Chapter 2

Jacob considered his son's admission, part of him wishing Vincent had taken that drastic step long ago, so that both would be spared the heartache that surely awaited now. He thought he knew the answer, but had to ask nonetheless; "Would you leave her, Vincent? Could you?"

Vincent shook his head slowly, sorrow and regret in his eyes. "I thought once that I could, but I know the truth now. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I wish it could be otherwise, for her sake, and even for yours, but what's between us is too strong, Father, too deep. I couldn't survive without her." He hesitated for a moment then finally continued on, an edge of astonishment in his voice that he should even consider such a thought, much less speak it; "And I don't think she could survive without me."

Jacob sighed, dismayed things had come to this. He'd thought that it never would. Vincent's control in this area was an amazing thing, and given his past experience, something Jacob had never seriously questioned. Oh, he knew only too well how much Vincent loved Catherine - a man would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to see that - but nevertheless he was sure that ultimately Vincent would maintain the necessary distance required of his unique circumstances. What would happen now? It wasn't as if he had all the same choices as any other normal man, surely he knew that? He sighed again, his heart heavy.
"I'm sorry to hear it's gone so far, Vincent, I can't pretend otherwise. The path you've chosen can only cause you both pain, I fear. What will you do?"

Vincent's frown deepened as his father spoke, and Jacob wished there were some way, any way, to take the hurt from him, as he had when his son was just a child, crying over some small injury or slight, soon to be forgotten. He would never get over Catherine, that much was plain, and yet how could there be happiness for them? Impossible. He'd thought long and hard over this topic, ever since Lisa had caused so much damage to the delicate balance of his son's psyche. And the way a sixteen year-old Vincent had felt over that teenage crush was nothing in comparison to his feelings now, for this woman. Despite his sure belief that any future of substance was out of the question where they were concerned, even he could not deny that the love they shared was one of mythic proportions. Though three years ago he might have denied that such a thing existed, despite his own magical beginnings with Margaret, now he had no doubts whatsoever; Vincent and Catherine were soulmates. How ironic, and what a twist of chance that would bring two beings so perfectly matched together, only to deny them the ultimate expression of their love. Must fate be so cruel, so cold? He sighed again, the episode of his own young adulthood fresh in his mind. He knew, none better, how unfair life - and fate - could be. How in the world could he spare him the pain to come? Well, one thing was certain; clear-cut, objective judgment was required now, and he was obviously the one who would have to supply that. This was far too emotional a situation for his son to handle alone.

"Vincent, whether Catherine is ready for such a commitment or not is irrelevant, you know that. It simply isn't possible. Somehow we must find a way, and we will, I swear that. It will be difficult for you both, but you'll get through this. If, as you say, her emotions are growing too strong for her to contain them on her own, then another way must be found, that's plain."

Jacob leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, considering the problem. "What if you loosened the bond between you? Could you do that? I know it would be painful for you, but it would allow you to keep something of what you have now, rather than losing it all..."

Vincent's hand came down onto the table with a loud crack, making the candle there jump and startling Jacob into silence.
"Enough, Father!" He left his chair abruptly and began to pace again, his agitation even stronger than when Jacob had first entered the chamber. "It is Catherine we must consider, not me. Destroy the bond? Even if such a thing were possible do you think I could do it?" He paused for a moment and glared at his father, driving the words home with an intensity that made the older man blanch. "And if I could, if I did, how does that solve Catherine's problem?" He began his frantic pacing again, this time not looking directly at him as he spoke. "You say you wish only the best for me, for us, and I believe you, but you refuse to consider what that means. Don't you understand? We're connected in a way that cannot, must not be undone. It would destroy us both, this 'loosening' of the bond you speak of."

Vincent almost sneered that word, and Jacob flinched at the contemptuous tone so totally foreign to his son. When he swung around and pinned his gaze on him, Jacob found himself almost paralyzed by the intense light he found there.

"No, Father, what you ask is impossible, unthinkable. I would fight to my last breath to maintain this connection to her. No one will take her from me, do you understand? No one!"

Jacob pressed back in his chair, trying to increase the distance between himself and the menacing figure which towered over him. The transformation in his son shocked him to the core, and he stared in fixed amazement, unable to withdraw his gaze from the commanding one before him.

Vincent held his gaze for a moment more, then swung away with a jerking motion, to lean against a bare section of the wall, hands braced to it, palms flat, the muscles of his back quivering in a shuddering wave. He pushed hard, as if transferring the adrenaline surging through his body into the solid rock beneath his hands. Finally, after a massive effort, he sank forward, his forehead resting wearily upon the cold stone, fingers stroking it lightly, absently, the tension suddenly gone.

