dang-itshauntedinhere

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Finally posted! Yippee :o

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

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

Last Rites

Summary:            

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

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

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

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 5k

Finally settled down, you are driven back to tragedy.

TW: Gore, Injury

This was a nightmare. It had to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emergency, ma’am?” He asked. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let you hear your best friend’s last breath.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“You should get yourself a priest.”

You looked at Dyer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!” You interjected.

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

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

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

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

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

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

"Lord please forgive me

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

WHAT‼️‼️

Christianity can be horrifying without deamons man

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

10 posts!

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Hello‼️

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading‼️❤️

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

They eat terfs <3

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Just look at him ☠️🥰

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

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

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

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

5 posts!

🎉💛🎉

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

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

Summary:            

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

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

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 11k

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

TW: Emotional abuse, Miscarriage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haha

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

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

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

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

Breaks my heart

Funny how it doesn't break his

An arrow pointed here with the message: Obviously not funny

You breathed a laugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blacked out.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked ahead at the road and smiled.

“Of course.” She sniffed. You sighed. 

“Thank you.” You said. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What-” You sniffed, astounded. “How did you know?”

“I look at the bus schedule every day.” She smiled. “I think about leaving here - every day. Every day.” She shook her head with a broken laugh, smearing a tear away with the back of her hand. You noticed the red bruise forming underneath, barely noticeable under her thick makeup. You were at her side in a moment, gathering her in your arms and sinking to the floor. She shook with quiet, laughing sobs, clinging to you for dear life. 

“Come with me,” You asked, looking bleary-eyed over her. “Please, Jo. You can get out. You can stay with me. You can be free. Please.”  You knew what she would say. She stayed like that for a moment, face buried in your shoulder, not saying a word. Then she drew away from you, smiling with her hands on your shoulders, looking into your eyes. You thought it was the saddest thing you’d ever seen. She sighed heavily.

“I’m too old, and too old-fashioned, dear.” She said, slipping back into her familiar resignation. “He can’t go without me- and I can’t go without him.” She sniffed.

“I won’t leave you-” you started to protest.

“You have to. Or you’ll never do it,” she said, gripping you and looking into your eyes with determination. “It’s time.” She smiled again - this one was real. Her face was bright in the deep shadows of the room as she stood. You nodded. 

—

Jo drove you to the bus station in the dark, and you spent the time in terrified silence, watching the red taillights float along outside the window. It had been years since you were alone - what will I do? Where will I go? 

You thought of all of your friends here, the other teachers, the other wives. You thought of Mrs. Farrow and Claire - you thought of Jo. You’d never been alone here, they’d made sure of that. So you thought of your friends who were still in the city, the people who had gotten you through the long nights at school, who had helped you move into your first apartment, who had been there at your wedding. 

You thought of Damien and his mother. No, I can’t - they’ve already done so much for me. You thought about the letters stacked in your suitcase. You knew they would help you, he wouldn’t think twice about it. But you knew his mother was - well, to put it lightly, not doing well. You refused to be a burden to them. I can find something. But… the thought of seeing Damien again was comforting. He was your best friend, and though you felt abysmally guilty for it, you were a little excited. 

You thought of your parents. Of course I could go home - god, I’d love to go home, you thought. Christmas two years ago had been wonderful - everything felt right in that moment, however short it had been. Your parents are retired now, though, and your father spends most of his time taking care of your mother, who had started going blind a few years ago. Regardless, they were in good spirits when you saw them, though you remembered their silence as you told them about Chris and his work - as you told them about the party. They’d been insinuating that they wanted you to come live at home in their letters since. 

But they were on a slim fixed income now. And worse, I hate to even imagine - Chris knew where they lived. If he did come looking for you, he’d look there first. You wanted to avoid that at all costs. You needed somewhere to hide for a few months - somewhere you could restart, where you could heal. 

You thought of Sharon. You hadn’t written to her for a few months now, but from what you remembered, she was living in Georgetown, working as a personal secretary and tutor for a rich Hollywood family living there. She had a boyfriend - but he was in California. She didn’t know anything about what had happened in the last few weeks - and she hated living alone. So, you elected to call Sharon on the first phone you found in the morning. I still don’t like the idea of relying on her until I can find a job, but… I can’t do this alone. 

Having a plan, however uncertain, helped you steady yourself as you stepped out of the car next to the station, hot exhaust collecting in the street as the bus idled in the cool night air. You rushed to load your luggage - the bus would only stay another few minutes.

Reality sunk in fast as you approached the open door, Jo pressing a worn ticket into your hand. Her ticket. You hugged her one more time. Your heart beat fast as your chest grew tight.

“I’ll write-” you said over the engine. “If you ever need me, if you decide to go - I’ll come get you, just say the word- promise you’ll tell me?” She was quiet.

“Promise me!” You looked at her eyes. She looked away for a moment and nodded. 

“Okay.” She took your hands in hers. “Take care of yourself. Please.” She smiled at you. 

“I will.” You stepped back. “I love you. God I don’t know how I can ever thank you-”

“Don’t look back.” She said, holding your gaze, resolute. “I’ll look for your letter - even if you don’t write your name on it, I’ll find it.” You nodded as the brakes hissed - you had to go now. With one last look, you kissed her cheek and rushed to board the bus, avoiding the bloodshot eyes peering over their seats at you, waiting for you to sit down. You found a seat far in the back, and the bus lurched as it began to speed away. You watched her headlights get smaller and smaller as you moved, until they were nothing but pinpricks in the dark. And then you were gone. 

— 

The day was overcast, and a thick fog blanketed the track as Damien ran. With each step, new pavement revealed itself through the mist. Good for losing track of time, he thought. Days like this, he’d run until he couldn’t anymore, and as his steps grew shaky and his breaths stung in the cold air, he decided this lap would be his last. 

Rounding the last corner, he ran a little faster as the steely shine of the bleachers appeared through the fog, along with the distinct form of a person sitting at the far end, watching him. As he got closer, he could make out the soft brown of her long coat and the color of the scarf wrapped casually over her hair. He slowed to a stop with a huff as she stepped down from the bleachers, two paper take away coffee cups in hand. 

It had been about a month since he’d started seeing her in Georgetown again. At first he thought he’d been seeing things - her face among a crowd, a flash of her distinct hair color on the floor of Carol’s station at the salon when he visited, her laugh floating over a sea of voices while he waited in line. Of course he’d always brushed it off - it seemed to be in his nature to see her everywhere, it wasn't the first time.

But when she had appeared in the church, struggling alongside Sister Tallis to lift a long-faded painting from the wall of the south hall, he had frozen in his tracks. Her hair was cut much shorter than he remembered, regaining some of its original shape after having been straightened when he saw her last, a bandana holding it away from her face. 

She wore a tattered, olive green smock with the sleeves rolled up to the bend of her elbows and a pair of boxy jeans rolled up at the cuffs. She’s painting again. As she spoke, her voice was clear and light, and her movements were steady, if a bit hesitant. She seemed like she’d returned to the land of the living, in a manner of speaking. And when she’d looked down the hall to where he stood, she smiled, and despite all her energy and color, he’d noticed a shadow in her eyes - a deep sadness that lurked quietly under her joy. 

After that, you’d started taking walks, getting coffee, eating, and reading together often. You saw each other almost every day - if she didn’t find him, he’d find her. She told him a little about the last few months, but not much. Only that she’d left Chris, and stayed with Sharon for a few weeks before the church hired her to do some restoration work. Along with a few other projects and a slot lecturing art history at the university, she’d made enough for a small apartment nearby. He didn’t push for anymore details - he knew there were things she wasn’t telling him, but he also knew that they hurt enough to have her looking away, knuckles white and voice growing quiet. He didn’t mind. He was just glad to have his friend back. 

He did find however, that he hit a lot harder in practice when he imagined the bag with Christian Martin’s face.

“Almost didn’t see you in the fog. Good run?” She asked, handing him one of the cups. He looked down at it. 

“Is this water?” He asked, a little disappointed. She laughed.

“I read somewhere that coffee dehydrates you!” she said. He took a long drink, emptying the cup quickly. 

“I know that,” he said as you started to walk. I needed that - but she doesn’t need to know. He feigned a deep frown. 

“Pfff-” She set the full cup into the empty one he held, the familiar bitter smell of black coffee drifting up from the dark drink. “You know I don’t like coffee.” She smiled. 

“Hm.” his frown broke into a small smile as he took a short drink. She took his arm, as usual. “If this was a scheme to get me to buy you a tea, it’s working.” She smiled mischievously, not meeting his eyes. He drank the coffee slowly as you walked, listening as she talked about her work on the towering painting that hung in the sanctuary, and her anxiety in working on such a tall ladder. 

“I can hold it for you if you like,” Damien offered. She sighed. 

“Not for hours at a time you can’t,” she said with a laugh, looking up at him. “I’d appreciate it if you made sure I have white flowers at my funeral, though.” He knew it was a joke, but he pulled her a little closer nonetheless. 

He hadn’t told her this, but those two years since seeing her at Christmas had been… terrifying. He kept thinking of how miserable she looked, of how ragged her voice was, how tattered and calloused her hands had been. He didn’t know if Chris had ever hit her, but he knew enough to gather that he was something of a narcissist, and that he was, at the least, emotionally abusive.

