The Possibility Of Being

by Once Beautiful and Brave

A 4th Season novel in 5 parts. Just as Vincent and Diana's relationship progresses from friendship to something deeper, they discover that a dangerous link to the past has returned and threatens not only their love, but their very lives.

1. Book One: Journey

1. Journey

"Someone has come into my life … from the world Above."

"Come Below."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record, Vincent. Every time you show up lately it's the same thing." Diana squinted up at him from her spot on the couch. He could tell by her pained expression and the translucence of her skin that she was fighting a headache. He knew such things about her now.

"Broken record?" He couldn't help but ask. "I'm sorry, Diana; I'm not familiar with the expression."

"Yeah, I guess you're not real big on turntables down there, are you? It happens when the needle gets stuck in a groove and plays the same thing over and over. You know: a record … music? Here," she offered, rising from the couch and giving him a wide berth as she moved to the concrete block and wooden bookshelf against the south wall of her loft. "I got an old Jimmy Witherspoon album, skips like a gaggle of five-year-old girls. Lemme find it and you can hear what I mean."

Vincent turned in place and studied her as she flipped switches on the stereo receiver, wondering how far he might be able to push her before she became angry with him. Her line dividing tolerance and irritation had become an ever-shifting one these last several days. He could sense in her now only distance and an inner silence she had begun to retreat to more and more: her way of blocking his attempts at reaching her through his empathic gift. It frustrated him. Deciding, he moved to her side and, as she searched the shelves for the album she'd named, cautiously laid his hand on her forearm.

"Diana."

She jerked her head around, looking down at the hand on her arm and then up to meet his eyes: a quick motion that left no doubt she wished not to be touched. He respected that and removed his hand. But those few moments of contact told him everything he needed to know.

"Perhaps," he said to her, "I sound to you like a 'broken record' because I can see your torment, your pain. Yet … you continue to refuse the help I've offered."

She turned her gaze back to the bookshelf and her attention to her search. "It's not torment, it's stress."

"Are we to argue semantics now?"

Diana abruptly shoved a line of albums she'd pulled out from their neat row back into place with the flat of her open palm. They made an audible thwack as they met the resistance of the brick wall. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and he saw the glistening of tears gathering in them - felt her struggle to control them. Diana disliked crying in front of him. He knew that about her, too.

"Listen, I appreciate you stopping by to check on me and all, but I'm okay, Vincent."

As the first tear slid down her cheek and was summarily swiped away, he asked, "Then there have been no more nightmares? You're sleeping as you should? Eating as you should? Attending to your work … as you should be?" Her stoic silence was answer enough. "Then you're not okay … are you?"

He watched as she folded her arms tightly across her chest, closing herself outwardly as she retreated further inward. Diana pivoted and moved toward her desk, giving him her back. She poked at a pile of books on the desk's surface, rearranged the pens and markers in their home in an old and chipped coffee mug, and straightened a stack of papers. Her occasional sniffle was the only sound in the dimly lit loft, save the barely audible white-noise hum of the stereo speakers. He gave her his silence, the only thing he could give, the only thing she would allow. He made himself think of tranquil things: nothing that would add to the emotional burden she already bore.

After a long time, in which she'd stopped fidgeting with her things and her concentration seemed focused on the empty wall before her, she said, "Look, it's not that big a deal. A lot of us on the 210 have to take down-time after we've worked a few bad cases right in a row. You gotta have some time to get your head straight again, get back to something resembling normal. It's not like I've never done it before."

What she failed to mention - and what he would not - was that this time the down-time she spoke of was not of her choice but had instead been forced upon her by her superiors. He would also not mention the reason why: that for the second time in less than a year, she'd shot to death an unarmed man in the line of duty. First had been Gabriel, and a little less than two weeks past, Wesley Conrad, a man who'd financed the kidnapping of children for unspeakable crimes; a man who'd trafficked in the most innocent of human beings for sexual slavery.

He knew these things merely as facts, for Diana had only been willing to share that much: just those and none of her feelings. She'd become so tightly closed off from him that he'd only been able to grasp the edges of her emotions the last several times he'd come to her, and then only fleetingly; most especially when she was overly tired or had stopped too long at some mindless task she'd taken up and had allowed herself to feel something beyond numb.

He knew what it was to bind one's self so tightly against the pain. To do it so successfully nothing could penetrate, so that all was darkness. Not even the smallest light of hope trying to make its way in could defeat something so large. He knew that, had survived it, and had vowed never to allow himself to be lost in so great an aloneness again.

He badly wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and gather her close. His decision to offer to her refuge Below was not one he'd taken lightly. He knew what it might cost them, should she agree. Their friendship had solidified in the months since he'd brought Jacob home, and Diana had become a Helper in the truest sense of the word. But beyond their friendship and the easy camaraderie they'd begun to share - forged, he had first supposed, of their dark and dangerous beginning and their similar gifts of empathy – deeper feelings were making themselves known - to him, at least. He hadn't discussed those feelings with her; there was no need. They were becoming finely tuned to each other's rhythms and moods now. There were less sharp edges to have to negotiate, less bumping into each other and more the beginnings of a unique and graceful dance neither led but merely instinctively moved within. Theirs was a comfortable relationship.

He knew he risked that and much more by inviting Diana Below, to heal. But he couldn't find it in himself to deny her the possibility of such a gift out of selfish fear of what he might have to sacrifice by the giving. Diana had, from the very beginning, stood quite literally toe to toe with him and had spoken truths that'd been painful, but which he'd needed to hear. No one before had ever spoken to him the way she had, with such bluntness and stubborn conviction - this woman he sometimes felt he'd always known. She had done it utterly without fear, then and ever since. He owed her no less than to do the same. And so he moved toward her. Not close enough that he could easily touch her or that she would interpret as crowding: just enough that she would feel his presence and know him to be near.

"I'm remembering a dark alley on a night not many months past," he began softly, so that she had to turn her head slightly to better hear him. "I was so startled when I looked up and saw you coming toward me. You were so determined to stop me from destroying myself, Diana. Even when I knew myself past desiring anything but revenge upon the man who'd murdered Catherine and stolen my Jacob, who could feel nothing but rage … you were able to reach me. To remind me of what was truly important, even though I thought I was beyond any sort of hope, much less redemption. Do you remember what you said to me that night?"

She gave a tiny lift of her shoulders, still turned away, still with arms tightly clasped around her slender frame. He began to wonder if that would be all she'd offer, but then she added, "I said a lot of things. Can you narrow it down at all?"

He couldn't help the lift of his mouth in a tender smile. To Diana, God truly was in the details. She couldn't suppress that aspect of herself any more than she could the summer sky warmth of her eyes or the vivid autumn red of her hair.

"You said to me …" he answered, pausing for a moment to make sure he had all the words in their proper order, "'If you continue alone in this, you are going to lose everything.' Do you remember?"

Vincent felt rather than saw her twinge of irritation and recognized its source. He wasn't playing fairly and they both knew it. But he couldn't suppress his innate strategist any more than she could her boundless imagination and attention to detail. He would use whatever means he had available to convince her of the strength of his argument, to win her acquiescence.

Diana sighed and muttered, "I remember. And I really dislike you right now."

He took that as permission and closed the distance between them. Vincent pulled her to him and she came willingly, turning at the same time, so that when his arms circled around her it was an easy thing for her to lay her cheek against his shoulder.

"No, you don't," he whispered, resting his head against hers.

They held the embrace for a while, content to simply be doing that. But then Diana pulled away and he allowed her, watching as she made her way into the kitchen area of the loft and stopped on the other side of the island. She leaned over it and braced an elbow there, propping her chin in her hand. Diana caught his eye and held it, a direct and open stare. He remained where he was and let himself be looked at.

Her eyes on him, always steady and straight, had never bothered him the way it would have had anyone else, save Father or Devin, done it. Sometimes it had been difficult even to have Catherine look at him so intently, or to meet her gaze with the same sort of steadiness. But not with Diana: he had never known anything less than that from her. And he knew that she saw all that he was and accepted him unconditionally.

"So am I going to have to be on candle duty if I stay down there more than a couple days?" she challenged. "Gonna recruit me for changing diapers in the nursery or slinging hash in the Commons? I guess sentry duty is probably out of the question … or maybe not. Maybe I'd fit right in doing that, so long as you don't give me a gun." She barked a short, harsh laugh. "I'm liable to blow away the first guy I don't recognize."

Vincent gave her a look he was certain expressed mild reproach for the undeserved jab she'd taken at herself. Diana was almost as practiced at self-recrimination as he.

"You needn't do anything … but heal and regain your strength," he assured her. "Nothing will be required of you but that you accept what is offered you in friendship and kindness … and give back only what you are able. It is your choice, Diana, as it is for anyone who comes Below seeking sanctuary. You may do nothing if that is what you wish. Or, if you would rather, some suitable work could be found for you. There is always something to be done, and fewer hands to do it than what's ideal. I'm sure Father would be happy to find –"

"And what's he gonna think about this?" Diana's outburst didn't come as a surprise: he had expected it. "Some topsider shows up out of nowhere wanting a bed and three squares just because she can't be trusted with a gun anymore. Because it got to be too much and she can't get her shit together and isn't fit for active duty." The last four words were accompanied by quote marks jabbed in the air. "Bet he'll be pleased as punch, Father will. So what about that?"

He calmly folded his hand in front of him and said, "He is expecting you. And has been for several days, since I first told him of my intent to offer you refuge."

She rewarded him with a doubtful sidelong look. "And he's okay with that?"

"You're a Helper, Diana, and entitled to the same privileges as anyone considered such by the community. Father is aware you've been troubled of late, and of my concern for you."

