Freezing rain pelted the windows of the taxi cab, as Father Michaels huddled against the back passenger-side door and stared vacantly at the few people hurrying about on the icy sidewalk. He rubbed a tacky palm over his jaw, wishing away the dull ache that seemed to grip his head like a vice. He was exhausted. Uncharacteristically numb. Father Michaels sighed wearily and rested his forehead against the cool glass window, unwrapping the burgundy scarf from around his neck. The heat inside the vehicle was oppressive, causing the priest to fear he might nod off if he wasn't out of the cab soon.

Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing, as he hadn't slept very well in weeks. Not since his last encounter with Jordan. Since that day, he'd felt overwhelmed by both guilt and yearning, making it difficult for him to be alone with his thoughts. Instead of laying restlessly in bed, the priest filled his long nights with reading and prayer, trying desperately to forget how good those stolen moments with Jordan had been, how seductive and whorish the younger man had looked. Yet try as he might, burying those brief encounters was near impossible. He couldn't forget.

On the contrary, he could still taste Jordan's mouth and easily conjure up the image of the other man's lips, engulfing his fingers at Communion. He could still remember exactly what it had felt like to have those same fingers deep inside the other man's body. Simply put, Jordan haunted his every thought. The priest couldn't even set foot in his own church without feeling the younger man's presence everywhere. In the pews, on the alter, in the very air. Each time he stepped into the dressing room behind the alter, he felt a pang of remorse. And fear... Fear because he no longer knew if the remorse he felt was for the sin he'd committed, or for the one he most wanted to perpetrate.

"How much further to the Elk Street Shelter?" Father Micheals called to the driver, unsure as to the exact location of the refuge. He'd never been asked to the shelter before to administer the sacraments, as it wasn't a Catholic organization. The unexpected invite had come only the morning before, as it seemed a few of the elderly were requesting the Eucharist.

"Not much, Father...only another 5 minutes or so," the cab driver shot back over his shoulder and reached to turn the windshield wiper speed up a notch.

By the time they finally pulled alongside the curb in front the shelter, the slow, light rain had turned into a downpour. Father Michaels fiddled with his portable umbrella and stepped out onto the frozen sidewalk, making sure he had his footing before he paid the driver and made his way to the large metal doors.

Once inside the building, the priest was met with the habitual courtesy offered by most volunteers and then ushered into a large cot-strewn room. There, he was introduced to several aging men, too frail to make it to church services in the dismal weather. Father Michaels went through the necessary motions of offering them the Eucharist, and though his mind was a million miles away, he forced himself to spend time afterward chatting with the old fellows, knowing their days must seem even more endless than his longest night.

An hour had passed when Father Michaels began weaving his way back through the cots, ready to call himself a cab and begin the trip back home. As he walked towards the doorway, the loud rattle of coughing caught his ear. The priest glanced in the direction of the terrible hack with concern, his blue eyes widening at the sight he found.

"Jordan?" Father Michaels turned on his heel and approached the younger man carefully, his heartbeat quickening, a feeling comparable to elation surging through his body. Was he feeling relieved? Had he thought he'd never see Jordan again? He wondered if perhaps, that was why he'd been so melancholy. Maybe, it wasn't just guilt he'd been experiencing all this time?

There before him, on a cot that had been shoved against the wall, Jordan lay curled up on his side, knees drawn towards his chest. As soon as he heard the priest's voice his eyelids fluttered open, and a sardonic smile teased the corners of his mouth, "Father...you come looking for me?"

Father Michaels frowned involuntarily at Jordan. The younger man's pallor was sickly, the deep rattle in his chest frightened the priest, since only the appropriate antibiotics would alleviate a respiratory infection, if that was what he was suffering. Without hesitation, the priest sat at the edge of the cot and placed a gentle hand upon Jordan's prominent cheekbone, then moved it to cover his forehead, "you're sick, Jordan. Have you seen a doctor?"

"I don't need a fucking doctor, I've got a cold. No big deal." The younger man rolled over onto his back and stared up at the priest, his pale eyes slicing through Father Michaels' composure with ease.

