Anyhoo, I'm going to stop with v4v fic for a long time now because I never felt I /got it/ and worse, I've gotten repetitive. So so long, farewell, and thanks for all the feedback. :)
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5 things V misses about Evey
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5. Her hair. Tumble-loose coils cascading over her shoulders like dark honey, the pale smooth line of her neck peeking through whenever she bends over his gifts of books, of forbidden fruit. It had smelled faintly of apricots when he'd shaved her clean with the all indifference of a sheep-handler: Evey had clenched at a few stray strands gaspingly and he'd backhanded her for it, a vicious imprint of red on her scalp.
Eight months later, Evey shaves her own head and he does not dare ask.
4. The way she trusted him with her cuts, her domestic wounds. Now she is more pragmatic, diamond-glitter of fatalism in her eyes—she still lets him smear ointments on the bruises patterning her back and her apathy is to the point of aggression, but it is in the way she holds her breath at his touch: it betrays them both.
3. (Can't forget: her laughter)
2. V had not realized how empty the Gallery thoroughly was—is, has been, will be— before Evey left, and is it impossible how something so small and conscientious can infuse every room with her presence. Even after two months (and one week, four days, nineteen hours, forty-seven minutes), he still finds traces in the most indiscriminate of places, like a series of faded dog-ears in a forgotten novel: a ripped pink button, the fingerprint smudging on the doorframe, a strand of hazel-smooth hair under the jukebox—their story in all its banal and fragile glory. Evey is everywhere in the same way air is everywhere to the drowning straggler: not enough, not where it truly matters.
(the button, the strand: carefully wrapped, in a box under her bed)
1. It is better like this, of course, for her—for them both, but even so… sometimes—
The way Evey used to look at him, before.
