Chapter 6.

He was running. He was not dressed as V, but was clothed in an institutional jumpsuit, medical gloves, and one of his prosthetic masks. V's feet pounded down the hall as he fled. He quickly turned in to a room that was a dark, forbidding bathroom. The walls were solid concrete, as was the floor. It had no mirror, just a stainless steel sink and toilet. It was lit by a solitary light bulb in the ceiling, barely casting enough light to lift the darkness.

V retched in to the toilet violently. He whole body shook with it, tremors running through his muscled frame, and his breathing was choked and labored as he gasped for breath between the heaving in his stomach.

His eyes were open; he stared at the wall, unwilling to close them. Still, he couldn't shake the memory. He felt his hands close around her arms, jerking her hard enough to bruise. His hands easily fit around her bicep. She was so small. He felt her hair in his hand as he forced her to sitting, his other hand around her neck, controlling her body. The vibration of the clipper as he took her hair still made his hands shake.

And the worst. V dry-heaved in to the toilet thinking of it again, his stomach long since emptied. Her clothes falling to the floor as he cut and ripped them off. Her hands in his as he bound them above her head in the shower. Her cries still rang in his ears as he turned the hose on her.

The absolutely terrified and lost look in her eyes as she turned to him as he slammed the cell door in her face.

V slumped down next to the toilet, body spent, mind reeling. V swam in the shame of it, the utter revulsion he felt toward himself. He wished he had never thought of her naked. It would relieve some of this self-hatred.

His thoughts had never really involved himself, per-se. Mostly his hands, if he was involved at all. He shied away from any other thought of himself involved with her. It was her grace that made him do it, the slender neck, the curve of her hips, and little bits of glimpses of skin that came with living in such close quarters. She was this beautiful creature in his world, and he had adored the form of her.

The moments when he paused, when he stood completely still in her presence because she had taken his breath away, he thought of the way she might feel. He had never touched his skin to her own, and he wondered at the smoothness of her. He imagined the feel of her back as his hand slid up to her neck, burying his fingers in the curls.

V groaned, wishing he could vomit some more. How disgusting could he be? His thoughts of her then were a mockery of their current situation. Her curls? He had removed that to remove her identity, to rape her of something small, to break her a little. Her naked form? He closed his eyes and wished will all his being to remove that sight from his brain. He had started the slow torture of trying to destroy her courage, and trembled under the weight of his nausea and loathing.

He closed his eyes, knowing it would only get worse. She would always hate him for this, and he would always hate himself.

He knew that there was only one way he was going to get through this. His detached self, the part that stood for justice and revenge, would try to break her. He would continue as "V," bent on changing the world, and would try and change her to turn her in to a better version of herself. Through duress, through torture, through the lowest and most vile experience he could create. He would make her stronger.

V lay fully down on the floor, his back protesting against the hard surface. He saw the light above him, and when he closed his eyes, that burning dot of light was still there in the darkness. His chest burned, his whole body ached, and he wondered if this was what his heart breaking felt like, or if this was his body's way of punishing him for being so disgusting. His breathing was shallow, trying not to move too much through the pain.

He wondered how she was coping, alone in that cell. He would love to run back down that hallway, dressed as V, take her in his arms and "save" her. But that would make his actions worth nothing. He would truly be a coward, and the pain he had put her though would be useless. He couldn't do that. So he would continue.

The pain in his chest increased as he realized that she would never forgive him. He didn't blame her.

Evey focused on the one point of light in the room, the slit beneath the door. She was so cold, hurt so much, was so terrified it was blinding, so she was curled up in the corner of the cell. She had stopped crying a few hours ago, and had slipped in to a kind of numb meditation, looking at that slit of light.

Evey didn't know why, but the only source of comfort she felt was the thought of V. She wrapped the idea of him around her heart, and felt stronger. She shivered in the cell, but if she thought of his voice, if she pictured his mask, she could almost feel his cloak settle over her, protecting and warm.

Part of her hoped he would save her, but part of her was afraid of that hope. She was here, she had left V, and she could have no expectations of him. So she simply thought of his strength, his determination, and his condemnation of all that would imprison her, and slept. In her dreams, she told him she was sorry and that she missed him, and in her dreams he smiled his frozen smile and freed her.