A/N: This one is a bit heavy fam.


27 May 1959

Jean took a great, heaving breath, her whole body shuddering, the tile cold beneath her knees as she knelt in front of the toilet, eyes closed tight against the sight before her. It might be easier, she thought, if she did not look; she fumbled blindly for a moment, and then relaxed as the toilet flushed, carrying away the remains of the previous night's dinner with it. Maybe if she did not have to see it, or smell it, maybe if she thought of something else, something less distasteful, the roiling in her stomach might stop, and then she could -

It was not to be. She had no sooner caught her breath than the nausea struck again, and she was left gasping and trembling, weak as a kitten, half-choked and miserable. She'd thought, before now, that surely nothing was left in her stomach at all, but her body seemed determined, still, to purge itself of the foul poison currently afflicting her. But the poison wasn't in her belly at all, and she knew it; the poison was in her veins, in her blood, in her muscles, steeped into the very bones of her, put there by Lucien's own tender hands.

Surely cancer could not be worse than this, she thought wretchedly. Tears stung at her eyes and she choked on every breath, the air never quite reaching her lungs, her body spasming wildly out of her control while she clutched the bowl in front of her with hands grown thin and claw-like to her eyes. Before Lucien had discovered the true nature of her ailment she had not been half so miserable as this; oh, her back had pained her, now and again, and the inconsistent bleeding had been quite bothersome, but she had not felt so low, so useless, so close to her own end then, not as she did now. For she did it feel it, now, did feel as if no human body could survive such unending torment, as if one of these days the sickness would take her and refuse to leave her until she could breathe no more, and her heart stopped from the grief and the pain of it.

It hadn't been so difficult, in the early days of her treatment. She'd been tired, and cold, and ill every now and again, but her stomach had given her no more trouble than it had done when she was pregnant with young Christopher, and she knew how to weather such storms. Now, though, she'd had a good many treatments, and the cumulative effect of the medication was enough to leave her sobbing and shaking on the bathroom floor. It was a blessing, she knew, that Lucien had seen fit to install her in the studio; she'd been up for nearly two hours, heaving and retching and weeping, and the sun had not yet risen when she'd first stumbled out of her bed. At least this way she was out of sight, wouldn't trouble Mattie as the girl rose and dressed for the day, would not have to bear the further indignity of witnesses to see her laid so low.

One last time she heaved bitter bile from the depths of her gut, spitting the last of it into the bowl and wiping her mouth with a trembling hand before once more flushing the loo. For a moment she lingered, still kneeling, waiting, but though she felt her belly roiling like the sea in a storm no further upset seemed to be forthcoming, and so she rolled to the side, sat down on her bottom with her back to the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest. It was bloody cold, with nothing to separate her from the tile but her thin satin nightdress, and so she reached up, dragged one of the clean fluffy towels down from where it hung on a bar beside her, and wrapped it round her shoulders like a cape. It was hardly so warm as a blanket, but it helped, a little, and she wiped her mouth once more with a corner of it, trying valiantly to stem the flood of tears coursing silently down her cheeks.

This time of morning she ought to be up and about, starting the kettle, working on breakfast. Lucien and Mattie would need something to eat, before they went out to face the world. Unlike her, they still had some purpose in life, places to be, things to do, and she wanted to help them to do it, longed more than anything for the strength of her own two legs holding her up, carrying her through the world as they had done all her life until now. The least she could do, she thought, was make their bloody breakfast, but she could not find the strength to stand, and even if she could she was not certain that it would do any good, could not be sure that she would not fall ill again the moment she stepped out of the room.

They would do all right without her, Lucien and Mattie. There was fresh fruit in a bowl on the table, and fresh bread in the box for toast. That much they could manage on their own, had grown accustomed to managing as Jean sank further into sickness. There was a routine to their lives, now; the day after treatment was always the hardest, and so Wednesdays and Fridays Mattie and Lucien were often forced to fend for themselves, making their own breakfasts and fetching supper from the chippie. Neither of them had ever complained, nor would they ever, Jean knew, but she hated it, hated knowing that she was not capable of looking after them. She had always taken such pride in caring for her family, and she hardly knew who she was now that she couldn't.

"Jean?" she heard a soft voice calling from beyond the bathroom, and her heart sank. Those mornings when he did not find her already in the kitchen Lucien always came to look in on her, often bringing a cup of tea with him, and it would seem he had done so now, driven by his doctor's heart to seek her out and assure himself that she was well. It was the last thing Jean wanted, however; she could not bear the thought of him seeing her like this, half-naked with a towel round her shoulders for warmth, shivering though her hair was slicked with sweat, tears on her cheeks and the taste of sick in her mouth. No, that simply wouldn't do; if only he would leave her be she thought she could manage herself in peace, might eventually be able to make her way back to bed, but if he saw her like this she feared her heart might break, and she was not certain she'd survive such a cleaving. Lucien, brave and strong and kind, Lucien, hale and hearty, Lucien, who had done so much for her already, opened his home to her and kept her on when she could not earn her keep, who touched her so gently, smiled so warmly; to see the pity in his eyes would cut her sharp as knives.

