Costumes - Chapter 2: Party
He decided to avoid arriving right on time, as the idea of spending intimate time alone with her family before other guests arrived was intimidating and a bit nauseating. As he walked up the sidewalk to Claire's home about an hour after the party had been scheduled to start, he heard loud music and laughter.
Good, there are other people here already. It won't be so awkward when I finally bump into h-
"Watch out for the fox!" He heard a familiar voice shout from behind him.
"Jesus!" he yelled, nearly jumping out of his costume as he spun around, eyes darting about frantically before settling on her.
There she was, standing on the sidewalk, leaning gracefully against a lamp post. "Nope, not Jesus. I know he would have been your first choice. Sorry to disappoint." A mischievous smile that did not quite reach her eyes tugged at one corner of her mouth. He did not miss the hint of resentment in her tone.
His already quickened heartbeat began to pound as his eyes focused on her. He was still clutching his chest theatrically. After taking a few calming breaths, he shot her a playful glare, pointing a slightly trembling finger at her. "Fuck you, as if you could disappoint me." His tone came out much more aggressive and accusatory than he had intended. He felt on edge and slightly paranoid.
She didn't reply, just looked back at him patiently, an eyebrow raised.
"I honestly have that terrible, lingering feeling that a fox is about," he shared after an uncomfortably long pause.
She smirked and nodded over his shoulder. He turned around slowly to face the house behind him.
A woman wearing an orange jumpsuit, fox tail, and ears walked out of the house and stumbled down the walkway to the street, bumping into his shoulder as she went.
"Oh, what the fuck?" he whispered-screamed, glancing upward as if asking God.
She said nothing. She still had a smirk on her face, but it was fading a bit.
After the moment passed, they took each other in.
"You look very cosy," she observed, warming to him slightly as she looked him up and down.
He was wearing what could only be described as a pink zip-up pyjama onesie with a pig's tail. The outfit had a hood with piggy ears and a snout. The belly was striped. There was no room to question that this was a Piglet costume.
He grinned at her widely, spreading his arms out. "Considering my usual outfit includes an actual fucking collar, I am very cosy." His eyes dragged along the length of her before he could catch himself. "Goblin King," he remarked knowingly, not guessing but rather stating a fact. "Glorious."
She wore grey high-waisted leggings with tall black heeled boots. A billowy poet shirt was synched in by a very small leather vest, and her hair was tucked under a rather large blonde mullet wig.
"Good guess. Labyrinth doesn't seem like a very priest-y film, what, with goblins, and magic, and the whole bit," she mused.
"The Bible is full of monsters and demons." He shrugged. "Honestly, it's one of my favourite films."
"Well, no shit," she said, crossing her arms, "mine too."
They stared at each other, the silence between them growing thick as their banter faded. He took a step towards her.
"You look well," he offered, honestly.
"And you look a bit harassed," she replied, taking in the mussed hair stuffed under his hood and the dark circles beneath his eyes, "are you well?"
He sighed and ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Honestly, I really did just do my hair before I left— it's this bloody hood."
"The hood made you look tired and a little drunk?" She smiled sadly. Her question was harsh, but her tone was warm. She took a few steps towards him and reached up, pushing back his hood.
Searching his eyes, she asked, "What's going on under here? Are you okay?"
He looked at her in that sheepish way of his, half-smiling, half-frowning. There is nothing quite like being asked if you are okay to make you realise how not okay you are.
Oh, shit, no. Don't start.
"Honestly, no. I'm not okay. I'm lonely as fuck. And I miss you."
Bastard.
Gaining momentum, he continued. "And yes, I had a few tequilas before I came, but that was a fucking mistake." He began to gesture with his hands wildly. "I was scared shitless to come, but I was more scared of not coming. Fuck, I am scared right now." There was barely a breath between words as they fell out in a jumble. The hands he had been waving to emphasise his words fell limply to his sides after his confession concluded.
She took a step nearer to him, closing the space between them. She leaned in and gave him a brief squeeze around his shoulders, ruffling his hair with her hand as she pulled away. Her arm fell back to her side, then crossed with her other arm again as if she didn't quite know how to stand in front of him without touching him.
He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The brief intimacy of the embrace had rattled him.
She smiled at him sorrowfully. "I miss you even with you standing right here. I have nothing left to lose by admitting it. It doesn't matter, anyway." There was no plea for pity in her tone. She spoke as if she was stating a fact.
