15 July 1959

Lucien woke to an unfamiliar warmth in his bed, an unfamiliar softness in his heart, an unfamiliar pain in his chest. It took a moment for reality to resolve itself around him, for the glass-shard shadows of his dreams to fall away and leave instead the radiance of this most ordinary, and most extraordinary, of moments. It was a morning like any other, and yet unlike any he had ever known, for while the butter-yellow softness of the rising sun streaming through the curtains was familiar to him, the comfort of Jean asleep in his arms was a wholly new experience.

It had not been his intention the night before that she should sleep beside him the whole night through; he'd not had any intentions at all, truth be told, had wanted only to hold her for as long as she would allow, and had not ever imagined she would allow this much. She was tucked in close to him, her back against his chest, his chin brushing the soft smooth skin of her scalp, his arm flung out across the gentle curve of her waist, her toes tucked beneath his calf as if they had burrowed there of their own accord, drawn to the heat of him. Her toes were always cold, but not so now, not here with him. Here, with him, she was warm, and soft, and he could think of nothing more wonderful than this, waking with her in his arms. They would need to move soon; Mattie would be awake before too long, and if she did not find Jean in the kitchen she was liable to go looking for her, and it would not do for Mattie to discover whose bed Jean currently occupied. Oh, Jean was far too proper and far too ill to be getting up to mischief, and likely Mattie knew that, but Jean had her pride, and Lucien would not infringe upon it willfully.

"Jean," he whispered, and let his lips brush sweetly against the crown of her head. "Wake up, my darling."

She stirred in his arms, her waking quick but peaceful; she began to stretch, as if to shake off the last of her own dreams, but as her body came into contact with his she froze in place, the feeling of her pressed against him so delicious he could have wept with gratitude. Only the day before he had come so close, so damnably close, to losing this, losing her, forever, and having her with him now reminded him of a promise he had made to her, a promise he swore now that he would work more diligently to keep. Caution did not come easily to him, but if he was to have Jean in his bed as his reward he reckoned it was a sacrifice he could make, and gladly.

"Lucien," she whispered, and his heart sang in his chest, for she did not sound cross or disturbed by their closeness; she sounded only gently awed, as Lucien was himself, as if she were equally delighted to find herself in his embrace.

"Good morning, Jean," he whispered. The curve of her shoulder had slid out from beneath the blankets; her faded flannel nightgown covered every inch of her skin, but he kissed her shoulder just the same, enchanted by the very notion that she was here, with him, that he could kiss her if he wished and she would not run from him. In fact, she did quite the opposite; she hummed, and found his hand where it rested against her belly, pressed her palm to his fingers and held him close to her.

"I suppose I ought to leave," she said then.

"Stay," he answered at once. "Just another minute. Just...just stay. Please."

He did not know when next he'd be allowed to enjoy such a blessing as this, and he was in no rush to see this moment end. Though she was right, though he knew she needed to leave him, he could not bear to be parted from her.

"You were going to tell me," she said, "in the morning. What happened to you."

All the beautiful, soft feelings of love and devotion that had stirred within his heart shimmered and stuttered, fear and grief slipping in between them and leaving him full of doubt instead. Yes, he'd promised to tell her the truth in the morning, and the morning had come, and he knew he owed it to her now, but he was loath to breathe life into such wretchedness.

"I had a lead, on the murder investigation," he began slowly.

"Oh, Lucien." The grip of her hand tightened against his, as if she would have pulled him back from his own recklessness, if only it were in her power. "Why didn't you tell the police?"

"Matthew said he needed more evidence. I decided to find him some. I went round to speak to the suspect myself."

I was a bloody fool. It was only that Lucien had been so certain, and that so often when suspects were confronted with the truth of their ill deeds they caved to pressure and submitted to the inevitable, and he had thought himself strong enough, and clever enough, to best one young lad who sold bootleg liquor out of his father's barn. Pride cometh before the fall, and all that.

"He pulled a knife on me. I'm ashamed to say he got rather a bit closer than I would have liked."

Jean rolled over in his arms suddenly then, grey eyes flashing up at him in the wan light of the dawn, her hand immediately drawn to the bandage on his chest.

"He cut you?" Her face was full of horror and worry, and he could not blame her for that; he felt the same in his own heart. The knife had glanced across his pectoral, sliced through his shirt and through his skin, too close to his heart for comfort. The wound had taken several stitches to close it, and burned like fire this morning.

"I'm afraid my shirt is ruined beyond even your capable skill," Lucien said. It was a feeble attempt at levity, and it fell flat; Jean frowned at him as she covered the bandage on his chest with her palm. Though Lucien had carried her in his arms on more than one occasion, lowered her gently into bed, he had never been quite so close to her as this, her legs tangled up with his, her fingertips touching his bare flesh, her eyes, uncovered by hair or a scarf, glowing up at him like terrible stars, and her proximity now left him ragged with longing. What he wanted, more than anything else, was to forget his fight with the murderer, to forget how close he had come to calamity, and lose himself in Jean instead. It was what he wanted, but he knew he could not have it; he was certain that she was too disturbed by his confession to permit him such liberties now.

