighbour, or for some other such reason, this would have been left just inside your bedroom window -- -- so that it might have been the first thing you would have seen." ... Then he promptly qualified, "At least upon your return."

"Oh," Evey nodded -- -- as if she found it strangely charming.

"Now though," he added, with heavy implication, "it is merely a well-spoken farewell."

... ... She smiled, then stretched to press a kiss to his neck. "I love you too," was hushed beneath his ear, leaving him gazing at her yet again, as intently as ever.

The world really was waking up though ... ... the sounds of traffic from the streets below ... movement heard on the floor above ... the telltale whistle of pigeon wings, flapping just outside her bedroom window. If V wanted any illusion of 'protective cover' through which to slip away, he had to make his exit now.

Evey accompanied him back through her bedroom, though stood clear as the window was opened and cold air rushed eagerly into the flat. Her arms hugged her torso -- -- where V's embrace had been; should be; and would be again, just as soon as she could get this day of work done and over with. ... ... She was in the government now. Did she have any prayer in a campaign to make this a national day off?

V folded himself back out through the small opening -- pausing for one more brush of his beloved's lips to the mask -- then promptly helped her shove the exit closed. His eyes fixed to hers for silent, precious seconds, and he took hold of the railing -- --swinging himself expertly over it ... out into the city.

Evey waited, watching the final swirl of black cape as it tried to shield his identity. Then she glanced toward the sunrise, twirling the single red tulip casually between her fingers.

A smile -- secretive and knowing -- as she spoke whimsically to herself ... "And I a maid at my window, to be your Valentine."

Yeah, she knew a little bit about Ophelia too.

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I hope everyone has at least heard of the phrase/song 'tiptoe through the tulips'? If not, know that it's a common phrase.

There are references to the speech that Evey gave at the 'Memorial to the People'. That's the speech that was given at the wall of miniature black bags, and was discussed in both of the stories, "The One She Chose" and "Even From Behind the Mask".

Recall that at the time, V was hiding himself from her, allowing her to believe him dead. Recall that the speech was largely about him (and I believe included her voice-overs from the beginning and end of the movie). And recall that V was actually at the back of the crowd at the time, listening. He later stated that it was the closest he had come to revealing himself to her. Hopefully that refreshes everyone's memory.

One old superstition about Valentine's Day, is that the first man that an unmarried woman sees (especially if she's looking out through her home's window), either will be her future husband, or looks like her future husband. Some of Ophelia's song in Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' references this:

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.

So when Ophelia, or 'seeing someone/something first' is mentioned, consider this tradition. And watch for (a slightly edited version of) the last two lines of that verse.

Another tradition is that the type of man a woman will end up with, is foretold by the type of bird she encounters first on Valentine's Day. The list, from the best I can tell, is:

Blackbird - she'll marry a Priest
Robin - Sailor
Goldfinch - a rich man
Sparrow - Farmer
Any blue bird - a happy man
Dove - a loving man
Woodpecker - will not marry

See "dove" in the list? Anyone who's read stories further along in timeline will know the relevance of the 'dove' theme in this world (eg. raven and dove), but at the moment, that actually is coincidental.

What's more important to note for now, is that pigeons (the kind that are all over most major cities, including London) are "Rock Doves". A pigeon actually is a type of dove. (And yes, I do know them well ... I used to have a flock of pet pigeons while growing up.)

So, whenever pigeons pop up, consider the tradition above, and remember that pigeons actually are a type of dove.

And finally, this is going to use the Victorian 'language of flowers'. The meanings used below are taken from 'Collier's Cyclopedia of Commercial and Social Information', which was published in 1882 (actually in the Victorian age). So I'm trying to stay as close to accurate as I can.

This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Languages".