The thought of letting her go back to him, once he’d held her in his arms at the station - he almost couldn’t let go. But she loved him. And she could take care of herself. So he resigned himself to writing her letters whenever he could, and praying. When he stopped hearing from her out of the blue two months ago, he'd assumed the worst. 

He’d sit awake in his room, imagining that Chris had forbidden her from writing to him, that Chris had taken her somewhere farther away where he’d never see you again, that Chris had finally hurt her- he didn’t know what to do. 

So he waited, and prayed that she was safe. Somewhere along the line, he started to pray that she would leave him. That she would come home. He knew that God didn’t work that way - but asked all the same. And here she was.

—

Damien loved to watch her paint. Restore, he could hear her say, telling him for the 100th time - she was painting all the same. She stuck out her tongue when she was really focused, and wore thick glasses that he assumed gave her a closer look at the finer details. Every movement was so slow and controlled, it barely looked like she was moving at all. But gradually, she could bring a painting back from the dead - push new life and color into once dusty faces, and bring out details that were once unnoticeable. It was like magic.

“Father Karras.” A voice called behind him. He turned to find Father Hale walking towards him, hands behind his back.

“Father Hale,” Damien greeted him in a civil tone. Some part of him found it strange that she would have an audience of anyone other than him - besides, Father Hale carried with him everywhere an obtrusive piousness that seemed to drown any interesting conversation. He was pretty sure the man had no inkling of his dislike, however, and preferred to keep it that way. “Good to see St. Michael is getting a makeover, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He stopped beside him, watching her work for a moment, before looking over at Damien. “May I… have a word with you, Father?” 

Damien looked over at him, puzzled, but nodded. Father Hale turned to walk down the hall as Damien followed. They walked until they reached the far end of the hall, turning into an office. Father Hale shut the door behind them.

“What can I do for you?” Damien asked, trying to hide his annoyance. Father Hale’s voice was condescending in tone as he spoke. 

“I’m worried about you Karras, that’s all,” his face showed genuine concern. Damien held back a scoff.

“Go on,” Damien said.

“It’s been good to see you in better spirits since Mrs. Martin joined us,” He said. Damien shot him a dark look. Don’t call her that, he thought. He suddenly didn’t care about whatever Hale said next, but he stayed silent despite himself.

“But I’ve noticed you together outside this church-” he said, looking out the window to the street. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Karras.” He looked at him, all at once serious. Damien was furious - what is he insinuating?

“She’s a friend - what are you trying to say?” Damien raised his voice. Hale stepped toward him, undeterred.

“You’re young,” he said, stern. “She’s married, and you have taken an oath to serve our lord in poverty, obedience, and chastity. What else is the church meant to assume, with her parading you about like a-” Damien closed the distance between them in a moment, towering over Hale and gripping his collar in his fist.

“What? Like what, Hale?” He wanted him to say it. To call her whatever he was going to call her so he could make sure he knew he couldn’t get away with saying it. All he could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears, grateful now for the closed door. Hale paled - stammering. He held his gaze like that for a moment, daring him to say something. The man seemed to steel himself then, pushing Damien away in a huff, a bead of sweat formed on his broad forehead. 

As the roaring in his ears died down, he watched as Hale straightened his collar with a huff. 

“I won’t listen to this for another moment. How dare you doubt my vows?” Damien shook as he spoke, breathing even. He knew, deep down, he couldn’t do anything. Hale always had the Bishop’s ear - and she’d despise him if he ever hurt anyone in her name. He took a deep breath. “Good day, Father Hale.” 

Hale held his eyes, furious, but too intimidated to stop him as he slammed the door behind him. 

Damien had never made an enemy like that before in the church - he wasn’t sure if it would mean anything - but Hale's words had found their target. He thought of his vows for a moment, and of her-

He stopped. He could see the ladder standing empty in the sanctuary, and as he walked closer, her palate and the thick glasses lay on the floor - paint splattered as if she’d dropped it. He walked faster.

“Y/n?” He called, fear rising in his chest.

She’d stepped in the paint - a trail of yellow-tan paint leading a patchy trail to the side hall. Snatching his coat from where it lay over a pew, he rushed to follow it to the courtyard door. 

—

You were focused on a shadow. The shadow under St. Michael’s chin to be exact - it had long since lost its darkness, and you needed to bring it out - softly. Times like these, you wondered how Raphael managed such soft shadows with such clear contrast. All the same, the challenge was wonderful. You missed restoration with all your heart, and getting to return to it now, and on a Raphael, too. Well, at least a damn good copy. You knew it wasn’t the real thing - it had been in the Louvre since 1667, after all. I’m going to make it a better copy, you thought, smiling to yourself as you dabbed on the smallest speck of the deep yellow-black-

“Y/N.” You froze completely, breath hitching and blood running ice cold. You knew that voice. You prayed you’d imagined it. No, this isn’t happening-

“Y/N!” Chris yelled again. You dropped the palate, the loud clattering echoing over Chris’ deep bellowing. You shook, gripping the ladder with all your strength as you pulled the glasses from your face, setting them on the table of the ladder with a clatter. You turned your head slowly to look down at him. 

He stood about 20 feet away from the base of the ladder, eyes blazing and mouth open in shock. 

The few other people in the sanctuary looked on in confusion, some staring, some averting their eyes with obvious effort. You didn’t want to go down there. 

“Please-” He choked. His strangled voice struck you as his gaze softened. You watched his face, now noticing the thick stubble and dark shadows under his eyes - his hair unkempt. He looked… miserable. “I just want to talk- can we just talk? Please?” You hesitated for another moment, white noise filling your ears in the dead silence of the room. You nodded, and descended the ladder slowly, hands trembling. 

Panic distracted you as your feet found the floor, and you missed the last step, the ladder jumping with a clatter. Your glasses fell with an echoing ‘clack,' Chris’ hands biting into your shoulder and arm, steadying you. Too tight, you thought, fear spiking through you. You looked down the hall, searching for Damien. Please, please, please, you begged for him to appear. You didn’t see him. 

Chris released you after a moment, hands hovering near you, afraid you might bolt. 

“Follow me,” you said, walking slowly to the side hallway - I won't do this here, you thought. But you made sure to smear your foot in the paint before you turned, trailing a pattern of light-colored paint as you walked. Please find me, please. 

You didn’t think he’d hurt you - but you didn’t know what he would do like this, his eyes bloodshot and tear-stained. Your thoughts spun, screaming that this was a bad idea, that you should stay where the people are- but your feet carried you to the courtyard door all the same.

You held the door for him and closed it behind you, stepping out onto the stone landing. Steps fell away from the landing about eight feet away from the double doors, and Chris stood in the sun a few feet away from the edge. Though the sun had seemingly emerged, the day was still bitingly cold, and you shivered in the realization that you had left your coat inside. Can I even get back in this way? You wanted to check, but Chris’ gaze had you locked in place. You held your arms at the elbows, steadying yourself in the cold.

“How are you?” he asked. It surprised you. 

“I’m alright,” you said. That soft tone in his voice - you weren’t prepared for it. It broke your resolve. Maybe he’s here to listen, you thought hopefully. “How have you been?” He snorted.

“I’ve been better,” he said, looking down. “How could- do you know how worried I’ve been?” His voice rose.

“I’m sorry-” You started. You looked up. “I just couldn’t stay - I had to leave.” 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me what was going on with you?” He said, voice strained. “Nobody would tell me anything, it feels like everyone’s hiding something from me.” You were quiet for a moment.

“I didn’t feel like I could talk to you. You were always gone- away at a conference or working, I didn’t want to interfere-” Your voice shook. “I tried to be everything you wanted from me. I thought being a good wife would make us happy… but it was never enough.” He was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not a bad husband,” He insisted. “I work so, so hard to build you a nice home, a nice life - the book was for us-”

“The book was for you, Chris," you said. “Everything was for you. I know you tried - I tried too, but it just wasn’t enough-” 

“You’re not telling me everything,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “Why are you still lying to me? Have I ever known you?” He was yelling now, and he took a step towards you. You shrank back. What? He-he can't know- Your silence seemed to make him more upset. “What aren’t you telling me-” You winced as he hissed in your face, backing up.

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see Damien step through quickly, standing behind you. Relief flooded over you.

“Damien,” you whispered as you gripped the cuff of his coat, clinging to him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You nodded, letting him go as you looked back to Chris, who stood motionless, eyes dark with realization.

“Was it because of him?” he demanded, eyes darting. His voice shook with rage. “You left me for a priest?” 

“No.” You tried to explain. “Chris, it wasn’t-” 

“No, I see now. You’re here for him - after everything we’ve been through, after everything I did for you, our life- you’re here fucking a Priest?” He smiled as he spoke, incredulous. You wished he would stop. You tried to say something - tried to defend yourself - 

“Stop.”

“How long have you been seeing him? Is he-” he laughed now, looking away before smiling up at Damien. “You know she’s pregnant, right?” All the air left your body, your stomach sinking.

“-no.” you could barely get the word out, recoiling away. 

