Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed (Gen. 19:17) But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt. (Gen. 19:26)

I should live in salt for leaving you behind
(The National - I Should Live In Salt)

AN: Takes place after 4.08. Slightly OOC, not because I think it's actually OOC but because the show has an almost sterile perspective of how characters handle some very dark and gritty circumstances and I like tolet them let their hair down. Also - consent is definitely sexy.

There's no saving anything
But I won't be no runaway
What makes you think I'm enjoying being led to the flood?
We got another thing coming undone
(The National - Runaway)

The evening is quiet. Uncomfortably so. Charlie, under some sort of foolish, romantic notion of a reunion has opted to stay out late leaving Lucien to putter about downstairs, uncertain and unsure what to do with Jean upstairs. He turns on the lights. He turns on the radio. He can still hear Jean above him. Sometimes it's footfalls, sometimes it's something being dragged or moved, sometimes it's a piercing sob that stabs his heart. He hates that he's done this to her. That he's hurt his Jean. He's a Blake however and that's what they do to the women they love. They hurt them and ruin them and he wants this all to stop but he doesn't know how. Mei Lin has left, but what does that mean? How can he ever fix this? There's entirely too many questions and not enough answers.

He feels idle, nervous. It's too early for bed, dusk only having set upon the house. It feels like an eternity since Jean pulled herself away from him - he knows it's not gentlemanly, but he had never wanted her more than when she was in his arms. She was warm and real and every cell in his body cried out for every cell in hers. He pours a stiff drink and takes it in one shot before pouring another one. It's going to be an incredibly long night and he knows already sleep will not come for him. Another sob pierces the silence and he just can't take it anymore.

Spurred on by action and whisky, however foolish, he bounds up the stairs two at a time until he's at her door. He can't see her - the hall and her room dark - but he can hear her, there's movement and there's the sounds of someone trying to cry quietly. He's more acquainted with that sound than he wants to be. In some ways it takes him back to his incarceration. "Jean?" He asks, a quick rap of the door with his knuckles. The sounds stop. "Jean, are you alright?" Complete silence. Then a quick sniffle and she calls out, her voice doing a decent job of mimicking her usual chipper tone, "Yes Lucien. Just fine."
"Good. Good. Listen, I was about to put on a kettle for tea - did you want some?"
"No, no thank you. I think I'll just head to bed early if you don't mind." It's not really a question.
"Sure, no, go right ahead." He halts, uncertain of what to do. He moved away from the door and then back to it, and away once more. "The thing is Jean - I don't suppose we can talk about everything?"
"Tonight's not really - not tonight Lucien."
"Yes, tonight Jean. Even if we have to have this conversation through the door - we need to have it. Tonight." He's not often this forceful, he doesn't even know what to say, he just knows he needs to see her and if he can't see her, he needs to hear her. He needs her. "Please, Jean?" He can hear her move about once more. Something drags once more. The closet door closes. He can see her shadows moving in the darkened room.

The door opens and she stands in the doorway, exhausted and tearstained but beautiful. His. "Jean-" He moves his hand towards her, any part of her, but she steps away, stepping further into the room. "Just talking." She motions towards the bed as she takes a seat at her vanity. He's glad that there's no light on, that the dusk is swiftly turning into nightfall. "Just talking." He repeats, settling himself carefully on the edge of her bed. Her bed. Desire floods him and recedes as quickly as a wave on the shore. God, he's pathetic. "How are you?"
"Oh, just fine." Her voice rises in that sarcastic manner he's come to love and he thinks perhaps there's some hope, "You?"
"I'm so sorry Jean. For everything. For Mei Lin, for not knowing she was alive, for not knowing what to do, for - hurting you. I never - I would never, and I did and I'm sorry." The words are half-sentences, not quite full thoughts but he hopes she can piece them together. "Lucien, it's fine."
"No, it's not." It's really not, he can tell by her voice that she knows it's not. He didn't realise it until sitting in the dark with her, but her voice was so expressive. Was that just her, or was this all women who learned to develop this skill, a form of evolutionary defence? "I didn't know what to do so I didn't do anything and that hurt you. I hurt you both. But I hurt you Jean and I would never…I love you." He peers at her, just making out the outline of her body in the chair, her back ramrod straight. "I'm sorry - I should've told you sooner. I should have told you on the bus, on your birthday, in Adelaide, when you came back. I should've told you so many times. I thought I'd have time. That we'd have time. That you'd know, that you knew - because you're Jean and you know everything. I'm sorry." And God, he really is. He's looking down now, at his hands, at his shoes, at the carpet that he doesn't notice her moving in the dark until he feels the bed dip beside him under her slight weight.
"For not telling me or for loving me, Lucien?"
"Both."
"Both."

