If He Would Only Extend His Hand, 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: Immediate follow-up to "Her Safety", so re-familiarize yourself with how that went (recall, she was kidnapped), and how it ended. -- -- Especially V and Evey's coming together at the end, and the point that V had misinterpreted the situation -- Evey was not interested in Adrian Viedt. This story happens a very short time after that ending.

Keep the following events in mind: 1) V's attempt (in the movie) at keeping Evey in the Shadow Gallery for a year, 2) Adrian's attempt to push Evey into a relationship, 3) V's statements (ie. at the end of "Her Safety") that he stayed away for a year-and-a-half so that she wouldn't have to be 'in the shadows' again.

This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "If He Would Only Extend His Hand".

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If He Would Only Extend His Hand

The hour was late, when V finally escorted his lady home ... through the dim tube tunnel system, toward an exit closer to her flat. After the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours, he would be especially vigilant that her journey was safe. After all, he did question how wide-spread the plot of her kidnapping had been. And if there were more rebels involved ... God help them when he found them.

But at this moment, her security was assured. This was a journey he knew well, having seen her through this passage a number of times in recent weeks. -- -- Having also traversed it himself many, many times over the past year, silently checking that she was well. That her life was healing -- -- and moving on.

... ... Well her life had turned now, hadn't it?

Even as they walked, the evidence continued to dare his belief. Small changes in both their demeanors. Words spoken with new meaning, and new intonation. As well as other hints -- -- some as light as a touch.

... ... Is that what a butterfly would feel like, he wondered silently to himself, after he'd experienced the first flit of Evey's fingers against his own? Was that the sensation of delicate wings, flapping against a layer of supple, black leather?

What an odd thought to spring suddenly to mind. But his brain could not resist the comparison.

... ... ... ... Butterflies.

Nature's tiny painted masterpieces.

Beautiful in appearance, and some of the gentlest creatures on earth. Difficult to catch as well -- or so he had always assumed. They had the ability to brush right past you, barely announcing their presence before you realized they were gone.

Many years ago, in the gardens of Larkhill, he had managed to inadvertently attract them with his flowers. A hot, horrible summer, at England's own private hell on earth ... yet butterflies had come to visit. They would sit quietly on the blooms of morning glories and sweet pea, wings poised pristinely, often allowing him a far closer approach than he'd ever expected. And if they harboured any concern over the virus resident within his body, or those scars produced by the illness' initial outbreak, they certainly didn't show it. Even when they would finally fly away, their beating, powdery wings would brush against his hands ... his arms ... even his cheeks, on occasion.

He'd never attempted to capture any though. Not once. -- -- Because they had the ability to escape those terrors of a prisoner's life. Who, in their right mind, would force something as fragile and ethereal as a butterfly, to live in a deep, dark pit of suffering?

... ... Only once had he tried something so foolish, and she had indeed escaped -- months later -- raising his ire and breaking his heart ... all at once.

... ... So what was he to do now, when her hand would bump 'coincidentally' against his own? Was the butterfly asking to be caught? Or merely testing her wings?

"Are you listening to me?" she teased, only scant seconds later. For the last fifty yards, she'd had that impression. And now her latest question hung in the air, waiting for a reply.

If it were anyone else, or any other night, she might have been concerned -- or even a little offended. But this was the man she loved, and this was the night she had finally told him so -- -- with the proper words he truly deserved. Over a month had now passed, since a domino had appeared in her bedroom, righting her world for the first time in so long. An entire month of worrying that he might disappear again. An entire month of wondering why he kept his distance ... or why he seemed so determined to push her toward a future she did not want.

... ... But after tonight ... ... after experiencing the utter heaven of his embrace, and feeling her life returning in a way she hadn't even realized was lost ... ... after his whispered assurances that his own love remained strong and unyielding ... ... well, she'd have been surprised if he hadn't managed to lose himself in thought, at least once or twice.

"Not a moment has passed, that you have not held my attention," he replied, gently dissuading her opinion. "You must know this by now." And when he glanced over, he received her sweetest smile ... and a look in her eyes that assured he would have been forgiven in any event. -- -- Would be forgiven for nearly anything, in fact.

Once more, her fingers brushed 'incidentally' against his, where his arm hung free of the cloak, and she repeated the same offer she had made a scant minute earlier. -- -- Or would it be more accurately described as a request? -- -- "I could come down again, tomorrow evening. Around seven maybe? I don't think too many people would miss me."

