#Copia X oc

[kabukiaku]

latest batch of kofi commissions! thank you all for your continued support 🖤✨

[saintjezebel483]

"His eyes were alluring, though his features and soft wrinkles on his forehead and face showed his age. Yet, you could still see that he was quite charming and attractive. He had an unconventional allure, but a subjective attractiveness nonetheless."

[themratts]

Valentine’s Day is around the corner 🥰

[enjoy-my-swearing]

I know I am inactive lately. Life got in the way. Again. But I still do draw small things, like this one!

A gift for @the-lisechen who writes wonderful Copia x OC fanfic. If you haven't checked their writing out yet then what are you doing? I cannot advertise enough how good and unique it is!

It's got everything! Pining! Slow Burn! Ecumenical dialogue! Traces of corruption, temptation and being a little bit fucked up about eachother! Smart people arguing!

You can find it on ao3 here: you found the ache in my argument

[ninesposting]

More of Nora and Cardi, this time they got caught smooching on company time

ArtFight starts soon so I gotta get this stuff out of my system before I’ll be drawing other stuff for a month lol

[sadistic-cardinal]

Call Me Copia

Copia x Sister of Sin

Word count: 1450

A Sister of Sin comes across a disassociating Frater Imperator and offers him a little bit of comfort. He is very stuck in his own head.

Post RHRN so there are some spoilers for the Ghovie.

Read it on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60551332

"Someone needs to do something."

"We can't just go up and bother members of the upper clergy."

"He has been stood there for four and a half hours, we can't just leave him."

"Well, I'm not getting in trouble. If you want to that's fine by me. Come on, Jen."

Sister Macy takes one last look at the back of the man in question before looping her arm through Sister Jen's and heading briskly down the long corridor, leaving the reluctant Lucy alone to make her own mind up about what to do.

Lucy sighs, wringing her hands as she listens to the fading footfalls of her friends' hasty retreat. Members of the upper clergy. Such formalities never seemed to apply to him before. Though far from a social butterfly, Copia never seemed the type of man that would turn you away or be angry at a genuine display of compassion. For all the nasty rumours that surrounded him, Lucy was always one to trust her own eyes and ears and what she saw of the former Papa he was a gentle, kind, somewhat awkward but infinitely patient man whose door was always open for siblings in need.

He was nothing like his mother. The late Sister Imperator. Stern. Cold. Dismissive. The iron fisted ruler of the Ministry who dispatched Ghouls and Papas at will. Though she was always good to him. Her son. At least in recent years. The whole situation was rather sad, Lucy thought. And more than likely the cause for Papa- no, Frater Imperator's- increasingly odd behaviour as of late. Siblings had noted him spacing out, far more than usual. His eyes, even under the black Papal paints, were sunken and hollow. Glassy. Lifeless. On more than one occasion he had been seen yelling at thin air. The paperwork was piling up, the Ghouls were distressed, and now he was standing in the hallway, looking into empty space, and had been for the past few hours.

No, it was not right to leave him like this, Lucy decided. Consequnces be damned, since when was it disallowed to ask Copia if he would like a cup of tea? That wouldn't exactly warrent an excommunication, would it?

She finds her feet moving and before she even realises what she is doing, she is next to him.

"P...-"

Good start. Almost calling him the wrong title. Lucy internally scolds herself for her mistake.

Although, in his current state he may appreciate his old one a little more. Maybe it would feel like none of this ever happened. Maybe he could believe he really was still Papa, still had his Ghouls, still had his mother. Even just for a moment. But then the illusion would shatter once again. No, not Papa. Not anymore.

"Frater Imperator?" She asks timidly.

Nothing. He is like a statue. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink she would have thought he too had been embalmed, like his brothers.

"Frater Imperator?" She says, a little louder.

Still nothing. She looks up at him and sees the tension. Practically feels it radiating off him. A thin sinew wound tight in his neck, his hands clamped together in front of his stomach, his shoulders absolutely rigid.

It is there she touches him, just below his shoulder.

"Copia." She says, firmly, as her fingers make contact with the pleasant texture of the very expensive black jacket he wears.

He stiffens instantly, sucking air through his teeth, and looks at her with an expression that reminds her of a frightened, cornered animal.

"Ah, s-sister. Hello. How do you do..?"

He manages, and she tries to fight off the pitying expression she can feel plastered all over her face.

"Just fine, Frater." She says gently, removing her hand before he notices.

"Um..."

He cocks an eyebrow at her, his gloved hands twisting together, a habit so deeply ingrained it is automatic at this point. They stare at eachother for what feels like an agonising eternity.

"Sister? May i help you? I am ah... i am quite busy."

It is Lucy's turn to cock an eyebrow.

"Frater... "

"Hmh?"

"You... um, you have been stood here for a while. I... just wanted to um... see if you needed anything...?"

Copia blinks.

"A while?"

He repeats back. Then he sees it. The pity. The concern. She doesn't have to tell him, it's written all over her face.

"...ah."

"Yes, Frater, i... i don't mean to interrupt but you've been in this corridor since two. It's... it's half past six now. Um... -"

"I see."

Copia sighs. He had done it again. It kept happening. Losing hours and hours. The tunnel vision. Feeling like he was outside himself. Seeing it again. The LA Forum. The view from a mile high. His mother. The paramedics. The Ghouls... Her body, lifeless-

"Copia?"

His name snaps him back to reality with an uncomfortable jolt. She was saying something. This pretty little Sister with her red hair and freckles. What was she saying?

"Perdonami?"

She smiles for the first time since the conversation started and his chest fills with warmth. A rare and pleasent sensation amidst the utter turmoil that accounts for most of his essence.

Then her hand is on him again, on his forearm and squeezing lightly. A sensation like electricity shoots upwards from the point of contact and he can hardly stand it.

The sheer open sincerity and kindness of the gesture almost breaks him right there.

He doesn't know her, not really. He has seen her around, of course, but what is this sweet little thing doing being kind to a weird old man like him? Respectful, yes, the siblings have to be, it comes with the position. But genuine kindness? That is not something he is often on the recieving end of. Odd. Awkward. Creepy. That's what they think of him. He is not stupid, he knows what they all say behind his back. And they're right, he knows this too. 'She should be running,' he thinks. What is she doing alone in a corridor with a man who can hardly control his own mind right now. She knows it. It is why she came over in the first place. She's speaking again. That gentle, soothing voice. Something about tea.

"Tea?" He blurts, just about having caught that as his thoughts began to spiral again. Her hand was gone from his arm but the lingering sensation of her touch remained. When was the last time someone had touched him? Was it when the stage hands had helped him up off the ground...-

"It always calms my nerves."

"What?"

Lucy smiles. For a Satanic nun she really did have the patience of a saint. What was she doing here?

"Camomile tea. It never fails. I have some... in my dorm. I could make you a cup, Frater? It's just... forgive me but you look like you could use a nice hot cup and... maybe... a little company?"

Damn where his mind went when she said that. Even in his moment of need when this girl comes to help he's still just an old letch-

"Yes."

