dang-itshauntedinhere

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Epilogue

Communion

Summary:            

I just finished my massive 40k word Exorcist fic, when something came over me - here we go, gang

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Full blown sex here, all. ;-]

Words: 4.7k

CW: NSFW, unprotected p in v (wrap it up, all, the pill was just the most popular form of contraception in the 70s, what can I say)

It was so early the sky was still gray. Pale sunlight lit the edges of the curtains, painting hazy, glowing lines across the sheets. The still air of your shared bedroom was cold, sending a chill across your exposed shoulder. You wrinkled your nose. You didn’t want to wake up, not quite yet. 

Pulling the covers up over your exposed form, you were soothed by the heavy, soft crinkling of the fabric. Burrowing into the bed a bit deeper, you sighed, utterly content as the warmth of the broad body at your side spread through you. The winter months were especially rewarding when you were married to a living radiator. 

Sleep rose around you like a warm bath, but just when you were about to drift back to unconsciousness, the bed shifted. You opened your eyes, blinking through bleary morning tears as the covers lifted beside you. Damien breathed deeply, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he rose. 

Early riser, you thought, rolling your eyes. Well I’m still set on sleeping in—

Damien stretched, one arm bent above his head while he gripped his elbow with his other hand. A quiet groan. A sigh. His muscles tightened, firm beneath his freckled, pale skin. Your sleep-blurred gaze cleared as your skin heated beneath the cool sheets. You held your breath as you watched, suddenly very awake. 

Dark patterns of hair followed the contours of his back and arms, an occasional thread of silver visible in the jet black. You swallowed thickly as he stood, the sheets falling from his waist to reveal the edges of his muscles disappearing under the waistband of dark gray boxers. 

Fuck, you thought, bringing the covers up over your flushed face.

Determined to sleep in anyway, you turned over, willing your mind to clean up its act. 

Moments passed and your skin cooled, muscles relaxing as you listened to Damien’s muffled steps.

You drifted off. 

The dream started quickly. You held his face in your hands, watching his expression as his hands drifted over your body. His thigh was wedged snugly between your legs where you straddled his knee, grinding against him in slow, firm movements. Frustration burned in your core – you couldn’t quite get enough friction. 

A wrecked moan left you, your hands moving to grip his shoulders as Damien leaned forward, lips finding the nape of your neck. His hands lowered to grip your hips, pushing you against him even harder. 

Your breath came in strangled gasps, nails digging into the firm muscles of Damien’s shoulders as you moved, mind boggling with his every muffled utterance of your name. 

All at once, his voice was much clearer, and the delicious friction driving you to your climax evaporated. Sweat pricked your bare skin and cooled between your thighs where you were tangled in the sheets. Embarrassed, you tried quietly to catch your breath. 

You turned over to where Damien said your name, concern lining his voice. Just as you thought you might be composed enough to respond, heat rushed back through you as you took him in. 

Damien sat next to you in your shared bed, propped up against the headboard, one leg bent up where he held an open book. He was dressed only in his boxers and a pair of reading glasses. You wanted to scream.

Feigning a yawn, you took the chance to shut your eyes, blocking out the frustratingly arousing image. 

“You alright?” Damien asked. “It seemed like you were dreaming.”

You pushed a hand through your hair, then held the bridge of your nose, shaking your head.

“It was nothing,” you said, still blushing furiously. Damien’s gaze stayed trained on you.

“A nightmare, then?” he asked. It wasn’t uncommon for you to have violent nightmares that could throw you off for the entire day. Neither was it rare for you to try and hide it, embarrassed at your sensitivity. You shook your head quickly, smiling sheepishly. 

“No, no, nothing like that,” you said. He held your gaze for a moment, and you couldn’t help but look away, hiding your disheveled form behind the sheets. 

Suddenly Damien raised an eyebrow, mouth turning up into a slight grin. 

“What was your dream about then?” Damien asked. You stayed silent. He took the opportunity to push further. “Was I in it?”

Your eyes widened, mortified. 

“No,” you said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Damien just laughed.

“Okay, I believe you,” he said, voice laced with sarcasm. Now you were annoyed. 

“Great,” you huffed, turning away from him and closing your eyes. He laughed again.

“No, no, no, how did I get you mad at me?” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

“You woke me up just to make fun of me?” you asked, pouting. 

“Oh, so I was definitely in the dream,” he said. You shot up, looking over at him.

“Can you blame me?” You said, shaking off his hand. “I wake up to see you like-” He blinked at you, oblivious. “-like this?” Damien looked at himself for a moment, then back to you.

“You see me like this all the time?” he said, still smiling slightly. You looked at him, irritated.

“Dames,” you shook your head. “You can’t be pretty and oblivious.” His grin widened. 

“You think I’m pretty?” he asked, a rosy blush creeping across his face. You flushed, unable to stifle a smile. Damn it. Then you had an idea. 

Trying to hold as much of a poker face as possible, you turned your legs so you were sitting upright, and casually scooted a bit closer to Damien, who looked at you, one brow raised. Shaking a bit of hair out of your face, you reached over to brush a lock of black hair behind his ear. Then, tilting his face down slightly with one hand, you leaned over, closed your eyes, and pressed a long kiss to his lips. He hesitated for a moment before he pressed back into you, his hand finding your waist, book abandoned.

Then you pulled away. Damien’s pupils were blown, lips slightly parted. You caressed his jaw with your thumb, breathing deeply as you held his gaze, then leaned back, letting him go. You moved backwards, lifting the covers back before swinging your legs over your side of the bed, back to him, giggling quietly. 

Maybe it was a little unfair to your husband, but you were undeniably satisfied with your revenge. Stretching, you moved to stand up from the bed, but was stopped when thick arms circled your shoulders, tugging you backwards with a yelp. 

Your back met Damien’s chest, and you could feel where his leg was bent flat behind your hips, his other leg bent more open at your side. You held onto his arm where it was pressed across your chest, balancing on the edge of the bed. His head fell to your shoulder, sleep-ruffled hair soft against your jaw. 

“Damien-” you breathed, voice barely audible through your own surprised arousal. 

“Don’t go yet,” he said, his voice deep and pleading. You shivered as you felt his lips press to your heated skin. You leaned your head a bit as he kissed up the side of your neck.

“Tell me what you want, hm?” Damien asked, one hand squeezing your shoulder. You swallowed.

“You, Damien,” you laughed. “I want you.” You felt him smile against your skin. 

Most couples might have slept together right after getting married, or wouldn’t have waited as long as you had. It wasn’t intentional, you’d simply been content enough without going much further than kissing or some touching. You didn’t feel like you had to do anything. Even if it might've been fun, Damien had never pressured you. As far as he was concerned, the two of you had known each other long enough for even the smallest things to be as intimate as sex, and if you never went that far, he didn’t care.

But now, as you giggled and held each other like giddy teenagers, it felt right. 

Damien released your shoulders, shuffling back so you could find yourself more secure footing on the bed. You obliged, scooting back and pulling your legs up onto the bed. Already missing the heat of his skin against yours, you reached out to him, hands finding either side of his jaw. He turned to face you with a smile, tossing his reading glasses onto the small table by the bed. 

With no hesitation, he followed your embrace, mouth meeting yours in an open-mouthed kiss. One of your hands slid down over the prickly, unshaven beginnings of his facial hair to the nape of his neck, your other hand finding purchase in his hair. You focused on the feeling of his muscles tightening under your grip, your tongue moving to explore the heated cavern of his mouth.

Damien’s hands were slow, moving feather-light over your tummy before dipping under the hem of your stretched-out sleep shirt. The fabric was threadbare, moving easily as his hands found the soft flesh of your waist. The skin of his hands was rough and warm against you, and you sighed, sensitive to his touch.

Pulling back from the kiss, you gulped down air, eyes lingering on the thin thread of saliva still connecting you. You gasped before you could kiss him again, fisting his hair when his hands came up under your breasts, cupping and kneading the soft flesh. His movements stilled for a beat when you pulled at his hair, a low groan leaving his mouth. 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” you smiled, gasping. His head dropped to your shoulder when you tugged again, teeth grazing your collarbone. 

“Mn—‘t feels good,” he growled against you, sending a chill down your spine. You’d never heard him sound like this before. You hummed, your other hand going to his hair. Gently, you pulled at his hair, raking your nails over his scalp. His shoulders shook with a moan, his hands squeezing you under your shirt as he curled into you. 

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” he said, pressing his hands beneath your breasts to your ribs, thumbs flattening against your breastbone. 

“I must like you or something,” you mumbled to him. He huffed a laugh, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. He went silent as you felt his lips close against your neck, your skin stinging slightly as he sucked.

“Hah—” you moaned, pulling his hair again as he sucked harder, the edge of his teeth biting the bruising flesh. With a satisfied pop, his lips left your neck, kissing and gently licking the darkening hickey he left above your collarbone.  

“Can I take this off?” He asked, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His expression was utterly wrecked, skin washed red and eyes half-lidded, lips slightly swollen. You nodded, arms raising as he lifted the shirt from your frame. He tossed the soft garment away, sighing as he looked you over. You couldn’t help the blush that heated your face and chest, you’d never get used to him looking at you that way.

“I think my legs are falling asleep,” you said, smiling as you unfolded your legs from beneath you and spread them on either side of Damien. He grinned, watching you move and stretch with hungry eyes. 

“You might have to give me some advice,” He said, moving to sit on his knees between your legs, hands resting on your knees. “I’ve never done this before.” 

You leaned back onto your elbows, contemplating how to instruct him. You knew he wasn’t very experienced beyond what you’d done in the past. You’d been married before, and he’d been celibate.

“It’s a lot easier if I’m as-” you cleared your throat, still sheepish, despite it all. “As wet as possible,” you said, meeting his eyes. He swallowed hard. 

“So I can touch myself,” you offered. “Or you can touch me – what do you want to do?”

He looked down to where your legs parted, thinking. You stood up a bit, leaning forward to balance on your hands. 

“Or we could do something else,” you said. You didn’t want to push him. “I really liked what we were doing before.” His blush darkened.

“Oh I want to do this,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you start, then I can take over?” You nodded, a little amused at how seriously he was taking this. You scooted backwards a bit until your back hit the pillows, resting against the headboard. 

You moved your hands down, suddenly hesitating, intimidated at the thought of doing this in front of him. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before reaching around your hips to shimmy off your underwear. You slid the slip of fabric down your legs, tossing it to the side with your shirt. 

You looked up to see him watching you intently, eyes dark. You rested one hand on your thigh, the other moving down to where you were exposed. With two careful fingers, you traced the edge of your lips, then opened your fingers just enough to part them. 

You could already tell you were soaked, inner folds coated in warm slick. With a heavy breath, you dipped a finger between your folds, gathering some of the moisture before moving your fingers up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Gasping slightly at the contact, you began to move your fingers over the bud, applying pressure towards your opening with each movement. Then, after a few moments, you pushed your finger much further, knuckles disappearing into your heat.

Breathing heavy, you looked up, curious to see what Damien thought of your movements. His expression would be burned into your memory. His eyes were focused, pupils so large his expression was dark. His mouth hung slightly open, chest heaving with every breath. He gripped your knee with one hand, the other resting on your other thigh. 

That was when you noticed the bulge in his boxers, stretching against the dark fabric. 

His eyes met yours, and he squeezed your thigh lightly, one side of his mouth raising slightly in a smile. 

“I think I’m ready,” he said, voice low. You drew away your hand as he moved forward slightly, hand leaving your knee to grasp your wrist. You narrowed your eyes, offering him the hand he held. 

He held your gaze as he bent his neck to lick the still-warm fluid from your digits. You groaned, his tongue moving to take your middle finger into his mouth. When he opened his mouth to let go of your hand, you followed his eyes as he lifted your hand to the back of his head where you threaded your fingers through his hair once more. Then he lowered himself to your center. 

You watched him, in awe, until you felt his tongue swipe through your folds with an experimental lick. Your body tensed, your other hand flying to your mouth to stifle your moans. He laughed low against you before licking again, sending another jolt through you. You pulled at his hair slightly. Then, he pushed further, the bridge of his nose pressing against your already sensitive bundle of nerves.

You were writhing. He pressed his tongue in and out of you, making small movements with each lick that put more pressure on your clit. His movements started slow and sloppy, but with every minute became faster and more practiced. Now and then he would pause to take a breath, only to return to his movements, swirling his tongue around your bud.

You could only try to hold yourself back from pushing him too hard against you, muffling your cries with your other hand. 

“Hah—that’s, this—fuck,” you gasped, trying to get the words out. “—feels so good, Damien–”

The pleasure was overwhelming, and you felt almost guilty for a moment for not paying him the same attention. But as you arched into him, it wasn’t just you seeking more friction. His hips moved in a slow motion, grinding against the bed as he ate you out. 

The heat coursing through you was growing more intense, and each new groan and lick against your aching folds was pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Damien kept your legs apart with his hands, and it was getting harder and harder not to push them together. 

That was when he figured out he could flutter his tongue quickly back and forth across your clit, leaving you squirming and crying his name. You snapped. Your legs shook, the muscles in your abdomen spasming as waves of pleasure crashed over you, one after the other. 

A strangled cry left your lips when in the midst of your climax, he pressed a hard kiss to your clit, then a flat lick across your center, sending sharp sparks of overstimulated ecstasy through your muscles.

After a few long moments, you pulled him away from you and he pushed himself up, licking his lips. Hot tears pricked your eyes, your breath still labored. Damien’s mouth and chin were glossy, coated in your release. His eyes were half-lidded, a proud smile playing across his swollen lips.

“How was it?” he said, voice syrupy. You scoffed, swiping your thumb across his lower lip, holding his face in both hands. 

“Fuck, Damien,” you said, breathless. “How– how do you know how to do that?”

“I just watched you,” he said. “You’re pretty responsive.” You flushed, laughing. You kissed him, lips crashing together as you caught your breath, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“I’d like you inside me now,” you said between kisses, peppering his mouth and jaw. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. He pulled away from you to move to the edge of the bed before standing, fingers hooking into his waistband before pulling the garment down, revealing his achingly hard cock. He was just under five and half inches long and uncut, a swath of thick, black hair at the base leading up to his belly in a dark happy trail. 

You watched him, biting the inside of your cheek, anticipation building in your core.

He looked back to you, moving to climb back onto the bed, but you held out your hand, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked at you confused for a moment before you gestured for him to come closer, standing as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. You held his gaze as you walked around to face him, before slowly crouching between his knees. His eyes widened with the realization, a dark fuchsia spreading across his features. 

You settled on your knees in front of him, a hand resting on his thigh.

“What do you think?” You asked, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Damien swallowed, nodding.

“I don’t think I’ll last very long,” he said, sheepish. You smiled. Now it was your turn. 

You leaned forward, licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock. He groaned, the muscles in his thigh tensing under your hand. You licked him again, this time tipping your head under him so his member rested heavy across your cheek, looking up at him. He watched you with wide eyes, mouth open. He reached down to hold your face with one hand, fingers curling under your jaw, this thumb sliding across your other cheek. You smiled at him. You could’ve sworn his breath was steamy, clouding the air. 

You moved again, this time laying your tongue flat out on your bottom lip, using your other hand to position his head on your tongue. Then, with a slow movement, you closed your lips around him, pushing forward to take him into your mouth. He shuddered, his cock twitching in your mouth.

“Mn— ‘t’s so warm,” he groaned, head bent down, his other hand gripping the sheets. 

Moving forward, you took more of him into your mouth, moving your tongue around the soft flesh of the underside. His head pushed up against the inside of your cheek under his thumb. He felt the bulge in your mouth with his thumb, mesmerized as you bobbed your head, taking as much of him as you could. You stroked the base with your other hand, collecting the foamy spit bubbles that escaped your lips to lubricate your motions. 

“Hah—hah–” he breathed heavily, cock twitching against your tongue. “—m’ close, really close—fuck-”

You looked up at him once before moving your hand to cup his balls gently, then you took a breath through your nose before pushing forward, swallowing to take his entire member into your mouth and just down your throat, pressing your nose to the base. 

“Fuck–fuck—!” Damien gasped. You hollowed your cheeks, inhaling the scent of the soft hair that tickled your face, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to hold the position as long as you could. His balls tensed in your hand as he ejaculated, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat. Choking slightly, you pulled back, letting him sit on your tongue, collecting the rest of his spend. Finally, he relaxed, and you gave a quick lick to his head that had him jolting before closing your mouth, looking up at him as you swallowed heavily. 

He could only pant as he looked down at you, holding your face. You turned to kiss his palm with a tenderness that had him hard all over again.

“You think you can go again?” You asked. He nodded, his hand leaving your jaw to take your elbow as you stood up, knees stinging. The soft surface of the bed was a welcome change as you hopped up onto the bed, shuffling onto your back against the pillows. You stretched to pull one of the pillows out from under you, tucking it behind your hips, propping yourself up slightly.

Damien moved to join you, settling on his knees between your legs. With one hand holding himself near your entrance, he leaned down over you with his other, pressing a kiss to your tired lips. You reached down with one hand, taking his head into your palm, your other hand pressing flat against his chest. 

“You tell me what to do, okay?” he said, eyes meeting yours. You nodded.

“Start really slow, and I’ll tell you when to start moving,” you said, anticipation leaving your mouth dry. He nodded, then moved his hips forward. You guided him to your entrance, flinching as the head kissed your drenched slit. You took a breath in, then exhaled as he pushed forward, stretching you open. 

“Ah—!” you yelped, hand leaving your core to grip the sheets as your muscles stung, stretching to accommodate him. Damien froze, looking at you with a worried expression. 

“What’s wrong? Does it hurt?” he asked, hand moving to caress your neck. 

“—It’s-’ts okay, I’m okay,” you gasped. “Feels–feels really big–” The pain ebbed after a moment, leaving you feeling strained, but full. 

“Hah—you can keep going,” you said. Damien nodded, slowly pushing a little further.

“Aah—hah–!” you gasped, the ache radiating through your pelvic floor. 

“Hold onto me,” Damien offered, moving your arm under his shoulder. You did as you were told, digging your nails into his back and breathing deeply as he inched forward. The minutes were long, but slowly, the pain faded into only the satisfying stretch of him buried in you. 

“I think you can move now,” you said, nodding. Damien breathed, then drew his hips back slowly. You moaned at the feeling of him moving against your walls, clinging to him as he pushed back in. He moved like that for a few long minutes, watching you intently as your expression relaxed. He pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“Okay—hah—a little faster, please,” you said. He was happy to oblige. The quiet, wet sounds of where you were joined filled the room. The gentle slap of his hips against yours had you seeing stars. 

You looked up at him and let go with one of your hands, letting it drop to the bed beside you. He looked at you with a questioning look. You huffed out a laugh between thrusts. 

“I’m worried I’ll hurt you,” you said “I think I’m scratching you up.” Damien laughed.

“I’m not worried about that,” he said, voice tense with effort. You reached up and ran your thumb through his eyebrow, collecting the sweat that clung to his forehead and hair. He paused for a moment, panting above you.

“You’re so good to me, Damien,” you said.

He leaned forward, pressing a long, gentle kiss to your lips. 

“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth. Your heart drummed in your chest, your hand holding the side of his neck. One of his hands moved from where he supported himself by your head down over your belly to your hip, where it drifted over to press two fingers into the soft flesh just above your clit. Your breath caught in your throat, legs squeezing his hips where he was buried in you. 

“Stay open for me,” he said, opening his legs slightly to push your thighs apart. His commanding tone wrecked you, and all you could do was nod.

Then, he started moving again. Each thrust was harder than the last, his pace quickening with the sound of your gasping in his ear. 

Your legs twitched with every thrust, his hand pressing small circles into your throbbing clit. You said his name over and over like a prayer as the blood rushed in your ears, the pleasure building to an almost painful plateau. 

“ –Hah—Damien, I–!” you couldn’t get the words out. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Damien said, forehead falling to yours. You moaned in a gasp as the pressure finally burst, your legs squeezing his hips and your other hand clawing at his shoulder. You felt yourself clenching around him, sparks of intense pleasure shooting through your muscles as the moment passed. Damien was pressed deep into you, holding still as you rode out your climax. 

Finally, your muscles relaxed, and you loosened your grip on him. 

“Can I move again?” Damien asked, voice strained. Your hand at his neck moved into his hair, and you nodded, pulling his dark locks slightly. He shuddered into your touch as his hips slid back before thrusting back into your doubly slick heat. You gasped as he chased his own high, his cock twitching inside you. He tried to say something, but it only came out as a strangled gasp. 

“Inside, inside,” you said, voice laced with exhaustion and pleasure. “Please, Damien–” That was all he needed. You cried out as he pushed into you again, colliding with your overstimulated nerves as he spilled into you. Warmth spread through you as he groaned into your shoulder, shaking. 

Finally, he collapsed, supported only by his elbows at either side of your head, sweat darkening his ruffled hair. You massaged his scalp, murmuring how good he’d been for you, and how good he felt loosening inside you while he pressed tired kisses to your forehead. Gingerly, he pulled out of you, a thin string of your combined fluids still connecting you. You felt starkly empty without him in you.

With a quiet groan, he managed to push himself off of you, laying at your side. You turned to face him, his hand still holding your arm as you shifted to your side. You stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing deeply and whispering about how tired you were. 

You sat up carefully, moving your legs to hang over the side of the bed. You stood, intending to head to the bathroom to get cleaned up, but it only took one overly ambitious step for you to collapse, legs giving out and yelping at the ache in your core. Damien shot up, only managing to reach for you before you fell, sitting on the floor with your legs crumpled beneath you. 

Damien rushed to your side as you laughed, embarrassed. 

“I think you rearranged some things,” you said through your giggles. Damien huffed, when a smile spread across his face. 

“What–” you started to ask what he was thinking of, but yelped as he scooped you up bridal-style, your arms flying around his neck as you scrambled to steady yourself.

“Damien!” you giggled. “I’m too heavy!” He just ignored you, stepping slowly through the room as you giggled and kicked.

Your heart ached in your chest as you laughed, overwhelmed by your fool of a husband. 

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 7

Wine

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 (you are here!)

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Everything was worth it, in the end.

Words: 7.5k

TW: Injury, Hospital stay, Trauma, Nightmares, gore

Going to a hospital in Georgetown was out of the question. 

In Damien’s few waking moments after the exorcism, you discovered that the police might be holding him under some suspicion for Burke Dennings’ death, along with some bizarre vandalism at the church. You couldn’t rule out that they’d be looking for him after Father Merrin’s death, either. 

Apparently, there was one detective in particular that seemed to be after him. But that wasn’t the only reason to get out of Georgetown. The deep purple bruises clearly shaped like clutching fingers blooming across your neck would make anyone suspicious – not to mention the nurses at the emergency room you had visited for the last several days during Damien’s stay.

You decided on New York. You were grateful your car was still parked nearby.

Thus, in the freezing early hours of the morning, you and Dyer limped from the back gate of St. Michael’s, trying your best to be discreet – perhaps more a fantasy than an actual goal.

Once you were in the car, you let out an anxious breath. Dyer volunteered to drive – you were grateful to take him up on his offer, still aching and nauseous from the evening. 

Even if it had only been one night, leaving the suffocating walls of the church was a relief in its own right. As Dyer began the four-hour drive, you looked back at Damien, who was slumped half-awake in the back seat.

You couldn’t really… speak. The pain in your throat kept you silent – though neither of your companions seemed very conversational either. You turned on the radio, grateful for the light, familiar sound of Stevie Wonder’s “Happier Than the Morning Sun” filling the car. 

About an hour into the ride, you looked back at Damien – something you seemed to have to do every few minutes, afraid he might suddenly disappear – and found him staring right back at you. The bags under his eyes were heavy, eyes glassy. You looked down.

It took you a moment to realize he was looking at your neck, where shadows of his hands peeked out from under the hood of one of his sweaters. You had tried to hide it – but it was hard to ignore. 

What could you even say to him? Even if you could say the words, you knew there wasn’t anything you could do to make him forgive himself from nearly killing you. It hadn’t truly sunken in for you either. 

You elected to push the realization away, kicking it down a road you knew was a dead end. At least you had a future to ignore it with. 

Even so, you couldn’t relax knowing he was torturing himself with the thought. Damien was the type to bottle up his feelings, yes – but he was also the type to internalize his shame, playing it over in his head until it was all he could think about. 

So, you threw him a line. Selecting your undamaged hand, you reached behind you, offering an open palm. He looked down at your hand, hesitating. Maybe it was too soon, you thought with a wince.

But then you felt his clammy hand find yours, gingerly taking your offer. He didn’t apply an ounce of strength, like he was holding a fragile butterfly. You smiled. 

—

You managed to hide your injury for a few minutes, staying with Damien and Dyer as they checked-in, Dyer doing most of the talking. The story was that you had been in a minor accident. You tried to follow them – but a nurse pulled you aside to examine your hand, and you spent the rest of the time separated.

The cool gloved fingers of the doctor brought tears to your eyes as they poked and prodded - and eventually asked you to disrobe. You felt like a child, hesitating and losing focus, somehow hoping if you zoned out, the well-meaning man might leave you alone. You wanted to push their hands away and curl up in a corner – but it had to be done. 

Bandages for your knees, X-rays and plaster for your hand, more X-rays for bruised ribs, and finally, a detailed examination of your neck. 

Not being able to speak didn’t stop the questions. 

“Did you lose consciousness while being strangled?”

“Would you like to press charges or file a police report?”

“Did someone you know do this to you? Was it either of the men you came with?”

You shook your head for what seemed like an hour. You couldn’t blame the staff, you’d be just as inclined to be concerned. People don’t choke themselves, and car accidents don’t leave fingerprints.

Then, suddenly, you were finished. The cool plastic of the pale blue chair pressed into your back as you waited in the lobby, head down, the ice pack given to you pressed to your neck, and trying to breathe deeply. It wasn’t easy, and worse, it was boring. You were surprised that you managed to get away without being admitted – you hoped the boys would be as lucky.

