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"...for those among the versipellēs who are called by God to the priesthood, a different discipline is in force: those who find their iugum animae are encouraged to marry, and to find in this union Christ's love for his church..."
-Catechism of the Catholic Church
They've gotten away from the kidnappers, but not clean. "It's wolfsbane," Marianne says, flinching away from the scent of the wound. "God damn it, I wish he'd killed Nero after all."
"Vengeance is the Lord's," Father Brown replies automatically, but if he's perfectly honest with himself, he has to admit that the thought of punishment coming a bit sooner to the man who would hurt Flambeau so badly has a certain appeal.
"We have to get him to a hospital. Father, give me directions."
He complies, over Flambeau's mumbled protests. There are dark streaks crawling visibly over his skin where Marianne tore away his shirt, and Brown tries not to look at them. Every time he does, a peculiar mixture of emotions overtakes him: pity, to be sure, and worry, but a sort of possessive protectiveness, as well, as if it is his own fault that harm came to Flambeau.
At the hospital, Flambeau is rushed into the werewolf injury ward, and Marianne shoves her way in, loudly declaring herself his devoted daughter to all and sundry. After a bemused moment, Brown pulls himself together and follows her. He doesn't want to watch as the doctor and nurses -- very competent, all, he's sure -- do their work, but something compels him to hold Flambeau's hand beneath the clean drape and mutter prayers for St. Luke to guide their hands, never tearing his eyes from the fleshly horrors of debridement.
"You needn't watch, Father," says a young nurse with a kind voice. "We know what we're about."
"Oh, to be sure," Brown agrees, smiling mildly and squeezing Flambeau's fingers as they begin to flush the wound with holy water and hyssop. It looks horribly painful, and he wishes he could take on some of the pain for himself.
"Nrrgh," says Flambeau, his hand flexing in Brown's grip. "I said no hospitals."
"We saved your life," Marianne tells him sharply. "You're welcome."
"At what cost?" he retorts, and then, of course, Bishop Reynard storms in, followed by what seems like dozens of other people, from the police station and the Vatican and who knows where else.
"Brown! What on earth --" He stops abruptly, sniffing the air; Brown hadn't realized that the new bishop was a werewolf. "Well, that explains a great deal."
"...My lord?" Brown feels a bit lost.
"Why didn't you just tell me you were soulbonded to the thief? That would have saved quite a bit of trouble, if you don't mind me saying." The bishop looks cross, but also a bit pleased with himself.
Brown looks at Flambeau for help; Flambeau looks back, wide-eyed, no help at all.
"It's true," Marianne says. "They're soulbonded -- and I believe it's saved my dear, dear father's soul, as well as his life." She gives Brown a fierce glance -- daring him, he supposes, to contradict her.
"Go on, my child," says the bishop, waving his beringed hand genially.
"I believe that love of this humble priest brought my father to the love of God." Marianne swipes at her eyes, which appear to actually be damp, much to Brown's impressed surprise. "He begged me to help solve this case, so that he could prove his penance and beg forgiveness of the Holy Church."
"I see," Bishop Reynard says. "Did it work?"
"Yes, my lord." Marianne produces the pouch holding the jewel with great ceremony, holding it out for the bishop's inspection.
"Blessed be the Lord," he says softly, then, more loudly, "I suppose you'll want me to perform the ceremony, then, Brown?"
"I -- what? The what?" Brown asks, startling. He'd been so wrapped up in Marianne's performance that he'd nearly forgot his own involvement.
"Our wedding," Flambeau says, gripping his hand almost painfully as he adds, "darling."
"I -- oh," Brown says. "I see."
"Well?" the bishop asks impatiently. "Or did you have someone else in mind?"
"No -- I mean, yes, we would be honored if you would perform the ceremony, my lord."
"Good." The bishop looks mollified. "Have your parish secretary contact my people with the arrangements."
"I will," Brown says. The whole collection of them files out, accompanied by Marianne, who mouths you're welcome over her shoulder as she goes.
