24 July 1959

Lucien was fairly certain he had never, in his life, been so content as this. It was a chilly Friday evening in the depths of winter, but the fireplace in Jean's little parlor was warm, and Jean's body tucked beneath his arm was warmer still. The sun had sunk low on the horizon and Mattie had gone out to visit some of her friends in the nurse's quarters, and the wireless was playing softly. There was a glass of whiskey close to hand but Lucien did not reach for it; he held everything he wanted in his arms already, and he was loath to let her go.

Two treatments left, and then the torture would be through. Oh there would be tests and x-rays in the weeks ahead, to confirm that the medication had done its work and eradicated the last traces of cancer that might have been clinging to Jean's symptoms, but the worst of it would be over. Her appetite would return, and with it her strength, and her hair. The day would soon come when she would be well, again, dancing through the house as she was meant to, and Lucien looked forward to that day immensely.

Which was not to say that he was not enjoying their current circumstances. While it grieved him to see Jean in pain, to see the pale smooth skin of her scalp and know how much he had taken from her, it had been through this trial that Lucien discovered her, truly, discovered his love for her, and he adored now more than he had ever thought possible, and he was grateful for every breath, every second they got to spend just like this, sitting on the sofa in Jean's little parlor with his arm snug around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. For the last week he had fallen beside her every night, and rejoiced in it. In his heart he knew he would not sleep easily without her, not ever again. It was a bit soon, perhaps, to be thinking of rings and forevers, but he was thinking of them just the same.

Some nights the sleep came easier than others, however. It was a beautiful thing, lying down next to Jean, feeling her settle against his side, listening to her deep, even breathing, but each time he did he was reminded of that first morning she'd woken beside him, reminded of the way she'd touched him, kissed him, reminded him of the silken heat of her bare thigh thrown over his hip. There had been such a reckless abandon in the way she reached for him, such a depth of passion in her kiss that it boggled his mind, still, to think he had tasted such bliss, to think what wild longings lurked beneath her prim and proper appearance. It was Jean who had drawn him closer, Jean who had wrapped her body around his, Jean whose want had pushed them close to the edge of madness. The very thought that she could feel such want, could feel it for him, could trust him enough to reveal it to him set his hands to trembling with the need to touch her.

It would be unseemly, he thought, to pursue such endeavors now, whatever his eventual intentions. Whatever she might Jean was still unwell, and he did not want her to overexert herself for his sake, however willing a participant she might be. She needed rest, and peace, and quiet, and while he had never been particularly adept at providing any of those circumstances he was trying, now, to be precisely what she needed. To give her precisely what she needed, comfort and two strong arms to warm her, a steady heart to love her, a promise for a brighter day. His own desires would have to wait, and while he knew that, accepted it, resolved himself to patience, the truth was he had never been particularly good at waiting, and he feared his restraint might soon crack beneath the weight of his regard for her.

"This is nice," Jean said, her voice hardly more than a drowsy hum.

It was nice, nice to be sitting together by the fire, listening to the wireless. When Jean was well he'd dance her round the parlor; when Jean was well he would take her in his arms, and he would kiss her senseless, and if she wrapped one of those long legs around him again he'd-

"Yes," he agreed, his voice cracking on the word. It would not do for him to linger too long on thoughts of her and him and them, and what they might get up to together, not now when he could do absolutely nothing to sate the desires he was threatening to waken within his own heart.

They had rather run out of conversation; Lucien had told her all about his day, about the murder he and Matthew Lawson had just put to rest, about the few patients he'd seen and the gossip he'd gathered from Agnes Clasby. Jean had spent most of the day in bed, wrung out from the previous day's treatment, and now that they were cozy and warm every thought had flown from his mind, left behind only the quiet longing for her that had become the hallmark of his days.

"I've been thinking," Jean said then, very quietly. "About Adelaide."

At those words Lucien perked up a bit. He had been the one to suggest it, a visit to the seaside when Jean was well, a chance for her to see her son and perhaps, of equal importance, to spend some time alone and unobserved with Lucien. She had hedged around agreeing to go; that would be lovely, she'd told him, but she'd not ever said another word about it, and in truth he hadn't expected her to. It was a scandalous proposition, and whatever her current feelings about him Lucien knew that his Jean was a good Christian woman, and he had not held out much hope that she'd allow him such an indulgence. Certainly not before they were wed. It did not escape his notice that somewhere inside his heart he had already decided that they would be wed, despite not having ever mentioned it to Jean, but he was determined not to examine his own feelings on the matter too closely. It would come in time.

"Oh?"

Jean hummed. "I want to wait until my hair's started to grow back," she said. "I think if Ruby saw me like this she'd be alarmed, and I'd never get any peace with her fussing over me."

Lucien laughed and pressed a gentle kiss to her scalp. Though he had only spoken to Ruby on the phone a few times he was certain that Jean's suspicions regarding her daughter-in-law were correct; Ruby was a high-strung girl.

"But once I have my hair back, once I'm feeling a bit stronger. I do think we ought to go, Lucien."

She lifted her chin, tilted her head back, and when Lucien looked down upon her she was smiling up at him softly, hopefully. In the depths of her brilliant eyes he saw it, the insinuation beneath her words, and he had to swallow hard against the sudden rise of his own desire. It was not only a trip to the seaside Jean was agreeing to; she was agreeing to him, accepting him, and with one look at her he knew precisely what it was she intended for them on that little trip. Knowing that being so close to one another, alone in a far away city, would provide them ample opportunity to explore their desire for one another Jean was not backing down, but was instead asking for him. He had never imagined that such boldness lurked within her heart, but he was coming to learn that there were a good many things about Jean Beazley he had never imagined, and the truth of her far surpassed his every dream.

