Jean Beazley did not turn to alcohol often. No, not when there was so much that required her undivided attention and especially not when Lucien drank enough for the both of them.

But she was leaving for Adelaide in a few days; Lucien could not look at her for more than a few moments at a time-always looking like he was biting his tongue and leaving things unsaid; and she was leaving behind her home and her family. And Lucien.

It was this thought that drove her to the bottle tonight. The house was quiet, tonight with all of the residents out and about. Lucien and Charlie working late on a case and Mattie visiting her parents for the weekend.

Settling down on the squishy couch in the living room with a heavy heart, she brought the fire in the grate roaring to life, and with a satisfying pop, the bottle of sherry was opened and the first glass poured. And then the second. And then the third...

An hour or so later, Lucien walked in the door. It was quite late and he was ready to make his apologies to Jean in the morning, knowing he should have called and told her he would be in late. He knew she worried and fussed over him.

To his surprise, as he stepped into the foyer, he saw the living room light on and the soft sounds of some jazz melody pouring from the radio. It wasn't like Jean to be up this late.

Rounding the corner, Lucien saw to his surprise Jean laid out on the couch, eyes closed and humming softly to herself, foot bouncing along in time with the trumpet.

An empty bottle of sherry was standing on the side table and from what he could see, she had rummaged through his desk's drawers to find his good bottle of scotch.

"Jean?"

Jean's eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up, the whiskey in her tumbler sloshing up the sides as she threw a sloppy grin his way. "Lucien! You're home!"

Her words were slurred and her eyes unfocused. She stood up and made her way over to him, tripping over the rug and giggling. "Whoopsies!"

Lucien stepped forward to steady her, eyeing her flushed cheeks with amusement. "What's all this then?"

Jean smiled at him, shrugging. "Taking a leaf out of your book, Lucien. If you drink enough, you can't feel anything anymore. This is great, I don't know why I don't do this more often."

Lucien furrowed his brow, confused. This wasn't like Jean at all. He opened his mouth to push further, but the song on the radio changed-something upbeat and fast and Jean's eyes widened, excited. Untangling herself from him arms, she stepped back, finishing off the last bit of whiskey in her glass, and she began to dance. Her hips swayed softly, head tilted back and eyes closed.

"Dance with me, Lucien."

Utterly bewildered, Lucien could only look on, taking in the way the firelight danced upon her skin, the way her bare feet sunk into the rug. Had he ever seen her bare feet before? It felt strangely intimate to know that her toenails were painted a deep red.

He stepped forward, taking the glass from her hand before she lost her grip on it and it came shattering down onto the ground. Something was terribly wrong for Jean to be drinking like this and she was even more far gone than he thought if she was inviting him to dance in the living room.

He switched the radio off and turned to look at her, waiting. No matter how much he wanted to take her into his arms and do as she commanded and dance with her, she needed to sleep this off. They would talk in the morning.

Jean, on the other hand, did not appreciate Lucien's actions. She turned on her heel, stumbling only slightly, hands on her hips and glared at him.

"Lucien Blake, you turn that radio back on right now. And while you're at it, you can pour me another drink. I'm not done yet."

Lucien merely raised his eyebrows at her. "I think you are done, Jean. It's quite late and you seem to have had quite enough. Now come on, it's time for bed."

He offered her his hand, intending to lead her upstairs and put her straight to bed, but she ignored it, rolling her eyes. "Oh, so it's alright if you drink yourself into a stupor and stay up half the night banging on that bloody piano, but I can't have a sherry or two and dance in the living room?"

Before he could get a word in, she continued on, apparently having him in front of her seemed to have opened some sort of floodgate.

"And why do you care if I drink in the living room, eh? Suddenly you care what I do or don't do? I'm leaving tomorrow, Lucien. Leaving. And you, you-"

The fight seemed to go out of her as quickly as it came. Tears sprung to her eyes and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. "And you don't seem to bloody care." She looked at him, eyes full of hurt.

"Why don't you care, Lucien? Leaving this house, my home-leaving you-is unbearable. And you," she finishes bitterly. "You say 'Goodnight, Jean.' As if you couldn't get rid of me fast enough."

She swayed on the spot and Lucien stood quickly, crossing the room to steady her. Jean attempted to push him away, to hold up her hands and keep him from touching her. If he touched her, if she felt his hands on her skin, she wasn't sure she would be able to control herself.

The alcohol was rushing to her head and making her lips loose. "No, Lucien, please."

But Lucien wasn't having it. His arms wrapped around her waist, tugging her into a hug. He smoothed a hand over her curls-loose and imperfect. She sniffled into his chest.

Lucien wanted to tell her how wrong she was, how much he cared, how much he still had to say to her. The words were on the tip of his tongue, he just needed to find the right words. This was too important to get wrong.

Before the words could come, Jean was speaking again, her words muffled into his shirt. "Lucien?"

"Yes, love?" He winced, hoping she was not offended by the endearment.

"I think I'm drunk." She sounded absolutely miserable and Lucien was tempted to laugh. His Jean was quite the lightweight and her emotions seemed to be whiplashing from one end of the spectrum to the other.

"I think you are, too, my dear. C'mon, let's get you up to bed, yeah?"

He felt her nod against his chest and he kept her curled against his side, leading her up the stairs. How many times had she done this for him? Tucked him into bed and cared for him at his most vulnerable.

Finally reaching her bedroom, he laid her down on the bed, tucking the blanket in around her. She snuggled into the pillow with a sigh. He hushed and hummed at her, easing her into sleep. Noticing the many pins in her hair, he took a seat on the mattress next to her and began to gently untangle each pin from her hair. He suspected leaving those in overnight would not help with what was sure to be a massive headache.

Jean's nose crinkled as he set to work and her eyes peeped open. "Lucien?"

He ran his fingers across her cheek softly, "I'm here. Sleep, Jean."

She nodded and sighed, nuzzling into his touch. Lucien was awestruck. Jean's lowered inhibitions rendered her so soft, so affectionate, so honest. Part of his heart was still downstairs, mulling over her drunken confession.

"Lucien?"

He smiled. "Yes, Jean?"

"I don't want to leave you."

His heart clenched in his chest, aching with the weight of his love for her. He had to tell her everything. But not now. Tomorrow morning. When she would remember.

Untangling the last of the pins from her hair, Lucien set the collection of pins down on her bedside table. Jean's breath was evening out and from experience, he knew a very deep sleep was not far behind her.

Lucien smoothed a curl off of her forehead and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. "I don't want you to leave, either." Another sweep of his fingers over her cheek (he marveled at the softness of her skin). "We'll talk in the morning, love, I promise you."

Soft snores answered him and he smiled softly, standing up and rearranging her blankets, ensuring she wouldn't be cold during the night. He flicked off the flight and closed her bedroom door with one last look at Jean passed out on the bed.

Lucien knew from that moment on that he would absolutely be drinking with Jean Beazley more often, if he could help it.