Now V knew when he had first loved her. When she had saved him by macing that detective, he had stood over her unconscious body and felt something. Something that was not the rage and burning anger that propelled him forward night and day. He felt confusion, confusion at her actions. For once he didn't know why someone had done something, and what he should do in response. He felt absolutely bewildered, and then felt the tiniest bit of warmth, of admiration for her action. Now he knew that the admiration was the first seed of love.
This last dark night together they were in the Underground, dirt and grime coating everything, the train loaded with its cargo of doom. She seemed to be rising above it all, looking straight into him with her wide eyes, her face clear with inner light. She was shaking, trembling, as she had when he had ripped off her black bag and began his torture months ago. But now she knew who he was, or at least what he was as he knew himself to be. A man with no past makes himself. She looked up at him, looking through the mask, seeing his black eyes, pleading with him. And then, she reached up with her lips and kissed him.
It was amazing. It was real. He could feel himself pressing his lips against the backside of the mask, and feeling a tiny bit of warmth from her lips. How he longed to rip off his mask and kiss her face and feel her, to rip off his gloves and run his fingers through her short hair. He wanted to stare endlessly into her eyes that burned with a fire that he had ignited, to let her see his own eyes burnt black from experiments.
He felt alive, more than he ever had. He could feel the cloak, the gloves, the mask on his face as the shell they were. He could, he would leave them for her. And then everything came back to him and was clear. He was her family, friend, torturer, teacher, and lover. She was the same and more to him. Life began when she began. Twenty years ago, he had begun his mission. Twenty years ago, she was born.
The kiss ended and she was in his arms, warm and alive, gazing up at him with life. As he held her with his gloved hands, he realized how the shell he had made was a part of him. If he didn't go through with it all, then Evey's life, what Evey had become through him, was nothing. He did not tempt fate. He had not when he had met her, and he could not now. He had to do it all. He looked down, ashamed for a moment for succumbing to the temptation of giving up his dream, the idea that was the essence of his existence. "I can't." He whispered, a plea to himself more than to her. He fled off into the tunnel, toward his death. For his death would let her, and the rest of the world, live free.