Dyer was the first to emerge. You smiled at him when you saw him. 

The first thing you noticed were the bandages across the bridge of his nose, a small metal plate reinforcing the structure. Thick gauze wrapped around his head, his torn ear invisible under the compress. 

Thankfully, you’d had the forethought to change their clothes before you left, so Damien wouldn’t arrive in a different hospital’s garment, and Dyer wouldn't be so distracting in his cassock. 

He plopped down in the chair next to you. You looked over at him, opening your mouth to ask but wincing instead. 

“Seems like he’s still in, I don’t know how long it’ll take,” He said. You nodded. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you closed your eyes, listening to the busy sounds of the lobby.

—

As long as he was holding your hand, Damien could at least pretend to be a functioning person. So needless to say, the hospital visit was rough. He was quickly wheeled away in a wheelchair, hand slipping away from yours as you were led to another room. You gave him one last look before turning away. 

He didn’t respond when the nurses asked him about the crash, what kind of car he had been in or where he’d been sitting. He kept his eyes glued to the checkered floor, trying to focus on his breathing. Damien wanted to scream, to stand up and run out, to hide under a table like a scared animal. 

He wanted them to stop touching him. But the pain that ripped through his chest with every breath and the stinging gashes in his wrists kept him still. He could bear this if it meant he could get out of here and back to you faster.

“Sir, how did you sustain these injuries?” The doctor’s voice was serious and commanding, waking him from his thoughts. He pulled his arm away from where she held his wrist, the ragged, clotted gashes already seeping with a deep ache.

“I…” Damien rasped, mind racing. “I was r-reaching for something when we crashed. My hands got… caught.”

The older woman stared at him, one eyebrow raised. 

“The socks were all I had,” he said. 

“Alright, Mr.. Karras,” She sighed, shaking her head, reaching slightly for his arm once more. He hesitated, but finally let her and another nurse pry the limb away from him. He screwed his eyes shut as they explained that they’d have to give him stitches. A needle pushed into his skin, the thin point burning through his sensitive flesh. 

He didn’t have the energy to flinch. 

When he was finally released, it was late in the day. He sat up straighter now in the wheelchair, aware with the prospect of seeing you and Dyer waiting for him. He couldn’t… remember much from the days before. Fleeting memories of Reagan’s exorcism flashed through his mind. A different hospital. Then, the church. 

The last thing he could comprehend was waking up next to you on the floor of his room, Dyer over him. You looked relieved. 

But in the hours since then, your face was colored with apprehension. You kept a wary eye on him at all times, drifting in and out of his vision. It was when he noticed the dark bruises blackening on your neck that he realized that you were… afraid of him. 

He must have hurt you. He must have hurt Dyer. The crushing exhaustion kept the guilt creeping up his throat at bay, for now, and the thought moved no further. Keeping his mind blank was easy.

It was seeing you in the waiting room that caught his breath in his throat. His eyes stung with tears that threatened to spill as he saw you slack against Dyer, head propped up on a thick white collar around your neck. Your eyes were sunken and dark, one of your hands encased in a thick plaster in your lap. Dyer wasn’t much better. 

Damien swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t make a sound. What could he say? 

Dyer saw him first. He reached over to wake you. Damien wanted to tell him not to, no, let her sleep, she needs it, but you were already blinking awake. You yawned, rubbing your eyes and wincing.

He couldn't meet your gaze when you looked at him, eyes full of concern.

—

When your trio arrived at the brick apartment building you called home, he could feel your demeanor relax. He wondered how long it had been since you were back at your own apartment. 

The sun was setting now, washing the cracking concrete steps to the front door in golden light. Damien looked across the several windows peeking through the vines drowning the facade and wondered which one was yours. He’d never actually seen your apartment here, he realized with a pang of guilt. You had always come to him.

You stepped out of the car first, starting for the door and digging through your pockets for the keys. Dyer left next, walking around the side of the car to open the back door where Damien sat waiting like a child. It was strange how weak he was. After so many years running, boxing, and just being able to walk as easily as he did, his hollow frame was foreign to him. 

Embarrassed but unwilling to offend his friend’s unending patience, he approached the building leaning on Dyer for support. 

One silent, shaky elevator ride later, you opened the door to your apartment, specks of dust floating through the sun coming from the windows. Dyer set him down gingerly on the deep green corduroy cushions of your couch as you asked him to open the windows in your bedroom around the corner. 

Pulling the curtains back, you tried to open the window in the living room, only to freeze, brow furrowed, remembering your hand. You tried with your good hand, but couldn’t make it budge. You sighed, clearly annoyed. 

Mustering all of his energy, Damien rose from the couch, shuffling over to your side. You noticed him with a turn of your head, quick to refuse his help, telling him he should rest. He was tired of resting.

His hands gripped under the edge of the window, willing it to slide open. You watched for a moment before stepping closer to him, your good hand joining his. Together, slowly and painfully, you wrenched it open, the cool evening air rushing into the warm, stuffy room between your bodies. You looked over and smiled at him, your hand touching his arm in a brief gesture of gratitude. 

He didn’t deserve any of your kind looks, he thought. But a wave of warm, excited pride washed over him, and as silly as it was, he wanted to chase the feeling. He gestured to the window next to it, hoping to help you again. The domestic normalcy was addictive. 

With all of the windows open and the stale air flushing out of the room, you seemed a little more at ease. He couldn’t help but relish the proximity as you stood next to him, watching the dry leaves outside clatter and shake in the breeze. Your hair shifted slightly around your face, eyelashes catching the last of the sun with a golden glint. 

Even though he could feel himself shaking slightly with the effort of staying standing, he stared at you happily, content to watch your subtly changing expressions.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?” Dyer’s voice cut through the quiet. You looked over to him, turning. 

“No, I’m sure we can manage,” You said, walking over to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? It’s a long train back to DC.”

Dyer shook his head.

“I need to get back to the church,” he said. “Someone needs to explain things for them. Not sure what I’ll tell them yet, but four hours should be enough time to think of something.” 

He smiled, and you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hugged you for a moment before looking over to where Damien stood, leaning against the wall. You stepped back from him, watching as he hugged Damien next, arms bracketing his shoulders. 

Damien was a little surprised by the gesture, but patted the man’s shoulder in return. It was the most he could do. 

“I’ll see you soon, Damien,” Dyer said next to him. “Call if you need anything.” Damien nodded. He’d miss his steady, faithful presence, but he was grateful for his willingness to confront the confusing circumstances of the last weeks. He didn’t envy him the task.

“Thank you, Father,” Damien croaked. Dyer gave him one last sincere look before pulling away, waving as he stepped out of your apartment. The door closed with a gentle click.

“So,” you started, offering your arm. “Want the tour?” Damien smiled, nodding. With a deep breath, he took your arm. As you stepped away, he stumbled slightly, refusing to actually put any of his weight on you. He inhaled quickly as he felt your hand slide around his waist, shifting his arm up around your shoulders.

“It’s okay,” You huffed. “I can handle you.” He nodded brusquely, clearing his throat. A heated blush crept up across his skin.

You shuffled through all of the apartment’s three rooms, explaining details about each. First, a small bedroom with a window, then the bathroom, and finally the kitchen, attached openly to the living room. Damien drank it all in.

Everything smelled like you, sweet and earthy. The walls were covered in paintings and drawings, many of which were clearly made by children – your past students. Jars filled partway with water were scattered on every surface, some holding wilted flowers, others holding paint brushes. Books crowded shelves, others lying in tall stacks or filed neatly in milk crates. 

“Feels… homemade,” Damien said, fingers trailing through patched curtains. 

“Thank you,” you laughed. “A lot of it is secondhand. I didn’t bring much when I… moved in.” He watched you as you paused, the memory clearly still painful. 

“I like it,” he said. “It’s very you.”

You smiled at him. I should have been there, he thought. You cleared your throat.

“Anyway, what’s mine is yours. And I’ll change the sheets so you can take the bed-” you started, but he cut you off. The thought of making you sleep on your couch in your own apartment was unacceptable. 

“No,” he said, simply. “The couch?” You raised an eyebrow at him, but he was already limping out of your room, taking you with him. 

“It’s a fold-out,” you said. “Dames, it’s really very comfortable, I’ll be fine-” 

“Help me set it up?” He asked. You huffed, seemingly accepting defeat. 

“Just a warning, it’s pretty squeaky,” you said, lowering him to sit on the edge of your scuffed coffee table. You handed him one of the thinning cushions, tossing the other to the side before bending over to pull a folded metal frame from the back of the empty space. Damien tried to make himself useful, leaning forward to lift the other end, the frame screaming as you unfolded it. 

The full bed was almost twice as wide as a twin bed, but a few feet shorter. A thin, slightly stained white mattress sat loosely on the frame, bunched strangely where it had been folded for years. You touched one yellow-ish stain, grimacing slightly. 

“We can make this work,” you said, straightening and padding away to your room. Damien waited patiently, listening to your rustling. You returned, arms full of blankets and sheets of all colors. After lots of careful pulling and spreading and lots of bedding, you’d managed to make the bed look quite comfortable. Standing back, you looked at your work.

“Artful,” Damien said, impressed. You huffed a short laugh. 

“I minored in bed-making,” you quipped. 

The sun had set now, and the autumn air moving in through the windows had turned uncomfortably chilly. You made your way around the apartment, closing them with an awkward, leaning push one by one. 

Damien heard your stomach grumble and you cringed with the realization. 

“Sorry,” you said. “I don’t remember the last time I ate, actually.” Damien shook his head. You rifled through your cabinets, opening your fridge for a moment before shutting it again. 

“I’ll have to go shopping soon,” you said. “Turns out leaving all your food sitting for days on end doesn’t keep it fresh. Who knew?”

“How does…” you started arranging things on your counter, jars and cans clacking against the hard surface. “Soup, crackers, pickles, and… PB&Js sound?” 

“Amazing,” Damien said. Clinging to furniture and walls, he limped his way over to where you busied yourself, struggling quietly to open a jar with one hand. Damien held out his hand to you when you noticed him, moving to pull a chair over.

“Only if you’ll sit down,” you said, holding the jar to your chest. He sighed, lowering himself to the chair and holding out his hand again. You handed him the jar. 

—

You were surprised at how little you were able to eat. The task of cooking had been a welcome distraction from the aching of your body, but after it all, you had only managed a few small bites. Damien was much the same, though you urged him to try to eat more. The rest you figured would make an unconventional breakfast. 

It was about 11pm when you started to make your way to bed. With your combined injuries, everything was a project of irritating proportions, but having someone to be frustrated with helped. 

With a click, you turned off the lamp outside the door of your room, saying a quick goodnight to Damien before closing the door as softly as you could manage. With a privacy you hadn’t enjoyed in several days, you wanted to flop across your bed and give up for the day, but your throbbing ribs and aching neck protested. 

Slowly and carefully, you peeled off Damien’s clothes, discarding them in an overfull hamper in your closet. Dressed in fresh undergarments, an oversized T-shirt and pair of sleep shorts, you crawled into your bed, shifting and pulling pillows up and around your shoulders to try and support your neck. After tossing and turning for several long, frustrating moments, you finally settled into your bed, body straining to relax into the soft surface.

You shut your eyes, and breathed slowly, willing sleep to take you. 

Long, silent moments stretched through your body, coiling heavily in your limbs like writhing snakes. Blinking in the darkness, you convinced yourself you were simply overtired, trying instead to focus on the wall ahead of you. 

Panic seeped in again, this time settling in your legs, your blood rushing in your ears, echoing against your pillow. Every breath felt syrupy, filling your mind with dark shapes and flashing thoughts. 

Your breathing returned to your terrified ears as rattling, rasping breaths. Was Damien choking, trying to ask for help on the other side of the wall? 

You swallowed, trying to keep yourself together. It was just the memory of everything getting to you. Pressing against your shoulder with your hand, you tried to soothe yourself through the dread. But every moment was worse.

Your eyes flew open, stomach lurching when the quiet ticking of your clock morphed into the muffled crunch of Damien’s ribs under Dyer’s compressions, a sound you didn’t know you’d heard until you were hearing it again. A strangled sob left your lips, eyes scouring the dark. 

He was dead. Damien was lying still and cold in your living room. You were certain of it. 

You tried to breathe, but your throat closed and your body froze with a spidering, hot panic. All that left your lips were desperate, muffled cries. The sheets seemed to be suffocating you, heavy as lead as you tried with all your might to kick them off. 

In the midst of your terror, you noticed something felt… wet. 

Was it happening again? Maybe you never left that cold bathroom tile. Maybe the life was spilling out of you all over again. A scream ripped through your clenched teeth. 

Please, God, you prayed. Please, please, please- I can’t do this. 

All at once, your eyes flew open to warm light flooding your room, and you were still. Thin sheets clung to your skin through cold sweat, and you could breathe. You sucked in one cold breath after another. A large hand held steady to your shoulder, and you clung to it, mind reeling as the room came into focus. 

You found Damien’s eyes first, his expression tense with worry. His mouth was moving, but the static hadn’t quite left your ears – you settled for watching his eyes. You didn’t want to blink, as if even a moment of darkness might make him vanish. 

His thumb pressed slow, sliding motions into the tense flesh of your shoulder. Focusing on the rhythm was relieving. As the moments passed, holding his gaze and breathing as deeply as you could, his voice filled your ears. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” he said, voice still a little hoarse even as he whispered. “You’ve got it now.”

You knew you were coming out of your panic when the embarrassment started to wash over you.

“I’m sorry,” you said. You’d meant it to sound confident, relaxed – like you didn’t need to be coached out of a nightmare. But your voice betrayed you, breaking miserably. “I’m sorry, I-I feel so stupid-”

“No, no, no,” Damien whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears streaming down your face, nose running. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

You sniffed disgustingly, chuckling slightly at the noise. 

“Auhg,” You said, pulling your arm away from him to hold a hand under your running nose. “I’m so gross.”

Damien struggled carefully to his feet from where he’d been kneeling at your side, stepping away for a moment only to return with a handful of tissues, sitting on the side of your narrow bed. 

“Thank you,” You muttered before blowing your nose. “Did I wake you up? What time is it?”

Damien shook his head, watching you. 

“I didn’t get far either,” He said, looking at the clock on your wall, the hands reading an early 2:40 am. You blew your nose again.

“That’s better than I thought, actually,” You said. He nodded, eyes watching the clock. 

A few long minutes passed as you steadied your breathing, gathering your thoughts when something occurred to you. After everything that had happened, it didn’t seem… inappropriate. You gathered your courage and broke the silence. 

“Can I ask you something really pathetic?” You said, watching his face as he turned to you, eyebrows slightly raised. 

“Shoot,” he said.

“Can I… sleep on the couch with you?” You asked, self-conscious. He paused for a moment, expression still. You kicked yourself mentally. 

“Can I tell you something really pathetic?” He asked. You nodded. “I would love that.” You couldn’t help but grin, shoving his shoulder weakly. 

He stood, and you slid off of the bed, gathering what pillows and blankets you could before following him shakily out of the room. Climbing onto the slightly cramped, squeaky contraption, you did your best to support your injuries, the two of you shuffling around awkwardly in the sheets. Light glowed dimly from your still open door, muting the darkness of the apartment. The cooler air in this room already made the bed seem warmer, though your feet dangled slightly from the end. 

Rolling over once more, you met Damien’s eyes across the flimsy mattress. Reaching out, you held onto the edge of the blanket across his shoulders, smoothing your thumb across the soft cotton. Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy and your shoulders relaxed, soothed by the warmth of a body at your side. 

You slept deeply and silently. 

—

Getting out of bed was difficult. Your joints ached, back protesting any movement. Worst of all, despite your soreness, you were undeniably comfortable, curled up around a perfectly bizarre stack of pillows you were sure you’d never be able to replicate. 

After several minutes of hoping you’d drift off again, you decided to do the adult thing and get yourself up, eyes straining in the rare autumn sun filling the room through your thin curtains. 

Stretching a bit, you started to push yourself up – when your perch shifted. Leaning back onto your hips, you realized the “pillows” was only one pillow, half-propped up across Damien’s ribs, his hand still clinging loosely to your shoulders from where you’d been draped across him. 

You tensed, warmth spreading across your features at the realization. Gently, you slipped out from under his arm, retreating from the warmth of the bed. Damien huffed a long breath, shifting around your absence before seeming to relax again. 

You watched him sleep for a few more minutes, studying his bruised features in the light of day: his darkening stubble, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the proud ridge of his nose, his thick, inky lashes. Brushing dark hair from his forehead, you noticed something different, your fingers hesitating. A lock of hair just above his left temple was lighter than the rest – in fact, as you looked closer, you realized the hair, surrounding the delicately healed skin of a gash that had invaded his hairline, was snowy white.

You were surprised you hadn’t noticed it before, but as you smoothed the soft fibers between your fingers, you didn’t care to think much about how many times he’d been hurt in the last few days. You drew your hand away with a quiet sigh. 

Finally standing, your eyes found a clock, grimacing at the somewhat late morning. Noon is still morning… right?

Rolling your shoulders, you tiptoed to the kitchen, gingerly starting your coffee maker, wincing at its gurgling. As the earthy, warm smell filled your senses, you realized how badly you needed a shower. Setting out two mugs, you made your way to the bathroom, closing the door before starting the water. 

The heat was as shocking as it was deeply soothing, reminding you of every bruise and scrape you’d sustained. You were careful to avoid putting too much pressure on the deep bruises around your neck, though you could feel your testing touches going too deep already- you hissed a breath through your teeth. The tight ache in your shoulders begged you to stretch more or press harder, but you were too intimidated by the pain to continue. 

You left the bathroom refreshed and warm, if a little sore. Toweling your hair awkwardly, you padded into the kitchen, excited to drink a cup of coffee of your own. The neck brace sat abandoned by your sink, waiting to be restored once your skin dried.

A low groan caught your attention as you poured yourself a cup of the bitter, liquid gold. Damien was bent over at the side of the bed, shoulders hunched, a hand raking through his hair. 

“I might’ve… lied a little bit when I said the pull-out was comfortable,” You said, sipping your drink. “Coffee?”

“Please,” He said, bones cracking as he stretched. You dismissed the hair-thin panic that flashed through you with the sound. You heard him approach you from behind, but his steps halted, paused for a long moment, and finally retreated from you. Odd, you thought.

You turned, holding the two mugs against your middle with one hand, slowly making your way to where he sat once more, eyes glued to the floor. You sat beside him, setting your cup on the floor by your feet before holding the second out to him. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked. He looked at you from the edge of his vision, swallowing hard before taking the hot mug from your hands. He stayed silent.

“Hm,” You hummed, a little confused. You reached out to him slowly, brushing your fingers through his white hairs. “Did you notice you’ve got some new color?” Silence. He stared at you, not meeting your eyes. You pulled back your hand, suddenly embarrassed at your boldness. No wonder he was being so quiet. 

You returned to your mug, sipping with a focused contemplation. A light touch to your neck made you jump, looking over to see Damien’s hand recoiled near your shoulder, eyes swimming with tears. 

“Damien, what-” You started to ask, stunned.

“I-” He started, voice breaking slightly. “I did this?” Recognition flooded your senses, eyes suddenly pricking with tears. He saw your neck. The bruises. 

You swallowed, nodding. He looked like he could wilt away, barely able to hold your gaze. You set down your mug, unsure of what to do next. 

“It’s okay,” You whispered. It wasn’t him that did it, you thought. You knew that the moment his fingers clamped around your throat. It never crossed your mind to blame Damien. He shook his head, hand closed at his side.

Then he met your eyes again, a tear escaping down his cheek. His hand raised again, slowly, hesitating with every inch. You stayed still, watching for a moment before leaning your neck just slightly – an invitation. 

You flinched slightly when the pad of his finger met your tender skin, but held yourself steady. His skin was rough and warm as he traced feather-light touches across each mottled bruise, following the outline of his fingers on your flesh. Your eyes fluttered shut, taking in the sensation.

His palm drifted across your collarbones, settling in the deep mark at the hollow of your neck, exactly where his hand had crushed the blood vessels only a night before. 

You swallowed, tears running down your face. Each tender touch was a profound comfort, scratching an itch you forgot you were feeling. You tilted your head subtly into his hand, the heat of his touch penetrating the tender flesh. 

His weight shifted beside you, his other hand cupping your shoulder in a moment. Your heart throbbed, caught between emotion and apprehension.

In a moment, your eyes flew open, a new sensation drawing a quiet whimper from your lips. The bridge of Damien’s nose pressed under your jaw, eyelashes tickling your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to your throat. 

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered against your skin. You could barely breathe for the tears streaming down your face. His lips moved slightly, finding a new bruise to place a gentle kiss over. “I’m so sorry.”

You tried to tell him it was okay, really it was okay – it doesn’t even hurt half as much as it did – but the words stayed silent on your tongue, melting with every whispered apology. 

—

Two weeks passed before either of you could return to the rest of the world. You started slowly, first walking around the block, then through the park, until finally you could manage grocery shopping. 

Each day was a little easier, and it helped tremendously to see the change in Damien as he healed. His steps lightened, his appetite returned, his cheeks no longer hollow. Best of all, he could focus again, each night filled with hushed conversation as he read through your collection of worn books. 

Dyer visited a few days after he left for St. Mike’s. He seemed to have recovered a bit as well, his nose brace gone and the gauze on his ear reduced to a large adhesive bandage. The visit was more than a return to normalcy however. He came with questions for Damien from the church.

You listened intently as Dyer explained that his superiors were concerned for Damien’s health, but were more concerned about the aftermath of what happened on Prospect street. They had approved the initial exorcism, but with Father Merrin’s death and the unsolved murder of Burke Dennings, they were eager to hear Damien’s account. 

As the three of you debated what to do, the answer became uncomfortably clear: If Damien was going to stay out of prison, you would have to lie. Even if you could convince the church of the truth, the police wouldn’t believe anything you had to say. Your only hope was to declare that nothing had happened after Damien left the MacNeil house. 

You wrote a statement: Damien had been injured in some freak accident in the same fashion as Dennings, and has been staying with you ever since to recover. Father Merrin had died of a heart attack while performing the approved exorcism on Reagan MacNeil, which had been successful. Ultimately, Damien was still unfit to travel to give the statement in person, but you and Dyer could confirm the contents of the letter to be truthful, thus protecting his alibi. 

Dyer’s last question was the hardest. Would Damien return to the church? 

The silence was heavy across your trio as Damien considered his answer. You prepared yourself to hear his choice, reminding yourself of his commitment to the church, to God, to his faith. This was his entire life, and he had always chosen it before. A hollow ache radiated through your chest. It was nice while it lasted, you thought. You’d survive this again.

“No,” Damien’s voice cut the quiet. You froze, bewildered. You couldn’t believe it.

“I’ll return as soon as I’m able,” He continued. “To move out.”

Dyer held his gaze for a moment, silently asking if he was sure. 

“Sorry to leave it to you, father,” Damien said, unmoving. “But you were always the better preacher.” 

Dyer smiled, nodding, seemingly satisfied. You still hadn’t really taken a breath. You couldn’t believe it.

Even now, as you packed seemingly endless papers, notebooks, and books into boxes in his room, the realization that Damien was leaving this place for good had barely sunken in. 

After Dyer had left that day, he’d scrambled to apologize for the implication that he might be staying with you indefinitely. He insisted he would find somewhere to live, though you’d stopped him. As far as you were concerned, he could stay with you forever, perhaps with the condition that you buy a bigger bed. If you could forgive his assumption, he could forgive yours. He had no objections.  

Everything was so new. You were going to have a new roommate. 

Returning to the room where he’d been living was far from easy, however. Armed with a radio, cardboard boxes, and a will to leave the space as fast as possible, the work of packing was going quickly. Dyer had moved several days before, similarly eager not to replay the events of that night. 

The clutter slowly condensed at your hands as golden flecks of dust clouded the air, the tune of Listen to the Music by the Doobie Brothers filling the comfortable silence of your movements.

Then, a crisp knock on the door caught your attention. You looked over to Damien, who was surrounded by precarious piles of books and boxes. He shrugged, and started to step his way out of his prison.

“Pffff-” You snorted. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” He nodded, steadying a swaying pile as you stepped towards the door through the chaos of the room. 

Another knock, louder than the last, startled you as you faced up to the door, hand already turning the knob.

With a tug, the thin wood swung open to reveal two older men dressed in layers of black, white collars bright at their necks. You didn’t recognise them, but they were clearly priests. Your skin prickled as the man standing closest to the door scowled at you, lip curling. 

“Good morning, can I help you?” You asked, choosing to look at the other man, who didn’t seem quite as repulsed by you. 

“Is this the residence of Father Damien Karras?” The scowling man spoke up.

“Yes,” You started, taken aback by his strangely accusing tone. “I’m a friend of his, He’s actually just-”

“Oh I know who you are,” The man said, voice lined with the emphasis of disapproval. 

“Yes, I’ve done some work for the church in the past, you might’ve seen me around,” You said, trying to stay above his attitude. 

“It’s bad enough that you’ve seduced the man,” He sneered. “But this is private property, and Father Karras has yet to stand to council at this institution. You’ll have to tell him that he cannot simply send his call girl to fight his battles for him.” 

“Excuse me?” Offense sprang up through you, your face burning. You were deeply unprepared to be called a whore by a priest when you answered the door. The other man seemed to recoil a bit at his words, brow furrowing with surprise.

The tumbling of a stack of items came from the room behind you, and before you could turn to investigate the sound, a warm hand gripped your shoulder. The sneering priest shrank into himself.

Damien seemed to fill the narrow doorway behind you, a dark, hulking anger filling the hallway. 

“Damien-” You started, looking up at his stony expression. He squeezed your shoulder, meeting your eyes with conviction. You swallowed, happy enough to let him take over the bizarre interaction. 

“Father Hale,” He said, nodding sternly at the man in front of you. “Father Diaz. Did Father Dyer give you my message?” 

