To Salt the Flame, Part One, Leverage/SPN, R-ish
Fandom: Leverage/Supernatural
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part One
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer, Father John Winchester
Word Count: 3,349
Rating: R-ish
Summary: Pre-Series for Leverage, AU pre-series for SPN. John Winchester lost everything, and surrendered all that was left into the church that saved him. He became a priest who served his God in the traditional ways, as well as a few less traditional ways. Eliot Spencer is a young man restless and on the move, trying to outrun his past and chasing a life of painful destruction toward his future. When the two collide one stormy night, it leaves a mark...on both of them.
A/Ns & Warnings: This will develop into priest!kink. Both our boys have dark pasts and when they come together, demons of the figurative kind may not be the only thing they have to deal with. I blame this on havenward...but then...what don't I blame on her?
It started raining sometime between the guy with the gun and the punk with the knife and in the time since then the night turned cold, like it needed him to know he wasn't welcome there.
He got that. He got that good.
Problem was, he also got a couple of body shots that may have broken a rib, and an eye that was well on it's way to swollen shut, and the cut on his arm may not be deep, but it was bleeding pretty damn good. And the knee…the knee was going to be a problem.
He needed some place he could hole up, patch up and breathe so he could figure out where the hell to go from there.
Thunder rumbled overhead and there's a flash of something like memory in his brain, stormy night, thunder and lightening, screams, fire…Eliot closed his and turned his face to the stone wall that was holding him up. The image of a face burned inside him and no matter how he tried to bury it in the past, it wouldn't leave.
Church bells rang out, marking the hour. Eliot counted them. It was eleven. He looked toward the sound and saw the welcome sight of stain glass windows all lit up, welcoming.
It had been a long, long time since he'd been inside a church. Longer still since he believed in anything it taught. He checked the street for signs of cops or more of the damn gang and limped out of the dark into the halo of light spilling from a street lamp near the stairs. It wasn't his first choice for shelter, but his choices were this and a cold, wet alley with nothing to protect him while he slept.
He half expected to find the doors locked once he got up the stairs, his hand heavy on the handle, sighing in relief when it gave under his hand.
"There!" A shot rang out, went wide, ricocheting off the stone wall of the church and skittering off into the night.
Eliot turned, spotting the two men heading for him and yanked the door open, sliding in and pulling the door closed behind him. He didn't have long to find a place to hide. Two guys, two guns and he was injured. He didn't like the odds.
He pushed himself off the heavy wooden doors and into the sanctuary, his eyes darting around. There was a priest just rising from his knees near the altar. Eliot heard the door behind him and dashed into the confessional, breathing heavy and knowing it wasn't much cover…and less of a hiding place.
He could only hope those two guys would respect the sanctity of the church…or at least the presence of a witness who was also a priest.
He could hear their feet pounding the marble, skidding to a stop. They were out of breath, panting.
"Good evening gentleman, how may I serve you?" The priest's voice was gruff, deep and chesty.
"The kid, he just ran in here."
"All are welcome, my Son."
"Don't gimme that father, we want him."
"I know that you don't mean to cause him harm here, in the Lord's house?"
"That man defiled my sister, Father!"
Eliot smirked at the thought of said sister, seventeen and sweet as sin, with curves in all the right places and a tongue that told him in no uncertain terms that she was anything but new to the dance.
"Sanctuary extends to all men no matter their sins. Tell your sister to come to confession tomorrow, Jaime. I'm sure she knows the way. He isn't the first to defile her."
Eliot had to cover his mouth to keep silent. He could hear them moving back toward the door.
"You tell that bastard I got a cap for his ass he ever stops hiding behind the Madonna's skirts, Padre."
"And you tell your mother I said hello. I look forward to seeing her on Sunday."
Eliot strained, listening for some sound to tell him it was safe to leave his hiding place, but then, the grate slid open and there was a priest on the other side and Eliot froze in place.
After a long uncomfortable silence, the priest cleared his throat. "Have you something to confess?"
