Chapter Text
“Bev, I’m not sure this - is sustainable,” his hands wipe across his body, dismissing the idea.
“Why, of course it is, Father,” she reassures offhandedly. “You only need a little to keep you well-”
“-Every day,” he interrupts. “Every day, Bev. You can’t…” He cannot bring himself to say the words feed me she notes. “... give me this, every day.”
“Well not forever, of course not - I would dry right up!” she laughs, forcing the conversation back to lightness. “But for a few days - a week perhaps - till the congregation is properly prepared.” she ensures to make her voice pragmatic; the decision has already been made.
“No - no a week is too long,” he paces away from her towards the door. Unthinkingly, he almost crosses a sunbeam and jerks to the side, distracted. “It’s too much from one person. Anything is too much.”
“Father - surely you won’t disallow me this service to the Lord,” she says, sitting gently upon the old couch.
“I - I can’t allow this.”
Inside, Beverly Keane bristles.
“It’s not as though I am a bloodless disciple, Father,” she intones. “Remember that. I have been taking Holy Communion as long as you have been giving it - I have the blood of the Lord already inside me.”
“You do,” he agrees, but the fire - the worry, has not left him - not a bit as he paces back across the room. “You do, but it can’t be enough.”
“Perhaps I should be the judge of that,” Beverly prods. She is already unwrapping the dressing placed over her wrist, as they have reached agreement.
He has no answer to this. Stops before her, throwing an anxious glance out the window and the midday sun.
“Father, if I no longer feel up to my duty, you’ll be the first to know - I swear it on the Lord,” she says, carefully folding the dressing and setting it to the side. She gestures to her wrist.
“No -” he waves her away and turns. An agitated hand runs through his hair. “No - I don’t need it today.”
Beverly frowns at his back. “Are you certain, Father?” She flexes her wrist - opens the wound and feels the blood start to seep again. It hasn’t had the time to close properly. It’s been less than twenty-four hours.
She sees him settle almost instantly. His head inches back towards her. He resists it and looks out the window towards St. Patrick’s: as if to find an answer there.
“Sit with me, Father,” she urges. “Sturge is right outside.”
His body turns towards the closed front door. He is imagining the man’s bulk upon the small porch.
“Does he know?” John questions.
“Not exactly,” Bev shrugs. “He knows to come if I call.”
John nods. “He’s frightened of me. They all are.”
“It’s as you said yourself, Father. The true power of the Lord is always frightening at first,” she reminds. She frowns at her wrist, a drip threatening to fall to waste on the floorboards. “John.”
His name summons him like nothing before. His eyes fall immediately to the flowing liquid.
His steps are slow but he moves to perch tensely upon the edge of the couch. Bev is already sat forward, a hand cupped carefully beneath her injured wrist, just in case. She can feel the weight of the knife in the pocket of her cardigan.
“And without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins,” she murmurs but truly, John isn’t listening. His eyes have caught on the crimson and all she has to do is shuffle closer and raise her wrist, across her own body, to hold before him.
Somehow, she hasn’t yet spilled a drop.
His body has fallen still again, as last time. All agitation has melted away.
His hand rises to press at the flesh of her forearm, bringing her closer to his lips.
She is close enough to melt her chest against his back, but waits. She waits until his smooth lips meet her skin and his mouth embraces her wrist. He holds her more tightly against him as he takes the first draw and she feels that odd sensation once again - the sense that her very vitality is being stolen away with open-mouthed kisses.
His tongue tastes its way across the cut flesh.
Bev sees him drift away and whatever need that overtook him with Joe Collie, that had slithered into him last night on the bed falls upon him again until he is fluid and malleable in her hands.
She lifts her other hand to his far shoulder, curls her fingers over the broad joint and gradually leans back into the worn embrace of the couch. He follows, leaning back into her as his teeth graze her skin. She jerks at the sensation. It doesn’t distract him. Tilting her wrist, she encourages his head to rest back atop her shoulder until she cradles him like a lover.
She becomes aware of heat between her legs and blushes to herself. Only herself, and God.
With his body pressed against her like this, she can feel his breath - irregular, jerking. His ribs seem to flex and hold and yield in no rhythm she can find.
Surprised, she realises her own breath has caught in her throat and she releases it; is infuriated by how it shakes. ...Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might, she chastens herself.
Bev tips her face to watch where his head rests upon her. A black strand has fallen across his face and she swallows against the need to brush it away. Focuses instead on the feeling of his fingers wrapping across her bare skin. The heat of his back, flexing sinews pressing against her, his weight on her chest. Her heartbeat thumping into him.
It would be so easy to lean in and press her own kiss to the flush of his cheek.
She feels another flood of heat pass across her face and the tickle of herself being drained away and she straightens, twists her wrist gently.
“I think that’s quite enough to keep things moving,” Bev whispers. The words ghost against the dark hair at his ear. There is a gentle resistance to her pulling away. She tries not to resist it in turn, knowing she will lose a tug-of-war.
She thinks of how she won’t be able to reach the knife in her pocket with him pressed to her like this.
“Father”, she tries. Flexes her arm against his hold, opening and closing her fist. It is uncomfortable. She can feel her tendons moving against his teeth. “John,” she gives, lending force to her voice and this time pushes towards his mouth.
His tongue laps at her sore skin.
Her already thudding heart skips and quickens.
Her lungs are starting to demand gasping breaths.
She considers Sturge at the door but refuses the option - she wants this to remain private.
She grabs for the only thing within reach: a fistful of thick, dark hair and pulls. At the same time she tears her hand from his grasp.
”John!” she demands. It seems that the shock of pain along his head is enough to break whatever daze he has fallen into. He grunts. His fingers release her arm and his body relaxes into her; his neck even gives a little more, tugging back further in her grasp.
The elegant line of his throat is stained with her blood.
His teeth are gritted against the tension in his hair. “Ahhh,” he half-gasps, half-complains, “sorry, I’m sorry.”
HIs hair is silken in her fist.
She watches his throat move as he swallows before realising she should speak.
“Not to worry, Father,” she reluctantly falls back to his moniker. “I never doubted you.”