The treadmill was all Charles could see through the sweat falling to his eyes. Speeding. Faster. All he could hear was his own breath as he fought for oxygen. Still, he was left slightly back with each second; this speed was three times what he could hold. It might give him a heart attack.

He almost wished for it.

His feet reached the back of the machine and he fell to the mattress behind. He just lied there, too tired for even seeing in colors.

Yet, he could think. Barely. His first thought was for his wife. He snarled, punching the mattress once. There was no escape. He hit again, and again, using whatever little strength he had left, but the image didn't disappear. The last time he had seen her. How the life he had dreamed for them had crumbled apart.

Who was digging up these memories? Who was so heartless? To what purpose?

"For him to say the truth…" To what purpose?

And again, there was his beautiful Caroline. His hand rose, sketching her face in the air; the same moves Carol used to make on canvas… so much time ago; but he needed no picture to remember every feature. All Chandlers loved deep enough, and there was the child they had made together –out of love. She simply loved too hard.

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

Warmth spread from Catherine's shoulder to her arm and chest. It felt nice. Vincent looked down at her –his eyes reflecting the lights and shadows of the screen.

"You must sleep" he whispered.

His voice –magnetic as it was- broke the spell. Her hand clang to the cup of coffee as he turned his head to the screen, to the walkie.

"A project…" he concluded.

The screen showed green and white walls, and iron doors. A nurse's uniform sleeve entered for a moment the vision field. Echoes came from the walkie. The place was deserted.

"A hospital…" the scholar accurately identified.

"Why did you come?" she interrupted.

"I was worried"

A door. The nurse appeared with a key; then there was darkness. Then, light. There were filing-cabinets, all around; each one of them showed dozens of folders.

"I'm here" Bennet said, her voice strongly distorted through the device –moreso to his sensitive and unaccustomed ears. "Now… Any ideas?"

Catherine pressed lightly the red button.

"Isn't the nurse around?"

"She is looking for the files" the detective informed.

"Let's wait for her"

She let it return to its position. Thank Ralph. Bennet wasn't meant to hear all of her secrets.

"Catherine…" Vincent called. "It's nearly dawn. You need your sleep"

"I've been waking up half of New York to get permission to do that" she pointed at the screen with her chin, her gaze ever leaving it. "I won't go now"

His back was to her, and his face, half turned to her, half to the darkness. She couldn't see it. Still he could see her, for he said:

"You look tired… and stubborn" he insisted.

That's an odd word, for you to use.

"I'm fine, I'll sleep later"

He paced briefly back and forth, beyond reach. She barely could make more than his shape and the sound of his steps.

"What happened?" he asked.

The first thing coming to her mind were baby's cries, and bullets. And Elliot. Way too much.

"My father got a note, and he didn't want to show me. We're looking for what it said."

"It mentioned that place" Vincent tried to follow her reasoning.

"That child she interrogated… he wasn't very useful, but he did happen to remember a name: Phoínikes. Apparently the word was rare enough that it got his attention. It turned out to be a doctor."

What child? Why was he questioned? Vincent's own doubts piled up, but fearing to disrupt her train of thought, he settled for assuming:

"He works there"

"He died, but he used to work there… according to Bennet's contact. Oh, Bennet is the detective you just heard" she explained, some anger in her voice, "she is in my case and…"

He did not hear anything else; the trembling of his heart in his ears covered all sound. He kept looking at her, seeing her lips move –a part of him craved that move on his mouth even as he thought.

Why had he not foreseen this? Of course Diana would meet Catherine: she was working on her case –he had asked her to. "Detective" she had said. However, he hadn't expected them to work together. Catherine did not know… anything. What would happen to them if she learned? What if she knew Diana was his friend… his…

lover?

How dirty that word sounded.

"Catherine…"

She looked at him –at the shadow she could see-, all serious and…

Loving…

His voice got tangled in his chest. He breathed in, deeply. He was supposed to tell her. He was supposed to be crystal clear… a gentleman. At least he owed her… them both… the truth.

