#i think if fleabag and the priest ended up together it wouldn’t be right

[yellowsubiesdance]

watched all of fleabag again, this time with me mum

[katie-dub]

Rapture on the Lonely Shore

Fleabag fic

Summary: Social distancing has come into play and suddenly Fleabag finds herself unable to be close to her best friend right when she needs him the most, but will it bring them closer than ever?

AO3

It’s more Fleabag fic, prompted by a lovely new fandom friend who wishes to remain anonymous. Dedicated to @eirabach​ who is my hero. Thanks to @profdanglaisstuff​ for inspiring the title and for being endlessly supportive and encouraging, along with @ohmightydevviepuu​ and @thisonesatellite​

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I scream into the silent void of my living room for no other reason than there's no one here with me and I fucking well can.

I am handling this coronavirus shit like a fucking pro.

Tonight Bojo told everyone to stay away from pubs, restaurants and cafes, whatever the fuck that means. Hillarys is likely fucked. I think of Joe, my regular, wondering how he'll cope without Chatty Wednesdays and the food I provide, which could quite easily send me spiralling off into a major fucking crisis, if I weren't already at least 90% of the way there.

Like I said, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

The worst part of it is that my best friend, my rock, my Priest is busy doing the Lord's work and visiting the housebound so I can't fucking see him in case he gives me the plague or vice versa. Apparently his God has a really twisted sense of humour.

My phone rings, mercifully dragging me from my thoughts.

"What are you doing right now?"

"Well, hello, Father," I say with a grin.

"Oh fuck off," he chides with a laugh, "can you go to your door?"

"Is that some kind of code?"

"Just open your fucking door."

Intrigued, I cross over to the door and throw it open. My Priest stands two metres away from it, grinning at the sight of me.

"Sorry Father, I've got to go, I've had a hot delivery." I hang up, watching his beautiful neck as he throws his head back and laughs. I love making him laugh.

The only thing worse than being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest, is being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest when you aren't even allowed to touch him. In a purely platonic way, you understand, he gives the best hugs.

Oh fuck off.

"What a line!" he says, calming down and wiping tears from his eyes.

"There's more where that came from."

"Save me." He holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat, I ignore it. I've got to get my kicks somehow.

"Have you got coronavirus? Because you definitely look hot."

"Oh God help me, that was bad."

There's a loud bang from in my house that startles me. I whip around to try and see what has happened, I hate it when He does that.

I hate that my Priest has me thinking that there is a God, and that he is messing with me.

I look back to see him smirking at me, raising his eyebrows as though defying me to comment on what just happened.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“Do you want to go for a walk? I’d love to go for a walk with you.”

“Doesn’t that go against the rules?” I say, already reaching for my coat..

“We can maintain our distance, just like spies.” He has a twinkle in his eyes, delighted by his own cleverness.

I pull on my trench coat. “You wanted to be James Bond as a kid, didn’t you?” I bet he was a cute kid.

“That tosser? Fuck no, although I wouldn’t have complained if Miss Moneypenny had wanted to check out my concealed weapon.”

“Father!” I gasp in mock horror even as I try to hide the snort that escapes me.

"I wasn't always a priest," he says lightly, "you know that." He turns and walks back through my gate and onto the street. He turns back to me, smiling and waiting for me to join him.

"Oh fuck, I should wash my hands, shouldn't I?"

Look, I run a cafe, I understand basic hygiene, despite what Claire might think. But since all this started the hand washing has been intense.

He nods. "Safety first. It's OK, I'll wait."

And wait he does as I diligently wash my hands for a full twenty seconds, all the while thinking about my Priest waiting patiently out there for me. Or maybe not patiently? Maybe bursting with eagerness for me to get back to him?

Oh who the fuck am I kidding? That man has the patience of a saint.

I return to my doorstep, and pause a moment to enjoy the sight of him, shirt rolled up to his sleeves and hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the eerily quiet street. It’s magic hour and the glow of the sinking sun lights him up beautifully. He turns before I reach him, a beaming smile on his face. He tilts his head thoughtfully, apparently searching hard for signs of.. I don't know, distress maybe?

He nods to himself, a slight smile in his eyes and he turns to head out of the gate, stepping back and letting me walk ahead of him. What a gentleman.

"Checking out my arse, Father?" I toss back to him over my shoulder.

He snorts. "I'm more of a tits man myself."

Damn.

There go my hopes that he's secretly burning a torch for me, mine are barely there, any smaller and you'd need a microscope to find them. I do better with arse men.

But you knew that already.

"Aren't you a happily celibate man?"

"I'm a priest, I'm not blind. I'm merely appreciating the glory of God's creations."

"So you believe in 'look, don't touch'?"

"I believe that you're trying to get me in trouble. And you'll get a crick in your neck if you keep looking back at me like that."

"Not really much of a walk together if I can't look at you, talk to you, or stand anywhere near you."

"These things are sent to try us," he states calmly, completely at ease with the idea that his God has inflicted an Old Testament style plague upon the world. Like humanity as a whole is the villain of the latest gripping installment of His story.

The thought doesn't sit well with me. Admittedly, I probably deserve a little damnation, but the entire human race? Or at least our most vulnerable members? I thought the meak were supposed to inherit the earth?

