Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Warnings: This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of V for Vendetta. It is meant to carry on post movie ending. All that I am aware of canon-wise is the events of the movie, thus this fiction revolves around my own interpretations of the movie (not the graphic novel). It is a Finch-centeric fic, with Finch/Dominic slash. So, in others words, there shall be in some shape or form, man on man happy time. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

Authors Note #1: The title of this fiction is a line taken from the movie, from V's televised speech. I have also used portions of Valerie's letter as a plot device. I don't own it, so kudos where they are due of course. I decided to use the letter in particular not simply because it is a powerful, and indeed tragically beautiful way of passing on a very important lesson, but because I genuinely think it is something that Finch as a character needs to read. In addition, you might recognize (in later chapters) the allusions I make to the possibility of Dominic having gone to the gates of parliament to protest with the rest of London. I based this assumption on the short, few seconds at the end of the movie where all the protesters unmask to watch the fireworks, Dominic is clearly seen in one of those scenes, and whether it was a physical or a metaphorical representation, I chose to allude to the fact throughout this fiction that he was there in both capacities.

Authors Note #2: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first V for Vendetta story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.

Words will Always Retain their Power

In truth he hadn't expected much out of Evey Hammond. Indeed by all rights simply for what he stood for, for what he had done in the name of the government, she had strong cause to do away with him herself. Truth be told, he certainly wouldn't have blamed her if she tried.

..But she didn't.

Instead she took him by the arm and treated him quite cordially, familiarly even..as though they were long lost acquaintances rather then the queer pair that they were. With her being a wanted woman, an anti-government collaborator, and now a terrorist in her own right, and he the very same Police Inspector and party authority that had sought her arrest for over a year..

Ironic how the tables can turn so completely... How a slim chance and a sure victory can suddenly devolve into one willingly partaking in an act of terrorism, and high treason against the state. Or perhaps even more strangely, how he knew he would do it all over again in less then a heartbeat. A fact that he realized, didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have.

Perhaps the madness was catching after all..

However, madness aside, he couldn't help but be at least inwardly surprised when she led him up from the underground, her small, thin little arm tucked firmly together with his own. For a long moment all he had been able to do was stare. Glancing incredulously at the point where their arms had joined, the thin nature of her v-necked, threadbare jumper contrasting oddly with the thick material of his dark olive overcoat.

He had wanted to offer it to her, perhaps in a small attempt to mend the ragged edges the existed between them, or maybe even just to remind himself how it felt to just be generous and considerate without having to wonder who was watching, or how much such a gesture might cost him in the future. But he didn't. Besides he had a feeling that she wouldn't have accepted it anyway. Perhaps a year ago she would have, but not now and certainly not today.

Indeed she treated him all but intimately as they made their way up a seemingly endless rough hewn, circular staircase, the trek making him nearly dizzy by the time they reached the lift, and he could help but enjoy the reprieve as the ancient looking device took them to the roof with a disgruntled groan and grudging screech of old metal and long rusted gears.

And together, atop the very building that had housed a terrorist, a killer, an anarchist, an avenger, a revolutionary, a hero, and evidently, a man, they brushed shoulders as they watched the world change…

When the exhilarating display finally fizzled down to a close, and the last of the fireworks seemed all but exhausted, for the first time in what felt like a year, he finally let himself sag, unashamedly letting the railing take the brunt of his weight. Closing his eyes into the chill evening breeze he sensed, rather then felt, as his entire body seemed to fold into itself, tensing and relaxing in tandem as he blew out a long, weary breath. An action that seemed to take far more energy out of him then it rightly should have.

God, he was tired..

For better or for worse it seemed that V, whoever he might have truly been, had succeeded. Parliament and Big Ben had been reduced to a gloriously charred snarl of smouldering rubble, dust, broken brick and bent metal slats. And now, it seemed that only time would tell if it had truly been for the good of it all..

Though, in spite of himself he couldn't help but be affected by the moment, by the hope that was now strumming through his breast, seemingly emboldened by the triumphant cannon blasts and magnificent orchestral genius that was Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

Hope.. Much like justice had been long since absent from the streets of this country.

No. He had not expected hope; he had not imagined that comfort. He had not even expected civility. Not from this moment..and certainly not from her. He had expected at the very least her careful suspicion and prudent distance. He hadn't been expecting her trust, companionship and her confidence. Because instead of sending him directly on his way with vague, half veiled promises about the new government of tomorrow and the plans of the future, she led him back down into the most amazing place he had ever seen, a place she called the Shadow Gallery.

…V's place..

And if he hadn't been so utterly and completely knackered, he knew he would have been itching to explore, and all but chomping at the bit to go over every bloody inch of the place. It was like a compulsion with him, that desire to uncover the truth, to search out and find the answers. To make sense of it all..

