Jeanuary 22: Big Bang Day Five - Dreams
So...a little loose interpretation for this prompt but here goes. Set sometime between 4.2 and 4.3, and I took some inspiration from mosaika's apron challenge.
Lucien stood at the front door bidding his final patient of the morning a good day. The muffled sound of clattering glass drifted down the hall, followed by a bothered sigh. Agnes Clasby offered a knowing smile as she clasped his forearm. "Give my regards to Mrs. Beazley."
His bashful smile pulled his cheek into a dimple. "Always lovely to see you, Agnes."
He closed the door and turned towards the interior of the house, curious, he stood with his hands on his hips, listening. The kitchen faucet splashed as it surged to life.
He moved towards Jean rather than returning to his study. With each step, the sounds of glass gently clanking against glass, mixed with sloshing water became more pronounced over the noise of the rushing tap. He rounded the corner and stopped, waiting in anticipation for her to turn and look back.
Jean stood at the sink, with her back to him. She worked in a daze, looking out the window to the back garden. The commotion at her hands drowned out his presence, leaving Lucien unnoticed behind her. Her hands moved automatically into the water; submerging, scrubbing, lifting, turning, draining. The jars she was cleaning were particularly filthy, having been returned and put away dirty, remnants of various Ballarat water samples dried and stuck to the insides.
Lucien propped himself up against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin he fixed his eyes to take in a view of his own. The way she pressed a little more weight over her right side. The soft swing of her skirt behind her knees. Her perfectly fitted, plaid skirt. The gentle movement of the knotted apron strings. The suppressed sway of her hips countered the subtle movement of her arms. His gaze moved higher, following the smoothness of her blouse, the quiet jutting of her shoulder blades as they moved rhythmically, keeping time with the ministrations of her hands. Her curled hair resting at the nape of her neck, bouncing when she scrubbed in earnest.
His eyes followed the length of her arm as she reached out and placed a jar into the drying rack to her right. Lucien's cheek tightened with a half-smile. He remembered storing a box filled with dirty jars, the jars she was cleaning now, in the cellar and thinking to himself, 'Jean won't be pleased.'
He watched as a drop of sudsy water fell from her forearm.
Jean stepped back to allow just enough space between her hips and the counter. She reached down to collect a bunch of her apron and used it to wipe her arm dry. Lucien's eyes swelled as he watched her apron pull along the thick, sturdy fabric of her skirt, revealing the definition of her hip. He swallowed thickly. Rapt by the knot; the strings tied in an efficient bow, tugged a little closer to her dominant side, the length of the strings that fell over her skirt. He felt his fingers begin to burn with salacious intent as he imagined coming up behind her and giving one of those strings a tug.
He dreamed of the day when he could.
"Lucien!" Jean's voice was sharp and intruding, startled by his silent presence behind her. She gripped at the edge of the sink, her apron dropping neatly back into place over her skirt. "What on earth are you doing?" Her brow furrowed, confused by his expression.
He cleared his throat and pushed himself off the door frame. "Sorry Jean," he smoothed his hands over his waistcoat, before tugging on the hem. Shaking his head, he stepped out of his daydream and into the kitchen, "tea?"
