It was late, rather later than Lucien would have liked, when he and Nemea came sneaking in through the kitchen door. There was no one about, but then he'd not expected there to be; Mattie and Osiris started their days early, and Jean and Halcyon were always up with the sun, and after Game of Champions everyone started making noises about going off to bed. He'd missed it, tonight. The ladies had enjoyed their supper and a little telly - and no doubt a little gossip about him - utterly unchaperoned, for Lucien had business elsewhere. It seemed he often had business elsewhere, and that irked Jean no end, he knew. Every meal he missed she viewed as a slight, somehow, as if it were her cooking, or her person, that kept him out of doors, as if his absence were indicative of some greater disregard, when the truth was he'd only been distracted, and in over his head. He didn't want to be away from her. He didn't want her to go.

As much as he had no doubt disappointed her, missing supper yet again, she'd left a plate out for him, covered neatly by a dishcloth but no doubt stone cold by now. It'd still be good, he thought. Everything she made was good; she was a marvel in the kitchen and a dab hand with a sewing needle and she possessed a fine head for figures, kept the surgery running smoothly even when Lucien himself could not recall whether he had any appointments, or when they might be. Who was going to keep his schedule, when Jean was gone? Who was going to remind him to organize his receipts, or pay the milkman, or to call the chemist about Mrs. Clasby's prescriptions? What would become of him, without her?

"Smells good," Nemea said very softly. They were home now, and safe, and so she padded silently away from him, over towards the table.

"I'm afraid I've been spoiled by all these home cooked meals," Lucien mused, and from across the room Nemea's yellow eyes glinted at him knowingly.

"There won't be anyone here to look after you, once Jean's gone," Nemea told him. "Are you really prepared to do your own washing and cleaning and cooking and mind the surgery all by yourself?"

He did know how to do all those things. It had been years since the army had thrown him out in the cold, and he'd gotten by. He'd eaten a lot of fish and chips and scrambled eggs and toast, and he'd paid for someone else to wash his clothes, but he'd managed. He could manage again, he thought. He would have to, once Jean was gone.

"I don't know how to do this," he confessed. "Having someone else about the house all day, having to answer for my comings and goings, always having to worry about her."

And he did, worry. Worried that she was unhappy with him, worried whether her wages- which had been set by his father - were sufficient, and worried whether he'd offend her if he asked. He felt...responsible for her, somehow. Felt he had a duty to make sure that she felt comfortable in this house that was as much her home as his, if not more than. He felt he had to watch his language, and hide his drinking, and she'd outlawed smoking indoors and he'd let her, because he worried what she might think of him if he refused to compromise for her sake. He worried he'd never be good enough to make her happy.

"She's not your wife, Lucien," Nemea said, and though the words were delivered gently they still chilled him to the core, because Nemea had hit upon his concerns exactly. Living in this house with Jean and Mattie felt rather like being part of a family, sometimes, and the way he traded banter with Jean and tried to provide for her needs felt rather like having all the duties that came with marriage, and none of the privileges. And then he thought it might be rather nice to have such privileges, with a woman as beautiful and strong as Jean, and then he hated himself for even thinking such a thing, when he knew she would not have him, and would disapprove of him entertaining such thoughts.

Family; he thought to himself, and bloody hell. It was never easy, family. He'd wanted for family all his life, wanted the mother taken from him too soon, wanted the father who spurned him, wanted the wife and child who were snatched from his arms. He wanted joy, and peace, and home, and all he had been given was blood and ashes, and now this little family, too, was set to be shattered, for once Jean left Mattie would surely follow not long after and he would be, once more, alone.

"Ask her to stay."

The daemon was the soul made flesh; Nemea's words were the words of his own heart, spoken in a low voice.

"She wants to leave," Lucien pointed out. "And I'll not force her to stay."

"I didn't say anything about force," Nemea answered coolly. "You're never here to eat Jean's cooking with the rest of the house and you never remember your appointments and you complain when you catch her tidying up after you. Has it occurred to you, Lucien, that she might think you want her gone?"

Of course it had occurred to him. Of course he had thought to himself that perhaps he ought to make an entreaty on his own behalf. But he had done no such thing, had been too fearful of Jean's wrath, too worried that he might come off like a bully. What if Nemea was right, though? What if Jean had only thought she would not stay where she was not wanted; what if it really were that simple, and all he had to do was tell her that she was wanted very much indeed?

"What's the worst that could happen?" Nemea challenged him. "She's already leaving. If she wants to go she'll go. But if she wants to stay, perhaps she only needs to hear from you that you want the same."

Lucien had begun to pace across his side of the kitchen, running his hand absently over the back of his head, and as he did he caught the faint strains of the wireless, a siren song drifting down from upstairs, calling out to him. Jean was up there, he knew, and Jean had a wireless of her own in her bedroom, and she was no doubt awake, still, listening to the music. He could go to her now, this very moment, and unburden himself. He could try.

