Forgive Me, Father
Pairing: Parkweasel (Pansy Parkinson x Percy Weasley)
Universe: post-war, EWE
Rating: M for themes, language
Summary: Olivie Advent cont'd.
Prompts: 1) Fleabag with a twist; 2) a Pansy/Percy rom-com. To be clear: Fleabag is perfect and I would change nothing about it. I made drastic changes to the personalities of these characters/plots in order to make this pairing work. The show did the right thing, and I have intentionally gone a different direction to arrive at a different ending. You do not need to have seen the show to read this.
This is not a love story.
I suppose if I have to start somewhere, I'll start with me. My mother will say that's nothing outside the usual, but she's a bit of a cunt. I say that lovingly, of course (I don't, I'm lying) but it's a foundational aspect of her personality. Some people are just a tad cuntier than others by nature, and she is one of those.
I, on the other hand, am not a cunt. Not to say I'm any better than my mother (I'm not), but being a cunt takes real panache; a splash of something zestier than whatever I've got. When used effectively entitlement is fifty-percent confidence, but when I do it, I'm just a bit of a spoiled little bitch. I'd love to improve, but it seems unlikely. I am currently an only child, though I'm sure my mother would be more than happy to pop out someone's progeny if it meant they'd foot the bill for her lavish, cunty lifestyle.
We used to have money—we don't anymore. My father passed a few years after the war, and much to my mother's distress, he died without a sickle to his name. Turns out he never had any to begin with, and now, of course, we're swimming in debt.
I have thus far failed to marry rich, having been cursed with my nose and also my personality, but luckily my mother clung devotedly to her figure over the years. When Ava Greengrass ran off with the gardener, poor Viridian was left with his enormous manor house and two beautiful, accomplished daughters, which was just about the best thing to happen to my mother. Mum, a longtime friend of the Greengrasses, was more than happy to tend to Viridian's emotional wounds. (By which I do mean his penis.)
Daphne's my best friend and she's fundamentally perfect. I wish I could think of something unflattering to say about her, but even at my foulest she lacks any conceivable flaw. (She's outrageously inoffensive; there, that counts as one.) Her younger sister, Astoria, is beautiful and talented and sweet, but she at least has moments of selfishness. Like now, for instance. Daphne and I are accompanying my mother and her father to dinner, but Astoria's off in Bulgaria, probably sucking off some quidditch player in heat. (Not that I blame her. I'd like to be doing the same thing.)
Mum, of course, surprises us the moment we sit down to a table set for five, not four.
"What's this?" I ask in reference to the empty chair beside me. (She ignores me.)
"Daphne, dear," says my mother, turning to the daughter she frequently tells me she wishes was hers, "where's Theodore?"
"Oh, Theo had a meeting," says Daphne, who even lies beautifully. (Theo's her doting husband. Skinny, but rich. Independently wealthy, and therefore unbeholden to meetings.) "He's ever so sorry he couldn't join us." (False. Theo is the only person who hates my mother more than me.) "He sends his love!" (He doesn't.)
"How is Draco?" asks my mother, which prompts Viridian to cough quietly into his hand. For what it's worth, I've always loved Viridian, who was as much a father to me as he was to his own daughters. (It's not his fault he went weak for a cunt like my mother. There's a secret they'll never tell you in school: Men often adore cunts, so if that's your style, embrace it. Wear it well.)
"Oh, he's… fine," says Daphne evasively, glancing at me.
(I am also fine.)
(We broke up ages ago.)
(It would be weird if I weren't fine.)
(Which, obviously, I am.)
"Well, good," says my mother, who is admittedly very beautiful for a woman of her age. "Pansy, sit up straight," she adds, which of course I thought I was doing. (Years of Russian ballet typically ensure that I am, but mother knows best, as they say.) "Anyway," she continues, as if I've interrupted her somehow, "Viridian and I have an announcement to make."
Before she can tell us what her announcement is (please god, not a baby) someone suddenly pulls out the empty chair beside mine, sliding into it.
"Apologies," says a slim redheaded man I have to blink to recognize. (A Weasley, that's obvious, but it takes a moment to align this man with the stuffy Head Boy from fourth year.) "Food drive took a bit longer than I anticipated."
