PROMISES OF SOMEDAY

"PROMISES OF SOMEDAY"
by Debbie Nockels

RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are mine (I wish!). They belong to Ron Koslow, who created them, and I'm not sure who else at this point in time.
SUMMARY: Takes place following the events in the episode "The Watcher," where Catherine was stalked, kidnapped, and almost killed.
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�� Uh-oh! Just in time, Jamie flattened herself against the rough wall. With a snap of flying cloth, Vincent erupted from an adjacent corridor, his black cloak flaring out around him like bat wings. She heaved a sigh as he strode past, and watched him disappear around the corner. Shaking her head, Jamie continued on her way.

�� "Isn't it dark yet?" she demanded, popping her head into Father's study.

�� Father glanced up from the ledger, peering over the top of his spectacles. "Is he still at it?" Vincent had been prowling the tunnels all day, for all the world like a caged animal. Everyone Below would be heartily glad when dark descended and he was able at last to safely make his way to Catherine.

�� Jamie nodded. "He almost ran into me just now. I don't think he even knew I was there." She sounded more amazed than upset. "His eyes were...." She shook her head helplessly. "They looked like he was a thousand miles away."

�� Father removed his glasses, and set them carefully in front of him on the desk. "Jamie, you know that Vincent was very...upset...by what happened last night."

�� "I know, Father. We all know." A worried frown creased Jamie's forehead. "But Catherine's okay now, isn't she? Why can't Vincent relax a little?"

�� "Catherine's fine, Jamie. Peter told us this afternoon that all she needed was a good, long rest and a chance to relax. You know that." Father rose and walked over to the young woman. "But she almost died last night. Vincent can't forget how close he came to losing her. Is it any wonder that he is anxious to go to her now?"

�� Jamie shook her head. "I guess not," she said soberly, then sighed. "But I sure wish the sun would hurry up and go down."

�� "We all do, Jamie; we all do." Father agreed in heartfelt tones. He returned the young girl's smile and watched as she set off toward the communal dining hall. Returning to his desk, he sank heavily into the chair.

�� Upset.

�� Father grimaced at the inadequacy of that description. "Upset" didn't even begin to describe Vincent's state of mind. It had been bad enough when he was forced to remain Below while Catherine was being terrorized by that madman who was spying on her - on them. Father knew the strain Vincent had been under, fighting his need to go to Catherine, knowing that he must not because that might endanger their world. The fact that he himself could also be in danger had mattered not one whit.

�� Father had been with Vincent here in his study, trying to calm his distraught son, when Vincent suddenly stiffened and gasped out Catherine's name before streaking out of the chamber. Two years' experience with this type of behavior had told Father that Catherine was in immediate danger. He had taken off after Vincent as fast as his lame hip would allow. Much to his surprise, he had found him standing in front of the threshold to Catherine's apartment building.

�� ("Vincent?" Father had approached the motionless figure, noting with relief that his son, although certainly tense, was once more in control of himself. "What has happened?"

�� The maned head turned slightly toward him, eyes still fastened unwaveringly on the ladder leading down from the storage area although their gaze was turned inward, focused on some inner vision known only to Vincent. "He was there, in her apartment."

�� Father inhaled sharply. "The man who has been watching her?"

�� Vincent nodded. "Yes. Catherine was terrified."

�� Small wonder, thought Father, listening tensely.

�� "He is gone now. A friend is with her, someone she trusts. He is calling the police." Vincent's words were deceptively calm; Father saw the large, furred hands clenched into rigid fists, and knew his feelings of helplessness and anger.

�� "Catherine is safe?"

�� "For now."

�� Father hesitated, hating the words he must now speak. His voice was as gentle and sympathetic as he could make it. "Then, Vincent, you must not go to her." He put his hand on one massive shoulder, his heart aching for his son's torment. Beneath the layers of clothes and cloak, Vincent's muscles were rigid with tension.

�� "I know," came the anguished whisper.

