Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside. See original chapter for a complete set of warnings.

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: This chapter is a bit of transition chapter. I realized while writing that I was cutting far too much out of the story and taking away from the development of Finch's thoughts if I simply jumped right into the good stuff. So hopefully you will bear with me!

A/N #2: Thank you to my anonymous reviewers! I like to respond to all of my reviews if I can, but since you are, well, anonymous I can't! So thank you very much! Glad you are enjoying the story thus far! I hope to hear what you think of this chapter as well!

Words will always Retain their Power

Chapter 3 – "Ad vitam paramus"

As he ambled slowly down the litter strewn streets, forcing his tired, reluctant feet on a course that gradually took him away from the steps of the Shadow Gallery; he couldn't help but revel in the mounting heat of the coming dawn. The light was already tingeing the sky an appropriate, orange streaked crimson. It was the dawn of a new day. At long last.

Indeed it had be to be said, that even at it's most elemental level, the nature of anarchy had an undeniably dramatic flair to it..

He was so caught up in the muddled depths of his own thoughts that the deep, bass sound of the old, long rusted doors thudding closed behind him barely even registered. His mind was still teeming with her final words, dwelling on those niggling, mysterious hints about the government of tomorrow. About the future..

..Cor!..The future..

The concept alone seemed unknowably daunting and practically horrifying in its obscurity. Freedom it itself was a fascinating notion, and after all this time now that it was all but staring him in the face, he found that he barely knew what to do with it. Perhaps it was merely a failure of imagination on his part; perhaps this new era was more suited to the young, towards people much like Miss Hammond. But regardless, he knew that he wasn't alone in his thoughts. Because the idea of freedom and the consideration such a term might wield upon ones vision of the future was a determination that was as unknown, strange, and uncertain as the definition of life itself.

But despite such thoughts, he knew that whatever Evey Hammond had in mind, it would be at the very least a change based on good intentions. Something he certainly couldn't say for the likes of Norsefire and Chancellor Sutler.

At any rate, he figured that good intentions were as good a start as any.

He briefly entertained the notion of calling for a cab, but that idea was quickly negated as he reached the main street, wearily eying the trickling, but steadily growing streams of revellers as they strolled past. Virtually the entire city had come out to support V, and now despite the early dawn hours, it seemed as though the vast majority of them were still out and about. Celebrating and enjoying their new found freedom.

There were no longer any curfews or Finger Men to fear, and on sheer principal of the thing, the people were making their jubilation known.

There would be no taxi to be had this morning, likely no buses nor trolleys either. Everyone who was out and about was doing it on foot or by bicycle. There wasn't even any noticeable vehicle traffic on the roads or causeways at all. It was almost exciting in its strangeness. It was new, unique, different, and utterly refreshing in its own way..

Indeed it seemed as though London was ripe for a self made holiday. The people seemed to be taking it as their due, having every right to do so of course. After all, how long had it been since the people had last felt safe to leave the protection of their homes when night fell? How long had it been since the streets of London had echoed with laughter? How long had it been since any of them had really, truly lived?

Too long. Far too long.

As in truth, everyone had known that this day was a long time coming. He had meant what he had said in the scant days before the fifth, sequestered in the office with Dominic, following up on every near hint and dead end that had hit their desk since the start of this whole mess. Because the thing was that V had known them better then they had known themselves. V had known what they, as a people truly wanted. He had understood that while freedom and basic human rights was something they all inherently wanted and had right to, the need for forgiveness, redemption, and for the chance to make things right was far more needed in this country then anything else.

By nature, in order to heal a country, you first had to go about healing its people.

Because that doubt had been in him, been in all of them long before V and the Old Bailey, all V had done was flush it out into the open, like a hunting dog does with a clutch of geese. And unlike so many times before, with the half hearted protesters and the quickly squashed resistance movements that were practically a dime and dozen back in the early years, V didn't let them forget what was at stake. He had given them all a year for the doubt to stew in their hearts, a whole bloody year to think about how they and they alone could turn around and change things. Change things for the better.

