„Where's your mask? And why are you out of bed?!" she said the moment he slowly entered the living space.

„On my face." V said, ignoring her concerns for his well being.

„No, I mean your other mask."

„I put it away." He said simply, reaching for the fridge.

„What… are you something like the Phantom of the Opera, now?" she was getting annoyed by his dodgy behaviour.

„No." He silently groaned when he bowed to look inside the sadly empty fridge. For his own liking he didn't heal fast enough. How long had it been since the shooting at the platform? A week?

„As long as you won't start singing.." she murmured. His groan made her stand up and push him down on a chair close by.

„I have to get some groceries, could you be at least so considerate and stay in bed?"

He didn't like that. He had things to do and in general.. Her going in and out of his room to care for him left an uneasy feeling of insecurity. What if she saw him sleeping, his mask out of place or put aside? She clearly knew that he wore it in front of her and wouldn't do so if she wasn't here.

Guy Fawkes. He didn't want to look him in the face day after day. A feeling of betrayal washing over him every time he saw him.

He had to go. But how could he explain? Evey certainly would ask and he couldn't tell her that he was gone for good. Why? He would have to tell her what he had done that night to survive. The price he payed for that. It implied that someone else would take Guy's place. Someone who was locked inside the depths of his being. Tormented. Scarred. The beast would be unleashed. Evey mustn't see that. She couldn't ever know.

So the silent treatment it was. It hurt. But it was for the best.

At least that was his plan. But rescuing Evey from BTN hadn't been part of his plan either and he did anyway. Because.. Life happens. Or love happens.

He could tell she was struggling and so was he. Her return after the choking incident was his lifeline but then there's more to life than just breathing.

All of these tumultuous emotions were giving him a hard time. So he was tempted to give in and surrender to his last remedy. Drugs. The right amount would be ultimate pleasure, a little too much and you'd lay on the floor foaming out of the mouth with your last breath. And then, when it wasn't enough it made you giddy, like ants running up and down your legs. He could control that with a mixture of sedatives and painkillers. But nothing could soothe the internal unrest. Still, he never touched those hard drugs again. The picture of his hands around Eveys throat were the most potent medicine of them all.

It didn't help that he had lost a sense of purpose. Going out and slashing the throats of worthless men could have been a temporary remedy. Supporting the revolution even if only as an anonymous helper. But then he had promised himself that this moment in time belonged to other people than himself. They should build the future. Him acting in the background would be contrary to what he had planned. And he didn't have the strength to betray his morals in such a way – again.

He also hadn't the strength to look her in the eye after she had tried to touch him. He had wondered how long a woman could go without any physical encounter? He looked at the painting of Holy Mary nursing Jesus which was hanging in his study. V couldn't expect her to act on a moral he had imposed on her. Evey was a woman. Sleeping, eating and breathing weren't frowned upon. How could he have expected her to just dismiss her natural longings?

Her touch was innocent at the beginning, a stroke on the arm or a hand resting on his shoulder. Quicker than anticipated he felt comfortable with her hands on his clothed body. But one evening while staying on the couch her hands had been firmer on his chest, clinging to his neck before she planted a soft kiss to his mask. It felt arousing and overwhelming at the same time. But mostly he was ashamed by the thoughts that had crossed his mind since then. What if? One of the most dangerous questions there could be asked.

Evening after evening he hid himself in his study, library or bedroom. Just away from her. Lately he could hear sounds of crying from her room. Unable to go and comfort her, he absorbed the hurt that her voice caused him. Her voice stirred an unrest in him he only knew from the side effects of his tranquilizer. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't just sit and be.

Days came where she didn't leave her room either. She absently sat at the kitchen table where in the past she had sat an eaten with a great appetite complimenting his cooking. He was beginning to miss those days.

Conversation. Something they had vastly enjoyed. It had seemed there was never enough time to talk. Never running out of things to discuss or evaluate. Only to be left with silence. What had changed?

Evey sat there slowly stirring her cold coffee. Waiting for him to excuse himself and vanish into some corner of the Gallery. Which he did. What he did in there day after day? Who knew. Who cared.

Indeed he was running out of things to do. The first thing that came to his mind was reading. Of course there were mountains of books. But he couldn't even finish a single one. Reading reminded him of his phase of mania. And he didn't want to go back there.

He jumped to a stand. Physical activity it must be. Fencing. Swinging the morning star. Push ups. Out of breath he sat down in his comforter . He definitely was out of shape after weeks of rest and depression. But then her voice echoed in his head again and he jumped up to resume.

Day after day he worked out like his life depended on it, and night after night her silent crying fuelled him to do the same thing all over again.

Panting, he crashed to the ground, he couldn't stand up even if his life depended on it. His sweaty shirt felt cold against the naked floor. He lay there to calm his breath, recollect his energy to start all over again.

A small piece of torn parchment caught his eye. Innocently laying besides the table's legs. He took it and lay back on the ground. Only to find a piece of his own handwriting. Notes to the Chronicles of a Death Foretold.

„What are these?" she asked him one morning. In her hand a few sheets of paper. Oh no.

„Trash." He said, knowing that won't be the end of it.

„This is your handwriting. Did you copy that from somewhere or did you write that?" she asked.

There was no way around it. Except lying. But Evey definitely deserved better than that.

„Yes." He said.

„Yes what? Did you copy it somewhere or write that?" she rolled her eyes.

„I wrote that." He huffed.

„Wow. Regarding the fact that the longest sentence you endow me with probably has five words. This is amazing!"

Evey. The suffering from the loads of words and bits in my head is suffocating…. If only you could know, he thought.

„Is there more of it?"

„Maybe." He mumbled, his jaw tense.

„Oh for God's sake! Could you please tell me, without me squeezing it out of you like the bitter lemon that you are?"

Well, at least it doesn't contain anything personal, he thought.

„I'll give you the rest to read.." he sighed. If he couldn't offer anything else at least let her have this.

„What are you going to do with it?" she said. She had been sitting on the Chesterfield reading through loose papers of his writing.

He shrugged. Burn it?

„Why don't you fill in all the missing pieces? I'd be a worthwhile read." She said and bit her lip.

„To pursue what goal exactly?"

„Accomplishment." She said and shrugged.

„There's no sense in writing when there's no one to read it." He said bitterly. Why even invest time and energy.

„So I'm no one now?"

„You want me to write for you?" He eyed her up and down.

„Yes." In all honesty Evey wanted him to do something – anything- except taking apart his armor friends with his sword like a lunatic.

"We'll see." He said, turning back to his study. Someone needed a good load of beating.

Probably wondering why this chapter is all over the place? Well..that's because V is all over the place. Lost in his identity crisis.

Stay tuned… xx