26 June 1959

It was the soft sound of voices that woke Lucien the next morning - well, that and the screaming of his back, protesting at having been trapped in that dreadful chair for hours on end. The voices were more pleasant than the clamouring of his body, and so for a moment he remained still and silent, kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, the better to hear what those voices had to say.

"Don't mind him," Jean said, very quietly. "He's had rather a hard time of it lately. He needs his rest."

"And so do you, Mrs. Beazley," a young lady - most likely a nurse - answered her gently. "You've had rather a hard time of it, too."

"Oh, I think the worst of it has passed," Jean answered, but though her words were punctuated by a brief, nasty sounding cough, Lucien rather thought she had the right of it. The worst of it must have passed, he thought, if she were awake and alert and speaking clearly. The worst of it must have passed, he thought, for she had strength enough to hold his hand, and her skin was warm and soft pressed against his own. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and threatened to give away his ruse entirely, but he could not hold it back. She was holding his hand! Of her own choosing, with no prodding from him, Jean had reached for him, was clinging to him, even now. Though she had voiced her protests, though she had turned away from his kiss, she was reaching for him now, and that one small gesture seemed monumental to him. Perhaps she had finally seen what he had been trying to show for her so long now, that he cared for her, and that his care would not wax and wane with her health, but would instead continue on, blooming in the light of her radiance.

There was a chance, of course, that Jean had only reached for him because he had been sleeping, that she had only touched him when he knew nothing at all about it and intended to withdraw her affection the moment he was awake, intended to carry on her charade of rejection. That thought troubled him; he considered himself to be a persuasive sort of fellow, clever and quick to bring people round to his way of thinking, but Jean had so far defied all his attempts at convincing her of his ardor, and instead remained stubbornly committed to her conviction that there was no future for them together. Suppose she had not changed her mind? It was an obstacle he didn't quite know how to overcome, her belief that they would not make a good match.

"You are better this morning," the nurse agreed. "But you aren't out of the woods just yet. Lots of rest and lots of fluids, yes?"

"Yes," Jean agreed, and Lucien listened as the nurse bustled away, his eyes still closed and his heart racing. As soon as they were alone he meant to put on some show of waking up, meant to speak to Jean and see for himself what decision she had made where he was concerned - if, indeed, she had made any decision at all. It might prove to be a damn uncomfortable conversation, but it was one he knew they needed to have, and he was determined to let this all play out, to whatever end.

"I know you're awake," Jean said softly as the door closed behind the nurse, and Lucien's eyes flickered open ruefully. She was smiling, though, his Jean, smiling that beautiful smile that filled his heart with warmth. Someone had found a jumper for her somewhere, a heavy, lumpy thing he was certain did not belong to Jean, and her blue kerchief had been neatly rearranged to cover her bare head, and she lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, buried beneath an avalanche of blankets. She looked small, and warm, and cozy, and as beautiful as he had ever seen her, if only because she was smiling at him, and holding his hand, still.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked her, his voice as low as hers had been. In a fit of daring he turned his hand over beneath hers, pressed their palms flat together and laced his fingers through her own while he sat up a little straighter in his chair. Jean did not balk, or pull her hand away; she blushed prettily, but let him hold her, and he took that as a positive sign indeed.

"Much better today," she admitted. "They've given me all sorts of medications, and I feel much more myself."

"Doctor Nicholson says you have the flu, and they'll want to keep you in here for a few days," Lucien told her. With medication they could moderate her fever and alleviate the worst of her cough, keep her comfortable and watch her every moment, but she was by no means saved; there was a chance, however small, that given the way the cancer treatments had weakened her immune system a simple case of the flu could turn to pneumonia, and if it did...well. Lucien pushed the thought aside, and determined not to mention it to Jean. She had enough to be worrying about, he thought, and emotions could play havoc with a body's physical ecosystem. Better to keep her happy, he thought. He would do anything to make her happy.

"They told me," she said. "And you must promise me you won't stay here the whole time. You have much more important things to do than worry over me. In fact, I don't think you should be here now. Suppose you catch it, too?" Her brow furrowed with worry as that thought occurred to her, and Lucien loved her for it, her selfless practicality, even in the face of the trials before her.

"Too late for that now," he told her cheerfully. "I've been exposed to you already. I'll not take patients for the next few days, just in case, and I'll steer clear of the station. The last thing we need is for me to go and infect the whole bloody town."

"No, that wouldn't do at all," Jean agreed. That blush still stained her cheeks - though maybe that was just the fever, he reminded himself - and she cast her eyes down suddenly, her gaze landing on their intertwined hands. The furrow had not left her brow; something was on her mind, and whatever it was it was plainly making her uncomfortable, but she couldn't quite seem to find the words to express the concerns of her heart. That didn't trouble Lucien so very much; he had words enough for both of them.