"Food drive? How quaint," purrs my mother. "Father Percy, I'm sure you remember Daphne."
(Father?)
"Yes, of course. Hello, Miss Parkinson," he says (Miss Parkinson?), turning to me despite my mother's obvious wish to collectively pretend I'm not here. "It's nice to see you again."
"Oh yes, of course." (His eyes are disturbingly blue.) "How are you?" (Were they always this blue?) "Doing well, I hope." (I don't mean that, but it doesn't matter. It's called decorum, which I have and the Weasleys famously do not.)
"Father Percy's a priest," inserts my mother, as I blink. (A what now?)
"I didn't care for the Ministry lifestyle," explains Percy, catching the confusion on my face. (I can't say I bothered to hide it.) "I was going down a bit of a bad path. Pushing away the people I loved, forgetting my values, that sort of thing. Ambition," he remarks, in something of a joking tone, "is a hell of a drug."
"You probably shouldn't try cocaine," I say. (Why is he looking at me?)
Daphne laughs, but my mother doesn't.
"I have," says Percy.
A weighty silence falls over the table as he looks at me, raising his glass of water to his lips as if challenging me to test him. I don't, though I want to. (It would only delight my mother if I embarrassed her now. Then she could hate me outright, like a proper mother, instead of forcefully feigning approval.)
"So, anyway," my mother says brightly, "Viridian and I are getting married. Surprise!"
I choke on my glass of water as Daphne reaches out, clutching my arm beneath the table.
(His eyes are so fucking blue.)
"Your mum's a cunt," says Percy, and that's the moment I realize I want to fuck him.
I'm getting ahead of myself. First my mother and Viridian announce their engagement, and then they reveal they'd like to get married in a church. "Doesn't that sound so charming?" exclaims my mother.
"I wasn't aware you were particularly religious," I say.
"Don't be ridiculous, Pansy, of course I am," says dear old Mum. "Viridian and I just went yesterday and we positively adored Father Percy's little speech."
"Homily," says Percy.
"Yes, of course," smiles my mother, looking happy as a clam. "In any case, we're doing a small wedding, just us and you girls and Astoria, plus a few close friends—" (Translation: Everyone she knows will be sorry they ever doubted her resurrection to the heights of social graces.) "—and Father Percy's been gracious enough to agree."
"It's really not a problem," says Percy. "Gives me the day off from healing the sick."
"Do you encounter many lepers?" I ask him. (My mother glares at me.)
"None so far, but I was only recently ordained," he tells me. "Wine?"
"I didn't realize priests were allowed to drink," I remark. (My mother's hand is so tight around her glass I think it might shatter in her hand.)
"So long as you do more good than harm," Percy says, leaning over to refill my glass, "the rules are somewhat circumstantial."
"I don't think that's how it works," I say.
(He's so close to me I can smell him. Linen and bit of aftershave.)
"Stop pestering him, Pansy," says my mother. "Daphne, more wine?"
Dinner went on as normal, with a few more apologetic glances from Viridian. He always looks a bit embarrassed by my mother, but in a powerless sort of way. She has a tendency to dominate a room.
The bit where it gets complicated is mostly when my mother says right at the end of dinner, "Don't spoil this for us, Pansy."
"Me?" I ask. (I had been staring at Percy's hands, trying not to.) "What does that mean?"
"It means don't show up in Viridian's house drunk and crying with your dress on inside out," says my mother smartly. "Please, don't find a way to make this about you."
(The episode in question was the anniversary of my father's death. Also, a week after Draco dumped me.)
"Right," I say.
Percy was silent at the time, though he caught me on the way out. "Your mum's a cunt," he says, though you know that already, and you know my thoughts on the matter as well.
(Largely: I want to fuck him into the goddamn floor.)
"I know," I say.
"Don't listen to her."
"I don't." (I absorb her and spend the rest of the evening wringing myself out like a dishtowel.) "What do you care?"
"I've had… some difficulties," he tells me curtly. "My little political fall from grace, my brother's death, it all led to some very poor choices. But now I'm here," he reminds me, tapping his little priest's collar. "You'll find peace eventually."
