One year later…

It wasn't a Catholic wedding, in the end. Though Jean and Lucien were both widowed and though their union had been blessed by the marking, consecrated in blood and pain, they had decided that between them they had had enough of the church. They had endured quite enough grief and doubt, and though Jean made her way to mass most every week, she had agreed most enthusiastically to Lucien's suggestion of a quiet ceremony and reception at the club. There was a certain comfort to be found for her in rite and ritual, but she needed no further proof of God's will in her life; Lucien's arrival and everything that had followed after had been benediction enough for Jean.

Their friends stood in attendance as they said the words and exchanged the rings, young Christopher and his wife sitting in the front row with slightly bemused looks upon their faces. Jack had not put in an appearance, but then Jean had not really expected him to; though she had kept the most painful parts of her story locked away deep in her heart, the news she'd delivered to her sons - that she had another soulmate, that another man had marked her skin - had taken them hard. Young Christopher had come round, thanks in no small part to Ruby, who found the whole story terribly romantic. Jean had never felt as grateful for her daughter-in-law as she did the day that Ruby rang to confirm that she and Christopher would be in attendance. Danny and Mattie and Matthew and all the lads from the station, Patrick Tyneman and a select few others from the club, Jean's sister Eadie and Agnes Clasby and even the new pathologist Alice Harvey had all turned out, dressed in their finery to bear witness to the wedding, but Jean had eyes only for Lucien.

I have waited for you, for such a long time. They had spoken those words to each other that night so many months before, simple words that somehow encompassed such sorrow and such grace. For long years they had waited, had worried, had despaired, and yet at long last fate had brought their feet upon the same path, and Jean could hardly believe it. She was so full of joy, so grateful for the brilliant light of his smile, for the strength in his arms as he spun her deftly around the dancefloor, so grateful for the soft voice that whispered in her ear you look beautiful, my darling. They had waited, and at last they were to receive their reward, the peace and comfort that came from finally being together at last.

Which was not to say that the last year had been without its trials; Lucien was a difficult man at times, haunted still by his past, and Jean's steps were still dogged by doubt. Tongues had wagged, when they'd announced their engagement and their plans to marry as soon as possible; it seemed Jean would never be free from gossip entirely, but the touch of Lucien's hand put her mind at rest. Let them say what they would, she told herself, for she knew the real reason for their haste; she and Lucien had been too long apart, and every moment spent away from his side was a moment wasted, as far as she was concerned. Their plans for a winter wedding had been delayed by the news that Lucien's daughter had survived, and Jean had not hesitated for a moment before sending him off, knowing how important it was for him to seize whatever opportunity he'd been given to reconnect with his child. We can wait another month or two, she'd told him, cradling his face in her hands and brushing the tears from his cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. We've had rather a lot of practice at that.

Though she missed him desperately every day he was away her spirits had been buoyed by the knowledge that he was coming back to her, that she would hold him in her arms again, that one day soon he would call her wife. He had given her his mother's ring and she had worn it proudly, had smiled when people asked after him and every night she had checked herself over from head to toe, searching for a mark, searching for a sign that he was in danger. No such troubles came to him, however, and he returned to her arms at last, safe and whole. Though he had confessed that his meeting with Li had not gone as well as he had hoped, he had proudly produced a photograph of his daughter, a beautiful young woman with a strong, hard sort of expression on her face, and shyly confessed that he planned to write to her. With Jean's encouragement Lucien had made good on those promises, and slowly they worked together to mend the fissures in their tattered little family.

And now, after a beautiful wedding and a lovely party and a rather earth-shattering round of lovemaking, the sun was slowly beginning to rise behind the curtains as Jean Blake woke on the first morning of her new life as a married woman. Beside her Lucien was sleeping, lying flat on his back while Jean rested with her head pillowed on his shoulder. They had taken their time, the night before, had traced every inch of one another with lips and tongues and reverent fingertips, had come together as slowly in bed as they had in life so that by the time they were sated they had both fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. Still, though, some habits were hard to break, and Jean Mary Beazley Blake would always be a farm girl at heart, always the first to rise to greet the coming of a new day. There was no work to be done today, however, as she and Lucien had the house to themselves and a lifetime of togetherness stretching out before them, and so she lingered, gazing adoringly at this man she had waited so very long to find.

They had been married for less than a day, and already she had learned so many new things about him. The riotous curl of his hair had surprised her, and she smiled at him fondly now as she took in the sight of those blonde curls against the white pillowcases. He was always careful to keep his hair neat and tidy, and before their marriage she would never have guessed just how much effort keeping up that appearance required. The curls rather suited him, she thought, made him look younger, softer somehow, and she resolved to tell him so when he woke. His skin was smooth and inexplicably tan, though perhaps that might have had something to do with the hours he'd spent attacking the hedges in the garden at his beloved's request. She had spent rather a lot of time perusing that tanned skin at her leisure, had discovered the salty taste of his neck and the way he shivered when her nails scraped lightly over his hips. She had learned the sounds he made, had learned the lightning strike feeling of his fingertips against her waist, strong and gentle and all-encompassing. A hundred tiny details had been burned into her memory over the course of that night, and she knew there were countless more to come, and she gave thanks for each and every one of them.

As the light slowly filtered into their room - for it was theirs, now, a place they shared, a sanctuary they'd carved out just for the pair of them - her eyes roved endlessly over the expanse of his chest. There was the mark upon his shoulder, jagged and terrible, from the day he'd been shot, the day Jean had first learned of his existence, the day her life had changed forever. And there on the curve of his bicep was a sickle-shaped scar that Jean knew had come from a burn of some sort, not because he'd told her so, but because she'd felt the searing heat of it against her own flesh. She shifted slightly, throwing one arm around his waist as she shifted closer to him, trying not to shiver when her fingertips brushed against the ridges of scars upon his back. Those, too, were blazoned in her mind, a terrible memory, and yet they gave her hope, for those scars had bound them together, were evidence that he had survived and made his way home to her at last, her soldier a restless wanderer no more.

There were newer marks upon his skin she blushed to look at now. A blotchy red mark at the base of his neck not left by Jean's lips but rather the mirror image of the mark Lucien's mouth had left upon her skin; Jean smiled wryly at the sight of it, making a note to wear a high collar the next time she ventured from the house. And further down, a darkening bruise on his chest, just above his heart, the counterpoint to the tender flesh at the curve of Jean's breast where his lips and teeth had scored her skin as he growled the word mine. If she were brave enough to reach out and trace her hand over the curve of his bum she knew she'd find the marks of her own fingernails, left behind as she had urged him on, drawn him deeper into her, and she knew that he would see the same marks echoed on her skin in the same place. There were not words for this, this certainty, this sure and certain truth, this love that warmed her from the inside out. He was everything to her, and always had been, and now that she had him, she knew she would never let him go.

"Jean," he breathed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, his arm tightening reflexively around her, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as she nestled closer to him.

"Good morning," she answered him, lifting her head to kiss him once, softly.

"Good morning, my darling wife," he answered, blue eyes flashing at her as at last he woke and looked down upon her properly.

Jean's heart was so full she nearly began to weep, and so she chose instead to snake her arms around his neck, drawing him to her for a proper kiss as he smoothly rolled her beneath him, her body safe and warm beneath his own. Yes, it had been a long and messy road, but every moment was worth it for this, for him, for them together. Always.