Catherine fidgeted nervously, rewashing a patch on her kitchen counter that she had already cleaned a dozen times.
She'd wanted to kiss him for so long ... to embrace him tightly, and passionately, and truly kiss him. Vincent had avoided physical intimacy with her for many reasons, she knew. Those reasons ranged from fear of the unknown to his rather poor self-image to a ferocious need to protect her. It had been frustrating -- she'd tried so hard a few times to coax him into kissing her and he'd always deftly avoided it.
Guess we would have gotten quite the shock had we succeeded, she thought, amused despite her nerves.
In truth, she wanted to do a lot more than just kiss him. However, that would have to wait until he was ready. Not, likely, tonight.
Wonder what is really going to happen?
Restlessly, she fiddled with the radio in her living room -- the Ramones were on one channel, and Michael Jackson on another, then Bette Midler. She kept twiddling until she found a station that played light jazz and returned to cleaning.
Vincent's tap at her balcony door did not come as a shock -- she was, of course, expecting him. Still, she jumped. He had the bond between them shut down so tightly she had not known he was there. She wondered if he had been watching her, and his words then answered that question.
"If your home were any cleaner, it could be used as an operating theater."
"Scared to death," she confessed. He was teasing her, a little; she ducked her head and grinned. "We don't know what will happen."
Vincent stood on the balcony, and he looked at her with considerable concern. "This could be dangerous."
"It could be," she agreed. "But we're going to do it anyway."
"This could be very selfish of me."
"Or not." She stepped closer, caught his hands, and tugged him inside. "Vincent, you are willing to change everything about your life for the benefit of those around you. That is not selfish. Allow me to take the risk with you."
Still, he wanted to argue: she saw that in his face, in the stubborn set of his jaw. But she also noted he was wearing his best Winterfest garb -- the ruffled shirt, nice jeans, furred boots. He'd dressed up for this -- he'd worn his finest clothing just for a kiss.
Inside, she pulled the drapes. He stood uncertainly in the middle of her living room, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looked like he wanted to run away, but he was standing his ground.
She realized she had absolutely no idea how to begin. Oh, she knew how to kiss -- she was no virgin. Unlike Vincent, she'd had a few lovers. But how to start with Vincent, who was looking at her with mixed fear and awe in his eyes now?
"I love you," he murmured.
Well, that was an appropriate start. "Whatever happens, I love you," she echoed back. She stepped closer, and he caught his her fingers in his hands.
He pulled her hands up close to his hear and looked down at her, and whispered softly, "I've dreamed of this moment, you know. I never dared think I would actually kiss you, but I've dreamed."
"Sometimes dreams have happy endings." She pulled her hands free of his grasp and slid her fingers behind his neck, under that glorious mane of blond hair.
His hands settled on her hips, and he pulled her closer. The lacy shirt he was wearing had a good bit less bulk than his normal attire of a quilted vest, sweater, and cloak. She could feel the play of fur under fabric when she pressed against him, and underneath the fur, hard muscles and ever-so-carefully restrained power.
He could shred her from limb to limb ... instead, he was running his claws through her hair and meeting her gaze with shy, frightened eyes.
She saw everything in those eyes: a lifetime of fear, of hiding, of pain and sorrow and darkness. He had thought the rest of his life would be much the same, lightened only by those in the Tunnels he loved ... and by the bright spark in his world that was her.
"Vincent ..."
He dipped his head down and kissed her, his lips pressing to hers. This was not the chaste kiss she'd half-expected he would bestow upon her. Instead, he poured his heart out to her -- lips to lips, tongue to tongue, while his arms held her fiercely close. She felt his breathing grow rapid and could hear her own heart thudding in his chest.
Oh, he was a little clumsy -- it was his first kiss. However, the feeling, the emotion, the truth, behind that kiss was all that mattered. He loved her. Heart, body, and soul, he loved her. And her feelings were wholly mutual.
Finally, breathlessly, they parted.
"Nothing ..." he shook his head, and there was sudden, bitter disappointment on his face. "Nothing happened."
He ran a hand over his face, as if double checking. Then he let go of her, and spun away. "It didn't work."
She realized he'd let himself dream ... dream of a life that wasn't one of hiding and fear and danger for himself and those he loved. He would have been able to join her Above, to be a part of her life ... and the dream had just been dashed.
"I'm sorry."
"Father was right. I'm a fool for believing a madman. I should go ... I have errands I should run tonight."
"Vincent." Her voice stopped him, as he turned towards the door. "Wait."
"What?" he said, a little brusquely.
"Let's not waste this night." She knew he shouldn't be alone right now -- that the 'errands' was the thinnest of pretexts to go away somewhere and brood. "Stay with me? Please?"
"I should ..."
The kiss had unleashed something in her heart. Emboldened by the passion he had shown, she put her arms back around his neck. When he resisted her tug, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again. "Don't go. Please. Even if ... I love you like you are now, Vincent. That's what matters. Not any of the rest."
With a sudden shudder he embraced her again. "Catherine ..." he murmured. "You're not repulsed at all?"
"Does this feel like disgust?" she stroked his jaw with her hand. "I love you as you are, Vincent."
"I could hurt you," he murmured, even as he gently drew his clawed hands down her back.
"You could," she agreed. "But you won't."
She hadn't really intended to go beyond just another kiss. But Vincent's lips were on hers and his hands were roaming her back, and sliding up and down her arms, and he was suddenly making little urgent noises into her mouth as he kissed her. When finally he pulled back she saw, and sensed, to the very core of his heart ... she knew just how lonely, and insecure, and terribly afraid that he often was.
This would not stop with a kiss. He needed her, she realized -- even if he might say he didn't want it, his heart spoke otherwise. He had to know that she accepted him completely, just as he was. He might protest that she could not share a life with him. He might say she deserved better. But he needed her.
"I should ... should go ..." he was pulling away, even as she realized just how desperately afraid he was.
"Vincent," she said, "I want you to stay with me. Tonight."
He was undecided -- poised for flight, but drawn to what she was offering.
"I want you."
Had she said, I need you, in echo of his own heart, she thought he would have left. He would have denied her needs -- and his -- and left, then. But I want was different. It implied she had a choice, and she had chosen him.
She caught both his hands and led him, walking backwards herself, towards the bedroom. He followed, quivering with tension, and when she glanced down, she saw that there was a bulge in his jeans.
What followed was clumsy; Vincent was inexperienced, awkward, and scared that he would lose control and hurt her. He was far gentler than he needed to be, and very hesitant to take the initiative. However, she felt something lessening in him -- as they touched, as she encouraged him towards passion and intimacy, something terrible and dark inside his soul began to lessen.
Finally, he shuddered to completion inside her and then lay next to her, breathing hard, eyes closed, and one arm around her waist. His head rested on her shoulder, and just before he drifted off to sleep, he slid a leg across her thighs.
She snuggled into that embrace. He was holding her as if he never wanted to let her go again.
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