This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineHeart of the Minstrel II, in 1991. Beauty and the Beastand its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions andRepublic Pictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoymentof fans.

Turnabout

by BeeDrew

Vincent paused at the mouth of the drainage tunnel, expertlyassessing the length of the shadows that reached their long fingerstoward him. It was not yet safe to walk abroad in the Park, but hecould settle quietly just a few yards from the tunnel entrance, andwait for Catherine.

Silently on his suede-booted feet, he glided into the lee of thetrees near the drainage tunnel and found a comfortable, only slightlydamp place to sit against the gentle slope of land behind him. Hiscloak offered warmth, and allowed him to blend into the dark neutralsof trees and scrub.

There was still light enough to read by. She had said she might belate, and he opened the leather-bound book he had brought, intendingto while away the time within its pages. Idylls of the King.He smiled slightly, remembering. This spot, beloved ever since shehad come pelting across the dew-slick grass and thrown herself backinto his arms, into his life, had become just a little more magicalafter the advent of Kristopher Gentian.

For an hour, Vincent walked with Arthur, pined for Guenevere, andsuffered Lancelot's torment. As the light faded and the words blurredand he floated on the bier with the Lady of Shallot, he dropped hisgolden head onto bent knees, and slept.

*****

Eyes opened. Ferret-like, angry even on awakening, they flickedover the landscape before them, searching for threats. Oropportunities. Instantly, they fastened on the still, massive formhuddled below and to the left. The watcher froze.

He had staggered to this remote corner sometime before dawn,needing a safe place in which to surrender to the pull of the alcoholin his blood. The round welcome of the drainage tunnel beckoned, butthe chance was too great that others might take shelter there, andthat he'd wake up without his coat and shoes--or not wake up at all.So he had stretched out among the leaves heaped against a thicktangle of bushes, and gone to sleep.

If he'd ever had a name that mattered, he'd thrown it off longago. Perhaps he'd left it behind among the peanut shells on the floorof a bar. Perhaps he'd sold or traded it for a needleful offorgetting. Or maybe, he'd stuck it to the face of one of thechildren he'd blown to pulp in that wet green nightmare, with the gunthey had forced into his hand. His rage had spat from it, red againstthe green, as unavoidable as orgasm.

Yet somewhere, somehow, his young rage had grown old. It wasrotten now, ill-fitting. Someone else should wear it.

His eyes narrowed and he barely breathed, studying the unmovingfigure below him. The black blanket looked warm--he coveted it--andthe only other detail he could make out besides the man's size washis long, tangled blonde hair. Long-haired freak. What was he doinghere?

Sleeping, he finally realized. Most likely a stray, like himself,who'd found a quiet--but unfortunately, occupied--place to pass out.Somehow, though, the lines of this figure belied that theory. Toostrong, too easy and defined, even in defenseless slumber. This mansimply liked it here, felt safe enough to fall asleep.

The watcher clenched a thick-ended bottle in one scrawny fist. Itwas long empty, but he held onto it anyway. Like a lifeline, like amother's hand. He'd find a way to fill it again. As he stirred, afoul odor wafted from his clothing--dirt, urine, gin-scentedvomit.

His was not a gentle failure, a quiet sighing away into nonentity,like some of the stumblebums who haunted the park, apologeticallywaiting to be rousted by the police, or frozen to death, or starvedinto scrambling for the popcorn passersby threw to the birds andsifting the trashcans for hotdog leavings. No. His was an angry, acidfailure, full of indignation at a world that denied him his due. Thattook his sturdy twenty-year-old body and shot it full of holes, thenfull of drugs, and shipped it stateside again, used up. And then madehim know what a fool he'd been to go in the first place.

He glared, hating, at the oblivious figure below. Freak,long-haired freak! He flung the thought, hot and silent, at thesleeping man. He flung it out against what he knew himself to be:pitiable. Ragged, filthy, pitiable. What right had that one to hispeace, his rest, in the purple twilight?

His lips tightened back over yellowed teeth as he gripped thebottle, feeling the rage coil within. He began to move forward.

*****

Catherine walked quickly, every third step a sort of hurry-skipthat took her closer to her rendezvous with Vincent. She hadn't seenhim in nearly a week, and it was all she could do not to break intoan undignified run, but she was still dressed for work. Her trim,lightweight slacks and jacket did little to cut the keen wind thatswept her hair back from her forehead and set leaves spinning aroundher feet. She had no doubt that she could talk Vincent into sharinghis cloak. Unconsciously, she smiled.