"Did you?" I ask him.
We stand there in silence for so long that I wonder briefly whether I actually spoke aloud.
"No," he says.
Then he tosses some powder in the flames and disappears into the Floo.
It's not like I'm desperate for marriage. Yes, Daphne and Theo had a lovely wedding and combined they have more money than God, but it's not about the institution of the thing, or the possession of it. It isn't something shallow, like how Daphne looked so much better in her gown than I could ever dream of looking. It's her certainty; her knowledge that they belong together. It's the way Theo looks at her as if she's the most precious thing in the entire world.
I used to think that Draco and I belonged together until I realized it was just my mother's voice telling me that. Now I know I don't belong to anyone, but it makes me feel untethered, awash. Like I'm floating aimlessly without direction, and nobody cares where I land.
I've never gone to church before, but now obviously I can't resist. After mass, I pause to shake his hand.
"I liked it," I say. "The little speech."
"Homily," he corrects me.
(So, so blue.)
"Come here," he suddenly says, taking my elbow and leading me into the rectory or something; whatever this old room full of choir robes and moldy Bibles is called.
He plucks one from the table, handing it to me. "Thirsty?" he asks.
"For… scripture?" I ask uncertainly.
"I was thinking more like wine," he says. "Though I keep Ogden's in my good robes."
"These aren't your good robes?" (They're green and gold, and they bring out his eyes.)
"You'll know my good ones when you see them."
He disappears and I flip through the Bible, aimless. He returns, handing me a glass, which I accept.
"Have you read it much?" he asks, pointing to the Bible in my hands.
"I've read enough to know it doesn't work," I say.
Then, because he doesn't say anything, I add, "For half this book God is vengeful and cruel. Storms and locusts. Bloodshed. Wrath. Then he's merciful, but what kind of mercy is it? Killing his own son? And anyway, I don't think we're made in His image. I don't think it's possible. He's something else, some other creature we can't fathom. If we could, we'd make the world ourselves."
(I don't know what I'm on about.)
"Men told these stories. The narrators are unreliable," I continue babbling. "It's basically gossip."
"If it were all fiction, would you believe it?"
"What?" (His sudden interruption startles me.)
"If it were fiction," Percy repeats, pointing to it. "Would you believe it?"
I sort of half-understand what he means. If this book were fiction, would I trust the themes more. Redemption and forgiveness and doing unto others. Fires and floods, plagues and virgins.
"I don't know," I say listlessly, "maybe."
I set the book down at the moment he steps towards me, and for a second I think he'll hold my hand. (Stupid.)
"What?" he says.
"What do you mean 'what'?"
(I am so, so stupid.)
"That," he says, frowning. "Where did you just go?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
(I hate it, how much it thrills me to have his eyes, his attention. My skin crawls with humiliation from being noticed, from craving it. I devour it too quickly, swallowing it whole. Do it again, I want to beg.)
"That," he says again.
"You're being ridiculous," I say.
He regards me warily for a moment.
"Come with me," he says.
"You ruined our name, you know," my mother likes to remind me. "No one will ever have you now."
For the record, I thought I was being practical when I suggested turning Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord. Seems silly to think that was a problem once, given my current set of mundanities, but at the time I was only thinking: one life for many. His life for Daphne's, for Draco's, for all of my friends, for everyone I've ever loved. I wish I had said nothing, obviously. I don't even think I meant it at the time, but this is my nature. I say things and can't take them back, like I love you.
"I thought you knew this was sort of a casual thing for me," had been Draco's response to that.
I don't blame my mother for resenting me, or Draco for leaving me. I don't blame Viridian for not wanting to be alone, and I certainly don't blame my father for dying. I don't blame Daphne for being cherished, for being beautiful, for being loved.
I suppose at this point I'm so numb I don't blame anyone for anything at all.
Father Percy takes me to St Mungo's, which is where he goes in the afternoons. This is what he meant by healing the sick. "Providing comfort," he explains. "It gives me something to do. Something purposeful."
"Why am I here?" I ask him.