"Yes? Great, I'll get it...-"

"Eh, no, you don't need to. I have some. I have some in my quarters."

He looks at her, idly tapping his fingers together, another nervous tick.

"If you're comfortable coming... eh...you don't have to...-"

Why must he be this awkward? She offered, didn't she? If this girl had any sense she would turn tail and run.

"I'd love to, Frater." A part of her must have sensed his need because in an instant her hand is looping through the crook of his elbow and gently guiding him along. His old knees creak, seizing from having been stood in one spot for so long, and he tries not to betray it on his face. Instead he concentrates on the feeling of her small hand ever so gently squeezing his arm. Again it is almost too much but oh how he craves it. The anxious tapping stops and he gently places his gloved hand over hers as they walk, feeling more present than he has in weeks.

"You... eh... what was your name again?" How rude not to have asked before. The shame turns his ears red and he steals a glance at her. She doesn't seem to mind.

"Lucy, Frater. Sister Lucy Corson." She says, giving his arm another gentle squeeze as they make their way through the Ministry.

He lets out a little sigh, making sure he commits it to memory, determined to remember every detail of this moment.

"Lucy. Eh... Please... just call me, Copia."

[snake-seeds]

The fifth Enzo Polaroid:

Enzo was around to see one of Copia’s shows for once and really enjoyed himself. They ended up hanging out afterwards to unwind and watch shitty movies.

“That show was fun, it was nice to find out I could take some time off work to go to a few more with him. Even if I did have to help with behind the scenes shit. I find it easier to look at my face in this one, only because he won’t let me feel bad about it.” -Enzo.

[circle--of--confusion]

In Sickness And In Health

Summary:

Copia gets sick from a bad batch of blood and Sarah makes sure to take care of him. Copia makes sure to return the favor when Sarah comes down with an illness.

A/N: I just love them, your honor. 🥰

Paring: Cardinal Copia [Dracopia] X OC [Sarah]

Words: 2.3k

Tags: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, sickfic, hurt/comfort, blood drinking, very mild cardiophilia in one part, discussions of their future

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Friday night, this month, marks a routine occasion: a re-stock of blood for him when he needs to feed, as if he hasn't indulged in his beloved Sarah as well in-between refills. He thanked the delivery ghoul and took Sarah into his arms, playfully dancing them around the kitchen before they sat down.

"Dinner is served, amore mio. Sit down, I'll make your plate." Copia kissed her temple and let her go with a smile.

It's nothing fancy, leftover pizza from a small diner they visited last night. He'd gussied up the re-heated slices for her while they waited for the blood delivery. As they ate, Copia "popped open" a bag to drink while she consumed the slices, occasionally extending the piece over for him to take a bite.

"Do you ever crave a particular type?" Sarah muses, gesturing to his goblet.

He thinks it over, swirling it around for a few seconds. "Sometimes.”

"What does this one taste like?"

Copia takes a sip, shrugging. "It's fine. There’s a slightly different aftertaste with this one. B- can be finicky."

Sarah chuckles. "Well, I hope you can find a way to be positive about it."

He smiles fondly across the table, bubbles of laughter coming between them. "You're clever, cara mia. Have I said that love that about you?"

She preens, smiling wide with a blush. Sarah gets up to clean her plate and Copia moves to the fridge to grab desert: homemade tiramisu from the skilled Secondo. He cuts a slice for them to share and they dig in, humming.

"This is so delicious! I can't believe it's been so long since our first date that we've had it again." Sarah practically moans as she closes her eyes to savor the taste, distracting Copia from his thoughts.

"I'll, uh," he clears his throat. "I'll tell him you liked it."

Sarah nods. "Please. Send my complements to the chef." She hums, dramatically moaning again at how delicious the next bite is. The delectable desert goes over well, too well for Copia, and her reaction has him fidgeting in his seat.

Loud gulps from Copia break Sarah out of her sweet trance and she looks up to find him, goblet bottoms-up, rapidly drinking his dinner. He finishes by leaning his head way back then straightening up, slamming his cup to the table.

He sighs gravely. "That was good." Copia licks his tongue, grimacing at a slightly funky aftertaste.

"Be careful, my love, you don't want a stomach ache."

Copia waves his hand. "I'm not going to get sick, Sarah. Don't worry about it.”

The two settle into bed at the end of the night, both feeling a bit drowsy now that their stomachs are full. When he drinks blood, he gets the same feeling regular people do of getting sleepy after eating a great meal. Sarah once teased him about it, pointing out his dopey, smiley face after Copia had come up from her neck one night. He curled up to her, slowly moving his arm and leg over her body to snuggle into her, quickly falling asleep after she was cleaned and bandaged.

Presently, he’s doing the same, pulling her to him as he spoons from behind. There’s the occasional sniffle and Sarah chuckles.

“What’s going on, my love?”

He grumbles. “The room must be dusty.”

◊◊◊◊◊

Copia snuggles into Sarah as she slowly wakes up from her sleep. He nuzzles his face into her chest, humming as he lies on top of her, mumbling a raspy “good morning”.

She brushes her fingers through his hair in bliss. It’s the weekend so she gets to sleep in, allowed to bask in this moment and not have to force her way out of the bed. “G’mrnin’ ‘pia.” She manages, no energy available to enunciate yet. The comforting weight of Copia over Sarah’s body has her nearly sinking back into sleep.

He stirs, rising on one arm while his free hand moves to caress the side of her face. Copia’s thumb lightly rubs over her cheek when her eyes open to look up at him. “How did you sleep, dolcezza?”

Sarah yawns, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Like the dead.” She stretches.

Copia laughs softly, leaning down to press the first kiss of many for the day to her lips. “That’s good to heaatchoo!”

Sarah winces, scrunching up her face as the impromptu sneeze from Copia lands right on her. “Copia?” She looks up at him and he sniffles, confused.

He leans away from her, moving to rest on his back. Another sneeze escapes him and Sarah scootches away a few inches. “This is new,” Copia says plainly. His muscles ache and he feels weaker than usual.

“Are you sick? Is that possible?”

Apparently, it is. Sarah made a call to the ministry clinic soon after his symptoms started and they confirmed the blood he drank recently. A sibling who donated ended up coming back this morning with a cold and it wasn’t caught in time to get the blood bag back from Copia’s delivery yesterday. He’d just so happened to have chosen that particular one last night to drink.

She sits by him as he lies in bed, running her finger softly over Copia’s face as he lies on his back in a daze. “The nurse said you should process it all in about three days but today is going to feel like the worst.”

He scoffs, sniffling once more. “I haven’t been sick since before I was turned! Normally I can tell by the smell or the taste but I must’ve been distracted.” Copia looks up at her.

“Oh? You’re blaming me for ending your centuries long iron man streak of not getting sick?” Sarah playfully raises an eyebrow.

“Of course not!” he grumbles, sitting up. “But you were moaning very nicely during desert last night and I may have chugged my glass of blood to distract myself from it.”

