#sheriff hassan fic

[blueberry-fiction]

Picture Perfect

Sheriff Hassan x fem!reader

Waves lapped loudly at the edge of Garry Point Park Beach and, in the same fashion, retreated back into the ocean whence they’d come, leaving behind a thick coat of sticky foam spat up from the darkened, choppy water that was only now coming into view on the horizon. Some mornings, when the wind blew in just the right direction, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh brewed coffee would drift down to the shore from the diner a few blocks over and mingle deliciously with the salty ocean air, blanketing the scene in the warm aroma. This morning was not one of those mornings. No, today the chilly autumn air was thin, crisp, and carried with it the threat of a storm that was scheduled to hit Crockett Island in just two days' time.

The alarm on Y/n's wristwatch chirped twice to signal the time, but she looked down to confirm anyways out of habit. 6:28 AM. Perfect. Not even a moment later, as if summoned by the chirping of her alarm, thin wisps of golden sunlight began to creep out from their slumber and peek out over the wave caps on the horizon. Bright streams of yellow and orange danced across the dark, watery landscape and gleamed brightly into Y/n's eyes from where she watched on the shoreline, her worn leather boots settling a little further into the damp sand beneath her.

Transfixed completely by the technicolor display jumping to life before her, she’d all but forgotten all about the camera dangling from around her neck and her entire purpose for being at the beach this early on a Saturday. As quickly as she could, Y/n carefully removed the old camera from its weathered pouch, slid the lens cover aside, and found her frame. “Now if I could just focus the damned thing...” she mumbled quietly under her breath.

Y/n considered herself a semi-professional photographer, but this particular camera was new to her. Until very recently it had belonged to her mom and, much to her frustration, it had an extremely sensitive focusing ring. Unlike Y/n, her mom had been a fully professional photographer, teaching herself almost all of what she knew about the art from this very spot on Garry Point Park Beach. Also unlike Y/n, her mom had been one of the few life-long islanders that the shopkeepers in the center of town liked to remember so fondly whenever Y/n stopped for a few groceries or to fill up her gas tank- A couple even went so far as to hang a portrait of her mom up on their walls after the funeral. Most importantly to Y/n though, her mom had been a loving role model and an incredible mentor. Her old camera, on the other hand, was not so loving.

To familiarize herself with it, Y/n made a habit of waking up early to snap a few pictures of the sunrise from a sleepy cove at the southern end of the beach near her mom's, er-her's now, house. She'd found a photo of the cove in the house on her very first day here and scouted it out the next morning, camera in hand, attempting to capture as many shots as possible while simultaneously avoiding any potential onlookers that may distract her from her learning process. Lately though, Y/n's artistic progress seemed to have plateaued thanks to her especially sensitive camera and, even worse, four days ago she realized she'd been noticed by someone.

In his defense, Hassan was one of the least threatening island residents who could have witnessed Y/n’s new early morning routine, but even from a distance he could sense that she didn't welcome his presence there by the way she positioned herself just outside his line of vision now.

Four mornings ago, when Hassan had been running a few minutes ahead of his typical schedule and, by chance, caught a glimpse of her making her way toward the mouth of the cove through the hazy morning light, she'd looked up toward the road in time to notice him there, leaning comfortably against the side of his car, and stopped dead in her tracks. Hassan's usually stern face had broken into a small smile and he'd lifted his hand to offer up a friendly half-wave as a sign that he meant no harm, a gesture Y/n hadn't returned.

Instead, he'd noticed the way her body went completely rigid when his eyes lingered curiously on her shadowy figure in the moments that followed. His smile faded, lips settling into a hard line. "She must have known she wasn't the only person out here" he'd thought then.

Had she not realized that this too had been his morning ritual? Albeit, not to fiddle around with a camera, but just to carve out a few solitary moments of tranquility from his day before hurling himself back into playing Sheriff on Crockett Island. And now here she was on a Saturday, too?

Hassan shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans and, looking down, clumsily kicked at a pebble on the side of the road where he’d parked his car only a half hour earlier to watch the sunrise himself. If anything, he thought, he should be the one annoyed with her, not the other way around. After all, he had been visiting this shoreline most mornings for the last two years since becoming the town's new Sheriff, whereas Y/n had just moved onto Crockett Island three weeks ago. He should be annoyed by her sense of entitlement, he thought.

Curiously though, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but quiet fascination at the sight of the new photographer in the morning's dim yellow light as she slowly climbed the grassy path that led toward the road where he stood leaning against his car, a smile gently tugging at the corners of his mouth.

X

[littleredwritingcat]

“O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fire of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of Thy mercy. O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us…”

Father Paul is rocking back and forth, holding one of your hands with both of his own. He keeps repeating the prayer while Sarah tries everything she can to bring you back for the second time in an hour.

It doesn’t seem like an overdose. It doesn’t seem like an aneurysm or – or a heart attack. In fact, your heart is working at an incredible pace. And you’re burning up. And you’re bleeding. The nose is gushing a steady stream and blood is starting to trickle through the closed eyelids combined with tears and it’s coming out from your fingernails, covering the priest’s hands in thin rivulets.

Sarah has never seen this before.

And we're back!

Again!

To those of you who have held on this long - thank you. I know this fic has been slow to update, but I hope I'm crafting something that's high quality. I adore you, and you deserve that.

So, you know what this is all building to. Maybe not "how" just yet - but the inevitable is coming. *Of course* I mean a big fat confrontation between Sheriff Hassan and Monsignor "Liar Liar Pants On Fire"

This is where it all starts to get real, my loves. Hang on to your rosaries! From here on out, there's a dearth of sunshine and pop tarts till story's end.

Also, it should be noted that I have absolutely no medical training and your suspension of disbelief is going to have to kick in.

I'm a doctor but I'm not *that* kind of doctor.

Tagging some mutes and supporters new and old this time.

*mwah*

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @thenookienostradamus @prettyblondguys @girlwiththenegantattoo @midwestmisfit @rothko-mirror @jyngerpeach @chronic-ghost @yepthatsacowalright @lovepollution @ebiemidnightlibrarian @choosekindly @madsmilfelsen @purplelupins @daughterofaries @turbulent-protagonist @perpetual-fangirl900 @happyvintagegirl40 @vintageglassheart02 @p-e-r-s-e-p-h-o-n-e @labyrinthphanlivingafacade @

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

IT'S SPOOKY SEASON AND I COULD NOT BE MORE EXCITED FOR YOUR SPOOKY COME BACK

can I please request Hassan and 30 Days of Night? I wanna smash two of my faves together 🖤

I finally finished something!!! Yay! Also you were insane for this...but I should've seen it coming

My Hands Won't Keep You Safe

Pairing: Sheriff Hassan el-Shabbaz x Reader

Warnings/notes: blood; violence; I was overwhelmed by all the directions I could've gone with this but I ultimately wanted "soft"; it's actually pretty tame but I LOVE IT

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 1368

Your hand rests in Hassan’s and you try not to think about how you can feel his blood moving under his skin. Or how you can hear every heartbeat in the room.

“What are we going to do?” you had asked.

“Whatever you want to do,” he’d replied.

The others all wanted you dead, still do probably, but you had been the only one to hear the scream, the only one to run out into the night and bring her back alive.

They’d pulled the girl away from you and tried to bring an ax down on your neck. Would have if Hassan hadn’t put himself in the way.

A wave of nausea passes over you and you rest your head against the bars. Your skin is clammy from a sickly, burning heat, the epicenter the cut on your neck. You pass your tongue over your teeth, feeling the unnatural sharpness of them. The keen tangy smell of sweat hits the back of your throat but there's something else, something richer and sweeter coming to the surface. You look over to where Hassan is sleeping uncomfortably just on the other side of the bars and all you see is fire. He's bright and warm and for a moment you think the sun has come several days early. You want to reach out to him. You want to sink your teeth into him and taste the sun. You clench your eyes shut and cover your face.

“Are you hungry?” You look up at the sound of a gentle voice. The small girl with blood crusted in her hair is standing on the other side of the bars, holding a granola bar in her hands. You give her a smile that’s more like a wince, and shake your head, even though you’re starving. She tugs awkwardly at the sleeve of her jacket and the action catches your eye. So does the small trickle of blood working its way down the back of her hand.

“Are you okay?” you ask, but you already know the answer. It comes to you through your nose. Something smells off, you don’t know any other way to describe it. The girl doesn’t answer, doesn’t get the chance to.

“Get away from there.” It’s Roberta, an older woman who always spared you a kind smile, which makes the scowl she gives you that much more painful. Roberta takes the girl by the arm, guiding her away from the cell door. You watch Cliff–the man who came at you with the ax–take their place, his brow furrowing, nostrils flaring, knuckles white around his weapon.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Cliff says. “Those things are tearing this town to pieces and we’re supposed to sit here and wait for this one to turn? No. No, I’m not gonna do it.” Hassan slowly pushes himself to his feet, towering over the agitated man.

“What are you doing, Cliff?” he asks, his tone almost conversational.

“C’mon, Sheriff, look at them!” Cliff says, as if that’s all the argument he needs–and maybe it is. “They're a ticking time bomb! For Christ’s sake–they already look just like those things!” You turn away at the feeling of eyes on you.

“I’m not interested in unnecessary bloodshed here,” Hassan simply states.

“Unnecessary?” Cliff scoffs. “Way I see it, we’re just getting ahead of things, and you’re afraid to admit I’m right.” A tighter, more threatening circle had formed around Hassan as Cliff spoke and Hassan eyes each haggard, hungry survivor carefully.

“They aren't hurting anybody, and that girl is alive because of them, or have you all forgotten?” There’s a pause as the entire room seems to let go of the breath it’s holding. You hear a sound like the scuttling of rats.

Cliff opens his mouth to speak, but you shush him, hearing something land on the roof of the building next door. Hassan crouches down, his face close to the bars.

“What is it?’ he whispers.

“They’re surrounding us,” you reply, your voice just as quiet. Hassan turns to talk to the others, his hand outstretched in a calming gesture, but before he can get a word out, Cliff strikes him in the side of the head with the ax handle. Hassan’s head bounces brutally off the metal bars and he collapses limply to the floor. You cry out before you can think better of it, and reach out to him. Cliff brings the ax down and you recoil before he can strike your arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says to the others, and when some hesitate: “what? You wanna stay with someone who’s gonna gamble with your safety? Who’s gonna risk your lives for one of them?” He gestures to you with the butt of his ax. “Get going, we’ll make for the general store like we planned.” You try to catch the attention of those with doubt in their eyes, those who know you, who care for Hassan, who don’t want blood on their hands. You try to tell them it’s not safe, but none listen. They all leave, one by one, wind and snow blustering in behind them. Cliff hangs behind, and you watch as he searches Hassan’s pockets and belt. He comes up with the cell keys and dangles them triumphantly before you. Without taking his eyes off you, he pockets them and leaves, not bothering to close the door.

The scent of blood is overwhelming.

“Hassan?” You lay down on your stomach and reach through the bars, giving Hassan’s body a soft shake. Your hand moves to his face, turning his head towards you. A patch of blood stains the right side of his head and face, but his heart is still beating.

Soft growls make you stop breathing, and your eyes rest on the back door Cliff left open. Snow scatters across the floor, the wind wailing like a ghost. Another threat you can do absolutely nothing about. Cliff means to make you watch Hassan die–one way or another. Your stomach sits in a tight knot and you want to throw yourself against the cell door.

You carefully drag Hassan as close to the bars as you can, his arm resting in your lap, the skin of his wrist exposed. Those creatures will not have him. The cold will not have him.

Screams shatter the night, followed by the animalistic shrieks of the creatures. Something bolts past the open door and your body tenses. Hassan still hasn’t woken, and you glance at his slack face. When your eyes return to the door a figure waits there. It stands motionless, shrouded in the thick darkness. Your grip on Hassan tightens. You run your tongue over your lips.

You bring Hassan’s wrist to your mouth, but you’re suddenly not sure if you can do it.

The figure passes over the threshold, ushered in by the wind.

"Forgive me," you whisper.

The figure moves soundlessly, taking their time. Your teeth brush at his soft skin.

You can’t break it. Your mouth is frozen, your eyes open in a wide, desperate panic, your breathing frantic. You can’t do it. You have to do it.

A hand reaches through the bars. A small hand, holding a set of keys. You let go of Hassan. You can make out the little girl in the lamplight now. Her eyes are like yours. Her mouth is bloody. You glance at Hassan, worried she’ll turn her hungry attention to him, but she doesn’t seem interested. She just shakes the keys at you, and they jingle sharply.

You let yourself out quickly and go to Hassan, taking him in your arms. His eyes open slowly, as if they’d rather stay closed.

“I have to get him somewhere safe,” you say to the girl. “I have to–” you look down at the wet, warm spot of blood on your hand, the sunlight coming from Hassan’s head wound, and your mind empties, your mouth waters, your stomach aches, your whole body seems to wake up and reach for it. You clamp down on your tongue with your needle teeth and smear the blood on your pants.

“I have to get him somewhere safe,” you repeat, hauling the semi-conscious Hassan to his feet.

[gerardway-is-my-babygirl]

Nothing worse than going on ao3 and finding the character x reader tag and seeing absolutely NO fics with a m/m category what the fuck man

I just checked another character x reader tag from the same fandom and there are 182 F/M FICS AND 14 FUCKING M/M ONES WHAT THE FUCK?!?!!??!?