I stop and turn to face him fully, enjoying the way he starts as though he's bumped into me, even though he's a full two metres away. It’s still not quite dark but the street lights have yet to kick in, so it's a little hard to make out his expression. I glare at him with his arrogant nonchalance. Next he'll be pulling some kind of awful but horribly truthful platitude out of his arse like "It'll pass."

True it may be, but it's hardly the fucking point.

We continue on until I spot a bench in front of me and desperate to actually talk to my friend, sit down at one end. He diligently sits at the other, hands in his lap, as he maintains the appropriate social distance. Seriously, fuck coronavirus.

"How are you?" he asks, looking at me with what I can only assume is deep concern.

"Well my livelihood and best friend's legacy -" there's a flash in his eyes that I almost want to call jealousy "- has been totally fucked by our prime minister, how are you?"

His hand twitches, an awkward jerk that gives me the sense that he'd wanted to reach out to me. He's flexing his fingers, grasping and releasing his knee, suggesting that he's buzzing with energy, full to the brim of untapped potential and excitement that belies his otherwise calm outward demeanour.

"I'm sorry, I know how much Hillary's means to you."

That may be one of my favourite things about my Priest, his willingness to just sit with sadness. Too many people rush you to feeling better, to reassuring you that things aren't actually as bad as you think. Not my Priest. He lets you feel what you feel. And somehow he just knows what people need, whether it's silence or speaking, space or physical comfort.

Not that he can give me that right now.

"It's just a café." I don't know why I'm so quick to deflect, not with him. He knows me too well to buy that.

"You don't have to do that,” his voice just oozes softness, treading carefully as he speaks like he’s dealing with a wild cat. His fingers are drumming on his knee again. “It’s ok to hate how fucked up this is.”

We sit for a minute, him patiently waiting as I try to gather my confused thoughts and feelings into something coherent. “I know that you think this is all about Boo for me.”

“Do I?” he challenges, I frown at him from the corner of my eye.

“Don’t you?”

He shrugs. I once again fumble for words. “Do I want Boo’s cafe to close? Of course not. Do I want what we built and I made into a success to be fucked? Of course not. But that’s not what makes me want to scream. It’s the people who need Chatty Wednesdays, who need someone to talk to, even if they’re just a stranger who bought a cup of tea in the same bloody cafe as them. It’s Joe who’s in every day and now I might never see again because this pestilence could take him. It’s everyone who’s popped in for a sandwich and has nearly cried with relief that I actually have bread because some dipshits panicked and bought it all. It’s just a cafe, but it - it matters.”

He huffs and when I look to him there are tears in his eyes. “Have I ever told you how fucking wonderful you are?”

“Easy there, Father.”

“No, really, you’re fucking brilliant.” He shakes his head. “I hate that I can’t hold you right now. I want to, so much. I want to just wrap my arms around you and bury my face in your neck and breathe you in. Maybe some of your brilliance would rub off on me.”

God I can imagine one of those hugs. They always leave me somewhere between cherished and horny. The feeling of his breath on my neck just feels so delicious, sending desire rippling right through me.

I should probably tell him, but it feels so fucking good that I don’t want him to stop it. And he probably knows the effect it has on me anyway. I kind of think he’s counting on it.

“Wanting to rub off on me, Father? What will the bishop say?”

Sometimes it’s just easier to go for the innuendo than handle all the feelings brimming below the surface.

He laughs. “You wish.”

I watch as he reaches out for me, jerks his hand back before reaching it towards me again.

“I want to hold your hand too,” I finally say, nodding down to his hand and reaching towards him with my own. Not trying to touch him, just to be that bit closer to him.

A silence falls between us. It’s comfortable and easy, although my thoughts are anything but. At last I notice that the sun has set and the street lights are on. Reluctantly I realise that I should go back home now.

My Priest feels it too.

“We should probably-” “I better get -”

We laugh as one and without another word rise to leave.

“Don’t catch the fucking plague,” I say.

“Same to you. Stay well.” And we both go our separate ways.

***

It’s been a day. I’ve been trying my best to keep the cafe going but with half of London seemingly already in self isolation and the other half frightened of people, it feels a little too close to the painful times after Boo died.

I’ve been delivering food to my elderly regulars, trying to do my bit to keep them safe. Taking sandwiches to Joe and chatting with him through the door to make sure he gets his daily interaction along with his sustenance.

It took Joe a long time to answer the door today. It filled my heart with absolute dread, I was on the verge of calling 999 when he finally came to the door, brimming with apologies. I was so relieved to see him that I nearly hugged him in relief.

And to think once upon a time he used to drive me crazy at times with his eager need to chat.

I really need to hold my Priest. I know I can’t. I just need to.

I text him from his bench in his garden asking me to meet me.

“Is everything alright?” he says when he appears, dishevelled and breathless, rushing towards me before remembering and standing back.

“No it’s not, I fucking hate all this,” I burst out, my eyes welling up. “I’m scared and I’m tired and my hands are fucking bleeding from how often I wash them now -” his eyes widen and dart down to my hands, his mouth twisting in distress “- and I just need a fucking hug from my best friend.”

A tear slides down my cheek, I don’t wipe it away, I can’t bear to wash my hands again.

He sits on the other end of the bench.

