#u woke up thinking about that gay little priest. so real of u.

[4o77th]

mulcahy is in his little office, an off-shoot within the chapel, chasing the illusion of relaxation around in circles as he paces. it's been a difficult few days, what with the hopelessness and guilt that came down on everyone's shoulders with the loss of not one, but two, patients that week. sitting and reading does not appeal to him as it might've any other night, nor does prowling the wards for morale to improve. everyone in the hospital needs that.

it's with a resigned mind that he halts, pivots, and starts to head out into the sanctuary, unaware that he had a visitor. he's slow to approach once he registers the silhouette, not wanting to frighten or disturb, and his hand lifts in both greeting and reassurance.

" morse! what a pleasant surprise. you didn't trouble me at all. i always like to have visitors. " the only thing about the young man being here that troubles him is if he's even supposed to ambulatory yet. he supposes he should look on the bright side, if he's not, and consider it a success that he got here in one piece and without banging himself up any further.

bright, kind, tired eyes meet morse's at the anecdote, and he hums softly, that pitch-perfect sound which could mean anything from heartfelt sympathy to gentle encouragement. " meeting house ... i take it you're quaker, then? -- well, if you find yourself needing any services, i must admit, i'm a little rusty on their practices, but i'd try my best. "

paired with a warm smile, he nods his head to the nearby piano bench. " mind if i tickle those ivories so we can test out those acoustics? "

Morse hears footfall behind him and he turns, noticing the kind eyes and welcoming face of the priest. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he finds himself— this is a chapel, it’s common practice that a clergyman comes with it— but it is half three in the morning.

“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he begins. “I don’t need… that is, I don’t really go in for this sort of thing.” Endeavour at least has the good graces to be genuinely apologetic as he looks to @4o77th , but he finds his attention drawn back to the chancel almost immediately after, running his hands up and down the lengths of his thighs as if everything wrong could be remedied as easily as sweaty palms.

“…Not for want of trying, that is,” he finds himself continuing. “My mother took me quite often to her meeting house. Thought it would help, I suppose. ‘Still your mind,’ she’d say… never got the knack.” He’s quiet for a moment.

“The acoustics seem good.”

[royalrastafariannaynays]

for the short fic thing: au where rose runs a paranormal investigation company, if you don't mind? it can be as silly or serious as you want. btw your davekat and rosemary fantasy aus are enchantingly lovely! you have this writing style that's just really, idk, decadent? like every new chapter of gardenia is like opening a box of chocolates except instead of a box of chocolates it's That Gay Shit and this metaphor escaped me but I LOVE YOUR WRITING

((

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Misadventures of the Ghastly Variety

It started on a rainy day. Just another day of waking up, Dave telling you that you had no real job, and that your job was essentially just hype. Over coffee, of course, as is his ritual. Not like his job was any more “real” than yours, seeing as he was a desk jockey for the front lobby of the local Recreation Center. 

Being a glorified identification checker is a real job, there’s no doubt about that. But Dave had this habit of getting bored with something after a couple of months, and then moving on. This one is lasting awhile, though. Maybe it’s the cute kickboxing instructor. Tall, “thicc”, dark hair, dense olive skin. Eyebrows so bushy a family of squirrels could nest in them. Auburn eyes. 

It’s a description you’ve heard nearly every other day, in passing, as he’s toasting his morning Everything bagel. In varying designs and circumstances, stories of how aggravatingly delicious this guy is, in between spells of dreaminess at being chewed out for not having the right schedules on the wall by said paramour. 

But enough about Dave’s silly crush on the instructor, or even Dave, your perpetual freeloader in your apartment. 

No. This story is about the night you met Her. 

The ghost from your dreams. 

Now, it started on a rainy day. Dave, with his usual thing. You, with your fourth cup of (decaffeinated) coffee, which was mostly liquid black as tar, and entirely too much sugar to be healthy. 

That night, you were scheduled to check out a local “haunted” church for your popular TV show, “Misadventures of the Ghastly Variety.” You’re not quite a celebrity, but you do live in a decent condo in upstate New York, and spend entirely too much money on your cat, Paws the Third. Helpfully named by Dave, who bottle-fed the young thing for you after rescuing it off the street three days after the death of your last feline friend. 

It gave him great joy to nurture and be a helicopter cat parent, even if the little rascal ended up not quite liking him once it reached adulthood. 

