Hello! This is it, we've come to the end! It's been a wild ride and I cannot thank you all enough for your support along the way, it's meant the world. This last chapter is broken up into three parts (aka Henry talks to God/goes to confession parts 1, 2 and 3). All my knowledge of Catholicism is based on personal experience and seven years of Catholic school. Please forgive any mistakes. As always, enjoy and reviews are my lifeblood.

"Six. You'll stare God right in the eye and tell him that if loving her was a sin then you want no place in heaven with him because the way her lips fit perfectly on your neck is a type of paradise you'll never forget."

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

He does the sign of the cross and slips into the church pew, staring up at the ornate ceiling in the hope that it'll provide him with some sort of divine inspiration. He really doesn't know why he decided to come here today, to church on a Thursday, out of the blue.

He's admittedly a cradle Catholic, what, with the Irish roots and the Pittsburgh childhood, and the mother who never, ever takes the name of God in vain. Bless her, he thinks sometimes, when he curses under his breath and knows she'd be horrified.

He still tries to go to church on Sundays (and honestly makes it about twice a month, and he does feel guilty the other two), he carries a medal of St. Francis in his wallet. He's getting a Masters in theology for crying out loud, and he still gives up meat for Lent every year.

But he's not the altar boy from his childhood anymore either, how could he be, after six years of learning about theology and ethics and the horrible things that humans can do to each other in the name of religion. It's not that he's a sceptic, per se, it's more that he looks at the faith he's lived for so long more critically, and he's open to seeing its faults.

He has an interesting relationship with Catholicism now, he thinks, as he starts a makeshift prayer, because none of the standard ones seem to fit with what he's trying to get across.

He's never subscribed to the whole "no birth control," "only marry another Catholic," "be staunchly pro-life," "no sex before marriage" kind of thing. He always considered himself progressive, sure in his beliefs, confident that he could practice Catholicism in a way that aligned with his own morals.

The whole thing seemed to work out pretty well for him, well, until Elizabeth.

It wasn't like he hadn't dated (or was a virgin, thank you very much) before he met her, it was more that all the things he'd sorted out in his mind were very much theoretical, not yet put into practice.

But with her, he can see his future starting to take shape, in a concrete way that excites and terrifies him in equal measure and for Christ's sake (sorry, mom), he's gonna marry this girl and he's a little freaked out. It's why he walked straight past the confessional and into a pew, because he does not need a middle-aged celibate man talking to him about the sanctity of marriage right now.

He's stumbling through an inner monologue, one he wishes could turn into a dialogue because, God, I could really use some advice right about now, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and running his thumb over the smooth velvet of the ring box that sits inside. It's been weighing down his jacket for what feels like forever (actually, more like three weeks, but who's counting) and Henry suddenly feels himself confronted with the fact that they're about to link their lives together, forever.

All he ever really learned about relationships and marriage (before he started dating himself) was from church and his parents and he feels a little woefully inadequate when it comes to the prospect of doing it himself. He wants God's guidance in this, truly does, but he doesn't want his parents' marriage.

He wants marriage with Elizabeth, who's not religious but the best person he knows, and he wonders absentmindedly if, technically speaking, he's living in sin right now. Probably, he thinks, suppressing a chuckle. But if this — being with his absolute favourite person in the whole world, his other half — is sin, Henry thinks he wouldn't mind being a sinner at all.

Not when sin means Elizabeth's hushed breath in his ear, her lips on his neck, her hands in— he stops his train of thought because he's in a church, for crying out loud. He doesn't even know precisely why, but he finishes whatever rambling monologue of a prayer he started and makes the sign of the cross again.

He slips back out of the pew with more questions than answers, the ring still weighing heavily in his pocket. God, help me, he thinks.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

He's properly sitting in the confession booth this time, holds his breath when the priest nods and pushes back the screen.

"Henry, long time no see," Fr. Thomas says, giving him a once-over and Henry swears the other man can sense that he wants nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him whole because he's screwed up so badly and he knows he's about to be admonished for it.

