It was late afternoon ... nearly the tea hour ... when V looked at the clock to find that only fourteen minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked.

Traditionally, this was the time of day he might wonder if Evey would be visiting for the evening. Or better -- -- visiting for the night.

He already knew that was not to be though ... ... her night would be spent in her flat, just as the previous night had been, and just as the next night beyond was likely to be. After news of the Tower attack had swept England, less than forty-eight hours prior, her friends had circled round. They would notice her absence more keenly now ... at least until the Eve of the Fifth celebrations would distract attention again.

So he had other plans this evening. -- -- Plans that she might not approve of, and plans that he had, admittedly, lied to her about.

And *that* did not sit well with him either ... ... lying to his mate. Granted, it was a lie of omission. But still.

She had visited for a few minutes that morning. Just long enough to share an embrace and give him the news that Finch would steer the DSI's investigation in other directions. 'Finch would handle things', she had said, to which V had politely nodded and retrieved her into his arms. Their time for the next few days would remain limited, and he didn't want to ruin the moment by pointing out that *he* *too* would be 'handling things'.

The day before, while she had been running interference at the DSI, V had done some surveillance work. He had already made an educated guess as to which cell had been behind the attack. He knew which groups were anxious to have their voices heard in violence, and which groups were small enough to have sent so few men. A bit more investigation overnight had pointed the finger of guilt quite clearly.

He knew who had targeted the group his mate had been in.

He knew who had to die.

He just hadn't told Evey.

The DSI was going to deal with things? Excellent. Wonderful. There were more than a few rebel groups out there that could do with some closer monitoring. But if the government wasn't already watching this group ... well ... soon they would no longer have the opportunity.

Again, the image of his beloved, dropping away as the Tower floor disappeared, popped into V's mind. Again, his blood pressure rose. And again, he looked toward the clock. Three more minutes had passed. Three more minutes for his anger to strengthen, and three less minutes of life remaining for those who had planned the death of his mate.

V took a deep breath to cleanse his lungs, releasing it slowly ... his body was already bracing for the control and fine tuning this would require. He would eat ... something to boost his energy. He would prepare ... sharpening his blades always brought satisfaction at moments like this.

And then he would go -- and dole out nothing more than proper repayment.

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"Look, Bobby, just relax! The worst they can do is connect the boys to Prichardson. Bloody idiots called him for an advance over the XM8s deal. But you know Prich ... he can bury things faster than a feckin' dog."

The man walked casually through a fourth floor room, in an old building on the East Side. He was getting tired of arguing this -- especially with these less experienced men -- and would much rather just focus on upcoming events. The best way to stay ahead of the authorities, in his opinion, was to never cry over spilt milk, nor shout too loudly over any job well done. Get right back onto the task at hand. That was his philosophy, and it had seen his survival through many years in Norsefire's service.

"Has it occurred to you," argued Bobby, "that we're sitting here in good ole' Prich's *property*? And even if he's rolling in the dosh, you know as well as I do his reputation ain't that clean with the yardies."

"Yeah, but they're hardly going to think Prich had anything to do with the Tower," the irritated man retorted. He glanced toward a third, especially wiry young man who sat at a small table, fiddling with a lighter. Wiry guy smirked in agreement with his superior. It was never attractive when Bobby panicked.

The hit, two days earlier, had been successful ... up until the loss of the two recruits of course. Not to mention their contact. But there was a casualty list of government officials, and a nice big pile of rubble. That, they would count as at least partial success.

But Bobby just couldn't get past the fear that the authorities would somehow piece the entire puzzle together -- -- them; the recruits; even Prichardson, their primary source of finances. Somehow, he was certain all roads would lead back to their little lair. Every siren in the distance; every argument on the streets below; even the neighborhood children, playing as children do, seemed to be bothering Bobby at the moment ... ... "And feckin' hell," he grumbled, "will someone make that kid shut the feck up?!"

A boy had been throwing a ball against a building on the opposite side of the street. ... ... Thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk. As it bounced from brick wall, to paved sidewalk, and back into little hands. ... ... Exactly the kind of thing Bobby's jangled nerves didn't need.

