Title: In the Absence of Sun, 03: Saints and Martyrs, Fish and Chips

Author: carondelet || carondelet11
Fandom: original
Genre: drama
Character(s): Darren Warrick, Joel Harrigan
Rating: R
Notes: work in progress; this is a rough draft. I decided to put it in my journal instead of in scraps or in the gallery.
Word Count: 2,429
Story Summary: There is another loneliness that many die without, not want or friend occasions it, or circumstances or lot. But nature sometimes, sometimes thought, and whoso it befall is richer than could be divulged by mortal numeral.
Summary: I'm not working on quota, you know. I don't get commission on the number of souls I save.


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IN THE ABSENCE OF SUN

[] 03: SAINTS AND MARTYRS, FISH AND CHIPS

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He wasn't certain exactly how long it had been since he had been a practising Catholic.

Darren thought on this a moment, frozen on the church steps in mid-climb, his hands in his pockets.  He looked up at the gothic facade, taking in the great rose window, the ornamentation, the spires, the arches, and idly wondered if he might not, oh, spontaneously combust on entry.

He had done some things that the Catholic Church frowned upon.

He'd done some things that every church frowned upon.

Right.

He took in a deep breath, wincing at the chill in the air.  It was spring, early spring, but it was also New York, and that meant it was still cold yet, who cared what Punxsutawney Phil had to say about it.  Besides, he was further south anyways.

Darren closed his eyes for a moment and consoled himself with the knowledge that, if he did suddenly catch fire on crossing the threshold, that would be a rather poetic way to go.

He walked slowly into the church, almost colliding with an elderly woman who was...not so much hurrying as scooting as quickly as she could out of the church.

She muttered something at him in some Slavic language and he blinked after her, caught off guard by the scooting, the physical contact, and the being hexed or other.  "Sorry," he finally managed, feeling more awkward than he thought was possible, even for him.

She snorted at him and disappeared into the crowd on Fifth Avenue.  He blinked again.  He certainly wasn't having the greatest run with women of late.

He turned and looked into the cathedral.  As he was still standing in the doorway, his eyes couldn't really adjust to the dark interior.  He took a hesitant step forward and paused.

No smoke.

No flames.

That was encouraging.

He slipped his fingers into the font, genuflected, and then Darren slowly walked into Saint Patrick's.  He manoeuvred his way around to the aisle on the far right, navigating past the confessionals.  He located a pew that was empty and settled in.  He sat back and took a long look at the interior.

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