A STORY IN SEVEN PARTS Spooning
Spring had been unusually rainy, and the tunnel residents had all they could do to keep up with the onslaught of flooding. No one escaped flood duty, nor did anyone get time off. Besides flood detail, all the other chores necessary to sustain the community needed to be done. Even children got pressed into service, helping where they could and forgoing lessons, as their teachers were fighting flood-waters and cave-ins. This meant, too, that Catherine hadn’t seen Vincent in longer than she cared to consider. She missed him. Somehow, she always thought of him as there and ready to meet her when she could get the time. Usually it was her that got buried by work and stretched the interval between visits. Now she knew how Vincent might feel. And she didn’t like it one bit. Theirs was not a “normal” relationship. Besides the fact of Vincent’s uniqueness, they lived in two different worlds, plus had yet to move forward into a physical relationship, if indeed it was possible. Catherine believed in possibilities, whereas Vincent was not so certain. She had seen desire in his eyes more than once, so that was not the issue. What was the issue? It was something they had not really discussed. Skirted around the issue was a better description. Regardless, Catherine missed being with Vincent. There was something about being in the presence of another who loves you deeply and unreservedly. She would bet there was an aura about them whenever they hugged, as she often felt love swirl around and through them. And he listened and suggested, as opposed to most of the men she dated, who incessantly talked about themselves and would perfunctorily “solve” her problems rather than just let her talk about them. She sighed. I miss you, Vincent! She decided she had been pining long enough. She would go Below and see him. He would be exhausted, if he was even in his chamber, but she didn’t care. She needed to see him, sit with him for a while. Then she would come back more settled, and happier for seeing him. She made her way through the tunnels, spying older sentries who relieved the younger to go help. She waved and made a motion with her finger to her mouth to say, “Don’t announce me.” She arrived at Vincent’s chamber and noticed the low light. He was either missing or asleep. She entered quietly. He was sprawled on his back, one arm over his forehead, his legs akilter. His face bore traces of the exhaustion he felt. She knew he worked longer than the others and bore the heavier-weighted chores. She quietly pulled his chair closer to his bed and sat, just looking at the face most dear to her.He gave an audible sigh and rolled to his side, facing her. Now she could look her fill, and did.How extraordinary, she thought. The person I love looks so different, and may not even be a person, yet it doesn’t matter. There isn’t a part of him I don’t love. There is such love, compassion, and kindness in him. The face he thought others feared, she saw as handsome. The hair he hid on his arms with layers of clothing was more visible through his nightshirt. She longed to stroke its softness, but dared not disturb his slumber. He needed to sleep. He rolled over to his other side, and his face was lost to her view. She sighed. Then an idea formed. Could she? Should she? Vincent seemed “dead to the world,” as her father used to say when she slept after a marathon case. Why not? She slowly and gently lay down behind Vincent, essentially spooning him. She lightly placed her arm over his abdomen, and slowly relaxed. Soon, their breathing was in sync. Catherine promised herself it would only be for a couple of minutes and then she would leave so he could get a full measure of rest. She slept. Sometime during the night, they both rolled over and reversed their positions. It was Vincent whose arm wrapped over her stomach, with Catherine holding his hand in hers.This is what Father saw when he entered Vincent’s chamber to wake him for his shift. He smiled as he noted that, all things considered, it was entirely proper, since Catherine slept above the covers Vincent slept under. Apparently, Catherine had felt the separation too much and decided to take matters into her own hands. Good for her, Father thought. He turned and left without waking the sleeping couple. After all, he was a physician. He could declare Vincent exhausted and in need of more rest. The others wouldn’t question him and, besides, the worst of the flooding had past, otherwise Vincent would still have been down there working. So let the boy sleep, he thought. Now, where was that spare lantern of his to put outside Vincent’s chamber?
