French, means: “It goes without saying”
Summary: V survives the shooting and the story continues.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing from V for Vendetta is mine. This is just for fun.
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Chapter 11
Whatever Evey was expecting V to do in response to her admission of love, sliding down the wall and landing in a heap was not among them.
“V?” She bent down beside him and it was then that she noticed the sheen on the bottom of his jacket. Gingerly she touched it and withdrew red fingers. “Oh God. Why does everything have to be so damned dramatic with you?”
She checked his pulse. It was still fast but not as strong as she thought it normally was. His breathing was also faster and more shallow than normal. She had assumed it was fear but it was blood loss. Someday she would learn to stop making assumptions about V. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “V. V, wake up.”
“Hmm?”
“Can you get to your feet? I need to get you back to bed.” She tried to lift him but it was no use. He made no effort to help her.
He made a noise but no effort to move followed it. When she said his name again, he didn’t respond.
“Damn.” She cursed, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. No. Later. She could fall apart later.
She took a second to consider the options. What she needed to do was obvious. It was the order in which to do them that was in question. She must bind his wounds and stop the bleeding and she needed to return him to his bed. As she wasn’t sure how to get him to his bed, she opted to deal with the wounds first.
At least she knew where the supplies were this time. Rushing to his bedroom she gathered everything she thought she would need.
Once back by his side and satisfied that he was not dead yet, she took a second to work up the courage required to violate his fervently guarded privacy.
She undid 14 buttons on his vest before her impatience got the better of her and she ripped off the rest exposing the dark grey poet shirt he sometimes wore. The lower right side was bloody. Carefully she pulled the shirt up and out exposing a swath of bandaging gone red.
Taking a deep breath Evey picked up the scissors and cut the bandaging away from the wound.
Oh God, V. His skin was scarred and also horribly bruised. The hole from which blood oozed was far to his side and she took comfort in the knowledge that in the movies people who were shot there always lived.
Carefully she pushed him over trying to see if there was an exit wound on his back. There wasn’t, but the burns continued around, embracing his trunk in their spindly netting.
Unlike the bandage she had just cut away, she would be unable to wrap around him so instead she packed the wound and used surgical tape to fix it in place.
Satisfied, she quickly checked over his chest looking for any other bandages and found one on his right shoulder and four more on his arms but none were bleeding. She pulled his shirt back down restoring his privacy.
She stood looking down at him trying to figure out how to get him to his bed when she noticed the shiny and wet patch on his left thigh.
She dipped fingers in the moisture hoping that it was the more humiliating of the two possible options. It wasn’t. Her fingers came back red.
He will hate me forever for this, she thought as she started to undo the fly of his trousers. As with all things a person knows they should not do, it was not easy to get his pants down. Unimpressed by the obvious sign that she was doing she would later regret, Evey pulled out the scissors and cut down the leg of his pants to his boot. She tugged that off and finished cutting.
The bandage wrapped around his leg was beneath a pair of gaudy under shorts that reminded her very much of his hideous taste in aprons. V, you never cease to surprise do you, you silly man, she thought smiling to herself. Someday I will tease you mercilessly for these.
She cut the brightly colored fabric away finally exposing her quarry. This wound was uglier than the one at his side and bleeding with more gusto but the skin around it was not quite as scarred as that of his abdomen. She packed and wrapped the wound surprised at how clinically detached she felt.
When finally she was done and left to observe her work she was horrified to discover that her eyes were drawn to areas she should not be looking at. It was with a terrible, sinking self loathing that she acknowledged her joy at finding an important part of him essentially undamaged by fire. Those were 2nd degree burns which were the most painful of the three types but didn’t cause nearly much scarring or nerve damage.
Evey felt acutely ashamed of herself for the next several thoughts that traversed her imagination.
V, a man who had elevated secrecy to an art form, lay exposed before her. She had taken liberty with his privacy and even though her purpose was just (all but the last bit), he would be mortified. And angry.
What choice had there been? It had come down to his life or his modesty and for her that decision had been an obvious one. But she knew he would rather die than have her see him like this, to have her see him at all especially after the events directly preceding.
No. She was not going to travel that road until she had to. Instead she was going to get him to his bed and put him in it somehow.
She reached for his arms and began to pull them over his head until he hissed in a breath and cringed. For a moment she feared he had regained consciousness but when she released the pressure on his shoulders he quieted. She had to think of some other way.
The idea came in a flash. She grabbed the blanket she’d left by the door and worked it under him. She was then able to drag him back to his room. Getting him into his bed was more of a challenge but she managed it.
Once she had him tucked in all she could think was that he was going to hate her. There was no way he would forgive her for what she had done. When he woke she was convinced he would be upset in the extreme.
Unsure what to do next, but certain that she could not leave him alone, Evey climbed into his bed beside him, got as close to him as she could and held his hand.
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