Father Hale opened his mouth to say something, eyes flitting from you to Damien, but Father Diaz stepped forward, shooting him a hard look. Hale closed his mouth.

“Yes, Father Hale and I simply wanted to see you well and in person,” He said gently, clearly a bit embarrassed at Hale’s actions. “And to inform you that the council has asked for your presence.” 

Damien said nothing, only held the man’s gaze. 

“What I mean to say,” He said haltingly, glancing over to where Damien held you. “Is that the church is sorry to see you leave.” Damien sighed. 

“Thank you for the thought, Father,” Damien said, nodding only slightly. Diaz smiled thinly, an uncomfortable apology written on his wrinkled features.

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Diaz said, steering a shrinking Hale down the hallway. “Bless you, Damien.” 

Damien watched them go, holding you all the while. Hale didn’t dare look back. 

As the door to the stairs closed with a heavy click, you finally breathed out.

“What- what was that?” You asked, hand resting atop Damien’s on your shoulder. He sighed. 

“The best part of leaving the priesthood," He said.

— 

Damien paced around Dyer’s office. The man was no stranger to visiting the church in times of distress or confusion, but this was different. He needed advice about you.

Dyer sat at his desk, watching his friend wear a path into the carpet. He couldn’t help but smile – as far as he was concerned, this was the best problem Damien could have.

“Is there any chance that I’m wrong?” Damien asked, looking over to where Dyer watched him. The priest sighed, shaking his head. 

“I think she’s probably thinking the same thing, Damien,” he said. “In fact I think she has a lot more practice than you do with this.” 

“Is it too soon?” Damien asked, resuming his movement between the window at the opposite wall before turning again to face Dyer, brows furrowed. 

“I think you’ve waited long enough,” Dyer replied. “The two of you could write a very popular guide to the art of hopeless yearning.”

Damien scoffed, still unconvinced. 

“Father, what if she can’t stand to be married again?” Damien stopped in the center of the room. Dyer’s smile slipped, his expression serious as he considered the question. 

“Christian was–” Damien sighed, eyes dark. “I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see a man again.” 

Dyer rose from his chair, walking to meet his friend in front of his desk. He put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to face him.

“And yet, where has she been?” Dyer asked. Damien looked away, unconvinced. “Give her some credit, man!” His friend cracked a smile.

“She’s really incredible, isn’t she?” he said, eyes starry. Dyer took his other shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“God only knows how she’s beared it,” Dyer said, laughing. “Please, for heaven’s sake, propose to the woman.”

—

It was early spring. The already chilly air was growing colder as the sun set, already hidden behind the budding branches of the trees. The frozen soil crackled under your steps as you walked through the Manhattan park, watching your breath fog in front of you.

You clung to Damien’s arm, soaking up his warmth through the thick fabric of his coat. You liked to go on walks as often as possible, often at least once a day. However, today was special. Damien had suggested you take a cab to a further park, one you hadn’t visited in years. You were happy to accept, bundling up for the journey. 

Now, as you ventured further and further through its winding trails, you rambled contently, commenting on a tree you remembered here, or a flicker-y lamppost there. Damien was quiet, expression unreadable under the surface of the shabbily-knitted scarf you’d given him so long ago. 

Finally, when you’d exhausted your abilities as a one-sided conversationalist, you simply stayed quiet, wondering silently why Damien seemed so distant. 

Then, he paused. You raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded to the side, and you followed his gesture to find an ornate iron bench standing between bergs of slowly melting snow. 

“Do you remember this place?” he asked you. You blinked. 

“Christmas,” you said simply. He nodded, stepping towards the bench. You followed, joining him to sit on the cold metal. You watched his face all the while, mind full of thoughts. 

“It feels like a different lifetime,” you whispered, eyes glancing at the lock of white hair at his left temple. Damien suddenly turned to meet your eyes, his gloved hand coming to grip your arm where you held him. 

“Do you like this lifetime?” he asked. You breathed, thinking for only a moment. 

“Hm,” you breathed, thinking as you looked out at the landscape stretching away in front of you. 

“I do,” you finally said, smiling. 

You meant it. As bizarre as your life up to this point had been, you had to admit it had ended up alright. You had loyal friends, however scattered they might be, a fulfilling, though somewhat up and down career, and a beautiful, strange, overly serious ex-jesuit for a partner. You’d learned long ago to be happy with what you had, even if it meant abandoning certainty.  

“You?” you asked. Any discomfort seemed to have Damien’s eyes, the golden light of the sunset catching in his caramel-brown eyes. 

“That depends,” he said, voice quiet. “Will you marry me?”

Icy-hot shock coursed through you in a moment, eyes widening. Your mind raced. The world seemed to blur through the tears that immediately filled your eyes, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked away.

Suddenly too warm to stay so close to him, you stood quickly, stepping away from the bench. Damien stood shortly after, stammering a hundred apologies that barely reached you through your choking, hiccuping sobs. 

“Please, forget I said anything—I’m so stupid, please,” Damien’s hands hovered at your shoulders as you wiped away tears and snot you couldn’t pull yourself together enough to care about. 

Finally, you looked up at him, his expression desperate. Your face was stained with tears, your breaths syrupy and face blotchy, a smile spreading wide across your face. 

“I really thought you’d never ask,” you said, voice cracking. Damien’s eyes lit up. 

“So–?” he said, holding you by the shoulders and looking into your eyes. You sniffed, nodding as you blubbered. 

He laughed, voice breathy and bright as he beamed at you, stepping back and spinning in place before launching into you, your arms flying around his neck as he spun you around. You sobs broke into laughter as you flew, legs lifting off the ground. Finally, you thought. Finally.

Hey so. This took me actual years. This has been so rewarding and fun - seriously, thank you to any who have taken the time to read. Ily <3

What do I do with my life now

The answer to this question will come in the form of an NSFW epilogue chapter to be posted immediately after this chapter HA

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 6

Poison Pt. 2

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

**Just a heads up, this one is pretty intense. Content warnings for sexual themes and gore. Tread with caution! :)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 (you are here!) - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

You claw your way though the longest night of your life.

Words: 2.8k

TW: Gore, NSFW, Injury, Death, Spooky Imagery

“I’m back, I’m back,” You said as you stepped back into the room, closing the door gingerly behind you. 

Dyer looked up from where he knelt by the bed. Damien’s ashen form lay stretched, each limb strapped to a corner. Dyer’s face was stony, eyes glassy. You cleared your throat, swiping your thumbs under your puffy eyes.

“I’m sorry-” You started, but were interrupted by Dyer’s arms around yours, squeezing you awkwardly into his shoulder. You hesitated, but lifted your arms to his shaking shoulders. Your broken hand throbbed.

Though the man hadn’t been in your life quite as long as Damien, he was a faithful constant. The picture of clean-burning faith, Dyer had always felt slightly… distant. He was a dear friend, of course – the man officiated your wedding. But he was a friend of a friend – and perhaps, if you let yourself admit it, he represented everything that kept Damien from you. So you never quite let him in – arguably, this was the most time the two of you had ever spent alone together.

You let out a shaky sigh into his black jacket, nose aching at the uncomfortable angle. His warmth was a welcome break from the silent chill of the room, which seemed to grow colder by the minute. Even if it was frustrating, his unshakable faith was comforting. 

A crackling laugh sent a chill through you. Dyer stiffened. 

“I think it’s a little late for you to try women, Joe,” The creature said through Damien’s curling smile. 

He wheezed, his laugh devolving into a choking cough. You glared over Dyer’s shoulder at his yellow eyes, peering at you through the dimly-lit dark. Maybe Dyer needed you as much as you needed him right now. 

You squeezed him as hard as you could in your battered state, finally pulling away from him. His eyes were focused on the ground. You brought your good hand to his shoulder and squeezed, and his eyes raised to meet yours. You gave him what you could only imagine was a terrible smile.

Neither of you could say what you were thinking. You hoped he was as resolute as you were.

He sniffed, nodding, clapping you parentally on the shoulders. 

“Let’s try the exorcism,” You said. 

—

With all of Merrin’s notes spread out over the limited surfaces in the apartment and the curtains drawn, you roamed around, turning on every light you could, fluorescent light washing the small space in blue-white light.

You stuffed a towel under the door, hoping it would do something to give you more time before his neighbors inevitably came knocking about the… noise. 

The monster laughed and chattered away while you busied yourselves, rasping out vulgarities and biting insults. You’d decided not to give it the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Armed with a few pairs of fresh gym socks, you approached his bedside. The makeshift bandages holding his wrists together needed to be changed – you’d doused these in the antibiotic saline you’d found knocked over on the floor of the bathroom. It should be simple – he’s tied down, he can’t touch you – but you hesitated anyway.

“Y/n,” Dyer said from across the room. 

He was dressed in a cassock with a purple stole, his hands evening the signature white collar. With an understanding look, he stepped over to you, taking the socks from your unsteady hands.

“I can do it,” He said, nodding. You swallowed, stepping away from the bed. 

Keeping your eyes on Dyer’s careful movements, you decided to look through more of Damien’s clothes for some additional layers. You could see your breath now – a sweater would be a welcome upgrade from Damien’s shirt. As you moved, your gaze shifted to Damien’s, his eyes boring into you. 

He was quiet. 

The pale blue hospital gown clung to his form, his breath coming out in slow, thin clouds. He must be cold, you thought. 

Standing on a milk crate of books in the doorway of his closet, your hands searched for your prize at the top of the space. Holding the bundle of heavy blankets in your arms, you lowered yourself again, padding over to the bed. 

Dyer passed behind you as you threw one of the blankets over Damien, your eyes locked on his still face. 

“Do the fancy clothes help?” You asked, cavalier. 

Dyer gave a small smile, kneeling. 

“Apparently,” He said with a huff. You gave an enthusiastic “mhmm” at that. You shouldn’t have dropped your guard, but your mind was tired. The moment almost felt… normal? You pushed your hands underneath the sides of Damien’s form to tuck the blanket in.

“You should see the stuff–” Dyer started, when Damien lurched towards him. You sucked in a breath as Dyer’s face twisted in a moment – his hands flying to where Damien’s teeth had bitten down on his ear. 

“Fuck–!” Dyer screamed, trying to wrench his head away. Damien turned, pulling as Dyer struggled. You scrambled to him, your hands sliding between the two men, trying to find a grip on Damien’s jaw. His lips were slick with blood and spit, your broken hand pushing against Dyer’s head while your other curled around Damien’s jaw, trying with all your might to pull them apart as Dyer writhed.

With a sound like a wet rope snapping, Dyer managed to get free, falling back onto the floor with a groan, bright red blood pouring down his neck from where Damien had torn off a piece of his ear. You pitched forward, falling across Damien’s chest, your legs frantically slipping on the carpet trying to push you the opposite direction.

You made the mistake of looking at Damien, eyes wide in abject terror. In a second, he leaned up off the bed and kissed you, teeth crashing into yours.

In shock, you were still for a mere moment before the taste of blood and bile overwhelmed you, suddenly aware of his tongue in your mouth. Just as fast, you clawed your way off of him, spluttering and coughing.

Something was still in your mouth. 

With a nauseating retch, you coughed it up onto the carpet, saliva tinted red stringing the offending object to your swollen lips – the curved, pale flesh of the top of Dyer’s torn ear. 

You held a hand to your mouth as you stumbled to the kitchenette, throwing your face into the sink, the sound of your vomiting and Dyer’s ragged breaths filling your ears.

No, no, no– this is not getting the better of me, you thought, wiping your mouth. You turned on the faucet, gasping as you pushed your face under the cold water. 

You stood, shaking the water from your face and wiping your eyes, willing the water to carry away your terror.

“Been wanting to do that since we were kids,” The creature said. You glared at its stupid, bloody smile and spit into the sink.

With a shaking breath, you dragged yourself over to Dyer, who was trying to stand up against the wall, hand still against the side of his head. His collar was stained red, one side of the purple stole stained a deep maroon. You led him to the sink, digging through the drawers for a kitchen towel. 

“He’s going to be upset we trashed his room,” You said, holding a dish towel under the water. “Okay, deep breath–”

Dyer hissed as you eased his head under the water, using the rag to blot away some of the blood on his neck. You left him for a moment to return to the pile of bedding you’d left on the ground, pulling long ragged strips from a plain white sheet. 

You dragged the project with you back to the sink, turning the faucet away from Dyer’s bloodied face. You took the towel and folded it against his ear, strapping it against his head with the bandages. 

“You’re lucky I was a candy striper,” You said, watching Dyer’s knuckles turn white against the countertop while you added layer upon layer. Finally, the mess seemed like it would hold. You held his elbow to get him to a chair, where he collapsed back into the creaky wood.

Dyer swallowed.

“You were a candy striper?” He asked.

“Sure,” You huffed.

“You should’ve led with that,” He said. “I would’ve had you on the exorcist team much sooner.”

“You’re one to talk,” You nudged him. “Imagine what this is going to do for your resume.” He chuckled. 

“This is going to take forever, isn’t it?” You asked, trying to ignore the bitter flavor of his blood lingering in your mouth. Dyer was quiet, reaching across the small kitchen table. You looked over as he handed you a thick bible, bookmarked to a deep chapter. 

“You read the responses, I’ll start,” He said, opening his own bible. “Don’t stop, not for anything.” 

—

The first few hours were simple. Thankful for the Latin you took in grad school, the reading seemed like what you’d expect from an exorcism. Dyer would pause now and then to splash holy water, sending Damien writhing – and you kept your eyes away from his as much as you could. 

Dyer seemed to be united with you in refusing the creature any reactions, and eventually his uncanny chattering slowed and ceased. All that was left now was rattling breaths and sickening coughs. 

Your head felt heavy, every blink a losing battle. The only thing keeping you awake now were the jolts of panic that would spike through you every time Damien would suddenly stop breathing, his chest heaving as a thick, green bile clogged his throat. You’d rush to his side, pulling him up as much as you could at arm’s length and hitting his back, urging him to cough it out. 

Needless to say, you were in the splash zone.

When it neared 3 a.m., you were all splattered and stained in blood and vomit – and Damien was disturbingly silent. From his notes, it seemed clear that the ceremony should grow more violent as it continued – flashing lights, moving furniture, inhuman strength, convulsions, even vivid hallucinations – but there was nothing but the steady drawl of your prayers. 

You were ashamed to admit it, but you almost… missed its voice. Now you were wracked with the strange, frustrating anxiety of hoping he wouldn’t die before you could liberate him.

Dyer’s voice seemed to have taken on the same hesitation yours had – was this even working?

It was nearly 5 a.m. when you were about to give up –  to say something other than scripture – when a hoarse voice split the room.

“Mama?” Damien whispered. It sounded like his voice. You stopped reading. 

He blinked against the harsh light of the room, pulling against the restraints at his limbs. 

“Μαμά, πονάει,” His voice said, breaking. Your heart shattered. Your Greek wasn’t amazing – but you understood this phrase. Mama, it hurts.

“Damien?” You whispered. You couldn’t stand to hear him cry. 

“Y/n, the response,” Dyer said, his tone stern. You knew you had to keep reading. So, even if your voice was breaking, throat tight with sorrow, you did. 

 The lights flickered. 

“Mama!” Damon cried, twisting on the bed. “Mama please, Συγνώμη!” I’m sorry. 

Dyer’s voice took over at the end of your passage and you had to look away– 

The room was suddenly flooded with darkness. Dyer’s voice continued without a hitch, leaving you searching wide-eyed for something to ground you in the sea of black, hands groping blindly for a wall, a chair – something. 

Cold metal met your palm and you welcomed the familiar shape of the end of the bed frame with your other hand.

You looked up to see your own face above you. 

Ice water filled your veins. You couldn’t move.

Your naked figure arched back in front of you, legs folded at either side of Damien’s bare thighs where he was buried inside you. Your arms were folded above your head, hands in your hair, your face leaning away where you couldn’t read the expression. Damien was sat up at your back, one hand at your hip, the other digging into your breast. 

Lungs burning, you tried to force a breath into your lungs, but shock kept you frozen. Damien licked a slow stripe up your taut neck, his bloodshot, yellow eyes staring back at you.

A spasming, burning heat crept into you at your core, spreading up through your insides. Your mind raced, panic filling your senses as you sank slowly to your knees at the foot of the bed, the pain folding you in on yourself. Your mouth hung open, terror painting your features.

Dyer’s prayer was the only sound in your ears.

With a sound like tearing rubber, Damien’s fingers sunk into your flesh, bright blood cascading down your frozen frame as he tore into your flesh.

Finally, air rushed into your lungs. The room was lit around you, and Dyer stared at you expectantly. You looked to where Damien lay writhing – nothing had changed. Nothing happened. 

You swallowed and read the next paragraph. 

“Never did anything like that with me, did ya, honey?” Your ex-husband’s voice asked. You kept your eyes glued to the page. 

The deafening bang of a gunshot made you scream.

“You never called,” Jo's voice choked. Your gaze shot up to her sitting at the edge of the bed, a clean, dark hole boring through her forehead, her hair tangled and stained red at the back of her head where a bullet had ripped through. “And I never bought another bus ticket.”

“Stop it, stop it stop it,” You begged, squeezing your eyes shut like it might wake you up.

“Father–” Where was Dyer? Were you alone? You couldn’t hear him. Your mind spun. “Father, what do I do next!?”

The room was closing in around you. 

—

All at once, your eyes were wide open. Damien’s hands were clamped around your neck, crushing your airway shut against the tight-knit carpet beneath you. You kicked feebly at him above you, broken hand clawing at his arms, the muscles hard and tight under his ashen skin. Tears stung your eyes.

A curtain of his dark, oily locks swayed around his face above you, his expression blank. Someone was yelling about – God? Christ? All you could hear was the sound of blood vessels breaking in your eyes.

The smell of fresh bread filled your sinuses as the world became fuzzy. 

Fuck you, you thought. It can’t have me.

Just as your vision was about to go dark, the vice grip around your neck vanished. The ghastly face above you was next. Then Dyer was there.

A hard whack to your chest. You sucked in a breath. It felt like drinking hot sand. You coughed raggedly, head churning. You clawed in another gasp. The room was coming back. There was sun passing between the heavy curtains. 

“–breathing, keep breathing–” Dyer’s voice was filtering in now, like static. You did your best, but the effort was excruciating. 

You turned your head. Damien’s face was there next to you, cheek pressed to the floor, his eyes wide and vacant. Whatever light had been left there was gone. You sucked in another raw breath. 

No.

His body jumped, a gagging whisper passing his split lips. You tried to say something, but the broken-glass pain spidering through your throat kept you silent. He jolted again, and again – you could vaguely make out the sound of Dyer counting. 

His blank eyes left yours when Dyer turned his face – pushing rescue breaths into his hollow body. You felt completely useless, gasping on the floor. You wished his eyes would come back to you. 

With every ounce of strength in your body, you shifted your hand, feeling for anything in your reach that might tether him to you.

Your fingers brushed the papery fabric of his hospital gown. You took as much of the material in your feeble grip as you could and held on, watching Dyer try to bring your friend back.

The long hours of the exorcism felt like seconds compared to these moments.

Then, with a gurgling gasp, Damien struggled back to the land of the living. Dyer held his good ear to Damien’s chest for a moment as he gasped. Convinced, he smiled, falling back into a sitting position, his head in his hands.

You watched Damien blink as he looked to Dyer. Then he turned to you. 

Color rushed back into his face, however beaten he looked. You couldn’t stop an aching grin from spreading over your features. It was him looking back at you. Not some monster, puppeteering the man you knew. It was Damien.

“Dames,” You croaked, squeezing your idiotic handful of his clothes. He wheezed.

“You did so good,” He whispered. Dyer was at his side again, clutching his hand like he had at the bottom of the stairs, tears falling. “You did so good.”

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 5

Poison Pt. 1

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

**I know this is a shorter update - I decided to post the first half of the chapter so I could get back into the fic without getting buried in work again, haha. Hope it was fun!!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 (you are here!) - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

This isn't the man you fell in love with.

Words: 2.4k

TW: Gore, Injury, Spooky Imagery, References to Infertility

A dark hallway stretched beyond what you could see. There was just enough light to know there were walls – nothing more. Your eyes strained in the grainy black as you felt your way along.

Your skin prickled with awareness, head swimming with the cold sweat and stillness of knowing there was someone, something behind you in the dark. You knew it was there – hovering, waiting where you couldn’t see it. You crept forward, joints creaking in the silence of the dark hall. 

It’s there. I know it’s there. 

You didn’t dare turn to look at it. 

Your bare feet shuffled along short carpet – you wanted to go faster, to run, to curl into a ball and plug your ears and wait for the thing screaming silently behind you to leave. The sound of rushing wind suddenly surrounded you, like falling in place – you squeezed your eyes shut and crouched down, trying desperately to cover your ears– Please Please Please, make it stop PLEASE- the sound blasted through you, there was no escaping it.

You opened your eyes to plush white carpet, silent walls – like being awake in the middle of the night. Another hallway – banisters and stairs, a room open behind you. Cold air blew past you from the room, eerie in the sickening quiet. You rose – the stairs were in front of you now. 

A single step – the cold grit of concrete shot cold shock through you – you stumbled backwards, away from the figure at their bottom. The twisted, silent form looked up at you as you screamed, long arms wrapping around you from behind, rotting fingers digging into your skin – the bottom of the stairs rushed up to you–

“-y/n!” Father Dyer shouted and your eyes shot open to him, distraught above you. You breathed in, blinking. 

“...I’m up, I’m-” You breathed, shaking your head. “What’s wrong, is Damien-” 

“You weren’t breathing, y/n.” Dyer scoffed, disbelieving. You sat up on your elbow, every muscle sore. When did I get on the floor? 

“You were completely stiff – I thought you were-” He choked. “Oh God,” He laughed, sitting back from you.

“I’m okay,” you forced yourself up, a shaky arm steadying you from the chair. You ran a hand through your tangled hair. “I must’ve fallen asleep – what time is it?” 

Gray light filtered through gaps between the curtains. Dyer looked at you in disbelief for a second before rising from the floor, taking your arm to steady you. 

“It’s four pm,” Dyer said. You looked at him and breathed a laugh. 

“Of course it is, I don’t know why I asked – of course I slept through the day, I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore.” You sighed, wandering your way to Damien’s bedside. 

Dyer shook his head, pulling back a curtain. The light hit him as you touched the back of your hand to his forehead. You flinched. He was gaunt, cold, and so pale he seemed almost… blue. Every breath he took rattled his bony frame. 

“I went to the house,” Dyer said behind you as you brushed sweat-soaked hair from Damien’s face. “I saw Mrs. MacNeil-” he put a hand to your shoulder as you turned to him.

“I saw Regan,” he said with a smile. You inhaled, a glimmer of hope danced between you.

“How- how did she look? Was she okay?” You asked.

“She seems fine – doesn’t remember anything. Her mother on the other hand… It was hard to get her to talk about it.” He paused.

“Well, what did they say?” You pressed.

“She only remembers so much about the exorcism,” He looked to Damien. “The police took everything when they took Merrin away- and I can’t exactly ask the church for advice without them having him put away. They convinced them of the possession once, but they’ve been having doubts about Damien for months. They won’t risk it again.”

“But?” You asked.

“But, I wrote down everything I could, I brought every bible I could carry, I’ve got holy water, and we’re in a church – something has to work.”

You pushed a hand through your hair and nodded.

“You’re amazing, father,” You sighed. “But I have this terrible feeling that we don’t have a lot of time – I don’t think we can just read the bible until something works.”

Dyer turned away and sat in the chair with a huff. You looked over at him. The bags under his eyes rivaled your own, gaze focused on some point far away between you and Damien. You pressed your thumb and index finger between your eyes, mustering whatever energy was left in your body – think.

It hit you. 

“Notes- Dames wrote everything down, he must have. Regan was his patient, he would have recorded everything!” You stammered through the realization, flashes of his careful handwriting in the margins of every book you’d ever shared passed in front of your eyes. “I don’t know where it’ll be, but there has to be something-”

Dyer was leaning forward now, a sleep-deprived grin spread across his face.

“And if we’re lucky it’s here!” He put his hands on your shoulders – you couldn’t help but smile at his hopeful excitement. He really believes we can save him. 

“Then we need to start digging,” You said, looking around at the piles of notebooks and novels crammed in every space in the room. 

–

The box was tucked away under the bed, eerily shadowed behind dusty books. It seemed like he’d hidden it intentionally – but you were at least grateful it was close. Within you found recordings, notebooks, a bible (of course), a mostly empty glass vial, and a book. Leafing through the pages, you read through the rest of the day with Dyer – and found what you came for. 

The book was authored by one Lankester Merrin – the man they’d carried from that quiet house night you came back to Georgetown. 

In the book, he’d written mostly about his travels – his work as a missionary, an archaeologist, and anthropologist. Finally, you found his account of an experience he had during his time on the continent of Africa – when he’d performed an exorcism on a child. It had taken days. 

“This– this has to be it,” You said, feeling ill reading the details. You continued reading– until the chapter ended, abruptly. The child hadn’t survived. 

“I don’t know if we can do this.”

Dyer looked up at you from where he held his head in his hands. 

“I thought you said we didn’t have a choice,” He said. “You said yourself, he’s running out of time-”

“That was before I knew what this was– father, Merrin was an expert, shit Damien was an expert, or as close as you could get. We don’t know anything about this–”

“Well what do you say we do, y/n?!” Dyer snapped.

“We take him back to the hospital, we get a real doctor involved– God, what was I thinking, demons?!” You laughed. “He fell out of a second story window and down a flight of concrete stairs, and we’ve been sitting here talking about demons-”

You stopped. A horse laugh rose around your pause. The room had grown dark and silent. You couldn’t move. Dyer looked equally stuck, eyes wide and still – he was looking behind you.

“You wouldn’t take me back there, would you?” Damien’s voice was quiet and ragged from behind you as his arms encased your shoulders from behind, his skin cold and pale. You couldn’t… bring yourself to turn and meet his eyes. You… wanted him to stop touching you.