Sarah rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Is there anything I can get you, my love?” She brushes her fingers through his hair and he briefly closes his eyes with a soft hum. “Snacks? A juice box? Hot or cold compress? Help to the couch?”

Copia shifts and Sarah stands from the bed. “I think I can walk all by myself to the cou-whoa!” He stands, immediately hit with a wave of vertigo. His body sways, trying desperately to stay still and upright, rapidly blinking as he attempts to get his bearings while on his feet. The gentle hold of Sarah around his waist helps to ground him. “Could you, ah, help me to the couch actually?”

“My pleasure, Copia.”

The both hobble out of his bedroom, wrapped around each other as they slowly make it to the living room. Copia falls to the couch with a groan and a shiver. “Could you text Secondo if he has some soup?”

“You want me to just text a Papa? I don’t even have his number!” Sarah chuckles nervously.

She then texts Amelia to ask Terzo if he can text Secondo for soup.

He does!

Sarah thanks everyone and goes to his quarters to retrieve it along with a few other sick day remedies from the clinic. When she gets back to their apartment, Copia is now laying outstretched on the couch, bundled under two layers of blankets pulled up to his chin with a leg sticking out for temperature control. An old, familiar movie he doesn’t have to pay attention to plays out from his boxy TV as he stares into an imaginary void in front of him.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Sarah softly asks as she approaches him, crouching down to face Copia. She holds the back of her hand over his forehead.  

“I’m dying, amore mio,” Copia groans.

“Happy to see we aren’t in hysterics anymore.”

“I’m wasting away.”

Sarah stands, walking over to her groceries. “You have an upper respiratory infection.”

Copia sneezes, grabbing another tissue from box number two of the day, discarding it into a plastic grocery store bag. “Thank you for getting Secondo’s soup, dolcezza,” he quietly croaks from the couch. “Grazie.”

“Do you want it now?” She looks back to him, pitiful under the blankets, and frowns.

He shakes his head, pulling the covers back. “Would you lay down with me? I think holding you would make me feel better.” He looks at Sarah with the wettest puppy dog eyes she’s ever seen.

Her head tilts to the side and she leans into the counter. “How can I resist that face?”

Copia smiles and tries to back into the cushions as much as he can to make room. He excitedly pats the free space, grinning wider as Sarah gets closer to the couch. She lays down on her side in front of him and Copia immediately wraps an arm around Sarah’s waist, pulling her closer to him. He breathes as best he can into her hair, trying so hard to smell her shampoo to center his mind.

“Is this good?” Sarah asks.

Copia hums, nodding his head into her. “Perfect, amore mio.”

◊◊◊◊◊

The next day is much smoother as most of his symptoms lessened through the night. Copia actually slept the entire night, never moving as he held Sarah in his arms.

“I know you wanted to do something more exciting this weekend, amore mio. So, thank you for taking care of me.” Copia mumbles into her neck. He’s cuddled into Sarah on the couch, one of their countless movies play and he’s not paying attention as he naps on top of her, using her body as a pillow. The steady sound of her beating heart, now one of his favorite songs, helps to keep him lulled into a relaxed mindset under her care. The melody of her love for him helps to soothe his aches and pains.

Sarah cards her fingers through his hair and she thinks he might actually be purring. “In sickness and in health, right?”

Copia makes a confused humming sound and angles his head to look up at her. She’s smiling down, continuing her gentle brushing through his hair. “Do you intend to make an honest man out of me one day, dolcezza?”

“I just might.” Sarah giggles, stopping her soft brushing briefly to boop Copia’s nose before going back to his hair.

He stares longingly at her lips, biting his own as he wonders. “Do you think it’s safe to kiss?”

She weighs the options, looking off into the distance as she thinks. “Oh, what the hell!”

They lean in towards each other, sighing as their lips touch for the first time in a day. It feels like an eternity has passed since they could, though. Copia’s lips are slightly chapped but Sarah doesn’t mind. All she cares is that they’re finally sharing the feeling of the way they show their affection that she’d missed. The clinic warned against any close contact while he processes his illness but if she’s going to get anything from him, it’s probably too late to try preventing the spread.

Copia pulls back and Sarah follows his lips before settling in her spot on the couch. “You know, the turning ritual could also become a marriage ceremony.” He settles back down onto her chest, nuzzling his face into her neck once again.

“Ah! Two birds, one stone.”

“Would you want that?” Copia asks, voice muffled a bit.

Sarah smiles, running her hand up and down his back. “I already love you enough to turn into a vampire so we can be together for eternity, right?” Copia nods below. “I think it would be wonderful, my love. What better way to celebrate my future eternal life by demonstrating it will be from an eternal, devoted love between us?”

He grins into her neck and they both hold each other tighter. “Ti amo, Sarah.”

She leans down to press a kiss to his head, whispering, “Ti amo anch'io, Copia”

◊◊◊◊◊

Day three of Copia’s mini affliction has arrived and he wakes up finally being able to breathe through his nostrils. He smiles, closing his eyes in satisfaction while being able to inhale the scent of Sarah’s presence without sniffling. Copia turns his head, looking over to her as she sleeps on her side facing him. She’s so peaceful in her slumber and he leans over to press a kiss to the tip of her nose.

Sarah stirs shortly after, turning with a huff onto her back. “Did you kiss my nose earlier?” She asks, eyes still closed but her nostrils flair slightly.

“And what if I did?” Copia teases.

Sarah opens her eyes finally, greeted by a grinning vampire. “Feeling better?”

“A million times better, amore mio.”

She nods, sighing into the air. “That’s wonderful. I feel like garbage.” Sarah sniffles.

Copia leans over, leaning to press a kiss to her lips to start the day. “How bad are you, amore mioh no.”

Sarah sneezes into his face and he scrunches up as the impact takes him by surprise. “I’m, ah, so sorry.”

“No, no, this might as well happen.” He nods, moving to lay back.

Sarah calls off work and Copia spends the next few days helping nurse her back to health with leftovers of Secondo’s soup, returning the same love she gave him. Her aching body feels bearable when the gentle touch of Copia’s hands run over her body in the warm bath they share. Sarah’s back leans into his chest after he rubs her shoulders, lowering to massage her arms then legs. Relaxing oils were poured into the water as he ran the bath for them.

She just barely mumbles a sleepy “thank you” as his hands move around Sarah’s muscles.

“In sickness and in health, right, amore mio?” Copia smiles, whispering to her ear as Sarah drifts off.

She hums, floating in his affectionate embrace and smiling when he presses a soft kiss to her neck, keeping his lips on her skin.

Sarah rises a hand from the water, grabbing Copia’s and placing it over her heart. She squeezes his hand and grins, responding back, “Forever, my love.”

He presses one more kiss to her neck, responding, “Forever.”

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!

[shaykesqueer]

Ghoul!Fox and Copia have a baby and she’s the cutest little cabbage patch kid

Her name is Raphaella and she’s part Air so she. Floats arounds sometimes.

