Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dara's patience was running very, very thin. She was tired and she hurt and she was furious and it was taking every shred of self-control that she possessed not to slap that blasted mask off his blasted face.
"Well come on then! Don't just stand there—let's get a move on, yeah? Parliament's not gonna blow itself up, is it?"
When all he did was stand there, silent and unmoving, it finally occurred to Dara that something was wrong. Her anger was instantly forgotten and every ache and pain she felt disappeared beneath a thick wave of concern. She took a tentative step toward him, apprehension creasing her face. "V? You ok?"
More silence met her inquiry and her frown deepened. She limped across the distance between them, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Can you hear me, luv?"
She was somewhat comforted when the mask angled toward her, but his continued silence still made her uneasy. "We can't stay here," she said gently. "We've gotta get back to the train…remember, V? The train? There's a few hundred thousand people up there waiting for the fireworks you promised—can't disappoint them, can we?"
Still nothing. Dara huffed out a breath of frustration. As much as she wanted to figure out what was wrong with him, there simply wasn't time. She would sort him once the train had left the station; until then, she was going to have to deal with him as he was.
Stepping backwards, she slid her fingers down his arm and clasped his hand tightly within her own. "Come on, luv…come with me," she urged, giving him a firm tug. "We've got places to go and historical landmarks to blow up."
To her relief, he took a single, halting step forward. Another step backwards, another tug, and he took another step, and then another, until finally, he was matching every step she took with one of his own.
It was a strange walk back to the station, and nothing at all like she'd imagined it would be. Far quieter for one—she'd fully intended to be reaming him up one side and down the other; to finally be able to say all the things that had been clawing at her insides from the moment she'd discovered what he planned to do. But with him nearly catatonic, that wasn't exactly an option. So instead of angry recriminations, she filled the almost oppressive silence with random and entirely superfluous chatter.
It served a dual purpose, that idle prattle.
On one hand, she hoped that her carefully pitched words would draw him back to himself. On the other, it was downright disturbing to see him in such a state. This was the most supremely independent man that she had ever known and to see him reduced to following along like an obedient child was, quite simply, wrong. Talking helped to keep her discomfort at bay.
The walk felt like it took forever, but finally, the station and the train came into view and Dara breathed a sigh of relief. She led him up onto the platform, bringing him to a halt at the door of the train. Turning him toward her, she released his hand and stepped in closer to him, reaching up to cup both sides of the mask between her palms and drawing his face close to hers.
"I know you're in there, V, and I need you to listen to me. This train has a very important appointment to keep, and I have no intention of being the one to make sure it keeps it." She pulled back slightly, drawing him with her to stand just inside the car, stopping beside the console. Dropping one hand, she grabbed one of his and placed it on the control panel. "I don't care what you said earlier—this is for you to do, V. Not me, not anyone else—you. You're not yourself right now, and that's fine. Whatever's wrong, we'll get it sorted soon enough…but right now, you need to snap out of it just a little bit, luv. You need to pull this lever."
He must have heard her, because the mask tilted away, angling toward the console and she could feel the weight of his gaze shift away from her. Following his look, she breathed out a deep sigh when his fingers twitched, the creak of leather music to her ears as he slowly wrapped his fingers around the lever.
A moment later, they were back on the platform, she having yanked him hastily from the train as the engine powered up. They stood shoulder to shoulder, his hand clasped tightly in hers, as the train began its journey, swiftly gaining speed as it left the station and headed along the tracks toward Parliament.
Once it was out of sight, Dara turned to V again, studying his still form intently. "It's done," she murmured coaxingly, giving his hand a squeeze. "You did it, luv. Just like I knew you would. Right from the start, I knew you'd do it."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.
"Bugger," she muttered. "Y'know, you're making this very difficult, V."
She would have liked nothing more than to take him back to the Gallery, sit him down, and start trying anything and everything she could think of to pull him out of the state he'd fallen into, but there was still one more thing she had to do first—one more thing he had to do first—and she was going to need roof access to do it. Again tugging him along after her, she made her way through the tunnels that lead back toward the Gallery.