“I kept waiting for you to tell me after I found the tests- I was so excited for us, y/n.” His voice broke. “And now I know why you never said anything-” His words were drowning in static, the floor pitching beneath you. Damien was yelling now too- it’s too much-

“I had a miscarriage.” You blurted out, forcing yourself to look up at Chris. The courtyard was silent, the static roared. Tears fell from your eyes, but you didn’t feel them. You felt a firm hand on your shoulder as Damien braced you. You took a shaky breath. The static quieted.

“I had a miscarriage,” You said it again. “And I-I couldn't tell you, because I didn’t - I couldn’t imagine raising a child with you.” You paused between sentences, taking a deep breath. Chris’ face fell, his eyes empty as he listened.

“And I should’ve said something. Years ago. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, because I knew it would break your heart like it was breaking mine-” Your voice cracked. You continued. “So I came home.” 

His face was set in stone, a tear falling from his face. “You’re not leaving me.” He seemed to be losing his grip on anger, and it fell away in pieces as it was replaced by despair.

“No, you’re right,” you ventured, concentrating on keeping your voice steady as you met his eyes. “You’re leaving me.” He looked at you, incredulous.

“I won’t-” he started, quiet now. “I’ve been a terrible husband-” 

“I’ve been a terrible wife.” you held his gaze. Make your speech.

“Despite it all - despite everything I think what you hate is that you do love me,” he said, his voice wavering, but with a weak note of hope. “I think you stayed all this time because you love me, and it was real. I think this - this was meant to happen. We’re supposed to be broken and terrible together, and despite it all, I love you, and I’m not leaving you until you get down on your knees and beg me.” He looked into your eyes then, seething. 

You looked at him, and kneeled - cold pavement stinging your knuckles as you steadied yourself. 

“Please leave me.” You said, as clearly as you could. He looked truly lost now, mouth slightly open in surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” he said plainly. He waited for a moment more, as if waiting for you to take it back. You didn’t. “Fuck,” he said with an empty laugh. Then he inhaled deeply and with a sigh, turned and left. Descending the stairs, walking down the sidewalk beside the building, and turning at the front of the building, he disappeared.

When you were sure he was gone, you fell back onto your legs and breathed a shaky laugh that descended into a broken sob. The tears wouldn’t stop - you couldn't see or get a breath in - but crying was all you could do.

Something heavy and warm fell over you like a blanket as Damien’s coat wrapped around your shoulders. You couldn't see him, but you felt his strong arms encircle your waist and hold your head gentle against him as you collapsed into his shoulder, surrendering to the shaking sobs.

He held you and rocked you gently as you wept, whispering quiet ‘I’m sorry's' and ‘I’ve got you’s’ into your hair. You stayed like that for a long time. 

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Chapter 3 coming soon! Trying to get it done tonight lol - we'll see how that goes

Really excited about this one, lots of angst and suffering and pain :)

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 2

Summary:            

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

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

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 6.8k

When you decide to go home to New York for Christmas this year, planning the department Christmas Party becomes the bane of your existence. Going home is an uphill battle, but you are rewarded when you see a familiar face.

TW: Emotional abuse, References to Physical abuse

Three Days Until Christmas.

The tinny echo of the steel wool on the copper pot filled the kitchen. Almost every surface of your kitchen was populated with bowls and baskets of produce, glass jars brimming with spices and flour, recipes strewn across the counter. So many of them required so much preparation - two days was barely early enough to have everything ready for Christmas Eve dinner, and if there was a dinner that needed to be perfect, it was going to be this one.

You had spent the last three Christmas dinners in Athens with your in-laws, after agreeing with Chris that you would have one of those marriages where you wouldn’t fight about things like that, and that you would alternate every year between his family and yours, you’d also agreed that the five-minute drive was much easier than the 11-hour drive to New York. 

All the same, the last three years had passed sluggishly, clumsily, but admittedly, happily. You found you enjoyed the trials and tribulations of keeping a house, and Athens had proved to be a beautiful city; all things considered, you were very lucky to be where you were. The snow seemed clearer here - whiter. Tonight, it fell quietly through dark skies, catching your eye through the many windows of your home. 

You peered into the pot. More than clean. You set it atop your tower of dishes drying into a towel on the counter and dried your hands. The ghostly quiet of the house seemed to draw you out of your thoughts, to where you blinked hard, realizing how tired you were through dry eyes. You turned to look at the mess of your kitchen and elected to leave it for the morning, shifting your thoughts to the cascading checklist of foods and items you had left to prepare. The wall clock seemed to echo with every second passed. About 10:30. I’ve got more time.

Pineapple for the ham, pecans for the pie, cherries frozen, cards stamped, I’ve got to get Chris’ Watch wrapped, and of course the dining room will have to be cleared and vacuumed, and the guest bathroom is cleaned, so that only leaves getting the coconut for the shrimp- maybe Jo has some? Your hands found a rag and wrung it in the sink as you stared into the static out the window. You tried not to think about Chris out there this late - Nearly 11pm now on the Sunday before Christmas - not too late for a late work night, of course. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes - before you remembered he wasn’t here. You rolled them as hard as you could and smiled to yourself. 

The familiar yellow shine of the headlights cast window-shaped squares across the wall. Finally, you sighed internally. 

You ran lightly to the door and stuffed your bare feet into galoshes, opening the door and stepping quickly into the wall of cold. The car idled in the driveway as you stepped precariously through the light to the garage side door, hitting it with your hip and wrenching the handle, cracking through to the still cold of the garage. Your fingers felt for the switch next to the door, finally reaching a plastic rectangle and pushing. The garage door rose, mechanisms screaming creakily through the cold. 

The car revved quietly, rolling onto the cracked concrete and illuminating the small room. You stole a glance at the boxes of easels, half-painted canvases, and books collecting dust in the furthest corner. You tried not to come in here anymore… you didn’t like seeing all your old things like this.

The car door slammed shut next to you, and you tore your gaze away, smiling in the sudden dark at Chris.

“Long night for a Sunday,” you reached up to straighten his collar, missing in the dark and finding his face. He winced.

“Ah- your hands are cold!” He said with a tight smile, lifting your hand away. “Hardings are coming to Christmas- sorry to add to your plate. I know you’re juggling a lot already.” You smiled. 

“Eh, what’s two more?” You sighed. “How was work?” You trekked back to the house, shutting the garage behind you as he spoke, gasping silently as your knuckles stung - splitting in the cold air. You brought your fingers to your lips, pressing your tongue to the iron-taste of blood.

“Would’ve been home earlier if mom hadn’t dragged us to church this morning,” He said with a huff once you were finally in the warmth of the house. “It’s all so asinine. What are we proving? I truly don’t think anyone in there actually believes in a god - it’s just another political club, except it evades its taxes legally.”

You shot him a look over your hand as you stepped past him to the bathroom. 

“Sorry, forgot,” he said with a small smile, raising a hand in defense. He didn’t even try to hide his eye-roll. No you’re not, you thought. I have the spiel memorized by the way, and no matter that your mom loves it.

You reached the bathroom, running a hand under the water and searching the cabinet for a band-aid with the other, half-listening to him as he talked. 

—

Two Days Before Christmas.

Chris opened the door with a single, hard movement, stepping into the heat of the house. You followed behind him, carrying two baskets and a bag packed with pie-making supplies. Frozen cherries, a two-pound bag of pecans, syrups, every pie dish you owned, and about a hundred other bits and pieces. You hiked the bag up on your shoulder, moving clumsily through the door.

“Ma? We’re here!” He called into the light of the hall, shaking snow from his hat. You shut the door haltingly, struggling against your baggage. 

“Merry Christmas my dear,” Jo stepped into the hall in her festive red and green plaid apron, hugging her son quickly before taking one of the baskets from your shaking arms. 

“Thanks,” you sighed with a smile. She kissed you warmly on the cheek, moving a handful of long hair from your face as you followed her to the kitchen. 

“Your father’s in his study, dear.” She yelled as you reached the kitchen, hoisting the basket to the top of the counter. “Would you bring the serving dishes from the living room so I can wash them?”

Her kitchen was spotless, somehow perfectly clean while in action. Though she’d clearly been working for some time, the evidencing apple peels and cores sitting in a tall pot and recipes standing against the checkered backsplash appeared somehow like they belonged - like the cover of a cookbook. You always preferred working in your mother-in-law’s kitchen, though you envied the perfection she seemed to embellish her home with. 

Keeping a house wasn’t something you were trained in, and though you’d found your stride in maintaining your home, it was never easy. Georgia hadn’t been easy. 

You thought of the strange looks you got the first time you attended a staff potluck at the university, the whispers you feared were all for you, the attempts Chris had made to be helpful, “they’re just not used to you yet,” “That’s church folk for you,” “You don’t happen to have anything a little more formal, do you?” Not to mention, the pained looks of the fellow wives. “Dear, you have got to demand something a little nicer for your allowance, is he giving you anything to work with at all?” “Art is just so important, what a brave choice!” “Get those visits home in soon, before the kids get here!” You knew they meant well, but the sort of hopeless, condescending tone in their voices scared you. 