Eliot exhaled and shrugged even though the man couldn't see him. "I…um….no offense, Father. I just needed a safe place."
"If you slept with Carmen Jimenez, I don't doubt you did."
Eliot snorted. "I didn't do anything with Carmen. She was the one who did all the doing, if you know what I mean." Eliot peered through the grate, then frowned and blushed, realizing who he was talking to. "Seriously, I um…just need a bathroom and some bandages…maybe a place to crash until the rain stops."
The grate closed and Eliot waited, not sure if he'd offended the man or not. "Father?"
The door to his side of the confessional opened and a hand was held out. Eliot didn't take it, but he stepped out, favoring the knee he'd twisted in the fight as the priest looked him over. "How bad?"
Eliot shook his head, his left hand lifting to cover the still bleeding wound in his right arm. "I've had worse."
Father John knew the boy was trouble, from the moment he'd darted, bruised and bleeding, into the confessional, followed by Jaime and Carlos and all the trouble that came with them. How much trouble didn't come clear until the priest had him in the bathroom near the vestry, stripped down to just his torn and dirty jeans so that he could assess the damage.
Judging from the scars and fading bruises, the kid lived by his fists and likely hadn't had a home for a while. The knife cut on his arm was clean at least and Father John took time to apply antiseptic before the bandages. "I don't think it needs stitching."
The kid's smirk was wicked. Sinful.
"I'm sure I'll live."
"How about that knee?" John indicated the one the boy was favoring.
"Just twisted, I'll be fine."
John sighed and nodded. "Okay. Hungry? Sister Marion made a delicious beef stew." He chuckled as the kid's stomach rumbled in response to the words. "Come on then." He led the way back to the back door of the church and across the small bit of yard into the parish house he shared with the two other priests. "I'm Father John."
"Eliot," he responded. He straddled a chair as John pulled the left over stew out of the refrigerator and turned to the microwave.
John busied himself around the kitchen while Eliot sat at the table, one leg bouncing as if he were itching to be anywhere but here. He put away the dishes Father Andrew had washed and he wiped the counters, trying not to look too much at the kid and spook him.
And, that wasn't entirely true. John chastised himself for the lie, even if it was only to himself and let himself turn, look. The long line of Eliot's back was marked with scars that screamed stories John didn't want to hear, didn't want to know…except for how they made him ache with a want he thought he'd buried years before.
The microwave made a sad, sickly noise that indicated it was done with the stew and John sighed, crossing to get it and stick a spoon in it before passing it to the kid. "So Eliot…"
Eliot held up the spoon and shook his head as he chewed. When he'd swallowed he cleared his throat. "One, I'm not a runaway or anything. I'm 19. Just…don't really have a place to call home. Two, I'm not a pervert or anything. She came on to me."
John held up his hand. "No, I understand." He rubbed at his chin and the scruff that he couldn't seem to keep clean shaved anymore. "I was just wondering where you were from. Your accent is…familiar."
"Oklahoma, by way of Texas, Georgia…half a dozen other places." There was a flash of something in those blue eyes, a touch of fear or memory, but it went away as fast as it appeared. "I go where work takes me."
John raised an eyebrow. "Fighting?"
Eliot stopped eating, his eyes looking sincerely surprised. "What? You mean like boxing? Nah…ain't schooled enough for that. I help people…get things…from other people."
He looked away, shifting uncomfortably, then pushed his bowl away. It was John's turn to be surprised to see it empty. "Well, then…let me show you our guest room. I'm afraid it isn't too comfortable, but we don't have many guests."
Father Andrew would reprimand him about taking in strays, but he couldn't let the kid leave, not in the shape he was in, on a night like this, with people looking to kill him. He led Eliot through the house to the stairs, up the two flights to the attic room. "If you open the window, you get a good breeze in from the waterfront some nights. Breakfast is at 9am, when Sister Marion comes over from the convent to cook for us. I'll see if I can find you some clothes that will fit you."
He hovered by the stairs while Eliot looked around him. He felt like he should say something more, but as Eliot bent over to untie his shoes, and John's body responded like he was not a man under vows, he just withdrew, heading down the stairs and back to the sanctuary.
