Work Text:
I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it, even a large one. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying. (Teresa of Avila)
The ceremony is gorgeous, when she can look back on it with clear eyes. Donnie cries, that's no surprise. His stunning bride kisses his tears away. The readings are not long, the air is not stifling, there is laughter, and applause, and vibrant colors splashed around the church.
The ceremony is gorgeous, when she can be level-headed about it.
It's just a bit distracting, when the wedding begins and the procession enters and Samira Mohan recognizes the priest as the man she fucked three weeks ago.
Samira turns the paper over and over again between her fingertips. She is sitting in her car after a brutal night shift, and all she can think about is the mass booklet that's been on her passenger seat for a week. She should toss it, except -
Father Jack P. Abbot, O.Carm. A Carmelite - she had googled - whatever the hell that means.
Father Jack Abbot.
What the fuck.
Samira Mohan is bad at letting things go, particularly when a problem has sunk its teeth into her brain and made compelling arguments that it is something worth solving.
The problem is: it was a one-night stand, something Samira has done only once before in her life, so she’s unsure what’s supposed to happen when you run into said one-night stand. Least of all when it’s at a church.
The problem is: she didn't know he was a Catholic priest, otherwise she's fairly certain she wouldn’t have gone home with him. 95% confidence, give or take a standard deviation.
The problem is: it was really fucking good sex. A friend in medical school had joked about the 'eroticism' of Catholicism. Repression, ceremony, shame, ritual, guilt, hunger - all of that rolled together made the best freaks, she had said.
The problem is: Samira is bad at letting things go, and worse at forgetting.
She taps fingers against the steering wheel of her car and glances around furtively, as if she's going to be targeted, as if she’s going to be tried and persecuted, a sex-crazed heathen hell-bent on fucking a priest, god.
The doors to the church open up and people begin slowly trickling out. Samira ducks down, fails at not feeling embarrassed by this. She waits and she waits, until the stream dies down, and all she sees is a small group clustered around a man in a simple black set - pants and a short-sleeved shirt.
And a pesky white collar at his neck.
Samira should start her car. Samira should keep her gaze down as she pulls carefully out of the parking lot. Samira should drive home, maybe grab some takeout for lunch before she passes out and waits for the next day, the next shift, to come. Samira should learn to forget.
Samira's always been very good at doing what she should do. It's how she maintained a 4.2 undergraduate GPA, how she slotted on the pre-med track early, how she got into a residency program before she was twenty-five years old. She's followed the shoulds of her life to a T and it's resulted in immense success thus far. So why would she doubt the scientific method now?
Samira should go home and forget about the incredible sex she had a month ago. Samira should forget and move on.
(Samira should, but instead Samira wants -)
She is opening her car door before she can register the movement. She is walking up to the ornate building as if she is outside of her body. Samira is doing something she should not be doing.
So why does it feel so fucking good?
Samira notes the moment he glances up in her direction, though his mouth continues moving, bidding farewell to the last stragglers. She notes the calm expression on his face, betrayed only by the way his hand spasms on the door. She notes all of this and then almost trips over her own feet as he waves to the last person and closes the door in her face.
Some fucking sanctuary, huh.
She's got her answer, at least partially.
Observation #1: Jack Abbot - the man who she met in a bar a month and a half ago while she was out celebrating submitting her last fellowship application and who bought her a drink and who flirted so deliciously she was wet before they even left the bar and who ate her out with all the voraciousness of a man starved before fucking her into her mattress and making her come three times in a row - is a Catholic priest. Okay. Okay. Okay.
Observation #2: Father Jack Abbot - and she certainly does not have time to unpack that - is a practicing Catholic priest. This is a crucial distinction for Samira. Former aspiring priest? Okay, that’s manageable. Kinky to a certain degree. Retired priest? Well he had seemed older, but not that much older. But Father Jack Abbot still practices - if that's what you would call it - as demonstrated by a) Donnie's wedding; and b) the mass she had seen let out last week. Usually she'd like more than two data points, but she's fairly confident in making causal claims when it pertains to her sex life.
Observation #3: Father Jack Abbot remembers her. Again, only working off one data point here, but she’s making do with what she’s got. He remembers her enough to know he wants nothing to do with her (i.e., slamming of church door in face). Perhaps he had a moment of weakness, a crisis of faith. Perhaps they let Catholic priests do that now (they don't, she googled that too). Perhaps he was blowing off steam and Samira simply happened to be there. She doesn't let this one settle, hates the idea that she was being used. (Thinks about how he begged to taste her, ate her out until tears trailed down her cheeks. So no, maybe not.)
The conclusion Samira Mohan should draw from these three observations is that a very strange, very jarring experience happened and it will one day be a wild story she tells to a large group of friends who sit around, utterly rapt, and pester her with increasingly hilarious questions. She will play it off, she will chuckle, and then she will have them hooked on her words as she drops the bomb that he was the 'priest at my coworker's wedding!'