He pressed heavy against your back, leaning over you as he whispered wetly into your ear. You couldn’t move.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t take me away from you again,” He said. 

You swallowed thickly, looking down at his cold arms as he squeezed you tighter. With his laugh in your ear, you finally got your breath back with a horrified gasp. Bright crimson spread across your shirt, leaking steadily from ragged scratches across his arms.

Dyer moved before you could. He stood and pried Damien’s cold arms from around you, holding his wrists where they bled.

“Damien–!” Dyer moved him away and you finally gained the courage to turn and look at him, still shaken to your core. He seemed to crumple in on himself, stumbling back, head hanging. He was silent now.

“Bring him to the sink,” You said, rushing to the bathroom ahead of them. A part of you didn’t want to look at him again.

You tore open the medicine cabinet, searching for something to stop the bleeding with. Pills and bottles clattered down in the sink as you frantically tore apart his bathroom. The sound of the faucet filled the small space as you wrenched the water on in your panic – Dyer came in behind you, tugging Damien’s limp form to the sink, holding his ragged wrists in the running water. 

“Shit–!” You cursed. You couldn’t think straight–

That sickly laugh rose from his throat again – like more than one voice.

“Better hurry,” He said in a singsong voice. Dyer was holding him up now, barking places for you to search. 

In a moment of random inspiration, you stumbled back to the room and fumbled through a drawer to find a few neatly folded pairs of gym socks. 

You scrambled back to the bathroom, slipping on the bloody, wet tile. You turned the water off and grabbed his arm – trying to ignore that damned laugh – and tied the white elastic length around the bloody openings. You pulled another sock over the spot, the stark fabric darkening in an instant.

You got between him and the sink, repeating your actions with his other wrist before holding one arm with both hands, encircling the makeshift bandages with both hands and applying as much pressure as you could.

“Hold his other arm,” You said to Dyer, who seemed to be struggling to hold him up.

“We’ve gotta get him sitting down–” He said, and you did your best to drag Damien back to the bed – he was completely slack and silent.

Dyer dropped him back to the bed and you took his other hand, trying to stop the blood from seeping any further. 

“Fuck, no–” You gasped as Damien fell back, dragging you with him against his chest where you held his arms. He was trying to reach for his neck – and you wrestled against him, trying to keep him from opening his own throat. 

You could hear him trying to say something through gritted teeth– he was trying to say help, over and over.

“Stop it, Damien!” You begged as he thrashed underneath you. “We’ve got to tie him down!” Dyer ran to the closet as you struggled with Damien on the bed – you couldn't hold a grown man, a boxer, no less, down for long.

Dyer came to your aid then, wrenching a bloody arm from your grip to loop a black belt around his bandaged wrist, pulling it tight around the metal frame of the bed. He scrambled to strap down Damien’s other arm, and as you took a moment to breathe, he lurched beneath you, kicking you hard in the stomach and sending you tumbling away from the bed.

All the air was pushed from your lungs as you clutched your abdomen, stabbing pain flashing through you. You gasped like a fish out of water for what felt like a minute before you could suck in an aching breath.

Dyer was at your side in a moment, hands on your shoulders as you lay hunched and coughing.

“Breathe, just – try to breathe for a minute,” His voice shook. “Are you okay?” You nodded.

“I’m–” You wheezed, blood rushing in your ears. “I’m okay.”

Your blood ran cold when a cold, rasping laugh rose from the bed. You looked up, finding Dyer seething at his writhing form.

“No harm done, father,” Damien rasped in a voice that wasn’t his. “She’ll always be raising someone else’s kids, anyway.”

Your face grew hot and you looked away, tears stinging your eyes. That terrible voice laughed coldly, filling your ears. Dyer looked at you, confused – It was just too much.

With a shaky breath, you clawed your way up from the ground and stumbled to the door, limping into the dark hallway – away from Damien, away from that… horrible laugh. You closed the door, your back hitting the cold wall. You slid down to the floor with a quiet sob and brought your knees to your chest, holding yourself together. 

Your body ached, your broken hand throbbed and your knees stung against old bandages. Everything hurt. And as tears streamed down your blotchy face, you found guilty thoughts taking you back to Georgia – you’d give anything to be there, miles away, in the quiet of that big house. 

You were exhausted. Tired of trying to hold everything together, tired of watching your best friend spiral and break and hurt you – twisting and morphing into some monster. 

You were killing yourself for a man all over again.

Trying to breathe slowly, you followed the thoughts. Through the dark corners of your mind, when you felt a different pain. When your hands were raw from scrubbing that pristine house, and your heart ached for someone to know you. Faking your way through every day, and every night. Even if it was quiet – even if it was safe, you weren’t happy. 

With a truly slow breath, you let your mind wander back to that winter night, when Damien held your hands in his and breathed life back into you. 

You looked up at the blank wall of the hallway, eyes straining in the dark. 

Whatever this was, even if it was bizarre, terrifying, and painful—you gripped your arms tighter—even if you couldn’t bear to go back in there with that – thing. Against every instinct in your body, deep down, you wanted him. 

So you decided to want him – just for yourself. Not for Dyer, not for the church, not even for his mother. Not even for his own sake, no; you wanted him for you. 

Standing, filled with the strange energy a truly selfish goal can bring, you prepared to go back into the room. It didn’t matter if it hurt, if it was humiliating, if it was wrong – you were going to claw him back into your life.

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Finally posted! Yippee :o

I am actually writing again! Chapter 4 is on it's way - slowly lol

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 4

Last Rites

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

**It's been a while! Here's what I've got written so far for the next part - I can't say how long it will take me to update again, but I stand by my promise to finish it! And here we are, finally in the plot of the actual movie lol

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 (you are here!) - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 5k

Finally settled down, you are driven back to tragedy.

TW: Gore, Injury

This was a nightmare. It had to be. 

Damien didn’t seem to think so, and he chuckled as you sat there, face red and sweat pricking your skin. You didn’t dare look up from where you sat on the floor, face buried in your hands, resigned to death by embarrassment. Until Damien laughed even louder, and you dared to peek between your fingers.

The weathered pages of an old sketchbook shook in front of you, Damien holding it out for you to see, an overworked sketch of Bing Crosby staring back at you, terrible anatomy and all. At the time, you were very proud of your work - it wasn’t your fault that 17 years revealed what a pug you’d managed to draw him as.

You groaned, standing to reach out desperately in an attempt to swipe it back. He pulled it away just as you tried, holding it above him and staring up at it while you hopped and reached for it.

“What did you do to him?” He said between laughs. You refused to look him in the eye.

“I was an amateur!!” You shot back, fighting to hang on to your anger. “You try drawing in a dark theater from a moving target!”

“Oh you’re never getting this back -” he said, craning away from your feeble attempts. You huffed, looking up at his shit-eating grin. You couldn’t help yourself, and a quick glance at the page had you choking down an involuntary laugh.

“It really is bad, isn’t it?” You said, defeated. “I can’t believe I applied to schools with that in my portfolio.” You cringed, setting your head down on his shoulder as he brought his arms down. He shook a little still from his laughing fit - you swore you could hear his smile. 

“NO- you’ve shown this to people?” He said, exasperated. You gurgled in shame.

If you were being honest, he could keep the page for how happy it made him. You hadn’t seen him smile in months, much less his laugh. You turned your head to watch his face, cheek against his shoulder.

Until he went to turn the page. You knew what was on that page. Your eyes shot open and you summoned every ounce of speed in your graceless self and slammed the book down, out of his hands, praying it would fall closed.

It didn’t. A sketch fell open to you for a flash before you scrambled around Damien to close it, his arms still feigned holding the book, shocked by your movement. Gathering the messy pile of pages and blushing wildly, you pressed the book to your chest.

“That’s enough of that-” You turned to stow your secrets somewhere - maybe burn it? You risked a glance at him. That shit-eating grin. He definitely saw the page. You elected to ignore it, and changed the subject as you stuffed the book into a box under your bed. 

“Did you still want to visit?” You asked slowly, glancing at the time. You hated to bring it up just when you’d managed to coax some joy from him, but the cemetery would close soon. He sighed, his face settled into the familiar pain of grief, and nodded. He looked away, staring at the window of your apartment, where only a small sliver of the street was visible against the brick of the adjoining building. 

Something about the way he drifted away so readily broke your heart. If you were younger, you might have dwelled on the guilt of reminding him - but you let it go. 

The apartment was small - your ramshackle life held together with patchy wallpaper and art posters. It was barely more than a single room, but it was yours. And since Mrs. Karras died, it seemed more and more like his, too. You told yourself it was because you were so close to the cemetery, but you also knew it was because you were far from St. Mike’s. 

You didn’t imagine his hesitation when you crossed paths with the many churches in your neighborhood, or that when you saw him, he always seemed to have an excuse not to wear his collar. 

When your feet finally met the street, the wind seemed to pick up. The familiar sting on your cheeks reminded you of the aging Autumn - was it October already? With a final glance across the street, you set off, absentmindedly linking arms with Damien as you crossed. 

On most of these walks, you let him stay in silence. In the beginning you didn’t know what to say. Now, you had plenty to talk about, but nothing you would start. No, usually you would walk a few minutes before you’d ask him -

“How are you, Dames?” You walked a little awkwardly, working the peel from an orange as you walked. He didn’t seem to mind the delay. He paused, as he always did.

“Fine,” he said. You offered him half of the orange. “Better now, having seen Bing.” You retracted your hand.

“Maybe this whole orange is for me,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, but one needs their vitamin C in these cold months,” he cracked a smile. “You wouldn’t want me to get sick now, would you?” You shook your head. Of course, he didn’t know that was precisely your intention - the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his voice had you worried. 

“Only because I like you.” You shoved the fruit into his hand. You walked like that for a few beats before you got to the point. “Why haven’t you been back to the church?” You asked, looking up at him. His gaze lowered as he chewed.

“I’ve been to the church,” He said, looking ahead.

“Dames, I know you.” You said, pushing the subject. He swallowed hard.

“I know it should be comforting, to hear them all tell me she’s in a better place,” He said haltingly. “And I should know that. I know she’s there.” You listened and walked for a few more moments. He was quiet.

He didn’t need to say it. He wasn’t seeing Heaven - he was seeing Bellevue Hospital. He was seeing her ghostly form in that sterile room, shaking and afraid and alone. He was seeing the bars and the rust and the lost faces. He was hearing her - not angry, but confused - asking him why? He was feeling how light her coffin was.

You didn’t blame him. But, you hoped he was also seeing his uncle’s nose, broken and bleeding after you’d punched him as hard as you could outside that cold hospital. You hoped he was hearing you tell him about your visit to her, when she’d smiled at your terrible knitting. You hoped he could hear you when you told him how you’d held her at the end, how she wasn’t alone in her terror. You hoped he was seeing the drawings of him you’d buried with her, tucked at her side the day they’d laid her to rest. 

You unfurled your arm from his to grip his hand as you crossed into the quiet of the cemetery. His skin was cold. 

—

“I just need you here.” Sharon said. You could hear how nasally her voice was - she’d been crying. 

“Okay Sharon,” you said. “I’ll be there in a few hours, okay honey?” You were already putting your coat on, pressing the receiver against your ear as you struggled to make out her words.

“Thank you,” she said, sniffing. She hung up, and you set down the phone. You pushed a variety of things into your bag in a rush - tissues, band-aids, tea bags, a wad of crumpled bills - and left. 

She’d called so late, from her work phone no less. That house, what’s going on there? You bolted from your building, praying you could find a taxi that would take you out of state at 10pm. 

Sharon’s job at the MacNeil’s had been confounding you the past few weeks. She would call at strange times, whispering about the actress’ daughter - who was very sick. You’d stay on the phone with her for hours, barely understanding - “noises in the attic…” “faces in the dark…” “smells - rotting, nauseating, sour smells…” - trying to convince her to leave, get out before it got any worse, but she always insisted she was alright - “she needs me here,” she’d say.

You’d even tried to ask Damien, who Sharon mentioned had visited a few times. He’d been a little more collected lately, and had been back in Georgetown for the past month, but he wouldn’t tell you much - “doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.” 

You hadn’t heard from either of them in a few days. So as you slid into the back seat of the first taxi you could find, and asked to be taken to Georgetown, DC, you were resolute. The driver huffed in annoyance - he was about to refuse you, you worried. You shoved your meager savings - $251 - into the ashtray dividing the front seats.

He hesitated for a moment, and started counting the bills deliberately.

“It’s an emergency - please.” You said. “I have to get to Georgetown. Please.” He continued to count for a grueling four and half minutes.

“Okay.” He finally said, pulling away from the curb. You sighed shakily.

“Thank you.” You said. He found your eyes in the rearview mirror for a moment. 

“Emergency, ma’am?” He asked. 

“Yes, it’s-” the air left your words as he peeled through a turn. You looked at him again, a little afraid, but glad to be going faster. 

“We’ll get you there.” He said, smirking over the sound of squealing tires. You swallowed and tightened your seatbelt. 

—

When you finally reached the house, it was 3am. You checked the scribbled address one more time - this is it. Every light was on, shadows passing the windows now and then. The street was quiet, the air cold and still. 

“Would you like me to stick around, ma’am?” The driver asked, noticing your hesitation. You shook your head.

“No - thank you. Do I owe you anything more?” You asked, gathering yourself. He stared at you for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Have a good night, ma’am.” He said. You nodded, opening the creaking door and stepping out onto the manicured sidewalk. Your stomach dropped, and you wrung your hands, a creeping dread washing over you as you stared at the house. Forcing yourself to move, you approached the front door, stepping through the stark white light of a street lamp bordering the gate.

You only managed one knock before the door opened with a rush of air. There stood Sharon, shaking and red-eyed. The bags under her eyes were deep and dark - her hair frizzy and piled on top of her head haphazardly. She looked like she’d been awake for weeks. Maybe she had. 

“Sharon-” You started, but she collapsed into you in a moment, all at once clinging to you in the doorway. You held her, shocked. She shook as she cried, whispering your name like she couldn’t believe you were there.

You caught a glimpse of the house over her shoulder, plush white carpet and soft white lighting opposing the sickly feeling that settled over the scene. You could see two other people standing there, faces hollow. They looked at you like you were diseased - eyes dark and wild. Sharon pulled away just a bit, and you held her by the shoulders, looking into her face.

“Sharon, what’s going-” Something cut you off - screaming, shrill and panicked from above the stairs. Sharon whipped around and you watched as a woman ran up the carpeted stairs, the house suddenly alive.

The screaming was joined by another voice - something deeper. Familiar. Your heart leapt into your throat as the sound of shattering glass filled the house, the other person and Sharon running from the doorway to the stairs. 

Blood rushed in your ears, and you stepped back from the sickly, screaming house into the cool of the night, retreating. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. 

When you tore your eyes from the doorway, you heard a strange sound - a sickening, soft sort of clatter - like dropping a stack of books. So you ran. It felt like a dream - like you couldn’t move fast enough. 

When you saw the dark shape at the bottom of the stairs, you stopped breathing altogether. You ran down the steps, slipping on blood and crunching on pebbles of glass, skipping steps and barreling forward aimlessly until you reached the bottom, stumbling forward onto your knees. A scream broke the silence and a crowd began to rush to you. You couldn’t hear them as you whispered his name. 

“Dames?” You were draped over his crumpled form, looking away from his twisted limbs, knees warm where his blood pooled beneath you. His face was pressed into the pavement, dark red dripping down over his eyes, hair sticky as you brushed it away from his face. You heard a rattling breath, faint under the static filling your ears. You found his hand and squeezed.

“Damien I’m here,” you pleaded. “It’s okay, I’m here.” You felt his fingers open and close slowly in your hand.

“That’s right,” you said, voice shaking. “I’ve got you.” People milled about around you, shocked voices and screaming assaulting your ears as you strained to hear him. You wished they would all just disappear - 

Let you hear your best friend’s last breath.

“Damien!” A voice broke through your focus, and you wrenched your eyes away from him to see Father Dyer, his face lined with shock. You held each other's eyes for a fleeting moment - he seemed to know what to do. 

His voice shook as he choked out Damien’s Last Rites. You nodded as Damien squeezed your hand with every line. You tried to memorize him in these moments, tried to see him in there one last time - but gentle hands pulled you away from him.

You thrashed in their grip as they pulled you away - muted voices telling you “They’ll take care of him now,” “Give him some air,” “There’s nothing you can do now.” But there was something you could do. You could hold your friend’s hand. You could spare him the terror of dying alone. 

You watched as they straightened his crumpled form and took him away on a stretcher, glass and blood falling like glitter. You couldn’t hear much. Couldn’t hear yourself yelling - shrieking to go with him - Couldn’t hear the sirens as they tore him away.

—

When the people finally let you go and drifted away, you just stood there, staring down the road they sped down. It felt like hours had passed when Father Dyer seemed to appear in front of you. You smiled. So it is a dream.

Then you heard him say your name. And the muted noise of the street arrived, too. And you stared into his eyes, brimming with tears as he said your name again, and you broke.

You inhaled violently - for the first time it felt like since you’d seen him crumpled on the ground - and folded over on yourself as a wail tore itself from your throat, and tears streamed down your face. Father Dyer sat on his knees in front of you, holding you as you cried like you’d never cried before. It felt like drowning. 

—

The police questioned you, but the questions they asked were strange. Names you didn’t recognize, events trailing weeks back, lots to do with the church - you tried to help, but you could tell they were tired of your empty blubbering. They talked to Father Dyer and Sharon much longer. You sat on the curb and watched in silence. 

The woman from earlier - Mrs. MacNeil? - caught your eye from the sidewalk in front of the house. She looked gaunt, and watched you with a deep pity in her eyes. You wanted to ask her what happened, why Damien was there, who was in the body bag they rolled out of the house, but you just watched. It was all too much.

When you finally collected yourself enough to speak, your voice was hoarse and quiet. 

“Father,” you called out to Dyer. He turned away from the officer speaking to him. “Where are they taking him?” He looked lost for a moment.

“If he - if he survived?” You added, painfully. He shut his eyes and thought for a moment.

“Howard U, maybe?” he said. You nodded. The police officer was trying to get his attention again as you turned to walk towards the door of the house. You’d heard that having something to do makes it easier - so you were going to find the hospital.

Sharon called you a taxi. Her tear-stained face was a mask of pity - but you had to focus on keeping yourself together. So you stayed quiet. 

Right as you went to shut the door, Dyer caught it. He held the door for a beat before sliding in next to you. His face told you he shared your mission. So you sped away, holding your breath all the while.

—

It was a miracle. A slow, painful miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. You tried not to think about it too long. 

Damien had survived, barely. They couldn’t explain it to you when you asked - you didn’t blame them. It wasn’t survivable. Both legs and an arm broken, six broken ribs, a punctured lung and a mess of head trauma, but alive. That was enough, for you.

You took shifts at the hospital. Damien was comatose - in and out of surgery - but he seemed to come back every time. You would stay as long as you could, usually until they kicked you out. Then you’d switch places with Dyer, when he was available. Days stretched on and on, blurring together so it wasn’t clear how much time had passed. Weeks, you were sure. 

Sleeping was the hard part. Drifting off at his side among the bustle of the hospital was easy enough - but your dreams were terrifying and shadowy - pale faces, silent statues and bloody eyes, and something you couldn’t see, no matter how fast you spun to catch it flying past the corner of your eye. You’d wake up holding your breath, soaked through in cold sweat. 

When you finally trudged from the hospital at whatever strange hour Dyer could find to come to the hospital, you’d walk an hour and a half to St. Mikes, where you would sneak into Damien's room. Anything else was too expensive, or too far away. Sharon offered, but you knew she didn’t want any reminder of what happened that night - besides, you didn’t want anyone else to see you like this. 

In your rush to leave New York, you didn’t manage to bring any other clothes - so you managed with what you could find in his room. You figured the sweats and stark black, oversized dress shirts and pants were somewhat fitting to the whole situation. Secretly, you reveled in the lingering smell of his clothes - his soap and sweat and coffee. You tried to memorize it, afraid it would drift away, afraid this was all you had left of him in the whole world that didn’t smell like blood and antiseptic.

The first night was the worst. When they didn’t know if he would live or die. Dyer had snuck you in then, and the sickening quiet of his dark room had threatened to swallow you up whole. Sitting at his table, you spoke about what to do next as the early morning light filtered in. It was only then that Dyer’s face dropped and he informed you of your state. Your palms and knees were bloody and bruised, fragments of glass catching the light though your torn pants. You hadn’t felt it. 

So you lived, so to speak. Sometimes it could even be fun - when you worried through the night after being asked to leave the hospital and Dyer would come by and play cards with you, the radio tuned into whatever was playing. You had to admit, you were grateful to tears for Dyer’s presence. He was tired and anxious, too, but at least he could get you laughing. Distracted. Sometimes he even let you win. 

Besides, looking haggard and vaguely priest-like allowed you the freedom to wander the halls at night, and you had made it your personal project to find as many secret doors into the conservatory as possible. For such a serious crowd, they sure leave a lot of doors unlocked. One night you simply pulled a dusty doorknob clean out of its door - you shoved it back and ran silently away, smiling guiltily. Later on you felt brave enough to take the doorknob altogether - just to see if they would notice. No one seemed to. 

With every passing day, Damien seemed to look closer and closer to human - at least in that he healed almost superhumanly fast. He was out of his casts after only a week, only bruises remaining. You wish you could let your hope run with it, but you kept your spirits down as well as you could. His bones may have healed, but he’d lost weight in only a week - and his face was pale and hollow. Not to mention, you had no idea if he’d ever wake up - you had seen his head open on the pavement - if he did wake up, he wouldn’t be the same. So you kept your expectations low, held his hand, and stayed.

Needless to say, you were pretty sure your soul left your body as you opened the door in the middle of the night and saw him in a hospital gown, draped in Dyer’s coat, leaning heavily on him, barely awake. 

“Damien!-” You couldn’t find the words as you rushed to them, snaking an arm under his to drag him to the bed. Your heart swelled with the shock, you might have cried if you weren’t so bewildered. “How?” Your voice cracked as you looked to Dyer, who looked just as confused.

“He just. Woke up,” he said, shaking his head. You lowered him gingerly down, only fleetingly embarrassed at the state of the bedding. You held a hand to his forehead. He was strangely cold. 

“How could they just let him out like this?” You whispered, pushing yourself up to find another blanket - but stopped when you felt a cool grasp on your hand. He looked up at you through hooded eyes and your throat tightened. You kneeled at his side slowly, watching him, as if he might disappear into smoke in front of you. Your knees stung as they met the carpet, but you ignored it.

“He just said he needed to come to the church,” Dyer said. “I- I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

You brought his hand to your lips and breathed between your palms, trying to push some heat into his cold skin. His eyes shut again - he seemed utterly exhausted just in keeping them open. You couldn’t blame him. You stayed like that at his side, watching his chest rise and fall with each rattling breath, until eventually, you drifted off. 

—

It was early morning when you awoke - and you found yourself blinking in the darkness, remembering the events of a few hours before. Damien still held your hand in a vice grip - and in a moment it was too tight. 

A blinding surge of pain shot up your arm - and a dreadful, high-pitched crunch echoed in the silence of the room as your hand was crushed in his. You cried out hoarsely, too shocked to make any noise. Your other hand flew to his wrist in the dark, trying to pry his fingers from yours. Finally, he released you and you pitched away from him, holding your shattered hand and straining to see him in the dark.

You backed up to a lamp and scrambled for the switch. In the moment before light swallowed the room you were sure you saw his pale form there - sitting straight up at an uncanny 90 degree angle, eyes boring into you. But in the light he laid there - frail as ever - eyes closed. You breathed heavy as tears slipped from your eyes - bleary with sleep and pain and terror. You stood there, cradling your broken hand, mind racing, watching him.

When you were finally confident enough to tear your eyes from him, it was sunrise. You held your breath as you moved your gaze haltingly to your hand, in all its invisible, radiating pain. Your index and middle fingers were a swollen dark purple - twisted and undoubtedly broken. You gagged. Bright red and purple outlined where his fingers had been, and you turned your wrist to find the deep, thin crescents from his fingernails bleeding across the back of your hand. You stumbled to the sink and ran cold water, taking a deep breath before forcing the mangled mess under the stream. Now, through gritted teeth, you screamed. 

—

“He what?!” Father Dyer said, raising his voice above a whisper for the first time since he came in. You winced and glanced over to where Damien slept. You furrowed your brow and sighed. 

“How is he here, really?” You asked, not really talking to Dyer. “Shouldn’t he need some kind of medicine? Or a respirator? They said he punctured a lung…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

The hospital had recognized you when you trudged in a few hours ago to have your hand treated. A nurse who had worked on Damien lingered and finally approached the table where a nurse was setting your fingers, and asked you how he was doing. You didn’t say anything, sweating silently and hoping a cold shoulder might convince her you didn’t know anything.

“I’d say that I’d never seen anything like it,” she said. You stared ahead and tried to focus on ignoring her. “If it weren’t for that girl.” You couldn’t stop yourself from looking over at her then. She had a look in her eyes, it scared you.

“You should get yourself a priest.”

You looked at Dyer.

“What happened at that house, Father?” You asked. He looked down. You scoffed. “How is it that everyone knows more than I do? First Damien goes radio silent for a week, then Sharon calls me in a wreck, telling me she needs me but she won’t say why, then all of this happens,” you gestured at Damien. “And now a nurse is telling me I need to get a priest?!” Dyer met your eyes at that. You wiped your eyes. It felt good to cry from anger, for once.

“And I have been living under the church’s nose, and, by the way, they don’t like me,” you shook, exasperated. “I haven’t slept in God knows how long, and now he’s finally here and he breaks my fucking fingers in the middle of this night? I don’t care what you tell me, I need an explanation - any explanation!” 

“I am sorry my dear,” a voice broke in. You whipped your head around to see Damien sitting up on his elbows, looking at you through hollow eyes. “You’re not going to like it.” You were dumbfounded.

