044. circle.
Title: Chewing on Jesus
Fandom: Captain Scarlet
Characters: Magenta
Prompt: 044. circle.
Word Count: 945
Rating: U
Summary: Pat’s not a good Catholic, but he’s good at being Catholic.
Author's Notes: Father Ivory is borrowed from Mary J. Rudy.
Pat’s not a good Catholic, but he’s good at being Catholic.
Nine of the Commandments are so blotted on his copybook you can’t tell one from the other, and he vehemently disagrees with the Pope on almost every moral issue. (He can vaguely recall a slightly drunken and for his part less than serious theological discussion with Destiny about how homosexuality should be condoned; because if more people had gay sex there would be fewer unplanned pregnancies ergo less abortions). That aside his theology is fairly sound; he’s an educated broadminded sort, knows enough to get by about other beliefs, but keeps coming back to his like a faithful spouse.
Drifting to the faith room on base at the appointed to in his more dressy clothes like an iron filing to magnet. They all are, the clot of personnel making small talk and sizing each other up outside. The way the old bats at his parent’s church did and probably still do half a world away. He rarely sees them at other times in the base; even then it’s just a nod of vague acknowledgement with no questions or answers beyond that; as if they were swingers, embroiled with the occult, or some such scandal. That amuses him, but he keeps his end of the deal. These bursts of five minute friendship suit him.
Father Ivory, the base chaplain, opens the double doors and welcomes them inside. He’s in full second best regalia, the very best reserved for funerals and presumably other such occasions. There’s no reason any of them couldn’t just enter, indeed they do any other time, but on that occasion it doesn’t feel right. So they wait to be ushered inside.
And they troop in; take their regular seats by habit born of accident rather than design. Then they begin.
He supposes that it’s understandable that he would become more faithful as his circumstances changed. With all the damage, uncertainty and isolation of the work they do he yearns for the order, balance, routine, of the church. And absolution, that he truly craves. He never says anything about that to the others, they wouldn’t understand. They don’t practise confession, or even believe in God. Rick just gives him this look; of trying to be understanding, but not knowing where to start, sympathetic, but sure you’re a bit crazy, almost pitying. The way he remembers people had acted toward his great grandma when she got dementia.
He couldn’t face that, wouldn’t be able to find the words anyway.
Father Ivory lets them take a tiny beaker of wine. Pat always savours that; partly because well it is the blood of Christ. That and it is bonafide alcoholic wine, some exemption on some grounds from the usual regulations regarding alcohol on base. It feels so good, slipping down easily and warming the back of his throat. Like they’re actually grown ups, rather than kids at camp.
It’s almost but not quite enough to convince Rick to give it a whirl. Pat’s glad of that, because he savours knowing there is one time and place all of his own.
The padre waits for them to finish, then places the bread onto his waiting ready tongue.
The ritualised aspect is perhaps not so different from his work with computers. Streams of code slotting into place as he moves about the keyboard on familiar patterns, building a complete program. So to slipping into the routine of mass. Kneel, stand, pray, talk, listen. Then you’ll get to heaven. He’s not quite convinced that’ll be enough, considering everything else he does. So he’s planning a deathbed repentance just to be sure. If that won’t do it then he’ll account for it all, do his time in purgatory. It’ll be bearable, worth it in the end. Hasn’t his whole life been a limbo?
Once he closes his mouth the wafer sticks, gummy with saliva, to the roof of his mouth. He thinks of people with a phobia of peanut butter doing just that, how there’s an official fancy name for it, but he can’t remember what it is.
He touches it with his tongue, briefly contemplates chewing it. Decides against that, he’s never been told so, but Pat has a suspicion that chewing up the body of Christ would count as blasphemous. So he just bides his time, through the rest of mass, waiting for it to dissolve.
When it’s over he steps outside blinking, even though there’s no noticeable difference in the light between the faith room and corridor. It feels like another world, a bubble within a bubble. Pat makes his vague goodbyes, says he’ll see them around, even though he probably won’t.
He sees a flash of something golden brown, and his thoughts turn to Rick. It doesn’t take much provocation these days. Wondering if Rick really is blasting out Def Leppard and dancing around in his underwear like he told Pat he would be to pass the time before he comes over; he’s not entirely sure. It’s an amusing thought.
Pat’s not sure how terrible it is, to be thinking of a barely clothed man while Christ is on his tongue.
So they’re both under his skin now, doing battle. It amuses him, the thought of Rick taking on the Messiah. He honestly wouldn’t put it past Rick to try, given the chance, if he knew.
On this battle ground Pat’s not sure who would win.
He likes the way he feels after Mass. Energised, lighter, focused, part of something greater and beyond all this.
So he takes the longer scenic route back to his quarters. He wants to feel holy just a little while longer.
