the Dalaverse

Long ago, sinister_beauty also requested Jack/Groves (I didn't manage to work the word 'organic' in, but I hope you like it anyway!) And now I can cross the Jack-as-clergyman fic off my list of Things That Must Be Written Before I Die.

ETA because I do know how to spell. Just...not that word, apparently. And also, architectural thanks to gryphons_lair.



A Penitent Man


Like many boys of his age, Theodore was not often occupied by thoughts of religion. Just about the only opinion he possessed was a dislike of churches or any building vaguely reminiscent of a church. They made him feel guilty, which, he supposed, was why his mother set up a private confession for him whenever she couldn’t quite put her finger on what he’d done but was certain he’d done something or else he wouldn’t be so jumpy and ill-tempered (to his eternal irritation, she was usually right). Sometimes the tactic worked and he admitted his crimes with fervent relief. Sometimes he simply fought the urge to roll his eyes, and told her nothing.

“I come to ask forgiveness, Father, for I have sinned,” he recited obediently, shifting on the uncomfortable bench. And sinned, and sinned, and sinned again... “It has been several weeks since my last confession.”

“Has it, now,” said the priest. A rich, dark chuckle rumbled beneath the man’s gray beard. Theodore frowned; not one of St. Andrews’ lemon-mouthed clergymen had ever been heard to laugh. Come to think of it, he didn’t recognize the man sitting across from him, though to be fair he could not be counted on to remember faces. But he had excellent recall when it came to voices, and this one – but he had been waiting for Theodore in the vestry, as though he'd been expecting him. “How old are you, son?”

“Sixteen,” said Theodore, lifting his chin. He looked younger than his age, and he was sensitive about it.

The priest merely nodded, regarding Theodore with knowing brown eyes. “So ‘twould be sins of the flesh, aye?”

Cheeks flushing, Theodore stared down at his clasped hands. He was accustomed to cleared throats and bushy disapproving brows, not to being teased. “Yes, sir,” he replied, annoyed to hear his voice rise.

“Thought or deed?”

Theodore sneaked a glance up at his face, but he still seemed to be amused by the predictability of youth. Emboldened, he said, “Thought, and deed.”

“Honesty is the shield of the righteous,” said the priest with a twitch of his mouth. Theodore peered at his mustache. The movement had made it look askew – or perhaps the man was simply clumsy with his razor and Theodore hadn’t noticed before. “Tell me about the subject of your fancy – I’m but a newcomer to this place, and I have already seen many pretty girls on their Sunday strolls.” Theodore took a breath, preparing to launch into the well-rehearsed tale of the fictional seamstress’s daughter with which he had regaled his friends. In the moment’s pause the priest added, with a wicked curve of an eyebrow several shades darker than the beard, “Or perhaps it was a pretty lad?”

Jaw dropping, Theodore goggled until they were both startled by a bang from the nave. The priest jumped up, friendly eyes suddenly bright and alert.

“‘M afraid I must be on me way,” he said in a voice quite different from the one he’d talked in previously, a lighter, far rougher tone. Clasping Theodore’s shoulder, he cocked his head like a curious bird. “Go with God, young Teddy.”

Theodore grabbed his arm as he wheeled away with the agility of a much younger man than he appeared to be. His sisters came to Sunday school in this church –

“You are not a priest,” he accused the man harshly. Inquiries about an escaping convict rang out the side chapel to the left of the altar. The imposter cast a glance over his shoulder before ducking his head to look Theodore squarely in the eyes – and such eyes, darker than he’d thought, reflecting Theodore’s own pale face.

“Truly told, I’d suggest you think about the navy,” said the man with a grin. “You’re a mite old for a mid, but you’d fit right in.” Theodore knew he was only trying to produce a distraction. Grip tightening, he opened his mouth to alert the slow pursuers, but a pair of warm, full lips swallowed his shout.

It was a kiss both gentle and searching, as the false confession had been, and urgent like the heart beating for its freedom against his breast. The lawless man’s mouth tasted of rum and seawater. He kissed Theodore with far more skill and authority than dull old Thomas Bennet, and the body beneath the robe was leaner, stronger, hungrier to press against him. Theodore gasped against the pirate’s bold tongue, wondering how he could suddenly be so sure of the crimes from which the man was running, but sure nonetheless.

His knees wavered and he nearly fell when the pirate released him, which had after all been the point. Stumbling against the bench, he pressed a hand to his mouth.

“Ta,” said the pirate, waggling his fingers as he ducked out and headed for an open window.

Theodore was still recovering from his shock when the watch burst into the nave, red-faced and panting. “Boy,” one of them wheezed, “we're looking for a –”

“He went through there,” Theodore said quickly, pointing at the door to the other side-chapel. The men waved their hands in thanks and hurried off.

Taking a moment to enjoy the solitude and the lingering tingle in his lips, Theodore decided that he still didn’t much like church. At the moment, in fact, he was suffering a downright craving for the open air, and the stone walls were oppressive around him.

“Still,” he murmured to himself as he pushed open the door and turned his face up to the sunlight, “that’s got to be the best priest I’ve ever seen.”