"I cannot, Father, I cannot. Never ask that of me again." The words were barely more than a whisper, but there was a resoluteness there that brooked no question.

Jacob sat speechless, unaware that his mouth was open in the same expression of shocked surprise that he'd worn when confronted by his son several moments before. Finally it snapped shut with a click. The sound echoed throughout the silent chamber and made him cringe. When he spoke it was with a wary, cautious air:

"Tell me what I can do to help, Vincent."

Vincent sighed, his back and chest swelling visibly with the motion. With a shake of his head, as if to clear it, he returned to the table and took his seat calmly. He didn't refer to what had happened between them, and Jacob expelled his breath with relief, unaware that he'd been holding it.

"What about sleeping pills?" Vincent asked, as if nothing had interrupted their discussion.

"Sleeping pills?" Jacob considered that option thoroughly. "Perhaps. We could at least try it." He couldn't hide the skepticism in his voice.

"You don't think it will work," Vincent stated matter-of-factly. "Why?"

"Sleeping pills inhibit the conscious self. That would only give her sub- conscious more control, and it's her sub-conscious that appears to be short- circuiting the dreams, if I understand you correctly."

Vincent thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Yes, I think you're right."

Both men were silent, staring down at the worn, polished surface of the aged wood table, deep in thought. Finally Jacob raised his eyes to scan the still figure of his son, hesitation plain. Vincent must have felt something from him, for a moment after that his own head rose and their eyes met.

"What, Father? Tell me."

"You said that you held her sub-conscious back for a moment, that you saw her dream begin before you were pushed away." There was a question there, as if he sought confirmation.

"Yes, that's right."

Jacob paused, but finally spoke once more: "Could you do it again?"

Vincent cocked his head in his direction, his brow furrowed.

"Could you use your bond to hold it open longer, until the dream runs its course?"

This time it was Vincent who stared at him in open-mouth astonishment. "Hold it open, until the dream..."

"Yes." Jacob rushed on, afraid that if he didn't do it now, he wouldn't at all, specially given the fact that this solution frightened him so much personally. It wasn't wise, not at all. And yet what else was there? "Maybe by holding back her sub-conscious, you could weaken its purpose, diminish it, perhaps even negate it, once those... dreams... have been let loose, acknowledged..." He shook his head, ignoring the warning bells going off inside. "You might have to do it several times, perhaps many times, given the normal REM cycle pattern."

Vincent stared at him aghast, and Jacob easily read both dismay and outright fear in his eyes. "You think that would work?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and low. It was impossible to tell if he hoped for a yes or no answer by the tones there.

Jacob passed a hand before his eyes, closing them briefly to gather his thoughts. "I don't know. I just can't think of anything else."

When Jacob looked up once more, he could see that the decision was made. Vincent sat still, his stance somehow both tense and relaxed. He knew no one capable of such a thing except for his son.

"Vincent?"

The unfocused, outward gaze cleared in an instant, and was redirected to the man seated across the table from him. "Yes,

Father?"

What do you think?" Jacob waited with bated breath.

Vincent nodded, almost to himself, as he answered. "I can't think of anything else, either."

"Will you..." The question died out, unfinished, and Jacob looked about the chamber confusedly, wishing he'd never begun it.

"Will I what, Father?"

"Will you talk with Catherine about this, or simply..."

Vincent gasped as his father's meaning became clear, and it was plain by his expression that he hadn't yet reached this part of the analysis.

"Not tell her? How could I not tell her? It will be such an intrusion, such a breach of privacy. How could I possibly do that?"
The words rushed together, and Jacob could easily see the confusion and disquiet the idea had brought with it. Just as his son found that unsanctioned intrusion to be completely unacceptable, he could read the dismay in his face at having to disclose what he knew, to make the suggestion that could only bring them both intense discomfort and anxiety. He hesitated a moment more before going on again.

It's possible she will have no waking recollection of those dreams once they are allowed to occur, that the REM state will simply function smoothly and she'll begin to accumulate the sleep she needs once more. Many people never remember their dreams. Perhaps it isn't necessary..."

Vincent stood up quickly and interrupted him with an abrupt "No!", his chair falling over behind him. "No, Father," he repeated, his voice quieter. Turning to the chair he righted it and sat down once more. "I cannot intrude in such a way without her permission."

And what if she refuses to give it?"

Vincent looked at him in confusion.

"You said you thought she was trying to protect you. What if she insists upon continuing to do so? You must know that Catherine will be afraid for you, for your response to her desires. Why else would she go to such lengths to hide them from you?"