The conclusion Samira Mohan should draw from these three observations is that a very strange, very jarring experience happened and it will one day be a funny story and now it is time for her to move on, to focus on her fellowship interviews, to put her nose back to the grindstone, to forget the very good sex and seek out other, very good sex, if need be - with less strings attached.
As an emergency medicine doctor, Samira has spent less time than you would expect thinking about the concept of an afterlife. She's in the habit of saving lives, not losing them; but even when they do lose a patient, Samira will clasp hands together, will send some words into the ether - the Universe, God, whatever you want to call it - and hope that the person’s soul is at peace. And then she gets back to work, to help those she can, because she cannot bring people back from the dead.
She learned that lesson a long time ago.
Samira does not consider herself a religious person, barely a spiritual person at that, but her relationship is apathetic rather than antagonistic or traumatic.
Which is why it's so very interesting when Samira Mohan finds herself in a pew, bright and early on a Sunday morning, trying not to think too hard about the idea of hell.
She doesn't particularly like the mass, if she's honest. Samira appreciates ritual - appreciates that every day she wakes up and makes some shitty coffee in her knock-off Keurig, eats a bowl of fruit that’s one day off from going bad, packs a handful of protein bars in her backpack, and heads off to work. Appreciates that ever night she showers, rubs tiger balm into her aching arches, and drinks as much water as she can to make up for the perpetual dehydration. Her days run on a semi-strict routine, only swapping slightly when she works a night shift.
Routine, ritual. It's comforting. No surprises.
Seeing the man you had sex with at a pulpit, donned in elaborate garb and holding the rapt attention of the people in a congregation - well, that's a surprise.
She forgets about the whole bread thing.
Communion, that's what she hears. She's been good about following the lead of those around her - when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel (a lot of kneeling, maybe her med school friend had been right) - so it's autopilot for her to follow her row when they stand and meander up to the front of the church.
She doesn't think for a second that maybe, just maybe, she should have kept her ass firmly planted on that uncomfortable wooden bench.
Luck of the draw, she's in his line. She steps closer and closer, sees the grey speckled throughout his hair, sees the freckles on his cheeks, sees the worn lines of time at the corners of his eyes. Samira observes the other members of the church cup their hands together, hold them out expectantly, wait for him to press a small piece of something into their palms, and then place it on their tongue as they walk away. She observes all of this, notes the steps of this ritual with ease.
Except.
Except there is an older woman ahead of Samira, and she watches with overt fascination as the woman - hobbling with a cane, probably a former hip displacement - crosses one hand over her chest and opens her mouth. She watches as Father Jack Abbot places the piece of bread on her tongue with a murmur. She watches the older woman move to the side, slowly making her way back to her seat.
Samira Mohan is not an impulsive person, is not an evil person, is not a bad person.
But she reaches the front of the line and stares at Father Jack Abbot, delights in the way his eyes widen fractionally, in the way his lips press flat together, in the way he pauses before mumbling,
"The Body of Christ."
Samira Mohan does not know what she is supposed to say, so she simply opens her mouth expectantly.
Father Jack Abbot swallows, hard, and places the thin wafer on her tongue.
There is the hint of skin on his index finger and then her mouth is shut and Samira is walking back to her row, head high, pulse racing.
And thinking - half mournfully, half dizzily - about hell.
"It's always lovely to see a new face in our congregation." A voice sounds from behind as Samira is exiting through the back doors and she freezes, one hand out. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees him - Father Jack Abbot, now shucked of his robes, clad once more in that black get-up. The white collar is stark, drawing her attention like a beacon.
Samira stares for a long time, before she realizes she is blocking the other exiting patrons. Excusing herself, she steps to the side.
"I figured I would see what this -" Gestures around the church, "- was all about."
“And what did you think about… all this?” He is as calm and collected as she’s seen him, leading the mass, at Donnie’s wedding, sitting in the bar. The only place she hasn’t seen him so calm and collected was -
“Not fully convinced.” Is what Samira says as she tamps down memories.
His mouth twitches.
“Well, I know it doesn’t make me the most effective priest, but I’m not in the habit of trying to convince people as soon as they walk in these doors.” Father Jack Abbot clasps his hands behind his back, rocks on his heels.
And oh, how Samira would enjoy listing the various other actions that might compromise his status as an ‘effective priest’ more than a lack of evangelizing, but she holds her tongue. The two of them stand in the vestibule as the door swings shut, the last parishioner out. Alone. Just the two of them. Unless one counts the presence of God, which he very well may.
“Do you know anything about Scripture…?” There is a question in his eyes.
“Doctor Mohan.” Samira says, willing to play his game, willing to see how far it takes her.
“Jack Abbot.” She notes the absence of the honorific. She notes it, lets it settle in her bones. Danger, a bell rings in her mind. Maybe there is something to be said about a ‘higher power’ speaking through you.