The Awakening
Catherine was having the most wonderful dream, the kind of dream that sleeping late on a Sunday morning might create. In her dream, Catherine lay wrapped in the arms of her lover, luxuriating in the feel of his body next to hers and feeling protected. Such wonderfulness deserved a kiss, and so she rolled over within his arms and sleepily kissed his warm lips. And, of course, since it was her dream, those lips kissed her back. She sighed when it at last ended, and burrowed closer to his warmth. Catherine loved Sunday mornings! Vincent was slowly returning to the land of the living after passing out in his exhaustion. He knew this because he was dreaming again. Whenever he reached his physical limits, his sleep was so deep there were no dreams. So if he was dreaming, he had reached a point that his rested mind could return to dreaming. And, oh, what a dream it was! He held Catherine in his arms, in his bed, and it felt so natural and right. He kissed her; she kissed him back and drew even closer to him. His arms tightened around her slight form, holding what was most precious to him as close to himself as possible. A part of his mind thought about how wonderful this would be if it only could be true. To be like other men, holding the one he loved. Perhaps it would be after a night of sweet lovemaking, feeling that moment when not only their bodies connected but their souls as well. His heart ached at that thought, because it could never be. He was not like other men. There was a side to him that other men did not have, and one that even Vincent didn’t truly understand. As best as Vincent, himself, understood, his Other was the seat of his most strongly held emotions. And when anger and rage were engaged, he became a nearly irrational killing machine, particularly if activated by peril to those he loved, especially Catherine. When that happened, he lost himself, Vincent, to his rage, and his understanding of what would happen would be spotty. It was taking longer to come back from those rages, to come back to himself. He could not even share this fear with Father: that there may come the day when Vincent was lost, never to return, and his Other would live on in his place. As long as this uncertainty existed in his mind, Vincent would not take the chance with Catherine and consummate their relationship. As deeply as he loved her, he couldn’t even be certain if his passionate response would be that of a normal man, or that of his Other. So he would dream, and in those dreams he could do with Catherine what he could not when awake. Such sweet torture it was. For, in his dream, Catherine would worship his body in all its differences. She would punctuate her kisses with verbal confirmations – “I love your strong arms” or “I love your gentle hands.” He would, of course, disagree with her description, and they would promptly have an argument that ended in more sweet kisses and her proclamation, “Let’s agree to disagree on that!” By the time of their joining, both of them would reach such heightened levels of anticipation that completion was exquisite and nearly instantaneous. The feeling of completeness, of becoming a whole from two disparate parts, impressed upon Vincent, even in his dream, that he and Catherine belonged to each other, belonged together. He would love no other as long as he lived. His heart ached as he slowly let go of his dream. How long could he stand this sweet torture? Was this not a sure way to letting his Other overtake him? Was it nota crack in his carefully laid armor of keeping himself in control, of keeping his Other at bay until it was necessary? Yet he was helpless. He could no more stop dreaming than stop breathing. He slumbered on, determined to keep his dream, and those lovely feelings, as long as he could.
Vincent awoke to an awareness of an elbow planted in his midsection, an elbow that was not his. He cautiously opened an eye and saw tousled brown hair – again, not his. His other eye popped open as he lifted his head to gain advantage. It was Catherine! He lowered his head, frantically trying to recall the invitation he gave or a note she sent, yet could recall neither. Panic set in as his dream came flooding back to his memory. Abruptly, he sat up in bed and glanced down at his torso to see his nightshirt mostly unbuttoned. The bed jostled enough when he sat up to awaken Catherine. She was chagrined, but not surprised, to discover where she was. Her plan had failed, or did it? Vincent seemed rested, and she had spent the night with him. So who was she to proclaim that a failure? As she marshaled her courage to admit what she’d done, she had the grace to blush as she recalled her dreams from last