"You promised me you would be careful," she said, and her voice was full of hurt. Not the hurt of betrayal, he thought; it sounded more like the hurt of fear. It frightened her, to think of losing him, and though he felt himself a fool for having put himself in this position he could not help but think that was a lovely thing, her regard for him. He loved her, wholly and completely, and she did not want to lose him, and that seemed to him to bode well for his future, a future he now cautiously imagined might have her in it.

"I did," he agreed. "And I will be. Lesson learned, my darling. I want to come home to you more than I want to catch any murderer."

"Good," she said, her fingertips curling against his chest. "I can't lose you, not now. Not before you've...made good on your intentions."

Her cheeks reddened slightly as she spoke that word intentions, as if she were shocked by her own boldness, but she did not look away from his face, let him see in her eyes all the love, all the hope she held for him. That night he'd spoken to her of his intentions he had been testing the waters, wondering whether she might permit more than a chaste kiss to her temple, wondering whether she might welcome it, wondering what exactly it was she envisioned for their future, wondering if her dreams ran the same course as his own. There had been moments already when she had permitted him to kiss her, but they had been moments of reckoning, emotions boiling over, moments when he felt a kiss was the only way to express to her how desperately he needed her, the only way to keep her close to hand. Would she accept his kiss in another moment, a moment when that kiss was not a plea for clemency but a promise of passion? For it was passion that lurked within his own heart, a fierce, hungry desire to cleave to her, to bind them both together, to feel the satin slide of her skin against his own, to hear her call out his name in bliss. He had spoken to her of his intentions, and that day she had looked at him as if she understood, and wanted the same. This morning she looked at him, and he saw intentions of her own shining in her eyes. She wanted him, he realized with a start, not just to protect her, to comfort her, to warm her toes as she slept, but to woo her, to romance her, to pour out all his passions on her and taste her own in kind. The words she had chosen now rang through his head like a bell; she wanted him to make good on his intentions, every single one.

And Christ, but he would do so right now, if she'd let him, would roll her beneath him this very minute. She was beautiful, and watching him, and soft in his arms, and he burned with want of her. Perhaps the timing was not the best; his cavalier disregard for his safety had wounded her, and she was still ill, and prone to tiring easily, and despite his own disinterest in his reputation Jean treasured her own. Perhaps now was not his moment, but perhaps he might be allowed just a modicum of grace, a sweet indulgence to see him through until she was well, until he could love her properly, openly, as she deserved.

"Jean," he breathed her name, for as much as her boldness had surprised her it had all but scrambled his thoughts, left him hardly capable of speech. In answer she raised one delicate hand, the tip of her forefinger trailing softly over his bottom lip, down his chin, her eyes full of longing, her lips parted as if ready for his kiss, and something deep within his chest seemed to snap. The brush of her finger over his lip, the tenderness of it, the wonder, the yearning in her gaze, was more than he could bear.

Recklessly he surged towards her, and she arched to meet him, her hand coming to rest on his neck while her soft breasts pressed hard against his bare chest, and then his lips crashed into hers, and he drowned. This kiss was not like the others; Jean did not take a moment to adjust, was not shy and uncertain beneath him. Instead she met his passion with one of her own, her lips opening to his at once, her tongue seeking his while she turned her nails against his neck. With his arm still looped around her waist he pressed his palm flat to the small of her back, and drew her in hard against him. The swell of her bum fitted tight to his own hips as they slept had left him half-hard when he woke, and though fear had caused his arousal to abate somewhat her kiss threatened to bring it back to life at once, and he knew that she would feel it, through his thin sleeping pants, through her threadbare flannel. Let her feel it, he thought, let her see how desperately he wanted her, how he needed her; her teeth caught against his bottom lip and in the next second she had flung her leg round his hip, drawn him in closer still.

What a delight she was, the most marvelous surprise; he groaned into her mouth and felt her grin in response, and still she kissed him, cradled him close, desire building to a fever pitch between them. All thoughts of propriety and boundaries to be respected had fled from Lucien's mind; all that remained was the warmth and the beauty and the taste of Jean. Teasingly she pulled back from him, but his lips chased after her, swallowing the sound of her laugh while with his hand still flat against her back he encouraged her to rock against him. For a moment he lost himself on that sea of pleasure, every tiny sound, every soft breath, every movement of her body against his new and beautiful and full of rapture, erasing every thought of pain that had come before it.

At last, however, Jean pulled back from him for good, buried her face in the crook of his neck and gasped against his skin. She was breathless, and perhaps not all from passion; she was still unwell, and did not have much energy these days. Perhaps their clinch had been too much for her, exertion beginning to push her past her limits, and so he let her rest in his arms, her leg still looped round his hip. Idly he reached for her, let his palm ghost along her thigh where nightgown had been flung back to allow her better access to him, but he respected the barrier of the fabric that still covered her, sought only to touch her, for as long as he was able, and not take more from her than she was willing to give. There would be time for more later, he promised himself. A lifetime stretched out in front of them, and as soon as she was well they could begin to explore the promise of this passion to its fullest extent. It was a dream, and one he clung to with both hands.

"Lucien," Jean whispered, her lips soft against his neck. "You must look after yourself, for me. While I can't. Promise me you will."

"I promise, my darling," he swore to her. For months now he had been looking after her, but he recalled how it had been in the beginning, how Jean had done her best to care for him, even when he spurned her efforts. No one could look after him so well as Jean had done, he thought, but he would try, for her sake, for the sake of the promise of more moments like this one, moments when she was close, and holding him.