"Jean," he said very softly, leaning towards her and watching her face intently. "I wanted to say-"

"No," she cut him off, and his heart sank for a moment, thinking she meant to spurn him yet again. It was funny, really, the power she held over him; he lived and died by the play of emotions upon her face, his heart held fast in her two small hands whether she wanted it or not. "I have something to say, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said, trying to mask the misery in his voice. He took an unsteady breath, preparing himself to once more hear her tell him that what he felt was fear, and not love. Over the course of his life he had tasted them both, and he knew very well how to tell one from the other, but he did not know how to convince her of that fact if his action so far had not been sufficient.

"I want to apologize," she said, and he looked up at her sharply, relief rushing into fill the void left by bitter disappointment. "I didn't...I don't...you weren't the one who was afraid, Lucien. I was afraid. I am afraid. I feel perfectly fine at the moment but yesterday I was so wretched I was certain I was going to die. I might die. Tomorrow, or a week from now. Don't stop me, please," she added sharply when he opened his mouth to protest. "And I thought - I do think - it would be cruel of me to...to let you grow too attached, as it were. Lucien, you have lost so much already and I could not bear to be the cause of more suffering in your life."

"Oh, Jean," he sighed. With his left hand he still held her tight, and with his right he reached up and scrubbed his palm across his face, his heart aching. It was not lack of affection, then, that caused her to pull away from him; she had been trying, in her own way, to be noble, to spare him further grief. What she did not seem to realize was how much grief she had caused him already, was that even if she never accepted him, never loved him, he would mourn her loss with every fiber of his being, every day for the rest of his life. Already she had taken up residence within the shattered ruins of his heart, and nothing, not even death itself, would be sufficient to dislodge her.

"But then I came round and saw you sleeping there," she continued. "And I realized...I realized I wanted to see your face. I wanted you with me. More than anyone else in the world, I wanted you beside me. I still think this is madness. I still think you would be better off with Mrs. McDonald and I'll not fault you if you agree. But I can't pretend as if...I have no idea how much time I have left but I don't intend to spend it without you."

It was quite the speech; Jean did not often expound upon her feelings, and certainly not at such length. Her eyes shone as she spoke - though she did not dare look at him - and he could feel her hand trembling, held tight within his own, and he knew then that every word she'd said was true. Finally, after so many months of hiding behind ironclad defenses Lucien had no hope of tearing down, Jean had shown him her heart, and it very nearly moved him to tears, for every word she'd said echoed every hope he carried within his own chest. It was Jean's face he wanted to see, more than any other in all the world, Jean's hand he longed to hold. However long she might have left - and he prayed that it would be long indeed, that all his efforts and all the work of the good people at the hospital would keep her with him for a good many years yet - he wanted to spend that time with her.

"Look at me, Jean," he breathed, and when she did he lifted their combined hands, and pressed a kiss against her skin. "I promise you, I will not let you go."

Don't let me go, she'd whispered as he carried her out to the car, rushing towards her salvation. Those words had echoed in his mind ever since. Those pleading words, asking him not to drop her, not to let her die, not to let her live on without his love. And he had sworn then, as he swore now, to never, ever let her go.

A glaze of tears made her eyes sparkle like diamonds, and he smiled as she pulled their hands in close to her chest, holding him tight to her.

"I feel a bit foolish," she confessed. "You can hardly court your housekeeper, Lucien. And I can hardly...I can't be what you need. Not now, not like this."

"You are what I need," he assured her at once. "I don't know what you're expecting, but I do know what I would like. I would like to sit with you, and speak to you, and share meals with you, as we have always done. But I would like to kiss you, Jean." He wanted to do rather a lot more than that; he wanted to dance her round the parlor, and take her on the grand adventures she deserved, wanted to make love to her beneath the canopy of golden stars sparkling on the ceiling of the studio, wanted to walk down the pavement holding her hand, wanted to make her his wife. He wanted all of those things, and more besides, but before they could have any of that they must first have this, quiet, honest conversation and tender care while her body recovered. One day, he promised himself. One day she will be well, and we will have all of that and more.

"I would like that, too," she told him shyly, and so he smiled and heaved himself out of the chair. Slowly he bent over her, his free hand reaching for her face, cradling her cheek in his palm while her own hand wrapped around his wrist, held him close to her. Jean lifted her chin and met him halfway, and in the next breath his lips brushed hers, softly. He pulled back after a moment and found her smiling at him, and so he leaned in, and kissed her again.