"Right," he said, and then he straightened his shoulders and marched right out of the kitchen towards the stairs, and Nemea fell into step beside him silent but pleased, he knew. She was always pleased when he came round to her way of thinking.

At the top of the stairs he found Jean's bedroom door ajar, and rapped on it lightly, trying to ignore the way his heart had begun to race.

"Yes?" she asked, as if he had come to demand some service, as if he had not been drawn to that spot by his growing need of her.

"I couldn't help but hear the wireless," he said, stammering just a little. It was true, that the wireless had drawn him here, but it was not only the wireless. It was Jean, warm and lovely sitting on her bed beneath a soft white blanket. It was Jean, who meant to leave him, who Lucien could not bear to lose. It was Jean, and the pale pink walls of her room, and the clothes strewn about, all the little pieces of her that reminded him that she belonged here, in this house, with him.

She reached to turn the wireless down at once, looking a bit sheepish, as if she feared she had been playing it too loudly, and for an instant he considered asking her to turn it back up. What would it be like, he wondered, if he could be the sort of man she might care for, if he could come home in the evenings to be greeted by the sound of music, to wrap her in his arms and dance her all around the house? What might it be like, he wondered, to know her as a woman, full of dreams and longings, longings he could make good on, wanted to make good on, if only he were given the chance?

"Will you join us, Lucien?" Halcyon asked, and Lucien startled at the sound of his voice; he'd taken no note of the little bird, but he saw a flash of blue up by the pillows behind Jean, and then Halcyon himself was stepping out, cocking his head to the side curiously.

"If that's all right with Jean," Lucien said carefully. She nodded, and so he passed through the doorway, then.

As he entered her room he glanced around, taking note of the soft scent of her perfume, the scarves hanging over the mirror, but he paused as his gaze landed on a smart grey jacket draped across the back of a chair, a jacket hanging heavy with bright, shining medals. His heart sank as he stared at it. They were Christopher's medals, of course; Anzac Day was coming, and Jean would march with the other war widows, bearing her husband's medals proudly, honoring his memory. Somehow seeing those medals made Christopher suddenly very real, in Lucien's mind; this man had lived, had wed this woman, had given her children, had laughed with her, kissed her, loved her, left her grieving and alone. It was almost as if that jacket had become the man himself, standing there tall and proud and glaring at Lucien, for having the audacity to stand alone in this room with his wife. Lucien averted his gaze at once, shamed and cowed by the ghost of Christopher Beazley, but still the thought of the man lingered. What sort of daemon, Lucien wondered, had shadowed Christopher's steps? What sort of man had he been, this man Jean had loved? Those were questions he could not answer, and so he cast about in search of something else to say. Nemea leaned heavily against his leg, her weight a not so subtle reminder of the conversation they'd had downstairs, the purpose that had brought him here.

"Erm...how did the interview go?" he asked finally.

"Dreadful," Halcyon grumbled, even as Jean said, "fine," a little smile flitting across her face, forced and painfully brief. The awkwardness Lucien always felt when he found himself facing Jean alone reared its head, an uncomfortable sort of tension dancing between them.

"Fine?" he repeated, somewhat lamely. Halcyon did not think so, apparently, and Lucien found himself wondering what on earth that could mean.

"Yes, it's a lovely building and I'm sure there will be plenty of work," Jean elaborated. She shifted beneath his stare and he found himself wondering if she found their interactions as painful as did he, if that was why she had chosen to abandon him.

"And they'll treat you well?" he asked softly, before he could stop himself. Lucien knew how it went, for women in service, and he could not bear the thought of anyone taking advantage of Jean. Perhaps she did not wish to stay with him, and perhaps in time he would come to accept that, but he simply couldn't allow her to go somewhere she might be mistreated.

"Apparently," Jean said.

"Good," Lucien said. "Good."

With that bit of small talk out of the way the time had come for Lucien to plead his case. If there was any chance, any at all, that Jean wanted to stay, that there was something he could say that would convince her that he needed her for more than cooking his meals and washing his dishes, to explain how she brightened his life, how she gave him hope, Lucien knew he had to try. Vulnerability did not come easy to him; Lucien was not a man who readily admitted his own needs. But he needed her help and her company, needed to have someone else about the house, someone to hold him accountable, needed her, and so for her sake he would lay himself bare, and beg her to stay.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the empty chair at the foot of her bed.

"Oh, yes," Jean answered, her face a study in confusion.

Lucien settled himself there, and Nemea laid down at his feet, stretching herself out comfortably. On the bed little Halcyon took a few hopping steps forward until he was perched right on the very end of it, his eyes trained on Nemea as they so often were.

"Erm, look," Lucien began, somewhat uncomfortably, I've... I've had some time to think, about whether or not I...I need a housekeeper..and the truth is, probably not."

