Not a Great Star

by BeeDrew

This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineHeart of the Minstrel I, in 1990. Beauty and the Beast and itscharacters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and RepublicPictures. This rather silly little second-season story is presentedmerely for the enjoyment of fans.

He glanced around furtively for observers. Finding none, he tensedpowerful muscles and leapt upward. His hands closed around the rungsof the fire escape and he pulled himself up. This was the mostdangerous part; while still in sight of street level he could bespotted--

"Hey, Batman!"

Vincent froze in the act of swinging his legs onto the fireescape. He looked down and felt his heart sink. Below him, lookingupward with wide, coffee-colored eyes, stood a child of about four orfive.

The little boy took his fingers out of his mouth and wiped them onhis shirt, shifting from foot to foot. "Whatcha doin', Batman?" hepiped.

Vincent gulped, whirled around and continued to climb.Batman? he wondered. The name was unfamiliar, but he'd gladlyanswer to it if it kept the child from screaming in fright.

"'Bye, Batman!" came the wistful farewell from below. Fartheraway, an exasperated female voice reached his ears.

"Rico! Rico, so help me--come back here!"

Vincent, though he shuddered at the close call, had to smile atthe universal antics of little boys. He made a mental note to askCatherine who--or what--"Batman" was.

As he climbed, he felt rising in him the familiar anticipation,the wonder that Catherine actually welcomed him into her world, andwished to share his. Later tonight they would go Below to attend aMozart recital by some of the tunnel residents. He could have askedher to meet him Below, but he wanted a few precious minutes with her,alone, before the ebb and flow of his world absorbed them both. Howbadly he needed her. . . .

He moved rapidly, with the ease of repetition; he could not countthe times he'd made this ascent in the past two years. At the top ofthe fire escape he jumped upward to catch the edge of the tiled roofand dug in his claws for purchase. With a grunt he pulled himselfonto the roof, using small cavities and cracks in the surface asfinger-holds. He began to move, spider-like, toward theridgepole.

Catherine was late. Really late. Dashing into herapartment, she dumped purse, shopping bag and briefcase willy-nillyon the sofa and hit the shower running. Vincent had said seveno'clock. She wondered if he meant seven o'clock, orseven-fifteen, seven-thirty . . . she sighed as she lathered herhair. Vincent was nothing if not punctual, especially when he came tovisit her. Hurry, hurry, she chanted to herself.

Faster. Go faster. But Vincent had to restrain himself.Slow and easy was the way to cross a roof several hundred feet offthe ground. The downward slope made him more nervous than the upward.Carefully he inched closer to the lip of the roof that slanted overCatherine's balcony. He eased his long frame over the edge and hungthere a moment before dropping soundlessly to the floor. His legsabsorbed the impact and he landed perfectly balanced, like a cat.

Feeling his heart quicken, he approached the French doors andpeered inside. Usually Catherine left the doors ajar on warmevenings, but tonight they were closed. He could see lights shiningin the living room and bedroom. With the tips of his claws he tappedgently on the glass.

Catherine was learning to interpret the bond that linked her toVincent. As he drew near, it thrummed to life within her, growingfrom an almost subliminal touch to a warm, joyful sense of him.Quickly she finished rinsing her hair and turned off the shower.

"Out in a minute, Vincent," she called, hoping his preternaturallyacute hearing would pick up her words. She dried herself and slippedinto a light cotton robe before she left the bathroom, stilltowelling her hair. She crossed to the doors and pulled them widewith a welcoming smile.

Vincent's eyes grew round as he took in her appearance. He hadautomatically stepped forward when she opened the doors and now tooka step back, stumbling on the single stair. "I'll go--come backlater--" he stammered. If his unique physiology had permitted it,he'd have blushed hotly.

But Catherine was smiling, tugging on his arm to draw him insideand closing the doors behind him. Almost panicked, he fixed pleadingblue eyes on hers. He found only impish deviltry in her gaze.

"Nonsense, Vincent. Though you are a little early--" She tried tosound aggrieved.

"Seven minutes," he tossed back, after a glance at the clock onthe mantel. His pointed stare set her giggling.

"Okay, okay--I'm late," she admitted with an unrepentant grin. Shetook his cloak and draped it over a chair before she crossed to thekitchen. "Would you like something to drink?"

At his nod, she poured him a glass of the longed-for iced tea.

He took a grateful sip, letting his eyes roam anywhere but at herthinly-clothed figure. What a traitor his mind was, painting instantpictures of what that damp robe must hide. . . . He cringed inmortification.

