Warnings: Movieverse, during the single month before Evey betrays V. OOC.
Totally forgot to post this up. Welcome to third part of prologue. Yeah, that's right. Way too long-winded; will take a haitus to rethink the damn pacing of fic.
Thanks for all feedback, always. :)

About 10 pm or so.

Dear John,

No doubt you see the irony. I could run away now. I could escape. I could give him to the Chancellor, be patted on the back with one hand and probably stabbed with the other in some dark alley. Don't laugh. It's ridiculous enough as it is.

The longer I stay, the more bound I am to him. No longer unstable captor, but generous host. Oh, I've skirted around that idea before, when it lurks in the comfortable lags during movies, when it watches from the sidelines of the frustratingly satisfying debates that we carry late into the night. It's a sheepish truth, but V's too much of a gentleman to point it out. We sidestep it, like guests avoiding an unfortunate stain in the rug. But now, with me losing sleep and sanity over the terrorist meant to be my kidnapper, it's never been more blatantly obvious.

…I've taken the coward's route again, haven't I? Right from the start, I went past the whole 'If you let me go, I swear I won't tell anyone' routine. Not just because something told me it'd be an insult to both our intelligence, but because I was irrationally afraid he might take me at my word and end my misery.

If I was a true (blind) patriot, I'd tie V right now and deliver him as a gift to the Black Bags. If I was our parent's daughter, I'd join V's fight with all my heart and (blind) faith thrown in.

But, no. Coward, remember? I'm-- I'm selfish. I'll be honest: I want this. Barely a month, and already I've come to love this place, this outrageously cultured and beautifully cluttered underground that breathes history and is lined with words of poets and artists and madmen; this place that whispers home. When was the last time I've felt safe? Only in dreams. Only in fairy tales like this, of the Grimm's heritage. Like a child at the end of a beloved bedtime story, I don't want it to end. Ugly as it sounds, I'm want to continue leeching off V's goodwill, ignoring the delicate etiquette of overstaying guests while spurning with stony disbelief the only thing he seems to live for—his revolution.

It looks terrible on paper, doesn't it? I know, you've every right to condemn me. Don't think I'm using honesty to redeem myself: I know I'm too afraid and unresisting, and I wish I wasn't, but I am. But sometimes, John, it's better to just survive rather than live. You last longer. Mum and dad lived after you, you know, really lived-- gloriously, heads held proud and unbowed for one banner-waving thundering of a year, the last thrumming exaltation of Hammond blood and then...

It's not worth it. Why kid myself? Life doesn't live like a platitude.

I thought that perhaps this was what was bothering me. So I attributed that vague feeling of misplacement to my little dilemma (which, I see now, is really no dilemma at all but just my reluctance in 'officially' throwing in my lot with the most wanted man in London) and left it at that.

V's temperature seemed to be declining very slowly, or perhaps I was growing used to it; the worst seemed to be over. His moments of increasing consciousness (and flow of apologies and sincere thanks) left me strangely reassured I wasn't alone. It made me complacent. I spent most of the evening reading, going on impassioned and futile Hunts for A Thermometer, and generally getting used the quiet and V-lessness of the place.

Strange to miss him when he was so near. When I felt too lonesome somewhere during our usual dinnertime, I splayed my fingers on his chest, idly tracing the scars and hatchings, and taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Elbow propped on the bed and chin resting against palm, I played the child-game of using two fingers as simplistic stickmen to explore the geography of V's torso. Over the ranges, round the smoothed wax splotches, follow the paint-streaks of red brick roads… Fingerman in search of the land of V, I thought wryly, and my mouth twisted at the thought. I wished he would come back from whatever land he was from.

A third attempt at reading left me waking with a start on the sofa. The grandfather stood accusingly across the hall, the hands pointing at eleven in the evening. Disorientated, I stared at the book on my lap. I could have sworn I heard—

There! A muffled crash from V's room. My pulse jumped in my mouth; I was awake instantly. The only thing I could think of as I dropped the book and rushed to his room was ohshitohshitohshit. Vulgarity coming naturally with panic. How could I have slept? I cursed. I stumbled over my feet as I burst into the room, heart thundering.

At first I thought he'd left the room: the bed was starkly empty. My chest squeezed again, painfully. And then, at the far right of the bed's edge… the top of the wig…

I couldn't move fast enough. When I got around the bed, the sight knocked my breath out.

V had collapsed. He was on the floor by the bed, barely managing to pull himself upright with the bed as support. No longer shaking, but rocking, keening back and forth, rasping in breaths with groans like the air had knives in them, like he was drowning, like he was in pain. He was in pain. V was in pain.

I fell to my knees beside him, a distant roaring in my ears. Mind a white blank.

He looked up. 'Oh hey,' a stranger said weakly, in between V's breaths. 'Help. Hey—help.'

