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[monsignorjohn]

John stared at her. Her nervousness and awkwardness was palpable. He'd never had that — even as a boy, he'd been self-assured in who he was, and that had only grown once he'd entered the priesthood. But it was clear how uncomfortable Flora Wingrave was. He smiled when she did, but it wasn't a smile at her expense. It was a gentle, kind, smile. "I don't think you're silly," he said, using her juvenile word in order to put her at ease. "Trust me, I've met a lot of silly people. You're not one of them."

The conversation moved on with ease when he complimented the cookies, and he nodded. "Oh yeah," he reiterated. It was true — it tasted fine, but there was something about it he couldn't place. It didn't feel right. He didn't feel hungry, or thirsty, though he ate the other half of the cookie and washed it down with a swig of tea. His throat burned, like he was coming down with something, but he didn't let it show. It was probably just worry, for what was to come. He wondered if the apostles ever got run down, spreading the gospel. Probably. They were only human.

Flora seemed surprised at the offer, and she didn't say yes right away. He expected that. He knew it was a lot. He'd had this conversation plenty of times, with people who'd become firm believers later in life. Ed Flynn, when he'd got out of high school and followed his dad out onto the bay to fish; Dolly Scarborough, when her faith had been shaken before she'd married. He knew how to have this conversation. How to push, gently, but not insist. How to guide them gently, the way they needed to be guided. Now more than ever. He expected Flora to ask if she was allowed — she seemed like that sort of kid — but she didn't. She asked if he really wanted it, and he couldn't hide his own surprise.

"Of course I really want that," he said. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't. And it doesn't matter if you don't know what to do — that's what the order of service is for. I feel like I don't know what to do half the time, truth be told." He gestured down at his jeans and black shirt and cardigan. "I wear this, underneath the chasuble — that's sort of like a uniform." He put the mug down beside him. "Y'know, God doesn't care what you wear to church. He cares if you show up. Especially now. Especially now." He said it twice, softer the second time. It bore repeating.

He sounded so sincere, and she was used to that. Most people were kind, after all, she really did believe that. But there was a depth to his kindness, something that went beyond the usual dismissiveness. It felt like an invitation rather than a way to avoid further unpleasant conversation. It soothed her nerves a little, or maybe it was the cookie in her stomach. Giving her something real and solid to ground herself with. She sometimes forgot to eat for hours, just didn't think about it, but she loved sweets. "I know, I just. I... I felt silly. But I usually am, ha ha," she joked. Her smile was gentle, shy but sincere. She was grateful to him, for guiding her through this minefield of a conversation.

"Think so?" she asked, brightening considerably at the remark about her cookies. She took another, sipped her tea appreciatively. Owen would like him, she decided. Owen liked those who could make a good pot of tea, and he especially liked those who were kind to her. The Wingraves could be a polarizing figure on the island. Until recently, they'd been the subject of a lot of the diner talk, told in hurried whispers and surreptitious stories while her back was turned to another table.

And then Leeza Scarborough walked again.

Flora wasn't sure to make of it. She was happy, she was so happy for Leeza. But something made her.... Well, she laughed lightly at Father Paul's invitation. "I'm touched, really. I've never been to church before, any church, even before." Had they been churchgoers, her parents? In the Long Before Times, that got harder and harder to remember every day. But sometimes it was strikingly clear in her head, so clear it hurt, like a shard of glass jabbed into her brain. She got terrible headaches from them, slept the whole day sometimes. She realized that he was waiting for a genuine answer, that his invitation was real. "I mean, would you really want that? I wouldn't know what to do -- or even what to wear, or -- or anything."

[monsignorjohn]

closed starter for @perfectlysplendidflora

John drew the sermon to a close with a smile, holding his hands out at his sides in an echo of Christ on the cross. "May the peace of our Lord Jesus Christ, which surpasses all understanding, be among you and remain with you and those you love this coming week. Amen." The words were spoken by rote, but no less powerful for that. The familiar murmured response of amen rang out across the pews, which were more populated than he had ever seen them, even after the war had ended. Of course, they were. And there was Leeza, sitting in the front row, and now rising as if she'd never been wheelchair-bound.

