16 June 1959

One of the girls - Elizabeth, he thought, though he couldn't be sure - met him in the small carpark behind the pub just before five, and led him up the back stairs. She did not tease him, had not said anything to him beyond a quiet g'day, Doctor Blake, but there was a knowing smile dancing around the corner of her lips. Ordinarily Lucien would have made some attempt at small talk with her, knowing that as he had taken on the role of the girls' GP he would at some point be called to offer medical assistance for her, but under the circumstances he could not think of a single clever thing to say. Elizabeth knew, as no doubt they all did by now, that Doctor Blake had come to sleep with Mrs. Beazley, and would pay handsomely for it in the bargain, and he was too nervous about the prospect of that assignation to endure any teasing from her, however good-natured it might have been.

"This is the one," she told him, stopping outside one bedroom door that looked much the same as any other. She knocked on it once.

"Good luck," she said to him, grinning, and then she departed, and then the door was opening, and then -

And then the breath caught in his throat, and he lost all ability to move. Jean was standing there, beautiful, brilliant Jean, but she looked so very different that her appearance alone was enough to bowl him over. Her hair fell soft and loose around her lovely face, and her grey eyes sparkled at him as he gawped at her. In place of her usual stiff skirts and modest blouses she wore a short black robe, belted at the waist, that left a remarkable swath of her pale chest and elegant neck bare for his appreciation. And her legs; he had admired the fine shape of her legs the first time he had seen them, but he had never before seen quite this much of them, and certainly not this much of her smooth skin, not encased in stockings but bare and begging for the touch of his hand.

Lucien felt suddenly rather foolish, standing there in his best grey suit with his hat in his hands. There was no denying what was coming next, what he meant to do, why Jean had opened her door to him dressed this way, but he had never before approached a woman he cared for in such a deliberate, almost clinical manner, and though he wanted, very much, to woo her, to seduce her, to touch her and bring her joy with that touch, he realized then that he had no earthly idea where to start.

"Come in, then," she told him, smiling; perhaps she meant to sound bold, or enticing, but there was just enough uncertainty in the way she ducked her gaze to make him think that perhaps he was not the only one anxious about what was to come. Jean had stepped aside, held out her arm in a gesture of welcome, and so he stepped over the threshold, and into her domain.

The door opened onto a small parlor. That surprised him; he had expected to see a bedroom, but there was a door on the far wall standing open, and he could just catch a glimpse of the bed behind it. Perhaps, he thought, as lady of the house she merited her own suite, rather than just a bedroom. The suite was situated in a corner of the pub, and as such the parlor boasted several wide windows - though the cheery yellow curtains had been drawn against the early evening sunlight. There was a fireplace, cold now though likely that would soon change with the oncoming winter. A sofa and several comfortable-looking armchairs were gathered in an amicable grouping around a low coffee table, and there were paintings of flowers on the pale blue painted walls. The room was cozy, and gently feminine, and he felt himself a trespasser there.

"This way," she told him gently. She started to walk away from him, but then seemed to catch herself. She hesitated, just for an instant, and then she smiled at him, and reached out to take his hat out of his hands. As he watched, bemused, she tossed it carelessly onto the sofa, and then she took his hand, and he trembled as if he'd been struck by lightning, shaken down to his very core.

Everything felt very new, to Lucien. This place, this woman, this want, this means of achieving satisfaction so very foreign to him in every way, but for the first time he let himself consider, really acknowledge, that however strange it might seem to him Jean knew exactly what she was doing. She knew the steps of this dance, had been trained - whether through experience alone or with the aid of careful coaching - to make a man feel comfortable, at ease with her. Had she taken his hand because she wanted to, or because it seemed the fastest, easiest way to initiate contact between them? Did it matter?

Yes, he thought, but she had laced their fingers together, and her hand was small and warm and delicate, and the sway of her hips as she led him across the parlor and into her bedroom was enchanting.

The bedroom, too, was not at all what he had expected. He'd been in Sarah's room, and it had been clean, and cheerful, but rather lacking in character. Not so for Jean's room; this room was bigger, for one, and for another three of the walls were painted in pale pink, and the fourth was covered in bright wallpaper, golden vines creeping from floor to ceiling in a charming design. There was a dressing table and a mirror, a little bench in front of it, jars of cosmetics and pots of creams and a jewelry box lying neatly atop it. There was a small bookshelf, stacked with volumes, and there were photographs in wooden frames on top of it, though he was too far away to make out the faces in them. And there was a tall wooden wardrobe, and two bedside tables, and all the furniture matched, even the bed -

He took a very deep breath. The bed was big and comfortable-looking, and the coverlet was white, patterned with pale pink flowers. This room, this space, was overwhelmingly hers; this was where she slept, where she dreamed, where she lived, a whole life he knew he so very little about, her story complete and yet utterly unknown to him. As he stared around the room Jean let go of his hand, and quietly closed the door.

"Having second thoughts?" she asked him in a soft voice, stepping once more close to him, close enough to touch him, though this time she kept her hands to herself.

There was no accusation in the question; if anything, he thought she sounded regretful, and so he sought to correct her at once.

"No," he said. "No. I just…" a nervous little laugh escaped him. "Do I...should I...pay now, or?"

It had seemed as good a place as any to start, though Jean frowned at him when he asked his question, and he could have kicked himself, in that moment, for offending her before they'd even begun.

