It Feels Like Hope (Fleabag)
IT FEELS LIKE HOPE
Fandom: Fleabag
Summary: But what did God think about it all?
Characters: Fleabag, the Priest, outside POV
Words: 1,300
Notes:
Written as a Yuletide treat for asuralucier (
iomixit), who had such a fantastic prompt! I wasn’t able to finish this in time for Yuletide proper, and I know there are already multiple Yuletide Fleabag fics that do clever things with this idea… But I’ll toss mine in the mix anyway, because it really was a marvellously inspiring prompt. Happy belated Yuletide, asuralucier!
Enormous thanks to ashling, who betaed this with the great gift of honesty. Which in this case meant telling me the first version of this fic didn’t work, paving the way for this second version that we both like much better. Thank you, ashling!
Read this fic on AO3, or here below:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oh, my lambs. My lost lambs, ever straying towards the precipice, ever stumbling into the thicket. Ever struggling to find the path, bleating out in fear and hope for a hand to guide them.
This lamb, in particular, has caught my eye tonight: in the quiet, shuttered dark of his church, long after the normal hours of masses and parishioners have come and gone. Alone with a woman he could so easily love, but is trying hard not to love: because he believes this would destroy what he has sworn to me.
This, of all human misapprehensions, breaks my heart the most. Because what could I believe in more than love?
In the darkness, in the confessional booth, he hears the words of this woman he is trying not to love, and is moved. Who wouldn’t be moved? She’s desperate and in pain, but she speaks with such clarity and passion. And although she doesn’t consider herself one of my flock, I am there in that room and I hear her. I am always there for those who are in pain.
My lamb: he goes to her, brings her to her knees, then he too kneels before her. And because I know his heart, every corner of it, I know with absolute certainty that he wants to ease her pain. It is admirable. It is truly meant.
But it is not kind.
When a priest stands in his role as priest, he stands above others. This is not a bad thing: I, too, love the image of the gentle, sheltering shepherd, gathering his flock safely in. Accepting their confessions, so that afterwards their hearts can rest calm.
But when a priest stands above a woman; when she kneels at his feet in desperation, and he leans down to touch gentle fingers to her cheeks, to gaze into her eyes with wanting eyes, to press longing lips against that longing of her own -
This man may have all the love in the world in his heart, but if it is a love so unequal, I cannot call it kind.
So I remind him: by sending a painting of the Jesus he adores crashing down to the hard stone floor of the church. At the sound, he startles away from her, horrified by himself. Thinking he has broken his vow to me.
(A vow I never asked him for. But we’ll come to that.)
Even in all my wisdom, I cannot say for certain whether there is a right time and place for all things. But for many things, there is certainly a wrong one.
No, not because this is a church. But because this church is his domain. And because she is on her knees.
So I separate them. I part their ways, to give both of them time to think and, more importantly, to feel.
Then, once they’ve had that time, I guide them back together. Yes, that’s me as well, drawing them stumbling back into each other’s presence: I lead her to her flat, and I lead him to her flat, and they meet again.
Now they stand facing each other in the warm lamplight of her flat, amidst the familiar furnishings of her life. She in her home, he in his black garb and priest’s collar.
I have been with this man, my lamb, through every stage of his life. The loss of his mother, far too young, that left him blank-faced and unable to cry for months. The easy turn to alcohol, after a father who set an example too well. The women he slept with although he didn’t love them, and the women he loved but never dared to approach. The night he lay on the cold ground behind his childhood home, after a bus and a ferry and another bus and a hitchhiked lift down a rutted lane, on a visit to a father who hadn’t cared about his son on any of his previous visits, and this time was no exception. This broken-hearted not-yet-priest lay on the December ground and stared up at the hazy stars and begged me to either take his life or show him a different way.
That night, I offered him the choice to follow me.
I didn’t say he had to give up the world to do it.
Here is one thing I can say with certainty: nearly everyone is outrunning demons of some kind, but the worst are the demons that live inside. For those, no amount of running is enough. Sometimes the only way is to give in: to stand still, plant one’s feet, turn around and face the foes.
Oh, my lamb.
I never asked him to hand away everything else in life, and turn all of his love on me. I never decreed that both of these things couldn’t exist within the same heart.
But I’ve watched this man struggle, and I know the peace he found when he chose this path. The relief he felt when he found something to lean on at last, a rock that would never let him fall. I know that the life he leads now is a choice he made; out of desperation, perhaps, but still a choice. His choice. I would not take that away.
