Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

While on the surface Erin Greene hasn't changed a bit, with a mass of her beautiful mahogany hair and a smile that could brighten up the darkest night, there was something about her that seemed so much calmer. When both of you were younger, she was the rebel from the island, complete with piercings, cigarette breath and a torn leather jacket. Now she switched to a typical islander costume: heavy sweaters and long skirts. And yet somehow, despite this sudden domestication, you could feel serenity coming off of her in waves, as she encircled you with her strong arms. 

The breeze was blowing rather hard that day, when you stepped off the ferry and onto the dock on Crockett Island. The crisp air made your eyes water and your hair fly in every direction. A familiar chill, that you knew from the many times during your childhood, when you visited the island, ran through you, making you shiver slightly. A quick look all over the dock brought back memories of many months spent on walking through the island, the overwhelming smell of water and fish bringing a smile to your face. 

Grabbing the handle of your suitcase, you started to climb up a ramp leading off the docks, towards the town. Up there, leaning on the blue railing, stood Erin. Beautiful as always, with twinkling eyes and a bubbling laugh that sounded so much like summer, you felt your heart squeeze in your chest.

She smelled the same. Except for the cigarette smoke, which, you supposed, wasn't part of her diet for quite some time now. Jasmine and wind, what were the odds she still used the same perfume? You inhaled with a smile, her plush hair tickling your face.

- Welcome to the Crock Pot - she beamed at you, helping you drag the suitcase the last two steps. 

- The place looks literally the same after all those years - you mused, looking around the wooden houses - I'm pretty sure this stone was there the last time I came to visit.

Erin shrugged her shoulders, a slight smile still playing on her lips. She held onto your luggage and both of you started to drag it through the streets, that were slowly becoming familiar through the fog of your memories. 

- Yeah, well, there's a lot less people now - she pointed at some houses with their windows boarded up - Around 120 I think, but hey, there are some new faces.

- No way - you laughed, eyebrows shooting upwards - People actually moved to this place? Of their own free will?

Erin nods her head, locks jumping on her shoulders as she points towards the general store. If you remembered correctly, inside was the Sheriff's office, tucked in behind rows of canned food and refrigerators filled with cheap beer. Outside stood a tan-skinned man, dressed in a neat blue uniform that immediately betrayed his profession.

- Good morning Miss Greene - he waved at you both, scrutinizing you under a watchful gaze.

- Morning Sheriff - answered Erin, stopping for a second - Am I going to see you at the City Council meeting this evening?

The man straightened a bit, placing his hands on his hips in a way that gave him a certain dad-like quality. You watched him curiously. He seemed so out of place, and yet, somehow fit right in, standing here in front of the wooden display. 

- Of course, we have to get the town ready for the storm - he agreed with a nod. 

- We've been dealing with this kind of stuff for years now, Sheriff, you don't have to worry too much. Just a little. - the Sheriff gives her a tight-lipped smile, anxiety evident in his expression - Oh, and speaking of storms...

Erin turns to you with a cheeky little grin, and you smack her playfully on the arm.

- I'm Y/N L/N. Erin's cousin - you introduce yourself and leave your bags in favor of shaking the Sheriff's hand.

He steps down from the porch outside the shop and meets you halfway with a strong handshake. His hand is warm and slightly rough to the touch. 

- Sheriff Hassan - he introduced himself with another half-smile. 

He was handsome, you concluded, with slightly ragged looks and a small scar cutting through his thick eyebrow, giving him some deeply appreciated edge. You gave your best "charmer" smile, the one that made all the boys swoon in your time of prime. Sheriff cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head, a reaction that filled you with a certain sense of pride. Still got it.

After that small encounter, you and Erin retreated back to her small house. Her mother used to store her awful drinking habits in a small camper right behind the main house, and before you arrived, Erin made sure that all traces of the older woman were gone. Now, the place stood empty, ready for you to make it your own for the next couple of months. 

- I'll leave you to unpack - Erin touched your shoulders, as she passed you by to get to the door of the camper - My classes start in an hour, I have to get ready.

- Don't you worry about me, I'll see you in the evening - you say goodbye and watch her, as she makes her way towards the back entrance to her house. 

When she leaves your line of sight, you gently lock the doors and get ready to unpack, starting with your large suitcase. It takes you a longer while, getting all your things unpacked, sliding the clothes into the dresser, placing all your toiletries in the bathroom. You enjoy the work though, humming under your breath some song you heard in a commercial. After you're done putting everything away, you make a short walk through the camper, spraying it generously with your favorite perfume. Erin tried her best to clean the place, you knew. When you first stepped inside, the sharp smell of cleaning products nearly made you choke. Now, after venting all the previous stink, you sat in a chair that smelled of flowers and sandalwood. 

Exhaustion threatened to get the better of you, as you felt yourself doze off in the chair. Before you completely surrended yourself to sleep, you decided that loosing all day wasn't something you wanted to do. Shaking your head, you grabbed a thick sweater, shrugging it on and leaving the camper, remembering to lock the door behind you, of course.

The plan was to have a short treck through the island, familiarize yourself back with the layout that hasn't changed since you left all those years ago. You walked through town, taking in the buildings you knew so well as a child, the shop, the docks, and finally, the church. It's white facade stood tall in front of you, doors open, always ready for you, should you decide to pop in for a visit.

You weren't entirely sure why you decided to come in, what force possessed you to slowly creep through the door, looking over familiar pews. You were never a religious person, never gave the existence of God much thought. Your mother raised you in an atheist spirit. "Question everything, always doubt, never settle." Those were her favorite words and they rang true throughout your life, a constant reminder to never just trust. 

That's why the idea of giving your life away to God, just like that, no questions asked, seemed absolutely ridiculous. 

Of course, while you spent your summer holidays bunking it with your cousin Erin, you attended the mass farely regularly. Every Sunday was a must in the Greene household, and sometimes aunt Peggy, Erin's mother would drag you both on a weekday, just to get those few more participation points from God. 

Now, a grown up Y/N, you stood in front of the heavy wooden statue of a crucified 
Jesus, wounds bleeding on display and all. The whole shabang. 

It always made you feel uneasy, this celebration of suffering, regarded so highly, as the biggest sacrifice. For you, it was just cruel, there was no beauty in nailing someone to a cross, no matter the reason. Life shouldn't look like that, God shouldn't look like that.

- Can I help you, my child? - an unfamiliar, deep voice boomed behind you and you nearly flew from your spot right to the ceiling.

With a hushed "fucking Christ" you turn around, standing face-to-face with a priest. A young one, not the crumbling old man you remember through the fog of your memories. Confusion hit you right away as you distinctly remembered an old monsignor being in charge of this parish. Shaking hands, begginings of dementia, the whole package. The man who stood before you was anything but.

He was much younger than the monsignor you knew, maybe a bit older than you, but still. His hair was wavy and looked almost invitingly soft. There was a small smile on his golden face, although his dark eyes betrayed traces of concern. And he was skinny, very much so, with slightly hunched back and dangly legs clad in what you immediately pegged to be skinny jeans. A pleasant face, you immediately thought, as you took in his appearence. He was wearing the usuall black dress shirt, accompanied with the white collar-tag-thingy. 

- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you - the man spoke, taking a few cautious steps in your direction - I'm just surprised to see an unfamiliar face.

Hearing that, you finally recovered, shaking your head slightly and exhailing with a smile.

- You and me both - you laughed, closing the remaining distance with an extended hand - Y/N L/N, I'm Erin Greene's cousin.

The man laughed softly, bowing his head and shaking your hand in a tight, warm embrace. It was surprisingly grounding, the way he held your hand for a moment, giving you a two shake greeting, before retracting to his side, giving you space. He seemed familiar, you were almost sure you've seen him before, but you couldn't place where. Maybe you've seen him in some shop on the mainland, where he engraved himself into your mind. That was probably it, otherwise you had no idea, why this gentle smile and warm eyes stirred a sense of familiarity. 

His hands were nice, you observed, but pushed the thought away because honestly, what the fuck.

- Father Paul, Paul Hill, the new monsignor here on Crockett Island - the man introduced himself and immediately you felt a chill ran up your spine.

- Oh no, don't tell me, did the old monsignor...

- What? Oh, no, no! - the man nearly jumped, making you look at him with clear confusion - Monsignor Pruitt is alive and well, he recovers from a small sickness in a hospital back on mainland.

- Oh! Good! I remember the old man, he was always kind to me, despite me being... Well... Me, I suppose. 

You shake your head with a smile. A memory of the old man, walking through town in his usual long coat and a fedora made you feel slightly warmer inside. Although you weren't the religious type, you never felt like a godless heathen, talking to the man. Monsignor Pruitt had a way of presenting himself that was surprisingly not "too churchy". He did try to convert you a few times, but he was never pushy about it, which you appreciated. And he was fair, at least to you. He seemed to understand the deeply rooted need you had, to rebel, to scream and rage, and sometimes smoke a cig or two. 

- Y/N... Yes, I remember, monsignor Pruitt talked about you from time to time - the man walked in front of you, slowly making his way towards the altar - You were quite the rager, from what I've heard.

You have to admit, the notion that Pruitt still remembered you, after all those years, made you feel just a tad bit concerned. By all means, if you were a regular person living here on Crockett Island, you would understand that. But now, hearing this man, deeply plagued by dementia, still held you in his memory, made you feel somehow less confident. 

Father Paul turns to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes and for just a split second you are overcome with a sudden feeling of familiarity. You know this man, you're sure of it. Before he has a chance to react to your furrowed brow, you huff a laugh and shake your head. 

- I'm surprised Father Pruitt mentioned me, I wasn't living on the island as a kid. I just sort of... Popped up every now and then - you mused, leaning on one of the church pews, the wood creaked slightly under the weight of your hip.

- Ah, I see, a summer getaway? - Father Paul placed what seemed to be an ornate table cloth on the altar, smoothing it down with his hands - You must've made quite the impression. Father Pruitt kept talking about some porter potty incident...

Oh, okay, that made sense, he would remember that one. Out of the many mishaps you've had while visiting Crockett Island, this one truly affecter monsignor Pruitt personally. For just a split second you wished, you were talking to Pruitt right now, so you could apologize yet again, promise you've been a better person. But alas, the man in front of you wasn't him, and you weren't the type to confess your sisns to a complete stranger.

- Hah! Yeah, well - you gasped, your hands shooting upwards in an defensive manner, as memories from that one time that one summer seemed to flood your mind in an embarassing wave - Those were some... Old times, good times. Anyways, I should probably get going, I'm sure the good Almighty would rather converse with you.

- The "good Almighty" treats us all the same, he wants to hear your story just as much as mine. - Father Paul smiles at you from his place next to the altar

Then, with a small clap of his hands in front of him, he starts to make his way towards you. Slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. Somehow, the way he leaves his hands open, makes you feel strangely safe. Like he waited for you to arrive, like you were welcome. It made your heart do a somersault in your chest.

- The doors are always open, Y/N. - he had to raise his voice, as you were almost out of the church - I would love to see you at Sunday Mass.

- I'm not religious! - you yelled over your arm, all but running out of the place, leaving the man to laugh softly at your panicked state.

What you didn't hear, as you walked down the small path back to the city, was a small "I know" coming from Father Paulz because he truly did. He knew you so well, especially now, when the fog of dementia has been lifted from his eyes.

It took you a long while of walking to force your body to calm down. You had no idea what made you react so strongly. Whether it was the way the man held himself, his lithe form sliding graciously between the pews. Maybe it was his hands, large and strong but still delicate. Or maybe, those dark eyes that seemed to shine under the light of the sun. You had no idea, but one thing was for sure, you were absolutely, undeniably attracted to Father Paul. 

The realization made you smile, despite it all. You weren't going to act on it, obviously (not unless he asked nicely), but it would surely bring some spice to your otherwise boring stay at the Crock Pot.

Sunday Mass, you mused to yourself, teeth worrying your lower lip in thought. Erin would go, without a doubt. She seemed to have some sort of a big return to faith, after years of living without it. Maybe you could tag along, as you would always do, trail behind her, cause some mischief...

The idea was quite tempting, and when you finally arrived back at your camper, you've made up your mind. 

Chapter Text

The storm rolls over the city in a flash. One moment you and Erin are tying the camper down, making sure it doesn't fly away, the next, you're both sitting by the candlelight in her kitchen, eating leftover lasagna and drinking wine. Well, you're the one drinking, while Erin nurses a cup of herbal tea, warming her hands in the process. You've been talking for a while, between sharing stories from your life off the island, to talking absolute shit about your neighbors (specifically Beverly Keene). As it turns out, Erin has quite some stories to tell, even though she's been living on the island for only a couple of months. 

She tells you about Leeza Scarborough's accident, about Joe Collie's ostracization from the town. She explains how the island all pitched in to send Father Pruitt for a trip to Jerusalem. How he never came back. And that, inevitably, led to a conversation about Father Paul. 

- He seems nice enough - Erin commented, her smile lighting up her eyes above the rim of her cup - I just don't know why they would send someone so young here, to this dying town.

- Maybe he did something awful - you mused, the second glass of wine making your head feel light and bubbly - He wore pants that were too tight for the clergy.

At that, Erin laughs, a surprised snort, as she watches you carefully. The sound makes your shoulders start shaking with laughter as well, and you down the rest of your glass in one swoop. 

- No, but for real, have you seen him? - your voice is raised, but you don't care - Those are skinny jeans, I am sure!

- Scandalous! - Erin joins in, her whole head of hair bouncing as she laughs harder.

- I know, the Crock Pot seems to have a new Town's Tramp.

That immediately takes both of you out, as you laugh away all the sadness and uncertainty from before. Years of sorrow seem to melt away in an instant, as this small moment of peace drags on. Outside, the storm is ravaging the island, debris flying all around, knocking on houses, fences. Yet here, inside Erin Greene's hut, life is filled with warmth and joy. Despite every single thing in both of your lives suggesting otherwise, you are happy. 

And you continue to be happy, when both of you head to bed, you taking the couch in the living room downstairs, seein as Erin's old childhood bed is too small for you. Then again, it was too small for Erin as well, while she was a teenager still living in this hellhole. Her mother just never bothered to get her something for her size. Yes, the memory of Peggy Greene will forever haunt both of your dreams. But not tonight.

Tonight Erin makes cocoa on her stove, dresses two cups with whipped cream and bids you goodbye with one of her most radiant smiles. You fall asleep with a warm belly and a slightly drunk head, knowing full-well you will suffer for it in the morning. The storm continues to rage on as you drift away to sleep, listening to the wind and the rain.

***

Cats.

A Hundred of cats lays splayed on the beach, when you wake up. The smell of flesh rotting in the sunlight is overwhelming, it makes your eyes water, and you cough a few times as soon as you open the door to Erin's house. 

The commotion on the beach wakes you up, between seagulls screeching and circling the beach, and your neighbors, conversing right outside the window. There is a low aching in your head, a remainder of the three glasses of wine you drank yesterday evening. Erin makes you scrambled eggs, a special recipe, she says, one that will put you in a good mood. Maybe, if the circumstances were different, you would've felt the magic of her cooking, alas, there were dead cats on the beach.

It takes all your willpower not to throw up, as you make your way from the front porch to your camper. You're supposed to be at the docks 11 a.m. sharp, so you can get a package you've ordered to be delivered to the island. The nice man from the ferry said he'd take it, and you couldn't contain your excitement. 

And so, after throwing a quick "hi" to the Sheriff and Riley Flynn, who arrived at the island a couple of days before you, you were skipping through the main road. It felt good, being able to walk the same roads you knew from your childhood. Memories kept flooding your mind, as you passed that one spot where you had your first sip of alcohol. It was a homemade recipe, hidden in the cupboard by Riley's mother, some cherry flavor death in a bottle. 