"Yes," she said, holding out her hand.

That frown; would she not have asked for payment upfront, if he hadn't offered? Was that not the way of it?

You've gotten yourself into a right old mess, he thought glumly, but he dutifully reached for his wallet, and pulled out a crisp stack of bills, fresh from the bank. The nice young lady who'd helped him earlier in the day had been surprised at the size of his request, but he had offered no explanations, and she had rather neatly let the subject drop, and fetched the money for him. As he watched Jean took the bills and then she turned away from him, and placed them neatly in her jewelry box, closing the lid with a soft snap. But she had not counted the money, and for that he was grateful; perhaps, he thought, hope of salvaging the rest of their time together was not entirely lost.

"That's an hour," Jean said, and as if to prove her point she reached across the dressing table, and picked up a small hourglass, the bottom currently full of black sand. "It's a bit old fashioned," she said, catching his look, "but it does the trick."

And as he watched she walked over to one side of the bed, flipped the hourglass over, and set it careful down on the little table beside the bed, and the sand began to slip towards the bottom, seconds passing through that small funnel in a way that made his heart race.

You've got an hour, Blake, he told himself. Make use of every second.


Jean had hoped, before now, that when the time came he would be confident, the way he always was, would sweep her off her feet; she had hoped that he would bring to bear all the certainty she lacked, that she could borrow some of his courage for herself. Where was bold Doctor Blake, who'd said outright he wanted to buy her? Who was this man, gentle and afraid, looking at her like she might shatter at any moment, his eyes big and round and earnest as a puppy's?

It would have been endearing, this sweet shyness, if Jean were not already wracked with nerves herself. One of them would have to be brave, and she had so hoped it would not be her, had so hoped that he would find a way to make their coming together more natural, and less of a transaction.

You know what to do, she told herself, even if he doesn't.

And so she crossed the room and stepped up to him, close as she dared, and slowly slid her arms around his neck, looking up at him all the while. His hands raised at once to settle on her hips, fingers pressing against her through the thin fabric of her robe and nightdress, and she smiled, relieved. He really was terribly handsome, especially like this, close, and warm, in that fine grey suit. She wore no shoes, and so she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and she could see the want in his bright blue eyes, could see the way his lips parted beneath his neat beard. It had been in her mind to say something clever, something teasing, but all thought of pretense left her in that moment, feeling his hands on her; she wanted to see what he might do.

What he did was bow his head, as if to kiss her, and so she pulled back, just a little, holding her lips just out of his reach. He seemed to understand what she was denying him, and did not press onward, but he lingered, as if unwilling to depart from her entirely. Oh, but he was close, now, his nose nestled alongside hers, his breath warm against her cheek; she closed her eyes against that proximity, want already churning in her belly.

"No kissing," she told him breathlessly.

Would that disappoint him? She wondered. Would he try to force the issue, would he try to change her mind, would he pout, would he turn away from her, disgusted by this reminder that she did not belong to him? There was silence, for a moment, and then she felt the lightest scratch of his beard against her skin as his lips lifted in a smile. He tugged her hips closer, until they were touching from knee to chest, and still he lingered with his face so close to hers, his lips hovering just over her own.

"Are there any other rules I should know about, Mrs. Beazley?"

As he spoke he squeezed her hips once, the strength in those hands undeniable; strength enough to hurt her, but she knew in that moment he never would.

"Don't leave any marks," she answered a little breathlessly as his hands slid between them, carefully tugging on the satin tie that held her robe together. She curled her arms more tightly around his neck, her fingers drifting through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Still he refused to move his head, his lips just there, and oh, she wanted to kiss him, but pride held her back, now. She'd told him no, and she would not change her mind now. Not even when she stood wrapped around him, not even when his lips remained so close, not even when they shared every breath, passing it back and forth between them as her heart began to race.

"Anything else?" he murmured. The tie had come undone, and when he spoke she felt the faintest brush of his lips against hers. It wasn't a kiss, not quite, and so she did not admonish him, but oh, she wanted -

"You wear a condom," she told him. It was a concession towards practicality that the customers almost universally hated, but which Jean had always insisted on. Jean was not as young as she had been, once, but she was not old enough to be entirely careless, and while she was not particularly concerned about the prospect of the Doctor carrying a disease she was concerned about other possible ramifications of going without. There was already one baby in the Lock and Key, and one was enough.

"Agreed," he answered, and he rose just a little bit higher in her estimation for the way he accepted her terms without hesitation or protest.

Her robe had fallen open while she named those terms, and his hands had slid beneath it, traced the satin over her belly, gravitating towards her hips once more. Yet he stood still, while his hands undertook their gentle exploration, not gawping at her, not rushing at her, only maintaining the gentle contact of his face against her own, a tenuous thread of almost-connection between their lips that was not a kiss, but would have been, she knew, if she would only allow it.

Those hands of his, broad and strong and warm, were not idle; slowly, ever so slowly, they traced up her sides, her breath catching, just for a moment, when his thumbs brushed against the swell of her breasts. No doubt he heard that little hitch, for once more she felt his smile in the gentle movement of his lips. His hands did not pause, however; they kept moving, up and up, while her heart pounded in her chest, until he was tracing her collarbones, and then her shoulders, and then, oh then her robe fell to the floor, landing silent and yet full of insinuation at their feet.


A/N: there's a lot more coming fam! Next chapter will likely be up by Saturday.