Two Of A Kind He looked so pale lying there amid the patchwork pillows on his bed. Catherine put her hand on Vincent's forehead. He was still damp with perspiration, but cool; the fever was gone at last.
Part VIII
by Rosemarie Hauer"He must not be left alone," Father said. "Someone has to be there to wake him when those unpredictable nightmares return."
"I'll be staying with him," Catherine offered quickly, the thought of leaving him, now that she had come so close to losing him, unbearable to her.
Father nodded. "I think in his current condition he wouldn't be able to tolerate anybody else's presence," he agreed, his voice betraying his own longing to be with his son. "But you need to rest as well, Catherine. He is probably going to sleep most of the time anyway. I'll have someone bring in a makeshift cot for you."
"Thank you, Father," she said with a tentative smile which he returned before he left.
After the cot had been brought and put up by the wall opposite Vincent's bed, Catherine wasted no time in exchanging her dusty clothes for the soft gown of homespun cotton somebody had handed her. She was so tired that the events of the evening blurred in her mind. Hopefully she'd be able to get some sleep before Vincent needed her. With one last look at his still form she extinguished all the candles but one, slipped beneath the blanket, and closed her eyes.
A strange rumbling sound pulled her from her sleep, and she sat up, scanning her surroundings disorientedly. The rumble became a growl, and instantly she was on her feet.
Vincent was kneeling on his bed, braced on his arms, and rhythmically swinging his head from side to side. Low growls were escaping his throat, and his eyes moved restlessly behind closed lids.
Reminding herself that she was supposed to wake him, Catherine padded across the chamber on stockinged feet. The image before her was strangely compelling. It triggered some distant memory she was unable to grasp, but the growls were quickly becoming snarls now, and she knew that she had to act.
Softly, she called out his name once, then again, but it was the touch of her hand on his shoulder that finally stilled his motion. He froze and his body went rigid with the tension of pent-up energy. His eyes flew open and, panting laboriously, he blinked several times as if he was straining to see.
"Vincent," she whispered again, but he was beyond the reach of her voice.
Touch. It was her touch that had penetrated his trance. She had to try again. Slowly, carefully, she lifted one hand to stroke his head, but he jerked away from her, leaving her helpless and confused. Suddenly his body began to tremble, and the way he cowered on the edge of the bed, poised for flight, reminded her of a shy animal, or a frightened child, triggering her motherly instincts immediately. She sat down beside him, cautiously edging closer so as not to startle him further.
"Come here," she crooned. "Everything's all right. I'm with you. No one will hurt you."
This time he didn't resist her tentative caresses. She cupped his cheek, all the while babbling tender words, and finally he leaned into her touch, rubbing his face against her palm. That made her bold and she encircled his neck with both arms, drawing his head against her breast and rocking him gently. Small sobs shuddered through him, and his arms stole around her waist, his large hands desperately clutching the fabric of her gown. Close to tears, she rained tiny kisses upon his shaggy head, massaging the nape of his neck beneath his heavy mane with shaking fingers. "I love you," she breathed. "I love you so much."
Suddenly he pushed her back against the pillows, and she was engulfed by his strength as he pressed his quivering body into hers. Burying his face in the folds of her nightshirt, he slowly rubbed his cheek back and forth against her breast. The intensity of his actions made her swallow, and the fact that his touch wasn't so much a lover's caress but rather a child's plea for warmth and comfort, left her heart aching and overflowing with tenderness. She continued stroking him, and gradually his muscles relaxed beneath her hands, but he was still trembling.
"Cold," he stammered, pressing more firmly into her. "I'm so cold."
Extending her hand, she reached blindly for the quilt and pulled it up to cover them both. She kept rubbing his back even when his regular breathing told her that he had fallen asleep. His head was still resting on top of her chest, and she regretted that he was facing away from her. She would have loved to study his face, for once relaxed and untroubled in the welcome oblivion of sleep.
She awoke with a start, missing the warm weight of him against her body. The chamber was dark, the last candle long burnt out. Slowly she pushed herself to a sitting position, turning her head toward a faint rustling noise about an arm's length away. The stained glass window was not completely dark, and she could see Vincent's large shadow vaguely silhouetted against it. She moved to reach out for him, but he recoiled, pressing into the small shelf behind him. Catherine wished she knew how long they had slept. It must be nearly morning by now. But when she listened for the familiar sounds of the pipes, all she heard was the regular "all is well" from the sentries and the occasional rumble of a faraway train.
Her eyes returned to Vincent's unmoving form beside her, and as much as she would have liked to touch him, she knew instinctively that he needed this distance now. He was quiet, so it wasn't any nightmare which had awakened him. Maybe he just needed some time to return to his normal self, she thought and lay back again, closing her eyes.
The next time Catherine awoke was when she felt his warm, solid body curled up at her side. She smiled to herself and shifted slightly, cautiously placing her hand on his softly heaving shoulder. He stirred, and she quickly withdrew her hand, but he just inched a little closer, seeking her nearness and her touch. She turned to her side then, and he came into her arms, tucking his head under her chin and firmly clasping her waist. His breath was moist and hot against her throat, and her heartbeat increased considerably when she felt the undulating movement of his hips against her legs. Oh, God, how was she to resist this gentle plead, this unmistakable invitation? For somewhere in her mind she knew it wasn't right to pursue the direction their actions had taken. Yet, she leaned into him, meeting his rocking body with small thrusts of her own. Sensing how aroused he was, she ached for his release with an intensity that took her breath away.
Suddenly Catherine found herself turned onto her back, and with a deftness that surprised her the hem of her gown was pushed up over her thighs and hips. Vincent was completely silent as he positioned himself between her legs, and only when she reached down between them to guide him, could she hear his sharp intake of breath.