“I’m holding you right now,” he says. I side eye him. “Don’t give me that look. I’m holding you, don’t you feel how warm my arms are?”

I smile, it’s a nice fantasy, he does have such beautiful arms.

“You’re tucking your head into my neck and your breath tickles, but I don’t say anything, because it feels good to be close to you.”

I love snuggling into that spot.

“One of my hands is on the back of your head so I can run my fingers through your hair. You know that way you like? You always say it soothes you when I do it, your hair is so gorgeously curly that I have to be careful not to tug on it, easing my fingers through it and tugging gently.”

It does feel good, I close my eyes and just let myself get lost in the memories of the last time he did that.

“My other hand is splayed out across your back, rubbing firmly against you in circles where I can feel your muscles tight beneath my fingers. I feel how it relaxes you, as you melt into me, sinking deeper into my arms.”

I sigh, feeling some of the tension I’d been holding disappearing as he talks.

“When your breathing has evened out so I know that you’re deeply relaxed I gently move back and kiss your cheek, grateful that I can be here for you, whenever you need me.”

He stops talking, I take a few moments to just appreciate the deep calm he’s brought to me before opening my eyes and looking at him. He’s smiling but I can see the tension in his jaw that tells me it hurts him as much as me that he can’t do all that for real.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. What else can I say?

***

The Priest is staring at me so intently that I don't know how to feel. There's just so much feeling in his gaze, wonder and joy and this uncomfortable sense that he's trying to imprint me on his heart. It's only been half an hour since lockdown was announced and he's already losing it.

You'd think he'd be used to loneliness by now.

He asked for a video call five minutes ago. I’m not sure he’s actually said a word since we connected yet.

"Are you alright?"

He chuckles, eyes turning sad as he does. "No. No, I'm really not. I finally figure out what I want, just when I can't have it."

He's completely lost me. I don't know how to react, or if I even should. I feel like I'm intruding on a private confession, like he's forgotten he's talking to me instead of his God.

He starts fidgeting, dragging his hands through his hair until it looks as wild as I'm guessing he feels.

"You're too much, you know?" I start at the accusation, not sure where I come into this crisis of his. "You're so… No, it's not you, it's me."

At least it seems like he's confusing himself as much as me.

"When I think of this - this plague taking you from me -" he breaks off, choking up at the thought and grasping at his heart as though in physical pain.

"You don't have to worry about me," I downplay, "pretty sure those human viruses don't affect us robots." I force out a laugh, it's really not funny.

"Don't say that!" he all but snarls at me, "no heartless creature could love like you."

I don't know how to feel about this. He's never seen me in love. I'm not even sure if I've ever been in love, maybe once I thought I could feel something for him, but nothing ever came of it. And sure I still want him, I'm only fucking human, but I know enough now to know sex isn't love. A scoff escapes me, his eyes narrow in response.

"You don't even know, do you? What you do?"

I'm fucking baffled.

That fury that drove him before melts away before my eyes, and he's just so… soft. The way he looks at me is so tender. It's a bit much really.

Hillary squeaks indignantly at me from inside her cage, the best friend being mad at me is one thing, but the fucking guinea pig? Give me a fucking break!

"Look at me." I drag my eyes from the squeaking fluff ball. He lifts his hand up to the screen, I can't see what it's doing, the webcam unable to follow his movements. I kind of wish he was stroking my face the way he sometimes strokes my hair or my arms. A gentle affection that sparks something deep inside me. Not in that way, you dirty bastard.

"You are - everything -" he takes a deep breath "- I need you. I need to touch you."

"I didn't think you were that sort of priest," I tease.

"I don't want to be a priest."

"What?"

"Well, I do, being a priest brings me peace, brings me joy, but that's all meaningless if I can't have you."

He's not one to joke at times like this, but I just can't believe that this is real.

"I think you've had a little too much of the communion wine, Father." I chuckle. "You didn't need to drink it all in your congregation's absence."

"I'm not drunk," he seethes, "I'm in love. With you. If you don't feel the same do me a fucking favour and say it, don't just laugh at me." He glares at me.

My chest is tight, so is my jaw, this is all - is all - it's unbelievable. That's it: unbelievable.

"You don't."

"Fuck you telling me what I feel, you infuriating -"

"Bitch?" I suggest, leaping to the change in subject. "Oooh, or jezebel, that's a good one, biblical too, I know you like that." His hand goes to his face. "Don't touch your face, Father."

He drops his hand, staring at me in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious right now? I'm unburdening my fucking soul, and you're scolding me for touching myself?"

The urge to laugh at his unthinking innuendo bubbles up in me. I try my best to fight it, wanting to be serious even as we have a conversation that feels like it has to be a fucking joke. At least he seems to have realised his mistake, cringing at what just came out of his mouth.

"I just don't want to drive you to touching yourself, I gather your God doesn't like it." He laughs, it sounds ever so slightly deranged. "I mean, personally, I'm pro touching yourself, you might even call it my favourite hobby, but if you want to keep your job, best not."

"I touch myself a lot when I think about you," he replies earnestly.

"Can't stop tearing your hair out at your ridiculous heathen's antics?"

