"But Lucien, why can't we let off fireworks now?" Both Jack and Christopher were looking longingly at the box of fireworks Jean had purchased for them earlier in the week.
He couldn't help but laugh at the expressions on their faces, "Boys, even if you did light them now, you wouldn't be able to see them! It's not dark yet. And don't you want to wait until the rest of the street is celebrating?"
New Year's Eve had crept up on him. He'd been part of the Beazley home now for almost seven months and yet it felt like a lifetime and no time at all. If he were a braver man, he'd perhaps ask Jean to kick off the new year with him as more than his employer. But each time he tried, the words got stuck in his throat and his heart felt like it would pound straight out of his chest.
Turning back to the laundry in front of him, he turned his attention to the boys. "Your mother will be home soon and you can all sit outside tonight and blast off fireworks until one of you burns yourself."
Jack and Christopher both looked at each other, pointing at the other, "You're going to burn yourself first."
He folded another shirt and reached for the already-folded towels in the basket, handing a stack to each of the boys. "Now, go put these in the cupboard and go entertain yourselves before I put you both on laundry duty."
Both boys scampered away, already goading the other into racing down the hallway. Lucien laughed at their antics, wishing he'd be able to spend the evening with them, watching their faces light up in awe at each blast of color in the sky. He wished he'd be around for midnight when Jean would turn to him and he could risk a kiss under the guise of tradition.
But he'd discovered many years ago that some wounds ran too deep and the sound of firecrackers were too similar to the sounds of bullets and bombshells. It would be better for everyone if he was alone tonight.
He resumed his quiet task of folding clothing and bedding and towels. There was a quiet domesticity to this that he cherished. No matter the fact that this was what Jean paid him to do, he felt as if he was taking care of her and her family in these gestures. He liked knowing that when Jean came home from a long day, her home was clean and organized and cared for.
He lost himself in the steady rhythm of laundry: pull, shake, fold, tuck away. Repeat.
And then there was a quick succession of pops and cracks.
In a distant, rationale part of his mind he identified the sounds as firecrackers: just pale imitations of something far worse, loud and noisy and flashes of light but safe.
But Lucien's rationale mind was long gone, cowering beneath powerful, suffocating fear and memories. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
He needed to get cover; to get the boys to safety; to remember his training and to get down low and cover his head and ride it out until the firing stopped.
The pounding of his heart spiked his anxiety and he was seeing black spots in his vision, but he needed to find safety. The laundry was dropped on the floor and he was racing throughout the halls, frantically calling for the boys but they weren't responding.
A million thoughts ran through his head–the enemy had them, he'd failed them, they were hurt, oh god…
The breath left his body and he couldn't remember how to fucking breathe, not when terror gripped his lungs and he couldn't think straight and where were the boys. His chin trembled and he tried to bite back tears: there was no place for tears now, but the panic was rising, rising, rising.
His knees gave out and he slid down the hallway wall, buring his face in his hands, moaning, "No, please. No."
And then small, trembling hands were shaking him, cupping his face and he lashed out, pushing them aside, ignoring the soft oof of the person he pushed aside. All he could think was that the enemy was here. They were going to take him back to the camp, they were going to lock him away and take him from his home. He needed to run. He needed to hide.
"Lucien! Lucien, it's us! It's Jack and Christopher! Lucien!"
He opened his eyes, trembling. Christopher was curled up on the floor, holding his shoulder, looking up at him with teary eyes. Jack was staring back at him, eyes terrified and pleading.
It all came rushing back to him and suddenly he was back in the present. Swallowing harshly, he turned to Jack. "Jack, I need you to go phone your mum, alright? She needs to come back home."
Jack nodded, still scared, and ran for the kitchen phone. Lucien turned his attention back to Christopher, still curled up on the floor. He reached out to the boy, intending to help him up and look at his shoulder, but the boy flinched and scrambled backwards.
All warmth flooded out of his body, leaving behind an icy cold. Christopher was scared. Of him. He was a monster.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Lucien moved towards the boy again, hands held in supplication. "Christopher, I'm so, so sorry. I–" But how could he explain to an 11-year old how broken he was? How scared he was?
"I need to look at that shoulder. Can you move it?"
He watched as Christopher prodded at his own shoulder, moving it around stiffly, still wary of Lucien standing before him. He nodded at Lucien. "It's okay, I think."
Lucien sat back down, rubbing at his forehead. "I need you to go into the kitchen, get some ice for your shoulder and wait with Jack in the living room until your mother gets home. I think," he took in a deep, shuddering breath. "I think it's best if I stay here."
With a pang in his heart, Lucien watched as Christopher headed for the kitchen, still throwing glances over his shoulder at the man behind him.
Lucien sat in the hallway, head buried in his hands, listening to the quiet murmurs of the boys from the living room, waiting the judgment from Jean. He would resign immediately, of course. Now knowing he couldn't be trusted around her children, how could she keep him on?
He let out a dry sob. He'd been so close to having everything he wanted: family, love, warmth. But he was so broken. This was the proof.
Moments later, he heard Jean arrive, heard the boys run to her and heard the murmurs and the cries. He sat, frozen, terrified. And then she was rounding the corner and walking towards him like he was a wild animal, steps slow and gestures measured.
"Lucien?" Her voice was soft, questioning.
He waved her off, "I'm okay, now. I–" He looked up at her, eyes wet. "I hurt Christopher, Jean. I am so sorry. I don't know what happened. It was like I was back in the war and I, I know it's no excuse." He wiped at his face and sighed. "I'll leave now. I wanted to make sure the boys were looked after before I left. I just–I'm so sorry."
