soulmate AU for marcuskaen jean-centric.

Today was Jean Randall's 18th birthday and she was finally going to find out if Christopher Beazley was her soulmate. They were all but engaged and Jean thought the world of him. Strong, smart, hard-working, and handsome, he was everything Jean could hope for in a husband and soulmate.

No one understood the science of soulmates. At 18, your body took on the marks of your soulmate's: every scrape, cut, tattoo, burn, and bruise. Luckily, the pain your soulmate experienced was not inflicted on you as well. Experts assumed 18 was the time of the marking because childhood was too filled with cuts, scrapes, and bruises to have an accurate reading.

Christopher had been 18 for a few months already and hadn't experienced any markings on his body, so the hope that she was his soul mate still burned within her.

Dressing quickly and skipping breakfast, Jean dashed out the door and practically ran to Christopher's family farm. Christopher greeted her at the door with a chaste kiss to her cheek. His hands were warm and clammy. So, they were both nervous.

"You ready?"

Jean nodded, smiling reassuringly. Christopher led her into the kitchen and sat her down at the table, grabbing a small paring knife off of the counter and sitting next to her. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she wrapped her fingers around the handle and pointed the blade at the tip of her finger.

"Wait!"

Christopher took her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of them. "Jean, just know that whatever happens, I still love you. I still plan on marrying you. I plan on building a life with you."

Jean smiled softly and cupped his face. "I love you, too. But, I just can feel it, Christopher. This will prove we are soulmates. Watch."

And with that, she turned the blade towards her finger and made a small, one-inch incision. She hissed in pain, sucking at the blood, before eagerly turning Christopher's hands over, searching.

But there was no mark. His smooth remained completely clear.

With a sinking heart, Jean realized how wrong she'd been. Christopher wasn't her soulmate at all. Eyes stinging with tears and swallowing her disappointment, she held Christopher's hands in hers.

"Christopher..." She sighed. "I understand if this does change things for you. Really, I-"

But Christopher was holding a gold and emerald engagement ring out to her. "Jean Randall, I told you I loved you and wanted to marry you and I meant it. If it doesn't matter to you, it doesn't matter to me. So Jean, will you marry me?"

Jean stared at the ring and Christopher's earnest face. What did it matter if he wasn't her soulmate? He was good and decent and kind and would protect and provide for her.

"Yes."

Their marriage was a happy-if not stressful-one for many years. They worked hard on the farm and faced obstacles in their relationship that many would have crumbled under. The town frowned upon their marriage. The biddies gossiped, "But they aren't soulmates. It can't last."

Jean Beazley loved proving them wrong.

While Christopher had never experienced any marks (and they both wondered at those implications), Jean had been dreading the day her body became marred with anything more serious than a few bruises.

She distantly wondered if her soulmate saw the stretch marks she had acquired with each of her pregnancies. Wondered if he felt jealous or lost or forsaken knowing his soulmate was bearing another man's children.

And then the day came that she experienced her soulmate's marks-real, significant marks.

It was Christopher who found them first, leaping out of bed and holding his hand over his mouth in shock. "Christ, Jean..." His eyes lingered on her back and shoulders, shaking his head.

Jean pushed the covers off and leapt out of bed, twisting to look in the mirror. She felt her stomach clench in shock and her mouth dried. Her back was covered in angry, red, criss-crossing lines.

Her heart felt icy at the thought of her soulmate, whoever he may be, experiencing the pain that came with these marks. Battling back tears, she turned to her husband-her wonderfully unblemished husband. "Christopher, these are whip marks, aren't they?" He nodded, still staring in horror. "Are you okay, dear? We both knew this day may come..."

But Christopher was already crossing the room to smooth his hand over her marks. "So, you have a soulmate out there." Jean wanted to comfort him, to tell him she was as good as his soulmate, that it didn't mean anything. And yet a part of her was still thinking about the man on the receiving end of these whips...

Pushing past her, Christopher left the room and started in on the farm's chores. He resolved to not linger on her marks and to simply enjoy the time he shared with Jean. After all, they shared a beautiful life together and beautiful children.

But the marks kept appearing on her skin. Before the marks of the previous day could fade, new ones came. Burn marks on her forearms. Bruises mottled her knees and thighs and buttocks. Her fingers were discolored and scraped as if they had been broken. And every day, the whip marks across her shoulders doubled.