Again, doubts at the rightness of what she was doing, of what she was allowing to happen, invaded her mind, but tongues of desire quickly dissolved her ability to think, and all she could do was feel. At first Vincent was holding himself completely motionless within her, and she could hardly contain her own longing to strain toward him, to feel the friction of their joined bodies. Delighted, she noted a soft purr emanating from deep within his chest, when a sudden thrust of his pelvis drove away everything but the need to move with him, to receive him more fully, to give herself up to him.
He shuddered violently against her when release claimed them both, and with a barely audible sigh he came to rest heavily atop her. Tears of joy crept down her cheeks, and she paid no mind to the fact that she could hardly breathe under his weight. She just wished she could hold him inside her forever.
But the world came back to her all too soon with its usual harsh and relentless persistence. Slipping from her body, he sank down beside her, and she shivered as the cool air of the chamber touched her skin. Instantly he nestled closer, enfolding her in his arms, and for the second time this night she reached for the quilt and adjusted it about them.
Catherine lay awake for a long time, trying not to think, to just savor the languid contentedness of her body. Vincent's even breathing had a calming effect on her senses. "No more nightmares tonight, my Love," she whispered, glad that he was sleeping so soundly. He needed his rest. Everything else could wait. She was just about to drift to sleep when his voice startled her awake again.
"Flying," he murmured huskily. "I was flying."
She smiled into the darkness, and tears welled up once more.
*
Vincent woke to the familiar sounds of his world that told him it was morning. Flinging back the covers, he sat up, noting with dismay that he felt slightly dizzy. Puzzled, he took in the cot at the far end of his chamber and, frowning, he searched his memory for the reason why it was possibly there. Shreds and remnants of blurred images surfaced slowly. He recalled his trip down to the lower levels where Narcissa lived, but momentarily he was at a loss as to why he had gone there and how he had gotten back to his chamber.
A soft footfall in the corridor outside made him aware of his state of undress, and he fumbled with the laces of his nightshirt in order to cover his chest more properly. There was just enough time to grab the quilt and place it around his shoulders, before Catherine emerged from the doorway, carrying a breakfast tray. At his attempt to explain her presence Below to himself, especially this early in the morning, he remembered Narcissa's emergency call and his trip down to the catacombs where he had inhaled a substance that had caused him intense hallucinations. He assumed that he must have passed out after that, for he couldn't recall anything beyond it. Except that he had never found Narcissa.
Watching as Catherine placed the tray on the table, arranged the saucers and cups, and poured some tea, he wondered once again whether he had made it back home on his own or whether someone had found him and brought him. This lack of memory was highly disquieting.
Catherine's voice interrupted his musings. "You look...rested," she observed.
Casting her a self-conscious smile, he rose and walked over to join her at the table.
"I feel rested," he replied, and with a quick glance at the cot he added, " Did you...spend the night Below...with me?"
The teacup she was holding clattered against the saucer as she put it down and looked up at him with a hooded expression. But not before he had noticed a shadow passing over her features. Instantly his worst fear reared its head, but she was quick to reassure him with a warm smile.
"Yes, I did. Father thought it best that someone stay with you after the ordeal you had been through. You seemed to find my presence calming, so I volunteered." After a brief pause of consideration she added, "How much do you remember, Vincent?"Slowly shaking his head, he shrugged. "Not much, I'm afraid. I followed an emergency call sent by Narcissa, but on my way down I inhaled some kind of a drug. After that everything is just a blur. Do you know if I found my way home by myself?"
She nodded. "You were in an awful shape when you arrived. You weren't quite...yourself."
His heart constricted with terror and shame and, unable to meet her eyes, he dropped his head, concealing his face behind a curtain of hair. "Did you see me...like that?" he inquired.
She nodded again. "You had retreated to a small alcove, not far from the Home Chambers, and Olivia and some others could hear you. But no one could reach you there. You were frightened and disoriented and lashed out at everybody who would try to soothe you."
"Was anybody hurt?" he cut in.
"No, but they were worried that you might harm yourself. So Father got me to call out to you. He hoped that my voice would calm you."
"And," he prompted, "did I listen?"
"No, but you followed me when I went in to get you out."
He stared at her with utter disbelief. "They had you go in there? Although I was..." His voice fell away, but when she stepped around the table and he felt the warmth of her small hand on his bare wrist, he finished hoarsely, "...although I was like that?"
"Father wouldn't let me," she replied, "but feeling your anguish and despair, how could I have stayed away?" Her eyes were huge as she looked up at him imploringly. "I only had to touch you, Vincent, and you calmed at once. There was no danger."
"You couldn't know that," he retorted tersely.
"But I did," she insisted, and the plea in her eyes melted his resolve to keep his distance. With a quiet sigh he accepted, and returned, the embrace she was offering, and he didn't even relinquish her when the quilt that had been draped around his shoulders slid slowly to the floor. Holding on to her was his anchor in a sea of uncertainties and doubts.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, "that I'm not properly dressed." And her soft answering laugh was a balm to his confused and battered soul.
"You are forgiven," she said simply, leaning back in his arms, and there was something in her eyes, in the way she looked up at him so lovingly, that made his heart soar with elation. He couldn't tear his gaze from hers, so sweet was the magic of the moment.
"I dreamed I was flying," he heard himself say all of a sudden and apparently out of context, and her reply only added to his puzzlement.
"I know," she breathed, placing a fleeting kiss on his chin.
Pulling her close again, he savored the contentment he could feel in her now. And whatever shadow may have been there, he could no longer sense it.