Maybe it was all those false alarms and terror drills during the past three days, but something gripped me and kept me from losing my head, from crying and fussing and falling apart. Think, it said. Cold and clinical. Breathe. Stay calm. What can you do? Here is V. Here is V in pain. He is not John. Breathe in. You are not seven. Stay calm now.

What can you do?

I took V by the shoulders so he would look at me. Head ringing from the speed of it all. If he had been hot before, he was beyond it now. My hands were numb and were clumsy as I tried to strip away the shirt; I could have screamed with frustration at how slow I was, how-- take it off, take it off, take it off! I couldn't think. Seven-year-old Evey put her hands over her ears and cried. Adult Evey was determined and mechanical. I was somewhere in between, terrified.

His skin burned to touch.

'V, where's the pain? V—V, look at me. Look. Where's the pain?' A stranger was using my voice too. The voice was calm: everything I was not.

From behind V's mask, the first one answered. Accent, I listened numbly. Sounds more Estuary. Dear god, I must be in shock.

'Muscles contractions,' he breathed. Then, V said, 'My head. My head.' The mask tilted up at me; a final tug and at last the damn shirt was off, a rush of air where thick cloth once smothered. There was a sigh of relief, ''least I'm no longer cold.'

'No, but you might still die.' I sounded detached to my ears. Cold and clinical. 'Can you stand?'

Another wave hit him: he doubled over, a groan low in his throat, knuckles fisting so tight I could see the white even through the scarred patches. If the patients at St. Mary's were anything to go by, he was doing unbelievably well. Most of them screamed. You were luckier: you fainted. I nearly did- his grip around my wrist tightened to the point of white agony, gasping pain. But who was I to complain of little pains like this? I bit my lip till I tasted copper and was on the verge of screaming when he finally let go.

Pain and terror and adrenaline. I was shaking badly enough to match V. I waited till his ragged breathing returned to fill the space between us. Then I hoisted his arm around my neck, grunting at the effort—damn the man for all that muscle, damn everything!- and tried, stupidly, to lift him off. The protective bubble of apathy was starting to lift; my mouth was dry enough that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

'V, you've got to try,' I croaked. He remained boneless and shuddering, my arm around his waist. I knew what I was asking—I refused to cry from the helplessness of it all. He's not supposed to die. Not like this, like you.

I refused to cry.

'You will die if you don't move, V,' I said. 'If you can't see through the pain, I'll guide you. We need to get to—V, do you understand? Its only to the bathroom, just a short walk…' I tried again; it was like heaving up a sack of bricks. 'C'mon, I'll help you, please V, I know this, I know what I'm doing, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—please- get- up…'

Movement! My fourth try brought a response-- he stumbled down almost immediately, bringing me along. I gargled encouragements, a rambling slush of feel-good syllables in an octave too high, didn't matter- neither of us were listening. He was moving—he was moving! Relief so sharp it pierced. He used the bed, the table, all the objects littering the way as crutches; even then, I was bowled over by his sheer weight and we seemed to fall more often than walk. I was breathing as badly as him by the time we were almost at the bathroom—so near, yet so far-- when he spoke.

'Didn't think—it'll be th—this bad, yeah?' He was panting behind the mask. Wildly, I wondered at the heat that must surely collect in it, wanted to tear it off. 'I mean,' the stranger continued, 'I'd-- only calcu—arh!' A reflex made him take his hand off the doorframe to grip the side of his head. We fell to the floor, a heap of overheated limbs on the floor.

Tiled floor. Bathroom floor. I almost cried from happiness. 'Come on, V, we're almost there, we're almost…'

He was slick with perspiration; a good sign, a miracle sign. I clung on to that hope like a lifeline. 'Up…' I encouraged desperately, arm hooked around his back. 'Damnitjustafew… more -- onetwothree- UP…'

V staggered upwards. 'Don't lie, Ruth,' he mumbled. Delusional. 'Just don't--'

We managed to get him propped up against the wall facing the shower sprinkle. The bathroom with the bathtub was too far down the hall; we had to use the bathroom which resembled more of a storage room with a shower head than anything else.

I crawled to the facet and twisted hard, the coldest it could get. After several heart-stopping groans, the old pipes finally worked their magic and the room filled with the spray-blast of sweet, icy water. Standing under the spray with the droplets running in cold rivulets down my face and back, it was bliss, bliss, crying bliss. I raised my arms, a heady drink of exhaustion and relief.

On the other hand, for V-- being blasted with the sudden gut-shock of freezing water must have just been from one hell to the next.

'Bloody 'ell,' he said weakly. 'Fuck.' And then his mask dipped: he was unconscious.

