Disclaimer: The characters of V and Evey are the property of Alan Moore and any other people who have thus far managed to get their grubby paws legally onto them. However,I occasionally abduct them, heavily sedate them, and make them dance to my tune.
Dance, puppets, dance!
Author's Note: This is movieverse. Although I dearly love the graphic novel, the movie provided a better premise for a humour fic. Also, please bear with the occasional irregular spacing - this is NOT my fault, and it is driving me up the bloody wall. I edit, dammit!
She couldn't believe it.
I mean, she thought savagely, it's not like the past week hasn't been aggravating enough. The Party wants my head, I'm being held prisoner by a masked, bewigged terrorist, and I'm going stir-crazy in his Batcave.
To say nothing of the man himself...
Talk about aggravation. V was a master of the art of frustrating and fascinating, intriguing and infuriating by turns, and Evey had borne the brunt of this for upwards of eight days.
Up to this particular point, he had been surprisingly thorough in providing her with the necessities and amenities essential to any woman's household comfort.
His knowledge in this field juxtaposed with his apparent gender was, quite frankly, bizarre. Soaps, creams and razor; housecoat, pajamas and hairbrush - even a straightening iron had mysteriously appeared on the bathroom counter. (Was V's wig unruly in the morning?)
But the last hour's increasingly desperate forays had yielded only one possible conclusion, and now she had discovered the fatal omission:
There was not a single tampon to be had in the entirety of the Shadow Gallery.
Having thoroughly ransacked V's bathroom, Evey sat amidst the scattered contents of the medicine cabinet and fumed quietly.
You idiot, she thought scathingly. Why are you surprised that he doesn't stock up on feminine products? He's a... a man, for Chrissakes!
The admission shocked her a little. Until now it had been hard to believe that beneath that smiling mustachioed façade lay a man, and a bachelor at that. In this respect at least, V was no different from any other man she had ever laughed over with a female colleague.
Evey ground her teeth. Why did he have to turn out to be human now?
When V returned to the Shadow Gallery, carrying packages wrapped in oil cloth and trailing mud from his cloak and boots, Evey pounced on him at the door.
"V, you've got to let me go aboveground."
The masked man doffed his dripping hat and dropped his parcels, his voice mildly remonstrating. "Evey, I really did think we had come to some sort of understanding on the subject. I'm afraid the answer isn't going to change. In any case, it's miserable out there. Take my word for it; you're far better off down here with a book and something hot to drink."
"No. No, I'm not."
In the midst of removing his sodden cloak, V took in her strained expression. Guy Fawkes' face tilted towards Evey with quizzical concern.
"Evey? Are you feeling all right? You're not ill, are you?"
She was turning red now. Alarmed, V looked like he was about to dash off to find a thermometer when she blurted, "V, I just need to buy some supplies. Just - just... things..."
He looked down at her. There was mixed exasperation and amusement in his voice. "Evey, should you ever want for anything short of the Midas touch, I assure you that I will do my best to procure it. Now, what would you like?"
She gave a little groan and covered her face.
"DAMMIT, V - I NEED SOME TAMPONS!"
Red as a beet, the girl stared through her fingers as the terrorist froze and dithered internally for a good thirty seconds - yes; V dithered, although he did an admirable job of masking his panic - before bravely jamming his hat back on and bowing low.
"Please forgive this grievous oversight, mademoiselle. I shall remedy it this very instant."
And he swept heroically out the door.
For a long time Evey remained rooted to the spot, red-hot mortification coursing through her, until realization struck her that her request had been singularly vague from any woman's point of view. She hadn't specified the size, the brand...
Her jaw dropped at the mental image of V standing in an aisle, knives at the ready, defenseless in the face of the mind-staggering variety of feminine hygiene products.
Evey wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for him, or to laugh until she cried.
To be continued...
God, the suspense!
Author's Note: In case you guys have noticed, I am NOT British. And as I'm sure most of you know, V and Evey ARE British. So if any of you Brits out there - or evenany really savvy non-Brits - notice any irregularities in the vocab, drop me a line. Please. Be as nasty as you like about it.