[portaltothevoid]

hypothetically….

what if… there was an enemies to lovers, slow burn, mafia au fic… the ghafia, if you will… starring (dark) copia… what if i discovered the canon fact of copia having a gun… and i took that and ran.

and, hypothetically of course, there was an OC named arianna diodati who’s copia’s (very catholic) rival’s daughter… and he uses her as a bargaining chip to get what he wants…

and, also hypothetically, he becomes hellbent on corrupting her catholic ways….

then what if i told you… this was coming soon, very soon and there’s a teaser below the cut… 👀

and…. maybe…. chapters 1 & 2 of “God Called In Sick Today” can be found right here

trigger warnings for series include (but won’t be limited to): angst, abusive relationship, violence, gun use, kidnapping, blood, religious trauma, corruption kink, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, slow burn, dark romance

~~~~~~

Arianna never liked the Emeritus family. In fact, she borderline hated them with their menacingly painted faces and blasphemous way of life. She never quite understood how they rose to rival that of her family. Perhaps they really did make a deal with the devil.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” she said quietly. Alessio just waved her off, her father already in a passionate discussion regarding something she could care less about.

She made her way to the bar, getting the attention of one of the bartenders. “Your usual, Ms. Diodati?”

“Yes, please,” she smiled.

It wasn’t long until she felt a pair of eyes on her from the other end of the bar. She looked up to see Copia, the ringleader of the Satanic circus, staring her down like a hunter watching its prey. It sent a shiver down her spine, but all he saw was the scowl that encapsulated her face. That only made him smirk at her.

She rolled her eyes in disgust, looking away from him. Out of the corner of her eye, though, when she knew his attention was back on someone that wasn’t her, she couldn’t help herself from taking in his appearance. She hated to admit, he looked… elegant. His burgundy pants were impossibly tight in all the right ways. It pained her to acknowledge the way they perfectly hugged his thighs. He had foregone his suit jacket, leaving just his matching burgundy vest and black dress shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled up and she could see his muscles flex as he grabbed his drink.

Her eyes lingered for a few seconds too long. This time, he caught her watching him. His mouth curled up again into a sly half-smile as he took a drink. His dichromatic eyes never left her. The instant her drink hit the counter, she brought it to her lips and weaved her way through everyone back to Alessio in hopes of putting distance between her and whatever exchange had just taken place.

~~~~~~

thoughts? if this sounds like something you’d want to dive into… let me know in a comment you want to be added to the tag list!

[the-lisechen]

~6.7k. gen. copia/f!oc. the cardinal has a cigarette with a fan. from there, it gets a little weird. (or: copia gets into a fist fight at 3am in a denny's parking lot over theology. metaphorically speaking.)

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

(the fic that started it all and has eaten my brain ever since. don't mind me, i just wanted to reformat this one and also have it on my tumblr for posterity)

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

religious discussion, catholic character that isn't an asshole, unresolved sexual tension. tw: catholicism

Copia stepped out into the night, face paint mostly cleaned off, save for the black around his eyes. He couldn't even remember the name of the town they were in. Somewhere in the American South, the air warm and heavy with humidity that felt like silk against his skin. He settled his shoulders against the brick of the alleyway, and sighed, his blood still fizzing from the ritual. The comedown from the adrenaline dump always left him a little hollowed out and shaky.

As he passed a hand over his face, the car in front of him trilled out like a bird and flashed its lights. He turned to the sound of boots up the wet pavement. A small figure, female, dishwater blonde hair, head down, hands stuffed into black skinny jeans. Humming something he could recognize as one of his songs, and that never got old.

He watched her approach, curious. When she at last stepped into the light, she looked up at him, and startled like a deer. Her hands flew up to her mouth, and she squeaked out a breathless “Oh shit!” It took her a moment to recover, and my, wasn't that an interesting shade of pink. He’d seen people blush, of course, but this was remarkable, that red, that quickly.

He had to smile, even bowing a little. “Bunoasera, signora."

"Um! Hi! You are very good at your job!"

Her purse plopped next to her feet, and she knelt down to recollect it, the blush deepening to the color of late spring roses. "Sorry, I'm sorry--" she said, hands shaking as she scooped spilled detritus back into her purse, pens and lip balm spilling from her fingers.

He bent over to help her, smiling. "It is no trouble, signora. Not the worst I've seen." He paused, sitting back on his heels, and picked up a battered paperback the color of burnt orange. "'The Liberation of Theology.'" He looked up at her, mismatched eyes sharp, assessing. "This is what you read? At my show?"

The girl-- woman, really-- went still. She got to her feet and took half a step back, widening her stance, her shoulders squared. "Yeah." She tilted her chin up. "Is it really that strange?"

He flipped it to read the back cover, and her spine relaxed a fraction, with his focus off of her. "Perhaps... somewhat unexpected." An understatement. He stood, slow, putting himself further into her personal space, eyes still on the text in his hand. He read the subtitle. "'An instrument in human liberation.' Has it been?" He looked down at her, not exactly trying to loom, but not exactly going out of his way not to. "In your experience."

The woman folded her arms, leaning back against her car. Keeping her distance. "It can be. It should be." She flipped her keyring, once. "And in my experience? Yes, actually. But I am fully aware my experience may be-- atypical."

"In what way?"

"Well." She looked up, exposing the long pale line of her throat, and her Southern accent became gradually more apparent as she spoke. "I converted to Catholicism. Not really from anything, you understand, unless you count the vaguely agnostic Protestant background noise in America. And I did my catechism classes with a Capuchin Franciscan. A lot of mysticism. And a lot of social action to offset the navel-gazing that comes with that. The culture was-- it's different. I mean, how much do you know about liberation theology?"

"For the purposes of this conversation?" He idly tapped her book against his thigh. "Let us say... not much."

"In simple terms: feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Like the guy said in the book, right? It's both defending the poor and taking aim at the structural issues that are actively oppressing people. Real basic."

"You need a God to tell you this?"

He saw her warming to the subject, eyes alight and not quite on his. "Of course not, but it's a useful framework. And some people do! Whatever provides incentive. Besides that, it works on a practical level, if the Church is your primary social apparatus, that's a structure in place to distribute resources if the state is failing. I mean, the Jesuit approach in South America is not quite the same as the Black church in the Civil Rights movement in the USA in the Sixties, but it's not too far off, either. It's like--" and she cut herself off, the blush coming back, eyes cast downward. "It's just what's supposed to happen. What it says on the tin."

He ruffled the pages with a gloved hand a few times, watching her. "Incentive." He gestured at her with the book, halfway to accusatory. "If someone is doing something in expectation of divine reward, then they are, I'm afraid, an asshole."

"Man, I truly do not care about the motive. I care about the effect it has on the world. But faith without works is dead."

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

"You are this passionate about it, and yet you came to see me. My songs are nothing but blasphemy. Why?"

"Look, as blasphemy goes-- and I'm not trying to denigrate anything you're doing here-- this is just not that big a deal."

He stared at her. "I am literally praising the devil. Literal songs about, literally, devil worship."

"Yeah, and it slaps. Can I have my book back?"

