(This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

Bonding

Angie

Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better
William Shakespeare

Since moving to the brownstone, Vincent had taken over the maintenance of the garden. It was of moderate size, enclosed on all sides by buildings. No windows but their own overlooked it. There was a small path and a tiny garden shed, and enough sun to grow a small vegetable garden and a variety of flowers.

Vincent was well-covered when he was outside. He wore gardening gloves, a long-sleeved coverall and a floppy hat, from which draped a piece of gauze. Since he was generally looking downwards, the gauze did not hinder him. It was a necessary evil, not because of the remote danger of being seen, but because he could not be exposed to direct sun for long.

He had discovered, to his chagrin, that sunburn on his hirsute body began with fire and ended with flaying. In between was a ferocious itching that made him want to scrape off all his fur. He had no desire to repeat that experience.

So he puttered around like a Victorian gentleman, watching as seeds sprouted and matured into something recognizable. He weeded, watered, clipped, thinned and composted as necessary. He particularly loved tall flowers and their garden was a veritable, although well-ordered, jungle. He even left a small corner of the garden wild, for the fairies. The idea had come from a book he had been reading their son Jacob.

He regarded that patch now with some concern. A mass of long, arching growth seemed to have taken it over. He walked over for a closer look. It was definitely some kind of berry cane and he was reluctant to dig it up since it might produce something delightfully edible. He loved raspberries. He carefully moved the long trailers back on themselves, grunted as a thorn pierced his glove and stabbed his thumb. When he let it go, it pricked his thigh. Another caught on his gauze face protector and ripped it from his hat as it sprung back.

Obviously, this plant was not friendly. He hunkered down further, pushed up an arch with his trowel, and eased himself under it on hands and knees to seek the bases. Perhaps they originated in the next door yard. He certainly had not planted them.

Following one long cane led him, as he had feared, to the wall. God knows how it had managed to find a way underneath. Several others were sprouting very close to the wall and even more were growing in between – a forest of barbed tendrils seeking the light. His gloves, mere cotton with plastic bumps, were not meant for such work and his fingers were already tingling from a dozen minute pricks.

Vincent made a snap decision, in light of the curiosity of his young son and the fact that he and Catherine would be home soon, there was no time like the present.

Remembering an article he had read about "invasive" species, he concluded the thick barbed canes were Himalayan Blackberry, not the thin, genteel ones which produced the tiny red fruit he liked. These ones would produce big dark berries, with big seeds that would crunch between his teeth. Begone with them!

Vincent pulled his shears from his gardening belt and went to work cutting the offensive canes close to the soil. He soon had them all hanging loose over his head, held up by each other. Now all he had to do was get them over to the compost pile. For that he would need a rake. Then another day, he would dig up as much of the root as he could reach. He put his shears back into his belt, then realized he could not stand up and would have to back out. As soon as he moved, his scalp protested and he grunted in pain as he tried to extract his long hair from the clinging canes above him. He moved forward again, only to find that the pain had moved to his neck. He reached behind his head and yelped as a particularly vicious thorn pierced his index finger through the glove and another lodged in a kneecap. This would never do. He ripped the ridiculous remnant of gauze and took his hat off so he could look around him, almost getting a long thorn in his right eye. It was dim and too hot underneath the tangle. He needed air.

There was sunlight near the wall, so he ignored the pull on his hair and crawled to it. If he could get above the arching canes, perhaps he could just walk over the top of them. He managed to stand up next to the wall and had moved a foot to do just that, when something pierced his instep and he shook his foot aside to dislodge it. He looked at his footwear. He was wearing Crocs and his feet were bare inside them. They were the best shoes for gardening, comfortable and easily hosed-down, well-ventilated - but they were no protection against this vicious growth. He did not want to risk his feet as well as his hands. Reluctantly, he dropped to hands and knees again, grumbling as he gingerly extracted a cane thorn from his other knee. Perhaps if he went out forwards, with his hat pulled down and his hair down his collar, he would be able to avoid getting caught.

He began to crawl and all seemed to be going well until the weight of cut canes suddenly gave way and collapsed on top of him. He automatically dropped to his stomach and his hat was snatched from his head. He was pierced in several places along his back, including his rear end. Every movement forward now increased the pull on his hair, as if it were being ripped from his scalp. He hissed as an attempt to extract himself merely gave him yet another painful stab in his already abused hand. Where was his trowel? It wasn’t in his belt and he couldn’t see it under the tangle. He sighed in frustration, flopped onto the ground and lay still, his hair pulled painfully upright, his hat dangling from one of the canes behind him.