[mariamariquinha]

Maria’s Fic Recommendation

Soooo since I’ve been writing my stuff, I think it’s more than fair to share some of the most amazing things I’d read or I’m reading now. Probably forgot a lot of them, which I apologize!

Oh, I may add that I don’t write to a few characters on it, BUT I truly appreciate these works below. Enjoy! (And thank you for all those amazing writers making good and beautiful content. You are the best! ❤)

(here we go)

-------------------------------

Baubles of stolen kisses by @brandyllyn (Richard Alonzo Muñoz)

Cerebral by @laters-gators (Nathan Bateman)

Relative Dating by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Indiana Jones)

Homestead by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Benoit Blanc)

You Want me To? by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon)

The Warmasters’s Wife by @youvebeenlivingfictional (Gurney Halleck) 

Healing hands by @cheesybadgers (Colonel Horacio Carrillo)

Old Habits Die Hard by @cheesybadgers (Colonel Horacio Carrillo x Javier Peña) 

In Another Life by @cheesybadgers (Esteban) THIS THING HERE IS LIKE... A GEM! LAURA KNOWS IT BUT I’LL REMIND YOU ALL THAT WE’RE TALKING ABOUT A MASTERPIECE. 

Objectos de Deseo by @massivecolorspygiant (Colonel Horacio Carrillo) 

Black Lace and Wine by @nocturnal-milk-dud (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon)

Slow Hands by @drabbles-mc (Angel Reyes)

Lunch Break by @tropes-and-tales (Bishop Losa)

Human touch by @tropes-and-tales (Sheriff Hassan)

I Got a Bone to Pick With You by @placeinthemiddleofnowhere (Frank Castle)

A Problem of Communication by @dunefeather (Gurney Halleck)

A Flirtatious Game by @supernovafeather (Duke Leto Atreides)

arise, ascend by @zinzinina​ (Boba Fett)

[the-crowe-and-the-magpie]

Hey Midnight Mass gang,

What're your thoughts on vampires in this universe having the 'thrall'-- aka, a specialized power in which to attract and basically hypnotize victims?

I don't want to take away from the pure power of Father Paul's sermons on their own, of course, because they're fuxkin POWERFUL (and this is coming from a lapsed Methodist)

But the way EVERYONE is affected, even the skeptics, even Riley, ANYONE who hears him preach--

Except maybe Hassan, but by the time he's there everything has gone a bit topsy-turvy batshit no pun intended--

Everyone is absolutely enthralled with whatever Paul is saying!!

Is this vampiric influence, the influence of the blood they've all drunk, or is Father Paul just that incredible a preacher?

[royalsunshinehotel]

Rahul Kohli Fic List

Ravi Chakrabarti

Owen Sharma

Hassan El Shabazz

Napoleon Usher

PREFERENCE MASTERLIST (Rahul Kohli)

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

I am in desperate need of x reader fic recs for:

Will Graham (Hannibal)

Adrian Chase/Vigilante

Sheriff Hassan (Midnight Mass)

Jack Russell (werewolf by night)

Or just tell me your favorite fic you've found recently. Or a comfort fic you go back and reread when you need to.

[venus-haze]

Power in the Blood (Father Paul Hill x Nun!Reader)

Summary: There’s power in the blood. Father Paul knows this. Soon, you will, too.

Note: Female reader who's only referred to as "Sister," but no other descriptors are used. Also, the newspaper clipping isn't on the wall in this, for obvious reasons. I’ve been working on this fic in one way or another for about a year, but watching The Devils (1971) and Immaculate (2024) earlier this year as well as encouragement from my amazing friend @zaras-really-dreamless finally gave me the push I needed to finish it. Major visual inspiration from this scene in particular. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Angst, yearning, and unrequited feelings. Elements of Catholic mysticism. Sexually explicit content which involves dubious consent by way of religious manipulation, members of the clergy engaging in sexual acts, oral sex (f. receiving, but it's related to the stigmata and vampirism), blood play.

In retrospect, Crockett Island was the only place it could have happened. Desolation hung over the remote fishing village like fog in the early mornings, when you’d take your walks before the Monsignor awoke, and you heard the woes of the fishermen as they prepared to sail out for the day—oil spills, restrictive fishing laws, better paying jobs on the mainland but leaving everything they knew behind in exchange. Despite coming from the mainland yourself and otherwise alien to the ways of the dying village, your being a woman of the cloth on the largely Catholic (though predominantly non-practicing) island made the islanders trust you, consider you one of their own a bit more than they otherwise would have as you took on the burden of buoying their spirituality as the Monsignor’s health continued failing, and he could no longer fulfill the task himself.

You’d begged the diocese for help, hardly considered yourself equipped to care for the ailing priest and run a parish, however small, essentially on your own. But for a parish as small as St. Patrick’s, you were all the help the diocese would care to send. The letter you received in response to your detailing all of the things Crockett Island’s parishioners desperately needed boiled down to “wait until the old man kicks it.” 

You supposed it was a miracle the diocese even sent you there in the first place. Though most of the islanders took the arrival of a young nun like yourself as a breath of fresh air, Beverly Keane didn’t seem all too pleased to have her self-appointed position as number two at St. Patrick’s knocked down to number three. She seemed to settle down when it became clear you had no interest in engaging in petty politics in a church that barely counted three dozen people for regular Sunday mass attendance. 

The island’s social life, small as it was, interested you more. People were more open to receiving you as a friend than as a representative of the church, undoubtedly put off by Beverly Keane’s self-righteous fanaticism that veered into cruelty. You got to know the regular parishioners, like Erin Greene, who’d grown up on the island, left for some time, and returned pregnant yet eager to become a mother to her unborn baby. She taught at the island’s small school with Beverly, who encouraged you to take up teaching there, obviously hoping to bring a religious curriculum to the tax-payer funded public school. You declined. 

Besides Erin, and to your chagrin Beverly, who was convinced the two of you were compatriots of some kind despite how often you clashed, you found yourself spending increasing amounts of time with Sheriff Hassan. Despite dutifully filling an essential role in the community, he hardly seemed any closer to gaining acceptance despite a year on Crockett Island. 

The day he and Ali moved onto the island, you had a cold, and thus weren’t part of the unofficial welcoming committee. Your head pounded from the sinus pressure when Beverly brought the Monsignor back to the rectory afterward, and you barely heard what she said. You met Sheriff Hassan a few days later, when you were feeling well enough to shop for yourself and the Monsignor for the week. Among your expectations about Hassan Shabazz, his being handsome enough to make your breath hitch for just a moment before introducing yourself wasn’t on the list. But he was understandably weary of you, expecting the same horrendous treatment he undoubtedly received from Beverly. 

Over time, he found you were only interested in buying groceries and not in underhandedly converting him or Ali. You were both lonely outsiders to the island and found some solace in regular conversations about the mainland, or observations about the islanders, occasionally broaching the topic of religion, which had a comfortable place in the space you two shared in the general store, sometimes over a cup of coffee he’d brew for you. 

You admired him. His dedication to his son, the efficacy with which he performed his thankless job, and the unwavering faith he had in his religion, while yours had long lost its luster since you’d become Monsignor Pruitt’s live-in nurse in all but name. 

But the days became your own when the Monsignor made his trip to the Holy Land, ill-advised considering his health. When you voiced your concerns to the parish, your outsider status was paraded through the discussion by Beverly, who insisted you had no way to understand how much the trip meant to the Monsignor, and by extension, every good, practicing Catholic on the island. At the time, to your frustration, she had won. 

Besides, even if he were there, you weren’t sure a man on death’s door himself would have been able to give Mildred Gunning Last Rites. Torrential rain pounded against the rectory when you could barely hear the phone ring. 

You had picked up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Sister, it’s—it’s my mom. I think she’s—”

“Sarah, do you want me to come over and see her?”

“Yeah, she’d want that. Just be careful with the rain.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Grabbing a flashlight, you had only half pulled on your raincoat when you hurried outside, in a near sprint to the Gunning house. You almost slipped and fell on the way there, and then you wouldn’t have been any good to anybody, and the last thing Dr. Sarah Gunning needed was to tend to a broken leg while her mother was on her deathbed.

The door was unlocked when you arrived, the house quiet and dark save for a few lamps left on.

“Sarah?” you called out.

She emerged from her mother’s room, eyes red. “I thought I was ready for this a long time ago, but being face-to-face with it…”

“Are you sure this is it?”

“As sure as I can be. She hasn’t been eating. There’s only so much I can do,” Sarah said, her voice breaking in despair. “Sister, I—she’d want you to be here. Even though she didn’t know you very much, I could tell she liked you.”

“Of course,” you whispered, giving her a hug before approaching Mildred’s bedside. 

Despite her labored breathing, she managed a kind smile when you took her weathered hand in yours and prayed the Our Father with as steady of a voice as you could manage. Then, you knelt, pulled the rosary from your raincoat pocket, and prayed until your knees ached and you nearly passed out from exhaustion at staying up so late. You almost thought you had dreamed it, the way she went, as peacefully as drifting off to sleep. It was only the cry of her daughter that pierced through your haze, and you struggled to your feet as you allowed Sarah privacy and called Sheriff Hassan over to certify the death, as was necessary for the burial Mildred would have undoubtedly wanted as a Catholic.

When the Sheriff arrived, about fifteen minutes after you called, you’d become acutely aware your nightgown had soaked through in the rain, and pulled your raincoat more closely over your body, ashamed you’d even forgotten such a detail in your haste.

“I should head back now,” you said. “I’m so sorry again, Sarah. You’ll be in my prayers. I’ll contact the diocese first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

“Do you need a ride back to the church?” Hassan asked. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You smiled, tempted by his offer, the prospect of spending more time alone with him. Instead, you shook your head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think I can manage.”

Crockett Island was quiet the following day, when Annie’s son Riley arrived home for the first time in over a decade, following his four year prison sentence. You could tell through his polite greeting he had no interest in speaking with you further than his mother’s introductions. Fair enough.

Monsignor Pruitt was supposed to return that evening, but you had been calling the diocese to try to get confirmation that they could send a priest over to perform the funeral mass if needed. As usual, you got answering machines or the run around of being told to call different offices, none of which could apparently help you. 

When you returned to the rectory after visiting with Sarah Gunning, you noticed the light on in the distance. Beverly had planned to meet the Monsignor at the ferry and bring him home. In all honesty, you couldn’t believe he survived the trip, both there and back.

“Monsignor, it’s me!” you called out. “How was your trip? I’d love to hear about—” You froze when you came face to face with a priest. A priest who wasn’t the Monsignor. Younger, handsome, absolutely unexpected. “Hello. I–I’m sorry, who are you? Father—”

“I’m Father Paul, Paul Hill,” he said kindly. “The diocese sent me.”

“That was quick. I thought they’d been ignoring my messages.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Monsignor became ill on his trip, and I’m here until he recovers. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and brought my things into what I assumed was his room.”

“Please, make yourself at home.” You hastily made a sign of the cross. “But the Monsignor…I don’t think the islanders could take another loss. I’m so sorry, you come here and your first mass is a funeral.”

“Funeral? For who?”

“Mildred Gunning, an elderly parishioner who had been ill with dementia for a few years, I believe. She passed away two nights ago,” you said. “That’s why I’ve been calling the diocese all day. We need someone to perform the funeral mass.”

His deep, brown eyes widened with all the terror of a deer being chased through the woods. “Are–are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I was there when she passed.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, it was like she had fallen asleep,” you said softly, watching in wonder as tears fell from his eyes. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sister. These things affect me deeply.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” he said, his voice empty, an almost far away sound to it.

“While that’s brewing, I’ll call Dr. Gunning, Mildred’s daughter, and let her know you’re here. I don’t think she’d want any deviation from the typical funeral rites. Her mother was quite devout.”

“Yes, I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Yes, I–I figured.”

He retreated into the Monsignor’s room. When you brought the coffee to him, he requested you leave it outside the door, which you found odd. Even more strange was having to tell Beverly that she missed the Monsignor’s arrival because he wasn’t arriving in the first place, and the diocese forgot to tell you that he’d become ill on his trip and Father Paul was serving as his replacement until he recovered. You privately figured the assignment would be more permanent, as yours had unexpectedly become.

Mildred Gunning’s funeral was held in St. Patrick’s Church less than a day later. A simple, solemn affair that saw the church nearly packed for the first time outside of Christmas or Easter. Mildred had lived and died on Crockett Island, everyone knew her in one way or another. Father Paul conducted the funeral mass as if mourning the Pope himself, and you were particularly struck by his grief, the way he nearly fell apart while giving the homily.

He fared no better at the wake that followed the funeral mass, held in the community center. Father Paul was utterly disinterested in speaking with any of the parishioners who tried to introduce themselves to him or sought solace and spiritual guidance in his presence. Thus, the burden once again fell on your shoulders, and you almost thought the diocese would have been better off ignoring your calls after all.

You sighed. You couldn’t let your cynicism get the best of you. It’d be entirely inappropriate for Father Paul to treat Mildred’s wake as a social hour. Besides, people with such deep empathy for others, especially someone they’d never met, were rare, as reminded to you by Beverly, who made her way over to you with a plate of cheese and crackers and a slight sneer on her face.

“I suppose it’s nice and all, but it’s not like he knew the woman,” Beverly muttered.

“He needs time to adjust,” you said. “This isn’t the best way to start out his tenure here.”

“Yes, well, let’s just hope he gets his act together soon.”

You could swear the diocese had you on some kind of blacklist, the way your calls to them went unanswered, letters returned with vague instructions and empty assurances. Father Paul had no idea how long they intended for him to stay on Crockett Island or the condition of Monsignor Pruitt. 

