A/N: This is my first toe into writing for this fandom, and it was partway done before the thing that happened. I was compelled to finish it, after a bit of a reel, and feel relatively strongly that Lucien Blake the character is his own entity, with his own nature and qualities, and that shouldn't be taken away. I hope you enjoy it from that perspective…
It was at dinner one night that she first noticed it, walking behind him to set the potatoes on the table. His hair, no longer quite its customary immaculate shape, but a bit long over the eyebrow; brushing the top of his collar at the back.
He's been so busy, she thought, he must just not have had time to get to the barber.
And her own busy mind moved on to other things.
She noticed it time and again over the next week or so, a little more unkempt each time she looked. She bit her tongue carefully each time, not wanting to presume a role that she had no right to, not wanting to be the one that first crossed that delicate line.
But at Saturday breakfast, passing behind him with the kettle, she actually started to worry. The back of his hair was well below the edge of his collar now, the sides loose over the tops of his ears. His beard was fuller than she had ever seen it, scruffy with a lack of care.
It might seem a small thing, but she knew how important his appearance was to him — that although he might drink through the day and stay awake long into the night, he was always careful to present the picture of the professional man he was. To be the gentleman doctor, a man that patients could trust, a man the police could put their faith in.
She worried that it was a sign of something more than a lack of time; that his bouts of melancholy were getting the better of him.
Well, she thought resolutely, whether he wants it or not, whether it's appropriate or not, I'll take care of him. It's my job, after all.
And if a small part of her warmed at the thought of her hands in his hair, of the closeness of his body, she didn't have to pay it any mind.
He stared morosely at the picked-over plate in front of him, cup of tea cooling at his elbow. No case at the moment to distract him — not that he enjoyed them these days, with the repellent Munro always sneering over his shoulder.
His mind swam with all his small miseries — the loss of Matthew and the camaraderie of work; the odd strain on the fragile bond of his friendship with Charlie; his daughter, silent and remote, seemingly lost to him again; his love for the intricacies of the puzzles of crime solving ruined.
Add it all up, he thought, and what's left to me?
He wondered idly if 8:30 was too early for a quick nip.
A light touch on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, its slight warmth imparting more comfort than it should.
"All right, Lucien," Jean said, her tone at its most brisk. "Come along to the sink. You're long overdue for a trim."
The tumult of his thoughts quieted at her words. He should demur, he was certain, should thank her for her kindness, clean himself up, and take himself to the barber. But the thought of being taken care of, with fondness if not more, was too alluring.
Without a word, he stood and moved to where she'd placed a chair facing the window, long sharp scissors and a slim black comb on the counter by the sink; her preparations somehow all made without his notice. He sat, placing his hands carefully in his lap, and waited.
His silent obedience disquieted her, but she was determined now, and more sure than ever that he needed…well, something. A kind hand, the touch of friendship, reassurance. She could give him those things, and ease him, just a little. Could take care of the man as well as the home.
Taking up the towel she'd left ready on the counter, she draped it around his shoulders, tucking it neatly inside his collar. She could just see the faint reflection of his face in the window glass, his expression curiously blank. She looked away and ran the water in the sink to wet the comb she'd taken from his dresser; shook off the excess in a glittering shower of drops.
She took a steadying breath and moved behind him, resting one hand on his shoulder. She ran the comb through then, a first stroke, tugging all the ends free and smoothing them out over the edge of the towel.
And her heart caught, just a little, as they slipped away from her grasp, back against his neck in small curls like a boy.
Because she couldn't help herself, she let her fingers run through the length of it, though it wasn't really that long. It was bristly and soft at once, in the way men's hair could be, and the feel of it made her heart thump again.
He sighed then, a long exhale of breath that she felt as much as heard, and she watched his eyes flutter closed in the glass. She did her best to stifle the ache that filled her, and reached for her scissors.
He hadn't been sure how he'd feel, really. He'd followed her direction from instinct, from need — from the lack of strength to do anything else. As she prepared around him with her usual efficiency, he just stared out the window, not really taking anything in. She smelled, he thought absently, like sunny flowers and fresh-mown grass. He'd know it anywhere, now.
