2 July 1959

"Honestly, Lucien, I'm fine," Jean said, but she was smiling as she spoke, as he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close to him for the short jaunt from his car to the front door.

"Humor me, please," he answered. If he had his way Lucien would have commandeered one of the wheelchairs from the hospital for Jean to use at home; she was dreadfully pale and terribly thin, and though her fever had broken and the worst of the coughing had passed he was still not confident she'd regained enough of her strength to go traipsing about. He would have carried her to the door if she'd let him, but he knew better than to ask; his Jean was always happiest standing on her own two feet.

How strange it was, he thought as they moved together towards the door, his hand settled comfortably on her hip, her overnight bag held loosely in his free hand, that he could think of her as his, now, that she should welcome his touch, and not run from him. The terrible ordeal she'd suffered a week before seemed to have caused a dramatic shift in Jean's very soul; there was a peacefulness to her now that he could not recall having seen before, and she had accepted him, wholly and completely. He had not thought such a thing was possible, not without a great deal more effort on his part, and he hardly knew what to do with himself, now that their circumstances had changed so dramatically. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had; when they entered the house he would walk with her to her room, fetch a cup of tea and sit with her awhile, and there was nothing new about that. He loved her today, but he had loved her a week before; his love of her had not changed. She was still ill, and he was still her doctor. But she had opened her heart to him, at long last, and he would not squander such a precious gift.

"Let's get you settled, eh?" he said as they stepped through the door together.

Jean slipped away from him, perhaps recalling that Mattie was in the house and thinking a bit of distance would be for the good. She might have been right about that, but Lucien lamented the loss of her warmth beside him just the same.

"I've been in bed for days," Jean reminded him. "I'm in no hurry to lie down. I think I'd like to go and see my flowers."

Though Lucien wanted to protest Jean did not wait around to hear it; she stepped away from him, walking smoothly down the corridor, the soft swing of her hips nearly lulling Lucien into insensibility right there. How long had it been, he wondered, since last he'd had the chance to stand and watch her walk, to think how fine she looked in her sharp skirt, her pale blue blouse? For days before she'd taken a turn she had been relegated to her bed, and had been avoiding him besides. It seemed an age, since last she'd been up and about, properly dressed and walking through the corridors of their home with purpose. Lucien did not expect this bout of vitality to last; she was on rather a lot of medication, and while returning home may have filled her with joy for a time, exhaustion would be soon to follow. Every high was accompanied by a low; such was the nature of illness.

And so he dropped her bag right there in the foyer, rather than walking it into the studio, and hastened to follow after her. A spot of tea in the sunroom might be quite nice indeed, but he needed to make sure Jean didn't get it in her head to do any sort of work. The flowers needed tending, but Jean needed her rest, and he would not sacrifice her health for the sake of a few blooms that could be replaced far more easily than Jean herself.

He came marching into the sunroom a few steps behind her, and lingered in the doorway, watching as she floated through the room. Mattie had been watering the plants here and there - when she remembered, which was not often - and so they were not all dried and dead. The heartier varieties still bloomed, and the sight of Jean, pale but steady, drifting among the greenery in the late morning sun stirred something deep in his heart. She was so lovely, his Jean, and nowhere did he feel her presence more strongly than here, in the sunroom, surrounded by the fruits of her labor, these blossoms she had so lovingly tended, brought forth from her own desire for life and beauty. It was right, he thought, that she should be here now; she belonged here.

"Cup of tea?" he asked her softly, and Jean turned to face him slowly, a gentle smile on her face. Her illness had exaggerated the sharpness of her features, but her eyes, her lips, were soft, still, and warm, and the blue of her kerchief made those eyes glow like stars.

"That would be lovely," she told him.

He wanted, very much, to kiss her. He wanted to cross the space between them and draw her into his arms and shower her with every ounce of the love he carried for her. He wanted to tell her how marvelous she was, how happy she had made him, how determined he was to make her well, and whole. He wanted to dance with her there in the sparkling sunlight, and whisper to her of all the dreams he carried in his heart. All these things he wanted, and more besides, but he had made an offer of tea, and so he turned away, rushed into the kitchen and set to work as quickly as he could, eager to return to her.

Perhaps she wanted him to kiss her, too. She had accepted a chaste kiss from him, there in the hospital, had confessed to wanting it as badly as he did, had not turned him away or admonished him for it. Though he did not know entirely how things between them ought to go - after all, they could hardly walk out together when Jean was too weak to leave the house, and he could hardly expect...more while she was so indisposed - he reckoned a kiss or two might not go amiss. Having discovered the depth of his love for her, having discovered that she felt much the same for him, he saw no reason not to act on the simplest of his desires. But suppose Jean thought it inappropriate? She was, after all, a very proper sort of lady, and might object to any such affection between them while they lived beneath the same roof. I have no idea how much time I have left, but I don't intend to spend it without you, that's what she'd told him. He knew what he wished those words meant, but he was rather less clear about Jean's intentions.

