Chapter Text
"This is a Love Story."
~ Fleabag
It was quite late and Father Fell was sweeping in the chapel when there was a thudding sound. He looked up in alarm only to find a long, thin man standing in front of the entrance.
Standing was a relative term in this case. The strange man was leaning to one side, seeming to favor his left leg. He wore dusty clothes of nondescript color, ragged looking, and a cap pulled low over a short, unkempt reddish beard.
“May I be of assistance, my good Sir?” Father Fell asked gently, holding tight to the broom just in case it was needed for safety. It was not common to encounter anyone out of doors this late, especially not since the War started.
The man limped toward him and made a hoarse sound, either a cough or a clearing of the throat. He shook his head and even that slight movement set him even more off balance. As the stranger careened toward the nearest pew, Father Fell dropped his broom and ran toward him.
The priest was just barely in time to catch the stranger from what might have been a nasty bash to the head. Instead, Father Fell pulled him sideways and they both landed on the carpeted floor with a forced exhale.
The man lost his hat and his hair was revealed to be even redder than his beard, cropped short and clearly unwashed. He was muttering something hard to make out and had both eyes clenched shut.
Father Fell righted himself to sitting, cradling the strange man. It seemed like every bone in the man’s body could be felt under a thin layer of skin and little else. Hollow cheeks lurked beneath the overgrowth of hair and shadows below the eyes.
The Father’s heart instantly ached at the pitiful sight before him. He was, by nature, a rather fastidious man. Not prone to handling more visceral wounds, preferring to focus on the spiritual ones. However, he was never without compassion for those in need, many of whom he knew could not always access running water or clean clothing.
He kept the rectory stocked with as many extra supplies as rationing would allow.
As many young men as they’d lost already in the war, one or two occasionally came back in dire need. He could guess this man was one such. Only, not one he could seem to place. He’d been with his flock in the miniscule town of Fulking for over a decade now. It would be a rare thing indeed to find a face he did not know.
Still, a person in need was always in the right place if they came to him. It was both a duty and a blessing for him to enact.
“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe here,” Father Fell told the man, who had gone almost limp in his arms.
“Safe,” the man repeated, his voice rough and cracking. Slowly, his eyes peeked blearily open, red rimmed and unfocused.
“Yes. Safe. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” The Father kept his voice soft and warm, welcoming.
The man seemed like he was trying to fix his gaze on Fell’s face, blinking once. Twice.
Fell took a deep breath, trying to ignore the unwashed smell. “What do you need, dear friend?”
This got a bit more of a reaction, a harsh intake of breath as the man’s eyes roved up to the vaulted ceiling above them. Then he was looking at Father Fell once more, something urgent and fearful in his gaze.
“Please,” he said. “Sanctuary.”
No one in hundreds of years had likely invoked this ancient right. It was practically something out of a fairy tale told in seminary. Yet there was nothing frivolous or fanciful in the asking. It was a plea from the gut, purposeful and very real. Unexpected tears pricked at Fell’s eyes as he nodded. “Of course. You may have Sanctuary within these walls. I will see to it.”
The stranger’s knit brows seemed to loosen at that assurance and some rigidity in his shoulders went lax, his eyes falling closed again.
“Sir, I need to get you to a… a doctor.”
“Nnnnhhh,” the man straggled out, the intention clear and apparently of some urgency. He did not wish to be seen by a doctor.
It would be very late to wake Shadwell, or even his young assistant Newt, after all. There were no visible punctures or lacerations, no sign of blood. It did not sit well with him not to do all that he possibly could, but Fell was a patient man and accustomed to caretaking in his own capacity. Best to at least get the stranger settled before anything else.
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do for now. You at least have a place to rest,” Fell informed him. “Do you… That is, can you walk with me supporting you?”
With a groan and a pinched expression, the man pitched himself unsteadily forward and tried to rise. There was some movement akin to a baby foal finding its legs as he battled with gravity and his own lanky limbs. Father Fell stood up and ducked under the man’s arm, wrapping it around his shoulders. The man clutched at him tightly but was able to stand.
They made slow progress toward the living quarters, down a small dirt path behind the chapel. Father Fell kept the smaller room for himself and there was a single spare room for visiting clergy. Since the war made travel an unnecessary danger and his was such a remote location, it was unused except for storage.
The stranger’s steps began to slow, his injured foot practically dragging. Father Fell could see he was trying to hide the immense pain he must be in. Fell’s heart ached for him, still trying to keep his pride even as he was forced to beg for aid. It was not a sin to desire one’s dignity remain uncompromised.
“Um. You just wait here, alright? I’ll go unlock the room and grab some blankets.” He deposited the man onto a bench made by the local carpenter before he’d been lost somewhere in Dunkirk. It was a lovely thing carved almost entirely from a single trunk, stained and polished. It had a pretty view of sunrise on the days Father Fell was able to rouse himself early enough to enjoy it.