Good times, you mused, boots clicking on the cement, as you rushed towards the dock.

The ferry was already there, some people going on it, some leaving. You spotted the man right by the ramp, a few packages next to him.

- Miss L/N - he smiled as you approached, a few dollar bills in your hand - Here, I hope it's all in good condition, nice to know we have an artist here on the island.

You huff an awkward laugh, paying the man and quickly gathering your things. The packages barely fit in your grasp, a couple of large canvases stacked together, a set of paints tucked under your arm, and finally a small wooden easel, which proved to be not so small, when you put it on your back.

The walk back is paved in suffering, as you slowly drag yourself up the road, trying and failing to keep all the packages in your arms. Thankfully, most of the townsfolk are either working or helping to clean the beach, so no one can see you struggling for your life. 

That is, until you pass the church.

- Hard day at work, I see - the familiar voice almost causes you to drop all the belongings to the floor.

There he is, nearly running to help you, with his soft hair and big, dark eyes. Without a second thought leaving tthrough the open doors to the church. He isn't wearing any of the official regalia, opting for a knitted sweater that looks pleasantly warm. You smile sheepishly, as he reaches you, immediately taking some packages. His fingers brush your back as he takes off the easel, hanging it on his arm. Your, now free hands, tug on the hem of your sleeves, trying to hide the goosebumps which immediately sprung all over your body at the slightest touch. 

Who is this man and why is he having such an effect on you, you'll probably never know.

- Really, Father you don't have to, I'm perfectly capable of getting these in my camper - you used a light tone that still betrayed some discomfort at this sudden offer of help

- I know you are, but I'm here, and I'm perfectly capable of helping - he gives you a warm smile, the "just let me do this" one, and you can't possibly refuse, when he looks at you with those wide eyes. 

So, you let him help, albeit a bit hesitant. You've never grown accustomed to the kindness of people on this island, and your distrust seemed to extend towards the new Monsignor. At least he didn't look too bothered, eagerly gathering half of your stuff in his arms. You're grateful he left some for you. Perhaps, he could sense your "independence or death" attitude. 

He handled it all with such care, like he was holding a newborn. His hands locked in a delicate but firm grip on the brown paper packages. Yet again, it made you feel things, as your eyes raked across his forearms. The sleeves of his sweater slid upwards just a bit, exposing the juncture between his hands and his arms. The delicate skin on the wrist looked so graceful, lines of thick, protruding veins disappeared between his fingers, and whoa. It sure was beginning to get hot on the island. 

- So, a painter? - the man asks, effectively pulling you out of your thoughts.

There is a small smile on his face, when you finally look up. One, that wakes the voice at the back of your head, saying "he knows". You push it back, though, offering a crooked smile of your own.

- Yeah, it's a relatively new hobby - you admit with a shrug - After I left the island for good, I kept sketching the faces of all the people, so I could remember. Then it just became a natural thing, I started to experiment with different styles, and now, here we are. - you point to the brown packages in the priest's arms with your chin - Figured, since I will be here in the Crock Pot for a while, might as well get some landscape practice.

Father Paul nods in understanding, a low hum arises deep in his chest. This is slowly becoming the most frustrating walk of your life. 

- The island has some wonderful sights, that's for sure. I can't wait to see some of your work - somehow, you know what he's going to say next, call it sixth sense - Maybe you could paint our church, it's not some grand building, but perhaps it would give you inspiration.

His eyes, filled with hope, dim slowly, as he notices the small crease between your eyebrows. Doubt is evident on your features, and it looks like you're searching for the right words to say. Before you can utter anything, he jumps in, eyebrows raised high.

- Of course, should you decide to do this, I would be more than happy to purchase such a painting. The parish could use some fresh decor. 

The snort that comes out of your nose makes him look at you with amused confusion. You give a short laugh, awkwardly trying to cover your face with your arm. You fail, of course, packages tipping dangerously close to falling. 

- Forgive me, Father - you say between laughs - I just... I imagine some islanders would have quite a lot to say about a painting done by me, of all people, hanging in your home. 

He laughs as well, although he seems uncertain why, your smile seemingly infecting him like a nasty bug. His eyes dart around your face, taking everything in, as if he was seeing you for the first time, which seems strange, as this is your second encounter.

- Whoever that might be? - he asks with a voice so light, it might just fly right up to heavens. 

- Beverly Keene - you say it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and in a way it is.

Miss Keene has a lot to say about everything and everyone, but since you came to the island on your first vacation, years ago, you seemed to occupy her thoughts nearly daily. Maybe there was a divine providence protecting you from running into her during your first few days here, as you haven't really seen her since you came down from the ferry. Good, you were not keen on meeting the Keene anytime soon. 

A look of understanding passes through Father Paul's face, although it dissapears as soon as it arrives. He shrugs, your easel swinging on his shoulder. You try to ignore, that there is movement of his muscles visible under his sweater. 

- And why would Miss Keene have anything to say about my choice of decorations? - the man asks, even though you can see, he already knows the answer. 

You almost miss the mischevious twinkle in his dark eyes, as you finally arrive at the camper. 

Erin is nowhere in sight, probably already having departed for school. Good, she's teased you enough last night, you don't need to hear more. 

After producing a key from your jean pocket, you open the door, stepping in and throwing a quick "come in" to the priest waiting inside. He gets in after you, having to bend down a little, so his head doesn't hit the doorframe. Only now, in contrast to your pretty small living space, do you notice how tall this man truly is. His hair brushes over the ceiling lamp, as he moves further into the main "room". 

- There - you point towards the tiny sofa tucked in the corner - Just throw it somewhere, I'll organize everything later. 

That being said, you put your share of the packages on the coffee table, the ones that don't fit, you just leave on the floor. Father Paul is so much more careful with your things, than you could ever strive to be. He makes sure the easel stands straight, carefully places the packages on the sofa, leaving some space if one would like to sit down. You watch him with small amusement, as he straightens his back and examines his work with a satisfied nod. 

When he turns to you and notices your expression, one eyebrow shoots up in question, to which you shake your head ever so slightly. 

- Thank you, for your help, Father - you say with a small smile - As a token of my gratitude, would you like some tea? Coffee perhaps?

He follows you into the tight kitchen, noticing the size of it, he decides to stay outside, watching you from the entrance. Is it respect, or is it worry, you wonder, as you start to rummage from the cabinets.

- Tea would be ideal, I've already drunk coffee today, and I'm worried more would be unhealthy at my age - he muses lightly, you can hear the wood of the doorframe creak, when he leans against it.

- "Your age"? - you smile at him over your shoulder, hands working on making two cups of earl grey - Father, you don't look a day over twenty.

He huffs a small chuckle, low and deep, his eyes flickering from the floor to your eyes. You could've sworn, there was a blush forming on his cheeks, but it is rather hard to see in the dimly lit kitchen. So, you're left to wonder, as he interlocks his hands in front of him.

- You flatterer, you - he murmurs so quietly, you're not sure if you've heard him correctly.

Your thoughts get confirmed however, as you both share a single look, eyes connecting for just a fraction of a second over the expanse of the kitchen. Now you're the one blushing, hoping in your heart he can't see it. Anxiety building up in your gut makes you huff a laugh, that seems to bring you both back to earth.

- Well, now you know why Miss Keene would have a lot to say - can he hear the tinge of bitterness in your voice? - I have a reputation, here on the island.

Father Paul crosses the threshold of your kitchen, invading your safe space with a single step. His gaze is determined, as heated as the water boiling in your electric kettle. You try to ignore it, filling the two cups with liquid, although you observe him out of the corner of you eye. Would he take another step? Did you hope he would? 

- What good would I bring to this place, if I cared about people's reputation? - he asks, his tone is so soft, like melting butter on a morning toast - God doesn't, I know that for certain, and we should strive to do the same.

Should you feel comfort in his words? You can feel your mother's eyes watching you from her desk, back in your old apartment. A memory as old as you. "Question everything, always doubt, never settle." One of the cups slides across the kitchen counter, as you push it towards the priest. A gesture that seems small and inviting, but in one moment creates a wall, a fence not to be jumped over. A boundary is set on your part. 

- I'm not worried about me - you explain, something stern and cold seeping into your usually carefree expression - I've lived my life here, and I don't regret a thing - a lie - But you, you're just starting. And people of this island love to talk, it can ruin people's lives. So don't let the wrong choice of sheeps to save ruin yours.

For a moment he looks at you with a serious expression, your words sinking in, uncovering a truth you both felt in your bones. If anyone, especially Beverly Keene, saw you two walk hand in hand, only to dissapear into your camper, tongues would be wagging through the entire Crock Pot. And Bev would probably just burn you alive, like a witch, for old times sake. 

- I won't try to push you - Father Paul promises - But I will never give up on you. Never. If there is even a sliver of hope, that I could see you at the Sunday mass, that you could experience God's grace... Let it ruin my life, sounds like a small price to pay for your soul.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering away in your chest, like a wild dove trying to escape it's cage. And Father Paul takes the cup you've slid to him, without another word leaving you in the kitchen and retreating to the living room. Watching his back, you blink, once, twice, three times, before forcing your legs to move.

Holy shit. 

Chapter Text

The Priest slips out of the camper some time later, his empty cup occupying your sink and staring at you in a way, that you find, frankly, quite offensive. His voice doesn't leave your mind until late in the evening, and when you finally drift off to sleep, your dreams are filled with his gentle eyes and warm hands. Waking up in the morning feels like getting thrown straight from a boiling hot sauna into a heap of snow. Reality freezes your brain, as phantom touches dissipate from your thoughts, and you drag yourself to the shower in a daze. 

As water runs down your back, untying knots of nerves along your spine, one important question keeps flying around in your skull. Will you attend the Mass on Sunday? Will you make your presence known today, for the whole town to see?

***

The only thing responsible for your attendance is Erin's chicken curry. 

You're convinced the Devil himself would find salvation, when faced with the ultimatum she presented you in the morning. As Erin got ready for Church, you've watched her, arms crossed and a wrinkle between your eyebrows. She was fixing a patterned scarf around her neck, when she presented you with her impossible proposition.

If you went to church with her, she would make her famous dish for dinner. 

Her smile grew in force, as she watched you struggle internally. The vision of the warm, flavorful sauce over some white rice plaguing your mind. Maybe some scallions on top, Gosh, you were a weak woman. 

- That's coercion, I hope you realize - you grumble, as an unspoken decision is set between the two of you.

All she does is laugh, watching you leave her room in the reflection of her mirror. You had to change your pants into something more... Well, appropriate. A smirk falls on your lips, when an image of an utterly grossed out Beverly Keene enters your mind. It would've been almost worth it, if it weren't for Erin, who would have to live with the consequences of your actions after you've left.

And so, you opt for a modest blouse and a long skirt. It makes you feel less like yourself, but you suppose the feeling will only grow in force, as you're literally going to church against everything you stood for, for the last, what? Ten years? Curse Erin, and curse her heavenly, sin-worthy cooking. 

Quite a lot of people join you on the way to church. Leeza and her parents greet you with smiles so bright and friendly, so indicative of the tragedy that befell them. You and Erin hold a light conversation with Dolly Scarborough, talking about life on the island, the oncoming festival, hell, even the dead cats on the beach. Somehow, after the Sheriff burned them down in a pile, they became old news. Like finding dozens of dead felines was a regular occurrence. It wasn't, and no amount of Wade's anecdotes would make it so, in your eyes. 

Sure, you could understand dead fish, even dead birds, nature is fickle like that. But cats are strong, smart, they don't just end up bloodless and with broken necks. And most certainly not that many of them. You've heard Ooker talk about the whole Uppards being stripped of their tenants, as he passed you by on his bike, Warren Flynn zooming right after him. 

Erin held your arm in hers, as she walked you up the stairs, both of you coming face to face with none other but Beverly Keene. Ah, the look on that woman's face as she recognized you. Maybe life was good after all. You and Erin said "hello" at the same time, like you truly shared one mind, and it took quite a while for Beverly to pull her lips back in a forced smile. 

Oh, you were absolutely loving this.

The church was slowly filling with people, when you arrived. For a second you try to slip into the last pew, but Erin's steel grip forces you to continue walking towards the middle benches. She passes you and effectively forces you to sit right by the center of the church. You'll get back at her for this later, you conclude, sending your cousin a dramatic pout. A smirk pulls at her lips, and she looks up ahead, refusing to acknowledge you fully. 

And so, here you are, a center of attention. All the people looking at you, remembering your teenage years, your atheist mother, your wicked ways. 

"It's so nice to see her come back to the faith." Whoever said that didn't know anything about you, there was nothing to "come back to". You never had faith.

"Most surprising..." Unmistakably, Keene's voice carries, as she comments on your arrival to some poor soul. Yeah, Bev, you have no idea. Just hearing her talk forces your face to pull a sour expression.

"I remember her as a teen." Your teeth grind against each other, as your jaw clenches painfully. The loud ringing of church bells saves you from hearing the rest of the sentence, and soon enough the singing starts. And then, appearing behind you, sliding into view from your peripheral vision, Father Paul enters. Your eyes follow him, as he approaches the altar, green robe flowing after him. 

Erin catches your elbow before you have any true chance of reacting. She knows you too well, because for a second you have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. He looks ridiculous in the green chasuble, with thick golden patterns that look similar to some wheats. Such a contrast from the simple look you've seen him in until today.

He goes through all the usual motions of starting the Mass, until finally, he has a small second to look over the congregation. And then his dark eyes fall right onto you, and your breath catches in your throat. A common occurrence in his presence, you note. His entire face seems to light up, as if the good Almighty has appeared before him. You've never seen someone with such bright eyes. This intensity, it should make you proud, after all who can claim to have so much influence over this man of God other that the Lord himself. But, as his eyes burn into you, like you're the only person in the whole church, all you feel is annoyance. 

Because now, you're going to have to run to him after the Mass and explain yourself. You'll have to take his beautiful heart and crush it between your teeth, because there was no sudden return to faith. You weren't overcome with the Holy Spirit, or whatever he would try to project onto you. The truth is, you just wanted Erin Greene's chicken curry over some white rice. 

If God is real, he has some fucked up sense of humor. 

Father Paul notices you flinch under his gaze, and suddenly realizes he's been a bit too quiet for a bit too long. 

Quietly clearing his throat, he moves on to continue the Mass, despite his hands shaking with excitement. 

You're here, you truly came, you're sitting right there in front of him, under God's roof. And you look so beautiful, as light from the stained glass windows falls on your face, traps itself in your hair. You look holy in his eyes, his biggest accomplishment, and one he achieved so easily.

God truly is good and graceful, and...

You sat back during the Communion.

***

Erin catches you by the elbow, as you start to make your way outside the church. The congregation leaves after finishing mass, slowly seeping through the open doors of the church, So do you, your eyes immediately focusing on the priest, standing outside and talking to his faithful.

- I'm going to walk with Riley - Erin says quietly into your ear, her smile betraying excitement - We'll meet up in my house and start working on that holy dish.

- Mmm - you shoot her a grin - Say hi to him from me, I have to clear some things out with the priest.

At that, Erin laughs, quietly poking fun at the sudden serious conviction in your voice. She looks at you with a teasing glint in her bright eyes, as she slips away from your grasp.

- Ooh - she cooes - Don't let Bev hear you then.

And she leaves with a wink, her skirt flowing around her legs, so naturally elegant. You can see Riley waiting for her, and after she exchanges a few quick words with Father Paul, she joins him. It warms your heart, seeing them together, even if it's only for a brief moment.

Walking out of the church, Father Paul's eyes immediately fall on you, the last sheep to leave. His chest expands in a large intake of breath and inwardly, you grimace. 

- I don't believe in God - is the first thing you tell him, and want to shoot yourself in the foot right after.

Your admission turns at least three heads that were still in earshot, but you can't find the energy to care. Y/N L/N doesn't believe in God, old news, just like the dead cats.