And true to form, it had been too enticing of an opportunity to pass up.

He snorted softly at the mere thought. Indeed, one could even say that Norsefire's fate had been all but sealed the moment V's Fawkisan mask had flashed onto their television sets a year ago on this very day. Sutler just hadn't had the decency to admit it.

After a while, as his feet angled him homeward, and the comfortably monotony of the rough cobblestone sidewalks clicking sharply against the soles of his boots descended over him, he became glad for the chance to put his feet to the pavement. He needed time to think anyway, to mull over his own thoughts in the brisk English air. Evey Hammond had certainly given him far too much too think about.

And as he walked, he realized that his hand had gradually migrated to his overcoat's side pocket, his large palm curling firmly but delicately around that thin roll of paper as he worked is way through the crowds, his fingers unconsciously tightening around it every time someone accidentally brushed against him, jostled by the ever moving crowds.

The brittle little scroll felt uncommonly warm against his skin, almost as if it had a life and pulse of its very own. And unbidden, his mind roamed. How many hands had this missive changed through? What secrets..what truths could it contain? And how, after everything that had happened in the past year, could there possibly be more to this seemingly unending story?

Curiosity piked, he had to resist the temptation to bring it out and unfurl it right then and there on the street.

Once again, it was his unquenchable desire for the truth…the drive to know that reared its determined, dog-eared head. It was the same drive..the same inclination that had seen him through the twists and turns, near misses, close encounters, confusion and moments of horrible, startling clarity that had made up the entirety of the past blasted year. But as much as it killed him, he tempered the desire down, forcing his fingers to still around the unassuming little scroll. This was not the place.

He walked alone, deliberately slowing his step every once and a while so that he wouldn't fall into step with the excited, fluctuating crowds. Instead he skirted the edges, haunting the sidelines of the revelry as what appeared to be the entire population of London flowed through the city streets in jubilant celebration.

And despite a few well meant greetings and friendly pats on the shoulders, the cloak wearing crowds largely left him to his own devices. It was almost as if they understood his need for solitude and private thought. Everyone celebrates in their own way, he supposed.

And despite the enormity of his thoughts, he couldn't help but marvel on it. On the nature of the crowd. As unlike in the hours leading up to the fifth, there was no evidence of the widespread chaos that had gripped the city in the days and hours before. There was no looting, mischief or violence that he could discern. The people were still out in droves to be sure, and the noise level was loud and bubbling, but there was a sense of control now, a sense of order rather then chaos.

There was jubilation in the stead of righteous anger against the crimes of the regime. While excitement and celebration reined where hate and intolerance had held power only a mere trifling of hours before. But even then the celebration wasn't mindless, it was more…mature. It was hard to describe. But it was almost as though the entire populace knew exactly what had happened and what was now at stake. And perhaps more importantly, they knew what possibilities their new, uncertain future was ripe to hold and were stalwart and determined to see that course through to the end.

A queer sort of pride in his fellow citizens rose within him. Because in the place of unrest and disorder he saw couples holding hands and kissing passionately on the streets, an act long ago deemed by Sutler as a violation of public decency, and punishable with a hefty fine. He lost of count of how many he passed..and not all of them being of the more..conventional coupling either.

He had to smile at that, refusing to even so much as avert his eyes from the sight of such passion. Instead he walked on, favouring the occasional couple with an indulgent, lingering look as he passed, mentally congratulating each of them on their rather unique, but undeniably sensual act of resistance.

It was bloody well about time too..

He saw large groups of people amassing for discussion and debate on street corners, and in front of closed shops and thoroughfares. Each and every one of them blatantly ignoring the laws put into place in during the parties second year of office that banned public groups larger then a score for the purpose for discussion, with Sutler obviously fearing that such gatherings would promote sedition and anti-government sentiments. And he had been right of course.. Only those who were found to be in violation of that particular bylaw were not simply slapped on the wrist with a fine or volunteer service. In fact more often then not, they were far more likely to see the inside of a black hood rather then breathe free air ever again.