Trying to make quick work of it, Fell readied the spare room as promised and then gathered up some additional supplies. Some gauze and rubbing alcohol, a towel, and then a large glass of water. Judging by his voice and complexion, the poor thing was absolutely parched.
When he’d set up the guest space as best he could on short notice (and cleared a path to the bed), he returned to find his charge had fallen asleep.
Face slack with his head tipped back on the carved wooden back, the stranger looked almost peaceful. Father Fell was loath to disturb his rest, but he knew what a night in the wrong chair could do. He’d fallen asleep in his arm chair while reading any number of evenings and the bench was not even half as comfortable.
Fell sighed and assessed whether he could do this or not. As a man of the cloth, he had little reason to work manual labor. As the sole proprietor of an entire chapel that included grounds with a small apple orchard, he actually spent a great deal of his time lifting, carrying, even pushing a very full wheelbarrow.
It was only a short distance and the man was practically skeletal. He pressed his lips thin, determined.
Carefully, he hooked an arm under the sleeping man’s knees and the other under his neck. Putting as much weight as he could onto his sturdy legs, Father Fell lifted. It was a fraction unwieldy but not much worse than a very good harvest year. And this he’d only have to carry once. He hoped.
Fell maneuvered them into the room and lined the man up with the bed, lowering him with shaking biceps.
The man made a breathy sound and his eyes fluttered, seeing but unseeing. “Ah. Wha. How?” He blinked up at Father Fell, mouth gaping. One hand reached toward him and the Father took it. “Are. Are you n’angel?”
Fell smiled at that and shook his head. “Flattering, but no. I’m simply…”
But the man was already unconscious again.
Introductions would have to wait.
Father Fell delicately inspected the man’s injured leg, noting that there was no blood, nothing visibly broken. A sprain, perhaps. He would not undress a person without their permission but he did slide the trouser leg up, revealing a bony ankle and some swelling. Applying a cold compress did not rouse the sleeping man. Fell left it while he made himself some tea and tried to gather his thoughts.
His shoulders were already beginning to ache, but they would be alright. He’d done himself no lasting harm. The tea calmed his nerves and he wondered if he ought to stay awake longer or allow himself some rest, as well. In his room next door, he was likely to hear anything stirring and he doubted the man could cause much trouble in that state if he tried.
Still, Father Fell did lock his bedroom door from the inside. There were few enough strangers coming this far out but desperation pervaded the whole of England. The world felt as though it teetered on the brink of destruction, bombs lighting the skies and shaking the ground as they decimated whole cities at once. They were lucky to remain so untouched in Fulking, though he reckoned many wives and mothers might disagree.
These unhappy thoughts saw the Father to his bed and eventually an uneasy rest.
**
The first thing to trickle into his conscious mind was warmth. For the first time in several days, he was not shivering, wet, or aching with cold. There was something firm but cushioned below him and a weight of soft fabric atop. One of his feet had been propped up on a pillow, shoes removed. Otherwise, he was fully clothed beneath the blanket.
He stank like all hell and his ankle was throbbing after a nasty tumble the day before, but he was shockingly comfortable.
The man who currently called himself Crowley dared to crack open an eye. Gray light filled a room not much larger than a closet, heavy curtains drawn over the single window across from him.
“Thank fuck,” he breathed then winced, throat raw with thirst and disuse.
All his life, Crowley had been oddly sensitive to light; a very sunny day could leave his head hurting for hours. Fortunately, he’d grown up in England where the clouds were happy to accommodate him most of the time.
He let both eyes adjust before scanning the space. Mostly it was filled with stacks of books. There was what looked like an easel shoved in the far corner, its most recent work covered sloppily with a piece of fabric.
Crowley eased himself to sitting as best he could, biting back a series of distressed grunts and groans. There was a glass of water on the table beside him and he winged a prayer skyward– to a god he did not believe in, no less– before picking it up and slogging back half in one go.
His stomach did not welcome the sudden intrusion and tried to rebel but he breathed carefully through the twitching contractions and managed to keep it down. Still breathing at a measured pace, he noted some pills had also been left. For pain, most likely. Though if they knocked him back out, he wouldn’t really object. Not as though he had anywhere else to go. He swallowed them both, on faith.
Memory was returning in dribs and drabs, enough to flush his face in embarrassment for the manner in which he had arrived. Christ, he must have looked like an absolute lunatic… limping into the church and babbling about needing sanctuary. Some sort of Dickensian fever dream.
Crowley swore again, under his breath, and sipped his water. He had never been so lucky in his life as to meet the man in the church. Light eyes and hair, face like a cherub. That was all he could conjure up at the moment, though he may have been staring at a painting or a statue for all he knew now. He’d been so far gone, walking for days and sleeping rough, stealing what crumbs he could to survive. Such was the life of a true outcast.