“I don’t.” Samira leans against the wall, finally answering his question. “I was raised Hindu.”
“Religions overlap. We take from each other, we give to each other. Sometimes we take without giving, such is the way of anything that asserts power and control.” Father Abbot considers her, trailing eyes up and down her body. Samira feels flush and confused, and uniquely out of control. “Follow me?”
It is a question, but she wonders what he would do if she said no. If she decided to do what she should have done the first day - get in her car, drive home, and forget. Would he let her go, without a single word? Probably. Or would he reach for her waist, press fingers into the divot of her hips, leave marks like -
Samira follows.
A flock to the shepherd, or so he had said in his homily.
The office door clicks shut and Samira stiffens, but Father Abbot gives her a wide berth as he moves to the large wooden desk tucked away. As soon as his hand touches the smooth surface, he exhales and it’s as if invisible strings holding his body up have been cut. He collapses slightly and Samira steps toward him, concerned.
“I apologize, Dr. Mohan.” He sounds - devastated. Samira freezes. “I apologize, deeply, profusely, in all the ways that matter.”
The cat-and-mouse game suddenly turns bitter in her mouth. “You don’t have to -”
“I do. To you, and to -” Father Abbot scrubs a broad hand over his face. “I have zero excuse for my actions.”
“It’s not…” Samira frowns. “I don’t care. I mean, ” She corrects herself, “This isn’t my religion, so it’s not for me to pass judgment or report you or anything like that. You didn’t take advantage of me, we both consented.”
Samira finds she can’t fully parse out his reaction, can’t fully understand the shame that is leaking out of every pore of his body. What Samira can understand, though, is the feeling of holding back, of restricting yourself from things you want. Of telling yourself that you are not worthy of something, of something that feels so good.
“I appreciate that, Dr. Mohan.” His smile is strained. “However, I still must -”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Father Abbot laughs, a nearly grotesque sound in how richly pained it is. He grimaces, tugs at the white collar as if it is choking him.
Samira scratches under her arm, a prickling under her skin. “So what was I? Just a - a temptation for you to work out?”
Father Abbot’s stare pierces her as he braces himself on the desk, arms crossing over his chest. His bared forearms flex and Samira fights to keep her gaze on him.
“Temptation, Dr. Mohan, is a major tenet of Christianity - Catholicism, specifically.” He licks his lips. “Suffering, and temptation.”
“Why?” She asks, genuinely curious.
“Because God doesn’t give us any more than we can take.” Father Abbot responds, cocking his head. “Because there is something to be said about being tempted, and choosing to not give in. Temptation is a -”
"Test." Samira finishes, unhappy. She considers this, finds it arbitrary and unnecessarily harsh. Why must one fight temptation? Who wins? Why does it say something about one's character - one's soul - in wanting something deeply? She considers all of this as she meanders over to the bookshelf, trails fingers against the spines of books. Theological texts, religious tomes. Piety, surety. She does not look away as she adds, "And you didn't pass the test, did you, Father Abbot?"
Silence blankets his office, something heavy, something profound. Samira's heart rate kicks up, and yet she refuses to offer him her attention. She drags a finger along the wood and feels her stomach twist, feels something writhe up from deep within her.
"What about another test, then?"
Samira does not know who this person is, can barely recognize her own voice. Samira does not do this - does not go to a church, does not spend time with men she cannot have, does not play word games with priests.
And more than that, Samira does not consider herself as something - someone - able to tempt.
Except, she turns and finds Father Abbot - gaze fixed and intense, rippling with a promise too heady to name. Finds the tightening of his forearms enticing, the strain of the collar at his neck intoxicating. And Samira ponders if temptation is something she can incite.
"You can prove yourself this time." She leans against the bookshelf, slides one ankle over the other, the slit of her skirt revealing the barest hint of skin. "You can resist."
A beat of silence, two.
"Can't you, Father?"
His eyes flutter shut and his head slumps forward, as if too heavy for his neck to hold up. She hears deep breathing, wonders if maybe he is truly remorseful, wonders if pushing a man about his faith is too much.
"Day and night you give me over to torment; I cry out until the dawn." His words sound like a recitation, a creed of contrition.
And then Father Jack Abbot sinks to his knees before her.
"Like a lion he breaks all my bones; day and night you give me over to torment."
Father Jack Abbot kneels, releases his hands to the carpeted floors, and crawls towards her. Prostrate, in total supplication.
"Like a swallow I utter shrill cries; I moan like a dove." His head ends up at her knees and Samira does not breathe, hands gripping the rough wooden edge of the bookshelf. He sits back on his heels, fingers hovering at the hem of her skirt. Lifts his gaze to bore holes into her. "My eyes grow weak, gazing heaven-ward." He plants palms - hot, hard - atop her thighs. She unhooks her ankle, spreads them unconsciously. Father Abbot groans, before finishing as if begging, "O Lord, I am in straits; be my surety."
