Matthew had left earlier in the day to see Alice. Jean had noticed that he'd brought a small carryall with him, which gave her a little something to smile about. She doubted she'd see Matthew till Boxing Day. He hadn't said anything about it, of course, but Jean knew that as soon as she'd mentioned wanting to spend Christmas alone, Matthew wouldn't get anywhere near the house until after the holiday was over. And she loved him for his quiet understanding.
She had just settled down on the sofa with a glass of sherry—perhaps a bit early in the day for it, but no one was here to judge her—when she was rather rudely interrupted. There was a pounding on the front door that didn't please her a bit. Who on earth could be bothering her now? It was Christmas Eve, after all, and Matthew had likely told anyone who might come to call that Jean wasn't accepting visitors.
Still, she put down her drink and hauled herself up to answer the door. She'd be polite, of course, and gently ask whoever was there to kindly go away. When she opened the front door, she was confronted with some sort of dirty drifter with matted hair and beard and clothes that hadn't been changed in who could know how long. The man was doubled over, breathing heavily.
But then he looked up. He looked up, and Jean saw the man's eyes. The bluest blue she'd ever seen. The sparkling gaze she knew belonged only one place. She thought she was about to pass out.
"Jean," he croaked. Lucien leaned toward her, desperate to get closer to her, but his balance wasn't quite what it should have been. He collapsed into her arms. She caught him and sank to the floor, holding him and crying uncontrollably. Lucien himself was overcome, clutching madly at her clothes with his tears flowing freely down his face.
"Are you here? Are you real?" she sobbed, her shaking hands grabbing hold of his face so she could get a proper look at him.
He just nodded, unable to speak, unable to think. But he was home. He was in Jean's arms and he was home. And despite the fact that they were both crying and tangled up on the ground in middle of the entryway with the front door wide open and Lucien was honestly rather disgusting, Jean pulled his face toward her and kissed him. He could barely respond, but he wrapped his arms around her lithe body and willed his chapped and broken lips to press to hers in a manner that would let him know that yes, he was here and he was real.
Jean was in a fog of emotion. She didn't know what to do or what to say or what was happening. But it really was him. Her Lucien was alive, though much the worse for wear. "Lucien, my Lucien, my love," she murmured between her kisses. She didn't care at all that he was dirty and unkempt, she only cared that he was here.
"Oh my darling, I've missed you so much. Jeanie, I'm so sorry," he babbled with his hoarse voice, stroking his hair with his calloused hands, thrilled beyond measure just to touch her again.
She reveled in the feel of him for a moment longer, letting the blessed relief of this reality settle in. She pulled away from him slightly to wipe her face as she began to stop crying. "Lucien, you look awful," she said with a breathy laugh.
He grinned. Behind his overgrown beard, she could see his smile and the way his eyes crinkled just the same as they always did. "I didn't want to waste a single moment before I returned to you. I didn't want to stop for even a moment on my way here from Castlemaine when I left there yesterday to walk home."
"You walked here from Castlemaine?!"
"But perhaps I should have tried to take a bath or find a way to shave."
"We'll take care of all that," she assured him gently, stroking his very weathered cheek. "We can get you cleaned up." She tried not to think too hard about what he must have gone through if he'd literally walked forty miles over the last two days alone.
Lucien nodded. "A bath and a bit of water and food, if it isn't too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. Come on, let's get you sorted." Jean extricated herself from him so she could stand up and help pull him to his feet. He stumbled into her again, and she frowned. "Lucien, when's the last time you've eaten?"
"I think yesterday. I'm not sure. But a bath might be best first. I'm in no fit state to be anywhere near the kitchen."
"Alright. Come on, love." Jean tossed his arm around her shoulders and held him around his waist helping him through the house to the bathroom just like she used to do when he was drunk and needed being put to bed. The current situation was simultaneously more dire and infinitely more pleasing.