"You have a fever...and that cough...it doesn't sound good. Let me get you some help? I can take you to a clinic, get you medication, if need be," the priest was surprised by his own words, they seemed to rush forth eagerly, before his thoughts were even fully formed in his mind.

"Why would you want to do that? I mean, would you make the same offer to any sick bum?" Jordan narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then lost himself in another fit of hacking. He groaned with discomfort and wiped at his damp forehead with the back of his hand. Father Michaels cringed, noticing the light sheen of sweat visible on the younger man's chest where his shirt had been left unbuttoned, "I-I don't know, Jordan. I believe I would, but I can't say for certain."

"I say...you just wanna fuck me, or maybe you feel guilty because you almost did," Jordan scowled, "ain't that the truth, priest?"

"For God's sake Jordan, would you just give it a rest? We're talking about your health here...not sex," Father Michaels scolded, though he wondered if there wasn't some truth to what the younger man said.

"Urrrggghh. Don't make me laugh, I'll start coughing again," Jordan half smiled, shifting his eyes away from the priest and turning them up towards the ceiling, "you'd take me to the clinic yourself? Pay for my meds and shit?"

Father Micheals nodded earnestly and stood upright, offering his hand to Jordan, "Yes, I will. You'll come with me then?"

The younger man stared at the priest, doubt clouding his eyes, "all right. I'll go with you." He grasped Father Michaels' hand and pulled himself up into a sitting position, "but I don't feel all that sick. I sound worse than I am."

"Whatever you say..." The priest agreed, "where's your coat...do you have a bag or anything you need to bring?"

Jordan allowed Father Michaels tug him to his feet. The younger man blinked, struggling for a moment to keep his balance, "Yeah...yeah I do. A backpack...and my coat. Mmm. I'm a little dizzy." The younger man's frail white hand clasped his tightly, sending a sudden rush of heat to the priest's face. Hesitantly, he peered down at Jordan's warm, damp hand in his own. So fragile. Soft. His fingers exceptionally delicate for a man. He tried not to recall how those slim fingers had reached out for him, how they'd looked encircling Jordan's own thick cock as he'd begged the priest to help him get off.

The younger man glanced around at the floor near the cot, his face contorted in anxious confusion as he dropped the priest's hand. "My shit. I dunno...I don't remember where it is. Fuck." He muttered and grasped the coarse blanket, tearing it back off the cot, "my coat. I need my goddamn coat." His voice was shrill, on the verge of panic.

"Shh...Jordan, stay calm. We'll find your belongings," Father Michaels rested both his hands on Jordan's bony shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. The younger man immediately shrugged them off and spun around angrily, wavering slightly in the process, "don't you DARE tell me to calm down! That's all I have, you understand? It's all I FUCKING have!"

Jordan's steel blue eyes welled up with tears and the distinctive edges of his face hardened further, giving the young man the cruelest of appearances. Father Michaels nodded his head, "I think I do understand, Jordan." He refused to let the young man deter him. He took the rough blanket that Jordan had torn off the bed and shook it out, when he found no sign of Jordan's coat, he dropped down to his knees and looked beneath the cot. There, caught between the wall and the crude bed, was the ragged fur. The priest strained his arm beneath and grabbed it, holding it up triumphantly as climbed back to his feet. Immediately, Jordan swiped it from his hand and hugged it to his chest, a childlike gesture that stilled Father Michaels for a moment, and caused a pang of sorrow somewhere in his chest, "see...no need to get worked up."

"Thank you, Father," Jordan's face softened, as he stared up at the priest with genuine appreciation, "m-my backpack is still missing. I can't remember where I might have put it when I came in. I wasn't feeling well."

"Come along, we'll speak with someone in the office about it. Maybe you left it with one of the volunteers?"

"Yeah, or maybe it got swiped," Jordan murmured, slipping his sinewy arms into the sleeves of his coat one at time, "fucking places are always filled with thieves."

Father Michaels held Jordan by the elbow, and guided him to the front desk, where a middle-aged woman sat, penciling names in on a log sheet. When the two men approached, she peered up, her brows furrowing.

"Good afternoon, Ma'm. I'm Father Michaels, from St. Patrick's Church over on Oakwood Drive? This young man is ill, and I'll be taking him with me to see a doctor. It seems he's misplaced his backpack?" The priest waited patiently, as the older woman studied them for a long second, then sighed heavily.

