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

 

Hard Truths

Angie

It takes two to speak the truth, - one to speak and another to hear.
- Henry David Thoreau

 

Vincent stared down at his hands again. He couldn’t sleep, hadn’t been able to sleep since that terrible night when he had rescued Catherine from Stephen Bass. That was three nights ago now.

His hands. They had betrayed him, fueled by his anger, his fear – and something else.

Catherine had told him he need not feel ashamed, and he had honestly told her he was not – in the way she meant. He knew he had done what was necessary. It was the how of it that disturbed him.

He had almost been too late. He had felt Catherine’s rising panic as he ran, breathless now with fatigue from the long journey, through the nightmare woods he had seen in his visions. He could feel her life being strangled from her.

Then he had seen her on the ground, her white shirt bright in the darkness, the man bending over her, his hands around her neck, babbling some madness Vincent had not tried to understand.

And what had he done, with all his advantages, his strength and the element of surprise? Instead of grabbing her attacker by the neck and dispatching him with a quick twist, he had roared his anger to the world. Why?

When the Chinese gang had invaded the tunnels with their hand weapons, his roars had been a warning – one they had chosen to ignore, but enough of a concession to a dangerous enemy. He had … killed … them, one by one, efficiently – and quietly. He had been protecting his family and the man they sought – Henry. There had been no shame, no sleepless nights, after that.

But in those nightbound woods, he had displayed his bestial aspect, his roar sufficient to make Stephen Bass stagger away from Catherine – and see him. Vincent had used his roar to good effect often, to distract, to instill fear – and he did not hesitate to use it so, when necessary. But he had not had any of those excuses with Bass because the man had been obviously unarmed.

Now, if Bass survived, he would bear the scars of Vincent’s hands forever, an anomaly that no one would be able to explain and put himself and everyone in the tunnels at risk.

How could he have been so stupid? Had he been overcome by jealousy, as both Father and Catherine had accused? No, he knew what jealousy was. He knew himself. Jealousy was destructive, perhaps the most dangerous emotion of all, because its target was a person. He had never allowed himself that luxury. Long ago, he had taught himself to drain jealousy away, turn it into water flowing over stones. He had not been jealous of Stephen Bass, but afraid of something he could not put into words. It had been Catherine’s fear he’d felt from the start. Catherine understood that now.

Envy, on the other hand, yes, he could feel envy. He envied everyone who could walk in the sunlight, buy an ice cream, visit a museum. But that envy was tempered with sadness. He knew he would never experience those things. He was what he was.

However, it was that sadness, the need to expand his world beyond the tunnels, which had sent him Above at night. It was that glorious sense of freedom, the need to roam, see the sky, which had led him to be abroad the night he had found Catherine and carried her bleeding and broken to his world. That night had changed his life.

But even envy didn’t explain his actions with Stephen Bass. Something else had fired his blood. Had he perhaps wanted Bass to see him, to know the kind of man he was up against? Bass would not see him as a man, almost certainly. Vincent had no illusions about how he appeared to strangers. What would the man think of their encounter? Would he think he had had a nightmare, gone temporarily insane? That would probably be the verdict of his doctors – although the scars would not be so easily dismissed.

Would Bass realize Vincent was Catherine’s secret friend? Was that what Vincent had wanted – to make his claim on Catherine clear? Bass had known Catherine was in love with another. She had told him that, although not with whom. She had told Vincent what Bass meant to her – a memory of a simpler time. She had once loved Bass, she admitted, before she had discovered something of his true nature and left him.

Catherine. Anything which threatened her, threatened himself. He knew he needed her, that she loved him, worried about him. Had he slashed Bass out of love for Catherine? He sincerely hoped not. That kind of twisted love was what Bass had apparently felt for her. He did not want to think that he was becoming obsessed to that degree, to the exclusion of reason. Their love was – and had to be - true, warming – not over-protective and stifling. He worked hard to prevent himself from wanting her close to him day and night, safe. She had to live her life Above and he had his own responsibilities Below. Their worlds were apart, but mostly they were separated by barriers he could not surmount, although others could, if they wished. He was the only one in the tunnel community who really understood those barriers, being what he was.