Jean couldn't think beyond what her soulmate was going through. Torture. Her soulmate was being tortured and Jean was helpless to stop it. Would she feel it if he died? Would the marks just never go away if he died wherever he was?

It was these marks that ultimately drove a wedge between her and Christopher.

"Jean, all you do is talk about these marks. I understand they're upsetting, but you can't even feel them! You don't even know the man on the other end of these marks. Our life is here. We promised each other on our wedding day that we were choosing each other over soulmates. That we were making a choice. Have you changed your mind, now? Do you want to go find this man? If he's even still alive?"

Jean felt an irrational sense of anger towards him. "Christopher! This man is being tortured. Look at this!" She thrust her arms towards him. "These are bloody brand marks. They're branding him. I think, I think he's a soldier. He must be. How else do you get these kinds of marks? Certainly not as a farmer."

Christopher reeled back as if she had slapped him. "Is that what you want from me, Jean? To get myself my very own set of marks?"

"What? No! Christopher, don't be ridiculous! Wait, Christopher!"

But Christopher was already storming out the door without a look back at her.

Three days later, he was fully enlisted and being shipped off to the front.

Jean resented the marks now. They had eased over the course of a few months but she now wished more than ever she could have some sort of connection to her Christopher. She felt confident, however, that if something truly terrible happened she would know. Somehow, she would feel it.

Two days later, the army showed up and informed her that her Christopher-her husband-was dead. Not only that, but that he had died months ago.

The army officers long since departed, she trudged up the stairs with heavy, lead legs, locked herself in her bedroom, and drew the blinds, encasing the room in darkness. She didn't want to see the marks. Not right now. Not ever again.

Losing Christopher was a hot, searing pain across her heart. If this is the pain that accompanied losing her husband, she never wanted to experience the pain of knowing, loving, and losing her soulmate.

For the first of many nights, Jean cried herself to sleep.

Since losing Christopher, the marks had long-since disappeared. Her soulmate, wherever he was, appeared to be safe. At least for now. Jean took a small comfort in that.

Still, every once in a while Jean woke up to swollen lips, scabs and cuts on her face, and black eyes. Her soulmate was a fighter-literally and figuratively. A distant part of her wondered if her soulmate and Christopher ever met on the front.

Jean kept the farm running as long as she could on her own with Christopher Jr. and Jack's help, but she eventually sold the farm and took up a position as housekeeper for Dr. Thomas Blake.

In addition to providing care to the residents of Ballarat, Dr. Blake dabbled in soulmate science and found himself fascinated with Jean in particular.

"My dear," he managed between coughing fits. "A woman forsaking a life with her soulmate for a man of her choosing! I've never heard such a thing. It's wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

Jean blushed, embarrassed, and tilted his head forward so he could sip at the cold water. "I just didn't want my life dictated by something no one understands."

Dr. Blake nodded, still fascinated by this mysterious woman. She was unlike many women in Ballarat and he adored her. She listened to his theories on the science behind soulmates with a keen ear as she dusted and cleaned his room, brought him meals, and helped him organize his patients' care.

"So you see, my dear Jean, I think in a way, if a person was brave enough-or stupid enough-to use this ability, they could actually carve a message to their soulmate through their skin. I truly can't believe it hasn't been done yet. At least, not a documented case."

Jean shook her head, "That's barbaric! What kind of moron would do that?"

The elder Dr. Blake let out a croaky laugh, thinking that he knew exactly someone who would do that.

"You'd be surprised what desperate men will do."

That night, Jean found out her soulmate was a moron. As she readied herself for bed, Jean noticed the bright red scratches carved into the top of her left thigh.

Who r u?

Jean stared at the message. The words were crudely etched into her skin and she appreciated the fact that her soulmate was at least smart enough to save himself some pain and shorten the words when possible.

But there was no way in hell she was carving a message into her own skin. Not even for her soulmate.

Smoothing lotion over the marks, Jean felt pleased to know he was at least alive. Even if he was an idiot.

Dr. Blake's condition was worsening a little every day and Jean grew anxious at the thought of losing him as well. She had come to care for Dr. Blake very much and she knew his loss would be felt deeply.