What was he to do? He automatically reached along his bond with Catherine and discovered that she was home and looking for him. Jacob was contentedly munching a cookie. He sent out a distress call, was gratified when he felt her run in panic into the garden. She stopped abruptly, her puzzlement evident because she was unable to see him. Jacob had followed her, his cookie forgotten in the pain he had also felt through their bond.

"I’m over here," he yelled, grunting again as the canes shook and tightened their grip. His hair was now so caught that his head was at an awkward angle and he could not even look straight ahead.

"Catherine," he moaned.

Immediately, he felt her nearby and caught a glimpse of blue as she assessed the situation. Jacob was trailing her, still dressed in his Tunnel clothes. She knelt down on the path and looked under the canes at him.

"Vincent, whatever are you doing under there?"

He could feel her humour building and became gruff in his embarrassment.

"I’m trying to cut down dangerous growths in our garden so that our son will be safe," he said imperiously.

"But they got you instead," Catherine observed.

"Well, there were more of them than I thought," Vincent admitted. "Catherine, you have to help me. My hair is being ripped out by the roots. And I’m dying the death of a thousand cuts." His voice sounded plaintive, even to himself.

She moved sideways and he moaned in pain as he tried to follow her movements.

"Just be patient, Vincent. I’ll be right back. Jacob, come with me."

Vincent waited, getting hotter and more despairing by the moment. Eventually he heard two sets of footsteps returning.

He watched as something tore into the canes and lifted them up, exposing a glorious patch of daylight. Catherine hauled the bundle to one side with a rake and then worked a little closer. This time he yelped as something pulled at him. She immediately let the pile down again a little and had Jacob hold the rake high enough for her to crawl in. She used a pair of shears to clear a tunnel, nearly reaching him, then began to snip upwards. Then she sidled back out and took the rake from Jacob, hauling the cut canes to join their fellows. There was now an enormous cleared patch in front of him. But he was still caught from behind.

Catherine knelt down in front of him and examined his predicament. She was wearing heavy duty leather gloves that reached her elbows and looked huge in a pair of his old leather dungarees. She moved around him slowly, snipping here and there. Then she got the rake and again lifted the cut portions away. Soon he was able to sit up, but the pain on his scalp remained. His hair seemed to be sprouting tiny green, viciously barbed tendrils.

Catherine knelt in front of him again and clipped around his head. She managed to clip free enough of the clinging stuff for him to stand up. She rescued his hat and handed it to him. He took off his gloves with relief and put them in it.

"Come inside," she said, taking his hand. "You’ll have to sit down so I can do this properly. Come along Jacob."

The three of them went into the house and Vincent was directed to a stool in the kitchen. What followed could only be described as exquisite pain. She was gentle, but the blackberry thorns were persistent and she had to keep her gloves on. Jacob stood open-mouthed watching this process, wincing every time Vincent did. Catherine had her emotions under strict control, but even so looked pale by the time she put down the scissors and took off her gloves. Large hanks of his golden hair were on the floor, tangled with prickly tendrils. She quickly swept them up and into the garbage can.

She sighed and looked at him, tears released at last to run down her face.

Their tears mingled as she put her hands around his neck to kiss him.

"Oh Vincent, your hair ….," she mumbled into his ear. "I hope the pixies appreciate your sacrifice."

"Fairies," he corrected her, nuzzling her neck.

She sat down on his lap and buried her face in his shoulder, shaking with emotion, part humour, part sorrow. Vincent put one arm around her and the other around Jacob as he shuffled near. The worst pain from his scalp relieved, he now felt the pinpricks of dozens of minor injuries elsewhere. He would have to take a bath in baking soda to ease the pain. He hoped no thorns were caught in his hide or Catherine have to help him again - with tweezers this time.

Catherine turned her head to look at them both and sighed ruefully. They were so alike. They both rushed blindly in where angels feared to tread – and expected herself to pick up the pieces. They were also unapologetic to a fault. That puzzled her, come to think of it.

"Why is it that neither of you ever says ‘sorry’?"

Jacob answered. "Because we know you can tell when we’re sorry. We don’t need to say it."

"And equally, there’s no point saying it if we aren’t sorry," Vincent finished for him.

"Like father, like son," Catherine remarked. "Devastating logic – even in the face of disaster. Thank heavens this time it was only your hair."

She laughed, kissing her two favourite men one after the other. She felt their love – and decided that was all she really needed, after all.

END