- I gathered as much - Father Paul laughs a short laugh, his eyes lighting up in amusement.

He looks quite beautiful like this. Sunlight making his skin appear even more golden than it already is. And paired with his gentle smile, even the chasuble doesn't look as ridiculous as you previously thought. It rather fits him, in fact, the rich green pairing nicely with his dark eyes.

Eyes that watch you, eagerly soaking in your presence. If he was any other man, you would be flustered, to be looked at like that. Alas, he's a priest, and you've caused enough ruckus on the island in your youth. Let's not add to the long list of sins.

- I - a heavy sigh escapes your lips, you don't notice how his eyes drift to them for a second - I'm going to be honest, Erin bribed me with chicken.

There is a pregnant pause between the two of you, as Father Paul watches you, eyebrows raised in clear confusion.

- See, she makes this wonderful chicken curry. It's like, the best thing I've ever eaten, and...

His laugh completely catches you off guard. 

It's light, as if all air left him at once and disappeared somewhere in the atmosphere. And that tone burrows itself deep within you, shaking hour bones with just how warm and comforting it sounds. At the same time, there's this strange twinge of familiarity in it, so subtle you almost miss it. Again, thoughts come rushing through your head because you know this man, you cam feel it. And yet, you have no idea who he is. 

Right now, he is amused beyond belief, you gather. He takes a couple of calming breaths, connecting his hands in front of him with a gentle clap, a gesture you find rather endearing.

- It truly must be some dish, if it convinced you to come to Mass - he muses, watching you yet again this time with even more adoration, although it doesn't seem to be as connected to the Divine.

No, this time, he seems so utterly human it shakes you to your core.

- Hah, yeah - awkwardly you scratch at your neck - Just wanted to clear things out. You looked really proud when you saw me, I didn't want to lie to you.

At that, he takes a step towards you, hands coming out to grasp at your forearms. The contact almost makes you jump out of your skin, and you can already feel, you won't be able to stop thinking about this for the next week. His fingers squeeze gently the flesh just above your elbows, and you feel like flying right up to heaven.

- It doesn't matter, what motivated you to come here today. What matters, is that you did.

Oh, you were blushing, one hundred percent. On one hand, if this was a recruitment tactic he was using on you, it almost worked. On the other, as you watched his sincere expression, his lovely shaped lips smiling just for you, you cannot help but wonder.

How the hell was this man a priest?

- Please, do continue to come - he says, fingers tightening around your arm once more - And who knows, maybe someday I'll see you at Communion...

To that, you can't help but scoff a little, finally freeing yourself from his hold. His hands fall to his sides and part of you wants to reach out, place them on you again. That would be unwise, however, and you opt to bite your lip in exchange. 

- Forgive me, Father - oh, you like the sound of that - But me and the Almighty have a complicated relationship. To be quite honest, I'm not sure we're on speaking terms these days.

Ha laughs again, and it warms your heart, even if for a short while. The priest almost reaches out to you again, but he seemingly composes himself, his right hand twitching at his side.

- Well, the church is always open for people who need guidance, especially for them. And the confessional booth is right there, should you need it, should you need me.

"Should you need him", the words play over and over in your head. Is he talking to all his faithful like this? If he does, should you feel jealous? Soaking energy from your past self, you smile a wicked grin, one that screams trouble from a mile away.

- Sorry, I don't confess all my darkest secrets until at least the third date.

The ball is finally in your court, and satisfaction fills you right away, because it's his turn to shuffle awkwardly, to scratch the back of his neck and look to the floor. He shouldn't be as adorable as he is. Before you can celebrate your victory however, his eyes catch yours, something much darker, much more human lurking in their depths.

- Only one date to go then - he muses so quietly you can barely hear him, but you do, and this one statement, spoken in such a low voice, forces a shiver to run down your spine, heat pooling into your stomach.

- Miss Y/N!

A familiar, and entirely not welcome voice drags you back to earth. Both you, and Father Paul nearly jump back from each other. Over his shoulder you can see Beverly Keene walking briskly towards you.

There is no point in hiding your bitter expression, as you sigh deeply, a headache already forming between your eyebrows.

- That chicken better be fucking delicious - you mutter and Father Paul has to cover his laugh with a sudden cough.

- Miss Keene - you greet the woman with a small nod.

She stands next to the priest, looking over the both of you with ever so suspicious eyes. Then, she settles back on you, a sickly sweet smile tugging at her features, making her look borderline demonic in your mind.

- I must say - of course she must - I didn't think I'd live long enough to see a L/N in the House of God. I'm so happy for you, of course, God is good and forgiving.

It takes almost all of your willpower not to scoff, but you can feel Paul's eyes on you and you force yourself to behave. So, you smile, mirroring Beverly's acting.

- Yes, I decided to give it a try, since I'm on the island.

- For how long? - she asks immediately, head turning to the side - You mother must miss you horribly, I remember you two being so close.

Maybe there is a God, you muse in your thoughts, head lowering in a noncommittal shrug.

- My mother died two years ago.

There it is, the pin drops and you revel in the way the corners of Beverly's mouth twitch, the smile threatening to crack. She recovers quickly, her expression morphing into that of (totally not feigned) concern.

- Oh dear, I'm so sorry - she reaches out to hold your arm, her fingers feel like needles on your skin - I was not made aware of her funeral.

That's enough of pleasantries, you've wasted enough time. With a gentle twist, you free yourself from her grasp.

- That's because you weren't invited - now her face falls, finally, the real Beverly shines through in all her ugliness - Have a blessed day Miss Keene. Father, you as well.

It feels so light, so liberating, walking away from them, from her. The smirk you're wearing isn't pretty, it's too reminiscent of the old, rebellious teen, causing chaos every year, for two months. But you don't care. The day is beautiful, sun shines on your face, and back home Erin waits for you with her chicken curry.

Finally, on the third day of your arrival, you truly feel like you're back.

Chapter Text

The Holy Chicken Curry was totally worth spending an hour in the church, just so we're all clear. 

Monday evening, after helping Erin clean up the mess left around her house by the previous storm, you finally got a moment for yourself. Your muscles burned, ever so slightly, from dragging heavy debris all around the place. For a pregnant woman, Erin was surprisingly lively. You almost had to physically restrain her from working too hard. Riley came by for a moment, to help with some more heavy duty lifting. The two of you smoked a cigarette after work, while Erin made lemonade inside the house. Despite the hard work, you felt good with yourself, after scrubbing the sweat and the grime in your cramped shower.

 After securing a bottle of sweet, red wine from Erin's basement, you retreated back to your camper. She let you clear out her supply, as she wouldn't be needing it for quite some time. At last, you could fully give yourself over to what you truly wanted to do. With a sigh of relief, you've opened one of the small windows, letting in some cool, fresh air. Outside, it was already getting dark. A couple of fuzzy moths landed on the mosquito net. Their small bug-hands clung onto the fabric.  

You were determined to make it a good evening, as you set up a small speaker connected to your phone on a makeshift stand. Soon, Aretha Franklin's voice started to fill the camper, and you joined in to the best of your capacity. 

- Chain, chain, chain... - you drawled, bending backwards and singing into an imaginary microphone. 

Father Paul was drawn to the light coming from your window like a moth to the flame. He wasn't really supposed to be here, on this coast of the island. But after collecting the Sacrament from the Angel, he needed a minute to himself, to clear his head, calm his speeding heart. In his youth, he used to take long walks around the island, just watching over the ocean line, breathing in the salty air. Later, he supposed, the old habit didn't die out along with his mind, only growing stronger, as his body became weaker in return. 

Now, young again, he kept surprising himself with how much he could do. 

The strength in his arms grew every day. He would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes, he would lift the furniture around his parish. Sliding the couch over the wooden floor with a single push of his hand. Not because he particularly needed a change of scenery, but simply because he could. And walking! Oh, nothing felt as delicious, as being able to simply walk wherever he wanted, with a mind so clear and bright, and sturdy legs. When he was certain not a soul could see him, he would run, reveling in the burn in his lungs, the air flowing past him. He could do anything, and through the grace of God, he will do anything. Which begs the question...

Why, of all the possible things he could do, was he walking up the gravel path to your camper?

Was it the light? Emanating from the windows and falling onto the grass where drops of dew began to collect. Perhaps, the music then.

- I put a spell on you - sang Nina Simone and the irony was not lost on him. 

Because how else could he describe what you were doing to him, other than enchanting, cooking up some spell, like the witches from the children books. Only you weren't an old hag covered in warts, you were beautiful, outside and inside, and Father Paul placed one foot on the steps leading to your camper. Were you dancing? It would be so easy to check, just one move, and he would know. He tried to imagine it, concocting an image of you, twirling on your feet. At night, when there was only him and God, he would think of how you would look, dancing in his living room. He had enough space for you to sway, perhaps he would join you, if God allowed him. 

At first, he was scared of those thoughts, after all, he went through this exact situation before. But after a while, he realized, there was nothing to be scared of. God gave us conscience to help us decipher right from wrong, and Father Paul didn't feel guilty when thinking of you. This simple rule kept him alive for many months, when sand and sharp teeth bit him in the depths of the desert. 

As he stood outside your camper, just mere meters from the door, he wondered if you were smiling right now. Like you smiled at him, a slightly crooked grin, with this mischevious glint in your eyes that made him almost melt on the spot. How easy it would be to check, the window was right there, open, he could just peak inside. Better yet, he could knock on your door, tell you he kept you in his prayers, which was true. Drink a cup of tea with you, maybe even touch your hand. And yet, when he finally lifts his knuckles to knock on the door, he falters. 

A sigh escapes his lips, a heavy one. One that carries memories of a past lived life, so full of longing and contradicting. Locks of red hair falling on his face, tickling his cheeks. Hidden glances from the altar, even more hidden kisses behind it. For the first time in quite some time, Father Paul felt a pang of doubt settle in his heart, for he couldn't decipher, if he was ready to go through it all again. It's harder than he originally thought, turning away, slipping back into the darkness falling over Crockett Island. But he does, after sparing one last glance at the window burning in the night, where you danced in his imagination, with a smile on your lips. 

Inside, another song starts, as you clean your brushes with an old rag. In front of you stands an easel. On it, the beginnings of a painting. Rough lines of brown paint, thinned so much, that it drips down in some places, creating small spills at the bottom. It doesn't matter, this is just for guidance, so you know where all the pieces fall. You look at it with scrunched brows, a wave of contrasting emotions flowing through you. Your mother would be dissapointed, truly, if she saw you painting this particular thing. And in a way, you were dissapointed for her. This wasn't who you were, how you were raised. 

Curse that priest, and his smile, and his eyes, and those damned hands that never leave your dreams, no matter how hard you try.

With a grumble, you throw the rag on the floor next to the easel. It lands with a plop onto a carefully placed out, torn pages of paper, some old news about an election in a town on the mainland. The brushes you treat, admittedly, much better, carefully placing them inside a small portable kit. Each one sliding into their destined rubber hoop. 

It's getting close to midnight, and you still haven't eaten, even though the bottle of wine was nearly empty. Your stomach finally wakes up, reminding you, that you are, in fact, starving. Deciding to raid the fridge, if only to weaken the effects of a hungover, that would surely kick your ass in the morning, you drag yourself into the kitchen. The small, oppressive place, where father Paul's mug still looks at you from the sink. You haven't touched it since he left your camper two days ago. You will do it, eventually, someday. Just not now.

Instead, you reach into the small fridge and pull out a plastic container, filled with The Holy Curry. A leftover from Sunday, which Erin graciously presented you with, like a queen bestowing the greatest honor on her most loyal knight. It takes a couple of minutes to heat up the dish, filling the entire camper with a delicious smell. You sway lightly on your feet, as you stir around in a small pot. The wine is making you feel very relaxed, very quickly, and you blame it on the way you stood up too quickly from your previous place at the easel. Your eyes drift closed, as Frank Sinatra drawls some sappy tune from the speaker. 

This is good, this is perfect. This is how your evenings can look for the rest of your life, and you wouldn't utter a word of complaint. 

Peace is violently torn out of your hands, however, as something falls onto the roof of your camper with a heavy thud. The entire place shakes suddenly, and you instinctively get low on the ground, holding the kitchen counter for balance. Your other hand comes up to cover your mouth, just in case you suddenly feel the need to scream, and your eyes scan the metal ceiling. 

"A tree branch?" you try to reason in your mind, knowing full-well there are no trees around the camper. Whatever it was, a tree branch, a lamp post, the flying nun, it made no indents in the roof, and with that fairly optimistic thought, you begin to stand up. 

You don't make it far, though, as a chilling sound registers in your ears between another old song and the rush of blood in your ears. Something scratching on the metal. The shrill noise causing chills to run up your spine. Your mind conjures up images of sharp nails, dragging along the metal lining of the camper. It's silly, you know, probably just some more branches, being ruffled by the wind. Branches from a tree that doesn't exist. Another moment of silence lulls you into a false sense of security, and as you begin to rise for the second time, the camper shakes, as if being pushed to the ground.

This time, you lose your footing, falling on your ass next to the fridge. And then the place shoots upwards, like something just used your roof to propel itself into the sky. 

"We'll Meet Again" by Vera Lynn begins, the tune barely reaching your ears over the rush of blood and the pounding of your heart. The slow song creates a striking contrast with your shivering form, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, frightened eyes glued to the ceiling. It takes half of the song for you to even consider getting up. 

By the time you straighten yourself, the curry is in the beginnings of becoming a burned mess. All you do to prevent that, is turn off the heat. There is a certain stiff calmness about you, as you move through the camper. On locked legs, you shift to the open window, closing it at an arm's length, just in case. Then, you turn off the music, clutching the phone in your hand, the plastic digging into your palm grounding you in reality. Finally, after checking the locks on your door, you move towards the "bedroom" which consisted of a single bed built into the wall of the camper. 

Switching the light off, you slip under the covers, not bothering with a change of clothes. There, in the darkness and silence, you finally allow yourself to crumble, a shaky breath blowing against your thin duvet, as tears sting your eyes. In this particular moment, you don't care that you're an independent woman, striving for a rational explanation of everything that happens to you. You don't care, that you can afford a car, and an apartment, and that you put pine nuts on your salad. At this moment, you want your mum to come over and stroke your hair, to tell you that you're safe, check for the monsters under your bed. 

When you finally wake up from a nightmare filled sleep, it's close to noon.

With a disappointed sigh you discover that there is literally nothing to eat, as the charred remains of The Holy Curry stare at you sadly from the stove. So, after a small pep talk in the bathroom, you throw a heavy jacket on, pull up your boots, and begin a walk of shame to the general store. Anyone with half a brain could see, you had a rough night. Despite your best attempts at taming your hair, it kept sticking in every direction. And of course, then there were the bags under your eyes, making your face look like a prop from a haunted house attraction.

You closed the door on your way out, with eyes kept on the metal steps, not daring to look up. Perhaps for the better, because if you did, you would see eight long scratches on the metal lining just above the entrance and a small sprinkle of red liquid, that looked suspiciously close to blood.  

Chapter Text

- I'm going to be an actress.

Erin smiles, her eyes lighting up over the bottle of cheap beer. Crusty, black makeup around her eyelids drags down her cheeks, right to the chin, creating sad-looking marks. She's been crying just moments ago, but now, she's fine. The flickering light of the campfire dances trapped in her wavy hair, and when she moves her head, you can hear the jingle jangle of her heavy earrings. She's adorned in jewelry like a queen, dozens of necklaces, rings and bracelets reflect the light. In this moment, you can't help but stare in awe of her figure. She's beautiful despite the bruise blooming on her neck, where her mother squeezed too hard just hours ago.

- I'm going to leave this fucking place and be happy - she sighs, a dreamy expression on her features.