His prayers had been interrupted, and clearly he was more in need of them tonight than he had been in quite some time.
Father John settled to his knees on the prayer bench and bowed his head, crossing himself and centering his thoughts. It had been a long, long time since he'd felt any of the stirrings of lust at any level, let alone the way it was bubbling inside him now.
He breathed deep of the incense scented air and tried to focus on his prayers, but he couldn't help the way his mind wandered down a long, dark lane of memory…to a time before the church, to a war and a man who helped him through it…a man with strong hands and scars on his skin, a man who sent him home to Mary when the war was done, a wiser, worldlier man than the one who left Kansas.
And then there had been Mary. John sighed and shifted on the bench, uncomfortable with the memory. He inhaled again, pulling his thoughts back to his prayers and away from the memory of fire and screams…the image of her face burned inside him and no matter how often he knelt here in prayer, her voice haunted him.
Father John pushed down the sob of grief and crossed himself again, fingering his rosary and starting on the familiar litany, losing himself inside the supplication for forgiveness, for mercy. The words rumbled in his chest, barely spoken aloud, pulling him from his weak, mortal body into the very grace of God where the sins of the flesh melted away and he was left clean.
The bruises had come in while he slept. The swelling had gone down around his eye, but it was nice and dark, making the blue all the brighter. The arm was stiff under the bandages, but it wasn't bad.
The knee was going to hamper him more, hot and tender to the touch.
Eliot turned away from the old, cloudy mirror. He was surprised to find a pair of sweats and a t-shirt on a trunk near the stairs. He didn't usually sleep through anyone getting that close to him. In fact, he seldom slept that well at all. He frowned down the stairs before stiffly dressing.
It was the first good night's sleep he'd had in ages, since he could remember really. He never slept well in a strange place, and he had no place of his own. Maybe it was the warmth of the attic, or the sense of peace that came with being on holy ground, or the way the priest's voice rumbled around in his head, soothing…
He could hear people below, deep, rumbling voices. He still had a job to do. A job made all the harder because of the distraction with the girl. At least now he knew where the damn thing was and all he had to do was get in, get it, and get out.
Piece of cake.
He pulled a hand through his hair and headed down the stairs, slow and easy, favoring the knee. The voices were all coming from the kitchen and Eliot was on edge as he eased around the door.
"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you'd sleep through breakfast." The priest from last night was smiling up at him, beckoning him into the kitchen. "Eliot, I'd like you to meet my fellow priests, Father Andrew Cunningham and Father Thomas Josephs."
The two men were older, significantly older. Eliot nodded to them and fidgeted a little, suddenly uncomfortable. "Hey thanks for the bed. I'm just going to get out of your way."
"Sit." Father John pulled the seat out next to him. His voice was stern, but not angry and Eliot found himself sitting even though he was fairly sure he didn't mean to. "Eat. After breakfast, I want a look at that cut on your arm, make sure it didn't get infected."
"It's fine." Eliot insisted as the nun he hadn't noticed before set a plate in front of him. How had he not noticed the nun? He shook his head and lifted his fork, inhaling a plate filled with scrambled eggs and bacon. He kept his head down, ate fast and when he was done he looked up to find four sets of eyes watching him. The nun seemed disgusted, the two older priests concerned. Only from Father John did he sense amusement.
"You want more?"
Eliot shook his head. He needed to get out of there before the girl's brother decided the church wasn't enough to protect Eliot's ass, but he'd learned young to never turn down a meal. You never knew when or where you would find the next one. "Look, I appreciate…everything. I got work to do."
The other two priests mumbled something and stood, leaving their empty plates and disappearing from the kitchen.
"Right, that getting things job of yours." Father John said, pushing back from the table. "Thank you sister, that will be all."
The nun withdrew and Eliot stood, wobbling a little as his knee caught. "No offense, Father."
"None taken, but are you really in any shape to go out there?"
