A/N: Thank you all for reading and for your reviews. This story reminds me of how amazing it is that people and connections and events, no matter how brief the encounter, can change lives forever.

Reunion

Chapter 3

Catherine sat, stunned, watching Vincent run out of the coffee shop as if it were on fire. Where only a moment before she knew seeing Vincent again was a bad idea and she had been looking for an escape route, now frustrated anger roiled up inside her. Fear of her feelings - so long repressed - disappeared, replaced by a burning need to confront him and find out where he'd been and why he'd let her think he was dead for all these years.

No you don't. You do not get to leave me again. Not without an explanation.

Catherine shot out of her seat, grabbing her coat and rushing toward the door without taking the time to put it on. Exploding out the door she looked left past the crowd of heads walking down the sidewalk. There was no sign of Vincent's brown, unruly hair. Panicked, she whipped her head around to the right, frantically scanning for Vincent. She saw him, walking quickly away down the sidewalk. Catherine sprinted after him, fighting to keep her balance on the snow covered sidewalk, jostling past pedestrians as she pushed forward.

"Vincent!" Catherine called after him. She saw his body stiffen and he picked up his pace. No way was she letting him leave her. Not again. But his legs were longer and he easily expanded the distance between them. She scrambled forward, trying to move faster. "Vincent Keller!" she shouted. But he continued to outdistance her.

She put on a burst of speed and her foot slipped on the treacherous ice sending her sideways into a mountain of a man walking in the opposite direction. She bounced off the huge man who seemed hardly effected by her weight and crashed to the sidewalk.

Sprawled out on all fours with her coat on the dirty snow behind her, tears of anger burned her eyes. She'd lost any chance of catching up to Vincent now. He was gone, dissolved into a sea of humanity. Catherine sat back on her calves, ignoring the stares of passersby as grief welled up from deep inside, tightening her chest and pushing out the anger that had been there only moments before. It was the grief of years past, familiar and unwelcome. She began to shiver from the frigid air as she looked down at her trembling hands, tears trickling down her cheeks.

Staring at her hands she sensed someone in the crowd step closer, probably wanting to see if she was all right. Too ashamed to look up Catherine felt the good samaritan drape her coat over her shoulders and move around in front of her. Two hands reached out gingerly to grasp hers and at the stranger's touch a jolt shot through her - the same powerful pulse of electricity she'd felt seven years before in the middle of the desert. Terrified she might be hallucinating she raised her head slowly, coming face to face with the pale green eyes she knew so well and thought she'd lost forever.

Vincent didn't say a word. He pulled her up gently, encouraging her to climb to her feet. Onlookers still stood staring at her. Catherine's mind raced as she stood, her hands grasped in his, their eyes locked together. Joy pulsed through her that he had come back for her, replaced a heartbeat later by confusion at what his return meant. Then anger rushed through her. Anger that he had run from her, abandoned her.

Her anger broke the spell and she jerked her hands from his. Catherine lurched forward, shoving Vincent hard in the chest, driving him back a step. She saw the look of stunned surprise on his face but it didn't deter her. She stepped toward him following his retreat and bought her fists up and against his chest. A guttural scream, primal and full of anguish, erupted from her throat as she pounded her hands against him over and over, never wanting to stop, wanting only to beat down the rage until it released its hold on her. Hot tears streamed down her face as she continuing to pummel him with balled fists.

Catherine felt Vincent retreat slowly from her onslaught. But he didn't turn or pull away. He stayed close enough for her to continue to pound on his chest in rage. And she let fly. Years of sorrow flowed out of her. Every day of grief, every night of loneliness, every ounce of despair she'd endured poured through her clenched fists until she could barely raise her tired arms. As her blows faltered she felt Vincent's arms loosely encircle her waste, not trying to stop her, but supporting her as she began to weaken in exhaustion. Gradually her pounding fists slowed and eventually came to rest on Vincent's chest. He pulled her the rest of the way to him, bringing her into his protective embrace.

Catherine pushed her head into Vincent and cried. Gut wrenching sobs made it hard to breathe. She let him hold her, not sure she could stand on her own if she pulled away. But she didn't want to pull away. No matter how unsure or painful this seemed it felt so good to be back in his arms. She was safe in his arms. Safe from the gawking onlookers. Safe from the frigid winter chill. Safe from the lonely world that waited for her.

Minutes passed and years of pent-up emotion left Catherine's body. Her sobs softened until she was able to breathe again. She didn't look up and Vincent didn't let go. She pushed harder against him and felt him tighten his grip around her. He didn't say anything. He just held her. And that was exactly what she needed. Vincent had always known exactly what she needed, from the moment they had met. And she had missed that. God, she had missed him.

After a while Catherine could breathe without gasping. She kept her head against Vincent's chest and said softly, "I thought you were dead. They told me …," she paused, choking in a hard breath, "they told me you were dead."

"I know," he said, his face pressed against her hair, just like she remembered. "The Army told my parents I was dead, too."

His answer surprised her, but she refused to pull back even one inch from his embrace, so she kept her head buried against him and asked, "What happened?"

Vincent heaved a deep sigh. "The explosion took out half my unit. I was wounded and knocked unconscious. The blast ripped my vest and shirt off along with my dog tags. When they found my tags by one of the bodies, in all the confusion they thought it was me. They medevaced the survivors north to Kabul. I was in a comma, but stable. They flew me to Ramstein. I woke up two months later. For a while they didn't believe me when I told them who I was. Finally a doctor logged into my enlistment records and when he pulled-up my photo he knew I was telling the truth. A month later I got shipped home."

Catherine peered to the side and saw that the onlookers had dispersed. But that didn't quell the anxiety that had begun to raise it's ugly head again. Her stomach clenched as she thought about what she wanted …, what she needed …, to ask him next. But she wasn't sure she was strong enough to hear his answer. Maybe he'd fell out of love with her. Maybe he'd been too ashamed of the disfigurement of his face. Maybe it had just been a short-lived relationship of necessity within the insanity of war, each taking comfort in the other's arms. But she had to know.

Pulling back from Vincent, Catherine kept her hands on his waist, still unwilling to release him no matter how scared she was of the question she was about to ask. Vincent kept his hands on her shoulders, reluctantly letting her draw away from him. Catherine steeled her nerve and looked into his eyes. "Why did you wait for seven years to find me?"

Vincent's face paled in pain and she thought she saw wetness brimming in the corners of his eyes. He turned his head and looked away, taking in a shuddering breath. "Oh god, Catherine."

Shocked by his emotion Catherine gripped his waist tighter. "What?" she said.

Vincent turned back to her, the anguish in his face palpable. He drew in a hard breath that hissed between his teeth. "I though you died in Kandahar."