Making friends here had been difficult at first, but you’d adjusted quickly enough. Your wardrobe became lighter, more “professional,” populating your closet with cocktail dresses and floral blouses. You grew your hair too, straightening it every morning and tying it up into a tidy bun. The change suited your career as a schoolteacher, and the comments on your appearance ceased. 

The other teachers and wives opened up as time went on, and soon enough, you found you could enjoy their company. You’d exchange recipes, whisper small complaints on your husbands’ late hours and condescending explanations, and find solace in walks throughout campus and downtown. They were really very smart, and kind, in their own sort of way. You looked out for each other.

During your walks, you couldn’t help but think of the shady streets of DC, the crowded brick and the rush of the streets. Worse yet, you’d think of your old friends, your bright Sunday School Students, the dusty sunlit halls of the college, and the comfort of knowing every face you met on the street in a given neighborhood. The musty smell of the subway, the quiet shuffle of the sidewalks, your cozy apartment. The warmth of Damien's arm in yours on a cool morning, the smell of water-damaged discount books, the deep, whiskey pools of his eyes. 

You’d shake yourself, remind yourself, and wrench yourself back to reality, like getting out of bed on a rainy weekend morning.

I have a life now, and what’s done is done. There’s work to do.

“Jo, do you have any coconut? Like the flakes, I’m making coconut shrimp for Wednesday.” You retrieved an apron from the pantry door, hauling out the flour bin and wrenching it up to the counter top. 

“I think I’ve got some frozen for New Years,” she answered. The dull ‘thock’ of a knife on a cutting board accompanied your light conversation rhythmically, as bowls filled with fruits and flour, a radio crackling out Christmas tunes and Bing Crosby. You reached across the counter for a teaspoon, but your hand was met by Jo’s.

“What’s this?” Concerned, she turned your hand over in hers, inspecting the band-aids around your knuckles. 

“Oh it’s just been dry out. My knuckles are cracking,” You hand felt heavy in hers. You smiled, not thinking much of it. “This time of year, you know.” She brushed her thumb over your fingers, suddenly quiet. It’s not that bad, is it? Sure, your hands had been cracking from all the preparation for the department party, but it was nothing to be worried about. Maybe the bruise from the counter this morning makes it look worse. Your skin prickled with sweat at the thought, suddenly very aware of the light purple skin blooming on your left forearm - you’d pushed up your sleeves to work. 

Your attention fell on her face however, where her eyes had grown wide and distant, staring at your hand. She looked terrified. 

She let go of your hand quickly, looking up to where Chris walked into the kitchen, carrying some festive looking ceramic bowls in the shape of a horizontal snowman and a star. 

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” He set the bowls down by the sink, leaning over the island to examine the contents of the bowls. 

“A little of everything.” You smiled at him, handing him a sliver of apple. Jo seemed to awake from her trance at that, cheery as ever. If Chris noticed your hands, he didn’t comment.

—

Dinner with the Martins was always a slightly awkward affair. At first you’d been nervous to make a good impression on Mrs. Martin, paranoid after hearing so many “monster-in-law” stories from your few married friends. Chris was a momma’s boy if anything, and you worried that a bad impression would ruin your chances completely. 

Her tall, perfectly curled blonde ringlets, long red nails, and tortoise-shell horn-rimmed glasses were intimidating, after all, and you’d introduced yourself timidly to what you believed might be the bane of your married existence. That was until you saw her soft gaze, deep smile lines, and cuticles chewed and bitten back in expertly concealed hangnails. She had laughed, asked gentle questions, and humored your joking comments on Chris’ inability to do his own laundry with abandon. Slowly, your worry fell away - you were like old friends. 

So, you turned your attention to his father. He had a strained relationship with the man, a strict disciplinarian who drew on a past as a WWII veteran and having “paid his way through med school” during the depression in his parenting. He was a difficult man to talk to, silent one moment and booming the next. He wasn’t rude by any means, and he treated you with the utmost respect, laughed easily around you, and praised your restoration work. 

You didn’t know what to make of him. He scared you, of course, but you expected the feeling to fade like it had with Jo. It didn’t. Chris never seemed like himself around him either, becoming defensive and challenging, unable to take a joke. 

You’d held him together that night, running your fingers through his hair and listening as he whispered his fear of his father into the dark. He made him feel so small, so worthless. He valued his opinion above all else, and each time was met with some comment or look that absolutely convinced him his father was somehow disappointed. He couldn’t win. 

That seemed to change with you around, however. With you, Dr. Martin began to smile at his son. They’d share inside jokes, discuss politics, and seemingly share a mind. As the years passed, he’d tell you how he thought his father had changed, how age had mellowed him, how happy he finally was. Over the years, you found yourself gravitating towards Jo, and Chris to his father. It made sense to you - mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. 

You almost preferred her company to Chris. Guilt prevented you from entertaining the thought.

 The dining room was pleasantly festive tonight, yellow light blending with the reds and greens of the Christmas tree, bathing the room in warm colors. The whole house smelled sweet with spices and fruit, mingling strangely with the savory steak diane you ate now. The room was light with conversation and the clinking of silverware on plates as you discussed the party preparations with Jo. Chris and Dr. Martin spoke in serious tones, Chris occasionally asking you to weigh in - listening to two conversations was challenging to say the least.

“I’ll have everything ready for you in the fridge, all you’ll need to do is get it in the oven,” you rose and collected a pad of paper from the kitchen, writing down times and temperatures. “We’re doing the ham and the pies, but the girls will be bringing everything else. Ah, what’s the time on the shrimp?” She moved to check your bag. 

“How do you find anything in this thing??” She called with a laugh. Chris said your name. He’d survive a few moments without you.

“Like you’re any better - why do you have to bring a candle with you everywhere? Are you afraid of having a candle emergency?” You shot back. She huffed and handed you the recipe card. 

“When will you be back?” She asked, looking at the list. 

“I should be back about an hour before the party,” You said, rubbing an eye. You heard your name again. “Just a moment dear - the girls will bring everything else, most of it won’t need to be heated up for a bit anyway, but Caroline is bringing snakes in a blanket, which should probably go out first-” 

“Y/N.” A crash shook the table, and you whipped around to see Chris standing, hand splayed out on the table where he’d hit it. Your blood rushed with an icy wash and your face was hot with shock, the house silent. 

You looked at him, incredulous, you didn’t know what to say. His face was red, mouth formed in a hard line. He looked away. 

“Stop fussin,’ I’ve been trying to get your attention,” he said, voice lowering as he sat. His gaze darted to his father and back to you. “Would you serve me some more of that delicious sauce you whipped up?” He was all at once pleasant again, gaze softening into an easy smile. You breathed. 

“Is that all?” You’d meant for it to sound accusing, you were baffled - he’d never done anything like this before. Who was he to interrupt you? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything?

But it came out as a weak question, and you took his plate. His hand brushed yours and he gave you a tender look. 

“Thanks, dear.” He turned back to his father, seemingly picking up where they left off. You turned quickly back to the kitchen, only then looking up at Jo as you passed her. Your breath caught in your throat. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in cold terror. The same look as earlier. 

You set his plate back down in front of him and he moved to kiss you on the cheek, but you turned away. You sat back down at the table next to Jo, where she ate quietly, eyes glued to her plate. No one would look at you. You felt suddenly embarrassed, swallowing thickly. You pretended to eat slowly, cutting and turning your food on your plate. You felt sick.

—

The car ride home was quiet. The spongy crunch of the tires packing down the snow on the road was deafening. For some reason, you didn’t like leaving Jo alone with your father-in-law after this, and you elected to call her early in the morning. You felt horrible suspecting anything of him, but you were putting the pieces together on her expressions tonight. She wasn’t safe at home with him - maybe she’d never been. 

You relished in the fresh air of the night as you stepped out of the car, grateful for some air that wasn’t drenched in tension. You took a deep, cool breath before stepping into the house. 

“What was that?” You asked, hanging your coat in the hall. Chris looked past you at the wall. 

“I- I’m sorry.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I just wanted to get your attention - do you know how that feels? In front of my father?” You looked up at him, lost.

“You’ve never done that before, it scared me.” You crossed your arms. His eyes shot up at you, and he looked away again, disbelieving.

“You’re acting like I hit you,” his voice shook. He stepped toward you, raising his hands to cup your face gently, running a thumb over your cheek. “You know I’d never hurt you, right? I will never, ever hurt you.” You met his eyes, burning. You held his hand against you, leaning into it. 

“Of course I know that.” You said quietly. You closed the gap between you, wrapping your arms around his neck. He held you like that for a while, and you savored the feeling. It had been a while since he hugged you like this.

“Maybe - maybe I shouldn’t go up North tomorrow,” you said haltingly. I can’t leave him like this, but - you regretted saying it immediately. He held you tighter. 

“No. No, you should,” He said into your hair. “Maybe I should go with you.” You let go of him, looking up at him in the dark. Somehow, you didn’t want that. You were awash with guilt, face hot. Why didn’t you want that? You were grateful for the dark of the house shielding your expressions. You smiled wearily. 

“Think about it, okay? It’s been a long day.” You held a hand to his cheek. You couldn’t see his eyes in the dark as you searched his face. 