Vincent's eyes grew bleak at that reminder. "If she doesn't allow me to... I don't know what I'll do." He frowned down at the table in thought, one claw lightly tracing a deep groove there, one of many left after years of abuse by himself and Devin. When he looked up again, his expression was firm. "I don't know what I'll do," he repeated. "But I do know this; whatever needs to be done, I will do, Father, for Catherine."

Jacob had a thousand questions, a thousand warnings, but he sat silent, knowing that it was useless, less than useless. No one could be more obstinate than his son once he was sure he was right. He idly wondered where he'd gotten that trait, but didn't give it more than a cursory thought, more important things on his mind. This path was fraught with danger. It skirted, no, it led directly to the issues which he himself had worked so hard to help his son avoid - for his own good, of course. An abrupt movement from Vincent, a turn of his head toward the chamber entrance, broke his own concentration and alerted him to Catherine's approach.

She arrived a moment later, her hair wrapped in a towel and still clothed in her gown, robe and slippers. She must have forgotten to bring her day clothes with her to the bath. And such frivolous garments, lovely as they were, were totally inappropriate here, below. What could she have been thinking of? They were far too thin to provide any protection from the cool temperatures that were a constant in the tunnels. That's all she needed, he thought with both disapproval and worry, to add pneumonia to her sleep-deprived state. Her immune system must be so taxed already that further complications could occur with ease. Worry now uppermost in his thoughts, he searched her face, his physician's cap firmly in place. Tired, pale, thinner, he thought, noting the sharper delineation of the planes and angles of her cheekbones. He continued his scan downward then stopped abruptly when he encountered taut nipples clearly showing through the thin silk, confirming his assessment of the inadequacy of such flimsy garments for their home environment. His eyes darted away with embarrassment and he flushed.
Turning to Vincent's chair, he found him no longer there, but rather at his wardrobe, the doors open, the uppermost drawer pulled out. When he turned to Catherine he held in his hand a soft tunnel robe of white angora, the lines of his face carefully neutral, a very atypical expression for him when Catherine was in his presence. So he'd noticed, too, Jacob thought, his worry now turned in another direction. Of course he noticed, you ninny, his mind returned with contempt.

Jacob abruptly shook off that line of thought, and turned his attention back to the robe. He recognized it as one of the garments Catherine had worn when she'd stayed below after her father's death. The robe had belonged to Mary, made by one of their first members, skilled in weaving, long ago, and long since gone. Mary had always cherished it, but rarely worn it, especially in recent years. Jacob never knew if it was for sentimental value or to protect the lovely fabric and color, so atypical of tunnel wear. No matter, she had made a gift of it to Catherine last spring, and apparently Vincent kept it here, waiting for her, in his own chamber. That thought set off an additional set of warning bells, but he resolutely ignored them as he had the others during the last few minutes. It seemed that events around them were spinning out of control, that all his efforts of the past three years, indeed the past twenty years, were as nothing to the forces at work now. He watched as Vincent shook out the lovely garment as he approached her.

"Here, Catherine, you're cold."

Their eyes met and Jacob drew in a silent gasp as he observed them. Vincent's neutral expression was gone now, replaced with both tenderness and tension. It was evident in them both, desire and protectiveness at war with each other, neither willing to give, yet neither able to completely hide their feelings. Catherine turned slightly as Vincent moved behind her, her throat arched and open as she turned her head to maintain eye contact with him as he towered over her. He eased the soft robe about her shoulders, stroking them gently, almost without thought, as he did, his eyes were pinned on her face and throat. Jacob could easily see his gaze scanning the delicacy of that long length, down to where his crystal glittered at the center of her chest, between her breasts. Catherine's lips trembled, and he knew that she was well aware of where his son's searching gaze led.

Jacob glanced away from the intimacy on their faces and focused on the robe itself.

It was, as were many items made below, atypical in its design. It didn't have normal sleeves, collar or hem. Instead it was almost as if a delicate woolen blanket had been folded on the diagonal, an opening made in the center, and another slit, complete this time, cut down to one corner. The likeness to a simple poncho ended there though, for beyond that initial design, there was nothing else about this delicate garment that could compare to the utilitarian function of the other. Numerous tassels of white angora alternated with absurdly thin, delicate looking strips of buttery soft, ivory colored leather, trimming the neck, arms and hem areas, all finished off with transparent, glittering beads and threads of pale pastels. When Vincent wrapped it around her it enfolded her, almost like an embrace. His hands were so large and strong, Jacob noted warily. They were almost frightening in contrast to the delicate, pale angora wrap. Moving from her shoulders, his hands traced down the edges of the robe to tug it closed at the waist, his arms encompassing her as surely as the garment itself. Cotton candy gossamer enclosed by steel, he thought, for a moment caught by the fanciful imagery.