"Oh, great. So now I'm a damn charity case."

Vincent tipped his head and let out a heavy sigh: sometimes she could be so very exasperating.

"Must we continue with this?" he implored, waiting until she agreed to meet his gaze. "While I appreciate your efforts at stalling, Diana, and your attempts to come up with as many excuses as you can, I think we both know the matter has been settled. Must you fight me every step of the way? Might we not just be peaceable and perhaps gather some of your things to take Below?"

He stood steadfast as her eyes aimed daggers at him. She finally pushed away from the island and retorted, "Fine, we'll do it your way. Does that make you happy? Oh, and did I mention I really don't like you?"

"You did. And I don't believe it now any more than when first you said it."

"I didn't figure you would."

Diana disappeared into the bedroom with that admission, hopefully to begin to pack. He allowed himself a few moments of satisfaction at what he considered his rather sizable victory. And then was taken aback when she poked her head around the doorway a few minutes later and offered to let him pick out which undergarments she should bring with her. He gave her a coy smile and politely declined.

….

Hours later, after Diana had been shown the guest chamber closest to his and had then helped him settle nine-month-old Jacob for the night, she'd waved off his invitation to stay awhile longer and had bid him good night. Though he missed her company, Vincent understood her need to be alone. Diana's was a fairly solitary life. A mechanism, he suspected, for coping with her empathy … among other things. He knew what it was to be surrounded by the emotions of others; had himself at times found it overwhelming. And she was so fragile now, so close to losing whatever delicate balance she'd been struggling to maintain.

He'd taken to his chair, intending to resume reading a thick historical novel Diana had lent him about the life of Irish king Brian Boru. But after reading the same paragraph three times, he realized the futility of keeping to the task and instead marked his place and set the book aside. Without looking he reached down into the cradle beside the chair and rested his hand on one of Jacob's chubby legs. The boy was sleeping soundly, peacefully. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to rest against the chair back, content for a time to simply float in the serene and colorful seas of his son's dreaming.

He had almost fallen asleep when he sensed presence in the tunnel outside his chamber and came fully awake. It's only just Father, Vincent realized, and patted reassurance to Jacob. The child had momentarily stirred, alerted to his sudden attentiveness through their bond, compounded by the addition of touch. A quick glance confirmed Jacob had gone back to sleep just as quickly, his left thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, tiny lips pursed around it. Vincent's face held the memory of a smile as he turned in the chair and watched Father come down the passageway.

"Vincent." The older man paused just outside the chamber proper, leaning heavily on his cane. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No, please, come in." The invitation was automatic and sincere. Father, if not entirely welcome on every occasion, was nonetheless always allowed in. Refusing entry to the man who'd raised him, who'd made his very survival possible, was as unlikely a thing to consider as not taking his next breath.

Father joined him at the small table, settling into the chair opposite his after a quick peek at his grandson. "We won't disturb young Jacob if we talk for a minute?" he asked quietly.

"No, he won't wake now. The sleep of innocence is a deep one."

"Ah, yes," Father said. "I remember the days when you were Jacob's age. And, as seems to be inherent in this case, I could never persuade you to nap during the day either. You would stay awake just as long as you possibly could and then fall into such a deep sleep I found myself checking several times of an evening just to make certain you were still breathing."

He returned the warm smile offered him, taking those few seconds to gauge Father's mood. It was as he'd anticipated: anxious and a bit uncomfortable.

It's best to get matters out in the open, he decided, and be done with it.

"But you didn't come here to talk about that," Vincent gently prodded.

Father fidgeted a bit, looking away and adjusting his position in the chair. "Ah, no … no, I didn't."

In direct contrast to Father's uneasiness, Vincent settled more comfortably in his own chair and folded his hands in his lap, waiting. After several seconds with nothing more said, he prompted, "This is about Diana." Not a question. He knew exactly what had motivated the late night visit.

"Yes … Diana." There was a small silence before Father continued, "Or perhaps it's not just about Diana ... Vincent, I'm concerned about how having her here might affect you."

"I seem to recall having had a similar conversation with you once before. When Catherine's father died and she came Below."

That got him a sharp look. "Well, yes, exactly. Just so. But my concerns are not quite the same this time."

Vincent found himself already growing weary of the roundabout path it seemed Father had decided on in order to get to the heart of the matter. He was tired and unwilling to follow his lead. He found himself changing course for them, unable to hide his irritation as he asked, "So when you agreed Diana should be offered whatever sanctuary we could give her, you weren't sincere? It was done only for my sake … or to keep the peace?"

"Vincent, please don't take that tone with me. And don't put words in my mouth. I'm perfectly capable of speaking my own thoughts."

He unfolded his hands and lifted them palm up in invitation. "Then please, Father, continue."

He received another stern look in response. Then: "I don't believe the sincerity of the offer should be called into question, for it was sincere. Diana has more than shown herself to be invaluable to this community and I have her, in large part, to thank for your safe return home, and that of my grandson's. Not to mention my own life, after the tragic incident with Gregory Coyle. Whatever help we can give her is the very least we can do. But I must tell you: I find this entire situation with the two of you disturbing."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Despite himself, Vincent found he couldn't help but ask. What was it Father saw, when he considered the two of them? Did he even have the slightest idea of the truth?

Father gave a terse nod of agreement and continued, "Ever since you first came to me and told me about Diana, I've had my fears that you might, in the enormity of your grief, come to look at this woman as some sort of … substitute … for the love you lost with Catherine's death."

"I lost nothing, Father. As long as I live, Catherine lives in me - as does our love. That will never die. And there is Jacob, who is the love we shared made flesh and blood. Diana is not," he found the taste of the next word bitter on his tongue and spat it out, "substitute for Catherine. I cannot believe you would even entertain such a thought."

"You can hardly blame me, Vincent. No, now please hear me out. In not much more than a year's time you've suffered what can only be called a complete emotional breakdown - along with the temporary loss of your empathic gift - and then a months-long search for Catherine, only to have it end with her dying in your arms. And then the search for your son, and the abuse you suffered at the hands of that monster before you were able to escape.

"And for a good deal of that time Diana was at your side, or at least very close to it. You said yourself she had become your last hope. She came into your life at a time when you desperately needed something to cling to; someone outside the confines of these tunnels, where you were obviously not able to find the sort of help you deemed necessary. And for that I shall always be remorseful. But I did the best I could, Vincent, as did everyone Below - and all of our Helpers, Above."

He stopped then and waited for Vincent's nod of acknowledgement, which he gave after a few moments.

"You would not be the first," Father continued, "to forge an emotional connection based solely on a shared tragedy. It is a very … human desire, to want to connect with the person you've shared so much with in so short a time. And lest you think me unkind, my concern is not merely for you, Vincent, but for Diana, as well. I've grown fond of her these last months and I don't wish to see her hurt."

Vincent waited to make certain this part of Father's soliloquy was finished. It seemed to be, and so he took a moment or two to gather his thoughts and began, slowly, to try to explain.

"You don't understand, Father. It's … different. What I share with Diana is not the same as what I had with Catherine. And I'm not sure any words of mine will help you to understand what that difference is."

"Will you at least try? I want to understand, Vincent - truly I do."

He dropped his eyes and studied his inhuman hands: clawed and furred fingers entwined and held tensely between his knees. He took in a deep breath and then exhaled it as he said, "Catherine was … a completion. She was a part of me that'd been missing before the night I first found her and brought her Below. A lack I was not even aware of until she came into my life and I began to understand how truly alone I had been before her. But Diana is …"

He trailed off, unable to find the right words. How could he explain something he was only himself beginning to understand? The things he'd started to sense in Diana as she'd submerged herself into the madness of the Wesley Conrad case; the small coincidences and events from the past several months that'd finally begun to coalesce in his mind to create a larger, more complete picture - the whole of which he found almost too immense to wrap his mind around.

How could one explain something like that? He found he wanted to try, anyway - not just for Father's edification but his own, as well. To take the thoughts and make them real with words - and therefore something to be acted upon. Forward momentum: finally taking action and confronting the reality that presented itself, instead of simply wondering and waiting.

So he lifted his eyes to those of the man across the table and said, "We are so much alike, Diana and I. There are such similarities … so many … that the differences pale in comparison. Catherine was my completion. But Diana … Diana is my reflection, Father. And where Catherine was my light, she is my mirror."

Father was shaking his head, puzzled. "Vincent, I'm not sure I know what you're saying."

Vincent sighed in frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts. There had to be a way to strip away the layers and describe what lay at the core. And at the moment he realized what it was, he also knew Father would not be pleased to hear it. But it would have to be said. It was the truth, after all, and one should never be afraid of the truth.

"There is a … darkness growing in Diana. One that calls to me, Father, in some deep way … and which I cannot help but answer."

"A darkness?" Father sputtered.

"The things she has seen and done in her work. The empathy she experiences. The power of her imagination … Father, she immerses herself, willingly, into the minds of monsters. And in doing so, a part of the darkness she discovers in them remains within her. She is a hunter, and all hunters carry within them the lives of their prey. I know this … more intimately than I ever wanted to."

He glanced up, needing to see what was in his father's eyes. Because now would come the sticking point. He could only push Father so far in acknowledging the part of him that was not a man, and then push him no farther. There were certain truths he could never be made to admit – at least not out loud. It was a kindness, of course, and one extended to Vincent by most all the members of the community. But willful ignorance did not, could not, change the facts. He remembered a fragment of another conversation with Father:

"Vincent, that is not who you are, to us."

"That is who I am. Perhaps even my fate."