"Don't really matter. I only got a few days to finish the job." He had already wasted one with the girl. That left two to get in, grab the package and get it back to Lopez, before Lopez cut his pay in half. "And if I don't deliver on time, that trouble last night isn't going to be the half of it."
"At least let me check that cut."
Eliot acquiesced because he sensed it would be easier than arguing, standing still as the priest's hands moved over his skin, easing the bandage off. There was something calming in his touch, a feeling close to comfort.
Father John's breath was hot, moist as he leaned in to examine the wound and suddenly Eliot was much less than comfortable, shifting a little, trying to distance himself from a rush of sense memory.
It had been a long, long time since he'd been touched so gently, and that last time…Eliot cleared his throat and pulled away. "Like I said…I'm fine."
There was something dark in the man's eyes as Eliot turned. "I'll get the clothes back to you, as soon as I find my things."
"No hurry."
"Thanks…for everything." Suddenly Eliot wanted nothing more than to get out of there, away from him. He wasn't comfortable with the attention.
"You're welcome, my Son. All are always welcome in God's house."
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession." The familiar words were comforting, even if the swirl of emotion inside him was not. He shifted in the small booth and swallowed. "I have had impure thoughts, Father."
"You are human, Father. Impure thoughts are to be expected from time to time."
"I know." John bowed his head over his folded hands. It had been two days since the boy had left and he could not stop seeing that bare, marked back, those piercing blue eyes, those hands. "He fills my dreams at night, and distracts me from my prayers in the day."
"I see. This is different from your usual stumbling blocks."
"Yes. I have not thought of another man since I was a very young man."
The other priest moved beside him, leaning in. "Tell me of him."
"He is a young man, came to us hurt and hiding from men who wished him harm. I gave him shelter."
Jeff could see his face, wicked smile and that hint of haunted soul. "He has a past, written in his skin. Somebody hurt him."
There's a soft chuckle on the other side of the grate. "And you think you can heal him?"
John sighed and shook his head. Honestly, he didn't know what it was he wanted. Although he would admit he wanted to know if the kid was okay. "I'm sure it's a passing thing. He struck a chord. He showed up…" John's breath caught in his chest. He had been alone in the sanctuary, praying to get through the night.
"The anniversary?" Father MacCowen's voice softened.
"Yeah. Thirteen years." His heart tightened around the memory; flames, screams, Mary's voice, the screams of his infant son, yellow eyes burning in a face he would never forget.
"You need to forgive yourself, John. Carrying around this grief will only take you back into the dark again and again."
"I know, I do." He had tried. His whole life as a priest had been a search for redemption, forgiveness for a moment of weakness, for the hopeless despair, for the fury that filled him when he discovered those yellow eyes were windows into hell.
He chased the darkness in the early years, hunted the perversion and evil. But the darkness was inside him and no matter where he went it came with him, until the day he found himself wounded, bleeding out and dying on the cold marble floor of a church.
"Have you spoken to him?" Father MacCowen asked and John inhaled deeply.
"I wrote a letter, but I haven't sent it." In fact, he carried the letter in his pocket, had since this time last year.
"You should take time off, go visit him."
"He doesn't want that." John inhaled and stood, ready now to end this confession and get back to his own duties, let Father MacCowen get back to taking the nuns' confessions so he could get back to his own church.
The door to the confessional opened as John stepped out from behind the curtain. Father MacCowen reached for his hand. "You don't know what he wants," he said gently. "It would be good for you. I think you need to see him, put your past to rest."
A part of him rebelled, his thoughts filled with less than charitable things. How would you know what I need? He looked away, breathing in the incense laden air.
"Pray, John. Our father knows what is in your heart."
John bowed his head for the benediction his friend and mentor offered and watched him go back into the small confessional. He turned to the altar, crossing himself as he knelt. Pray. John tried not to snort at the thought. Praying was just about all he'd done since the night he saw Eliot. Father MacCowen had no idea the sin that was in his heart, and if God saw, he seemed to be strangely mute on the subject these last few days.
John sighed and fingered his rosary, letting the familiar rhythm bring his mind to order, even as the rest of him swirled into chaos.