"Hey!" he shouted throwing up the window and glaring at the child. "Give it a rest, brat!"

The boy stopped, grasping his ball between both hands. His mum had said the neighborhood was getting worse and worse. And mum was usually right.

"Yeah," wiry guy smirked, "and *that's* gonna help maintain our cover. You ever talk to my kid like that, and I'll break your skull in two. You sure as hell don't," ... ... ...

He stopped in mid-sentence, simply because Bobby had just jumped out the window. ... Or fallen. ... Although if you would have asked Bobby, as he fell four floors to his death, he would have told you that a black hand had suddenly reached out, grabbed his shirt, and tossed him like a rag doll.

"Bobby?" asked their superior, glancing back at wiry guy. He drew his pistol, walking toward the place where Bobby had taken his exit. Maybe the child had been a cover for something? You never knew what kind of traps those government agents were likely to set.

He looked out, scanning the area. Not quickly enough though, to fight off the black-clad man who sprang up from the ledge just feet below.

With one hand, V already had hold of the windowsill, pulling himself inside. And with the other, the rebel's shooting arm was wrenched back -- in an arc right over the man's own body. First came the popping of humerus from shoulder socket. Then the popping of silenced pistol, as V forced the man to fire two shots right into wiry guy's chest.

"What the hell?! What the hell?!" screamed the cocky superior, as he found himself bowled right down to the floor. The invader landed on his chest ... like a black panther wearing the Cheshire cat's big, white, frozen grin. "You're *him*!" the rebel exclaimed in horror. "Holy hell!"

"Quite so," growled the masked man. "And hell is where you shall be going." ... He plunged in a knife, breaking more of the rebel's bones as the blade stabbed angrily through sternum, finally severing heart from aorta.

V rose quickly to his feet. -- -- Three down, two to go, based on his earlier count. And from below, that last pair was already on their way, jogging up the stairway at a relatively good clip.

The actual sounds of scuffle, as V had taken his prey, had been minor. But the absence of the superior's reply when those two remaining rebels called out to the man, proved that something was wrong. So V made ready to receive them ... flattening himself against the wall just a few feet from the doorway.

The first one saw dead wiry guy as soon as he entered the room. But by the time he turned to discern what had actually happened, V had already pivoted out from the wall, using the momentum to add even more speed to the knife now spinning through the air. It landed square in the man's jugular, dropping him backward across the doorway.

Unfortunately, that served as warning for rebel number two.

Originally, rebel number two had been quite disappointed to have been discluded from the team that infiltrated the Tower -- given that it was he who'd had the most training in explosives. Now he just counted himself lucky to have dodged that particular bullet, and was not anxious to simply take a different one -- -- or a different knife, as the case may be, based on what was currently sticking out of his comrade's neck.

He went racing back down the stairway as fast as he could, so frantic in his escape that he actually stumbled and rolled for one flight of steps.

V made a lunge out the door, only to stop short. Why did the sight of the clumsily falling rebel only seem to justify the avenger's anger? Evey had fallen too ... only two nights ago ... and it could easily have been to her death. Why should this rebel receive any better of a chance? Why was the man even trying? Didn't he know his fate had been sealed quite some time ago?

It was pointless to run when you know you're going to die, and V muttered as much under his breath as he turned and stalked back through the room. -- -- "Defeat is a thing of weariness, of incoherence, of boredom. And above all," ... ... he would growl the final two words in frustration ... ... "of *futility*."

And then out he went, vacating the building by the same way he'd entered. -- -- A jump from the fourth floor window that caused V no more damage than the loss of his hat.

A good punch through the old building's rotted door ... no need to fear that the noise announce his presence ... and he met the fleeing rebel near the bottom of the stairwell. The panicked man fired, but the bullets only scattered. The knife still whirled its way through, slicing with a slick twang into the bastard's skull.

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What V didn't expect, when he re-emerged from the building, was to find someone watching him.

A little boy ... the same child whom V had noted bouncing a ball earlier, and the same child Bobby had shouted at so rudely ... stood in the middle of the street. He held V's hat, extending it silently toward the man in black.