Your living in the rectory made sense when you were caring for the Monsignor, but with Father Paul fully capable of taking care of himself, you wanted to know if you’d be staying on the island, and if so, if separate arrangements would be made for your own housing. The island was too small, too chatty, for you and Father Paul to be living alone for too long before it was turned into something it wasn’t.

The bitter taste of married life settled on your tongue as you took up most of the responsibilities around the rectory while Father Paul moped . The old man could hardly help with cleaning, and you didn’t want him anywhere near the kitchen, but your new roommate was an able-bodied man who could spare to pick up some slack, couldn’t he?

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” you said, emerging from the kitchen and into the living room where he sat on the couch. “Just spaghetti and meatballs. The jar sauce from the store isn’t too bad. I usually add—”

“Red wine and oregano to it. I know.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback by his statement. “I guess Bev told you. Not much of a secret recipe.”

“You’re pretty young for a nun,” he said, turning to you. “What made you want to give up a normal life for this?”

“It’s my vocation. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was what God called me to do. I never wanted another life.” You sat down next to him, sparing a glance around the room. “This is it for me.”

“Crockett Island?”

You conceded a small smile. “I was hoping for somewhere a little more exciting, but I think there’s a chance for something amazing to happen here.”

He shook his head. “That time’s long passed. Look around you, Sister. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who’ve stayed…it’s just too late.”

“Please, Father, I know this island may seem like it’s dying, and presiding over a funeral as your first mass here doesn’t help that, but the people still need guidance,” you pleaded, taking his hands in yours. You couldn’t contend with the diocese sending you to rot with the rest of the island. It couldn’t be for nothing. “The Monsignor is no longer well enough to fill that need, and I couldn’t do it on my own, but together, I think we can do something great if we try. This might be the island’s last chance to have life breathed into it again.”

“Sister—”

“I agree that Crockett Island is hardly a place anymore, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? We couldn’t have been sent here without a reason.”

He swallowed roughly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re right, Sister. I—Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you at his words, at his assurance you wouldn't have to bring revival to Crockett Island on your own. 

Following your conversation with Father Paul, his attitude completely shifted. He was friendlier with the parishioners, taking extra time to spend with Leeza, offering to hold Riley’s AA meetings in the community center to save him a trip to the mainland, and, inexplicably, he liked Beverly, who’d changed her mind about Father Paul since the wake and warmed up to him. The only time he wavered was when he visited with Sarah Gunning, still grieving the loss of her mother and considering moving her practice off of the island.

He’d return to the rectory on those evenings quiet, morose, seeking the comfort you selflessly offered him. A warm embrace in which he’d bury his face in the crook of your neck. A hand to hold and squeeze in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours. Teetering on the brink of an intimacy you’d made vows against, you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up to him, not when he needed you, and you, him, to fill the hunger in your heart for a man you knew you could never have. 

You allowed the beast to live in you. Fed it. Nurtured it. Cared for it. Guarded it with a shameful protectiveness, shielding it from your regular confessions with Father Paul, in which uttering its name would make it real, and thus ripped away from you and destroyed. 

Ash Wednesday and the first week of Lent were resigned to a haze in your memory, hardly able to think of the beginning of the holiest time of the liturgical year without feeling sick. Not after the potluck. You were sure it had been Beverly, Sheriff Hassan was, too. You knew she was cruel, but to harm an animal, something so innocent…You couldn’t stand to be in her presence for long after that, and silently resented Father Paul for keeping her so close. But you supposed everyone had their vices. 

Yours came to a head in a dream, one that felt all too real, that you could hardly remember when you awoke apart from burning hands on your skin, lips pressed to yours, you and Sheriff Hassan in throes of passion. You laid in bed with a lump in your throat and aching between your legs. You hadn’t experienced a dream like that in…you couldn’t even remember.

The entire time you sat through mass, you thought you were going to be sick. You couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the homily. Taking the Eucharist felt wrong, and your hand shook when you brought the communion wafer to your lips when Father Paul handed it to you. Finally, when mass ended, and you were sure the church was empty, you approached him with trepidation.

“Father, I have something I need to confess.”

“Would you like to go to the confessional?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hide behind it. I need to be transparent and held accountable.”

He nodded. The two of you sat in a pew, facing each other as you crossed yourselves. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days,” you answered.

“What is it, Sister?”

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts, Father, about someone incredibly close to me, who I care deeply for. Instead of asking the Lord to take these feelings from me, I’ve been indulging in them, and last night I—I had a dream about him. A sexual one that I experienced physical pleasure from.” You were in tears, guilt wracking your body as you spoke. “I’m so ashamed. I should have been stronger. I’ve been sinning against God, exploiting this man in my heart when he’s done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Sheriff Hassan is—”

“Sheriff Hassan?” Father Paul’s gaze darkened ever so slightly, and you leapt to the sheriff’s defense in his absence.

“He didn’t do anything, Father. Nothing more than friendly smiles and kind words, never anything inappropriate. It was me, letting my lustful thoughts ferment instead of nipping them in the bud right away. He committed no sin. It was me.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

“Why him?”

You were silent for a moment. “He’s a good man.” Better than most you’d come across. Kind, selfless, just—the virtues that were few and far between among the men of the cloth you had met. Above all else, even when it was difficult, Hassan Shabazz was good. “I love him.”

“You don’t love him, Sister. Lust after him, yes, but you don’t know him, not enough to love him the way you think you do.”

With a shaky, reluctant sigh, you nodded. “Will you help me, Father?”

He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course, it’s the least I can do after you helped me through the trial God set out for me when I first arrived here.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this together, Sister. Let us pray.”

The following Sunday, you tried to match the enthusiasm he had for ten o’clock mass that morning. You had gotten used to it by then, the way he always seemed to know something you didn’t or was aware of details about the islanders you weren’t keen to even after living there for two years. He was easy to trust, you supposed. 

Sitting in the wooden pew, you focused on following along with mass until the homily following the reading from the Gospel. Father Paul’s homilies were always a bit odd, cryptic, even. You assumed his faith was influenced by mysticism, and sought out books by the likes of St. John of the Cross and St. Francis in an attempt to better understand him. The way he spoke that day unsettled you, a fantastical fanaticism that felt out of place on Crockett Island.

Then, when it was time to receive the Eucharist, there was a solid minute where you were sure you had never hated anyone more in your entire life than you hated him. Telling Leeza Scaroborough to walk, goading the poor girl to step out of her wheelchair in an act of cruelty you couldn’t abide by. You got up from the pew, en route to smack him across the face when she did it. Leeza stood up from her wheelchair, and with tentative steps forward and tears of disbelief and hope in her eyes, she walked up to Father Paul and received the Eucharist.

Everything that followed was a blur, but you knew you were one of the few in attendance who hadn’t broken out into frenzied celebration. Something just wasn’t right. You found yourself hesitant to make eye contact with him when you took communion, and remained quiet even as mass ended, the cacophony of elated voices almost background noise to you.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I need to speak to our dear Sister in confidence. I’m sure you all understand,” he said, murmurs of affirmation from the congregants who had crowded around him, except for Bev, who had a puss on her face at being excluded.

Father Paul ushered you into the sacristy, closing the door behind you.

“Is something wrong, Sister?” he asked.

“How can anything be wrong? Leeza Scarborough can walk again.”

“Yes, a miracle occurred in this very parish, right before our eyes, yet you seem…hesitant.”

You chewed on your lip before murmuring, “Seeing isn’t always believing.”

“You were the one who told me this island needed life brought back to it, who said we could achieve great things together. Now I’ve done that, by the grace of God Himself, and you have cold feet?”

“It’s not that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do,” you said, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Maybe my faith is still weak—I’m still weak. I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re not weak, Sister.”

“I think I’m going to get some air,” you said.

He nodded, distressed by your continued lack of enthusiasm. “Alright.”

Leaving St. Patrick’s through the side door in the sacristy, you tried to muster up the joy and faith you were supposed to feel, but found yourself coming up disappointingly empty. You had seen it with your very own eyes, and had been standing right there when Leeza walked for the first time in years. It couldn’t have been a trick, not orchestrated or premeditated, not by her. But Father Paul seemed so certain. Was his faith that much stronger than yours? Strong enough that he could be a true miracle worker, a vessel of God Himself on Crockett Island of all places?

Even the more skeptical congregants present, like Erin and Riley, had bared witness to it. Could attest to what had happened just as everyone else had, as you could. As a nun, you were undoubtedly expected to believe, be among the most fervent of Father Paul’s advocates. Beverly wasted no time in declaring the act a miracle worthy of the Vatican’s attention. Your faith still wavered despite what should have been undeniable proof. 

You’d lost track of how long you’d been walking around the island, but the sun was beginning to set and you realized you were tired and hungry. The general store wasn’t much farther of a walk from where you ended up while mindlessly wandering, and so you made the trek into town, telling yourself you were getting a few groceries for yourself and Father Paul. Really, the only person you knew you could speak to without judgment would be in there.

When you entered, Hassan greeted you with an emotional distance you expected. He probably figured you’d be among the dozens of people eager to relay Leeza’s miracle to him, underhandedly attempting to invalidate his own faith. 

Grabbing a jar of sauce and a box of pasta, you brought them up to the counter. Your mouth was dry while he rang up the groceries, but you couldn’t help asking, “Have–um–have you seen Leeza recently?” 

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Walked right in here and bought a Twinkie earlier.”

“Amazing, how it happened.”

“I know about what happened to Leeza. I don’t believe what happened to Leeza.”

“Neither do I.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” you said. “It felt more like a show was being put on than a miracle. I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened, but he had to have done something. He was so sure she would walk, and I just felt angry, betrayed that he’d make a spectacle in mass. In all honesty, Sheriff, my faith has been wavering for a while, but this didn’t make it any stronger.”

“It makes me feel a little more sane to hear you say that.”

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure it’s you.” You smiled, taking the bags of groceries from the counter. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Sister.”

Walking back to the rectory, you wondered if anything would be able to make you change your mind about actually bearing witness to a miracle.

Father Paul hugged you as soon as you walked through the door. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Father. I just needed time to think.”

He looked at the grocery bag in your hand. “And to see the Sheriff.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sister, something incredible is happening here. I need to know you’re on my side,” he said, his urgency striking you like lightning. 

“I am. I want to be. Please just be patient with me. This is—it’s a lot to process.”

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek. “I need you.” His gaze fell to your lips.

“I should start on dinner,” you whispered, pulling away from him.

“Let me, you cook enough for me already,” he said, taking the bag from you. He pulled out the jar of sauce. “Red wine and oregano, right?”

You nodded. “That’s right.”

“Make yourself comfortable out here. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

The following half hour or so was unbearably tense, and you could hardly focus on the book sitting in your lap, The Dialogue of Divine Providence, while he cooked. The two of you ate in near silence, and you retired to your room early, falling asleep almost as soon as you changed into your nightgown and crawled into bed.

Burning pain seared your limbs when you awoke in the middle of the night, the pungent scent of iron assaulting your nose, and for a moment, you thought you were dying. You reached over to the lamp on your nightstand, your arm heavy as you moved it. With trepidation, you pulled the cord, a phantom sensation in your hand as you did so. 

Soft, white light from the bulb illuminated your beside. Lifting your hands to your face, you let out a panicked whimper at the gaping wounds in your palms, gently bleeding crimson and flowing down your arms to your nightgown. The fabric around your torso was blotched with blood, each tinge of pink becoming red with every ragged breath you took. You tried kicking at the covers, but found it excruciatingly difficult, and to your horror, discovered identical wounds to the ones in your hands through both of your feet.

Your hands shook as you screwed your eyes shut, telling yourself it was a dream, and that when you opened your eyes, the blood would be gone, the wounds healed. Except the pain was all too real, pulsing in your wounds, tears stinging your eyes as you choked out a sob. Your simple bedroom, with little more than a bookshelf, desk, chair, and crucifix on the wall, threatened to suffocate you as your panic set in.

A groan pulled from your lips as you pushed yourself out of bed, your legs nearly giving out beneath you. The strange sensation of your bare feet on the wooden floorboards made you feel dizzy, or maybe it was blood loss. Each step forward was more agonizing than the last, but you needed help. You needed someone else to see you, a witness to what was happening. 

“Father Paul!” you cried out from the doorway, your voice hoarse and low, barely carrying across the hallway. “Father, wake up!” Mustering what strength you could, you threw yourself against his bedroom door, your closed, bleeding fist erratically banging against it. “Father, please!”

“Sister, what’s going—” 

As soon as he opened the door, you collapsed into his arms, sending him stumbling backward with the sudden burden of your body on his. He looked at you, gaping at the blood that covered you—and him. 

“Father?” 

“I should call Dr. Gunning.”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t! Not yet.” 

“What happened?”

“I woke up, and I was like this.” Your bleeding hands clenched around the hem of your nightgown, keeping it at your thighs. “I’m too afraid to look.”

“May I?” he asked, his own hands shaking as his fingers brushed the blood-drenched fabric.

Staring at him for a moment, reckoning with the further vulnerability you were about to display to him, you breathed a soft, “Yes.”

He pulled your nightgown up, the fabric sticking to your skin from the congealed blood. You stared at the ceiling as he lifted the garment over your head, too embarrassed and mortified to acknowledge your body bare before him. His fingertips brushed your torso, and you moaned. In your horror, you looked down to see deep, fresh wounds on your sides.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you know what this is, Sister?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head. “It can’t be stigmata. I’m not pure enough, not devout enough. He’d never—”

“Of course He would. He saw you needed faith, a reminder of His love for you, and look at you now,” Father Paul said with hushed fervor as he took in the state of you. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed your forehead, then pressed his lips to each of your weeping palms, and then your feet. 