“Good idea.” He kissed you quickly, lingering for a moment before turning to search for the light switch. You busied yourself with your coat, all the while hiding your face as casually as possible. 

—

Christmas Eve.

“You know, Damien- David and I are heading over to Katie’s for dinner tonight,” Father Dyer’s affable voice boomed in the empty echo of the sanctuary. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”

Damien glanced at him with a thought, lifting the stole from his shoulders. The church was shrouded in the long shadows of an early winter night, a deep black painting the vast windows. 

“I’m spending the holidays with my mother,” He said, shifting out of the white robes. “I’m booked.” 

“Of course, or course,” Dyer said, taking the stole from the pew where he’d deposited it and beginning to fold it. “That was some sermon.” He glanced up at the altar. Damien nodded absently, shaking the white robe out before folding it over his arm. 

“I only come to these things for the wine,” He said with a half-smile, taking the stole from Dyer. He smiled up at Damien as he put on his coat, watching him. A hint of sadness flashed in his eyes. He knew his mother’s health hadn’t been doing well in the last few months, and that Damien hadn’t been taking it well. He’d always been an attentive son, but he’d barely seen anything of him in the last few weeks when he wasn’t working feverishly or drinking silently in his room. He was worried.

“Door’s always open.” Dyer looked out at the night as snow began to fall. “Stay warm out there.” He smiled once before turning to the front hall of the church. Damien nodded, and pulled his coat closed before following to where Dyer held the door open. A few people lingered in the hall, huddled in the low light of the church muttering prayers or laughing outside its big doors. 

Damien said his thanks to Dyer, and began the cold walk through the snow to an awaiting taxi. 

“Oh, father?” Dyer called from his small group, Damien looking back to him before stepping in. “Tell her Merry Christmas from me.” Damien shot him a tired smile, before shuffling into the musty warmth of the back seat.

He listened to the static-y Christmas tunes through the radio and humored the small talk from the driver just long enough to let him down easily. He wasn’t going to be much of a conversationalist tonight. He sunk back into the patchy leather of the seat and settled in, trying to find a comfortable way to doze on the way. That was when he remembered the scarf in his pocket, the perfect neck pillow for a snowy drive. He pulled it tenderly from his coat, running his fingers over the worn knit. 

It was soft, a long pattern of maroon, gold, and navy blue in alternating squares. Most of the scarf was expertly crafted, even stitches feigning factory-made from the practiced hands of his mother. The better part of the last half of the scarf was different however, and the craftsmanship turned from even and machined to patchy and loose, the colors less even and the occasional stitch dropped or fixed, dotting small loops and loose ends throughout. Where y/n had finished it, after his mother’s Parkinson's had worsened. She’d given it to him the Christmas before y/n left.

He let his mind wander to her then, to her easy laugh, her bright smile, to her flowers, to her strong hands and deep eyes. Before she was married, she’d always spend the night of Christmas Eve with him. She’d find him in a soup kitchen, at his mother’s, at St. Mike’s or wherever else he drifted for the night, where she’d push a poorly wrapped package into his hands and watch him open it, a broad smile on her face as she’d try not (and often fail) to spoil the gift before it was unwrapped.

Her gifts were always small - often practical. He thought of all the gifts over the years, wondering if he could manage to recall each one. New socks, sour cream cookies cut into lumpy stars, shoe polish, bookmarks of pressed flowers and newspaper. And then there were his favorites - the books. She’d give him a book he hadn’t read, sometimes soft and second-hand, sometimes crisp and new, but she’d always leave notes. Scribbled questions and thoughts around her favorite or least-favorite parts, sometimes a sketch. If it related to some current event, he’d even find a newspaper clipping tucked in the page. He took special care of those books, re-reading them, hearing her voice in the blue ink. He treasured them now more than ever, now that he was sure he’d never get another.

He wondered how she was. Far better than me, he thought. 

—

You’d been driving for about eight hours when you came to Georgetown. Though the original plan had been to go straight to your parents’ in New York, and the sun was already setting with bad weather on the horizon, you just couldn’t help yourself. Something about the thought of not seeing your old life for even a second longer made you want to stop. Mom and dad won’t mind if I’m a little late. 

You weren’t sure what you expected when you arrived - the city was beautiful, but there was absolutely no parking. Downtown seemed to be in full swing, lights, carolers, the works. You drove slowly, taking it all in. That warm excitement of the holidays crept up on you, giving you a warm sensation you savored. It finally feels like the holidays, you thought with a smile. 

Finally, you managed to find a place - outside St. Mikes. You weren’t sure how you ended up there, but the church glowed invitingly with a warm yellow light. You rolled down your window to get a closer look, cold air flushing into the creaking station wagon. Are you preaching tonight, Damien? 

You thought you caught a glimpse of him then, a tall, dark-haired figure in black robes crossing a window. Your face flushed and you looked away. Not him. What am I doing here? He wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway, at least not without trying to save me from my own decisions. You realized you’d been sitting there for a long time, staring at the church. The car was icy cold. 

You rolled up your window and drove away. On to New York then. 

—

When you finally reached Manhattan, it was 11pm. Navigating the streets was as difficult as it had ever been, and the holiday traffic didn’t help. You white-knuckled your way through the flurries that had begun to fall, praying you’d be able to find somewhere to park before the subway. When you finally found something, it was by a park, deep in the back streets. You remembered this park, thinking fondly of the long walks and scrappy wildflowers you used to collect. Its image was far more shadowy in the dead of night.

You left the car hesitantly, deciding that sitting alone in the cold car did little more to keep you safe than the walk itself would. The empty ache of doubt crept up on you then, chilling you as you locked the car. Maybe I should have made Chris come, you thought, taking your first shaky steps into the snowy night. The orange glow of the street lamps lit the night, the snow seeming to glow amber. You knew this part of the city well. Too well. This was near Damien’s childhood home. 

A raucous laugh echoed through the empty hills of the park, and you watched cautiously as a few young children trampled through the snow. You smiled and were a bit ashamed of your skittishness. I grew up in this city, I’ll be fine. You decided to cut through the park. 

You walked along quickly through the night, readjusting your bags on your shoulder what felt like an embarrassing amount. As the rush of the road quieted, you felt your fear creep back in. Every sound in the night was turned into a horrifying scenario in your mind: a swaying swarm of drunks, the desperate eyes of a bolting thief in the night, a twisted, snarling street dog. Your eyes darted around in the night, catching every snowflake. 

You could hear him asking you what you were thinking. Telling you you should have stayed home. Forbidding you from being in the city alone ever again. 

Why is this so hard? Walk faster, walk faster, walk faster-

“Y/N?” a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. A shiver prickled through you as you turned. You’d walked right past him.

The park seemed to fall away as you approached, too surprised to come up with anything to say. He sat on a metal bench, his hunched form draped in a long black coat. He was wearing the scarf you’d finished so terribly. He was flushed from the cold, or maybe the shock of seeing you, and his deep brown eyes pierced yours in quiet shock. He looked just how you remembered him.

Everything seemed to crash down then, and your fear crumbled in a wave of anxious joy. You had to stop yourself from running to him. 

“Damien,” you sighed, unable to hide your relief. You elected then, to be composed, to remember your last words to him had been said in anger. To remember you hadn’t seen him in three years. To remember it was nearly midnight on Christmas eve. He stood to meet you, searching your face. 

“How have you b-” You cut him off, dropping your bags into the snow and wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame, a smile spread across your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t know what you were thinking, only that you missed your friend. 

He hesitated stiffly, his arms hovering over you before finally wrapping around your shoulders.

“I missed you,” You managed through his coat. He seemed to relax, holding you tight against him in the cold. 

“I missed you too,” he breathed. You stayed like that for a long time, relishing in the warmth of his embrace. When you finally let go, you lifted your face from his coat to find you’d managed to undo a button. Or maybe it was like this? 

“Sorry,” you said with a half-laugh. His gloved hands fell from your back, resting lightly on your shoulders as you fixed his coat, tucking the scarf around his collar. “What are you doing out here?” You sniffed - you didn’t notice the tears in your eyes, looking up at him. You couldn’t stop smiling. A closer look showed you a tiredness in his face, and deep bags under his eyes. You skirted a hand through his hair, brushing away the snowflakes that had accumulated on his dark hair.

“Visiting my mother - your hands are so cold.” His brows furrowed with concern.

“Sorry-” You went to draw your hands back when he caught them, encasing your icy fingers in the warmth of his broad hands. He brought them up to his mouth, blowing warm breath between his fingers, pushing heat back into the frigid skin. Your heart skipped a beat before it seemed to remember how to pump blood, as warmth spread across your body.

“What are you doing here?” He stopped between breaths to ask, eyes finding yours.

“Spending Christmas with my folks - I could only find parking out here, I was on my way to the station,” You explained. Your heart hammered as you struggled to keep your composure. He nodded, finally releasing your hand before tugging his gloves off, offering them to you. Your hands lingered near his face before you took them, grateful. You met his eyes. “You look tired, Dames.”

“It’s been a long three years.” He looked away and smiled. You could tell he was forcing it - there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Well?” You asked. “How do I look?” He turned back to you, his gaze softening.