But his gaze didn't linger on her, or on Bev next to her. He searched for Flora Wingrave. He'd seen her sitting somewhere at the back, looking understandably uncomfortable, as someone who'd never attended church, as far as he knew. He saw her rushing for the door, and he waved away the few members of the congregation who were trying to talk to him. "Sorry, sorry," he said distractedly. He walked into the back room and pulled his vestment off over his head. Beverly would see to the most insistent, God bless. He was needed elsewhere.

He walked out the back door and around the side of the church, and that was when he saw her sitting in the graveyard. It wasn't really a graveyard — it was too small to be called that. A lot of folks chose to be buried on the Mainland, but there were a few headstones of those who wanted to rest here. And Flora Wingrave was sitting there in a childlike position, her legs crossed beneath her. She didn't look well. In fact, she looked awful.

John didn't hesitate. He walked over to her side and sat down with miraculous ease, a suitable distance away so she didn't feel crowded. His knees bent and he lowered himself onto the grass, to her level, and crossed his legs. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, just stared straight ahead, as if it was totally normal to find someone sitting alone beside graves. Then he said, "I like it out here. It's peaceful. Quiet. A lot of people find graveyards frightening, but I never have. They're just the remains of those who've been called home." It felt like the right thing to say, for some reason, and he trusted that he'd been guided to say it.

[monsignorjohn]

Sparrows. In the Bible it says, “The sparrow will not fall to the ground, not even a sparrow, without God knowing.” He feels every death. I was in South America, in my youth, on a mission, and I stood beneath this… great waterfall. The scale of it. The weight of it… The roar of it, it drowned out every noise in the jungle. Every bird and every voice. And then when I was older, I thought about death, how many deaths occur every second… There’s people, animals, sparrows. If every drop of water in that waterfall were a death, I thought, “Oh. That must be what it’s like for God.” Every moment of every hour of every day, a deluge of death, so loud, how could he hear my whispered prayers over that thundering roar of deaths?

[monsignorjohn]

There was a long pause. John let Riley talk, let him explain his definition of a miracle. And he understood now. Riley was arguing over the word choice, that was all. The word miracle was an anathema to him, which was understandable, given everything. He watched the boy's shoulders lower, the tension leave his body as he breathed. That was good — he didn't want to argue with Riley. Not in the aftermath of something so wonderful today. Not about something as pedantic as this.

"Okay," he said, after a moment. "So don't call it a miracle. Call it what you like, whatever you feel comfortable with. Spontaneous recovery? Sure. Yeah. Okay." He would allow Riley this, for now. Before everything else began, and he couldn't deny that what was happening was miraculous. He would let Riley cling to his scepticism for a little longer, so that his return to faith — and he would return, of that John had no doubt — would be so much more hard-won, so much more profound. That was the promise, after all, wasn't it? No matter how far you strayed, no matter how long for, you could always come home to the Lord.

"The point is still the same though, isn't it?" he continued steadily, meeting Riley's gaze, the way he had hundreds of times during the boy's childhood. "Miracle, science, however you wanna explain it. She is healed. And she believes it was God's work, so do her parents. That's what's important, isn't it?" It was a rhetorical question. Riley knew the answer.

"That's not what I mean," Riley said, feeling like he was a ten year old with a shoebox and a mouse again. Too stupid to make his argument, his mind pulling in too many directions. There was still a voice inside him, at moments like this. That reminded him how easy it was to think with a glass in his hand, with a little liquid courage and vocal lubrication. All the cheerful, cutesy euphemisms that really translated to: when you stop caring.

He couldn't afford to do that anymore. Not ever again. But it left him like this, sometimes the wave of it all just crashing over him, leaving him dumb, stealing the words from his lungs and the thoughts from his head. He forced himself to take a breath. Another. Slowed the world down on his terms. "A miracle doesn't need to prove itself," he said finally. "It doesn't insist on being a miracle. It doesn't care what you call it." There was so much left unsaid, but Riley trusted Father Paul to hear it. To understand, even through the twisted thoughts, cracked and garbled like a drunkard's speech on a cold, dark night.

