Chapter 7

***

As much as everyone wanted to have a party, an impromptu Winterfest celebration, Vincent knew Catherine wasn’t yet up to such stress. Too many people at once was likely to overwhelm her. Instead an informal queue lined up outside their chambers. One or two at a time, the members of the community Below came inside, sometimes giving them a break between visitors. Catherine was hugged more times in two hours than she could count.

Some of the tunnel folk brought her gifts. Every one wanted to, but Vincent had made them promise not to overwhelm her. Instead of a massive pile of welcoming presents, she had a small handful of truly meaningful ones. A wardrobe of clothes, fit for a tunnel princess, all beautiful and strange and functional. Peter and Diana both brought some of her things from her old life, her first life. Diana brought her photographs and memories and trinkets from her childhood, old dolls and letters and her high school journal; all things which she had used to build her own tiny fragment of Catherine’s spirit. Peter brought those things which held both intrinsic and sentimental value which he couldn’t allow to go to charity or auction, no matter that the proceeds of that auction had gone to the Margaret Chase trust, and therefore to her family Below. Family heirlooms and antiques which her parents had collected.

When the line came to Brian he wandered in rather hesitantly. "Hi, Ms. Chandler," he said with a shy grin. "When they slipped the message to me to come Below, I wasn’t sure why. I’m sure glad you’re all right."

"Brian?" Catherine asked. She smiled at him but was confused. "Why did they tell you?"

"You didn’t know? I thought you didn’t recognize me." He looked at Vincent. "I’m the one who saw her at the Institute."

The one who had put both the Lady Catherine and Sir Vincent into a story, and pulled her from her tomb. Catherine put Jacob off her lap and stood up to hug Brian. "Thank you!" she whispered. "You’re a real prince, Brian." She kissed his cheek.

Brian blushed all the way up to the hairline.

Vincent touched the boy’s shoulder. "I will always be in your debt, Brian," he said. "Anything you need, you be sure to let me know."

"Get me out of twelfth grade chemistry?" Brian asked. Then he laughed. "Just kidding. I’m just happy to help."

"I can’t get you out of it," Vincent said, "but if you’d like to come down here, I can help you study."

Brian blinked. "Woah, really? I can come down? Whenever I want?"

"Whenever you want." It was true. From then on, Brian was considered a modest hero, and became a frequent visitor to the world Below.

So many friends came and welcomed her to her new life. Pascal and Mary, the children (not such children any longer,) Samantha and Kipper and Geoffrey, Lena with Baby Cathy on her hip, and Mouse, who nearly set the room on fire with the glowing Welcome Home display he’d concocted.

Catherine grew tired long before it was over, but she didn’t dare say anything. She wanted to see everybody, to be certain that everyone was real and here and waiting for her. She had agonized over which part of her personality every member of the community Below had represented. Some had been easy; Pascal was obviously her work ethic, Jamie her sense of adventure, Father her cautious wisdom, Mary her nurturing streak. But who the heck was Mouse? And where did Lena fit in? Seeing each of them as real and whole people was a relief as profound as realizing she wasn’t mad.

Finally the queue dispersed, the receiving line was finished, and Catherine heaved a deep sigh. "This is home," she whispered.

"You are home," Vincent said. "And we are safe – together."

"Together." She nuzzled the sleeping child in her arms and tried to stifle a yawn. "Where does he sleep?"

Vincent pointed at the tapestry which partially blocked the boy’s alcove from the rest of the room. "There, usually, but Lena thought... ah."

Lena looked in and grinned. "Looks like he’s been ready for a while. I’ll get him."

Catherine raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Jacob’s going to sleep in the bunk room with Mary and the other children tonight," Lena explained. "He’s done it before, he likes it," she added. As she took the sleeping child from Catherine’s arms she smiled. "I’m so happy you’ve come back. This world wasn’t the same without you."

Catherine had heard those words three dozen times since she’d come into this chamber, but they were as welcome now as they had been the first time.

"Who’s idea was that?" Catherine asked when they were gone.

Vincent looked a trifle embarrassed. "Lena’s." Catherine realized she had to thank the ex-prostitute for that. "She was quite insistent. She is a little forward about such things, but I thought she was probably right. You need peace for your first night."

Catherine swallowed. "You’re not leaving, are you?"

Vincent shook his head. "Never," he whispered.

She buried her face in his chest and breathed in the wild scent of him. "I’m so tired," she breathed. "But I’m afraid to go to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and it will all have vanished."