�� Father pressed his shoulder in silent sympathy. "Will you come back with me now?"

�� Vincent gave a slight shake of his head. "No. Catherine may decide to come Below after the police leave. If she does, I must be here to meet her."

�� Father had nodded and left him then, standing tense vigil at the foot of the ladder. It had been several hours later that the sentry's alarm rang through the pipes, reporting Vincent letting out a bloodcurdling roar and swarming up the ladder into the basement of Catherine's building. The endless hours that followed had been sleepless ones for Father until Vincent's return, dangerously long past dawn. To his anxious inquiries, Vincent had replied merely that Catherine was safe, sleeping now in her apartment, and that her tormentor was dead. Father could find no response to that flat statement, knowing that it meant Vincent had killed him.)

�� Vincent had also slept, at least a little, but since awakening he had done nothing but pace - first in his chamber, then when that proved too confining, through the twisting passageways of their world, stopping only at Father's insistence that he eat something. It had been during that wolfed-down meal that Father learned Catherine had been abducted and almost drowned by the deranged man who had invaded her privacy so shockingly.

�� Father sighed again and reached for his glasses. Thank God, less than an hour remained before sunset. He doubted whether any of them could stand Vincent's actions for much longer than that.

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�� Vincent strode rapidly along the rough-walled corridor toward Catherine's apartment building. The sun had finally set. Soon. Soon it would be dark and he could once again go to her.

�� Catherine, I need to touch you, know that you are safe, hold you in my arms. Yet, how can I - after last night?

�� He reached the entrance of the threshold and leaned against the wall, bowing his head as a wave of remembered agony swept over him:

�� (Running, running, lungs laboring, on fire.

�� Feeling Catherine's terror, her struggles, her mindless panic as the choking water rose higher, covering her chin . . . her mouth . . . her nose. . . . The pain, unfelt by her at the time, as her hands beat futilely against the imprisoning metal. Then . . . suddenly, relentlessly, her emotions faded from his consciousness until all that was left was emptiness. No fear; no pain; no sweet, golden warmth wrapping around his heart. Nothing. He stopped, desperately reaching for their connection - but his sense of her was gone. Catherine! He dropped to his knees and roared out the anguish in his heart.

�� "NO!"

�� Agony consumed him; the most vital part of his being was missing, ripped from his soul, draining his life force. Oblivion beckoned. He felt himself sinking, spiralling down into brilliant light. Suddenly a voice intruded, jolting him out of the welcoming radiance.

�� "Too late."

�� Fighting his way back to hazy awareness. The malice in that voice, the gloating satisfaction, stabbed at him. "You're too late!"

�� Wildness poured into him, filling the emptiness until nothing existed but the red, seething rage. Faster than thought, he leaped at the hateful figure before him, slashing, clawed fingers extended to their fullest. The reek of hot, fresh blood filled his nostrils and he felt its steaming warmth run down his hand. Even as the body dropped to sprawl like a rag doll on the grass, he whirled around and saw the car, tilted crazily half-in, half-out of the lake. Compelled by a nameless force, he made a giant leap and landed with a sliding thud on the submerged trunk. Somehow he wrenched off the trunk lid, revealing the water-filled compartment.)

�� Vincent shuddered, remembering. His uncanny time sense informed him that darkness had finally fallen, but he remained where he was. Another, different sense, more precious to him than life, also relayed that Catherine had not yet returned to her apartment.

�� Never, never would he forget the sight of Catherine's face floating palely in the dark waters, the limp weight of her as he pulled her out - never forget the first stirrings of returning life beneath his hands.

�� (He'd wrapped her in the dubious warmth of his sopping cloak and held her closely, savoring the feel of her fragile bones, cherishing even the uncontrollable shivers which wracked her, since they were indisputable proof that he had not lost her forever. Never had he felt so strongly the inadequacy of words to express what he was feeling. How could mere words possibly describe the overwhelming power of his relief, his love, his thankfulness?

