I'm Just taking these characters out to play, everything and everyone belongs to the keepers and creators of the show.

Rated K. Enjoy.

After a moment of awkward hesitation, she knew his intentions completely, and now their future hung in the air as Lucien hurried from the room to answer the door, leaving her to process what had nearly, just barely, happened. Jean stood as still as a stone, feeling far too brittle even to blink, so precarious that she might fly apart if she moved too quickly. As carefully as she dared, she drew in a breath of air; if anything, her full lungs might absorb the blows of her pounding heart. Her mind worked quickly, thinking and remembering. All the signs had been there; Lucien's recent behaviour was even more strange than usual and had hinted at this moment. Except this wasn't it, this wasn't their moment; this wasn't a proper proposal. Not yet.

Jean's heart began to flutter, and the beginnings of something stirred inside her. Was it relief? Joy? Hope? Her eyes fell to the table, to the ring box, as Lucien mumbled something about "perfect timing" in the hallway behind her. And wasn't it just– perfect timing? Smiling to herself, she picked up the ring box and buried it in her hand, hiding it from whoever was at the door, not ready to share this moment with anyone, at least not until Lucien finished what he had started.

And who was it that interrupted this, their moment? Leaning into the silence, Jean turned toward the hallway. Straining to hear past the absence of voices, she grew curious and called out, "Lucien? Who is it?"

Silence.

Her smile and step faltered when he didn't immediately answer, and quickly Jean's heart, light with possibility, began to sink like a stone. Stepping into the hallway, she froze as a chill ran through her body; Lucien was standing face to face with a ghost.

Jean recognized Mei Lin, having scrutinized her eyes and the lines of her beautiful face whenever she ran her feather duster over the frame that held her picture. An image of Lucien's wife, once frozen in time and believed lost to the tragedies of war, now stood resurrected before him. Finding his voice, "my wife," he called out tensely over his shoulder, unable to break his connection with the hollow, pale and shivering woman before him.

Jean squeezed the ring box in her hand, the blunt edges pressing sharply into her palm. Astonishment held the flood of emotions at bay, yielding only to a storm of thoughts; disbelief swirled with what's and how's and why's. Refocusing, Jean blinked and looked out into the darkness beyond the reigning Mrs. Blake, searching for her own miracle, for her own consolation prize.

A silent shuddering breath filled her lungs as she backed away unnoticed.

Pressing her back into the wall, she tried desperately, quietly, to catch her breath, her body behaving as though she had just run full tilt from the high street. Her heart was pounding in her throat, making it difficult to swallow, her eyes wet with a thousand impossibilities, her muscles tightening as her fist clutched tightly around the ring box at her chest. The pressure in her head drowned out the silence in the room, and by some small mercy, numbness settled over her.

Stunned and unmoving, Jean stood still, staring blankly ahead as her mind raced to seek understanding. She startled at the sound of a muffled cough (or was it a sob), and on impulse, Jean mechanically pushed herself from the wall, blindly reaching for the kettle as she moved towards the sink. The poor woman was shaking, most likely frozen or in shock herself. Tea, she thought—graciousness and hospitality in the least. She was the housekeeper, after all.

Shock suspended reality, and time slowed to a crawl. It seemed as if only seconds had passed, and yet the kettle was suddenly boiling, screeching from its perch on the cooktop. Blinking, Jean looked at the tea service she had absentmindedly set, the tray, the biscuits. Two cups, not three, with their saucers. How long had it been since she and Lucien sat together on the sofa, suspended on the edge of a dream, ready to succumb to longing? Five minutes? Fifteen. Thirty? Across the house, Jean heard a door gently close.

Holding her breath, she listened for the creak of floorboards or the sound of Lucien's steady footfall.

She had kept a tight hold on the ring box, and now her palm was beginning to ache. The corners were surely indenting deep enough to bruise while the hinge pinched her skin in its grooves. The sensation of her heart throbbing to the rhythm of her pain was soothing, and Jean closed her eyes as a single, heavy tear slipped free and started rolling down her cheek. For too long, they had been teetering on the precipice of something that resembled happiness, lingering glances and casual touches, and far too much left unspoken—her body on fire when he was around; her mind on fire when he wasn't.

Jean felt cold and shivered as she swiped her fingers over her cheek. Lucien wasn't coming.

Now would be her chance to sneak away unseen, escape and avoid an impossible conversation. With what conscious thought she could muster, she demanded of herself that she not cry, not here and not yet. Her eyes snapped open, and she reached for the kettle with a shaky hand. Pouring hot water into the teapot, her thoughts drifted back to the woman, Mrs. Blake, trembling on the doorstep, and the last time a knock on the door had shattered all her hopes and dreams.

Unable to see clearly through her building tears, Jean hurried to put the teapot on the tray. After a cautious, watery look into the hallway, she tugged at her heavy body, pushing herself towards the stairs. With each step, she squeezed the ring box tighter, the discomfort keeping her grounded as the familiar weight of discontent settled over her. What would become of them, she wondered with a woeful sigh.

At the top of the stairs, her tears were falling in earnest, and she had no intention of stopping them now. Her heart was aching, and she wondered just how she would carry on this time, after receiving another death knock.