Vincent kissed the top of her head, and then her forehead. "I will hold you as you sleep," he promised. "And I will be there at the end of all your dreams, holding tight to you."

She was too tired for more than a gentle kiss, but even that was an ecstasy of bliss as she curled up beside him in the dark. Their limbs intertwined in a lover’s knot, and Vincent found it difficult to close his eyes. Long after Catherine had succumbed to slumber he lay awake, watching her, memorizing the new lines on her face. It was several hours before his eyes closed, and he let his new joy envelop him into sleep.

***

Vincent awoke from one hell to another as Catherine’s cry of pain rang in his ears. He forced himself upright, his heart beating so strongly he felt his veins about to burst. "Oh, ow!" Catherine whimpered, cradling the side of her stomach.

"Catherine!" Vincent stared in horror at the thin lines of crimson which marred her pale flesh, revealed through the shredded nightdress she wore. He didn’t have to ask whether he had done it. Her blood still graced his claws. "No!" He gasped and almost coughed his denial of this most horrifying of images. His breath got lost somewhere in his chest he scrambled away, fleeing from the bed, running from the love he did not deserve to have.

He didn’t get farther than a foot before she launched herself at him, holding him firmly by the shoulders. He fell to his knees and she hung upon him with all her weight, hanging half off the bed. "Don’t you leave!" she breathed, and her tears fell onto his hair.

His words came in an anguished groan. "What have I done?"

"You were dreaming, Vincent," Catherine told him, her breath coming in gasps. "Come sit. We’ll talk this through. Don’t you leave!"

It was only the desperation in her voice that cut through his revulsion. She wasn’t begging for his well being. Her psyche was still too fragile to be left alone.

He sat perfectly still until he realized she was in a very uncomfortable position, and likely in pain. He shifted and caught her in his arms, letting her fall into his lap, her arms still locked around his shoulders. "Forgive me, my love."

"There’s nothing to forgive," she said. "Nothing. I will not endure more years of watching you run from me! I can’t do it, Vincent, I haven’t the strength!"

"Shh, shh," he whispered. "I won’t run." He kissed her forehead again and again. "I swear to you I won’t run." He would give up sleeping forever, and never part day from night. He would cut his hands off at the wrists, but he would not run from her. For a long, long time they sat in the dark on the cold stone floor, each in their own separate hell. After some time he buried his nose in her shorn hair. "I thought it was safe," he said, and the tears began to fall. "The nightmares had stopped."

"They never stop," Catherine said into his chest. "I have them too. They only wait until you start to feel better. Then they come back. Then they sleep, until something reminds you of them. They’re your mind, Vincent. They aren’t a plague or a disease. Dr. Malachy says they come back when your heart starts to heal. Your mind tries to come to terms with all that’s happened to you, so it brings it all back in your dreams."

"She doesn’t know," Vincent said.

"Don’t blame her for not accepting you," she said. "My rational mind couldn’t accept you, either. She was a very good psychiatrist."

"Perhaps," he said. "But I am not the same as everyone else."

Catherine sighed. "Oh, I’m too tired to argue. Just swear you won’t let go of me."

"I swear," Vincent promised. He picked her up and lay her back upon the bed. Her wounds had bled across the pretty tunnel nightdress, and he fought back bile. "May I light a candle?"

She nodded and he did let go of her, but only for a moment, long enough to light enough candles to assess the damage he had done. He breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled aside the rent fabric. It was only a few layers of skin, likely not deep enough even to scar. He hadn’t been attacking her, after all, it had only been his violent thrashings as he battled through his nightmare. Still, even that was too much. "I’m so sorry, Catherine."

"Don’t be," she said. "I like the pain. I know I’m alive."

"No, Catherine."

"I felt nothing before, Vincent," she said. "Not pain, not joy, not even boredom. I was dead. I’d rather you ripped me limb from limb than return to that emptiness."

He looked away. In his unconscious rage, he knew he could have. Her hand caressed his face. "You haven’t been well, either," she said. "Tell me."

He hadn’t meant to burden her with his woes, but her voice, her voice, drew him deep from within. "I died when you did, Catherine. I was couched in my own hell. Hard won, the ground I covered back." He looked down, ashamed. "I should have known I could not... live again the dream we shared before."

She kissed him, gently, and he did not pull away. "We can," she said gently. "We need to take it one day, one step, one problem at a time. Your nightmares will cease. In the meantime, I suggest we get Lucia to make you some mittens." He looked at her, taken aback. "Leather mittens, for you to wear at night."

"What?"

"You were going to protest we could never sleep in the same bed again, yes?"