�� "Catherine...oh, Catherine!")

�� Vincent pushed away from the wall abruptly and began pacing. One step; two steps. Turn. Step. Step. Turn. Catherine, where are you, what are you doing? I feel your turmoil; what is troubling you? Come home, please.

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�� Catherine rested her head against the back seat, thankful that Joe wasn't driving, since he seemed so intent on talking. Maybe if she pretended to be resting, he would discontinue this discussion of last night's events, though she knew that was a forlorn hope at best. Joe in full spate was nearly impossible to cut off.

�� "I tell you, Radcliffe, when I kicked in your door and found that you were gone - " Joe shook his head sharply. "I've never felt so desperate. Or so helpless. Waiting at the station with Greg Hughs while the cops combed the city for your car, knowing there was nothing I could do.... I hope I never live through another night like that!"

�� You and me both, Joe, Catherine thought fervently, then stopped. Is that really true? Do I wish last night had never happened? Certainly she had no wish ever to repeat the experience of nearly drowning. But what followed after was nothing she could ever forget, or ever wanted to forget; in fact, was everything she would cherish as a memory for the rest of her life.

�� (She arrived back at her apartment in a stupor of exhaustion, unable to rally enough to convince her concerned friends that it was all right to leave her alone. She stared dully at the ruin of her door frame, trying to take in what Joe was telling her about it - she heard the words, but they refused to take coherent shape in her mind. Shelving the troublesome matter for the time being, she trudged toward the bathroom, hearing through a fog Jenny's anxious queries, flinging she knew not what answer over her shoulder.

�� The hot water revived her enough so that she was able to persuade Jenny to leave, convincing her that she would be looked after, she would not be alone. Even as she allayed her friend's concern, she could feel his presence on the balcony. Somehow - where had she found the strength? - she managed to contain her seething impatience and see Jenny off in a friendly manner. The second the door closed behind Jenny, she bolted it and switched off the light.

�� She turned then and saw him, silently waiting for her at the entrance of the open glass doors, and the familiar sight - beloved, and longed for more than he would ever believe - caused her heart to turn over. For a split second, even as she hastened toward him, she wondered if the perils they had endured that night would overcome his habitual reluctance to enter her apartment . . . but then his arms - his warm, strong, wonderful arms - were around her, holding her close, and nothing mattered at all but being there, in his embrace. All the turbulent emotions of the past days, especially the last few hours - the worry, the dread and the panic, and most of all, the overpowering relief - coalesced into a single thought, a single desire, blinding in its intensity, and staggering in its simplicity: Vincent.

�� That was all. Just - Vincent.

�� His voice murmured against her ear, rough and unsteady, "I felt you go...I felt you go!" An eternity of hell was contained in that choked whisper, all his shuddering awareness that so nearly, so suddenly, had he almost lost her.

�� She'd strained against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, desperately wanting, needing even more closeness. "Hold me - tight! Tighter!" A sob formed in her throat; deep shivers wracked her body. She felt his arms tighten their hold, and the world swam about her. His face was buried in her neck, as was hers in the glorious hair cascading over his shoulder.

�� Suddenly, she was acutely conscious of the feel of his warm, powerful body. He had not reclaimed his cloak, and even though she had seen him without it before, for the first time she realized how much that seemingly innocent item served to mask his physique. For the first time, it occurred to her to question the necessity for that particular piece of clothing.

�� His shoulders were still magnificently broad without the extra padding; his torso powerful, its musculature impressive even through the quilted vest. All those insulating layers he routinely wore - they couldn't be solely for protection from the chill temperatures Below. His body temperature was higher than the norm; wouldn't that alone suffice to keep him warm? No one else Below bundled themselves up to the extent Vincent did. Why did he try to conceal his body? Surely he couldn't still worry that she found him repulsive, physically? She'd thought they had settled that months ago, last Halloween.

�� Her arms had loosened their death-grip on his neck, and a second later Vincent relaxed his convulsive embrace, as she had known he would, giving her room to pull back enough to look at him.