He held it out carefully, as if it was a chunk of meat and she was a strange animal. One that might bite. "What is it, then, that qualifies as blasphemy? In your opinion."

She took it, opened the backseat door to her car, and tossed it in, careful not to turn her back on him. "I dunno. Start with that 'prosperity gospel' bullshit. 'If you're rich, it's because Jesus wants you to be rich!' Joel Osteen can bite the fucking curb. It's lazy exegesis, is what it is." Again, he saw her restrain herself, and she ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I can go on. Obviously. But I think if you're getting bent out of shape about this kind of thing, you need to reassess your priorities."

"No, this is-- at least amusing. You haven't chased us out with torches and pitchforks yet, so I will continue to assume good faith." He smiled. "So to speak."

"Trust me, I am leaving a lot of stuff out." She fished around in her purse, picked out a brilliantly blue pack of cigarettes, and tapped them rhythmically on the heel of her hand. "So what's your deal? I don't know a lot about theistic Satanism. Pop the hood on it, man, tell me how it works."

"In simple terms?"

"Sure." She cracked a smile, thumbing a cigarette out of the pack.

"We honor the serpent that brought knowledge to Eve, as a liberator from the oppression of the corrupted demiurge that you call God."

"The snake, this was one of those gnostic things, right? That was, what, the Ophites? I thought they found it at Nag Hammadi."

"Fragments. References. But we have had the Syntagma for centuries. This was Hippolytus, yes? We borrowed a few things from Marcion of Sinope, as well. From those texts, and other pieces of what you would call apocrypha, we solidified a doctrine. Eventually. These things take time, no? Remind me, when did your people decide on the canon?"

"Council of Rome. I wanna say three..." she tapped the unlit cigarette, "...eighty seven? Somewhere in there. Fourth century, anyway."

"Just so. As a, you'd say-- distinct movement, yes? I would say sometime around the twelfth century that we came together."

"Hold on, twelfth century, evil demiurge-- what was this, like a splinter of the Cathars?"

"Not unrelated. When it came to that kind of dualism, we merely decided to side with the physical world."

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

"I'm just kinda surprised it got traction in that environment."

"Mostly on the-- margins, you would say? We had solidified the clerical structure some time before, modeled on the Catholic church. Camouflage, yes? But it was with the obvious corruption of the fourteenth century that we started to gain momentum. Acolytes. A whisper network of proselytization."

"That is neat. Like, what, a Dark Reformation kind of thing?"

"...That is, perhaps, somewhat reductive. But not inaccurate."

"Oh that is so cool. It's like finding a whole new life form in the Marianas Trench. No, I can see a kind of sense to it. Get far enough away from Rome, look as close as you can to the actual Church, you might get away with it."

"They did burn us. Your people did do that."

"I am sure that they did," she said, with a certain blithe amicability. "Burnt a lot of Cathars, too, makes sense. Sir-- Father-- I'm sorry. What is the title?"

"Cardinal."

A blink, barely perceptible. "Cardinal, then. Your Eminence, if you want me to stand here and apologize for every atrocity the Church committed, we're gonna be here all night, and it'll get boring quick. And, forgive me, at what point have I attached a moral judgment over your faith?"

He spread his hands, smiling a little. "Very well, I concede the point. You can understand if I am somewhat-- defensive."

"Yeah, of course." She grinned, mostly to herself. "And here I am, a good Catholic girl. Everything you rail against."

"Eh. It could be worse. You could be a Baptist."

She let out a laugh at that, an entirely inelegant sound, and Copia felt as if he'd won something.

"Oh. No. No, I couldn't. Too diffuse. A million different opinions going every which way. I'm also not into sola fide--"

"'By faith alone.'"

"Yeah. Not my bag. If it doesn't inspire you to help your fellow human beings and not just focus on your own salvation, it's probably bullshit." Finally she put the cigarette she'd been fidgeting with into her mouth. "Man. Cathars and gnostics." The woman brought out a burnished zippo and flipped the lid, a faintly musical sound. She didn't light her cigarette, but shot him a sidelong look, eyes alight. "Sounds more like heresy than outright blasphemy."

"Oh, now I'm offended." He was not, in fact, offended. He was fascinated. He wanted to study her under a microscope. "Certainly, that's the first time I've heard that. Maybe I should send you to talk to the-- ehh, how is it? The protestors. What do you call, the evangelicals, yes?"

"They don't like Catholics, either. The veneration of Mary, y'know? Idolatry." Finally she sparked the lighter, her face turning to alabaster in the light of the flame. "We're both going to hell in their lights. Just different neighborhoods." She bent her head to the light. A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards. "So no, I don't think going to a concert counts as a sin. There's just some songs I can't sing along to, is all."

Copia leaned back against the wall, arms folded, considering her. "You know that your Church would call this blasphemy. What is it, then, that you think I'm doing, if not spreading the word of Satan?"

A long drag of her cigarette. "Sick tunes, man," she said, around the smoke. Shrugged. "It's fun. And fun is underrated, as a concept."

"Signora, I don't think 'fun' is what brought you here." He leveled her with his mismatched stare, and she dropped her eyes.

"No," she said, studying the cherry on her cigarette. "No, fun would not be enough."

He took a step closer, not quite edging into her personal space. "What, then? What could possibly bring you to deny your programming, when you clearly believe with such conviction?"

The back of her shoulders hit the top of her car, but she tilted her head up at him in challenge. "Call it joy, then." A defiant kind of vulnerability. "That's what I hear in your songs. And that's a rarer thing."

"What a monstrous thing, to deny joy. To yourself, to others. That sounds to me like blasphemy. What abnegation of the self. We are not hurting anyone. I am not hurting anyone. Why not do as you like?"

"'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.'"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that, what, Louÿs by way of Crowley? Nineteenth century. I thought your stuff was older than that."

"That is beside the point and you know it. Answer me."

"Because that's where it falls apart for me! To begin and end with 'do no harm' does not work. You cannot always do exactly as you like, you have an obligation in society! Feed the hungry. 'Do what you want, whatever,' that's too passive. And being passive in the face of oppression is oppression! Come on, man, you must know this. You're too smart not to know this."

"I'm sorry, you want to talk about oppression? With the literal Catholic Church? With the colonialism and the forced conversion and the actual literal Inquisition? Even laying that aside, the harm it's doing now, how can you still stay with it?"

"Because that's not all it is! Not all it could be. Because it can be just, it can be equitable, and it can be used as a tool for liberation. I believe that, I do. And if if I'm in it-- and oh boy you would not believe how much I'm in it-- then I have a moral obligation to try to shape it towards those ends. Because those people--" she flung a hand out, gesturing towards what, he couldn't say, and he took a step back. "Those bullshit assholes that want to strip people of healthcare and gut the social safety net-- they're in my house! And they don't get to fucking win."

"You must see that this is about control. You are too smart not to know this."

The woman slumped back against her car, and took another long drag on her cigarette, before dropping it and crushing it under her boot, an oddly fussy swiveling motion. "I dunno, man. For me it's about service. You just don't fix something by walking away. And anyway I'm committed."