She knew him.

"I don’t accept that. Accept my compromise, or we deal with the risk."

"That could end in your death."

"So, it’s the compromise."

He closed his eyes. The thought of never holding her through his sleep was painful. "Yes," he said.

The scent of her blood was making him a little crazy. He gently touched her hip, near the wound. "Let me tend this."

She nodded, and he left to get the first aid kit he kept near Jacob’s alcove, mostly to tend similar wounds which Jacob had been known to inflict upon himself during his own childish nightmares. He carried it back to the bed and sat down beside her. A basin of water had been left near the fire grate, and he fetched this now, and a clean cloth. After washing the blood from his own claws, he lifted up her nightdress to clean the wound. The warm water washed away the already drying blood, and cleaned the threads of her nightdress from the three, parallel wounds. "It shouldn’t scar," he said, more to reassure himself than her.

"I hope it does," she said. "I hope to keep a mark of this night, when I’m back together with you." She touched the line of scar on the side of her face. "This one is from when you first found me." She touched the velvety fur on the side of his face. "Where are yours, Vincent?"

"Too deep to see," he said. "I fear too deep to heal." He dried the wounds and treated them with an antiseptic, and then bound them with gauze and surgical tape. The days of the tunnels being short on necessity were over, between Margaret’s trust and the extra money added to it from Catherine’s estate. Whenever he treated Jacob, and half the time when they ate, Vincent always thought how his beloved was contributing to their care.

"You will heal, Vincent," Catherine said. "And so will I. I believe in the impossible now."

He looked at her a bit ruefully. "You’re back with me. I should too."

"But you don’t?"

He shook his head. "I believed... when I first knew you lived, and still loved me... that all would be well. I believed the moment I had you here, Below, with me, that I would stop grieving. I haven’t. I grieve for you still. It’s like a shadow in my mind, trying to swallow up my happiness. And I regret... I regret every moment I was with you and did not take you into my arms, into my bed, all the years I made you endure my cowardice. I regret every time I didn’t trust you to accept me, to love me, all the time with you I wasted. I regret..." and here the tears began, and he could not banish them away. "I regret leaving you in your darkest hour, condemning you to the blackness that consumed you. I regret abandoning you. I regret failing to recognize your life could be saved by a simple injection. And I’m so sorry, Catherine! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

"It wasn’t you!" she whispered, pressing her lips to his cheek. "I’m so sorry I couldn’t force my breath, force my heart stronger in my chest so that you would know I hadn’t left you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t trust in you, couldn’t trust in our love. I’m so sorry I didn’t run as far and as fast as I could to get back to you the moment I could find my own voice again." She was weeping, too. "I’m sorry I let you travel through your grief, all alone. Vincent, I regret, too."

"It wasn’t your fault."

"It wasn’t yours," she said back.

He took a deep breath. "We have to shed these regrets, don’t we. Shed them like a weight, so that we can go forward."

Catherine lay her nose beside his. "Go forward with me, Vincent. Take this rent and bloodstained dress from me."

He couldn’t be sure if it was his state of mind or the years apart or the adrenaline that still lurked in his veins from his nightmare and the subsequent drama, but those extremely graphic words were like a lighting bolt. They could have killed him on the spot, or they could cause a dying heart to beat again.

A terrible growl ripped from his throat and his hands closed on her arms. His tears were banished, but he could still feel them trembling on his cheeks. His words went gleefully on a delightful vacation somewhere sunny, and he desperately wanted to pull her close. Then he paused. This was too much passion, while she was still weak from a year of inactivity and depression. He craved her too much to fall headlong into this frenzy.

She knew him. "Don’t you dare," she breathed, sensing his indecision.

If he was still capable of anything so human as laughter, he would have laughed. The deep throated sigh he gave might have been a chuckle. He lunged himself forward until he had her pressed beneath him, felt her tiny body against every line of his. He bent forward to kiss her, and the taste of her was sweeter than blood or wine. It wasn’t enough, though. He sat upright and fixed his hands on the collar of her pretty, brand-new tunnel nightdress. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ripped it down the center, tearing it from her with a unrestrainedly sensual sound.

She cried out, and at first a part of him thought he might have hurt her. But she was grabbing at his night shirt, and he realized she was only pleased. That pleased him. His mouth split into a feral grin, and he let her pull the nightshirt over his head.

