Based on word: Impeccable. Thank you, Google Word-of-the-Day feature.
Thanks for all feedback, as always.
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The problem is his mask, Evey realizes drowsily after her second –third?- shot. It is just too… she ponders it slowly, unrolling the thought with the impeccable determination of the consciously drugged- just too real, she decides finally. That's it. Who would believe he didn't look exactly like that underneath it?
'You,' she slurs to an amused V, finger pointing accusingly to somewhere to his left. He obligingly moves himself to the targeted spot; Evey ignores this regally.
'You,' she says again, then pauses. What was it? Oh- 'You're too real. Take- it- off--'
He catches her before she hits the floor, a scramble of surprised oomphs collapsing in a tangle of limbs and body heat. For some reason, she finds this incredibly hilarious, but even with her giggles and stubbornly unco-operative body, he still manages to safely land her on the floor in a decently comfortable position.
'-failin…surprise, Evey,' someone is saying through her pleasant contentment of her daydreaming. Then, louder and more wryly: 'Blessed are the medicated indeed, for they are truly free.'
She tries to focus her eyes on the source-where is he?- for there is sudden warmth infusing her body and she is feeling generously, compulsively affectionate of him. Sweet, mad V with his quotes and words and murders. He'll be the saviour of them all, she thinks dreamily. Of all unsung, unwanted heroes—
But wait- there is a sudden stillness beside her; the blur of dark movements and humming has stopped. Then there it is, that mask over her, V: he is tilting her chin up gently and he is, she realizes belatedly, he is tense. He is tense and he is… he is sad. And he is so very close to her… so very… damn her head…
'What makes a murderer?' he is saying now, but she can barely concentrate; it is so warm and sleepy, this fog, and she had to struggle through its heavy greyness to think… '-hardly heroi-'…and yet, he is still so very real above her and he is still hiding behind words, and she has hurt him yet again- 'I dare do all that may--'
--it is not a kiss, exactly, more of a pressing of her forehead against his mask. It is surprisingly cool and smooth under the fevered heat of her skin, and she instinctively presses him towards her with one stray hand entangled in his hair. For one long, stunned moment they are sharing the same breath before he jerks back, violent and gasping as if she had stabbed him. In reflex, she thinks, dimly triumphant… for she could have sworn—she saw—glimpse of ash eyes… incredulous, darkening with…
'Des're,' Evey slurs, smiling. And is unconscious.
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Later, when she awakes with tousled hair and an irritable greeting, V is careful in asking certain questions while she wolfs down fried bread with her fingers.
She is licking her palm in quick, greedy flicks when she answers absently, and so it will forever be the tangible taste of oil and butter in the air that V will associate with this moment: not the realization that she had made him become more than an idea or even the acrid taste of disappointment, but the entire implausibility that he had been expecting it.