A/N: Thanks everyone for your comments and positive support. It's such an incredible motivation to write when people take the time to let you know how they feel about a story. Vincent and Catherine are such good people at their cores that you can't help but want to cheer them on. But anything good is never easy.

Reunion

Chapter 4

Catherine stared in shock at Vincent, not believing her ears. "Wha …, what did you say?"

"I thought you were dead," he repeated.

"Why?" she sputtered. "How?" Her body had started to shake again and she wasn't sure if it was from her surprise or the cold.

Vincent pulled her back into his warmth. "In due time. But first, let's get you out of this ice box." He turned them toward the street and hailed a passing taxi. It pulled over and Vincent opened the back door and slid in, pulling Catherine in after him.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, looking at the two of them through the rear view mirror.

Having just flown in from New York that morning and being unfamiliar with Chicago Vincent hesitated at the cabbie's request.

"North Lake Shore Drive," Catherine chimed in. "Take Fullerton Parkway to Geneva Terrace."

"Up by DePaul University?" the cabbie said.

"Yes," Catherine replied.

The cabbie pulled out into traffic setting a vector north.

"Where are we going?" Vincent asked, putting his arm around Catherine's shoulder and pulling her close into his side.

Catherine snuggled in under his arm. "My place," she said, matter-of-factly.

Surprised, Vincent brought his hand to her chin and turned her head up toward him. "I didn't mean to come barging into your life. I don't have any expectations. We could go to a restaurant if you'd like. Talk over dinner."

Catherine shook her head once, her face resolute. "No," she said. "We've got a lot of ground to cover and I've had enough onlookers for today."

Vincent groaned but nodded.

"Now …, what did you mean - you thought I was dead?" Catherine asked.

Vincent settled back into the seat and wrapped his other arm around her, holding her against him.

"After I woke up in Ramstein I asked about you. But no one was willing to help me. I was so weak and disoriented I couldn't do a thing but lie in bed. It took a while but finally a nurse took pity on me and started following up on my request. One day she came into my room. She looked so sad and I knew right then what she was going to say."

Vincent shuddered, remembering the pity and sorrow on the woman's face.

"She told me you were dead. That you died in a helicopter that was shot down ferrying Red Cross medical personal to Bagram to return to the States."

Vincent clutched Catherine closer to him, afraid if he didn't hold onto her she might dissolve into nothing as he continued to recount the horror of his experience.

"I …," Vincent stopped, choking on his words, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat.

Catherine turned in his arms to look up into his face, her eyes wide. "All this time you thought I was dead?"

He nodded.

Catherine reached up and placed her hand on his scared cheek. Vincent pulled back just a little, but she must have seen his discomfort because she increased the pressure of her hand and began to lightly stroke his cheek. It was clear she wasn't put off by his scar and wanted him to know it. "Oh, Vincent, I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," he pushed out, uncomfortable with her hand on his disfigured face.

"I know. What I mean is …," Catherine paused and swallowed, "I know what it feels like. I thought you were dead, too."

At her words Vincent realized she really did understand the anguish he'd been through. At least, she understood if she still loved him like he loved her. He hoped with all his heart that was true. But the fear of her rejection - that she wouldn't want what he wanted - stalked the dark recesses of his mind.

Catherine dropped her hands and turned, positioning herself as before, leaning against him with his arm around her. She stared out the cab's window.

"I was scheduled to be on that helicopter," Catherine said. "I was supposed to go home that day. But I got word a member of your unit had been released from the hospital in Kabul and was returning to Kandahar. I needed to talk to him. I needed to find out what happened to you. So I stayed for another day."

Catherine took in a slow breath, then blew it out. "Some good friends died in that helicopter. So many good people died over there." She was quiet for a long moment, her body tense against him. After a while she continued. "I wanted to die," she whispered, still staring out the window. "When I found out you'd been killed, I wanted to die too. When the helicopter was shot down I wondered why God hadn't granted my wish - why he would be so cruel as to let me live and suffer." She reached and brought his other arm around her, squeezing his hand tightly. "Now I know why."

