Disclaimer: If V were mine, I would not be writing this story. I would be living OUT the stories, with a lot less death and a lot more wild nakedness. Since I am writing this story, V is not mine. Nor is Evey, who I would have to lock outside the room anyway. Please don't sue me. I have a very bad cold, and lack a V to make me tea. That rhymed. Haha. And Alan Moore owns one V, and the Wachowski Brothers own another. SO WHY CAN'T I HAVE SEX-ADDICT!V?! HUH?! Sorry. I am very tired. Anyway, no suing of the Lauren.

"Ideas pull the trigger, but instinct loads the gun."

- Don Marquis

In her few weeks in the Shadow Gallery, Evey had come to recognize V's moods. Not necessarily understand them, (who could understand HIM?) but she could guess. She knew that when he walked with a long, lazy stride, he was in a good mood. When he hummed or sang softly to himself, he would be particularly happy. These were the days she did not fear him; he seemed less like a killer terrorist and more like an eccentric librarian.

On these days, Evey found herself enjoying his company. If she wasn't careful, she found herself forgetting he was her captor. He would race around the Shadow Gallery, giving her piles of books to read, chattering away with an enthusiasm that broke her heart. (how long has it been since he talked to anyone he wasn't threatening or killing?). He would cook elaborate meals and watch her eat them eagerly. She actually missed him when he was gone. (this is not normal. when other girls are kidnapped by masked terrorists and held in their underground lairs, they hate their captor. at least, they should. should i?)

Then there were the bad days. She knew of the bad days before she even saw him. She would trudge sleepily into the kitchen, and find her food waiting for her. Delicious as always, but V was not present to watch her eat. She knew this was a bad day as soon as she saw her scrambled egg, but no masked man bustling about the kitchen in one of his inexplicable aprons. Evey sighed, and began to eat.

She found V obsessively arranging a huge wall of books. His body was tense, his stance aggressive. He was not humming. The whole Gallery was unnervingly silent. He paused when she walked in, then without a word continued moving the books around with an intensity that was alarming.

Evey was stuck. She could go get a book from another room, but the one she wanted was in here. At the same time, she in no way wanted to attract V's attention. Deciding to wait until he had finished (at the rate he's going, he'll have organized the entire library in less than an hour), she headed for the telly.

There was nothing on. Evey didn't want to watch a movie, or the news. She wanted V to stop pacing around like a caged lion. She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted any sign that his mood would improve. She heard the pound of his boots on the floor as he stomped from one room to the next. Evey sighed. (apparently his mood will not be lightening any time soon)

She channel-surfed aimlessly. V kept walking through the room, as if on a mission, when in fact he seemed to merely be moving things around. Pictures were rearranged. Books reorganized. The piano cleaned. Then, out of the blue, he snapped at her.

'Is it necessary to change the channel every few seconds, Evey?' (he sounds annoyed) Rather than answer, she simply placed the remote beside her. Whatever was on would have to suffice. Evey heard him let out one of his noises (definitely annoyed. what have i done?) and walked out. (this is not about me. he is embarrassed. he dislikes me seeing him this way.)

The channel she had stopped on turned out to be fairly interesting. It was a 'documentary' on America after the second Civil War had broken out. Evey knew by now that most of it was lies, but she enjoyed seeing how the truth had been altered.

V did not appear to notice (keep busy keep busy) her choice of viewing material for quite a while. He passed through the room half a dozen times before he stopped behind her. Evey had her legs tucked under her, and was focused intently on the 'eye-witness accounts' of English soldiers who had tried to help save Americans from their war-ravaged land.

'It was a bloody nightmare!' the TV tittered. 'We was almost there, to the shelter, when the whole thing burst into flames! A bloody bomb went off; we tried to save them, of course, but there was no chance.'

The scene cut to a picture of a burning building, with screaming people running out of it. Some of them were on fire. Evey didn't doubt that there had been a bomb. At the same time, she didn't believe for a second that Sutler had been trying to save anybody.

'A sudden explosion? Good thing they just happened to have a camera there,' she chuckled. There was no response. Evey turned around to look at V. His mask was turned to the television. He didn't appear to have heard her. His whole body suddenly trembled violently. 'V?'

Just like that, he bolted from the room. Evey was stunned. (what the bloody hell is going on? do i go after him? do i stay here?) She flipped off the TV quickly. After a moment, she decided it would be best to see where he had gone. (at least so i can keep out of his way. what the hell just happened?)

His hands. (oh fuck. oh FUCK) She had seen them that first morning. But it was hard to think of him as damaged or weak. Crazy? Probably. (maybe. definitely.) But it couldn't be as bad as all that, could it? (he can move and fight and kill. he is stronger and faster and more stealthy than anyone i have ever seen.) she was aware that his hands were burned rather terribly; but it did not occur to her, except in odd moments when she accidentally touched him and encountered only leather or silk. (he probably thought i was mocking him.) she began to look for him in earnest. (oh, FUCK.)

On other days, such an experience wouldn't have bothered V at all. He had seen worse (in person i was there for worse) and done worse himself. But he had had another dream last night; when he woke up, he was almost always in a foul mood.