Vincent flexed his hands. His fingernails were sharp, hard and slightly-pointed. He could cut thick rope with one quick slash. Flesh was no resistance at all. But he could also calm a child, sew on a button, carve wood, and stroke Catherine’s hair with these same hands. They had many uses, some of which he had not yet discovered, and others he desperately wanted to try. Catherine did not fear his hands, not anymore, not since that first time. And that had not been fear, so much as surprise.

So what conclusions could he draw? He had to go to Catherine’s aid when her life was in danger. At such times, he was a machine, albeit a deadly efficient one. He would never forgive himself if she came to harm because he had not been there to help her, no matter what it cost him later.

What could he do? What was the answer? How was he to control himself? Tears ran down his face and he rested his head on the table, inside the cradle of his arm, and let himself drift into sleep.

Thus it was that Catherine found him a short time later. She had asked Jamie, who was on sentry duty, not to announce her arrival. Jamie had nodded and waved her on.

Vincent had not been to see her since the night he had rescued her and she could feel his unrest, like an itch along their bond. Since he and Father had almost died in the rockfall, she had begun to feel Vincent, just a little. She didn’t have to guess what he was thinking now, and her guilt was extreme.

She had been careless, yet again, had failed to see the danger. She could blame no one but herself for what had happened with Stephen. She had let him get too close, lulled by his seeming calm, his alleged illness. Now she wondered whether he had been terminally ill at all. He knew her so well, knew he could play on her emotions and gain her sympathy. He had not cared that sympathy wasn’t love. In his arrogance, he thought he could woo her again. Why did all the men she knew think like that? Tom, Elliott, Stephen. Quite a roster of disastrous relationships. All had made unreasonable demands on her. Vincent was the sole exception. He asked nothing, gave everything. He was the one she would gladly spend a lifetime with – and he was hesitant. She couldn’t blame him.

Vincent was obviously asleep so she sat down on a nearby chair and looked at him. She couldn’t see his face behind the soft waves of his hair, but he had not sensed her arrival. He must be very tired indeed. Perhaps he hadn’t slept. She had not slept well either. Joe had sent her home early after she spilled a coffee all over her latest file.

Her hands still shook when she thought of Stephen and she locked them together on her lap. She hadn’t wanted to see him, but had felt obligated to try, for Vincent’s sake. She had wanted to assure him he was having delusions, but he would have scars, big ones. Lord knows what the doctors would make of those!

He had been raving when he came to and was whisked away for surgery and psychiatric examination. She had received a lift back with the police, but poor Vincent had had to return home the hard way. She didn’t want to think about how he had arrived, much less how he’d had to return, tired and bloody. He’d had to leave quickly to get back before dawn.

She had been assured that Stephen would never leave the institution. The evidence they had found in the house was decisive and damning. The requisite three doctors had declared him insane. His possessions and assets would be managed by a court-appointed guardian. He would have no recourse – but he deserved no better and she felt no sympathy for him at all. He was a predator, a stalker. She had seen plenty of those in the DA’s files. How could she have been so blind?

Vincent was a different story. She wanted to give him solace, hold him in her arms, apologize properly. Her apology, on her balcony afterwards, had been far short of what he’d deserved.

Catherine stared at her hands. She was desperately afraid that, this time, she had gone too far. She had shouted her frustrations at Vincent, before meeting Stephen that last time, made accusations that must have hurt him deeply. How could he forgive her? What would she do if he couldn’t?

She felt tears run down her cheeks. She felt as if her world was collapsing, getting sucked into a loveless void.

"Catherine."

Vincent’s soft voice made her start and she looked up, saw that he had turned to her. His face looked haggard, as if he too had been crying. Perhaps he had. That she should be the cause of it horrified her. She got up quickly and before she reached him, he had risen from his chair. He gathered her into a hug and she felt his mouth on her hair. She put her arms around him and wept bitter tears into his sweater. Her legs began to wobble uncontrollably and he led her to the bed and made her sit down beside him. She couldn’t look at him, and was unable to stop the tears that were soaking his shoulder as he held her.