He had her straddled, and the moment his shirt was off he bent down over her, anxious to feel her skin against him. With one thrust he pushed his fullness against her stomach, and that was nice. She was warm and soft, and the urgency faced from his eyes. Better to savor this. Better to taste her slowly. He licked her lips and slowly shifted until she was half on top of him. The soft skin of her back was warm against his palms, and she rubbed her hands up and down the fur on his chest as if she was going to crawl inside him. Her hands reached down to untie the drawstring on his trousers, and he half growled, half purred as she pulled the soft fabric over his erection.

He kicked the unnecessary piece of fabric off and surveyed the flesh of the woman who nestled so neatly beside him. Perfect. He needed to taste her. There was the perfect spot, round and soft and just at his eye level. He pushed her gently onto her back and licked the little knob of flesh upon her breast. Oh, that was delightful! As was the little sound she made, a pleased whimper. He licked it again and again, finally closing his mouth around it and suckling. He wanted to chew, but restrained himself. This was his woman, he needed to keep her undamaged. His right hand traveled up and found her other breast, round and full and just the right size. It filled his hand perfectly, and he slowly kneaded the soft flesh, gently, not strong enough to break the skin, but he could feel it beneath his claws, and that felt good.

"Nngh!" she groaned.

Ooh, that was nice! Why didn’t she make that sound again? In the hopes that he could pull it out of her he shifted sides, unintentionally shifting his body until his hip pushed between her legs. With his left hand he kneaded her right breast while his mouth turned its attention to its new toy. She pushed up against him, and he felt moisture on his hip. The sound she made this time was even better.

He looked up at her, and something changed. Something sweet and valuable lay here beneath him. He could almost find her name, but the name had fled along with the rest of his words. It didn’t matter. This was her, and the sudden wonder of her being here with him overwhelmed him. He crept up her gently, hesitantly, as if she might push him away, and very slowly brushed his lips against hers. The kiss bounced back and forth between them hesitantly, sometimes a kiss and sometimes not, and each time it wasn’t it made the next time sweeter still. Then he pulled away and stared at her. Her eyes, her hair, the red blush on her cheeks, was all so beautiful.

"I love you," she told him.

He understood the words, and wanted to say them back, but he couldn’t find them. The confusion must have shown in his eyes because she kissed him and then whispered against his mouth, "It’s okay."

It was okay. He bit her lip gently to show that it was, and she grunted with pleasure. He tried it again, on her jawline, and down her throat, careful not to use the sharp fangs, but only the blunt little teeth at the front of his mouth. Then he licked her throat, absorbing the strong pheremones she released there, and kissed it, rubbing his face all into her scent.

She made another of those small, delightful sounds, and picked up his right hand. He let her, and she brought it to her lips, gently nipping the pad of each fingertip, making him purr with pleasure. He pulled his hand away and touched her cheek with the tip of his sharp claws. Very, very gently he ran them down her face, along her neck, touched them to the quivering butterfly of her pulse. Both of them were aware at that moment that he held her life in his hand. And what he did was to run his thumb gently along the throbbing vein, and follow up the touch with a kiss.

Her hands were on his back now, holding him to her, running up and down his muscles, and he flexed his shoulders at how good it felt.

She made another of those sounds again, and he ran his head down along her torso, stopping to investigate her navel with his tongue. She laughed at this, and he did it again. With a somewhat indignant squeal she pushed his head away from it. He chuckled a purr and ran his nose along her stomach until he came to a white bandage. He could smell her blood beneath it. His words may have fled, but his memory was still intact. He knew what had happened here, and he felt sorry for it. Very, very gently he nuzzled it, and her hands found his hair and stroked it.

The sound he made came from his throat, like a growl or a purr, but it was a sound of remorse. "Hm," she said in reply, and he knew his apology was accepted.

Now that he was down here, a positively delectable scent was calling to him. There, between her legs, was something he knew would cause her to make a great deal of noise. He found it first with his nose, and her body unfolded around him, her knees coming up to protect him. He touched the tender nub with his tongue, and she sighed with contentment. Nice, but it could be nicer. He lapped at it, loving how it changed shape beneath his tongue, how her body shivered when he pushed on it so gently, and now she was humming, her voice punctuated by her breath, which was coming rather uneven, and he opened his mouth to suck on the little knob, and she cried out and her legs shuddered and pulled around him, and he licked it one last time, and she lifted his head and sighed at him, and he thought he should probably stop, now. He wiped his chin on the convenient nest of curls which waited just above there.