Samira Mohan must be out of her mind. Samira Mohan must have a mass pushing against her frontal lobe, must be hallucinating, must be deeply, deeply unwell.
Because instead of pushing him away, instead of grabbing her bag and running out of the church, instead of doing literally anything else, she chooses to slide a hand into his greying hair, twist fingers in tight, and recites his own words back to him,
"Take. And eat."
Samira does not know much about Father Jack Abbot. Didn't ask many questions during their first night together, hasn't thought of anything outside of the glaring 'what the actual fuck' she's been hanging onto since Donnie's wedding.
What Samira does know is that Father Jack Abbot seems to take the ideology of devotion seriously. Comes to learn he doesn't discriminate in the application of that notion: whether it be in his faith, in his vocation as a priest, or in the process of making her come twice in quick succession on his tongue.
She is distracted, slamming her eyes shut as she rides out the second wave on his fingers, and thus misses how he blesses himself with his unoccupied hand.
Samira does not mean to make it a habit, a ritual if you will. But perhaps this is a case of real divine intervention. It's as flimsy an excuse here as it has been used in the past, so she doesn't feel too bad about it in the long run.
It is late and the doors have been locked, the lights have been dimmed - all except one. A single candle illuminates the confessional booth, casting shadows around them. His looming presence is not helping the eerie, haunted quality of the church at night. If Samira hadn't just come on his fingers, she would perhaps think to ask about this proclivity, about the idea that they could be doing this anywhere else.
Maybe that's part of it, though. They could be doing this anywhere else, and yet.
It's compounded, of course, by the fact that when she had grappled with the rosary hanging at his waist as she spasmed around his fingers, he had groaned loudly and then wrapped them around her wrists in restraint. The beads roll against her flesh as she sways from one knee to the other to get comfortable, blinking up at him. She can only imagine the vision she paints: hair bedraggled and loose, chest heaving, lips bruised. His vestments under her knees, protecting her from the unforgiving wood below.
His hand reaches out, strokes a path from her forehead down her cheek. His thumb rests against her lower lip until she opens for him, lets the tip press against her teeth. Her eyes threaten to close but she refuses to miss his breath hitching, his neck pulsing under the clerical collar, the darkening of his eyes that might be the shadows or might be something else.
"Since you don't know much about Scripture, Dr. Mohan, I'll teach you.” Father Abbot says, words steady as his other hand reaches for his belt buckle. “Psalm 81: open wide your mouth and I will fill it."
She sucks on his thumb to see what he’ll do, as he pulls himself from his boxer briefs and gives a couple of strokes. When his thumb eventually retreats from her mouth, she keeps her lips parted, lets her tongue slide out the slightest bit. A perfect mirror image of when she had first received that wafer. She almost expects him to recite the same words, but that might be a step too blasphemous even for him.
Father Abbot whines, high, caught in his throat. And then his fingers grip her chin, staring into her soul as he feeds his cock into her waiting mouth.
Samira dutifully keeps her hands crossed behind her back, doing her best not to pull against the delicate rosary, even when her eyes start to prickle with unshed tears, even when saliva spills from the corners of her lips, even when she gags as the tip of his cock aims for the back of her throat.
Samira keeps her hands crossed behind her back because it means Father Abbot will continue to chant down at her, “Good girl, good girl, good girl.”
Her panties are drenched and her lungs beg for a reprieve, but Samira is falling into a quiet space as he grips her hair, at the open door of the confessional. As his hips stutter, trying to get her to take more.
She can take more, because she is good.
When he spills down her throat, Samira swallows and swallows, and grins when he wipes up the single bead of cum that escapes down her chin. She breathes raggedly as he sucks on his own finger, as he brushes sweaty tendrils of hair off of her forehead. And she laughs, as if they are sharing a secret, when he unwinds the prayer beads from around her wrists, kissing the cross at the end and kissing her skin, one right after the other.
"I've been reading." Samira starts as soon as his office door is closed behind her. The rectory (a word she'd uncovered in her research) is empty, but still. Good to be cautious, not that she’s convinced he knows the meaning of the word.
"Have you?" Father Abbot asks mildly, eyes darting between his computer screen and her. But there's that twitch of his lips, a tell she's picked up on that means he's secretly delighted.
"There are two things I can't wrap my head around." She takes the seat on the other side of his desk, as if this truly is a meeting of the minds, an academic curiosity. "First, Catholics are obsessed with shame and suffering and it's, like...why? Sounds like you all got the raw end of the deal."
Father Abbot whips his glasses off, giving her his undivided attention. "And the second?"
"Second, isn't transubstantiation technically cannibalism?"
Samira watches the grin unfurl on his lips.
"I didn't know I could be more attracted to you, but as usual, you love to surprise me."