What Vincent saw in Father's face now was shock and dismay, and after a quick glance at the child sleeping an arm's length away, he asked, "Surely you don't mean … Vincent, you're not saying Diana is a danger to us?"

"No, only to herself. I know this part of it, too. That is why I want her here Below: so that I can begin to teach her, if she will allow me."

"Teach her? Teach her what, precisely?"

"How to control the darkness, to learn to survive it. To keep it from consuming her - as it has twice consumed me."

"Vincent, I won't begin to pretend I understand any of this. But if what you're saying is true, do you really think you're the one to be taking on such a delicate task?"

"Who better?" he asked.

"Well, surely there are those Above whose training would allow them to help Diana with this. There are psychologists, Vincent, therapists who do this sort of thing for a living. Might it not be a better idea–"

"No," he argued. "It must be me."

"For God's sake, Vincent, why?"

"Because I am the one who awakened the darkness in her. Because it recognized something in me, as I did in it: a reflection, Father. And because if it wasn't for me, none of this would be happening to her. So when her darkness rises up and looks for its reflection - as it will, as it must - it will find it. In me – through me. And then we will defeat it. Together."

...

He was in the Maze. How he'd gotten here he couldn't remember, but here he was.

Vincent turned slowly, trying to get his bearings, almost blind in the darkness that was little more than shades of gray even to his heightened, inhuman vision. Columns of soft, water-eaten stone surrounded him, some so large he wouldn't have been able to wrap his arms around their circumference; others barely more than the diameter of a sentry's staff. He studied them intently, as if they held the answer to why he was here. There was a reason for it, but he couldn't remember. Why had he come here? The landscape held no answers; the columns, with knee-high mists swirling around them, stood mute witness to his presence.

Vincent realized after a time (which was no time, for this was a dream) that he knew this place, this particular spot he occupied. He jerked with the realization, and spun around as a glint of something shining caught the edge of his vision. There, on a broken column as big around as a saucer and the height of a sideboard, some distance away. He took a single step and was there, though it should have taken him a dozen times that.

He gingerly reached out and plucked the object from the rock, balancing it between thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating it as he held it close to better see, even though he already knew what it was. A golden band, set with a stone as black as the deepest of the tunnels Below.

"Gabriel," he whispered.

"He's only a part of it," a voice replied from behind him. Vincent spun as a growl erupted from his throat.

Before him stood the white-haired assassin who'd been sent Below to kill him. The one who'd callously taken the lives of two of his friends before he'd led him down here and had outwitted him, had caused the man to use his own weapon to bring death raining down upon his head, crushing him beneath an unstable section of the Maze's ceiling as it had fallen.

It didn't seem at all odd to Vincent that the man stood facing him now, the ghost of the hunter he'd once been. He felt no threat from him. He'd already killed him and could do it again, if need be. Only this time it wouldn't be bloodless. The assassin had robbed him of that pleasure once; it wouldn't happen a second time.

"What do you mean?" Vincent demanded.

The man chuckled: a cold, dead sound.

"You didn't think it was just the two of us, did you, Gabriel and I? C'mon, I had you pegged as smarter than that, Vincent."

His name being spoken by the killer elicited another, deeper growl: a warning.

"Something like this always requires three, you know," the assassin added, apparently not bothered by the snarl.

"Something like what?" Vincent was quickly losing patience and wanted to be away from this place; away from the ghost whose voice had become an angry buzzing in his head.

"A trinity," the man answered. "An unholy one, to be sure, but not without its own kind of beauty."

"We're done here," Vincent retorted, disturbed for no reason he could put his finger on. But something in the hunter's words … "I have no more business with you."

That got him a shrug. "If that's the way you wanna play it. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's nowhere near over with yet. After all … there's still the woman to contend with."

He locked startled eyes on the assassin. Felt a part of him receding as another began struggling against an inner cage, demanding to be freed. The edges of his vision blurred with color: the deep red of spilled blood. Vincent felt his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming rapid and shallow. The sense of threat had gone from none to enormous in a matter of seconds.

"And, of course, the child," the hunter added.

It was the sardonic grin those words came with that set the darkness loose and into motion. Vincent unleashed a roar and reared back with his right arm. Faster than thought, he swung it in a wide arc and delivered a single, powerful blow: claws digging deep and tearing open the assassin's throat. The man fell soundlessly in a heap at his feet.

Vincent looked down at him and repeated, "We're done here."

And looked up to find himself in the park.

Daylight. And he stood without cover of his cloak in the middle of a wide concrete pathway he recognized as being the one nearest the drainage tunnel leading Below. People passed him on both sides, from ahead and behind, like a river flowing around a single, massive boulder set in its depths. He watched them moving around him, unconcerned. They couldn't see him, for he was no one. Invisible and unimportant.

Vincent studied the flow of humanity with interested eyes: the joggers and the business men in their suits; the mothers pushing strollers filled with sleeping or crying infants; the lovers walking hand in hand. He lifted his face to the sun and watched as a hawk soared high above him, floating on the same currents of air that rustled the foliage around him and whipped chunks of his mane into his face and then away again.

His attention was caught by a man walking straight toward him on the path. A man who could see what the others couldn't. Of average height, with dark hair and a beard, wearing a charcoal gray suit and tugging down the cuffs of his pristine white shirt as he strolled confidently down the walk. Vincent stood, stunned, and stared as the man came to a stop only a few feet away.

"Elliot Burch?" He received a lopsided smile in response.

"Hello, Vincent."

"Why are you here?" he asked, reaching out to grasp Elliot's arm. If he could touch the hunter, bring him down with a blow, why not a gentler contact for the ghost of the man who'd died in his place? A man he'd so come to respect, especially at the end.

He watched, puzzled, as his hand closed around nothing more than air. Elliot was as insubstantial as smoke. He tried a second time, with the same results. Elliot simply stood and watched him, the smile never leaving his face.

Vincent shook his head. "I don't understand."

"That's okay, I'm not quite sure I understand it, either. But I had to find you. I had to tell you."

"Tell me?"

Elliot frowned, glancing up and away, contemplating something. He lifted a finger and said, "Give me a minute. I have to get this right the first time."

Vincent stood patiently and waited. He didn't have anywhere else to be - at least not until he did. And this part of the dream was pleasant enough. There was sunlight on his face and fresh air to draw deeply into his lungs – not like the candle smoke-filled and dusty air of his home Below. The many warm spring Sunday afternoons spent on Diana's rooftop had spoiled him for this.

"Okay, here goes," Elliot said after a time, and closed his eyes in preparation: the better to concentrate, Vincent supposed. He gave Elliot his full attention.

"'We will grieve not. Rather find strength in what remains behind. In the primal sympathy which having been … must ever be. In the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering. In the faith that looks through death.'" Elliot opened his eyes and looked up at him then, asking, "Did I get it right?"

He chuffed a surprised chuckle and responded, "Yes, you did. Although … your cadence could use some work."

Elliot laughed. "Eh, poetry was never my forte. I've always been more of a pulp fiction kind of guy. Anyway … she made me promise I'd tell you that, if I ever saw you again."

His heart skipped a beat. "She … You mean Catherine?"

"She was so insistent on you hearing those words. You know how she is, Vincent, once she sets her mind to something. But she wanted you to know."

"Know?" he repeated, slightly stunned. "Know what?"

Elliot reached out and grasped his arm. Strange, that Elliot could do what he could not. He felt genuine affection from the man before him. "That it's okay to be happy. You can grieve, too, but you have to find a way to keep on living, and be happy doing it. She said … because you have an obligation to her now: it's your turn to carry the light."

Vincent rocked back on his feet, feeling as though he'd been punched in the chest.

"Is she here, Elliot? Might I see her? Please … just for a moment."

"I don't think so," Elliot said regretfully. "I'm not really sure how all this works. I don't know, but I don't think so."

"But you're here," he reasoned. Besides, it was his dream: if he could conjure Elliot, then why not Catherine, too? He desperately wanted to see her again.

"Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I? But I have no idea how I got here," Elliot said. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time and there's something else you need to know."

He tried to shake off his sudden melancholy and the renewed, sharp pang of his loss.

"What is it?"

"The assassin was the storm, Vincent. And Gabriel was the tide. But it's the moon … it's the moon that threatens you now. Remember that."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in time." He started to turn away and Vincent knew he was leaving even before Elliot announced, "I have to go. I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Elliot, wait!"

"I can't. I'm sorry. Good-bye, Vincent."

Elliot took perhaps four steps before he simply disappeared, fading into shadows that heralded twilight and the coming night more swiftly than Vincent had ever seen it happen. In two breaths time, his dreamscape had gone from bright and golden to the blurred violet of fading day, the sky etched with smears of clouds of the darkest blues and plums, hanging heavily over a thin horizon of brilliant red. It was, he thought, the exact color of Diana's hair.

"Beautiful, huh?"

He spun around and she was there: tall and slender, dressed in faded jeans, an oversized t-shirt and soft moccasins. Her arms were folded over her chest and most of her hair had stubbornly escaped its careful morning braid - as it was wont to do, despite her best efforts. Soft tendrils of that vivid red curled around her face and neck.

He smiled, looking unflinchingly into her eyes and responded, "Yes, you are … beautiful." It was permissible to say such things to her in dreams. And he often had.

The blush he'd hoped for spread slowly over Diana's cheeks. She jerked a tolerant grin at him and said, "I was talking about the sunset, Vincent."

"Yes. It's beautiful, as well."

"Okay, enough of that, buster. Much as you might love to stand here and watch me go red as a beet - strictly for your own enjoyment, I might add, and that's new - we got business to take care of. C'mon." She gestured behind her with a quick tilt of her head and walked away.