She helped him undress as she ran the water for the bath, holding onto him tightly as he slowly lowered himself down into the hot water. Jean sat down on the floor beside the tub with a flannel in her hand and softly began scrubbing the grime off his body. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, whether from exhaustion or bliss, she wasn't sure.
Jean's eyes roamed over every bit of him. Nine months ago, it was a body she knew as well as her own. Over two years, she'd seen every single part of him in nearly every way. And now, she barely recognized him. "How long has it been since you've had a bath?" she asked quietly, rubbing his chest with soaped cloth.
"A while. A family I stayed with for a few days gave me some soap and the hose out back," he replied, remembering the kindness he'd been given in Alice Springs. That must have been months ago. Time had ceased to have meaning.
"Where have you been?" she whispered, somewhat wondering to herself, somewhat asking him.
"I went to see Li. And I had trouble getting back," he answered simply. Lucien opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing her face stricken with concern. "I will tell you every single thing, my darling, I promise I will, but not just yet. Is that alright?"
Jean just nodded. "Sit forward so I can get your back," she instructed.
As she scrubbed him down, turning the bathwater a horrible dingy color, Jean remarked the change in him. He'd lost quite a bit of the burly muscle she'd so enjoyed. The golden glow of his skin had faded. There were angry red welts on his back and all over his shoulders, broken and cracked blisters on his hands and feet, and chapped sunburns on his face. Oh his poor, dear face.
"Shall I trim your hair and beard a bit?" she asked, not wanting to make demands of him too quickly, not when he was so clearly weak and exhausted.
"Yes, please. It's awful, isn't it? I haven't even seen myself in so long. I'm surprised you recognized me at the doorstep," he joked weakly.
Jean gently took the soap and cloth to his face and hair to clean it somewhat before she cut it back. "I'd recognize you anywhere, my love," she murmured in response.
And just then, Lucien looked up at her and in his eyes was that same puppy dog expression he always got whenever she touched his face. Her heart swelled in her chest and she could feel herself begin to cry again. He frowned at seeing a tear escape down her cheek. "Jean?"
"I still can't quite believe this is real. I had…" She trailed off. Now was not the time to tell him that she had just started to come to terms with his death, only to have him returned home to her. "It's been nine months, Lucien," she told him. "Nine very long months."
"I know." He didn't know, actually. He wasn't quite sure exactly how long it had been. "Nine very long months." And those months had been an eternity for him.
After he was all washed and clean, Jean wrapped him in a towel and went to find his old dressing gown. She helped him walk into the kitchen where she gave him a whole pitcher of water to drink and the bread from the box; it wouldn't do to have anything too heavy or rich introduced into his body so soon after being practically starved. As he ate, Jean trimmed back his hair and beard. They were still messy, but at least the length was presentable. And once again, he gazed at her with that expression of overwhelming love. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "To bed, I think," she suggested. Lucien nodded in agreement before stealing one more kiss from her.
Jean helped Lucien back to his old room. She kept the bed made, as it was the guest room for anyone who needed it. "Why here?" he asked, obviously hoping to go up to their marital bed in the studio.
"I don't want you worrying about stairs," she lied. Jean couldn't bring herself to tell him that she'd closed up their room, filled it with boxes and hid the memories behind the thick double doors.
Lucien settled into his old bed, but for the first time, Jean was there to settle in with him. She removed her shoes and climbed onto the bed, ensuring he was comfortable as she lay beside him, stroking his clean hair and gently tracing the new lines that had formed on his face.
"Rest, Lucien," she told him. "You're home. You're safe. We're together again, love." Jean murmured those comforting words in time with her soft touches until he fell into a deep sleep. It was early in the day, still, but Jean had no intention of getting up. She wanted to watch him sleep. Wanted to gaze at him as long as she could, fearing that if she turned away, this beautiful fantasy would disappear and leave her all alone again. And so instead, she focused intently on watching him and clinging to the beautiful dream of having him home with her.