"Yeah. I remember this one," she frowned and nodded in Jordan's direction, "he wandered in late last night, smelling like a brewery...caused quite a commotion. Sure he's not just hung over? I'd really hate to see you get swindled, Father."

"Listen...you miserable fat..."

"JORDAN!" The young priest snapped, tightening his hold on the other man's elbow as a warning. Father Michaels turned his head back to the infuriated woman behind the desk, "I'm sorry. I really am...now...about the backpack?"

The woman scowled and tucked the pencil behind her ear, her heart-shaped face flushed red with anger as she reached beneath the desk and pulled out a large cardboard box, "just so you know, we won't hold his bed. The weather's bad...we'll probably be needing it."

"Yeah, I'll just bet," Jordan muttered sarcastically and grasped the dark green backpack from the box. After hauling the bag out, he unzipped it and rummaged briefly through the contents, "everything's here...let's go."

Ignoring Jordan's comment, the priest turned back to the receptionist, "may I use your phone to ring for a cab?"

Wordlessly, she shoved the telephone across her desk toward Father Micheals, then spun around in her seat, immediately busying herself with the files in the cabinet behind her desk. After the priest placed his call, he cleared his throat and thanked the woman as politely as he could manage, and escorted Jordan out the front doors.

Outside, the dark gray skies were still open, raining ice down on the slushy, tainted snow. Father Michaels and Jordan stood on the sidewalk beneath an umbrella, waiting for their ride. The priest cast a timid glance at Jordan shivering next to him. The younger man was embracing his torso for warmth. Even his lush mouth quivered in the cold. Instinctively, Father Michaels wrapped his arm around Jordan's shoulders and pulled him close against his side. It was suddenly easy. Touching him. Using comfort as an excuse.

It dawned on the priest as he stood there, enjoying the feel of the lithe, feverish body pressing against him, that he had been hiding for most of his life. Behind his faith as he was growing up....behind his collar. Just as he was hiding behind Jordan's poor health right now. And although he'd often suspected as much about himself, standing there, he finally realized the extent of his cowardice. He'd chosen to live a lie. Everything Father Michaels did, was yet another attempt to cover up who he was. He wasn't the admirable man he pretended to be. Not at all. An admirable man would lead a more honest and honorable life. When he contemplated his situation, the priest knew there was nothing he truly respected...not his religion, and certainly not his God. He had made a mockery of both by committing himself to a lifestyle he scarcely believed in.

The sight of the bright yellow taxi pulling up before them summoned Father Michaels back from his thoughts. The priest was grateful for the brief reprieve, there was still so much he didn't want to dwell on, so much to digest. He wasn't certain he was prepared to confront it all yet.

Father Michaels opened the cab door and let Jordan climb inside. When the younger man was nestled comfortably against the chintzy plastic seat cover, the priest crawled in beside him, then leaned forward and gave the driver directions to a local health care clinic.

"It was my mother's," Jordan mumbled, closing his eyes as he rested his head back against the seat.

"What, Jordan? Did you say something?" The priest had settled back against the seat alongside the other man, sitting close enough that their bodies pressed together.

"The coat. It...it belonged to my mother," the younger man's voice was almost inaudible, so quiet it was almost drowned out by sound of the rain beating against the car.

"Really? And where is your mother? Would you like to call her?" The priest regarded Jordan with interest, his keen blue eyes searching the other man's face for any statement that might provide him with a glimpse of the man's psyche.

"She's been gone for years now," the young man's eyes remained shut as wet his parched lips apprehensively and continued, "I...j-just wanted you to know why I overreacted...when I couldn't find the coat, I mean."

The priest fought off the urge to question Jordan further. Instead, he just continued to stare across the seat at the younger man, as he drifted into sleep.

***********************************

It was already dark when Father Michaels arrived back at the rectory, his sick house guest in tow. The trip to the clinic had turned out to be quite an ordeal, though it was a good thing Jordan had consented to the visit. After an examination and chest X-ray, the young man was diagnosed with bronchitis, and given prescriptions for antibiotics and a cough medicine.

