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Summary:

It wasn’t right, or easy. The love did not pass. It did not fade with time.

The memories did not slip to the back of her mind, gathering dust and emerging only when she needed some way to berate herself for when things inevitably went wrong.

She loved too deeply, cared too much. No she didn’t. She was just human.

Notes:

Just finished rewatching fleabag for the nth time and wanted to write something to commemorate as i procrastinated on my current wip.

Work Text:

 

 

 

It had been a lie.

 

They did see each other the next Sunday. And the one after that.

It wasn’t that she was starting to believe in the existence of a higher power, a higher calling.

 

There was just something in the routine that made her… happy. Of course, meeting the priest didn’t hurt. That was a lie. It did hurt.

 

The first time, it felt like her chest was being caved in, short of breath and gasping as people sang around her, a chorus of voices all calling out to someone who may not exist.

 

The word that came to mind was quaint, however inaccurate it may be. She left with a quick nod towards the priest, knowing, even as others came forward to bid him goodbye, his mind lingered onto her. In what way, she knew not.

 

She didn’t want to know. Best not to. It’ll pass, he said. But as she dragged herself out of her door five weeks later, dressed in a pantsuit and a coat to stave off the quickly cooling weather, she wondered.

 

She thought about what it was she hoped to achieve. What she was praying for, laughable though it may be. The words fell from her lips, long familiar by now. They were just words. He had been right.

 

She did not feel a sense of calmness, a hope, a power. She felt nothing, and except awareness of the fact that the priest stood twenty feet from her, unreachable even if she wanted to reach out. She didn’t know if she did. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She thought of Belinda often.

 

It was strange, she decided, as she fumbled, pushing the key through the keyhole to her cafe, opening the door as the usuals, standing patiently outside, flooded in with a smile and greeting.

 

Life was good. Life lacked all meaning. She was happy. She had never been more heartbroken. She loved him. She didn’t know if she wanted him. No. Wrong words. She definitely wanted him, that much she could easily say. But beyond that. She wanted to be his friend. She wanted to talk to him, to hold him close, to kiss him. She wanted his presence. She wanted him.

 

As much as he could give her. And that was pathetic. But no, there was not the slightest hint of embarrassment in her as she shot the man a fleeting smile the next time she fled from the church. She loved him. He loved Him. Cold hard facts she could rely on.

 

They were never going to be together. Yet she returned each Sunday morning, like clockwork, or in Claire’s case, she thought with a small fond smile and a brightness in her heart, cockwork. A small laugh escaped her throat, staying there as she turned over the chicken she was roasting in her oven for the sandwiches. Claire was happy. Her father was… happy.  The statue had gained a new home. A permanent one. It was hers. Simple as that.

 

It shouldn’t have been this easy. And it wasn’t? No, it definitely wasn’t easy. She had whispered those words to him one day. “I’m not a good person.” He had only smiled at that, smile sadder now than it was then. “That’s what I’m here for.”

 

 

She met people. Men. Women. People who’s company she enjoyed. People who she enjoyed. It wasn’t the same, but it was good, she decided as she snorted at some joke the blonde next to her had said, sipping the milkshake they shared like a pair of highschoolers. Neither cared. The woman only grinned wider at her laugh. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t right, or easy. The love did not pass. It did not fade with time.

 

The memories did not slip to the back of her mind, gathering dust and emerging only when she needed some way to berate herself for when things inevitably went wrong. Those memories stayed in her mind, light, if not prominent. Good times, laughing and arguing and talking, at the church, on benches and in her house. They made her feel warm. Content. Which was maybe paradoxical since she didn’t have him anymore, but that’s how it was.

 

She loved too deeply, cared too much. No she didn’t. She was just human.

 

They didn’t talk for several Sundays to come. It never passed. But she did smile.

She talked to her sister, got to know Klare. Her cafe ran in her little corner, and she looked around at the small community that had been built. Chatty Wednesdays. Two years ago, Boo and her would have made fun of that right before they got high and forgot all about it. She softened. Boo would have liked this. She would have been proud.