He saw parents hoisting slumbering youngsters more firmly into their arms as they blatantly ignored the flashing red curfew lights that now blinked uselessly above the public auditory system, which was still rebelliously repeating Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture on a continuous loop. The volume had somehow mysteriously diminished in the passing hours, but it was still evident enough to provide a triumphant sort of background noise to the festivities, especially in deference to the usual periodic curfew announcements.

He saw the occasional group of older men huddled in a few loose, companionable circles, passing around old wooden pipes and taking the periodic drag of a few knobbly, hand rolled cigarettes. Deliberately exhaling the smoke in long, exaggerated plumes, clearly thumbing their noses at the anti-tobacco laws that Norsefire had put into place a year after St. Mary's, just one of a hundred or so 'drug' restrictions that had been forcibly passed in the stunned aftermath of the tragedy.

And on that note, he was quite sure he had never heard so many songs floating from wireless stereos and demurely blasting from hundreds of different mobiles that appeared to have been taken straight off the Black Lists. Hearing as he continued onward, the occasional strains of anything from Bob Dylan, to Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Rufus Wainwright, Ani Difranco, a slew of American rappers he had never even heard of, and god..even Irish music. It was all there, melding together in a fascinatingly confused jumble of cacophonous beats and varying melodies.

The sights and sounds of freedom. It was practically overwhelming after so many years of repression and government control..

He had to admit that despite his exhaustion, the mood of the people was infectious. He felt almost drunk on it, drunk and giddy on the mere idea of freedom. Freedom, like redemption, like forgiveness, was certainly a powerful thing.

It was close to three hours later by the time he finally turned up his drive. Breathing an audible sigh of relief as he automatically did a quick sweep up and down the road and detected neither the merest sight nor sound of any government issued vehicles or personnel lying in wait there. Thank god for small mercies..

He doubted he was fit to deal with the likes of anyone at the moment, least of all being Creedy and his blasted goon squad. If Creedy was still even breathing that is.. Something which given the amount of gun fire he had heard echoing down the tunnels of the underground earlier, he sincerely doubted. Indeed, one could only hope that V had made the bastard suffer..

He mounted the steps with growing exhaustion, feeling far too drained to even consider not leaning heavily on the hand rail. Pride and stubbornness be damned! He was bloody well done for the day!

There was a veritable list of things he should be doing. But he knew that he would be doing none of them. Not anymore. He should have been thinking thoughts that revolved around collecting his car keys and heading back out the door. Or at the very least picking up his phone and contacting the remnants of the government, the party, or hell, even the bloody station. But he wasn't. Perhaps that was selfish of him; perhaps it even said something about his moral character or his dedication to his job. Either way, he couldn't find it in him at the moment to even scrape together the brain cells to care.

Patting his pockets distractedly he extracted his keys with a victorious air, fumbling tiredly with the ornery old lock. He found that he had to continually force his eyes to focus on the task regardless of the fact that his thoughts were already skipping ahead, lingering hopefully over the thought of the welcoming sting of a bitingly hot shower and the siren like allure of his own pillows. God he was tired.

But before he closed the door, he took a moment to simply stand and mark the feeling. Wavering tiredly against the door jam as his eyes scanned the horizon, he seemed overly conscious of the moment, of the presence of the growing morning. Because for the first time in a long time, it was far more then simply the start of a new day..

He ran a weary hand through his mussed, dark brown hair, fingers tangling in the loose shaggy curls as he unconsciously tried to tame it. Vaguely, he wondered where Dominic had gotten too. In all the excitement and confusion of the past few hours he had almost forgotten that the man had dropped him off at the entrance to the underground.

Had he gone back to the office to look up any last minute leads? Or had he simply sat in the car, parked on some far flung street and watched the world change?