"Oh, Catherine. Don’t. Don’t blame yourself."

"Vincent," she whimpered, "it was my fault. I was blind, stupid. Story of my life with men – until I met you."

"No, Catherine. I came to you and I attacked him. On me rests the blame. I wasn’t thinking clearly. My anger and fear got the better of me. I became what he saw – an animal. I could have done … otherwise."

Catherine looked up at his face then. His mouth was drooping in self-disgust. She knew what he was thinking.

"Vincent, no. Listen to me. I wish you had killed Stephen. He deserved it, if only for forcing you to rescue me. I would have killed him if I’d had the means. But you are not a killer, not of an unarmed man, however mad. You don’t kill for the sake of it, Vincent. I’ve watched, remember. You are not an animal, you’re a thinking man – a wonderful man. The man I love."

He looked down at her then and his face cleared a little. He spoke quietly, though, his voice still deep with pain.

"Catherine, you can’t know what it feels like to kill with bare hands, to know that these nails can destroy. I don’t enjoy it, but I do it when I must. Something takes me over at such times, something heartless and very efficient. But I know what I’m doing. I can’t pretend I don’t.

"But there was something else at work in me when I saw him choking you on the ground. I knew I could pull him off you and kill him quickly, before he even saw me, but I didn’t. That’s what bothers me."

Catherine moved to stand in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. He had sagged on the bed and his head drooped. He was looking at his hands.

"Vincent, your arrival saved my life. If I’d had just rudimentary caution, it wouldn’t have been necessary."

"You don’t understand, Catherine. That isn’t what bothers me either. I had to save you. There is no blame on you for that. How could you have known what festered in his heart after so long?

"No, I wanted him to see me, Catherine, to know who had rescued you and what I was in your life. I saw that knowledge in his eyes, mixed with the fear, the disgust. If I had killed him then, it would have been because of what I saw on his face. It angered me, made me irrational, even though I knew I could expect no other response. You stopped me – and rightly so. It would have been murder - not even self-defense. He was no match for me. I was guilty of the sin of vanity."

"No, Vincent, not that, never that. Stephen’s the real villain of the piece, I see that now. Neither of us could conceive of such a man – not even I, who had once known him well. How could you have been prepared? As to the other, your wish to let him know you existed, that was understandable too. You spend so much of your life hidden, Vincent. You did what you did out of love for me. Why shouldn’t you want to let others know you love and are loved? It’s a perfectly natural wish. It’s one I have as well."

Vincent sighed. Talking it over had helped. He felt as if he could sleep well now. He broke into a massive yawn before he could stifle it. Catherine saw the full extent of his canines and couldn’t prevent herself from a huge yawn of her own.

"Oh dear," she groaned. "I thought I was going to swallow you with that one. I’m so tired – and I’m sure you are too."

Vincent looked at her, felt her fatigue along the bond, feeding his own. He could barely hold up his head. He was too tired to think any more.

"Catherine, stay here. You can lie on the bed and have a nap. I’ll sit in the chair."

She took hold of his hands then and looked in his eyes.

"Nonsense, Vincent. There’s room for both of us in your bed. I want you beside me. We need to comfort each other."

He didn’t argue. What harm could there be? And he did want her close. He removed his boots and rolled onto the bed, moving over to give her room. She slipped off her boots and slid next to him, spooned as close as she dared. She captured one of his hands and drew the arm over her until she could hold it to her heart.

There was a sigh that seemed to fill the chamber and then the sounds of soft, even breathing.

When Jamie looked in a little later, she left quickly with a smile. She reported to Father that Vincent was sleeping – and so was Catherine. He looked only mildly surprised at the latter. Anyone who could give Vincent reason to sleep, at last, had his thanks. Catherine knew how to give him solace. He didn’t know what had happened three nights ago, but it had obviously affected both of them badly. They needed each other. He told Jamie to pass the word that they were not to be disturbed.

Now where had he put that Thoreau?

END