- Hey, remember about me when you're famous - you swallow a healthy chug of beer, bubbles coming right up to your nose - But yeah, you're right, you should leave.

Erin nods her head, taking a swing from her bottle. She looks up at you, and you freeze up under her changed expression. Her eyes turn a muted shade of yellow, as they start to reflect the light of the campfire. Like the eyes of a predator, watching its prey from the shadows. 

- You should leave too - she says, a low whisper, that shakes you to the bone.

- You should run.

***

- The red one is much better.

Your whole body jumps at the sound of a slightly familiar voice. It takes you a couple of seconds to register where you are, and what exactly are you doing. One hand holding a packet of instant noodles, you were leaning heavily on the shelf, your eyes closed and mind far away from the island. Shifting your unfocused gaze over to the source of the sound, your eyes meet with none other than Sheriff Hassan, a small smile on his lips. He's watching you wake up with amusement, leaning on one of the shelves, a cup of coffee in his hand. 

- Hm? - you ask, still drowsy, finally starting to feel like your limbs belong to you - Oh, right, sorry.

As if on autopilot, you put the packet into your shopping basket, which is now filled with a couple of cans of soda, eggs and instant noodles. Truly, a feast fit for a king. Sheriff looks over your groceries with a raised eyebrow, before chuckling at your, still, lagged expression.

- Big night? - he asked, sliding closer to take the cart from your hands.

You give it to him without protest, feet dragging as you start to follow him around the store.

- Am I that obvious? 

- You fell asleep in the instant ramen isle - he deadpans, throwing you a look that could be described as "disappointed father"

A low groan escapes you. There is a persistent ache right between your eyebrows, that makes your nose scrunch and eyes water. Speaking of water, you can feel the familiar dryness of a hungover on your tongue. 

Curse Erin's fruity wine, it's the sweetest ones that sneak up on you. They taste like juice but all it takes is one wrong move, and boom, death is at your door. And still, there is this unwavering feeling of dread, crawling at the back of your head. Like, something terrible has happened, but you can't, for the life of you, remember what it was. 

No matter, at least for now. Sheriff Hassan places a bunch of grocery products in your cart, filling it up completely, even adding some fresh vegetables. After that, he makes his way to the register, where he helps you pay for the stuff. His warm hands take the wallet from you, when he notices the struggle you endure to take out your money.

- A good deed or whatever you guys say - he mutters, a small tinge of bitterness is barely noticeable in his voice.

- I'm not Christian - you grumble, taking one of the two plastic bags, filled with groceries.

Hassan looks at you for a second, taking the other one. 

- Neither am I.

The lady at the register, Miss Pauline, gives the both of you a disapproving look, to which all you can do is wish her a good day, and leave the store. 

- A godless heathen then, how nice - you smile at the man next to you, the sun behind his head blinds you for a second.

- I'm Muslim - Sheriff Hassan starts to walk up the road leading to your house, and for a second you wonder if he knows where everyone lives, after being on the island for such a short time. 

- Not a godless one, noted.

You both stop for a second, the wind blowing around you, seeping deep into your bones. The sheriff regards you with a scrutinizing gaze, seemingly drilling a hole right through you, trying to reach your soul, if you even had one. There is a lopsided grin on your face, and the dark circles under your eyes make you look borderline ghastly, 

Hassan stands in such a contrast to you, with watchful eyes and warm skin that looks healthy and rested. And he's nice, you conclude, as both of you start to walk again. He forced you to do some healthy groceries, and is now helping you get them to your camper. 

All things considered, you should feel something, anything really. When was the last time a man did something so nice? The answer is simple, yet you dread to think it, because the last man to help you shouldn't even count, shouldn't be a possibility. 

It should be Sheriff Hassan that made your stomach explode with butterflies, skin crawl with goosebumps at the slightest touch. Life would've been so much easier then. 

And yet, when your hands brush for a split second, knuckles sharing heat, you feel nothing. So, with a sigh of relief, you smile and joke, just like you used to do with Riley and Erin. Like friends do, when they're stuck on a dying island. Hassan smiles as well, a tight expression, like he isn't used to the feeling. But he jokes as well, telling you about his day at the office, how he and Joe Collie shared a coffee in the morning.

Talking to him feels easy. Both of you are stuck on the island by your own volition, forced by your own hands to deal with the colorful people living here. 

He tells you about his son, Ali, and his expression changes into that of pure pride. It tugs on your heartstrings just a little bit, seeing this father talk about his son with so much love and understanding. It's good to know there are, in fact, good fathers somewhere.

You, in turn, talk about your life on the island from way back. What you remember from you teenage years, before Erin run off and took everything worth coming back for with her. 

There is smoke pouring out of the chimney in Erin's house, indicating she's home. 

Through the window in the living room, you can see a familiar silhouette of Riley Flynn, his broad back turned to you, Erin smiling over his arm. It warms your heart, seeing them together again. For old times sake. 

- Hey, if you ever need anything - you start, after placing the groceries on the table in the kitchen - Just give me a call.

- Yeah, yeah - the Sheriff waves you off, a small smile on his lips - A painting for the office maybe?

He points to the beginnings of a piece, still standing at the easel. You cringe, inwardly and outwardly, an expression which actually wrenches a chuckle from the man. 

- Doubt you'd find any space in that broom closet of yours - you jab, and Hassan feigns being offended with a dramatic gasp - Tea?

- Nah, I better get back, who knows what trouble awaits me today.

- Perhaps Beverly buttered her bread with a steak knife - you mutter, eyes rolling. 

Sheriff leaves your camper chuckling, which you consider to be an achievement. 

You watch him go, leaning on the entrance, arms crossed in front of you. Perhaps you felt nothing, but the man was certainly easy on the eyes. With that thought, you turn back to your camper, a mission of unpacking the groceries ahead of you. Three plastic bags later, you slump back on your couch, your previous sprout of energy coming to a sudden end. 

Drowsiness overtakes you, as you slide down, your body curling into a fetal position. Sleep comes quick and unexpected, your body trying to catch up on any spare hours of rest.

***

Father Paul was praying when he heard your voice.

At first he was sure it was just a hallucination, his fickle imagination playing tricks on him. You've occupied his thoughts often enough, he wouldn't be surprised if your voice also made it through. It took him a couple seconds, to realize fully, that you were, in fact speaking right outside the church, and a couple more to hear, that you weren't alone. 

The realization brought him up from his knees in an instant, his entire body twisting to face the doors of the church.

There, standing in the sunlight, was you. God forgive him for the way his heart lurched in his chest, at the mere sight of your silhouette. Almost lost in his thoughts, Father Paul got cruelly pulled from them, as another figure came to light. The Sheriff.

Paul tanked and cursed his improved eyesight for noticing the warm smile on the man's face. His dark eyes trailed over your body and Father Paul felt a sudden dryness on his tongue, so reminiscent of the way sand treated him during his miserable walk through the desert. 

Sin. The thought shook him to the core. What he felt surely was a sin, because right as he thought it a sudden pang of guilt nearly brought him back down to his knees.

You were your own person, capable of making your own decisions, free to do whatever you liked. Who was he to get so bothered by who you choose to spend your time with. For a moment  he tries to reason that he's just being a concerned Monsignor, nothing else, just watching over his flock. The lie dies down inside him however as soon as it blooms.

There is nothing godly about his thoughts, they're a creation of his human nature, his mortal heart that jumps up to his throat because you're laughing. Whatever the Sheriff said, made you laugh hard, Father Paul can see you double over, the music you make forcing him to clutch at his heart. 

God forgive him, God save him, he wants to be there.

He wants to be right there outside, making you laugh, sweeping his eyes over your frame, smiling with warmth reflected in your blushed cheeks. But he can't. Never before has his collar felt so tight against his throat, it's rough presence a constant reminder of the vows he took. Vows he already broke once, so long ago, the wooden floor of the church seems to be the only one beside him, to remember. 

Sheriff Hassan takes his hand and places it on your back, a light pat just between your shoulder blades. For a reason known, but unspeakable, Father Paul feels another punch to his gut, because all you do is smile. He's touching you and you smile. And Father Paul wants you to recoil, to throw the hand off, do something. But you don't and with a gasp, the priest finally names the feeling brewing in his chest.

Jealousy.

He mutters the word out loud, for the world to hear. Feels the wooden eyes of the crossed Jesus drill themselves into his back. Not an acusatory glance, but a look of understanding, of course. He's just a human, so prone to being swayed into the warm embrace of the sin. 

God, forgive him, he runs to the confessional, falling to his knees, a prayer fervent on his lips. He hasn't stumbled over his words so much since he came back from the desert. How easily you've reduced him to a mumbling mess, what strong hold you have over him.

God, have mercy, he wants to focus on his prayer, but the thought of you keeps invading his mind. Your wild hair, the lovely, soft figure illuminated by sunlight. If he focuses enough, he can almost feel the material of your sweater under his palm, the smooth skin underneath. His fingers flex on reflex. 

God, save him, his hands are shaking, as he kneels in the confessional, and the thoughts just keep coming. They chase him out of the church, to the privacy of his small house. There, in the darkness of his room, he falls heavily like a log onto his mattress, boneless and vulnerable. Father Paul casts a quick glance towards the door, which he left unlocked in his haste to get here.

His imagination conjures you up like a spectre, haunting him, seducing right to the pinnacle of sin. In the darkness, you seem so much more alive, your face dances clearly in front of his face, so close, so real, he can feel your warm breath on his lips. And your hands would be so delicate, he thinks, so dainty in his hold. They would fumble and stumble on the buttons. So many buttons...

God... Just, God. He lays on his bed, brow gleaming with sweat and chest heaving hard. The tension is gone from his bones, and yet, there is disappointment climbing up his spine. You're not here, the realization makes him exhale, head sinking into the pillow. You're somewhere on the island, your camper perhaps, sharing your smile with another man.

Father Paul takes a moment to compose himself, taking a few calming breaths and trying to figure out the most important thing. Does he feel guilty? No, he concludes with a nod, he doesn't. What's worse, when he finally stands up from his bed, rushing to open the window, let some fresh air into the roo, he can't shake the emptiness from his mind. 

He feels nothing, and it's worse than anything he can imagine. You're not here and he's so tired.

God, he needed to make some tea.

***

- I saw Sheriff leaving the camper today... - Erin says with a smirk, standing in the kitchen of her house.

You've been graciously invited to dinner, along with Riley, who is watching the both of you with a small smile. His mind wondering to the many times the three of you would meet just like this. 

- Yeah, he helped me get my groceries to the camper - your brow furrows slightly, as you recognize the tone of your friend's voice - He's a nice man.

- Mhm, he is - Erin agrees with you, returning to the table with a steaming pot of mac and cheese. - But what would your Priest think...

Riley hides his surprised chuckle by taking a large gulp from a soda can. 

- Oh, it's not like that - you explain with a smile, starting to plate the food - I mean, Sheriff Hassan is a very nice man, and it's easy to talk to him, it feels natural. I think, maybe, it's because we both are kind of outside the community, ya know? But I don't think... I mean, I don't feel like there's anything. I'm not going to, you know, pursue the man.

Only when you sit down, do you notice the absolute dead silence that fell over the room. You look up from your steaming plate with confusion. When you make eye contact, Riley's shoulders start to shake, a high pitched laugh bubbling up in his throat. Your gaze shifts to Erin, and she holds up her hand, face red from holding in her chuckles.

- Oh - you mutter, only making Riley laugh harder - Oh fuck you guys.

- So the priest has nothing to worry about? - Erin wheezes, bracing herself on the table.

- I was absolutely not expecting that - Riley smacks your arm - God bless you, Y/N.

That wrenches a smile from you, one that shifts into a fit of giggles. The absolute ridiculousness of the situation finally registering in your brain.

- Oh this is wonderful - Erin sits down on her chair with a plop - I'm taking you to the Church on Friday, Bev is going to pop a vein.

The image it conjures up in your mind is nice, you can admit that. And despite the small voice in your brain, telling you that this is an awful idea, you nod. Well, who were you to argue with a pregnant woman.

Chapter Text

Ash Wednesday comes rolling in like a storm. It was expected to happen, of course, but it still surprised in its intensity. 

Just like today, as you stood inside Erin's house, waiting for her to get ready. There was supposed to be a small celebration after the Mass, a Festival of some sort. You don't really remember anything like that from your youth, but Erin has explained to you, that you just weren't on the island when it was happening. After all, the spring has only just begun, and you had famously arrived during the summer months. 

- That one - you point to one of her floral skirts, a long and flowy one - It makes your butt look nice. 

Erin smacks you on the arm, but takes the chosen skirt either way, quickly sliding it up her legs. She twirls in her place slowly, letting the fabric blow around her. She looks ethereal, as always. She's the embodiment of a spring wind, warm and pleasant, the harbinger of better days to come. You watch her with a smile, as she looks over herself in the full-length mirror. Excitement is flowing off of her in waves. Riley's name goes unspoken between the two of you, but you both know. 

- And you, you're going in that? - Erin's eyes twinkle with mischief, as she points to your dress.

To be completely honest, she might be right, just a bit. The dress you're wearing is of appropriate length, albeit, the cleavage is perhaps slightly scandalous. You're not worried about it, sliding under Erin's smirking gaze to the chair, where you left a long scarf. The thing is almost the size of a small blanket, and it feels deliciously warm, when you throw it over yourself in an honest attempt to appear more modest. At that, Erin laughs, her arms coming around your shoulders, as she pulls you in a warm hug, her chin finding its place atop of your shoulder.

- You're going to make quite the impression among the eligible bachelors of the Crock Pot - she laughs in your ear, both of you smiling at each other in the reflection of the mirror.

- You mean the Priest, the widowed Sheriff and an ex-convict?

- Dibs on the ex-convict - Erin plants a quick kiss to your cheek, her arms turning you around into a dance-worthy spin - You respect dibs, don't you?

- I'm not a barberian - the legitimately offended tone of your voice wrings a laugh out of the woman.

The two of you depart for the church a while later, smiling and laughing as the sun warmed your backs. You're glad you have taken the scarf-blanket with you, as, despite the beautiful weather, the wind is still quite cold. Blame it on the water surrounding the island, or the coldness of your own bones, when the shadow of the church covers your frame before entering. 

Will you ever get used to the uneasy feeling climbing up your figure, when your foot takes the first step inside the House of God? Possibly, maybe not. Your mood is changing like the weather, every time you're close to the place. And you've been visiting church every Sunday since you've arrived. With Erin at your side and a chorus of murmurs, some kind, some less so. The new routine feels nice, makes you get up in the morning and actually take the time to get ready, something you wouldn't have bothered with before. And, on top of that, you get to see him.

Beverly Keene gives you a look that could be described and extremely disapproving. You greet her with a smile, even nod your head a little, the view of her sour face somehow making your day just a bit better. You wonder, is God dissapointed in you, as you enter his home with a nasty smirk on your face.

The church is quite filled, for a non-Sunday, that is. There are some new faces among the usual crowd. Some of them, you gather, enjoy keeping up the tradition of an Ash Wednesday. Some, perhaps, feel as if it wouldn't be proper to arrive at the Festival without the small cross on their heads. Some are neither, being dragged here by their respective families. Erin finds Riley at his usual spot, she smiles at him, he smiles at her, then his eyes shift to you and a knowing smirk plants itself across his features. You shrug your shoulders and look ahead, albeit a bit too theatrically. 

It's about the Festival, you repeat to yourself in your thoughts, just the Festival, nothing more. You want to look good for the Festival, definitely not the devilishly handsome, low-voiced, soft-handed...

Father Paul looks around the congregation, taking in the new faces joining his flock for this special day. He remembers them, from his previous life, appearing during bigger events, such as this Wednesday. It always amused him, how some people thought there were less and more important days to arrive at the church. Truth is, the most important day, is the one you choose to come, no matter the celebration. He gives a short nod towards Beverly. Her smile reserved, but filled with undying devotion nonetheless. 