Perhaps he had even gone off to Parliament to aid in the security efforts, as all government employees had been ordered to do by nightfall? Though somehow he doubted that, Dominic knew as well as he the crimes of their government. Indeed, the man had already paid for that knowledge with a pound of his own flesh and blood. And while the younger man rarely spoke such thoughts allowed, prudently keeping his personal feelings relating to the regime largely unspoken, he knew the man well enough by now to know that the only way Dominic Stone would have been found outside the gates of Parliament tonight would have been under the cover of a black cloak and a perpetually smirking Guy Fawke's mask.

And blimey..wasn't that a thought?

Briefly he entertained the notion of calling the man. But then again, what exactly would he say? It was total rubbish. So much had happened since he had last seen his partner, and yet he had no idea were to even start. Though, perhaps the real root of the problem lay in the fact that one of the first things he considered talking to the man about was decidedly not work related..

Bleeding hell. Maybe the lack of sleep had buggered up his brain after all.

Things had gone so utterly and completely pear shaped in the past year that he felt almost as though he had spent the last three hundred and sixty five days having to hold some long suppressed part of himself continually in check. And with each passing day the barriers he had constructed around himself weakened just a little bit more. Until today. Where in admist the rubble of parliament, an apt metaphor for the collapse of his own carefully kept wall and barriers, for the first time in over twenty-seven years he was left venerable in the face of everything he had striven to keep hidden. He felt almost naked, weak, and progressively more and more uncertain.

No. No if he called Dominic now he was sure he'd say something he would regret. He would ruin what he had. What they had. If he was sure of anything right now, he was sure of that. And he was a right prat for even thinking otherwise.

Breathing deeply, he let the chill of the early morning air waft over him, contrasting strangely with the familiar, comforting smells of his home at his back as he faced the red tinted skies. The air was ripe with a melting pot of at least a dozen different smells from the houses the lined the street around him. It was enough to make his nose twitch as scents such as curry, chips, bangers and mash, and the tart tang of Chinese food assaulted his nasal passages all at once.

He would make do. Just as he always had. He would accept the things he couldn't change…the things he couldn't have, just as he had always done. He would get up, go to work, do his job, and come back home. Alone. And eventually, that would almost be enough once again. He had had far too many years of practice after all..

He had spent so many years with his feelings…his desires for the man kept under lock and key. Buried so deep that most nights he had even been able to delude himself into coming home, and relaxing to the slow, deep beat of the jazz records he had purchased from New Orleans nearly three decades before, nursing a few liberal fingers of bourbon as he pretended to be content with what he had of the man…Content in his self-imposed loneliness.

The only problem was that as the years had past him by, leaving him bereft and barren of everything he had once secretly hoped to have, he found that despite his best efforts, some small, but growingly adamant part of him had begun to wonder if all the secrets, all the lies and repression was all really worth it… What was he working so hard to preserve? His life? Christ. Life under Norsefire's rule wasn't really 'living' and he knew it!

Because like many, he had survived by hiding in plain sight, compromising and changing who he was for the sake of survival under the restrictive rule of Norsefire. Because he knew that on the off chance, even if he had dared to let himself have a few hours of carnal comfort with another like minded, willing soul, he knew that in all likelihood, he would become far more familiar with Creedy and the inside of one of those dodgy black bags then he knew he ever cared to be.

Things like that never stayed a secret for long…No matter how well hid or safely guarded. The government had always found out..

So he hadn't. He had let the offers and opportunities for relationships, comfort, happiness, and yes…even love go by unheeded and unrealized. And as Norsefire had tightened its iron fist around the United Kingdom, his worst fears had slowly become realities. It had happened slowly, almost gradually. Particular bars and clubs began mysteriously closing, served up with eviction notices or bogus criminal charges against the owners seemingly over night. Until finally, as the months had flown swiftly past, the true aims of the party had been revealed, and old friends, long acquaintances, and champions for the people started turning up missing..