So, of course, he followed. He would follow Diana anywhere. Two long strides brought him to her side and they left the path and moved onto the grass. He was content to be doing only this: matching his gait to what he was sensing was her determined one. He didn't need to ask her where they were going: she would tell him in her own time. And he was enjoying the sound of crickets chirping in the warm night air, the dim clamor of traffic outside the park and the green and spicy scent of crushed blades of grass, wet with dew, under his boots. And her quiet company. That, most of all.

After a few minutes he reached out and let his left hand brush against the edge of hers. Her fingers grasped and then threaded between his. They shared a brief look, Diana being the one to break it. But the contact of their hands was enough - was everything. He let his mind wander, not concerned at all for their safety. The park was empty but for the two of them. So it startled him when Diana finally spoke.

"It hasn't been easy, you know: keeping up with you."

He stopped while she kept going, and her forward momentum broke the hold of their clasped hands. She looked back a question at him, as if her statement hadn't required any sort of response. But he found he had one, anyway.

"What do you mean?"

"I owe you a life, Vincent. And I always pay my debts."

His breath caught in this throat and he could only gape at her. Hearing those words, those words, leave her mouth instantly took him back to the cage and the haunting memory of Gabriel's skeletal face, twisted and evil.

Diana gave him another look he was too stunned to make sense of and said," Screw this. Let's just get it over with. Race you to the top of the hill," and took off running.

He might have remained rooted to the spot if not for a chilly and sudden foreboding. No matter how little sense what she'd said made to him, he knew in his bones Diana was running toward something awful. He had to be there to face it, with her. He had no choice.

By the time Vincent shook free of his inertia and started after her, Diana was halfway up the gentle slope of the hill. Her hair had come completely free of its braid as she'd raced away from him. Running full out, arms pumping, Diana's swift pace kept it swept back from her face in a heavy curtain of long, dark waves that slapped against her back as she ran. He glanced over as he finally caught up to her and flinched at the joyful, toothy grin she threw his way. He was utterly confused by her words and her behavior - and just as utterly terrified by them.

It was then he spotted the two shapes at the crest of the hill, dark and low to the ground, unmoving. He slowed his long, running strides and at the same time reached out to halt Diana's progress. But she easily slipped free of his hold and gained the top of the hill, stopping between the shapes and looking back, waiting for him.

When he got there she was staring down at what he could see, now that he was close enough, was a man's body: a black man, wearing a green fatigue jacket and blue jeans. Both his face and chest were bloody and torn. Vincent instantly recognized him as one of the three addicts who'd attacked Diana just inside the drainage tunnel here in the park, many months ago. The one he'd swiftly dispatched as the other two had escaped.

As he lifted his eyes in bewilderment to meet hers, Diana asked, "How did you know, Vincent? How did you know I was there? How did you know I was in trouble?"

He hadn't time to think, much less respond, before she turned her attention to the other man sprawled at their feet. It was, of course, Gabriel. Who else could it be? He looked dispassionately down at the lifeless body, feeling nothing more than a vague sense of satisfaction.

"I didn't want to do it, you know, didn't want to kill him," Diana told him quietly. "But I had to: I owed you a life."

"Diana …" He stared at her, aghast.

"And, besides, he deserved it," she went on, either unconcerned or unaware of his distress. "So many of them do. But it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. And it was easier the second time."

He shook his head to try to clear it. A heaviness had begun to move through him and he was suddenly tired, so very tired. He felt as if he no longer existed within his own body, as though he were somehow outside of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off a sudden vertigo. He found Diana's steady gaze on him when he again opened them.

"What is happening here?" he implored.

"We started it," she answered sadly, "so now we have to finish it." She closed the distance between them and lifted up on her toes just enough to kiss him directly on the mouth.

"This, too, Vincent. We share this, too."

And then she was gone, racing down the other side of the hill. He could see a crowd of people gathered below, shuffling from side to side or in small circles; moving simply to move, without purpose. And he immediately knew them, each and every one. They were his dead. All the lives he'd taken: in defense of the community Below, in defense of Catherine, in defense of their child.

He bellowed Diana's name in warning. But she ran on, heedless of his cry. Then, as one, the faces of those he'd killed turned in his direction, alerted by his shout, and focused on Diana as she ran headlong into the middle of them and disappeared from sight.

All thought left him, then. He became motion and simple instinct. Reaching the edge of the crowd of bodies, working his way deeper into the gathering of his dead, he slashed and swatted and cuffed; tearing at already dead flesh and re-breaking already broken bones, throwing bodies aside or merely pushing through them on his way to Diana. He caught a glimpse of her titian hair and shoved at the bodies on either side of him, finally opening up an area at the center, where she was.

What Vincent saw before him was nothing of what he'd dreaded. What he saw was enough to cause his blood to run hot and cold: a shiver of primal rage and deepest desire; an infusion that the Other within him reveled in, just as the man he wished to be acknowledged the vision of beauty and otherness before him now.

For instead of being attacked, Diana had become the attacker. And he could only stand and watch as she darted and danced and twirled within the open space of the circle, delivering powerful blows and kicks, knocking back or down anyone who dared come near her. She laughed as she moved - the sound clear and bright in the still night air.

He casually shoved aside a man who'd once threatened Catherine and stepped into the space. Diana stopped long enough to glance over his shoulder, warning him, "Behind you!" just as he was stuck hard across the upper back. He grunted and bent with the blow, spinning as he did and catching his attacker across the lower body, snapping bones and tearing flesh. He ended up with his back to Diana's, and almost at once they were surrounded as the crowd came at them, time and again. And, again, he was transformed to only movement and instinct. But this time he shared it: with Diana, and through her. Together they fought and killed - protected each other, without thought.

And it was glorious.

After a time (an eternity, a second?) he looked around and could find no more opponents for the fiery-hot rage still burning within him. All lay still and silent at his feet. The lack of danger slowly began to extinguish the rage and he became aware of other things: the trembling ache of overused muscles; the sweet and sharp tang of the spilled blood that surrounded him, covered him; the locks of hair that clung to his sweated face and obstructed his vision. He reached to swipe them away and was struck by the different texture and length; not the coarse and heavy strands of his mane, but the silken smoothness of Diana's hair. Her red hair … now his.

Then Vincent looked down, dumbstruck, at his hands. Which were no longer his hands: covered in blood, long and slender fingers flexing; furless and without claws, only pale, freckled skin and nails bitten down short.

He spun wildly, searching, and stopped when he found behind him, not Diana, but himself, staring back with the same bewildered and shocked expression: his perfect reflection.

Vincent woke with a muffled cry and sat straight up in his bed.

...

He was pacing his chamber, Jacob tucked tightly upright against his chest, when he felt Diana approaching, her distress almost a tangible thing. He rubbed circles against Jacob's tiny back as the baby began to settle, his quiet whimpers dying down to ragged sighs that puffed warmly against his neck. Vincent whispered nonsense words of comfort to his son, deeply ashamed his nightmare had somehow bled through the wall he'd had to erect early on to keep Jacob from experiencing just this very thing. Theirs was a complete empathic bond, one that worked as acutely either way. Until the boy was older and could be taught to build his own inner walls, Vincent was responsible for protecting them both. He would obviously have to hone his skills beyond what he'd mistakenly thought was sufficient.

And now here was Diana, with her own set of needs, her own dark dreams. She stood just inside the chamber, arms wrapped tightly around her, shivering in the cool tunnel air. She'd clearly come straight from her bed, as evidenced by her lack of clothing. She wore only a nightshirt that ended just above her knobby knees and thick white socks that bunched around her ankles. Their eyes locked for a moment and he tried to convey the necessity of staying calm for Jacob's sake. She gave him a sharp nod and glanced at the baby, staying close to the chamber wall, avoiding the area where he continued to slowly pace as she made her way to his bed. She perched there in the center of it, surrounded by quilts that still held the warmth of his body, hands shoved between her bare legs, her hair tousled with sleep and eyes half-lidded with the same.

A sharp pang of desire surged through him and Vincent immediately locked down on it and shut it away. That was not a complication either of them could afford right now. And more shame flooded through him that he had unwittingly shared with her those darkest of his needs through his dream - which he knew he had somehow pulled her into. Perhaps Father had been right, after all. Perhaps he was the last person who should be attempting to help Diana.

She took that moment to whisper, "If I don't do something soon, I'm gonna bust right out of my skin."

"I'll need a little longer," he responded, matching her soft tone. "Perhaps you could wait for me in your chamber? I'll come for you after Jacob's asleep."

She sketched a nod at him and scurried down the passageway and into the Long Hall beyond.

Vincent joined her in the guest chamber ten minutes later, having made certain Jacob was fully asleep and then taking the time to pull on boots and gather his cloak. He was relieved to find Diana wearing sweatpants and an oversized blue sweater. Her feet were laced into tennis shoes.

Without preliminaries, she asked, "Can we go now?"

He gestured for her to move ahead of him and followed her back out into the Long Hall. Diana glanced over at him. "Which way?"

"Where do you want to go?"

She looked in both directions and then at him. "Anywhere but up in the park, okay? I can't do the park right now."

He didn't have to ask why. But he didn't tell her that. He couldn't just yet; maybe after they'd walked for awhile. Or perhaps she would rather run tonight. The habit they'd acquired over the months of taking long late-night walks or runs hadn't been broken merely because she was now Below. They both enjoyed those times spent together: not talking, just moving. Allowing them the freedom of exercise that required nothing but what limbs and muscles and lungs could give. To simply be alive and to be limited only by what their bodies could endure.

So he asked her, "Fast or slow?"