She murmurs something softly, he can't quite make it out despite her proximity. And her proximity is close. Too close. They've sat closer on the couch, or in the car - but they were courting then and it was innocent. This is dangerous. This is in the dark, in her room. This is with her voice being deliciously ragged after crying. She places her head on his chest, like she had done so many months ago and he feels his heart leap, thinking he would never feel this particular joy again. He slides one arm around her and he doesn't speak, terrified of ruining the moment and so he just breathes slowly, evenly, doing everything he could to not disturb her. After a moment she takes his free hand in hers and raises it to her lips. She brushes a kiss upon the knuckles. After a moment, she places another kiss, firm upon his palm, trying to speak to him without words. "One night Lucien. Please."
"Jean?" His own voice is hoarse now, his throat dry, his heart pounding - all from his desire of this woman. After another moment she lowers his hand and rather than release it, guides it to her breast, and tightens his fingers around his hand. That's all he needs - she wants him as much as he wants her, if that's even possible. She looks up at him and despite the darkness, he can just make out her eyes, wet with another round of tears which haven't been shed yet. "I love you Jean," He whispers, "I love you." She doesn't reply, only closing the distance between their lips and with that he's done, he's gone. His one hand begins to brush her breast delicately, while his other hand steadies them while he lowers them both down upon her bed.

His heart aches for her as much as his body does but he doesn't rush this between them. He has waited for this for so long that he will make sure she enjoys every moment - that they both do. They are curled together, face to face, free in the darkness to explore with their hands and mouths the uncharted territory that is their lover's body. They don't speak of the tears staining their faces, the saltiness on their lips. They simply move against one another - hands drawing the other near, grazing over wool and cotton and curves and planes. Tonight she wants to make every cruel and vicious scrap of gossip and innuendo said about her come true - she wants to be his lover in every sense of the word. There's a sigh of frustration - she knows his desire is losing out to his chivalry. Any other evening, any other time, she'd be thankful for it - but not tonight. She pushes herself upright and he rolls onto his back "I'm sorry Jean. I should-"
"One night." She repeats softly, shifting off the bed. With shaking hands, she beings to unbutton her white blouse. She can hear his breathing all but stop. She quickly hangs it on the handle of the closet door, and while her back is turned, she undoes her skirt, and steps out of it and hangs it with the shirt. She offers up a silent prayer for forgiveness, already knowing she will pay the price for this evening for the rest of her life - but she is tired of being strong, of being selfless, of being kind and honest and nice and giving. She want to take. She wants to be selfish. She wants Lucien and in this moment, everything in Heaven and Earth can be damned. She wants Lucien.