So Jean did not call out to him; she made as if to rise, thinking that if only she could stand she might be able to shoo him from her rooms, convince him she was all right, but that movement had been a mistake. Her stomach heaved, and in the next breath she was once more kneeling over the loo, retching. While the fit of sickness claimed her she could not think, could not hear, could not breathe, could not sense anything at all beyond her own pain and distress, and so she did not take note of his footfalls or the opening of the door until at last the terrible business subsided, and his voice rung out behind her.

"Oh, Jean," he sighed, sad and sympathetic, and rage welled up within her. It was not directed at Lucien - he had, of course, done nothing wrong, been nothing but kind to her - but rather her own illness, her own weakness, her own body's betrayal and the dreadful circumstances she'd found herself in. It wasn't fair, and with nobody to blame Jean's anger only grew. Before she could answer him her stomach churned one last time, and Lucien did not hesitate; he rushed to her, knelt beside her, wrapped one strong arm around the delicate ridge of her back and steadied her. With his free hand he reached out, brushed the hair back from her face in a sweet, gentle gesture; Jean herself had done the same for her boys, those few occasions when they were unwell, touched them tenderly and whispered reassurances to them, offered them what comfort she could. Such kindness from Lucien touched her heart, for she could not recall when last she'd received such care, but it wounded her, too, for she had not wanted him to find her like this, and it left her feeling weak and worthless and small.

"It's all right," Lucien murmured. Once more he brushed his hand over her hair, but he pulled away from her quite suddenly, and Jean opened her eyes in time to see him wiping a lock of her dark hair off his fingertips and into the bin. Not one strand, or two, but a whole clump of them, set loose by the gentlest of touches, and Jean's tears redoubled in a moment. It was one indignity too many for her to bear, the sight of her hair falling from his fingertips, the knowledge that she had lost so much now as to make her, to her mind, a pitiable creature. Anyone could see it now, looking at her, the thin spots where her scalp had begun to shine through, her hair hanging limp and straight now for she did not dare try to curl it lest the curls pull off even more of it. She had always taken such care with her hair, had always felt such pride when it fell just so, framed her face and made her feel pretty. It was such a little thing, her human vanity; she had never taken so much pride in her appearance that Father Morton would have deemed it a sin, but she had taken some, had felt braver, stronger, when she looked her best. Not so, now; she'd never been less pretty than she was in that moment, and she was beginning to suspect she'd never be pretty again, would never be anything but weak, and fragile, and a burden to those she loved.

"Let's get you a little water, eh?" Lucien asked softly, rubbing his hand gently across her back. "Just to rinse your mouth, you'll feel better-"

"Please stop," Jean gasped at him, the words harsh and bitter to her own ears. "Please, just go." She shrugged away from the touch of his hands and rolled to the side, sitting down once more and wrapping her arms around her knees. Beside her Lucien's eyes widened, his expression hurt, but Jean could not spare a moment for his feelings when her own were in such turmoil. She felt...small, and pitiful, and useless, and ugly, filthy from her bout of illness, shameful from her own weakness, and she did not want him to see. She did not want him to remember her like this, retching and weeping, her hair not bright and shining and full of vibrant curls but lank and thin and falling out in his hands. She did not want this to be the vision of her he carried in his heart for all the rest of his days, with her bloodshot eyes, wiping bile from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. I should have left in the very beginning, she thought miserably. If only she had gone when she meant to he would have remembered her as she had been, healthy and beautiful, a force to be reckoned with. It would have been better that way, she thought.

"I only want to help," he told her softly, his eyes pleading with her to be reasonable. She didn't need the reminder of just how much he had helped her already, how much he had sacrificed for her sake, how much of a burden she had become to him. It was her place to help him, not the other way round, but now he was stuck with her. He was a sweet man, really, a compassionate man, but she had become nothing more than another responsibility to him. And she feared that was all she would ever be.

"Then go," she said. "Please, I want you to leave." The words felt cruel even as she said them, but she was determined that the best thing for her would be a bit of peace, a moment of solitude, a chance to catch her breath without his sorrowful eyes watching her every move.

"All right," he said, conceding defeat. "If that's what you need."

Slowly he rose to his feet and turned away from her, his steps heavy, his shoulders bowed by the weight of her displeasure. The moment the door closed behind him Jean pressed her forehead to her knees, and let the sobbing take her. How long she sat there weeping she could not say, but when at last she had no tears left she braced her hands on the toilet and rose clumsily to her feet. Her legs trembled, but held her, and so she made her way out of the bathroom, moving slowly, achingly slowly, across her little parlor to her bed. Once there she sat down heavily, intent on rolling beneath the blankets and sleeping the day away, but she paused for a moment, for there on the little table beside her bed there sat a fresh cup of steaming tea. It was her favorite cup, the white china with a little pink flower painted on the side. Someone had brought it to her, left it there for her to find, had done so only recently. She knew, somehow, that someone was Lucien, and shame welled up within her. He had only been trying to help, had continued to try, in his own way, to care for her even when she sent him from her side. He did not deserve such treatment, and she knew it.

With trembling hands she reached for the cup, and brought it to her lips, taking a single, hesitant sip. It was not fair, she knew, to take out her rotten feelings on him, and as she sat there cradling the teacup in her hands she resolved herself to put things to rights between them as soon as she was able.