night. If Vincent only knew! she thought. She happened to glance down at herself and noticed a few buttons on her blouse were undone. Now it was her turn to sit up, stricken with what Vincent may think had happened. The two faced each other – just like in romantic comedies – two heads slowly swiveled toward each other, uncertain of the other’s reaction, but knowing each must face the other. Catherine looked uncertainly at Vincent, as Vincent was looking at her through narrowed eyes and a head tilt. Oh, no, Catherine thought, what have I done?! A loud guffaw emanated from Vincent as he lifted his hand, loosely pointing at her. She sat blinking, taking it all in and trying to grasp the meaning of his unexpected, and hearty, laughter. Actually, she was trying to decide if she should be irritated by it or not. “Vincent, just what are you laughing at?” she inquired. “And be careful how you answer, or have a grumpy-without-coffee woman on your hands to answer to!” “The look on your face, Catherine, is priceless!” he shared. “You look all sleep-rumpled, both pleased with yourself yet wondering how you will talk yourself out of the fact you were not invited into my bed, when here you are!” Her head lowered, her mussed hair covering her face. “About that, Vincent,” she began, all penitent and contrite, until her head lifted and her eyes sparked. “You’re darn lucky to have me in your bed, and you know it! I’ll thank you not to be laughing at me when my intentions were honorable.” He lay back against the headboard, cushioning his head with his arms, allowing his sleep shirt to open a bit, exposing a nicely whirled thatch of chest hair to come into view. He watched as her eyes drank in the sight. “And what, pray tell, were those honorable intentions?” he asked politely. She drew her eyes back to his. Imagine – ogling his chest like a man ogles a woman’s. What was she coming to! “I missed you! I planned on sitting with you awhile, to watch you sleep, to be with you awhile.” “So that explains the chair next to my bed. But that doesn’t explain how you came to be in my bed.” He was enjoying this inquisition immensely. “Well, you rolled over onto your left side, Vincent.” He looked at her. He was sure she thought that was an explanation, but he wasn’t getting it. “And?” “As much as I admire your backside, Vincent, and I do,” she added, “I would rather look at your face.” Would wonders never cease? She liked looking at his face! That deserved a good think at a later time. “So? My face was still turned away.” She had the grace to look a bit discomfited. “Well, if I couldn’t see your face, I could at least lie next to you.” It came out all in a rush of words, as if it was an obvious and yet you made me say it kind of a rush. “I was only going to stay a few minutes.” She looked contrite. “Then I guess I fell asleep.” “And how did these buttons of mine become undone?” he asked, with one long eyebrow raised high. At this, she raised herself up on her knees, lowered herself over him, trapping him between her arms, and looked him in the eye as she said, “And how did these buttons of mine become undone?” Her face was both earnest and ready for a fight. He couldn’t help but burst into laughter again. She sat back on her haunches, totally perplexed. He sat up, bringing them back facetoface. “My dear, sweet, beautiful Catherine, we both appear to be button bandits when we sleep!” “And you’re okay with that?” she asked, surprised. “I will take waking up next to you, button bandit and all, any chance I get.” He grinned as his arms enclosed her in a loose embrace. “Vincent, are you okay? Didn’t bang your head on a pipe or anything?” “I’ve never felt better.” “I’m confused. I mean, I can count the times you’ve kissed me on one hand, the time we spend together is so often sparse.” She stared at him. “How are you okay with this? Why aren’t you leaping out of bed, all apologetic, running down the tunnel, putting space between us?” “Would you rather I did?” “No, of course not. It’s just certainly not what I was expecting.” They sat silently, each with their own thoughts. She looked into his eyes. “Does this mean we can do this again sometime?” Her face shone with hope. For the first time, Vincent himself felt a bit of that hope. He looked down to compose his answer. He wanted to neither dash her hopes completely nor offer her false hope. But maybe there was a middle ground. Last night proved they could be together safely. Wandering fingers might become more of an issue, but on the whole of it, there was more good than worry. He brought his head up, and rather shyly said, “Maybe next time will be in your bed?” She wrapped her arms around him in the biggest hug she could give him.