Title: To Salt the Flame, Part One
Pairing/Characters: Eliot Spencer, Father John Winchester
Word Count: 3,349
Rating: R-ish
Summary: Pre-Series for Leverage, AU pre-series for SPN. John Winchester lost everything, and surrendered all that was left into the church that saved him. He became a priest who served his God in the traditional ways, as well as a few less traditional ways. Eliot Spencer is a young man restless and on the move, trying to outrun his past and chasing a life of painful destruction toward his future. When the two collide one stormy night, it leaves a mark...on both of them.
A/Ns & Warnings: This will develop into priest!kink. Both our boys have dark pasts and when they come together, demons of the figurative kind may not be the only thing they have to deal with. I blame this on havenward...but then...what don't I blame on her?
It started raining sometime between the guy with the gun and the punk with the knife and in the time since then the night turned cold, like it needed him to know he wasn't welcome there.
He got that. He got that good.
Problem was, he also got a couple of body shots that may have broken a rib, and an eye that was well on it's way to swollen shut, and the cut on his arm may not be deep, but it was bleeding pretty damn good. And the knee…the knee was going to be a problem.
He needed some place he could hole up, patch up and breathe so he could figure out where the hell to go from there.
Thunder rumbled overhead and there's a flash of something like memory in his brain, stormy night, thunder and lightening, screams, fire…Eliot closed his and turned his face to the stone wall that was holding him up. The image of a face burned inside him and no matter how he tried to bury it in the past, it wouldn't leave.
Church bells rang out, marking the hour. Eliot counted them. It was eleven. He looked toward the sound and saw the welcome sight of stain glass windows all lit up, welcoming.
It had been a long, long time since he'd been inside a church. Longer still since he believed in anything it taught. He checked the street for signs of cops or more of the damn gang and limped out of the dark into the halo of light spilling from a street lamp near the stairs. It wasn't his first choice for shelter, but his choices were this and a cold, wet alley with nothing to protect him while he slept.
He half expected to find the doors locked once he got up the stairs, his hand heavy on the handle, sighing in relief when it gave under his hand.
"There!" A shot rang out, went wide, ricocheting off the stone wall of the church and skittering off into the night.
Eliot turned, spotting the two men heading for him and yanked the door open, sliding in and pulling the door closed behind him. He didn't have long to find a place to hide. Two guys, two guns and he was injured. He didn't like the odds.
He pushed himself off the heavy wooden doors and into the sanctuary, his eyes darting around. There was a priest just rising from his knees near the altar. Eliot heard the door behind him and dashed into the confessional, breathing heavy and knowing it wasn't much cover…and less of a hiding place.
He could only hope those two guys would respect the sanctity of the church…or at least the presence of a witness who was also a priest.
He could hear their feet pounding the marble, skidding to a stop. They were out of breath, panting.
"Good evening gentleman, how may I serve you?" The priest's voice was gruff, deep and chesty.
"The kid, he just ran in here."
"All are welcome, my Son."
"Don't gimme that father, we want him."
"I know that you don't mean to cause him harm here, in the Lord's house?"
"That man defiled my sister, Father!"
Eliot smirked at the thought of said sister, seventeen and sweet as sin, with curves in all the right places and a tongue that told him in no uncertain terms that she was anything but new to the dance.
"Sanctuary extends to all men no matter their sins. Tell your sister to come to confession tomorrow, Jaime. I'm sure she knows the way. He isn't the first to defile her."
Eliot had to cover his mouth to keep silent. He could hear them moving back toward the door.
"You tell that bastard I got a cap for his ass he ever stops hiding behind the Madonna's skirts, Padre."
"And you tell your mother I said hello. I look forward to seeing her on Sunday."
Eliot strained, listening for some sound to tell him it was safe to leave his hiding place, but then, the grate slid open and there was a priest on the other side and Eliot froze in place.
After a long uncomfortable silence, the priest cleared his throat. "Have you something to confess?"
Eliot exhaled and shrugged even though the man couldn't see him. "I…um….no offense, Father. I just needed a safe place."