Fandom: Captain Scarlet
Characters: Magenta
Prompt: 044. circle.
Word Count: 945
Rating: U
Summary: Pat’s not a good Catholic, but he’s good at being Catholic.
Author's Notes: Father Ivory is borrowed from Mary J. Rudy.
Pat’s not a good Catholic, but he’s good at being Catholic.
Nine of the Commandments are so blotted on his copybook you can’t tell one from the other, and he vehemently disagrees with the Pope on almost every moral issue. (He can vaguely recall a slightly drunken and for his part less than serious theological discussion with Destiny about how homosexuality should be condoned; because if more people had gay sex there would be fewer unplanned pregnancies ergo less abortions). That aside his theology is fairly sound; he’s an educated broadminded sort, knows enough to get by about other beliefs, but keeps coming back to his like a faithful spouse.
Drifting to the faith room on base at the appointed to in his more dressy clothes like an iron filing to magnet. They all are, the clot of personnel making small talk and sizing each other up outside. The way the old bats at his parent’s church did and probably still do half a world away. He rarely sees them at other times in the base; even then it’s just a nod of vague acknowledgement with no questions or answers beyond that; as if they were swingers, embroiled with the occult, or some such scandal. That amuses him, but he keeps his end of the deal. These bursts of five minute friendship suit him.
Father Ivory, the base chaplain, opens the double doors and welcomes them inside. He’s in full second best regalia, the very best reserved for funerals and presumably other such occasions. There’s no reason any of them couldn’t just enter, indeed they do any other time, but on that occasion it doesn’t feel right. So they wait to be ushered inside.
And they troop in; take their regular seats by habit born of accident rather than design. Then they begin.
He supposes that it’s understandable that he would become more faithful as his circumstances changed. With all the damage, uncertainty and isolation of the work they do he yearns for the order, balance, routine, of the church. And absolution, that he truly craves. He never says anything about that to the others, they wouldn’t understand. They don’t practise confession, or even believe in God. Rick just gives him this look; of trying to be understanding, but not knowing where to start, sympathetic, but sure you’re a bit crazy, almost pitying. The way he remembers people had acted toward his great grandma when she got dementia.
He couldn’t face that, wouldn’t be able to find the words anyway.
Father Ivory lets them take a tiny beaker of wine. Pat always savours that; partly because well it is the blood of Christ. That and it is bonafide alcoholic wine, some exemption on some grounds from the usual regulations regarding alcohol on base. It feels so good, slipping down easily and warming the back of his throat. Like they’re actually grown ups, rather than kids at camp.
It’s almost but not quite enough to convince Rick to give it a whirl. Pat’s glad of that, because he savours knowing there is one time and place all of his own.
The padre waits for them to finish, then places the bread onto his waiting ready tongue.
The ritualised aspect is perhaps not so different from his work with computers. Streams of code slotting into place as he moves about the keyboard on familiar patterns, building a complete program. So to slipping into the routine of mass. Kneel, stand, pray, talk, listen. Then you’ll get to heaven. He’s not quite convinced that’ll be enough, considering everything else he does. So he’s planning a deathbed repentance just to be sure. If that won’t do it then he’ll account for it all, do his time in purgatory. It’ll be bearable, worth it in the end. Hasn’t his whole life been a limbo?
Once he closes his mouth the wafer sticks, gummy with saliva, to the roof of his mouth. He thinks of people with a phobia of peanut butter doing just that, how there’s an official fancy name for it, but he can’t remember what it is.
He touches it with his tongue, briefly contemplates chewing it. Decides against that, he’s never been told so, but Pat has a suspicion that chewing up the body of Christ would count as blasphemous. So he just bides his time, through the rest of mass, waiting for it to dissolve.
When it’s over he steps outside blinking, even though there’s no noticeable difference in the light between the faith room and corridor. It feels like another world, a bubble within a bubble. Pat makes his vague goodbyes, says he’ll see them around, even though he probably won’t.
He sees a flash of something golden brown, and his thoughts turn to Rick. It doesn’t take much provocation these days. Wondering if Rick really is blasting out Def Leppard and dancing around in his underwear like he told Pat he would be to pass the time before he comes over; he’s not entirely sure. It’s an amusing thought.
Pat’s not sure how terrible it is, to be thinking of a barely clothed man while Christ is on his tongue.
So they’re both under his skin now, doing battle. It amuses him, the thought of Rick taking on the Messiah. He honestly wouldn’t put it past Rick to try, given the chance, if he knew.
On this battle ground Pat’s not sure who would win.
He likes the way he feels after Mass. Energised, lighter, focused, part of something greater and beyond all this.
So he takes the longer scenic route back to his quarters. He wants to feel holy just a little while longer.