"Diana is… more than a detective…" he whispered. "She dig in the secrets you kept, and she found me." He walked to her, very slowly, thinking carefully every one of his words. The darkness wasn't embracing him anymore. Anything would be easier to face than her eyes. He kneeled, half begging her forgiveness without words, even before saying: "She have been supporting me, ever since… when the loss of you overwhelmed me… when I had not even the dignity of the beast. When Burch… loved… you…" He forced himself to look into her eyes –leveled with his-; for whatever pain he would see there, he had caused it. "I have used her body to feel you". He saw her comprehension, her despair; he felt her silent cry. Something was dying in her.

From the safe darkness, he kept looking at her. Silent. Immobile. How to tell her, without triggering in her the despair he had just foreseen. He had to be frank with her. Had to. Even if, at the time, they hadn't been seeing each other, nor could he anticipate they would ever again. Even if she herself had been… intimate… with another, much more often than he himself had. He still owed her the truth.

Yet he couldn't be blunt about it just to relieve his own conscience. Perhaps it would be better to wait, until he had chosen his words, until opportunity arose. This was hardly the time.

The black box emitted another buzz:

"They're here"

Mounds of files lying on a white table occupied the screen. As the image shifted –as Diana sat-, they got taller.

"Do we have to read all of them?"

"I hope not" Catherine breathed.

"What was his specialty?" Vincent asked quietly, as he sat beside her on the sofa.

She rubbed her eyes before answering:

"His patients were wealthy… big fishes… That's pretty much all I know…"

"Let's take a look"

A file grew to fill the monitor. It was completely brown; no name, just a number. It opened and all went silent as they processed what they were seeing: the characters; those were not quite the ones they had expected. Catherine held her breath, but of course nothing changed; in fact, the image stayed immobile until Bennet reacted:

"Greek"

"The name…" Catherine realized. "He was an immigrant."

"A paranoic one" There was sarcasm in Bennet's voice, "if he had to further protect his patient's secret."

For a moment, the screen shifted to the walls, the piles of papers covering them and the iron door.

"I need more time with that piece of paper" was Vincent's request.

The scholar kept looking at the screen, elbows on his knees. The very image of focus. Catherine's heart skipped a beat, and her gaze never left him as she took the walkie to her mouth and pressed the red button. Lightly.

"Bennet, look at the file."

The screen framed the paper. There were yellow spots. The handwriting was strange in itself, and very tight.

"Next page" Vincent demanded.

"Next page" Catherine transmitted faithfully through the walkie.

Diana turned the page. Catherine had the impression that the hand on screen was trembling.

"Münchausen's syndrome" was his conclusion as sat back, and suddenly she found him overwhelming. Physically, even.

"You know Greek" Catherine concluded.

"That patient comes from India" the man informed her, ignoring the rhetorical non-question. "Perhaps we should start with another file"

"That mustn't be the one, Bennet" the lawyer transmitted.

"How do you know it?"

Catherine turned off the button.

"How much time do we have?" he asked quietly.

"I pulled some strings. They allowed the detective to go in and be guided to the files… they won't cover for me"

"Until dawn, then"

Pride filled her lungs as she looked at him in silence. Pride and certainty. Deeply ingrained from the times when his presence meant everything would be all right. Part of her knew this was her putting him on a pedestal; but it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. The other part –the part that knew how good he was- was sure. Whatever it was, they would find it.

"Your father didn't want to show you" he said quietly, his same face dark with the changing lights of the screen he kept looking to.

"The note ordered him to tell me something"

"Your father wishes you well, Catherine." He dropped his head, staring at his hands. "Some secrets are worth keeping… and respecting"

The darkness was too deep for her to read him.

"Do you know something?" the woman asked anxiously.

"I would have told you, if I did."

"Then what was it?"

"A feeling."

A forest came to mind, and she shivered. Nothing else he would have said could have had that effect on her.

Diana's hand slid down the files. The smell that upset her, for once, wasn't dust, but perfume. Perfume, here. She usually had a good sense of smell, exacerbated now. She could distinguish the scent the nurse had worn, from this one, the one that remained here. Somewhere. And she had to find it. Even if just to not go crazy thinking of what Vincent would be doing with Catherine now.

There. Diana closed her eyes and took the file to her nose. Violets. It was all over it, and it smelled expensive.

"Bennet?"

"I'm opening another dossier"

But the brown folder was empty, no piece of paper inside.

"Now this seems like a thriller" Diana said with humor.

Catherine was pacing. Her head was thrown back, then forth as she massaged her temples with a hand. The other held the walkie tightly.