He deserves it though, unequivocally. And he needs advice, needs to know how to fix this.

"What brings you here today?"

Well, I think I might have wrecked the relationship that meant the most to me in the world and broken my best friend's heart, so I'm pretty goddamn screwed and need help, he thinks, but he knows he can't say that so he sighs and runs a hand over his face, letting out a breath.

"I ran. I got cold feet and I left Elizabeth sitting in my apartment and I told her I needed room to breathe and be away from her."

He did need room, it's true. He felt everything hit him in a wave, out of absolutely nowhere, on a Tuesday. They were cooking dinner — which meant he was cooking and she was supervising — and Elizabeth had picked up one of his scripture textbooks and was asking him about Thomas Aquinas, sitting on his kitchen counter in his sweater and fuzzy socks and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

It was suddenly all too much, too domestic, and real and he was overcome with a gut-punching feeling of inadequacy. He wouldn't ever be able to provide for her. He was about to leave for active duty, for God's sake! What if something happened? God forbid, he left her and never came back and she had to go through the pain of losing someone again?

His mind was extraordinarily good at coming up with worst-case scenarios, and Henry felt his head spin. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, had to get away and sort himself out. So he left her sitting there, in her pink fuzzy socks (the irony that he feet were warm and protected whilst his were apparently freezing is not lost on him), with a pot of pasta about to boil over, grabbed his coat and ran out into the chilly October air.

He's felt like a complete asshole ever since, and to be quite honest, he knows he deserves it. He knows he can't call his family about this: his father will say he did the right thing, Maureen will laugh and his mother will sob (one broken heart is plenty for one day, McCord), so his base instinct kicks in and he goes to church.

It's quiet inside on a Tuesday night, but Fr. Thomas is there, puttering about. It's how he finds himself in a confessional, praying for forgiveness and kicking himself for being such a fool.

"God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell…"

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

He thinks it, and chuckles to himself, because honestly, if this is sinning, he'll happily bypass heaven just so he can be with her. They're curled up under the covers of his bed — soon to be their bed — and he cannot find a better word to describe how this feels but utter bliss.

Early morning sunlight is seeping in through the curtains and bathing her in a golden light, and Henry can't believe his luck, that he gets to spend the rest of his life with the most gorgeous, intelligent, kind person on the planet. The light catches the ring on her finger and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, turning so he can be closer to her and take it all in.

He can't help but marvel at the way they just fit, like puzzle pieces when his lips find her cheek and hers plant kisses up and down his neck. The way they bring out the best in one another, complement each other and almost work together as one.

He still counts his lucky stars that she picked up his dropped papers, all those months ago, and lets him love her, and somehow took him back after what he is sure was the biggest fuck-up of his entire life.

He can feel her stir and stretch and he's not even remotely embarrassed by the size of his grin right now, because sleepy, just woken up Elizabeth is a sight he will never tire of.

She meets his eyes and smiles, canting her head up so she can press a kiss to his lips, lazy and languid and like they've got forever. Which they do, and he still can't quite believe it.

"What are you thinking about?" she murmurs against his lips and he brings a hand to cup her cheek and look her in the eyes.

"I'm thanking God that I get to wake up next to you every day for the rest of our lives." She grins at that, and he melts a little at the fact that he can see tears pricking at her eyelids. He's always amazed when he can tell that she's as head over heels in love with him as he is with her.

"You always did have a way with words, Mr. McCord." She giggles, and kisses him and he swears he's the luckiest person in the whole world.

"I love you, Elizabeth Adams," he says when he rolls them so he's perched on top of her, husky and low and like it's the most important thing he's ever said. Because it is.

She responds in kind, and they lock eyes and the world comes to a halt for a few precious seconds.

Henry McCord loves Elizabeth Adams, and she loves him back. It's all that matters, he thinks, and if they're living a life of sin, he quite frankly doesn't care.