Desire twisted in your gut at the sight of him beneath you. He kissed your feet again, a terrifying hunger in his gaze as he brought his lips higher up your legs, his hands brushing your skin with a reverence you felt unworthy of receiving. 

You watched as he dipped his fingers into one of your side wounds and then brought the digits to his mouth, tasting your blood from them. With a ragged breath, he brought his face to your torso. His tongue plunged in the valley of your wound, lapping up the blood that gently flowed from it. A moan tore from your throat, pleasure rolling across your skin as if you truly were a vessel for the divine. Surely it was the same sensation that inspired St. Teresa of Avila’s eroticism, a mystical ecstasy that saw her driven out of villages and cloister herself in search of the purest, incorporeal love.

Except before you knelt a man of God whom you could reach out and touch, eagerly devouring your flesh as if able to find salvation in your blood. His teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a shudder that echoed through you like a worn-out hymn. Words failed you, the pleasure you received from his ravenous consumption of you overtaking the pain from your wounds. 

Holding his head against your side wound, you wanted more, the feeling of him indulging in you. Taste and eat. Everything you felt and saw was in shades of violently blossoming red, deeper and deeper with each curl of his tongue and brush of his fingertips, his unadulterated worship, his veneration for you, serving as the flowing cup of God’s grace and mercy.

Rapturous bliss hummed through you like an ecstatic prayer, pulsing in your wounds on your hands, feet, and sides. You felt like he was part of you, a mystical union between yourself and him.

But just as high as he’d taken you, you quickly came down. The gravity of the situation, of what he’d done, what you’d let him do, weighed on your conscience more heavily than any illicit feeling you’d ever harbored toward Sheriff Hassan.

Father Paul took your face in his hands, eyes glistening with a joyous faith you no longer envied. “Your own miracle, Sister. Do you see it now?”

“You did this to me?” you asked in distressed horror. “You—Who are you?”

“Not me, Sister,” he said. “Here, let me show you. You’ll understand everything. I think you’re ready.”

He held out his hand, and despite everything in you screaming otherwise, you took it.

[purplelupins]

Lamb

Midnight Mass

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul hill x fem!reader

Word count:12.3k

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

Notes:

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You were never a fan of when Beverly was given the opportunity to lead worship. You never felt fully untuned- half of the time it felt more akin to a scolding lesson in school than a reminder of Him. She liked to highlight “them and us” between believers and non believers of Crockett. Somehow she always managed to spin things into belittling those who didn’t attend church, and those days were always a little…tense. This was a time of worshiping and remembering God, not a time of a hierarchy.

“Here we are again. Back to normal. Funny how the pews empty back out once everyone has their ashes, isn’t it?” She paused as if to ridicule the non-churchgoers.

You pursed your lips as she continued, and found yourself looking at small details around the church. Chips in the paint, the crosses, the windows, Father Paul gazing at you-

Startled, you looked back to where you had just been looking and sure enough you caught the Father flicking his eyes away just in time as he bowed his head. You stared at him for a moment, but he was fixated on the rosary in his hand.

Had you imagined it?

You kept your eyes down for the rest of the morning, and ridiculed yourself for thinking the Father would look at you. Why would that be a thought that entered your mind? You didn’t even stop to speak with him after church.

If you had looked behind you, however, you would have seen the Father’s forlorn gaze flickering to your form during his conversations- distracted. He turned back to the islander he spoke to and flashed them a tight smile as they moved on and he spoke to the next person, but John felt a hollowness in his gut, and he wasn’t certain it was from hunger.

Even that night when John went for a stroll down the island like he used to, he stopped several yards from your house and forced himself to turn around. He muttered prayers under his breath the entire way back to the rectory, and knelt before the cross on his wall for another hour before he slept.

“Sheriff? Sheriff!” You yelled as you stepped off your bike at the marina the next morning. You needed a couple things from the Mainland, and had a short list you hoped Hassan would be able to get for you during his time there for his Friday prayer.

The man turned, hand on his hip, “Morning to you too.”

“I have a favour?” You gave him your best puppy dog eyes and clasped your hands in front of you.

Hassan rolled his eyes and huffed but you could tell it was a show, “Out with it.”

“I’m just out of a couple things for the shop and you can get them all at this store- I wrote the address down and the list and it’s close to the mosque you go to! Please? There’s some cash in there too.” You held an envelope out hopefully.

He stared at you for a long moment, then slowly took the paper from you, “This isn’t going to be a habit right?”

“Thank you! Thank you thank you, I promise it won’t.” You bounced.

He fixed you another look, but you knew he was smiling a little under that moustache.

“You’re the best!” You called to him when you hopped back on your bike, “Oh! This is for you.” You reached into the basket and retrieved a brown paper bag.

Hassan smiled a little.

“One muffin and a berry tart.” You returned his smile.

He relented. “Fine, fine. I’ll be back this afternoon.” He grumbled.

“Have a safe trip!” You called, “And hey, you really should wash that jean jacket, Sheriff or it might walk away on its own one day!” You quipped and began pedaling away.

Hassan shook his head. He liked having you around. You were a breath of fresh air amongst the stale islanders, and he hoped he could call you a friend one day.

You knew you were cutting it close for Mass, so you sped your way across the island and up the hill to St. Patrick’s where you were happy to see still a few people filing in. You laid your bike down beside the church and jumped up the steps to go and find your spot. One of the perks of a small town was every person had their spot that they sat in- you never had to fight over it.

Your shoulders deflated slightly when Bev took her place atop the pulpit and began the service. “Our responsorial psalm today is Psalm 27. “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom then shall I fear?”.”

“The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom then shall I be afraid? When evildoers came upon me to eat up my flesh, it was they, my foes and adversaries, who stumbled and fell. Though an army should encamp against me, yet my heart shall not be afraid. And though war should rise up against me, I will put my trust in Him. One thing I have asked of the Lord, one thing I seek, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord, all the days of my life.” Her reading was simple and dry. You found your eyes glazing over, waiting for the Fathers homily.

Then you mentally slapped yourself. This was a time of worship, it didn’t matter if it was boring. You had grown used to the vivid approach he always took during Mass. You laughed a little to yourself when you thought you were a little addicted to it.

As if someone could become addicted to a preacher…don’t be ridiculous.

You remained seated, and watched as Father Paul approached Leeza first for the Eucharist. You liked that he carried on the tradition of serving her first since the accident, even though he wasn’t there. The amount of respect and care he had for the islanders was so selfless.

“Body of Christ, Leeza.” The good Father murmured just as he always did. So gentle.

“Amen.” She said, cupping her hands out.

Silence fell over the church then. You felt confusion fill you when he stopped just a couple steps away from her, and then even took a few steps back.

“Come on. Body of Christ.” He repeated, beckoning her with the wafer.

“Father, what are you doing?” Wade chuckled nervously.

You looked over at Erin, and she had the same look of slight horror that you did. What was he doing? Surely he didn’t think this was a joke.

“Body of Christ.” He repeated.

“What are you doing?” Wade asked again with more of a bite.

Leeza directed her chair to move forward, but Father Paul only stepped back further.

“No. No.” He muttered, and stepped up the stairs of the pulpit.

The worshipers around you began to murmur. You felt pressure start to build in your chest. Anxiety and ire weighing heavy in your stomach the longer he stood there out of her reach. Was he sick? What was he doing?

“Come on. Body of Christ.” Now his voice echoed in the space as he called the girl up to him. Relentless.

“No, stop it.” Erin snapped as she stood, “That’s cruel.”

“Come on.” He repeated, still calm.

Dolly got up and knelt by her daughter, trying to comfort her, “Leeza, honey.” Then she looked up at the pastor and her eyes were like ice, “What is wrong with you?”

“Father Hill enough.” You spoke- emotion making your voice shake.

But still he only stood and waited for Leeza.

You watched Wade stand with his family, each person growing more and more defensive and outraged, “If this is a joke, Father, it’s not funny. I…”

But then, it was as if all air had left the church- all sound gone too. You didn’t know what it was that you were seeing, and you were terrified to blink lest it go away. All horror you felt sunk into the Earth and your head felt light.

Leeza was standing. Freely.

“Leeza?” Wade asked in disbelief.

A woman across from you fainted as she stood.

Your ears felt all prickly and your fingers felt numb.

You could still remember when the accident had happened. How devastating it had been. Hell you used to walk with the Scarboroughs some nights when they went as a family.

Dolly was a mess for almost a year…now they only managed.

Leeza took a step, and then another, and then she was stepping up the stairs and you felt tears start to well in your eyes as you stared up in shock. You couldn’t blink.

“Body of Christ.” Father Hill said once more, and placed the wafer in Leesa’s hands.

“Amen.” She said, voice wavering.

You released a breath, and tore your eyes from Leeza to look up at the Father. He was watching her with such kindness and pride in his eyes as she turned and walked into her parents arms.

Who was he? How could…how could he have known?

Murmurs filled the church as people praised God and crossed themselves.

But you could only see how Father Hill began to sway and cough. He caught himself on the alter, but then pushed himself towards the back door into the vestibule. Your blood began to run cold with worry as he almost ran out of view.

You would have run after him yourself if Bev hadn’t.

Your head was spinning and you felt disconnected from your body.

You didn’t know what to think or do, so you wordlessly walked to Leeza and embraced her. She held you and wept into your shoulder.

You felt your heart.

It hurt.

Ached.

You walked with the Scarboroughs into town to see Dr. Gunning, and kept quiet to let them speak to one another. Disbelief and awe coloured their words as they encouraged their daughter.You kept one arm under Leeza’s while Wade had the other; they talked, and talked until your face hurt from smiling, and you were helping her up the steps to the doctors house.

It all seemed so…miraculous.

Such a God given gift.

Once Leeza was inside safely, you quietly backed out and waved them off. You began your way to your shop, and the entire walk was within a blink of an eye. You might have looked calm and thoughtful from the outside, but oh your mind was churning.

How? How? You could still remember seeing Leeza for the first time after the accident. How broken her and her family was.

You remembered all the specialists they saw and all the visits they made to the mainland. How some visits left them hopeful but most left them even more lost and helpless than the last.

You knew they barely afforded groceries now because of the bills.

Now, you didn’t know if you should weep out of joy or fall to your knees and vomit. It was as if someone you loved had risen from the dead…certainly it was wonderful but somehow you felt a little weary.

Perhaps it was years of empty promises after the oil spill…

You didn’t even remember doing deliveries that day. But somehow you finished them. News travelled quickly- by the time you had been halfway through people were talking to you about little Leezas recovery. You didn’t remember talking much, only saying what a miracle it was. You were back at your shop, just hopping off your bike when you realized you had completely spaced out the entire time.

How?

How…

How did he do that…

It seemed as if something had taken root in the island and had begun changing the chemistry of everything attached to it. First the good moods, now Leeza was walking down Main Street like nothing had happened.

But then when you walked home, you realised how deeply you were dissecting the wonderful event. You wondered if you had become a sceptic without even knowing. Were you so cynical to Gods powers that you questioned his will?

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring down at the rosary in your hands. The little cross glinted in the darkness.

Faith…

Did you lack it?

Had you begun to loose it?

Were you so ungrateful?

You felt tears prickle at your eyes but you refused to let them fall. You needed guidance, not tears. With a heavy heart, you sunk to your knees and began to pray.

It took a full week for you to muster up the courage to ask the Father for an appointment later on Saturday afternoon. Your day to yourself, and your time to relieve your consciousness. Your day to work on yourself.

Which was why you stood on the rectory’s doorstep, fidgeting.

A part of you told you that you were being needy. Selfish. That you just needed to get your head on straight and that you didn’t need to worry the Father with you being self-centred. That if this had been Father Pruitt you wouldn’t have bothered but for some reason you were more willing to see Father Hill.

You knocked, and didn’t have to wait long before the door was being opened. Father Hill stood there with a welcoming smile, “Right on time.” He said, “Come in, y/n.”

You nodded and quietly entered the small house. It felt so strange to be there alone with him. Not uncomfortable just…odd. Like you were somewhere you shouldn’t be.

“Sit, please.” He gestured to the couch, and dragged a chair over from his desk over to sit in front of you.

You perched on the edge, and folded your hands in your lap, “Thank you, Father…I- I know I was a little vague when I asked you to do this…but if I’m honest I’ve always disliked the confessional booth. I’m um…a bit claustrophobic.” You admitted.

He chuckled a little and shook his head, “No apology needed. Sometimes that anonymity that comes with a confessional isn’t right for every confession. I told you I was here when you needed and I meant that.”

His honesty and understanding put you a little at ease. Your nerves were still very much there, though. There was no backing out of this now, so you took a deep breath.

“Have you…have you ever had difficulties with faith, Father?” You asked, eyes flickering to his white collar for half a second.

John admittedly was not expecting that from you. If the implications were that you were having difficulties with faith, then he was surprised. Regardless, he nodded.

“Certainly…we’re all human, even me, and we are made to have ups and downs no matter how dedicated we are to our Lord.” He said gently, resting his elbows on his knees.

You stared back at him, hard. You knew you were ridged. You hadn’t opened up to a soul about this turmoil you had begun to feel, and you hoped to God that Father Hill was the right person to hear you.