And for that moment all was still. Vincent held her in his arms, her own hands clasping his at her waist, their eyes locked together in a deep communion that Jacob could only wonder at. It was as if they stood in a dream, unwilling to leave it for the more mundane world waiting.

**********
Jacob was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, a subtle effect of the candlelight, no doubt, and their unwitting placement about the room, but it almost appeared as if Vincent and Catherine were surrounded by a hazy, nebulous glow, as if their intimate proximity to each other had resulted in a condensation of the bond, making it almost visible now to the naked eye. Another flight of fancy, he thought with a sigh. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was watching a silent tableau performed on some other plane, in another dimension.

Suddenly it was too much, too intimate an intrusion on their privacy. He knew then the anxiety that Vincent had felt upon contemplating such a thing. Clearing his voice to speak, the sound echoed abnormally loud throughout the hushed chamber. The haze dropped away as Vincent and Catherine's attention was drawn outward, and Jacob was sure that he'd been right all along. Just a trick of his imagination and his aging eyes, that's all it was, he thought, as the room and its occupants once again moved within the stream of time that felt right. Strange how everything had seemed to slow, for just an instant during that other time. Indeed, now he was very aware of how little time had actually passed. Mere seconds, wasn't it? Yes, glancing at his pocket watch he confirmed that less than a minute had gone by during that time which had somehow felt both endless and eternal.
"You two should go get breakfast before it's gone. I have to check on the hospital chamber - several cases of the flu have appeared early this year." He snapped his watch closed and slipped it into his vest pocket before looking up again, and when he did, Vincent was already moving away from her, toward the chamber door.

"Stay here, Catherine. I'll go get us something."

"That's not necessary, Vincent. I'll come with you." She moved to follow him but was stopped in her tracks by the determined expression on his face as he turned to her again.

Making his way back to her, he swept her up off her feet just as he had in the tunnels during their walk below last night. Before she knew it the covers of his unslept-in bed had been tugged back and she was deposited on the cool sheets. A moment more and the blankets and quilts were pulled back in place and tucked about her shoulders.

"Stay here, Catherine," he repeated.

Jacob watched with amazement, noting the astonishment on her face and the firmness on his son's. Snapping his open mouth shut for the second time this morning, he made his way out of the chamber and turned left, taking the shortcut from Vincent's room to his own, via the bathing pool. Behind him he heard his son's departure following on the heels of his own, his almost silent footfalls disappearing entirely as he took a right instead, making his way toward the main passageway and William's dining chamber.

**********
Vincent never looked back as he neared the main tunnel path, but he heard his father's every step in the opposite direction, and knew immediately when he had passed out of sight through the bathing chamber entrance. Only then did he release his tightly held breath and slump against the hard stone wall, hands trembling with delayed response. The main passageway was just ten yards ahead, but a curve in the side tunnel blocked him from the view of any unsuspecting passers-by. Pressing his back to the cold rock, he slid down to the ground, knees pulled up tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them to still the shivers racing along taut thighs, fists clenched tight against those hard muscles. He was shaking all over.

How was he going to do this? How was he going to tell her? The days, months and years spent building a wall to keep certain parts of them separate and apart, even from their bond, mocked him. All of that would have to be undone now, had to be undone, and he wasn't sure, wasn't sure at all that he could do it. To feel these things from her, things he'd dreamt of but kept buried, never allowing himself more than a tortured glimpse before thrusting them back, far back, well behind the steel will of his control. But he hadn't been able to do the same to the images he experienced during that momentary intrusion into Catherine's dream. The feelings, as well as the images, were still with him, as bright and clear as when it had happened, some hours since. And those feelings! Kissing Catherine like that...

He growled low and pressed hard back into the stone wall, trying to move the sensations from himself to it, a transference he'd learned as a child, and made good use of often since. It didn't work. The images were still there, as were the feelings... the feeling of them pressed together tight, mouths feeding hungrily. He groaned again, dismayed at the lust contained within that image. There had been tenderness in the kiss as well, and love, oh yes, impossible not to feel the love that had dominated all else. Tenderness, love, lust; all had been there, an interconnected web with Catherine and him at the very center. They had been at the center, enclosed within their bond.

The center.