Small, anxious eyes grew wide as V approached, making the hero wonder exactly how much the child had seen. The first man falling to his death, possibly? But some evils were unavoidable in this world. V was in no condition, at the moment, to apologize.

Still, he had absolutely no wish to frighten any child. Children were, after all, the true innocents in this world ... ... unblemished, before life had the opportunity to take them in the direction of either good or evil.

"This yours, Mister?" the boy questioned, taking an instinctual step backward. Yet it made V smile behind the mask ... a brief smile on an evening that was filled with very little happiness. Despite this show of the boy's wariness, his little arm remained stiff and sturdy. Some courage was already growing within the child, beyond the mere foolhardiness of youth.

V's hand reached out slowly, trying to imagine the type of menace he might appear to someone so young. "Thank you, kind sir," he replied. "Yes, I'm afraid I must have lost it in my journeys."

"You dropped it when you landed," the child clarified, proving he'd seen more than V had initially given him credit for. ... ... ... "Is it the cape?" the boy braved. "That let's you do that? My dad has some old comic books, and there's one guy who can fly because of his cape. ... Are you him?"

... ... "No," V answered gently, with a slow shake of his head. "I am not whoever appears in your books. I am but a man."

... ...

The boy seemed to mull that statement over for a moment, while V donned his hat.

"Well then," the boy tried again, "is the cape like a parachute?"

V crouched down, hoping to bolster the boy's growing sense of ease. "I am afraid the solution is not in the cape at all. Nor the clothing. Nor the mask." ... One gloved hand reached up to swipe fashionably along the edge of his wide felt brim ... "Nor even in the hat. ... ... The solution, dear boy, is in the growth of the man beneath. Which is why you must grow up strong. And right-thinking. As the men in your books are right-thinking, and as your parents would ask of you."

At last, the type of grin that only a child can sport, began to spread on the boy's face. "Can I jump like that too then?"

... ... It was a good lesson on the intricacies of communicating with a young mind, and V quickly amended his philosophy to protect both the child and himself. -- --

"It's a skill that requires much time, and much strength. The strength of age. The strength of an adult. Grow up well, and maybe, perhaps, when you have become an upstanding, strong man ... maybe I will find a way to teach you. But you must promise not to try until then. Nor must you tell anyone of this secret. -- -- Those bad men in that building ... and others like them ... must not know that I was here. ... ... It's an important secret to keep. ... ... May I trust you to be a good man, and keep it for me?"

... ...

... ... Silence, then the boy nodded, extending his hand -- in a very adult fashion -- for a very gentlemanly shake. V accepted, exchanging the sign of friendship with the child.

And then, with a polite tip of his hat, the masked man was gone.

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The true surprise of V's day, however, was not the rebel who foolishly thought he might escape. Nor the child who had so politely inquired as to the jumping man's skills.

No, the unexpected piece of information, was the name 'Prichardson'.

It was with a sinking feeling that V realized it could be only one man ... ... based on who might have the finances to support such a rebel group; who might have the courage of risk for the endeavor; and who fate might dictate the scoundrel to be. 'Coincidences' had a way of weaving through V's life. -- -- He had a hard time believing they would have no hand in these events as well.

Clarence Prichardson. Someone V knew, if only via mutual acquaintances.

In the old days of Norsefire, Prichardson had been an art collector. One of those who sometimes purchased the works that V 'reclaimed' from the corrupt government, and it's even more corrupt upper echelon.

Of course, few of his patrons had ever earned the honor of meeting V in person -- -- Gordon and Christian being two in particular, as well as a small handful more. Prichardson had remained on the periphery. Someone who knew only the scantest amount about V, but whom V had investigated thoroughly, just as he investigated anyone within his circle of exchange.

Prichardson was wealthy indeed, but always seemed to be a right-thinking chap. Someone who V might even have suggested that little boy emulate.

But no more, apparently.

And to think that someone he might have once trusted ... even if only vicariously ... had taken a role -- any role -- in launching that Tower attack, made V's blood literally run cold.

