at night i pray and clean my gun
at night i pray and clean my gun
His collar is too tight.
V. Father Jack Landry (Erica/Jack)
pg. 575. no spoilers, minor speculation.
[A/N: I always feel ridiculous when I write angst-filled fic for a science fiction fandom on my floral and very girly bedspread. Nevertheless, first foray into this fandom. Pardon any misuse or overkill of religious phrases. Oh, and enjoy.]
She has scars. She has flaws (both visible and not).
In the dead of night; surrounded by scratchy wool blankets in a too small twin bed, he decides that’s what he likes (loves?) most about her.
She’s oh so tangible. She’s oh so real.
Father Jack’s collar is too tight. He is, above all things, a religious man. Jack takes this as a sign.
(He pretends he does not dream of blonde hair and soft hands and her warm breath on his neck. Just like he pretends he has not seen war and bloodshed and his own weapon; burning hot in his hands.
Hands that pray, hands that heal.)
Erica calls him in the middle of the night; voice floating through the earpiece, a whisper he sometimes mistakes as a prayer.
Jack. Reverent. Certain. You’re the only one I can trust.
(And he pretends it’s not because the others in their small, ragtag resistance are made up of a rogue Visitor, a madman and a gun for hire.)
Her judgement is calculated and thoughtful. He follows her without question. Some days, when the gun in his hand feels as right as her having his back, her words are as true as gospel.
There’s something to be said about the darkness that lingers in worn and weary cathedrals. Statues that judge and artifacts that serve as heavy reminders; this is his will, not yours.
Space ships that loom over bustling cities; blind followers of faith and science thrown into confusion.
The Visitors; they’re not what anyone expected. (Not what he expected at all.)
The Vatican says welcome them, those that are made in God’s image. Father Jack dreams of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden; outer layers stripped away to reveal reptilian skin (the serpent laughs a knowing laugh).
They turn to him for comfort and reassurance. He grows tired, weary; three Hail Mary’s, the sign of the cross and he can’t stop his fingers from itching for his gun.
Sometimes, events don’t go exactly to plan-
(Her blood is red. Her breathing is shallow and she is light, so light in his arms. Sirens ring out in the night; fire raging in the distance and Ryan’s yelling at him to move. Hobbs laughs amidst the chaos and destruction and Erica is too cold.)
- If God won’t save her, he swears on his life and the Lord Almighty that he will.
Her kitchen is too bright. Her coffee is too hot. Every sight, sound, touch is heightened in her presence and their hands brush as she passes him files and he flinches.
(It’s too soft.)
She meets his eyes from across the room; she on the phone and smiling (hushed whispers and gentle words) and, with a quick excuse, she’s by his side.
Found something, Jack? (She dropped the ‘Father’ when they started fighting for their lives.)
Her hand lingers too long on his arm as she peers over his shoulder. Her hair tickles his neck and he can almost her the thump-thump of her heartbeat.
Should we check it out? He swallows and she nods, already across the room, strapping on her gun.
Out the door in an instant; they fall into step, side-by-side, like clockwork.
It’s like they’ve been doing this their whole lives.
In another life, he might have found her before he found God.
Jack does not dwell long on this fact.
end.
His collar is too tight.
V. Father Jack Landry (Erica/Jack)
pg. 575. no spoilers, minor speculation.
[A/N: I always feel ridiculous when I write angst-filled fic for a science fiction fandom on my floral and very girly bedspread. Nevertheless, first foray into this fandom. Pardon any misuse or overkill of religious phrases. Oh, and enjoy.]
She has scars. She has flaws (both visible and not).
In the dead of night; surrounded by scratchy wool blankets in a too small twin bed, he decides that’s what he likes (loves?) most about her.
She’s oh so tangible. She’s oh so real.
Father Jack’s collar is too tight. He is, above all things, a religious man. Jack takes this as a sign.
(He pretends he does not dream of blonde hair and soft hands and her warm breath on his neck. Just like he pretends he has not seen war and bloodshed and his own weapon; burning hot in his hands.
Hands that pray, hands that heal.)
Erica calls him in the middle of the night; voice floating through the earpiece, a whisper he sometimes mistakes as a prayer.
Jack. Reverent. Certain. You’re the only one I can trust.
(And he pretends it’s not because the others in their small, ragtag resistance are made up of a rogue Visitor, a madman and a gun for hire.)
Her judgement is calculated and thoughtful. He follows her without question. Some days, when the gun in his hand feels as right as her having his back, her words are as true as gospel.
There’s something to be said about the darkness that lingers in worn and weary cathedrals. Statues that judge and artifacts that serve as heavy reminders; this is his will, not yours.
Space ships that loom over bustling cities; blind followers of faith and science thrown into confusion.
The Visitors; they’re not what anyone expected. (Not what he expected at all.)
The Vatican says welcome them, those that are made in God’s image. Father Jack dreams of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden; outer layers stripped away to reveal reptilian skin (the serpent laughs a knowing laugh).
They turn to him for comfort and reassurance. He grows tired, weary; three Hail Mary’s, the sign of the cross and he can’t stop his fingers from itching for his gun.
Sometimes, events don’t go exactly to plan-
(Her blood is red. Her breathing is shallow and she is light, so light in his arms. Sirens ring out in the night; fire raging in the distance and Ryan’s yelling at him to move. Hobbs laughs amidst the chaos and destruction and Erica is too cold.)
- If God won’t save her, he swears on his life and the Lord Almighty that he will.
Her kitchen is too bright. Her coffee is too hot. Every sight, sound, touch is heightened in her presence and their hands brush as she passes him files and he flinches.
(It’s too soft.)
She meets his eyes from across the room; she on the phone and smiling (hushed whispers and gentle words) and, with a quick excuse, she’s by his side.
Found something, Jack? (She dropped the ‘Father’ when they started fighting for their lives.)
Her hand lingers too long on his arm as she peers over his shoulder. Her hair tickles his neck and he can almost her the thump-thump of her heartbeat.
Should we check it out? He swallows and she nods, already across the room, strapping on her gun.
Out the door in an instant; they fall into step, side-by-side, like clockwork.
It’s like they’ve been doing this their whole lives.
In another life, he might have found her before he found God.
Jack does not dwell long on this fact.
end.