Claire hasn't been to church in what feels like forever, but when she steps into St. Paul's, the familiar, bone-deep quiet seeps up through her shoes from the flagstones. It's as if she's sixteen again, sneaking in after curfew because she remembered her grandmother telling her that if she ever made a mistake, she should ask for Jesus' forgiveness first, and her parents' second. It didn't make her parents' reaction any better, of course, but it gave Claire a moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
She needs some of that calm tonight.
The last candle she'd lit had been for the first death under her care, senseless and yet inescapable despite all her efforts to the contrary, and so, years later, it's fitting that she's lighting another candle for a similar demise. This one had been a Russian kid, blood staining the flashy suit they'd cut off him into rags; according to the cop who'd brought him in, he'd had more bravado than sense, and now he's got more bullets in his chest than breath.
At the tiered bank of votives, Claire puts a coin in the tin and kneels.
The first time she tries to light a match, the stem snaps between her fingers. She'd pushed too hard, and failed to elicit even a spark. The second time, the flame snuffs as soon as it flares, her sigh gusting it away. The third time's the charm, though, and the fire catches the wood and jumps to the wick easily, biting at her fingers before she shakes it out, leaving only smoke and a sliver of charcoal in her hand.
Claire whispers the dead boy's name to the candle and stands, not trusting herself to prayer beyond that gesture. Anything more would feel too much like performance after so long an absence.
The ceiling arches high overhead, its sky-blue color nearly lost in shadow with the main lights turned off for the night, but the sheer scale of the space still makes her feel insignificant in a strangely comforting way. If she's merely an infinitesimal speck in a boundless universe, death carries a different weight. Solemnity, not guilt.
Something unspools in Claire's chest as she walks down the length of the church, like a ball of yarn unrolling to mark her path she's taken. Everything about the architecture draws her forwards, towards the altar and the crucifix that looks almost understated compared to everything built around it. She genuflects at the rail, realizing that she's dropped to the wrong knee; when she rises, she feels her cheeks burning as if Aba Sofia is about to scold her.
It's like this - carrying wisps of grief for a dead stranger, humbled, and slightly embarrassed - that she turns around to leave, and spots the man in the shadows.
"Holy shi-" she says, then claps her hand over her mouth.
The man laughs, not unkindly, and steps forward, one hand outstretched in a calming gesture, the other holding a cane. "I'm sorry," he says. "But thank you for catching that, I'd hate to have caused, well, profanity in the truest sense of the word." His smile is wide and friendly, but she can see nothing of his eyes, hidden as they are behind round, dark lenses.
Heart pounding, she takes a deep breath to reply acerbically about strange men lurking in the corners of dark churches, biting her tongue a second time as she sees the notched clerical collar he wears. "I'm sorry, Father, I didn't see you there," she says instead.
"I guess we're even, then," he says, lifting his cane so that she can see it better.
She covers her face with one hand. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
He laughs again. "That's all right. And I'm Father Matthew, by the way."
"It's good to meet you, Father Matthew," she responds. "I'm Claire. Claire Temple."
FILL [1/6]: "Revelations," (5x+1, as discussed above) Matt/Claire, Priest!Matt, Priest Kink
Claire hasn't been to church in what feels like forever, but when she steps into St. Paul's, the familiar, bone-deep quiet seeps up through her shoes from the flagstones. It's as if she's sixteen again, sneaking in after curfew because she remembered her grandmother telling her that if she ever made a mistake, she should ask for Jesus' forgiveness first, and her parents' second. It didn't make her parents' reaction any better, of course, but it gave Claire a moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
She needs some of that calm tonight.
The last candle she'd lit had been for the first death under her care, senseless and yet inescapable despite all her efforts to the contrary, and so, years later, it's fitting that she's lighting another candle for a similar demise. This one had been a Russian kid, blood staining the flashy suit they'd cut off him into rags; according to the cop who'd brought him in, he'd had more bravado than sense, and now he's got more bullets in his chest than breath.
At the tiered bank of votives, Claire puts a coin in the tin and kneels.
The first time she tries to light a match, the stem snaps between her fingers. She'd pushed too hard, and failed to elicit even a spark. The second time, the flame snuffs as soon as it flares, her sigh gusting it away. The third time's the charm, though, and the fire catches the wood and jumps to the wick easily, biting at her fingers before she shakes it out, leaving only smoke and a sliver of charcoal in her hand.
Claire whispers the dead boy's name to the candle and stands, not trusting herself to prayer beyond that gesture. Anything more would feel too much like performance after so long an absence.
The ceiling arches high overhead, its sky-blue color nearly lost in shadow with the main lights turned off for the night, but the sheer scale of the space still makes her feel insignificant in a strangely comforting way. If she's merely an infinitesimal speck in a boundless universe, death carries a different weight. Solemnity, not guilt.
Something unspools in Claire's chest as she walks down the length of the church, like a ball of yarn unrolling to mark her path she's taken. Everything about the architecture draws her forwards, towards the altar and the crucifix that looks almost understated compared to everything built around it. She genuflects at the rail, realizing that she's dropped to the wrong knee; when she rises, she feels her cheeks burning as if Aba Sofia is about to scold her.
It's like this - carrying wisps of grief for a dead stranger, humbled, and slightly embarrassed - that she turns around to leave, and spots the man in the shadows.
"Holy shi-" she says, then claps her hand over her mouth.
The man laughs, not unkindly, and steps forward, one hand outstretched in a calming gesture, the other holding a cane. "I'm sorry," he says. "But thank you for catching that, I'd hate to have caused, well, profanity in the truest sense of the word." His smile is wide and friendly, but she can see nothing of his eyes, hidden as they are behind round, dark lenses.
Heart pounding, she takes a deep breath to reply acerbically about strange men lurking in the corners of dark churches, biting her tongue a second time as she sees the notched clerical collar he wears. "I'm sorry, Father, I didn't see you there," she says instead.
"I guess we're even, then," he says, lifting his cane so that she can see it better.
She covers her face with one hand. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
He laughs again. "That's all right. And I'm Father Matthew, by the way."
"It's good to meet you, Father Matthew," she responds. "I'm Claire. Claire Temple."
-tbc-