"If you slept with Carmen Jimenez, I don't doubt you did."
Eliot snorted. "I didn't do anything with Carmen. She was the one who did all the doing, if you know what I mean." Eliot peered through the grate, then frowned and blushed, realizing who he was talking to. "Seriously, I um…just need a bathroom and some bandages…maybe a place to crash until the rain stops."
The grate closed and Eliot waited, not sure if he'd offended the man or not. "Father?"
The door to his side of the confessional opened and a hand was held out. Eliot didn't take it, but he stepped out, favoring the knee he'd twisted in the fight as the priest looked him over. "How bad?"
Eliot shook his head, his left hand lifting to cover the still bleeding wound in his right arm. "I've had worse."
Father John knew the boy was trouble, from the moment he'd darted, bruised and bleeding, into the confessional, followed by Jaime and Carlos and all the trouble that came with them. How much trouble didn't come clear until the priest had him in the bathroom near the vestry, stripped down to just his torn and dirty jeans so that he could assess the damage.
Judging from the scars and fading bruises, the kid lived by his fists and likely hadn't had a home for a while. The knife cut on his arm was clean at least and Father John took time to apply antiseptic before the bandages. "I don't think it needs stitching."
The kid's smirk was wicked. Sinful.
"I'm sure I'll live."
"How about that knee?" John indicated the one the boy was favoring.
"Just twisted, I'll be fine."
John sighed and nodded. "Okay. Hungry? Sister Marion made a delicious beef stew." He chuckled as the kid's stomach rumbled in response to the words. "Come on then." He led the way back to the back door of the church and across the small bit of yard into the parish house he shared with the two other priests. "I'm Father John."
"Eliot," he responded. He straddled a chair as John pulled the left over stew out of the refrigerator and turned to the microwave.
John busied himself around the kitchen while Eliot sat at the table, one leg bouncing as if he were itching to be anywhere but here. He put away the dishes Father Andrew had washed and he wiped the counters, trying not to look too much at the kid and spook him.
And, that wasn't entirely true. John chastised himself for the lie, even if it was only to himself and let himself turn, look. The long line of Eliot's back was marked with scars that screamed stories John didn't want to hear, didn't want to know…except for how they made him ache with a want he thought he'd buried years before.
The microwave made a sad, sickly noise that indicated it was done with the stew and John sighed, crossing to get it and stick a spoon in it before passing it to the kid. "So Eliot…"
Eliot held up the spoon and shook his head as he chewed. When he'd swallowed he cleared his throat. "One, I'm not a runaway or anything. I'm 19. Just…don't really have a place to call home. Two, I'm not a pervert or anything. She came on to me."
John held up his hand. "No, I understand." He rubbed at his chin and the scruff that he couldn't seem to keep clean shaved anymore. "I was just wondering where you were from. Your accent is…familiar."
"Oklahoma, by way of Texas, Georgia…half a dozen other places." There was a flash of something in those blue eyes, a touch of fear or memory, but it went away as fast as it appeared. "I go where work takes me."
John raised an eyebrow. "Fighting?"
Eliot stopped eating, his eyes looking sincerely surprised. "What? You mean like boxing? Nah…ain't schooled enough for that. I help people…get things…from other people."
He looked away, shifting uncomfortably, then pushed his bowl away. It was John's turn to be surprised to see it empty. "Well, then…let me show you our guest room. I'm afraid it isn't too comfortable, but we don't have many guests."
Father Andrew would reprimand him about taking in strays, but he couldn't let the kid leave, not in the shape he was in, on a night like this, with people looking to kill him. He led Eliot through the house to the stairs, up the two flights to the attic room. "If you open the window, you get a good breeze in from the waterfront some nights. Breakfast is at 9am, when Sister Marion comes over from the convent to cook for us. I'll see if I can find you some clothes that will fit you."
He hovered by the stairs while Eliot looked around him. He felt like he should say something more, but as Eliot bent over to untie his shoes, and John's body responded like he was not a man under vows, he just withdrew, heading down the stairs and back to the sanctuary.
