Lucien had a very good understanding of the things he was very good at.
Knowledge. He had graduated from medical school after all and was a skilled diagnostician.
Understanding. He could understand another person's grief and trauma almost to a fault. He could imagine how it might drive them and of what they were capable.
Focus. He was about what he was about. He could and did shut down entire pieces of his being to get a job done, or to simply survive. He'd been doing that for seventeen years. Just work. Don't think. Don't feel, at least not any of your own feelings. He was quite good at that.
But the feeling of Jean pressing herself into a kiss was a hard thing not to focus on. The knowledge that she was at home waiting for him was hard to dismiss. The understanding that he had absolutely no idea what to do about it did not escape him for a moment. Would she want him to kiss her when he came home? Would she be embarrassed by it and want it forgotten? How could he grasp the mind of a killer and be utterly baffled by that woman's every choice?
So, he did what he'd always done. He worked. All night, he worked, focusing on his job as he'd always done, as he should do. A woman was missing, after all, and in grave danger. A child needed her mother. He would think about Jean later. When afternoon gave way to evening he reasoned Jean never expected him to come home for dinner anyway, and when evening slid into night, well, it would be too late to call.
Because what would he say. "I'll be late, darling, don't wait up." Or "Please don't worry, I'll be home by morning."
Damn. Yes, that's exactly what he should have said. Either of those would have done perfectly well. And that's almost exactly what he might have said a month ago before either of them admitted that this was real.
But he'd said neither, because every time the thought floated toward his mind he pushed it aside.
So he didn't go home last night.
And he didn't call.
Morning was well established as his car pulled up the gravel drive. The crunch of his tires anounced his arrival as his stomach sank within him like it never did when he faced danger. This woman had him completely undone.
He glanced toward the front of the house and saw no one. Perhaps she was busy, not thinking of him at all. He'd just be about his business. He exited the car, tugged on his vest and reminded himself he was a grown man before striding to the door, with just a glance around the corner to see if Jean was in the garden.
But his hand paused on the knob. Should he knock? That was just silly, it was his house. What was wrong with him? If she was angry he'd simply apologize and explain. There was a kidnapping after all.
He pushed the door open with decisive force and moved quickly into the surgery, straight for the cupboards searching for the drug he needed, though he couldn't remember now what it was or where he kept it. He couldn't think of much of anything except Jean and that was not how his mind typically worked. Just push it aside. Where was that bloody bottle?
"Lucien, is that you?"
She was home.
"Sorry Jean, I'm just passing through!"
She probably went to bed early. Didn't even notice his absence.
"You didn't come home last night."
Well then.
"No, um," he looked at the cupboard and couldn't remember what he was looking for anymore. Had he just come home to see Jean after all? "Honestly, I should have called you. It's just this kidnapping business."
Surely she would accept that.
"Yes, I've seen the papers," she said, and began reading from it.
She didn't seem angry. Should she have been? Should he have called. He was going to lose his mind if he didn't marry Jean Beazley and sort these things out once and for all. But he couldn't ask her now, not with everything going on. One thing at a time.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
And he remembered. "Prednazone."
She held out a shirt. "I thought you might need this."
"Oh, I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Well, neither do I, but you'd be doing it wearing yesterday's shirt."
Who was this woman? Always prepared, never surprised, even by him. Never faltering. He looked at her, really looked at her soft hair and her eyes, sometimes grey, sometimes startlingly green. How did she become so incredibly strong, strong enough to handle him. He took a half step forward. He didn't know what he intended, he just needed to be that much closer to her.
"Where does the Courier get that kind of detail?" She was asking about the case and he'd lost the thread. But she had said something. Oh Jean, always saying just the right thing.
"Phone box," Lucien said.
"We've got a phone."
He would handle this later. He had very important work to do. People to save, and Jean gave him the key as she always did. But tonight, tonight he would finally set this right.
Lucien hesitated as he got out of the car for the second time today. She took the late night in stride, but surely Jean would have something to say about the blood coming out the back of his head. But she simply whisked him into the surgery and cleaned it up without any fuss. He sat back and let her work feeling like everything he wanted, this case, this woman, was just beyond his grasp.
"I nearly had her, Jean, I very nearly had her."
"You're doing the best you can," Jean said, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. He felt that more acutely than the still open wound at the base of his skull. He reached up to grab her hand, but it had already slipped off his shoulder as she drifted out of the room.
He leaned forward and the wound throbbed. Ah, he would need something for that. He opened his desk drawer and found the pills he was after. But just beyond them lay the small, black box that held such expansive hope. He couldn't help withdrawing it, opening it, staring at it. He stroked the cool, precious metal and then the swell of emotion turned to movement before he knew why or what its purpose was and he strode out the door of his surgery into the kitchen, looking for Jean.
She was at the sink, with her back to him. And he hesitated. What had he meant to say? He just stood there with his mouth hanging open looking like a fool when she turned around. She cocked her head, surprised, but smiling.
"Are you bleeding again?" she asked.
"No, I uh." And then he knew why he went after her. The memory of yesterday's kiss echoed through his body even if he'd kept it from his conscious mind. It broke through all his holds just now. He reached for Jean before he considered the wisdom of it.
She took a step forward, closing the distance, comfortable between his arms, smiling in a curious, questioning way. How could she be so perfectly calm and certain while he struggled to form complete sentences. She was an astounding woman.
"Jean, I…" he brushed her hair from her cheek and noted, not for the first time, how her entire face fit within his hand. Bloody hell what was he going to say. "Jean…" He was trying to say something significant which seemed to require more than just repeating Jean and he certainly wasn't going to call her Mrs. Beazley. "I don't even know your middle name."
"That's the burning question on your mind, is it?" she said.
He shrugged. He was making a muddle of things.
"It's Mary," she said, her hands slipping around his back, pulling him closer.
"Jean Mary Beazley," he tried out.
"Yes, but I don't care for it, so don't start getting any ideas."
He relaxed into their familiar banter as he pulled her even closer.
"Yes, I can see why. Something as exotic as Mary must have caused you some grief."
"I'm just saying, if you're looking for a term of endearment, look elsewhere," she said.
All I want to call you is Mrs. Blake.
He didn't say that, though it was so close to escaping his lips he stuttered and leaned in to kiss her neck to cover it up.
"I'll think of something," he whispered in her ear as she bent into him.
"I'm sure you will," she said softly. She slipped her hand along his jaw sliding her fingers up toward his neck then back down, carefully avoiding his injury, he realized. He was sorry for that, briefly, imagining her taking his head and bending him down to a kiss. But before he could mind too much she drew her fingers across his lips and all else was forgotten. He bent his head toward hers.
The phone rang.
Bloody hell.
But Jean didn't jump back immediately. She left her fingers there, on his parted lips, and she whispered. "You have things to do."
"Yes," he said.
"Best go do them. We can talk this evening. Just stay safe." She raised her eyebrows pointedly, "No more blows to the head."
'Yes, I promise" he said again. "I, uh, I do have something I need to talk to you about, this evening."
She smiled in that way of hers that was both certain and playful. She knew what he was about and he was glad of it. There wouldn't be any surprises tonight, then, just the question, and the ring, and the knowing they would have each other. He took one last long look at her as she went to answer the phone. He would do anything for that woman, slay any beast, take any chance. For her he would even stop taking chances. Be safe. He'd do whatever he could to protect her future, even protect himself, though he was so terribly out of practice. But for Jean, well, one would do anything for Jean.