Today his son, Lucien Blake, would be arriving to say his final goodbyes and begin arranging things for his move back to Ballarat. He was all set to take over the surgery and Jean felt more than a little miffed this Lucien Blake thought he could simply swan in and take over.

The knock at the door surprised Jean. He was early. Tucking the ends of the blanket around Dr. Blake's feet, Jean hurried to the front door and was met with quite a sight.

The young Dr. Blake was-and there was no other word for it-handsome. Slicked curls, wide shoulders, blue eyes, and a gorgeous three-piece suit. He smiled at her and offered her his hand in greeting. "Hello! I'm Dr. Lucien Blake. I'm here to see my father and see to some business of settling the surgery and moving back in. I'm looking for a Mrs. Beazley? She's the housekeeper, I believe."

She looked at his offered hand, confused. "I am Mrs. Beazley. Or, Jean, if you prefer."

He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on the hollow of her throat and the curve of her hip. Jean shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She crossed her hands over her chest.

Lucien laughed. "Bloody hell, from the way my father talked about you, he sounded as if he was half in love with you! Not that I can't blame him, look at you, I just thought, well, that you'd be older!"

She didn't know if she should be offended or not. Then, he was leaning down and grasping her hand in his in greeting. Jean stifled a gasp. There was a heat to their handshake, a feeling of electricity and connection shooting from her fingertips to the top of her arms. She searched his face, wondering if he felt it too.

But his face was still smiling and jovial. No sign of shock or wonder. Maybe it was just her. Maybe it was just the first touch of a handsome man since Christopher...

Pushing aside the feeling, she stepped out of the doorway and gestured for him to come in. "Please, Dr. Blake, do come in. Your father is just down the hall in his bedroom. Leave your bags! I'll take them."

Brushing past her, Lucien's hands lingered over hers. "Thank you, Jean. And please, it's Lucien."

Lucien Blake was an absolute mystery to her. On the one hand, he was charismatic and charming. She often found herself getting wrapped up in his stories of Singapore-a land she had only dreamed of visiting. Lucien was also exceedingly warm towards the people of Ballarat, treating each of them with kindness and warmth.

Other times, he was strangely mercurial. His moods swung with the amount of whiskey he'd drank or the number of nightmares he'd had the previous nights (oh yes, she heard his screams at night).

His interactions with the elder Dr. Blake were even more curious. They were equal parts nostalgic and warm, hostile and bitter. Jean thought there was perhaps too much history between them to resolve in the short time they had left.

After one such bitter encounter, Jean followed Lucien out of the room and watched as he punched the wall in frustration before escaping to the kitchen for a drink. Jean shook her head, sadly. The man really did drink too much.

The next morning, Jean thought nothing of her slightly swollen and bruised hand. There wasn't time to consider it.

Dr. Blake had passed away.

The weeks after the elder Dr. Blake passed away, Jean and Lucien went their separate ways. Grief manifested differently for everyone. For Lucien, it was escaping to The Colonists' Club for a few drinks. For Jean, it was an overwhelming need to be alone and hidden away. The first night, she sat in Dr. Blake's study-Lucien's study, now-and breathed in the smell of pipe tobacco and leather. With gentle sobs, Jean snuggled into his chair and fell into a restless sleep.

When she awoke, there was another crudely carved message into the top of her thigh.

R u there? I feel alone.

She ran her fingers over the message and wondered at what her soulmate was going through, wondered if it was because they were soulmates that their feelings were so closely aligned.

Taking a deep breath, Jean grabbed the letter opener with shaking hands-her mind flashing back to a paring knife and a kitchen table all those years ago-and with gritted teeth, she replied.

I'm here.

The blood bubbled over her skin with each scratch and yet, she welcomed the pain. It was something besides numbness, at least. In a strange way, his message had lessened her loneliness and she hoped her soulmate felt the same.

As Lucien and Jean both healed from Dr. Blake's passing and began to move on and settle into a new routine, there appeared a new problem: Lucien and Jean were terribly attracted to one another.

Lingering hands, brushes of fingers against cheeks, teasing smiles, outrageous flirting.

Each day her control slipped a little more and she found herself gravitating towards him, just wanting to be near him. Lucien found himself doing the same: rubbing her shoulders, hand at the small of her back, whispers in her ear.