"Fast. Definitely."

"The upper levels, then," he said and led them in that direction.

It was a little over two hours later, and half that till dawn, when they began to make their way back down the lower levels and toward the Hub. They were still winded and shaky with near-exhaustion from the run that'd taken them through the longest and straightest of the utility tunnels, in what had actually been a wide rectangular path around the perimeter of Central Park. They'd stopped at the sentry post under Belvidere Castle and Vincent had begged a plastic two liter bottle of water from Phillip, which they shared now, passing it back and forth in silence as they walked.

Diana wanted to talk: he could feel her agitation and a dim sense of her waiting for him to ask what'd prompted their late-night run. But he couldn't muster the courage to do so. He wasn't looking forward to what might be said, once he revealed to her what had really happened this evening. So he kept his own counsel, sighing quietly in disgust at his cowardice.

Diana took another long pull from the water bottle and offered it to him. He shook his head and she screwed the cap back on and dropped her arm, the bottle swinging between them.

"I'm sorry I busted in on you like that, but I'm glad you weren't asleep," she said, finally breaking the silence. "I didn't wanna wake you up, but I would've. I had a pretty strange dream and I needed to see you. I needed …"

She trailed off and he looked over at her. Her expression was open, unguarded, and she appeared so very young. Her face was still flushed from the run and he could see the sheen of perspiration clinging to the smooth skin above her upper lip. He tamped down the sudden urge to lean in and lick it away. It occurred to him how incongruous it was, that the woman at his side could both frighten and arouse him in equal measure and often simultaneously. And then he thought perhaps it wasn't strange at all.

"You have no reason to apologize, Diana, and no need to explain. I'd thought we'd gotten past that sort of politeness."

She answered him with a hint of a smile. "Yeah, I guess we have. So is the baby okay? I mean, he was fussing when I came in."

"Just ... a bad dream."

"What could a little peanut like him have to worry about, that he'd have bad –" She stopped mid-stride and threw her arm out to block his progress. The water bottle swung and thumped him in the stomach. He looked a question at her.

"You don't think it was me, do you?" She was appalled by the possibility. "That he picked up on what I was dreaming?"

"No, no," he quickly assured her. "His gift is not that keen, nor as precise as all that. His perception - what he senses - is more diffuse, I believe, than is mine. Except," he added with a deep sigh, "for what he picks up from me, of course."

"Direct line there, huh?"

"Yes. It can be … challenging, at times. In a number of ways."

"I'll bet," she responded with a very unladylike snort.

They traded wry, quiet grins and started walking again. After a few seconds he pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to ask, "Do you want to tell me, then, about the dream?"

He glanced at her and caught her tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. He just as quickly looked away.

She thought for awhile and then: "It was … strange; almost like I came into the middle of it. Like watching a movie you've never seen before, but missing the first few acts ...?"

He acknowledged her analogy with a small nod.

"We were in the park, at night, just the two us. Nobody else around. Just taking a walk, you know? And then I was running like hell up Cedar Hill and you were coming up behind me. And I got to the top and stopped, 'cause there were two bodies up there … just lying there. One of them was Gabriel."

She paused and glanced at him, making sure he was all right with her saying the name so matter-of-factly; as though it might still have some sort of power over him. It didn't. Gabriel was dead and could do him no more harm. And his death wasn't one belonging to Vincent and that he was condemned to carry within him always - unlike the rest of them, which he was.

Diana read his carefully neutral expression and continued, "The other one … it was the guy from the drainage tunnel. From that time right after we met, when …? Yeah," she said determinedly, calling a halt to that particular memory. "Anyway, that's when it started to get really weird."

"Weird, how?"

She shook her head, mouth pulling into a tight line, and lifted her empty hand in a vague gesture. "We said some things to each other, I dunno, things. And then …" Another sharp glance at him. "And then I kissed you. And I took off down the other side of the hill. And ran right into the middle of Hell."

Diana stopped and turned, moving to the outer curve of the passageway, between two candles burning in their sconces, and bent to set the water bottle down. She straightened, leaning back against the tunnel wall, arms at her side and palms flat on the rough stone, fingers absently tapping. She met and held his eye.

"At least it started out as Hell," she went on, now that she knew she had his full attention. But she'd had that all along. "A lot of people, people I didn't know, a whole crowd of them. But I knew how they made me feel: scared at first, and then pissed. Well and truly. And I started to fight them, because they were coming after me, wanted to hurt me. And it worked," she added, eyebrows lifting in remembered surprise, "I started to gain the advantage. I was like a goddam machine, Vincent. I don't even remember how I did it. I just knew what I needed to do and it happened – like instinct, maybe. And then you were there. With me."

He took two steps in reverse and found the solidity of the tunnel wall against his back. He stood directly across from her. A distance of perhaps six feet separated them, though he found himself wishing for twice that, so the intensity of Diana's eyes wouldn't be quite so powerful a thing.

"That part of it was …" she hesitated and flushed anew. "I don't know. Yeah, I do. It was incredible. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. You were there with me and you were fighting, like I was, just kicking ass all over the place and we were back to back and I could feel you so solid against me and all around me and I could feel what you were feeling and it was just so incredible. I did my share of happy drugs when I was in college, but nothing I felt then could compare. I've never felt as alive as I did right then, with you."

His eyes shut in a long, slow blink. When he opened them, he saw she was still focused on him, but her eyes had gone dark with confusion.

"And then it ended: the fighting stopped. Just like that, it was over. I turned to look for you and–"

"Diana." He had to stop her. He didn't need to hear more. "The dream you had …" He helplessly lifted his hands and let them drop. "It was mine. I know how it ends … because it was mine. Not yours."

That wasn't precisely right. So he tried again: "No, it was of my making. But somehow … somehow I pulled you into it. So, at the end, it was your dream as well. We shared it. And I'm so very sorry. You have no idea how sorry …"

She blinked at him. "Say again?"

"I've done this to you. The dream tonight and what has come before: I've done this to you. Somehow I've awakened something in you that should've been allowed to sleep, that was never meant to be a part of you. The things you experienced tonight as you dreamt, the feelings you had … they were mine." He swallowed past a lump in his throat, hung his head and choked out, "I've poisoned you with my darkness."

"You mean … Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Are you saying what I felt … Vincent, look at me? Please?"

He dutifully raised his head. But he couldn't face her straight on. He was too ashamed. So he studied the tunnel wall just to the right of where she stood.

"Is that what … My God, Vincent is that what it feels like to you, when you … lose yourself?"

"Yes," he whispered. He didn't know what to expect now. He just knew it would be awful. He was so mortified he couldn't even begin to try sensing what she was feeling. He was too lost in his own waking nightmare, with no hope of salvation. She would condemn him, surely. And then he would be alone again. But what she did next was nothing like what he'd expected - nothing.

"Jesus, no wonder you're the way you are," she said, and laughed. Laughed! "How could you be anything else?"

"Diana!" His eyes locked onto hers, flinching as if he'd been poked by a cattle prod.

She shoved away from the wall and closed half the distance between them. He tried to push himself through the wall at his back, but it had no give. He was trapped, in front and behind: by her unflinching gaze and by stone that'd had an eternity to learn how to be absolutely unyielding.

"No, it makes perfect sense," she went on, as though he weren't slowly dying right in front of her. "Of course: it's just part of who you are, how you're made. You're a predator, Vincent, a hunter, just like me - except you got all your weapons built in. When you cut loose like that, it's all instinct, no thought. It's just the body doing what the body was made to do, the part of you that reacts to threat with no thought other than eliminating it."

She took another step toward him, only an arm's length apart now, and he had to fight the urge to twist away from the wall and flee. It was as if he'd been placed under a microscope to be examined and judged. And not by some stranger either, but by one of the four people he cared most about in the world. Vincent glanced down the passageway, instantly knowing where they were and if Diana might be able to find her way back on her own. But then she lifted her left arm and braced it on the wall next to him. Only one direction left open for escape now.

"But then there's this other part that's the most compassionate and selfless, the kindest and gentlest and most loving man I've ever known," she continued. "The one who goes all sappy at a poem or a bunch of kids sawing away on violins down in Father's study - or a goddam bouquet of wildflowers. And even then it's flat-out for you: everything you've got. Whatever you're feeling, no matter what it is, you feel it in every single part of you. Everywhere.

"Don't you see, Vincent? You're the way you are because of who you are. There's no earthly way such perfect contradictions could be shoved into something as ordinary as this." She made a sweeping gesture down the length of her body. "The way you look, the way you're built, the way you move, the way you think - except when you don't - everything about you. It's extraordinary because you're extraordinary."

A quiet voice in his head took that moment to remind him she'd dropped her arms, that escape would be easier now. But a second, more insistent, voice wanted to stay, to hear her out, because what she was saying wasn't so awful, after all.

"I know what it's like to get inside someone's head," she said quietly, intently. "I know what it is to know what they're feeling, even thinking, sometimes. But nothing like tonight. To know it so intimately, so completely. To feel what it is to be you. To give everything you have, everything you are. My God …"

She reached out and grabbed his hand before he had a chance to react. His head snapped back against the rock, reeling from the depth and strength of what he felt from her, through that simple touch. It wasn't the outrage or fear or disgust he'd dreaded: it was bright and shining and pure. She lifted his hand and laid it palm down against her chest, over her heart.

"This is what you've done to me," she declared. "You've given me a part of yourself. And I'll treasure it forever. Thank you."

Her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird within her chest. And as she peered up at him, wide sea foam eyes filled with acceptance, he flashed back to the end of the dream and the inescapable truth of the reflection he'd found. He became aware of more than just her heartbeat then: he could feel the cushioned softness of her breast against the edge of his hand and wished for more of that touch. Remembered their kiss in the dream and her declaration to him:

This, too, Vincent. We share this, too.