The Return
Vincent stood on the balcony, watching Catherine inside her bedroom. She sat cross-legged on the bed with files spread like a halo around her. She was dress in silk pajamas, befitting the hour, yet worked tirelessly. He knew she had learned to work when she could so that what little time they had could be her sole focus when they were together. All for him. He tapped lightly on the window. Her head came up, and her glance went directly to him. She smiled and leapt off the bed, scattering a few files as she did so. “Vincent!” She launched herself into his arms without a thought, knowing he would catch her. He would always catch her. They held each other, basking in the warmth of their bodies and their love. Finally, they drew apart. She looked at him. She would never tire of seeing his face, and those eyes, so blue and full of love for her. “How are you?” “I am well.” He held her hands in his, reluctant to break their connection. “Have I come at a bad time? I see you’re working.” “You came at the best time,” she answered. “I was needing a break, and wishing you might come visit me.” She smiled, suspecting he could feel her need of him through the Bond. “I confess, I felt it,” he admitted. “And I needed to see you.” “Look at us,” she teased. “Two people needing each other. How about that!” She took a breath, hoping she guessed correctly. “Won’t you come in?” He broke his gaze to look beyond into her bedroom, then back at her. “You did say you’d hope to repeat sleeping together in my bed, and here I am all dressed for bed, just like you were.” She looked hopeful that her words would draw him in. “And here I am, dressed in my normal clothes, just like you were.” He admitted the conditions were similar. They were both smiling, looking at each other, yet hesitant. Was this too much too fast, or was this admitting their need? She pulled her hands free and went into the bedroom. She methodically picked up all her files and scattered papers, stowing them in her already full briefcase. She climbed into bed on one side, under the covers, and patted the other half. “Well?” He stepped over the threshold. He removed his cape and laid it over the side chair. He sat on the edge of the chair and removed his boots. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then removed the quilted vest he wore over his shirt. With that, he laid on his side of the bed, on top of the covers. “Thank you, Vincent.” She spoke simply and sincerely. She reached over and kissed him - not too long, but not a peck either. “You’ll wake me when you leave?” He nodded. She rolled over so her back faced him, and he scooted closer, enclosing her with his arm. “Good night” they said in unison. A man could get used to this, he thought, smelling her scent from her hair. One small step for me, one giant leap for us! she thought drowsily.
Dream or Reality?
Pascal watched the couple walk away. Vincent’s arm surrounded Catherine’s shoulders, and her arm wrapped as far as it would reach around his waist. He didn’t think there was spare space between them for even a piece of paper. He smiled. He was happy for Vincent, and Catherine, too. They both deserved happiness. He was wistful at times of what they shared. There was a new freedom about them as a couple. So circumspect before, and partly because of Father, he suspected, whereas now they moved together, an obvious couple in love. He shook his head in envy and turned to go back to his pipes. Vincent and Catherine ambled on their way to her threshold. Catherine had come for dinner and enjoyed one of William’s “garbage stews,” which, by name, did not do it justice. That man can spin gold out of dross when it comes to food, she thought, still savoring the flavors she had encountered. She was returning home to do some work, hoping that Vincent would visit later, and stay the night. She was grateful for these nights. It gave her hope. Okay, frustration was also high on the list, but she wouldn’t trade those nights lying in his arms for anything. What was extraordinary to her was that Vincent seemed to experience them very differently from her, as a dream. She considered discussing this with Dr. Grafton, but knew she could not. For some reason, Vincent was denying reality. More often than not, he came to her apartment rather than her stayingBelow. She suspected it afforded more privacy. It didn’t escape her notice that Vincent always wore buttoned shirts and had, in fact, added many to his wardrobe. She, too, wore button-front pajamas, forgoing her negligees until sometime in the future (she hoped!). After cuddling a bit, including a few kisses, they would sleep, or Vincent did. Initially, Catherine would fall asleep, only to waken later to find Vincent’s hand stroking her midriff and loosening buttons. Gradually, his hand would stroke higher until finding her breast, covering it, squeezing and caressing it. He often slept most of the night holding her breast. While such sweet agony for her, she knew he was not immune himself. Proof of that was the erection she often felt from behind. And she gave as good as she got when he would roll over. She, too, had the wandering hand, enjoying the silky hair that covered his chest and arrowed down toward his waist. And if a few buttons got undone so that her exploration was unimpeded, well, so be it. Vincent never spoke of this, and only on one occasion intimated to her that his dreams reflected his desires and that he only wished that they could come true. Catherine felt they were edging ever closer to the time they could finally consummate their relationship. Vincent was realizing his own control and she felt he was starting to think “when” and not “if.” She hoped he was, anyway. They reached her basement portal, and she drew her thoughts back to the present. “Will you come to me, tonight?” The look in her eyes was shameless entreaty, and Vincent’s resolve to slow things down crumbled into dust. “I will.” He smiled. “I’m glad.” She looked down, gathering courage before continuing. “Perhaps we could talk a bit before going to bed?” Hearing herself speak those words aloud had her questioning her right mind. What woman would rather talk than sleep with Vincent? He tilted his head.“As you wish.” They hugged farewell, and she began the climb up to her world Above. As she made her way home, she thought about how to talk to Vincent so that he would accept his dreams as reality and, perhaps, edge ever closer.