“Beautiful,” He smiled warmly. You saw something light up in his eyes then, like a spark of something bright and honest. His eyes were always warm, but that flash hadn’t been there when you first saw him in the snow. In fact, it hadn’t been there since you last spoke. You felt sort of proud at having brought it out now. You wanted to hold on to it, watching his eyes until he looked down.

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way to the station.” He started to pick up your bags, brushing away the snow. Suddenly you couldn’t stand the idea of leaving him again, clinging to whatever you could remember of him for years - you wouldn’t, couldn’t do it again. You took his arm, lifting a bag onto your shoulder. 

“I hate to ask this-” you struggled through every social grace and hesitation that rang in your ears, it’s nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, I haven’t seen him in years, The last time we spoke was a fight, He isn’t expecting a guest, and asked. “Would you- would you like some company? I’d love to see your mother again.” 

He looked struck only for a moment, before pulling your arm closer and smiling brightly. 

“I’d love that.” The spark was back in his eyes. You started to walk, strolling slowly through the snow, no longer in any rush. “So, tell me - how have you been?” 

You had so much to tell him.

—

Christmas Morning.

You talked all night. Or morning, rather. You told him all about Georgia, about your school, about each of your students. You didn’t tell him about the Christmas party, only mentioning your family in passing, as happily as you could manage. You hoped he wouldn’t ask, and to your relief, he never did. He told you about the church, about his classes, about his mother and her health. You held his hand and the two of you worked away at a bottle of cheap wine. 

You talked quietly, whispering and rambling and laughing into the small hours of the morning. You relished in the warm closeness of the apartment, eyes catching on old photos, breathing the smell of ash and fresh bread. Mama Karras always bakes for an army. But you only noticed a few loaves - far below her usually canvased kitchen. She didn’t have much energy this year, I guess, you thought with shaky realization.

When Mrs. Karras shuffled into her living room early Christmas morning, she almost didn’t recognize you - until your hands found hers, ghostly thin, and her face lit up. Then she was just like her old self, scolding you for staying up all night, demanding you eat more, kissing your face.

“My girl, my girl,” she repeated, shaking her head. You followed her dutifully around the dusty kitchen as she pulled from cupboards and shelves. When she finally discovered her son, they spoke brightly in Greek - you could tell she was upset with his tired look. His eyes had softened, and he smiled between their banter. 

You spent the morning cleaning and fixing small things quietly in the apartment with Damien while his mother scrambled eggs, occasionally calling out over the radio to ask Damien something. 

“She seems in high spirits,” you mentioned, holding a ladder while Damien changed a light bulb too high for her to reach. 

“She is,” He said, coughing in the dust. “I haven’t seen her like this for a long time.” He looked down at you while you passed him a rag. The light blinked to life, lighting the dark walls in a yellow haze, illuminating a snow of dust. 

“Thank you,” You said after a while. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time either - it’s good to see you both.” You held his eyes for a moment, smiling. 

“You too.” He leaned against the ladder, resting his head on his arm. The tangy, warm smell of eggs and tomatoes and burnt toast filled the house - you suddenly realized how tired you were. You stared at the soft bulk of his arms as he worked, fascinated by the way the dark hair on his arms bristled as his muscles moved. Pressing your cheek to the side of the ladder, you let your eyes close.

In the middle of a yawn, something fell into your face, startling you into the land of the living. You yelped and pulled the dusty rag off of your face, coughing, your face flushing. 

“Just trying to wake you up,” You heard Damien laugh through your hacking.

“Asshat,” You snuck between coughs. Mrs. Karras called something through the hall, and Damien descended the ladder, tousling a hand through your hair and showering you in gray chunks of dust. “-hey!”

“Mama says breakfast is ready,” He said, walking away quickly. You followed him, swatting him with the rag, trying to get as much dust on him as possible. When you came to the kitchen, you were a giggling mess - that kind of tired where everything is hilarious - and you didn’t want the feeling to end.

Crossing into the kitchen, a clock chimed softly from a wall, and you counted the bells with bated breath. Your heart sank as the 7th chime told you it was time to leave. You put a hand on Damien’s shoulder and he looked at you, mouth full.

“I have to go,” you whispered, trying to show as much resolve as possible. You had to be back in Athens by tonight, and your parents were probably substantially worried at this point. It had been easy to forget now that you were home. He chewed, brows furrowed. 

“I’ll walk you down.” He swallowed.

“Eat, eat! Δεν φεύγεις μέχρι να φας,” Mrs. Karras tugged at your sleeve. You complied carefully, trying to tell her you had to be on your way. She wouldn’t let you get through your sentence, so you settled for thanking her profusely. She shook her head and added more to your plate.

—

The subway was eerily empty, the dark halls echoing and shaking. The few people there either lay curled in the corners of the station, dark masses of clothes hiding tired eyes, or there was an elderly couple waiting on a bench, talking quietly. You stood on the platform facing the track, yawning almost constantly.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? You’re going to sleep through your stop.” Damien looked at you over the collar of his dark coat. You shook your head through another yawn. 

“You’ve already been so generous,” you said. “I’ve crashed your Christmas, Dames.” You caught the flash of a smile.

“You made Mama’s year,” he said. “She adores you, you know.” 

“I missed her,” You smiled. “It’s hard not to love a Karras - they’re very endearing.” You leaned into his shoulder where he held your arm, losing your resolve. I don’t know how I’m going to drive back like this, you thought. The noise of the subway faded, and all you felt was the rough fuzz of his coat on your cheek. You thought about all the things you had to say to him. Everything that went unsaid after your last goodbye - I wonder if he’s forgiven me? 

The sudden, crashing roar of the subway broke through the haze, and you forced your eyes open, blinking hard. You weren’t sure when he’d put his arm around you, but his arm fell away as he picked up your bags. You took them from him as the abrupt dread of saying goodbye poured over you, your throat tightening. The train drifted to a stop behind you, and you looked up at him. Your mind scrambled for something to say, something that would be good enough - something that would keep the moment from ending like you knew it would. 

He looked away from you at the opening doors. You had to say something.

“Thank-” you were cut off by his arms wrapping around you. You hugged him back, everything you had to say falling away, and you savored his embrace as the moment passed in a flash. When he let you go, you looked into his eyes, and suddenly reassured, you dug in your purse, finding a receipt. You scribbled your address, gathering yourself in a mad shuffle. You pushed the paper into his hand, dragging yourself to the open doors of the subway car. 

“Write to me,” You said as he followed, standing a few feet from the open doors. He smiled. 

“Merry Christmas,” he said, holding the crumpled paper with both hands, as if it would fly from his hands at any moment.

“Merry Christmas!” You shouted, cut off by the closing doors. You held his gaze for a few moments through the foggy glass before the train shook to life, speeding away with a grinding scrape. Your heart slowed from its racing pace, and you realized how red your face had been, pressing a cold hand to your burning cheek.

You were awake now. 

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

Adorable?? Using these in I Don't Love You But I Always Will

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[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 1

Summary:            

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

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

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 4.5k

After marrying a man you believed would give you the life you wanted, you think love will be enough. You leave everything you know and love behind, believing this.

A/N: This story takes place throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s.

  Chapter 1: Leaving for Georgia

Summer in DC was always beautiful, you thought. Something about the blue skies and the shaking of the leaves always brought out something warm and exciting in you - the wind is what you really loved. How it seemed to finger through your hair and make you blush, how it reminded you of the tingling, scrappy feeling of returning home after a long day of roaming the streets as a kid.

It reminded you why you loved the city.

Chris was always up-front about wanting to move back to Georgia after the wedding, and you had agreed easily; his aging grandparents were there after all, and a tenure-track position as a professor of philosophy at the University of Georgia was nothing to sneeze at, either.

You’d spent your mornings on the phone with realtors in Athens for the last three months, leafing through the mail every day to find new flyers and catalogs. Evenings were for wedding planning and house hunting.

It had been so much organizing, though your contentment with a small wedding was an anchor, his southern family was too large to be modest. The money, through it all, had been distressing. Your new husband may have been wealthy enough to cover the cost easily, but you still weren’t used to the feeling. You were raised on frugality after all - this kind of spending was terrifying. You winced just thinking about the blank check Chris had handed you one morning. Like it was no big deal. You called him for every little step of the process, confirming every piece of the reception with sweat rolling off your brow.

You readjusted your purse on your shoulder. The noise of the busy street was comforting, but it didn’t slow the race of your heart. It felt like everything was moving so fast.

You took the long way for a reason. Your steps became a little slower, and you stopped to set yourself haltingly on a bench in front of your favorite corner store and tried not to think about never seeing its bleached yellow awning again. Smiling sadly, you took out the folded flier again.

—

You’d had your little list of hopes for a home. Space for a garden, large window sills for sitting and reading, steps to sit on and shuck corn or peel apples. You knew you wanted it to be small - cleaning a mansion every day was not on your bucket list. You knew you wanted stained glass in your door - something to stream colors into the hall and remind you of the tall churches of home, and most of all you knew you wanted a room for your painting. Anything would do, just something for you to cover with scrapbooks and canvases.