"Come and sit on the bed while I dry my hair. We can talk,"Catherine invited, taking one hand to pull him with her. Her eyes, onhis for an instant, were just a little wicked.

"Catherine--I can wait--a book, I'll read a book," he protestedfrantically. But with one hand captured in hers and the otheroccupied with iced tea, he couldn't stop her from pulling him intothe bedroom--not without balking like a skittish horse.

With a smile, Catherine seated herself at the vanity and gesturedfor him to sit on the edge of her bed.

"This won't take long. I just have to do my hair and put my faceon."

"Put your--" Defeated, Vincent sat uneasily on the bed, feelingcompletely alien to this airy, pastel place. "What?!"

Catherine laughed as she bent to plug in her hair dryer. "Put myface on. You know, makeup."

Unwillingly fascinated, Vincent watched as Catherine rubbed somesort of lotion between her hands and smoothed it into her wet hair.With a round brush in one hand and the dryer in the other, she beganto style it into smooth waves around her face. When it was dry shedrew one side behind her ear, securing the gleaming mass with anornate silver clasp. She fluffed her bangs around her forehead anddarted a mischievous glance in his direction.

"It's beautiful," Vincent offered shyly. She smiled at him as shereached for a tube of makeup.

A perplexed frown creased his brow as he watched. What he knew ofwomen's grooming practices was laughable--especially women fromAbove. Catherine took a slender wand from the tube of skin-tonedpaste and began to dab it here and there on her face. She blended themakeup into her skin with a fingertip, covering tiny imperfections hecouldn't even see. Amazed, he watched her smooth the stuff under hereyes, erasing faint purple smudges.

Next she added a thin lotion of the same color all over her face,and patted powder on top of that--this he had seen done by those whoput on plays Below, though he'd never worn stage makeup himself.

Catherine next dusted rosy powder over her cheekbones. She applieda light violet color to her eyelids and blended it with a touch ofgrey at the inside corners. Then she bent forward to outline her eyesin charcoal green. Vincent gasped, watching her stroke a darksubstance over her eyelashes with a tiny brush. Wasn't she afraidshe'd hurt her eyes? And had his Catherine really been wearing allthis on her face each time he'd seen her after her healing Below? Hehadn't noticed. He couldn't imagine putting himself through such aprocedure every day, and for what?

Catherine had been watching Vincent's expression in the mirror andhad had to stifle her chuckles. "Voilà," she said with asmile, as she capped the mascara and glanced over at him.

Amusement fled as she took in Vincent's solemn, almost sadexpression. She had meant this as a lark, knowing Vincent'sinsatiable curiosity about the ways of the world Above. Now it seemedthat somehow she had upset him.

"Vincent, what's wrong?"

He reached out a hand to cup her face. "Catherine, why?" hemurmured. "You are so beautiful....." His voice trailed offhelplessly.

Catherine tilted her head to one side, taking in the confusionwritten so plainly on his face. The powerful tide of his feelingssurged through their bond, and her heart warmed as she realized thathe would love her and find her beautiful in sackcloth and ashes. Shemoved to sit beside him on the bed, her knee not quite touchinghis.

"Thank you, Vincent. I'm . . . glad you feel that way." Still shegroped for words, sensing that he wanted her to explain. But how toexplain the concept of enhancing one's looks to a man who, when hechose to meet the word at all, did so without compromise, bare offace?

"Why do I wear makeup?" Catherine smiled thinly. "You know,Vincent, after I met you--after my face was slashed--I did a lot ofthinking about appearances. Makeup, clothes, the whole rigmarole.Once, I was a very vain creature."

She silenced his quickly gathered protest with a touch to hislips. "I mean it. I used to spend hours in front of this mirror, orat the hairdresser, or shopping--hours, Vincent! Hours of perfectlygood time devoted to the beautification of Catherine Chandler." Hervoice dripped scorn for the woman she had been.

"Don't speak so of yourself, Catherine." Vincent reached for oneof her hands and enfolded it in his, stroking her fingers to comforther.

She smiled at him, this dear man who would protect her even fromher own censure. "You know, I've often thought back to that firstmoment when both our faces were reflected side by side. I think myown image was the more frightening--and I don't mean the cuts."Catherine fingered the one remaining scar near her ear. "I saw inthat mirror a woman so scared of facing what was inside herself thatshe slaved to create a perfect mask," she whispered. After onesearing glance, she was unable to meet his eyes.

"You had no need for masks," Vincent said softly. He ran a fingerdown the firm line of her jaw, gently tilting her chin until shelooked at him. "You have always been beautiful, within andwithout."