“What, are you possessed?” You said, joking weakly. He looked at you as you stood in silence. You looked at Dyer, who looked just as serious. “No,” you shook your head with a half smile. This isn’t happening. 

Damien made a noise as if to explain, but winced instead as he fell back again, rigid.

“Damien-” you started towards him- but Dyer grabbed your arm. 

“No!” He barked through gritted teeth, eyes wild. “No, don’t come near me-” You froze, eyes darting from Dyer to where Damien lay writing on the bed.

“This isn’t happening.” You pushed a hand through your hair and turned away from them, pacing. “This isn’t happening. You’re sick, you fell down a million stairs, you’re not possessed-”

“You- you have to kill me,” he rasped. You whirled around and looked at him, horrified. “I’ll hurt you-I did hurt you-”

“Damien-” Father Dyer started, but he stopped as you moved past him in a flurry, fists clenched and eyes ablaze. Damien tried weakly to bat you away, but you overpowered him, and took his face in your hands. 

“I’m not losing you again,” You said, bristling with an intensity you hadn’t felt in a long time. “So tell me how to help you. Tell us how to fix this.” He stared at you, eyes dull. You didn’t like the conviction you saw in him, but you weren’t backing down. Finally, his gaze softened.

“A-an exorcism,” he said, taking your hand. “If you want to h-help me, you have to get t-this thing out of me. You-you have to promise-” he stopped to catch his breath. “It has-has to be done-” he closed his eyes with a pained expression, a sheen of sweat across his brow.

“Okay.” You said, drawing away from him. You looked at Dyer. He looked about as lost as you felt, but he nodded to you. “But you have to promise not to die.” You demanded. He looked over at you, eyes barely open. “Please,” you pleaded. 

“Can’t.” He swallowed and shook his head.

“Fine,” you said with a shaky breath. “Then you have to promise to try.” After a few long moments, he nodded. As much a victory as anything, you thought. With that, he fell asleep again. You looked over to Father Dyer.

“How do we do this?” you asked. He sat down in an empty chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know - the resident expert on exorcisms died at the MacNeil house-”

“What?!” You interjected.

“-and the only other living priest who’s ever performed one is…” he gestured to Damien. 

“Well, what did he have with him at-” you winced. “At the house? And shouldn’t there be something written about it, or-or how to do one?” You were pacing again. Dyer looked up now, thinking.

“I think you’re right.” He stood up, suddenly animated. He opened the door. “I’m going to try something, you stay here with him.” Before you could say anything else, he was gone. You sighed, and collapsed into the chair.

“Damien,” you whispered to yourself more than him, as you watched his eyes dart wildly under his eyelids. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

The Way "SAVED!" Is rocking my world right now

The horror and intensity of a life of begging for forgiveness, of sinning and screaming and clawing your way to a life after death that is *more* worship? And loving it?? Loving it so much you'll speak in tongues and writhe on the floor and tell your friends they're going to hell??

"Lord please forgive me

I don't want to be like my friends who are going to hell"

WHAT‼️‼️

Christianity can be horrifying without deamons man

*be aware that this album will mess you up,, be careful and listen when you have the emotional space for it lol

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

10 posts!

Pffff 10th post is me saying I won't be posting for a while ☠️

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Hello‼️

If you've been reading my Exorcist fic, then you know I take,, a long time to update it ☠️

And at the moment, it's looking like chapter 4 is gonna be a while too. It's about 1/3 of the way done right now, but with school getting busy again, it will probably be a couple months before it's out - sorry.

However!! I want it to be known that however long it takes me, I will be finishing the fic! I'm really excited for the next chapter - plus, with the new exorcist movie coming out, I am in fact rolling around crying on the floor with excitement

So‼️ I hope you can forgive me for the wait, but just know that your patience will be rewarded!

Thanks for reading‼️❤️

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Just look at him ☠️🥰

JASON MILLER as FATHER DAMIEN KARRAS in THE EXORCIST (1973)

he broke the bread, gave it to his disciples and said "take this, all of you, and eat. for this is my body." when the supper had ended, he took the cup. again he gave you thanks and praise. he gave the cup to his disciples and said "take this, all of you, and drink from it, this is the cup of blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant and the mystery of faith".

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I am actually writing again! Chapter 4 is on it's way - slowly lol

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

5 posts!

🎉💛🎉

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 3

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 (You are here) - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 11k

When your life takes an unexpected turn, your world comes crashing down around you - so you find your way home.

TW: Emotional abuse, Miscarriage

Explaining it had been simple, and you’d asked Claire for a reason: you knew she could keep a secret. When she stopped by the house that afternoon to drop it off, she’d been smiling ear to ear - you tried your best to copy her excitement. She handed you the bag, the items concealed thoughtfully under a bag of brown sugar. 

“Thank you so much Claire, I really owe you one,” you said groggily, taking the bag from her outstretched hand. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” You hoped she would accept, you’d been brewing coffee all morning. The smell helped your nausea, but the pots on the stove boiling would seem excessive if you didn’t get rid of some of it. 

“No, no - I’d really love to, but I’ve got to get home, I’ve got ice cream in the car.” She said with a look of disappointment. “How are you feeling though, dear? Do you need anything else?” You shook your head with a smile.

“I’ll be alright,” you said. “I’ll call you.” She nodded, beaming with the joy of holding your secret. “I really don’t know anything yet - not a word, Claire.” She made a motion like she was zipping her mouth shut and turned to walk away, nearly bouncing with every step. 

You started toward the house, clutching the bag against your abdomen, anxiety and nausea rippling through you in cold waves. You listened as her tires crackled against the driveway.

“Oh Y/n?” She shouted from her window, and you looked at her, panicked at her shouting. Please don’t say anything obvious, you prayed, smiling across the lawn at her. “Ginger helps honey - ginger tea!” You nodded, waving as she rolled away. 

Finally in the safety of your home, you leaned against the door, relieved. You’d been sleeping most of the day - throwing up when you had the energy to be up. It had started a couple of days ago - you thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be flu and moving on with your day. When it seemed to linger, however, you started to get nervous. Something was different. 

You pushed yourself from the door, dizzy for a moment before you could make your way to the kitchen. You set the bag on the counter and reached up to a cabinet. Ginger, huh? You opened the cabinet to search, pushing your way through boxes of tea. When you couldn’t find anything, you settled for peppermint. Mint is supposed to settle your stomach, right? 

You set the kettle on the stove, lifting the nearly empty pots of boiling coffee from the stove, holding your face over the steam for a moment before dumping them into the sink. With a moment of hesitation, you reached into the bag and retrieved two rectangular boxes, turning one over in your hand. With a sigh, you sank to the floor. You read the instructions for the pregnancy test, listening to the kettle rumble quietly behind you. Seems simple enough.

You stayed down there for a while, savoring the cool floor against your bare legs and closing your eyes. I’m sure most women are scared when it happens, you thought. The kettle started to whistle behind you. You closed your eyes and listened to the sound and hoped that it would drown everything out.

—

After wandering the house nervously for the first hour of the test, the nausea creeped back in - enough to drive you back to bed. You crawled under the covers, propping yourself against the headboard. You reached for the book on your side table, opening it to a worn page. Damien had mailed it to you a few weeks ago.

You’d already read through it - in fact it had been a gift to Damien, one where you left notes in the margins in blue ink. You’d been a little surprised when it arrived, but upon opening it, you found the margins were no longer just yours. Your questions and prompts were accompanied now by notes in black, and sometimes pencil, responding. You loved it. It was like a long-distance conversation that you could start at any time. 

The book was a relatively thin paperback copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God, a story that had astounded and captivated you. You weren’t sure how much Damien would enjoy it when you gave it to him - maybe that’s why he found parting with it so easy, you thought with a smile and an eye roll. 

Reading it again however, you found that the notes in the margins increased from a few scattered underlines and responses in the beginning chapters to sentences squeezed between lines, paragraphs wrapping around corners, cluttering any open space. All things considered, the book was nearly illegible in its last pages, but you found you were most excited to reach them. 

Continuing where you had left off, you reached the scene where Logan demands Janie work on the farm along with her work in the house. You’d enjoyed the painful comparison of her role to that of his mule: 

At least a mule can’t resent her place in the world. What an ass.

Haha

Interesting how such a cruel man has such little regard for gender roles. Or more regard?

More. He seems to enjoy the benefits of manhood enough. Perhaps all women are simply doomed

I wonder why a 15-year-old has such limited knowledge of keeping a home? :0

You mean women aren't genetically destined for the kitchen? Someone should have said something

Breaks my heart

Funny how it doesn't break his

An arrow pointed here with the message: Obviously not funny

You breathed a laugh. 

As the book continued, some of the messages were original, crowding around chapter numbers for room. 

I believe she is lucky he is not initially good to her. It might be harder to leave - I consider now that to love is to be held hostage - Too preachy?

I wish I could say men of the church were above all of this, but unfortunately it demands a separation of faith from institution -

The church does not speak on its past in the owning of people - one has to wonder 

Kidney failure: now that is an act of God I can appreciate

The shrill ring of the egg timer echoed in the master bathroom, and you swung your legs over the side of the bed, rushing to stop the noise. You snatched it from the vanity, intentionally keeping your eyes from the tests that were ready on the other side. You set the timer down shakily, and picked one up. 

A dark ring appeared around the bottom of the small tube. You swallowed thickly. You reached for the next one. Another positive. The room seemed to lurch as you sunk to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and holding yourself together as your world fell apart.

You’d told Claire that you weren’t sure, but that if it ended up being positive, you wanted to surprise Chris with the news, so you figured that bought you some time. Besides, you could wait to call her - maybe even tell her they were negative - these were a pretty new invention, after all. 

But you couldn’t fight the panic that set in with reason for long. Your thoughts ran out of control at the thought of having a baby. Of course you’d considered the possibility, it always felt like something that was on the horizon - but that had always been something for later. I guess it’s later now. Your head felt heavy and your throat constricted. What am I going to do? 

You took deep breaths and tried to stay calm. I’m married - this isn’t some crime of passion, it’s what married women are supposed to do. This is what I’m supposed to do. The panic cooled as you pulled together thoughts of your friends with children, thoughts of your students, all the times you’d watched the children during mass - children were wonderful. Of course, children were difficult, dirty, and life-consuming, but they were wonderful. I can work with wonderful, you thought.

A sweet numbness, not quite joy, but not panic either, settled over you. Raising from the floor, you busied yourself with disposing of the evidence, grateful that this bathroom was “yours,” and that Chris used the one down the hall. You would tell Jo at dinner next week, she would know what to do next. Until then, you would convince yourself of the idea. 

A pang of guilt resonated in your mind - Why not tell Chris? He’s my husband, he should be the first to know. You knew already that you couldn’t tell him. Something held you back, and prodding at the feeling sent a shock of fear through you. Not yet. I’ll tell him eventually, you reasoned, pushing the feeling away. Just… not yet.

You wandered back to bed, enjoying a quiet breeze through the open window and sighing in the heat of the afternoon. You sat there for a moment, letting your thoughts go blank. You opened the book again.

He hurts her if she stays, someone new hurts her if she leaves. What would you tell her? 

I submit to the idea that everything happens for a reason - but I think “God’s plan” is often misunderstood. I think God obliges us to the ones we love. This is not love.

—

You were grateful the Martins had agreed to have dinner at your house tonight, it gave you a chance to choose a menu you could stomach. That meant chicken and dumplings. Your recipe was good enough and the heat had subdued with the evening- no one had noticed. It was just as likely no one had questioned your choice at all, despite its simplicity for a family meal. Were you being paranoid? Maybe.

Keeping the secret was surprisingly easy, but nerve-wracking. You wished it wasn’t summer break - going back to work might have helped, but thinking of your students now… also made the secret harder to keep. It had only been about a week since the positive tests. It just didn't feel real yet. It may have been the denial fading, then, that made your heart race as you thought about this recipe. Your mother would make this for you when you were sick. The wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over you as you made quiet conversation. Maybe being a mother wouldn’t be so bad.

Your mind drifted through possible names, through halloween costumes, through swim lessons and birthday parties and singing, through childrens’ books and screaming laughs and splashing in puddles. You thought about all the pictures you’d take, the height marks against the wall, the bright eyes. 

This feeling always left you awash with joy - I guess this is what people are talking about when they say someone’s *glowing.* Lost in thought, you tried to hold on to the feeling, chasing memories you had yet to make.

“Dear?” You felt a hand on your shoulder. You looked up at Jo, who looked at you with concerned eyes. You shook your head slightly as the feeling flitted away. 

“Sorry, lost in thought,” you said with a smile. Your heart sank slightly as you looked around, suddenly aware. “I’m sorry, did anyone need anything? Oh the jell-o!” You rose slowly at first, then all at once struck by the memory of the orange jell-o setting in the fridge - hopefully not frozen.

You hurried to the fridge, pulling out the mold and slowly turning it onto a plate. The orange surface was maybe a little too stiff, but glassy and cool nonetheless. You sighed with relief. 

“It’s alright,” you called to the dining room, carrying the platter shakily to the table. Chris watched from the table, with a puzzled look on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” you said with a laugh.

“Seems like you’ve been lost in thought a lot lately,” He put a hand on your arm. “What’s going on with you?” You stood there for a moment, face hot in the spotlight. A chill prickled over your skin and you swallowed thickly. You hated being put on the spot, and this was not the time. 

“It’s just that flu lingering.” You smiled and patted his hand. “I always seem to get sick in the summer - good thing work was keeping you out of the house, you might’ve caught it.” You deflected the question, starting to gather empty plates. 

You caught Chris’ expression in the corner of your eye. He seems convinced. Jo joined you in clearing the plates as your husband delved into the gelatin. Retreating to the kitchen with the plates, you wondered if you imagined the sigh you shared, the facade falling. Something about holding a smile like that… It felt like speaking to a particularly anxious student - like trying to get ahead of something. You looked at Jo in the moment you shared in the kitchen, her face blank, eyes tired. What must it be like, staying ahead of him? You returned to the dining room, resolved to keep your joy buried a little deeper.

“-is a pretty broad topic, so there’s a lot to consider. Feels like each time I’m close to completing it, something happens that proves my point just a little bit more, and then I just have to add it.” Chris spoke with serious excitement about his book. You were pretty sure you could pass a philosophy exam with all he’d told you at this point - and that look he would get in his eye, that furrowed brow, that deep patience for questions and discussion - you always thought he was at his best when he was talking about his work. 

“I think it’ll make some waves with the current political climate, I’ve just got to finish it in this lifetime.” He smiled. “Actually, the women’s movement is my current inspiration.”

“Oh?” You asked, genuinely intrigued. Chris had never been one to spend much time outside of his own head, maybe this was a sign of change? He straightened, his eyes bright with the thrill of an audience. 

“Make your speech,” You prompted, scooting forward and shooting him a curious smile. 

“Well, women’s issues and inequalities have been the subject of philosophical debate since men learned to think,” He smiled a little at that. “And what we’re seeing as the women’s movement is a product of everything that has been thought of, decided, and enacted upon women for years. But I would argue that what we perceive as an independent movement of collective thought is rather the work of fate.”

“I think, then, if we work backwards from this conclusion, we find that all of the things these women are protesting, and saying ‘should never have happened,’ were always going to happen. And, that whatever outcome is reached from the movement, if change occurs at all, will have been destined to happen as well,” He continued, gesturing following his words in clear movements. You looked at him with a degree of confusion, nodding for him to go on.

“So, I don’t think we can blame them for questioning it all, but I also think that if change occurs, will it be anything more than the re-packaging of every other social movement that has ever occurred? And to that extent, will it prove to actually change anything? Women are biologically destined for certain events in their lives - and collectively, until now, have never objected to that.” He said it as if it was a fact, but you suddenly found him very opinionated, and a little cold-blooded to reduce the movement to a personal marketing decision, and a futile one at that. Your skin crawled. 

“If we see change, it will have been the product of everything women have never objected to before - think childcare, marriage, preparation of food - ” He looked at his father expectantly. 

“Do we see women, on a mass scale, demanding to be put on the front lines?” he replied, amused.

“Socially, I'd argue that it was always going to happen, but biologically, it was never meant to be. Simple as that. We’ll have to see where it goes, but it’s just another layer of a repeating pattern, and choosing a side is pointless. The pattern was decided on a long time ago - all we can ever do is catch up to it.” He seemed satisfied with that, smiling as he returned to his dessert. Your face flushed with rage, and you watched as your parents-in-law nodded along, understanding. Even Jo seemed convinced. The conversation continued, muffled by a ringing in your ears. Your stomach turned and the room swam around you, like the air above a car on a hot summer day. 

“Excuse me,” you blurted quietly, pushing yourself away from the table and forcing yourself to walk, rather than run to the bathroom. You shut the door with careful silence, breathing ragged breaths through clenched teeth as you crumpled onto the floor. You backed away from the door, your back finding the cool side of the bathtub, mind reeling with a crashing realization. Cold tears dripped silently from your chin.

The feeling at the back of your mind revealed itself in all its snarling glory, the same one that had you hesitating with the thought of having this baby. If I have a daughter, she will grow up to be just like me. Your breaths were tight and fast. He’ll teach her to be a slave to responsibility, to be perfect and quiet, to marry a man who takes everything from her. You pressed a cold hand to your mouth, quieting your broken breaths. If I have a son, he’ll be just like him. He will take him far, far away from me and everything I can teach him. Whoever you are, you are doomed.

All at once, you could see what it had all done to you. Your mind was silent as you rose, slowly turning to the mirror, looking at a person you didn’t recognize. Clothes you didn’t own, hair longer and straighter than yours, dull eyes full of tears and surrounded in dark rings. I am doomed.

—

Big TW for miscarriage here, regulate your reading and proceed with caution.

—

You faced into the fan perched next to your window, relishing in the cool breeze on your brow. The school didn’t have air conditioning, and your room was on the second floor, so the heat was overbearing. The tinny clatter of the highest setting filled the room, white noise you welcomed, drowning out your thoughts. You sighed. It had been two weeks since your realization in the bathroom. Home hadn’t felt right since - you were grateful for the upcoming school year, you could bury yourself in work in the classroom, refusing to think about anything other than ordering finger paints and writing lesson plans.

There were a few other teachers here relatively early, and you had the occasional quick conversation with them as they passed your open door. You wonder if anyone could tell.

You were sorting through slides of animals and places, holding them up to the sun through the blinds and labeling them, when you felt it. Your back slowly tensed, a deep ache spreading through your abdomen. The pain wasn’t so bad, but it made you stop for a moment, and breathe slowly through your nose. The pain subsided. 

You pressed a hand to your back and straightened. This chair is finally catching up to me, you thought. You decided to move to the lounge - where the couches are. You smiled at the thought - and where the ac unit is. You collected the slides, a few piles of work, and your keys, feeling the ache seep in again. You gritted your teeth and left for the lounge, walking slowly. 

Entering the lounge, you sighed in the cool air. Two other women had the same idea, Mrs. Farrow and Claire sat at the round table in the middle of the room, chatting over their work, papers strewn between them. 

“Mind if I join you?” You asked with a smile, unloading your pile on a side table next to a sinking orange couch. You collapsed carefully into the deep cushions, the springs creaking under your weight. “It’s got to be almost 100 degrees up there.” They laughed with you, and you marveled at how Mrs. Farrow’s salt and pepper hair somehow managed to keep its height in the heat, thinking of your own frizzy bun. 

“Dehlia, you’ve got to tell me how you keep your hair looking that good,” you said. She chuckled.

“Honey, I’ve been up on the second floor a lot longer than you have,” she said with a smile. “What took you so long? We’ve been down here for hours.” 

“I have no idea,” you said, leaning your head back onto the arm of the chair, swinging your legs across the couch. “Ah-” You gasped at this new wave, the pain gripping around to your entire abdomen, stealing your breath away. You shut your eyes hard, mouth open in a silent wail. It felt like it held on like that for minutes before it finally let go. You breathed a shaky gasp, static filling your mind as you tried to catch your breath. Panic was starting to set in as the color drained from the room. With a jolt, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, are you okay?” Claire’s voice ebbed in, ringing. You wanted to nod, to look over and tell her you were fine, that it was just your back hurting, but you were frozen, waiting for the pain to return. Your thoughts were spinning out of control - you barely heard her next words. “Y/n look at me, what’s going on?”

Mrs. Farrow’s face joined Claire’s now, and you pushed out a response.

“M’ okay, just need the bathroom-” You swung your legs over gingerly. I just need to be alone, you thought, trying to put thoughts to words and failing embarrassingly, only stammering. Claire crouched in front of you, hands on your shoulders, keeping you down. Mrs. Farrow pressed a cool hand to your forehead.

“I think you need to lay down,” she said. “You have no color at all!” You shook your head, bracing yourself before standing shakily, the two women moving to support you. They helped drag you to the small attached bathroom while you tried to say something. 

You sunk to the floor, Claire holding your hand as Mrs. Farrow looked down at you, a hand over her mouth. 

“Call Christian, Dehlia, she needs to go to a hospital,” Claire said. Mrs. Farrow nodded, turning to leave the small room, but you reached out, catching the edge of her skirt and holding on as tightly as you could, awake enough now to a single thought, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NONONO-

“No!” you croaked, looking up at her, pleading with every fiber of your being. “No, no, no, he can’t know-” you stopped with a strangled yelp, the pain flooding back around you. All you could do was curl up on the floor, holding your breath and sweating against the dirty green tile. 

You heard her leave the room in a rush, and panic buzzed through you, static filling your ears - I can’t - she can’t- 

You blacked out.

—

You weren’t sure how long those two women stayed with you - hours? All night? You breathed slowly and sipped metallic tap water from a mug, shivering, but conscious. You felt empty with exhaustion. 

Mrs. Farrow leaned against the door frame - the lounge was dark behind her, the yellow glow of a light overhead projecting a halo over her. You almost smiled at the image. You’d gotten to know these women well in the last few hours. She knew what you were going through - the cool dark of her eyes were profoundly sad behind the brave face she wore. She assured you it wasn’t your fault, that sometimes these things happen, but she didn’t tell you to smile. She didn’t tell you to feel better. She didn’t tell you not to cry. 

Claire had been by your side the whole time - your life line. She held onto you and coached you through the worst cramps. She held your hair away from your face when you vomited, listened to your stammering, and distracted you by telling you all about the play she had been to see a few weeks ago - Applause with Lauren Bacall. 

You had all aged a millennia tonight - their eyes were deep and bloodshot, hair frizzy, clothes rumpled and jackets ruined. You almost laughed at the thought of how you probably looked. How can I ever repay them?

You were feeling relatively well for everything that had happened, but the shaky, cold feeling still worried you. You knew you had to go to the hospital - but the idea of leaving the small green bathroom, of leaving Claire and Mrs. Farrow, of telling a doctor everything that had happened, of them seeing- You couldn’t do it. 

“Is-” Claire hesitated to ask you, looking askance before meeting your hollow stare, resolute. “Dear, is there someone we can call?” You looked away and swallowed. You knew you should call Chris. You also knew you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Maybe…

“You need to go to a doctor, honey.” Mrs. Farrow’s tired voice joined Claire’s pleading look. You nodded slowly.

“Yes,” You said, voice quiet. You had someone you could call.

—

The sun was rising by the time you left the hospital. You were lucky - it was a complete miscarriage, and the doctor let you go with some light pain medicine. Part of you was nervous about some kind of complication, and the pain still radiated through you, but you were grateful to get out of the hospital so quickly. 

Jo helped you into the car carefully, her tidy beige coat draped over your slumped shoulders. She’d been at the school in mere moments - eyes glassy. She only asked a few questions - Claire and Mrs. Farrow helped you answer as you stood slowly. You thought you’d cried every tear in your body - but falling into her tight embrace had you sobbing silently again. She said she was glad you called her. Told you you were so brave. 

You didn’t need to tell her to lie to the doctor when you shuffled into the hospital at around 2am - she drove a little ways out of the city to the next closest emergency room and signed you in as her daughter, explaining that her son-in-law was out of town, and had been informed. You stared ahead blankly through swollen eyes. 

Now, as she drove you home through the rising sun, she asked you if you wanted to go home. 

The question struck you dumb - and remembering your husband lit a violent strike through you. Yes, you begged internally. I want to go home. Away from here. Back to the city. Back to my small apartment, back to my parents, back to smoke and shade and noise and painting and safety. I want to go home. Please. 

“Yes,” you answered. The thought of being in that big, hot house all alone scared you though, and in your streak of relying on her, you asked one more favor. “Jo, I know I’ve asked you for a lot tonight- but…” She looked over at you, expectant. “Could you- would you stay with me? Just for a little while?”

She looked ahead at the road and smiled.

“Of course.” She sniffed. You sighed. 

“Thank you.” You said. 

—

Jo hadn't lied on one account: Chris really was out of town, as he so often was in the summer. Conferences, research, and binge-writing sessions kept him out of the house often. Sometimes he worked from his office, the shrill clunking of the typewriter resonating through the house into the early hours. You were grateful this was not one of those times. 

When you crawled into bed that morning, you wanted to sleep forever. Just… close your eyes and slip away. All you knew was that you didn’t want to do what you had to do next. Your thoughts blurred as you sank into a deep sleep, only barely registering that Jo had crept through to close the blinds. 

When you awoke, sweat clung to you in an oppressive sheen, your sheets sticky. You laid there for a while, thoughts swimming in the heat. You could hear Jo on the phone downstairs, the tall ceilings and ajar door carrying a few words to you. She was talking to Dr. Martin. Telling him you were sick - the flu had come back worse, and you needed to be alone. She was taking care of it. She’d be home later to fix his dinner. 

You pushed yourself away from the cling of the sheets and swung your legs over the side of the bed slowly. The pain had faded now to nothing more than a dull throb, and your hands had stopped their shaking. You looked at the clock on the wall - 6:23pm. 

