Made to Be Broken, 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 is about seven months after "Mirror of Resurrection".

This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Made to Be Broken".

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Made to Be Broken

2:00am, and V lay awake in his room, stretched along the antique, burgundy chaise lounge on which he slept, staring pensively at the ceiling. ... ... Listening to the silence. Listening to the stillness. Listening to the one thing that interrupted it -- -- soft footfalls padding through the hallway many yards away.

It was Evey, coming to his room just as she had done numerous other nights over the last several weeks. Four times, to be precise. How could he forget even one of those nervous, awkward, heart-pounding moments?

Her approach was always so tentative. So shy, despite the fact that it was entirely her own decision to embark on the chosen journey.

And it was not a shyness born by fear. She would never come to him if she feared him. How many times over these last three years had she witnessed the death of others at his hands? How many knives had she seen thrown? How many necks had she seen wrung, or bones broken? Yet she harbored no fear of him. Not in her eyes; not in her words; not in her behavior; not even in her touch. And he had looked. Most assuredly, he had searched for any signs of such. Watched for them with an intense focus only sheer paranoia could muster. ... ... But there was nothing of that emotion anywhere within her. An unspoken compliment that filled him with what he could only describe as undeserved pride.

Nor was it the shyness of shame. She came down to the Shadow Gallery regularly now. Regularly and reliably... just as she had begun these nighttime trips regularly and reliably. Entirely of her own volition. And when she'd walk through his doorway, she would grace the dim light with a small, victorious smile. -- -- Showing that she too felt a sense of pride ... having proven her spirit yet again in seeking him out.

No, this was a shyness born of love. A fact that always made him inhale deeply whenever it achieved realization in his thoughts. She loved him. Had often said so. Had often shown it to be true. And whenever she would come to him like this, her shyness would manifest from the timid hope that he really did believe her.

And he did. God help him, he did.

"You're awake," she whispered, smiling as she leaned against the side of his doorway. She couldn't tell by simply observing his Fawkes-covered face ... obviously. But she knew his breathing. A familiarity they'd both noted with silent affection.

"Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them," he replied, intoning an expressive moan into the last pair of words. Not that he had to search his memory for an appropriate quote. It was the same explanation he'd offered the last two times. They were developing a bit of a script, it seemed. And buried within the good mood that his voice conveyed, lay his hidden approval that she was welcome. So she entered, wisping quietly across the floor.

A soft cotton t-shirt and shorts were her pajamas ... ... a set she kept down here for the nights she decided to spend in his humble abode. And as expected, her arms were crossed over her midriff. Meager protection against the winter chill that could still evade V's home-rigged heating system and seep down through these grey stone tunnels.

So he knew what to expect at her approach, lying still as she climbed past him into the niche between his body and the back of the chaise. ... ... Tight quarters, which is probably why she'd taken this up as habit, and why V had not immediately jumped to provide his room with a proper bed.

Once she'd settled down at his side, he reached above his head, retrieving a blanket from atop a nearby trunk. And he tried not to shiver when she wiggled closer in anticipation ... ... looping her arm across his waist and laying her cheek on his shoulder ... ... tucked away between himself and the blanket. Could he release his breath now?

"Do you genuinely believe this will assist your sleep?" he asked incredulously, his arm wrapping gingerly around her back. With the cover in place, he couldn't actually see the way his black-covered fingers spread along her waist. Maybe that was for the best.

Evey smiled to herself. "No. But I wasn't the one lying here awake. Who knows, maybe it's your sleep that'll be helped."

Now it was V's turn to smile, secretly behind the mask. He had yet to concoct an answer to that assertion, despite this being the third time he'd heard it.

"Besides," she continued. "There's something I should probably tell you."

Well, that certainly returned the stiffness to his muscles. That was not part of the script.

"I was going to wait until Monday, after I knew for certain there was no way around it. But I don't think there will be. ... ... And I don't like keeping it secret."

He looked down across her face, genuine concern rising. "Tell me, Evey."

... ... "Next Wednesday, I'm off to Switzerland for three weeks. A meeting at the United Nations. We want to reinstate our seat. Sutler wasn't their favorite ... especially after he insulted them so spectacularly. But we think they'll accept us back in now."

V took a deep breath -- lifting Evey right along with him -- then let it out slowly. He stared at the ceiling to ask, "And they require your assistance to do so?"

"I was appointed to the committee because they probably think I'll charm a bunch of dry, pompous politicians or something." Her sarcastic tone belied that she wasn't exactly best pleased. "But don't worry, I do have a few things I'd like to say while I have their ear."

A pause of silence, while V's inevitably supportive reply formed. "Well then you must go. ... ... But I shall certainly miss you."

"I don't want to go," she admitted quietly. "I've never been to the continent, but I don't want to go. ... ... ... Not like that."

V's hand landed on her arm, rubbing gently where her limb lay across his abdomen. Indeed he would miss her. Possibly more than she even expected. But he also remembered a time when he believed her dead. In comparison ... ...

"I know," he replied. "But if that's the extent of your dilemma, I must admit, it could have been far worse."