Samira is bent over the desk, papers and pens strewn over the floor, two of his fingers working her open when he decides to answer her questions.
"Many of us - though loath to admit it - come to the priesthood, or any religious vocation really, because we are trying to make sense of suffering. And so that we can find a modicum of relief." His words are unaffected and Samira bites her own wrist, clenching around his thick fingers. "You have preserved my life from the pit of destruction. That’s what Scripture tells us about finding salvation.”
"But why - fuck, oh fuck - why does it seem like you always have to endure suffering?" Samira is stuck between realities, half out of her mind with desire, half catapulted right back into her prefrontal cortex.
Father Abbot plasters himself over her prone form, a steady rhythm inside of her as he breathes out, right beside her ear, "Because suffering can be a gift, Dr. Mohan. Suffering can be necessary, suffering can be good." His fingers stop and Samira gasps, pushing back instinctively. But his body weight keeps her pinned. "Doesn't the suffering feel so fucking good, Samira?"
She hiccups on a breath, but shakes her head. "No -"
"Don't lie. Lying is a sin."
Her arm flails, hand grappling at the back of his neck, sinking fingernails in until he hisses.
"I'm not, fuck. Coming would feel much better."
She grins when he chuckles, low. "Ah, but that's it. We are rewarded for our suffering, Dr. Mohan."
Father Abbot rewards her suffering with two fingers pressed against her g-stop, and his thumb on her clit, and Samira comes, taking the Lord's name in vain on her way down.
"The cannibalism thing is widely contested, I'll give you that."
Samira is dizzy, Samira is wanting, Samira is understanding divinity at an incomprehensibly esoteric level. Father Abbot's stoicism is finally flagging, words becoming chopped, breath stuttering in his chest.
His hands are a brand at her hip flexors, so tight she'll probably have bruises. She grips at his forearms, tries to scrape her toes against the carpet for some traction. Father Abbot does not let her. He restrains, her back to his chest, her thighs spread across his legs, his cock bullying inside over and over again. The chair creaks below them; Samira finds she does not possess a single care.
It takes her a couple of seconds to remember what the fuck he's talking about.
"Oh, huh." She attempts to steady herself. "So why is it - hmm - why is it the biggest part of your mass?"
His hips roll up, a slow rock, a taste of what she really wants: to be fucked out of her mind, once and for all.
"It's the Body of Christ, Samira." He chides, and she digs nails into his forearms harder, likes the way he grunts and then laughs.
"That means nothing to me." She slaps the skin she's just broken in retaliation.
The laughter grows and Samira's face aches from beaming. "We believe that Jesus' sacrifice was a concrete thing. We believe that when he said 'eat of my body, drink of my blood ', he meant it, literally."
Samira grimaces and then shudders as his fingers slip down, rub circles into her overstimulated clit.
"We believe that Jesus' sacrifice - and sacrifice is another big one for us, I'm sure your research told you that - is something that must be tangibly witnessed, a reminder of why we do what we do. A reminder that there are mysteries and miracles all around us."
"Miracles." Samira scoffs, letting her weight rest fully in Father Abbot's lap.
"Is saving a life not a miracle, Dr. Mohan?" His hips still, his words light.
She turns her head to catch sight of his profile. "When I can save a life, Father Abbot, I do so because I have science behind me, almost ten years of medical training, and pretty talented hands."
"You are a miracle to me, Samira Mohan."
Her eyes widen.
"Every time you open your mouth, and that beautiful mind comes spilling out." Father Abbot snaps his hips up and his cock fills her. Samira gasps and he moans in response. "Yes, and every time you part your lips, and those pretty sounds escape." He does it again; she grinds down helplessly. "Every time I get to taste you on my tongue, I pray, Samira, for an eternity spent in the salvation that is you."
Samira shakes with want, with purpose. Samira is divinity incarnate. Samira is going to com-
There is a knock at the door.
There is a knock at the door and Doctor Samira Mohan and Father Jack Abbot freeze. Samira's shirt is undone, bra exposed. Father Abbot's cock is pulsing inside of her, his fingers unmoving on her clit. He shifts forward and she swears she can feel the scrape of the white collar against the back of her neck.
She locked the door. She’s sure she locked the door.
“Yes?” Father Abbot calls out after a few seconds have passed. Samira goes to stand, to try for any semblance of composure, but his arms wrap around her waist, immobilizing her.
“Er - Father Abbot?” A voice unrecognizable to Samira, not that it should be. She is an interloper desecrating this holy place. What a confusingly perverse idea. What an enticing one. “I was told to find you here.”
“Mrs. Duncan.” He’s returned to the calm serenity she’s used to hearing in most contexts. It shouldn't send a bolt of arousal down her spine. It shouldn’t make her constrict around him. And she knows - by the way his arms flex, the way his hips twitch - that he senses it too. “What can I help you with?”