"I think you are tilting at windmills." He watched her, the last tendrils of cigarette smoke from her exhale the same blue-grey of her eyes, letting the silence linger until the smoke cleared entirely. "What is your name?"

She flicked her eyes back up at him, and then away, coming to a decision. "Sophia Turner." She bit her lip. "Sophie."

"Sophie. That's lovely."

"Thank you. And what do I call you? Feels a little weird, saying 'Your Eminence' to a guy whose faith you don't subscribe to."

He tilted his head in the faintest approximation of a bow, biting back a smile. "Copia."

"Well. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." Her accent more pronounced with the formality, a distinctly Southern drawl.

"You say you're committed. How? You don't have to stay anywhere forever."

"Oh. Oh boy. Um." She looked down at her hands, picked at the edge of a painted nail, and then turned to him, watching his mismatched eyes for a long moment. She smiled, a little rueful. "I am taking my vows in a few months." And to his blank look-- "The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic." He blinked, recoiled a little, and she flinched, turning to look down the street, not seeing the rain on the asphalt, the streetlight shining on the fire escape. "I still don't think it's a sin. But it's-- maybe a little harder to square. After that. Wanted to see you while I could."

Her face composed. No-color hair hanging in grey eyes. He wanted to reach out, to brush it away, to see her clear, to make her look at him. A gulf between them, on the narrow sidewalk. Something twisted in his chest, at the waste of it, the thought of a fire like that locked in a cloister. And yet: "I could never fault someone for devotion to their faith. The discipline is admirable. Truly. But I would-- Are you allowed? To fraternize with the enemy?"

"Well. Maybe in the spirit of friendly ecumenical dialogue." She looked up at the streetlights, shoulders tensed. She chewed at her lip. "We are allowed to have friends, you know."

He had to drop his gaze, at that, a sharp inhalation. "Ah." And again: "Ah. Hm." He looked back up at her, at the tense muscle in her jaw, her face still resolutely turned away from him. "I wonder--?"

She darted a quick look at him, not quite daring to look at him full-on, yet, and made a motion for him to continue.

He had to smile, even if it was with a little trepidation. "Do you have another cigarette?"

That rough bark of a laugh again, and yes, it felt like a victory. "Yeah. Yeah, man, sure." She pulled out the cigarette pack and extracted one, holding it out with the slightest self-deprecating hint of ceremony. He took it between his gloved fingers, careful not to touch her. When he put it to his lips she leaned in to light it in a movement that seemed both courtly and instinctual, an ingrained habit. He couldn't quite look at her when she did it, shocked by the casual intimacy of the gesture. The warmth of the flame through his gloves, the first rough hit of smoke at the back of his throat and the head-swimming nicotine rush. An awful taste, and completely satisfying. He closed his eyes at it and drew in deep, amazed all over again at how much tension dissipated on the exhale.

When the initial wave of the nicotine high had passed, the fatigue settled in, and he tilted his head back against the bricks, eyes still closed, too tired to be on guard. "Where are we? I confess, I lost track."

"...Asheville, honey." A pause."D'jeet yet?"

Well, that certainly got him to look at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, that was very pronounced, wasn't it? My apologies. Have you eaten?"

His brain felt like static. It was all the answer she needed. "What I figured. C'mon, I know a spot."

"I should--" He stopped, inexplicably stricken. "We're leaving in the morning. I don't remember where's next. Charleston, perhaps?"

"I'll have you home before bedtime, scout's honor." He hesitated. Gently: "I don't have designs on your virtue, Cardinal."

He was tired, and sore, and his head was starting to hurt somewhere behind his right eye. He could feel the dried sweat on himself, like a film, absolutely revolting.

"Alright," he said.

She led and he followed, falling into step at her left elbow, almost without thought. "This is the South, yes? We won't-- we might attract. Attention."

"Mm. I might would worry about it somewhere wasn't Asheville. Here'd probably be fine."

"That seems to be an awful lot of weight to put on 'probably.'"

"More worried about someone from your show running into us and losing their minds, be honest with you."

"As in, dropping their purse and squealing?" Was he enjoying this? He was.

"Oh you think you're funny. And I did not squeal."

"Heh. It was a little bit of a squeal."

"Ain't gonna argue the point with you."

The nicotine felt wonderful. He grinned up at the streetlight filtering through a magnolia tree, the orange light reflecting on the leaves, the faint citrus scent hanging in the thick air. He couldn't restrain himself. "You are not, I hope, leading me into temptation?"

"Oh, foul! Foul. Get thee behind me."

"Equally terrible, signora."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Copia came to the last quarter inch of his cigarette, pinching off one more drag before dropping it down a storm drain. The smell would linger, but it had been blissful in the moment. "So."

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Barbecue joint, open all night. Just up here, actually. You had barbecue yet?"

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

They rounded the corner, heading into the jaundiced sodium light of a patchy parking lot, under a flickering red neon sign. 'Little Pigs Genuine Pit BBQ.' It seemed somehow ominous, but the set of her shoulders reassured him. Somewhat. She pushed open the door with its small jangling bell to red vinyl booths, formica tabletops, wood paneling. Vinegar and roasting meat.

He could feel the eyes on them as she ordered for them both, in a dialect so thick it was almost incomprehensible to him. He stepped closer to murmur, "Coffee for me, please, signora," while he surveilled the crowd. Not outright hostile, had seen stranger things, maybe, but a collective flicker of curiosity before sliding off of them. That flat and unsympathetic gaze. Her accent helped. His obvious manners did as well. Still, he was on edge.

He stayed on edge until he slid into a booth opposite her with his back to the wall, and even then it only let up slightly, a background hum to go along with the labored air conditioning. The barbecue was very nearly worth it, salt and sweet and vinegar and umami, along with the blunt force animal pleasure at hot food after a long time without. He looked up at her, making an inarticulate noise of shocked delight through the sandwich, and she nodded in eager agreement with her mouth full. Swallowed. "I know, right?"

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

"Welcome to the South. It's got problems, but there are compensations."

"So I see."

They lost themselves in the food for a little while, and Copia, a usually fastidious man, found that it was actually impossible to eat a barbecue sandwich neatly. After a while he gave up trying, grateful for the strange softness of American paper napkins. It made sense, if the food was like this. He eyed her iced tea, wondering about it, if that was also an American custom, or if it only applied to the region.

She caught him looking after half a second, and passed it over with barely an eyeblink of thought, the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, and you've lost me. This is an obscene amount of sugar."

"They do call it 'sweet tea' for a reason."

"Are you sure that this isn't just colored sugar water?"

"Reasonably so. Might be accentual, brings out the depth of flavor, like. Least it isn't corn syrup."

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

"Could be. Try one of them hush puppies, then you get back to me."

"Mm." Then, after following instructions, "I will concede on the food."

"Yeah. There's nowhere and nothing that's bad all the way through."