He began to crawl back up over her body, and he looked down on her, lying luxuriously upon his bed. Tears touched her cheek, and he bent down and licked them, concerned. "Just happy," she murmured, and he lifted himself back up. He could have hung over her for half an eternity, but she had other ideas. She placed her hands upon his chest and pushed him, gently, until he lay on his back. He let her, mostly out of curiosity, and was pleased when she followed and stretched her legs to straddle him. Moist and ready she lowered herself onto his shaft, and he purred with contentment as he felt her slide up and down him. Again and again she rubbed that hot, wet channel over him, and smiled as she let him fill her again and again and again.

Nice as this was, it wasn’t really what he wanted. He took hold of her gently and guided her off. She climbed off readily, but only to change positions, and the hot channel she touched him with now was her mouth. He closed his eyes this time, feeling the tiny buds of her teeth as they gently ran down his shaft, the wet wildness of her tongue as it caressed him. Ooh, that might be too nice! But this wasn’t what he wanted, either, and he gently guided her away and turned her over and perched himself behind her and entered her that way, and she pushed herself against him and his hands found her shoulders and he thrust and thrust and thrust into her...

But something was wrong. Something was missing, and it galled him. They had done this before, but something wasn’t right. He kissed her shoulder to let her know, and turned her over and stared at her. Her eyes were bright with hunger, despite all the play they had been through, and he thought she sensed something missing too, else why would she still be hungry? What was it? He was still inside her, and it kind of felt good just to sit here, still, filling her, being a part of her. But something was still missing.

"Please," she whispered. "I want it."

He wanted it too, but he wanted it right. His eyes bored into hers, concerned, frustrated, and she closed her eyes. "Please, Vincent. Fill me."

The words made sense to him. Double sense. He wanted her to fill him! Couldn’t she understand? His hands sneaked up and he held her face between them and stared into her eyes. There was a word he needed, the most important word in the universe. It took him long minutes to find it. "Catherine," he whispered.

She groaned then beneath him, and arched her back and pushed herself into him, and he grunted with relief and tucked his hands around her back and let it all wash through him and through her and breathed in every nuance of her as they came together into their newly resurrected Bond.

He lay atop her, breathing in gasps, but it was less from the climax (lovely as it had been) than from the relief. He felt as if he had just regained his sight. The woman he held was no longer a blind spot in his sixth sense. She was a bright rainbow of radiant color, brighter and more beautiful than any he had ever known. He rolled off her, pulled her warm nude body into a nest made by his own.

"Catherine," he breathed. "It’s..."

"I know," she cooed. "It’s back." She buried her head into his chest and a sob touched her voice. "When... when Jacob was inside me, I think it all had to go to him. But once he wasn’t anymore... I didn’t want it to go to you. It was all pain and sadness and fear and nothingness." She looked up at him, and he regarded her with steady blue eyes. "When you found me in the park, and put me back together, I rebuilt myself around you. You had so much strength, I thought. I knew later that you had your vulnerabilities, and I had to be gentle around them. With that much pain inside me... I knew I couldn’t hurt you with it. I was blocking you," she whispered.

Vincent had always known that Catherine was the one with the control valve on their Bond. She was the only one who had ever managed to turn it off, when Paracelsus had abducted her and taken her to a dark world even further beneath their world. He had suspected, when he discovered that Catherine had been carrying their child, that the pregnancy has somehow interrupted their Bond. But the blind spot in his senses had been a constant aggravation, and only Catherine could lift the veil and let him fully back into her life.

And she had!

"I love you," he told her.

It took him a minute to realize that she had said the same words, at the same time.

***

Epilogue.

Vincent’s Journal.

June 15^th.

It’s been more than a month now, and so far all is well. The nightmares haven’t stopped, for either of us, but we have each other to hold when we wake up from them. Diana asked Catherine if she had her permission to tell Joe Maxwell that she was alive and relocated through the "witness protection program." She thought he deserved it, for putting Diana on the case in the first place. Catherine told her to just tell him she was "happy".

Jacob adores his mother, and she is enthralled with everything he does. She finds him considerably more uncanny than I do, but she hasn’t watched him every moment.

Catherine still won’t hear of ever going Above in the daylight, but I’ve finally persuaded her to come with me for a walk in the park this evening. I have faith her fears will fade, given enough time. As my grief is a scar I will bear forever, her fear is a barrier she will always have to face. But we are both safe here Below, and happy in each other, and even with the burdens of our tragedies, we have all we truly need.

Regret still weighs heavy in me, but I do my best to make up for it by seizing every moment, cherishing every gift. In the end, we’ve passed through all the horrors and wrong turns and tragedies in our lives, and come back to the surface.

Though they go mad, they shall be sane;
Though they sink through the sea, they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost, love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.