It was what he did after all. And perhaps ironically, it now seemed as though that was the only thing he had left, that compulsion to seek out the truth, regardless of the course or consequences.

'At least he remained consistent..' He mused with a despairing snort.

Unlike what he had expected she neither ushered him out and on his way, nor demanded he leave. Instead he followed sedately, if not rather unsteadily in her wake, shadowing her into the small kitchenette before all but collapsing into one of the chairs. Feeling remarkably as thought the full scope of everything that had happened that night had suddenly descended upon him all at once.

It was in that moment, as he watched her flit and flutter around the kitchen, flicking on the stove to heat water for tea, weaving in and out the adjoining pantry for jams and jellies like a delicate, stubbly headed enigma, practically bursting at the seams with nervous energy, that he suddenly felt old.

He rubbed a tired hand over his aching eyes, smelling the acrid tang of nitrogen and sulphur as his jacket cuffs brushed gently across the first prickly hints of his evening stubble. The scent of the revolution, it was all over him.. All over them both.

It felt as though a crucial part of him was dying, and his body was yet uncertain if it could cope with the loss. It was akin to what he imagined it felt like when a patient suffers the emergency amputation of a diseased limb. He felt caught in a strange sort of semi-conscious limbo as his mind and body warred against the other. As if the outcome of the struggle would determine if the shock of the loss was too much too handle. Could he adapt? Could he survive? Could he learn to live again?

It was only once she had shoved a bitingly strong cup of tea into his idle hands, and strategically placed a heaping plate of toast and warm biscuits, all slathered to excess with what smelled suspiciously similar to real butter all too temptingly under his nose, that she began to talk. It started with only a few words, but almost as soon as it had begun it all came out in a rush, the words tumbling from her pert, pink lips as unsteadily, and as unpredictably as rain falls amidst a thunder storm.

She told him things, terrible things. Things that he couldn't forget, shouldn't forget, things that he almost wished he hadn't known in the first place. She told him things that made sense, but mostly about things that didn't. She told him about judgement and justice, about torture and truth, lies and redemption. She told him about all of the November the 5th's that had passed them by. She told him about the power of words, and of the honest ferocity of an idea. She told him about V, her brother, her parents, and about Gordon Deitrich. But mostly, she told him about herself. About what had happened, about what was happening, and about what might happen.

And as the heat from the cup seemed to sear his fingers from the outside in, warming him in such a way he hadn't properly felt in over three decades, he listened.

He listened, and his tea went cold.

And when the words finally ran dry, as words are oft to do, leaving the speaker bereft of the means to adequately express such things that enviably weigh far too heavy on ones heart, it took him almost a full minute to realize that it wasn't his vision playing tricks on him, but that the girl herself was shuddering. It was her small, far too delicately thin frame that was shaking in place, her fingers grasping at the cushions as though through sheer strength alone she could stave off the enormity of her own emotions even as the tears began free falling, plinking deafeningly on the stone floor at their feet.

Almost as soon as they had begun, he lost count at a mere dozen, he realized that he couldn't listen anymore.. He couldn't just listen anymore..

And suddenly, in spite of himself he was there beside her, pulling her into him like he just..knew. He hadn't thought the action through; indeed he doubted he even realized what his mind had meant to do it until he suddenly found himself up from his chair and crossing over to her.

And vaguely, he tried not to think about the last time he had done this… So long ago...

He took her into his arms admist the backdrop of both the past and present, in a house that had born the enigmatic presence of the most infamous, and possibility the greatest man of their lifetimes. And yet, despite being surrounded by such strength, such constitution and fortitude, it was all he could do but let the kitchen table bear their collective weight as his own strength left him.

But more surprising still, she accepted him, turning into his embrace with a single jarring movement as she buried her face into the protection of his chest, her fingers weaving tightly into the sleeves of his overcoat and pressing into him until only the very back of her shorn head was visible. Until he wasn't exactly sure where he left off and she began.

It was only when a single dark splotch blossomed across the blue fabric that arrowed down along the nape of her neck that he realized that he too was crying. It was only a single tear. It was small and almost insignificant enough that he could have put it off to having something caught in his eye, or chalk it up to the damp nature of the building. But he knew it was none of those things..and in that way it was absolutely damning.

Because he hadn't shed that tear for the same reasons as she, her tears were meant for injustices and hurts that were far more innocent then his own. As all things considered, Evey Hammond had never really been given a choice, not since St. Mary's. She had never been allowed that pivotal moment in which to chose her direction, not until V. Not until today. Whereas he was damned by over thirty years of bad choices, haunted by the countless moments throughout the decades where he could have, should have, but didn't.

And he had to live with that.