With these in mind, you hungrily poured over the pictures his family and your realtor sent along every night and made notes, checking for price and commute time to his office and your school. You circled and cut and pasted, until you had a fitting list to show him in the morning. You’d trudge to bed, hands sticky with paste and head light with images of your future home together.

Of course, he had his own list. The house needed to be no less than 15 minutes from his parent’s home, with a spacious yard for him to keep pristine, and a large office with space for his books and papers. There had to be a large dining room, (for university guests of course) a broad back porch for beers and chess in the evenings, and two bathrooms (he was absolutely anal about sharing).

Every morning, you’d sit next to him during coffee and talk quietly about your findings. You’d slide him the carefully crafted scrapbook with all of your notes and clippings tastefully collected on a page, with each option’s best qualities highlighted. He’d give a tired smile:

“What have you got for me today, honey?”

You’d begin your pitch with a deep breath. “Meet 887 Cherry Drive: 2 bedroom, 2 bath, - she’s got a HUGE back yard, big windows, glorious mahogany floors, only 20 minutes out from your office, 30 from your folks, and has delightful red shutters. And on your left, 2003 Elliot: 3 bedroom, 2 bath, with a connected garage and white porch. This one’s on a corner, so the yard is more like a side yard, but it’s got a peach tree and-”

“Oh not that neighborhood, and couldn’t you get my drive down a little more? You’re a magician with it all, babe, I know you can figure it out,” he interjected, checking his watch. “Ready?”

You closed the book. “I’ll do my best,” you sighed. “Remember we have to buy this house by August,” You said.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just the book is taking all my time, and I only have so much time - and I’m marrying an artist for a reason! Gotta get some bang for my buck,” he smiled.

You sighed a smile. Your drive to his office helped, though, as he explained the wondrous world of footnotes. He always got this charming determined furrow to his brows when he got frustrated.

—

He picked a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom southern colonial a block away from his parents, deep in the Athens suburbs. It was stark white, with a rolling front yard and a stand alone garage - for your painting.

It wasn’t exactly what you pictured, but it had plenty of space, and two big hickory trees in front, with one in the back - the thought of the cool shade and quiet nights had you looking forward to it.

You tucked the folded flier back into your purse, and stood up with determination. Your skirt buffeted in the wind, like it was pushing you back. You walked on. He’ll be happy for me, we’ll have a friendly goodbye and we’ll go our separate ways.

You smiled into the wind as you turned onto the familiar brick path of St. Mike’s. Don’t cry.

—

He set the glass tumbler down with a dull clink and sat down in a huff. Class on Monday - I should really get them thinking about evidence-based decision making by the end of the month.

Damien enjoyed teaching, it added something to his life that he missed when he only spoke to the others at the seminary. All of their conversations came back to faith. Medicine he could give answers for, but faith was something different. He leaned on his fist as he watched the ice in his glass melt into muddy amber.

Faith was difficult. In the last few months, he could feel his assurance slip. He still believed wholeheartedly in his beliefs of course, but the world seemed to gray around him without… something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his thoughts had been clouded, days monotonous, and prayers rambling. It was like he was losing his touch.

It worried him. At least the students ask interesting questions.

He watched the leaves roll soundlessly outside the window and took a sip of his warming drink. It didn’t taste like anything.

He wondered if this was God’s latest test to his faith. A cruel one, at that. He usually trusted the path of his life - it was strange to question it. Maybe devotion is lonely. He’d lost some cosmic meaning; and when a priest loses his meaning, it often means he’s close to reaching that quiet, perfect devotion that carries him through the rest of his life. Maybe this is the feeling that makes so many men of the church so, so dull.

Then he thought of her.

Her easy conversation, the sun in her eyes, the warmth of her arm through his, her ever-changing laugh - yes, he thought. It has been a while, hasn’t it? He felt suddenly embarrassed, alone with his thoughts. He missed his friend - of course.

His thoughts suddenly fell to her wedding. He hadn’t realized he’d been blocking it out - he chalked it up to a busy schedule, the small voice in his head that went to medical school scolding him.

Only a few weeks ago, he had watched her walk down the aisle, glowing in a white dress.

—

He’d sat in the back corner, as far from the ceremony as he possibly could, strangely content to have as fuzzy a view of Chris, amicably chatting with Father Dyer, as possible. The ceremony was huge. It seemed like nearly 500 people crowded into the sanctuary, sweating politely through their Sunday best.  Days like these, he despised his high white collar.

He felt a little bad for his mother, seating them so far from the stage as possible, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to be avoiding looking at the groom as well.

He’d been to so, so many weddings over the years, always officiating, never attending simply as a guest. It was certainly a different occasion - somehow being in front of everyone with such a central role felt less visible than this did. He couldn’t complain, however, it was her wedding. He knew he had to be there - and his mother had absolutely insisted when she heard.

Her small family sat front row, the rest he could recognize as her guests were city natives. Her doctor, a few store owners, Carol (the only woman in the whole of the city she’d let cut her hair), some graying professors from your university days, and what looked like 20 kids and their parents - her Sunday school art students. The rest of the church he didn’t recognize, and the overture of southern accents in the chatter seemed unfamiliar.

The din quieted suddenly as the overbearing weight of the wedding march rang out through the sanctuary - you always liked how the organ shook the room.

People craned their necks to watch the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk slowly to the front. He involuntarily pressed a hand to his chest as his heart beat accelerated unexpectedly. His face grew hot and he tried to breathe deeply and quietly - was it audible above the organ?

He watched as Sharon stepped slowly through the doorway in front of him, she seemed relaxed. Seeing her suddenly brought him back to the moment, and he remembered there was no reason for him to be panicking. He set his arm along the back of the pew and parted a small smile as a young girl nervously sprinkled clumps of white petals across the red carpet. With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax, and silently thanked God he’d found a seat far from where she’d be able to see him.

Until she was suddenly before him, her eyes clear through the white mesh of your veil. She’d spotted him immediately - he was painfully aware of how wide his eyes were. She smiled.

Despite his hammering heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears, he smiled back, and something relaxed. Everything felt right then, and it was as if you’d shared a long, satisfying conversation or told a quiet inside joke - and then she turned towards the front with a step.

He wasn’t sure if it had been milliseconds or minutes, but the moment passed. He turned to his mother, who watched her with a sad smile, tears in her eyes. She held his hand in hers, cool and frail, and said quietly in Greek, “Εκεί πηγαίνει, φαίνεται τόσο όμορφη (There she goes, she looks so beautiful.)”

He forced a fast smile and looked forward. “Ναι, το κάνει (Yes, she does.)”

The rest of the ceremony passed quickly and foggily, as if it was a dream.

He didn’t see her again until the reception, when people had thronged around her so tightly he wondered if she could breathe. Flashes of white would appear in the crowd, and he subsisted on the occasional glance of her face among it all, beaming. She looks tired, he thought. Thrilled, but… tired.

Her hair had rebelled from its perfect styling, and single soft hairs stuck out at various angles, framing her face in messy curls. Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d stop running your hand through it, he smiled. You always do that when you’re high-strung.

He allowed himself to appreciate her dress in glances - the layers of off-white organza complimented her frazzled elation well, artsy, as always, and the cut complimented the curve of her waist-

He shook his head with a start. Well, it does.

He buried himself in conversation with Father Dyer, grateful for the familiar face in the crowd. He needed the distraction - from whatever that deep, vague sense of dread he was feeling was, and from her and her tired eyes and bright smile – champagne and Father Dyer’s easy going company would suffice. He leaned against a wall near the back of the room by the door, standing next to his mother, who watched the sea of people through sleepy eyes.

“Oh, looks like she’s about to toss the bouquet,” Father Dyer said, turning to a particularly loud group surrounding you. He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, crouching down to alert her of the spectacle. They watched as the bundle of flowers sailed over the sea of heads, hands snatching at petals as it fell. It landed in Sharon’s outstretched arms, and an excited chorus rose from the crowd as it dissipated quickly.

Seems fitting, he thought. The white of her dress was suddenly navigating through the crowd, passing hands on shoulders and smiling “excuse me, sorry, pardon me” fell from her lips. She looked up and pushed a wave of hair from her face as those familiar e/c eyes found his. She smiled, carefully picking her way through the maze of shoes.

He collected his thoughts quickly and straightened. She sighed a laugh and looked into his eyes as you came upon their small circle.

“Hey, I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” she said with an apologetic look.

“You look tired,” he said. She smiled, shrugging slightly, then turned away from him and leaned down to his mother’s outstretched arms, her dress collapsing around her in pillowy swells.

“Mama Karras!” She held her face in her hands, beaming up at her.

“Αγαπητέ μου, είστε όλοι ντυμένοι! Πάντα ήξερα ότι θα έκανες έναν όμορφο γάμο,” she said.

She glanced down to her hands, where she held three white roses, preserved from the bouquet. His mother’s face lit up.

“Δεν πρέπει να έχετε!” She gasped and gingerly clutched the roses to her heart, bringing her in with her other hand as she kissed her face. He smiled at them together - they were always so happy together. When his mother wasn’t asking you to eat more, or talking about him in broken English.  