He looked into Diana's eyes and let himself drown there, falling into their depths with no thought or reasoning, only a desire to crawl deep inside her soul and stay there, safe and warm and unconditionally loved. And then knew he wanted even more than that, more than he'd ever dreamed possible. He wanted to have her right there, up against the rough rock walls of his home; truly become one with her and give her everything he was. Knowing without doubt she would welcome him and give all she was in return, and he all that could take, and all that he would ever need.

Vincent reached for her just as she lifted his hand from her chest and stepped away. He could only watch dazedly as she collected the water bottle and turned back to him.

"Do you suppose William is banging pans in the Commons yet?" she asked, her voice trembling just the slightest bit. "I'm starving."

She walked away, taking several steps before realizing he hadn't moved. She turned, looking back over her shoulder at him. "You coming?"

He grunted out a held breath and pushed off from the wall, moving to join her. And as they made their way to the Hub - their strides matched in length and speed alike, in perfect rhythm - Vincent knew in the deepest part of who he was that they were both doomed.

But at least they might be doomed together.

...

The rest of that day and the next several passed uneventfully, if Diana staying Below could ever be classified as uneventful. It was very different for Vincent to have her so near and be always aware of that nearness, yet feel in her the same disciplined isolation she practiced in her life Above. He supposed he'd expected that to change in some way; when it didn't he decided there was nothing to do but simply accept it. What else could be done?

There had been no further discussion about their shared dream, the aftermath and the ramifications. She seemed content to leave things as they'd left them and he wasn't especially anxious to bring it up, either. As with so much between them, the event spoke for itself and was merely another thread woven into the pattern of what they were becoming.

After making a concerted effort, on her first full day Below, to include Diana in his daily routine, she'd made it plain to him she wouldn't be coddled or fussed over, not even for his benefit. She'd asked him to draw a map to Cullen's workshop and had disappeared for the remainder of the day, showing up in the Commons for the evening meal with wood shavings in her hair and proudly displaying a nasty cut across the first two knuckles of her left hand. Cullen was teaching her to carve wood, she'd happily announced. The rest of the evening had been spent in the study, Diana and Father immersed in a fierce game of Scrabble as Vincent attempted to keep an ever-curious and creeping Jacob from serious injury. Father's study was not what any parent might consider baby-proof and Vincent often found himself wondering how any small child, himself included, had survived more than a few hours there.

The following days found Vincent going about his work and occasionally looking up to find Diana near: at the Mirror Pool, legs dangling over the edge and swinging like metronomes, her nose buried in a fat book; at a table in the Commons, chewing and swallowing food automatically as she gazed off at something he suspected might only exist in her head; poking around in Mouse's chamber as the teenager watched her with nervous curiosity; in the nursery surrounded by small people, Jacob tucked into the hollow of her crossed and folded legs as she read from a storybook; arguing with Father over the necessity of government-funded social welfare in the world Above - or the foolishness of it, depending on which of them was shouting at the moment. And, once, in a still-life pose that flooded his heart and mind with a bittersweet memory: curled up napping in a large armchair in the guest chamber, her long pony legs tucked close and her hands cupped and slightly open, as though waiting for a gift to be handed her.

Some evenings she would join him and Jacob wherever they were, generally in Father's study or his own chamber, and then walk with him as he did sentry rounds and checked the perimeter of the Hub, after the baby had been put to bed. It was in those moments he would encourage her to talk about the events that'd led to his offer of sanctuary Below. She was equally as likely to do so as to flatly refuse. He didn't pressure her either way. Other nights Diana was nowhere to be found and obviously keeping her own counsel. She knew her way around the Hub well enough that he didn't worry about her safety, and she'd learned rudimentary pipe code over the months and could call for help if needed. Vincent gave her time and space, knowing these gifts for the powerful healers they were.

This evening Vincent had collected Jacob from the nursery and gone to his chamber to wash up before supper. Sitting on the small table in the middle of the room, on a stack of books, was a circular, open wooden frame the diameter of a tea cup, crisscrossed in a web-like delicate pattern of blue string and trailing long leather cords, each threaded with a single wooden bead and knotted at the end. Attached to the top of the circle was a shorter cord with a hook for hanging. Vincent picked it up by that cord and studied it, absently moving it out of Jacob's reach as it was grabbed for.

"It's very pretty, isn't it, Jacob?"

That elicited a stream of babbling and then a serious study of the object. "Pah tah!" Jacob ultimately decided.

"Exactly so. Now, here's a note," Vincent said and laid down the whatever-it-was to pick up the piece of notepaper beside it. Recognizing Diana's hurried scrawl, he carried Jacob to the bed and set him in the middle of it, grabbing a small stuffed rabbit and a plastic ring of keys from a basket next to the bed. The baby was soon happily gnawing on the rabbit's ear while Vincent read Diana's message.

V-

I spent the afternoon with the older kids doing art projects. Yeah, you read that right. Bet that's something you never thought you'd hear.

It's called a dreamcatcher and you're supposed to hang it over your bed. The Chippewa Indians believe it can change a person's dreams. According to them, only good dreams are allowed to filter through it, and bad dreams stay in the net and disappear with the dawn.

I have to go topside in the morning. I have a review board hearing at 11. It's not a big deal, so don't worry about it. Just one of the hoops I have to jump through before they'll let me back on active duty. I may stay up top for the time being, depending on what happens.

I'm not feeling much up for company tonight, so don't come looking for me. I'll try to find you before I have to leave tomorrow. If not, you know where I live. The door is always open.

D

Vincent's heart sank and he couldn't stop the pang of disappointment. He'd known nothing about the hearing she'd mentioned: she'd chosen not to share that with him. She had also chosen not to spend what could be her last night Below with him. He'd known her leaving was inevitable: she belonged to the world Above as much as Catherine had. But he'd hoped for more time with Diana to explore and help her find a way to control the darkness he'd felt growing in her. He berated himself for not being more insistent and wasting what little time they'd had together.

But then, he thought pragmatically, there wasn't a person born who could make Diana do anything she'd set her mind not to do. While she'd shared some of her thoughts and feelings with him, he was aware they were only a fragment of the whole.

"Diana is returning Above," he told Jacob.

His son gazed at him solemnly and pulled the soggy cloth ear from his mouth. He crawled closer to Vincent and straightened up, pulling himself to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he braced his arms against his father's thigh and peered up at him in question.

"Di?" he asked

Vincent gave Jacob a quiet smile and caressed the side of his face with the back of a hand. "Yes, Diana. She's leaving, but you'll see her again soon, I promise. And she's left us with a wonderful gift. We'll have to find just the right place to hang it before bed, won't we?"

And they did. By the time he'd tucked Jacob in later that evening, the dreamcatcher was hanging from the uppermost curve of the carved headboard of the cradle, secured by the smallest wood nail Cullen had been able to find.

Vincent extinguished all but a few of the candles in the chamber and readied himself for bed. Though it was still relatively early, he didn't feel much like company, either. He decided he'd read in bed for awhile. He had a rare night off from sentry rounds: Jamie having insisted that, as his apprentice, she would welcome the opportunity to relieve him of that duty for one night, at least. Vincent knew she'd been slightly put out about having her usual position at his side taken over by Diana on some of the past few evenings and he'd quickly accepted the offer, considering it small recompense for the hurt feelings he'd caused Jamie.

Slipping into a loose white shirt and gray cotton pajama pants worn thin and soft with age, Vincent pulled on clean, heavy white socks and settled under the quilts with a collection of Rilke. He was just beginning the first of the letters when his eyes grew heavy and the book fell from his hands and dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. He was asleep before he even knew it.

He woke sometime later, instantly alert, when a small weight settled on the edge of the bed. It was Diana. How fitting she'd been able to slip into his chamber without him sensing her presence, even in sleep. Father could do that, and Catherine, as well. He absently noted it was those he had an absolute measure of trust in who were able to bypass his otherwise keen senses; to, in essence, sneak up on him.

He lifted up on an elbow and blinked at her. She peered back with one eye while rubbing at the other with the edge of a fist. "Guess it was just mine this time," she muttered.

"Diana?"

"Just a 'gotcha' dream," she explained. "I should have made two of those damn dreamcatchers."

"Are you all right?"

"I will be."

The few candles Vincent had left lit were burned out and the only illumination in the chamber came from the stained glass window next to his bed and the meager artificial light from the hanging lamp in the middle of the ceiling. Their voices were pitched low as they talked and Vincent was still half-caught up in the warm lethargy of sleep. He didn't try to rouse himself overly much: there was no danger here.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked. He watched as she succumbed to a huge yawn, her jaw popping with the effort.

"Nope. But you can scooch over," she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Scoot over a little bit, gimme some room," she repeated as she threw back the quilts covering him. She twisted and began to lie down and Vincent automatically shifted toward the other edge of the bed, making room for her as she swung her legs up and settled down beside him. She pulled the quilts back over them and then tugged at the arm he was braced on. He fell back gracelessly as she pulled it out from under him and drew it up under her neck, using his bicep as a pillow.

He ended up on his side, Diana's back pressed against his chest. She reached back under the quilts and grabbed his left arm, pulling it across her. Her hand slid around his wrist and tugged as she lifted enough to tuck his hand between her side and the mattress, effectively trapping his arm around her. Vincent could feel the delicate bones of her ribcage through her nightshirt.