*****

Nearly close enough now. With practiced stealth he'd rarely usedsince 'Nam, he crept closer to the target. A wind came up, whippingthe treetops into a crackling frenzy that covered the sound of hisapproach. Still the mark had not moved.

The watcher smiled. Memory drew his arm back--he gripped thebottle like the handle of his machete; he swung it in an arc thatcarried all the horrified release of killing. Pleasure coursedthrough him--pleasure he should never have known--pleasure he'd triedto extinguish by killing again, and again, trying to make itmeaningless, trying to make it quit following him.

Just as he would have struck a blow to the back of that blondehead, his victim jerked around. He felt a tight spurt of fear as hecaught the gleam of fangs and heard an animal's snarl above the wind,but it was too late to break off the attack. The bottle connectedagainst an impossible face in a hail of broken glass. Theman--creature, whatever--slumped heavily to the ground, its eyes openbut vacant. The watcher floundered back a few paces, aghast at thesight of its face--its claws. Then he slewed around wildly at thesound of running footsteps.

*****

Catherine saw Vincent and his danger at the same instant. Herthroat closed on a scream of warning that would have been too lateanyway. She ran. Her purse fell from nerveless hands and she knewnothing but white, incandescent rage as she closed on Vincent'sattacker.

He lashed out with the jagged neck of the bottle, but she kickedit effortlessly from his hand. A chopping blow to his throat and ahard shove sent him over backward, and he screamed as his handslanded amid the broken glass. He rolled, still gagging for air, andtried to crawl away.

Catherine came after him, her breath so loud it was almost agrowl. She wanted to hit him again, make him go down, pummel him withher fists and feel his bones splinter beneath her strength.

"No--no--" he begged, holding up a palm laced with bloody ribbons.He screamed as she took another step toward him.

"Catherine!"

It was Vincent, weak, pushing himself up on his elbows as bloodstreamed down his temple and dripped off his chin.

The quivering, graveled name punched through her fury, held herpoised and uncertain, long enough for the attacker to lurch to hisfeet and run. Panting, fists clenched, Catherine stared after theretreating figure. She sent him a dark, green-eyed promise of furtherpunishment if he dared to come back, and ran to Vincent.

She knelt beside him and helped him turn over, holding hisunsteady head against her. "Vincent. Oh, God. Are you all right?"

Her breaths came in heavy gusts, and she still trembled with thewaning fear. She watched him try to frame words, then shake hisblood-matted head in bewilderment. She had to see how badly he washurt. Gingerly, she eased him to the ground, pillowing his head on afold of his cloak, and sprinted to retrieve her purse.

*****

Vincent lay as she'd left him, dazed, slowly collecting histhoughts like interesting rocks gathered at random from a creekbed.He reached with shaking fingers to trace the swelling bruise on hishead and the split skin which still oozed blood.

The blow had, as Father would have put it, "thoroughly cleaned hisclock." His senses felt scrambled and disjointed, so that he couldn'tbe sure he'd really seen what he thought he had: a feral Catherine,launching herself in blind rage at the one who'd attacked him. Andshe'd driven him off, every bit as efficiently as Vincent couldhave.

Abruptly she was back, her breath warm against his face as sheheld up a flashlight to examine his wound. She winced with him as thebrightness stabbed his eyes, but did not lower the light until shehad assured herself that his injury was not serious. She slipped outof her jacket and used a fold of it to dab at the blood.

"It doesn't look too bad. There's quite a goose-egg, but thebleeding's almost stopped. Let's get you to Father."

He slowly sat up, and she allowed him a moment to rest before shegently guided one of his arms around her shoulders and lifted him tohis rubbery legs. Vincent clutched Idylls of the King sotightly that his claws scored the leather, swallowing convulsively ashis stomach surged up to the back of his throat. He was determinednot to humiliate himself by spewing his dinner, but there was asix-inch lead spike riding behind his left eye. He groaned slightlyas they stumbled onto the concrete and took small, halting stepstoward the tunnel entrance.

They reached the gate, and Vincent cringed at the screech it madeswinging open. Catherine nudged him to rest against the stone wall asshe operated the lever that granted entrance to the world Below. Shehelped him through the opening and turned to close it again. Theywere safe.