Catherine felt tears sting the insides of her eyelids. "It tookyou to show me the beauty inside, Vincent. Not," she addedmeaningfully, "that you don't have both."

Vincent dropped his eyes and gave a tiny shake of his tousledhead. Unaccountably, this sent a dart of pain through Catherine'sheart. She reached out to ruffle his hair. "In any case, I've given alot of it up. No more shopping marathons or once-a-week salon visits.But I still wear makeup. It's part of the Cathy I show the world.Some women don't think it's necessary to wear makeup, but I wouldfeel uncomfortable without it. Sort of--naked."

Vincent was silent a moment, assimilating this. "You do that"--hewaved his hand at the clutter on the vanity--"every day?"

"No. I get weekends off," she told him, endeavoring to keep astraight face. She failed utterly as soon as she met his stare, whichfrankly questioned her sanity. Giggling, she decided not to mentionthe horrors of eyebrow tweezing and hot-wax treatments.

She started to rise from the bed, but his hand on her shoulderstopped her.

"I have to wonder," he said softly, slipping his hand into thewarm space between her hair and neck, "at a world that demands a veilfor such beauty." His elegant fingers stroked her skin, sendingshivers down her spine.

Catherine caught her breath. Her playful mood evaporated as shereached up to take his hand, bringing it to her lips before shespoke. "I have often felt that wonder myself, Vincent," shewhispered, eyes caressing his beloved golden features.

She hoped her emotions, thrumming through the bond, told him howstirringly beautiful he was to her--a strange and awful beauty, shethought, like the face of an angel.

Vincent bowed his head beneath the weight of her feelings, andCatherine abruptly reached for his chin, forcing him to meet hereyes. She was trembling as love and desire twisted inside her untilshe could barely speak.

"Vincent, know this," she said, her voice low and riveting. "Knowhow beautiful I find you. Feel it."

He did. The power of it was exhilarating, terrifying in itspossibilities. But he could not help but remember, as she did, herfirst reaction to his harsh form. She had thought him horrifyingbefore she had come to know him, to love the spirit that wasinvisible to the eye. It was love that led her to tame the beast, butbeast he was. And beast he would remain. He must make her believe it,for her sake.

"Catherine, even you, when you first saw me--"

Instant irritation sparked in the green eyes that had been sotender. "Oh, we're back to that, are we?" she snapped, pulling herhand away. It curled into a fist in her lap.

"Vincent, you know perfectly well how shattered I was at thatmoment. Anyone who came up behind me would have startled me! Isaid I was sorry later, that I didn't mean it. Didn't youbelieve me?"

"Yes, but--"

"`Yes, but,'" Catherine mimicked, exasperated. "Vincent, do youtruly think I'm that shallow? You've just told me I would bebeautiful to you with or without makeup. With or without my `mask!'Can't you credit me with the same sensitivity?"

"Catherine, I--"

"If I hadn't had the surgery, if I had remained scarred, would younot have loved me?"

"Catherine!!"

"Vincent," she gritted, desperate to make him see. She reached totake his face between her hands, none too gently. "Face. Fur. Eyes.Lips. Teeth. These--are--beautiful!"

Dumbfounded by her vehemence, Vincent could only stare, horrified,as his beloved's eyes filled with tears. "Please," he whispered,reaching to wipe away one crystal drop as it spilled. "Please don't,Catherine."

Perilously close to bursting out in sobs or tackling him to thebed to have her way with him--one or the other--Catherine gave afrustrated sigh and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand."Dammit, I've ruined my mascara."

She sent him a venomous look, daring him to smile, but the eyesthat met hers were concerned, questioning. "Vincent, I'm crying foryou. Not because of the way you look, but because of the way you feelabout how you look. Because you can't accept yourself. And won't letme accept you."

Vincent shook his tawny head. "But I do accept myself, Catherine.As I told you before, I've never regretted what I am--or only forthat one moment. I have learned, though, to be wary of others'reactions."

After a long, hopeless stare, Catherine sighed again, and reachedto stroke his face. Her fingers were tender and loving as they tracedone prominent cheekbone and tangled in his hair. This was oneargument she wasn't going to win. At least, not today. He'shiding, she realized suddenly. Hiding behind the image he seesin the mirror, just as I used to hide within Dad's idea of me as hisdarling corporate princess. Oh, Vincent. Are you so afraid of ourintimacy?

Catherine abruptly smiled at Vincent, a smile worthy of the MonaLisa. You're mine, Vincent, she told him silently. You canrun, but you can't hide forever. Not from me. Never from me.