After giving the cat a kiss on the forehead, and Dave a kiss on his as well, despite his protests that you only did it for the ironic value, you set out. 

And oh, it was a rainy day. 

It would take you half the day to set up at the old (but small) cathedral, even with your set up crew. And it would take the other half of the day to make some of those rather corny clips describing the background of the place, and then talking to the owners of the venue. After a short nap, you would record some footage for several hours inside the church. And then, once done with that, you would do some smudging, and a small ritual to cleanse the spirits of their anger. 

It’s kind of your thing. The little ritual is your special... quirk. Adding witchcraft to the paranormal investigator thing is kind of why you’re so popular. And it gets you some interesting footage. 

It’s all white magic. 

Mostly. 

Don’t worry about it. 

After setup, and your crew was recording and taking notes on sounds and things, you headed into the depths of the place. You spent maybe an hour in the main chapel, and nothing happened. 

And then you spent an hour walking past a few rooms, several of whom housed crypts. There were some odd noises, but nothing too incredible. You made a reaction to something minor, made some hollow commentary about the coldness of these rooms. Your EMF reader buzzed a few times. That much was typical for an old church building with rusty pipes. There was some more activity, another draft, in one of the crypts. It was a priest. You crossed yourself, and the draft stopped. 

More commentary. 

Maybe your job was fake. It paid the bills, though. 

So you walked through the first floor one more time. You stood in the pulpit, and made sure to shine your camera light at just the right angle. And you held your crystal in front of it. Your dousing crystal. 

It should have just... 

It should have just been the light from the night vision camera. It would make the prism in the crystal light up oh so perfectly. But. 

The crystal suddenly felt warm in your hand. 

A tiny voice spoke up from your ear. Ah yes. The speaker. Your crew. 

“You’ve been silent for fifteen minutes, Rose.” 

Fifteen? 

How did. 

Nevermind, you remember thinking.

Once you moved from the pulpit, the crystal dimmed, and felt cold once more. 

You spoke a bit about it, for the audience. But not much. 

And then, the little speaker in your ear signaled that it was time to move downstairs. So you shook your head, clearing your thoughts. It was an unusual circumstance. And if it was really a spirit, they meant no harm. 

You would know it if they did. 

As you passed through the stone steps to reach the basement, you remember everything went cold. 

You don’t remember saying anything, although the recordings show you filling the air with more typical, aimless nonsense that connected the history of the location with paranormal sightings. 

The majority of them were in the basement, you had said. 

That wasn’t the information you’d been given by the groundskeeper. 

You remember that everything got colder, colder. And then suddenly, it was all bright. A hand was reaching out to you. 

It was soft-looking, delicate. Beckoning through the bright light that was making your camera fuzz out. The little viewfinder in the film would be nearly blank, later, from the ground. All of the other cameras in the basement would report that they had just. Skipped a moment in time. 

The hand was pale, paler than any skin you had seen. 

You remember reaching out, and taking it. 

You remember being pulled in, so close. And everything was warm once more. You could see her, clearly, in this bright light. A technician in your crew was nearly shouting in your ear, asking what was going on. 

The most beautiful and terrifying chords played simultaneously on loop in the front of your eyes, and the most blissful colors were music in your ears. And her lips were so soft. So soft as she held you there. 

Her body contoured to yours, her breasts soft despite the burning icy cold of her mouth. And hair, short and cropped under the habit on her head. A thousand wings and a million eyes all staring at you from a void of nothingness and everythingness.

The air got blistering hot, and her fingers were freezing cold. 

And with the touch of her lips you were everywhere and nowhere at once. 

It was all too much. 

Copper taste in the back of your mouth, and warmth dripping from your nose and ears, and. 

You woke up in the hospital. 

“Was it good footage?” you asked, when you woke. 

“Yeah. Yeah it was,” Dave said, after he finished crying. 

“I think I saw an angel,” you whisper, hoarse. It feels like you’ve been screaming. The footage you see later will confirm that. 

When you pick up your hands, there’s something burned into the skin just below your wrist. It’s tiny. It looks almost like... words? ‘Kanaya.’ 

What in the name of dark beings does that mean? 

“You’re full of shit, Rose,” Dave tells you. Hes using your hospital gown to blow his nose. Probably because he knows you’ll hate it. 

“I guess so,” you reply. Staring at that burn on your wrist. 

Did you? 

Was she an angel?