[monsignorjohn]

John focused on the simple steps of making tea — he walked over to the fridge to grab a carton of milk, poured it in, and stirred the liquid. Simple things; miracles. He picked up Flora's mug and turned around to hand it to her. And he saw how nervous she looked. She was twisting her hair with her fingers, and her reply wasn't as excited as before. He didn't respond, just let her talk, holding his own mug in both of his hands. He was surprised as she continued — a blur of stuff that happened. He could relate to that. Jerusalem, the Wailing Wall; stumbling through the desert. That had been a blur. Even before that, there were years and years of blurred memories he was still sorting through.

After a pause, he said, "I'm sorry to hear that," in a measured, steady, voice. And he was. He didn't know Flora well, but he remembered the Wingraves. He remembered what had happened to them. Before he could say more, she changed the subject. Everyone thinks you're just splendid, it's all they talk about down there these days. John couldn't help but smile at that.

"I'm sure it is," he said. "But you shouldn't be sorry for telling me how it was. I asked." He reached for one of her cookies and took a bite, chewing and swallowing it. It was still unbelievable, to feel all his own teeth. "Mmm, hey, that's good," he said appreciatively, raising the rest of the cookie and smiling at her. He knew how to handle this, this talk of the miracle of Leeza Scarborough. Matter-of-fact, as if God dished out healing miracles every single day. Flora might not have been a member of the congregation, but she was an islander, so she would need to accept this now, before more miracles came.

"You could come along, you know," he said casually, dunking the remainder of the biscuit in the tea. But he watched her closely. "No pressure, but if everyone in the diner is talking about it, don't you wanna see what all the fuss is about?" It was a genuine offer. He wanted her there. She seemed like a good kid. She deserved to bear witness.

He seemed to like her -- oh she hoped he liked her. But almost as soon as she thought that, she worried he might not. Which was only exacerbated when he dismissed her observation so casually. With his simple yeah, which could've been ignored except for the sorrowful look that flashed through his eyes, like a shadow passed over him. Yeah I know it, he said, yeah again, and it needled at her. Right in the pit of her stomach.

People told her she was silly, for worrying like this. But it wasn't silly at all.

While he tended to the kettle, she braided the strands of hair twirled around her fingers. Slowly, methodically, braiding and unbraiding while she swayed a little on her feet. Feeling awkward and uncertain what to do with herself, she was grateful for the question even if it didn't have a happy answer. "Well, it was -- perfectly splendid, of course" she said, though unlike before, this time did not sound genuine. It sounded rote, practiced, and not like a lie, but maybe a half-truth. "It's hard to remember a lot of it, if I'm honest," she admitted. "It's sort of just... a blur of stuff that happened." A lot of lonely memories, moments tucked away. "Of course, we were very happy. Miles and I, I mean, we were quite content and we had perfectly splendid caretakers. But it... It isn't exactly normal, no." She paused, even her fingers stilled in her hair. She let go of the strands and reached instead for a little cookie. "I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "Listen to me, just going on! You've got way bigger things to think about, at least, that's what everyone at the diner is saying. Everyone thinks you're just splendid, it's all they talk about down there these days."

[monsignorjohn]

This is a CLOSED STARTER CALL! If you'd prefer something personal and/or plotted out beforehand, give this a ❤️ and I'll throw you a closed starter.

[monsignorjohn]

George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard from, “Stratis Thalassinos among the Agapanthi.”

[monsignorjohn]

"Mhm," John replied softly. Of course he would call it that. Spontaneous remission. He heard the insult in the response too, whether Riley had meant it or not. He'd called him a conman, which he was totally fine with. He'd been called far worse in his long, long, life. When Riley trailed off, John raised his eyebrows expectantly, but the kid changed course to what a miracle would be, in his mind. Of course, he couldn't finish the sentence and say that a miracle wouldn't be Leeza Scarborough walking again, since, by definition a formerly partially paralysed girl walking again was a miracle.

"Jesus used spit and mud to heal a blind man," he replied calmly. "That's hardly the holiest of holies, is it? When He performed miracles, they were always messy and real. Not some divine abstract acts, but physical, tangible, workings in people's lives." He thought for a second, pondering on Riley's last comment, before replying in a measured and patient voice. "Calling it a miracle feels cheap, but calling it spontaneous remission doesn't? Why is that? Because one is mysterious, the other is rational?"

