"Waking To The Light"
By Debbie Nockels
DISCLAIMER: The characters do not belong to me. They were the creation of the wonderfully talented Ron Koslow, but who else holds copyrights at this date I'm not sure. This is a work of love, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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PART THREE
������ Vincent hesitated then slowly opened his mouth. Catherine deftly popped in the entire puff and Vincent got his first taste of campfire-toasted marshmallows. He chewed the warm, gooey substance and swallowed. "That's good," he said after a second.
������ "Good!" said Catherine, already preparing the next batch. Twice more Vincent enjoyed this new hand-fed treat before calling a halt. "I think that's enough for me," he said apologetically.
������ "They are plenty sweet," Catherine agreed, then her eyes focused on his mouth. "Uh-oh, my aim must have been off. You've got a bit smeared on your upper lip."
������ "I'm sure water will remove it," he said, smiling, and started to rise.
������ "Wait." Catherine put her hand on his shoulder. "I think I can take care of it, Vincent."
������ He looked at her quizzically. She came a little closer and leaned forward as if to kiss him. Involuntarily he closed his eyes. But instead of her lips he felt the moist touch of her tongue on the edge of his upper lip. Vincent's heart flip-flopped; he forgot to breathe. Once . . . twice . . . three times her tongue flicked out, licking away the sugary residue. Then the strokes stopped, but Catherine stayed where she was, her mouth poised only an inch away from his. Her breath wafted delicately across his face; the warmth of her body, so near, was a siren call in his blood.
������ The need for oxygen finally made itself felt. Vincent took a deep, gasping breath and released it. Instantly Catherine lowered her mouth to his in a soft, tender kiss. Her hands rested on his shoulders with the lightness of a butterfly, yet Vincent felt their touch throughout his entire body. The light sweep of her tongue over his lips took him by surprise. Instinctively his lips parted. An instant later he felt her tongue slide between his teeth and delicately brush his tongue before withdrawing. Through the roar of blood in his ears he heard her whisper, "You are so beautiful, Vincent."
������ "Catherine, you don't know what you're saying," he somehow managed to choke out.
������ Catherine shook her head; her fingertips lightly caressed his neck. "You think not? Let me tell you what I saw when I returned to this cave tonight: You were just raising this shirt - " she fingered the laces at his throat " - to pull it over your head. I saw you without a shirt, Vincent, and what I saw was beautiful."
������ Her fingers slid through the opening between the laces. Vincent felt her gently smooth the dense fur as far as she could reach, then she took her hand away, moving it up to his face. Stroking his cheek she murmured, "I just wanted you to know that I find you very beautiful and very desirable, as I told you this evening and as I will continue to tell you, again and again, until it finally sinks in. I love you, Vincent." After another light kiss that he felt clear down to his toes she went over to her sleeping bag.
������ Vincent sat unmoving even after Catherine had gone to sleep, paralyzed by a surge of conflicting emotions.
������ ("Beautiful." She saw me without my shirt (a wave of humiliation) . . . she said I was "beautiful" . . . and, and . . . "desirable" . . . she saw me . . . she wasn't afraid . . . or repulsed. Father says it is a life that can never be . . . not for me.)
������ ( . . . Lisa (sharp pain and guilt) . . . Lisa was afraid . . . Catherine isn't. "Beautiful" . . . "desirable" . . . Catherine . . . desires me . . . Lisa - it was so many years ago; is it
possible Catherine is right? Two teenagers . . . one not realizing the degree of caring the other felt for her . . . the other not yet aware of the full extent of his strength, too wrapped in his own emotions to sense hers.)
������ But, he realized with a shock of inspiration, he had never had the awareness of Lisa, the sense of her, that he did with Catherine. His bond with Catherine was beyond anything he had ever experienced before; deeper, stronger, so much a part of him that he could no more imagine living without its presence than he could visualize himself in the center of Times Square at high noon.
������ (Is it possible that my greater perception of Catherine's emotions could act as a safeguard? If we . . . if we should try to, to get closer . . . if my feelings threatened to overpower me . . . could my connection with Catherine protect her? Would it keep her safe? When Paracelsus drugged me Catherine was able to reach through the nightmares and bring me back to myself. But that state was artificially induced, through the drug. This Other self is part of me, it comes from inside me . . . not from an outside agency. She is not afraid . . . but I am . . . afraid to trust myself. I love Catherine . . . I . . . desire her . . . she is so lovely, so steadfast in her beliefs . .. she believes we can have a more intimate relationship . . . she wants it . . . as I do . . . dear God, as I do! Yet . . . I fear for her . . . for us. . . .)