There was an old service lift down one of the side passages that V had fixed up months ago. He'd claimed, at the time, that it was merely on the off chance that it would prove useful one day. She'd been rather more inclined to believe that he'd just wanted something to tinker with.
Seems he had more foresight than she'd given him credit for at the time—it was certainly coming in handy at that moment. Because there was no way in hell she was going to miss the show. And more importantly, there was no way in hell she was going to let him miss it.
The first thing she noticed when she stepped out onto the roof was that it was quite cold. The second was just how crisply clear the night was. Good thing, that…it would make for a much more spectacular display.
She brought them to a halt at the edge of the roof, the London skyline darker than usual, but still beautiful. There was nothing left to do now but wait, and Dara loosened her hold on his hand—an action that was as unsuccessful as it was short-lived. V's grip tightened painfully around her fingers at the first sign of her retreat, keeping her hand firmly within his own.
Glancing down to study their entwined fingers, Dara brought her other hand up and placed it overtop his. "Right," she said quietly, shifting her gaze up to his profile—his face was still pointed out toward the city, "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere, luv. I promise."
His grip loosened, but only marginally, his fingers still holding tight to hers.
When the music started, she couldn't help but smile, immediately transported back a year to the first night that had found her on a rooftop with this man, listening to this very tune. Moving in closer to him, she laid her head against his shoulder and rubbed her cheek against the softness of his cloak. "And now," she whispered into the darkness, pulling his words from one year ago from her memory and giving them to this Fifth, just as he had given them to the one before, "it's here." She held him even tighter. "The crescendo."
The first bombs exploded only seconds later, lighting up the sky and shattering the stillness of the night. There was a savage beauty to the scene; a stark perfection that made Dara shiver. Pressing herself even closer to V, she watched in awed wonder as the fires burned ever higher and the fireworks began, streaks of incandescence branding the sky above the inferno.
It was so much like the year before and yet so very different at the same time. Last year, it had been breathtaking, but she had only possessed a tenuous understanding of what it all meant. This year, she not only thoroughly understood the meaning behind the act, she embraced it. More than any of the thousands upon thousands of black cloaked citizens lining the streets of London, she understood what this revolution was truly about and why it had been necessary.
She also understood just how immense a debt England owed to the man beside her—the man who was finally, for the first time in twenty years, free.
"It's over," she murmured, a tremulous smile bending her lips. "It's really, finally over."
That softly spoken declaration had a far greater effect than she anticipated. At the last word, V's entire body began to tremble violently. Dara, losing all interest in the pyrotechnic display still illuminating the sky above them, focused all her attention on him, barely able to hear the explosions through the sound of her own heart thrumming in her ears.
"V? What is it? What's wrong?"
The trembling only increased, his breath coming in ever quicker gasps from beneath the mask.
"Goddamn it, V...talk to me! Tell me what's wrong." Dara slid around in front of him, sliding her free hand over his shoulders, his chest, searching for some physical source for the state he was in. Was he injured? Had he been in pain all this time and she'd missed it? "Are you hurt? Tell me...please, V!"
She was growing more frantic with every moment that passed, until finally she tried to tear her hand from his in her desperation to discover what was wrong with him. That spurred him to action, his grip tightening so much that Dara cried out in pain—a cry that was cut short when she was engulfed in a fierce embrace, his head burrowing deep into the curve of her neck.
She froze, arms hanging limply at her sides, completely at a loss. But when the first muffled sob reached her ears—when she felt the warmth of the first hiccupping breath against her skin—her momentary paralysis evaporated. Wrapping her arms around him and turning her face into him, she returned his embrace with every part of her body that she could.
"It's all right," she hummed against his ear, "it's all right, luv. I've got you. Let it out…let it go..."
As if that gentle encouragement was what he had been waiting for, V's entire body sagged against her, his legs buckling as the strength that had sustained him through twenty years of struggle and pain gave way before the tidal wave of emotion that had been held in check for equally as long.
She was strong, but after the beating her muscles had taken that night, she knew she wasn't strong enough to hold him up. So when he began to fall, she went with him. They landed in a heap on the rooftop, and Dara winced, having twisted them as they fell so that she would take the brunt of the impact. V hardly seemed to notice the change, still clinging to her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.