"I think so, too, my darling," he told her, and then he bowed his head, and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips.

It was his intention for this kiss to be fleeting, a promise to be fulfilled at a later date, but Jean did not permit him to slip away from her. Instead she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and reached for him, threaded her fingers through his hair and held him close to her. His restraint was threadbare and dangerously close to snapping, and she was doing nothing to ease the tension in his chest; instead she only built it up higher, let her tongue slide languidly against his own and drew a groan from deep within his chest. Situated on the sofa like this, with Jean beside him and his arm round her shoulders, he could not quite reach her as he might have liked, and a rational part of him knew that was for the best, that an awkward angle would prevent them from pushing too far beyond the bounds of Jean's morality. What he had not counted on, however, what he had never even considered, was that perhaps Jean's morality was not so unyielding as he had previously believed.

A brush with death had a way of changing a heart, and Lucien knew that better than most. The realization that one's own life was fleeting, that any experience, every experience, might well be the last had a way of settling in the back of the mind, pushing a man - or, perhaps, a woman - to reach more boldly for the desires of their heart. There had been times during the war, in the camp, when the knowledge that he could die at any moment had made Lucien reckless, had given him the courage to reach for what he wanted with both hands, had banished hesitation. It would seem that the last few months had wrought a similar change in Jean, for after a moment of kissing sweetly she huffed impatiently against his lips, and then began to move.

Quickly, easily, with all the grace he had come to know from her, Jean lifted herself and slid across his lap. His hands gravitated at once to her hips, and he held her, panting softly, while she settled herself more fully against him, her thighs on either side of his hips, her chest against his own, her hands drifting gently along his neck. For a moment he watched her, the blush of her pale cheeks, the sparkle in her bright eyes, the perfect red fullness of her lips, parted and waiting for his kiss.

"Jean," he whispered, reaching for her face with one hand, feeling the silken slide of her cheek against his palm. Christ, this woman was going to be the death of him. She was so unbelievably beautiful, and she was here, with him, wanting him.

"I love you, Lucien," she answered, and then before he could answer she leaned in, and kissed him again, and he gave himself over wholly to his love of her.

The way she kissed him, the way her nails turned gently against his skin, the subtle shift of her nightdress beneath the hand he'd left upon her hip, drove him all but wild with need. Already he could feel himself beginning to harden beneath the heat of her but before he could spare a thought for her sensibilities Jean was gasping against his mouth. Rather than pull away from him, however, he felt her hips settle more firmly against him, felt the warmth of her press more fully against his lap, and what little remained of his restraint vanished then.

Jean had already dressed for bed, and her soft, pale pink nightdress was bunched up high upon her thighs. Still kissing her wildly, messily, urgently, Lucien dropped both of his hands down to those thighs, and slowly, ever so slowly, he let his palms ghost along her soft skin. Jean's two hands cradled his head, kept him there with her, kissing her, eyes closed, hearts racing, and her hips shifted subtly, grinding down against him, searching for more, more, more. If he could have spared the breath he would have told her then how he loved her, how magnificent he was, but he could not stop kissing her, not for anything, and so he let his hands speak the words his mouth could not say. Slowly, ever so slowly, he dragged his hands up her thighs, disappearing beneath her nightdress. In response Jean arched against him, the gentle thrusting of her hips communicating her desire to him so eloquently he could wept for the beauty of it. In the space of a heartbeat his hands reached the curve of her hip, the soft slide of satin; he arched towards her, his tongue chasing hers, and she met his every movement with one of equal fervor.

Determined now, Lucien's hands followed the line of her knickers until he could cup the perfect swell of her bum, and he curled his fingers hard against her, encouraged her to rock her hips until his body burned with need of her.

With a gasp Jean tore her lips from his, but she did not retreat far. She only rested her forehead against his, her panting breaths warm and sweet against his lips, and looked down, and down, watched her body moving against his. The sight of her, the smooth planes of her, the softness of her breasts, loose and unbound beneath her nightdress, was quite the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life, and he was dangerously close to losing all control.

"Lucien," she gasped. "Lucien."

In response he could hardly do more than groan; he had lost all sense of everything beyond the warmth of her, the beauty of this moment. But then despite the firm grip of his hands against her bum the movement of her hips stuttered, and above the thundering desire that pounded through his veins he heard the change in the sound of her ragged gasps, felt the way her body labored against his own, and relented.

Jean collapsed against his chest, her hands caught between them while she rested her forehead against his collarbone and gasped for breath. Internally he berated himself; he had pushed her too far, and left her too exhausted to breathe, at a time when her health was so fragile. What sort of beast could do such a thing?

"Lucien," Jean panted against his neck.

"I'm so sorry, my darling," he answered, letting his hands drift soothingly down her back, trying to warm her, trying to soothe her, trying to ease the tension he had ignited within her.

"No," she answered, her body still heaving with every breath, "I'm sorry. I wanted…"

A little of his guilt faded; perhaps he had not overstepped the mark as far as he had thought. It was Jean who had crawled into his lap, Jean who had rocked her hips against him, and held him in her kiss. Perhaps they both bore a little of the blame for her exhaustion.

"Soon, my love," he told her, his hands still running along her back, his heart slowly stuttering back into a more manageable rhythm. Jean laughed, and pressed a kiss against his neck, and then for a time they rested, warm and quiet and wrapped around one another.