There was something about that phrase. He let go of the images of Catherine's dream and sought out another, this one from the time of his fever dreams in the catacombs late last spring. Snatches of poetry, all prophetic in the extreme, had littered that nightmare, dire warnings of a fate that came true - in the dream, but not in reality, thank god! Something now was familiar to that time. What was it? Painful though it was, he gave those other memories precedence for the moment, letting a stream of them pour over him, like ghostly whispers in a graveyard. A moment later it flitted by, and he grasped at it, pulling it into focus: The center cannot hold...

The centre cannot hold!

His eyes snapped open abruptly as that thought consolidated. He pushed back the images of his nightmare with ruthless disregard and sought out the sensations of her dream consciously again, this time as objectively as he could, though that was barely possible. Tenderness - yes, love - certainly, lust - without a doubt. He moved from that item quickly, before his dismay could overwhelm him entirely, and continued on with the task at hand, searching. Finally he isolated another element which had been less easy to spot before; protectiveness...

Yes. Protectiveness. The fierceness of it struck him now, and he realized why it had been so easy to miss, the intensity of that particular emotion rivaling and mingling with the lusty desire so thoroughly that it was difficult to separate the two. But it most certainly had been present, underlaying all else with a steady consistency which gave him comfort now, well after the fact. There were other emotions as well, but after a searching review, he found them all to be facets of those other four.

That search complete, he went back to the words which echoed still. The centre cannot hold. Why was that phrase, that warning, clamoring in his mind now, as clearly as it had half a year ago? During their three years together they had had their ups and downs, dark moments and light, but throughout it all their bond had protected them, even through that darkest of times.
That thought brought her dream image back to the forefront once more, and this time he tried to stand back and take in the whole. A glowing light surrounded the figures within it. Their bond? Was he somehow seeing its manifestation? Perhaps. He focused on the figures, on them. They were hazy, not totally distinct in that small instant of time that he had held her sub- conscious back. They certainly embraced, and they certainly kissed, there was no doubt about that - the emotions and sensations alone told him that, even without the image behind his eyes. He closed them tight now and focused on the sensations alone. All the emotions he previously identified were so clear now, and with a massive effort he willed himself away from the individual attention on each, instead leaving himself open and still for their resultant effect. The emotions gathered around him like a twister, twining together and swirling faster and faster, then suddenly, without warning, rushed through him like an icy gale. He shuddered at the sensation as he sat in the cold corridor, but just as quickly as it had come, it changed, settling at his very core with a warmth that spread through his veins and muscles, reaching to every part of his body. Another moan escaped, whispering out to die just inches from his physical form. So warm, so safe, so loved...

He had never before experienced so complete a sense of security and comfort. He had never felt such a sense of confidence either, certainly not where she and their relationship was concerned. He sighed, reveling in it. Those thoughts gelled in his mind, abruptly pulling him back to his conscious surroundings.

Why? Why was his sense of security, comfort and confidence different there than here? Didn't he protect her, and her him? He had no doubt on that head, her ferocity stunning him in those instances when he needed her help, and his own rage speeding him on to find and protect her when the need arose. Tenderness? Sometimes he thought he would weep with the fragility of the emotions she inspired in him. And hadn't he felt the same all too often in her, seen it in her eyes as she gazed up at him while he read to her on her balcony and in his chamber? Yes, there was so much tenderness between them it made his heart ache. And could he doubt the love? At one time he had tried to deny hers for him, that was true, but no longer, not since that awful time of his illness last spring. No, what he told Father had been true, neither could survive without the other. He knew her love in the deepest part of who he was, had always known it, even during the times he had denied it. And never - never! - had there been the least doubt in his mind as to his love for her. Never! He almost laughed out loud at the utter absurdity of such a thought, but the exercise wasn't complete, and he quelled that urge easily, focusing on the last element. Lust. He swallowed hard, warily letting that particular emotion from the dream come to the forefront. Passionate, hungry, demanding need...

Did he know this need? Without a doubt. It had been with him from the moment he'd found her, though not acknowledged until some time later, when she had gone out of the tunnels and out of his life. The need to see her, to be with her, had been overwhelming then, and impossible to ignore. Later on the other, fuller facets of that need had been revealed to him, much to his disbelief and dismay. Today, just minutes ago, was a prime example. Could she possibly know what it did to him, to see her clothed like that, her body, the sight of her, scent of her, so close, so compelling. This wasn't a new experience for him. He had lived with this sight, both craved and dreaded it, for well over two years now. Each time he approached her balcony he wondered how he would find her. Sometimes, when he felt her arrival at home, as he approached their threshold, he slowed down, just a bit. He tried to pretend to himself that it was simply to allow her a few minutes to unwind in her own home, after long, hard hours of work, but deep inside he knew differently. He knew that the first thing she did, always did on her return home late at night, was to shower and change, just as he knew, without a doubt, of her preference for the lovely silk and satin nightclothes which filled her lingerie draw. He knew he would always find her clothed thus, even in the coldest of weathers, if he gave her those few extra minutes, as he inevitably did. And he couldn't hide from himself the disappointment he felt when circumstances such as a late-night appointment or social event meant that for her the day was not over, and for him, that she must be shared with others, and not kept for himself, for his eyes and senses alone, the gossamer vision of an angel denied him until, perhaps, their next, eagerly awaited rendezvous.