He shakes his head. "I love your antics. Please, hear me." There's so much sincerity in his voice, he's so earnest, that part of me finally acknowledges that he might really mean this, a tiny spark igniting in my heart. "I'm not joking or drunk or having a crisis of faith. I realised that this could be the end, and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't take a chance on this. I want you. I want to kiss you and hold you -” he’s being so romantic and I really do not know how to handle this. People aren’t romantic with me, unless they’re Harry and it’s one part romance to nine parts whining tedium. “- and suck on your tits."

That’s more like it.

"Oh my god," I gasp, feeling equal parts scandalised by his bluntness and confused by the idea of anyone being that interested in my tiny tits. I glance down, involuntarily thrusting my chest forward and shoulders back as I try to see what he apparently does. "They're not much to look at."

"You've got gorgeous tits," he says sincerely, eyes locked on them and lips parted for just a moment. He looks back up at my eyes and frowns. "You do. I see them and just want to -" he breaks off, biting his lip and twisting and rubbing his fingers in midair in a way that has me imagining those fingers on my nipples.

Christ, I'm going to hell for sure.

"If you don't stop all this dirty talk, you'll make me want to get my tits out and touch myself -"

"Please do."

"- it'll be so disappoint- what?"

"I mean -" he fidgets, going to run a hand over his face then remembering all the covid rules last minute and nervously fiddling with his sleeve instead. "Fuck me. I dream about eating you out, you know? I wake up from dreams of fucking you to find my sheets wet."

My mouth is dry. Just how are you meant to react when you hear that your best friend fantasises about you even in his sleep? And I felt guilty for wanking off to thoughts of him. You know, occasionally, when I was feeling desperate or he had been particularly hot one day or it was a Tuesday.

My vibrator was in daily use.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to wake up with a hard on and not touch yourself? To just pray to God to stop messing with you and let you get through the day without looking like a sex-crazed teen who took viagra for a dare?"

I snort with laughter and he gives into the need to scrub at his face.

"Yes, luckily for me you can't tell how wet I get when you lick your lips and I have visions of sitting on your face."

He groans, sounding genuinely pained.

"God, I wish you would.” He’s so breathless, am I really meant to believe that he’s saying all this to me totally sober? “What if the world ends tomorrow and I never get to taste your cunt?"

I can’t believe this is happening, it feels much more likely that I have in fact contracted that killer disease and am lying in my flat, hallucinating through the fever.

"Lucky you believe in an afterlife."

"True, I'm sure they have 69s in heaven."

I’m not sure if they do, I mean, we’re talking about heaven, is God a fan of simultaneous oral? Does God even get to have oral? These are questions I never thought I’d consider, I don’t voice them out loud, of course, I’m a classy lady. "Do you really think so?"

"I don't fucking know!" His hands are back in his hair, raking through it, I wish they were my hands. "I just know that I want to be with you for real before I leave this world. It'd be a fucking nightmare if I got to heaven and found myself incapable of fucking you like you deserve."

"Right?" I’m pretty sure that I’ve already died and gone to heaven.

"Right." He nods, gazing at me like he’s staring right into my soul. Or through my top, something like that.

"So ... what happens now?"

"Well I love you, but I need to end this call. I'm in a very hard position right now." How does this man manage to look bashful as he’s telling me that he’s turned on by his own dirty talk?

"I love you too, for what it's worth.” I figure why not tell him? Chances are this isn’t even real. “Maybe we could help each other out? I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I'd rather our first time wasn't awkward video call sex, if it's all the same to you?" he says.

I’m sure I must be pouting but the man I’ve wanted for a year now, the man I’ve always known that I could never be with, has just told me he loved me, filled my head with filth and now he wants me to leave me to deal with that myself? It’s fucking rude. “I mean, one way to handle that would’ve been to hold in all the fucking sex talk.”

“I’m sorry” He does look contrite, but there’s a twinkle in his eye all the same.

“No you’re not, you love that you’ve made me wet.”

“How wet?” His voice has dropped an octave to a barely audible growl.

“Fuck off. You want me to tell you all the things you’ve done to me and all the things I’m going to do to myself then you stay on the phone for that awkward video call sex. Otherwise that’s between me and my vibrator.”

He groans in clear distress, I’ll be honest, I kind of enjoy it. The man has just got me all wound up and doesn’t even want to help me finish. Revenge is sweet.

Both hands are rubbing at his cheeks as he breathes deeply, before pulling them away and glaring at me, like it’s my fault we’re both turned on with nowhere to go. "Coronavirus has a lot to answer for."

"Well if you're determined to leave me to take care of myself alone, I best be going. Wet dreams!"

"I love you, you filthy heathen."

"I love you too, you dirty priest, good night."

He gives me a look that somehow manages to be filled with fire and tenderness, as contradictory as my Hot Priest himself. "Good night," he says at last, sadly reaching out and ending our call.

Right, vibrator time.

Unless.

***

In the history of spectacularly stupid choices I've made, I cannot decide if dragging a suitcase to the house of my best friend who just announced his undying love for - and vivid fantasy life about - me is the best or worst thing I've ever done. I'm not sure what I'd say if the police stop me for making a nonessential trip. And God forbid they look in my suitcase at the collection of lingerie, sex toys and lube in there.

We aren't allowed out of the house, what do you think we'll be doing?