And then his eyes slide towards you, tucked between Erin Greene and the wooden border of the bench. Immediately he notices your dress, the way it peaks at him from under the gigantic scarf you threw around your shoulders. Your eyes seem a bit more prominent, he is aware of makeup, despite his age, and deep within his soul he wonders, have you dolled up for him? It's irrational, of course. There was quite a lovely celebration after the Mass, a Festival he knows from his days on the island. Everyone wants to look good for it, everyone tried a bit more this morning. Even Bev chose her best white gown from the other white gowns, for heavens sake. There was no reason, why your choice of attire would be a statement reserved just for him.

But then again, since when was hope a sin?

Father Paul delivered quite the speech, you gathered. The people in the pews next to you looked moved enough, and even you, the heathen, had to admit there was a nice ring to his words. If you were a fishermen living on the island, you certainly would feel good. Alas, you were just a humble artist, bringing depravity wherever you went. So, you sat and listened, then you stood and listened, only to sit and listen again. 

Erin forces you out of the bench, all but pushing you until your muscles cave in. You stumble out in a few clumsy steps, landing next to Riley, where you both share a very sarcastic, very tired look. You've never felt so much like a child, while standing there in a line of people, Erin in front of you, Riley behind, waiting to get closer to the priest. His figure is towering over the crowd, as he stands on a step leading up to the altar. Erin nods her head and suddenly, you're in front of him.

Father Paul smiles at you from above, small wrinkles forming around his dark eyes. His fingers dip into the ashes, you trail after them with your eyes. It's an unfamiliar practice to you, but Paul is always so patient, and his delicate smile tries to ease the stress from between your eyebrows. 

- Y/N L/N - he says your name so softly, it drags your eyes back to him.

Light from the churches windows falls onto his face, basking it in warmth that you can almost feel on the tips of your fingers. And oh, before you can halt yourself, your mind wonders, has he used the same tone to everyone in the congregation? Has he said Erin's name with the same lightness? You can't recall, if you truly are that special. 

- From dust you came - finally, his fingers make contact with your forehead, a sign of cross is made, the ash falling onto your nose, making you scrunch up your face - And to dust you shall return.

You crack an eye at him, checking, if the slight chuckle in his voice was a hallucination of your depraved mind. Unfortunately, no, his eyes hold a twinkle of amusement that goes straight to your heart.

There is a sudden urge to run, coursing through your bones. The church's door is laughing at you, as you force yourself to get back to your seat. Erin holds your hand steadily, her touch grounding you for a moment, as your breathing steadies. All the conflicting emotions swim through your brain, you can still feel the light pressure of his fingertips on your forehead. 

- Are you coming to the Festival after this? - asks Riley, as he joins you and Erin on your way out of the church.

Father Paul waits outside, as always, talking to the departing crowds with a pleasant smile. His robe seems slightly too big for him, it hangs heavily on his shoulders like it's trying to overpower him. Beverly spots you three in the crowd and rather obviously makes her way towards the priest. The gesture wrings out a truly awful smile from you. A knowing one, worthy of every bit of your bad reputation. You might jump this holy man's bones just to spite the insufferable woman. 

- Yeah - Erin hooks her arm around yours, keeping you close to her side - There's supposed to be live music and some damn good food. Your mum is cooking something, right?

Riley shrugs lightly, his eyes drifting for a second to the departing figures of his parents, walking ahead hand in hand. You, on the other hand, keep casting glances ahead, where Father Paul is still talking to Beverly. He looks incredibly awkward, trying to shuffle his way out of her grasp. Finally, he looks up, eyes catching you in an instant. You give him a smile, a simple one, no hidden motive in sight, no nasty smirks. But it's enough, you think, as his cheeks rise in a smile of his own. 

When Beverly turns her head, you're already engaged in a very lively discussion about the best meat to use while making some one-pot dish. You can't decipher the feeling blooming in your chest, it feels light and bubbly, so unbecoming of a hard and independent woman, such as yourself. 

- Can you try and not cause a ruckus today? - Erin asks in a hushed whisper into your ear.

- You never let me have any fun - the dramatic whine and pout, makes your cousin smile one of her brilliant smiles and for a moment you rmind is clear, no conflict in sight. 

***

The live band was shit. Absolutely abhorrent. Your taste in music is questionable at best, but the out of tune sounds the local band was producing knocked it out of the park. Apparently you were one of the few people that actually took notice, which made it really hard not to fall into sort of superiority complex. You were always the cool kid, coming to the island from the so much more interesting mainland, where they had real, big concerts and you could buy CDs, and do so much more than the Crock Pot had to offer. 

As a child, you reveled in the attention given to you by the peers, how they all wanted to be your friend. That is, until their parents started looking. Riley was very much the same, you smile to yourself, as you watch your grown-up friend shove three cocktail tickets into his pocket. He would drink beer and smoke, and do all the weird thing you and Erin did on the daily. And then a switch would turn up, and he was running home before curfew. 

A quiet grumble from the depths of your stomach pushes you towards the tables with checked tablecloths, where a bunch of housewives are giving away food. You made a bee-line for the homemade fries with ketchup, ignoring basically everything else. While passing the other tables, you caught a glimpse of Sheriff Hassan, talking to Beverly with a sour expression. Well, talking might've been a small overstatement. It was Beverly, who was speaking, while Sheriff suddenly looked fascinated by a sweet potato caserole. He looked up for a split second, and your lips formed a knowing smirk as if on command. 

After paying two dollars for the fries and stuffing a whole bunch into your mouth, you decide to wander for a bit, looking over all the attractions the residents of teh island prepared for today. 

In the distance you noticed another old friend of yours, Sarah Gunning. She was sitting on one of the benches in front of the stage with a woman you didn't recognize. They looked happy enough, laughing together, hands brushing and oh. Now you understand. Sarah came out to you the last time you came to the island. It was quite surprising, since both of you weren't particularly close. Deffinitely not as close as you had been with Riley and Erin. Sarah explained, that she felt like you would be the last person to judge her, which you reconed was true. Being gay in a small town is hard enough, and when said small town is also surrounded by fifty kilometres of water, it's possibly the worst case scenario. 

You take another mouthfull of fries, the ketchup is a bit milder than you anticipated, but it's still pretty good. Sarah turns to you, her eyes widen and she makes an "Oh!" expression that immediately brings a smile to your face. That's your cue, to start walking in her direction and she excitedly meets you halfway, her "friend" close behind. 

- You are the last person I expected to see today - she exclaims as a greeting, her arm pulling you into a short hug.

- I'm visiting Erin for a while, I'm thinking of staying until she's you know, done with being pregnant - you explain, scratching at the back of your neck.

Sarah nods, her jaw is squeezed shut. It reminds you of your mother and her constantly tense muscles, and you wonder whether it's a feature of all doctors. Maybe just the good ones. 

- I'm Y/N L/N, by the way - you extend your hand towards the other woman and she shakes it with a polite smile. 

She's more animated than Sarah, who seems to be quite reserved in her expressions. As the three of you talk about the island, her hands keep moving, accentuating her words. 

- I'm surprised you're still living on the island - you turn to Sarah, who shrugs lightly, her face scrunching lightly.

- I was supposed to leave after my mother died - she admits, a deep shadow settling on her features at the mention of old Millie Gunning - But then Erin came back, and it's so much better for her to have a doctor on the island. 

- I suppose we're both waiting for the Littlefoot - you laugh and watch with satisfaction as light comes back to Sarah's face. 

The death of her mother must have hit her hard. There are foggy memories of Mildred Gunning, a woman with a kind smile, always so doting and filled with love for her daughter. Erin told you about Mildred's passing, saying how in her last days her mind was completely taken by dementia. She went in her sleep, peacefully. Sarah didn't leave the house for two weeks after that. 

The celebrations stretch out through the afternoon. 

You've finished your fries and talked to everyone worth talking to. Well, all but one person, but Erin asked you not to "cause a ruckus", so  you had actively avoided the man. That being said, trouble always had a way of finding you wherever you went, and just as you're enjoying the sunrays hitting your face, a light touch to your back makes you jump up in surprise.

- If I were reading too much into your actions, I would assume you were avoiding me today - a familiar, gentle voice claws it's way into your mind, and when you turn around, there he is.

- Do you often wonder about the intentions of my actions? - you ask in turn, one eyebrow raised.

Father Paul laughs to himself, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes are hesitant to look up at you. A certain feeling of nervousness starts to rise in your gut, unexpectedly along with excitement. You realize just how much you've wanted to talk to this man and it scares you beyond belief. 

- More than I would like to admit - he murmurs, head hung low, sheilding his face from your intrusive gaze. 

Your heart jumps up in your chest, for a moment there doesn't seem to be any coherent thought in your head. It passes quickly though, you force it to pass, swallowing hard. 

- I'm glad I could see you at the Mass today - Paul starts to walk, and you follow him naturally - Did you enjoy the celebrations?

You hum lightly, keeping the blanket-scarf closer to your body.

- I must admit, I'm not familiar with the whole shabang that happened today - you laugh awkwardly - The only times I was involved with church, was when I arrived to the Island. And since it was mostly during the summer months...

- You weren't able to experience all the other celebrations throughout the year - Father Paul finishes for you and nods in understanding.

Suddenly, he stops, his warm hands find their way to your forearms, squeezing the flesh there. The boldness of the gesture surprises you, and you watch his genuinely excited expression with wide eyes.

- I promise you, Y/N, if you choose to continue taking part in the masses, they will change your life.

The heart pounding in your chest, the way your cheeks glow red at the intensity of his gaze, coupled with his strong hands keepin a firm grasp on your arms. It all shakes you to the core and in an instant you wring yourself free. 

- Great! - you nearly jump, taking a few steps back - That's wonderful but I'm... They need me over there.

Keeping your eyes close to the ground, you ignore the way your name dies down on his lips. His gaze follows you, as you almost jog through the place, finally reaching Erin and Riley with a relieved gasp that makes both of them eye you curiously. 

- Are you okay? - Erin asks, her amused glance connecting you and Father Paul, still standing where you left him.

In retrospect, you're not sure what possessed you to say what you said. Some Divine intervention, perhaps. A cruel joke of the universe. All you know, is that pushed by soem invisible force, you grip Riley's shoulder and hold Erin's hand to steady yourself.

- Fuck it - you mutter, looking up at them with a devious determination - I'm going to paint the fucking church.

The crowd turns their heads, as Riley Flynn laughs, hard and without reservation. For the first time in a long time, the island is witnessing his joy. And then it all morphs into terror, as the gut wrenching sound of Joe Collie's scream tears through air. 

Chapter Text

Midnight finds you inside your camper. A thick blanket of impenetrable darkness surrounds Crockett Island, suffocating the place in its intensity. And in the middle of it all, here you are, two cigarettes down, and a third hanging from your pursed lips.

Smoking and painting soon became synonymous, the unfortunate habit forming over years like your own self-destructive mechanism. Your current state of mind did nothing to help you in this situation, nerves wracking your body ever since the Festival ended. The Crock Pot of Luck didn't bring you any luck, on the contrary, you felt as if the entire universe gathered to shit on your fate. 

It was the damned priests fault, as always.

After the ordeal with Joe Collie's poisoned dog, Father Paul found you in the dissipating crowd. It was a quick interaction, not one person noticed, but you did, most certainly. Because as you were standing there, heart clutched with sorrow at the poor animal's death, you felt one of Father Paul's sinfully warm hands slide across your back. To anyone looking, it was a small gesture of comfort, of trying to help you stop the tears.

But you knew better, as fingers slid over the fabric of your dress, fiddling with the zipper before moving on. You're ashamed to admit it, but the feeling made you gasp, eyes drifting towards the man. He wasn't looking at you, but you could see his intentions laid bare in front of you. And, like so many times before, you ran. You ran until you reached your camper, where you could breathe without your lungs growing heavy. It was then, that you've decided to suffocate the butterflies fluttering around your stomach.

The painting of the church looks at you sadly from the easel, like it knows your thoughts. With a heavy sigh, you throw the paint brushes into a cup and put down the palette. There is a familiar throbbing starting between your eyebrows, a clear prophecy of a headache and a sign, that you need to sleep. Preferably soon. 

The realization pushes you from your stool, dirty fingers leaving marks of paint on your shirt, as you attempt to wipe them off. Your steps take you to the kitchen, but before you can even begin to think about brewing some tea, a loud knock at your door makes you jump.

It's midnight, quite literally the middle of the night, who on earth would even think about coming here at this hour. Erin? No, she would just come in, throw a laugh here and there, go straight for the couch. Riley did mention a sleeping problem, but if he were to come here, he would go to Erin, not you. Which begs the question, who is knocking at your door in the middle of the night.

Throwing all caution to the wind, the self-preservation habits you brought from the mainland, you go to open the door. The sight outside makes you shudder, as a cold breeze floats into the warmth of your camper, goosebumps forming on your arms in a matter of seconds. 

- I'm sorry for the late hour I just...

He's standing right outside your door. Father Paul, his form clad in his signature black shirt and cardigan, his chest heaving heavily, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

- Did you run here? - is the first thing you ask, one eyebrow up as you squint your eyes at him.

He mumbles something incoherent and stumbles inside your humble abode the moment you make enough room for him to squeeze in. 

- I'm so sorry for barging in like that, unannounced - he starts, still slightly out of breath - It's just, I kept thinking about our... Well, about everything really, and I just...

A beat of silence falls between the both of you, as he finally looks up at you, his eyes glowing with a fever you would never expect from a holy man. His hands are shaking when he reaches out for you, stopping half way, before pulling them back down, his eyes skipping to the floor with shame. It tugs on your heartstrings, you have to admit, seeing him so conflicted, and by you, of all peaople. So, like the good housekeeper you are, a loud sigh escapes you.

- Tea - it's not a question, but Paul nods anyway, trailing after you to the kitchen, stopping himself at the entrance, his body leaning heavily on the wooden wall.

None of you talk, as you prepare two cups and boil some water. Not a word is exchanged, when you put in a respective teabag. You're careful to slide the cup over to the priest, instead of simply giving it to him. Somehow, you're not sure if you could trust yourself, should his hand brush yours. 

- Thank you- he mutters, slipping away from the kitchen and shuffling towards the makeshift living room.

You quickly walk pass him, suddenly realizing how messy the place really is. 

- Just - you're already gathering the paints into your arms - Wait a second, I have to... Oh, motherfucker.

A couple of paint tubes fall onto the floor. You hear him chuckle at the profanity, before the air shifts, and he's crouching next to you, helping you collect the paints. There is a moment of silence, where you can watch him freely, his furrowed brow, focused on balancing the items in his grasp, his eyes so focused on a task, that should be easy as a breeze. He does that a lot, you muse in your thoughts. It's like he takes extra care with everything he does, like everything requires concentration from him. The gesture makes him seem even more intense, if it's even possible. 

Finally, he looks up at you, hands filled with paint, and your head whips back at a lightning speed. Surely, he can see the blush forming on your cheeks, and when you finally turn to look at him, there is a hint of a smile on his lips. 

Sinful, sinful, absolutely demonic. Can you go to hell for thoughts alone? 

The joints in your knees crack as you stand up. He follows you and places the paints on the table, where you deposit your batch. Finally, the both of you sit down. You're on your painting stool, shifting awkwardly in your seat, the cup of tea is burning your fingers. He, on the other hand, is sitting on your couch, legs spread wide, leaning heavily on the backrest. The camper feels just as tight as the man's pants, and you have to look up at the ceiling for a second, not to let your face show your amusement.

- So, what's going on? - you ask after another prolonged silence.