"Did the note say anything else?" Vincent asked.

"I never read it! That doctor…" She pointed the screen violently. "That was my only clue… my way out of this… prison!"

His prison Below, her prison Above… As he looked at her, Vincent wondered at the symmetries of life.

"The answer is not always in the lost page" he recalled quietly.

"This time it is"

His heart beat furiously as he stared at Catherine, all senses opened to her… to any sign of noticing… Diana's answer had been to his voice.

Thankfully, Catherine's attention was in the new color the yellowish folder had.

"Lucky, I brought my pencil"

The graphite left blank scars -tight handwriting, foreign characters. But this time, Catherine's attention was drawn to something, the only familiar thing there.

"What is my mother's name doing there?"

"I don't know, but you got someone who would" Bennet pointed at the bottom of the page. "Nurse Garson L. Robins. Funny name, isn't it?"

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

"How do you get a residence like that with a nurse's salary?"

"He doesn't work as one anymore" Diana stepped closer to the wall; it was taller than she was. "He won the lottery or something; then he invested."

"The original money?"

"No idea. But he had no criminal record; if there was any investigation, he came clean."

"The American Dream" Catherine's sarcasm sounded clearly through the line.

Diana rubbed her eyes. Daylight was disturbing.

"I'm going in."

She couldn't hear the bell; but a voice sounded:

"Robins residence. Can we help you?"

"Detective Diana Bennet. I need to interrogate Mr. Robins concerning a case I am working on."

"Mr. Robins is sleeping."

Still?

"Please, return at 7 o'clock in the afternoon. He would be available then."

Another buzz, and the device got quiet.

"Ideas?"

"Jump over the wall."

"I thought you were more traditional"

Diana looked around for weak points. No one wanted this case to be solved, more than she did. At 7 o'clock she was going in, with or without Mr. Robins' permission. What a shame that daylight made impossible for it to be now.

"Change of plan, Bennet" Catherine's line opened with a buzz. "Go back later and interrogate him; if not… I'll get the information otherwise."

Damn you will, Diana thought, even as she assented. He won't get closer to this place, no matter what I have to do to make sure of it.

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

Catherine turned off the screen. He stood close to the wall opposite to the balcony, daylight to his back. The rest of him was on paradoxical darkness. The way he is.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."

"Will Father worry?"

The answer came a second too late; she was too tired to notice.

"No. I am more… independent now."

I wonder what that means.

"Then, I guess I should make some breakfast."

She looked around, eyes wide opened –just in case they wanted to close- and purple rings under her eyes, as she smoothed her disheveled hair. She seemed a little lost, but the second her eyes fixated in her bedroom, she stood. She still grasped her walkie. A bed… It was all she needed. It seemed like a dream when she fell on the fresh blanket. And for once, his voice was unwelcome as it suggested:

"Perhaps you would want to report to your men, before."

He was standing at the edge of the room. She stared at him for a moment before realizing what he had said. Could she even find the strength to take the suggestion?

"After that you must sleep. I can cook"

He seemed a little humorous. Catherine saw him leaving, then she punched the mattress as she sat. The walkie fell on the carpet with a soft muted sound. The lady had no energy to pick it up; she needed it all to stand up.

She reached the living room just as he disappeared in the kitchen with a graceful billowing of cloak. A fairytale prince, boiling eggs… she liked that more and more…

Ray's prosaic knocks interrupted her musing.

"I'm fine" she yelled; some exasperation slipped into her tone. "I had a rough night, so don't call, OK? I'm going to bed…"

"Can you show yourself, Ma'am?"

She stumbled to the door, then she opened it and stared at them.

"See? Alive"

"All right, Ma'am. Forgive us." They seemed really sorry. Do I look that bad? She closed the door before thinking too much of it, and threw herself to the sofa with a deep sigh of relief.

She didn't know anything else until Vincent shook her gently.

"Your back will hurt if you stay there" he said.

Her first official sight of the day, was his face, shining at daylight.

"Breakfast is ready"

The lady shook her head slightly –dazed by the sight. His forearm behind her shoulders helped her sit.

"I guess I can't party overnight anymore. I'm getting old."

"Hardly."

She didn't laugh, afraid her head might hurt. And her stomach was killing her.

"Let's try that food."

