A Foreign Field

Lucien sat at his desk, the classical piano playing on the record getting lost within his mind. He'd had nearly enough scotch to quiet his thoughts, a bit too much to keep them focused. He stared at the chalkboard, trying to figure out the code, trying to determine what this dead spy was doing. If he was a spy. Lucien was rather sure now that he was a spy.

But he couldn't keep his attention on what was in front of him. His mind wandered. Wandered back to the gardens, back to sitting under the tree where their victim was found, back to the way Jean sat beside him with her arms around his neck.

He wasn't certain if he'd ever really looked at her the way he had in that moment. So close, so devoid of distraction from regarding her lovely features. He was supposed to be replaying the possible modes of poisoning, and Jean had been kind enough to assist him. Never one to shirk from an opportunity, his Jean. Well, no, not his. Just Jean. Jean of her very own. Jean with her wide, gray eyes. They were almost turquoise in that light, actually. And he was so close, he could see the freckles on her face peek past the makeup she wore. The slight bleeding of her elegant red lipstick into the lines around her mouth, just untidy enough to show she'd been going through life without paying too much mind to the artifice. Her chestnut hair was just starting to gray at the temples. He'd never noticed that before. The sun caught the sharp curve of her cheekbones. He could feel her breath. He could smell the faded hint of her perfume. Oh lord, she was beautiful.

And thank god she'd seen Aaron lurking in the bushes, brought him out of his dangerous study of her face. He'd put his arms around her, his hands splayed on her back. When she'd noticed the man watching them, she hopefully hadn't noticed the way his grip involuntarily tightened, the way he might have pulled her even closer if they went uninterrupted.

He was meant to be solving a murder, for Christ's sake! Jean was helping him, and he'd nearly…well, he'd not nearly done anything at all. But he might have wanted to. And just thinking about her now, what almost might have been, was consuming his faculties.

Perhaps it was just the scotch.

At that very moment, Jean herself came to check on him. Came to see how he was managing, to see if he needed her assistance. And he desperately did. He needed her. More than he'd ever admit.