The thing about gossip and news in a small town is that it travels like wildfire: a spark here, spreading over there, until the whole town is ablaze. The flame of news reaches her as she left the Bishop's office, filing her intention to defect from the Church.

The path to her and Lucien's happily ever after was still crowded with obstacles, but this was one less. She was surprised at the feeling of weightlessness and surety she felt and she allowed herself a pleased smile. This was something she could do.

And then Father Emory was racing after her, catching her by the arm and gasping out, "Lucien….shot….dead on scene."

Her blood turned to ice in her veins and she felt a chill settle over her, the sounds of the city blurring into background noise, and all she could do was run. Her legs carried her as fast as she could go, all the while, her heart felt like it was beating out of sync.

She couldn't lose him–not now, not after everything. She was leaving the Church, she had chosen him above all else. They were going to be married and happy and she would not let God take him from her. She would fight Him tooth and nail, demand that He return Lucien to her. There was so much of their story left untold.

Passersby on the sidewalk cleared the way for her, anxious to step out of the way of the woman running full tilt in heels. She hardly felt the tears on her face or the sting of her makeup in her eyes. She just needed to know, needed to see…

There wasn't time for air, for breath, when Lucien was in danger and she pushed the doors open to the station, running down the hallway, needing to find Matthew, needing to see Lucien perched on his desk and gesticulating wildly and enjoying the attentions of the room.

Turning the corner, bracing her heart for whatever she found, she felt the life and air and heart return to her in a whoosh.

He was there: perfectly alive.

"Lucien…" she gasped out, and then the tears came in earnest, hot and blinding. Strong, warm arms, the smell of whiskey and pine, and impossibly soft wool enveloped her then and she fell forward into his waiting arms, burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I'm alright, it wasn't me, Jean. It wasn't me."

His hands were caked in dried blood, but she didn't care. Pressing herself even closer she lifted her head, pressing her lips to his, needing to feel the warmth of his lips against hers. Her hand rested flat on his chest and she felt the reassuring thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart.

"I thought it was you. Oh, Lucien, I was so scared I'd lost you. I–" But words seemed like too much effort to manage and she collapsed against him once more, shutting her eyes closed against the outside world and focusing only on the feel of him.

Both were trembling in the other's arms, adrenaline and fear and relief coursing through them. Lucien continually pressed kisses into her hair, murmuring nonsense and her name and love over and over again. She curled her fingers into his vest and clung to him.

Behind them, Matthew cleared his throat. "Lucien, we need to examine Munro's body. Whenever you're ready…" And with a small click of his cane, he disappeared into the hallway, awaiting Lucien.

Lucien pulled away, his hands stroking over her face, careful not to mar her skin with any dried blood. "I need to go, love. Are you alright?"

She waved him off, fingers still curled into his vest. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just–" She stopped and swallowed, composing herself. She flashed him a small smile. "I'm fine."

He dropped a kiss to her forehead and nuzzled her nose. "You're going to have to let go of me sometimes, you know."

Jean shook her head, tightening her hold before releasing him. "I don't think I'm ever going to let you go, Lucien Blake." There would be time later to tell him that she'd left the Church, that she'd chosen him–flaws and all.

There would be time.