"I'm sorry," Brown says to Flambeau, once they're finally alone. "I didn't --"
"No need to apologize," Flambeau says, rather stiffly. "I take it Marianne tends to argue our way into a full pardon. This will do a great deal to rehabilitate my image."
"And -- might I ask -- do you intend to keep your image rehabilitated?" Brown inquires.
They are still holding hands. "I suppose I'll have to," Flambeau says, "being married to a priest."
"I'm --" Brown begins, but Flambeau cuts him off.
"Don't say you're sorry," he says, rubbing his arm where the flesh has knit once more. "Plans have changed; that's all there is to it."
"Of course," Brown says. "I'll -- oh -- that is, do you have housing arrangements, until..."
"I've taken a room at a local inn," Flambeau says. "Go back to the presbytery; I'm sure your Mrs. McCarthy will have a great deal to say about our circumstances."
He is, unfortunately, correct. "Well," Mrs. McCarthy says, setting down a cup and saucer with rather more force than necessary. "Well."
"Mrs. McCarthy, I didn't do it on purpose!" Brown defends himself.
"No, I suppose not," she allows, then fixes him with a gimlet stare. "If you'd had the choosing of it, you'd have chosen wiser, no doubt, Father."
"No doubt," he agrees weakly. Perhaps it's a side effect of his soulbond -- his one-sided soulbond -- but he honestly cannot picture desiring anyone else -- Flambeau's sharp wit, his odd sense of honor, and the qualities Brown cannot quite let himself admit to admiring, not yet...
"Father Brown!" It cannot be the first time she's attempted to rouse him from his reverie. "I said, how does that sound?"
"Whatever you think best, Mrs. McCarthy," he says. "I'm afraid I need a bit of a lie-down. It's been quite a day."
It has, in fact; Brown thinks he's going to lie awake contemplating the shambles of his life, but, in fact, he falls gracelessly asleep as soon as he's undressed and horizontal.
He dreams, of course; he relives the moment when he found Flambeau lying on the pew, at least as much by his warm, exciting scent as by the plume of cigarette smoke. Perhaps that ought to have tipped him off to the whole soulbond debacle -- he's never found the scent of another werewolf quite so, well, thrilling. In the dream, there's no sense of shock as he had felt at the realization in reality, simply a feeling of rightness.
The conversation goes as Brown remembers it, up until the revelation that Marianne is Flambeau's daughter. "Who was her mother?" Brown tries to ask in a normal tone, but it comes out half growl.
"Jealous, Father?" Flambeau's tone is arch, but there's something beneath it, something that Brown wants desperately to know.
"Yes," he finds himself saying, "I rather think I am."
"Good," says Flambeau. In a flash, he's somehow in Brown's lap, nuzzling beneath his jaw, scenting him. "By God, you smell good." All Brown can do is gasp, clutching at handfuls of the fine shirt Flambeau is wearing, wishing he were naked instead. He's never -- but there's no awkwardness, only a radiant feeling of sunlight and love.
Love -- he doesn't dare to hope that Flambeau might return it in the waking world, but here --
The wedding preparations are mostly a blur. Brown trusts Mrs. McCarthy implicitly, of course, and she's helped with the planning of more weddings than he can shake a stick at; to be frank, it's probably better for all concerned that she take charge.
Sooner than he expects, it is the day of the wedding. Brown has submitted to having one of his cassocks tailored, which at least took less of his time than Flambeau's made-to-fit suit seemed to take of his. He gets into it with only a few comments from Sid, who has appointed himself best man.
"Might want to comb your hair," Sid offers when he's dressed.
"Oh," Brown says, "you've got a point." He digs up a comb -- he knew he had one somewhere -- and tries to get his hair into some semblance of order. "That better?"
Sid clicks his tongue. "Better than before."
"Thank you, Sid." Brown does up the last few buttons of his cassock, then puts on his recently shined shoes. "Well, shall we, then?"
"Let's!" Sid offers Brown his arm, like the gentleman he secretly is, and Brown takes it.