Just looking at the table made her mouth water. It wasn't just the food: the ivory tablecloth –where had he found it?- made her remember best times, and the serviettes –she never used them anymore, but in formal meetings-, and the apples cut to seem roses on her dish.

"How long did I sleep?"

"An hour."

"You are a genius"

He didn't eat: he sat there through the entire breakfast, looking at her with the shadow of a smile and that incredibly gentle look in his eyes.

"I'll scold you later for not sharing; now I'm tired. Will you come with me?"

"As long as you want me to"

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

She was about to wake up. He would know. Their empathy, as always, told him everything; and being here, as close to her as he could –her back to his abdomen, his arms around her, claws gently resting on the back of her hands-, he didn't fear that. For Elliot wouldn't come to take what he had paid so dearly for. No man's kisses –so to speak- would reach him through their bond. No kisses, but his.

"Vincent"

He shifted, leaning over her body so she would see him. This morning, when she had woke up, it had pleased her to see him.

"Are you awake?" he asked quietly.

She opened her eyes and blinked, moved away from the light. Then his presence called to her. Her eyes, in daylight, had shades of blue.

"Where did you learn Greek?"

He dropped his head to one side. In this position, that made him look funny.

"Father wanted us to know where some words came from. Greek. Latin. I liked ancient languages, I am good at them."

"It's good to have a partner like you."

"I'm unique" he pointed out; and he was just half joking.

Still smiling, she turned further, to lay her back on the bed. It was comfortable… and unwise, for now no shoulder was in his way to her mouth now. He looked at it and licked the back of his lip, just lightly. She saw it. Her eyes kept looking at the hollow between his lips.

"So this is how it starts" she said quietly.

"We both knew."

His hand came to cup her cheek. It looked enormous beside her head. She wondered, with a mixture of dread and awe, if he would keep her still, fully knowing he'd stop if she wanted him to; she didn't fight, though, as his mouth covered hers.

The first kiss was a pressure –a test. The second time, as their lips met, his tongue moved against her lower lip, inviting her to open her mouth to him. She looked at his eyes –grey, rainy eyes- and submitted.

Their clothes rubbed the mattress with a hissing sound as she turned, and their thighs intertwined somehow. His hand, very slowly, rested on her back. The other –the one behind her- supported her head as his tongue touched her neck for the first time. Her skin tickled all over when he neared her ear; she felt it on her buttock; it wasn't his left hand: this one hovered down to her thigh. Its same warmth melted her. Her only reason to think that she wasn't in Heaven, was his body between her arms –held loose, with all the remaining strength there was in her.

"You're trembling" she whispered.

His sigh on her nape made her shiver, but his trembling stopped. He groped for her hand and kissed the palm. His eyes were closed, until he turned them to her. Catherine's throat closed. There was his same soul, stripping.

Pain. Loss.

Her fingers reached for his face and brushed his cheek lightly.

If I could just erase

She lifted her face to his, never breaking the link between their eyes. Their empathy was very quiet. Being a breath from him, she held his gaze for a moment, then she kissed him. Her right hand, for once empowered, grasped his nape; she needed his support, until she braced herself on the bed.

Vincent looked at her. She was pushing him, more with his will than with the hand now on his chest. She wanted him to lie. So he lied slowly on his back, trembling violently before forcing his muscles to relax.

Catherine looked at him, there, on her bed… How many times she had imagined this. How many lonely nights she had evoked this dangerous, forbidden dream? Lying. Helpless. Daylight touching his golden skin –his strange face now differently lightened. His eyes looked as naïve as she had imagined they would.

She lied, braced on her left elbow. Her right knee bent so the thigh lied crossing both of his –not quite covering them completely. The free hand came to caress his neck, sliding down. How she wanted to kiss him there –her lips shivered in pure craving. Better to go slowly. She bit the lower one as she caressed her way to his open shirt. His chest was dark, partly in shadow, partly because of the hair there. She quivered a little as she tangled her fingers there; her eyes closed. For a moment, she forgot to check on his feelings.

She never felt the closure of his shirt. When she opened her eyes, it was torn open. She couldn't read his expression.

"Are…" She cleared her throat. How could her voice sound so husky? "Are you… comfortable… with this?"