That’s what he’d made of himself, now.
There was no going back. Not to his family, not to London, and bloody sure not to the pustulant pox ridden squadron. In just two consecutive nights, he had managed to thoroughly ruin his life. It hadn’t even been worth the fleeting moment of connection he was seeking, the feel of someone’s arms around him.
Crowley’s mouth trembled and his eyes burned, but he had no tears to shed. His body couldn’t spare them, working as it was to keep him from pruning up where he lay.
There was a muted knock outside the closed door.
He looked at it but couldn’t think of a thing to say. It wasn’t his room so the visitor didn’t need an invitation from him.
Another knock, firmer this time. “Sir? May I come in?”
“Yeah,” he croaked back, incredulous at the question. “Of course.”
The white-gold head of hair he recalled shuffled into the room. Under that was– yes, the cherubic face, full cheeks and bright eyes, a stubborn looking chin and a romantic nose. The man was simply lovely and it made Crowley deeply and abashedly aware of his own slovenly appearance.
The man standing by the foot of the bed seemed at ease, smiling serenely down at him.
“Oh I do hope you were able to get some good rest. You were obviously in great need of it. Are you ill? Does your ankle feel any better?” His eyes flicked to the empty glass Crowley still clutched. “Would you like some more water? Or perhaps some tea?”
“Ah. I… water would be… nice,” Crowley finally managed, his mind reeling at the barrage of questions, however kindly meant.
“Absolutely! I see you took the paracetamol, yes? Let me know if those helped and I’ll bring you more in a few hours. I’m afraid my medical supplies are, well, you know how it’s been. I’m sure.” He stepped closer and took the glass. “Um, are you hungry at all? I keep a small larder but there should be enough for two. Providing you don’t need any sugar, of course. Never thought I could miss anything so much as I miss sugar.” He gave a nervous little titter. “I’m sorry, my dear boy. I don’t. Erm. It’s a rare thing to have a… a guest here. I’m afraid I’m out of practice.” There was a flash of sadness as he looked down at his hands but it was replaced by that sweet smile once more. “I’ll see to the water and let you decide how you feel.”
Crowley made a sound he hoped was friendly or at least agreeable as the other man retreated, leaving the door ajar. It was a small thing but one for which he was grateful. An open door implied that he was free to leave at any time. Not that he wished to but it meant something just to have the option.
As Crowley was considering what story he ought to tell, he heard a tea kettle whistle nearby. Since reaching adulthood, he had traded in tea drinking in favor of coffee, growing a love for the dense bitterness and jolt of caffeine, as well as the little bit of panache it added when he downed the stuff undiluted. Especially whilst making eye contact with an attractive someone and arching one brow just so.
Those days were long gone. Halcyon nostalgia, where he got to pretend he hadn’t been the same miserable bugger he always was. Only younger and even more foolish.
The smell of tea preceded his new acquaintance into the room and there was a certain childhood charm to it.
“Ta,” he acknowledged as the man set both a mug and another water glass on the bed stand.
The man stepped back and clasped his hands in front of him. “If you don’t want it, that’s alright but I thought it might be nice.” He looked about to say something, appeared to change his mind and cleared his throat. “I’m Father Fell, by the way. And this is– perhaps rather obviously– my parish.”
“Father… Fell,” Crowley tasted the name. “Isn’t that what Lucifer did? Fell?” He gave a short laugh but it came out rusty.
The Father’s plump cheeks pinked and he dropped his gaze, hands twisting together. “Yes. You would not be the first to note the, um, irony. Well, more of a titular oxymoron, if we’re being specific.”
Crowley’s brows rose. He was educated enough to get by, been called clever most of his life, though not always in a positive light. He hadn’t a patch on this man. Priest. Not in the vocabulary department, at any rate. It might be harder than he thought to pass off a lie. He wanted, nay needed, to stay on the Father’s good side. This was a safe place to heal and to hide. On top of that, he rather thought he might end up liking the pretty, poncy priest.
His mouth stretched into an apologetic smile. “I spose it is a bit on the nose.” He picked up the water and sipped. “Thank you. And for the tea. Would be good for me to drink it, I think. Just don’t tell my mother I said so.” He winked before he could think the better of it and traded the glass for the steaming mug.
Father Fell gave a genuine chuckle at that. “A woman who solved all life’s problems with a cuppa, I take it?”
Crowley blew across the top of the mug. “That or a switch.” He instantly regretted the admission, seeing the Father flinch slightly. Too dark. Don’t bring that gallows humor to the man who is practically made of God’s bloody Light, you idiot.
“At least you had options, I suppose,” Father Fell adjoined, at last.
When Crowley’s head whipped toward him, there was a mischievous glint in the man’s eye. There and gone. But enough to make his own smile broaden. Oh yes, he might actually like this priest very much.