The Talk Vincent watched Catherine climb up the ladder to her basement. When she was completely out of sight, he turned the corner into the tunnels and fell back against the wall in anguish. Did she know? His breathing was labored; he bent over to try and catch his breath. He feared that her request to talk meant that she knew – knew the liberties he had been taking. In essence, he was sexually assaulting her! He did not have her permission per se. Yet he was getting messages, both from the Bond and from her desire to sleep with him. If she knew, would she want to continue? He sank to the ground. What was he to do? It started out without his conscious knowledge or participation. That which he had thought a dream had been real. One night he awoke to find Catherine tucked to his front, with his arm thrown over her midriff. But that wasn’t all he had discovered. His hand cupped her breast, slowly stroking it. His eyes were wide open. He froze for what seemed like hours, but was mere seconds. He slowly withdrew his hand. He closed his eyes and begged the heavens that Catherine slept unaware. He was uncomfortably aware of what he had done. Served him right, he figured. His physical discomfort was a small price to pay for having physically violated her privacy. He rolled over to his other side, continuing to debate whether he should leave now or wait until his usual time so as not to raise questions from her. He was still debating the question when Catherine rolled to her side and snuggled behind him, her arm thrown over his midriff. Well, that answered his question. He couldn’t leave now without waking her. But he soon had a different question in mind. Her hand was now exploring his chest, and wandering dangerously close to his waistband. This was not helping his discomfort. He suffered her ministrations and, truth be told to himself, enjoyed them. Perhaps what he did was not so wrong, or they both committed the same wrong. He heard Father’s admonition that “two wrongs don’t make a right,” but, in this instance, he wasn’t so sure. For so long he had held the belief that a physical relationship with a woman was out of the question, not even to be considered. But his instincts, and his love for Catherine, had gotten him into this situation. The emotions he felt were normal – those of other men, if tunnel “locker room talk” was any indication. His greatest fear seemed groundless. Love was a strong emotion, and his reaction was normal. And if Catherine had no problem with his differences, who was he to say they were a problem? He had left early in the morning and thought about nothing else until the next time they had decided to spend the night together. At that moment, he had concluded that he was making more of it than he needed to, and would not question his instincts any longer. He would not overstep their agreed boundaries, but the softness of her breast had been too much to resist. He had succumbed, and thought she was unaware. He couldn’t be so sure she was unaware anymore. What would she say? If she was angry with his liberties, he was certain he would have heard about it by now. So if not anger, what? What if she wanted more? What would be his answer? He’d made progress on his fears. But one thing he knew with a certainty he couldn’t explain – if he made love to her, she would be his. He would be bonded to her for the rest of his life, and she to him. There would be no going back to how things were. Were they both ready for that? Was she prepared to give up the “Elliotts” Above? Could he stand her seeing other men, even as part of her normal socializing to forestall questions about her private life? What would this mean to them? He heard the pipes ring out the hour and realized he had spent his evening doing nothing but thinking about talking with Catherine tonight. Well, tonight had come. He stood, took a deep breath, and set off to learn the answers to his questions. He wondered what the morning would bring.