---

I must have realized then. It was impossible to ignore: it was so obvious. Surround sound finally on, loud enough to deafen. A pile of leaves at my feet. The voice changes, minor and unmistakable. The indifference to contact, body exposure. The colloquialisms that should've rung the loudest warning bells of all, from a man whose words are everything. No doubt the expletives must have set off alarms so strident that even I couldn't ignore it. But at that time, it didn't seem important. Trivial, even.

So he had some sort of repressed personality thing going on. Maybe his obsession with his being the living personification of his Idea had made him force it down for so long he'd forgotten about it. Maybe it had something to do with his scars. Who knows? Who cares? As long as he stayed alive.

I didn't care about anything else.

---

The pain came in waves and didn't allow him to stay unconscious for long. When I returned from grabbing the capsules, I found him still delirious and beginning to hyperventilate from the cold. Good, I thought grimly. At least I know he's alive.

I turned down the water to a lower volume and up to a higher temperature, skin feeling tight with anxiety. 'V, listen. Are you still feeling warm?'

The mask lolled towards me, grinning its frozen smile. 'You jest,' he said. He gave a short, half-hearted laugh. 'Haa. Funny.'

I went and knelt by him, putting my hand on his chest. It was still burning. 'This is important.' I had to raise my voice slightly over the drumming of the water- oh god, it was freezing. Urgency making my voice shrill. 'They always say they feel cold, right till the end, always cold, always dry, always—' I cut myself off, I was rambling. 'But you said you were feeling warm. You are, aren't you?' I had to squint at him; the water was blurring my eyes. 'Aren't you?'

Please god say yes. He stiffened, shoulders and abdomen tensing: another contraction, or maybe another wave of migraine slamming with a vengeance. I fussed over him desperately, patting his arm and soothing his shoulders even though I knew it was useless. I was useless. 'The heat remains,' V breathed at last. 'And all the fires of hell…'

He trailed off. I thought he'd fallen unconscious again when he spoke up suddenly. 'Hey, Evey,' he said, and this time I knew it wasn't mere weariness that made the consonants so faintly clipped, the echo of an accent curling the syllables-- 'are you eating well?'

I stared. Well, no doubt about it now. In his normal state, V would never say 'Hey, Evey'. Ever. 'Evey', yes, 'My dear Evey', sure—but 'Hey, Evey?' Hey? Adam Sutler would sooner resign.

It almost made me smile though. Terror faltering in its paralyzing advance for a moment, puzzled. Couldn't help it, it was so random and polite. A slice of V's unfailing hospitality hashed with street informality. He'd be asking me about the weather next.

'I'm…I'm fine. Listen--'

'Finding everything in the kitchen?' he interrupted me. His voice was strained. 'Taking the cod liver?'

I was nonplussed. Here we were, sitting in a spray-storm that was almost too cold to breathe properly in, and he was inquiring about whether I kept my Vitamin D up. Never mind that he could die in the next five minutes, he wanted to know about my dietary status.

'The last time I took it was… before all this…'

'You like the new brand?'

'The bottle's… really small—wait, what? Good god, V, you can't be seriously talking to me about cod liver oil, of all things! And now!' I wondered how bad his fever really was for the delirium to reach such heights. 'I've got to give—'

'Just a trial bottle.' His fingers scrabbled on the tiles as he tried to sit up, as if we were having a normal conversation. Wasn't he in pain? 'I guess it's all finished now.'

My mouth dropped. I could strangle him, I thought blankly. Strangle him till he goes unconscious and force it down his throat. I could. He'll never know. 'Yes,' I said at last, helplessly. What else could I say? 'I guess. Though there's enough for one more time. And then I shall die of Vitamin D deficiency because you weren't here to give me another bottle. And you shall be sorry. Are you happy now?'

The mask appeared to be considering me. I noticed his left shoulder was starting to tremble, and the dread came back in roaring rush. 'Look' I said desperately, 'if you just take this, I swear I won't forget to take the oil every other day. Every day! I don't care! As long as you--'

V didn't even look the pill in my hand. He made a noise of agreement as if the conversation had tired him, and took it. I turned, facing the spray, so he could swallow it without me looking. Interrupted anxiety returning to choke my che--

'There're spare bottles in the bottom larder--'

'Take it!'

There was silence, save for the hissing of the spray. The pressure was weaker on my face now; the water tank in this bathroom must be of the limited kind, I figured. I shivered and squinted and silently cursed the unbelievable inanity of supposedly intelligent revolutionaries everywhere.

'V, are you done?'

Silence. I hesitated, then got up to turn the water off. With some towels and the pools of water on the floor, I could keep him soaked for some time. It wouldn't do to use up all the water reserves and give him hypothermia.

'V?'

Still no answer. He could be unconscious again. Was his mask…?

I crawled backwards, using my hands as my eyes. Blind groping up to his face discovered the mask mostly secured on, so I finished the adjustments to the best I could guess before turning around.