“Couldn’t let you go home empty handed, Mama Karras,” she kissed her cheek and stood, holding her thin hand in her own. She leaned against the wall next to him, letting her head fall on his shoulder and hanging an arm from his coat sleeve.

“Can I tell you a secret,” She asked. He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow and a nod. He was grateful to finally have a moment to hear her, feel her touch again. Her face finally relaxed.

“I’m exhausted,” she said with a small smile, meeting his eyes and glancing over to Father Dyer.

“Lighten up, the wedding is meant to be for the bride after all.” He handed her a drink.

“Thanks.” She took a sip and sighed against him. He wished the whole party would evaporate then - just decide it was time to go home, leave you alone, let you sit down. He wondered if you’d sat down since before the ceremony.

The shadows across the room had long since grown long, and the light had changed from a bright yellow to a deep orange. The music simmered above the din, the low, sonorous tones of Doris Day relaxing the mood.

She tugged on his sleeve and glanced up at him.

“A dance, ‘father?’” She nodded towards the opening in the crowd, where guests had paired up, drifting in lazy circles. He looked to his mother, separating from you to lay a hand on her shoulder.

“How are you feeling, mama? Could we leave you for a moment?” She looked suddenly awake, lighting up as she stood quickly, straining against her cane.

“Μη χάνεις στιγμή να μου μιλάς, συνέχισε!” (Don't waste a minute talking to me, go on!) She pushed his hand away, walking haltingly to father Dyer and taking his arm. He went along easily, shooting him a knowing smile and turning to his mother happily.

He held out his arm.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said. She smirked, taking his arm as they stepped slowly to the dance floor.

His face felt warm again, and his heart sped as they drew closer. She deflected relatives’ prying glances politely, leading them slowly. He wondered then if this was too much, if it wouldn’t bring Chris out swinging. Somehow he knew he wasn’t one to do that, but was slightly alarmed at how easily the thought of defending her from her new husband had slipped into his mind.

All at once, they had arrived. He left his thoughts as her arm suddenly left his, hand resting in his as she brought her other hand up to his shoulder, her arm resting bent against his. He brought an unsteady hand to her waist, squeezing her hand in his other. She looked up to his eyes as they began to step and spin slowly, talking quietly.

“So how do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course.” He gave a frank smile.

“Better than tired, I count it as a win,” she replied. She laid her head against his shoulder and yawned with a laugh. “Damn.”

“Cursing at a priest at your own wedding! Wait and see where that gets you,” He yawned. “Stop that.” He resisted the urge to rest his chin on her hair.

She closed her eyes.

“I like where it’s gotten me so far.” They stayed like that for a while, mumbling under the music and barely moving at all. She scrunched up her face and shook her head slightly, lifting her head away from him.

“Sorry dames, I’ve got to wake up,” She blinked repeatedly and rubbed her eyes. “Still have the rest of my wedding to be at, probably should be awake for it.” He fixed a strand of h/c hair behind her ear and took her hand. He led her arm over her head, turning her in a lazy spin.

“Wake up then,” He said. The song ended then, and the room faded back into view. They let go of each other’s hands, suddenly aware again, and clapped with the rest of the guests. She smiled at him among it all, and something struck him in her look. You’re happy.

He went to take your hand again when Chris rushed up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your hair as you laughed. All attention was on her again, and her eyes were on Chris. Not him.

He stepped into the crowd quietly, navigating back to his mother and Father Dyer.

They left before he could see you searching the crowd for him.

—

Your knock rang out loudly in the quiet hallway of the conservatory. Your heart rushed and your skin prickled at the silence. You always appreciated that about the church, that utter quiet, and better yet, breaking it with some angelic choir or powerful organ. Breaking this silence felt different though: nervous. You could hear shuffling from within.

The door unlatched and swung open in a rush, and Damien was all at once in front of you. He looked disheveled, but fully dressed - like he’d fallen asleep standing up.

“Hey Dames,” you said with a small smile. “Did I wake you up?” You stepped towards him, straightening his rumpled collar.

“No, no, just… lost in thought -thanks for that,” He looked distant for a moment as he pushed his hair back. “Come in,” he said with a tired smile.

You stepped into the familiar room, sparse as ever. The low bed was neatly made, a solitary cross hanging above the headboard. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, the noise of the street drifting in over the silence. The only clutter of the room was an abundance of books; a half of the small room had books piled on every surface, wedged in every crook and cranny. The table was similarly populated, displaying a few open books and strewn papers. He gathered them self-consciously, adding the stack to an already-precarious pile on the floor.

You smiled at his collection and turned to his closet. You scanned the top shelf.

“Where’d you move your vase?” You asked. You offered your small bundle of black-eyed susans with a crinkle.

He dropped a stack of papers on his bed and looked over with a raised eyebrow and thought for a moment.

“Ah.” He swiveled and produced the blue pitcher, pitching the musty water into the gutter outside the window before stepping through the bathroom door at the back of the room.

You unwrap the flowers, setting the paper on the table and dropping the bunched stems into the awaiting pitcher easily. He set the pitcher on the table with a light thud.

“Thanks, they really bring it all together,” he said with a light smile.

You always enjoyed his room- some may have thought it claustrophobic, but you preferred cozy. Countless afternoons reading and talking over coffee and tea - he always kept a box for you - sitting with your back to his dresser and his back to the wall, you’d drape your legs over his and watch the light grow orange with the evening. Conversation came in patches, quips about a passage, some thought question or story about your day, and you’d slip between talking and reading, lazily flipping through hours on end. You hadn’t been over in some time - you missed those afternoons.

You were struck, suddenly, by the knowledge that this might be the last time you spoke here. You fiddled with your hands, spinning your wedding band around your ring finger. His brow furrowed with concern.

“What’s on your mind?” He sat, you followed.

“I’m uh, I’m here to tell you I’m leaving, Dames, for Georgia in a week,” You said, flashing him a smile you hoped wasn’t too forced before looking down again. “Chris’ parents are there, and we’ve bought a house in Athens. It’s close to the University, and to the school. We’re really excited- I’m really excited for the fresh start, you know? And-and I’ll get to teach part-time, art, and I’m so excited to meet the kids, and,” you looked up to find him stony-faced, brown eyes swimming with hurt. “And, so I’m leaving the city soon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

You took his hand across the table and squeezed. He looked away. You sat in silence for what seemed like minutes, watching his eyes stare at the white wall. You didn’t pray often, but suddenly your mind rang with pleas. No, no, no, I’m sorry, I wish I’d told you sooner. You’re mad. You’ll never forgive me. I wish you’d look at me.

“Talk to me, Dames, please,” You said, swallowing hard. He inhaled and straightened. He turned to you and brought his other hand to yours.

“Is that what you want?” He said, face lined with pity. “Do you- want to leave the city?”

You were taken aback by his change in tone, now tone soft and coaxing. His therapy voice. His advice voice. His “savior” voice. Your stomach twisted with indignation.

“Yes,” you said in earnest, looking away. You couldn’t look at him when he gets like this, not now. “He’s my husband, Dames, what are you saying?” You drew your hand away.

“I’m not- You’re not hearing me - are you sure?” You stood.

“Yes, I’m sure! You’re acting like I’m some wayward woman you have to counsel - you’re my best friend, Dames, I thought you’d be happy for me-” He stood and looked you in the eye, his face serious.

“I’m not blind, y/n,” He raised his voice slightly, taut with frustration. “I have watched you give yourself up to him, piece by piece - first it was your apartment, then it was your job, and now it’s this- you’re leaving me, everything?”

“That’s what marriage is! That’s what love is!” You whipped around to look at him now as you raised your voice. “It’s devotion! Sacrifice! I chose this!” Why were you getting defensive? You weren’t thinking straight - you took a shaky breath and ran a hand through your hair. You hated this feeling.

“And don’t you dare act like you don’t know what that means. Like I haven’t watched you give yourself to the church - watched you sweat and cry and bleed for this? You think that hasn’t been hard for me? Watching you give everything away and leave nothing for yourself?” Nothing for me?

“Don’t make me say it, y/n.” He said, scarily still, brown eyes burning. “It isn’t the same - I’d never choose-”

“And I’d never make you! I’d never ask that!” You said. He stopped at that, looking like he had more to say but turning away. You were surprised as a hot tear dripped down your cheek. You held a hand to your mouth, swiping the tear away and turning. No, not in front of him. Not now.

Your head ached sharply as you held back tears. The pressure was overwhelming. You tried to take a breath, but it came shaky and louder than you wanted. Your face burned with embarrassment. He started to say your name behind you but you gathered yourself as much as you could and clutched your jacket together.

“Tell your mother I’ll miss her,” you managed. He was quiet. “Goodbye, Damien.”

You didn’t look back, opening the door to the quiet hall and walking as quickly as you could away. Away from him, away from his warm voice, his knowing looks, his broad hands, his rare smile, and everything else you loved about him. The sound of his door shutting at the end of the hall was all it took. Hot tears streamed silently down your face, your vision blurry and head pounding. The only sound was your shaking breaths and small, choking sobs.

You stepped onto the street with a wash of relief and set out the way you came, hurriedly smearing tears away as you walked.

You wondered for a moment if this would make leaving easier. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t.