�� "I love you." Her hand slid around and worked its way under his soft, incredibly thick hair - no, not just hair - his mane; that was the only true name for that wild, flowing mass of long, burnished glory - God, how she loved it! She watched her fingers brush softly against his neck and felt the sudden tremor that shook him, saw the violent throb of the pulse in his throat. Her eyes met his; the intensity she saw there burned through her, filling her with blue fire.

�� Who made the first move? She could not be sure; it seemed their coming together was as simultaneous as it was inevitable. All she knew was the touch of his lips, incredibly sweet and warm, the taste of his mouth starting her heart hammering. Her legs grew weak and her pulse pounded in her ears. She had always treasured their kisses, for they remained few and far in between. Vincent, she knew, feared arousing the passion which even their slightest caress summoned, afraid of releasing the dark, bestial (as he viewed it) side of his nature, afraid of hurting her. This could never happen - Catherine knew this with a certainty that was beyond logic, beyond any accepted definition of knowledge; never would Vincent harm her (damn Lisa Campbell anyway - that thoughtless little flirt!).

�� "Catherine!" Her name came on a gasp as they broke apart. She felt his scorching breath on the sensitive skin below her ear, followed immediately by the hard, hot pressure of his lips. She'd breathed out his name, quivering. His mouth moved down her neck, sending tendrils of flame through her with each lingering touch of his lips and tongue. . . .)

�� "Cathy! Hey, Radcliffe - anybody home?"

�� Jolting upright, Catherine blinked, dazed. She felt a hand on her arm. "You all right, Cathy?" Joe's concerned face came into focus.

�� "What?" Her question was breathless.

�� "You looked - I don't know - funny. Kind of flushed, and you were breathing fast. After what happened back at that creep's apartment. . . . Are you sure you got enough rest this morning? You didn't have to come with us, you know. Greg and I could have handled it by ourselves."

�� "No, Joe, I wanted to come. I wanted to see for myself." It had been absolutely essential that she take a look at that apartment, though she couldn't tell Joe that. It was bad enough that her unknown watcher - she still didn't know his name, Catherine realized suddenly, not that she particularly wanted to. Anyway, as though spying on her hadn't been enough, he had secretly photographed her as well.

�� She would never forget the jolt of panic that had hit her at the sight of the dozens of snapshots spread over the coffee table. Immense gratitude spread through her now, as she remembered how Joe and Greg Hughs had allowed her the first look at them. Her initial quick scan had not revealed any pictures of Vincent, which had been a great relief. That particular worry had gnawed at her from the beginning. Even so, to see the pictures he had taken was enough to start her stomach roiling.

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�� A telescopic lens had obviously been used, as most of the shots were fairly close up: showing her eating at the table, poring over briefs, laughing with Jenny in the living room, sometimes just walking from one room to another - and several taken of her in various stages of undress, apparently getting ready for bed, as her nightgown was laid out on the bed.

�� Catherine felt sickened, violated. Would she ever again be able to open her drapes without wondering if someone unseen was spying on her? With a convulsive gesture, she threw the photographs on the table as though ridding herself of contamination. Her hand hit a small book lying there and sent it flying. It landed with a bump, and several photographs hidden within its pages spilled out.

�� Her eyes widened. The top picture was a shot of her in a blue dress, lighting candles on the terrace. Catherine recognized the setting instantly: The night she had first become aware of her unknown watcher; the night of their second anniversary, hers and Vincent's. A gust of involuntary rage shook her even now at the memory of the way that tender moment had been disrupted by this same maniac.

�� She quickly glanced through the few remaining snapshots. Here was another that had been taken on the terrace, then one of her inside, barely visible through the window sheers, holding the lighter up to a tall candle on the fireplace mantel. The last shot showed her walking toward the camera - rather, the terrace - obviously looking at someone, for a smile was on her lips, and the expression in her eyes. . . .