With Love and Hope She looked up and smiled. The balcony doors flew open, and she flew into his arms, their standard greeting. He held her, afraid to let go – afraid that it would all go wrong tonight and he could lose the very thing that gave his life meaning. She pulled away, grabbed his hand, and led him into the bedroom and on into the living room. The look on his face must have given away his confusion. “I thought it might be easier to talk here.” She gestured to her couch. Of course it would be easier to talk here. No, not “of course”- unless it was going to be bad news. His barely attained confidence fled like a scared rabbit. He sat like a stone. As Catherine sat next to him, he turned to face her. “Catherine, I need...” She forestalled his apology with her soft fingers on his lips. “Vincent, I need you to listen to me then it will be your turn to talk. All right?” He nodded, his hands dropping to his sides, closing into fists to control his anxiety. “How many nights have we slept together? Seven or eight?” He nodded and said “Eight” before he remembered he wasn’t to speak yet. She gathered his fists and uncurled them, holding each with one of hers. She looked down, took a breath, and resumed speaking as she raised her head back up. “I don’t know if you knew it or not, but while we slept, you’ve been, um, well, massaging my breast.” He dropped his head in shame. He had ruined everything with his selfish indulgence of desires. He began to shake his head back and forth when she took her hands away from his, only to use them to trap his head and raise it to hers. “Vincent, please listen. I wasn’t finished.” She waited for him to raise his gaze to hers. “While you slept, I was massaging your chest, only I knew I was doing it.” She waited to see understanding in his eyes. “And I think you knew what you were doing, too. Am I right?” He nodded. She sighed in relief. “Well, then, rather than pretend we don’t know what we were doing to each other, how about we try it with our eyes open for a change?” He sat absorbing her words, relief flooding back. “Your turn to talk now, Vincent.” She sat and waited to know what kind of future they would have, if any. She prayed she was correct that, if he knew what he had been doing, then maybe they were ready to move forward. At least, she hoped there would be no need to go backwards. “Catherine, I felt guilty about what I was doing, once I learned of it.” Her head tilted in question. “Yes, at first, I was not aware. It came from my deepest desire for you. But once I became aware, and I experienced for myself what I only thought my imagination supplied, I continued. And I liked when you stroked my chest. It made what I did not seem so wrong.” “Vincent, it wasn’t wrong. I would have stopped you if I hadn’t wanted it.” “I finally came to that conclusion after you asked to talk tonight. I figured you must have known.” “And? What about my idea? Are you ready for that?” she asked anxiously. “I spent this evening in thought, anticipating our discussion. And I think, looking back over our eight nights together, that a lot of my fears are groundless.” It was his turn to take her hands in his as he prepared to say what he needed to say. “Catherine, I’ve lived my life with the belief I would never have love, complete love, like the other men I knew Below. I now believe that I can.” He saw her smiling face, and the beginning of tears in her eyes. “So my answer is yes, let us use our eyes, our hearts, our taste, and every sense available. Let me adore you as I have in my dreams. But know this: our relationship will change. We will belong to each other for the rest of our lives. Our bond will be permanent. Are you prepared for that?” “Yes, Catherine. Would you make love with me?” She stood, pulling his hand up and him off the couch. She turned off the light in the living room as they passed through to the bedroom. In the flickering candlelight in the bedroom, their lives changed. And what he thought would be awkward didn’t matter. He was an apt student, and she was a patient teacher. She managed to learn a thing or two from him herself. Love was a partnership, as they each discovered. There was not an inch on either’s body that didn’t get thorough attention and loving. And when that moment came, he knew, looking into her eyes, that he was both lost and found in her love. He rejoiced as his heart sang with love, and his psyche reached a contentment it had never known. Catherine’s heart nearly overflowed with happiness, and her joy at seeing Vincent’s happiness was mostly the reason. There was newness about him, a new sense of self, of completion, she had never seen before. They were together. They had achieved the impossible with love and hope. Their lives truly were changed. As morning crept over the horizon, the lovers slept in each other’s arms.
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