Jo had placed your medicine next to your bed with a glass of water, the outside dewy in the humid air. You gulped a couple of pills down and finished the glass, gasping. Combing your hands through your hair, you found it tangled and dirty. You stayed like that for a few moments, head in your hands, stealing a moment to enjoy the lack of pain before it washed over you again every few moments.

When Jo walked in with a tray, you looked up, blinking through swollen eyes. 

“You’re awake,” she said with some shock, setting the tray down at the end of the bed and pressing the back of her hand to your temple. “You look a lot better.” You breathed a small smile. 

“Do you think you convinced him? Was he too upset?” you asked suddenly, previously unspoken words now spoken. Something about the last several hours had your mind feeling clear, and frankly, a little blunt. She hesitated for only a moment - you could almost hear the wall come down between you as she sat down on the bed next to you. 

“No… he believed me easily enough,” she answered, quietly. You sat there in silence for a minute. “He- he’s a good man-”

“Jo,” you squeezed her hand. She looked down. 

“It’s my life dear,” she said with a sad smile, sniffing. “He’s my husband. I love him.” You nodded as she turned for the tray by her side, handing you a warm mug of savory-smelling soup. You breathed the salty steam for a moment, your nose running and head loosening a bit with the heat. 

“Oh thank you,” you said, smiling at her over the edge as you took a sip. She watched you, expression lightening. “I think this is the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.”

You stayed like that for a while, making easy conversation and drinking beef and barley soup from a mug, ignoring everything that hurt.

—

You didn’t leave the house for a few days. Jo visited you a few times a day, bringing you meals and passing a few hours by reading, or mindlessly watching television. You couldn’t hold up a conversation very well. Claire and Mrs. Farrow visited once too. They brought you cookies, but you didn’t feel like eating.

You enjoyed the company while it lasted, but it was only a matter of time before they were gone again, a sad look and a gentle touch lingering as they left. The rest of the time you spent in bed, all the shades drawn and a fan pointed in from the window. 

Sometimes you would wander the house, stopping to clean a surface mindlessly until your hands were raw and red. Sometimes you would just… lay on the floor, trying to quiet your mind. Nothing seemed to work. 

Biologically, it was never meant to be. Simple as that. Simple as that, simple as that, simple as that, his words rang in your mind. You felt… hollow. Empty. You didn’t even feel like crying anymore. You didn’t know what to do. It was easier to just sleep.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, you found yourself on the floor of your room, sweating through your clothes. You weren’t sure what time it was - what day is it? Pushing yourself up slowly, you blinked in a stripe of pale sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. 

Rising slowly to your feet, you crept to your unmade bed in the dark and sat on the edge. Biologically it was never meant to be. Simple as that. You looked down at the table. Down at the clock that read 6:31pm. Down at the book you started- before it all. Turning on the bedside lamp with a wince, you opened the worn book to the marked page. 

He hurts her if she stays, someone new hurts her if she leaves. What would you tell her? 

I submit to the idea that everything happens for a reason - but I think “God’s plan” is often misunderstood. I think God obliges us to the ones we love. This is not love.

You looked up from the page - this is not love. And just like that, you decided. It was time to leave. You’d go home. You let your head fall back with a sigh, a few cool tears falling silently. Resolute, you rolled your shoulders around stiffly, cracking your back and taking a quick breath. With your mission clear in mind, you rose to your feet - a bright, flaring will fueling your every move. I have so much work to do, you thought.

With that, you carried yourself to the shower, turning the hot water on before walking back to the bedroom to make the bed. With each step, you told yourself you were a terrible wife. A terrible daughter. A terrible friend. Deceiving, distrustful, guarded, cowardly - a grieving, overreacting mess of a woman. 

As you scrubbed your skin in the scalding water, the thoughts faded to the low, desperate blaze of your fury. You unburied every memory of his condescending speeches, his raised voice, his candy-sweet, biting comments, his lingering, empty touches, his excuses - your fear, your complacency, your blindness - I’ve wasted so much time. 

The cool tile felt like ice through the rolling steam as you stepped out. The relief of your decision had settled easily over you - but each moment you stayed in the house was worse than the last, like realizing you were drowning at the bottom of the ocean, clawing through miles of black, praying that it wasn’t too late. 

Every movement was frantic. The house contorted neatly to its pristine coldness, your two-week notice lay neatly folded in a stark white envelope on the desk, and deep, golden light fell over the house by the late evening. Like you were never there. 

You hadn’t known how to start a letter to Chris - what could you say? You stared at the paper for a long time, lost for words. Everything with him had always been so easy for you before - you always knew what to do, what to say. You’d gladly siphoned away your life and your personhood to him, it just felt like what you were supposed to do. Now - tearing away - you didn’t know where to start.

Cold fear swept in around you then - what will he do when he finds out?

You scribbled out a few weak sentences - I’m going home for a while… Not sure when I’ll be back… I’ll call…I’ll write… You figured that you would at some point, and until then, he would survive. He’s a smart man - he’ll be alright. You couldn’t bear to think about him for another moment - his furrowed brow as he’d read your note, his confusion, his heartbreak. So you folded the note into a peak, and set it squarely on the desk. I refuse to spend another moment on his heart. He never could spare a moment for mine. 

With that, fiery urgency filled you once more, the dark sky like a ticking clock, reminding you he would be back in the morning. You packed in silence, working single-mindedly by the dim light of the lamp. You took only what you needed- only what was beloved. 

Your favorite clothes, most of which were old and dusty at the back of your closet, pushed there years ago. Some money you'd tucked away in a cigar box, your jewelry, some hygiene essentials. The silence of the house echoed, and you worked faster. Important papers, another pair of shoes, drawings and notes from your students. You made sure to bring the book, nestling it among Damien’s letters. Pictures of your family. Scribbled phone numbers and addresses on the back of an empty envelope. A few recipe cards of your mother's. Your two bags were almost full. It was like a bad dream - this is all I have. 

“Y/n?” A small voice called from the dark of the hallway, freezing you in place. Your blood was icy cold as you stared like a deer in headlights, watching with bated breath as Jo stepped into the room, wide-eyed. You didn’t hear her come in. 

She’s here to stop me. She’ll tell Chris, she’ll tell everybody- 

“Please,” was all you managed to say. A tear fell from her eye, a deep frown clear on her face. “I’m sorry-” you choked. I can’t leave her with them, you realized. She’d be all alone. This was the worst doubt you’d felt in hours - you’d stay if it meant she’d be safe. You’d stay if it meant she’d have someone. You’d stay if she asked you to. 

But she didn’t. She let out a shaky sigh and began to help you pack. The relief, the gratitude, the guilt washed over you as you followed suit, tears flooding your vision. 

“You don’t have much time,” she said as she zipped your suitcase closed. You looked up. “The latest bus leaves in an hour. From there you can catch the midnight train out of state.” 

“What-” You sniffed, astounded. “How did you know?”

“I look at the bus schedule every day.” She smiled. “I think about leaving here - every day. Every day.” She shook her head with a broken laugh, smearing a tear away with the back of her hand. You noticed the red bruise forming underneath, barely noticeable under her thick makeup. You were at her side in a moment, gathering her in your arms and sinking to the floor. She shook with quiet, laughing sobs, clinging to you for dear life. 

“Come with me,” You asked, looking bleary-eyed over her. “Please, Jo. You can get out. You can stay with me. You can be free. Please.”  You knew what she would say. She stayed like that for a moment, face buried in your shoulder, not saying a word. Then she drew away from you, smiling with her hands on your shoulders, looking into your eyes. You thought it was the saddest thing you’d ever seen. She sighed heavily.

“I’m too old, and too old-fashioned, dear.” She said, slipping back into her familiar resignation. “He can’t go without me- and I can’t go without him.” She sniffed.

“I won’t leave you-” you started to protest.

“You have to. Or you’ll never do it,” she said, gripping you and looking into your eyes with determination. “It’s time.” She smiled again - this one was real. Her face was bright in the deep shadows of the room as she stood. You nodded. 

—

Jo drove you to the bus station in the dark, and you spent the time in terrified silence, watching the red taillights float along outside the window. It had been years since you were alone - what will I do? Where will I go? 

You thought of all of your friends here, the other teachers, the other wives. You thought of Mrs. Farrow and Claire - you thought of Jo. You’d never been alone here, they’d made sure of that. So you thought of your friends who were still in the city, the people who had gotten you through the long nights at school, who had helped you move into your first apartment, who had been there at your wedding. 

You thought of Damien and his mother. No, I can’t - they’ve already done so much for me. You thought about the letters stacked in your suitcase. You knew they would help you, he wouldn’t think twice about it. But you knew his mother was - well, to put it lightly, not doing well. You refused to be a burden to them. I can find something. But… the thought of seeing Damien again was comforting. He was your best friend, and though you felt abysmally guilty for it, you were a little excited. 

You thought of your parents. Of course I could go home - god, I’d love to go home, you thought. Christmas two years ago had been wonderful - everything felt right in that moment, however short it had been. Your parents are retired now, though, and your father spends most of his time taking care of your mother, who had started going blind a few years ago. Regardless, they were in good spirits when you saw them, though you remembered their silence as you told them about Chris and his work - as you told them about the party. They’d been insinuating that they wanted you to come live at home in their letters since. 

But they were on a slim fixed income now. And worse, I hate to even imagine - Chris knew where they lived. If he did come looking for you, he’d look there first. You wanted to avoid that at all costs. You needed somewhere to hide for a few months - somewhere you could restart, where you could heal. 

You thought of Sharon. You hadn’t written to her for a few months now, but from what you remembered, she was living in Georgetown, working as a personal secretary and tutor for a rich Hollywood family living there. She had a boyfriend - but he was in California. She didn’t know anything about what had happened in the last few weeks - and she hated living alone. So, you elected to call Sharon on the first phone you found in the morning. I still don’t like the idea of relying on her until I can find a job, but… I can’t do this alone. 

Having a plan, however uncertain, helped you steady yourself as you stepped out of the car next to the station, hot exhaust collecting in the street as the bus idled in the cool night air. You rushed to load your luggage - the bus would only stay another few minutes.

Reality sunk in fast as you approached the open door, Jo pressing a worn ticket into your hand. Her ticket. You hugged her one more time. Your heart beat fast as your chest grew tight.

“I’ll write-” you said over the engine. “If you ever need me, if you decide to go - I’ll come get you, just say the word- promise you’ll tell me?” She was quiet.

“Promise me!” You looked at her eyes. She looked away for a moment and nodded. 

“Okay.” She took your hands in hers. “Take care of yourself. Please.” She smiled at you. 

“I will.” You stepped back. “I love you. God I don’t know how I can ever thank you-”

“Don’t look back.” She said, holding your gaze, resolute. “I’ll look for your letter - even if you don’t write your name on it, I’ll find it.” You nodded as the brakes hissed - you had to go now. With one last look, you kissed her cheek and rushed to board the bus, avoiding the bloodshot eyes peering over their seats at you, waiting for you to sit down. You found a seat far in the back, and the bus lurched as it began to speed away. You watched her headlights get smaller and smaller as you moved, until they were nothing but pinpricks in the dark. And then you were gone. 

— 

The day was overcast, and a thick fog blanketed the track as Damien ran. With each step, new pavement revealed itself through the mist. Good for losing track of time, he thought. Days like this, he’d run until he couldn’t anymore, and as his steps grew shaky and his breaths stung in the cold air, he decided this lap would be his last. 

Rounding the last corner, he ran a little faster as the steely shine of the bleachers appeared through the fog, along with the distinct form of a person sitting at the far end, watching him. As he got closer, he could make out the soft brown of her long coat and the color of the scarf wrapped casually over her hair. He slowed to a stop with a huff as she stepped down from the bleachers, two paper take away coffee cups in hand. 

It had been about a month since he’d started seeing her in Georgetown again. At first he thought he’d been seeing things - her face among a crowd, a flash of her distinct hair color on the floor of Carol’s station at the salon when he visited, her laugh floating over a sea of voices while he waited in line. Of course he’d always brushed it off - it seemed to be in his nature to see her everywhere, it wasn't the first time.

But when she had appeared in the church, struggling alongside Sister Tallis to lift a long-faded painting from the wall of the south hall, he had frozen in his tracks. Her hair was cut much shorter than he remembered, regaining some of its original shape after having been straightened when he saw her last, a bandana holding it away from her face. 

She wore a tattered, olive green smock with the sleeves rolled up to the bend of her elbows and a pair of boxy jeans rolled up at the cuffs. She’s painting again. As she spoke, her voice was clear and light, and her movements were steady, if a bit hesitant. She seemed like she’d returned to the land of the living, in a manner of speaking. And when she’d looked down the hall to where he stood, she smiled, and despite all her energy and color, he’d noticed a shadow in her eyes - a deep sadness that lurked quietly under her joy. 

After that, you’d started taking walks, getting coffee, eating, and reading together often. You saw each other almost every day - if she didn’t find him, he’d find her. She told him a little about the last few months, but not much. Only that she’d left Chris, and stayed with Sharon for a few weeks before the church hired her to do some restoration work. Along with a few other projects and a slot lecturing art history at the university, she’d made enough for a small apartment nearby. He didn’t push for anymore details - he knew there were things she wasn’t telling him, but he also knew that they hurt enough to have her looking away, knuckles white and voice growing quiet. He didn’t mind. He was just glad to have his friend back. 

He did find however, that he hit a lot harder in practice when he imagined the bag with Christian Martin’s face.

“Almost didn’t see you in the fog. Good run?” She asked, handing him one of the cups. He looked down at it. 

“Is this water?” He asked, a little disappointed. She laughed.

“I read somewhere that coffee dehydrates you!” she said. He took a long drink, emptying the cup quickly. 

“I know that,” he said as you started to walk. I needed that - but she doesn’t need to know. He feigned a deep frown. 

“Pfff-” She set the full cup into the empty one he held, the familiar bitter smell of black coffee drifting up from the dark drink. “You know I don’t like coffee.” She smiled. 

“Hm.” his frown broke into a small smile as he took a short drink. She took his arm, as usual. “If this was a scheme to get me to buy you a tea, it’s working.” She smiled mischievously, not meeting his eyes. He drank the coffee slowly as you walked, listening as she talked about her work on the towering painting that hung in the sanctuary, and her anxiety in working on such a tall ladder. 

“I can hold it for you if you like,” Damien offered. She sighed. 

“Not for hours at a time you can’t,” she said with a laugh, looking up at him. “I’d appreciate it if you made sure I have white flowers at my funeral, though.” He knew it was a joke, but he pulled her a little closer nonetheless. 

He hadn’t told her this, but those two years since seeing her at Christmas had been… terrifying. He kept thinking of how miserable she looked, of how ragged her voice was, how tattered and calloused her hands had been. He didn’t know if Chris had ever hit her, but he knew enough to gather that he was something of a narcissist, and that he was, at the least, emotionally abusive.

The thought of letting her go back to him, once he’d held her in his arms at the station - he almost couldn’t let go. But she loved him. And she could take care of herself. So he resigned himself to writing her letters whenever he could, and praying. When he stopped hearing from her out of the blue two months ago, he'd assumed the worst. 

He’d sit awake in his room, imagining that Chris had forbidden her from writing to him, that Chris had taken her somewhere farther away where he’d never see you again, that Chris had finally hurt her- he didn’t know what to do. 

So he waited, and prayed that she was safe. Somewhere along the line, he started to pray that she would leave him. That she would come home. He knew that God didn’t work that way - but asked all the same. And here she was.

—

Damien loved to watch her paint. Restore, he could hear her say, telling him for the 100th time - she was painting all the same. She stuck out her tongue when she was really focused, and wore thick glasses that he assumed gave her a closer look at the finer details. Every movement was so slow and controlled, it barely looked like she was moving at all. But gradually, she could bring a painting back from the dead - push new life and color into once dusty faces, and bring out details that were once unnoticeable. It was like magic.

“Father Karras.” A voice called behind him. He turned to find Father Hale walking towards him, hands behind his back.

“Father Hale,” Damien greeted him in a civil tone. Some part of him found it strange that she would have an audience of anyone other than him - besides, Father Hale carried with him everywhere an obtrusive piousness that seemed to drown any interesting conversation. He was pretty sure the man had no inkling of his dislike, however, and preferred to keep it that way. “Good to see St. Michael is getting a makeover, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He stopped beside him, watching her work for a moment, before looking over at Damien. “May I… have a word with you, Father?” 

Damien looked over at him, puzzled, but nodded. Father Hale turned to walk down the hall as Damien followed. They walked until they reached the far end of the hall, turning into an office. Father Hale shut the door behind them.

“What can I do for you?” Damien asked, trying to hide his annoyance. Father Hale’s voice was condescending in tone as he spoke. 

“I’m worried about you Karras, that’s all,” his face showed genuine concern. Damien held back a scoff.

“Go on,” Damien said.

“It’s been good to see you in better spirits since Mrs. Martin joined us,” He said. Damien shot him a dark look. Don’t call her that, he thought. He suddenly didn’t care about whatever Hale said next, but he stayed silent despite himself.

“But I’ve noticed you together outside this church-” he said, looking out the window to the street. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Karras.” He looked at him, all at once serious. Damien was furious - what is he insinuating?

“She’s a friend - what are you trying to say?” Damien raised his voice. Hale stepped toward him, undeterred.

“You’re young,” he said, stern. “She’s married, and you have taken an oath to serve our lord in poverty, obedience, and chastity. What else is the church meant to assume, with her parading you about like a-” Damien closed the distance between them in a moment, towering over Hale and gripping his collar in his fist.

“What? Like what, Hale?” He wanted him to say it. To call her whatever he was going to call her so he could make sure he knew he couldn’t get away with saying it. All he could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears, grateful now for the closed door. Hale paled - stammering. He held his gaze like that for a moment, daring him to say something. The man seemed to steel himself then, pushing Damien away in a huff, a bead of sweat formed on his broad forehead. 

As the roaring in his ears died down, he watched as Hale straightened his collar with a huff. 

“I won’t listen to this for another moment. How dare you doubt my vows?” Damien shook as he spoke, breathing even. He knew, deep down, he couldn’t do anything. Hale always had the Bishop’s ear - and she’d despise him if he ever hurt anyone in her name. He took a deep breath. “Good day, Father Hale.” 

Hale held his eyes, furious, but too intimidated to stop him as he slammed the door behind him. 

Damien had never made an enemy like that before in the church - he wasn’t sure if it would mean anything - but Hale's words had found their target. He thought of his vows for a moment, and of her-

He stopped. He could see the ladder standing empty in the sanctuary, and as he walked closer, her palate and the thick glasses lay on the floor - paint splattered as if she’d dropped it. He walked faster.

“Y/n?” He called, fear rising in his chest.

She’d stepped in the paint - a trail of yellow-tan paint leading a patchy trail to the side hall. Snatching his coat from where it lay over a pew, he rushed to follow it to the courtyard door. 

—

You were focused on a shadow. The shadow under St. Michael’s chin to be exact - it had long since lost its darkness, and you needed to bring it out - softly. Times like these, you wondered how Raphael managed such soft shadows with such clear contrast. All the same, the challenge was wonderful. You missed restoration with all your heart, and getting to return to it now, and on a Raphael, too. Well, at least a damn good copy. You knew it wasn’t the real thing - it had been in the Louvre since 1667, after all. I’m going to make it a better copy, you thought, smiling to yourself as you dabbed on the smallest speck of the deep yellow-black-

“Y/N.” You froze completely, breath hitching and blood running ice cold. You knew that voice. You prayed you’d imagined it. No, this isn’t happening-

“Y/N!” Chris yelled again. You dropped the palate, the loud clattering echoing over Chris’ deep bellowing. You shook, gripping the ladder with all your strength as you pulled the glasses from your face, setting them on the table of the ladder with a clatter. You turned your head slowly to look down at him. 

He stood about 20 feet away from the base of the ladder, eyes blazing and mouth open in shock. 

The few other people in the sanctuary looked on in confusion, some staring, some averting their eyes with obvious effort. You didn’t want to go down there. 

“Please-” He choked. His strangled voice struck you as his gaze softened. You watched his face, now noticing the thick stubble and dark shadows under his eyes - his hair unkempt. He looked… miserable. “I just want to talk- can we just talk? Please?” You hesitated for another moment, white noise filling your ears in the dead silence of the room. You nodded, and descended the ladder slowly, hands trembling. 

Panic distracted you as your feet found the floor, and you missed the last step, the ladder jumping with a clatter. Your glasses fell with an echoing ‘clack,' Chris’ hands biting into your shoulder and arm, steadying you. Too tight, you thought, fear spiking through you. You looked down the hall, searching for Damien. Please, please, please, you begged for him to appear. You didn’t see him. 

Chris released you after a moment, hands hovering near you, afraid you might bolt. 

“Follow me,” you said, walking slowly to the side hallway - I won't do this here, you thought. But you made sure to smear your foot in the paint before you turned, trailing a pattern of light-colored paint as you walked. Please find me, please. 

You didn’t think he’d hurt you - but you didn’t know what he would do like this, his eyes bloodshot and tear-stained. Your thoughts spun, screaming that this was a bad idea, that you should stay where the people are- but your feet carried you to the courtyard door all the same.

You held the door for him and closed it behind you, stepping out onto the stone landing. Steps fell away from the landing about eight feet away from the double doors, and Chris stood in the sun a few feet away from the edge. Though the sun had seemingly emerged, the day was still bitingly cold, and you shivered in the realization that you had left your coat inside. Can I even get back in this way? You wanted to check, but Chris’ gaze had you locked in place. You held your arms at the elbows, steadying yourself in the cold.

“How are you?” he asked. It surprised you. 

“I’m alright,” you said. That soft tone in his voice - you weren’t prepared for it. It broke your resolve. Maybe he’s here to listen, you thought hopefully. “How have you been?” He snorted.

“I’ve been better,” he said, looking down. “How could- do you know how worried I’ve been?” His voice rose.

“I’m sorry-” You started. You looked up. “I just couldn’t stay - I had to leave.” 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me what was going on with you?” He said, voice strained. “Nobody would tell me anything, it feels like everyone’s hiding something from me.” You were quiet for a moment.

“I didn’t feel like I could talk to you. You were always gone- away at a conference or working, I didn’t want to interfere-” Your voice shook. “I tried to be everything you wanted from me. I thought being a good wife would make us happy… but it was never enough.” He was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not a bad husband,” He insisted. “I work so, so hard to build you a nice home, a nice life - the book was for us-”

“The book was for you, Chris," you said. “Everything was for you. I know you tried - I tried too, but it just wasn’t enough-” 

“You’re not telling me everything,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “Why are you still lying to me? Have I ever known you?” He was yelling now, and he took a step towards you. You shrank back. What? He-he can't know- Your silence seemed to make him more upset. “What aren’t you telling me-” You winced as he hissed in your face, backing up.

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see Damien step through quickly, standing behind you. Relief flooded over you.

“Damien,” you whispered as you gripped the cuff of his coat, clinging to him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You nodded, letting him go as you looked back to Chris, who stood motionless, eyes dark with realization.

“Was it because of him?” he demanded, eyes darting. His voice shook with rage. “You left me for a priest?” 

“No.” You tried to explain. “Chris, it wasn’t-” 

“No, I see now. You’re here for him - after everything we’ve been through, after everything I did for you, our life- you’re here fucking a Priest?” He smiled as he spoke, incredulous. You wished he would stop. You tried to say something - tried to defend yourself - 

“Stop.”

“How long have you been seeing him? Is he-” he laughed now, looking away before smiling up at Damien. “You know she’s pregnant, right?” All the air left your body, your stomach sinking.

“-no.” you could barely get the word out, recoiling away. 

“I kept waiting for you to tell me after I found the tests- I was so excited for us, y/n.” His voice broke. “And now I know why you never said anything-” His words were drowning in static, the floor pitching beneath you. Damien was yelling now too- it’s too much-

“I had a miscarriage.” You blurted out, forcing yourself to look up at Chris. The courtyard was silent, the static roared. Tears fell from your eyes, but you didn’t feel them. You felt a firm hand on your shoulder as Damien braced you. You took a shaky breath. The static quieted.

“I had a miscarriage,” You said it again. “And I-I couldn't tell you, because I didn’t - I couldn’t imagine raising a child with you.” You paused between sentences, taking a deep breath. Chris’ face fell, his eyes empty as he listened.

“And I should’ve said something. Years ago. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, because I knew it would break your heart like it was breaking mine-” Your voice cracked. You continued. “So I came home.” 

His face was set in stone, a tear falling from his face. “You’re not leaving me.” He seemed to be losing his grip on anger, and it fell away in pieces as it was replaced by despair.

“No, you’re right,” you ventured, concentrating on keeping your voice steady as you met his eyes. “You’re leaving me.” He looked at you, incredulous.

“I won’t-” he started, quiet now. “I’ve been a terrible husband-” 

“I’ve been a terrible wife.” you held his gaze. Make your speech.

“Despite it all - despite everything I think what you hate is that you do love me,” he said, his voice wavering, but with a weak note of hope. “I think you stayed all this time because you love me, and it was real. I think this - this was meant to happen. We’re supposed to be broken and terrible together, and despite it all, I love you, and I’m not leaving you until you get down on your knees and beg me.” He looked into your eyes then, seething. 

You looked at him, and kneeled - cold pavement stinging your knuckles as you steadied yourself. 

“Please leave me.” You said, as clearly as you could. He looked truly lost now, mouth slightly open in surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” he said plainly. He waited for a moment more, as if waiting for you to take it back. You didn’t. “Fuck,” he said with an empty laugh. Then he inhaled deeply and with a sigh, turned and left. Descending the stairs, walking down the sidewalk beside the building, and turning at the front of the building, he disappeared.

When you were sure he was gone, you fell back onto your legs and breathed a shaky laugh that descended into a broken sob. The tears wouldn’t stop - you couldn't see or get a breath in - but crying was all you could do.

