Experimentations with syntax. Unfortunate jagged result. Writing for procrastination again, so plotless and rambling.
Warnings of: AU of V being alive, OOC. Very annoying ending.
Thanks for the previous feedback.

Overall, things are going pretty well for them.

Sure, there is that occasional breathless urge to hurt him (gorge razor-deep vengeance into his flesh or rip off his mask- which would kill him more?), but it passes quickly and V doesn't notice most of these lightning-changes, anyway. Like last night.

Overall, things are going pretty well for England.

Sure, there is that power-lusting colonel with too much manpower, but elections (actual, working, fair elections- who would have dreamed?) are going to be held in a month and V is probably going to strip the colonel of certain advantages, anyway. Like breathing.

Also, Evey has her own apartment now, a residue from the months she spent by herself before The Fifth. She doesn't really use it, per say, but she does go to it sporadically, randomly- often at night, when a feeling of suffocation and unfathomable longing seems to choke the whole chamber- and it's a strange comfort, this place she owns.

Also, the other cities have their own vigilantes now, a residue from the grand sulfur-burst of promised defiance V had rained down on The Fifth. They aren't really V, per say, but that's the entire point- dramatic outfits, theme music and their individual icons of white doves, bloody axes, meaningful and obscure alphabets- and it's a strange comfort, this England no one owns.

She misses him, sometimes, when he is near. Things are paradoxical and simple like that. It starts like an ache in her chest, the slow warmth of quiet pleasure. He might look at her, just a turn of his head or the briefest touch on her forearm, and it'll be enough. Sometimes there are flashes of resentment mixed beneath, unexplainable because Evey prefers to ignore them, and she'll move away, taking her plate away with a vague excuse on her lips. She'll eat standing in another room, quickly, till her chest loosens enough for her to be sure she won't hit him or pull him close, a hungry trail of kisses up his neck.

No one misses the old government, not even when riots break out on the sixth day. Things are unsaid and simple like that. It starts like a rumor, the wild undercurrent of alleyway whisperings. Someone might have heard something, another hated official found dead in Hampshire's gutters or the briefest promoting of another new political party, and everyone would know. Sometimes there are the old fanatics, usually the rare beneficiaries of the system, who'd try the old bloodshed tactic to force their way up, but there are enough starved for freedom to discourage anyone to do something stupid or destroy the elections, the bodies a testament to London's determination.

It's almost like infatuation, this intensity.

It was almost like a party of thanksgiving, those riots.

'Am I caging you, Evey?' V asks one day, gently. Out of the blue, as if they were continuing a conversation.

Her hands freeze in the act of throwing some personals into a bag- a shirt, toiletries, miscellaneous overnight needs- and Evey spins around, guilty as if she'd been caught thieving. From the doorway, V is a flurry of careful, still movements in dark outline.

She concentrates on the still set of his shoulders. Avoids his eyes. 'I'm going over to my old place for today,' she says, straining a lightness in her tone. 'I might stay the night there, as usual.'

V is silent for a while. Evey shifts her eyes from him to the doorframe, so she doesn't have to see the way he misses a breath for a moment. Then he moves towards her, still with those polite, deliberate movements. Carefully, as if a wounded soldier on his last legs, as if something might break.

The blackness of his suit obscure her vision and she's forced to look up at him. It is a mixture of tender uncertainty and anger tightening her chest, how surreal.

There is a moment of silence, heart-stealing.

'Be well, Evey,' he says simply, and there is the warmth of his breath through the mask's slit when he presses his lips on her forehead.

V draws back, gloved hands still tight on her shoulders. For a heartbeat, they are staring at each other, so close- her pulse is quick in her mouth, metallic and sweet. Almost as close as they had been on that night of the Fifth, almost close enough to—just—

Evey is still missing him when he leaves the room, quiet and gracious as ever. She is still resenting him, just a little, when she starts to repack her bag, throwing in belongings that will last well past just one overnight stay. It is not fair, she thinks, how I can affect him like that. It is not…

But what is this strange relief when she meets the surface, baked air from the street's grimy surface clinging to her skin?

She walks to her building, exultation battling with grief and longing under her skin. It is a strange feeling- another paradox when she knows without a slightest shadow of a doubt that she is never happier than with V and really, there's nothing to grieve about, it's not like he's dead again or she has lost him…

Evey's hands take a while before they manage to fit the key into the slot and turn the lock with a dusty creak. She takes time to lock the door behind her and moves immediately to the window overlooking a humble section of London's congested streets. Tries to place where V would be.

Through the fingerprint-oils smearing the window and the freckles of dust in the paleness of her reflection staring back at her, Evey starts to understand what she is doing.

In all probability, V knew it before she did; she could have just asked.

He didn't ask her to come back this time, though, she realizes with a dull jolt.

Does this mean… after she throws herself into England's work, after she frees herself enough from his— his influence, his near-overwhelming presence sometimes, to know with enough calm certainty who she is, with enough time to absorb the future and all its implications… does it mean she won't be able to come back? Will he still be there? Does he understand?

Her face's reflection is made up of London's twisted streets and huddled houses. Evey resists the urge to twist around and pound down the stairs, racing back and down into where V is, and crying no, wait, I change my mind, I just wanted to be- don't think I don't love you, I do, I just need time in between ragged breaths and pressing her fists into his back while he holds her and soothes her in that voice of his.

But: she doesn't.

But: if she does, she would never leave. This is another of his damnable gifts, a continuation from the first where, in a dank, filthy cell, something in her had made a silent promise of freedom to herself that she had never known till now.

Evey sinks down on the cold tiles of her new home and starts to unpack her bag. Her body is yearning for him already, a heavy tug on her heart in the direction of where V is, a longing-trail in quiet reminder of true home.

England sinks down into the bones of her new life and starts to unpack her closets' skeletons. The people are learning already, a quiet shift in the direction of where Lady Justice is, an undercurrent of flickering hope of what could be.

And there are more political parties forming everyday, but how strange- there are almost no riots anymore; it is just you, and me, and us.

And she is missing him even though he is not near, but how strange- there are no longer any lightning-twists of bitterness underneath; it is just V, and V, and her.

And let's face it, revolutions aren't paperback comedies but overall, even though there will be blood, sweat and tears, England's future will probably blaze it's way into history somehow.

And let's face it, theirs isn't a paperback romance but overall... even though there will be blood, sweat and tears...