Damages

Chapter One: Deligation

V closed the door behind him, ripping off the white latex gloves and throwing them to the floor. He stared down at his burned, disfigured hands. They were not meant to do this. Not to her.

He heard the rattle of the metal plate behind the door, the sounds of her gulping down the sticky mess he had called her "rations". It was no better than what he'd eaten: porridge, mixed in with Fate only knew what. Of course, his had probably been laced with toxins and chemicals, sulfides and oxides meant to poison him. Hers was no more than gruel that he had made himself, gritting his teeth until he felt like they would crumble into dust while he did so.

He had seen the lesions on her knees, her elbows, from sleeping on damp cement. Her lips were bruised, probably from biting them in the cold. Her eyes were dull and glassy, and her nails bled from being dragged along the concrete hallways. She balked at the tiniest bit of light, and her wrists were chafed from her manacles, the kind he used when he would "cleanse" her with icy jets of water in a dark cell.

He turned and walked away, shaking his head and clenching his fists. He couldn't do this any more. He exhaled angrily, entering the Gallery and collapsing onto the couch, before the television set that not so long ago they had sat in front of, watching Edmond Dantes. She had been so innocent then.

"Are you going to kill more people?"

He remembered the shock on her eyes, the revulsion in her lips as she formed the words. She had taken a step back from him, then two, distancing herself. The blood is not on your hands! he'd wanted to cry. It didn't make a difference.

He looked at the clock, watching as the minutes ticked slowly away. Every second ate at him like carbolic acid, corrosive and stinging and bubbling with toxicity.

He refused to play the piano, which was often his comfort in his loneliness, for fear that it would make too much noise. He took all of the necessary precautions to make it seem like an authentic prison; recorded tapes of footsteps down the hallway, voices murmuring nonsensical syllables; but from what she could guess they were speaking about her, or so he presumed. Even the lighting, sparse as it was, served to not only disguise his face but eliminate recognition of how much time had passed. Days and nights needed to blur into one mass of slate-gray light and muffled sound; it was the only way to break her.

V pulled on his black leather gloves, tightening them around his wrists, letting the absent action numb his mind momentarily. He would have to 'torture' her again soon. He had to make her stubbornness dissipate and become resolute ideology. She had to realize that death was the only option and accept it before he could free her.

He opened the door into the faux prison and took a deep breath. It smelled musty in here, of wet stone and blood and rotting food. He let his shoulders relax, and steeled himself mentally against what he was about to do. It had to be done.

Didn't it?

He kicked the door of her cell open. The sight of her, lying prone on the ground, her hands folded as if in prayer under her head to keep it off of the damp stone, made his heart flutter and nausea creep into his stomach. She raised bloodshot eyes to look at him, silently, questioningly. Before she could move, he took a step forward and pulled the black bag over her head with the signature slicing sound of fabric on skin.

He gripped her by the back of her prison garb, a shapeless rust-colored sack, and threw her out into the hallway. He deepened his voice, trying to disguise it.

"Get up, you whelp. "

She struggled to get to her feet, trembling and reaching outward with her bloodied hands, trying to find a wall. He shoved her, pushing her down the hallway, around a corner, and into another room. It was bare except for a metallic toilet, filled with water.

He forced her roughly down on her knees and ripped the bag off.

"Where is Codename V?"

"I d-don't know…"

He wrapped his gloved hand around the back of her neck and skull and thrust her face into the water. It bubbled around his wrist, stinging him with its frigid temperature. He closed his eyes, counting. How long could he do this? If he held her under for a shorter amount of time than the last time he had done this, she would realize he was being lenient. If he held her under too long, she could drown.

He lifted her out of the water, and she sputtered and coughed, taking strangled breaths.

"Where is he?!" V screamed, letting all of his frustration and anger out in the simple sentence. His voice thundered around the room, reverberating off of the walls and making her recoil.

"I don't…I don't know…" She was sobbing now, her tears mingling with the water that was already on her face. She vomited on the floor, retching and sobbing. "I d-d-don't know…please, please stop…"

He cries tore at him, and he wanted to, oh, how he longed to simply stop right there, to gather her in his arms…but she would never be free of the fear. He could not stop halfway through, he had to take her to the end of the journey or it would be the end of her.

"Don't you understand? He's a fucking terrorist. He'd kill you if he had you right now. Lucky we got to you first. " V's voice was rough and cold, as he struggled to suppress his emotions.

Evey murmured, "V would never hurt me…" She wiped the vomit off of her lips and cheeks, her hands quivering. "N-Never…"

V swallowed hard. "Hold your breath. " He forced her up to the bowl of water and submerged her again, tears burning in his eyes. He held her under longer this time, and when she emerged, her lips tinged blue, he knew he had reached his limit.

"Please…" he whispered to himself, as she coughed and gagged at his feet. "Please…"

Evey cried out in pain as he gripped the back of her garb with one hand and with the other slid the bag over her head. He dragged her down the hall, cutting a newly formed scab and leaving a streak of blood on the ground. She moaned and gasped for air, clawing at the bag.