�� Is this what Vincent sees on my face when I look at him, this...light? she'd wondered. Fortunately, the camera had been focused on her; the only indication that anyone else was in the shot was a dark, shapeless blur at the far edge of the picture, topped with a haze of gold. Vincent's shoulder and part of his hair.

�� She had breathed a sigh of relief, then stiffened as a chilling thought occurred. She glanced around the room. "Joe, where is his camera?" Just then she spotted it on the couch. Walking over, she picked it up and looked at the indicator. Seven shots had been taken, out of twenty-four. Catherine bit her lip, thinking hard.

�� Joe came up beside her. "What's up, kiddo?" He looked at her and his expression softened. "Were the photographs . . . bad?" His voice was gentle, conveying his expert awareness of just how shocking such hard evidence of the extent of the invasion of her privacy might be.

�� Catherine shook her head. "Not really, Joe, except...." She took a deep breath. "Except for these last few." She indicated the photos still in her hand, their faces turned downward. "They were taken during a - a very special time for me, a special celebration." She looked at Joe.

�� He was quick to understand. "And you think that maybe he has more like them on the roll that's still in the camera."

�� Catherine nodded. "Like them - or worse," she almost whispered. "He spied on us, Joe. He took pictures!" To her surprise, she felt her lips trembling, and bit at the lower one to hold it steady, blinking away involuntary tears. "I'm sorry." She tried to smile. "I know this isn't very professional of me."

�� Joe regarded her silently, then looked around. Greg Hughs was in the bedroom, poring over something there; they were alone. He caught a glimpse of one of the discarded photographs on the table, and swiftly averted his eyes from the shot of Cathy undressing for bed.

�� And these are the ones she said weren't bad. What must those others be like? "Us." She said he spied on "us." He took pictures of her with a man. That goddamn bastard!

�� Swiftly Joe pointed the camera at the carpet, pushing the button as fast as he could, until the final shot was taken and the film began rewinding. To Catherine, waiting tensely, it seemed to take forever.

�� Finally the whirring stopped. Joe opened the back and took out the roll of film. He handed it to her. "Have it developed, Cathy. If there's anything that might be useful for our files, I'm trusting you to see that I get it. Anything else, I leave to your discretion."

�� "Thank you, Joe," was all she had time to whisper before Greg came into the living room. Hastily she pocketed the precious film, feeling more than a twinge of guilt over her deception.

�� It wasn't really a lie, she'd argued to her pricking conscience. I'm 99% sure that there are shots of Vincent and me in there. I just . . . well . . . stretched the truth a little. After all, I couldn't very well tell Joe the real reason why I need that film.

�� She looked up; had someone spoken her name? Greg Hughs was looking at her, obviously awaiting a response. "I'm sorry, Greg, what did you say?"

�� "I said," he'd repeated patiently, "I'd like you to take a look at some things I found in the bedroom, see if you recognize any of them."

�� "Oh. Sure." Catherine followed the detective into the adjoining room, bracing herself. Even so, the sight of her possessions spread so casually over that man's bed hit her with a jolt. Especially her camisole.

�� She'd recognized at once the meaning of the many whitish, encrusted stains which spotted its delicate satin, and a wave of color heated her face. Until that moment, she had not known that he had taken clothing as well, and the thought of him rummaging around in her personal lingerie, touching it, gloating over it, made her nauseous. As for the use he had made of it . . .

�� Catherine shied violently away from that thought. "Yes, they're all mine," she managed to say, fighting the churning in her stomach. She must have gone pale, for Joe was at her side in a second.

�� "Cathy? You all right?" His hand was under her elbow, supporting her, steering her toward the bathroom even as he spoke. Luckily, she made it to the toilet before her stomach spewed its contents, thankful that there wasn't much to come up, as she had forgotten to eat anything that day. She washed her hands and face and rinsed out her mouth, then looked around for a clean towel. She wouldn't have used the one hanging next to the sink for even a dust rag without first disinfecting it. Her whole being recoiled at the thought of touching anything which that . . . person . . . had used. Finding nothing else available, she shook her hands to rid them of excess water, then wiped them on the legs of her sweatpants.