You clenched your hands against each other, and put your trust in him.

“I think…I think I’ve become…” you swallowed again when your throat became tight.

Be straightforward.

“I think I’m losing my faith, Father…” you pursed your lips, “It might sound silly for me to say that because you see me at church every day and I’m committed to the community, but I think that I’ve been losing my true love for my faith for a long time…” you whispered. Hearing it out loud made tears start to well in your eyes. You didn’t know why exactly, though perhaps it was the sense that you had failed yourself, your family, your community and your God.

“I’m here with you, y/n…keep going.” He took your hand, and gazed at you, encouraging you.

You took a tight breath.

“It’s just always been a part of my life- getting up and going to Mass and praying before bed and reading the Bible and being a good girl who doesn’t ask too many questions and puts everyone else first and keeps her head down…” you could feel tears start to fall.

“I never really thought about it but…it’s been a couple years now and…it just gets heavier and heavier and I don’t want that burden.”

You bit at your bit as you let everything out, “I read a lot. The internet connection out here is horrible but I’ve done a lot of research on the Bible to try and deepen my understanding and I just find myself tripping over questions, and holes that don’t have answers…things that have been added only a few hundred years ago and things that have been forgotten or omitted…I’ve never even mentioned this to anyone…I think they would assume I was joking because it’s just…a part of who I am. Who I’ve always been…”

You slowly looked back up to Father Hill, and found him watching you patiently. Non-judgemental, just waiting for you to have your time.

John slowly reached out and took your hands in his. You were hanging onto his every move, and he took your silence as a cue to speak.

“Ma-may I?” He asked, and you nodded, “This isn’t about God.”

You blinked. You weren’t expecting that.

Father Hill started again, elaborating,“You feel you’re losing your faith, but I think what you’re losing is yourself. Your sense of self…so much of having faith is endurance and I know you have that. You have faith, young lady and I know you won’t let anything take it from you. You know how I know?” He asked you.

You shook your head.

“Because you’re afraid.” He whispered, his large thumb rubbing your knuckles gently.

You let a tear fall as you held his gaze.

“Because you came here. Luke said “His mercy extends to those who fear him.” And I think that is exactly what will happen for you. I think your fear of God is just a testament of your faith. And I believe you will be granted a great mercy.”.”He said passionately, “But I think what you are truly going through is a need for guidance in yourself.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Perhaps a full minute.

Another tear fell.

Then another.

Then many.

Until you couldn’t see and your cheeks were soaked.

“Shh…shh, that’s okay, I’m with you…shh.” He cooed to you, “I’m here to help…” the Father scooted a little closer.

You nodded, trying to get a hold of yourself, “Sorry-I’m sorry-“

He squeezed your hands.

Had he been holding your hand this entire time?

You took slow shaky breaths until you could speak again.

“I love everyone here…and I do love my life here. It’s simple and fairly easy…but…I can’t help but feel I’m missing something. Like I pretended to be some expectation for so long that now it’s become me and I don’t know how else to be. But realising it is so much worse than just living that way. Delusion is an amazing thing.”

Father Hill sat still for a moment as he thought. “I think being honest will help that turmoil you feel. Nothing too out of your comfort zone but…just enough that you feel truer to yourself…I have been where you are…many years ago. Just as many have.” His voice lulling you into a state of calm.

You looked up at him, eyes starting to dry.

“I had an older sister…” he said gently, “She passed when I was 8…and her death was why I began to look at God and his divine plan and that was where I found my faith. I questioned why and how her death fit into everything and how her death was justified by Him and…in that quest to grieve and find answers, I found some, but I also found God. You are on a similar journey right now and you will find what you’re looking for. It might even be given to you when you least think it will come to you…it may even hurt at first but in time I think you might grow to see it as a revival.”

His words settled into your head, and you sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. One last tear fell, “Thank you, Father Hill.” You smiled.

The older man reached up and gently wiped that last tear away and patted your hand, “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you…” he murmured.

You nodded, and sniffled.

“I’ll make some tea.” He said, and stood after one last reassuring look at you. Somehow his calm seeped into you and your body welcomed it like it was made to. Your shoulders were relaxed as was your jaw. You felt at peace with having gone to him.

John needed a moment away from your proximity. It was a miracle he could keep his composure as you sat there- shooting pains rocked his stomach as hunger brutalized his body.

“I noticed St. Patrick’s has been fuller…” you murmured, wanting to direct attention from you.

“Ah- yes well it seems little Leezas recovery has reawakened the faith of many.” He agreed, regaining a steady voice.

“The island has had a religious revival Father,” you said as he returned with two cups of tea, “The only thing that’s changed…is you.” You looked up from the cup in your hands to gage his reaction. It had indeed been something you noticed, as had many people especially after Leeza…

He tapped the edge of his cup as he took a seat beside you on the couch.

You tried to give him the nudge to speak just as he had for you, “You don’t know what it was like before…I haven’t seen people so engaged in sermons before. You…you have a true gift. You have helped to resurrect this island, Father Hill.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” He smiled a little.

“You help people everyday.” You turned to look at Father Hill directly.

“So do you.” The man shrugged nonchalantly.

Your nose scrunched a little, “Not really…I try to support my community, but I don’t know about helping.”

“No- no. You do, don’t deflect- you do,” Father Hill shook his head, “You know you do too but you’re so used to it that it’s second nature. That’s a blessed attribute to have.” He insisted, “Especially since things haven’t exactly been easy here since that oil spill. I can only imagine…”

You pursed your lips.

“It’s been…difficult. It’s better now but it was horrible for a long time. I just…” you looked down at the warm liquid in your cup, “I believe you can’t wait for life to be easy before you decide to start helping the people you love.” You muttered.

John felt his heart tug- this time not out of pain. It was a tug of sorrow. As he gazed at this young woman beside him he began to feel as if the two of you were kindred spirits of some kind. You both shared a look, and John found that he had come to understand you a little better, and he began to understand why you were the one he saw first that day on the dock.

You parted ways with the Father sometime later into the evening. It had been a little odd how he had almost ushered you out as soon as he had noticed the darkness outside. He had said something about not wanting a young woman like you being outside at night. You had almost laughed at how old he had sounded.

John had caught the tug of your lips that you hid by ducking your head down. He liked that you smiled around him- that you weren’t afraid…

It would make everything so much easier. You are already to receptive to his guidance…

You left the rectory that night feeling as if something had taken root in you too. Perhaps it was the Fathers spirit of hope settling into your sinew and melding with your blood that had you feeling a little more…looked after.

Cared for.

Seen.

You felt as if you truly were not alone. Like he was always with you even as you walked home.

After your confession, you found yourself bumping into the Father often in town. On a few occasions he walked you home after your working day was done if he happened to be in the area, and you even stopped by the rectory to borrow a book. You found a deep solace being near the preacher, and in your need for a cure to your listlessness, you didn’t even stop to think if you were following his word or God’s.

His sweet, compelling, passionate words that seemed to evoke such a vivaciousness in you.

You started bringing batches of baked goods on Sundays too. Nothing extravagant, but something for the worshipers to enjoy after. There was something in you, pushing you to do better, but on your own terms. Doing it for your own pleasure and not the pleasure of others.

You noticed how that laughter from the potluck was now a common thing. Smiles were normal. You heard people joking, and going for evening walks and morning jogs. Kisses and hugs.

Was there something in the air?

But while you were enjoying your new outlook on life, John could not be more worried for you. It had been two weeks now that he wasn’t able to give you the sacrament. He had tried once more after your first comment but he heard you say something to Bev about it.

Certainly you had a little of the gift in you…but it wasn’t enough. Perhaps a tablespoon. Only enough to make you feel a little brighter, but not enough to…to change. Revive.

He was at a loss.

But the more he prayed, the more he came to realize that perhaps it wasn’t your time. It would come. He knew it would. It had to. And when it did you too would be blessed…even if he was the one to bless you himself.

“Three weeks ago, when we began this journey of repentance, I asked those of you were here to keep a few words in mind. Rebirth, second chances, eternal life. That's a lot to wrap your head around, isn't it? I can barely visualize next week, let alone eternity, But, I mean, for most of us, eternity, it’s an abstract. It’s a metaphor, a colorful exaggeration. When we’re waiting for something we want, it takes forever.We sit in traffic for an eternity. Abstracts, metaphors, colorful exaggerations. To us, maybe, but not to God. Not to Him. ..” he said thoughtfully, “And it shouldn’t be for us, either. Communion, the transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. A metaphor? No,” he slapped the pulpit, “God tells us. Miracles, walking on water, rising from the dead. Abstracts? No.” He slapped it again, “God tells us. Eternal life, a colorful exaggeration?”

You heard Wade say “no”, and the verbalisation made you jump a little. No one usually spoke.

“No? That’s right. You call it out.God’s gifts are as tangible as the ground beneath our feet,” he stomped the pedestal, and you jumped again.

“And His covenant, it’s not abstract. No. It’s a contract, scrawled in flesh, inked in the blood of the martyrs. And yet, try as we might, we cannot visualize, we cannot mentally picture the rewards promised…” you noticed him fan himself for a moment, and you were suddenly snapped from your trance.

Was he alright?

“Well, if you’re here seeking to know answers to the unknowable, it’s incumbent upon me to tell you that I have none. And if you want to know why or how God’s will shapes the world, brothers and sisters, so do I. I don’t have all the answers. Nobody does. What I do have though, and what God gives us plentifully, are mysteries.God gives us miracles very rarely, here and there, but mysteries?…”

Your worry began to grow when the Father stopped all together. He seemed to adjust himself where he stood, though somehow he still didn’t seem quite right.

“Sorry. Um…As… adults, we tend to dislike mysteries. We… We feel uncomfortable not knowing.No. To be a child. To look with awe and wonder, and live with staggering honesty. To be guiltless, light as air. To bend softly as the word of God sweeps…” he speech began to grow almost wandering. As if he wasn’t entirely lucid…almost like the old Monsignor-

John felt his stomach twitch with pain as he stood before his growing flock. He could barely see let alone think as his body seemed to betray itself.

“I’m very sorry. I’m…Sorry, I’m just a little bit tired today. A tiny dizzy spell. It’s passed. I’m fine. Sorry. I’m very sorry. Um…The more that we know, the less we bend. The more brittle we become, the easier to break. Like some would say this island broke. Was broken. But I am here to tell you…the resurrection, body and soul, the redemption, body and soul, the miracles waiting for us here on Crockett Island. Not metaphors, not abstracts, not colorful exaggerations, no. Rebirth, second chances. Eter…”

You watched in horror as Father Hill tumbled to the ground with a thud. There was a rush to help him, but your mind seemed to click into gear when you quickly grabbed one of the phones left on a pew and dialled Dr. Gunning’s office.

She barely got a word out before you; your voice shook as you spoke quickly, “The- Father Hill- he’s collapsed, please come up to the church, Doctor.” You rushed out.

“Calm down, calm down, is he breathing?” She said, calm as ever.

You stood quickly and rushed over to the crowd. Without a thought, you knelt beside the Father and placed your ear on his chest.

“What on earth-“ Bev started to ask, from her spot beside you, but you didn’t pay attention as you sat up again and put the phone to your ear.

“Yes he is.” You said.

“I’ll be there soon. Get him some air if he wakes up.” She sighed.

You nodded, and hung up.

“Well?” Bev snapped at you.

You blinked, “Dr. Gunning- She’ll be here soon…water- uh can- can someone get some cool water and a towel please?” You tried to think of anything you could do to help in the meantime.

Someone started to go, but it seemed Bev wanted to be involved. “I’ll get it.” She huffed and disappeared from your side.

Wade crouched beside you, and checked over Father Hill. He looked over at you and you gave him a reassuring smile. “I think the Father could use some air, Mr.Mayor.”

He nodded and looked up that the distressed crowd.

“It’s alright everyone. If he could get some room please? He needs extra air…Sturge could you open the door please?” Wade asked.

The man in question nodded and did as he asked while the townspeople began to disperse.

Bev returned a moment later and you took the cloth from her and dampened it from the bowl of water.

“Thank you…” you mumbled, then very gently began to dab at Father Hill’s forehead, then at the skin peaking out from his chasuble around his neck.

A few minutes passed with Beverly fussing in the background, but slowly you noticed his colour returning, and eyes start to flicker until they opened slowly. You felt relief fill you up and you sighed.

John gazed up at you and he swore there was a halo surrounding your head as you sat over him. Your brows scrunched in worry, but your watchful eyes gazing down at him.

“Glory be…” Came his whisper.

You looked down at him and wiped his brow once more. The man blinked a few more times then went to sit up, but several hands rushed to keep him down.

“Slowly, Father…slowly.” Someone said.

You helped the Father rise up to sit, and dabbed the back of his neck. “You passed out Father.” you said.

“I’m sorry- so sorry…” he nodded. grinding his teeth slightly when a wave of pain hit him, “I’m…uh not sure what’s wrong with me today.” He said as humorously as he could, though both he and the islanders knew there was nothing to joke about.

Even as you watched Sturge and Wade help him into the rectory with Sarah and Bev, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something gravely wrong with him. Not that you have ever exactly noticed anything…but certainly there were times where he seemed to almost clench, and work through a minor pain- covering it with a cough or stretch. Things that were so barely there you wouldn’t even think twice.

While that day was your day to yourself and the shop was closed, you found that you were listless. Worried, curious. Fretting.

So silly really.

You mindlessly baked a batch of muffins, and remembered halfway through how much the Father liked them. On more than one occasion he had stopped by to purchase a few.