"Lucien," Nemea rumbled, very softly. Oh bugger it, he thought; he was making a hash of this. "I mean, it's lovely, really lovely, having you look after me."

Jean frowned; perhaps she didn't like hearing her life's work reduced to looking after someone else. Perhaps he'd been a fool to come here at all. "That's probably just, you know, very lazy on my part," he added quickly.

"Right," Jean said. She looked a bit confused, and he couldn't blame her, for he could hardly make sense of his own thoughts.

"How do I," Lucien muttered to himself, and Jean watched him warily as he cast about for his words, as if she feared what he might have to say.

"What Lucien means," Nemea said, casting him a dark look, "is that while he may not know how to ask for it, he does need help, Mrs. Beazley."

"Yes," Lucien said in a rush, grateful for her assistance, even if it did sting a bit, hearing her speak for him, hearing her so plainly state his failings. "A blind eye every now and then, a damn good talking to at other times. You know I'm sure there may well be days when it's all a bit…"

"Confusing?" Halcyon piped up from the end of the bed, and a rueful smile tugged at the corner of Lucien's mouth.

"Yes," he said. There were surely days when everything about him must have confused her - surely moments just like this one, when he sounded half mad and she was trying her best to make sense of it - but maybe, he thought, maybe if they just helped one another they could come to understand one another better, in time.

"It won't be like it was with my father, with me," he told her. No, Thomas Blake had liked his order and his routine and had probably never asked Jean for anything more than supper and help with the accounts. What Lucien needed, more than a pseudo-wife to tidy up after him, was a partner. Someone to keep him grounded, someone to keep him sane. Someone he could help, as much as she helped him. "With me it will always be somewhat...messier."

"I don't understand," Halcyon said, his bright head swiveling from Jean to Lucien and back again. "We're leaving. Or...or are you asking us to stay, Lucien? If you need us we can help you! We can help with your cases, too, not just the surgery, Jean is very clever, she-"

"Hush, you," Jean said to him, very gently, and then she turned those bright eyes of hers on Lucien's, a thoughtful sort of expression on her face.

"Are you saying that-"

"Yes," Lucien said, relieved. At his feet Nemea shifted restlessly.

"He's trying to ask you to stay, Mrs. Beazley," Nemea said. Apparently, she thought Lucien had not made that plain enough. "If you're willing, if you'd like to."

And then, to Lucien's surprise and his very great relief, Jean smiled.

"I would like to stay," Jean said. "If that's all right with you."

Halcyon crowed in delight and spread his wings, lifted himself easily from the end of the bed to spin in dizzying circles through the air, and Jean and Lucien both laughed, watching him. Laughed, until that laughter died in their throats, for Halcyon barreled suddenly towards the floor right in front of Nemea. He found his feet and took two shuffling steps until he was close enough to nuzzle his head against Nemea's scarred cheek.

"We're going to stay, Nemea!" he chirped, but Lucien and Jean were both deathly silent, for their daemons had just touched, and neither of them had flinched; neither of them had acted as if anything were amiss at all. In fact, Nemea lowered her head, rested her chin on her great paws so that she could look Halcyon in the eye. What on earth is this? Lucien wondered faintly; he'd never seen such a thing before, such easy familiarity between daemons whose people were not family, or lovers. Nemea and Lilith had been close, while Derek and Lucien were held captive, but they'd known each other for years by then, and grief and pain had bound them. Not so with Nemea and Halcyon, with Jean and Lucien; they were all still just getting to know one another, trying to find their footing, and the way Halcyon and Nemea were with each other...Jean would say it bordered on the obscene, he thought, if she'd seen someone else's daemons behaving this way. She did not chide her little kingfisher, however; she looked as stunned as Lucien felt, and did not say a word.

"I'm glad, little one," Nemea said. "I did not want to see you leave."

And then Halcyon insinuated himself between her paws, and wrapped his wings around himself, and settled down as if he were quite content to lay with her, and Nemea let him, her cheek pressed close against him. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. They had gravitated towards one another from the very first, and where the daemon goes, the man must follow, that's what people said, and Halcyon and Nemea, they went toward each other, and what does it mean? Lucien asked himself. Their souls were drawn to one another, Jean and Lucien's, but surely, he thought, surely she could not come to love him, as her little kingfisher loved his lioness. He was too brash and too reckless and too messy, and Jean would surely want better for herself. Wouldn't she?

Lucien raised his eyes to Jean's face and after a moment she returned his gaze, a question in her eyes. The same question, Lucien thought, that troubled his own heart.

"You said you needed some help?" she asked faintly after a moment. Apparently Jean had decided not to remark upon their daemon's strange behavior, and so for her sake Lucien let it lie.

"Yes," he answered. "What can you tell me about the Royal Cross Hotel?"