002

[witticaster]

Title: Questions
Rating: G
Authors Note: V and Evey play a game to which only V knows the rules inside and out. Shamelessly borrowing from my second-favourite play of all time, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.


Evey Hammond left her bedroom with some hesitation that morning. Walking past the multitudes of paintings and statues that lined the walls of the Shadow Gallery had begun to feel somewhat normal in the week that she had resided in the place, but that had all changed the night before. The vaguely African looking busts glared at her, Guy Fawkes' statue brandished his weapon threateningly in her direction, and the butterflies in their frames just shimmered poisonously.

The Gallery hadn't felt entirely welcoming in the first place, but this morning, it seemed especially uninterested in seeing her continued presence belowground.

She padded past the artifacts with her head held high, chiding herself for imagining they were angry with her, and paused at the threshold of the kitchen. V stood with his back to her, fiddling over something at the stove and looking as neatly put-together as she'd ever seen him--a far cry from her rumpled pajamas and unbrushed hair. Since arriving, she hadn't bothered to shower and dress before breakfast; if she waited until after she'd eaten, she could pretend she wasn't so much caged in V's home as vacationing there for the time being.

He did not turn around, but he did greet her in a neutral tone. "Good morning, Evey."

She made a noncommittal noise and headed to the table; it was still rather unnerving, how he always heard her movements, no matter how quietly she tried to fade into the background of the Gallery. As she walked over, he shifted his weight, continuing to effectively block her vision of whatever was in the frying pan.

V said nothing more for the moment; it seemed he wasn't going to bring up the...incident of the previous night. Fine--neither would she. "What's for breakfast?"

"What would you like for breakfast?" He tilted his head slightly to one side and reached for a plate. Evey could smell butter and cooked egg, and bread.

"Whatever you've made will be fine, I'm sure."

"Statement!" he suddenly declared, spinning around to face her as quickly as if he was about to parry an enemy sword--but instead, he held out a plate to her. As she took it, marveling silently over the luxury of eggy bread, he added, "One--love."

"What?" Evey frowned at him. That had certainly come out of nowhere. She’d supposed he would be angry with her--no, not angry, furious.

But he was still posed as though he planned to shout "En guarde!" at any moment and really, he looked far more silly than intimidating without a foil in hand.

"What do you mean, what?" he asked, standing up straight again to remove that garishly floral apron of his.

"What're you talking about?"

"Why do you ask?" Still standing at the other end of the table, hands clasped in front of him, the mask offering no information as to what was going on behind it.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," she answered around a mouthful of bread.

"Statement! Two--love." He shook his head.

She was quite certain now that he was playing with her, but what the rules to his game were, Evey wasn't entirely sure. "Are you going to explain this?"

"What would you like me to explain?"

"What are we playing?"

"Don't you know?"

An emphatic "No!" almost came out of her mouth; she stopped just in time. The last thing she wanted was to hear him call out "Statement!" again. "Should I?"

"Your mother never taught you this one?" The mask tilted down slightly.

Dozens of statements she could answer with came to mind, but not a single question made itself available for her use. "Uh..."

A gloved finger shot out in her direction, pointing accusingly. The voice that accompanied it was rather more gleeful than she thought was necessary. "Foul! No grunts. Three--love, and first game, Evey."

Her food was growing a bit cold, and she took the game's apparent end as an opportunity to take another big bite. Why V was suddenly in such a playful mood--she'd never before seen him act quite so exuberant as this--she wasn't sure, and it had her feeling rather bemused.

He hadn't seemed to notice that the game was essentially over--he'd declared himself victor, after all--and spoke again. "What were you doing last night?"

Another forkful of bread halted suddenly on its journey from the plate to her open mouth; she looked up at him, chewing at her lower lip. "What? Why do you ask?"

"Did you not find your note cryptic on rereading?" His voice was almost fatherly as he pulled out the other chair and seated himself.

"Should I have?" Not for the first time, Evey began to feel her confidence slipping in his presence; what was he trying to get from this?

"Was I supposed to understand what 'I'm really sorry, V' meant?" His speech was rapid-fire--almost as though he thought she might interrupt him, she thought.

"Isn't the meaning clear?" She ran a hand through her thick hair, a nervous habit she'd never managed to leave behind in childhood.

"What did you mean?" The mask tilted again toward her, awaiting her answer.

A deep, stilted breath, and she forced the words out. "Didn't you see the candlestick?" He'd had to--she'd left the note right next to it.

She'd left the candelabrum in four pieces (not counting the candles themselves) on top of the fabric draped over the piano. How it had fallen apart, Evey still wasn't sure--she'd simply been plinking around when suddenly three of its arms had fallen off and hit the instrument. In a panic, she'd jumped up from the bench and looked the wood over for a scratch or a nick...and found several.

Not only had she somehow managed to break the candlestick, she'd scratched up the piano's lovely veneer at the same time. V's piano--V's beloved piano. In seven days, she'd seen how he cared for it, had heard him coax strains of melodies she didn't recognize from its keys.

She went to bed that night terrified of what the consequences of that mistake might be.

He spoke again, as comfortingly as he had before, and she was brought back to the present and to the growing knot in her stomach. "Didn't I tell you about the candlestick?"

"What? ...No." Her brow was knitted

V made a little sound in the back of his throat--what exactly it was supposed to mean, she wasn't sure--and after a moment, he leaned forward and added, "Repetition and statement, Evey. We'll count that as love--two."

She sighed, a hesitant little smile playing at her lips. "So you're not angry?"

"Do I sound angry?" He was amused, but there was something of a finality in his tone. Whatever there was to be recounted about that damned candlestick wasn't going to be told that morning, Evey suspected.

She decided to give it a try anyway. "Aren't you going to tell me whatever there is to tell about the candlestick now?"

"Isn't your breakfast growing cold?" V stood, clearly ready to be off to do whatever he had planned for the day.

"Oh--yeah," she said, glancing down at the half-slice of bread left on her plate.

"Statement, Evey," he reminded her as he swept out of the room. As he headed away, she could hear him say, "Love--three. I think we'll call that game and match."

--

Evey Hammond awoke the next morning to find a book nestled on the pillow next to her. Groggily, she reached for the slim volume, sat up, and peered at it in the light that spilled in through the ajar door.

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern...?" she wondered aloud. The names were as familiar as the rest of her childhood, but this particular book definitely was not. As she thumbed through it, a piece of notepaper fell out from between pages forty-two and forty-three.

The carefully written words stared up at her from the blanket covering her lap. Once you've studied, would you care to play again?