Your question seems to startle him right out of his thoughts, or maybe it's the matter-of-fact voice you've used. He takes a slow gulp of tea, before placing his cup on the table, your eyes follow the movements of his hand, a tiny slip of his wrist showing, where the cuffs of his sweater rode up. 

- I wanted to see you - he replies after a moment, his voice soft and almost pleading.

- Should you be wanting to see me?

There it was, the question. Was he coming here as a priest taking care of his flock? Or was he here, because he's a mortal man with wants and needs? 

Anxiety rises heavily in your stomach, because you need to know, and he isn't responding. Instead, he looks at you, for the first time since he came here, he's looking straight at your face, those chocolate eyes melting into your soul, pulling you in with the softest touch. The chokehold this man has on your entire being is beginning to be terrifying.

- No - finally, he sighs, head falling in resignation - No, I don't think I should. 

- Well then... - you move to get up from your stool, the admission freezing your bones to the core.

- But I still want to - he stands up as well, there's only an illusion of space between you, here in this cramped camper - No, want is too small a word to fully describe what is going on inside me. I don't want you, Y/N, there is no possession. There's only need.

His eyes jump all around your face, stopping for a moment too long on your parted lips. There's something so wild and feverish about him, his voice cracking and, good Lord, he was shaking. When was the last time you've made a man shake like that, with nothing but your sole existence. You truly must be a demonic creation, because the rush of power you feel surging through your bones, as you watch this holy man crumble before you, is too ugly to be made by God. 

- You keep showing up in my life, keep appearing, flashing smiles at everyone around me, and all I can think of, is how I need to be the one you reserve your smiles for - he keeps talking, and your head begins to swim - I watch you from the altar, every Sunday, longing for just one touch. And when finally, I can have a crumb of what I truly need, you disappear, you slip through my fingers like smoke, and it haunts me, Y/N. You haunt me, throughout my days and my nights. No matter what I do, there is no escape from you. 

- Fucking hell - you sigh, hand coming up to push back the hair from your forehead.

He looks devastatingly beautiful, when he gazes at you like that, his entire body is tight with effort not to reach out. His hands are tugging on his sleeves, nervous fingers fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs. The thread starts to wear thin on one of them, and instinctively, you close the space between you.

- Stop it, you'll tear it off - your hands steady his in a firm grip, and you try not to focus on the soft gasp escaping his lips - I'm not worried about myself, but should anyone in town find out about whatever it is we're having, they'll tear you to pieces.

- They won't - he says that with such conviction, it seems like he's known the townspeople from their birth. 

- I'm not going to ruin your life, Father - there is a seriousness in your voice, one which you weren't anticipating.

Father Paul shakes his head at your concern, his hands sliding over yours, index finger circling your knuckles.

- I've heard that one before - he murmurs, a dry chuckle dying on his lips, as he brings your joined hands closer to the light, inspecting the way your fingers fit in his palm - Some time ago I got a chance at a new life, a completely new opportunity. I had a clear path in front of me, laid out, the entire plan revealed to me. I was blind, but now I see. And then you came along, right in the middle, and I knew you were a part of that plan. A chance for me to fix, what I thought was beyond repair.

It sounds like rambling, what he's whispering into the small distance between the two of you, his words hitting you like lashes to your heart. This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you, and you're standing in front of a fucking priest. What has your life come to? 

- You don't even know me - it's a soft statement, leaving your lips in a hurry, because he truly didn't.

"Question everything, always doubt, never settle." Your mother's gaze bears down on you. A vague figure of her sitting at the desk, deep in her work, enters your mind like a persistent bug. For the life of you, you can't fully decide, whether she would condemn you in this moment, or feel proud. Her distaste at any forms of religion was a fact well-known to everyone around her. At the same time, this was a priest, standing trembling in front of you. The biggest of holier-than-thou bible-thumpers. Should you feel satisfaction, haven't you done enough?

- But I do know you - he retaliates with such force, you almost believe him. 

Gently, he lifts one of his hands, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Pure electricity runs through you, along the length of your spine, causing the hairs at the back of your neck to stand up. Warm hand curves around the side of your face, sliding along your jaw and resting at the tip of your chin. It's hard to look away from him, from the way his gaze traces the pattern his fingers made on your skin. There is a single strand of black hair hanging over his eyes. It's out of place, and distracting. Your fingers flex under his gentle grasp as a sudden urge to push it back overcomes you. 

His hand experimentaly comes up, pointer and middle finger pressing against your lips. He pulls on the bottom one until he sees your teeth, before sliding to your chin again. Finally, you're able to move, a flustered huff leaving you, as you bite down on your bottom lip, teeth trying to scrape the feeling of his fingers away. He's looking up at you yet again, eyebrows scrunched together, a deep line of focus forming between them. 

- Would you say this is our third date? - you're the first to speak, although you can't muster anything above a whisper. 

Father Paul's smile is so filled with genuine joy it nearly shakes you to the core. There are small wrinkles forming around his eyes and the previously scrunched eyebrows arch up into an adorable expression. 

- I would say yes, definitely - there is a slight rasp in his tone.

- Good - you pull away from him with a nod, and watch his confused face.

His fingers follow after you, the motion knocking the wind out of your lungs. That being said, you won't take this further, not until you've said what you need to say, and you can't do it now, nor here.

- I'll come to the church tomorrow - you announce with a stern expression, which makes you look so much like your late mother - I'll do the whole confession thing, and then we can talk about... Well, all this.

You point to him and to you, and then add a nod, just to reaffirm it to yourself. 

- Alright - his eyes are big focused entirely on you - Alright, if that is what you need, I'll be waiting for you. 

- Tomorrow.

- Tomorrow. 

Another beat of silence passes between the two of you, broken only by the rythmic tap of water falling into the sink. Father Paul is looking to the floor again, expression deep in thought, as you watch him, bottom lip kept firmly between your teeth. 

- I should probably leave you be - he says, a slight tone of resignation entering his voice.

- Yeah - you admit, although every fiber of your being is screaming at you, to reach out, let him hold you once again. 

He nods, in silence, before turning to leave, his footsteps ringing loudly in your ears. You just have to wait out until he leaves, you keep reminding yourself. Your hands turn into fists, nails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. Just let him leave and breathe again. 

Father Paul stops, his hand on the metal doorknob of the camper. You can see the sudden tension seizing his back. 

- Ah, damn this - he sighs loudly.

Nothing could prepare you for what happened next. His body suddenly turning from the door, crossing the distance between you in three long steps, until he bumped into you with such force, it sent you staggering back. And then you felt warm flood your face, as a pair of soft lips fell upon yours. Your heart jumped into your throat, the hard edge of a coffee table biting into your legs. 

He was kissing you. Hungrily and desperately, like this was his last day on this earth, and in some way it was. Your mind snapped back to reality the moment you felt his hands snake around your waist, pulling you close, heaving chest against heaving chest. That's when your own hands shot upwards, one swinging around his neck, second tangling itself in his raven hair. It was just as soft, as you imagined it, maybe even softer. 

His fingernails drag across the material of your sweater, pulling at it, before sliding under it, warm palms grabbing what they could. The action pulls a gasp from your lips, something he immediately takes advantage of, tongue pushing in past your teeth. Now it's his turn to gasp, to which you respond by tightening you hold on his hair. The man straigh up moans into your mouth, his kisses doubling in effort and pure desperation.

This dance lasts for a long moment, both of you swaying, pushed by the intensity of your actions. Finally, when you think you'll pass out from the lack of oxygen, he pulls away. Both of you breathe heavily, sharing the air. One of his hands comes up to rest against the column of your throat, fingertips skimming over your wild pulse. 

- Alright - he concludes, throwing a quick look at your dissheveled state, a small smile of satisfaction dancing on his lips before turning away and tearing himself from you. 

You watch in stunned silence, as he exits your camper, closing the door softly behind him. 

Your brain is completely blank, the reality of what just happened not entering your brain for a good couple of minutes. Finally, it hits you like a wave, and you reach towards the couch to grab a pillow. It muffles your flustered scream quite nicely. 

Chapter Text

- Do you want to know my honest opinion?

Erin turns to you just enough for you to see a glimpse of her face. A small smile dances across her lips. Normally, that would be enough to erase all worry from your mind, but today you were above stressed. You've been pacing back and forth, across the kitchen, even the mouth-watering smell of some magical casserole she's been cooking couldn't calm you down. Erin places her knife beside the cutting board and wipes her hands on her skirt. Then, she turns to you, arms crossed, leaning on the edge of the counter.

- Is it going to hurt my feelings? - you ask in return, sheepishly looking at her, arms coming up to shield your face from the imminent judgement.

Erin, to her credit, actually stops to think about it. Then she shakes her head no, but bites her lower lip at the same time, which let's you know, this is going to be a hard conversation.

- You should just go for it - she shrugs unceremoniously, and turns back to the kitchen, observing your exasperated sputtering out of the corner of her eye.

- No, I most definitely shouldn't - you argue back - He's a good man Erin and I'll ruin his life.

- Okay, but you won't be here long enough to do that, right? 

You stop midway through your pacing routine and look back at Erin with eyebrows raised. She abandons the sliced cheese for good and turns to you yet again, knife in hand.

- Well, you're here until Little Foot comes out, then you're off to the mainland. So it's just a couple months. And before you start, I personally think, this is healthy for you.

- Erin, I kissed the fucking priest, what's healthy about that?

- You kissed the priest?!

Riley stops right at the entrance to the kitchen, one arm out of his light coat, like he was caught off guard, which admittedly, he was. There is a slow grin pulling at his features, obviously mirroring Erin's. When you start groaning again, he makes himself at home, sitting at the kitchen table, and taking an apple from a fruit bowl. 

- How am I going to look him in the eye this Sunday? - Riley wonders out loud, looking at Erin in some kind of conspiratory way.

- I know, right? - she joins in, sitting at the table opposite of him, leaving you standing - He'll be up there, at the altar, preaching something very important, and all I'll be able to focus on, is how this is who my friend chose. That's him, you honor, that's the man Y/N L/N is pining over.

You're the only person in this house who doesn't find this hilarious, quite honestly you're horrified. This is not a joke, you're screwed and he's screwed, and everyone's screwed...

- Should I give him a stern talk? - Riley furrows his brows, making him look surprisingly similar to his father's neutral expression - "If you ever break her heart I will punch you so hard...!"

- No! Absolutely not! 

Your outraged reaction brings about a wave of laughter from the both of them. So, defeated, you sit down next to Riley, head hung low. Erin catches your hands in hers, giving them a light squeeze. You look up at her with the most pitiful expression.

- I am aware of the irony, of me saying it, but live a little. Do you like him?

The question hangs heavy in the air. You try to think about it objectively. He is sweet, intense, sometimes so much that it makes him a bit creepy, but you can work with that. He listens to you, something you've encountered only a handful of times in your life. And he knows you. As silly as it sounds, even though you've met him a couple of weeks ago, you feel like he knows everything about you. Like, even if he doesn't really know your life, he can sense it, and accepts it. It's a strange feeling, being near someone who so fully understands your being. And his hands are nice. Especially when they're touching you. Your mind wonders to the last evening in your camper. His eyes are beautiful too, so expressive, always filled with emotion. 

- Fuck - you breathe out - I do.

- And from what you've told me, we can safely assume he likes you too.

Finally, you huff a laugh and shake your head. Yes, he was quite forward with his affections towards you. You're pretty sure they don't teach to kiss like that at the clergy. 

- Well - Riley takes a bite from the apple and chews slowly - You always had a messed up taste in men.

He laughs as you punch him in the arm. All three of you know he's right. You decide to go to the church in the evening, and after some convincing, decide to take the magical casserole with you as well. For good luck.

***

He can barely contain his excitement throughout the day. From a short service in the morning, only for a couple of specifically devoted, through a quick dinner Beverly heated up for him, and finally, now. Father Paul sat right in front of the pews, in the first row, his leg bouncing excitedly, as he counted seconds in his head. Thoughts ran free in his mind, doubt, mostly. This relationship, this transgression, it was dangerous. Deep in his mind Paul couldn't believe he was putting himself into this situation yet again. It's been years since he's done anything like this, and he could only pray this time wouldn't end in a disaster. 

Kissing you came naturally to him. Like taking a deep breath after breaking the surface of a stormy ocean. He doesn't remember having any thoughts in his head besides the deepest of needs, to hold you, press his lips against yours. It must've been God, there was no other explanation. It couldn't have been the Devil, if it were, he would've felt guilty. And right now all he could feel was heat rising to his face and a pleasant tingling sensation in the depths of his belly. Time flew by and at this moment filled with tension, Paul's head started to sway. 

Before his changing, he would often get lost in his mind, his thoughts flying far beyond the island. While, through the Angel's grace, he regained his senses, old habits died hard, and soon a low hum of an old hymn buzzed in the air. Between the verses repeated over and over and the melody of his voice, he can finally hear it. Steps. 

Slow, light and slightly awkward, like a wild animal that's searching for sanctuary in a building occupied by men. He's man enough to admit, that hearing you enter the House of God made his heart jump like he was a teenager again. Turning to face you, he kept his eyes closed for just a moment longer, savoring the image of you his mind concocted. Just in case he was wrong this time.

He wasn't.

You were standing right in front of jim, body swaying from side to side as you shuffled on your feet awkwardly. Your gaze was trained on the floor and even in the slowly creeping darkness of the night, he could see the loveliest of blushes covering your face.  

- You came... - he sighs like he can't believe it, and to be quite honest, he doesn't.

He was fully expecting you not to appear tonight, he even talked himself out of futile hope in the morning, looking at himself sternly in the mirror. But now, you're here, truly, and you look so beautiful, basked in the gentle light from the lit candles adorning the altar. 

God was good, God was so good.

- Um, Erin made casserole - you start and finally he notices a large dish in your hands, it's wrapped in a checked cloth and seems heavy - It's really good, me and Riley almost ate the whole thing in one sitting so... Um, yeah. I brought you some, I guess...

Father Paul tries to ignore a sudden pang of an emotion he has earlier recognized as jealousy, at the mention of Riley's name, and before he can get lost in his thoughts again, pulls his features into a gentle smile.

- That's very sweet of you - he offers, hands extending to take the dish from you - But I must ask, is this the only reason you came here this evening?

Your fingers brush when he reaches out and a full body shiver runs the length of your spine. A smirk pulls gently at your lips, one he absolutely catches.

- Straight to the point huh? - you question, trying to sound nonchalant, and failing miserably as your voice comes out in a whisper.

- Forgive me - he chuckles lightly and places the dish down onto one of the benches - Patience was never one of my virtues.

Oh, the way he looks up at you nearly sends you into the orbit, and suddenly you completely forget why you were undecided previous to this encounter. That one untamed lock of his black hair frees itself and hangs right between his eyebrows. It takes actual, physical effort not to push it back to it's place.

Instead, you take a deep, grounding breath, look away from his dark eyes, so filled with emotion it's almost suffocating. 

- So... Confession, right? - you ask after a second, waving your arm in the general direction of the confessional booth.

- Yes... - he still looks at you unmoving, suddenly shaking himself from his thoughts - Yes, of course, please, come in.

If you weren't currently being eaten alive by nerves, you would've found this fumbling of his adorable. 

The inside of the confessional booth smells of incense and some chemical concoction for preserving wooden furniture. It's quite uncomfortable, the plank beneath your knees digs into them. Everything creaks loudly as you try to fight for any semblance of comfort. And it's dark, you can barely see the other side of the booth. 

He doesn't enter right away and for a split second you wonder, if he's praying. What is he praying for? Not just now, but in general. When he's alone at his house, after all the matters concerning the parish has been solved? What does he say when he kneels down in the evening? Does he say it out loud or is he praying in his thoughts? Are there things he's afraid to pray for? Has he prayed for you? 