Almost perfect. The wig was slightly skewed and matted with water but heck, that was the least of my worries. His palms and the floor around were absent of the blue pill, so I surmised he must have managed to swallow it before he knocked out. My hands were shaking, an aftereffect. Stupid man. Incredible man. My teeth chattered, knocking together in domino-clicks that echoed hollow in the silence of the bathroom.

I grabbed some towels I'd dumped at the side- they were already soaked; I could barely feel the dripping chill through the numbness of my hands. If I was cold, it would hit me later. Adrenaline and relief warmed me enough for now. I toweled him, soaking his chest and arms, scooping water over his legs. Déjà vu with a nightmarish twist.

I was wondering whether I should turn back the showers on—the heat didn't seem to be letting up, pleasegod let the medicine workworkwork—when V woke. He groaned and one hand lifted to touch his head lightly, as if it hurt to even touch, and the mask angled towards me.

'How long does it take for aspirins to work?' he exhaled.

I realized time hadn't passed for him: we were in the same conversation. 'Half an hour or so,' I said, not meeting his eyes. It wasn't a real lie, not really. I could only bring myself to give him one capsule instead of the recommended two, anyway; guilt compromising with fear.

I bunched up a towel and applied pressure on his shoulder with one hand; he slid down wordlessly, straining his head upwards enough for me to fit the makeshift pillow under his head. There were tremors under his skin, faint as heat shimmers, and his heartbeat was unnaturally fast beneath my palms. I used scooped water over his shoulders, stroking him with numb fingers, distressed.

'V, you have to tell me how this happened,' I said lowly. I leaned over him, close enough that strands of my sodden hair fell past my face, brushing his mask. A curtain at the confessional, the quiet of honesty within. 'This isn't normal. I've seen this before.'

The mask tilted up slightly, as if trying to concentrate. I knew he was fighting delirium just to hear me and I should let him rest, but a knot of anxiety and tight anger in my stomach wasn't about to let this go.

'I know this, V,' I said relentlessly. 'I knowthis. Your fever is at breaking point. If it's what I think it is, I've never known anyone who survived it. I need you to tell me everything.'

A pause. Then, from within the mask, a sigh-- 'Alright. Yes. …Later.' Then, more clearly, 'Don't worry.'

I leaned back, the knot easing, exhaling a breath of relief I didn't know I was holding in. Seeing V lying like that before me, limp and bare from waist up, shuddering and weakened-- V who moves in a different script from the rest of us, who changes the mood of rooms just by the complexity of his presence…

There was a split-second of disconnection, like the flash of a camera when unexpected: for a single, disorientating moment, the man whose hand I was holding was a complete stranger, an imposter. Surely not V, a voice scoffed—this creature, V? Surely not…

And then my equilibrium snapped back and it was over, double-vision hastily dissipating like mist in the sun. V was V again, unfathomable and real.

V hummed a song I'd not heard before while I drenched his upper body with wet cloths, his body heat warming the cloths too soon after they were laid. Judging from the way the tune broke and mutated, it would be a song that I'd probably never hear again, courtesy of his delirium. The rich vibrato bounced off the grey damp walls, breaking off at points when his pain swelled and it was effort enough to remember to breathe.

'Still think I'm hot, love?' he rambled deliriously after an especially bad wave of nerve-agony. Mellifluous voice strained almost beyond familiarity. His hand still gripping mine, his only anchor to reality; there was a stab of fear he couldn't see me through his delusions anymore. It was starting.

I smiled down at him anyway, brilliant with confidence I didn't feel. This V-who-was-not-quite-V, this man who didn't want me to worry even though he was crippled with pain. My throat tightened. 'To die for,' I said as cheerfully as I could.

He rumbled a tired laugh. 'Eve of Eden,' he said. Then, so faintly- 'Thank you.' His mantra since he got sick.

It was a sudden ache, butterfly longing rising behind my ribs, catching me off-guard. I wanted to hold him close, to bury my head in the crook of his neck, between the long bleached scar across his collarbone and the broad edge of his shoulder, to bury myself in the desperate rhythm of his heartbeats, his body promise that it's alright, it'll be alright, he's still here. Not gone, not yet.

Instead I gave his hand a squeeze, throat constricting again. 'Don't say that.' I took a breath, then plunged on, 'Think of it as an overdue thank you for letting me stay here.'

But V's hand was limp in mine: he was unconscious again. I stared at him for some time, heart still caught in my throat. Head ringing from the dying buzz of adrenaline and clotted emotion. Everything had happened too fast.

I touched his mask lightly, sliding my finger under the curve of its edge. Felt the warmth within. An imitation of intimacy. 'Hold on,' I said softly. The words felt thick and fuzzy on my tongue after all these years. He is nothing like you.

My eyes were blurred, so I wiped them, checked his temperature again and went to get the face-towels.

-

/ letter tbc