The dreams were always different, but always the same. She was always there. Sometimes in the lift, sometimes on the couch, the roof. Usually his room. And when he woke up alone, it seemed to determine he would be sullen for at least the morning. As if that wasn't enough, he had been unable to find his copy of i Hearts Of Darkness /i . This had spurred his organizing. Then he had nearly knocked himself out on a figure he had just 'acquired.' So he was redecorating. If he kept his hands busy, his mind on simple and doable tasks, his rage and frustration would usually wear down by early evening. He was already feeling guilty for being so short with Evey.

So to see that program on that day (there are no coincidences just cruel jokes from a god that does not exist) after a particularly vivid dream was unfortunate. He had only stopped to watch with Evey in an attempt to be polite. But the visuals, as graphic as they were (not larkhill was it larkhill i was never in front like that insideinside only no it was day there larkhill burned at night burn burn burn) would not have inspired such a reaction.

It was Evey. Her seeing that, and having no idea. Just a story. She had seen his hands, of course. but she had never mentioned it since, out of manners or fear, he could not know (disgusted). Then her comment. He could have braved it, if it hadn't been for that tone. (pity pity and contempt and derision larkhill fire burning)

V was on the floor, curled up in a black ball, rocking spastically back and forth.

Evey checked his open bedroom. No. The kitchen. Nothing. She stopped after a moment of frantic running. He hadn't left (his cloak and hat are here, his knives.) Tried the door that was always locked, the one that V never seemed to notice. Still locked. (he's in there. where 'there' is, i don't know.) She banged on the door. 'V? Are you all right?'

V was watching himself twice over. One of him was on the floor of a bare cell. The other him was rocking wildly back and forth in a recreation of a bare cell. One his was screaming in pain and fear. The other was tumbling through his own mind. It was, to put it mildly, bizarre.

V was aware that Evey was banging on the door. (go away go away) He was aware that this was not HIS cell (burned it burned it all blew it up burned it down). He knew this logically. But his mind - the broken and twisted bits that he had only managed to classify, not cure - never was especially logical, and at this moment had lost any sort of contact with reality.

Evey sat down by the door, stumped. She could hear him moving around in here. He was in there. She was out here. He could not hurt her or yell at her or frighten her. She might have hurt him, but why should she care? (why DO i care?) She walked back to the library, picked up a book at random, and sat in a chair near the door. (i am worried. i should not be, i should find some joy in his pain. i am his prisoner. but i am still worried.)

V was not V. Not the V Evey knew. He was not, period. Or, he was 'the man in Room Five.' Or, he was 'Five.' Or, he was 'pathetic little shit.' Or, he was 'hold him still, i can't get in.' Mostly, he was waiting to die.

The first time it happened, he fought. Fought with a strength he could not believe he possessed. But there were three guards. And by then, nobody even acknowledged when he screamed.

He didn't tell the doctor. He didn't tell her anything anymore. He didn't know anything. He knew he hadn't wanted that. He knew that his body and mind had rebelled against that. He knew he had lost.

The second time it happened, he fought. And the third. Every time. Every fucking time. No matter how many guards. No matter how they beat him. It was the only point of pride he had. He never stopped fighting them, even though he had already lost.

(i still fight i fight every day and it did not kill me they could not kill me those guards are dead dead dead i am the devil and i come to do the devil's work i am not dead i lived my last inch last inch)

(they didn't take my last inch i am here i have survived everything and i still fight and soon i will rest and all this will die with me)

V stilled. He was not in his cell. He was in a reconstruction of a cell. He had built this. He had made these choices. He had chosen to fight. They had chosen to hurt him. He had chosen how they would die. For every action.

He had a rather bad headache, and was stiff from having been curled up so tightly. He stretched slowly, and stood. Cracked his neck. But he was fine. He had contained the pain. The pain had a purpose. It did not control him or define him. After making sure his mask and wig were in place, V walked out of the cell.

Evey had fallen asleep some time ago; the book lay forgotten by her hand. V looked at her as he carefully locked the door behind him, then picked up the book and placed it back on the shelf.

Evey woke up to find V at the books again. (oh shit, are we back to that?) She spoke hesitantly.

'V?' He spun around, clasping his hands before him.

"Hello, Evey. Have a good rest?' He sounded... fine. He sounded like V. Evey wondered briefly if she hadn't dreamt the whole thing. She knew she hadn't. But it was a lovely ideas.

'Yes, thank you. Are you all right?' V chuckled softly under the mask, and Evey felt a flash of annoyance.

'Oh, yes, I'm perfectly fine.' Then, before she could point out that less than an hour ago he had been pretty much the opposite of fine, he was moving to the kitchen. 'Are you hungry, my dear? I find myself quite famished! I daresay we missed supper.'

Evey watched him disappear into the kitchen, her mouth agape. It was like there were two Vs: Angry V and Happy V. (happy v just killed angry v and is now cooking me dinner. angry v had yelled at me and brain-snapped. happy v is just as dangerous. maybe more. i cannot read happy v.)

Evey walked into the kitchen slowly. V was humming merrily in that damned apron, slicing vegetables for a stew. (he's crazy)

(i need to get out of here)