"I know what you mean." He paused. "And it does matter."
She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
A heavy quiet stretched between them before he observed, "We've never done that before. That was a first."
"What?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Hugged. We've never hugged." The Priest wished he had pockets to hide his hands. He didn't know what to do with them.
"Yeah, I suppose we did skip that step before."
He took a step back and rolled his eyes at her.
I have to break this tension.
"Fuck, you're tall in those boots," was all he could come up with.
She just grinned knowingly and started to walk past him. Instead of walking to the front door, she steered herself along the side of the house towards the gate to the side yard.
"Cigarette?" she offered, tossing him a smile over her shoulder.
They strolled to the side yard gate, him trailing behind her.
Stop looking at her bum in those leggings. Just stop it.
"Father!" rang out Claire's voice from the front door to his left. "It's so good to see you. Come in and meet Klare, have a drink with us."
He tore his eyes away from the Goblin King-clad form in front of him, shifting his attention to Claire.
"Hi!" he blurted, with a little too much forced enthusiasm. "It's fantastic to see you as well. I'd love to meet Klare."
He glanced back over his shoulder and made eye contact with Fleabag. She stood, fingering the latch to the gate, an unlit cigarette already in her mouth.
Claire looked between them as if noticing her sister for the first time. Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh," she faltered and began to trail off, "I didn't— I'll just—"
"I'm actually not drinking tonight," volunteered The Priest. Claire gave him a once-over and narrowed her eyes at him disbelievingly. "I mean, I'm not drinking anymore tonight. I admit I had a few before I left to give the social anxiety jitters a rest." He laughed in that overcompensating way of his.
"I see," Claire said to him, staring at her sister accusingly.
She knows.
"Well, I'll just leave you two, for now, to do—" she made a vague gesture with her hand, "whatever it is you were on your way to do."
She bloody knows.
"We are just about to have a cigarette if you'd like to join," extended the Priest.
Claire grimaced in self-righteous disgust. "I'm not a smoker, thanks." Her grimace turned into a knowing expression. "You two have at it."
He reddened at the potential double-meaning of 'have at it.'
She. Fucking. Knows. Everything.
"Claire—" he called after her as she began to turn away.
I need to say something to save this awkward moment.
She turned back towards him with a quizzical expression.
"I like your costume." He smiled brightly.
Claire looked down quickly at her dress, a perfect replica of the classic white Marylin Monroe dress. She smoothed her hands over the skirt and smiled back at him, all signs of potential annoyance gone.
"Thank you," she replied briskly as she headed back through the front door into her house.
"Should I have worn a dress? Would you have fancied me better?" Fleabag quipped as he turned around to face her.
"Oh, fuck off. You say that as though I wasn't just apologising to God for looking at your bum in those pants."
She didn't say anything to that in response but looked rather pleased with herself as she opened the sideyard gate. He followed her in.
"Do you have an extra cig—" The Priest began to say before noticing that she already held one out to him expectantly.
She was standing with her back against the wall. He faced her, trying to keep his body language open but not too inviting.
Fuck. I just want to be close to her.
She raised her lighter and covered it with her hand as he leaned in to light up.
"Thanks," he said simply.
They stood there in silence for what felt like minutes but was actually only about 20 seconds. Her knee was raised, and her foot was balanced on the wall behind her. She tapped it nervously against the bricks.
"Are you okay?" he started, right as she began to say, "So, you're not drinking?"
"No, I'm—" he said, as she answered, "Honestly, I'm—"
"Oh, sorry, I—" they both said simultaneously.
They turned away from each other slightly. Awkwardness hung between them.
She looked down at her hands. After a beat, she admitted, "This still very much hurts me, Father. Your absence hurts me. I miss you, and not just as a—" she looked up at him, took a drag, exhaled, "not just as a lover. But of course, there's that, too."
He blushed deeply at the word 'lover.' He desperately wanted to look away and cross his arms at that moment, but he kept his eyes on hers.
She's being brave. So can I.
"I'd still like to be your friend," he revealed.
She didn't say anything, just looked at him. Then she glanced away, blinking heavily.
Fuck, she's about to cry.
"I know that isn't what you want to hear," he started, looking at her desperately and trying to get a read on her. She wasn't crying, but she looked like she might, and she wouldn't meet his eyes.
"You're right, it's not," she agreed, "but I suppose it's better than how I have been feeling the last few months without you in my life at all."