The comb rasped through his hair, gently but surely. The pause of a moment, then the lightest touch, her fingers at the back of his neck, cool and delicate. It came to him then, in a flash of knowing, that he desperately missed the feel of affection on his skin. He closed his eyes against the light, against intrusions, to hold the sensation close and write it to memory.
And then, then, it was all sensation, an overabundance, almost overwhelming. The scratch of the comb, the tug of her fingers, the quiet snick of the scissors. Her hands slowly warming as they moved over and around his head, tidying his person just as she tidied his life.
It felt so good, and yet it was an exercise in frustration. Each touch sweet but brief, never really long enough to savour. A brush against the tip of one ear; a graze at the nape of the neck; a tease at the crown of his head.
Then, oh then, she was cupping his chin, nudging him to tip his head back. If he kept his eyes closed, he thought, he could imagine her touch a caress, could let himself pretend this attractive, elusive woman was his.
Just for a moment.
She was firmer now, turning his head this way and that as she trimmed away his beard. And it was so much more. He focused intently, memorizing the pattern of her fingers on his jawline, his neck; the way her thumb rubbed a stray hair from his cheek. The scent of her, so much closer now, stronger with proximity and warmth. He cracked an eyelid, compelled by sensation, and oh — that tantalizing bit of creamy skin at the vee of her blouse; the soft curve of her breast, moving with her breath; her keen and pretty face, intent on her work, but clear and calm.
He screwed his eyes shut tight once more and clenched his hands in his lap. He had to be still, not give in to the urge to touch, to lean ever so slightly forward for a taste of her. He would take the care she offered, and not ask for anything more.
He focused, so he could keep this bit of time inside forever.
Her fingers were electrified, alive with energy. Each stroke, each slide of texture, every brush against bare skin — she was replete with feeling. As she absently tucked a curl of her own behind her ear and out of the way, she caught the smell of the pomade he used flavouring her palm, and sighed on a wistful breath.
When it came time to tackle his beard, she bit her lip, nerves at the forefront. She'd have to stand directly in front of him, leaning in so her cuts would be precise. Would the close proximity be too much? It certainly went farther than just skirting the bounds of propriety. But if she was honest with herself, she'd admit that she had left propriety behind long ago.
And it would never do to leave a job unfinished.
She moved to stand in front of him, carefully positioning her body within reach, but not touching his. She looked down at his face, peaceful, content, and smiled. Daring, because she had to, she gave his chin a nudge, urging his head back so she could see. She let her left hand rest against his cheek — for balance, that was all — and worked with the other.
She took her time, letting her fingers stray a bit to feel the planes of his face, strong and straight. Let her thumb rub across his cheekbone; surely there'd been a stray bit of hair. Let her mind wander to a place where she did this for him regularly, cared for him because he was hers.
When there was absolutely nothing left to do, she snuck another glance down into his face. His eyes were buttoned up like a man afraid to wake from a dream, a tremulous smile on his lips.
Overcome with the sweet pain of it, she let herself lean in close and press a kiss to his temple, light and quick, barely there.
Then, with swift movements, she loosened the towel from around his neck and turned to the counter to put down her tools. When she turned back, he was watching her with a broader, a truer smile.
"There," she said, with a reasonable semblance of her usual brisk tone, "all neat and tidy."
He rose, brushing idly at his waistcoat, running his hand over the back of his head in a familiar absent gesture. "Thank you, Jean," he said quietly. "Whatever would I do without you?"
She managed a laugh, just her usual self. "I really can't imagine," she returned. "But…you won't have to find out."
Something indefinable passed over his face — relief, pleasure, humour?
"Thank goodness for that, eh?" he said cheerfully. "I… well. Yes." And he turned and strode out of the kitchen, as he did when lost for words, or perhaps just reluctant to speak.
As she watched him go, her hand slipped into her apron pocket to touch the soft curl she'd tucked there, to remember. Just a little thing.
"All neat and tidy," she murmured. "Just as it should be."