Oh yes, he well knew the hunger he felt at this image of her, had felt then and still did now from her appearance after her bath just moments ago. How he had wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her close, to feel her body through the thin, delicate silks, pressed tight to his, to breath in the scent that was hers alone. But he didn't do that, and with rare exception never did, his control ever at the forefront during their times together. Instead he had retrieved the woolen wrap left waiting for her in his own drawer. It was delicate and beautiful, and she was beautiful in it, but it hid her body from his sight, and he hated that, much as it hurt him to admit it.

No, despite the intensity of his desires, he rarely acted on those urges. He remembered one glaring exception, when she had been returned home with Jenny and Joe, after the man who had stalked her had finally met his end - an end he felt, for once, absolutely no regret for. How he had needed her close that night. It had been unimaginably difficult, waiting for Jenny and Joe to leave. And when they had, he had almost - almost! - entered her home, so anxious was he to hold her again, to feel her heart beating and alive, against his own. When she had come to him, throwing herself into his arms, there had been almost no resistance in him. Even her demands to hold her closer had been given in to gladly this once. And though he wanted to believe that her safety was the only issue involved in such a broach of his own rules, he knew it to be untrue. Her body was still damp from the just-finished shower, and he could feel every nuance of it through the silk of her pajamas. He felt the slenderness and tension of her muscles, so misleading in the appearance of fragility, as his arms enclosed her. When she told him to hold her tighter, he had, pressing her against his own yearning length. How he had wanted to take her, then and there, to confirm that she lived, that together they would endure to live and love for years and years to come. Oh yes, he couldn't deny his desire, his hunger for her. It was all too real, and all too strong for him to fool himself on that head.

And Catherine, could he doubt that she desired him? That was a more difficult question. He believed she thought she did - even before experiencing her dream he had suspected that. But did she really know what it was her desire would bring? He didn't think so, not really. She thought she did, but she couldn't know, couldn't possibly suspect the depths of his longing, and the intensity of his need. If she did, she would not wish for a fulfillment of that desire, but would most likely run in fear from it. She should run in fear...

But this was not answering his question. Why the difference now? Why did the security and comfort generated by those emotions in the dream contrast so strongly with what could only be called anxiety and outright fear when he contemplated such an advancement in their relationship in the here and now?

He let the four elements and their meaning swirl about him, tying them together, and found the answer he sought, saw that it had been there, waiting, all along. In Catherine's dream their bond was complete, and with that completion came the security and comfort they both craved. Along with the utter rightness that completion brought, came a confidence he had always lacked where she was concerned. In the real world, this world, he feared his desire for her and hers for him, was sure it could bring only pain, injury and the ultimate ruin of all they now had, indeed of all they were. The revelation burst over him abruptly, stunning him with its simplicity. In this world, their bond wasn't yet complete. The anxiety and fears they both harbored kept the bond from reaching it completion, but it hadn't stopped trying to do so. In fact if anything the attempts to complete itself had multiplied, resulting in an exponential increase in crisis after crisis, first manifested in his own illness, and now in hers. His groan of dismay was louder than the others had been at this realization, and he buried it into his crossed arms, upon his knees, to ensure that it didn't carry to either the main passageway to the right, or to Catherine in his chamber, to the left.

This, then, was the crux of the matter before him now. Not to ignore and negate the desire between them, as both had done in the past and continued to do to this date, but instead to at least acknowledge its presence, if not actually embracing it. But could one be done and not the other? The logic of his thought process was something Vincent rarely doubted, but where Catherine was concerned he was less sure. Was this right? Were her dream visions truly a reflection of the bond's need, a need to drive toward a preordained completion, or was it simply a manifestation of her own visceral needs, ones which where not automatically synonymous with the bond and the safety and security that its completion implied in the dream. Was this no more than wishful thinking?