He swallowed before elaborating. "I have been your friend this whole time. I hope you know that. It's been hard on me not knowing what you're up to or how you're doing. I am always here in your corner. We just can't have the same kind of intimacy as we had."
She slumped against the wall slightly under the weight of those words. "And I'm not allowed in your church."
"And you're sure as shit not allowed in my church," he concurred with a nod.
She sighed. "Honestly, Father…this is pathetic, but I have fantasised about you showing up at my door, and instead of this big sexual affair, we hold one another. That's the kind of intimacy I need right now from you. I'm okay not having sex with you, but I'm not okay without you."
The Priest touched her chin lightly and brought her gaze to his own. "Can I hug you again? I desperately want to."
She stared at him bravely, paused, and reached her arms out for him to fill. She didn't smile. Her expression was sad and resigned.
The Priest took a deep breath and leaned in, wrapping his arms around her waist as she looped hers around his neck. They stood there for a few moments in their embrace before either of them realised they were swaying slightly in rhythm to the music coming from inside.
"Who knew Piglet was such a good slow dancer?" she murmured, nuzzling slightly into his neck.
This is too much. The smell of her hair is—
"Oh, get out of here," he joked back, embarrassed.
"Honestly, I feel like we should both get out of here."
He stepped back from her then, a look of almost betrayal across his face. "Flea… "
She put her hands up. "I'm not flirting with you, Father. I just mean…I don't know if I can go in there and share space with you right now around other people. Especially my family."
He nodded. "I can understand that." He narrowed his eyes a bit. "Claire knows, I gather."
"Claire knows what, exactly?" she asked, eyes wide and innocent, taking a drag from her cigarette.
"Claire knows…about—" his hands motioned meaningfully between them, ash scattering from his own forgotten cigarette as he did so.
"Yes, she knows," Fleabag admitted.
The Priest groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.
"And she's been very supportive, for what that's worth," she added.
Because she needed support. Because I was off wallowing in self-pity instead of being there for her.
He sighed. "I'm glad you've had support. I'm sorry. I really am sorry. I should have just been someone you trusted, a confidant—"
"Stop," she said, holding up a hand. She lit another cigarette and handed it to the Priest before lighting one for herself.
He could tell she was getting ready to say something, so he held his tongue apprehensively and took the offered cigarette.
"You don't need to do that," she started, "you're not the bad guy for following your feelings with me. You're not the antagonist in my life. You're just a human being."
These words hit him hard. His eyes began to mist.
"I mean, did I get hurt? Yes," she continued.
"I'm sorry—" he interjected.
"Stop! I need to say this." She took a deep drag and put a hand to his chest. "Look," she said, exhaling. "I know you. And I know you blame yourself for my heartache, but I was an equal participant. I broke my own heart. I'm a grown-up. I knew what celibacy was…I mean, I did after Googling it, but that's beside the point. The point is, I knew this could only end in heartbreak for both of us, and I still pursued you."
She stared at The Priest hard, hand still on his chest. "I hope you listen to these words and really hear them. I accept your apology. And I'm sorry, too. I really am. I knew how important the priesthood is to you, and I compromised that."
His tears trickled down his face as he listened. And heard. And felt.
"Thanks for saying that, but it's not your fault, either," he answered slowly after he was certain she was finished.
She smiled at him cheerlessly. She reached out a hand to wipe away his tears but dropped it before her fingers made contact with his cheek. They cleared their throats simultaneously and looked away from each other.
The Priest took a step back and wiped his own tears. "Ugh, sorry, I just—"
She waited.
I love you.
He didn't finish.
"So, you're not drinking?" she prompted again.
"Not around you!" he replied bluntly, grinning at her devilishly.
Not when I want you so badly.
She quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting.
He laughed. "Honestly, you know what I mean. We drink together. It's part of the fabric of how all of this started between us. It can't happen. It…thins my already very tenuous boundaries."
She nodded, her mouth in a straight line. "Hmm," she mused, a finger touching her chin as if struck by an idea.
"What? What's that face?" he asked, eyes twinkling at her mischievous expression.
"Let's go to mine. I know what to do with you."
I am not about to go to her flat—no way in bloody hell.
"Okay, then," he said quickly, "but don't flirt with me!" He pointed an accusing finger at her.
She just laughed and walked out the gate, dialling a cab on her phone.
A/N:
A little nod to my other favourite fandom: Labyrinth (I have a few Labyrinth fics if you're interested!)