His prayers had been interrupted, and clearly he was more in need of them tonight than he had been in quite some time.
Father John settled to his knees on the prayer bench and bowed his head, crossing himself and centering his thoughts. It had been a long, long time since he'd felt any of the stirrings of lust at any level, let alone the way it was bubbling inside him now.
He breathed deep of the incense scented air and tried to focus on his prayers, but he couldn't help the way his mind wandered down a long, dark lane of memory…to a time before the church, to a war and a man who helped him through it…a man with strong hands and scars on his skin, a man who sent him home to Mary when the war was done, a wiser, worldlier man than the one who left Kansas.
And then there had been Mary. John sighed and shifted on the bench, uncomfortable with the memory. He inhaled again, pulling his thoughts back to his prayers and away from the memory of fire and screams…the image of her face burned inside him and no matter how often he knelt here in prayer, her voice haunted him.
Father John pushed down the sob of grief and crossed himself again, fingering his rosary and starting on the familiar litany, losing himself inside the supplication for forgiveness, for mercy. The words rumbled in his chest, barely spoken aloud, pulling him from his weak, mortal body into the very grace of God where the sins of the flesh melted away and he was left clean.
The bruises had come in while he slept. The swelling had gone down around his eye, but it was nice and dark, making the blue all the brighter. The arm was stiff under the bandages, but it wasn't bad.
The knee was going to hamper him more, hot and tender to the touch.
Eliot turned away from the old, cloudy mirror. He was surprised to find a pair of sweats and a t-shirt on a trunk near the stairs. He didn't usually sleep through anyone getting that close to him. In fact, he seldom slept that well at all. He frowned down the stairs before stiffly dressing.
It was the first good night's sleep he'd had in ages, since he could remember really. He never slept well in a strange place, and he had no place of his own. Maybe it was the warmth of the attic, or the sense of peace that came with being on holy ground, or the way the priest's voice rumbled around in his head, soothing…
He could hear people below, deep, rumbling voices. He still had a job to do. A job made all the harder because of the distraction with the girl. At least now he knew where the damn thing was and all he had to do was get in, get it, and get out.
Piece of cake.
He pulled a hand through his hair and headed down the stairs, slow and easy, favoring the knee. The voices were all coming from the kitchen and Eliot was on edge as he eased around the door.
"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you'd sleep through breakfast." The priest from last night was smiling up at him, beckoning him into the kitchen. "Eliot, I'd like you to meet my fellow priests, Father Andrew Cunningham and Father Thomas Josephs."
The two men were older, significantly older. Eliot nodded to them and fidgeted a little, suddenly uncomfortable. "Hey thanks for the bed. I'm just going to get out of your way."
"Sit." Father John pulled the seat out next to him. His voice was stern, but not angry and Eliot found himself sitting even though he was fairly sure he didn't mean to. "Eat. After breakfast, I want a look at that cut on your arm, make sure it didn't get infected."
"It's fine." Eliot insisted as the nun he hadn't noticed before set a plate in front of him. How had he not noticed the nun? He shook his head and lifted his fork, inhaling a plate filled with scrambled eggs and bacon. He kept his head down, ate fast and when he was done he looked up to find four sets of eyes watching him. The nun seemed disgusted, the two older priests concerned. Only from Father John did he sense amusement.
"You want more?"
Eliot shook his head. He needed to get out of there before the girl's brother decided the church wasn't enough to protect Eliot's ass, but he'd learned young to never turn down a meal. You never knew when or where you would find the next one. "Look, I appreciate…everything. I got work to do."
The other two priests mumbled something and stood, leaving their empty plates and disappearing from the kitchen.
"Right, that getting things job of yours." Father John said, pushing back from the table. "Thank you sister, that will be all."
The nun withdrew and Eliot stood, wobbling a little as his knee caught. "No offense, Father."
"None taken, but are you really in any shape to go out there?"
