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Cherish him...
The words echo back and forth across your mind like the hypnotic swing of the censor that you held during the ceremony, seasoning your thoughts with its heady aroma. Cherish. What a beautiful word. You can imagine being cherished. It makes you bite your lip and wiggle your toes and pull your He-Man duvet cover close across your chest, as if being hugged.
That's part of being cherished, isn't it? Hugging? Maybe. You were never really a one for hugs. People's bodies aren't very nice, not things you want clamped across you. Hot, moist, hairy things full of blood and half-digested food that move about unpredictably. No thank you. And women are worse than men, they sometimes feel the need to come at your face with their clammy, poky fingers and kiss you and breathe on you with their weird, tooth-filled mouths and then get upset at you for not liking it. What's all that about?
Aah, but Ted, though. Ted. Ted is different. He can cherish you all he likes. He's even hugged you a few times, and you didn't mind at all. Facing you, from a foot or so away, hands on your upper arm. You know where you are with Ted's hugs. You can't put it into words yourself, but you know, on a deep level, that he does it to steady himself emotionally; a subjective feeling translated into a literal action. You enjoy being useful to him, giving back some of the comfort he gives to you by being your shield and translator and guide. Look at him there, sitting up in his bed by the warm golden glow of his bedside lamp, talking away. You aren't following what he's saying, but you're sure it's true and wise and good. You sigh happily as you imagine him placing his solid, protective hands on your vulnerable little arms again. That would be lovely...
The image of the convoy leaving the Parochial House earlier in the evening drifts to the surface of your thoughts. The hippy wagon, the hearse and the ambulance. That was quite a sight. Not something you see every day. You wonder which would win, if they had a race? Obviously the ambulance, but – what if that's too obvious? What if you're asking yourself a trick question?
"Dougal? Dougal!" says Ted sharply, jolting you from your reverie, "Are you even listening?"
"Err – no, Ted. Sorry."
"Ugh. Why do I bother. Why do I fecking bother."
Being admonished doesn't particularly faze you under normal circumstances, but after meditating on how you'd love to love and be loved, his tone hits like a punch. You bury yourself further in the safety of your bed, apologising a second, third, fourth time.
"What have you even got to think about, anyway?" Ted continues, "What could be more important than how we'll explain today's events to Bishop Brennan if he comes round asking questions? What if it goes even higher? I'd love to hear what you're grinning gormlessly about, I'm sure it's delightful. Come on. Out with it. I could do with a diversion myself."
Of course, it wouldn't occur to you to give a direct question anything other than a direct answer.
"I was just wondering, Ted, I was just thinking, do you – you know – cherish me?"
"Do I what?!"
"Well, you know what the bishop said. The one I'd been talking to, not the one who died or got the Holy Stone up his arse, you remember who I mean?"
"Bishop Jordan, or O'Neill?"
"Yeah, him. He said to you, 'cherish him' and pointed at me. Or did he just sort of look at me? I can't remember. But he meant me anyway. And I thought – that would be nice. Being cherished. You know what I mean, Ted?"
The thought was a more comfortable fit in your head than in the room. You never have found talking about your feelings to be at all helpful in any way, but if people will insist on asking...
"Are you having some sort of a... a crisis?" Ted asks. He leans closer with a look of concern, just enough to give you hope.
"Maybe. Maybe – I mean – I don't – what sort of a crisis?"
"You know, a crisis. Like when you're upset and you're just talking rubbish."
"Ah right. No, I don't think so. No, I was happy! I just... I don't know, Ted. I just like the thought of being cherished, maybe. It sounds nice."
"What do you want? Shall I get you some jam or something? Or I could sing you a little song? Do you need a hug?"
"Yeah, a hug. I mean, I like jam and songs as well, but a hug would be best."
"I wasn't serious, Dougal!"
"I'm sorry, Ted."
Well, there it is. The bed you made for yourself. Yes, being a priest has its upsides, but you can't expect any kind of affection. Free stuff, no cuddles. Swings and roundabouts. You're still quite saddened by the fact your request was denied, though. Another discussion bungled in ways you can't fathom; and you certainly aren't feeling cherished.
"Ah, alright," Ted grumbles at length, "just this once, seeing as it's yourself."
Could he really be shuffling to one side of his bed to make room for you? It's not just another joke or test that you don't understand? He really does care enough about you to..?
"Really, Ted? You're sure it's OK?"
"Come on, if it makes you happy. Let's get it over with."
The chill that hits your body as you slip out of your own bed just makes Ted's feel all the cosier when he pulls his covers over you both. Oh, you knew what you needed alright. His arms fit around you perfectly and you sink into his embrace, glowing, quivering, brimming over with contentment.
"You're the best, you know, Ted," you murmur into his armpit, "You're just fantastic. I love you."
There is a long silence. You can feel his fingertips moving slowly through your hair, across your scalp, dragging away down the back of your neck like a comb; again, and then again. You can't decide whether you actively enjoy the sensation in itself, but you're sure he means it kindly.
"Dougal, I – I just want to be absolutely clear," he says eventually, "You do mean 'love' as in 'like' or 'appreciate', not... not that you're in love with me? Like, a hearts and flowers kind of thing?"
There's something absurd about the question and the situation combined that appeals to your sense of humour, but it's difficult to laugh well when you're being held so closely; but the act of trying to reign in your giggles just makes it even more ridiculous. You scrunch and twitch and sniff as you struggle to make it stop. The strain of suppression is making your eyes water. A tear drops off your nose and soaks into Ted's pyjamas.
"Ah, now Dougal, don't you start crying on me. You know I can't cope with that kind of thing. I just want to know what the situation is here. What are you getting us into? What do you want from me?"
"And how do you think I might know a thing like that now, Ted?"
He takes a long time to respond. You cling to him and he strokes your hair some more, and you decide that actually you could get used to it; and you're so warm and safe and happy that you start to doze off with his shoulder as your pillow. You barely hear when he speaks.
"I don't know, Dougal. I don't know either."