Something heavy and warm fell over you like a blanket as Damien’s coat wrapped around your shoulders. You couldn't see him, but you felt his strong arms encircle your waist and hold your head gentle against him as you collapsed into his shoulder, surrendering to the shaking sobs.

He held you and rocked you gently as you wept, whispering quiet ‘I’m sorry's' and ‘I’ve got you’s’ into your hair. You stayed like that for a long time. 

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Chapter 3 coming soon! Trying to get it done tonight lol - we'll see how that goes

Really excited about this one, lots of angst and suffering and pain :)

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 2

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 (You are here) - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 6.8k

When you decide to go home to New York for Christmas this year, planning the department Christmas Party becomes the bane of your existence. Going home is an uphill battle, but you are rewarded when you see a familiar face.

TW: Emotional abuse, References to Physical abuse

Three Days Until Christmas.

The tinny echo of the steel wool on the copper pot filled the kitchen. Almost every surface of your kitchen was populated with bowls and baskets of produce, glass jars brimming with spices and flour, recipes strewn across the counter. So many of them required so much preparation - two days was barely early enough to have everything ready for Christmas Eve dinner, and if there was a dinner that needed to be perfect, it was going to be this one.

You had spent the last three Christmas dinners in Athens with your in-laws, after agreeing with Chris that you would have one of those marriages where you wouldn’t fight about things like that, and that you would alternate every year between his family and yours, you’d also agreed that the five-minute drive was much easier than the 11-hour drive to New York. 

All the same, the last three years had passed sluggishly, clumsily, but admittedly, happily. You found you enjoyed the trials and tribulations of keeping a house, and Athens had proved to be a beautiful city; all things considered, you were very lucky to be where you were. The snow seemed clearer here - whiter. Tonight, it fell quietly through dark skies, catching your eye through the many windows of your home. 

You peered into the pot. More than clean. You set it atop your tower of dishes drying into a towel on the counter and dried your hands. The ghostly quiet of the house seemed to draw you out of your thoughts, to where you blinked hard, realizing how tired you were through dry eyes. You turned to look at the mess of your kitchen and elected to leave it for the morning, shifting your thoughts to the cascading checklist of foods and items you had left to prepare. The wall clock seemed to echo with every second passed. About 10:30. I’ve got more time.

Pineapple for the ham, pecans for the pie, cherries frozen, cards stamped, I’ve got to get Chris’ Watch wrapped, and of course the dining room will have to be cleared and vacuumed, and the guest bathroom is cleaned, so that only leaves getting the coconut for the shrimp- maybe Jo has some? Your hands found a rag and wrung it in the sink as you stared into the static out the window. You tried not to think about Chris out there this late - Nearly 11pm now on the Sunday before Christmas - not too late for a late work night, of course. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes - before you remembered he wasn’t here. You rolled them as hard as you could and smiled to yourself. 

The familiar yellow shine of the headlights cast window-shaped squares across the wall. Finally, you sighed internally. 

You ran lightly to the door and stuffed your bare feet into galoshes, opening the door and stepping quickly into the wall of cold. The car idled in the driveway as you stepped precariously through the light to the garage side door, hitting it with your hip and wrenching the handle, cracking through to the still cold of the garage. Your fingers felt for the switch next to the door, finally reaching a plastic rectangle and pushing. The garage door rose, mechanisms screaming creakily through the cold. 

The car revved quietly, rolling onto the cracked concrete and illuminating the small room. You stole a glance at the boxes of easels, half-painted canvases, and books collecting dust in the furthest corner. You tried not to come in here anymore… you didn’t like seeing all your old things like this.

The car door slammed shut next to you, and you tore your gaze away, smiling in the sudden dark at Chris.

“Long night for a Sunday,” you reached up to straighten his collar, missing in the dark and finding his face. He winced.

“Ah- your hands are cold!” He said with a tight smile, lifting your hand away. “Hardings are coming to Christmas- sorry to add to your plate. I know you’re juggling a lot already.” You smiled. 

“Eh, what’s two more?” You sighed. “How was work?” You trekked back to the house, shutting the garage behind you as he spoke, gasping silently as your knuckles stung - splitting in the cold air. You brought your fingers to your lips, pressing your tongue to the iron-taste of blood.

“Would’ve been home earlier if mom hadn’t dragged us to church this morning,” He said with a huff once you were finally in the warmth of the house. “It’s all so asinine. What are we proving? I truly don’t think anyone in there actually believes in a god - it’s just another political club, except it evades its taxes legally.”

You shot him a look over your hand as you stepped past him to the bathroom. 

“Sorry, forgot,” he said with a small smile, raising a hand in defense. He didn’t even try to hide his eye-roll. No you’re not, you thought. I have the spiel memorized by the way, and no matter that your mom loves it.

You reached the bathroom, running a hand under the water and searching the cabinet for a band-aid with the other, half-listening to him as he talked. 

—

Two Days Before Christmas.

Chris opened the door with a single, hard movement, stepping into the heat of the house. You followed behind him, carrying two baskets and a bag packed with pie-making supplies. Frozen cherries, a two-pound bag of pecans, syrups, every pie dish you owned, and about a hundred other bits and pieces. You hiked the bag up on your shoulder, moving clumsily through the door.

“Ma? We’re here!” He called into the light of the hall, shaking snow from his hat. You shut the door haltingly, struggling against your baggage. 

“Merry Christmas my dear,” Jo stepped into the hall in her festive red and green plaid apron, hugging her son quickly before taking one of the baskets from your shaking arms. 

“Thanks,” you sighed with a smile. She kissed you warmly on the cheek, moving a handful of long hair from your face as you followed her to the kitchen. 

“Your father’s in his study, dear.” She yelled as you reached the kitchen, hoisting the basket to the top of the counter. “Would you bring the serving dishes from the living room so I can wash them?”

Her kitchen was spotless, somehow perfectly clean while in action. Though she’d clearly been working for some time, the evidencing apple peels and cores sitting in a tall pot and recipes standing against the checkered backsplash appeared somehow like they belonged - like the cover of a cookbook. You always preferred working in your mother-in-law’s kitchen, though you envied the perfection she seemed to embellish her home with. 

Keeping a house wasn’t something you were trained in, and though you’d found your stride in maintaining your home, it was never easy. Georgia hadn’t been easy. 

You thought of the strange looks you got the first time you attended a staff potluck at the university, the whispers you feared were all for you, the attempts Chris had made to be helpful, “they’re just not used to you yet,” “That’s church folk for you,” “You don’t happen to have anything a little more formal, do you?” Not to mention, the pained looks of the fellow wives. “Dear, you have got to demand something a little nicer for your allowance, is he giving you anything to work with at all?” “Art is just so important, what a brave choice!” “Get those visits home in soon, before the kids get here!” You knew they meant well, but the sort of hopeless, condescending tone in their voices scared you. 

Making friends here had been difficult at first, but you’d adjusted quickly enough. Your wardrobe became lighter, more “professional,” populating your closet with cocktail dresses and floral blouses. You grew your hair too, straightening it every morning and tying it up into a tidy bun. The change suited your career as a schoolteacher, and the comments on your appearance ceased. 

The other teachers and wives opened up as time went on, and soon enough, you found you could enjoy their company. You’d exchange recipes, whisper small complaints on your husbands’ late hours and condescending explanations, and find solace in walks throughout campus and downtown. They were really very smart, and kind, in their own sort of way. You looked out for each other.

During your walks, you couldn’t help but think of the shady streets of DC, the crowded brick and the rush of the streets. Worse yet, you’d think of your old friends, your bright Sunday School Students, the dusty sunlit halls of the college, and the comfort of knowing every face you met on the street in a given neighborhood. The musty smell of the subway, the quiet shuffle of the sidewalks, your cozy apartment. The warmth of Damien's arm in yours on a cool morning, the smell of water-damaged discount books, the deep, whiskey pools of his eyes. 

You’d shake yourself, remind yourself, and wrench yourself back to reality, like getting out of bed on a rainy weekend morning.

I have a life now, and what’s done is done. There’s work to do.

“Jo, do you have any coconut? Like the flakes, I’m making coconut shrimp for Wednesday.” You retrieved an apron from the pantry door, hauling out the flour bin and wrenching it up to the counter top. 

“I think I’ve got some frozen for New Years,” she answered. The dull ‘thock’ of a knife on a cutting board accompanied your light conversation rhythmically, as bowls filled with fruits and flour, a radio crackling out Christmas tunes and Bing Crosby. You reached across the counter for a teaspoon, but your hand was met by Jo’s.

“What’s this?” Concerned, she turned your hand over in hers, inspecting the band-aids around your knuckles. 

“Oh it’s just been dry out. My knuckles are cracking,” You hand felt heavy in hers. You smiled, not thinking much of it. “This time of year, you know.” She brushed her thumb over your fingers, suddenly quiet. It’s not that bad, is it? Sure, your hands had been cracking from all the preparation for the department party, but it was nothing to be worried about. Maybe the bruise from the counter this morning makes it look worse. Your skin prickled with sweat at the thought, suddenly very aware of the light purple skin blooming on your left forearm - you’d pushed up your sleeves to work. 

Your attention fell on her face however, where her eyes had grown wide and distant, staring at your hand. She looked terrified. 

She let go of your hand quickly, looking up to where Chris walked into the kitchen, carrying some festive looking ceramic bowls in the shape of a horizontal snowman and a star. 

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” He set the bowls down by the sink, leaning over the island to examine the contents of the bowls. 

“A little of everything.” You smiled at him, handing him a sliver of apple. Jo seemed to awake from her trance at that, cheery as ever. If Chris noticed your hands, he didn’t comment.

—

Dinner with the Martins was always a slightly awkward affair. At first you’d been nervous to make a good impression on Mrs. Martin, paranoid after hearing so many “monster-in-law” stories from your few married friends. Chris was a momma’s boy if anything, and you worried that a bad impression would ruin your chances completely. 

Her tall, perfectly curled blonde ringlets, long red nails, and tortoise-shell horn-rimmed glasses were intimidating, after all, and you’d introduced yourself timidly to what you believed might be the bane of your married existence. That was until you saw her soft gaze, deep smile lines, and cuticles chewed and bitten back in expertly concealed hangnails. She had laughed, asked gentle questions, and humored your joking comments on Chris’ inability to do his own laundry with abandon. Slowly, your worry fell away - you were like old friends. 

So, you turned your attention to his father. He had a strained relationship with the man, a strict disciplinarian who drew on a past as a WWII veteran and having “paid his way through med school” during the depression in his parenting. He was a difficult man to talk to, silent one moment and booming the next. He wasn’t rude by any means, and he treated you with the utmost respect, laughed easily around you, and praised your restoration work. 

You didn’t know what to make of him. He scared you, of course, but you expected the feeling to fade like it had with Jo. It didn’t. Chris never seemed like himself around him either, becoming defensive and challenging, unable to take a joke. 

You’d held him together that night, running your fingers through his hair and listening as he whispered his fear of his father into the dark. He made him feel so small, so worthless. He valued his opinion above all else, and each time was met with some comment or look that absolutely convinced him his father was somehow disappointed. He couldn’t win. 

That seemed to change with you around, however. With you, Dr. Martin began to smile at his son. They’d share inside jokes, discuss politics, and seemingly share a mind. As the years passed, he’d tell you how he thought his father had changed, how age had mellowed him, how happy he finally was. Over the years, you found yourself gravitating towards Jo, and Chris to his father. It made sense to you - mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. 

You almost preferred her company to Chris. Guilt prevented you from entertaining the thought.

 The dining room was pleasantly festive tonight, yellow light blending with the reds and greens of the Christmas tree, bathing the room in warm colors. The whole house smelled sweet with spices and fruit, mingling strangely with the savory steak diane you ate now. The room was light with conversation and the clinking of silverware on plates as you discussed the party preparations with Jo. Chris and Dr. Martin spoke in serious tones, Chris occasionally asking you to weigh in - listening to two conversations was challenging to say the least.

“I’ll have everything ready for you in the fridge, all you’ll need to do is get it in the oven,” you rose and collected a pad of paper from the kitchen, writing down times and temperatures. “We’re doing the ham and the pies, but the girls will be bringing everything else. Ah, what’s the time on the shrimp?” She moved to check your bag. 

“How do you find anything in this thing??” She called with a laugh. Chris said your name. He’d survive a few moments without you.

“Like you’re any better - why do you have to bring a candle with you everywhere? Are you afraid of having a candle emergency?” You shot back. She huffed and handed you the recipe card. 

“When will you be back?” She asked, looking at the list. 

“I should be back about an hour before the party,” You said, rubbing an eye. You heard your name again. “Just a moment dear - the girls will bring everything else, most of it won’t need to be heated up for a bit anyway, but Caroline is bringing snakes in a blanket, which should probably go out first-” 

“Y/N.” A crash shook the table, and you whipped around to see Chris standing, hand splayed out on the table where he’d hit it. Your blood rushed with an icy wash and your face was hot with shock, the house silent. 

You looked at him, incredulous, you didn’t know what to say. His face was red, mouth formed in a hard line. He looked away. 

“Stop fussin,’ I’ve been trying to get your attention,” he said, voice lowering as he sat. His gaze darted to his father and back to you. “Would you serve me some more of that delicious sauce you whipped up?” He was all at once pleasant again, gaze softening into an easy smile. You breathed. 

“Is that all?” You’d meant for it to sound accusing, you were baffled - he’d never done anything like this before. Who was he to interrupt you? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything?

But it came out as a weak question, and you took his plate. His hand brushed yours and he gave you a tender look. 

“Thanks, dear.” He turned back to his father, seemingly picking up where they left off. You turned quickly back to the kitchen, only then looking up at Jo as you passed her. Your breath caught in your throat. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in cold terror. The same look as earlier. 

You set his plate back down in front of him and he moved to kiss you on the cheek, but you turned away. You sat back down at the table next to Jo, where she ate quietly, eyes glued to her plate. No one would look at you. You felt suddenly embarrassed, swallowing thickly. You pretended to eat slowly, cutting and turning your food on your plate. You felt sick.

—

The car ride home was quiet. The spongy crunch of the tires packing down the snow on the road was deafening. For some reason, you didn’t like leaving Jo alone with your father-in-law after this, and you elected to call her early in the morning. You felt horrible suspecting anything of him, but you were putting the pieces together on her expressions tonight. She wasn’t safe at home with him - maybe she’d never been. 

You relished in the fresh air of the night as you stepped out of the car, grateful for some air that wasn’t drenched in tension. You took a deep, cool breath before stepping into the house. 

“What was that?” You asked, hanging your coat in the hall. Chris looked past you at the wall. 

“I- I’m sorry.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I just wanted to get your attention - do you know how that feels? In front of my father?” You looked up at him, lost.

“You’ve never done that before, it scared me.” You crossed your arms. His eyes shot up at you, and he looked away again, disbelieving.

“You’re acting like I hit you,” his voice shook. He stepped toward you, raising his hands to cup your face gently, running a thumb over your cheek. “You know I’d never hurt you, right? I will never, ever hurt you.” You met his eyes, burning. You held his hand against you, leaning into it. 

“Of course I know that.” You said quietly. You closed the gap between you, wrapping your arms around his neck. He held you like that for a while, and you savored the feeling. It had been a while since he hugged you like this.

“Maybe - maybe I shouldn’t go up North tomorrow,” you said haltingly. I can’t leave him like this, but - you regretted saying it immediately. He held you tighter. 

“No. No, you should,” He said into your hair. “Maybe I should go with you.” You let go of him, looking up at him in the dark. Somehow, you didn’t want that. You were awash with guilt, face hot. Why didn’t you want that? You were grateful for the dark of the house shielding your expressions. You smiled wearily. 

“Think about it, okay? It’s been a long day.” You held a hand to his cheek. You couldn’t see his eyes in the dark as you searched his face. 

“Good idea.” He kissed you quickly, lingering for a moment before turning to search for the light switch. You busied yourself with your coat, all the while hiding your face as casually as possible. 

—

Christmas Eve.

“You know, Damien- David and I are heading over to Katie’s for dinner tonight,” Father Dyer’s affable voice boomed in the empty echo of the sanctuary. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”

Damien glanced at him with a thought, lifting the stole from his shoulders. The church was shrouded in the long shadows of an early winter night, a deep black painting the vast windows. 

“I’m spending the holidays with my mother,” He said, shifting out of the white robes. “I’m booked.” 

“Of course, or course,” Dyer said, taking the stole from the pew where he’d deposited it and beginning to fold it. “That was some sermon.” He glanced up at the altar. Damien nodded absently, shaking the white robe out before folding it over his arm. 

“I only come to these things for the wine,” He said with a half-smile, taking the stole from Dyer. He smiled up at Damien as he put on his coat, watching him. A hint of sadness flashed in his eyes. He knew his mother’s health hadn’t been doing well in the last few months, and that Damien hadn’t been taking it well. He’d always been an attentive son, but he’d barely seen anything of him in the last few weeks when he wasn’t working feverishly or drinking silently in his room. He was worried.

“Door’s always open.” Dyer looked out at the night as snow began to fall. “Stay warm out there.” He smiled once before turning to the front hall of the church. Damien nodded, and pulled his coat closed before following to where Dyer held the door open. A few people lingered in the hall, huddled in the low light of the church muttering prayers or laughing outside its big doors. 

Damien said his thanks to Dyer, and began the cold walk through the snow to an awaiting taxi. 

“Oh, father?” Dyer called from his small group, Damien looking back to him before stepping in. “Tell her Merry Christmas from me.” Damien shot him a tired smile, before shuffling into the musty warmth of the back seat.

He listened to the static-y Christmas tunes through the radio and humored the small talk from the driver just long enough to let him down easily. He wasn’t going to be much of a conversationalist tonight. He sunk back into the patchy leather of the seat and settled in, trying to find a comfortable way to doze on the way. That was when he remembered the scarf in his pocket, the perfect neck pillow for a snowy drive. He pulled it tenderly from his coat, running his fingers over the worn knit. 

It was soft, a long pattern of maroon, gold, and navy blue in alternating squares. Most of the scarf was expertly crafted, even stitches feigning factory-made from the practiced hands of his mother. The better part of the last half of the scarf was different however, and the craftsmanship turned from even and machined to patchy and loose, the colors less even and the occasional stitch dropped or fixed, dotting small loops and loose ends throughout. Where y/n had finished it, after his mother’s Parkinson's had worsened. She’d given it to him the Christmas before y/n left.

He let his mind wander to her then, to her easy laugh, her bright smile, to her flowers, to her strong hands and deep eyes. Before she was married, she’d always spend the night of Christmas Eve with him. She’d find him in a soup kitchen, at his mother’s, at St. Mike’s or wherever else he drifted for the night, where she’d push a poorly wrapped package into his hands and watch him open it, a broad smile on her face as she’d try not (and often fail) to spoil the gift before it was unwrapped.

Her gifts were always small - often practical. He thought of all the gifts over the years, wondering if he could manage to recall each one. New socks, sour cream cookies cut into lumpy stars, shoe polish, bookmarks of pressed flowers and newspaper. And then there were his favorites - the books. She’d give him a book he hadn’t read, sometimes soft and second-hand, sometimes crisp and new, but she’d always leave notes. Scribbled questions and thoughts around her favorite or least-favorite parts, sometimes a sketch. If it related to some current event, he’d even find a newspaper clipping tucked in the page. He took special care of those books, re-reading them, hearing her voice in the blue ink. He treasured them now more than ever, now that he was sure he’d never get another.

He wondered how she was. Far better than me, he thought. 

—

You’d been driving for about eight hours when you came to Georgetown. Though the original plan had been to go straight to your parents’ in New York, and the sun was already setting with bad weather on the horizon, you just couldn’t help yourself. Something about the thought of not seeing your old life for even a second longer made you want to stop. Mom and dad won’t mind if I’m a little late. 

You weren’t sure what you expected when you arrived - the city was beautiful, but there was absolutely no parking. Downtown seemed to be in full swing, lights, carolers, the works. You drove slowly, taking it all in. That warm excitement of the holidays crept up on you, giving you a warm sensation you savored. It finally feels like the holidays, you thought with a smile. 

Finally, you managed to find a place - outside St. Mikes. You weren’t sure how you ended up there, but the church glowed invitingly with a warm yellow light. You rolled down your window to get a closer look, cold air flushing into the creaking station wagon. Are you preaching tonight, Damien? 

You thought you caught a glimpse of him then, a tall, dark-haired figure in black robes crossing a window. Your face flushed and you looked away. Not him. What am I doing here? He wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway, at least not without trying to save me from my own decisions. You realized you’d been sitting there for a long time, staring at the church. The car was icy cold. 

You rolled up your window and drove away. On to New York then. 

—

When you finally reached Manhattan, it was 11pm. Navigating the streets was as difficult as it had ever been, and the holiday traffic didn’t help. You white-knuckled your way through the flurries that had begun to fall, praying you’d be able to find somewhere to park before the subway. When you finally found something, it was by a park, deep in the back streets. You remembered this park, thinking fondly of the long walks and scrappy wildflowers you used to collect. Its image was far more shadowy in the dead of night.

You left the car hesitantly, deciding that sitting alone in the cold car did little more to keep you safe than the walk itself would. The empty ache of doubt crept up on you then, chilling you as you locked the car. Maybe I should have made Chris come, you thought, taking your first shaky steps into the snowy night. The orange glow of the street lamps lit the night, the snow seeming to glow amber. You knew this part of the city well. Too well. This was near Damien’s childhood home. 

A raucous laugh echoed through the empty hills of the park, and you watched cautiously as a few young children trampled through the snow. You smiled and were a bit ashamed of your skittishness. I grew up in this city, I’ll be fine. You decided to cut through the park. 

You walked along quickly through the night, readjusting your bags on your shoulder what felt like an embarrassing amount. As the rush of the road quieted, you felt your fear creep back in. Every sound in the night was turned into a horrifying scenario in your mind: a swaying swarm of drunks, the desperate eyes of a bolting thief in the night, a twisted, snarling street dog. Your eyes darted around in the night, catching every snowflake. 

You could hear him asking you what you were thinking. Telling you you should have stayed home. Forbidding you from being in the city alone ever again. 

Why is this so hard? Walk faster, walk faster, walk faster-

“Y/N?” a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. A shiver prickled through you as you turned. You’d walked right past him.

The park seemed to fall away as you approached, too surprised to come up with anything to say. He sat on a metal bench, his hunched form draped in a long black coat. He was wearing the scarf you’d finished so terribly. He was flushed from the cold, or maybe the shock of seeing you, and his deep brown eyes pierced yours in quiet shock. He looked just how you remembered him.

Everything seemed to crash down then, and your fear crumbled in a wave of anxious joy. You had to stop yourself from running to him. 

“Damien,” you sighed, unable to hide your relief. You elected then, to be composed, to remember your last words to him had been said in anger. To remember you hadn’t seen him in three years. To remember it was nearly midnight on Christmas eve. He stood to meet you, searching your face. 

“How have you b-” You cut him off, dropping your bags into the snow and wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame, a smile spread across your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t know what you were thinking, only that you missed your friend. 

He hesitated stiffly, his arms hovering over you before finally wrapping around your shoulders.

“I missed you,” You managed through his coat. He seemed to relax, holding you tight against him in the cold. 

“I missed you too,” he breathed. You stayed like that for a long time, relishing in the warmth of his embrace. When you finally let go, you lifted your face from his coat to find you’d managed to undo a button. Or maybe it was like this? 

“Sorry,” you said with a half-laugh. His gloved hands fell from your back, resting lightly on your shoulders as you fixed his coat, tucking the scarf around his collar. “What are you doing out here?” You sniffed - you didn’t notice the tears in your eyes, looking up at him. You couldn’t stop smiling. A closer look showed you a tiredness in his face, and deep bags under his eyes. You skirted a hand through his hair, brushing away the snowflakes that had accumulated on his dark hair.

“Visiting my mother - your hands are so cold.” His brows furrowed with concern.

“Sorry-” You went to draw your hands back when he caught them, encasing your icy fingers in the warmth of his broad hands. He brought them up to his mouth, blowing warm breath between his fingers, pushing heat back into the frigid skin. Your heart skipped a beat before it seemed to remember how to pump blood, as warmth spread across your body.

“What are you doing here?” He stopped between breaths to ask, eyes finding yours.

“Spending Christmas with my folks - I could only find parking out here, I was on my way to the station,” You explained. Your heart hammered as you struggled to keep your composure. He nodded, finally releasing your hand before tugging his gloves off, offering them to you. Your hands lingered near his face before you took them, grateful. You met his eyes. “You look tired, Dames.”

“It’s been a long three years.” He looked away and smiled. You could tell he was forcing it - there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Well?” You asked. “How do I look?” He turned back to you, his gaze softening.

“Beautiful,” He smiled warmly. You saw something light up in his eyes then, like a spark of something bright and honest. His eyes were always warm, but that flash hadn’t been there when you first saw him in the snow. In fact, it hadn’t been there since you last spoke. You felt sort of proud at having brought it out now. You wanted to hold on to it, watching his eyes until he looked down.

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way to the station.” He started to pick up your bags, brushing away the snow. Suddenly you couldn’t stand the idea of leaving him again, clinging to whatever you could remember of him for years - you wouldn’t, couldn’t do it again. You took his arm, lifting a bag onto your shoulder. 

“I hate to ask this-” you struggled through every social grace and hesitation that rang in your ears, it’s nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, I haven’t seen him in years, The last time we spoke was a fight, He isn’t expecting a guest, and asked. “Would you- would you like some company? I’d love to see your mother again.” 

He looked struck only for a moment, before pulling your arm closer and smiling brightly. 

“I’d love that.” The spark was back in his eyes. You started to walk, strolling slowly through the snow, no longer in any rush. “So, tell me - how have you been?” 

You had so much to tell him.

—

Christmas Morning.

You talked all night. Or morning, rather. You told him all about Georgia, about your school, about each of your students. You didn’t tell him about the Christmas party, only mentioning your family in passing, as happily as you could manage. You hoped he wouldn’t ask, and to your relief, he never did. He told you about the church, about his classes, about his mother and her health. You held his hand and the two of you worked away at a bottle of cheap wine. 