Evey nodded on his shoulder. He'd remained quite relaxed, so she would make one further request. Tightening her arm, silently bracing him for what he was about to hear, she murmured, "Will you kiss me before I leave?"

His flinch was expected, and she actually heard his heart rate shoot up. Still ... she would neither take it back, nor pass it off with an apology. Instead she simply waited. There were few escapes he could make at the moment.

"Perceptions are cast by the eye," he finally opined. "We humans are visual creatures. We use that sense more than we realize. ... ... And if you were to see what lies beneath this mask, you would never see me in the same way again. ... ... The ramifications, Evey. ... ... I would be forever changed to you."

Evey's eyes closed, her muscles easing into defeat. She was growing so weary of this standoff. So weary of being torn between her feelings of sympathy for what he must have endured; what he must still endure now ... ... ... and the simple desire to see -- to touch -- the man she loved.

"Why do you keep insisting that I couldn't handle it?" she challenged with a hushed, thinly veiled bitterness. "That I couldn't accept what I find?"

"It is I who could not accept what I would find," he corrected her quickly -- -- even tersely.

He caught himself before his words became harsher, then reflexively pulled her tighter ... ... reminding himself that she was not one of those who had shrieked in horror upon seeing the 'monster' recently escaped from Larkhill; she was not one of the curiosity seekers who had smirked condescendingly at his costume before he had learned to hide his movements in the shadows; and she was not one of the Fingermen who had sought his identity relentlessly for a year. What she was, instead, was the girl who had once resolved to die rather than reveal him; who had saved him probably more times than she realized; and who now, he genuinely believed, loved him.

So why could he still not trust her reaction on such a simple point?

"Evey," he sighed mournfully. "Once you have seen the extent of it, even if only for a moment ... ... I am the one who will continue to be tortured by it. Every time you look at me, I will see its reflection. And I've not yet achieved your strength."

His answer was truthful, and he waited silently for her rebuttal. She would try again ... he knew that ... and he secretly welcomed it. Her determination was building that very same strength he needed. She would eventually break through. More a question of 'when' than 'if', and part of him joyously cheered her on.

She didn't argue, however. At least not blatantly.

At first, there was no reaction. Then he felt a low frequency shudder vibrating out from her torso and into his own. -- -- A product of her breathing as she exhaled under the stress of trying not to weep.

"When I was little," she whispered in the quietest, splintered voice, "My father would never go to work, or even leave the house, without kissing my mum goodbye. I always thought ... ..."

That was where her words ended, reducing into a muffled sob.

And the strong hands that she thought would comfort her ... didn't. He made no movement, freezing and stiffening beneath her. Even his attention appeared denied to her ... his face and mask staring directly toward the ceiling.

For what felt like long minutes, they remained exactly that way, although in truth it was mere seconds.

Then the worst. -- -- -- His arms left her with little fanfare, and he removed himself brusquely from beneath her weight.

"V?!" she wept, struggling to sit up. He was fast, and was already striding across the room. "V, please come back. I'm sorry. Please!"

He had reached the doorway, prepared to leave her for the night. -- -- Or so she thought.

Instead, he closed the door, instantly sinking the room into darkness.

It was an advantage of life beneath the earth's surface, that V had never truly appreciated ... until now. There was no sun down here. No moon and no stars. Nothing to cast illumination except that which man provided. So when he closed the door, with the room having been lit only by the glow of the hallway lights, instant, deep, pitch blackness was achieved.

And it didn't sit well with Evey. Not one bit ... calling to mind those ancient human fears that only children traditionally admit to.

"V?" she sobbed again, knowing her beau was on this side of the door, but unable to see even one inch in front of herself. "V?"

"Shhhh," he hushed. "Don't be frightened. Please, dearest Evey."

Then the sensation of fingers, landing gently on her arms, sliding smoothly down to catch her hands. A warm and loving touch, but unusually firm at the same time.

The shift of the cushion as he sat down beside her. The bump of her leg with his own as he drew closer.

And then ... while his hands gingerly kept her own in check ... came the most tentative press of warm, thin, leathery lips to her own. Brief, lest she feel more than he was prepared to reveal, but lingering just long enough to prove his deep compulsion to continue.

"I do so love you, Evey," was breathed across her cheek. "Please don't cry. Soon, love. You're the one who will get us there."

And finally, an affectionate squeeze of her hands as he indulged in one more brush of her lips. A continued, careful risk that he simply could not resist.

It left her trembling in shock, swallowing the last of her tears when his hands suddenly disappeared from her own. He was gone again, back into the dark depths of the room.

Even when he re-opened the door, it took her eyes a moment to adjust, her first proper visual being of his return to the chaise. And once again, his mask smiled at her as he coaxed her to lie back down.

She complied, retrieving the blanket as she welcomed him ... whispering her own endearments as she found herself pulled into his arms.

This was different. So simple and so subtle, but irreversibly changed. And they both delighted even more when he settled down to face her, adjusting so that her forehead could rest gently against his mask.

It wasn't in the script they had both begun with. None of it was.

But then, scripts are made to be broken.

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Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them. -- Edgar Allan Poe

This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Made to Be Broken".