I wrote this a while ago, but I kept leaving it and coming back to it, never really happy with it. In the end, I had to either put it here or delete it altogether. So don't expect anything wonderful!
It is set some time after series 4.
To begin with, Lucien and Charlie assumed Jean had overslept. That in itself would have been very unusual, because she was always up before either of them. According to the unspoken rules of the Blake household, Jean had first use of the bathroom, and she was always dressed and cooking by the time the men appeared in the kitchen.
Today, however, Charlie had the table set and had started to make some tea before Lucien arrived, and when Jean still hadn't come down a few minutes later, they began to be concerned.
"Have you seen her at all this morning?" Charlie asked. He realised this was a rather loaded question. Now Lucien and Jean were engaged he tried not to talk about, or even think about, their sleeping arrangements at all.
He was pretty sure Mrs Beazley would not be sharing the doctor's bed until they were married, but he could be wrong about that, and frankly he wouldn't blame them if they did a bit of sneaking around in the night.
Lucien gave Charlie a rather wry smile. "Sadly, Charlie, I haven't seen her since yesterday evening, but it's certainly unlike her to be so late. Do you want to make yourself something to eat, and I'll go and find her?"
He poured another cup of tea and took it with him upstairs, where he knocked gently at Jean's door. Getting no reply, he called out. "Jean? Are you alright?" He could hear her coughing, so he knew she was in there.
He pushed the door open a little and asked if he could come in. The room was in semi darkness with the curtains closed, but he could see at a glance that she was not alright at all. Lucien opened the curtains a crack and put the cup of tea down on her bedside table.
Jean looked very pale, and her face had a sheen of sweat on it. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her forehead and neck, and she had pushed the covers off herself so they were bunched around her hips. She looked at him with unnaturally bright eyes and asked, "What time is it?"
He didn't reply, but touched her forehead with the back of his hand, then said, "You're burning up. When did you start to feel ill?"
"Last night, I think. I felt a bit odd before I went to bed, but it got worse sometime in the night. Could you get me a drink, please, Lucien?" She had closed her eyes now against the light coming in through the gap in the curtains.
Lucien passed her the tea and she half sat up to drink some of it. "Have you and Charlie had some breakfast?" she asked, and she handed him back the cup.
"Charlie's making some, I think, but don't worry about that, we'll manage. Do you want anything?" He pushed her hair away from her forehead and sat down on the edge of her bed. Even as he did so, it crossed his mind that he had never been in her room while she was in bed before; it implied an intimacy they didn't yet have.
Jean shook her head slightly and closed her eyes again. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Back downstairs, he found Charlie making scrambled eggs and toast. He turned to the doctor and raised an eyebrow, pointing at the eggs.
" No thank you, Charlie," he said, buttering a slice of toast while still standing. "Jean's not well, flu I think, so we'll have to fend for ourselves for a few days. Is that alright?"
Charlie spooned the eggs onto his plate and nodded. "That's fine. Will she be OK?"
"I'm sure she will," he replied, and left, still eating the toast. Lucien went into his surgery and looked in the appointments book to see how busy his day was likely to be, then found some aspirin. He climbed the stairs two at a time and crept back into Jean's room, hoping she might be asleep now.
She turned towards him and attempted a smile. He smiled back, trying to look as positive as he could, but in truth he was rather worried by how high her temperature was. She swallowed the aspirin as instructed, and Lucien told her what he planned to do next.
He'd decided she would be better off downstairs, in his room, where he could pop in to see her between appointments, and he also wanted to get her into some fresher sheets and clean pyjamas. He knew she must be feeling ill because she didn't even bother objecting to sleeping in his bed, though he did point out he would be sleeping on the couch.
He found her some clean pyjamas, doing his best not to look at the contents of her chest of drawers too closely, and then left the room while she got changed. There was no way she would ever let him carry her downstairs so he draped her dressing gown round her shoulders and they set off together, with him supporting her just a little on the way.
Ten minutes later she was tucked up in his bed and just beginning to drift off to sleep. Lucien sat on the chair in the corner of the room and watched her for a moment, feeling almost guilty at how pleased he was to see her asleep in his bed, even in these circumstances.
Fortunately his morning surgery was quiet, and Lucien could look in on Jean a few times and bring her a drink when she wanted one. At lunchtime he made himself a sandwich. He realised, with some embarrassment, that this was the first meal of any sort he had prepared since he came back to Ballarat.
He then tried to settle down with a book. His mind kept wandering and Jean stirred restlessly in her sleep. He held her hand, moving his chair right up to the bed to reach her, and studied her face instead of his book.
She was beautiful to him, even ill as she was. Her dark hair was tousled and spread across the pillow, and there was a slight frown on her face which he longed to smooth out with a stroke of his thumb, but he didn't want to wake her. He realised he was the only person who saw her like this, vulnerable and unaware.
