set in this verse and this verse and this verse and wow i should tag these with something
It was inevitable, really. They're stuffed to the brim with Christmas dinner and they're lounging in the living room, a whiskey in his hand, a sherry in Jean's, and the boys are working on model rockets by the fire, sipping at hot cocoa (with extra marshmallows, per Lucien's stern insistence).
The heat of the fire adds to the sense of lazy fulfillment and Lucien tries not to think too hard about how idyllic this is, how he never thought he'd have anything close to a family, and he dedicates every feeling and every sensation to memory. He never wants to forget this.
Jean is pressed against his shoulder, humming softly under her breath and the book she was reading earlier is facedown in her lap, and Lucien fights the urge to wrap his arm around her and pull her closer. Instead, he hums along with her, smiling at her look of surprise.
He thinks to the present he has for her tucked away in his coat pocket-a turquoise brooch that's as elegant as she is and that he knows will bring out the sparkle in her eyes. Perhaps when the boys go to bed, he'll give it to her in person before leaving. Maybe he'll just leave it beneath the tree for her to find tomorrow.
Jean is nodding off against his shoulder and he notices the boys have also collapsed by the fire, snoring softly into their arms and their models laying forgotten. Allowing himself this one Christmas miracle, he turns his head and presses a kiss to the top of Jean's head, inhaling lightly.
His very own Christmas angel.
Lucien hates to do it, but the boys will have cramps in their shoulders if he doesn't get them to bed soon. He shakes Jean awake gently and he has the pleasure of watching her wake up for the first time in his life: slowly and then all at once, eyes bleary and then wide away and searching, alert. The wake-up strategy of a mum.
He smiles apologetically at her and nods towards the boys, "Better get them to bed. I'll get Christopher, you get Jack." She smiles softly at him and they both stand, crossing the warm room and scooping up the sleeping boys in their arms.
They're getting too old to be carried like this too often, but Jean treasures these moments for as long as she has them. The boys stir in their arms but snuggle further into the embrace and it's only a short walk to their bedroom before Jean and Lucien are depositing them in their beds and pulling the covers up over their shoulders.
Christopher sighs sleepily, looking up at Lucien through hooded, sleepy eyes. Lucien brushes the boys blonde hair out of his eyes and whispers, "Merry Christmas."
He receives a toothy grin and a mumbled, "Merry Christmas, Dad."
Lucien freezes and he senses Jean still behind him, his heart hammering in his chest. The moniker sounds right to him and he wants so desperately to have the boys call him this, to be part of this family in truth. He leans down and brushes his lips across the boy's forehead, still warm from the fire. "Good night, son."
He switches places with Jean, who is watching him carefully, and repeats the gesture with Jack-who is passed out and already dreaming. Then, they're tiptoeing out of the room and shutting the door behind them, leaving the boys to their dreams.
Jean walks ahead of him, stooping to clear up their glasses in the living room. He looks at her, wringing his hands nervously. "Jean, I just want to be clear, that's the first time he's ever referred to me that way. I would never, never encourage that without talking to you in any way and I would never try and replace Christopher's memory, believe me."
He hopes she doesn't hear the panic in his voice. As much as he loved being called dad, he would never assume it would be appropriate without talking to Jean first.
Jean nods at him and crosses into the kitchen, dropping the glasses into the sink. She turns back to him, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. "The boys were very young when Christopher died and you're the only male role model they've ever known. I'm not surprised, Lucien. And I know you'd never encourage that behind my back. I trust you."
His heart warms with her words and he aches to pull her into his arms and hold her. He can see what this costs her. Jean continues, her voice soft, nervous. "Truth is, I liked hearing Christopher call you dad." She looks at him, tearful. "Does that make me a bad person, Lucien?"
This time, he does cross the room, tugging her into his arms and holding her tight. "No, of course not, Jean. Christopher would want you and the boys to be happy. And if I can bring any ounce of happiness to you, I'm happy to do it."
Jean pulls away, looking up into his eyes. "Oh Lucien? An ounce? You bring an immeasurable amount of happiness to our lives." She flicks her eyes down to his lips, just briefly, before returning her gaze to his. "You've brought happiness to my life."
The moment hangs between them and they both realize how close they're standing at the same time, they feel the other's breath ghosting over their faces, feels their hands against their bodies.
"Jean," he whispers. He inches forward, feeling the momentousness of the occasion, feeling the butterflies flutter in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't trust happiness and today has been full of it. Maybe, just maybe, he'll push the boundaries a little further, be a little greedy and take what he's wanted for the last year.
He sees Jean's eyes flutter close and he tilts his head, inching forward and their lips finally, finally brush. It's gentle at first, as if neither one of them can believe this is happening. And then instinct kicks in. She wraps her hands around his neck, anchoring his mouth to hers and scraping her nails behind his ear.
Lucien's mouth is hot and demanding on hers, pressing firmly, tongue sweeping out daringly to lick at the seam of her mouth. She opens beneath him and he tastes her for the first time and can't help the moan that escapes. She's warm and spicy and he's immediately addicted.
He wants this moment to last forever; he never wants to stop kissing Jean Beazley.
They break apart, panting slightly and he can't bring himself to open his eyes-not yet-not when it could be a dream. But Jean's mouth is brushing against his lightly again, murmuring softly. "I've wanted to do that for ages."
He gathers her to him, wraps her tightly in his arms and tucks her head beneath his chin where he can keep her safe. He rasps out, "Me too, love. Me too."
The fire is still crackling in the grate and he doesn't know if this is a Christmas miracle and a dash of Christmas magic or a true shifting of their relationship, but he can't wait to find out.