He insisted on having the wedding at St. Mary's, much to the bishop's chagrin, but Flambeau had backed him up. "Surely it will do the parish good to see their priest happily wed at home," Flambeau said, and Bishop Reynard gave in.
The church is bedecked in flowers -- Lady Felicia had spared no expense -- and full of people Brown cares about. This parish has long been as close as he ever thought he'd get to a pack; he'd protect them all with his life, and it's good to see that they're here for him now. Standing at the altar, flanked by the bishop and Marianne, is Flambeau.
Flambeau is resplendent in his new suit, and Brown can smell him from all the way back here, smoky and spicy and wonderful. He stumbles, and a ripple of warm laughter goes through the crowd.
"Pull yourself together," Brown mutters to himself, covered by the organ music. He manages not to embarrass himself further on his way down the aisle.
The bishop begins the rite, using the form specifically for soulbonded werewolves. Brown hasn't had much call for it, not in Kembleford, so each word strikes him like it's new-minted just for them.
Then he catches Flambeau's eye, and everything else falls away. He almost doesn't notice when the bishop is ready to have him repeat his vows; if it weren't for Flambeau's barely perceptible head-tilt, he might have missed his cue altogether.
He repeats the words; Flambeau does the same. At last, Bishop Reynard pronounces them lawfully wedded husbands, and instructs them to kiss.
Flambeau's eyebrows raise fractionally. Brown nods, and Flambeau steps forward and kisses him. It is brief and perfunctory, but nonetheless takes Brown's breath away, the rushing in his ears only in part due to the roar of applause.
Receptions at werewolf weddings are traditionally solely for the guests; it is assumed that a soulbonded couple will be all but unable to avoid consummating their union on the altar. Amidst the flock of wellwishers, Brown leads Flambeau back to the presbytery.
In his bedroom, Flambeau removes his jacket and places it neatly over the back of the chair, and Brown watches him. "Of course, I'll take the floor," Brown says. "I've slept on worse."
Flambeau stares at him. "You'll what?"
"I don't expect you to feel about me -- that is, a one-way bond -- you mustn't feel obligated," Brown stammers.
"Obligated," Flambeau repeats. "Is that how you imagine I feel?"
"Well, yes," Brown says, confused. "After all, I assumed that Marianne had picked up on my feelings, and used the one-way bond to--"
"One-way?" Flambeau is building up to an impressive Gallic fury, some part of Brown notices. "You are infuriating! I thought surely that your powers of observation --"
He stops talking abruptly, and Brown realizes, cheeks flaming, that it is because he has been tackled onto the bed. Their chests are pressed together, and Brown is pinning Flambeau's wrists down with his hands.
"Ah," Flambeau says, not appearing in the least discomfited, "and do you know what to do with me now that you have me?"
"No," Brown admits, "not really. I'd hoped --"
Flambeau flips them, and now it is Brown who is pinned, breathing hard. "Not in vain," Flambeau says, nuzzling beneath Brown's jaw, just as he had in Brown's dream. "Now that I've stolen the greatest prize of my career, I intend to make the most of it."
"I've hardly been stolen," Brown objects, struggling just a bit to feel Flambeau's wiry strength holding him in place.
"Haven't you?" Flambeau asks softly. He sits up, rummages in his pockets, and comes up with a small pot of -- something.
"Shouldn't that have spoiled the line of your trousers?" Brown asks, pushing up on his elbows to get closer.
Flambeau doesn't dignify that with a verbal response, merely a cutting look. "We're both wearing entirely too much clothing," he says instead.
"You want that? Truly?" Brown asks.
In answer, Flambeau kisses him. Unlike in the church, it is neither brief nor perfunctory; in fact, it is rather like being swallowed up and swept away, Flambeau's clever tongue seeking Brown's, his teeth nipping shockingly at his lower lip.
"Oh," is all Brown can think to say when he stops. "I see."
"Good," says Flambeau. "I'm glad we're on the same page." He shucks his shirt and undershirt, then his trousers and pants, leaving him spectacularly nude, one hand on his hip like a Greek statue.