You put a few in a container, and set out on your bike across the island. You hoped he was doing well… if he didn’t answer you were content with just leaving them on his stoop, though you found yourself wanting to see for yourself that he was alright.

You leaned your bike by the church, and strode over to the rectory. It was still afternoon, and you hoped you could catch him before he went to the Gunnings. You thought it was so sweet that he did that for Mildred.

You knocked, and waited. It was quiet for a long moment, then the door opened slowly. Father Hill stood before you disheveled. His top button was undone, collar missing, and his hair looked to have been brushed back with his fingers.

“Oh- y/n please…come in.” He moved aside.

You looked to the side then slowly walked into the small home. It was cozy and simple. It felt warm. “I’m so sorry for bothering you father…I’m sure you’ve had plenty of people coming by to check on you…” you trailed off, looking for a spot to but the container down.

“Nonsense…I was hoping you could come actually…” he said quietly, gingerly perching against the edge of the kitchen counter, “I wanted to thank you.”

That caught you off guard.

You blinked, and shook your head, “What for?”

“For extending that helping hand of yours to me. It was a joy to be helped by you. A blessing- you are a uh, a blessing.” Father Hill stared back at you like he meant every word he said and more, though you couldn’t help but notice the slightly delirious stare he had.

You hadn’t expected anything like this when you had set out to drop off the muffins still in your hands, but you found yourself growing warm at his praise.

“I-well I just…-“

“Just what? Did what anyone would do?” He cut you off, smiling a little wearily.

“Yes…”you admitted.

“And did anyone else do what you did?” He prodded, head tilting so slightly to the side.

You looked down, then back up at him, and shook your head.

“And now you come here again to my aid with something that is not a casserole you see you truly are just wonderful.” He smiled a little more, and you did too, and laughed.

“Ah… the Crockett islanders at their finest. If ever you’re sick you will have at least a few of those in your fridge by night fall.” You joked, though it was true, “I- um I remember you liked those muffins that I made last week and I was worr- I made some extra and thought you might like them.” You caught yourself.

“Thank you, dear girl…” he said, but winced when he went to say something else. You placed the container down on the counter beside him and gently put your hand on his arm.

“Father? Are you feeling dizzy?” You asked.

“I- I am just a little…” he admitted, blinking a few times to get through the fog.

“I’ll help you to your room. Rest for a while, alright?” You took his arm and slowly directed him to the back of the rectory where you assumed he slept.

“I’m fine…just tired.” He tried to reassure you.

“I’m sure you are Father.” You walked him to the edge of his bed, and sat him down, “Rest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“You’re a good girl, y/n, thank you. You’ve made this adjustment blessedly easy.” He told you, staring up at you.

You saw something in his weary gaze then. You didn’t know what it was. But you somehow noted it in your mind.

You squeezed the hand of his that held yours, “Rest, Father. God willing, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Father Paul nodded, “You will.” He smiled weakly.

You released his hand, and gave him a small wave before leaving the small house. You felt sorry for the man being all alone there, but you were sure Bev would be by to pester him soon if she hadn’t already.

Then as you picked your bike up, you heard the crunching of gravel under shoes. You looked up to see the very woman. “Hello Bev.” You called to her.

“Ah, y/n. I do hope you haven’t bothered Father Hill too much.” She smiled tersely.

“Not at all. Just dropped off something that wasn’t a casserole.” You smiled a little more genuine.

“Well, thank you for your contribution. Very kind.” With that she turned and began to walk past you. You half considered telling her he was resting, but you knew it wouldn’t deter her. You sighed, and peddled away.

Another shift had begun around you. Off balanced.

You noticed it in small things.

Not necessarily bad, but not especially good. Less and less wildlife hummed around the bushes and trees, and you noticed how there was such a divide between the attitudes of church goers and non. Conversing with someone who didn’t attend now felt like a bucket of cold water in comparison to those who you saw regularly. Like there was a bubble around the parishioners. And you weren’t certain you liked that.

Your worry only deepened when you went to Mass the next morning only to see that it would be candelled that day. A frown tugged at your mouth, though you tried to not think too much about it. The Father was ill, you knew that. It was nothing else but that.

It wasn’t as if you knew that the very man was dodging the gaps in the curtains to look out at his flock returning to their homes and jobs without their daily Mass. And of course there you stood- a worried look muddling your beautiful face.

Had you always been so pretty?

Vibrant.

A halo around your hair where the sun caught it.

John watched you back away from the church, though he saw you clench and unclench your hands and look to and from the church to the rectory. You wanted to check on him. Such a dutiful lamb.

Something visceral in him made him nearly open the door and call you inside. Beckon you to him. Just as he felt that need there was an ache in his mouth like he needed to bite, hard. A side affect to…to dying he supposed. He put his trust in God but this hurt was unbearable.

John prayed and wept and doubled over as he accepted and waded through the pain. The bulk of it finally subsided by the evening. It seemed almost as if as soon as the sun had gone down his body relaxed.

Just a little.

Enough to make himself look presentable, and step out from his front door no matter how nervously.

Like his body knew he was safe with the sun down. No more burns.

As he strode across the island, John found himself marvelling at the new-found beauty around him. Living halos of light around the stars, and lamplights. Colours and smells and sounds he had never experienced. He could almost feel the earth breathe.

Seeing Millie in her home that night was something special. She remembered him. Saw him. He could have weapt just by seeing the look of recognition on her face. Feeling her hands hold his and that smile. John’s heart ached.

As did his stomach. Painfully.

So hungry.

John hurried along after the little reprieve with Mildred, but found himself taking a little detour. He didn’t mean to; his feet just took him that way. Just a little bit of a longer walk home.

Past your house.

Your curtains were open again.

John found himself walking a little closer, something enticing drawing him in. He stood just outside your window. You were just getting ready for bed…he could almost smell you; all fresh from the shower.

John sighed, then winced when another surge of hunger punched his stomach. That ache he had felt in his jaw returned tenfold, and he felt his vision start to fade.

There was nothing to do but get back to the rectory. Quickly. John employed his long strides and muttered prayers under his breath. He needed to be away. Hide. There was no preparation for this next phase of revival. He wasn’t ready. This deep carnal hunger was eating away at him. He needed more of the sacrament.

Now.

He needed help. John paced the rectory, and felt his nerves and veins and muscles and tendons tugging at him, begging him for nourishment. Feed me, Father, feed me.

“Angel of God my, guardian dear to whom Gods love commits me here…”

He mindlessly grasped the bottle of communion wine, and let it empty down the back of his throat yet it somehow wasn’t enough. He needed more.

More more-

“Uh…Father?”

Something deep inside John Pruitt unfurled then. It began to seep into his tissue and into his bloodstream. John turned, startled.

“Oh…Hello Joe.”

The following morning was a little bit of a slow one for you. You half considered calling the rectory just to see if there would indeed be Mass at all, but decided against it. You brushed your hair, and tied it back; grabbed any extra ingredients you needed for the morning and set off.

Even as you kneaded the doughs and whipped cream and stirred batter you found yourself lagging.

The walk to Mass was slow too.

Off kilter.

You took your usual seat, but your brows pinch together when you saw Ali sitting not too far from you. You looked to see if Hassan had come with him, but to only deepen your confusion, he was alone. You leaned forward a little in your pew, “Ali?” You murmured loud enough for him.

The boy jumped a little, but relaxed when he saw it was you.

“Come.” You smiled and patted the spot beside you, and he instantly looked grateful. Ali stood and made his way back to you, and you sent him another smile as he sat. You didn’t ask him why he was there, it wasn’t your business. You had always liked Ali- a sweet boy with good manners for the most part.

Then, you looked to the other side of the church, and noticed that Erin was missing. She never missed Sunday Mass. Never.

Something in your stomach curled tight.

An anxious feeling of anticipation.

Without the presence of Father Hill to envelope the church, you found yourself gazing around the building. You looked at the windows, and the pews until your gaze fell upon the wooden figure of Jesus crucified.

Had it always been so grotesque?

Were you worshiping a man? God was supposed to be a being that governed over everything…omnipotent…why would he descend to earth in the body of a man? Why would he need to if he created messengers like Moses and Noah and so many others…

Your mind began to spin out of control until you were starting to wonder what you were doing there.

The distress you felt only grew deeper when a half hour passed, and Father Hill still hadn’t made an appearance. You looked over at Annie, then even looked up at that back of Bev’s head as if she might have an answer written there.

Finally the woman had had enough and made her way to the rectory. You perched on your seat, waiting for anything to happen. It was nearly another twenty minutes that passed before Bev returned- faux smile already on her face as she took a spot upon the pulpit.

“Good morning!” She began, “Well I have to tell you it is such a delight to see this church so full every day, thank God. I'm afraid this morning though that we have to - well, I think we'll have to cancel Mass.”

You scrunched your brows in surprise. But then that feeling you had had inside you tilted again, a little more in the wrong direction. Twisting. You felt nauseated.

“Father Paul's bouncing back from a stomach bug, poor thing, and I just had to physically restrain the dear man and put him to bed, he was so determined to be here! He'll be back on his feet in just no time at all but this morning, at least, our dear Dolly Scarborough - come up here Dolly…” she encouraged Dolly to come up beside her, and while the good natured woman did, she was just as confused as the rest of the churchgoers.

There had certainly been times with Monsignor Pruitt when his health was hanging by a thread and Mass was cancelled but…Father Hill was in prime condition how could he still be so ill?

“Uh, maybe Dolly can lead us in singing, and some readings, and some prayer, and we can still celebrate together, like the Christians of old, who sang praises to God long before they had priests to lead the way. Uh let’s start with Hymn number 473, "Be Thou My Vision". Dolly, can you lead us?” Bev looked over to Andy who began to play his organ, and slowly everyone followed Dolly’s singing.

But then you watched as Bev began to leave again, this time accompanied by Sturge and Wade. They disappeared out through the vestibule, and you mentally snapped yourself back from trying to see what happened.

Your curiosity started to gnaw at you so badly you almost missed the cue to sit down.

Mass ended simply…or rather it deflated. A somewhat awkward shuffle out the door was the end of Mass that day. Murmurs and worries stares at the rectory as everyone filed out and meandered down the hill to Main street.

You glanced over to the rectory, and paused when you saw Bev exit. You moved a little back from the entrance along the side of the church to catch her.

“You’re sure Father Hill is alright?” You asked her as she strode to the back door of the church.

“Just fine. In need of a little more rest we think. Nothing to worry about.” She said a little more brightly than usual. You felt in your gut there was a lie in her words.

“Annie’s making a hearty stew tonight I could stop by and bring him some-“

“No!” She snapped, then softened a little when she saw how startled you were, “No, no he needs to be undisturbed today. Thank you, y/n. Bless you.”

You nodded slowly, and flicked your eyes over to the small building. You could have sworn you saw the curtain move.

“Alright, Bev…take care.” You said. Something was making your nerves itch under your skin. Like an internal fear response that you didn’t usually need.

A cord was plucked inside you.

A voice inside you telling you to leave.

It wasn’t that Bev had snapped at you, or that you felt she was hiding something. It was that St. Patrick’s had always been a place of peace and safety for you, and now you found yourself wanting to be far from it. You feet almost itching to run.

You didn’t run. But you did walk quickly. You wished you had taken your bike that day.

You cast one last look at the rectory. Sturge and Wade still hadn’t come out.

Your feet acted for you, and carried you away from the church. Away from that itch.

Once the general store came into view, you hesitated in going directly to your shop. Since Mass had ended early, you didn’t need to start deliveries yet; instead, you walked into the store, and towards the sheriffs office. You waved at the old man working at the counter- Gerald- and knocked on the officers door.

“Come.��� Came his voice.

You opened the door, and sure enough, Hassan was seated at his desk, reading a paper from a file on his desk.

“What can I- oh.” He said, then stopped upon seeing you, “Y/n? Everything alright?” He was suddenly concerned at the prospect of you coming to his office.

Your eyes widened, “Oh- yes fine. Sorry um…I just… I don’t know if you want to…talk about it but…I saw Ali today. At Mass.”

Hassan sighed heavily, “Ah…yeah he…” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Curious?” You asked.

But the man only sighed again, “I love that my son is interested in God and looking for him…but…” he started.

“But you already have God.” You finished for him.

He nodded, “He’s not praying with me anymore…we fight…he just…I can’t lose him.”

You nodded, “I know…I can keep an eye on him, if you’d like?” You offered a little weakly- you knew there wasn’t much you could do.

“Thank you…I don’t want to discourage him but …he’s not Christian. He knows why we’re Muslim and it’s…” he didn’t know where to start with the issue. “Bev Keene handed out bibles at school last week. Since then…” he look his head, “I think he mostly is interested in it because he wants to fit in.” Hassan sighed and rubbed his brow.

You nodded, “I’m sorry Hassan…this…this must be hard to watch. Doesn’t help that he’s a teenager. Teens are…difficult to reason with.”

He huffed out a bitter laugh, “I only pray that he returns to his faith.”

“God willing, he will.” You didn’t know how to comfort the man, but it seemed that just having someone there helped.

“Inshallah…” he muttered.

You tilted your head in question.

“Means “God willing.”…” he explained.

“Ah…” you said. Silence filled the office, and you clasped your hands. “There’s…have you thought about asking to be stationed somewhere else? Maybe somewhere with other Muslims? He might just be missing that connection…”

“I’ve thought about it…hard to uproot a kid again though.” He crossed his arms.