I get to his front door and thank a God that I don't believe in for packing Pam off to her son's for quarantine, there's no way I could do this if she were here.

I don't know if I can do this anyway.

I should've had a drink first, though I'm glad that I didn't.

I have a momentary panic at the thought of having sex with real feelings, would that be making love? My throat is closing up and I'm finding it hard to breathe. Maybe I best go home, I might be coming down with coronavirus.

My phone rings, I pull it out and answer it before stopping to think.

"What are you doing right now?" my Priest asks.

Shit.

"I thought we weren't doing that?" I deflect, "but I can get out my vibrator if I need it?"

"Are you outside my house?"

I look up, he's staring at me out of the window, disbelief and joy spread across his handsome face. I nod, and he nods back.

"Come to your door," I say then hang up.

My heart is pounding, I'm highly aware that this is no ordinary hook up, this is the start of something… Something extraordinary. I take a deep breath, trying to draw in the courage to make this leap into the unknown, but it does little to calm my jitters. This is my Priest, my world, if I fuck this up - he'll be there to catch me.

I don't know how I know this, just that I do. Would you look at that? He's made me a believer.

I hear the jingle of keys, the thunk of the lock twisting, the creak of the handle.

I'm ready for this, for him, for love.

Now fuck off, this is private.

[this-is-a-love-story-fleabag]

Dial-a-priest (2/2)

A man slips his phone number into our favourite Fleabag’s back pocket, but it turns out to be a wrong number, connecting her directly to a priest. Chapter 2 of 2. Click here to read Chapter 1. Also on ao3.

"Is this the part where you ask me what I'm wearing?"

"What are you wearing?"

He looked down at himself. "Pyjamas."

"It's 7PM."

"They're comfy."

One night when he was just settling down with a cup of tea and another book, his phone rang.

"Hi," he said when he picked up.

"Hello, Father," said her voice at the other end of the line. English accent, a bit posh, wryly amused.

"You make voice calls? I thought you were a millennial."

"I'm old school. You're Irish."

"I know."

"I should have known. I was curious."

"Is this the part where you ask me what I'm wearing?"

"What are you wearing?"

He looked down at himself. "Pyjamas."

"It's 7PM."

"They're comfy."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing?"

"OK, but we're not having phone sex."

"I'm wearing the world's least comfortable cocktail dress and about three rolls of tit tape."

"Do I want to know what tit tape is?"

"Probably not. I went to a bar again."

Interesting. "Why?"

"I don't know. The last time I talked to someone in a bar he clearly thought I was in dire need of the phone number of an Irish Catholic priest."

"What did you say to him?"

"I think I was probably charming. I usually am."

He chuckled. "You're not wrong. Did you have a good time?"

"No. Someone grabbed my arse and I left. Didn't even have a drink."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Usually I would have ended up going home with him. I didn't want that. I think I just wanted to... make a friend?"

"Do you have other friends? Family?"

"Not really. My sister lives in Finland half the time. I haven't talked to her in a long time. Do you have a sister?"

"No. Why haven't you talked to her?"

"She thinks I tried to shag her husband, which is patently ridiculous because her husband is loathsome."

The urge to give priestly advice was too difficult to overcome. "Why don't you try calling her? If it's been a while, she might be glad to hear from you."

"I guess. Do you have a brother?"

"Yes. Why does she think you tried to fuck her husband?"

"Are you close with your brother?"

He laughed. "No. You didn't answer my question."

"Why aren't you close with your brother?"

"Come on."

"I fucked my best friend's boyfriend and then she walked into traffic and that's why she's dead," she said in a rush. He could hear the wince in her voice.

"Fuck."

"So when I told my sister that her husband tried to kiss me on her birthday and he told her that it was the other way around, she chose to believe that slimy bastard instead of me."

He took a long moment to digest this new information before responding. "You're walking around with a lot of pain inside you, aren't you?" he said gently, his heart aching in sympathy.

"Yeah, but..."

"What?"

"I just..."

"What?"

"It's my fault," she said simply. "All of it, I caused it. That's why I'm trying... to be better. I don't want to do that any more."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

She huffed a laugh. "That's why they put rubbers on the end of pencils."

"I like that."

"You can have it for free. My next witticism will be priced on a sliding scale."

"You're funny."

"For the right price."

Unknown number: I texted my sister

Unknown number: we're going to have coffee

"I think I might be going crazy," he said without preamble when she picked up the phone.

"Well, you do have bats in the belfry."

"They're in the attic, and that's a bit of a sore spot at the moment, so fuck off."

"Why do you think you're going crazy?"

"OK so I was on a train."

"Yes?"

"We were delayed at East Croydon and I looked out the window."

"Sane so far, continue."

"There was a fucking fox! In the window! It was looking right at me! Nobody else seemed to notice it but I know I saw it."

"That's not outside the realms of possibility. There are a lot of foxes about."

He shuddered. "Don't remind me. But it was looking right at me. Right in my eyes."

"You're cute, why wouldn't it look at you?"

"We were there for half an hour and it didn't stop staring at me!"

"Why were you at East Croydon for half an hour?"

"Southern Rail."

"Ah, I take it back. Southern Rail? You are completely insane."

"Fuck you." He paused, backtracking a few sentences in the conversation. "Wait, I'm cute?"