Your thoughts get interrupted rather unceremoniously, when the other doors to the booth open, and you can vaguely see his form sitting down. Unfair, you muse in your thoughts, he can sit, while you have to endure this plank of discomfort digging into your knees. Well, you suppose in some way it's deserved. You're the sinner after all.

- I don't exactly know how to start this - your voice seems so loud in this tight space - I've never done this before.

- This is your first confession? - he asks, and if he's in disbelief, he's masking it well.

- Yeah...

You can hear him huff out a laugh, something creaks on his side of the booths and cloth rustles lightly, as he shifts on his seat.

- I'm honored then - his voice is lower than you've ever heard, and you swear you can feel his breath through the grating.

Your heart rate picks up suddenly, an uncomfortable warmth spreads through your abdomen. This is way more intimate than you've imagined.

- Tell me then, what weights on your soul, my sweet - he encourages slowly, and despite yourself, you start to give in.

- I'm an asshole.

Father Paul has to cover his mouth with his hand, the admition nearly chocking out a laugh out of him. 

- Alright... Is there any particular reason you feel like this?

Another batch of silence falls between the two of you. You're gathering strength, one breath at a time. The urge to run away is so strong, the muscles in your legs twitch, awaiting permission to spring into action. You stay put however, because as your mother has taught you, when you've said A, you have to say B as well. The alphabet mustn't be left left unfinished. 

And so, you take a deep breath, fingernails picking at the wood of the confessional.

- I used to be awful when I was a teenager. I'm sure if you'd ask about me, half the island would have some not so kind words to say. And while many aren't exactly true, there was one incident... 

Another breath, for courage, and another, for the embarrassment.

- I burned down a privy right outside the church.

It's silent for a long while, and anxiety rises in your gut like the tide. Your hands start to shake, and the wood under your knees creaks, as you shuffle uncomfortably.

- It's alright, love, continue - you can clearly hear the amused note in his tone, but decide to ignore it, for your own sanity's sake.

- So, there used to be like, a wooden potty outside the church, it wasn't really used, because everyone at the island already had a pretty good water system at their own house. But, yeah, me, Riley and Erin used to make makeshift Molotov cocktails and throw them at the rocks in the Uppards - your lungs constrict and you are forced to take another deep breath - And one day I had this, I don't know, weird idea. So I took one of the cocktails and threw it at the potty. And it went up in flames, like, really bad.

The embarrassment finally catches up to you, and your head falls into your hands, a low whine pushing past your lips.

- And I didn't know it would be this bad, I mean, everything on this fucking island is wet all the time, and wet wood doesn't burn, right? 

- Did someone get hurt?

- No, thankfully not, the damned thing burned to the ground, there was a big black rectangle in the grass for weeks after that. And one of the churches walls was covered in tar from the smoke, but I think it's been cleaned or painted over.

- Then - Father Paul shifts again, light on the other side of the booth flickers, and you try to make out his features - Why on Earth are you holding onto this one incident so much, why does it weight on your soul?

- Because of Monsignor Pruitt. Because he never got mad, I kept pushing, and pushing, and he never got mad. And I went to apologize after the Sheriff caught me, but he still wasn't mad. Hell, he wasn't even disappointed, he just smiled and nodded. Told me to pray for peace of mind. 

- Would you have felt better if he yelled at you? If he showed you cruelty?

- Yes - your answer is quick and determined - Because it would make everything I did justifiable. And now I'm back here, causing so much chaos and... What would he think of me, if he saw me right now...?

Father Paul laughs, but this time it's devoid of happiness. You can feel the energy shift between the two of you, as another wave of shuffling comes from his side.

- Trust me when I say, Father Pruitt is the last person on this Earth, who would judge you in this moment.

The force of his words sends you into a spiral of confusion, but before you can utter another word, he stands up, the doors open and close behind him. 

You're not sure what you should do, so you wait, eyes searching the darkness, a chill running up your spine. Finally, his voice startles you enough to nearly cause you to jump.

- Get out - it's not the sweet voice you've come to familiarize yourself with, it's gruff and low.

Slowly, you untangle yourself from the tight space and reach for the doors, opening it to find him staring down at you. His expression is unreadable, eyes darker than ever before, a small wrinkle of focus embedded between his eyebrows.

Gingerly you close the door to the confessional, and as soon as the lock clicks into place, you feel his hands on you. He goes straight for your hips, pushing them backwards until you hit the wood behind with a loud thud. 

Your eyes search his face for anything that would help you decipher what exactly was going through this head of his, but his eyes are trained firmly on your mouth.

- You forgot some sins - he mutters, one of the hands coming up from your hips and sliding the length of your body.

- Yeah? - it's hard to focus, when his fingers rest against your pulse.

- Swearing - he leans down, hovers his lips over the juncture between you neck and your shoulder - So much swearing, but it's not the worst one.

- And what's, ah, what's the worst one? - he catches you off guard, as he places a soft kiss behind your ear, nose dragging the length of your jaw.

- Being such a temptation - it's whispered into your skin, your whole body shivers in his arms, but he holds you close, chest to chest.

- Temptation sent from who? - it's a bold question, you realize that, especially given his line of work, but at this point you're way past caring 

- I'm about to find out, aren't I - with that out of the way, he dives in, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss that steals all breath from your lungs. 

It feels like heaven, ironically, as he presses himself so close to you, it's almost suffocating. You're enveloped completely by the smell of him. Incense, a really cheap cologne and something more metallic, like rusty nails. A thought flies through your head, that maybe he was fixing something up before arriving at the church. An image of him, sleeves rolled up, sweaty brow and a hammer in hand, materializes itself behind your closed eyelids. Hell, Hell and Damnation for you, nothing else. 

But then again, how can it be wrong, when his hand brushes your hair out of your face so gently it's almost as if he's afraid he would break you. And how is it, that this same hand tangles itself in your locks, holding them so tightly your scalp starts to tingle. You have to push him away to get some air, as you feel your lungs begin to ache. He pants wildly, still holding you in his grasp, his fingers massage the softness above your hips. Your hand comes up to push the hair out of your forehead, as you try to catch your breath. 

He's watching your lips like a hawk, ready to strike at any moment. At the same time, you can see hesitation brewing between his thick eyebrows. It's lovely, the way he holds back, awaits your permission to dive back down. So, you smile, touch his cheek with your hand.

- Kiss me, son of God - you whisper, and with a soft gasp, he does.

This time is slow, more calculated, like he has a goal in his mind. Your jaws move in unison, pushing, pulling, like the last pair of slow dancers. You suppose this is how love should feel like. Empowering and bold, but also grounding. 

That is, until you both hear footsteps approaching on the gravel road. 

He's off of you in an instant, sheer panic in his eyes. Your heart jumps into your throat, because there isn't really a way to explain why you're here. It's late, later than it would be appropriate to have met in solitude with a priest. With anyone to be quite honest. And yet, the footsteps are unrelenting, so, Father Paul suddenly becomes very serious.

It's almost jarring, the way his features harden. 

He reaches behind you, opens the door to the confessional in one smooth swoop, and pushes you inside. You fall to the seat with a thud, but despite everything, you can't take your eyes off of him. He leans down, so close you can feel his breath on your lips.

- Not a fucking word.

Now, you wouldn't consider yourself a particularly kinky person, but you have to admit, the tone of his voice paired with this delicious curse word shot a spark right between your legs. He can see this sudden realization clear on your blushing face, and he smiles. No. He smirks down at you, before closing the door. 

- Monsignor Hill, I was hoping I woul catch you before bedtime - you almost curse out loud, as the ever-annoying voice of Beverly Keene echoes through the empty church.

Father Paul clears his throat and you fight the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. It's always the hardest not to laugh in situations where laughing is quite synonymous with certain death. 

If it was anyone else you've been hooking up with at the church, Bev would probably just give you a very stern talk. She might scream a little, become more unpleasant than she's already been. If she found out you've been switching spit with her beloved Monsignor, she might actually just stab you. Which would be problematic in itself for a multitude of reasons. 

So, you slap a hand across your mouth and hold on for dear life, listening closely to the conversation outside.

- How can I help you, Miss Keene.

Ouch, even you noticed the not so kind note in Father Paul's voice. It seems to throw Bev out of her rythm, as she stays silent for a second longer. 

- Well, I was just walking past our dear Wade, and he proposed to take on a reading section next Mass - she recovers quickly, her voice louder, as she comes closer to your makeshift hideout.

- That - Paul clears his throat again, you huff a laugh into the material of your sweater - That would be wonderful, he should come by sometime and I'll show him which part...

- Oh, he's outside the parish right now, waiting for you Father.

There is a pregnant pause in which you nearly suffocate yourself with attempts to stop fucking laughing. 

- Right... Right now? - he sounds damn near devastated, and with a note of finality, you realize this evening escapade is coming to an end. 

- Well, yes, if you're not too tired, of course - Beverly smiles, you can hear it in her voice - You do look a bit disheveled Father. 

You can imagine him waving his hand dismissively, hiding the blush that is slowly rising above the white collar. 

- Just, praying... Yes, praying. - he mutters, like he doesn't even try to hide his lies - Right, you go ahead Bev, I'll catch up to you.

- Are you sure, Father? I could-

- Yes I'm sure.

He said it with a bit too much force, but Beverly doesn't seem to question it. You wait patiently inside the confessional booth, listening to her steps, to the shuffling of his clothes and he paces around the church. Finally, after a good while, the door opens.

He stands next to it, head hanging low, an expression dangerously close to bashfullness painted across his features. Slowly, you exit your wooden prison, knees cracking as you do. He closes the door behind you and finally looks up. Before he even starts apologizing, you're collapsing onto his chest, a soft, giggly laugh bubbling up from your chest like foam on a soda. He looks down at you for a second, before allowing himself to realx, his laugh sounds like a rumble, when he finally cracks. 

- That was terrifying - he sighs.

- It was hilarious - you counter.

- If you go out the front of the church no one at the parish should see you, but wait a minute after I leave - he instructs.

- Yes, sir - you're still laughing, when he slides his hands down your back, just to quite obscinely squeeze you butt.

You jump away with feigned outrage, slapping his chest lightly.

- Straight home, young lady - he points a finger at you, his smile shining with such genuine happiness it makes your heart jump - We'll finish this up later.

And so, he leaves you yet again, out of breath and with a new set of thoughts to occupy your every waking moment. Bafore you exit the church, you decide to take the casserole back with you, as a consolation prize. 

Chapter Text

Heavy panting fills the thick air inside the camper. A silent click puts an end to a constant buzzing sound that has been a backdrop of your sinful thoughts for the last fifteen minutes. Your entire body is covered in a sticky sheen of sweat, drops falling from your still scrunched up forehead. After a while, your thighs stop shaking, and you take a final, calming gulp of air, releasing it slowly. 

That was good, suspiciously so. Who knew a couple of touches and a rather rude cock block would have such an effect? You were not one to complain, though. Throwing the pocket vibrator back into it's case, you finally make a move to slide off your bed. There is a dull ache in your abdominal muscles, as you move clumsily through the camper. Feet shuffling on the floor, you make your way to the bathroom, the sweat starting to cool off on your body, making you feel incredibly uncomfortable. 

You're halfway through showering, when it finally hits you, the reality of what just happened. Because minutes ago you were absolutely jerking it to a mental image of the Island's new priest, fucking the shit out of you on the altar. 

You had to admit to yourself, your imagination was unparalleled. He did provide most of the material, though. Big brown, puppy eyes, staring at you through surprisingly long lashes. Literally everything his hands did, ever. The way his hair would sometimes fall in front of his face. 

Jesus, you were getting hot again.

Turning the water to freezing, you nearly scream, as first droplets hit your warmed skin. It wrenches a laugh out of you, the utterly shameless feeling swimming in your gut. No shame, no crime, right?

And who knows, if it weren't for Bev's sorry ass, maybe you both would've given that Jesus statue some well-earned entertainment. Instead, you're left here, in your camper, showering in ice to rid yourself of another thrilling wave.

After exiting the shower, you decide changing clothes would be appropriate, as you throw the still damp with sweat t-shirt into a laundry basket. It takes you a moment to decide what to do next. You stand, staring dumbly at the bathroom floor, before a sudden need to smoke hits you. Cigarette after sex, well, almost sex. 

And so, you crack open a window in the main room, putting a small stool right beneath it. The first taste of nicotine feels almost as good as your orgasm from before. Your lungs burn a little, as you let out a puff of smoke, a white cloud climbing out of the window and into the night sky. The sting in your lungs feels grounding. Even after years of chain-smoking, you've never gotten quite used to the taste of it, It was totally Erin's fault, your whole addiction. This was her one bad influence, and despite her completely abandoning her own smoking habit during the pregnancy, yours remained strong. And so, you sit under the cracked window, head filled with pleasant soft hum from the generator. 

Your forehead bumps against the cold glass, as you sigh another puff of smoke into the night sky. If you had looked up at that moment, you would've seen the smoke being sucked up faster than it should've flown. Perhaps, if the light was right, you would've seen a faint shape of long claws, digging into the metal hood of the camper. And if you were really (un)lucky, perhaps you would've seen two light spots, leaning menacingly over the window. Unbeknownst to you, over the many nights you've spent blowing smoke up the window, you've become the cause of another person's addiction. Although, was it really a person? 

The monster lifted itself from the roof of your camper, albeit more sneakily than the first time it had visited you. Its claws scraped the red paint from the metal lining of the door frame, as its wings pushed it into the night sky, hunger making itself the sole navigator of the creature's flight. Soon, someone would fall prey to its unrelenting claws, but for now, it still held the burning of the smoke in its lungs. 

And so did Pruitt, as he threw the Bible onto the desk, the golden embroidery on the cover shone in the delicate light from the night lamp. He wasn't one for smoking, not with his health. Tonight however, he needed something, anything, to stop his hands from shaking. Frustration was clear on the man's face, as he paced back and forth, feet shuffling on the wooden floor. It's you, it's been you for some time now, the sole reason behind his current, disheveled state. At times like these, Father John Pruitt truly couldn't tell whether you were sent from God, or from the Devil himself. By the way his pants tightened at the mere memory of your lips on his, Pruitt was determined to bet on the latter. 

There is a second, when an idea forms in his mind. The black coat hanging right beside the entrance looks so inviting. Like it's begging him to put it on, to step into the night and wander with purpose right to your doorstep. Pruitt sits down heavily on the creaking couch in the living room, his fingers dig into the armrest. You won't be asleep, of course, your sleep schedule was abhorrent, he knew that much. He lets himself close his eyes, heavy shadows falling onto his face. And for a moment he allows himself an image of you, an idea of your bare legs, strong and muscular. There is heat rising in him, like hellfire. He smiles to the empty room as his mind wonders some more. 

The ticking of the giant grandfathers clock is the only backdrop to his panting, to the sound of him unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, the sound of a belt buckle and a zipper. It's fast and dirty, and so, so unholy. Pruitt slides from his couch, nearly all the way to the floor, in his fervor to find absolution. By the end, his legs are shaking, his hand is numb, and he can't take a breath without a wheezing sound erupting from his lungs. He waits for the shame to fill him in, to make him crawl under the shower and pray to God for forgiveness. Alas, nothing of the sort happens, and he is left to bask in the empty feeling in his stomach, the lingering image of you, hair wild, rocking above him. So vivid, he's sure if he pulled up his shirt, there would be crescents on your nails, dug into his skin. 

After another long while, he finally lifts himself up from the couch, the damned furniture making an ungodly sound. Then, he shuffles towards the window, cracking it open and taking a long breath of fresh air. His forehead connects with the glass, the coolness making him shudder. There is a fleeting shadow of a winged creature rising above the island, above the trees. Pruitt's throat tightens, fear freezing his veins, as he watches from his post. The monster, no, the Angel, dives down, tearing through air at an inhuman speed. Pruitt closes the window, shuts the blinds. 