The decision to allow Jordan to spend the night at the rectory wasn't a difficult one. Actually, it seemed the only plausible option by the time they left the doctor's office. The woman at the shelter had made it clear that Jordan wouldn't be welcome back there. And the young man was sick. It wasn't as if the priest could turn Jordan loose on the street in the dead of winter with bronchitis.

After dark, the weather had become increasingly frigid, the wind more blustery. It whipped around Father Michaels' face, stinging his exposed skin, as he made his way to the front door, his arm wrapped tightly around Jordan's waist. The young man had slept on and off throughout the day, in the taxi cab, the waiting room... The priest was certain he'd be exhausted by the time they reached the rectory. Father Michaels wasn't sure exactly how he felt about that - relieved or disappointed. Spending so much time this close to Jordan had him all keyed up, even though the other man had refrained from his usual taunting. Jordan was tired. Weak. And the priest found himself all the more drawn to him, when he was in this needy and helpless state.

Besides, the company kept Father Michaels from having to do the soul searching that inevitably lay ahead. He could no longer deny it. Everything that had once offered him comfort, now seemed terribly awry. It both frightened and angered the priest, to the point of making him emotionally weary.

The priest stepped into the foyer first, flicking the light switch on as he entered. Shrugging off his long wool coat, he turned to Jordan. "Are you hungry? I could put together something for you to eat?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," the younger man glanced around the room nervously, looking every bit the lost little boy that he was, "soup would be good. Something hot?" He turned his pale gray eyes toward the priest, causing the man to marvel at how easily Jordan could slip from the role of the bitter, scowling young man, into the part of the wide-eyed innocent. It was such a contrast, that it caught Father Michaels off guard. Where was the crassness now? The foul language? The young man intrigued the priest, offered him all the challenge of an intricate puzzle, waiting to be pieced together.

"No trouble at all, I think there's tomato soup. Do you like that? It's more filling than a broth," Father Micheals assisted Jordan with his ratty fur, tugging it gently down over his arms and hanging it on the corner coat rack, "the heat needs to be turned up in here too."

"Tomato soup is fine."

The priest walked down the hall into the living room, motioning for Jordan to follow. After toying with the thermostat on the wall, he gestured toward the plush suede couch, upholstered in deep forest green. "Come on in, have a seat. This is the most comfortable couch I've ever owned." It was true too, sitting on the overstuffed couch was like sinking into pillows. It was the only new piece of furniture that Father Micheals had bothered to invest in, since his move to the rectory. Aside from that, the room was still sparsely furnished, the wall bare.

"Umm. Father...would you mind...since I'm here and all...if I used your shower?" Instead of sitting down, Jordan tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear and looked up at the priest. "I haven't had a shower in days, and the steam might help my cough."

"No, no, not at all...come with me," Father Michaels ushered the young man into the small bathroom. "I'll bring you a pair of clean pajamas, and some fresh towels. It should be warmer in here by the time you're finished."

Jordan nodded and began to cough, reaching for the bathroom countertop to steady himself. When the bout had ceased, he sighed heavily and tilted his face toward the priest's, locking eyes brazenly with Father Micahaels', "maybe, you should help me?"

"Jordan, I don't know..."

"I won't lay a hand on you, Father. Just help me with my clothes. Please? I've been very well mannered today, haven't I?" Jordan's delicate fingers fumbled with the top button of his shirt, as he leaned back against the countertop.

Father Michaels couldn't resist. Not when the other man had offered him such a credible excuse, one he was only to anxious to believe. Casting his eyes downward, he stepped closer to Jordan, his fingers trembling as he began to work the buttons of the young man's shirt, opening it down the center. Such a lean body. Smooth but hard. Boyish. The priest wet his lips nervously, pushing the shirt down over Jordan's frail shoulders, letting his hands linger against the other man's feverish skin. "My jeans now Father, slide them down."

His heart hammering in his chest, Father Michaels pulled at the button on Jordan's denims, then tugged at the zipper, acutely aware of the way his fingers grazed the slight bulge in the younger man's pants. "I think you should do the rest yourself."

"No...no, I don't think I can," the young man wriggled the faded jeans down over his narrow hips and kicked them off, grinning impishly as he stood naked before the priest, "I think you should shower with me. What if I slip and fall? I'm feeling weak, suddenly..."