Behind the mask, V tried to suppress a cynical snort. -- -- Tried, but failed. -- -- "Mr. Viedt will notice, I suspect."

"Mr. Viedt," she replied just as quickly, "will be receiving a polite but curt phone call from me in the morning. Don't worry ... he won't be following me any longer." And this time when her hand swung over, it caught one leather-clad finger ... holding on in silent reminder that it was he to whom she was anchored.

... ... Silence, for a moment, while V absently studied the path they traveled.

His commiseration, to be clear, was not for the young government agent. -- -- The man who had risked Evey's life most improperly ... whether by horrible miscalculation, or purposeful neglect. No, it was to this woman beside him, that V bore his guilt. Was it not his own absence, that had allowed such a situation to arise in the first place? Should he not have kept an even closer watch, rather than leaving it to a man who apparently only 'purported' to be her suitor?

... ... Miscalculations were apparently his forte as well, at least on this particular subject.

"He will not let go that easily," the masked man finally warned. "Without proper understanding of the situation ..."

And that was when Evey could bear to hear no more. ... ... "Stop it, V," she insisted, though with the same affection she'd sworn for the last hour. Her grip on his finger shifted to take his entire hand, and she drew him to a halt.

He obeyed, turning to her in the process. His gaze however, was held by nothing other than their clasped hands.

... ... Pale fingers curved so tentatively around his blackness ... just as they had done a year and a half ago -- -- when he'd believed himself to have absolutely nothing to gain, and everything destined to lose.

... ... Had fortune finally reversed?

"Mr. Viedt," Evey continued, insisting on using only the distant formality of his surname, "never had me, to let go of."

She stepped closer, her fingers twining with his. -- -- Slipping between the leather in a way that could almost stop V's breath. "I promise you. He has never been anything more than a friend. And even that is now in the past tense." ... ... One feminine fingertip rubbed gently to her beau's, and she tilted their hands into a brighter shaft of light. -- -- Their joined hands. Quite possibly the most beautiful sight in the world, as far as she was concerned. ... ... "Did you really think you'd lost this? Didn't you realize how serious I was, that night on the platform? ... You weren't the only one who'd finally found the truth."

The butterfly was wrapping around his hand. Capturing him, rather than he capturing it.

... ... And maybe that was the only way it could be. ... ... Delicate though it appeared, the butterfly possessed a will stronger than even he had ever imagined.

"To seek the light of truth," he opined in a low voice, "while truth, the while, doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look." ... He smiled pensively behind the mask, recent -- and some not so recent -- errors of judgment taking on a new hue. ... "But perhaps I am finally beginning to see ... my dearest."

... ... Was it his acceptance of her words, that drew her closer?

Was it the light squeeze his fingers had taken of hers?

Or was it his chosen term of endearment -- -- so long in coming, and so wonderful to her ears?

Regardless, there was only one possible effect, and she closed the last inches between them. Her other hand rose, her thumb landing on the black tip of an enamel beard. ... ... Another alighting of the butterfly.

... ... Such a gentle pressure, as she tilted the mask -- and thereby tilted V himself.

... ... Such a sincere squeeze she gave his hand, in quiet reassurance.

... ... Such an honest, open expression in her eyes, as she coaxed him down. Until for the second time in history, the man in black received the kiss of the woman he loved.

Fawkes's lips remained as frozen as they had always been. If she expected otherwise, she need only remember that fairytales do not happen overnight. She could feel his reaction though. -- -- The rough catch in his breath, as he accepted that this really was her truth. -- -- The weight of his gaze upon her, as intense and flowing with love as it had ever been. -- -- The squeeze of his hand, willing this moment to last.

And when she drew away, what was there, really, to say?

This had been their goodbye, once, long ago. Now it was her welcome. ... ... Her promise of the place he held -- both in her life, and in her heart. A place no one else could ever fill, no matter how hard they tried.

... ... Her promise of the butterfly that was his ... if he would only extend his hand.

Truly, there were few words that could suffice, other than those he murmured next. ... "I love you, Evey." ... It too, an oath for the future, rather than an ill-fated farewell.

... ... That future no longer loomed ominously in the distance, as it had long ago. Now, if the fates would be generous, it stood before him -- -- kissing him, and beating its wings softly against his glove.

She nodded, taking a wistful suckle of her lower lip ... almost as if in memory of the kiss, until she could have another. -- -- For months on end, it had been the only kiss she'd wanted.