Riley scoffed. He couldn't help it, he scoffed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. But he didn't interrupt, didn't speak until Father Paul had finished and asked him a question in return. "Spontaneous remission," he said after a long pause. "Which is rare, but does happen, unlike faith healing. Which has been proven over and over, to be nothing but con men pumping their audience full of adrenaline or outright using plants and lies to sell their 'holy water.' It can't be a miracle, because a miracle wouldn't..." He trailed off, unable to find the words. "A real miracle would be too holy for us to even understand, right? So to call something a miracle feels cheap to me."

[monsignorjohn]

Owen. John made a mental note of that, and smiled warmly. "Of course. Nothing beats cookies and tea, does it?" he headed over to the cupboards and opened one to grab two mugs. It was still a marvel, to move like this — even walking across a room, bending down, and picking up two mugs felt amazing. He finally understood what it felt like to be truly grateful for God's gift of life. As the kettle boiled, he set the mugs down and turned back to Flora, leaning against the counter as he did so and resting his palms on top of it.

"Yeah, I don't really want to change things around," he replied. "Now I've learnt how Monsignor Pruitt had it, I'm used to it." This wasn't a lie. He'd needed to relearn everything, when he'd returned. Shortly after he'd come back, he'd opened a drawer in the kitchen to find a jumble of cutlery and random items that belonged in other rooms — a hairbrush, and a pair of reading glasses — and almost broke down in tears for who he used to be, and what had been returned to him.

Flora offered the next piece of information freely, and he nodded in recognition. "Bly Manor, yeah, I know it," he said. It had been standing there even before he'd arrived on the island as a boy, though he'd never set foot on the property. "How did you like living there? It must have been odd, growing up in such a big house." The kettle came to the boil, and he turned away again and busied himself with making the tea. The question had been open-ended enough that she could take it in any direction she wanted, which had been the point.

"Oh, will you do tea?" Flora asked, before she could stop herself. Before she could ask herself if it was polite to take him up on his offer, if she should. The thought of tea had been too exciting. "I love it when Owen does tea for us. He used to do real tea for my tea parties," she explained in a soft voice, folding her hands in front of her. She glanced around the room. "It doesn't really look all that different. From when the Monsignor was here. I mean, that's not a bad thing, or anything," she added quickly, fingers coming up to play with a strand of her hair. "I just meant -- I know it's weird, sometimes. To live in someone else's house. I um, grew up at my Uncle's place, Bly Manor, but I didn't always live there."

[monsignorjohn]

There it was. Riley never beat about the bush, but sometimes he needed a gentle push in the right direction. John looked him straight in the eyes, treating the question with the solemnity it deserved. This was bigger than Leeza walking, and he could see that now, instantly. There would be ripples from it, reaching those who never been part of the flock, and those who had left, like Riley. He noticed the way Riley held his hands at his sides, his deliberate pause before he continued. This was a far cry from the kid who'd been fooled by a lookalike mouse in a shoebox.

"I think you already know what I'm calling it," he replied. "What it was. A miracle." He reeled off the passage without needing to pause to call it to mind, or flip open the dog-eared Bible in his hand: "And he called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases." As he recited it, his tone changed a little to the lilting voice he'd perfected after decades of sermons, a tone of reverence for the ancient words. "The Bible tells us we have the power to heal injuries, even those as severe as Leeza's was. She's doing fine, by the way. Her parents took her to see Doctor Gunning, who confirmed it." He paused. "I'm curious, what would you call it?"

"Some mothers have more to worry about than others," Riley replied. He didn't want to do this. Didn't want to dance around the topic, but how did you bring up hey did you perform a miracle today? "Did you perform a miracle today?" he asked, because that was as good as it was going to get. "Some moms have more to worry about, but I was thinking -- Leeza Scarborough's mother has a lot to be grateful for today. But I didn't -- I don't know what the hell to make of something like that." He shook his head, wanting to wipe the smirk off the other man's face. It was too old for him, didn't fit somehow. Riley took a breath. Put his hands on his thighs and counted to ten like they taught him in rehab. In prison. "There's a reasonable explanation for what happened here today," he said after a moment. "But I want to know what you're calling it."

