AN: I tried several techniques when writing this, and I liked final result. I think this can apply to different stories and different concepts particularly in V for Vendetta, so I thought it appropriate to write a version for this site. (I know some of it might be unlikely for V.) When you read, try a variety of perspectives, feel free to interpret this anyway you like. Surprise me. =)

Special thanks to Alissa, Rightside, and ForeverDarknessFalls.

Just to clarify, Evey is Love; V is Vengeance.

Red and Black

Dancing

He didn't kiss her the way he used to.

Not when Fate was around.

And yet there was very little that Love could do about it. Vengeance simply didn't listen to her anymore, didn't have the time for her, and barely touched her. And Love, not wanting to be one to the cause him any more distress and trouble, would never dare pressure or bother him. Not when he returned home in agony nearly every night. From anxiety or more inevitable wounds, she never knew. She never asked; there was no need to waste her breath. She could only hold him in her embrace, his head resting on her lap and body sprawled on the carpeted floor where he had stumbled and surrendered before reaching the bedroom door. She would kiss the salty tears from his eyes, always in the dark where all dressed in Black- that was the only way she could really have him. Defenseless. In the light, he was hardly there.

He wouldn't kiss her the way he used to.

Especially if Fate was around. Love noticed. Fate came by more often than usual, and Love had learned to resentfully sink into the shadows when and let Vengeance be. How he loved to dance with her, with passion, with rage, and a recklessness he could never feel in his tender dances with Love. Nearly every evening they carried out their custom, their graceful adulterous little escapes. Love plainly observed them from the secrecy of the shadows and saw him enjoy holding Fate the way he once would never hesitate to hold her. And Love's gentle, warm, brown eyes never shined with a spark of wickedness as the eyes of Fate did. Those depthless Red, powerful eyes that tempted Vengeance and offered him a brand new dare with each outing, shone far brighter than any he had ever seen. Fate even smiled approvingly whenever he played with Fire. Love ran.

She ran into the Rain, and Vengeance and Fire could never interfere.

He couldn't kiss her the way he used to.

Not when he danced with Fire. Not if she danced with Rain.

Touching

Vengeance was never ignorant, being alert and vigilant by nature, and so he knew how ardently Love wanted- no, needed- to be kissed, touched, and held before she faded into nothing. And Vengeance- as always- could never stand to be disappointing; he really did try. He sometimes saved if only a bit of time for nights of candles and silk sheets, of incense and passion, of red and black. Nights when he tried to kiss her the way he used to, nights of whispering poetry into Love's ear then her neck, even if she did taste different these days. And some nights, just to please her, were of water... and no candles. Those Black nights... he made sure the heavy fragrance of Red roses poisoned the air for both of them.

Love always relished the way Vengeance was so subtle, so unbearably careful with her at the beginning, and then became deliciously satisfying, the poetry becoming darker and more intense as he progressed. These days she lived on those moments, little scraps and mere pieces of the past, when he always cradled her to cherish her, whisper sweet secrets and promises to her, and love was a promise for the both of them. When he had tolerated the rain, and she the flames.

A few glasses of Red wine, a couple of candles to set the false mood, a few verses in the Black night, and before she could whisper an aching "I love you" in his ear, he'd decide it was over. Her eyes watered. He was already out the door. And she wouldn't have the heart to admit to herself she was slowly losing him.

He was gone and she was done. Vengeance vibrant in black, she in a still dripping red.

Fate was usually waiting on the other side of the door.

Breathing

They used to share a bed.

Now Love frequently slept alone, missing the drifting, calming sound of his breathing beside her, and was left to wonder whether Vengeance was even home at all. And whenever she did feel a sudden pressure against her back, the subtle sinking of the mattress, and the shifting of unused pillows and cold beddings behind her, she wished she was capable of doing what any other betrayed lady might do: keep her back to him, offering nothing but a cold shoulder and never acknowledge his unexpected presence. After all, that's practically all he did to her once he was settled in bed. But having him so close to her after having him gone for the past several days became so fervently unbearable she just had to feel him, taste him, if only to convince herself- and her desperate hands that searched for him in the dark- that he was real; he was truly lying there in bed next to her, and Vengeance had returned home to her (and not to Fate) for at least one more night.

Vengeance always tried to pull away at first; she could feel him trying to leave again. And he knew that he could pry her protesting hands away from his sides, find her naked shoulder and push her farther away from him. Yet he always succumbed in the end, being too exhausted to fight her and too preoccupied to have to worry over any more of her tears. He let her wrap her arms around him and rest her head where his neck met his shoulder.

Those nights were the worst.

Not because they were of incense and candles or of poetry and silk sheets. They weren't. Or of running out the door as soon as he had fed Love enough feigned affection. To his despair, it was not that sort of night.

It was worst because he couldn't leave her for Fate on the other side of the door, he couldn't leave her dripping in red and he couldn't leave in black. Instead, she became the dark and overwhelming weight of Black guilt lying so terribly close to his heart, so alive and breathing soft and steady into his neck, and he burned bright and Red against her. He'd tremble. And there was no Fate waiting on the other side of the door, no previous plan of revenge to attend to. There was no escape because Love had unknowingly trapped Vengeance so that there was nothing from which to escape.

Worst because listening to the sweet sound of her deep breathing lulling him to sleep, after days of dancing with Fate, became all he could have hoped for.

Worst because he was forced to realize one more time that there was something so simplistic that he still hadn't lost... and yet didn't deserve.

And then, just on those terrible nights, he wished he could kiss her the way he used to.

-Finis-

Please review. All criticism is welcomed and appreciated. =)