"Perhaps." He took another sip of her tea, pleased at her sputter of mock-indignation. "This brings me to where it falls apart for me. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God."

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

"Which answer would you like, from the, oh, four-five thousand years that this has been a question?" She tossed the rolled-up sleeve of her straw in his general direction, smiling. "Why you coming at me with this shit, man?"

"Ehh. I want to know what you think. You, not your Church."

She nodded, and poked at the ice in her tea with her straw while she gave the question the consideration it was due. Finally: "I like Simone Weil for this. You read any Simone Weil?"

"Let us say that I haven't."

"Okay." The vinyl booth squeaked as she leaned back. "This isn't necessarily unique to her, it's got a lot of similarities with-- a Jewish creation story, yeah? But creation is where God withdrew. If God is everything, for creation to exist, there has to be places where God is not. If there's places that God is not, then almost by definition they are not, inherently, holy. It's apophatic, unknowable, like John of the Cross or Kierkegaard or what have you-- I'm getting into the weeds here. Evil is the form which God's mercy takes in the world. Affliction-- she's got a specific term for this, she's talking about spiritual affliction more than physical affliction-- doesn't create human misery, so much as reveals it. And it drives us towards God."

"That sounds, if you will pardon me, fucking horrific. The act of a sadist."

"I don't know that I'm explaining this well. We are created matter, and with affliction we are consumed by God. In the Incarnation, God suffers affliction, is made matter, and consumed by us. It's reciprocal. And if you can go through affliction and still love, and recognize your fellow human being as someone else who has suffered like you, then your duty is to help."

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

"By not having an omnipotent deity, to start."

"...I walked right into that one. I surely did. Evil demiurge, again?"

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

"Fair enough. I'm not a Jesuit, I could maybe get at this better if I was. My whole thing with it is, there's a difference between affliction-- which is personal-- and, say, generalized oppression, right? The personal makes you more empathetic with the collective."

"I can see the logic there, yes. I do not know if I agree, but I can see it. But do you truly need to suffer to sympathize with another's suffering?"

She turned her glass around in her hands, focusing hard on the ridged plastic edges. "I'unno. Some things you don't understand till you've been through them. Difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess."

"This is, what. You say, 'the personal is political?'"

She cracked a grin at that. "Oh, you done a lot of reading on second-wave feminism, then?"

"Condescending and uncalled for," he said, wagging a finger at her, mock-stern.

She held up a hand. "Fair point, apologies."

"Te absolvo."

"Thank you." She turned her glass in her hands, trailing through the condensation with a chipped fingernail. "My point being. For me. Affliction leads to empathy, and empathy leads you to act. What's the quote. 'Misery as a collective fact expresses itself as an injustice that cries to the heavens.' That's Oscar Romero, I think? Yeah. Oscar Romero. Anyway the thing he gets at-- Saint Oscar Romero, excuse me, did a lot of stuff in El Salvador in the the seventies, but the idea being: turning people into commodities for economic oppression, that's sin. The idolatry of wealth, of 'national security systems,' that's sin. Divine love should be mediated through justice. Gloria dei vivens homo--"

"'The glory of God is the living person.'"

"Yeah, exactly. Romero was on some-- gloria dei vivens pauper, which I think is probably about right."

"'The glory of God is in the poor.' Hm. And how well did that work out for him?"

"Well. They shot the guy during Mass in nineteen eighty."

"A martyr's death. Isn't that what your people aspire to?"

"Not me, man. I wanna live. But yes, he did lean in hard after his friend was killed. That was an inciting incident. I won't deny it."

"So, what, it is acceptable for one death, if it spurs on 'the greater good?'" He made air quotes at her, and she frowned.

"Not gonna debate the very concept of martyrdom with you, but I'm gonna say no, of course not. But like. Me personally? Rather that than have it go to waste. Some right wing fascist chucklefuck takes me out, I'd sure hope my people'd leverage it for all it's worth."

He sat back and tipped his coffee at her. "Bleak."

"Maybe. We each owe a death. And I mean, despite the guy being beatified, he isn't even necessarily the main dude in Latin America. None of these are exactly new concepts, you understand. But as a modern movement, really, it starts in nineteen sixty-eight, with the Medellín conference in Colombia, kind of as a response to Vatican Two, and from there--" she stopped herself, and raised her glass of tea at him in mock-salute. "Minutiae. The point, and I think I'm cribbing from Ernesto Cardenal here, is that while God is love, love can only exist in accordance with equality and justice."

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in total skepticism. "I can only say that this has been-- the opposite of my experience. To put it in the most, eh, diplomatic terms possible."

"The Church has done horrible, fucked up things. Continues to do horrible fucked up things. In a space that big, though, there are always going to be practices that are inherently contradictory. This one is mine. And I have the benefit of being fucking right."

"You do see, don't you, how that-- attitude? Mentality, yes? Is dangerous. Even you! Even if I happen to think that you're right. Which I actually do. The benefit of Satanism, I find, is that we do have room for differences. It is, you would say, I think, built in? There is no wrong way to approach. You find your own way. Nobody will lead you, nobody will control you."

"And how far has that kind of rugged individualism progressed the reduction of human suffering?" she snapped.

"At least it doesn't perpetuate it!" he shot back.

They glared at each other over the formica, not quite snarling, equally frustrated.

The diner had gone quiet. Blank suntanned faces, the lone clink of a spoon in a coffee cup, the somehow awful bubbling of the deep fryer. A lot of people, for one in the morning, he thought. They looked at each other in mutual alarm for one tensed breath, and went for their wallets at the same time.

"No," he said, firm, fishing past Euros for American dollars. "You are taking a vow of poverty and I am an actual rockstar." He shot a stern glance at her opened mouth and felt a stab of immense satisfaction when she shut it, apparently- miraculously, even- chastised. He threw down enough to cover the bill and the tip and reached to drag her out, stopping short of actually touching her elbow at the last moment. "Come."

She went.

They escaped with the perversely jaunty ring of the bell over the door into the thick warmth of the night, and she brayed a laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterics.

"Go, go, this could get ugly." But he was laughing, too. Madness. He'd seen these exact sort of people outside of a venue, enraged, faces red, carrying hateful picket signs. One small woman and one man frankly built like a noodle could be in real danger. Still, their laughter echoed down the gravel-lined drive they had ducked into, their boots crunching in a staccato rhythm in the stones. This was far too much adrenaline for one night, he thought.

While they slowed to a walk, he watched the fireflies darting upwards in the undergrowth, the ascending dashes of yellow-green light seeming fantastical to him, otherworldly. You heard of great masses of them, in America, but in such quantity it was like seeing a fairytale with your own eyes. They thinned out as the landscape started to shift, from residential suburbs to side streets.

"This was-- good. It was good, to get out. To talk. A lot of this, it is, ehh." He waved a hand in the general direction they were moving, to the venue, the concert, the tour. "Movement. Instinct. There is, by definition, no quiet. And that is fantastic, I enjoy it, I love what I do, I am fortunate in that. But it is not often that I get to speak about these things." The thud of their boots, and the high monotonous drone of a cicada somewhere off in the distance, blending with the faraway hiss of a car on the damp streets. "Thank you," he said, soft. "For this."

