One man lay dead at his feet, and another stood in the doorway about to be sent into exile for something he hadn't done.

There was so much to say, and yet, nothing at all.

Father Keogh's eyes held Anacleto's, and he knew the misery he saw in them was reflected in his own. Anacleto had saved his life, but at great cost to himself, and he grieved for the bandit's loss. He wanted to comfort somehow, but there was no time, no privacy; the police chief and his men were gathering their evidence, seeing no need to leave the two of them alone. No doubt they expected Anacleto would come to his senses and kill him after all.

He wanted so much to comfort, to say how sorry he was, to ask... why? Why had his life become more important to Anacleto than that of his oldest friend?

The dark eyes were shining with unspent tears, and Father Keogh's own filled up in sympathy. He could do nothing more than put all his pity and compassion into his gaze as he let it rest on the bandit, who suddenly looked so young and vulnerable. Who was telling him that he thought him a truly good man. He swallowed hard, unable to repay the sad smile with one of his own.

And then Anacleto turned to leave, and he started forward. "Wait," he whispered urgently.

Anacleto looked at him expectantly.

Father Keogh glanced back across the room and saw the police chief talking to one of his men. He looked at Anacleto again and sighed, taking another step closer to him. "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "This is wrong. You should not have to leave."

Anacleto looked surprised. "Surely, after everything," he responded as quietly. "You must want me to leave?"

The priest shook his head. "I know it makes no more sense than you saving my life, Anacleto, but--"

"Oh, that makes sense, believe me," Anacleto murmured wryly.

"Not to me," Father Keogh said in obvious confusion. "I'm grateful, but I don't understand it."

"I wish I could make you understand." Anacleto moved imperceptibly closer, and his voice was husky when he said, "I wish there was time, and that I was allowed."

The police chief cleared his throat noisily, and when Father Keogh glanced at him, he found him glaring darkly across the room at them both, making it clear he was not willing to wait much longer.

An uncharacteristic wave of anger surged up in the priest, and he looked back at the bandit apologetically. "Anacleto," he sighed, at a loss for words.

Anacleto swallowed visibly. "Goodbye, Father," he breathed, offering his hand.

When the priest took it and held it firmly, he felt it tremble in his grasp. He had to say something, anything, to let Anacleto know... what exactly? He felt more helpless than ever, and suddenly, the thought that they would never meet again was quite unbearable.

"If it was safe for you," he quickly said before he could think better of it, "I would ask you to come back one day."

Anacleto's eyes lit up. "You would?" His voice sounded strangely fragile. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation.

Staring at the priest in amazement, Anacleto licked suddenly dry lips, then pleaded breathlessly, "Let's pretend that it's possible, Father. Just for a moment, let me believe that you want me to come back."

Rather confused, not least by the lump in his throat and the tightness of his chest, Father Keogh nodded and said softly, "Come back, Anacleto." He tightened his hand around Anacleto's, and the pressure was instantly returned. "Please come back."

"Father..." It was whispered like an incantation and, accompanied as it was by a soft gaze and a sigh, it felt like one.

With regret, Father Keogh let the slender hand slide from his grasp. And well after Anacleto had turned and walked away, he still continued to feel its warmth and wished, against all reason, that Anacleto would take him at his word and come back to him one day.