He cried for what he had become, for what hehad let the years mould him into.He cried for the sins and indiscretions he had been forced to commit throughout the years in order to maintain the façade. He cried for that he had done, but mostly for what he hadn't. For all the times he had turned his back, remained idle, and chose to remain deaf rather then listen the sound of suffering and injustice.

He had knowingly failed. Failed the people, those he had sworn to protect from violence and ruin. And in that way he had also failed himself and the image of what he had always striven to be.

He cried for what he had had to do to survive, for what he had had to sacrifice in order to keep a semblance of what had been. He had tried to maintain a balance between toeing the party line and keeping to his own morals. Between what he knew was right, just, and true. But so much had been blurred, and far too many lines had been crossed in the process. He wept for what could have been, for what his life could have been. For what he had lost and turned away from in order to retain both his position and his life..

He had resigned himself many decades ago to the fact that survival was never pretty. And in that way he had very few delusion of himself. As despite his heart, despite what he believed and felt, he knew he was not really a good man. Because when it came down to it, as much as it haunted him, he had always done what he had had to in order to survive.

Perhaps a better man would not have made such a hellish compromise. Perhaps a better man would have rather died then turn false on both his convictions and the summation of his self. But he wasn't that man.

He had never been that man..

It was for that reason, and that reason alone that he forced himself to let no more then that single tear fall. He had little right to cry…

Like many, he had sacrificed much of himself in order to keep a depressingly small semblance of what had existed before. Gordon Deitrich had certainly not been the exception in this regard. But now, especially now, he had to wonder if those sacrifices had been truly worthwhile? He had denied who he was, what he believed, and held true to for so long that he half wondered if he hadn't all but lost those parts of himself completely.

And that thought in itself somehow seemed more terrifying then anything Creedy and his squad of Finger Men could ever threaten him with..

He let a long, shuddering sigh breathe out into the open air between them. Hating himself fiercely for not being strong enough to pull away from the comfort she so willingly offered. A comfort he knew he didn't deserve.

And as though she sensed the turbulent nature of his thoughts, with a small, cut off mewl she pulled him in impossibly closer, her delicate little fingers pressing into the naked skin of his wrists as she abandoned the fabric of his jacket cuffs entirely in favour of grasping his large palms in her own.

That was when it hit him, when it truly hit him for the first time. V had not just given them back hope. He had given them back the chance to regain a part of themselves. To regain the humanity they had all invariably lost the day they had crumbled under the force of their own fears, and allowed injustice and atrocity to reign uncontested in the place of peace and morality.

Humanity, as he had come to learn, was a loaded term. Not in the sense of it being a term that describes who we are as a people, but as a definition of morality. In the English dictionary, the term 'humanity' is officially defined as 'the quality or condition of being human; human nature, or in other words, the quality of being humane; kindness; and benevolent.'

But the whole lot was a bloody load of tosh and everyone knew it. You couldn't sum up the nature of humanity, whether it was in the sense of the whole or the individual, as the very nature of humanity was ever changing and subjective.

…Far too subjective.

Until V he had almost given up on the power and potential of humanity. After all it was much less heart rendering to believe that such potential had been, to a large extent, trampled under the vengeful heel of Norsefire rather then to believe that the people, himself included, had knowingly let it wither and die within them in exchange for brutal governmental efficiency, and the relative safety and complacently such structures provided them, as the world beyond their borders self destructed, and the people went rabid.

As V had said..a full year ago, in the beginning it had seemed impossible to lay any of the blame. After all, in those early years there had so much fear and so much to lose. People had said that there hadn't been any other choice. It was do or die, victory or defeat. Or so the government had led them to believe.

Everyone had had their doubts about Sulter and Norsefire far before the election. One would have been a fool not to. The man was too efficient, too successful, too smooth, too lucky, and far too connected. But then came St. Mary's, the Underground and Three Waters..

It had been dominos from there on, with seemingly the entire world imploding in on itself until millions upon millions were lost in the dust, left to wither and die in famine, war, and disease as the globe was swept asunder in the likes of something no one could have ever imagined. It had been all England could do but stay afloat admist the rising swell.

Lies. Treachery. Deceit. Fabrication…They all knew this now. Far too late of course…but at least they finally knew..

It hadn't been long before the might of America was brought cringing, and prostrate to its knees, with the America's soon becoming a common euphemism for the words 'foolish' and 'inane.' And as the St, Mary's virus spread, the mere whisper of 'Ireland' and 'Scotland' was enough to instil pity, and hushed voices in any conversation.

Terrible what St. Mary's did to Ireland…Worse what she did to Scotland..

And as the virus mutated, leap frogging across the globe, for the first time in known history, people from the US were prosecuted as they tried to escape across the borders into Mexico and Canada, even despite the fact that both nations were eventually made victims in their own right due to their geographical proximity to the States as well.