"Goodnight, Father."

"Uh, goodnight then, I guess."

"Don't let the foxes bite."

"You don't need to tell me twice."

After a few weeks of this, he was ready to admit that theirs was the closest friendship he had.

She knew that he was really grateful for Pam's help but that he also found her annoying nearly all the time. She knew about his parents, and his brother, and his weird cousin who kept sending him conspiracy theories on Facebook. She knew about the puns he made in the parish newsletter, and she knew where he hid the G&Ts.

He knew about her dead best friend, and her family, and the way her guinea pig was kind of a jerk sometimes. He knew that she tended to call late at night or just after the lunch rush was over. He even looked up her café online (there weren't that many guinea pig-themed cafés in the world, it turned out) and it was only a few streets away.

Which was a total fucking disaster.

He was a priest, for fuck's sake. He'd made a vow to love only God and to love God's people as a father, and most certainly not to pin beautiful, witty, acerbic women to the nearest flat surface and kiss them until he can't breathe.

It was imperative that they never meet in person. He was careful not to tell her which church was his, never to mention local shops and restaurants. He very conscientiously avoided going within a mile of the café.

There was no way they were ever going to meet, and he'd nearly convinced himself that it was a good thing.

The priest was leafing through the hymnals to see which ones needed to be replaced and trying very hard not to think about his problems, when he noticed one of the Youthie Band loitering in the doorway.

"Hi Jake," he called. "Are you alright?"

"I forgot my bassoon," he said in a mournful tone. "My aunt is bringing it."

Strange kid, but probably harmless. "Oh, fun. How are your bassoon lessons going?"

Jake trained his attention on someone over the priest's shoulder, ignoring the question entirely.

"Where's Claire?" he asked plaintively.

"Hi, Jake," said a woman's voice, strangely familiar. "She didn't want to come with me because she thinks you're creepy."

"What?"

"I'm joking, she's at work."

The priest turned around to greet the new arrival (and possibly to stand up for Jake, although his creepiness was undeniable and probably deserved to be addressed), and his heart just about stopped. Standing before him was the physical manifestation of his ungodly desires made flesh, walking around as though his world wasn't about to explode.

"Here's your clarinet," she said, handing Jake the case.

"It's a bassoon," he protested.

"It's a birth control device."

"You must be Jake's aunt," said the priest, regaining the ability to speak.

"Step-aunt," she corrected, turning to him. She gave a little start when she made eye contact but other than that managed to maintain her composure. "Hello, Father," she said with a smirk, holding out her hand.

He shook it, noticing distantly that her slender hand had a firm grip. "So Claire's your sister?" he managed, drinking in the sight of her, even more lovely in reality, a walking temptation.

A complicated series of emotions flashed across her face, all of which he could actually decipher given all of their long conversations about her family situation - and isn't that weird? Being able to completely read someone when you're meeting them in person for the first time?

"Yeah, Claire's my sister."

Jake made a little squeaking sound on hearing the word "Claire", making the priest remember that he was still standing there.

"Do you have a rehearsal to get to, Jake?" he prompted gently.

Jake nodded and walked away without a word.

"OK, good talk," said the priest to Jake's retreating back. He turned back to her, suddenly nervous. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Uh, welcome to my church. Do you like tea?"

In answer, she gave him an incredulous look and made a bee-line for the third pew from the back of the church, bending over to retrieve the cache of G&Ts that he'd mentioned in passing the other day.

"I'd think we need something stronger than tea given the situation, don't you?" she said, throwing one to him.

He fumbled to catch the can and dropped it on the floor inelegantly with a few murmured curses.

"Now I think of it, I remember you mentioning that you were bad at sports," she said with an apologetic grimace.

He picked up the can and opened it gingerly, took a large and restorative swig, then ushered her into a side room for some privacy. They perched on rickety folding chairs opposite each other, and she stared into his eyes, studying him in a way that made him feel uncomfortably exposed.

"So you live ten minutes from my café," she stated flatly. He nodded. "Did you know this the whole time?"

He winced. "I figured it out a few weeks ago. I can't, I'm sorry, I didn't want to intrude," he lied. He had wanted to intrude, in so many ways.

She shrugged, amenably accepting his explanation. "I just assumed you lived in Ireland. I didn't know we still had Catholics here."

"We send a few over every year as a punishment for when you enslaved our whole country."

They laughed together, such an easy connection, and his fingers itched with the urge to grab her and kiss her.

"The photos didn't do you justice," she said, giving him a thorough and obvious once-over. The blood thrummed in his veins as his eyes drifted down her body in return.

He sucked in a breath and tried very hard to keep his cool.

"You're the single most beautiful human being I've ever seen, and the fact that you're in my church right now is ruining my fucking life," he blurted out.

Fuck.

She softened visibly and stood up, draining the rest of her drink. "I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do. We can just talk on the phone." She was watching him with immense gentleness, seeing right through into his very soul. "I like talking to you. It's OK."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that, I don't want to send you away, I just-" He stood up, rubbing his temples with one hand. "I like talking to you, too," he said softly, looking utterly lost.

She crossed the room and took his face in her hands, bringing their foreheads to rest together. "I'm glad I met you," she whispered, slipping her fingers to card through his hair. He leaned into the touch like a needy cat and let out a shuddering breath.