A quick check of the wealthy man's posh London flat -- the masked man slipping in through the shadows in the way only a friend of the shadows could -- yielded no Clarence Prichardson. It did, however, grant some clues as to where the man might be.

Mr. Prichardson was fleeing. Or at least vacating the country for a bit, based on the international paperwork that lay on his desk. And V had a pretty good idea exactly how the escape was to be made.

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Darkness surrounded the White Waves Marina, home to some of the poshest little yachts on the Thames. A gentleman's establishment, for good English gentlemen.

Security was strict, as usual, guarding against anyone who might hope to abscond with one of these little treasures. V, however, had no intention of absconding with anything, and slipped easily through the water to Prichardson's private yacht.

The man was unmarried ... ... an older sod who considered himself a bit of a ladies' man. And if he was running, lest the Tower investigation catch up with him, then he certainly would not have a lady with him. Not that he'd worry about putting her in danger, mind you, V assumed sarcastically to himself. But because the old sod wouldn't want anyone to slow him down.

Carefully, V climbed over the edge of the boat, removing his cloak as soon as his boots touched dry deck. He'd forgotten how uncomfortable it was, sopping wet and weighted down with water. Besides, there was no need to hide his belt of weaponry here ... ... his old acquaintance would probably be seeing a blade up close and personal quite soon.

And of course his arrival was not *too* silent. He didn't want it to be.

... ...

A shadow moved in the lit, lower cabin, then disappeared ... Prichardson probably expecting to achieve an element of surprise. V just gritted his teeth and waited, his blood still coursing with a deadly anger.

"Well, well," Clarence Prichardson finally announced, when he stepped out from the shadows, a pistol pointed at his uninvited guest. "Look what the cat just coughed up. And I thought the rumours were false."

The subtle tremor in the man's voice belied the fear he was actually experiencing. It wasn't hard to guess that this all linked back to his rebel chums, and he knew the reaction that would probably inspire in the masked man. But still, he made a good play at bravado.

"I'm assuming it *is* you," Prichardson continued, waving the pistol in an attempt at nonchalance. "I mean ... you, you. The real you. Eve of the Fifth isn't for a couple days yet."

"I am me," V answered truthfully, if a bit ambiguously. "And you, sir, are not who I believed."

"Because I was a good customer?" Prichardson queried. Then he tried to shrug. "Money follows the politics, and politics follows the money. But while politics rise and fall, money remains. I know a good investment when I see one, and your new government ... is not one. Not for those of us who value our stations in life."

"And those in the White Tower? Were they an 'investment' as well?" V replied, sarcasm dripping from the words.

"Not the best, I'll grant you," Prichardson replied. "Could have been more thorough. But if the right people heard ... then I'd say that's an excellent return on investment."

V's head shook with a slow, calculated menace. "Ohhhh," he drew in low exhalation. "You shall have a return like you never imagined."

"Look," Prichardson tried again, opening his hands and waving his pistol as if he actually thought *this* the appropriate time to strike an agreement. "Think of me as a student ... a student at your knee, if you will. You should be *flattered*. If one disagrees, one must fight back. One must protect one's interests. Wasn't that the lesson?"

"There is a vast difference between justice and greed," V shot back sharply. "To save your common wealth, you would threaten things ... threaten lives ... of truly priceless worth to others. And for that, your own life is forfeit."

Prichardson's head cocked to the side as he pondered that threat for a moment. "Since when do government officials deserve a free pass? What's really your problem?" he asked in suspicion. ... ... "That Hammond girl?" ... ... Then he nodded as if he'd just solved the riddle of the decade, his grin growing newly lecherous with every second V refused to reply. ... ... "Yeah, I've heard a whisper or two about her as well. Too bad I didn't find that little flower first, eh my boy?"

... ...

And that was enough.

V took his first steps forward, unsheathing two knives with the eager sound of metal upon metal. Prichardson panicked, having never been much of a soldier in the first place. ... ... Those that could, did. Those that couldn't, just paid their way. ... ... His shots were erratic as he stepped backward. And when V deflected the first with the flip of a knife, the next bullets had an even more difficult time.

The second flew into the night.

The third found V's upper arm.