Lucien moved to stand but Jean was there, a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. "Sit."
He did as she asked and stared up at her, wondering what she wanted for him. He apologized. He resigned. Did she want to press charges as well? He was uncertain.
To his amazement, Jean sat down next to him–pressed together shoulder to thigh. She took his hand in hers, turning his hand over and stroking over his palm and wrist.
"Jean," he rasped out, shuddering at the contact. He didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her touch or her kindness.
She hushed him and continued stroking his hand as she gathered her thoughts. Licking her lips, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Christopher and Jack snuck out into the yard and set off the rapid-fire firecrackers. They're designed to sound like gunfire, Lucien. I know you would never, ever hurt my son on purpose. You're a good man."
He let out a noise of protest, but she tightened her hold on his hand in warning. "You are and I won't hear a word against it. I told the boys to wait until you were gone to play with those. I," she bit her lip. "I thought it may be difficult for you."
He let out a hollow laugh. "And you were right. I can't be trusted, Jean." He looked down at their joined hands. "With me, it will always be a bit messier. I'm not normal."
Jean sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't trust anyone more than I trust you–with everything–Lucien. You went through something awful, truly awful, and came out of it alive."
Lucien closed his eyes against her words. They touched something fragile inside of him, something he wasn't ready to face or accept yet. Jean adjusted her head on his shoulder, pressing herself against him more, grounding him to this moment, their hands entwined.
"If you ever want to talk about it, I will be here to listen. Always."
Something inside of Lucien shuddered and broke at her offer and he turned into her, awkwardly wrapping himself around her, burying his face in her neck, tears soaking the collar of her blouse. He gasped out, "I'm sorry, Jean. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry."
She simply held him and stroked her hands over his back and neck and the curls of his hair, murmuring reassurances and soft, meaningless words into his ear.
He pulled away, wiping at his face, ashamed at his actions of the day. Everything felt raw and exposed and he just wanted to hide. But Jean hooked her fingers under his chin and forced his eyes to meet hers, "You're going to be okay, Lucien."
The moment hung between them and he realized how closely their faces were. He could count some of the freckles that dotted over the bridge of her nose and could feel the gentle puffs of her breath warming his lips. Their legs and bodies were entwined, awkwardly pressed together against the hallway wall.
Standing and offering his hand to Jean, he helped her to his feet and they both made their way to the living room where two young boys waited for them. Turning to Jean for permission, who rolled her eyes but nodded, Lucien approached them both, keeping his movements controlled.
The last thing he wanted to do was scare them further.
He knelt on one knee in front of them and cleared his throat. "Jack, Christopher. I am so sorry if I scared you today. And Christopher," he turned pleading eyes onto the boy. "I am so sorry I pushed you away and hurt your shoulder. I never, ever want to hurt you–either of you."
He continued, the words sticking in his throat but determined to get them out. "I'm sick, boys."
Jack piped up, "Like you have the flu?"
Lucien laughed at him, shaking his head. "No, Jack, not like the flu. It's like," he searched for the words, trying to explain. Thankfully, Jean stepped in. She crossed the room, kneeling beside him and resting her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.
"It's like having a really, really bad nightmare but you're awake. You forget where you are and who is real and who isn't and who's a monster and who's a friend and it can make you feel confused and scared. Does that make sense?"
Both boys nodded at her, looking at Lucien with bright eyes. Lucien had never felt more grateful for Jean Beazley in his life. He bumped her shoulder with his and then turned serious eyes to Jack and Christopher.
"Boys, I know that I'm sick, but I still hurt you, Christopher, and scared you both. I understand if you don't want me to look after you anymore. Your mother can find someone else for you and you won't need to see me again. It's whatever you want; no one will be mad at you, whatever you decide."
Jack's bottom lip trembled and he threw himself into Lucien's arms. "Don't go, Lucien! We can take care of you! I'd miss you if you went away." Lucien wrapped his arms around the shaking boy, rubbing his back.
"Christopher?"
The boy had been quiet throughout the entire exchange and Lucien's eyes flickered to the ice pack sitting on the boy's shoulder. He watched as Christopher took the pack off and got off the sofa, coming to stand in front of him, wringing his hands nervously.
"It's my fault, Lucien. I set off the fireworks." He looked up at Lucien, scared. "I made you sick."
Lucien's heart shattered in his chest and he opened his arms to Christopher, ushering him into his embrace. "No! Absolutely not, Christopher. This is not your fault. Don't ever, ever think that. Not ever."
Christopher buried his face into Lucien's neck, trembling. Lucien held both of his boys in his arms, shaking and overwhelmed, clutching them close, that ache to protect them both creeping in.
He felt Jean wrap her arms around them all, lending her strength to them. Christopher pulled away, looking seriously at Lucien. "Don't go away, Lucien. Please."
Lucien looked at Jean, helplessly, who just smiled at him. "It's unanimous. You're staying." She reached out to stroke his cheek, brushing a stray tear clinging to his beard. "It's like Jack said, we'll take care of you."
Overwhelmed, Lucien tightened his hold on the Beazley family, memorizing everything about this moment: the way Jean's fingers felt against his cheek, the smell of grass in the boys' hair, the soft heat of their bodies pressed against his own.
As he held them–his family–he felt his heart slowly start to heal. He wasn't a monster. He was a man. And he was going to be okay.