Her eyes forward, mouth closed tight. It took her a few steps before she spoke. "You are very welcome." She cleared her throat. "And I appreciate the outside perspective."

"Interesting thing, is it not? Having a vocation."

"Being called. Yes."

"What I do not understand-- and I do not wish to, as you said, litigate the very idea of martyrdom, of course--"

"Of course. That's above my pay grade anyhow."

"But the denial inherent in your practice. The self-denial. It seems to me a, hm. Turning away from joy. You say your God is love, very well. This is removed from my experience with Christians, but I do understand that it should be the intent. To claim that divinity is love and then to willingly cut yourself off from the experience of love seems to me contradictory. Not merely the physical, although that alone seems hideous. Some people of course are not interested, but this cannot be true of all your monsastics, your clergy, your unmarried."

"This is also an old question."

"You cannot tell me it is not vital. Few people are physically martyred, and I can see the value there, even if I think it grotesque. But this seems to me a martyrdom, and willing. And pointless. Everyone should be loved, yes? Is that not your very doctrine?"

"It is, but there's different kinds of love--"

"You are dissembling. Do me the courtesy, Miss Turner, of your honesty."

Copia heard her sharp intake of breath. He had stung her, and he very nearly regretted it.

"Discourtesy wasn't my aim, Cardinal. It's an old question, and people struggle. It's maybe the struggle, for most people, the stumbling block. How can I answer you? It's kind of a personal question, y'know?"

"I can see how it would be. I do not wish to intrude, but come now. What, you offer your suffering up to God? What kind of God would ask you to give up love in the very name of love? It's monstrous!"

"The standard answer is that one becomes the bride of Christ. My thinking is, in turning away from the singular, you're better able to focus on the collective. To focus, to pay attention. And attention in its highest form is prayer."

"You deny yourself. In denial, you turn away knowledge. You said this yourself, how can you understand suffering if you have not suffered? You should know joy, or else how can you understand joy? You should be free to do that, to be in the world, and the world is here! You are here, and while you are here you should be here fully. You should allow yourself to be loved!"

He had actually raised his voice, and his words hung in the thick air, almost suspended with the humidity. He couldn't take it back, and he fell silent, mortified. They had fallen to a stop.

"It's discipline," she said, helpless. She couldn't look at him, and he had to look away at her expression.

"In any case." He cleared his throat, and resumed walking. "Discipline I understand. There is discipline in my practice, you know."

"I can see that. Dedication, certainly. Seems like the whole world's against you. The dominant social climate is not accommodating to being that outspoken about, well, anything to do with sincere belief, really, but especially in your case."

"No. And in this situation, it is easy to-- tend to isolate. To stay in one's own community. Safer. Especially in a hostile environment. Anger is easy, you would say."

"Don't I know it. You do have to live in the world. I think you and I both have cause to be angry. Hell, we're probably angry at a lot of the same things. Coming at it from opposite directions, is all."

"The hypocrisy is galling," he agreed. "If I am a monster in the eyes of these people, let me be an honest monster. They feed their children poison and tell them it is virtue, to hate, to fear, I do not--" he cut himself off, blew out a laugh. "We are angry about the same things. The work is the same. We are both called to liberate, yes?"

"Yeah, I would allow that's fairly definitional."

"Here, you take that side, I will take this one, and we will meet in the middle and cast off all oppression," he said, grandly, sweeping out an arm as if he were back on stage. He echoed her smile on pure reflex.

"And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

"Julian of Norwich. An anchoress." Something in the concept, and in the simultaneous hope and resignation in her face, pierced his heart all the way through. She was remote, and lost to him, a marble statue of a saint. The nature of his ministry was to encourage pleasure, of mind and of body, and he did want to break her out of the cell she'd walled herself off into. Perhaps merely for his own satisfaction, when freedom was the whole of his law. Even her freedom to walk into her own cage. "Not so much to be consoled as to console," he said, halfway to himself, watching her.

"Francis of Assisi. But I think you knew that."

"I did."

"You are something else, aren't you?" She looked at him, pleased and reassessing. He felt seen, almost entire.

It was not an entirely comfortable feeling. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps."

He recognized, now, the alleyway they had walked down, the venue shuttered for the night. The only lights inside were deep in the back, distant. Likely everything had been packed away, or near enough. Likely the ghouls were wondering where he was. And she was small, and faith alone would not protect her.

It was too much for him. "It is very late. And I do not know if-- do you have a place to stay? This is not, I think, your home."

"I don't and it's not." She waved him off. "Was planning on just sleeping in the car. The seats fold down, I got a pillow, it's fine."

"I don't like it."

"Ain't about what you like." She dropped her head. "I apologize, that was rude."

"No, it is only--." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I do have a hotel room."

"No." It seemed reflexive. But he could see the split second flash of her face cracking open with sheer want. Watched her snatch her composure together just as quick, even as the afterimage lingered in his brain like the echo of a lightning strike. "No, I-- I do not think that would be a good idea."

"There is a couch, even. I could take the couch."

"Copia." Oh, and it was costing her. Painful to watch. That wretched self denial. "Please." A brittle little laugh, accent creeping back in as she forced herself to sound brighter. "I seen you bounce around that stage, you gonna need a mattress."

"Nothing you do not wish, Miss Turner. Never that," he said, as gently as he could. A breath of silence strung out in the thick air, the space of a heartbeat. "Anyways." He considered his position, took a breath, and made the leap. "It would be good to-- I would like to continue this argument. You have some time, no? Before you are-- fully committed. Come to Charleston. My guest. In the spirit of, eh, ecumenical dialogue."

That got a smile out of her. "I'll think about it."

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

"In that case." He straightened his spine by three degrees, took the smallest step forward, and picked up her hand in both of his. Even though the gloves it made something catch behind his sternum, the stutter of some cog in engineering. He bowed over it as deeply as he ever had on stage, registered the barest breath of the smell of her, leather and nicotine and something like amber, a clean animal scent. It was only an instant, and he straightened with some regret. "I have enjoyed your company, Sophie."

"I--. Yes. Yeah. Me too." She squeezed his hand, once. "Very much. Be well, Cardinal." And then she slipped away.

He watched her carefully measured walk to her car, head held up with the dignity of the condemned. She opened her door and looked back for the space of one brief inhalation. Orpheus, he thought, nonsensically. He stared at her taillights, the red glow like eyes, the dragon's breath curl of exhaust, long after it had faded into the wide restless night.

It was another twenty minutes before one of the ghouls dragged him back inside.

[kabukiaku]

bunch of ko-fi commissions! 💜

[sentientpaperbag]

hehehehehe doing the old man's makeup~

based off this pic:

[themratts]

my babies who are married

[zenith-sketch]

If you guessed that Copia was their partner, you’d be right! Copia and Antares as chibi everyone, my cutie patooties

[can-of-pringles]

The sillies (that I love)