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(call me crazy)

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My hangovers had a habit of lingering. One glass of wine could last a day of mild headache. A third of a bottle stretched it out for a week, a distant humming in the temple and a sensitivity to light as persistent as longing.

V was right: I always did have a weak constitution.

As always, it left me drained in the day and restless at night. Enough that sleep had previously eluded me like memory dancing out of reach – nearly a fortnight now, and I'd yet to surpass more than a handful of sleep each night. I told myself it was the hangover, the stresses of the day. The strain of always keeping an eye over my shoulder, ever ready for that opportunist sniper. As far as I could tell, most parties were in favour of me keeping certain advantages—such as breathing—but the situation with crime and politics was always… fluid. I didn't mind, not really. It spiced up my days with a certain tinge of guilty excitement and kept me from becoming complacent. Dominic would be horrified.

The day was unusually warm. A loose shirt, shorts and a self-granted day-off from work. Not that Stevenson would ever know, anyway; I rarely stepped into the office except to pick up whatever was traveling on the grapevine and drop off articles. I resigned myself to another insistence on a raise tomorrow – sudden absences always made Stevenson nervous.

I felt sticky even though the air from the open window was light after the afternoon shower. Skin already feeling like it was congealing on the soft couch leather; my exhaustion so pure that I couldn't move, couldn't sleep. My face was buried in the crook of my elbow, and I was curled up facing the couch backing… just dreaming, of sea sky and park leaves… fire like roses streaking the night… bone masks and… wine…

The couch dipped. Just a slight depression of pressure, in the space where my knees drew close to the couch backing. My blood sang; I did not open my eyes.

"You're sending me mixed messages, Evey," V murmured. Outside, the afternoon hummed on, all distant voices and ordinary lives. I had that, once. Ordinary life.

Something light brushed against the small of my back, inciting shivers. My shirt had hitched up to my ribs, evidence of my previous tossing. V continued tracing my spine, following the undulations up to the small of my back as if counting them.

"You don't drink the wine, yet you call to me," he said. "You refuse sleep for the dreams, yet you think of me even in day."

His fingers reached the hem of my shirt; his gloved knuckles brushed against my skin as he twisted it loosely in his fingers. More careful pressure on the curve of my waist: V's other hand resting on skin.

"You have to decide what you want, Evey," he rebuked. "This isn't healthy for either of us."

My laughter was a soft hiccupping thing. "Healthy? I would've thought health would be the least of your worries. And I can't think—there's nothing to decide! Nothing…"

I kept my eyes firmly shut, partly from exhaustion, partly from light-headed terror. I could imagine him well enough: a figure cutting black in an drab room, like the only solid thing in a transient world. Or maybe nothing at all; maybe only air, only desperate spaces and the emptiness of a grasping grief. If I didn't see, either could still be true.

"Take Courage! Whatever you decide to do, it will probably be the wrong thing."

"What?"

"A quote," V sighed. "I used to be better at this."

His hand on my waist inched down to cup my hipbone hungrily, and for a moment my heart leapt and I could barely breathe for the longing, the terrible hope. His touch was steady, as certain as Dominic's kiss: I had no illusions of what he wanted. And I wanted--

My shirt was pulled over my stomach with one quick tug. I was suddenly aware of the lack of contact between us.

"Take care on your dressing when you call, milady," he said, his voice coming from above my head. "I have not the willpower I once had."

I opened my eyes to the soft dimness of my own flesh. "I didn't call you," I said, wondering and inanely hurt. He was just my hallucination, after all... But how could he not hear my heart in my voice? That sadistic bastard, he always was, always…

"I'm sober."

"Yes," V agreed.

"And it's afternoon," I continued, as if each point was an accusation in fact. I reasoned, without conviction:

"This isn't happening. You're not here. I'm dreaming again. I watched you die. No – I watched you let yourself die."

"Thank you for sending me off," he said, gracious as you please. I glared at the pinkish darkness in the crook of my elbow, ignoring the wet heat stinging my eyes. For a moment, I imagined the shadows were cast from V; that he really was standing over me, breathing and real and so alive that he was worth the tears.

"I'm going mad," I said unhappily. My head buzzed with grey noise; I badly needed to sleep.

The shadows deepened as V leaned closer. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked, and his baritone had a precise, rich beauty to it as if he suddenly remembered how he used to speak.

The warning in his tone alerted me. "No!" I jerked, fear momentarily eating heavy exhaustion away. Panic thickened the heavy fog in my head, made it hard to think. Don't go, don't go, not again—

"It's just… I… You can't…" I trailed off. Evidence of my body treachery: sleepless for days, and now V is here and weariness is thickening my tongue, luring me oblivion. There should be no relief to be found to have a dead man by your side, but god help me, there was. I was afraid of what it meant.

"If I look up, will you be there?"

I had whispered it too quietly for him to catch. V made a sound that could've been either relief or frustration at my silence, and then he was pulling my gathered curls to my nape, gently tucking the stray strands behind my ear.

His breath was warm on my cheek. "One glass would not last a hangover this long, Evey," he murmured. It was the closest to an invitation he'd said yet.

He continued, voice a warm anchor through the haze, so lovely…"Though I must say I didn't expect just a third of a bottle to hit you so badly. I suppose we'll have to find some other way."

No... neither did I. And yet, yet… here you are... here-- Wait. Wait.

My thoughts stilled. Turned sluggishly against themselves, seeking something diamond-sharp glinting in the fog. A third of the bottle...

My eyes snapped open. The couch leather protested as I raised myself on one elbow, head dizzy from the sudden change in equilibrium. There was nothing there but dust mites hanging lazily in marble lighting; an empty room, empty words. I ignored the drop in my stomach and staggered off to the kitchen, heart in hand.

In the cupboard, a bottle on the shelf: Chardonnay, half-empty. But he was right. I had only drank a third.

Ashleigh Brilliant, 'Take Courage! ... wrong thing'
A/N: Really, really, really should not be writing. Oh god. But anyway, I really appreciate all your feedback! Big thanks, and please do drop a note, no matter how short.
... oh god.