Suitable for young readers. It's fairly revolting but don't expect anything steamy (Jamie no)
V for Vendetta fanfic. During storyline, in the leadup to the final fifth of November. Evey x V scene :/
Suitable for young audiences (unlike *cough cough Jamie's*)
Author's Note: I despise the V x Evey ship. The age difference is horrifying, they have about as much chemistry as carrot and blobfish would, and the power imbalance is significant, to say the least.
With this in mind, a friend has requested for me to write this, seeing as she finds V deeply attractive. We've agreed to disagree.
I don't have any braincells left, so I'm hoping the gods will forgive me for creating this. Happy reading, folks.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Evey has promised to visit V one last time before the events of the 5th will dramatically alter the course of the future of England. Disaster and destruction loom on the horizon, and both understand that this is a pivotal point; there will be no return to the hidden comfort of the Shadow Gallery, no more safety in their cautious anonymity.
It is but a week til the 5th, and the promise of violence clings to the suffocating air. V is restless, as is Evey, but they are both oblivious, still in the dark.
A bell toll, the occasional rustle of leaves swaying to the rhythm of the wind. Then, only silence. Across London, curtains are drawn, families slumber sound asleep. Tendrils of winter have begun to curl through the city, chapping lips and making breaths form a milky fog in the frigid air.
The only movement in the murky dark is that of a black clad figure, perched on a rooftop. The tiles are slick with condensation and rickety, though he seems to belong to the shadows, the shifting folds of his coat nearly indistinguishable. Only the porcelain of his mask is clearly visible, shining white and pale in the gloom.
The man surveys the skyline, jagged and insistently pushing up against the heavy veil of midnight. His thoughts are impossible to discern, yet that they are contemplative is obvious enough. Eventually, he rises to his feet and stares down the descent laid in front of him. With startling ease, he lightly runs down the tiles, before launching into the air-
For a moment, he hangs suspended, like a gloriously overgrown chicken. His cape ripples out behind him, snagged by the wind, before he drops down to another rooftop. This curious process repeats. The ground grows nearer, though he displays no fear. He risks being sighted by a Finger, but continues leaping, welcoming the pull of gravity at a rapid pace.
In a time before, when the streets would still have been filled with raucous foot traffic, and stumbling drunkards, someone might've seen him and remarked aloud, "That fellow's clearly lost it. Girl problems, eh?" (Though it is important to note that they would've had to have been considerably drunk to not question someone propelling themselves off rooftops).