������ Through the dying flames of the campfire Vincent watched her sleeping form and trembled with the memory of her kisses, her touches, her words. At long last, cold and stiff and exhausted, he crawled into his own sleeping bag and tumbled headlong into slumber.
������ (Cold . . . so cold . . . shivering . . . teeth chattering.)
������ With a start Vincent came groggily awake. Cold - why was he so cold? He looked over at the fire. It was dead; only blackened remnants remained. He had forgotten to stoke it before going to sleep! Angry at his lapse, he slid out to get the matches. A muffled sound came from across the way. At the same moment Vincent realized that the largest part of the cold wracking his bones was not his own but Catherine's, felt through their bond. In an instant he was kneeling beside her.
������ "Catherine?" He put his hand on her shoulder to wake her and was appalled at the thinness of the blanket covering her. A violent tremor shook her entire body, curled in a tight ball. "S-so . . . c-cold!" Even her voice was shaking.
������ Without stopping to think Vincent gathered her up in his arms and carried her across to his bed. He transferred her to its thick, downy interior, praying that some of his body heat remained there to warm her, then started to turn away.
������ "D-don't . . . l-leave m-me!" Her voice held stark appeal. Vincent touched her face, was shocked anew by its icy feel. Even in the cavernous gloom her features looked pinched and blue. "I'll only be a minute," he reassured her. "I have to get the fire going again, then I'll be back."
������ Swiftly he stacked the fuel, heaping it recklessly high. It would mean a smaller fire tomorrow - or even perhaps no fire at all - but the only imperative right now was to provide Catherine with some warmth. He lit it and remained for a moment, watching to make sure the flames caught. When satisfied that it would hold, he returned to Catherine.
������ "Are you feeling any warmer, Catherine?" He saw the convulsive shake of her head, saw her jaw clenched tight to control the chattering of her teeth. "I'm going to fix you a hot drink."
������ "N-no. H-hold me!" One hand came out from the covering, reached out pleadingly. Vincent hesitated then slid in beside her. Instantly she stretched out along his length, seeking warmth. He wrapped his arms around her and made another unpleasant discovery: her nightgown was made of thin cotton, suitable perhaps for a hot summer's night Above but nowhere near adequate protection against the chill temperatures reached Below.
������ Why hadn't Catherine brought warmer nightclothes - and thicker blankets, for that matter? This cave lay even deeper below the surface than the Tunnels and she knew how cold it got at night there -
������ Vincent stopped short. Or did she? How many times had she actually spent the night Below? Only three times since her initial convalescence, and always in a warm bed, never on the bare floor. That thin foam cushion alone couldn't compensate for the lack of adequate covers. A far better question might be why hadn't he, Vincent, realized how unsuitable her sleeping conditions were?
������ The only possible answer was because he had been too wrapped up in his own, turbulent emotions; he simply hadn't paid close enough attention.
������ These thoughts flashed through his mind as he held Catherine's shivering body close. He had been rubbing her back and arms, hoping the friction would generate a little heat, but long minutes went by and the tremors continued unabated.
������ "C-can't g-get w-warm-m." Catherine's teeth clattered together. Vincent began to feel desperate. His mind raced frantically, searching for solutions. All at once he flinched. Catherine's ice-cold hand had slid under his shirt, coming to rest on his chest.
������ "Warm," she breathed. "You're w-warm." She moved closer. Her other hand joined the first, flat against his chest. Without even thinking, acting solely on reflex, Vincent whipped off his shirt and held her closely. Catherine snuggled against him, making little movements as if trying to burrow into the lifegiving heat. Her hands moved from his chest and he shifted in response to their urging so that her arms slid under his and held him as tightly as he was holding her.
������ Several more minutes passed. There seemed to be a change. Vincent scarcely dared to breathe. Was it working? Were the shivers lessening? A minute later he was sure. Catherine drew in a long, deep breath that seemed to end somewhere around her toes, then released it in an equally long sigh. Her entire body relaxed. She fit her head snugly into the hollow below his throat. One knee slid upward over his leg, gently insinuated itself between his thighs in a movement so completely natural that the urge to protest died even as it was born.