He didn't dare move. He had never lain next to a woman like this, tucked up so closely from heel to shoulder. Never. At least no time he could remember clearly, or at all. Once, with Catherine, as he lay racked with delirious dreams in her bed, at the apex of his descent into madness. And another time, unmistakably so: the evidence of that occasion lay sleeping in the cradle next to his bed. But never like this: never so casually - though that was all on Diana's part, to be sure.

She turned her head into the arm she lay pillowed on and scrubbed her face against it. Her chest rose and fell in a deep sigh and she whispered, "Make sure you wake me up if you decide to start groping me. I don't wanna miss anything." Another few deep breaths and he felt her slip from the here and now into the gentle oblivion of sleep.

He thought – no, he knew – he would get no more rest this night. He was absolutely rigid with a hyper-vigilant control he'd never practiced before - he'd never had to. Now every breath was cautiously measured, every desire of a muscle to move instantly denied. But the hand curved round her ribcage began to betray him as his fingers gently flexed to explore that small space of Diana. After several minutes, despite his caution and best intentions, he felt himself relaxing into her and the cushion of his bed. His chamber was cool and still. And Diana so warm and soft, her body curved perfectly to his. He finally allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe more deeply.

Vincent was on the very edge of sleep when Diana stirred against him and mumbled, "Maxwell, you gotta trust me. Let it be."

He tightened his arm around her, pulling her even more snugly against him and murmured, "Hush now. Sleep."

Diana went still again and Vincent followed her down less than a minute later, his nose buried in her fragrant hair. When he woke the next morning, she was gone.

...

Two days passed without a word, then three. On the evening of the fourth day, Vincent made his way to Diana's building and to her rooftop. He stood indecisively in front of her tall, narrow windows, his view into the loft blocked by shades. His hand lifted several times to tap against the glass and then dropped without doing so.

Why was it so hard to take her at her word? She'd told him almost from the beginning, and again three days back, that her door would always be open. Implicit in that statement was that he need not announce his presence before entering her home, that he should just come in. Surely Diana would make certain to lock the upper door if she had guests or was doing something that required privacy, so he didn't surprise her at an inopportune moment. He didn't allow himself to consider what those private things might be. He had always tapped at her window first, regardless of the open invitation.

But he found he didn't want to now. Somehow what had happened the night before she'd come back Above had left him with a sense of possessiveness he hadn't allowed before. So, he scolded himself, use the door.

Mind made up, he strode to it and turned the knob. It was unlocked. He determinedly pushed it open and walked through. He made his steps heavier than normal as he descended the stairs, wanting to give Diana some kind of warning. He navigated her tiny vestibule, with its door that opened to a second set of stairs leading down, and stopped in the doorway of her loft.

Diana stood with her back to him in front of the wall she used to tack up photos and reports and the various pieces of people's lives. "That wall is my work," she'd told him on his third day there, recovering from the explosion of the Compass Rose, and what had been his first day of real awareness of where he was - and who she was. The wall was no longer empty, as it had been the evening he'd persuaded her to come Below. So she was working again.

He was about to call her name when she unfolded an arm from her chest and crooked a finger at him without turning.

"C'mere a minute. I want you to look at something."

Vincent pulled back the hood of his cloak and shrugged out of it, draping it on the coat rack by the elevator. He went to stand beside her, his hands held loosely behind his back.

"What do you see?" Diana asked.

He threw a small glance her way first and then focused on the wall.

"A man and a woman," he told her. "Murdered. Shot?"

Diana nodded.

"They look to be at home." He went quiet for a while, studying the other crime scene photos, thinking. "They were comfortable. They felt safe and were caught unaware by the attack." His eyes moved to a color photograph of a family: father, mother, and two children. All blonde and blue-eyed, the son perhaps fourteen or fifteen, the daughter a few years younger; all wearing the artificial smiles he'd seen in other such portraits.

"The children?"

"Missing," Diana answered. "Murder weapon was found at the scene. The dad's gun. Had the boy's fingerprints all over it. Kid's got a juvie record." She pointed at a print-out on the wall and Vincent leaned in to read it. "Vandalism; shoplifting; truancy; nothing violent, nothing but typical kid stuff … acting out. All part of the age, right?"

"But the evidence points to this boy?" he asked.

"Yep." Diana squeezed the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "So what makes a kid who by all accounts is a good kid, other than being an occasional pain in the ass, pick up a gun, blow away his parents and then take off with his little sister?"

"You're trying to find them?"

"Yeah. If I can figure out why he did it, maybe I can figure out where they're holed up." Diana dragged her attention away from the wall and gave him a wan smile, reaching out to pat a hello against his back. "I'm glad you're here: it'll give me an excuse to take a break. I'm getting nowhere on this."

She pivoted, pushing the rolling computer chair out of her way as she went. Vincent followed her into the living area of the loft as she dropped bonelessly onto the couch and slumped down, long, blue jean-covered legs stretching out straight. She was wearing a forest green blouse that made her hair and eyes almost too brilliant to look upon.

Diana peered up at him. "So how are things in the Great and Mystical Subterranean Otherworld?" They swapped smiles at the term she'd adopted for his home not long after she'd attended Winterfest.

"All is well," he told her. "Quiet. I was concerned. I was hoping I'd have some word by now of how things had gone for you … at your hearing."

"Sorry about that. I should have sent down a note." Diana reached back and pulled loose the thick cord confining her hair. It spilled over her shoulders in tousled waves for a few brief moments before she pulled it back and retied it. Vincent wished she'd left it down, instead.

"Well, obviously I'm back on the duty roster," she said, waving at the wall containing her work board. "Maxwell was at the hearing and put in a good word for me. It helps to have friends in high places. But I gotta eat the three weeks I was off: unpaid leave. Good-bye, vacation fund. And I had to go talk to some shrink before I could convince Hannety – my watch commander at the 210? - I was good for more than desk duty and get my weapon back."

Diana studied him for a long minute. He felt the challenge in her but refused to rise to it. She finally looked aside and went back to massaging the bridge of her nose.

"It was a righteous shooting, Vincent. The review board cleared me. Internal Affairs is satisfied by the ruling. The shrink says I'm not nearly as crazy as some people think I am." She gave him another long look. "You didn't see him, Vincent: Conrad was huge. Had to go six eight, six nine and a solid three-fifty. Just me and him in that room. If I hadn't gone for my gun when I did, he would've squashed me like a bug. Self-defense, plain and simple. End of story."

He didn't believe it any more than she did. But he also didn't feel up to a debate he knew neither of them would end up conceding. Not tonight, anyway. So he made his way to the kitchen and carried the dented stainless steel kettle to the sink to fill it with fresh water.

"I'm making tea. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks," she said over her shoulder. "But I'll take a couple fingers of Jameson on ice while you're there. Bottle's on the counter: the green one."

Vincent set the kettle on the burner and turned it on high. He retrieved a mug and tea bag from the cabinet and grabbed a squat glass tumbler from the dish rack to the side of the sink. He was rooting in the freezer for the ice cube tray when Diana took up the conversation again.

"So I came home and caught up on stuff around here. Paid some bills, swept up some dust bunnies, washed my undies, you know." Vincent reached over the back of the couch and handed her the tumbler of whisky. "Thanks. Then Hannety sent over some files and asked me to take a look. And here I am …"

He stepped back to the stove and waited for the water to get hot. Though he could've responded to what she'd said, there was really no need. He found himself content at the moment to let Diana carry the bulk of the conversation. Besides, he was mulling over the bits and pieces of the case she'd presented him.

As if reading his mind she said, "The dad had a reputation for having a short fuse. But nothing the cops had to get involved in. Just shouting matches every once in a while. And a couple disputes with one of the neighbors. Nobody saw any evidence of domestic violence."

He poured hot water into the mug and dipped the tea bag several times. It wasn't the steeped tea he was used to Below, but with enough honey added it was good enough to pass.

"You've checked the boy's medical records?"

"Way ahead of you, buster. Just the usual spills and scrapes."

"And his sister?"

"Same thing. Nothing that jumped out at me."

Vincent stirred honey into his tea and went to join her. Diana pulled her legs up so he could settle on the floor before her. He blew into the mug and took a cautious sip.

"Still, Diana. Not all abuse is easily seen … or recognized. What do you know of the girl?"

She took a swallow of the whisky and rattled the ice cubes against the side of the glass.

"From all accounts she's the polar opposite of her brother. Straight As in school, well-mannered, well-behaved. Quiet. Shy. Likely as not to jump out of her skin if you look at her fu–"

Their eyes locked in an abrupt and shared realization.

"Goddam it!" Diana shouted. "That's it! Good old daddy was messing around with his daughter and big brother decided he'd had enough and took care of the problem. Likely as not, from the way he unloaded the gun into her, mom knew what was going on and hadn't done squat to stop it either. Damn it!"

She drained the rest of her glass and set it on the wicker trunk next to him. "Okay, now it's starting to make more sense. Thank you, Vincent, you're brilliant."

"I did nothing, Diana, but ask a few questions."

She knocked her head with a fist. "You rattled things around up here. I needed that. Sometimes I get too close to see what's right in front of me."

Suddenly what she'd said wasn't about her newest case anymore. Diana leaned over and grabbed one of the ties at the shoulder of his vest, gently tugging on it.

"I'm okay, Vincent," she said quietly. "Really. It helped: coming Below for awhile. I needed that kind of distance to start to work it out in my head."

She settled back into her slump on the couch. "And thanks for the other night, too. You get used to having somebody in the bed with you and it's tough when you have a bad night and there's nobody there anymore. I'm sure you know how it is. So … thanks for sharing your bed with me."

