Well, one thing's certain; this has crossed the line now.
The question is, where was the line? A priest is supposed to know these things. Oh yes, giving your curate a friendly hug now and then, letting him creep into your bed during thunderstorms, that sort of thing, that's fine. After that comes the grey area – Seeking out excuses to cling on a little bit longer, wondering when the next opportunity will be, growing so used to it all that you need to stroke his back or have him rest his chin on your shoulder to get the same effect, to dispel the loneliness and self-doubt that envelops you the rest of the time. His trust, his neediness, feels like a great compliment. Then all it takes is for Mrs. Doyle to be off at a family wedding at the same time that Father Jack is in St. Clabbert's, and...Well, here you both are, entwined on the sofa, his forehead pressed to your chin, vestments spread out over you both as blankets.
Ted carefully extricates one of his own arms from the hot sticky mass of priest flesh and strokes Dougal's soft, warm hair absent-mindedly. The younger man stirs a little in his sleep, but does not wake. He looks like himself again; not the furious beast of a few hours earlier. It was as if he'd been possessed by a screeching, clawing demon. It was terrifying; nothing like Ted had imagined. Or would have imagined, if he had imagined it, which he hadn't. No-one could ever prove anything.
A priest shouldn't get into awkward, upsetting messes like this. A priest should be in control. This has to be the last time this happens. But – well, why not enjoy what's left of the moment for now, eh? The damage is done for tonight. But this is definitely the last time. The last time...
"Aah, Ted..." murmurs Dougal, stirring as he wakes, "Teddy, Teddy, Teddy."
"Dougal, listen..." He pauses, still not exactly sure how to word this.
"Hold me, Ted."
"I am holding you."
"Hold me more, Ted."
"Look, we have to..."
"Please, Ted. Give me a big squeeze. Please please please."
Ted can only give in to the pleading; the resulting moment of quiet gives him time to formulate a little speech.
"Look, Dougal, you realise – what we did last night – is a sin, don't you?"
"Oh yeah, Ted, I know that. Sinning away like a pair of big mad eejits, weren't we, Ted?"
"Yes, we were. It was a very great sin."
"It was great, wasn't it?" says Dougal, looking mischievous. "You remember the other day, when Mrs. Doyle made a big pile of scones for tea, and I ate one before tea? I thought that was a good sin. But that one last night was brilliant. Can't we do it again before breakfast, Ted? Ted?"
Ted is well used to conversations with Dougal veering into uncharted territory, but this is way beyond anything he could have prepared himself for. It takes a moment to find the matter in hand amongst his confused flurry of thoughts.
"I mean – it's a big sin. Worse than eating a scone before tea."
"Wow. I had to say five Hail Marys for that."
"Yes, Dougal. We might be into whole rosary territory."
"Oh God, Ted."
"It was very bad. Very bad indeed. We must never let it happen again."
Several minutes pass in silence, the two of them still clinging to each other, sharing breath and warmth. What kind of priest can't be left alone with his curate for a few days without a perfectly innocent, friendly snuggle turning into...
"Hey, Ted? Ted?"
"What is it, Dougal?"
"You know next time, can we..."
"No! No, Dougal. There's no next time. We can't go this far ever again. And if anyone ever finds out this happened, we'll both be in terrible trouble. Bishop Brennan will make sure we never see each other again."
"Oh no, Ted!"
"So..."
"You're all I have, Ted. You're the only person who understands me. Sure, everyone else thinks I got dropped on my head as a baby or something. But you treat me like a real person."
"Oh, Dougal..." Ted closes his eyes; he wishes he could close his ears too.
""I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd probably be dead or something. I'm such a big clumsy eejit. I'd have set myself on fire or something by now if it wasn't for you."
"Dougal, please..."
"Or maybe someone might have been so fed up of me, they'd have beat me up and killed me. You'd never do that, would you, Ted? You wouldn't beat me up and kill me for being annoying?"
"Right, so what are you not going to do?" Says Ted, desperately trying to return to the subject in hand.
"Err... I'm not going to... err... ever, ever let you go."
"You mustn't tell anybody! No-one must ever know!"
"Oh right. Yeah. Tell anyone what?"
"Tell them about – you know. What we did last night."
"Oh no, Ted, I won't tell anyone. I can't imagine anyone's interested, anyway. We weren't bothering anyone else, were we?"
"Right!" says Ted, seizing the opportunity, "So we mustn't tell anyone, because... who cares?"
"Gotcha, Ted. No-one wants to know."
Dougal smiles contentedly as he nuzzles up to Ted's neck, finding a cosy spot to settle in. Ted pulls his cassock close around them both, just for a little bit longer. He glances up at the clock; they have two hours until Mass. Two hours to regain his presence of mind. Then Mrs. Doyle will be home, and life will go on as it always has.
"Hey, Ted?"
"What is it, Dougal?"
"They weren't kidding when the called you Father Fluffybottom, were they? I thought Sampras had come to join in, but it was just your big hairy arse."
"Tea, Dougal! Let's make some tea."
But before he can move to get up, the kitchen door flies open. He screams in horror.
"Good morning, Fathers!" sings Mrs. Doyle as she wheels in her trolley, "Did someone say that magic word?"
"Morning, Mrs. Doyle," says Dougal brightly, "We weren't expecting you back so soon."
"Well, you know, I thought I ought to get the earlier ferry because you'd both be gagging for a lovely cup of tea this morning. I mean – me away, Jack away, just you two here together - we know what's going to happen, don't we? I'll just put the tea down here on the table and let you both get some clothes on before I bring your breakfasts in. I'm making bacon and eggs. Would either of you like some toast with that?"
"Ah, yes please!" Dougal replies, "Can you make the eggs with a runny yolk so I can dip the toast in?"
"Oh, I know how you like your eggs, Father. Well, give me a knock on the door when you're both decent, and I'll bring it right in. Hah! You men and your urges!"
With that, she potters off back into her kitchen. An utterly mortified Ted watches her go, and Dougal sits up to reach for his cup.
"Did she... really... is she...?" stutters Ted, bewildered.
"She's worth her weight in gold, isn't she Ted? There aren't many housekeepers who'd do that, are there? We're very very lucky."
Ted sits up beside Dougal and meekly accepts the cup of tea offered to him.
"Err... Did I do that?" asks Dougal, suddenly sounding a little concerned as he points to Ted's upper arm. Looking down, he can see several curved lines of hot pink dashes where something has sunk its teeth into his flesh.
"Yes, you did that."
"Oh, dear. Went a bit mad, didn't I? Got a bit carried away there."
"You did. We both did."
"OK, Ted. I'll try not to bite you so hard next time."
Dougal turns away, diffident, remorseful; but then glances back to Ted for reassurance. Ted feels his heart flutter again. He can deny it all he likes, but the fact remains that this utterly exasperating man is his weakness. Of course there will be a next time, and a time after that, and many, many more times after that. Helplessly he leans forward and catches the curate in a long, drawn-out, tea flavoured kiss. By the time they come up for air, the smell of bacon is wafting out of the kitchen and Mrs. Doyle is rattling plates and cutlery. Time to get ready for another day on Craggy Island.