And on the fourth -- hitting as a wound to the shoulder -- V allowed the impact's angular momentum to twist him right over the edge of the boat. He really was growing quite tired of this.

In shock, Prichardson looked hesitantly over the railing, searching for the masked man. Had his bullet hit home? He aimed into the water, firing twice more where the dying ripples suggested the man had gone down.

Nothing but silence. Not even rising bubbles of air.

Prichardson leaned further, peering as hard as he could. But a black suit would be impossible to sight in the river ... especially at night.

That was when the boat moved. Jolted and rocked as if it had just been struck by something quite massive. Prichardson grabbed the railing, but had little balance when the ship threatened to nearly capsize. Over he went, into the same water that had taken his enemy.

V vacated his underwater stance -- -- braced on a dock pole and exerting his entire strength against one side of the hull. The boat continued to sway violently in backlash, but he ducked beneath it, coming up for air and dragging his old associate along with him.

The gun was knocked away easily, and V shored up his grip on his struggling prey. "The student will learn but one lesson from me," he snarled. "And it shall be his last. ... Simple plain Clarence, I do love thee so, that I will shortly send thy soul to heaven."

And on the last word, gloved fingers tightened, digging into Prichardson's throat. The man kicked; the man flailed. But it did no good. Nothing more than an act of futility, really, as he was shoved smoothly -- and permanently -- beneath the water's surface.

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Did the rebel financier die of strangulation? Or drowning? V wasn't entirely certain, but it mattered not a bit in the end. One more walking dead-man -- having signed his own warrant of execution weeks ago -- now put to proper rest.

Once back on dry land, V made a hasty return to the Gallery, pausing multiple times to monitor for sirens before slipping back beneath the earth's surface. There were none -- -- at least not in the direction of the river. The gunfire had apparently gone undetected. ... ... V's enemy had left this world to the knowledge of no one but his judge, jury, and executioner. Under such personal circumstances, that seemed especially fitting.

And by the time the masked man could toss his wet cloak over a chair, it was 4:00am. The boots went next ... post-haste in fact. He never did enjoy being so soggy and soaked.

Evey would be here soon, he thought silently to himself. Within four hours at the latest.

She would be anxious to tell him how she had missed him, as she'd slept peacefully in her flat ... ... knowing nothing of her mate's activities. She would eagerly relay the latest details of the investigation ... ... being horribly unaware, most probably, that the 'investigation' had just been brought to completion.

And they would embrace -- while he suppressed a flinch from the bullet wounds in his arm. Yes, they were beginning to smart. The water he'd been immersed in was not conducive to clotting, nor was it terribly clean. He reached up, touching his glove to the thick, dark red still oozing from the wounds. ... ... They would scar. Of that he was already certain. Not that it would be too noticeable though, against the backdrop of already damaged skin. Besides -- -- new damage, in the name of his beloved, was nothing.

Still, he should cleanse and bandage them properly, using the time to likewise decide upon his explanation.

More lies by omission?

... ... No, not again. Not regarding such serious events.

But neither would he apologize ... not even to the woman he loved. Of that he was equally certain. Even with the fury finally dissipating from his body -- flowing out through the bullet holes once justice had been had ... ... ... even now, the truth had not changed.

Six men in one evening. Three more only nights earlier.

And he would do it again -- a thousand times over if need be. He would take their possessions. He would take their lives. And he would take every bullet willingly ... ... before they would ever take his mate.

It was a resolve that steeled the body like nothing else. Even calming him, as he went about cleaning himself ... shuffling off the effects of the night, and planning for Evey's arrival.

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10:07am, and V was pacing the Gallery's main sitting room.

He still had neither slept nor eaten, although he was finally clean and dry. The injuries to his arm were bandaged too ... medicated and bound up safely beneath his black second skin.

Did they hurt? A little ... if he lifted his arm in just the wrong way. But the wrappings were tight enough to blunt the pain, and the current thoughts in his head were also a significant distraction.

... ...

... ... Where was Evey?

... ...