"I'm afraid you may find me disappointing," Brown says, sitting up. "I'm hardly such an example of male beauty."
Flambeau sniffs. "I'll be the judge of that," he says. "If you'd be so kind?"
"If you like," Brown says, and undoes his shirt. The force of Flambeau's gaze is nearly palpable, and he -- his husband -- smells so infernally good. Surely if they have been joined at the soul by God himself, Brown's soft middle won't be such a trial to him.
Flambeau mutters something under his breath, and Brown looks up, letting his shirts fall from his hands. "What did you say?"
"My dear husband," Flambeau says. "Please don't stop."
"All right." Brown finishes undressing, coming to stand, equally nude, before his husband.
"My, my," Flambeau says, giving him a most flattering look. "And you thought I'd be disappointed?"
"You're not, then?" Brown's cock is unexpectedly starting to fill at this close inspection, standing at attention; Flambeau's is doing the same.
"No, mon cher. Not at all." He pulls Brown's head down for another kiss, deep and lovely.
Brown is the one to break it, this time, nosing under Flambeau's jaw. His scent is even stronger here; Brown fills his lungs with it as his cock slides through the hair on Flambeau's belly.
"Mmm." Flambeau runs his fingers through Brown's carefully combed hair, probably making a mess of it. "I want so much from you, my stolen priest. Have you done this before, at all?"
"A bit, in the army," Brown admits. "Just -- hands." He decides to try nibbling Flambeau's neck, to see if it tastes as good as it smells.
It does, and the noise Flambeau makes is equally delectable. "Loup-garou or human?" he demands.
"Human," Brown says. "And I never did -- this." He bites down, just lightly, and Flambeau cries out, hips arching against Brown's.
"Good," Flambeau says, breathless. "That's just for me."
"All for you," Brown says against his skin.
Flambeau makes another one of those wonderful noises; then he wraps one hand around Brown's stiff cock and says, "I want this inside me, now."
"Oh -- oh, i see," Brown stammers, his cock twitching pleasantly in Flambeau's firm hold. "Is that -- I mean --"
"Don't worry, I know how," Flambeau says, his voice as warm and rich as his scent. "Lie down."
"All right." Regretfully, he lets go of Flambeau and settles himself on the turned-down bed. Flambeau comes and kneels astride him, the little pot in one hand.
"You'll want to watch this, mon cher mari." Flambeau reaches behind himself, and -- oh, that is quite a sight: those clever fingers delving inside his arse, his handsome face contorted in pleasure.
"Oh, my dear husband," Brown says softly. "That's lovely."
"Just wait," Flambeau says. A few moments later, he takes Brown's cock in one hand and guides it -- oh, by St. Guinefort -- into the tight, slick heat of his arse. "Yes, that's right." He moves, sliding Brown's cock in and out of himself, and it's glorious.
"May I touch you?" Brown inquires, receiving for his politeness a sharply arched eyebrow.
"Yes," Flambeau says, as if Brown is a particularly slow student, and perhaps he is.
"Well, then." Brown wraps his hand consideringly around Flambeau's cock; it feels just right in his hand, the perfect shape and size, and he gives it a few experimental strokes.
"Oh, yes," Flambeau says, throwing his head back, his throat forming a beautiful line, like one of his own stolen paintings. "Oh -- oh, yes." His body moves on Brown's cock; his own cock spurts and spends all over Brown's hand.
"Oh, my." Brown releases him and licks his hand, wanting to taste him. "Not bad."
"Not bad," Flambeau says, deliberately misinterpreting. "I'll show you not bad."
And, oh, it gets even better. Brown reaches up and cups Flambeau's face with his cleaner hand, and Flambeau clutches it hard, riding him with a new ferocity that has Brown's climax hitting him suddenly, like a wave at the seaside knocking him entirely out of himself. "Oh, my," he says again. "Oh, my love --"
Flambeau pulls off him and collapses heavily on his chest, kissing him everywhere he can reach. "You're mine, now," he says.
"I always was," Brown tells him.