There’s a pause, one she’s sure is riddled with uncertainty as the woman waits for the door to open, or for something less confusing to happen. Samira takes the opportunity to swat at one of Father Abbot’s hand, to crane her neck to capture his eyes.
His eyes, which immediately find hers. His eyes, which hold within them a heat so cavernous it draws her in. His eyes, which hold a truth Samira is not yet ready to bear witness to. And Father Abbot continues to stare at her with those eyes as he shakes his head. Samira swallows around the lump in her throat.
“Well I -” The woman stutters over her words. “I was hoping to get your advice on a matter pertaining to the May Crowning. About the procession beforehand.”
“Hmm, absolutely.” Father Abbot’s hands unfurl from their possessive grip around Samira’s stomach and land once more at her hips. He doesn’t try to move her, just holds her in place. “You’re organizing the procession with Laura, correct?”
Samira’s mouth falls open as she realizes what is about to happen, as her heart slams in her chest. “Jesus, you -”
He shushes her quietly. “You don’t want us to be found out, do you, Dr. Mohan?” He whispers into her ear, nipping in the wake of the words.
“Do you?” She bites back under her breath, because she’s at a loss. She doesn’t know if he wants to hide this, or wants to be found out. Not sure which one is more arousing to him; not sure which one is more arousing to her.
“I’m right where I want to be.” His fingers dig into her skin, grounding both of them. Samira’s legs are twitchy, her core tenses something fierce. But it’s nothing - the bodily sensation really is nothing - compared to the fucked up things it’s doing to her head as Father Abbot spends ten minutes entertaining the woman on the other side of his door as his cock stays buried to the hilt inside of her aching pussy.
She weakly fights against his grip as the conversation drags on, starts getting dizzy at the corners of her periphery. It’s hot - far too hot to still be in all of her clothes - and she’s delirious with the need to move, to do something. Samira, while slow and meticulous at her job, is not one for pure idleness. Samira wants to come so badly she thinks she would get on her knees and beg for it. Fuck suffering, fuck temptation. Samira is not Catholic; she wants her reward without punishment.
Samira shifts within his punishing grasp, tucks her neck into Father Abbot’s throat, and pants out the only confession she has in her arsenal, “Jack.”
The change is almost instantaneous and she’s unsure how in control of it he actually is. Father Abbot lifts her up slightly, and then slams his hips into her. Samira chokes on a moan but has the wherewithal to cover her mouth. The chair creaks again, louder this time, and Father Abbot wrestles them back to stillness, breathing far heavier than he should be for such little exertion.
“Mrs. Duncan, you’ll have to excuse me. Can we table the rest of planning for next week? I have confessions soon and I must pray -” He punctuates the word with a snap of his hips, “- pray for the strength -” Another upward push, another sharp inhale from behind her, “- for the strength of our congregation.”
His arms are starting to shake, mirroring Samira’s quivering thighs, strained by the effort of keeping them open. Her free hand snakes down, finds her clit, and she nearly topples over at the first pass of her fingers.
Father Abbot punches his cock deeper, strains over her shoulder to watch her hand move, and Samira perseveres until the last moment. She feels teeth sink into the exposed skin of her shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut, bites her palm in silence until she tastes blood. With one last rub of her fingers, she feels nothing but serenity as the blinding light ignites behind her eyelids, as she feels warmth pour into her - into her chest, into her cunt. Samira falls into oblivion and drags Father Jack Abbot down with her.
And this, too, was good.
“Shouldn’t you feel guilty?” She finally asks the question that’s been on the tip of her tongue since she saw him in the cassock, recognized that hair, those freckles. Since the first, and the second, and the third time he genuflected to receive a taste of her.
He’s checking the collar in the small mirror he keeps next to his bookshelf, but she catches the wry smirk.
She winces. “It’s not that I think you should, like I -”
“- said, I remember Samira.” He sighs, tapping his collar once. “You don’t think I am?”
“You were, the first time I showed up.” She acquiesces.
“You don’t think I still am?”
Samira weighs the question as she studies him in his entirety. Father Jack Abbot is not a tall man, is not even a particularly alluring man - on the surface. She could easily see herself in a crowd, dragging over him without…but no, that isn’t true, is it? At the bar, she had felt the weight of his gaze on her and when their eyes had locked, there had been something driving her towards him, something putting her normally palpable anxieties at bay.
Father Jack Abbot stands before her and commands the space; not overbearing, not cocky, but with a solid presence that reeks of hard work and dedication and conviction.
“No, I don’t think you are, Jack.” His name leaves her lips and she watches it hit him: mouth twitching, hands clenching at his sides.
“That’s because you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, Dr. Mohan.”
He unrolls the cuffs of his black shirt - long-sleeved, much to her dismay - and considers his next words. He is an orator, after all. Language is important for a man like Father Jack Abbot; words are how the message is spread.