While on the other side of the globe, China fell back on their century old standby of complete and utter isolation from the rest of the world, mining both the land and sea borders their territory and effectively sealing themselves off from the trials and tribulations of the conscious world. And worse still, many other countries followed suit, with Russia, Japan, and Australia being quick immolate their Chinese brethren, turning their backs on their neighbours as nation after nation shattered and burned around them.

Norsefire had helped the country cope by instilling the mantras and mottos that would come to form the baseline of the party's chokehold on the nation. "Strength through Unity. Unity through faith.." And worse, people began to believe it.

'We are doing this for our children' become the voters unspoken slogan. For survival. And for a while, it seemed as though England had indeed prevailed… But slowly, the reality of what they had done, what they had all done, eventually settled in…

No one had really noticed it at first, especially not in the face of the sudden landslide of victories that followed Norsefire's rise to power. The headlines had been blaringly victorious, a cure was discovered! Then, only months later for the first time in a decade the economy began to prosper again, unemployment rates were the lowest in nearly fifty years, living costs lessening almost daily… Indeed for a while it appeared as if they had danced with the devil and come out triumphant.

And yet, was only months before the murmurs started..

They started off as whispers; half understood fragments about neighbours that disappeared with food still cooking in their ovens, their children's homework still open on the kitchen table as the television flickered softly in the backdrop, the remote left where it had fallen, awkward and half hazard across the ruffled carpet. There were whispers about how minority groups that were suddenly 'relocated' for their own 'protection' to 'safe houses' set up all across the country despite the fact that since Three Waters and St. Mary's acts of terrorism in the nation had been all but non existent.

And almost as soon as those questions were voiced, as if by the hand of god himself, the economy fell again, and soon the populace was facing wage cuts, job reductions, and food stamps while the corrupt and powerful were kept fat, healthy, and housed in unimaginable luxury.

The people soon came to realize that the government they had freely elected had become far more powerful then themselves. Many had resented it, recognizing the farce for what it truly was. They had risen up and dared to protest against the injustices that were being committed in front of their very eyes. But all that came from such resistance was labour camps, food and fuel shortages, black bags, missing faces, and death.

And eventually..impossibly..the people stopped demonstrating. Their fear growing too great until they stopped protesting entirely, bowing their heads instead to the insurmountable pressure Norsefire wielded. The people soon learned it was less dangerous…easier to simply incline their heads and believe the unsurmountable lies of safety, protection, and security that the party spewed out at them at every turn.

Inexorably, the people of Britain lost their will to fight..

And in the place of democracy they were given a dictator, in the place of free speech they gained censorship, black hoods, and Finger men. And in the place of freedom they were given blacklists, curfews, surveillance, and quarantine zones as the true nature of Norsefire was finally revealed.

But it was a realization gleaned far too late.

V had been right, all too right the first time he had addressed the nation, literally all but exploding into their lives on that fateful November day. Because in electing Norsefire, the people of Britain had sacrificed one of the most integral, and precious parts of themselves in exchange for the false promises of order..of peace. That of their humanity.

And what was worse was that they knew it. V knew it, and they knew it. He knew they were haunted by the choices they had made, that they loathed not only those decisions but themselves as well. That was why V's rallying cry was so persuasive, because at least on some level, everyone already knew the truths that he so blithely offered. But more importantly, the heart of what V offered was not just a second chance or a fresh start, but the chance to fight for the redemption, the forgiveness that they all so vehemently sought.

He nearly trembled with the force of the realization, the emotion…Hope. Jesus bloody Christ…He had almost forgotten..

Unbidden his hand moved from it's tentative hold on the small of her back to graze across the rough stubble of her shorn head, cupping her tightly into him for the first time since he had taken her into his embrace, overwhelmed by the ferocity of hope..and the possibility of redemption.

He felt…Christ…He didn't even know how he felt…He felt…It was too much.. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

He closed his eyes against it, staving off the feelings as he breathed, drawing in each deep, cleansing breath like a drowning man might gasp for oxygen, holding tight to the woman in his arms like she was a life line.

He came back to himself sometime later, his face still greedily mashed into the crook of her neck, soaking up the comfort he knew he didn't deserve even as she freely took the same comfort that he offered. He felt strangely hyper aware of the fact that her tears were soaking straight through the lapels of his overcoat as they continued to fall, filling the close air around them with the salty tang of her grief as she continued to shudder in his embrace.

It felt a lot like atonement.

But despite it all, despite the fact that all he could sense..all that surrounded him was fully, and uniquely her, for some daft, unknowable reason, he found that all he could think about was that strangely shy, half smile Dominic sometimes favoured him with when he thought he wasn't paying attention..

A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!