"Because I thought you might want to feel something," he says.
We spend the day chatting with absolute lunatics, which gives me an unsettled sort of feeling, like I'm off-kilter and trying to catch my balance. Percy handles himself better, though he's not necessarily a natural when it comes to caregiving. Even I can carry a conversation better than he can, though anyone can see he's trying. (A woman hands me a wrapper from some sweet and I tuck it in my pocket, oddly touched. It's a possession she wants me to have, which certainly feels like something.)
"The thing about drugs," Percy remarks uninvited, "is they destroy your natural ability to feel. And feeling things is so powerful, so potent. I was afraid to lose that, so I went somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet."
"You couldn't think of another place besides a seminary?" I ask doubtfully.
"I wasn't thinking," he explains with a shrug. "That was the beauty of it. For once I stopped thinking and simply went, and then I thought, maybe this is God."
"Vengeful God or merciful God?" I ask him.
"Either," he says. "Both."
(I love his mouth.)
"What?"
"Hm?"
He stares at me.
"I think I'd like to do terrible things with you," he remarks, a bit resentfully.
I tighten my legs, sitting up straight.
"Maybe you should do them," I tell him.
He smiles, distant now.
"Forgive me, Father," he murmurs to nothing.
I look at his hand, which rests between us.
(Every fiber of me wants to take it and hold it.)
(I'm breathless with the mortification of craving.)
(Can he hear my heart beating?)
"I should take you home," he says.
This is not a love story because you can't love someone you've just met. You don't love someone on sight, because that's not what love is. It's an addiction, yes, chemical and hormonal, but that's the rush, that's not love. Love is knowing someone's ins and outs with intimacy. Love is trust and friendship. Love is acceptance and kindness. Love is mercy and forgiveness, even when it is vengeance and justice. It is patient and kind even when it is harsh and grim and cruel.
You don't love him when he takes your face in his hand, carefully holding your chin between his thumb and the crook of his finger. You don't love him when he brushes his lips against yours the first time. That's not love. It's not love when you fantasize about him parting your thighs with his knee, taking you in his arms, balling your skirt in his fist. Love isn't like sex; it doesn't just happen. The end to loneliness is not love, even if it looks a great deal like it.
Love is made. It's like peace. It happens over time, with acceptance.
This is a hope story.
I start to cry even before he holds me. It's embarrassing, but for a moment I'm blissfully ignorant, totally blind. I can't see anything but him.
"It's just madness, you know?" I say deliriously. "It's all so empty and pointless and still, I'm just so terrified I'm doing it all wrong."
I imagine he'll taste like red wine, which is how I imagine Jesus tastes. Instead I can smell the aftershave, and his tongue is spiced with whiskey. (This man is not okay, not even close. He ran from his life and he's been seeking solace ever since.)
He cradles my head with his palm, smoothing his hand over my hair. I fantasize that I am his serenity, only I know he couldn't be so unlucky. (This is a good man, albeit a confused one. Even on his worst days, he surely doesn't deserve me.)
"I don't think I'm capable of doing right by you," I say.
"Good," he says. "I haven't hit my quota of daily wrongs."
He slides his hands under my skirt. The little white collar blinks from around his neck.
(Am I going to fuck the priest because I know my mother will be furious?)
(Am I going to fuck the priest?)
"Will you forgive me?" he says. (His breath is hot against my ear.)
"For what?"
His lips brush mine again. "Not letting you go."
Ah yes, the sin that is many sins. Lust and passion and greed. The desire that is more than desire, because it is craving untended, longing unfulfilled. Men of the cloth are meant to be above such things, turning their intentions skyward, but this one is lost.
(Like me.)
"Perhaps," I say, "you should kneel."
He strokes my cheek with his thumb, and then he lowers himself slowly, trailing kisses gently down my torso until he rests on his knees.
When he meets my eye, I know my mother's wedding day is ruined.
This is a story about finding where you're meant to be.
a/n: I suspect the sum total of these stories is going to be a sense of what it's like to live with a bipolar person's brain for four weeks. (Me. I'm the person.) Hope you're still enjoying it! Or at least something close.