“I do not feel guilt, and maybe I am damned for that. But total honesty? I’ve never experienced devotion quite like this. Never experienced reverence quite like this. Never experienced ecstasy quite like this.” He laughs, hands coming up and then dropping, shrugging. It is an unburdening, a relinquishing. It is an offering of everything, to something - or someone - else. Sacrifice.
“You make me believe in God, Samira Mohan, so how could I ever feel guilty about that?”
Samira staggers, barely manages to catch herself on the door. He at least looks chagrined at catching her so unawares.
“I would take this collar off and follow you to the ends of the earth, Samira.” He takes a step forward. She presses back into the wood until the imprint of the doorknob is bruising her skin. “Because this is not fickle desire, not a passing impulse that I will come to regret. I have seen those, I know what those feel like, how they speak to me. This - this is -” He gives her a single nod. “This is faith.”
Samira swallows, blinks a handful of times, and then does something she is not very proud of.
Samira runs away, because she never did like being cornered.
She understands it’s hard to believe, but she swears on whatever higher power there might be that she was going to talk to him. She had isolated herself for a couple of days, worked doubles as often as she could until Dr. Robby had stolen her keycard and told Ahmad to not let her in the hospital, no exceptions. But she had thought and thought, had finally psyched herself up to have the conversation. She was ready.
And then he’s sitting on a fucking ER bed and everything exits her body in one sharp, overwhelming exhale.
“Dropped one of the decanters and sliced my hand on a shard of glass, I’m fine.” Is what he says, the first of them to overcome the surprise. “Deacon Shen insisted I come, was trying to patch myself up.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Samira - Dr. Mohan, she reminds herself, because she’s at work - grabs a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.
“Not long.” Father Abbot responds and his lips twitch.
Samira sighs. “Lying is a -”
“- sin, yes. Don’t you love to use my own words against me, Dr. Mohan.” The smile wins the war, even as she pulls the stained cloth away, pokes and prods.
“I have to make sure there’s no glass left in there, but it should only be a couple of stitches.” She observes the wound, purely medical - that’s why she’s taking so long, she tells herself. Because she’s competent at her job, because she doesn’t like to rush.
Father Abbot remains silent as she leaves and returns with a pair of loupes, as she rolls the chair up to the side of his bed, as she places his hand delicately on a padded rest and sets up her tools.
“I did wonder if I’d ever get to see you in your element.” Father Abbot’s voice is low, as to not disrupt her. “Since you’ve seen me in mine.”
“You wondered if you’d end up in an emergency room?” She peers at him over the glasses, skeptical. Those crooked teeth make an appearance.
“Wondered, not hoped.”
Samira plucks out three small pieces of glass before irrigating the wound, doesn’t bother apologizing for the sting because she’s sure he would wave it away. She does walk him through every step, though, because she’s found it puts patients at ease, knowing what comes next. No mystery, no miracle.
And when she is done, when the wound has been stitched up, but before she wraps it in gauze and gives him discharge instructions, he traces the edge of the cut with soft fingers and whispers something.
“Hmm?” She asks as she pushes his fingers away, ignoring his slight chuckle.
“Stigmata.” He chuckles again, shakes his head. “It’s -”
“Oh, you’re calling yourself Jesus Christ now?” Her eyebrows shoot up and is met with a delighted expression.
"No, I would never. You on the other hand? I seem to recall you calling me -" Samira remembers to rip the blue latex off her hand before she slaps it over his mouth. Can feel his grin when she glances around at the busy emergency department. Time has not stopped, she still has work to do.
And yet.
"I'm sorry." Samira tosses both gloves and slides bare hands against the counter top. "For leaving abruptly."
"You have nothing to be sorry for." Father Abbot responds, hopping off of the bed, shrugging his cardigan back on.
A perfect replication of their first encounter in his office at the rectory. Samira would laugh if her stomach wasn't fighting its way up through her throat.
"Déjà vu."
He taps at the gauze covering. "We call that a mystery, you know."
"You and your mysteries." Samira fiddles with the tablet, fingers hovering over submission of the discharge papers. She just has to press the button and then he is gone. She just has to continue to compartmentalize it all, and then they can move on with their lives.
(What were they thinking, truly. What was the end goal of any of it?)
"You threw a lot at me, Jack." Hugs the tablet against her chest, as a shield, so he cannot see the way he has pierced her.
"I know." He scratches at his stubble and she recalls the sensation of it against her thighs. "And I am sorry. That I think is an apology worth giving."
When she makes no move to respond, he goes to open his mouth. But she must tell him the truth. She must not drag this out any longer.
"I'm leaving PTMC." She blurts it out, the words dripping off her tongue. "It's my fellowship year and I'm doing it in Colorado. At a great program, in fact. And I'm excited, looking forward to it, and I don't want -"
She's not sure what she doesn't want, not anymore. She's been so wrapped up in what she does want. It used to be the other way around; she doesn’t remember when the shift happened.