�� Oh, well, she thought, surveying her wan reflection in the spotted mirror. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, which Joe had thoughtfully closed, and re-entered the bedroom.

�� "I'm okay now, thank you," she said in reply to their questioning glances. "I'm sorry - I didn't expect to have such an emotional reaction to all this."

�� Surprisingly, it was the usually taciturn detective who answered her apology. "Don't worry about it, Cathy. It's always different when it affects you personally, no matter how experienced you are."

�� She smiled, grateful and a little surprised at his understanding. But then, Greg Hughs was more than just a good cop; he was a good person as well, one who cared about his job. She had always had a fondness for this quiet, efficient officer.

�� "Greg, is there any reason Cathy needs to stay here?" Joe had then asked. When Greg shook his head, Joe looked at Catherine. "C'mon, Radcliffe; I'm taking you home."

�� Catherine hesitated, grateful for his concern yet feeling anxious about leaving until she'd had a chance personally to inspect every room. "Joe, what if there are more pictures, somewhere else?"

�� "I think it's okay now, Cathy. I've given every room a quick look-through, and I haven't found anything of interest to you - unless you want to see his drug stash. No hard stuff, just coke and grass - not that those alone weren't enough to scramble his brains."

�� "Was he dealing?" she'd asked. Joe shook his head. "I doubt it. There wasn't enough of the stuff lying around. No, he was 'only' a user."

�� Joe's mouth tightened and Catherine touched his arm in silent understanding. She was one of the very few people who knew of his youngest sister's ongoing involvement with recreational drugs and of Joe's unceasing attempts to get her into a rehab clinic. She knew he lived in dread of the day that he would read Dana's name on an arrest report - or worse, receive a call from a hospital morgue.

�� "Thanks, Joe. I admit that going home sounds good right now." She had sighed, then with a nod of farewell to Greg, followed Joe out of the apartment.

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�� Now, in the confinement of the police car, Catherine sighed again. She felt disgruntled, out of sorts with the world - and not because of what she had discovered in the watcher's apartment. No, her dissatisfaction lay elsewhere.

�� What an idiot you are, Chandler! No one but a wimp would have done what you did last night.

�� (Last night...lost in the ecstasy of Vincent's kisses, knowing that never had this wonderful, unique being she loved so deeply and had wanted for so long been closer to releasing the iron control he kept over his emotions. She could feel his willingness in the trembling tension of his arms, his torso - feel, also, tension of a different type where their thighs touched, a pressure which sent a throb of liquid anticipation throughout her body. And what happened then? What would anyone expect to happen at such a moment as that, so full of deep, unspoken emotions?)

�� You faint, Cathy! Keel over like some swooning Victorian maiden! God, how disgusting, how...perfectly frustrating! She ground her teeth at the memory - or rather, at the lack of it, for her next recollection was of waking up, alone, in her bed, with sunlight streaming through the windows.

�� How could I blow a chance like that?

�� "Uh, Radcliffe?" Catherine looked over to see Joe eyeing her warily. "We're here."

�� She craned her head to look out the car window; sure enough, there was her apartment building. Vivid sunset colors were reflected in the glass windows; soon it would be dark enough for Vincent to come to her.

�� "Thanks, Joe." Catherine opened the door and swung her legs out. "You'll let me know if anything else turns up?" She held the door open, waiting for his answer.

�� "Sure thing, Cathy. And you'll do the same?" Joe's look was full of meaning.

�� She smiled. "Sure thing, Joe." She got out and shut the door, waiting until the car drove off before entering the building. While riding the elevator up to her floor, a journey which seemed to take even longer than usual, Catherine decided that what she needed most right then - apart from Vincent, that is - was a nice, long shower. Maybe the hot water would steam some of the bad mood out of her.

On To Part Two

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