Catherine took the book of Tennyson and shoved it under her shirtin order to spare him even that small weight. She tied the arms ofher jacket at her waist before she again brought one of his armsaround her shoulders and curved hers around his torso, urging hisuncertain feet down the torchlit passage.

Gradually, the pain dulled to a manageable pounding, and histhoughts stopped jostling like carousel horses out of sync with thetinny ringing in his ears. He drew a deep, steadying breath.

"Catherine."

"Yes, Vincent." A little breathless from the exertion of defendinghim, and now supporting him, she clipped her words short, savingstrength for the single-minded purpose of getting him home.

"You hurt that man badly."

"I certainly did."

Vincent considered that, tasting her words and the color of heremotions. She was accepting of what she'd done, unconcerned. Herchief feeling now was anxiety over his health, laced with fadinganger at his assailant.

Beneath the limp weight of his arm, he felt her blouse and theskin beneath it grow moist with sweat. The touch was shudderinglyintimate, and he blurted words into the space between them.

"You were angry."

She snorted. "Angry? I was crazy! I saw him hit you withthat bottle when I was still yards away. And that's the last thing Iclearly remember until your voice, saying my name."

Vincent kept silent for awhile. "I believe I know exactly what youmean," he said at length.

She laughed, and he felt the vibration of it against his ribs."Quite a switch, isn't it? You in peril, me to the rescue." Atautness lay beneath her light tone as she reached up to give hishand a warm squeeze. "I'll never let anyone hurt you, Vincent. I'llprotect you whenever I can."

So simple. So absurd, that this hundred-pound scrap would proposeto protect one such as himself. Yet she did propose it--more thanthat, she had done it. And he knew, with a clarity that drove backthe pain in his head and the faint, ebbing nausea, what had soelectrified him as he'd watched her tear into her opponent. Hisfeeling had not been fear for her, or astonishment at her ferocity.It had been recognition. Her berserker fury was the twin of his own;she'd had no more control than he had at such times. And she was nothorrified by it, was not ashamed of its presence within her.

Nor was he.

The revelation would bear much thought, but just now he was tooexhausted to do more than shove the idea aside for later. He tried topick up his feet and help her a bit, but they were like the graniteblocks in Winslow's makeshift smithy.

"Not much farther, Vincent," she encouraged him, lifting her handto pat his chest.

He sighed. "You're an optimist, Catherine. One with a bad memoryfor the length of this tunnel."

She laughed again, and they walked on in silence. Vincent's gaitgrew more steady as his body came back from the shock, and the painreceded even further. He could have walked without her support, butthat didn't make him take his arm from her shoulders, nor urge herwarm grip away from his body.

Catherine gave a sudden giggle. "I wonder what Father will saywhen you tell him you were mugged in the Park."

Vincent had to smile. "He'll have a few choice words," headmitted. "I wish we could have helped that man."

He was startled when Catherine jerked to a halt, making himstumble.

"What? What did you say?"

He cocked his head to the side and looked down at her. "I wish wecould have helped him," he repeated. "He was in pain. I felt it."

"Was that before or after he knocked you senseless?" she demanded,exasperation clear in her voice. "He attacked you withoutprovocation. He's..." She shook her head, unable to find words toexpress her disgust.

Vincent shrugged, and turned to resume their journey. Hedesperately needed to sit down, sip some tea, and press somethingcold and wet to his head. "I never heard him coming at me. But justbefore he struck, I felt his pain. Deep, old pain. He needs help. Hewas a soldier." Vincent blinked as a repulsive, split-second memoryflickered to life, a bitter aftertaste of his attacker's blackanguish.

"He was only trying to bring some of the pain out." Vincentgestured vaguely with one hand, finding it difficult, as always, toexplain the ineffable quality of the things his empathy told him.

Catherine muttered something ("Oh for God's sake, Vincent, give ita rest") and her beloved grinned slightly. It might be best topretend he hadn't heard that. He tried to explain further. "It'sconsuming him. That kind of pain eats a man alive, like cancer. Wehave some Below like him. They have healed."

Catherine gave him a rueful laugh, and a forgiving squeeze aroundthe waist. "All right, Vincent, have it your way. But if he comesback with a bigger bottle, you may have the honors."

"Turnabout is fair play," Vincent agreed.

End