He clutched the hand on his chest, pressing her skin to his. His expression had darkened, and she shivered, thrilled. Her smile was that of Eve.

Catherine kissed him. On the cheek. On the shoulder. Easy… she whispered to herself as she bent over him again; but she forgot it the moment she kissed his neck –his chorded, powerful neck. Her fingertips touched his furless side. His control was crumbling spasmodically. Now she could hear him -a mixture of purr and growl and moan- and there were no words to express what it did to her.

And still, as her chest rubbed against his, she knew there was something missing.

He hid his face on her shoulder. His very body clang to her –sank in hers, as much as clothes allowed: his arms around her, his thighs between hers. She fell back on the bed, unbalanced. The moment she felt his weight on her, she knew what was to come.

He, on the other side, had no idea of how to do it.

And still, his body had its own ideas. Her secret moistness wetted his pants, to the very place that most craved for it. He moved against her, and she gasped, her knees lifting as her own body looked for his. For completeness. A hand of his violently wrestled with the fabrics that kept them apart. A button drove into her thigh as he thrust, not fully released. She didn't notice any pain.

For emptiness was filled.

He held her tight, all his weight on her, her lungs burning. She held him tight, her heels pressing him closer. His gasp on her ears, the brush of his cheek against her, made her every muscle contract. Keeping him inside.

"I love you" she gasped.

He kissed her fiercely, as if wanting to devour the word –violently, carelessly- as he thrust again. The hold of his pant loosened with his same moves. Her gasps were his complete world –and her nails on his back, and her warmth, and her sweat-; the clutching of her womb, just the beginning. The bond was him, himself, for he could no longer know how he learned what. But did it matter?

He drank her last cry –his name- and the final wave came over him. He closed his eyes. He drowned. Everything stopped existing for endless time, and then:

Don't go

"I won't" he answered.

Sobs tore her apart. He thought he was crying too.

"I love you" he breathed in her ear.

For the first time since he could remember, he was sated. No hunger tinted his love for her. In peace. Full. He lifted his head to look at her. Her face was turned one side, eyes closed, mouth still slightly opened with the insinuation of a smile. Transfixed. Epiphany. He caressed her cheek with his furry nose and she gasped lightly. Bending further, he caressed her neck, and the upper part of a breast. The mark he had imprinted.

"Ma'am? It's late afternoon. Can you show yourself?"

Catherine's gasp echoed in the room as she shrank –thighs closing around thin air, arms hugging herself-, the warmth escaped nonetheless. She was naked –more naked than ever-, and Vincent was gone. The screen blurred absurdly in the wall, in front of her.

"Ma'am?"

The world engulfed her with all its rules.

"Answer, please, or we'll go inside…"

"I was asleep"

She looked blindly at the button she had just pressed. Beside it, there was the black box that sent her voice to Diana -Vincent must have picked it up. So many buttons to keep the pieces of her life apart.

"Is everything all right?"

"All right" she repeated.

"We thought we had heard something"

"Must I open the door?"

"No" he said quickly. "It's not necessary. My apologies, for interrupting your sleep."

Her finger stayed in the button she had just pressed again. She felt Vincent's eyes on her. What to do with it?

She pressed the button again.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock, ma'am"

The colors of the room were paling, as they spoke.

"Thank you"

She slid from the mattress, her thighs slipped one against the other as she walked to the bathroom. Her dress settled on her by itself. As soon as she entered and closed the door, she slid to the floor, biting her lips and shivering.

Vincent was on the other side, his hand pressed to the glass, willing it to disappear.

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

Diana curled up, shuddering. She couldn't cry. Beside the bed, her clock: 6:00, the big green letters informed. She had to get up. She had to get dressed, and drive to their new suspect's house.

He had been trembling too.

Diana pressed her thighs together. The clutching of her own womb's muscles made her flinch, and the wetness…

"I love you", he had said.

What has he made of you, she thought: a voyeur? She blushed and her face sank into the pillow, even as she smiled humorlessly. There was something ironic, indeed. The nausea hadn't disappeared, either.

Fuck…

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

Preview:

She didn't answer. He neared her neck, his face just out of her vision field, but his warmth… There was nothing like his warmth, caressing her arms down her shoulder. Suddenly, the back of a hand slid her hair over her shoulder, freeing her nape.

"What can't you do?"

B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B&B

Review?