"The sooner you give in, the sooner this is all over," V said harshly, standing over her with his arms crossed. She struggled to remove the black bag, but was too weak to maneuver her fingers around the ties. She lay on the ground, her chest heaving.

He asked coldly, "Where is he?"

Evey bit her lip. "I don't know…Please…please, let me go home…"

V turned to the door, resting a hand on it. "This is your home, Evey Hammond. "

He shut the door behind him, leaning against it and closing his eyes. He slid to the floor, his legs sprawled out before him. He could hear her sobbing, moaning to herself.

He was terrified of where to proceed from here. He hated this, this horrid bloody game. Every ounce of him wanted to unlock the door and lift her, carry her somewhere safe and warm.

But those same ounces fought against the urge. She needed to be healed. This was the only way.

The only way.

--

She refused to eat. For days he would find her sitting, her knees pulled up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her bare legs. She shivered in the cold, forcing herself into a sharp corner to stay upright. She grew thinner, as the bones in her ribcage became more pronounced, the vertebrae in her back protruding as though one day they would simply tear through the skin.

Every moment with her in the cell was like a slow dance in hell…where would he step? Would she follow? Would she see him? They dressed differently, spoke differently, behaved in ways they did not…he because he felt as if he had no choice, and she because she truly did not have one.

The gruel he fed her would be untouched, and she would follow him, as he brought it in, silently, violet rings under her eyes like smudged make-up. She looked like a rag doll, tossed carelessly into a cement cell and painted with the colors of sickness and death.

V tried every day to torture her gently, if there was such a way. He sprayed her with warm water, so that it would not be as painful, but her sensitive skin was raw and red all the same. She did not scream out as she once did. She simply hung her head and squeezed her eyes shut, as if nothing in the world mattered other than keeping her mouth closed and her screams inside.

Submerging her in the icy water ceased. She would not speak. She would simply sit and stare. It was as if her vocal chords had decided to abandon her.

V opened the door to her cell cautiously now, letting the bar of light slice across the floor before entering. Evey had her back to the door, her form limply splayed across the concrete, close to the wall. She did not turn or acknowledge him as he entered. He had given her the gruel an hour ago. It was placed rather unceremoniously in a small pile on the floor. The plate was missing.

He stepped closer, peering over her shoulder. What he saw made his heart nearly stop.

She had taken the rough metal edges of the plate…and cut herself. Her wrists, her arms, bled freely. Her eyes were closed, ringed in dull lavender and blue.

She had given up.

Crying out her name, V turned her onto her back. Her arms simply slipped from his grasp. He felt her neck with trembling hands. Her pulse was faint, but there. "Evey! Oh, God, Evey…please…Evey…"He lifted her gently.

In that moment, the image of her, draped across his arm, became frozen in time. He could see every vein in her wrists and around her eyes, every droplet of blood and every scar that marred her perfect skin…he longed for her to have beautiful hair again. Now, her lips were mute, her eyes were closed, and she was pale. Her white neck curved in a graceful arc, her throat exposed.

V lifted her off of the floor, feeling the lightness of her frame pressing to his lean musculature. It was when he realized he couldn't see properly that he realized he was crying.

"Oh, Evey…dear, sweet, Evey, what have I done to you?" He walked into the Gallery and looked around him. It suddenly seemed like a vile place, full of objects of torture and insanity and malice. He carried her to her room and gently laid her atop the soft gray sheets. She was bloody and dirty. The bed absorbed her, sucking her thin body into the mattress and comforter. She was so fragile, so small.

He turned to find bandages, fairly sprinting to the bathroom. He opened a concealed cabinet, filled with medical supplies, gauze, surgical tools, medications…He grabbed rolls of gauze, antibiotics, tape…his hands trembled as he found them, and revulsion rose in his stomach. He felt nauseous.

What if he lost her?

The thought nearly made him collapse to his knees. He dropped the supplies to the floor and retrieved her, deciding it was better if he cleaned her cuts first. Holding a scarlet washcloth under the faucet, he wet it and rubbed soap onto it, staring at every bubble that emerged, hoping he wasn't too late. He scrubbed at her skin, wiping away the pain and the anger and the hurt…wiping away what she had tried so desperately to lose.

He rinsed her skin, drying it and wrapping the gauze around it slowly, meticulously, gently. Sticking it in place, he hoped it was enough. The cuts did not seem to be terribly deep, but they would leave scars.

As would so many other things.

He washed her face next, soothingly guiding a different cloth over her face, bony and pale and bruised. Her lips parted as her head lolled back slightly, and he swept the cloth under her eyes. She breathed, but did not stir.

He dared not continue further until she was fully awake, though she was filthy and certainly ill. He lifted her from the floor, leaving scraps of tape and gauze to litter it like newspaper clippings. Carrying her into her bedroom, he laid her on the bed, watching as it enveloped her again.

She moaned, turning and flinging an arm outward. When she realized that it rested upon a soft, clean, dry surface, she started, opening her deep brown eyes slowly.

When she looked at him, with such pain, with such disbelief, in her eyes…he wanted to tear out every part of himself that had hurt her, scarred her, tormented her.

"Evey…"

She screamed.

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.