He'd expected her to arrive early, just as she had done the prior morning. At first he'd been almost dreading it -- to his admitted shame -- knowing that he would have to divulge his activities of the previous day. Knowing that he could never hold and reassure her, under these latest circumstances, unless there was nothing but full honesty between them.

But as 7:00am turned to 8:00am, then moved on to 9:00am, his concerns were rapidly eclipsing any apprehensions.

Had they struck again? Another rebel cell, in retaliation for the events of last evening? Had they somehow guessed that it was Evey at the vicarious center of V's killing spree? It seemed far-fetched, but then so had the Tower attack when it had first occurred.

Perhaps he should visit her flat? ... ... An option he'd also considered. But if one of her friends were there, how would she explain a masked man crawling up her fire escape? It *would* bring him relief though, to know she had merely been delayed in her home. This day of all days, it would bring him infinite relief. ... ... ... Quite a temptation.

Eventually, he'd switched on the television, watching with dread for any news that might include his beloved. Any breaking news. Any ticker tape detail. Relief was only allowed once he'd watched an entire thirty minutes, and neither her name, nor her address, nor even the initials 'CPD' appeared anywhere within the reports.

On the other hand though ... just as Prichardson had died silently in the night, alone save for his executioner ... ... ... ...

V stopped himself, staunchly refusing to allow the thought completion.

No. He would not grant such possibilities even the first entrance to his mind. There would be a rational explanation, of that he was certain.

... ... And Evey was the one to offer it, when she finally walked in a mere ten minutes later.

"Something happened last night," she stated, clearly unnerved. Across the room, V looked up, his breath of relief audible even from that distance. He put down the remote control, moving to greet his mate properly.

"I was just at DSI," she continued, as each folded the other into their arms. "Finch called last night, asking me to be there by 7:00am. No one was around though ... everyone apparently out on the case. Something about another attack by the same cell. But that's all I could get."

V listened silently, still reassuring himself that she was indeed alright. But, of course, that brilliant, analytical portion of his brain was not allowing the obvious errors to escape notice. ... ... What she said was simply impossible.

"That's twice in as many nights?" she continued in disbelief. "Do you realize that? Why can't they just be stopped?"

Her fingers dug into the small of V's back, to the point that he almost wanted to take her hands and calm each digit one by one. ... ... She was frightened. So close on the heels of Halloween, she was -- understandably -- frightened. Especially if that was indeed the news she'd been given.

... ...

In an odd sort of way, it made it easier to reveal the truth. He was no longer delivering a set of facts that might unnerve her, but rather a reassurance that might ease her fears.

... ...

"Evey?" he soothed, his hands finally retrieving her own. He tried to unwrap her from around himself -- and he from her -- finding both tasks to be more difficult than expected. "I have something I must tell you. ... Perhaps you might want to sit down."

The look she gave him was, as expected, not good. "What?" she prompted. "You know where they hit, don't you. My God, were you there? What happened?!" With every question, her imagination ran further afield.

V shook his head, coaxing her to take the nearest seat ... his antique desk chair. Unable to sit beside her, he knelt in front of her, catching her fidgeting hands and holding them within her lap. He had no idea what her reaction to this was going to be. Years ago, hearing of his more violent activities had appalled her. Even sent her running away from him at first. True, she had lived through a revolution since then. -- -- She'd been shot at, and pulled the trigger herself in more than one skirmish. She had hardened in some ways ... something V both celebrated and mourned.

But mere nights ago, she had watched the man she loved kill another in cold, calculated blood -- without even the excuse of claiming imminent danger. There was no point in pretending otherwise. It was what it was, despite V's reasons -- or his determination regarding those reasons. So for her to now discover that he'd killed six more times, within just the last twenty-four hours ... ... ...

"There was no rebel attack last night," he assured calmly. "Or rather, if there was, it did not earn a spot on the news, *nor* was it by the same cell that moved on the Tower of London. Rather," ... he paused, adjusting himself nervously.

"What? What is it?" she asked. The apprehension was promptly becoming worse than any news he might deliver.

V let out another breath. "The attack was *on* the cell, not performed *by* them. Those men are no more, love. They will no longer be threatening you. Or us. ... Or anyone, for that matter."