There's still work to do, whether he likes it or not. Good things are coming, great things. Oh, he just couldn't wait to see your face.

***

Erin, bless her heart, said nothing, as you nearly barged into her house on Sunday, already dressed and ready for the Mass. 

All she gave you was a smile and a raised eyebrow, which you gracefully scoffed at. She was the sole witness of your last night's walk of shame. Casserole in hand, and a very unsatisfied expression, made her laugh her ass off in the kitchen. She had bombarded you with questions, some more saucy than others, and you deflected them like a character straight from The Matrix deflects bullets. After that, you had your date with the friendly neighborhood vibrator, and now, here you stood. There was a constant itchy feeling right above your knee, where a pesky mosquito decided to try its luck sucking your blood. 

- You look good today - Erin smirks, giving a nod towards your skirt.

Your face remains unbothered, as you open the door for her. The both of you smile as spring sun hits your faces. It's a good day, a beautiful one, filled with pleasant smells of the ocean air. 

You're a bit early for Mass, and Beverly gives you a strangely venomous look, as you approach the entrance to the church. Soon, you realize what warranted this cold greeting, as Monsignor Hill exits through the main entrance. He's dressed in a lovely purple chasuble, that sparkles in the morning sun. There's an air of excitement around him, as he all but jumps the last two steps. 

Then, his eyes land on you, and you've never seen someone smile so brightly. Erin gives your hand a small squeeze, before dragging you closer.

- Ah, Miss Greene, welcome... Welcome, what a lovely day today - Father Paul greets with a laugh, leaving Beverly to mutter something akin to a "good morning".

 - Oh, and Miss L/N - he turns to you and immediately, your cheeks heat up at his expression - Could you walk with me for a second, I would like to discuss the painting, if you have the time.

Beverly stares at you, mouth agape. This must be the first time she hears about the painting, and you feel yourself suddenly filled with undescribable satisfaction. 

- I have time, do you have time? - you ask, throwing a pointed look towards the empty hall.

- It'll be just a moment - he laughs and starts walking with purpose, to the back of the church.

You're left to throw a very awkward, very apologetic look at both Erin and Beverly. Your cousin winks at you, and turns at the speed of light, to undoubtedly distract Bev with something meaningless, giving you an opening for an escape. 

You actually have to jog a little, to catch up to him, reaching him just as he's rounding the corner of the church, effectively disappearing from anyone's sight.

- You know that this is incredibly stupid, right? - you manage to say, before his mouth is on yours.

The force of the kiss chokes the breath right out of your lungs, and before you know it, you're being pressed up into the wooden wall of the church. The same one, which bore the marks of your potty incident from years back. Another sin to your collection.

Paul wrenches a low moan out of you, as his hands grip your waist, sliding down for a moment, to massage your thigh. Finally, after making a sufficient mess of your lips, he pulls back, staring at you with wild eyes. Both of you are panting, and you can't stop the smile spreading across your face at the ridiculousness of the situation.

- You're so sweet - he sighs, head ducking down to rest on your exposed collarbone - I could kiss you for days and never get tired.

What the fuck was wrong with him, honestly? Despite the chilly air you're close to melting, especially since his hand is still drawing circles into the meat of your upper thigh. 

- What's gotten into you? - you ask breathlessly, petting his dark hair.

At that, he finally rises to his full length, giving you a bit of space to breathe. His smile is so cute, it's impossible not to mirror it.

- God? - he laughs - I don't know. Good things are coming, you'll see.

- Ominous...

- Hopefull.

Both of you stay in content silence for a moment, before you start to get uncomfortable with the amount of time you've spent with the New Hot Priest, while his congregation was slowly settling inside his church. He must've noticed your discomfort, because he took a step back, seemingly to admire you fully. Then, without as much as a word, he fell down to his knees.

Million of thoughts ran through your head, only some of them decent, as his hands gently reached towards your leg. With a sigh, you let him manuver your foot, so your right heel stood on his thigh. Then, humming to himself, he began to tie your shoe, slowly, as if to savor the moment.

You have to bite down on your hand, embarrassment and adoration flowing onto your face in a bright red blush. He tightens the bow on top, before looking up, at your knee. His eyebrows furrow, and without warning, he leans closer.

You're about to pass out from heat exhaustion, when his hand slides under your calf, gripping it tightly. 

- You've been bit? - he asks, inspecting the red patch on your leg.

Oh. Right. Mentally you slap yourself.

- Uh, yeah, a mosquito tried his luck but I smacked the bitch right to kingdom come - you announce rather proud of yourself.

There's a bloody splatter on your camper's wall, from your successful murder on the insect. Paul smiles at you, a familiar, teasing glint in his eyes 

- And yet, it caught you - he presses on the mark with his thumb, as if to accentuate his words.

- Yeah, yeah, he got a good old bite out of me.

- Should I be jealous? 

You're not sure if it's the tone, in which he asks the question, his teasing smile or the fact, that he's literally on his knees before you, but that small question flies straight to your core.

- I - you stuble for words, swallow hard - I didn't know you wanted to bite my leg.

- Amongst other things.

Now, you're the one smiling teasingly, as you bend at the waist, leaning down to his level. Your eyebrows furrow, as your teeth flash in a sharp smile. 

- Do it then - a dare, clear as today's weather, one, you're sure he won't take.

He's been bold, but there are limits to everything, and in your minds eye you can see him fumble and stutter, as he rises from kneeling. Something flashes across his face, a look you've seen only a couple of times, one, that makes your heart jump straight to your throat.

And then he dives down and bites you.

You squeal, hand flying up to stiffle any more sounds. With wide eyes, you watch him stand up, give you a wink, and dissapear inside the church, having entered through the back door. You're left alone, breathing heavily, as you lean on the church's wall. 

Theres a crescent of teeth marks, right at the side of your thigh, just above the knee. One, you show off to Erin with a devilish glint in your eye, as you sit down next to her inside the church. 

- You're joking - she whispers, equal parts horrified and delighted.

- Nope.

It's a tough fight, trying to contain the smile threatening to spill out on your face. And as Father Paul enters the church, surrounded by the singing of psalms and the sound of bells, you watch him so closely, you almost seem enchanted. Your fingers trace absentmindedly over the small screscents in your flesh, trying to memorize this feeling, before it inevitably dissapears. 

All is bliss in the house of God. Paul smiles at you during Communion, finding you amongst the empty pews. For the first time you truly feel good, being here, on this island. Like there is a future, for you to look up to. The tingling sensation of excitement climbs up your spine in a pleasant shiver.

And then Lisa Scarborough is compelled to stand up from her wheelchair. And your dreams of the future crumble to dust at your fingertips. 

Chapter Text

Betrayal doesn't hurt. It's the most, if not the only, surprising thing about the whole situation.

It feels as if someone has let go of a stone deep inside your skull. It falls through your brain, devoid of any coherent thoughts. Slips through the column of your throat, where words get heavy. Then, it travels through your heart, which you suspect has always been empty. Rattles through your ribs, playing them like a xylophone, before skipping all the way to the pit of your stomach. There, it lands, dragging you to the familiar coldness of the churches floor. 

Trust nothing, question everything, never settle.

Your mother's words climb up your back, digging their claws into your blasphemous skin until you feel the weight of your utter stupidity on your shoulders. And you didn't listen, you never did, not when it was important. 

Lisa Scarborough stands up, accompanied by cries of outrage, soon morphing into wonder. And at the gentle beckoning of his beautiful hand, she moves forward, taking her second first step on shaky legs, like a newborn doe. 

His eyes search the congregation, his audience, fishing for your face amongst the crowds. But you can't see him through the sinking feeling of complete disappointment. His brows furrow at the empty expression you wear, fully expecting to see your brilliant smile. 

Your mother's ghost looks down at you from the altar. And everything about this apparition, from the sharp glasses, to the veins running across her hands of surgeon, seems to convey one sentence.

"I told you so."

Erin let's you go without question. She doesn't dare point out your expression, nor the way your nails dug crescents into the flesh of your palm. Instead, she joins the rest of the churchgoers, touching Lisa's hands lovingly, crying with her parents. Like a good person should.

And you wish you could show as much heart, any heart, to the wonderful girl. You wish you could pet her head, embrace her crying mother. But there's nothing inside, not even the smallest tug at your heartstrings. Because it doesn't work like this. It shouldn't work like this. And if there's anything you know about God, it's that he doesn't work like that either. 

So you slip away, seemingly unnoticed, running like the Devil himself is chasing you through the muddy roads of Crockett Island. By the time you reach the door to your camper, your lungs are burning something awful, and your legs are shaking with strain. It's getting cold, the fresh smell of spring air blows through longer patches of grass, climbing its way under your skirt, and gripping your calf in a freezing embrace. 

You refuse to cry, even if tears burn the rims of your eyes, ready to spill at any moment, to betray the storm that's brewing inside your heart. And it's not a storm of sadness, of that you are certain.

As you slam the camper's door behind you, so hard, the metal rattles, you feel something burning inside your throat, like a coat of bile threatening to rise. Anger, red and all-consuming, tears at your skin, in tandem with your nails, raking across your arms, when you finally crumble to the floor. It takes you a long while to stop weeping. You angrily wipe at your nose, the sweater soaking up all the moisture. Then, you begin to rise again, bones shaking and muscles taut. There's only one thing, in this entire camper, that can truly sate our appetite for destruction.

And so, you saunter over to the abandoned chisel.

There, the image of a church looks back at you. It's almost finished, missing only some finishing touches in the background. The smoked side of the wall stares at you from the canvas. You can make out subtle brush strokes, ones you did with a dry, rounded end, dark paint blending effortlessly with the more precise strokes you used for the wooden wall. Ghost of the mistakes past, you muse in your mind, and reach for the cigarette pack, nestled in the back pocket of your jeans. 

How many times have you seen your mother hunched over a medical case of a chain smoker? Too many to count, and yet...

Your eyes water, when the smoke hits, and a sudden wave of nausea overtakes you. Suddenly, keeping the lit stick in your mouth feels like too much, and you pull it out instantly, retching quietly. Feeling betrayed again, you turn your furious gaze towards the unfinished painting. Then, as if guided by your teenage self, your hand reaches forward, pressing the burning end of the cigarette to the painting. Ash crumbles from the canvas, falling down onto the oil paints below. Your fingers dig further, until the bud breaks, unburnt tabbacco peaking through. 

With a sigh, you step back, watching, as the crumbled cigarette falls from the painting, exposing a small hole in the canvas, right where grass meets the wall of the church. It fits, you conclude, feeling another wave of nausea hit you. You can't look at it anymore, can't share your already small space with it's presence, so you throw it out, right outside the door.

And then you take a shower, a long one. Hopefully long enough to wash away the feelings of shame and stupidity, and your mother's disappointed gaze.

***

He keeps searching for your face in the growing crowds visiting the church. Every Sunday, when aged pews get filled to the brim, bright eyes of the population of the Crock Pot looking up at him, filled with hope and light, all he can do is watch. The words feel empty in his mouth, as he sways the congregation with visions of God's glorious kingdom, and wishes you would hear them too.

He wishes you could see how much he can do, how much this island can change. 

And yet, as days pass by, you're not there. And when he takes strolls around the island, looking over the ocean and breathing the salty air, you're not there. 

He knows something went terribly wrong, something shifted between the two of you, but he cannot comprehend what could've happened. Haven't you seen what God's grace can do? Haven't you seen Lisa Scarborough walk on her own after years of tragedy? 

It's been weeks since he's seen you, since he got to touch you, and the break has been maddening. While inside his parish, pacing like a mad man being torn apart by fevers he couldn't quite place, all he could see is your face. Your hair and how it shines in the cold sunlight, how it fits and flows with your features. How he wishes he could take his hand and run his fingers down its length. 

And he's been so close. He had you right there, willing and open for him. He remembered your eyes, bright, watery, how your lips would form the most beautiful shapes while saying his name. But now it's gone. Because, for whatever reason, you refuse to see how much good there is yet to appear. That's what it had to be, for sure. He didn't do anything wrong after all, he healed a child for God's sake, and what did he get in return? Nothing but a church full of people and this incessant fever. 

No, this wouldn't do. He knew God's plan for him, he saw the rewards that were promised to him, and you were one of them, he was sure of it.  Why else, after previously having deserted, what could've been his one chance at true and never-ending love, would God present you to him? Why else, if not for him to love and cherish for all eternity, under His grace and light? And yet, despite all that, you weren't here.

Was it your naturally rebellious disposition, one that made him want to tear out his hair in frustration? Or perhaps it was something different. Either way, you needed guidance, you needed someone to grab you by the hand and lead you through the bushes of doubt. A role, he would fill with utmost devotion. 

So, making up his mind, Father Pruitt took his coat from the hanger, familiar, worn out material engulfing him with warm he didn't truly need. Then, after locking the doors to his parish, he went on his way, face scrunched up in determination he hadn't felt in years. But, as he neared the entrance to the church, something made him stop in his tracks. Something he would've never expected, but the realization made his heart jump right out of his chest. God is good. God is so very good, and you're here. He can hear your voice, delicate and filled with emotions he can't fully comprehend. 

His steps carry him towards the entrance to the church, where he stops and sneaks closer, soaking in the sight of you. Alone, head bowed in prayer, the statue of crucified Jesus above you. Just like he imagined. He had to know what went on in your mind. What were you praying for? What were you thinking? Life would've been so much easier if you'd just let him peek into your mind. So, instead of announcing his arrival, like a good Christian would, he opted for inching closer, close enough to hear your words, but not close enough for you to get suspicious. 

- I hate you - were the first words from your lips, and his heart dropped. 

You lift your head up, and in the dim light of the flickering candles, he can see tear stains running down your cheeks. 

- So what, this is how you work? - your voice is shaking, and so are your hands - Some people are just more worthy of your Grace? What about my mother? How many more people could she had saved, if she haven't died the way she did? What makes Lisa Scarborough so special, what makes any of us so special for that matter? "God is fair"? What a fucking joke.

Pruitt nearly trips, trying to hide behind a confessional booth, as you abruptly stand up. In a blink of an eye, you're storming out of the church, angry tears falling behind you. Monsignor's head swims with thoughts, as he sees your form, fleeing from this sacred place surrounded with a cloud of rage and hatred. He doesn't understand, despite hearing you lay your feelings bare at the altar, he still doesn't fully grasp, why he lost you, the moment Lisa Scarborough started to walk. How can he, when you've been promised to him, despite all the hardships in your path. You'll come around, you have to. This is God's will, Pruitt just has to be patient. 

So, he says a quick prayer, tucked between the wooden wall of the church and the confessional booth. He thanks the Lord for letting him see you, he whispers promises of love and patience, of love and patience, of love and... By the time he's finished, the sun had begun to rise over the horizon, and Monsignor Pruitt is wracked by a terrible cough, that wretches his insides and forces droplets of blood from his lips. 

He needed to get ready for the Mass, he needed to be there for his faithful, even if you most likely weren't going to show up. He had duties. 

So, wiping his lips and supporting himself on the walls of the church, he walked back to the parish, unaware, that the choices he made in his too-long life were about to catch up with him in the most terrifying of ways. 

Erin opted to leave her scafr at home. The sun warmed the air on Crockett Island and brough smiles upon the faces of it's occupants. You saw her watch herself in the mirror, petting her rounding belly with a twinkle in her eye. Seeing her like that was enough to dispurse the thunder clouds from your mind. For just a moment you thought, this is how it's supposed to be. Only her and you, in this small hut, at peace and happy, with Little Foot running around, yelling swear words you've taught them to the utter despair of their mother. You'd be The Favourite Aunt. Bringing Little Foot gifts from the mainland, taking them shopping for cassettes. It's going to be magnificent. 

You'll soon find out, however, that hope is for presidents and dreams are for people who are sleeping.