She pulled away to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, getting ready to leave, and something inside him snapped. He backed her up against the crumbling brick wall, and finally let himself taste the ruby-red lips that had been whispering in his ear for weeks. She made a pleased noise and kissed him back, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

"Are you sure?" she asked as they broke for air.

"I'm sure," he panted, hiking up her legs to wrap around his waist, and let the life he'd built crash down around them.

[jamlocked]

Fleabag 2x06

Hokay, so brief (heh) ramblings on the Fleabag finale. Please don’t read until after you’ve seen it, I wouldn’t want to spoil anything.

 S;ldfsaflksdjf PERFECTION.

I mean, okay, I’m D: she and the priest didn’t end up together but it was still the correct conclusion. I will get to that in a minute, but first have to scream about other stuff.

THE FINAL PAYOFF OF THE ‘KNEEL’ SCENE. It bears out what I was saying before, I think. FB kneeling before something greater than herself (her desire to be open and honest with someone). The priest kneeling with her as a man, not a symbol of something else. And now Claire kneeling to open herself to what she really wants…to be free of Martin. (YES. GO CLAIRE.) I think – hope – this makes it clear to everyone that the priest asking FB to kneel wasn’t about an abuse of power, it was about honesty.

But FUCK, I ALMOST FELT SORRY FOR MARTIN. His speech about how he did good things, he did what he was supposed to, but just…isn’t a person someone likes. I mean, that’s kind of relatable? What if you do just have a personality that people don’t like? Does that mean you’re doomed to be alone?

I mean, in Martin’s case, it really is. He’s a bastard, and ultimately making excuses for not trying to not be a bastard most of the time. Nothing actually excuses hitting on your wife’s sister on your wife’s birthday. Still, that whole thing encapsulates the theme of this show as well – the messiness of being human, and how you can do the right things and still not be a good husband. If you don’t work on your flaws (as FB has tried to do for the last year), then you can’t expect to coast through life and make others put up with your bad behaviour. There is payback when you behave like a shit.

FUCK YEAH CLAIRE, RUNNING FOR HER MAN. And even more so, FUCK YEAH CLAIRE for ‘the only person I’d run through an airport for, is you’ – because oh my GOD, I have wanted these sisters to admit and show that they love each other. And FB really has most of the way through, and I’m SO happy Claire has finally unwound. She’s so perfect, and Sian Clifford is perfect, and that is all.

The dad, though. Augh, I was so hoping he was going to call it off. But he went through with it even though he’s the suffocating mouse, and maybe that’s just what some people need, you know? I’ve always thought that the thing about relationships is, you never get to see what the people are like when they’re alone with each other. Maybe the evil stepmum is actually what he needs, now.

But there were some glorious, honest, beautiful moments in that conversation with FB in the attic (wtf was he DOING THERE???). Hell, I’ve told my mother that I love her but don’t like her before, I get it. It’s honest, if not the sort of thing parents/children are supposed to say to each other. And if that’s not this series all the way through, I don’t know what is.

I am so happy Creepy Jake played the bassoon, and is actually quite good at it. ‘Where’s Claire?’ – I DIED. :D :D :D

So… Fuck, there were other things I wanted to say, but I’m sure I’ll remember later and add them on.

Let’s talk about the priest.

…asdfkja

Okay, it was just perfect writing. The way he kissed her before the ceremony, the way he was the morning after, it all looked good. And then her face through his speech – ‘love is awful!’ – you could see her thinking, ‘fuck, this isn’t looking good’. But of course by the end of it, it all seemed like it was going better, love being about hope, love being for those strong enough to take it. I was genuinely thinking he was going to choose her at the end of it.

But of course, he couldn’t. God, religion – they’re his hope for a peaceful future. Without it, as he said himself, his life is fucked. And this is a show about Fleabag, and her finding her way back to hope after all the stuff that happened. She had lost her faith in love, and her ability to love and be loved. That’s the important thing, I think. That she could openly say, ‘I love you’ and, especially, accept it as true when he said, ‘I love you too’. He was there to put her back together, and that’s why, at the end, she walked off and left us behind. She didn’t need to hide her true thoughts and speak them only to the invisible audience out there, anymore. She can be honest in her life, and with how she thinks and feels. And he can go and give himself to God, having tasted what it would be like to be a man again, and know that the path he’s on is ultimately right for him.

God, it was so beautiful. And perfect that the conversation also took place in the bus stop – they were travelling in different directions, the journey metaphor…and apparently, the graffiti on the bus stop glass means, ‘O, life’ in the Cyrillic alphabet, which…lol, PWB really doesn’t miss a trick.

And the statue. What a perfect, perfect thing. Back with her mother, the grief for whom was the beginning of this whole journey. Walking off, her and her mum, not needing us anymore. I am just….yeah. *tear*

 Okay, this was probably not all that coherent in the end, and I might add more once I watch it again in half an hour. But I’ve been thinking about it all day, and it’s just made me so happy. A glorious, wonderful piece of television. <3

[katie-dub]

The ache fades but the memories remain

Fleabag Fanfic

Summary: It's been three years, but a piece of my heart will always belong to the Priest. Only now I can see that it's because he's made me better than I could have ever hoped to be without him, but our time has passed, and that's OK.

