The new letterbox was all well and good, but there was something missing. It was a little too sterile for the chaotic home. After an evening of tossing and turning and one, two, three whiskeys later, Lucien knew exactly what it needed.
With excitement, Lucien opened his mother's study, grabbed the necessary tools, and creeped as quietly as he could outside, the light shining from the house enough to light his way down the path.
Rolling his sleeves up, he set to work, humming to himself. He dipped the paintbrush into thick black paint and carefully swept the first few letters over the side of the letterbox. Pleased with how it was turning out, Lucien grinned, and carried on, eager to finish.
After some time (and more paint on him than the letterbox), Lucien sat back on his heels, observing his work. There in thick, looping cursive read The Blakes.
Gathering his tools, he went back inside. Falling onto the couch in his study, he nursed another whiskey, before half unbuttoning his paint-splattered shirt, and falling asleep, his mouth upturned and feeling at peace.
The next morning, Jean found him passed out on the couch. However, he was in for no gentle awakening.
Narrowing her eyes, Jean took in the state of his shirt and his forearms, splattered in what looked like tar or paint. Rolling her eyes, she picked up the empty whiskey tumbler next to the couch and shook him awake.
"Lucien Blake, what on earth did you get up to last night? I can't leave you alone to even sleep without creating trouble, now? Bloody insufferable man..."
She continued poking at his shoulder until he was sitting up, scrunching his eyes against the volume of her voice and the brightness of the sun pouring in through the window.
"Morning, Jean. I didn't get into trouble, per se, last night, I promise. I just had something I had to do." Swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and leaned his elbows on his knees, rubbing away the last of the morning's headache.
As he fell forward, Jean noticed his unbuttoned shirt exposing a portion of his chest and blushed, turning away-but not before she took in an eyeful of sculpted, smooth muscle. Gathering herself and feeling a little flushed, she turned her back on him, hands on her hips.
"Right then, out of that shirt. Let me wash it and at least try to save it."
She heard the rustling of Lucien slipping out of his shirt and into a fresh shirt she knew he kept nearby in his study, Jean felt sorely tempted to turn around one more time to get another glimpse of him.
Instead, she controlled her impulse (thinking Lucien should really take a leaf out of her book) and waited until Lucien placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her around, and giving her the ruined shirt.
Looking disdainfully at the shirt, she shook her head. "Lucien..."
But rather than looking abashed, Lucien was positively radiant. "Jean, let me show you." Taking her hand in his, he tugged her out of the study, ignoring her questions and led her outside to the mailbox.
Looking at his work in the bright light of day, Lucien felt even more proud, more sure of his decision. Those words looked right there-like they belonged. In a 'ta-da' motion, Lucien presented the work to Jean, looking anxiously at her for approval.
For her part, Jean didn't know what to say. Lucien had always been a bit erratic, had always struggled with impulse control, but this...
"Lucien, what on earth," she glared at him, hands on her hips. "This was a brand new box, Lucien! It's not even 10 hours old and you've already graffitied it?" She squinted at the looping cursive.
The Blakes.
She felt her heart skip a beat. Blakes. Plural. Swallowing hard, she carried on. "And what's with this 'Blakes' nonsense? Last time I checked there was just one of you."
Lucien's face fell and his arms dropped back down to his side. She hadn't understood the gesture at all, not at all. Now or never, Major Blake.
"I meant what I wrote on that box, Jean. Blakes. Plural. These last few weeks have been hard on me-on us. I feel as if we've grown together, Jean. I've learned so much about you." He came forward, taking her hands in his, squeezing lightly. HIs heart felt like it was in his throat.
"And all this talk of family and children made me realize I'm not quite so alone as I sometimes think I am. I have Mattie and Charlie and Alice. But most importantly, I have you."
Jean looked at him, tears in her eyes and mouth open in surprise. She started to speak but Lucien cut her off. "No, please, let me finish. If I don't now, I don't know when I'll get this out."
At her slow nod he gripped her hands tighter. "You are my family, Jean. You are my anchor and my light and, and," he stuttered, willing the words to come out smoothly. "And my heart. You're my heart, Jean. And when I say The Blakes live here, I believe in my heart, that The Blakes live here. And one day, if you'll have me, I hope to put a ring on your finger and make you a Blake, officially. Because I love you, Jean Beazley. More than I think I can possibly say."
The words finally out, Lucien felt light and just as giddy as he did last night swiping the letters onto the mailbox. But Jean was still looking at him, eyes flicking back and forth between his face and the letterbox behind him. He saw her mouth form the words, The Blakes, before she seemed to snap back to the moment.
She pulled her hands out of his grip and Lucien felt his heart sink. So, he'd made a mistake; been too forward, too presumptuous, and scared her off.
Just as his heart hit the bottom of his stomach, Jean was there, hands on either side of his head, fingertips brushing through his trimmed beard. There were tears in her eyes and she was smiling.
"You stupid, stupid man."
And with that, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, taking his bottom lip between her own and sucking lightly. Shocked and delighted, Lucien wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up slightly and spinning her, their lips still pressed together.
Jean broke away, laughing, "Lucien Blake, put me down!"
He shook his head at her, hiking her up into his arms even higher, cheeks almost cramping from his smile. "Not a chance. Not when I've finally got you in my arms." She ran a hand through his hair, lovingly, rolling her eyes at him.
"I love you, Lucien."
As she lowered her head to kiss him again, Lucien spared a thought for his mother, whom he hoped was looking down at the scene that her paintbrushes had helped him create.