Hidden and Seen
Jean was doing some sewing in the parlor rather late one night when Mattie came out from her room looking quite unhappy. When Jean looked up, the young woman had her arms folded over her chest and a frown on her face that seemed almost frightened.
"I thought you'd gone to bed. Mattie, what's wrong?" Jean asked with concern.
"Do you know where Lucien is?" Mattie asked her in turn.
"Not particularly. He's out. He hasn't come home yet."
Mattie shook her head. "I don't know when he got home, but he's in the garden."
Jean's eyes went wide. "He's what!?"
"I went to turn out my light and I saw something out the window and he's out there. Should we…Jean, what should we do?"
Putting her sewing aside, Jean stood up from the sofa. She put a comforting hand on Mattie's shoulder. "You go to bed. You have an early shift in the morning. I'll go see to him."
Mattie went back to her room, and Jean made her way out to the back garden. The sight she came upon was more concerning than she'd expected. Lucien was curled up in the grass, half dressed. There was an empty bottle beside him, reflecting the moonlight. Jean had to swallow the lump that formed in her throat.
She didn't say a word as she cautiously walked to where he lay. He was lying on his side, one arm stretched out beneath his head and the other pulled in tight to his bare chest. Now that she was closer, she could see that he wasn't wearing anything other than his trousers. His shirt and shoes and socks were nowhere to be seen. And heaven knew how long he'd been out here, passed out drunk on the lawn. Racking her brain, Jean couldn't think of a reason he'd be like this today.
Jean knew that the proper thing to do would be to tap his shoulder and maybe shout a bit to wake him up. But in the moment, clothed by the darkness around them, she didn't want to do that. She descended to the ground, which was thankfully very dry, and lay down behind him. She got as close to him as she could, her chest pressing against his bare back, reaching her arm around him to hold him.
And that was when she noticed. The scars. His bare back was crisscrossed with thick white scars marring his solid, muscular form. Jean's heart ached for him. Whether or not that had to do anything with why he was lying outside, it hurt her to see how he had once been hurt so viciously. She pressed soft kisses to each and every scar she could reach.
Lucien felt warmth around him. His brain felt foggy. It took him a moment to wake up enough to figure out what was happening. He felt something touching his back and involuntarily spasmed, violently twisting his body away.
Jean was startled by his sudden movement. But she had no idea what sort of state he was in and didn't want to make it worse. She remained where she was lying, waiting quietly for his next action.
As he ripped himself way from whatever was holding him, Lucien looked around, confused. He was at home. Home in Ballarat. In the garden. It was dark. But not too dark. The moon illuminated everything. He let out the breath he was holding. There was plenty of space and just enough light and fresh air. He turned and saw Jean. She was on the ground, watching him. She had fear and concern in her eyes.
"Jean." His voice was barely over a hoarse whisper.
She didn't respond. She just smiled sadly.
Her tender patience put him at ease. The darkness hid them from harsh reality. Whatever this was, it wasn't real. Lucien wanted to enjoy it before it was gone. He crawled across the lawn back toward her. He lay back down, this time facing her, mirroring the position she was in. He tentatively reached out, and when she didn't recoil, he placed his hand on her cheek. She leaned into his touch.
"I'm sorry I frightened you," she murmured.
"No, it's my fault."
Jean put her hand on his arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "What's the matter?" she finally asked.
"I couldn't breathe. Everything was too hot and too tight."
"How long have you been out here?"
"I'm not sure. The sun was out and the bottle was half-full."
"Oh, Lucien," she lamented.
He scooted closer to her. "No, please don't worry. I'm fine. It happens sometimes. Much less often than it used to."
Jean nuzzled against his chest, letting him tuck her head underneath his chin. She consciously noted how nicely they fit like this. She breathed in his scent, feeling intoxicated by the blend of sweat and whiskey and grass and the lingering fragrance of his cologne. In an effort to get even closer, she reached her arm around his waist, placing her hand on his back.
That was when he lurched away from her again. She jerked her hand back in response to his sudden reaction. "Sorry, I…" he tried to apologize. He didn't have the words. He wanted so much to be close to her. But Lucien honestly didn't know if he could.
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.
"Yes. No." He huffed slightly, settling back down, facing her. Jean conspicuously kept her hands close to her own body. "It's difficult to explain," he said.
"Could you try?"
Searching her eyes, he saw the worry and concern and deep love there that made his heart do somersaults in his chest. For her, he would try. "Physically, I healed long ago. There is no medical reason I should ever feel any pain from the scars. But sometimes I feel it. It's entirely psychological. Rationally, I know there isn't anyone cracking a sharp rod on my back for hours on end. It's stress, I think. It takes me back to that hot metal box, starving and dehydrated and hallucinating and being beaten and whipped without reprieve. Most of the time, I don't even think about it. I don't see my own back all that often. But to feel it…"
Jean nodded in understanding. "I don't imagine anyone has touched your bare back in quite some time. Though I can't say much about your private life."
He chuckled slightly. "No, no private life but with you."
"I won't touch the scars again. I'm sorry, I didn't know," she apologized.
But that wasn't what Lucien wanted to hear. "No, I shouldn't react like that. Especially not to you. Please. I want to feel your touch, Jean."
There was a longing in his voice that scared her. But in the pit of her stomach, she felt a bubbling of warmth. Very cautiously, she reached over again and gently trailed her fingertips up and down his back. He was tense at first, but soon relaxed at her touch. "Is this alright?" she asked.
A small moan escaped his lips. "Wonderful," he told her. He closed his eyes serenely.
"It doesn't mean much, I'm sure, but I'm…I'm sorry this happened to you." Jean almost rolled her eyes at her own words. They sounded so hollow and foolish when spoken out loud.
But Lucien replied, "We all have our scars. Some are easier to hide than others. I can put mine beneath a shirt, but I can never really escape them. Yours are harder to see, but they're just as real as mine."
Jean chocked it up to the obscene amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Otherwise, Lucien Blake would never speak with such sentimentality, such frightful insight. "We should go inside," she suggested.
"Just a little while longer, Jean. I don't want to wake up yet."
"Lucien, you are awake."
"No, I can't be. None of this could possibly be real."
Very well, Jean thought to herself, If he wants this to be a dream, perhaps it is. Jean continued to stroke his back as she leaned in and kissed him just above his eyebrow. She felt him smile and place the smallest kiss on her neck. Jean allowed the dream to last just a little while longer.