[monsignorjohn]

"Of course," John said gently. He remembered this about Flora — her awkward cadence, her rushes to speak between pauses. He'd never known her well, but he'd seen her at social gatherings on the island before.

She took the invitation and stepped inside, and he carried the cookies over to his kitchen, put them down, and turned back to address her. "Lovely to meet you, Flora, Flora Wingrave," he said. Perfectly splendid. Right, he remembered that too, now he heard it again. "Oh that?" he replied with a casual wave of his hand. "That's an old pastor joke. No, I can't claim that one. But thanks." He paused. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Something they don't tell you about pastors is that we always have warm beverages on hand."

"Thanks. I mean, that's really nice of you to say. And to offer," she added quickly, her words ducking in between his at an odd pace, like she wasn't quite sure when to stop and let him speak. Like she was a little afraid of the quiet. But he was nice, and strangely familiar, and she smiled shyly and nodded, stepping inside. "Flora. Flora Wingrave. And that was funny, by the way," she added softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Your joke about Sundays. Perfectly splendid," she giggled sincerely.

[monsignorjohn]

Riley Flynn, the prodigal son returned. John had seen this kid pour the communion wine and light the incense hundreds of times, had shown him a resurrected mouse in a box to keep his childlike faith alive for just a little longer, but now he greeted him like a virtual stranger, with an understanding smile.

"All mothers worry though, don't they?" he replied. "That's sort of their job." They both knew Annie Flynn had plenty to worry about, but he wouldn't broach that 'til Riley did. It wasn't his place. "Yeah, it's great here," he said casually. He could keep up small talk for hours — it was a big part of the job, after all. Even after what they both knew had happened only a few days ago, what the whole island was buzzing with. But if Riley wanted to play it this way, he would go along with it. "I'd say it's a real happening place," he continued, smiling slightly. Come on, kid, the look said. Seriously? You're not going to bring it up?

Riley froze. The voice sounded -- familiar, but foreign. He had only just gotten back to the island the night before. He hadn't. But of course. He turned around slowly, and saw the new priest staring back at him. The only place Riley had gone other than home, had been the church. Where this man appeared instead of the Monsignor that Riley knew so well. "Uh, hi," he said, nodding to the man. "I'm doing okay. Despite what my mother's worrying on her rosary during mass might tell you." He made the joke to crack the obvious tension between them, the ice he felt everywhere on the island now. Because he was still so cold, right down to his non-existent soul. Just a black hole inside. The thought cheered him somehow, and he offered Father Paul a small smile. "How are you enjoying the new parish?"

[monsignorjohn]

The novelty of people visiting still hadn't worn off. From John's hazy, confused, memories of his life before his resurrection, he could recall that Bev had been keeping them away for a long time. So, when he opened the door to see Flora Wingrave standing there, he greeted with a genuinely warm smile. Before he could welcome her in, she started to talk, and he just smiled patiently until she was through. Either way, it's home right? She didn't know how right she was.

"How thoughtful of you," he said, finally. "And no, you weren't interrupting. I only work on Sundays." He knew Flora would catch the joke — he'd known her for years, but still he opened his door and gestured for her to come in with the practised politeness of a priest to a stranger. He had to, for the moment. "D'you want to come in? It would be a shame if you made these 'welcome to the island' cookies and didn't get to try any yourself, right?" A very long life of balancing friendliness with just the right amount of courteous distance made the offer seem genuine and unpressured. "I'm Father Paul, by the way."

@monsignorjohn

"Uh, hi! Hi, hello. I hope I'm not interrupting." Flora carried a little covered plate with her, and stood on the doorstep of the small house behind the church. "I -- well, you see, I made these cookies for the Monsignor, to welcome him home," she explained, lifting the towel up so he could see. "But obviously, he's not here. And I would hate for them to go to waste, so maybe they can be 'welcome to the island,' cookies instead of 'welcome back,' cookies. Either way, it's home right?"

