They sit on the balcony of Lucien's hotel room watching the city become bathed in the dusky twilight of night.

There aren't many people - man or woman - who could match Lucien Blake drink for drink.

Certainly not Jean Beazley, though she did give it her very best try. That's how she did everything - to the very best of her ability. If you were going to do something, she had taught her children, you do it as well as you can. Which is how she found herself beside Lucien on the settee on the balcony, her bare knees pressed against his slacks.

The distance that had previously existed between them when they were alone - silent and vast - is gone, aided in no small part by three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey. "I'm going to miss this." He sighs, taking her hand in his. They both know he means he's going to miss her when he leaves tomorrow morning. "I'll be back soon enough." She says softly.
"You think?"
"Yes. Ruby's taken to motherhood better than I think any of us thought. Some women are like that I suppose."
"Were you?"
"I didn't have a choice, we didn't have anyone."
"No, I suppose not." He raises his arm and wordlessly she curls herself against him, resting her hand upon his heart, her head upon his shoulder - his proud, strong Jean. "Do you think it'll be like this if you come back?"
"With Mattie and Charlie in the house? I doubt it."
"Oh."
"But it might force us to be creative." She tilts her head up to smile to him, a devious little grin he's come to know well.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He replies, his gaze dropping from her face to her lips. He's desperate to kiss her, but is afraid of moving too fast, too much and frightening her away. He's a little at a loss at how this happened, how she went from Mrs. Beazley to Jean, but he's incredibly pleased it's happened. "Jean, when did you know? About us, I mean."
"Lucien, what a ridiculous question!" She laughs, curling up against him once more.
"I don't think it is. 'For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?' Or something to that extent."
"I don't know. You disappeared to China without a word."
"I wrote."
"It's not the same, is it?" She asks, and he knows her well enough to know she doesn't actually expect an answer. "I understand why you did it -"
"Do you?"
"I do, but it hurt. And that was the first sign - it shouldn't have hurt."
"I'm sorry Jean." He drops a kiss on the crown of her head, moving one of his hands to cover one of hers.
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Lucien. It's just what it was. One day the phone rang and you were in Melbourne and my heart just… . All I could do was think about how you were coming back and that I hadn't lost you - I don't know why but I kept thinking that - that I lost you. I didn't even like you -"
"Well that's just touching." He laughs, raising her hand to his lips and placing a quick peck on her wrist, very aware of the racing of her pulse.
"Well, we're being honest, aren't we?" She teases. "You got off the bus and it was like seeing you for the first time, but not, because you were so familiar. And then there was Mrs. MacDonald and the way you smiled at her." Jean's voice changes slightly, her head shifts so she can look out at Adelaide in the night. It had gotten so dark around them. What time was it she wondered.
"Jean."
"Lucien, it's fine. She made you happy, there's no point in denying it. Let's do her memory that service, shall we?"
"That's when you knew?" He changes the topic, not wanting to talk about Joy. He doesn't know what to say, other than he doesn't know what would've happen if Joy were still alive. Would he be here with her instead?
"No, not really - looking back, that's when I would say it started. I knew on my birthday."
"Your birthday?" He tries to remember what she could mean, but can't quite recall a specific moment or act.
"Yes. Goodness," She looks at her wristwatch. "I should get back." She untangles herself from Lucien and rises, walking behind the settee before stopping and taking one last look at the view from his room. "It, it may seem morbid, but some times - often times - I wonder if you would've ever noticed me if she was still alive."
"Jean -" He rises and crosses to her. "I -"
"No, Lucien. Don't say something you may not mean." She has made it to the door before she feels his hand gently upon her wrist, causing her to stop. He steps closer to her, the heat from his body making her skin tingle with excitement. The acts between a man and a woman are no mystery to her, but she is hard pressed to recall the last time she had a strong sense of desire for another person like she does for Lucien. She feels his hand ghost along her neck, she doesn't move as she hears him whisper "Please." before he places a soft kiss along the nape. Her hand finds his and grasps it for dear life as she squeezes her eyes shut. "I mean it, Jean." He murmurs against her ear before he steps back and she releases his hand, feeling the blood start to flow through her body once more. "Have a safe trip Lucien." She finally speaks, proud she isn't stumbling over her words between the whiskey and the kiss.
"I'll see you soon." And with a parting look between them, she leaves his room, her heart already aching at not being able to stay with him.

Lucien stays rooted to the floor long after he can no longer hear her footsteps down the hall. Somehow he finds himself back on the balcony, finishing his drink. He finds that Jean Beazley, slight and simple, can scorch him as easily as the sun. Sometimes the heat when she looks at him is infinite white hot flames and sometimes it's cold and as brittle as ice. He finds he has to look down at his sleeve to make sure there's no burn marks when she takes his arm as they walk in the streets. He knows it's improper, but he's waiting for the day when he can feel her hand on his body, on his skin. Fire being the the most natural of purifiers. He was struck this morning by the desire to wake up beside her. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is in the morning light, and watch her laugh at him, but curl into him to hide her blush and to tear off that silly net from her hair and burn that awful pink robe. How he longs to see her hair undone and know it's because of him. He has an undignified urge to make Jean his - mark her as his with his kisses and his name.

How did this happen? When he would hear his father mention Mrs. Beazley, or when he was ill enough that she started writing his letters for him, did he know she would become…Jean. His Jean? He's at a loss for the moment he fell in love with her. A consequence of being too lost in his head and his own pain. It seems at times that he was always in love with her - if that makes sense. It was as if little by little she shone through and illuminated every crack in his soul and revealed everything to the light. It wasn't always pretty, and it wasn't always pleasant - at times it was down right painful, but it was real and true and that was the most important thing. He can remember her in a green dress, and despite being preoccupied by some case or another, he remembers how tight it was, registering for the first time that she was a woman. A silly observation, yes, but an apt one. Of course he knew she was a female, but it wasn't until seeing her in that dress did he realize she was a Woman as well as female, a pretty one at that.

He is fully aware that he doesn't notice all the things she does for him. Not her job, but what Jean does for Lucien. Sometimes he wonders if it's right, loving Jean as he does. She deserves someone who will treat her as she treats him - and he is aware that no matter how hard he tries, that will never be him. He will always be late for dinner and make a mess and hurt others - casually and accidentally - but he knows she is aware it is never deliberately. He knows life will always be hard for Jean with him, or harder than it needs to be than if she settled down with some nice man from Ballerat. He has wondered, after being woken from his terrors some nights by her cool voice calming him, her cool hand combing through his hair, her cool eyes watching him, what sort of guilt she must hold within herself to believe she needs to carry out this penance. She's not the only one to have cause to wonder about their love.