"You don't want loose ends." He surmises, a little sad, but a smile works over his face. "I'm happy for you, Dr. Mohan. You deserve a great fellowship, and so much more. Not that they deserve you, I bet."
There's a prickle at the corner of her eyes and now she's afraid to open her mouth at all. When she does, she surprises both of them.
"I'll be back in a year."
It was supposed to be a clean break. It was supposed to be Pittsburgh and then Denver; nothing leftover, nothing in-between. Sure, she'd continue to talk with Mel and Parker, her colleagues-turned-friends. Sure, she'd continue to turn to Dr. Robby when she was at her wits end and - regardless of her frustrations with him - needed a mentor to turn to. Sure, there would continue to be remnants, hauntings. But everything else was supposed to be an end.
Jack - because that's who he really is, isn't that right. He may be Father Abbot to many, he may still be Father Abbot to himself; but to her, he has always been Jack. And that means something. That has to mean something.
Jack watches her carefully.
"You know, Jesus was only in the desert for forty days."
She huffs. "And that's important because...?”
He takes a step towards her. Samira does not feel the urge to run. "I can wait a year."
"I don't want you waiting." She can't have this hanging over her; has enough guilt and doubt, doesn't need the Catholic Church involved in that as well.
"Okay. So I won't." He nods almost to himself. His fingers dance around the white collar peeking out of the black shirt. A nervous tick perhaps, or something else. "I won't wait for you, Samira Mohan. I will not deprive myself of food and water, I will not deprive myself of good things. I will not be tempted, and I will not give into temptation."
"Thought you said I wasn't real temptation, Father Abbot."
He smiles, one last time. "Exactly, Dr. Mohan. Exactly."
Dr. Samira Mohan is able to forget him, most of the time. Her focus remains on her career, on her research, on her innate want to do better, to be better, to help those around her. She works in Denver, publishes in Denver, makes friends in Denver. She does many, many good things in Denver and only a handful of times does she feel a pang in her chest, nostalgia for Pittsburgh, for a life left behind.
Dr. Samira Mohan returns to PTMC after a year and a couple of weeks, because she decides to take time to travel. She's never traveled before, outside of mini excursions. She's never done much, it turns out, besides work and work.
Dr. Samira Mohan returns to PTMC after a year and a couple of weeks, and finds that some things have changed, and some things have stayed the same. She rents a new apartment, a one-bedroom so her life does not feel so constrained. She has a meeting with Robby, sets up conditions for her reacclimation. She makes plans with Parker - new attending, which is cause for celebration - and Mel - who's taken up a position in D.C. but makes the trip up for a long weekend because she's a loyal friend.
This, all, is very good.
She waits an entire month and a half before seeking him out. To prove that the return was for no one but herself. To prove that she has changed, in all the ways she deems important. To prove that she could handle whatever conversation may or may not occur, because she asked him not to wait and she meant it.
She sits in her car until the mass is over, until the congregants have left in a flood. She enters through the double doors, sees a figure at the altar cleaning up. Samira waits and watches, and when he doesn't register her presence, she walks down the aisle slowly. Slowly, until his shoulders tense and he glances over. She stops, a cross hanging from the ceiling above, as he drops the bible, an accidental jerk of his hand.
"You came back." He breathes out, turning to face her, eyes roving and taking her in.
"I did." Samira tucks an errant curl back into her clip. "I did some more reading."
"I'm sure you did." He looks bewildered. Maybe he took her words to heart; maybe he didn't wait for her.
"The nature of divinity is love which is absolute, unchangeable, infinite, and eternal. Or something like that - that's what some Hindu scholars say." She shrugs a shoulder up. "I'm still no believer."
"You'd hate Catholicism." He smiles, full, broad.
"I think I would." Samira opens her hands. She smiles back at him. "How was the desert, Jack?"
Jack takes a step down from the altar, and then pauses. His teeth flash. "Baptism by fire, baby. I suffered." It is a confession, but she hears no fear, no guilt, no doubt. Only certainty - steady and sure. "I suffered, but I meant what I said. You were never a temptation, Samira. You were faith."
Jack's eyes do not leave hers - do not dart around the church, do not check to see if his actions will be perceived by others as blasphemous, do not look to the ceiling in anticipation of the righteous hand of God smiting him down for his hedonism, his heathenism - as his fingers clench around the white collar at his throat. He rips off the clerical collar, rips off his vocation. He rips out his still beating heart and holds it out to her, in sacrifice.
The nature of divinity is Love.
That's one way to put it.
"And now," Samira waits for him at the bottom of the altar, grasps his hand, tugs him the rest of the way down. Samira stands firm because a year and a couple of weeks is a long time, but it is nothing compared to eternity. "Now, you are rewarded."