Vincent felt Catherine's chaotic emotions calm as her fingerssmoothed his hair back, and though he did not know why it was so, hewas grateful. Seeking to lighten the mood, he groped for a bit ofverse he remembered. "Perhaps this will help, Catherine," he said,and began to recite.

" 'As a beauty I'm not a great star. There are others morehandsome, by far. But my face--I don't mind it, for I am behind it;it's the people in front get the jar.' "

Catherine stared a moment, then rolled her eyes. "Oh, my God. Idon't believe it. The day I catch you without an appropriatequotation, Vincent, I'll be a satisfied woman."

Vincent only smiled, his gleaming eyes saying silently,Never.

Catherine abruptly stood, drawing in a deep, cleansing breath.

"I have to dress, Vincent," she told him.

"Oh." He blinked; then electric shock flashed in the blue eyes. Hehad gotten so involved with their discussion that he had forgottenwhere he was. In her room, on her bed. Sitting there as though hewanted to--"Oh!"

He bolted from the room, leaving her shaking with suppressedlaughter even as she rushed to the closet. They would have to hurry,or face one of Father's scoldings, delivered liberally to adult andchild alike.

She glanced down at the dent Vincent had made in the smoothbedspread. "First on it . . .then maybe, in it?" she mused. Her lipstwitched as she glanced at her own image in the mirror. She gave thatlaughing Catherine a stern look. "Bad girl, Cathy. For shame!"

Loving Catherine, Vincent decided, must be like the roller coasterrides Kipper had described to him--all swoops and speed andexultation, and one had to hold on for dear life. He shivered as theconversation replayed itself in his mind. Makeup, bathrobes thatclung, the enticing scent of her shower-damp skin. . . . As he waitedfor her, drawing deep breaths to calm his thudding heart, thewhimsical thought floated to him, What would Devin do?

Vincent thought he knew.

He had composed himself by the time Catherine joined him in theliving room. He drew her into a restrained hug, mindful of mussingsuch careful elegance. She wore black silk pants that moved with her,subtly outlining her slim hips, topped by a filmy blue blouse.Delicate patent leather flats and chunky silver jewelry completed theoutfit.

"Well?" she asked, brows lifting.

Her perfume wafted toward him, seeming to seep into his pores.Lovely, he wanted to say. Intoxicating. However. . ..

"Not bad," he pronounced, eying her up and down. "But I ratherliked the robe, as well." His grin showed a trace of fang.

Catherine gaped at him. "Who's been teaching you to flirt,Vincent?"

He preserved a discreet silence, but his sparkling eyes told herhe was going to get a little of his own back when it came to teasing.She pretended to pout.

"Be nice, or I won't give you your present."

"Present?"

The little-boy eagerness in his voice drew a rich laugh fromCatherine as she crossed to the sofa to pick up the shopping bag.

"Open it after we're in the tunnels. Father will skin us alive ifwe're late."

" `Us?' He'll know whose fault it was," Vincent snorted. Catherineshot him a baleful look as he handed her the fluffy black shawl hefound draped over a chair. He opened the apartment door, standingbehind it to avoid being seen.

"I will meet you Below, Catherine."

When Catherine arrived, breathless and fuming, Vincent was alreadywaiting for her. It was an unspoken challenge between them--any timethey traveled separate paths between their worlds, they raced.Vincent nearly always won, and Catherine knew he would make noallowances for aggravatingly slow elevators. She decided that thistime, she'd be a good sport.

She grinned at him. "Outrun again. Well, hurry up. Open it!"

He glanced down at the forgotten bag in his hands. He reachedinside, pushing aside layers of tissue paper to reveal a blue garmentof some sort. He pulled it from the bag and shook it out. Bold whitelettering cheerfully labelled the wearer, "Mostly Mozart." It was hissize--XXL.

Catherine watched him, a speculative gleam in her eyes. "Vincent,"she drawled, folding her arms across her chest, "I dare you."

Vincent hesitated, then bowed slightly. Once again he was remindedof Devin. And he had never, ever turned down one of Devin'sdares.

"Thank you, Catherine. When I wear it, I shall think of you. And,of course, Mozart." He proferred his arm with a flourish.

Catherine laughed with delight as she accepted his arm, hugging itagainst her. Vincent looked down at her fondly, blue eyes lit withlove. He wondered whether she'd masterminded the whole thing just toset him on his ear, to make him take her off the pedestal . . . tomake him see her as less goddess, more woman. And to show him thateven one as fair as she did not always show her naked face to theworld.

He wouldn't put it past her.