You wanted to help him. You really wanted to help. This man was alone, and was practically ostracized by the very town he was supposed to protect and serve. You were almost certain you were the closest thing he had to a friend, and you needed to say something.

“You know…I don’t really fully believe Jesus is God.” You blurted out.

He looked up at you then.

You flushed. You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, “Sorry…I just…just because I go to Mass doesn’t mean I believe everything.”

“Aren’t you Christian?” He asked.

“I…used to be. It’s more of a habit that I go to church. Been going since I was a kid. But…when you first came here that was the first time I heard about Islam…properly. You don’t believe Jesus was god either right?” You asked.

He shook his head.

“He was just another messenger…prophet. I did some reading a while ago and I found that the holy trinity is actually a new thing in Christianity…and I began to wonder what else was “new” or what had been taken out…I guess I’m just trying to say that…Ali might look for God somewhere else but you never know…he might find that the church is flawed and just come right back to you and Allah.” You mused.

Hassan felt tears prick at his eyes. “Thank y/n…thank you.”

You smiled, and nodded, “I’ll um…I’ll leave you to it. Come by later. Lunch is on me.”

“You’re gonna make me fat.” He grumbled

“A little pudge is cute.” You shrugged as you opened the door.

“You’re a bad influence.” He shot back- his walls back up as the door to the outside opened- literally.

“Guess you’ll just have to lock me away, sheriff!” You chirped, and smiled, then closed the door.

But as you turned away and walked back through the shop, that smile faded away.

Everything was changing.

Fast…so fast. Hassan and Ali had been on Crockett for close to a year, and you had never heard Ali mention something about church.

You knew the miracle with Leeza had been drawing many people in, but you could still accept it as a miracle without changing your beliefs.

Did he just want to fit in?

Was he just curious?

Then you remembered how you had felt that morning as you waited for Father Hill. That feeling of trepidation that seeded in your navel and seared into your fingertips.

When you unlocked the door to your shop, you wondered if it was because there was nothing to distract you as you sat in the church. Everyday there was something to keep you busy- the doddering Monsignor or now the invigorating Father. Something to guide you. But once you were left with your thoughts…you started to think a little too much.

Now you weren’t stupid- far from it. You thought a lot. Constantly. But there was something pressing about sitting in that church. You almost felt like you had woken up when you had stood outside the rectory.

Nervous.

Yes you had felt…so nervous as Bev stood there with you.

You wondered if that was how lambs felt before they were taken for slaughter.

Oh what a gruesome thought…pull yourself together.

You were spiralling into the morbid.

Tomorrow would be better.

You focused on that. Yes. Yes tomorrow would be better.

GOOD FRIDAY MASS AT 8PM

E4STER VIGIL SUN MIDNIG-

You watched as Sturge finished with the H and T.

That chord in you struck again. You twitched. The dread in your stomach rolling around like a marble on a metal track.

Leeza stood beside you, confused as ever, “Wait…you're saying every night? No morning Masses at all?” She asked.

Sturge sighed, “Time being.”

Your brows scrunched up, but you schooled your expression when Leeza looked over at you. No need to let her see your worry.

“Father Paul probably just needs another morning or two to recover from that head cold- but he’ll be up and about tonight. Isn’t that right Sturge?” Wade tried to reassure the crowd as a good mayor should, but you knew Wade. And you knew something wasn’t right.

“Yessir, spoke with him myself this morning’…feeling’ much better.” Sturge agreed.

You looked over at the weathered man, and noted that he was off too.

Rehearsed.

You made Sturge a birthday cake every year and the extent of his appreciation was a “Thanks.” Sturge was never a man of many words, and defiantly wouldn’t over explain something.

Wade nodded now, “Dolly spoke to him too and he had a few things to say about Good Friday isn’t that right, honey?” He asked his wife.

You turned to the woman in question, and saw that she was looking somewhere else.

“Dolly?” You heard Wade say, but he trailed off

You saw what she was looking at, and you understood why. You had seen Mildred Gunning now a few times on your deliveries to her house, but seeing her up and walking outside made you stop short. Certainly you had noticed how she was practically aging backwards, but you had only assumed Sarah was trying a new treatment for her.

But this. The walk across the island was a half hour on a good day. And there she was in her Sunday best.

The crowd of islanders began murmuring amongst themselves, and began embracing the older woman. You held back just a little, though your practiced smile was on your face. Your eyes found Sarah beside her, and somehow you weren’t sure if you found solace or anxiety in what you saw there.

She had the same look on her face that you were hiding on yours under your smile.

It wasn’t grim, but it wasn’t joyous.

You slowly began back into town. You missed Mass. You missed that energy that the good Father Hill brought to the church. You missed-

You shook yourself.

Stop it.

What’s wrong with you?

Suddenly, that perfect little routine you had made for yourself for years…was crumbling. You no longer felt the peace you once did, and now it seemed you had to flip the routine completely.

Nightly Mass.

You pursed your lips.

“Have a minute?”

You turned and saw the Sheriff coming towards you as you unlocked your door.

You nodded and grinned softly, “Morning, sure thing.”

The two of you entered the little store and you closed it behind you.

“Everything okay?” You asked when Hassan stood quietly.

“You know that kid, Bowl?” He asked.

You blinked, “Sure I do. Bit of a troubled kid.”

Hassan nodded, “You seen him lately?”

You frowned, “Can’t say I have.”

“Alright…worth a shot. You’re the youngest one here aside from the kids so…just wanted to ask.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry…” you wrung your hands, “Have um…have you seen Joe lately?” You asked, suddenly remembering the quietness in the sheriffs office and lack of grumbled greetings.

At that the sheriff hung his head a little, “No…no but I need to speak to him…I’ll let you know if I find him.”

You took a breath in and held it a little to try and calm yourself, “Alright.”

“I’ll see you later, y/n. Don’t work too hard.” He murmured, as he opened the door.

“You too, Hassan.” You said a little absentmindedly.

He left you to your thoughts. With Mass cancelled again, you had far too much time to kill before you really needed to start deliveries.

You sat on your little stool behind the counter, and found a book Father Hill had lent you almost a week ago under your receipt box.

The Divine Comedy: Dante’s inferno.

You began to read. Too afraid to let your thoughts run rampant again.

Nightime wasn’t much better. You felt something pulling in you to go and visit the rectory. No one outside of the Scarboroughs, Sturge and Bev had seen the Father, and there was that nagging feeling in you that you needed to see if he was alright. Why couldn’t he just come out to tell everyone he was on the mend? What was there all this dancing around?

You stood on your porch, cardigan pulled tight around you as you fought with yourself internally.

Then, just as you went to take a step, a gust of wind pushed you back. You felt that anxiety strum within you once again. Your gut cried to you to not go, and with blood running cold, you went inside and shut the door.

You closed your curtains that night, and prayed to any God that would listen. You didn’t know why fear had rooted itself so deep within your heart, and somehow that frightened you more.

You were afraid.

So afraid.

Good Friday. You put on that dress your mom had gotten you last year for Christmas- she said it brought out your eyes. You grabbed a warm sweater, and socks, and left for Mass.

It was strange walking across the island as the sun set. You strode calmly, pushing that nagging feeling that sat in the back of your throat away.

“Y/n!”

You turned and saw Sarah and Mildred walking behind you not too far. You smiled, “Hello you two!” You chirped. You might have been suffering from an internal turmoil but you weren’t about to let them know.

“Sarah, Mrs.Gunning. Happy to see you both coming tonight.” You smiled and fell into step with them.

Mildred nodded, “It’s been years…” she mused, then stopped and held your arm, “You’ve been so good to us over the years, dear…Sarah’s been telling me and…I wanted to thank you.”

You waved her off and smiled, “Oh it was nothing. Happy to make your lives easier.”

“You have…really. Thank you.” Sarah nodded, a tight smile on her lips.

“You’re a good girl, y/n.” Mildred smiled gently.

You returned it, “Come on…hopefully Father Hill is well enough to preach today.”

The three of you walked the rest of the way, and you noticed how many times Mildred was stared at. She smiled and nodded when people looked, breaking any tension. Then as you walked up to the church, you saw Bev standing to greet the parishioners.

You smiled at her, though she looked straight past you to greet Mildred. You nodded to Sarah, and left them there to talk.

You took your seat, and not long after, the Gunnings took theirs directly in front of you. You wondered if that was where Mildred used to sit before she grew too ill.

Several more minutes passed, until you heard that low voice of the good father from the door of the church to begin service, “All rise for our processional hymn- number 139 in the red hymnal: At the cross , at the cross.”

You rose to your feet, and began to sing, but you couldn’t help but feel relieved that Father Hill was alright. It had been days since only a couple people saw him, and while you would never assume any deception from your elders…the secrecy seemed so strange.

“They took the body of Jesus, and bound it with the burial cloths along with the spices, according to the Jewish burial custom.” Dolly stood on the pulpit, reading from her bible. The church was full around you, and you found yourself slowly feeling at ease. You felt so silly for having been distressed.

“Now in the place where he had been crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden, a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. So, they laid Jesus there because of the Jewish preparation day. For the tomb was close by. The Gospel of the Lord.” She finished.

“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” You and the other churchgoers answered.

Then as soon as Dolly stepped down, you found your eyes locked onto Father Hill as he took his place. You took a moment to take him in after it being a few days of not seeing him. Indeed he did look well- skin no longer waxy and pale. There was something else to his presence though, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It almost felt like…home. What you came for. What you took comfort in.

That thought startled you.

“Good Friday. This is one of my favorite days of the year. The passion of our Lord. Just that word, “passion.” The word “passion,” it means a strong and barely controllable emotion. Barely controllable. That’s what Jesus felt when he gave his life for us, so that we might have life eternal. What a gift, told so beautifully in the Gospel of John. “Gospel” means good news! Good news on Good Friday. And yet, it’s a story of such profound suffering. What’s so good about that?” He paused to take in the filled church. You could see the pride he felt having brought the community together. You smiled a little.

“Jesus’s suffering in this story, it isn’t simply necessary. It is good. It is the price of eternal life. That suffering, he endures alone. At the Resurrection, he is alone. And then… Well… Ah, he has a few allies. And then more. A congregation. And then more and more people spread that good news. Tell that good story. And then, God has an army. What do they say in that commercial? Uh, “Be all that you can be.” Well, I mean no offense to the armed services, which are necessary and of course honorable, but that’s not all that you can be. In the Army, you’re fighting for God and country.”

You heard a few people murmur amongst you; admiration shining in their eyes as they listens to their preacher.

“Now, I am going to offend you now, but it is the truth. God does not want you to fight for this country. The arrogance… of that. God has no country. There is one God for the world. And the lines we draw, and the treaties we draft, and the borders we close mean nothing to Him. No, don’t fight for a country. You fight for God’s kingdom. A kingdom which Jesus tells us has no flags or borders. God’s army.”

You felt your throat tighten and your nose prickle.

“Now make no mistake. It is a war. That’s what an army is for.So, as a congregation, as God’s army, how do we know how the fight is going? We can’t see it. We can’t radio HQ for a status report. All we have, all God gives us, is right here.” He pointed to his chest, “How we feel. That moral compass inside each one of us pointing due north to the Holy Spirit. Conscience. In the army of God, conscience is standard issue. There are many like it, but this one is mine. You may think that that’s a line from a war movie, but it isn’t. That’s actually the Rifleman’s Creed. And a creed is, by definition, not just a belief, but it is a religious one. ” You could feel yourself hang onto each word. Rapt.

“So, it is a war, and there will be casualties. And we must be soldiers. That is what Good Friday is about. God will ask horrible things of you. Horrible. Just look at what He asked of His own son. Just look at what Jesus had to endure today. We had to call it the “New Covenant,” because God’s will, while perfect, changes.God’s will dictates morality, and as God’s will changes, so does morality change. It changed with the New Covenant. It changed when Jesus came, and we must, as his army, shed the Old Covenant and listen only to that. You rely on that compass. Good Friday is only good. The Gospel of the Lord, so full of horror, is only good, because of where it is headed. The Resurrection. Today is only good because of what’s coming Easter, this Sunday. When Jesus is risen, and death itself is lain dead. What is otherwise horrible is good because of where it’s headed. Welcome to God’s army. Yeah, we’re gonna do great things.”

Your blood rushed in your ears as Father Hill finished.

You somehow felt refreshed…full. You supposed you needed that sense of belonging amongst the other islanders. But when you went to converse with the Gunnings, you were surprised to see them already shuffling out towards the door as soon as Sturge had opened them. You wondered if perhaps it was all too tiring for Mildred and they needed to get home soon.

You sighed, and stood to find Annie. She was there with Ed, but they seemed off too. “Hi Annie, Ed…any plans for Easter?” You asked as you joined them in the thinning crowd.

But then you saw the anxiety in the older woman’s eyes. You knew instantly that something was very wrong. “Annie?” You asked, putting a hand on her arm.

“Oh it…it’s nothing. You know me.” She waved it off, “We uh were thinking of having a nice family dinner. You’re welcome to come of course.” She forced a smile.

You waited patiently with a gentle nod until she told you what was going on. She always did.

“Riley…he- we haven’t seen him all day.” She finally said.

Your brows pitched in worry, “Oh I’m- I’m sorry…maybe he’s with Erin? They’re close right?” You asked, trying to keep their spirits up.

“Probably. Like I said it’s nothing.” She reassured you again, “Anyways, isn’t that the dress your mom got you? What was it…your birthday last year?” She changed the subject, and you let her.

“Christmas.” You smiled, “Thought I’d pull it out of the closet.”