He tried to puzzle that out, but there was no sure way to tell. The one thing he did know, though, was that the dreams must be allowed, that they could be thwarted no longer. The rest... The rest was beyond him at this time. Drawing in a deep breath he put those thoughts and images behind him, holding them at bay yet again, but very aware of their proximity, so much closer than before. Yes, the dreams must be dealt with, that much was clear. He drew himself up, took another deep breath, and continued on his way toward the kitchen, turning left when he reached the main tunnel. Along the way he encountered several friends, returning their greetings in passing, his expression and stride completely normal to all outward appearances. None of them had any indication of the turmoil raging within his breast.

**********

Catherine snuggled deep into the covers, immersing herself in her surroundings. She felt positively decadent. It was clear that Vincent had not slept here last night, but she could still smell him everywhere about her, a slightly smoky, musky scent that came in part from the tunnel environment that was his home, and yet was so much more, so viscerally his alone. So masculine, so virile, so sexual...

God, could anything on this earth, above it or below, compare to the smell of him? Impossible! It was positively delicious, and completely irresistible. A moaning sigh escaped her, only to be muffled against the bedsheets where she had buried her face just minutes before. She inhaled deeply, then let her eyes drift closed and thought of him, here, in this bed. Thought of him turning in his sleep, his tall, broad frame filling the space with every movement. She imagined herself there, with him, felt his heavy limbs slide languidly over her own, his welcome weight holding her down, holding her safe, his large hands deftly stroking everywhere, over flushed breasts and sensitive nipples then down, down, down until he cupped and held her, fingers coated warmly, sweetly with the liquid essence of her desire for him. She sighed again, in some other world, unaware that it was her own hand stroking beneath soft angora, and over silk-covered flesh.

In the midst of those images, she felt herself floating, falling easily toward a languor that somehow was not a true slumber. She was still tired, true, and though that should feel odd, given the full night's sleep here in the tunnels this night, it did not. Somehow fatigue had become a constant in her life. She was even somewhat used to it now, in an odd, passive sort of way that defied description. She knew she should be worried, but somehow she couldn't focus on the why of it. Each time she tried, her mind wandered, as if directed towards other things, other concerns. She'd given up on it days ago, resigning herself to a spell of some sort of sleep phenomenon she'd somehow missed in her random, periodic reviews of the Discovery channel. And so she let that lethargy steal over her now, gladly allowing her thoughts to drift on the currents waiting so enticingly close. Ah, Vincent...
But even as that thought filled her mind, it melted away, the image dispersed in a gentle cascade of pale colors. A new scent permeated her being, replacing the daydream of a moment ago. It was an unobtrusive transfer, easy and non-threatening, so much so that she was barely aware that it had occurred at all, her focus now directed toward that other scent completely; William's tea, spicy and hot. She drew in a deep breath and her eyes fluttered open, just in time to see Vincent enter the chamber, tray in hand.

"I'm sorry, Catherine, did I wake you?"

The look of dismay on his face brought her fully awake in an instant, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position and hurried to reassure him; "No, not really, I was just drifting a bit." He nodded his understanding, but still looked concerned. "I don't often have the opportunity to laze away the morning these days - I feel a little decadent," she admitted sheepishly.

"Sometimes you need to take the time, whether you have it or not, Catherine," he admonished gently. Moving to the bedside table he set the tray down then sat himself gingerly upon the mattress at her side.

Pulling her pillows higher behind her back, she scanned the contents of the tray and found there the ubiquitous pot of tea, tendrils of steam curling from its spout, two muffins, a few slices of cheese and an orange. It looked delicious, but she really didn't have much of an appetite, hadn't in fact had one for days. Not eating what you took in the tunnels was simply not done, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that Vincent could very easily make up for her abstinence.

Vincent, unaware of her musings, was pouring out tea for them both. She took her cup gratefully and held it up to her nose, inhaling the delicate scent with delight, eyes closed. When she opened them to take a sip, she found Vincent laying a cloth napkin over her lap. A moment later, upon that was placed a plate with a muffin and some cheese.

"I'm not really very hungry, Vincent, but you must be. You didn't get any sleep at all last night, did you?" she asked, a small note of accusation in her voice.

He ignored that particular question altogether. "I will eat, Catherine, but there's plenty here for two." Picking up the blueberry muffin off her plate, he tore off a small crusty piece from the top - her favorite part - and offered it to her. It did look delicious, all golden brown and sugary on the outside with a pale-yellow interior, dotted with bright bursts of blue. Perhaps just a bite. She took the piece with her teeth, then blushed when she felt them scrape lightly over the tip of one of his fingers. Raising her cup once more, she hid her flushed face behind it as she took another sip, trying to slow her suddenly racing pulse. When he held up another piece, she took it without thought, still busy trying to control herself in such an intimate setting with him. The third bite caught her attention as the crumbly sweetness of the pastry was replaced with a smooth, firm texture and buttery flavor. She savored it on her tongue while inspected the piece remaining in Vincent's hand, even as he raised it to his own mouth.

