Authors Note: Like dark to light, death to life, night to day, destruction is only an impetus to creation. A tiny drabble somewhere after "This Darksome Burn", but before the next scene in the show. Right before, but maybe like an hour later than the earlier fic. Title, also, from Gerard Manley Hopkins "Inversnaid".

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Catherine moaned, grimacing at the damnedable light suspended from the ceiling, and curled into Vincent, opening her eyes to check on him. Suppressing a yawn behind her fingers, she mumbled, "Hi."

She felt like a bookcase had fallen on her.

Oh. Wait. It had…

"I was watching you sleeping," he said, reluctantly.

Blinking, she tilted her head. "What's wrong?"

"You're—" Vincent grimaced, even as he gestured to certain things.

Catherine looked down, with some surprise. Even as she chuckled, she pressed her fingers to places that sang with sharp and dull pain, two or three, which drew dry, cracking and wet blood to her fingers.

"It doesn't look like I'll be going into work tomorrow."

He shifted, moving to get up, a cloud of blackness touching her mind, and she tugged his arm, as much from concern as from the pout which reached her lips from his warmth leaving her. "Where are you going?"

"You might need medical attention."

"I'm fine," Catherine said, shaking her head, and tugging him back, glad that he came closer even if out of concern. There was no missing the guilt that was starting to peek out. "Nothing a few days of rest and careful ministrations can't cure."

He gave her a look that brooked her words as false. She curled up closer, winding a leg so he couldn't move away more. "You know there are whole parts of the fashion and makeup industry created for this reason, right?"

"Catherine, they were never meant for—I didn't mean—"

"You didn't?" Her eyebrows arched, even as her eyes danced with sincerity and merriment. "That's quite bad, because you seemed to be enjoying yourself and I was rather fond of it."

Vincent looked torn, settled for glancing upward and shook his head. "I'm serious."

"So am I," she said, finally moving herself to sit up. She was not able to miss now either, the utter disaster his bedroom had become. The table was aslant over there on the floor, books were everywhere, things shoved, shattered, bent and broken.

She took one of his hands, folding it in hers, and held it against her heart, waiting until he looked back at her. "I love you. All of you. Even this part."

Flesh and fur and fingers and fury all aflame.

Vincent stared at her for a long time, before he reached out and laid his palm across her cheek. She leaned in against it, starting to smile again, before she moved closer so she could curl up leaning against the crook of his shoulder and upper chest.

Yawning again, through splayed fingers, she commented. "Rock floor is more comfortable than I ever gave it credit for."

"It's the carpet," he offered, bemused.

"There's a carpet?" She looked down to the side, with a small chuckle. "So there is. That's a good carpet. You should definitely keep it."

"If you so decree it."

Catherine looked up at him, his hair made even more golden by the overhead light behind him, with his eyes colorful shadows of mirth. She nodded and leaned up. "I do. And many other decrees now, too."

"Oh?" Vincent laughed, into her hair, and it rumbled through her body, from his chest.

"Yes." Catherine smiled brilliantly, before tucking her head back against him, caught by the sound of his steady, rhythmic heart beat. "From things like beds for me to you going to find our young friend."

She felt him still, and then relax, hugging her with a brief, but fierce, tightness. "I love you," he murmured into her hair, half sigh and half the echo of earlier complaint in it.

"You love him, too" Catherine commented, standing and walking toward his bed, without releasing his hand. "Like a brother, like a son, and he needs you more than you need me now. Besides—"

Dropping onto Vincent's bed, unceremoniously, and pulling his blankets around her, she smiled. "I'll be here waiting for you."