AO3

So apparently I write Fleabag fanfic now? That's a thing. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten CS but the muse wants what it wants. Huge thanks to @profdanglaisstuff and @eirabach for reading this for me.

“I love you.”

“It’ll pass.”

 It’s been three years since that night, when the Priest left me. He was right, but also, he was so wrong. That ache is gone, the sheer fucking awfulness of being in love, right now, with the one man you can’t be with. But the love? I’m not sure that’ll ever fade.

I hope it doesn’t.

I like that he changed me, that he left a piece of me with him for safekeeping.

I hope he treasures the piece of my heart that I left with him.

Of course he does. Sensitive wanker.

We’re at a party at some fancy house, I’m not really clear on the details. But this isn’t one of Stepmother’s ordeals. This is me, hand in hand with my Fiance.

Yep. Fiance. Mine.

Where did you go just then?

I shake off that lingering self-doubt that forces me to keep people at a distance. I want to be happy with him. I am happy with him, but old habits die hard.

 “Do you mind?” I tug on my Fiance’s hand, he looks at me attentively. “I need a drink, can I get you anything?”

He smiles, nods. “You know what I like.” He brushes a kiss against my cheek, whispers “thanks” in my ear.

 There’s an entire bar’s worth of booze in the kitchen, every colour of wine, an array of suitably pretentious lagers, and my eyes land on a few stray cans of M&S G&T.

I can see the Priest, grinning at me over his can, sharing a secret with me.

These memories don’t hurt, not like when I see Boo, these make me smile, remind me that once upon a time I loved a man, a really special man, and he loved me and for a little while we got to be together.

I think it’s because I know he’s still out there, with that little piece of my heart.

I leave the G&T, grab a glass of white wine and a lager that sounds suitably interesting without being unbearably hip, and turn -

And crash into someone. Mercifully it’s the hand holding the bottle that collides with their chest, my wine merely sloshing around in the glass.

“Fuck sorry!” “Oh fuck me.”

That voice.

I freeze.

It can’t be.

“Oh fuck me.”

It is.

I look up into the eyes of the Priest. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. He’s the one who ended things, the one who chose another love over mine, he’s scared by how I’ll proceed. I know that whatever I say in these next few moments will make or break us.

“In public? Kinky.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, there’s still an edge there. A note of anxiety.

“And I don’t think my Fiance would like it.”

His eyes dart down to my hand, I wave it to show off my sparkly ring. I hope the gesture doesn’t come off as smug. My god, my chest feels tight, is it hot in here or is this just the thought of how the last man I made love to (yeah, I can call it that now) will react? How does one react to news that someone you loved is in love with someone else when you’re a Catholic priest who left them for God?

His face breaks into a genuine smile - one with relief and I’d even say a smidge of pride mixed into it.

I’ve made him proud. 

That thought warms me from the inside out, soothing that tension instantly. He’s beautiful when he smiles. “Congratulations.”

 It’s later on that evening and the Priest and I have found each other again, falling into conversation as easily as breathing. He always did just get me, and while before, there was always this tension, this desire simmering between us that kept us from being truly friends, now that has passed.

“It’s not true, you know,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“It didn’t pass.”

The Priest’s face is instantly horror-stricken, eyes darting to my Fiance across the room with a distant look of terror in them. “... But, but you…”

“Oh get over yourself, the man over there worships me, in every way.” I pause, watch for the moment that the Priest’s eyes rolls at my antics. I giggle when I see it, good to know that I’ve still got it. I look over at my Fiance with a wistful sigh “I love him, I truly do.” I turn back to him with a wink. “You’re safe.”

“So when you say…”

“The ache is gone, but there’s still a little part of me that will always be yours.” I place my hand over my heart, like we once did in his church. “Or maybe that’s just Piglet.”

“Come on now, that’s not fair! You can’t bring Winnie the Pooh into this!” We laugh. 

It feels good to laugh with him again. I miss this. I miss the way he could just see me, without even trying. Like we were somehow the same, only he turned to God where I turned to sex. I’m over that now, and what I have with my Fiance is so good.

But it’s not the same.

He takes a long drink, looks out the window. “It’s the same for me, you know.”

I realise that I don’t want to hear anymore, that I can’t, back then he chose another love over ours. It’s my turn to do the same. 

“Good,” I say, but before I can say anything else he speaks up again. “You’re different now.”

“Wrinkles,” I brush off.

“No it’s not that. You’ve been here with me this whole time, it’s been nice.”

“Every time I find it hard to just be in the moment, there’s a little voice inside me asking to stay.”

“You found God?” he seems impressed.

“It’s you actually.” He smirks, and I shake my head at him. “Not like that. I think that while I couldn’t believe in myself, I let you do it for me, even after you were gone. You always did have more than enough faith for the both of us.”

There’s that smile again - and there’s no mistaking the pride radiating from it this time. “Well, I’m glad I helped you believe in something.”

 People came to interrupt us then, as they always do at these parties. It’s fine, I don’t need his attention anymore. It’s probably for the best, I wouldn’t want to catch feelings again. It still feels good though, to be able to say goodnight as though all we ever were was friends, to walk away from him with a smile on my lips and know that my last memory of him won’t be painful. It will almost be like friendship.