Ignoring her own discomfort, Dara continued to hold him, whispering bits and pieces of nonsense in his ear, trying to soothe him as best she could. Her hands traced circles across his back, drifting up and down, carefully leaving no inch without its share of comfort.
How long they sat like that, she had no idea, but eventually, his sobs abated. And finally, long after the sky had again gone dark, he pulled away from her, turning away so that Fawkes' sharp profile was all she could see of his face.
"Forgive me," he murmured, his voice raw and thin, pain and embarrassment drawn in every line of his body. "I should not have..."
Leaning forward, ignoring the dull ache that had settled into her muscles from so long spent curled around him, Dara placed a finger against the mouth of the mask to silence him. "Yes, you should've," she corrected. "And don't you dare apologize for it."
Clasping her fingers in his, V drew her hand from his face with a deep sigh, turning to look at her. "My dear, you cannot..."
His words died away in a hiss. Leaning forward, he grabbed her chin between two extraordinarily gentle fingers, tilting her face further toward the single light that illuminated the rooftop. Vaguely, he recalled noticing the injuries that glared out at him, and self-reproach bubbled up from within, nearly choking in its intensity.
Frowning at the sudden tension radiating from him, Dara tried to pull her chin from his grasp. "It's nothing, V. Just a few bumps and bruises…"
A gloved finger pressed feather-light against her lips, silencing her in the same way she had him. "If I am not permitted to apologize for my...lapse of self control," he said, taking minor refuge in euphemism, "then you are not permitted to dismiss these wounds—they are hardly mere bumps and bruises, Dara."
Still trying to shrug him off, Dara scooted backwards away from him. "Oh please, I've had worse than this before. A split lip and a banged up nose aren't…"
"Banged up does not even begin to describe the injury to your nose. It is broken if it is anything."
She bristled at both the interruption and the sharpness of his tone. "There're a lot more important things to worry about right now than…"
"Do not be foolish," V snapped, reaching out with both hands now to cradle her face in his palms, completely ignoring her squirming attempts at escape. "If your nose is broken, then it must be set, lest it heal incorrectly. And your lip is more than split—in fact, I fear it may well require stitches."
Slapping his hands away, Dara launched herself to her feet. "I'm fine, V. Stop fussing over me like a mother hen. We've got more important things to talk about than…"
"And we shall talk about them," he interrupted yet again, also on his feet. "But there is nothing so important for us to discuss that it cannot wait until after I have seen to your injuries."
Absolutely fuming from his constant interruptions, Dara balled her hands into fists at her sides, all softer feelings completely forgotten in the face of his nagging. "You interrupt me one more time, V, and I'll toss you off the bloody roof."
"If you would listen to sense, I would not need to interrupt you," V retorted.
"If you weren't so bloody pushy, maybe I'd listen."
Opening his mouth to respond, V stopped before anything further was added to the argument. "My dear," he said softly, "this argument is counterproductive. I have already agreed with you that there are a great many things that must be discussed. But I simply cannot engage in any serious conversation with you while you look as you do. My conscience simply will not allow it. I beg of you—allow me to see to your wounds, and then I assure you that you shall be afforded the opportunity to say anything and everything that you so desire."
Still dubious—she knew how skilled he was at weaseling his way out of conversations he didn't want to have—Dara nevertheless felt her resolve weakening. Narrowing her eyes at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's a promise, then?"
"It is indeed," he replied without the slightest hesitation.
Mildly surprised, Dara cocked her head to the side, studying him intently. "I actually think you mean that."
"My dear," V said, the words infused with more affection than he had ever permitted them to be before, "please do believe me when I say that I am as eager as you are to discuss what happened tonight." He closed the distance between them, placing one gloved hand against her cheek and leaning toward her purposefully. "You are not the only one with questions to ask, Dara—or with things to say."
Her ability to respond stolen almost entirely away by the intimacy of the gesture, Dara could only nod her head. Something had changed; that much was glaringly obvious. The implications of his forwardness set every nerve in her body tingling.
Taking her nod as the agreement that it was, V smiled. Lowering his hand from her face, he offered her his arm. "Now come, my dear, let's go home."