In the flat of the woman he loves, he meets her eyes.
This woman, this other lost lamb. She is so alone, and she has so much love to give. She’s found a place, at last, to put that love. She has chosen terribly, but I can’t say she’s chosen wrongly.
She meets his eyes.
“I’ve sacrificed a lot for this life,” he says.
“I’m supposed to love one thing,” he says.
“If I fall in love with you, I won’t burst into flames, but my life will be fucked,” he says, and therein lies the crux. Because she is learning new ways of loving even as they speak. But he has only found the one.
They’ll break each other’s hearts, these two lost lambs. Their hearts will break, but their hearts will grow.
Perhaps it’s true, after all, that there’s a right time for everything. When two people are pulled together by the same strong feeling, when they meet on equal footing to express that feeling in the best way they know how: this is right.
When she leans in to catch his mouth. When he presses close against her, one hand to the curve of her jaw. When their eyes fall closed and they both know in the same instant that nothing, no care, no obstacle matters anymore. When they gasp against each other’s mouths, transported somewhere higher than themselves: this is right.
I believe in love. I want them to love. What could be more urgent?
When they part again at the end of this story, it is not by law or heavenly decree; it is a choice by a heart that feels it must choose between two opposing paths. It’s an imperfect choice, as most are. But it’s the choice that belongs to this love story, at least for now.
When she says, “I love you,” this is true.
When he says, “I love you, too,” so is this.
And when they walk away in separate directions, this too is a true thing, even a right thing, because it is true to themselves. A longer, harder path, yes, but in the end a truer one.
And so this is a parting, maybe forever, maybe for now. It is grief, certainly for now, certainly in a way that will remain imprinted on the heart. Because some things are necessary even as they injure, and beautiful although they hurt. The heart grows each time. There is always room for more.
This is grief, now.
But in the end, it will be well. I say so, I really do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
End notes:
“Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.” - the Priest, in his wedding speech.
(And the prompt in question was, of course: “Fleabag/Priest fic from God’s POV.”)
.
(Crossposted from this post on Dreamwidth, which is now my primary journal. Comments are fine in either place.)
Fandom: Fleabag
Summary: But what did God think about it all?
Characters: Fleabag, the Priest, outside POV
Words: 1,300
Notes:
Written as a Yuletide treat for asuralucier (
iomixit), who had such a fantastic prompt! I wasn’t able to finish this in time for Yuletide proper, and I know there are already multiple Yuletide Fleabag fics that do clever things with this idea… But I’ll toss mine in the mix anyway, because it really was a marvellously inspiring prompt. Happy belated Yuletide, asuralucier!
Enormous thanks to ashling, who betaed this with the great gift of honesty. Which in this case meant telling me the first version of this fic didn’t work, paving the way for this second version that we both like much better. Thank you, ashling!
Read this fic on AO3, or here below:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oh, my lambs. My lost lambs, ever straying towards the precipice, ever stumbling into the thicket. Ever struggling to find the path, bleating out in fear and hope for a hand to guide them.
This lamb, in particular, has caught my eye tonight: in the quiet, shuttered dark of his church, long after the normal hours of masses and parishioners have come and gone. Alone with a woman he could so easily love, but is trying hard not to love: because he believes this would destroy what he has sworn to me.
This, of all human misapprehensions, breaks my heart the most. Because what could I believe in more than love?
In the darkness, in the confessional booth, he hears the words of this woman he is trying not to love, and is moved. Who wouldn’t be moved? She’s desperate and in pain, but she speaks with such clarity and passion. And although she doesn’t consider herself one of my flock, I am there in that room and I hear her. I am always there for those who are in pain.
My lamb: he goes to her, brings her to her knees, then he too kneels before her. And because I know his heart, every corner of it, I know with absolute certainty that he wants to ease her pain. It is admirable. It is truly meant.
But it is not kind.
When a priest stands in his role as priest, he stands above others. This is not a bad thing: I, too, love the image of the gentle, sheltering shepherd, gathering his flock safely in. Accepting their confessions, so that afterwards their hearts can rest calm.
But when a priest stands above a woman; when she kneels at his feet in desperation, and he leans down to touch gentle fingers to her cheeks, to gaze into her eyes with wanting eyes, to press longing lips against that longing of her own -
This man may have all the love in the world in his heart, but if it is a love so unequal, I cannot call it kind.