You talked quietly, whispering and rambling and laughing into the small hours of the morning. You relished in the warm closeness of the apartment, eyes catching on old photos, breathing the smell of ash and fresh bread. Mama Karras always bakes for an army. But you only noticed a few loaves - far below her usually canvased kitchen. She didn’t have much energy this year, I guess, you thought with shaky realization.

When Mrs. Karras shuffled into her living room early Christmas morning, she almost didn’t recognize you - until your hands found hers, ghostly thin, and her face lit up. Then she was just like her old self, scolding you for staying up all night, demanding you eat more, kissing your face.

“My girl, my girl,” she repeated, shaking her head. You followed her dutifully around the dusty kitchen as she pulled from cupboards and shelves. When she finally discovered her son, they spoke brightly in Greek - you could tell she was upset with his tired look. His eyes had softened, and he smiled between their banter. 

You spent the morning cleaning and fixing small things quietly in the apartment with Damien while his mother scrambled eggs, occasionally calling out over the radio to ask Damien something. 

“She seems in high spirits,” you mentioned, holding a ladder while Damien changed a light bulb too high for her to reach. 

“She is,” He said, coughing in the dust. “I haven’t seen her like this for a long time.” He looked down at you while you passed him a rag. The light blinked to life, lighting the dark walls in a yellow haze, illuminating a snow of dust. 

“Thank you,” You said after a while. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time either - it’s good to see you both.” You held his eyes for a moment, smiling. 

“You too.” He leaned against the ladder, resting his head on his arm. The tangy, warm smell of eggs and tomatoes and burnt toast filled the house - you suddenly realized how tired you were. You stared at the soft bulk of his arms as he worked, fascinated by the way the dark hair on his arms bristled as his muscles moved. Pressing your cheek to the side of the ladder, you let your eyes close.

In the middle of a yawn, something fell into your face, startling you into the land of the living. You yelped and pulled the dusty rag off of your face, coughing, your face flushing. 

“Just trying to wake you up,” You heard Damien laugh through your hacking.

“Asshat,” You snuck between coughs. Mrs. Karras called something through the hall, and Damien descended the ladder, tousling a hand through your hair and showering you in gray chunks of dust. “-hey!”

“Mama says breakfast is ready,” He said, walking away quickly. You followed him, swatting him with the rag, trying to get as much dust on him as possible. When you came to the kitchen, you were a giggling mess - that kind of tired where everything is hilarious - and you didn’t want the feeling to end.

Crossing into the kitchen, a clock chimed softly from a wall, and you counted the bells with bated breath. Your heart sank as the 7th chime told you it was time to leave. You put a hand on Damien’s shoulder and he looked at you, mouth full.

“I have to go,” you whispered, trying to show as much resolve as possible. You had to be back in Athens by tonight, and your parents were probably substantially worried at this point. It had been easy to forget now that you were home. He chewed, brows furrowed. 

“I’ll walk you down.” He swallowed.

“Eat, eat! Δεν φεύγεις μέχρι να φας,” Mrs. Karras tugged at your sleeve. You complied carefully, trying to tell her you had to be on your way. She wouldn’t let you get through your sentence, so you settled for thanking her profusely. She shook her head and added more to your plate.

—

The subway was eerily empty, the dark halls echoing and shaking. The few people there either lay curled in the corners of the station, dark masses of clothes hiding tired eyes, or there was an elderly couple waiting on a bench, talking quietly. You stood on the platform facing the track, yawning almost constantly.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? You’re going to sleep through your stop.” Damien looked at you over the collar of his dark coat. You shook your head through another yawn. 

“You’ve already been so generous,” you said. “I’ve crashed your Christmas, Dames.” You caught the flash of a smile.

“You made Mama’s year,” he said. “She adores you, you know.” 

“I missed her,” You smiled. “It’s hard not to love a Karras - they’re very endearing.” You leaned into his shoulder where he held your arm, losing your resolve. I don’t know how I’m going to drive back like this, you thought. The noise of the subway faded, and all you felt was the rough fuzz of his coat on your cheek. You thought about all the things you had to say to him. Everything that went unsaid after your last goodbye - I wonder if he’s forgiven me? 

The sudden, crashing roar of the subway broke through the haze, and you forced your eyes open, blinking hard. You weren’t sure when he’d put his arm around you, but his arm fell away as he picked up your bags. You took them from him as the abrupt dread of saying goodbye poured over you, your throat tightening. The train drifted to a stop behind you, and you looked up at him. Your mind scrambled for something to say, something that would be good enough - something that would keep the moment from ending like you knew it would. 

He looked away from you at the opening doors. You had to say something.

“Thank-” you were cut off by his arms wrapping around you. You hugged him back, everything you had to say falling away, and you savored his embrace as the moment passed in a flash. When he let you go, you looked into his eyes, and suddenly reassured, you dug in your purse, finding a receipt. You scribbled your address, gathering yourself in a mad shuffle. You pushed the paper into his hand, dragging yourself to the open doors of the subway car. 

“Write to me,” You said as he followed, standing a few feet from the open doors. He smiled. 

“Merry Christmas,” he said, holding the crumpled paper with both hands, as if it would fly from his hands at any moment.

“Merry Christmas!” You shouted, cut off by the closing doors. You held his gaze for a few moments through the foggy glass before the train shook to life, speeding away with a grinding scrape. Your heart slowed from its racing pace, and you realized how red your face had been, pressing a cold hand to your burning cheek.

You were awake now. 

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Adorable?? Using these in I Don't Love You But I Always Will

Thank you! :D

ghost dividers 🤍👻🖤

credit if you use

dt: @meganskane

taglist - @sapphicalexblake @thejeidhater @raegan-reid @garceids @yourfinalbow @bxbyjjsupremacy @hotchgan @moreidsdaughter

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 1

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 (You are here) - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 4.5k

After marrying a man you believed would give you the life you wanted, you think love will be enough. You leave everything you know and love behind, believing this.

A/N: This story takes place throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s.

  Chapter 1: Leaving for Georgia

Summer in DC was always beautiful, you thought. Something about the blue skies and the shaking of the leaves always brought out something warm and exciting in you - the wind is what you really loved. How it seemed to finger through your hair and make you blush, how it reminded you of the tingling, scrappy feeling of returning home after a long day of roaming the streets as a kid.

It reminded you why you loved the city.

Chris was always up-front about wanting to move back to Georgia after the wedding, and you had agreed easily; his aging grandparents were there after all, and a tenure-track position as a professor of philosophy at the University of Georgia was nothing to sneeze at, either.

You’d spent your mornings on the phone with realtors in Athens for the last three months, leafing through the mail every day to find new flyers and catalogs. Evenings were for wedding planning and house hunting.

It had been so much organizing, though your contentment with a small wedding was an anchor, his southern family was too large to be modest. The money, through it all, had been distressing. Your new husband may have been wealthy enough to cover the cost easily, but you still weren’t used to the feeling. You were raised on frugality after all - this kind of spending was terrifying. You winced just thinking about the blank check Chris had handed you one morning. Like it was no big deal. You called him for every little step of the process, confirming every piece of the reception with sweat rolling off your brow.

You readjusted your purse on your shoulder. The noise of the busy street was comforting, but it didn’t slow the race of your heart. It felt like everything was moving so fast.

You took the long way for a reason. Your steps became a little slower, and you stopped to set yourself haltingly on a bench in front of your favorite corner store and tried not to think about never seeing its bleached yellow awning again. Smiling sadly, you took out the folded flier again.

—

You’d had your little list of hopes for a home. Space for a garden, large window sills for sitting and reading, steps to sit on and shuck corn or peel apples. You knew you wanted it to be small - cleaning a mansion every day was not on your bucket list. You knew you wanted stained glass in your door - something to stream colors into the hall and remind you of the tall churches of home, and most of all you knew you wanted a room for your painting. Anything would do, just something for you to cover with scrapbooks and canvases.

With these in mind, you hungrily poured over the pictures his family and your realtor sent along every night and made notes, checking for price and commute time to his office and your school. You circled and cut and pasted, until you had a fitting list to show him in the morning. You’d trudge to bed, hands sticky with paste and head light with images of your future home together.

Of course, he had his own list. The house needed to be no less than 15 minutes from his parent’s home, with a spacious yard for him to keep pristine, and a large office with space for his books and papers. There had to be a large dining room, (for university guests of course) a broad back porch for beers and chess in the evenings, and two bathrooms (he was absolutely anal about sharing).

Every morning, you’d sit next to him during coffee and talk quietly about your findings. You’d slide him the carefully crafted scrapbook with all of your notes and clippings tastefully collected on a page, with each option’s best qualities highlighted. He’d give a tired smile:

“What have you got for me today, honey?”

You’d begin your pitch with a deep breath. “Meet 887 Cherry Drive: 2 bedroom, 2 bath, - she’s got a HUGE back yard, big windows, glorious mahogany floors, only 20 minutes out from your office, 30 from your folks, and has delightful red shutters. And on your left, 2003 Elliot: 3 bedroom, 2 bath, with a connected garage and white porch. This one’s on a corner, so the yard is more like a side yard, but it’s got a peach tree and-”

“Oh not that neighborhood, and couldn’t you get my drive down a little more? You’re a magician with it all, babe, I know you can figure it out,” he interjected, checking his watch. “Ready?”

You closed the book. “I’ll do my best,” you sighed. “Remember we have to buy this house by August,” You said.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just the book is taking all my time, and I only have so much time - and I’m marrying an artist for a reason! Gotta get some bang for my buck,” he smiled.

You sighed a smile. Your drive to his office helped, though, as he explained the wondrous world of footnotes. He always got this charming determined furrow to his brows when he got frustrated.

—

He picked a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom southern colonial a block away from his parents, deep in the Athens suburbs. It was stark white, with a rolling front yard and a stand alone garage - for your painting.

It wasn’t exactly what you pictured, but it had plenty of space, and two big hickory trees in front, with one in the back - the thought of the cool shade and quiet nights had you looking forward to it.

You tucked the folded flier back into your purse, and stood up with determination. Your skirt buffeted in the wind, like it was pushing you back. You walked on. He’ll be happy for me, we’ll have a friendly goodbye and we’ll go our separate ways.

You smiled into the wind as you turned onto the familiar brick path of St. Mike’s. Don’t cry.

—

He set the glass tumbler down with a dull clink and sat down in a huff. Class on Monday - I should really get them thinking about evidence-based decision making by the end of the month.

Damien enjoyed teaching, it added something to his life that he missed when he only spoke to the others at the seminary. All of their conversations came back to faith. Medicine he could give answers for, but faith was something different. He leaned on his fist as he watched the ice in his glass melt into muddy amber.

Faith was difficult. In the last few months, he could feel his assurance slip. He still believed wholeheartedly in his beliefs of course, but the world seemed to gray around him without… something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his thoughts had been clouded, days monotonous, and prayers rambling. It was like he was losing his touch.

It worried him. At least the students ask interesting questions.

He watched the leaves roll soundlessly outside the window and took a sip of his warming drink. It didn’t taste like anything.

He wondered if this was God’s latest test to his faith. A cruel one, at that. He usually trusted the path of his life - it was strange to question it. Maybe devotion is lonely. He’d lost some cosmic meaning; and when a priest loses his meaning, it often means he’s close to reaching that quiet, perfect devotion that carries him through the rest of his life. Maybe this is the feeling that makes so many men of the church so, so dull.

Then he thought of her.

Her easy conversation, the sun in her eyes, the warmth of her arm through his, her ever-changing laugh - yes, he thought. It has been a while, hasn’t it? He felt suddenly embarrassed, alone with his thoughts. He missed his friend - of course.

His thoughts suddenly fell to her wedding. He hadn’t realized he’d been blocking it out - he chalked it up to a busy schedule, the small voice in his head that went to medical school scolding him.

Only a few weeks ago, he had watched her walk down the aisle, glowing in a white dress.

—

He’d sat in the back corner, as far from the ceremony as he possibly could, strangely content to have as fuzzy a view of Chris, amicably chatting with Father Dyer, as possible. The ceremony was huge. It seemed like nearly 500 people crowded into the sanctuary, sweating politely through their Sunday best.  Days like these, he despised his high white collar.

He felt a little bad for his mother, seating them so far from the stage as possible, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to be avoiding looking at the groom as well.

He’d been to so, so many weddings over the years, always officiating, never attending simply as a guest. It was certainly a different occasion - somehow being in front of everyone with such a central role felt less visible than this did. He couldn’t complain, however, it was her wedding. He knew he had to be there - and his mother had absolutely insisted when she heard.

Her small family sat front row, the rest he could recognize as her guests were city natives. Her doctor, a few store owners, Carol (the only woman in the whole of the city she’d let cut her hair), some graying professors from your university days, and what looked like 20 kids and their parents - her Sunday school art students. The rest of the church he didn’t recognize, and the overture of southern accents in the chatter seemed unfamiliar.

The din quieted suddenly as the overbearing weight of the wedding march rang out through the sanctuary - you always liked how the organ shook the room.

People craned their necks to watch the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk slowly to the front. He involuntarily pressed a hand to his chest as his heart beat accelerated unexpectedly. His face grew hot and he tried to breathe deeply and quietly - was it audible above the organ?

He watched as Sharon stepped slowly through the doorway in front of him, she seemed relaxed. Seeing her suddenly brought him back to the moment, and he remembered there was no reason for him to be panicking. He set his arm along the back of the pew and parted a small smile as a young girl nervously sprinkled clumps of white petals across the red carpet. With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax, and silently thanked God he’d found a seat far from where she’d be able to see him.

Until she was suddenly before him, her eyes clear through the white mesh of your veil. She’d spotted him immediately - he was painfully aware of how wide his eyes were. She smiled.

Despite his hammering heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears, he smiled back, and something relaxed. Everything felt right then, and it was as if you’d shared a long, satisfying conversation or told a quiet inside joke - and then she turned towards the front with a step.

He wasn’t sure if it had been milliseconds or minutes, but the moment passed. He turned to his mother, who watched her with a sad smile, tears in her eyes. She held his hand in hers, cool and frail, and said quietly in Greek, “Εκεί πηγαίνει, φαίνεται τόσο όμορφη (There she goes, she looks so beautiful.)”

He forced a fast smile and looked forward. “Ναι, το κάνει (Yes, she does.)”

The rest of the ceremony passed quickly and foggily, as if it was a dream.

He didn’t see her again until the reception, when people had thronged around her so tightly he wondered if she could breathe. Flashes of white would appear in the crowd, and he subsisted on the occasional glance of her face among it all, beaming. She looks tired, he thought. Thrilled, but… tired.

Her hair had rebelled from its perfect styling, and single soft hairs stuck out at various angles, framing her face in messy curls. Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d stop running your hand through it, he smiled. You always do that when you’re high-strung.

He allowed himself to appreciate her dress in glances - the layers of off-white organza complimented her frazzled elation well, artsy, as always, and the cut complimented the curve of her waist-

He shook his head with a start. Well, it does.

He buried himself in conversation with Father Dyer, grateful for the familiar face in the crowd. He needed the distraction - from whatever that deep, vague sense of dread he was feeling was, and from her and her tired eyes and bright smile – champagne and Father Dyer’s easy going company would suffice. He leaned against a wall near the back of the room by the door, standing next to his mother, who watched the sea of people through sleepy eyes.

“Oh, looks like she’s about to toss the bouquet,” Father Dyer said, turning to a particularly loud group surrounding you. He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, crouching down to alert her of the spectacle. They watched as the bundle of flowers sailed over the sea of heads, hands snatching at petals as it fell. It landed in Sharon’s outstretched arms, and an excited chorus rose from the crowd as it dissipated quickly.

Seems fitting, he thought. The white of her dress was suddenly navigating through the crowd, passing hands on shoulders and smiling “excuse me, sorry, pardon me” fell from her lips. She looked up and pushed a wave of hair from her face as those familiar e/c eyes found his. She smiled, carefully picking her way through the maze of shoes.

He collected his thoughts quickly and straightened. She sighed a laugh and looked into his eyes as you came upon their small circle.

“Hey, I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” she said with an apologetic look.

“You look tired,” he said. She smiled, shrugging slightly, then turned away from him and leaned down to his mother’s outstretched arms, her dress collapsing around her in pillowy swells.

“Mama Karras!” She held her face in her hands, beaming up at her.

“Αγαπητέ μου, είστε όλοι ντυμένοι! Πάντα ήξερα ότι θα έκανες έναν όμορφο γάμο,” she said.

She glanced down to her hands, where she held three white roses, preserved from the bouquet. His mother’s face lit up.

“Δεν πρέπει να έχετε!” She gasped and gingerly clutched the roses to her heart, bringing her in with her other hand as she kissed her face. He smiled at them together - they were always so happy together. When his mother wasn’t asking you to eat more, or talking about him in broken English.  

“Couldn’t let you go home empty handed, Mama Karras,” she kissed her cheek and stood, holding her thin hand in her own. She leaned against the wall next to him, letting her head fall on his shoulder and hanging an arm from his coat sleeve.

“Can I tell you a secret,” She asked. He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow and a nod. He was grateful to finally have a moment to hear her, feel her touch again. Her face finally relaxed.

“I’m exhausted,” she said with a small smile, meeting his eyes and glancing over to Father Dyer.

“Lighten up, the wedding is meant to be for the bride after all.” He handed her a drink.

“Thanks.” She took a sip and sighed against him. He wished the whole party would evaporate then - just decide it was time to go home, leave you alone, let you sit down. He wondered if you’d sat down since before the ceremony.

The shadows across the room had long since grown long, and the light had changed from a bright yellow to a deep orange. The music simmered above the din, the low, sonorous tones of Doris Day relaxing the mood.

She tugged on his sleeve and glanced up at him.

“A dance, ‘father?’” She nodded towards the opening in the crowd, where guests had paired up, drifting in lazy circles. He looked to his mother, separating from you to lay a hand on her shoulder.

“How are you feeling, mama? Could we leave you for a moment?” She looked suddenly awake, lighting up as she stood quickly, straining against her cane.

“Μη χάνεις στιγμή να μου μιλάς, συνέχισε!” (Don't waste a minute talking to me, go on!) She pushed his hand away, walking haltingly to father Dyer and taking his arm. He went along easily, shooting him a knowing smile and turning to his mother happily.

He held out his arm.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said. She smirked, taking his arm as they stepped slowly to the dance floor.

His face felt warm again, and his heart sped as they drew closer. She deflected relatives’ prying glances politely, leading them slowly. He wondered then if this was too much, if it wouldn’t bring Chris out swinging. Somehow he knew he wasn’t one to do that, but was slightly alarmed at how easily the thought of defending her from her new husband had slipped into his mind.

All at once, they had arrived. He left his thoughts as her arm suddenly left his, hand resting in his as she brought her other hand up to his shoulder, her arm resting bent against his. He brought an unsteady hand to her waist, squeezing her hand in his other. She looked up to his eyes as they began to step and spin slowly, talking quietly.

“So how do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course.” He gave a frank smile.

“Better than tired, I count it as a win,” she replied. She laid her head against his shoulder and yawned with a laugh. “Damn.”

“Cursing at a priest at your own wedding! Wait and see where that gets you,” He yawned. “Stop that.” He resisted the urge to rest his chin on her hair.

She closed her eyes.

“I like where it’s gotten me so far.” They stayed like that for a while, mumbling under the music and barely moving at all. She scrunched up her face and shook her head slightly, lifting her head away from him.

“Sorry dames, I’ve got to wake up,” She blinked repeatedly and rubbed her eyes. “Still have the rest of my wedding to be at, probably should be awake for it.” He fixed a strand of h/c hair behind her ear and took her hand. He led her arm over her head, turning her in a lazy spin.

“Wake up then,” He said. The song ended then, and the room faded back into view. They let go of each other’s hands, suddenly aware again, and clapped with the rest of the guests. She smiled at him among it all, and something struck him in her look. You’re happy.

He went to take your hand again when Chris rushed up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your hair as you laughed. All attention was on her again, and her eyes were on Chris. Not him.

He stepped into the crowd quietly, navigating back to his mother and Father Dyer.

They left before he could see you searching the crowd for him.

—

Your knock rang out loudly in the quiet hallway of the conservatory. Your heart rushed and your skin prickled at the silence. You always appreciated that about the church, that utter quiet, and better yet, breaking it with some angelic choir or powerful organ. Breaking this silence felt different though: nervous. You could hear shuffling from within.

The door unlatched and swung open in a rush, and Damien was all at once in front of you. He looked disheveled, but fully dressed - like he’d fallen asleep standing up.

“Hey Dames,” you said with a small smile. “Did I wake you up?” You stepped towards him, straightening his rumpled collar.

“No, no, just… lost in thought -thanks for that,” He looked distant for a moment as he pushed his hair back. “Come in,” he said with a tired smile.

You stepped into the familiar room, sparse as ever. The low bed was neatly made, a solitary cross hanging above the headboard. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, the noise of the street drifting in over the silence. The only clutter of the room was an abundance of books; a half of the small room had books piled on every surface, wedged in every crook and cranny. The table was similarly populated, displaying a few open books and strewn papers. He gathered them self-consciously, adding the stack to an already-precarious pile on the floor.

You smiled at his collection and turned to his closet. You scanned the top shelf.

“Where’d you move your vase?” You asked. You offered your small bundle of black-eyed susans with a crinkle.

He dropped a stack of papers on his bed and looked over with a raised eyebrow and thought for a moment.

“Ah.” He swiveled and produced the blue pitcher, pitching the musty water into the gutter outside the window before stepping through the bathroom door at the back of the room.

You unwrap the flowers, setting the paper on the table and dropping the bunched stems into the awaiting pitcher easily. He set the pitcher on the table with a light thud.

“Thanks, they really bring it all together,” he said with a light smile.

You always enjoyed his room- some may have thought it claustrophobic, but you preferred cozy. Countless afternoons reading and talking over coffee and tea - he always kept a box for you - sitting with your back to his dresser and his back to the wall, you’d drape your legs over his and watch the light grow orange with the evening. Conversation came in patches, quips about a passage, some thought question or story about your day, and you’d slip between talking and reading, lazily flipping through hours on end. You hadn’t been over in some time - you missed those afternoons.

You were struck, suddenly, by the knowledge that this might be the last time you spoke here. You fiddled with your hands, spinning your wedding band around your ring finger. His brow furrowed with concern.

“What’s on your mind?” He sat, you followed.

“I’m uh, I’m here to tell you I’m leaving, Dames, for Georgia in a week,” You said, flashing him a smile you hoped wasn’t too forced before looking down again. “Chris’ parents are there, and we’ve bought a house in Athens. It’s close to the University, and to the school. We’re really excited- I’m really excited for the fresh start, you know? And-and I’ll get to teach part-time, art, and I’m so excited to meet the kids, and,” you looked up to find him stony-faced, brown eyes swimming with hurt. “And, so I’m leaving the city soon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

You took his hand across the table and squeezed. He looked away. You sat in silence for what seemed like minutes, watching his eyes stare at the white wall. You didn’t pray often, but suddenly your mind rang with pleas. No, no, no, I’m sorry, I wish I’d told you sooner. You’re mad. You’ll never forgive me. I wish you’d look at me.

“Talk to me, Dames, please,” You said, swallowing hard. He inhaled and straightened. He turned to you and brought his other hand to yours.

“Is that what you want?” He said, face lined with pity. “Do you- want to leave the city?”

You were taken aback by his change in tone, now tone soft and coaxing. His therapy voice. His advice voice. His “savior” voice. Your stomach twisted with indignation.

“Yes,” you said in earnest, looking away. You couldn’t look at him when he gets like this, not now. “He’s my husband, Dames, what are you saying?” You drew your hand away.

“I’m not- You’re not hearing me - are you sure?” You stood.

“Yes, I’m sure! You’re acting like I’m some wayward woman you have to counsel - you’re my best friend, Dames, I thought you’d be happy for me-” He stood and looked you in the eye, his face serious.

“I’m not blind, y/n,” He raised his voice slightly, taut with frustration. “I have watched you give yourself up to him, piece by piece - first it was your apartment, then it was your job, and now it’s this- you’re leaving me, everything?”

“That’s what marriage is! That’s what love is!” You whipped around to look at him now as you raised your voice. “It’s devotion! Sacrifice! I chose this!” Why were you getting defensive? You weren’t thinking straight - you took a shaky breath and ran a hand through your hair. You hated this feeling.

“And don’t you dare act like you don’t know what that means. Like I haven’t watched you give yourself to the church - watched you sweat and cry and bleed for this? You think that hasn’t been hard for me? Watching you give everything away and leave nothing for yourself?” Nothing for me?

“Don’t make me say it, y/n.” He said, scarily still, brown eyes burning. “It isn’t the same - I’d never choose-”

“And I’d never make you! I’d never ask that!” You said. He stopped at that, looking like he had more to say but turning away. You were surprised as a hot tear dripped down your cheek. You held a hand to your mouth, swiping the tear away and turning. No, not in front of him. Not now.

Your head ached sharply as you held back tears. The pressure was overwhelming. You tried to take a breath, but it came shaky and louder than you wanted. Your face burned with embarrassment. He started to say your name behind you but you gathered yourself as much as you could and clutched your jacket together.

“Tell your mother I’ll miss her,” you managed. He was quiet. “Goodbye, Damien.”

You didn’t look back, opening the door to the quiet hall and walking as quickly as you could away. Away from him, away from his warm voice, his knowing looks, his broad hands, his rare smile, and everything else you loved about him. The sound of his door shutting at the end of the hall was all it took. Hot tears streamed silently down your face, your vision blurry and head pounding. The only sound was your shaking breaths and small, choking sobs.

You stepped onto the street with a wash of relief and set out the way you came, hurriedly smearing tears away as you walked.

You wondered for a moment if this would make leaving easier. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t.