Don't be a fool, he told himself as he piled up a tray with the tea things. She's a woman, not a riddle.

Armed with his tray he returned to the sunroom, and found Jean already settled on the little sofa there, looking absently at her flowers. At the sound of his footfall she looked up, and smiled again, and he felt some of his doubts dissipate, somewhat. It was so lovely to see her smile, to think he might have been the one to put that smile there.

"Here we are," he said, and set his tray down on the table before sitting himself next to Jean.

He wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders, but he wasn't sure how such a gesture might be received, and he needed to see to the tea first. Carefully he poured her a cup, one cube of sugar the way she liked, and handed it over to her.

"Thank you," Jean said.

"My pleasure, Jean," he answered.

With their tea in hand they settled back against the sofa together; for a moment Lucien hesitated, wondering what he ought to do, but Jean leaned against him, ever so slightly, and he moved without thinking, snaked his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. To his delight she let him, relaxed against his body with a sigh of contentment, and for a few moments they sat together in silence, smiling into their teacups.

"There's rather a lot to be done in here," Jean said after a time, still looking round at her flowers.

"I'd like to help, if I may." Oh, Lucien was a hopeless gardener but he took direction well; he was certain that he could follow her orders, and get the sunroom back into order.

"I'm sure you've more important things to be worrying about. You have your patients, and the police business."

"There is no police business, just now," Lucien told her truthfully. They'd wrapped up their most recent investigation while she was in hospital, and no new bodies had appeared - yet. The work would come, the way it always did, when he least expected it. He relished it, the investigations, the mysteries to solve, but at the moment Jean was the only matter that occupied him.

"Perhaps I will put you to work, then," she said, and he could hear laughter in her voice when she spoke. "Under supervision, of course."

"Of course, my darling," Lucien said, and then he turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

Jean hummed in response to his touch but there was something dissatisfied about the sound that left Lucien wondering whether he'd overstepped the mark. That one little kiss had hardly been salacious, but perhaps she thought their current position too intimate. He hated to think he had offended her, when he himself was so completely charmed by her; could it be that he was already making a hash of things? He desperately hoped not.

"Jean-"

"I don't quite know what we're doing, Lucien," she cut him off before he could ask her what was troubling her. Apparently she intended to tell him anyway.

"We're having a cup of tea," he said slowly.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Her tone was gentle, and softened the rough edges of her words. "I don't...I'm not...I've been dreadfully confused since you kissed me that first time," she confessed in a small voice. "You couldn't wait to be rid of me, before I got sick. I couldn't wait to be rid of you, if I'm honest. But now, I can hardly picture my life without you in it. I suppose I just want to know...what it is you want from me. What it is you expect."

He knew that in her own rather indirect way, Jean was asking him whether it was just a few kisses he wanted, a warm body to hold, whether he intended this thing between them to blossom into a love as bright as her flowers, or whether it was no more than a passing fancy. Jean was not the sort to go round kissing a man she did not love, was not the sort to sate her desires and move on without regret. A woman like Jean was a woman who could only be swayed by the full depth of love. They were both lucky then, he thought, that what he felt for her was love indeed.

"Before you took ill, we didn't know one another, not really. I was not on my best behavior after dad died, and I admit I was...I was pushing people away. But these last few months, getting to know, getting to learn about you, getting to see who you really are...you've changed me, Jean. I want to be with you. I want to kiss you, if you'll let me. I want to look after you. And when you're well…" I want to marry you, that's what he wanted to say, but he feared that such a declaration might only frighten her, when she was only just beginning to accept her feelings for him. "When you're well, I'll want you still. When you're well we can do all the things that other people do." That other couples do, he thought, but he couldn't quite get that out, either. He felt like a teenager again, asking to court, but their situation was more complex than that, and he knew it.

"I think I'd like that," she told him, shyly, as if she could hardly believe it herself. "You...you've changed me, too, you know."

"Good, then," he said. He meant to kiss her temple again, but Jean lifted her chin, looked up at him with shining eyes, and he was lost. Ever so slowly, mindful of the tea cups they both held, he lowered his head, and brushed his lips against hers, gently. It was as close as they were going to get, he thought, to any sort of understanding; Jean would not hear talk of marriage while she was unwell, of that he was certain. But it would not be so very long, until her treatments ran their course, and then...and then the world itself would be waiting for them to step out into it, together.