So I remind him: by sending a painting of the Jesus he adores crashing down to the hard stone floor of the church. At the sound, he startles away from her, horrified by himself. Thinking he has broken his vow to me.
(A vow I never asked him for. But we’ll come to that.)
Even in all my wisdom, I cannot say for certain whether there is a right time and place for all things. But for many things, there is certainly a wrong one.
No, not because this is a church. But because this church is his domain. And because she is on her knees.
So I separate them. I part their ways, to give both of them time to think and, more importantly, to feel.
Then, once they’ve had that time, I guide them back together. Yes, that’s me as well, drawing them stumbling back into each other’s presence: I lead her to her flat, and I lead him to her flat, and they meet again.
Now they stand facing each other in the warm lamplight of her flat, amidst the familiar furnishings of her life. She in her home, he in his black garb and priest’s collar.
I have been with this man, my lamb, through every stage of his life. The loss of his mother, far too young, that left him blank-faced and unable to cry for months. The easy turn to alcohol, after a father who set an example too well. The women he slept with although he didn’t love them, and the women he loved but never dared to approach. The night he lay on the cold ground behind his childhood home, after a bus and a ferry and another bus and a hitchhiked lift down a rutted lane, on a visit to a father who hadn’t cared about his son on any of his previous visits, and this time was no exception. This broken-hearted not-yet-priest lay on the December ground and stared up at the hazy stars and begged me to either take his life or show him a different way.
That night, I offered him the choice to follow me.
I didn’t say he had to give up the world to do it.
Here is one thing I can say with certainty: nearly everyone is outrunning demons of some kind, but the worst are the demons that live inside. For those, no amount of running is enough. Sometimes the only way is to give in: to stand still, plant one’s feet, turn around and face the foes.
Oh, my lamb.
I never asked him to hand away everything else in life, and turn all of his love on me. I never decreed that both of these things couldn’t exist within the same heart.
But I’ve watched this man struggle, and I know the peace he found when he chose this path. The relief he felt when he found something to lean on at last, a rock that would never let him fall. I know that the life he leads now is a choice he made; out of desperation, perhaps, but still a choice. His choice. I would not take that away.
In the flat of the woman he loves, he meets her eyes.
This woman, this other lost lamb. She is so alone, and she has so much love to give. She’s found a place, at last, to put that love. She has chosen terribly, but I can’t say she’s chosen wrongly.
She meets his eyes.
“I’ve sacrificed a lot for this life,” he says.
“I’m supposed to love one thing,” he says.
“If I fall in love with you, I won’t burst into flames, but my life will be fucked,” he says, and therein lies the crux. Because she is learning new ways of loving even as they speak. But he has only found the one.
They’ll break each other’s hearts, these two lost lambs. Their hearts will break, but their hearts will grow.
Perhaps it’s true, after all, that there’s a right time for everything. When two people are pulled together by the same strong feeling, when they meet on equal footing to express that feeling in the best way they know how: this is right.
When she leans in to catch his mouth. When he presses close against her, one hand to the curve of her jaw. When their eyes fall closed and they both know in the same instant that nothing, no care, no obstacle matters anymore. When they gasp against each other’s mouths, transported somewhere higher than themselves: this is right.
I believe in love. I want them to love. What could be more urgent?
When they part again at the end of this story, it is not by law or heavenly decree; it is a choice by a heart that feels it must choose between two opposing paths. It’s an imperfect choice, as most are. But it’s the choice that belongs to this love story, at least for now.
When she says, “I love you,” this is true.
When he says, “I love you, too,” so is this.
And when they walk away in separate directions, this too is a true thing, even a right thing, because it is true to themselves. A longer, harder path, yes, but in the end a truer one.
And so this is a parting, maybe forever, maybe for now. It is grief, certainly for now, certainly in a way that will remain imprinted on the heart. Because some things are necessary even as they injure, and beautiful although they hurt. The heart grows each time. There is always room for more.
This is grief, now.
But in the end, it will be well. I say so, I really do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
End notes:
“Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.” - the Priest, in his wedding speech.
(And the prompt in question was, of course: “Fleabag/Priest fic from God’s POV.”)
.
(Crossposted from this post on Dreamwidth, which is now my primary journal. Comments are fine in either place.)