Evey placed her hands upon his face.

In the darkness he saw stars, bright flashes of colours as the electricity of her touch coursed through him. She touched him in a way that the previous caresses and kisses had only teased at. His mind briefly revolted at having this beautiful, whole, woman touch the monster. But her gentle fingertips quieted the upheaval. He melted into her touch.

She was shocked. Unlike the intricate burn scars on his hands, there was nothing to indicate even the faintest scarring beneath her fingers, the soft skin smooth beneath her skimming fingers. Her fingers slowed, echoing the confusion of her mind through their very movement.

Through the haze of his pleasure in response to the human contact, he felt her fingers come to a stop.

"V… I-I.. I don't understand" her words were soft and slightly muffled, but he could feel them as she spoke into his chest. He collapsed under the weight of those words. How could he possibly explain the monster? It was so clear. How could she not feel the ugliness?

Her confusion was amplified, as he disentangled himself from her arms. The shaking had started as he pulled away. She could feel him shaking through the darkness, as he backed away from the bed. She could hear him collapse into a heap. She heard him gasping for air.

She slowly approached, crouching down to get closer to his small shaking frame. As she approach he tensed, going completely still, utterly silent. She paused feeling a spark of the intensity that had been there before, he reached out grasping her arms in desperation he had to make her se;e "What was done to me was monstrous, thus they created a monster." He could see her through the darkness his superhuman night vision showing him her surprise at being grabbed, melt into dismay at his words. He released her arms, seeing the sadness in her face.

His words made no sense to her, he had been vengeful. But he was not monstrous. His actions had been violent, but also just. Why could he not see that his actions changed the world for the better? Why could he not see he was more than an idea now. She felt him release her arms. She lunged for him, pulling him into her arms.

He stiffened even more if that was possible. But she held fast, cradling him until he relaxed into her embrace. She rocked him, crooning into him.

What was he now that he was no longer simply an idea?

She held him, gently rocking until he stilled. She whispered "V, let's get some sleep." Carefully she disentangled herself, standing slowly, she reached for him pulling him up. They made their way to the bed.

As he drifted off cradled in her arms, thoughts spun through his head. She made him believe that maybe just maybe he deserved more than the end of the tunnel. With the second chance he had been granted, he wanted to try to live.

He woke the next morning, the bed next to him empty, but she had not reconfigured the lights and his mask was still beside the bed. He reconnected the lights, making his way to the bathroom, he needed to think on this.

She had been so very tempted that morning to simply reconnect the lights, she snorted, as if disconnecting the lights could have stopped her. Amateurish V. She mused to herself as she ran through the routine she had created for her morning exercise. But she had stopped herself. Out of respect to the man she adored. Was it more than adore? It had only been a week, but she was beginning to realize what she felt. She had believed in the idea he had represented, admired it, but they were beyond that. She had become that idea in his absence, she certainly felt more self-assured, but there was something more in him. He taught her how to live free from fear, but he also made her laugh. She had cried on his behalf. She took comfort in his presence. He made her feel. He had begun to open up to her but every time was like an ebb and flow, with him still recoiling when too much emotion passed between them. She felt hurt that he would feel the need to hide anything from her at this point. She could recognize something in him that he had erased from her so many ages ago: Fear.

He showered, musing at his confusion. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck… Or had been back on that train again. Why was this so difficult? He had decided he wanted to live for this woman. Why could he not open up to her? She had been there, she had respected him beyond being an idea that sparked a revolution. She had donned the mantle of that idea, an idea that no longer needed a singular figurehead, it had become ingrained into the very fabric of society. He continued to think on this. This woman who made him want to share everything about himself, whom he'd shared the deepest ideas with, but no details. She still didn't know who he was, how many brothers or sisters he had, where he came from. He wasn't sure of these details anymore himself. The addition of her physical presence was even more confusing. One he found himself afraid of. Fear. He laughed to himself, darkly. He was afraid again. He stepped out of the shower, resolve and a plan in his heart.

"Evey. I'm leaving." Silence, as she occupied herself with some food on the counter. "Did you hear me? I can't stay here." He mirrored the words she had said to him. "I know, well you won't find any more locked doors here." He chuckled, at her interpretation of the situation, at her use of his words right back at him.

This wasn't forever. But he needed to leave the Shadow Gallery, he wanted a life with this woman. In order to do that, they needed space from the very idea they had embodied. He had packed a bag, it was time for him to go. Time for him to prepare a place.

She was unsurprised, he was running. She was angry, sad, betrayed, finally numb. But she had known what was coming when she saw him approach her in the kitchen with a large bag over his shoulder. She knew he was afraid again. She had to ask, "Do you know where you'll go?"

V spoke, "Yes. May I show you something before I go?" she nodded, he surprised her, by taking her hand in his ungloved hands. He dragged her to the library where he had pulled a file. She was agape "This is real? It's beautiful." Old pictures of the countryside spilled out and a map sat on top with a circle in red ink, the folder had obviously been there a long time.

"I just need time, Evey… And you need a little time here to wrap up your business. I am not needed here… I am a distraction from the beginning of the rest of our lives." With those words he pulled her into his arms.

She could feel his arm rise, then she felt his lips in her hair, pressing small kisses into her hair. She closed her eyes, basking in the words and feelings obviously reciprocated. The numbness melting away, a melancholy taking its place. But he was correct. The world did not need her to don the mask any more, she had seen it begin to heal, she had reaped the rewards of her efforts. She had seen it in markets where she had seen people living and smiling. She had been clinging to it, it was the last vestiges of V.

She had him back. Nevertheless, she had loose ends to wrap up. She sighed.

He lifted her chin gently. Her eyes were still shut. He could see trace of water where tears were beginning to form beneath her eyelids. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, he couldn't tell if it was force of habit or she was trying to stop the tears. He leaned in, kissing where the tears would be. Her eyes remained shut.

She would not let him see her cry, she could feel the tears retreating with his gentle ministrations. He began to speak again, "I know I already used my one wish, but if I could have another?" She leaned in brushing her lips across his cheek a breathless whisper of "Yes?" caressing where her lips had been.

He pulled back, gently directing her face. She tentatively opened her eyes, gazing at his unmasked face for the first time. He looked deeply into her eyes, "It would be to see you again."

Epilogue:

A figure crested a hill in the English countryside, looking travel weary as she heaved her pack a little higher onto her back. From where she stood, the rolling hills and countryside stretched beyond her, promise permeating the air.

She had completed her final broadcast. She had concluded by reminding the people and the newly established parliament that she was an idea, an idea that was within them all. She had also slipped an anonymous tip to the new heads of the British Museum and newly reopened Tate Modern about the cache in the Shadow Gallery. She was finished. She was ready to rest.

Not far from where she stood was reportedly a country house.

One of the many left deserted following the St. Mary's Virus.

One of the few that had withstood the rise and fall of Norsefire.

It was waiting for her.

She could see him in the golden light, through the billows of linens drying on the lines. The smell of roses gently on the air, from freshly planted boxes. She approached this man. His appearance was vulnerable and unsure. But as she saw the smile stretch across his unmasked face, she knew she was home.