"I love you too," was her reply, her voice hushed as if saved only for him -- -- even here within these dark, lonely, tunnel surroundings. ... ... "So I should come down then, tomorrow evening?" she finally queried, repeating her request of minutes earlier. Was her hopefulness too obvious, or did such things really no longer matter?

"Of course," he hushed, trying to restrain his own anxiousness as well, couching the words, instead, in only the most tender affection. How had it taken him so long to answer, he wondered to himself? Indeed, how had it taken him so long to counter with his own invitation? -- -- "You are welcome whenever you wish. I shall always look forward to it. ... More than you may know."

And oh, how her smile did rise. Soft and sweet. Close and tempting.

Tentatively -- -- as if a decision had been made, then remade, all within the span of only seconds -- -- his other hand emerged from beneath the cloak. It rose slowly, coming to rest gingerly around the curve of her head. ... ... One leather-clad thumb caressed her cheek, and her eyes closed so serenely. So blissfully.

Her head leaned to his palm ... a tilt of no greater extent than those he often made with the mask. But the weight within his hand -- -- the trust inherent in the action -- -- was an expression unto itself.

And he knew ... he knew ... just how appreciated his own advances would be.

With equal care did he disentangle his fingers from hers ... moving instead to cup her face. A cradle was made, woven of two strong hands ... ... the only hands that would hold her from this day forward, if he were allowed his dreams ... ... and he leaned slowly ... gradually ... closer.

A brush of her nose with that of the hard, metal mask. An invitation and a request, not too unlike her own. Waiting. ... Until her lips found the mask again. A kiss that both -- and neither -- need take credit for.

Behind that mask, eyes closed.

Behind that mask, eyes nearly wept.

His beloved butterfly had come to him. She'd been flying in search of him for all this time, and now alighted to his countenance with only the smallest prompt. She wanted to fly to his home and fill it with beauty. She wanted to spend at least part of her time in the shadows, as opposed to the bright sun to which butterflies were usually accustomed. And by her own choice, the only hands allowed to capture her, were those that held her now.

Behind that mask, he let out a breath of joy, like none he'd ever experienced.

And behind that mask, he was already wishing it were the next eve. ... ... To share his time with her. To share his conversation with her. To hold her with time to spare. Perhaps even to dance with her, if she would be willing to flutter around the room in such a fashion. ... ... There was so much to make up for.

Alas ... however ... it was not yet the next eve. Indeed, that was still many hours away, though this night was already wearing on. And V had no choice but to be reminded of that fact, when Westminster began ringing out 10:00pm -- timed perfectly to his beloved's withdrawal.

"It is late," he murmured, reminding himself of those priorities that simply must come first. "And you are long overdue on a proper rest." His hands still carefully surrounded her head, the masked man finding their removal to be far more difficult than he'd ever anticipated.

Evey nodded ... her eyes still closed and a most happy smile gracing her lips ... then took the initiative that he seemed unable to muster. ... ... Somehow, in the haze of finally reuniting with the man she loved -- -- truly reuniting -- -- she managed the ability to take one step away from him.

His hands drifted down, though neither retreated beneath the cloak. New touches had been found, by a man who'd spent far, far too long, with none. ... ... Such signs of affection were unlikely to be forgotten quickly, or given up lightly.

"Yeah," she agreed, taking a cleansing breath. "I am tired. More than tired, I have to admit." ... Over a long enough time, adrenaline certainly had a way of masking everything else. And in the morning, she would likely face a whole new list of official questions -- -- not to mention a few words she intended to deliver to a former friend.

V's head tilted, as she expected it would. -- -- Quite politely. Quite gentlemanly. -- -- And his hand extended toward hers. "Then I will see you home with all due haste. Until ..." ... He paused, his words temporarily halted by the blissful sensation of her fingers, curling within his own. Then his throat was cleared, and he completed his promise. ... "Until you've had your rest; seen to your obligations ... and I shall have the pleasure again, of your company."

Evey smiled anew at his instinctive formality, and returned it in kind. -- -- "Very good," she agreed, and joined him as he set them back onto their path.

He cast her one more glance, accompanied by a squeeze of her hand ... silent assurance that he intended to keep it for the rest of the journey. A gentle touch though, and certainly never as if to capture. -- -- He knew better than that. ... ... No, this must be done with only the most tender grip, and an especially willing accommodation. ... ... Exactly as one should hold a butterfly.

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This story has accompanying artwork. To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "If He Would Only Extend His Hand".

To seek the light of truth; while truth the while
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
-- Shakespeare, Love's Labours Lost