������ "Are you feeling better?" he asked instead.
������ Catherine's head moved in an affirmative nod. "I'm sorry, Vincent."
������ Her breath tickled the hairs on his chest and distracted him so that it was a moment before he took in her words. "Sorry? For what, Catherine?"
������ "For being so stupid. I should have asked you what the temperature here was likely to be at night instead of just assuming it would be the same as it is in the guest chamber."
������ "The chambers where we work and live are heated to some extent by steam pipes," Vincent responded gravely.
������ "Yes. I remember that now." Catherine's voice was rueful and not a little embarrassed. Vincent tried to look at her, but at his first movement to pull away Catherine's arms tightened around him, so he desisted, speaking instead to the top of her head.
������ "You shouldn't blame yourself, Catherine. I should have remembered that you are not familiar with the deeper tunnels, and made sure you were adequately prepared." She looked up at that, and Vincent took the opportunity to put some slight distance between them so he could see her eyes. "But there is one thing I want to know: Why didn't you wake me when you started getting cold?"
������ She looked shamefaced. "At first I kept thinking that I would get warmer. By the time I realized it wasn't going to happen, I was afraid to leave what little warmth there was in my sleeping bag to get my robe or try to do something about the fire - assuming, of course, that whatever I tried would have worked."
������ "Why didn't you wake me?" Vincent repeated gently.
������ He could hardly hear her response. "I didn't want you to know what an idiot I'd been." Her eyes slid away from his then returned. "But I had just decided to call you when you woke up on your own."
������ "I felt your need." She nodded, accepting his explanation. "Catherine, please, you must promise me never to do that again." He spoke with intensity.
������ Shame once more swept her face. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I'll always consult with you from now on - "
������ He interrupted. "I don't mean that, Catherine. You must promise never again to hesitate to ask me to help you in any way I can. That at least is one thing I can give you."
������ It was her turn to interrupt. "You're not still harping on that, are you? Vincent, don't you remember what I told you months ago during that problem with Michael? All those things you think I deserve that you can't give me are nothing - nothing! - compared with what you DO give me!"
������ Vincent was silent. The newly revived fire crackled behind him, sending their wavering shadows leaping across the wall and the faint smell of wood smoke was in the air, tangible reminders that however incredible, this scene was happening in truth. Otherwise he would have easily believed he still slept, for where but in his dreams would he be lying half-naked like this with Catherine in his arms?
������ Catherine pulled one hand around to stroke his chest. He caught his breath at her gentle touch. "Vincent, do you really not understand what our love means to me? Don't you know that when I wake in the morning my first thought is of you, and that your face is the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night?"
������ Her fingers burrowed into the thick fur, pulling delicately at the wavy strands. Vincent's heart began to race. "Don't you know that no matter how busy my day is you are always there, somewhere in the back of my mind?"
������ She planted a lingering kiss on his chest. Her breath seared his skin and the beating of his heart threatened to choke him. He heard her next words through a fog.
������ "Do you really not know how much I love you, Vincent - and how much I want you?"
������ Her head was tilted at just the right angle, her lips parted invitingly. Their bond was awash with love and longing. Her hand continued its foray across his chest, stopping to gently stroke one nipple. An electric thrill went through him at the caress. Slowly Vincent leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers.
������ A soft sigh escaped her as he raised his head. "I love you," Catherine whispered. "Kiss me again, Vincent - please."
������ There was an instant in which time and thought and emotion hung suspended. Then somewhere deep inside him something gave way, like a dam yielding before floodwaters. Catherine's hair gleamed in the firelight. Ignoring her request for the moment, Vincent ran gentle fingers through the silken strands. He had always loved touching her hair, so incredibly soft and fine and fragrant, but on this as on everything else he had always placed limits, never allowing himself that particular pleasure for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Now he revelled in his new freedom, stroking the delicate tendrils curling at her temple and along her hairline, stopping to brush a careful finger along the scar angling out from her ear.
������ "So strange," he mused in a low whisper.
������ "What?" Catherine turned her head and kissed his hand, nestled her face into its palm.
������ "That something this wonderful could come from such a terrible beginning. Catherine, the attack on you is something I can scarcely bear to think about, even now - yet if it hadn't been for that I would never have met you . . . would have lived the rest of my life never knowing the wonder and glory of your love."
On to Part Four
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