... ...

Evey's eyes instinctively searched the black screens that comprised Fawkes's, obviously learning nothing in the process. Her mate's stillness though ... ... his grip on her fingers. -- -- There was where she found her answer.

"You killed them, didn't you?" she whispered, her face blank with shock -- neither horrified nor pleased -- leaving V as concerned as ever. "And that's what's happening now ... Finch is cleaning up their bodies."

A moment. ... Two. ... And V spelled out the truth. The *entire* truth. She deserved nothing less, because in the end, he was the one she must trust.

"There were five of them, and they are all now deceased. As well, a financier. A man who provided the means for these attacks. For the training of the devils. ... ... A man I once knew by mutual acquaintance. He has been dispatched as well, and the Thames will soon give up his body."

... ...

... ...

At first, Evey was silent. And V knew exactly the moment he was dreading. -- -- When she would stand up, push him out of her way, and march away from him in disgust. Indeed, he was already defending himself against it. ... ...

"These groups have attempted, once too often, to take your life," he explained, bitterness unavoidable in his voice. "I cannot allow that. And if they must be cut off at the knees, then that is the way it must be. I know the light in which this casts me. I do know what you must be seeing before you. But Evey, if they would take you ... ..."

One hand left hers, the palm opening in an expression of helplessness, and his voice failing briefly. ... ... "If they would take you, there would be nothing left of me either. ... ... My actions are for the survival of us both. Because there is nothing else."

... ... ... ... And her answer, when it finally came, was not the one he had feared most.

"And what if they take *you* in the process?" she murmured fearfully. "That's why I wish you'd let the agents do what they're supposed to do. ... ... You could have been killed. Don't you even consider that?"

... ...

Ahhhhh. Another moment for truth. How well she was pushing him through this, whether she realized it or not. Taking a set of her fingers in his, he steeled himself for the last bit.

"I consider it," he replied honestly. "I have no choice but to do so."

He lifted her hand, laying it gently on his upper arm. From there, she could feel the taut stretch of the bandage beneath. And when her fingers pressed briefly ... deducing what, exactly, she was feeling ... he allowed himself a flinch as one fingertip passed over the worst of the two wounds.

"Oh my God," she whispered, the retreating flinch of her fingers just as instinctive as his had been. Tears sprang to her eyes and she repeated her horror. -- -- "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Truth be told, those tears hurt him more than her inadvertent touch had done, and he caught her hands, leaning earnestly across her lap. "They will not win, love. They will take *neither* of us."

She didn't listen at first ... ... how could she? Her respiration rising, she fought his assertion with the blind ambition only she could manage against this man. "You can't take risks like that." Her eyes flew back to his arm. Knowing the truth, she could now actually *see* the bandage clinging to damaged flesh. "You just can't. I can't go through losing you again!"

... ... That sentiment, from his mate, was quite possibly one of V's only weaknesses. The one thing that could cut directly to the bone; even drop him to his knees. ... ... But not this time.

There could be no compromise.

"You will *not* lose me," he promised, as if his sheer force of will would dictate the events of the universe. And with the resolve he was displaying ... it almost convinced Evey that yes, the universe just *might* have to bend its ear. "You will *not*, love. But nor will I allow you to be lost either."

It quieted her, and one black leather thumb took the respite to wipe gently at her tears. "You must trust me," he plead. "Perhaps that remains a considerable charity to request, even after all these years. But you must trust me. On this, if nothing else. ... ... Can you do that?"

... ...

... ...

Evey blinked, sending another tear to be rescued by his glove. Then she nodded her agreement, reaching to draw him into her arms. He yielded ... hesitantly at first ... then gathered her close when that heartfelt "I love you," came whispered across his ear.

He knew it was a truce, nothing more. As did she. An agreement that would leave them clinging to each other, just as they did now.

He would continue to target them -- *anyone* who dared threaten he or his mate. Taking the risks and meting out the justice, until finally they might begin to heed his warnings.

And she would continue to worry, looking the other way when need be, then returning to ease whatever damage her mate might have suffered. Fretting in a way that even trust could never truly assuage.