He dipped his head, admitting, "I don't know how it is," the words leaving his mouth before he'd had time to consider them. He glanced at her warily and saw the question in her eyes. "I don't know what it's like … to share an evening's bed with a woman. Or I didn't, rather, until three nights past."

He could almost hear the gears turning in Diana's head. He hadn't really meant to take them down this path, but here they were. After a minute she got up to freshen her drink. She dropped another ice cube into the amber liquid and considered him.

"Well, I suppose it makes sense," she said. "If you spent the night at Cathy's you'd be stuck there all day. So … what? Father's got a problem with you having overnight guests? I knew he was nothing more than a puritan in socialist's clothing. No offense," she quickly added. "I just call them like I see them."

"Father has no objection to any consenting adult within the community doing whatever they choose to do in the privacy of their own chamber. And I'll grant you the kindness of overlooking your rather simplistic description. This has nothing to do with Father."

That wasn't precisely true, he admitted to himself. But the conversation was already fraught with enough potential landmines. He didn't intend to plant any more. He looked over to find her still at the island, patiently waiting for him to tell her what it did have to do with. He sighed and drew a knee up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it.

"Diana, if you must know … Catherine and I weren't lovers … in that way."

She did a double-take and blurted, "What the hell are you talking about? There's a baby sleeping down in the tunnels, remember? Name's Jacob – he's got your eyes. Where'd he come from: fairy dust?"

His face felt absolutely incandescent. But Vincent forced himself to stay focused on her bewildered eyes. "It was only just the once. I have no memory of it, none."

She gaped at him.

"I can see how difficult this must be for you to believe, but it's the truth, Diana."

She came around the island and hesitated for a short time before taking a spot back on the edge of the couch. She looked at him intently and suggested, "Maybe you should tell me the whole story, because I'm way behind here. I'm completely lost."

So he told her. Beginning with Paracelsus and the reporter, Bernie Spirko, and ending with the totality of the loss of himself and the cave he'd retreated to in order to die. Then he told her of how Catherine had come to him and saved him - at the cost of their bond; his loss of memory during the event and afterwards, temporarily, of his empathic gift. The peacefulness he'd felt that had quickly turned to terror when Catherine had disappeared and he'd had no sense of her to guide him to her rescue. Vincent filled in all the pieces that'd been missing from what he'd related to her over the months; the things he hadn't been able to say until now. He left out none of the details - and what he didn't think to say, Diana asked.

What had begun as a painful but truthful accounting was, by the end, strangely liberating. He'd never before told anyone all of what had happened. Not even Father knew everything. But there was no one in the world he trusted more to hear his story and accept the whole of it - and him -than Diana. No one more deserved it.

When he finished they both were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Then Diana levered off the couch and headed back to the kitchen. She refilled her glass and fetched another from the cabinet.

"You had champagne at Kanin's homecoming party, right?" she asked. She filled the second glass and brought both over to the couch, offering him one as she sat down. He took it without thought. "So you can drink alcohol without any adverse effects?"

"Yes. I just choose not to, with the rare exception."

"Well, make this one of them. Because after what you just told me, I think we could both use a stiff drink." She clinked her glass against his and raised it to her lips.

Because she expected him to, he first sniffed the whisky and then swallowed down half of it. It burned like fire on his tongue, and as it worked its way down his throat, he choked and sputtered, his eyes watering as he raised them to the ceiling.

Vincent blinked several times and then looked at her in astonishment. "Why do you drink this? It's horrid!"

"Hey, that's some fine sipping whisky right there, my friend. I drink it because I'm Irish and I'm a cop. It's a requirement."

She clinked her glass against his a second time and toasted, "L'chaim."

"Are you Jewish, as well?"

Diana whooped a laugh and he couldn't help but chuckle with her.

"I'm whatever I need to be," she told him as her laughter trailed off. "Drink up. I promise the second half will go down easier."

Vincent discovered it didn't, but at least he was prepared for what was to come when he emptied his glass. The fire settled in his stomach and burned warmly there.

"So let me make sure I've got this right," Diana said. "The only time you and Cathy ever had sex was when you were completely off your rocker. And you don't remember any of it."

"With all brevity, yes, that's correct."

"There was never anybody before her? None of the women down in the Tunnels you took a fancy to and vice-versa? No friends with benefits?"

He didn't understand the last but simply shook his head. He felt Diana's disbelief but there was nothing to be done for it. The truth was just that.

"Never?"

Vincent let his silence be answer.

"I don't get it," she said after a long time. "Why not?"

"You've seen what these hands can do." He held them out for her to view and flashed back to a night on Catherine's terrace:

"These hands are beautiful," she'd told him then. "These are my hands."

He pulled himself back to the present and found Diana looking at him curiously.

"Well, yeah, sure," she dismissed, "when you're in attack mode, but that's different. Not even after what happened in the cave, when you knew it was safe?"

"It cannot ever be entirely safe: not for me. And I've told you, I had no memory of it. I didn't know any of it until I found Catherine, as she was dying and told me what had happened and of our child. Even then there was a period of time between the hearing of it and knowing it to be true. My grief was too enormous to even begin to contemplate it."

Diana sat back and scrubbed her face, closing her eyes and tipping her head against the edge of the couch. "Feel free to set me straight here, but I'm assuming she came out of that cave in one piece and no worse for the wear, right?"

"It would seem so. My memories of the time immediately after the cave are still foggy, indistinct."

Diana opened her eyes and pinned him with an inquisitive look. "Cathy never … initiated anything afterwards, between that one time and when she was kidnapped?"

"No," he admitted. "Perhaps she considered it a kindness not to burden me with the knowledge or to force it upon me in any way. I was already disoriented with what Father believes was a form of agnosia."

"Would it have been forcing, though?" Diana asked, sitting up again. "I'm curious about your end of it. There's no … desire there?"

"Oh, there is desire … frequently," he admitted with downcast eyes. "More so now that I've begun to recognize the different needs within the duality of who I am, since the cave and the madness, and learned what is acceptable for me … and normal. But people are so fragile. And I know whatI am."

"So do I, Vincent. Remember our dream?" He raised his eyes to her. "I know you pretty damn well myself, now. And I can't believe you would ever hurt someone you love like that. You don't have it in you."

"I wish that were so," he responded. "But I know better. I know what can happen when I … lose myself."

"Again, yeah: when you're facing a threat. But sex isn't a threat. At least it's not supposed to be, when you're with someone you care about. And you obviously didn't hurt Cathy." He felt a flash of irritation in Diana. But not directed at him. "So if you don't have first-hand knowledge that you're liable to tear a woman to pieces having sex, then at some point in time someone must have told you-"

Vincent already knew where this would lead even before Diana chuffed in disgust and finished her thought. "Wait, let me guess … No, never mind. I think we both know who convinced you of that."

"Diana, you mustn't blame Father," he beseeched. "What I was taught to believe about myself, how he raised me, it was to protect me. What he did was done in love, and was limited by the slight knowledge he had of what he was faced with. Not even knowledge, in fact, but merely speculation."

She abruptly shoved off the couch and began to pace between the kitchen and the elevator. He understood her frustration. There was nothing he could do but give her the time to work through it.

She finally stopped and faced him, her arms lifting high and then dropping as she said, "Just about the time I think I got this all figured out, something else happens and I realize I don't know anything. Your world and everybody in it ... It's all so … strange. And beautiful. And magical. And so different. Sometimes I don't think I'll ever get to the end of the weird down there."

And then there is me," Vincent offered quietly. "Who is the strangest of all, the most different."

"No," she exclaimed, "it's not that at all! You're the only thing that makes sense to me anymore, don't you know that? And all this time I been thinking you just weren't interested in me. That maybe I wasn't your type or something, I don't know. Because I could have sworn on my mother's grave, God rest her soul, there was something there between us, but you're always so damned …"

She trailed off and glared at him helplessly. "What's the word I'm looking for here, Vincent? Help me out."

"Vigilant?" he suggested.

Diana snapped her fingers. "Yes! Vigilant. And cautious. And so immovable. Sometimes I wonder if anything I do ever gets through that steel exterior of yours and registers inside."

"Oh, it registers, Diana; and you, more than anyone else, is able to get through. But I am vigilant because I must be. It's the only way I can protect those I … those I love."

They exchanged cautious looks. It wasn't that Vincent didn't want Diana to know the depth of his feelings for her. It was that he didn't want her to be laden by them. As with so many things in his life, he had no choice in this. Whether his love was felt in kind, his newest and most frail dreams shared, he couldn't stop loving her. He didn't know how. But perhaps she still had a choice.

Finally she lifted a hand and rested it on the pale, bare skin below the hollow of her throat. The shadows of her loft made imprecise the sharp angles of her slender frame and turned them instead into a soft palette of blue and green and red. Her features were open and relaxed and so very dear to him as she contemplated his words. He waited silently and hoped.

"Well," she said, after what felt like an eternity, "We got that going for us, anyway. It's a start. But don't you ever want more?"

"Beyond measure," he confessed. "I'm learning there are things possible for me I never dared dream of. But the way is uncharted, Diana, and so much is unknown. We must take great care."

He watched as she headed into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of whisky. She brought it to where he sat and joined him on the floor, facing him, her back to the couch. She folded her legs in front of her and made a ritual of pouring an equal amount into each glass and then handing him one. Then she leaned in and kissed him: a long, soft, inquisitive kiss that made his head spin and the warmth of the whisky already in his belly to flare and spread throughout his body.

Diana pulled back and he forced his eyes open to find her with glass raised, waiting for him to do the same, and a small and private smile on her face. As he lifted it with a trembling hand, she gently touched the rim of her glass to his.

"To the journey, Vincent."

© Lydia Bower 2012