He had seen it for what it was even then, a systematic extermination of difference. And it was pursued without any regard for morality or toleration, lending its victims neither quarter nor mercy. Standing unapologetic, and horrifyingly reminiscent of a war long since past..Of sentiments and acts of intolerance that he thought they had all but left behind.

It hadn't been long after that that one day after work, in a fit of quiet, but almost heart rending fury, he had ripped off his jacket, loosened his tie, and methodically set about stripping his home of everything it was. He removed almost every nuance of the past, every memory, hell, even every hint of his life, of who he was. Pictures, letters, mementoes, documents, clothes, it didn't matter, he had thrown it all into the fireplace, lips gnawed to the point of bleeding before he even let himself had collapse into the closest arm chair.

He had downed a bottle bad scotch directly from the decanter as he had watched it all burn, forcing himself to watch as everything he was, everything he had been, and everything he could have been withered and unfurled into nothingness in his own god damned fireplace. Trying all the while to convince himself that this was the way it had to be. That they..he had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. Even then, it had been of little comfort.

For one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, it had been almost criminally easy to commit..

He sighed into the silence. Wondering for a quick, almost fatalistic moment as he mused on the nature of this new day, if anything in this world had actually changed for him after all… Had anything V had done in the final hours of the fifth directly affected him? Or worse, would he let it if it had?

Bleeding hell..He needed to sleep. He needed to stop thinking. He needed..he didn't even know what he needed anymore..

Breathing out in a long, concentrated rush he let the unforgiving chill of the metal door handle seep into his clammy flesh, eyes closing momentarily as he shook his head at his own foolishness. What was the point in pondering on such asinine thoughts other then to continually punish himself? He could no longer change who he was..or indeed what he was now then he could rearrange the stars in the night sky.

..That was one of the curses that came with wearing a mask..you get to the point where you forget how to take it off..

But in that moment, just as he was about to turn inside, abandoning the chill London air for the sake of his own comforts, he practically stumbled over the realization of something quite altogetherly breathtaking. For the first time since Norsefire had taken power, for the first time in over twenty-seven years, the truths he had been seeking and the justice he had never ceased to fight for had finally prevailed.

They had won.. And in a strange, somewhat bizarre way, he had won as well…

Goose pimples pebbled along his skin in a chilled rush. His skin suddenly feeling over heated despite the crisp burst of cutting, early morning air. He shivered minutely, staring into the horizon as his thick fingers curled more firmly around the door handle, greedily leaning into its steady support.

Christ..It really was over..

He supposed that in a strange way the pursuit of truth had always been his vice of choice. For others it was dalliances in greed, drink, lust, pride, gluttony and avarice. But for him it had always been the drive to know. It was as addictive as any drug, as consuming as any obsession, and as unquenchable as any thirst. And in a large way he had become thoroughly dependent on it. He needed it. Sometimes he even swore that throughout the past twenty-seven years it had been the only thing that had kept him sane.

Because like an addict seeking his next fix, he had always come back for more..

It was something that had always set him apart from others. And over the years he had come to take solace in it. It was the one thing that had remained constant in his life, regardless of the time, place, or the government set in power to lord over it. The truth was always there. It could be changed, edited, and even covered up, but in the end, if one dug deep enough the truth could never be entirely erased.

The inherent goodness, morality, and judicial nature of the truth was one of the only doctrines he had ever held himself too. Ever since his boyhood he had been in awe of its seemingly limitless, universe nature. And despite the white lies and easy deceits he had known Norsefire for committing, and indeed the implicit dangers of having such awareness, he had never once ceased that dogged perusal. He found that he needed to prove to himself that despite the corruption of the government and the spiralling state of morality in the nation, that the immutable, cleansing power of the truth could still hold sway.

..And now at the end of things, despite everything that had happened, despite everything he might have lost, and everything he still stood to lose in the coming days, he'd be damned if it didn't feel like a victory…

Glossary: Chapter Title is Latin for: "We are preparing for life."

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