Vincent's heart soared. She still did love him, at least it seemed liked she did. And he knew her pain, the aching emptiness that made it hard to go on day after day. He, too, had wondered why he'd been spared a merciful death only to live in quiet despair believing that Catherine was gone, never to return. If she felt the same way as he, the prayers he'd spoken over and over in his mind on the plane from New York to Chicago might have a chance of coming true.

"I'm so sorry," Vincent said softly as he pressed his lips to her hair again. He calmed as he breathed in her familiar scent, a hint of jasmine perfume and vanilla shampoo. "If I'd known you were alive … nothing on this earth could have stopped me from finding you."

"I really need to believe that, Vincent," Catherine said, her voice soft. "Now, more than ever, I need that to be true."

Vincent heard the hesitant tone of Catherine's voice. "You don't believe me," he said quietly, worry starting to grow.

"It's not that I don't believe you," Catherine said. "To be honest, I'm scared to death."

Vincent stiffened at her words. "You're afraid of me?" he asked, his voice tense.

Catherine turned around in his arms again, facing him. Her eyes were wide. "Of course I'm not afraid of you. I could never be afraid of you." She pulled away from his side so she could take both of his hands in hers. "I know you. I know your entire life's story. I know what you treasure and I know your deepest fears. And you know me that way too." She squeezed his hands tighter and he relaxed as she continued. "Anyone who knows you could never be afraid of you. You're my hero. You always have been and always will be."

"Then what are you afraid of?" Vincent asked, puzzled.

"I afraid of what this all means - the two of us discovering after seven years that we're alive. Will our lives change? If so, how?" Catherine shifted in her seat, sitting upright to face Vincent more squarely, her hands still holding his. "In my head, I have doubts. I'm afraid of change. I'm afraid of being hurt again. I don't ever want to hurt that bad again."

"I would never-," Vincent started to respond but Catherine cut him off, putting a finger to his lips.

"I know," she said. "My head says one thing, but my heart …," she paused, pulling his hand to place his palm on her chest over her heart, "… says another. My heart sings right now. My heart is full of joy and more happy than I can ever remember." Catherine captured Vincent's eyes. "And I choose to follow my heart today. I choose to spend the rest of the day figuring out what I'll be doing tomorrow. And I'll take it a day at a time after that." Catherine leaned back into the seat. "Does that make any sense?"

Vincent felt Catherine's hands trembling in anticipation of his answer as she held onto one of his while pushing his other against her chest. Relief flooded through him. He knew exactly how she felt, what she meant. She looked up at him, her face earnest and he couldn't help but smile. "Yes," he said, "that makes all the sense in the world."

Catherine's hands stopped trembling.

"And as far as taking it one day at a time goes," Vincent said, "any time I can have with you is a gift. One day, one hour, one minute - I'll take whatever you'll give me and I'll be the most grateful man alive."

Catherine let out a breath and Vincent saw her shoulders relax. Her hands were warm on his as she continued to clutch one of his hands to her chest, grazing the swell of her breast under the soft silk of her blouse. He could feel her heart beating fast. His own heart was pounding. There was longing in her eyes. And need. He felt it too.

Slowly he brought his face down toward hers. Her eyes softened and her lips parted, her tongue darting out, barely brushing her bottom lip. Her breath was warm on his face with the velvet smoothness of coffee and musk. She smelled like the Catherine he remembered. This was Catherine. Here. In his arms. And he loved her. Vincent closed the remaining inches, drawing his eyes shut and his lips apart.

Suddenly the cab was filled with the staccato sound of marimba music. Startled, Vincent snapped open his eyes. Catherine jerked her head back and gave him a sheepish frown, reaching for her coat pocket.

"Is that your phone?" Vincent said, incredulous, his breathing slightly labored.

"Damn it," Catherine said, flushed and a little breathless herself. "I'm sorry. That's the hospital's text tone. I'm on call."