#again sorry for any grammar errors I still can't edit properly rn

[a-mossy-amethyst]

For the Malevolent writing prompt, maybe blind faith first kiss?

Sorry if this isn't what you wanted but alas, I am not a blindfaith shipper and love using religious imagery for angst

That being said, this fic has a lot of Christian (particularly Catholic) imagery. Take care of yourselves!!

This is an alternate scene for episode 38's ending, so some of the dialogue is taken from there.

“But when we get back, after I drop you off at the hospital, when this is done… this is done. I can't… our partnership is over.”

Arthur’s breaths line with the beat of his steps. He struggles to stay upright through exhaustion and carrying Oscar’s weight.

Said man's voice is ragged and weary, words lined together hesitantly as he struggles to form sentences.

“Arthur… you're my…”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, no, Oscar, no.” Guilt and grief crash like waves against his ribcage, a torrent of emotions amplified by his sleep deprived mind. “I'm not–”

The door, right before us, John chimes in, silent save for his directions.

He tries again. “I'm not… no.” He can't get the words out.

Oscar worships a god Arthur refuses to believe in. He worships like a lifeline, alcohol his temptation and the Bible his savior. A struggle between the pew and the bottle, the confessional his judge.

Arthur does not understand this. He had drank and hoped it would do him in. Hoped, not prayed. Even in the depths of his grief he dared not do that.

He does not seek redemption in God. The problem of evil is not an argument he is willing to have lest his anger get the better of him. Not when he is the evil allowed to live and Faroe's fate the tragedy God let happen.

“Arthur.” His name rolls off Oscar’s tongue like a prayer.

Arthur is not a saint; he will not carry his prayers to the Lord.

“I know you feel that, but it's not true,” he says, remorse draped on his shoulders, the weight of his sins against this man. “It can't be true. I'm sorry, but I can't help you anymore.”

He wonders if he ever helped him at all. Was his speech at the bar for Oscar, or for himself? He needed Oscar's assistance. The effort granted him that. Arthur is perpetually left asking if he wants to help others or is only interested in how they can aid him in return.

“Alright. Okay.” Oscar takes the rejection with the acceptance only the most devout can achieve. Sinners like them were not taught to question, only to bow their heads to the word of the Almighty.

Arthur is not a god; he will not bring mercy in exchange for humility.

The car is–

Arthur cuts him off. “I know. I can hear it.” He doesn't want to hear John's voice right now. He's giving this up for him, but it hurts. He can't get angry again. It'll make him feel worse about himself.

“Hear what?” Oscar asks.

“No, no, I hear…”

“Hear…?

Arthur changes the subject. “Rest, Oscar. Here.”

He opens the car door, gently pushing Oscar into the backseat.

“Aye.” Oscar sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

Arthur nods, moving to shut the door.

“Wait.”

He stops. “What is it?”

There's the ruffle of paper. “Here,” Oscar says, “It's where Daniel's Freemasons meet. You told me to… find out. I did. Forgot to tell you. Or, rather, I thought we'd end up looking together.” Grief tints his tone.

Oscar's holding a paper out to you. Just reach out– yes, there.

“Thank you, Oscar,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You…” Oscar's breaths come out ragged. “What happened, it's not your fault.”

Arthur's heart immediately rejects the comfort, tightening in his chest.

He dragged Oscar into this, desperate for someone to rely on. If it's not him at fault, then who?

“Just rest.”

“I'm serious. I chose to help you. You're my–”

“I'm not your purpose–”

“–my hope.”

All the air is pulled from Arthur’s lungs. Oscar continues.

“You're what I've been waiting for. What I thought I could never have. I thought I could let myself believe that… maybe it's okay.”

Arthur presses his lips together. Nothing would be okay around him. Death surrounds him like a curse. Oscar’s already lost an arm. He won't let him lose his life. “I’m not what you think I am. No god sent me to save you.”

Oscar’s voice is remorseful. “You don't understand.”

“I… I do, Oscar. I can't–”

“No.”

Oscar is shaking his head, John narrates. He's reaching out, his hand shaky from blood loss.

Something pulls at his collar.

… Arthur, he's grabbed the front of your shirt.

“You don't.”

Oscar pulls him in closer. Arthur stumbles forward, caught off guard.

“If you did,” he whispers, his breath hot against Arthur’s lips, “you'd never have taken me along.”

Then he kisses him.

Arthur’s eyes widen. He doesn't move at first, startled out of a reaction.

Oscars’s lips taste salty from the rain. He presses forward lightly, characteristically soft.

Arthur finds himself frozen. He doesn't want to hurt Oscar by pushing him away.

But he needs to end this.

Arthur, what the fuck is he doing?”

John’s voice snaps him out of his shock. He leans back, breaking the kiss.

“I…” His grip on the car door tightens.

Oscar was right, Arthur didn't understand. He does now. He doesn't like what he sees.

Oscar loves like a martyr. A sacrificial devotee to his tragedy.

Arthur is not a romantic; Oscar will not find a heart beating the same rhythm as him in Arthur.

Arthur wanted someone to trust. He'd like to be trusted in return, but this doesn't feel like trust. Oscar's devotion feels like blind faith, and Arthur feels too much like a false idol. Pretty and promising but lacking anything to give in return for worship.

“You don't feel the same way.” Oscar doesn't frame it like a question.

“I'm sorry.” Arthur means it. Wishes it didn't have to end this way. Knows there was no other way it could go.

“Who's John?” Oscar asks, voice wrought with… something. A feeling Arthur can't decipher.

He sighs. “No one. No one you'll ever meet. Goodbye, Oscar.”

Oscar doesn't respond. Arthur shuts the door.

Arthur, what the hell was that? John asks harshly.

“I don't want to explain right now. Later, I will,” he promises. When the wound is less fresh, when he can talk about this like it was an inevitable mistake he made. Always flawed, always hurting others. Arthur can talk about it when he convinces himself it's in the past and he is still capable of helping people.

… Okay, John agrees. The lack of argument makes Arthur wonder how wrung out he must sound.

Cold rain beats harshly against him, numbing his skin. He takes a deep breath.

In. All his feelings, threatening to overtake him like a tsunami.

Out. He exhales. The pain is still there.