Work Text:
"I need..."
He stops. His head pounds. His stomach aches.
How much can you take?
He's terrified.
Terrified that no one can help him now. Terrified that he doesn't deserve it anyway.
And yet, something brought him here.
The priest looks at him. There's no pity in his gaze, and Riley is grateful for that.
Silently, he moves aside and beckons into the rectory with one large hand. Riley steps inside, and the priest closes the door behind them.
"I can't...I don't know what to do," Riley says. His eyes burn, threatening tears. The old monsignor has seen him cry before, but the thought of crying in front of this Pruitt - still more stranger than not - is too much to bear.
How much can you take?
"I can help you," Pruitt says, softly. "I told you before that I would help you, and I meant it. You aren't alone in this."
"What would it say about me? If...if I let you."
"Does it matter?"
Riley blinks, then frowns. "I...of course it does."
"It's just you and me, Riley, isn't it? Just the two of us. I understand you. I know what you need. I won't judge you. You know that, don't you?"
"You say that, but we're not the same. You have no idea - "
I'm not like you.
I can't be.
The priest rolls up his sleeve, revealing a spiderweb of veins under pale skin. His lips curl back, and Riley stares helplessly as he opens himself wide with his teeth. The blood practically bursts to meet the air, so shockingly dark that it's almost black, and something inexplicable permeates the rectory - tangible, like electricity. It's almost as if Riley's very skin is humming, each and every sense imbued with it.
Pruitt lifts his head to look at him again, eyes as dark as the blood that now stains his lips. As Riley watches, a stray drop trickles down his chin.
"We are the same, Riley. In many ways."
He must feel it, too - the energy, the electricity.
The heat. The need.
Riley digs his nails into his palms. It hurts, but it does nothing to distract him, nor does it dull his newly heightened sense of smell.
How much can you take?
"It's okay," Pruitt murmurs, voice low and soothing.
It isn't, but Riley knows it's all over anyway. He knows it even before the blood drips down the priest's long fingers and into the worn floorboards. He knows it even as he remembers how Tara-Beth's blood glistened on the pavement, reflecting gaudy, almost obscene shades of red and blue.
Lying on your bed, looking at the ceiling -
He's hardly aware of when he makes the decision to move forward. Maybe he doesn't; maybe his body - still his, but so foreign, so unfamiliar - makes the decision for him. It doesn't matter.
Waiting for something to happen -
His lips part, and he reaches. Reaches for that crimson hand, raises it to his lips. Lets the priest's fingers brush against his eager tongue.
Knowing all the time that you were meant for something better -
Like anyone else, Riley knows what blood tastes like. But this is nothing like that. This is hot red wine infused with something even sweeter - cinnamon, perhaps, or chocolate.
It's heavenly.
Holy.
An abomination.
He groans before he can stop himself, grasping the priest's arm with both hands and angling him closer, lips firm around his fingers.
Feeling it -
"Riley," Pruitt says, feebly. His voice is breathy.
Against his better judgment, Riley glances up and lets their eyes meet again. The priest is watching him, dark brows slightly furrowed. He almost looks like he's in pain.
Wanting it -
Riley drops the priest's arm, detaches from his fingers. Horror almost rises up within him, or, at least, the expectation of horror. He knows he should be feeling it by now.
But he isn't.
There's only hunger.
How much can you take...before you snap?
He doesn't dwell. Instead, he puts every ounce of his newfound strength into throwing himself at Pruitt.
Their bodies connect more violently this time, and Riley ignores the small grunt of surprise that escapes Pruitt's lips - the undignified click of his skull against the hardwood as they settle together, little more than an unholy tangle of limbs.
As Riley unbuttons that tidy black shirt, as he tears away that little white collar that's been reminding of his failings for weeks - no, decades, if what the priest told him was true - he finally feels like he's in control.
But it's more than that.
He's a predator. And Pruitt, in this moment, is some hapless creature that, for reasons unknown, allows itself to be cornered.
Riley grasps at Pruitt's hair and jerks his head to the side. Leans in, closer. The thick scent of blood is overwhelming now, but beneath that, there's the man himself - musk, salt, soap or some kind of cologne, the faint essence of sandalwood and smoke from a church censer.
Riley lets his new instincts take over.
Pruitt emits a choked gasp and writhes under him, scrambling at his shirt with spidery hands. But he doesn't push him away.
Riley is almost surprised at the ease of it - at the way Pruitt's flesh gives way to his teeth as if it's nothing. But why shouldn't it? This is what he's made for now. This is what his body is meant to do.
Blood pools in Riley's mouth and his throat buzzes with it as he swallows, his nerves igniting all at once. He buries himself deeper into the priest to stifle a moan - or, perhaps, a scream.
Guilt.
It's sudden, and it burns almost as hot as the blood. And then there's regret, and there's desire, and, in the middle of it all, he's pretty sure there's even something resembling love.
None of it is his.
Riley tries to pull away. But he's no longer a beast in repose, and whatever is inside him now doesn't let him retreat. The blood continues to run, and it needs somewhere to go.
Suddenly, he's standing in front of a tombstone, and someone is holding his hand. A woman. She's smiling down at him with dark eyes that are red and swollen, and her sharp cheekbones glisten with fresh tears.
"She was very sick," she says. "No one could have saved her."
Riley tries to get a better look at the name on the tombstone, but before he's able to, he's sitting on a bed in a room he doesn't recognize. A woman, surely no older than twenty-five, is sitting next to him.
"I wish I could be there for you," he hears himself say, but it's not his voice. "For both of you."
There's nothing but pain in her delicate features, and her huge, chocolate-brown eyes brim with tears. He reaches to brush a strand of chestnut hair from her cheek with a hand that isn't his own, but she looks away.
"You can't, John. We can't. It would destroy him."
He's standing behind the pulpit, hand shaking over a familiar Bible. The same woman watches him from the pews. She's sitting in the very back, bouncing a squirming toddler in her lap - a little girl with curly black hair. Their eyes lock, and she gives him a small, sad smile.
And then he sees latticed woodwork - the inside of a confessional.
"Bless me, Lord, for I have sinned...no, that's not right. Bless me, Lord, for I am going to sin."
A monster hovers above him. He sees its teeth, its burning eyes, feels clawed fingers tighten around his wrists as its tongue lightly traces his jaw, smells its rancid breath. He tries to scream, but he's choking on his own blood and can only manage to gurgle.
You are mine, my child. My servant.
Riley pulls away from Pruitt with a wet gasp, and the barrage stops all at once.
Pruitt, who once bandaged his bloody knee when he'd scraped it after Mass. Pruitt, who once told Annie and Ed Flynn that he'd been helping him with something at the rectory when he'd actually been smoking pot down by the Uppards. Pruitt, who had smiled knowingly as Riley had told him about his crush on Erin. Pruitt, who had been like a father to him, time and time again.
Pruitt, who's just as scared and lost - just as human - as he is.
Riley opens his mouth, but only a sob emerges. He drops his head into the man's neck once more - not to drink, but to avoid his eyes. Whatever he sees there will be too much.
"Shhh...okay, okay..."
Pruitt is rubbing soothing circles into his back now, and Riley lets himself accept that small comfort, even though there's no way he deserves it. Not after this.
We are the same, Riley. In many ways.
The priest's words echo repeatedly in his mind, but they no longer bring him horror.