Okay-I'm not exactly sure where this is going yet. Just trying to get into our beloved Vincent's head as he tries to piece together his dreams and missing memories. Enjoy! As usual, I do not own Beauty and the Beast, it's characters or premise. They belong to the CW.

The Woman in White

Vincent shifted in the chair uncomfortably. He didn't like doctors, especially in this place, although Dr. Regen had always been pleasant and proficient. It's just . . . they reminded him too much of the weeks of treatments he'd undergone. He could still smell the sickly sweet aroma of the serum they injected him with. Like a flush of saline, it flooded his veins until he could almost taste it. There would be no more injections, but still. A doctor's office was a doctor's office.

Finally, a nurse opened the door and called his name.

"Well, well, soldier. What brings you back here so soon? Nothing serious, I hope?"

Vincent automatically took a seat on the raised bed as the doctor entered. "No, sir. Just a bit of sleeplessness, but I thought I should get checked out."

"Good plan." He picked up his patient's wrist and took his pulse.

"I've been having strange dreams," Vincent explained as the doctor took his vitals.

"Strange dreams?"

"Usually I don't dream, or have no recollection of dreaming, anyway. But the last week or so, I've had the same one over and over again."

"Interesting. Eat any unusual foods lately? Do something out of the ordinary? Are you experiencing any other symptoms?"

"No, sir. Nothing I can put my finger on."

"What is the dream?"

Vincent looked up. It was a little ticklish to admit. "It's . . . it's a woman."

"Ah . . . ." One side of the doctor's mouth tipped up.

"A woman in white."

"Hmmm. Like a specter?"

"Not like a ghost, no. Just . . . a woman in white." Vincent met the doctor's eyes over his glasses.

Dr. Regan rubbed his jaw. "Sometimes colors are symbolic in dreams," he said thoughtfully. "Could mean freedom, or purity. I've heard people often dream about their mothers, for some reason—or someone who represents their mother. I understand you lost yours some years ago."

Vincent let out a frustrated sigh. The woman in his dreams had absolutely nothing to do with his mother, or the mother he supposed he had, even though he couldn't really remember her face. No. He'd awakened more than one night drenched in sweat after dreaming of the woman in white, his heart racing, and it had nothing to do with motherly feelings.

"No? Well, dreams are also the body's way of relieving tension," the doctor continued. "I, myself, have occasionally dreamt I could fly—that I actually had wings. Imagine that. Surely some symbolism there, huh?" he said, glancing around at his sterile surroundings. "It could also be your subconscious trying to break through—as if you brain is puzzling something out but can't quite nail it down."

Plausible, Vincent supposed. The woman in white was definitely a puzzle. "But how could my subconscious have thoughts about a person I've never seen?"

The doctor shrugged. "Maybe this person is just an ideal. Can you see her face clearly? You know for certain you've never met?"

"No, but—I feel like I know her."

The doctor finished his checks in thoughtful silence. "Physically, you're fine. If you're not having any conscious mental lapses—"

"No."

"—or other disruptions, I would say it's probably nothing, just a product of an over-tired psyche. You've been training very hard for months."

"Yeah. It's probably just the training." He'd been super-focused on his up-coming mission for weeks.

"You might try keeping a notepad by your bed. When you wake up, write down everything you remember about how you felt, thought, what you saw. I've heard that can be beneficial."

"Sure. I'll try that. I'm sorry to have bothered you over such a minor thing, sir."

"Nothing is minor when it comes to you, soldier." He patted Vincent on the back. "But keep me informed. I'm here to help. If they continue to bother you, I can prescribe a sleeping pill that will basically prevent you from dreaming at all."

"Thank you, sir."


Vincent slipped his jacket back on and headed to his houseboat. He was already feeling tired, no doubt from losing so much sleep. He'd take the doc's advice and get a pad and pencil ready.

She came to him again that night—the woman in white. Well, in a white blouse. Her hair wasn't white, though. It was dark and flowing as if in a breeze. She stood just at the edge of his vision but again there was the feeling of familiarity. He knew her, and she knew him, but he didn't know her name. She looked as though she was waiting for something. Watching. He tried to look directly at her face, but couldn't. It was like trying to wake himself from a dream. Impossible. His eyelids wouldn't obey his commands no matter how hard he tried to move them.

She was smiling at him, that much he could tell—or maybe feel. There was a warmth that emanated from her, but it was faint. She was too far away. Just the idea that she was watching him, smiling at him, though, made him feel all warm and tingly.

Slowly, he reached out a hand. Was it a literal hand? He had no way of knowing. He thought he was reaching for her. Then she began to fade. As she did, she looked like she was calling out to him. What was she saying? His name? Maybe, but he wasn't sure.

She shouted again, this time from farther away and he bolted upright, awake. That voice . . . .

Vincent slapped off his alarm. He wouldn't need it. It was only 4:30 a.m., but he knew he'd never be able to fall back to sleep now; he may as well get up. As he did, he grabbed the pad and pen from the night stand and wrote down as much as he could recall . . . .


Three Days Later

Vincent lay on the bed facing the woman named Catherine, careful not to disturb her, but close enough they were almost touching. He'd promised to stay, at least until she fell asleep. But nothing more, and it was almost light. He'd have to get going very soon, but . . . he was oddly reluctant. Who was she? Obviously the woman from his dreams, that much he knew. But what else?

When she called out his name in the warehouse where he'd been stalking Zhao, he'd been startled by the sound. That voice! And a woman in white! Even in that dim setting, her white blouse had shined like a beacon. She knew his name yet he hadn't known hers—not until they'd taken him to the 'gentlemen's club' where he supposedly used to live with that other guy who was not her husband.

Vincent's eyes traced the line of her body. They lay on top of the bedspread, fully clothed. That's where he'd carried her after she'd cried and practically ordered him to stay. One thing was sure-she spoke to him like they'd been more than friends—lovers. But how was it possible for him not to recall something like that? She was stunning. 'Smokin' hot' was how he'd said it. That had been a little crude, even for him, albeit accurate. JT Forbes, the other guy, had called their relationship 'epic,' and Cat, no Catherine—that fit her better—had said they were 'meant to be.' It was all so confusing! But her tears tonight had been real. If they weren't, she was a world-class actress.

Could Zhao or someone else have put her up to such a thing? Distract him from his mission? But then how did that explain the dreams? His brain hurt. It might be the lingering effects of the triplet of tranq darts they'd shot him with, he wasn't sure. He only knew she fascinated him beyond measure.

His gaze slowly slid down the length of her again. She had one arm curled under her head. Catherine was incredibly soft looking, although when she'd slid her arms around him he'd felt nothing but solid woman. He'd seen what she'd done to those two guards, too. She could definitely fight. Was she another one of Zhao minions? But that didn't feel right. No, she wasn't there to fight him. In fact, he had a feeling she wanted something altogether different.

His eyes focused on her lips, slightly parted in sleep. Those lips were heaven. When she'd kissed him earlier, he'd been surprised by how sweet. He'd leaned in to kiss her again, deeper, and she got that damn call! In the quiet, now, though, he could hear the air passing over those luscious lips. In, out, in out. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd steel another taste before he left. Ah, the hell with it. He bent over her and gently closed his lips on hers, licking her bottom lip as he did. She responded, still fast asleep. Yes, heaven . . . .