"Jordan," the priest made a feeble attempt to protest, but his greedy blue eyes were already traveling down the length of Jordan's body, slowly taking in every inch of skin revealed. Why was he still holding back? Who would ever find out anyway, if he touched Jordan? Just this one time. He should never have entered the priesthood anyway...

"Do you like me? Like looking at my dick?" A crooked grin adorned his thin face, as he reached for the priest's belt and began to toy with the buckle, "now let me see your cock. You've never let me see it."

Father Michaels couldn't bear the inner turmoil any longer, the constant testing of his moral fiber. It was just too much. Something inside him snapped. When the younger man reached inside the priest's trousers and eased his semi-erect cock out of his boxers, he didn't protest. He said nothing.

Encouraged by the priest's silence, Jordan fell to his knees and grasped Father Michaels' dick, swallowing it swiftly into his mouth, before he could be pushed away.

"Ohgod...Jordan," the priest's jaw dropped, a strangled noise catching in his throat as he twined his fingers in Jordan's long dark hair. His wide blue eyes stayed riveted on the other man's face, his dick expanding in the grip of Jordan's vacuum like mouth as he began to move. Gliding in and out slowly at first, watching the man's thick lips drag up and down over his length, quickening his pace gradually with each thrust until he was plunging with ruthless abandon into the young man's mouth. His breathing ragged, the priest shoved Jordan's head down hard and bucked his hips against the younger man's face, eliciting a slight gag as he forced his dick down into Jordan's throat. Incredible. That's how it felt to fuck his mouth...to feel Jordan's fevered tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft. Hot and wet. The steady sucking nearly driving coherent thought away.

Without warning, the priest gasped and ripped Jordan's head back off his reddened dick, causing the young man to yelp with pain, "Ahhh...what the fuck!" He stumbled backwards on his haunches, and fell to the cold tile floor, stunned by the unexpected assault.

"God Jordan...what are you doing to me? This has to stop. I like you...I want to be a friend, but I can't take this anymore," Father Michaels tucked himself neatly into his black pants, and fastened his belt, a bright blush rising to his cheeks.

"You WANT it. You know you do. You want ME," Jordan's bottom lip quivered with fresh anger at the further rejection, "I hate people like you FATHER. Hypocrites and phonies... You're worse than me, you know that? You're fucking sick. A sick tease. Wanting me one minute, pushing me away the next..."

"Jordan, listen to me...and HEAR what I'm saying," the priest clenched his teeth, as he stared down at the young waif, sprawled out naked on the floor, glowering up at him defiantly. "I won't deny that you tempt me...and I feel...something...for you. I do. But if you persist, I'm telling you right now, you're going to be sorry. Do you understand? I don't want to hurt you." Father Michaels ran his hand over his face, his composure long gone.

"Is that a threat?" Jordan sneered, his face twisting so maliciously that it sent a chill down the priest's spine, "because, Father, I've come up against others a whole lot tougher than the likes of you. You're a spineless man." Still grinning, the young man sprawled out gracefully on his back, propping his torso up with his elbows, his slim fingers stroking his scant chest.

"Behave Jordan...or you'll find yourself out on the street." Father Michaels turned to leave, the sound of the other man's wicked laugh ringing in his ears.

"Father, as sick as I am? That's not godly now, is it?" The younger man chided, obviously amused with himself.

The priest stalked out of the room, slamming the bathroom door behind him. If he didn't leave, Father Michaels knew he couldn't be held responsible for his own actions. His anger was building rapidly, right along with his excitement. He didn't know which emotion he dreaded most. In all his life, he'd never been this confused or frustrated. Never wanted this intensely, or despised so greatly.

Once outside in hallway, the priest paused to rake his quaking fingers through his hair, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself. He shook his head with repulsion. This was his own fault. He had allowed the man in his home. Had wanted him here...even though this type of behaviour was to be expected. After all, it was consistent with all he'd known of Jordan thus far. With a knot tightening in the pit of his stomach, Father Michaels headed down the hall toward the kitchen, still able to hear Jordan's incessant giggling from behind the heavy wooden door.