“You look lovely. See you tomorrow?” She asked, already moving out and down the aisle with the remaining parishioners and pulling Ed with her.

“Most likely! You know me…always around.” You nodded, following after them.

“Take care now!” She called back, and her husband gave you a small wave before they disappeared down the stairs and onto the road.

Now left to your solitude, you felt butterflies take wing in your stomach. You sucked in a breath, and began down the stairs after saying goodbye to another few islanders you knew speaking to Bev. You stepped outside, head a little in the clouds when you nearly jumped.

“There she is. How are you, my dear girl?” Father Hill stood at the bottom of the stairs wishing each of his flock goodbye.

You looked up at him as you came to stand beside him. But he wasn’t as vibrant as he usually was. You noticed a certain darkness in his eyes…

Of course he looks like that he’s been sick for days

You mentally throttled yourself.

“I’m well, thank you Father. You seem better.” You smiled a little, though perhaps not as wide as usual.

He noticed.

“Yes…yes much, thank you. Everyone has been so accommodating with me…so helpful. Good people.” He mused.

You nodded, “They are.”

John could almost feel your pulse in his head as you gazed up at him- so docile. The light from St. Patrick’s spilled over you and lit you like a holy revelation. He could smell your skin from his place a few feet away…could tell that you washed your hair not too long ago. But despite the loveliness of having you so close, John knew something in you was shifting.

You were more…anxious. Looking for justification to trust.

Skittish but still coming to his presence so diligently.

Like you didn’t even know what you were afraid of.

No need to fear sweet lamb…I am with you…

You started to shift away from him then, but it almost seemed like he didn’t quite want you to go. His gaze still locked onto you. “I trust I’ll see you on Sunday?”

You laughed a little, “No, no I think I’ll skip it.”

His face seemed to fall for a moment, but when you didn’t stop smiling it clicked that you were joking. “Oh- yes…you’re kidding.” He smiled with you, “Please do come. It wouldn’t be the same without you.” Father Paul added earnestly.

You felt that tug in your chest just like when you had gone to the rectory to speak with him weeks ago.

You felt seen.

Appreciated.

“Well I…I’ll be there, Father. Rest.” You said, backing away, “Have a blessed night!”

John took a slow step toward you, but no more than that. He knew not to press his luck with your trust. Didn’t want to scare you off.

“And you, y/n.” He waved to you.

You turned and began your walk. But just as you had felt at home when Mass had begun, you felt a little empty as you walked away. You felt that tug grow more insistent the further you went; so much so that you turned before descending the hill to look back.

Father Hill was in discussion with Wade, but once you stood still, his head snapped to you.

You startled a little.

But it wasn’t so much the fact that he noticed you.

It was the strangest thing…you could have sworn you saw the light of the church catch his eyes and make them glint in the dark.

It happened so fast that you told yourself you just needed your day off. You were just tired.

You needed some sleep.

That was why you felt the contentment you had just been floating on start to drain away. That was why you felt so at ease when the Father spoke to you. Just tired.

You had no way of knowing then that it was the little bit of tainted blood in your system that was calling out to its patron. That it was humming around the others who shared the gift too…communicating internally with one another- somehow knowing that you’re like them.

By the time you were home, you felt as if the weight of the world was yours to uphold. Worry began to consume you as your thoughts swirled in the silence.

Riley was missing.

Joe was missing.

Pike was dead.

Bowl was missing.

You stopped brushing your hair for a moment. You hadn’t thought of the strange happenings like that before. Indeed there was quite a few. You had lived on Crockett your whole life you knew that the maximum a person could go missing for was a day and that was pushing it.

How long had Joe been missing…?

Your gut began to twist again, and you almost fell to your knees when you knelt to pray.

You didn’t know what was happening to you. To your home.

Fear began to encircle your heart, and you almost considered running back to the church to sleep on a pew.

You felt alone.

For the first time in a long time, you felt so very alone.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear

[justreblogginfics]

Aw thanks so much for the tag @drabbles-mc! You know I love a good game 🤗

1. were you named after anyone? No, my siblings and I have Bible names. But my middle name is after my Grandma and she always bragged about it to everyone

2. when was the last time you cried? Today. About insurance. Long story short I am now a member of the Silver Sneakers Club 🤘

3. do you have kids? Nope (and at the rate I’m going it’ll be a spell 😂)

4. what sports do you play/have you played? Basketball, volleyball, and soccer (I’m not a pro at any but I was really good at running and really good at missing the ball in volleyball 😆)

5. do you use sarcasm? Absolutely I do

6. what’s the first thing you notice about people? Their smiles… and eyebrows. Please don’t ask why because I really don’t know

7. what’s your eye color? Brown

8. scary movies or happy endings? Occasionally happy endings, but I enjoy a cliff hanger ending too. I do not watch scary movies although I made an exception with Mike Flanagan because of one Sheriff Hassan (I’m just a girl 🤷‍♀️)

9. any talents? I can cook with my nose and I’m a pretty good listener (I have a running joke with my Mom about Sally and ¢5 cans [if you know you know])

10. where were you born? California

11. what are your hobbies? Cooking/baking, reading, going on walks, hiking, singing (I have a killer Céline Dion and Prince impression 😂)

12. do you have any pets? A cat. He is my sworn enemy and I am his (that sounded very Game of Thronesy)

13. how tall are you? 5’3”

14. favorite subject(s) in high school? I was actually homeschooled 🙂

15. dream job? A chef at my own restaurant where the meals are never the same but always delicious

No pressure tags (as always!): @lorenblack @xxdrixx @velocibeewords @sillyrabbit81 @kteague @just-chirpin @all-things-fic @tropes-and-tales @fabulaprima @darlingshane @laurfilijames @fallatyourfeet

[baubeautyandthegeek]

God Moves (And So Do We) – Sheriff Hassan/Beverly Keane/Father Paul Hill

A/N: Another fic for day 2 of @polyamships Multiamory March.

Hassan would be lying if he said he’d ever hoped to be here. Hope. Such a small word. Still, he remembers the first flickers of hope bursting to life in his chest. Joe had cornered Beverly, of course, the Father had called for him to help. Beverly, small, surprisingly broken, looked like she had lost all hope she could live happily ever again. Paul’s touch seems to ground her, hand clasped so gently on her shoulder, fingers drumming a psalm into her skin. A promise, a prayer, a wish. Hope. She looks then, up at him, with such lost eyes that his heart burns. The sudden, violent, tug to help her is enough that he moves to clasp the Father’s hand, promising to have words with Joe, see the man serves a sentence. He comes back only when Joe is gone, hope swims in his eyes even as he treks closer. Ali, his son, turns his back on Allah, asks to convert and he wishes he had more reason to fight but he can almost hear the first woman he married telling him to be kind, give hope, love. Love well, love truly, show Beverly that hurt does not mean a loss of hope. She’s smaller now, out of her usual clothes. Tenderly washed and cleaned, Paul’s eyes burning into his even as he wraps a gentle arm around Beverly, the woman’s soft inhale making it near impossible to deny himself. “Are you alright, Miss Keane?” A sigh, a small shake of the head. “No. Not… yet. Memories.” Hope flavors her voice and he steps inside, shuts and locks the door, cups her face in tender hands and kisses her, gently. His smile soft as her shuddering exhale. “Let us help you… Me… the Father…. Let us… let us love you. A true trinity for a true believer.” She exhales a sob then and he kisses away the tears that escape, his voice soft. “Hope there’s room for two more in your flock Father, my son and I… wish to convert.” Paul smiles, nods and Hassan’s heart misses a beat as he moves, finally, to share a slow, lingering kiss with the other man, feeling Beverly tremble even as he rests his hand lightly over Paul’s at her hip. “You will be safe, Beverly. Have hope.”

[littleredwritingcat]

Thirst Trap: Chapter 13 "Old Man, Take a Look at My Life"

Welp. Looks like the Monsignor's large, flying not-a-chicken has come home to roost. Reader, please make sure that your partner is not secretly an old person who's had a cryptid blood cocktail.

It's better for everyone involved.

Really it is.

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @labyrinthphanlivingafacade @plainlo-inthemorning @thenookienostradamus @fatherpaulmybeloved @rothko-mirror @thecorgimademedoit @mareyshelley @vintageglassheart02 @thegentlestmaenad @jyngerpeach @ebiemidnightlibrarian @chronic-ghost @girlwiththenegantattoo @aherdofbees @midwestmisfit @madsmilfelsen @yepthatsacowalright @supplanther @waytkayt @choosekindly @lovepollution @prettyblondguys

[devil-in-hiding]

shipping Anyone with fr paul it simply has to be someone new in town + i think his whole problem is not like, thanatophobia and regret over clerical celibacy but geographic and philosophical insularity. sheriff hassan as an individual is so obviously also formed by experiences around death!! paul has given people last rites and funerals for decades but hasn't made peace with it, versus this still young!!! widower. agh

Omg yes but also, he has watched all of them grow up, it is only sensible that a young handsome widower with distinguished greys catches his eye. And he is so loving!! and hungry for knowledge, he would be so interested in hearing about Allah from Hassan, learning about their prayers

also one of my favorite moments from a fic called sacraments on ao3 is Riley telling Paul that if he stopped treating Riley like a lost sheep, they could be friends and i just !!! because J o h n has to realise he can’t meddle in their lives, he has to watch his alter boy be the man he is now, mistakes and all is the wonder of God’s gift of life, the good and the bad

[couragehopelovefaith]

As an answer to @carladuquette:

Mike Flanagan character draft

Rules are simple: pick your top 6 characters from the Flanaverse. Series only! If a character appears at different ages, specify which one you want on your team. Can be characters you love, love to hate, whatever. Ready? GO!

(There will be no Midnight Club-characters, because I haven't been able to bring myself to watch it since I know that the cancellation would frustrate me to no end, if I got myself engaged to it.)

This was way harder than I thought it would be! So many others would deserve to be here as well. If you haven't seen these shows and want to avoid spoilers, stop here.

But okay, here we go...

Riley Flynn (Zach Gilford, Midnight Mass)

It tells a lot that I saw Midnight Mass for the first time just this Easter, but I couldn't imagine anyone else getting the first place. Such an underrated character. He had such a sad backstory and a kind soul...he truly did his best and helped so many people when he had every possibility to be selfish. His relationship with Erin was very special too. I guess he got his happy ending in a way, but all the possible could've beens and fix-it-fics about him that I will probably never write haunt me.

2. Luke Crain (Oliver Jackson-Cohen, The Haunting Of Hill House)

I debated with myself for a long time, which Crain-twin I should put here, but Luke and his journey just moved me deeply. I'd like to write much more about him, but it would become an essay so I'll pass. It would be so inspiring to see Riley and him to have a conversation, now that I think about it. During my every single Flanagan deep-dive, I am awed how Oliver could play both Luke and Peter - such opposite characters - so believably. *standing ovation*

3. Hassan Shabazz (Rahul Kohli, Midnight Mass)

I had an eeny, meeny, miny, moe whether the third prize should go to him or Owen, but I had to pick this loving father and a wonderful sheriff. In this case, I can't even fully explain why, but he just managed to stand out from the middle of all these other fantastic characters in an unique way.

4. Verna (Carla Gugino, The Fall Of The House Of Usher)

I feel like I don't really even have to explain myself when it comes to this choice. Carla has always been talented and beyond, but she really exceeded herself in this role. In the wrong hands, this character could've become very corny and comical, but with her behind the wheel, there was no fear of that. I lost count how many times I got shivers, was lifting my jaw off the floor and crying while watching Verna. I almost wanted to include a gif of her and Arthur (since I love him too), but I thought it might be cheating, so...

5. Hannah Grose (T'Nia Miller, The Haunting Of Bly Manor)

Okay, listen... I love Dani and Jamie, both as a couple and as individuals, and their story is very bittersweet and heartbreaking. But when I think of Bly Manor, my mind always travels first to Hannah, her relationship with Owen and to episode 5. She is amazing and deserved the world. A little restaurant in Paris, with the love of her life... Gaah, even writing about it makes me tear up!

6. Tamerlane Usher (Samantha Sloyan, The Fall Of The House Of Usher)

I almost feel bad for not putting Lenore here, because she obviously was the purest one of the Ushers and didn't deserve what she got in the end. But I can't help being intrigued by Tammy and her complexity. Surely, she is far from perfect - quite a despicable human being, actually - but the episode centered around her made me feel a bit sorry and sympathetic towards her. She is my favorite Usher-sibling (Leo being a really close second) and belongs on this list. Samantha deserves way more recognition of all her roles, to be honest.

Phew, I did it! *victory dance*

Anyone can participate. Let's show appreciation to this marvelous saga, pretty please.

[chelseasdagger]

love you my lovely love hehe :)

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i love you more sweetheart!! :D

🍄 - are there any fandoms you've never written for but want to try? mhm! i already said stranger things because i have both hopper and eddie munson wips, but i think i’d also like to write for new characters as well? like julian kaye and also sheriff hassan from midnight mass (technically not a new fandom since i wrote for father paul already)

🌈 - what research do you plan on doing for your writing? this is a good question! i’m not sure as of just yet. sometimes i do research to see if what i’m writing is historically accurate, and i’ll probably do that with the mute fic i’ve been wanting to write for months now :)

🥳 - how are you going to celebrate when you achieve one of your writing goals? most of the time i just get so happy to receive any and all feedback from my work. that’s usually a mini celebration to me, but maybe i’ll use that time to treat myself to something nice for staying creative!