"Maggie's cheese?" she asked

He nodded, busy chewing that morsel. A moment later he swallowed, and answered aloud; "She sent down a large wheel just two days ago."

"It's delicious. I think she might be the only person in all of Manhattan that makes her own cheese."

"We're very lucky she spares so much for us - the demand for her product seems to be growing nicely above."

Catherine nodded, well aware of the interest Maggie's special goat cheeses had generated uptop. "Zeebar's can't keep it in stock," she said, remembering her last visit to the upper west-side shop and her disappointment at finding them all out for the remainder of the week.

"I think William must be aware of that. He's being very stingy with his portions," he said somewhat woefully, eyeing the remaining slice on the tray.

Catherine smiled, captivated by the sudden appearance of the little boy in him. Reaching down she took the last piece and raised it toward him. "Then you'll enjoy this all the more."

He shook his head, the expression on his face almost comical. She could see that he was now dismayed at saying such a thing when all along he had been trying to tempt her to eat a little more. She hesitated a second, then replied, "We'll share it." Taking a bite from the strip, she then offered the rest to him.

He paused, looking down at it, then up into her eyes, "Only if you'll eat the rest of your muffin, Catherine." He waited for her answer patiently, and she realized he wasn't going to give in. Finally she nodded her agreement and he took the sliver from her hand. She shivered when she felt one canine slide against the side of her finger in passing, and knew that he felt it too by his abrupt retreat and confused countenance. He turned away and picked up an orange from the tray and began to peel it, his eyes not meeting hers.

She watched him while she picked at her muffin, fascinated by the process. One sharp nail slid about the circumference of the orange until a thin strip of skin was removed. Gliding smoothly beneath the firm covering, he removed the top half of the remaining skin with a single motion, the tender flesh beneath unbroken, then repeated the same step on the bottom half. Holding the orange in one hand, he slipped his thumb into the center and a spray of sweet juice was released. In a momentthe orange was opened, a segment peeled away from the rest and offered up to her. Resistance never occurred to her as she took it, her eyes pinned on the slippery juices coating his fingers. It took a massive effort not to lick those fingers clean as she did, but somehow she managed it. Chewing at the sweet fruit thoughtfully, she watched him take a piece, then reached down for another bit of muffin, only to find her plate empty. When she looked up, she saw Vincent smiling at her look of surprise.

"Would you like some more, Catherine?" he asked sweetly, indicating the remaining half of his own muffin on the bedside table.

She blushed a fiery red and shook her head, but was spared the necessity of a response when he held up another orange slice for her. A tad discomfited, this time she let her tongue flick teasingly against one finger as she took the slice, rewarded when his humorous expression was quickly replaced by one which looked distinctly a bit dazed. He was a little more careful after that, she noted with satisfaction, and the orange was shared out between them in relatively short order. When it was gone, he left her side for a few minutes to wash hishands in the basin sitting nearby, then returned with a washcloth, offering it to her before he moved the tray from the bedside table to the larger, center one. She patted the warm washcloth over her face, surreptitiously licking the last of the sweet juice from her lips before she did, and sighed contentedly. A moment later Vincent returned, two full cups of tea in hand.

"More tea, Catherine?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, somewhat chagrined. She must have been hungrier than she'd initially thought. Now she felt lazily relaxed and contented, the hot tea warming her before she took the first sip.

"Would you like a comb?"

The words startled her, and she glanced at him, a question in her eyes. He nodded upward, over her head, and reaching up, she felt the towel wrapped around her wet hair. She'd completely forgotten it. Smiling, she nodded, "Yes, please. I didn't think to bring one down."

He left her side once more for the washstand, and returned with his own comb. She handed him the towel and began to work it through her semi-dried hair as he hung the damp cotton over a side rail on the stand. That task complete, he returned to her side, but this time he didn't sit down on the bed, instead pulling his chair up next to it to take his seat there. Taking up his tea once more, he slipped it slowly, watching her comb out the silky strands of damp hair.

When she was finished, she set the comb on the bedside table, and looked at him with a question in her eyes. He was so still now, so quiet, and yet she recognized something in that stillness. She'd seen it before.

"What should we do today, Vincent?" she asked, determined to maintain an easy flow of light, inconsequential chatter until he had decided whether or not he would disclose his purpose. It came much sooner than she had anticipated.

"Nothing, Catherine." She raised a surprised eyebrow at his abrupt words, and he hurried on, explaining himself further. "We need to talk."

To Chapter 3

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