"Don't really matter. I only got a few days to finish the job." He had already wasted one with the girl. That left two to get in, grab the package and get it back to Lopez, before Lopez cut his pay in half. "And if I don't deliver on time, that trouble last night isn't going to be the half of it."
"At least let me check that cut."
Eliot acquiesced because he sensed it would be easier than arguing, standing still as the priest's hands moved over his skin, easing the bandage off. There was something calming in his touch, a feeling close to comfort.
Father John's breath was hot, moist as he leaned in to examine the wound and suddenly Eliot was much less than comfortable, shifting a little, trying to distance himself from a rush of sense memory.
It had been a long, long time since he'd been touched so gently, and that last time…Eliot cleared his throat and pulled away. "Like I said…I'm fine."
There was something dark in the man's eyes as Eliot turned. "I'll get the clothes back to you, as soon as I find my things."
"No hurry."
"Thanks…for everything." Suddenly Eliot wanted nothing more than to get out of there, away from him. He wasn't comfortable with the attention.
"You're welcome, my Son. All are always welcome in God's house."
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession." The familiar words were comforting, even if the swirl of emotion inside him was not. He shifted in the small booth and swallowed. "I have had impure thoughts, Father."
"You are human, Father. Impure thoughts are to be expected from time to time."
"I know." John bowed his head over his folded hands. It had been two days since the boy had left and he could not stop seeing that bare, marked back, those piercing blue eyes, those hands. "He fills my dreams at night, and distracts me from my prayers in the day."
"I see. This is different from your usual stumbling blocks."
"Yes. I have not thought of another man since I was a very young man."
The other priest moved beside him, leaning in. "Tell me of him."
"He is a young man, came to us hurt and hiding from men who wished him harm. I gave him shelter."
Jeff could see his face, wicked smile and that hint of haunted soul. "He has a past, written in his skin. Somebody hurt him."
There's a soft chuckle on the other side of the grate. "And you think you can heal him?"
John sighed and shook his head. Honestly, he didn't know what it was he wanted. Although he would admit he wanted to know if the kid was okay. "I'm sure it's a passing thing. He struck a chord. He showed up…" John's breath caught in his chest. He had been alone in the sanctuary, praying to get through the night.
"The anniversary?" Father MacCowen's voice softened.
"Yeah. Thirteen years." His heart tightened around the memory; flames, screams, Mary's voice, the screams of his infant son, yellow eyes burning in a face he would never forget.
"You need to forgive yourself, John. Carrying around this grief will only take you back into the dark again and again."
"I know, I do." He had tried. His whole life as a priest had been a search for redemption, forgiveness for a moment of weakness, for the hopeless despair, for the fury that filled him when he discovered those yellow eyes were windows into hell.
He chased the darkness in the early years, hunted the perversion and evil. But the darkness was inside him and no matter where he went it came with him, until the day he found himself wounded, bleeding out and dying on the cold marble floor of a church.
"Have you spoken to him?" Father MacCowen asked and John inhaled deeply.
"I wrote a letter, but I haven't sent it." In fact, he carried the letter in his pocket, had since this time last year.
"You should take time off, go visit him."
"He doesn't want that." John inhaled and stood, ready now to end this confession and get back to his own duties, let Father MacCowen get back to taking the nuns' confessions so he could get back to his own church.
The door to the confessional opened as John stepped out from behind the curtain. Father MacCowen reached for his hand. "You don't know what he wants," he said gently. "It would be good for you. I think you need to see him, put your past to rest."
A part of him rebelled, his thoughts filled with less than charitable things. How would you know what I need? He looked away, breathing in the incense laden air.
"Pray, John. Our father knows what is in your heart."
John bowed his head for the benediction his friend and mentor offered and watched him go back into the small confessional. He turned to the altar, crossing himself as he knelt. Pray. John tried not to snort at the thought. Praying was just about all he'd done since the night he saw Eliot. Father MacCowen had no idea the sin that was in his heart, and if God saw, he seemed to be strangely mute on the subject these last few days.
John sighed and fingered his rosary, letting the familiar rhythm bring his mind to order, even as the rest of him swirled into chaos.