She woke a couple of times during the afternoon, and he gave her some more aspirin, then went to make some more tea. Charlie arrived home with some fish and chips, fairly sure that Blake would not be cooking that evening. As the men ate their meal at the kitchen table, Charlie asked after Jean, and offered to take her cup of tea up to her.
Lucien, of course, then had to confess that Jean was in his room, which earned him a grin and a conspiratorial look from Charlie. His explanation that it would be easier for everyone seemed less than convincing now and Lucien wondered if Jean would be angry with him about it when she had recovered.
Between them the men washed up and cleared the worst of the mess in the kitchen. If nothing else, Jean's illness was showing them how much she usually did, that they scarcely noticed.
Lucien spent an uncomfortable night on the couch and woke with a stiff neck. He crept into his bedroom as the sun came up, approaching the bed and looking carefully to see if Jean was awake. He stroked her hair and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. She felt no better and he sighed. He left without waking her.
The morning passed much as the previous one had; Lucien saw some patients, and spent the rest of his time looking after Jean. Nursing had never been his strong point but he could make drinks and help her upstairs to the bathroom. After he had made lunch, he settled down next to her with his newspaper, while she slept.
He must have nodded off himself, because he woke suddenly, in the late afternoon, to the sound of teeth chattering. Jean's eyes looked at him, strangely unfocused, and she was muttering about being cold, between bouts of shivering.
Lucien fetched some more blankets and piled them on, and gave her some more aspirin, but ten minutes later they didn't seem to have made much difference.
He knew what he wanted to do, but was a bit worried about Jean's reaction. And indeed Charlie's, if he came back anytime soon.
With a decisive sigh, he took his jacket, waistcoat and belt off, slipped off his shoes, and got into bed next to Jean. He eased her onto her side, facing away from him, and wrapped his arms around her, shuffling closer.
Her back felt hot and damp against his chest, but she was shivering. He knew she was awake, and he tried speaking to her softly, telling her that the aspirin would work soon and she would feel better, only half believing it himself.
Jean turned over after a few minutes, so she was facing him and he was holding her against his chest. She had her arms bent, folded in between them with her hands flat on his chest. In truth, Lucien was feeling much too warm now, but Jean seemed to be shivering less, so he stayed where he was until he was sure she had fallen asleep.
She hadn't commented on him getting into bed with her at all, but to Lucien it felt like breaking down a barrier between them. This illness of Jean's had pushed them into situations they otherwise might have avoided until they were married.
He then pushed off some of the blankets with one arm, and turned his attention to watching Jean. He rarely had the chance to just study her; she always seemed to be on the move. Even with a fever she looked beautiful to him, with her hair messed up and her face relaxed in sleep.
There was something of her character that showed on her face; she combined gentleness with an extraordinary courage, and Lucien realised again just how lucky he had been to find her.
He could feel her breath warm against his neck and his lips hovered just a fraction from her forehead. He had kissed her many times on the forehead, but never while they were pressed together so closely, and certainly never in bed.
In the end he just kissed her very gently and disentangled himself from around her, then shuffled away and got out of bed, being careful not to let the cold in under the blankets.
He decided to go and tackle some of the housework, but quickly realised he barely knew where to start. He considered ringing Mrs Toohey and asking her to come and do some cleaning and shopping, but thought better of it when he realised she would find out Jean was in his room.
That night Lucien lay next to Jean in his own bed, though he didn't undress first. He could see no point in another uncomfortable night on the couch, and he was nearby if she needed him. He woke once in the night to find her hand in his, and he didn't remember how that had happened.
In the morning she seemed cooler, and they could both see she was on the mend. For the first time Jean seemed uncomfortable at being in his bed. He knew the new intimacy between them was coming to an end, and he reluctantly went upstairs to find fresh sheets for her bed and to make it up for her.
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It was perhaps another week before Jean was fully well, and in all that time she didn't mention him getting into bed with her to Lucien at all. He wondered if she didn't remember; perhaps in the middle of a fever she had forgotten what he had done.
They had returned to their usual ways. A kiss when he left in the morning, some snatched moments, maybe, during the day for a quiet embrace and a few kisses, Jean's hand in his as they sat together in the evenings.
With a long engagement ahead of them, while they waited for the divorce, it had seemed sensible to go slowly. But Lucien wasn't satisfied by slowly any more. He had had a glimpse of greater intimacy and he didn't want to let it go.
That evening, as they said goodnight, he took her hand and pulled her in close to him. Jean settled in his arms with her hands on his chest, unconsciously mirroring what she had done when he held her in bed. She smiled and kissed him.
"Thank you for keeping me warm that day."
"The pleasure was all mine," he replied, rather cheekily. "Anytime you feel the need..."
"Mmm, I expect I will. With the cold weather coming soon..." And her look definitely held a promise for him.