[monsignorjohn]

When Jesus had returned on Resurrection Sunday, the disciples had not recognised him at first. Their eyes were kept from recognising him, according to Luke. John had left the newspaper clipping on the wall of the rectory, showing his younger, former, self clearly in black and white, for this very reason. To give visitors a chance to see.

Now he walked through the decaying town with new eyes, seeing it clearly for the first time in years. The peeling paint and disused houses; the rot of the island. But he would fix it. God would fix it. John whistled as he walked — Amazing Grace — clutching his battered Bible in one hand. He spotted someone walking the opposite direction, and raised a hand to wave. "Morning! How you doin' today?"

[monsignorjohn]

Midnight Mass Book IV: Lamentations

[monsignorjohn]

(hamish linklater, 80 (appears 30s), cis male, he/him) welcome to crockett island JOHN PRUITT (PAUL HILL) from MIDNIGHT MASS. you work as a PRIEST, and have been here for A FEW WEEKS. you are known to be CONFIDENT, but also DECEPTIVE. you call to mind A WOODEN CRUCIFIX ON A WALL, GOLD VESTMENTS, A BLOODSOAKED SHIRT.

Hi everyone! I'm Sophie, and I'm one of the admins of FlanaganHQ. I'm usually in the GMT timezone, but Tarin and I made this group while I'm staying with her for the holidays. We both love Mike Flanagan's projects, and this idea of this group came to us while we were watching TFOTHOU together (a rewatch for me, first watch for her!) I work with very old books for a living, which is as cool as it sounds. I work full time, so my activity might be spotty, but I'll try to be on of an evening when I can. I also write a lot of pretentious words, so never feel pressured to match my rambling replies, which will definitely become more rambling once I get used to writing John.

With that out of the way, let me introduce you to my hot priest vampire son. This is not written with any seriousness at all, because I struggle with intros:

For those of you who missed Midnight Mass, or haven't recently rewatched it, Father Paul Hill is the new priest on Crockett Island, sent by the diocese to replace Monsignor John Pruitt, the aging pastor who's been on the island for as long as anyone can remember. Pruitt was last seen on a pilgrimage in Jerusalem

Spoiler alert: Paul is Pruitt. While on the pilgrimage, he got lost in a sandstorm and took shelter in a cave, where he was attacked by a winged creature that drank his blood and force fed him its blood. With its leathery bat wings and glowing gold eyes, Pruitt obviously thought it was an angel. As the creature drank from him, he fell unconscious from blood loss

When he awoke, the years had washed away. He was now a young man, in his 30s. His memory and mental faculties had returned to him, and he saw this as a miracle, bestowed on him by the angel

He returned to Crockett with the angel in a trunk, Dracula style, and posed as Father Paul Hill, sent as Monsignor's replacement. Knowing the angel's blood is a source of miraculous healing, he is diluting the communion wine with it, feeding it to the residents of the island who attend Mass. This is resulting in the healing of serious physical injuries and minor ailments. To the Christians of Crockett, a religious revival is happening at St Patrick's

John is a liar and a manipulator, but his intentions are good. He's essentially my favourite kind of character — morally grey as a foggy sky, with a lean towards "evil" acts for his own ends

I will be filling in his childhood and youth as I write him and learn more about him, but for now, here’s what I have: his older sister Alice died of polio when he was a boy, and this turned him towards God and eventually led to him entering the priesthood. He came to Crockett in his early 20s after travelling to South America on mission, and remained there for the rest of his life. According to the newspaper on his wall, he moved to the island 8 years prior to the restoration of St Patrick’s, which seems to have happened in the 1950s. This would track with Mildred’s mention of “the war” in episode 7, and Alice Pruitt dying of polio

During his youth, he broke his vow of celibacy and had a daughter, Sarah, with Mildred Gunning, who was married at the time (someone bring me Mildred please and thank you). The two of them have never acknowledged Sarah as John's child, but he has watched her grow up from afar

I will be essentially going AU from around episode 3 onwards in order for others to take more creative liberties with characters in the show. Though I will refer to him in his internal dialogue as "John", others know him as "Paul" or "Father Paul"

I think this is all you need to know for the time being! Feel free to pop into my IMs to plot, or hit me up on Discord. I look forward to writing with everyone!