Costumes - Chapter 4: Spilt Tea

The Priest sprawled on his back on her bed, a pink-sleeved arm thrown over his eyes. He took deep, measured breaths as his heart thudded heavily in his chest. A rush of thoughts and images filled his mind, memories of his time with Fleabag permeating through his attempts at collecting himself. Guilt began to seep into the corners of his conscious, making it difficult to breathe steadily.

I shouldn't be here.

Fleabag entered the bedroom and carefully set a mug of tea on the nightstand. The scent of peppermint wafted through the air. Sitting herself on the edge of the bed beside him, she instructed, "Move your arm."

He obeyed, moving his arm away from his face to rest next to him. He sighed in relief as she gently placed a cool, slightly damp washcloth over his eyes and forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered, "that feels nice."

"It's something my mum always did for me," she explained.

"When you'd get too stoned?" he asked dryly.

"Maybe once or twice, actually," she laughed, "and when I was feeling ill, in general."

"Ah," he said, without much energy.

"What, exactly, doesn't feel well?" she inquired. "Is your head aching?"

"No," he answered, "I'm not in any real physical pain. Maybe a little nauseous."

She sat down on the edge of the bed next to him.

He let out a shaky sigh.

"I'm just trapped in my head and feeling overwhelmed. It probably wouldn't surprise you to hear that I am a bit prone to anxiety. I think the combination of alcohol and the joint sent me a bit into space. Though, I'd love to blame the fox."

"It was a very threatening fox," she allowed, stifling a small giggle, "you'll be all right. Just relax. You're stoned. It'll pass."

Oof.

"Shots fired," he paused before adding, "and being here with you stirs up a lot for me if I'm honest."

I just want to hold her hand. That couldn't cause too much harm, could it?

With the washcloth still covering his eyes, he reached out and groped for her hand. He felt the tea cup tip over as his hand bumped into it.

"Bastard!" he shouted, sitting up and tearing the washcloth away.

"What the hell?" she exclaimed, jumping up from the bed to avoid the hot tea and not bothering this time to stifle her surprised laughter.

"Sorry, I— I was just—" he blustered, feeling silly.

I'm such an idiot.

"What were you even doing?" She giggled. "You were grasping about like a zombie." She jogged to her bathroom, returning with a towel. Wiping up the spilt tea, she added, regretfully, "Too bad. That was the best cup of tea I've ever made."

Shooting her a smile despite his ramped-up nerves, he froze. His eyes travelled from her face down to the half-undone Goblin King vest and shirt, taking in the exposed bra underneath. "Oh, shit! Sorry," He yelped, covering his face with his hand.

"What?" She looked down. "Oh. You had your eyes covered, so I started changing. I don't think my costume is as comfortable as yours. You're practically in your PJs."

"Well, can you please put yours on, then?" He waved a hand in her general direction in a mild panic.

"Je-sus," she muttered, a pleased grin at his reaction stretching across her face.

"Please, don't bring Him into it," he begged, his hand still clamped firmly over his eyes.

"It's not any—" she began.

"And don't tell me it's not anything I haven't seen before," he added edgily. "I couldn't bear it."

She didn't say anything in response to that, but he could feel her amusement. There was a sound of buttons and clothing moving around. He shifted uncomfortably and licked his lips.

"So, what were you doing? When you spilt the tea," she asked again. He heard loud thumps as her boots were kicked across the room carelessly, hitting the wall.

"Ehm." He shrugged. "I just wanted"—he felt her sit back down beside him. She peeled his hand away from his eyes and laid it at his side. Her hand lingered, covering his—"this. Honestly, I just wanted your hand." He laced his fingers with hers.

He examined her new outfit. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that nearly reached her knees. The bottom half was yellow. The top half was red with the word 'Pooh' across the chest.

"Stop," he demanded, shaking his head, "you think you're so cute in your Winnie the Pooh shirt."

She is.

"I think you think so, at least," she shot back, flashing a confident smile.

"You're right. I hate that you're right," he grumbled, groaning dramatically for effect.

She shifted on the bed to face him, an earnest expression on her face. "Father," she began.

"What did I say about you calling me 'Father'?" he interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at her with his free hand.

A sly smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Something wildly inappropriate and shockingly presumptuous."

Silence for a beat.

"Fair enough," he admitted, frowning slightly. "Go on, what were you going to say?"

"Well, Father, I have a confession," she began again, emphasising the word 'Father.'

"What's that?" he replied. His breathing grew heavy once more in anticipation as he gazed at her expectantly.

Why does the idea of her confessing turn me on so much?

"I'd really like to cuddle up and watch Labyrinth," she answered simply, studying him.

The Priest felt a blush creep up his neck and face.

"I can't be your friend-with-cuddle-benefits," he said solemnly, squeezing her hand. "I'm sorry, I just can't."

Her small, hopeful smile broke off. "Because: God," she stated, starting to stand.

"No." He tugged her back to where she had been sitting. "Well, yes. But also because this hurts. Because—" he trailed off.

They sat there, not touching but for their hands still laced together.

Finally, she said in a small voice, "I'm not trying to make a pass at you right now. Truly."

Maybe I want you to.

"Okay," he said quietly after a long moment.

"Okay?" She looked at him, surprised by his resignation. "An ethically and emotionally tortured priest is really not what I'm going for here, Father. I want you to be okay."

He stared at her, considering. Opening his arms to her, he said, "Put the film on and come here."

She raised a questioning brow.

He nodded decidedly.

The film, as it turns out, was already in her DVD player. She reached for the remote, turned on the TV, and then tapped 'play.' She looked back and examined him as if to check his body language for a change.

He still sat up; arms spread invitingly. There was a small, sad smile playing across his face.

"Come here," he said again, more firmly. "Cuddle up."