Jean needed to put a stop to it before this-whatever this was between them-boiled over. Slipping into his office in between patients, Jean sat in front of his desk.

Lucien smiled at her, "Jean! Was there something you wanted?"

Jean took a deep breath and decided the direct approach was the way to go. Lucien liked directness. "Yes, actually. I don't think it's just me who is feeling this," she gestured between them. "This pull between us. And as enjoyable as the flirting is, we need to stop."

Lucien leaned back in his chair, frowning. "Oh?"

She nodded. "Lucien, I have a soulmate somewhere. And I've already lived a life with a man who was not him and I just don't think I can do that to my soulmate again. Nor to the memory of my Christopher. I hope you can understand."

Lucien nodded slowly, hand stroking his beard. "I see. Very reasonable." He laughed, a hollow laugh, and reached for the scotch and tumbler on his desk. "Did you know," he started, pouring himself a generous drink. "Did you know that I also have a soulmate?"

Jean shook her head, wondering where he was going with this. Lucien was usually so closed-lipped about his past, particularly anything remotely personal. "I didn't know that. Where is she?"

Taking a large gulp of scotch, Lucien smacked his lips. "No idea. She's the most ridiculously careful woman I know. I know she had children, for sure. The bloody stretch marks were a surprise."

Jean thought to herself that at least that question was answered. Somewhere out there, her soulmate had also felt her stretch marks.

"But whoever she is...she didn't wait for me. I don't blame her, of course. I'm just about the worst soulmate you could ask for. I wouldn't want to be saddled with me either."

Her heart clenched oddly at that. It hurt her to hear Lucien speak so dismissively of himself. He couldn't see how wonderful he truly way. Even when he was being moody.

She watched as Lucien drained his glass and pushed himself away from his desk and walking around to her side of the desk, reaching down for her hand and tugging her up to stand in front of him.

"I understand that you don't want me, Jean. My own soulmate didn't want me. So, consider the flirtations stopped. On my honor."

Jean opened her mouth to argue with him, to comfort him, but Lucien was already shuffling her out the door and then the door was being closed in her face. Seconds later, Jean heard the sounds of glass smashing against a wall.

Sighing to herself, feeling oddly dismissed and sad, Jean headed for the closet to pull out the broom and dustpan. Ridiculous, mercurial man.

Reaching into the closet, Jean started at the deep gash that spread across her whole palm. It had been the first mark since that night with the letter opener and Jean felt the familiar sense of relief that her soulmate was once again alive somewhere, even if he wasn't with her.

Grabbing the broom and dustpan, Jean headed straight for the study and opened the door. The sight inside stopped her dead in her tracks.

There, standing over a pile of shattered glass, stood Lucien. His hand was dripping blood, a large gash stretched across his palm. Jean's hand burned with the realization.

The feeling of heat and electricity at their first touch. The undeniable connection they had. His soulmate had children. His hand held a gash in the same place as hers. He thought she didn't want him.

The broom and dustpan dropped to the floor and Lucien's head shot up, looking at her, shamefaced. "Oh Jean, I'm so sorry. I'll clean this up, don't worry-"

But Jean was busy crossing the room, heels crunching on the glass, and flinging herself into his arms. She pressed her lips to his, desperate, sloppy, eager. This was her soulmate. This stupid, infuriating, handsome, impossible man was hers-all hers.

Lucien's hands wrapped around her, hauling her up against him and deepening the kiss. She broke away and leaned her forehead against his and slid down his body.

Lucien sighed, happily. "Jean, love, not that I'm complaining, but I'm getting some mixed messages here."

Wordlessly, Jean held her palm up for his inspection. Lucien stared at the gash before raising his own, bloodied hand up. Shaking, he pressed their palms together and sighed.

"It's you."

She nodded, entwining their hands together. "It's me."

Lucien tugged her impossibly closer and tucked her under his chin, swinging them side to side slightly. Jean knew they had a lot to talk about. The memory of those horrifying marks were still burned into her mind and she wanted to ask him about them. She knew he must have questions for her about her life with Christopher.

His words from earlier haunted her: My soulmate doesn't want me.

Holding him tighter, Jean silently vowed to him that she would spend the rest of their lives proving him wrong.