She turns around to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. "God, you're beautiful." He whispers, his eyes full of more emotions than she can identify . He undoes the buttons of his waistcoat while she steps forward between his legs and begins to loosen his tie. "Let me." She says, stepping closer. She can feel his breath upon her belly and it clenches tight. She has envisioned this so many times, undressing him as he comes home late from a case, tired and possibly a little drunk before putting him to bed, waking up together. She won't be deprived of this. Even if she's about to be selfish and take this evening of happiness for herself, she craves giving him comfort as well. Her heart clenches at how much she enjoys being able to offer him comfort, no matter how slight. Her fingers have made short work of his shirt buttons and tie and with flat hands, runs them across his vested chest, over his defined shoulders and down his back before freeing his hands. She loves the sturdiness and the weight of his muscles. He exists. He's there, on her bed, wrapping his arms around her slim waist. She drapes his shirt on the bedpost then places a kiss on the crown of his head, taking in a deep breath of his scent - brylcreem and soap. Her heart breaks that she can't have this every night, that she can't have this man every night, so she works on committing every moment and sensation to memory. She gasps softly as she feels him move his head against her body, his mouth placing a kiss at her sternum, nuzzling her chest through the slip before he shifts. Somehow she is now sitting upon his knees - her standing advantage gone - but the way he is kissing her where her skin meets the top of her garment, her collar bone, her throat, her neck she cannot bring herself to care. He holds tight to her waist and he begins to move his mouth back down until his lips glide over the slippery material - somewhere in the back of her mind, she is glad she bought a new slip while in Adelaide. She can feel him against the curve of her left breast and then suddenly he tugs lightly with his lips and she can't help the sharp cry of desire that comes out of her mouth. That's when he knows that this moment is real. Desire pulls in his belly and pulls sharply and he wants nothing more than to learn every square inch of this woman with him.

Tightening his grip on her, he eases them onto the bed and rolls so that Jean is beneath him. "Is this really alright Jean? Is this really what you want?" He peers at her, marvelling at how he has lived so long without knowing the feel of her stretched out against him. She nods and then rises to close the small distance between them to kiss him. He can feel her hands tugging his vest out from his pants, trying to get to his skin and he freezes for a moment before he takes her hands and lightly pins them above her head before he returns to his ministrations of her body. Eventually, he has no choice but to let them go as he continues to travel down her body. The slip has gathered at her hips, leaving her legs bare as he peppers her lower body with lavish kisses - her hips, her knees, her calves all under . He feels her freeze and he raises his head from where's he's discovered a small scar on her thigh, "Is this still alright?" He waits for a moment, watching Jean as she struggles with the question asked before she nods and lowers herself back down upon the bed. Relieved, he continues, stopping his explorations only when she tugs at his vest collar once more, half mumbling, half demanding "Off". Before she knows it, he's rolled them over once more, she's now atop him, so seemingly small against him. He can't help but want to protect her. Want to wrap his Jean up in his arms and keep her safe from everything dark and awful - even if that means him, especially if that means him - because now that he knows her like this, he refuses to live without her ever again. She murmurs something, her lips working against his neck, against his jaw, against his lips and and he doesn't recall much after that, after guiding her on top of him. The sounds and tastes and smells and sensations are too much. It's been so long since he's felt anything this intimate, this all encompassing. Everything about making love to Jean overwhelms him - he fights to stay in the moment, to stay with her and not give in to the over stimulation threatening to shut him down. He doesn't want to stop, he doesn't think he could. He just wants to remain in this near-sacred space with her. It had been so long for him, for them both, but their bodies remember this, the acts of desire between two people. Their hips find their own private rhythm and he holds her tight against him. He marvels at the sight of his Jean coming undone - the moon has risen enough that they are no longer shapes and shadows in the dark, but they are themselves once more. Her bowed head, her bare shoulder, her strangled mew of release before she collapses against his chest, both exhausted and spent. Neither of them can keep their eyes open for long, the last few months having taken their toll on the both of them. Lucien blindly reaches for the edge of her blankets and pulls it up to cover them as best as it can without them having to move - warm and worn out, they fall asleep.

"Jean?" She snaps her head to his direction - he has the brightest, most heartfelt grin across his face and she thinks she's going to be sick once more. She turns to the window and wrestles it open, sucking back deep lungfuls of crisp, cold air. "Jean, are you alright?"
"Yes, quite." She replies, contorting her face into a semblance of a smile before turning around to face him for a moment before returning back to the window. "Why do you ask?"