Chapter Text
Monsignor Jefferson Wicks had been acting rather strange lately. Stranger than usual. Jud was used to his emotional outbursts in the pulpit, his flair for the dramatic, and of course, his contempt for Jud. Lately, though, he had noticed a change in his behaviour.
More than once he had noticed him sitting alone, frowning out over the garden or the pews. He could have been praying, or lost in thought, but though he was the senior pastor, Jud could count the times one one hand that he’d seen Monsignor Wicks alone in prayer.
“Are you alright Monsignor?” Jud would ask in an attempt to get into the priest's good graces. He regularly brushed him off, looking agitated to have been disturbed.
His rowdier homilies were becoming more and more regular too. As his passion rose he’d be white-knucling the pulpit, and right as the crux of his sermon was rising, he’d start to stumble over his words, or he’d seemingly change subject entirely mid-speech. Not that it mattered. His convicting tone said more than enough and his faithful flock still hung on his words while newcomers slipped out the back, quietly or otherwise.
His tendency toward violence, was also making itself known.
He was a large and commanding man, and hungry for power over people. His sermons were one outlet for this. It was quite clear that every Sunday was the verbal equivalent of taking his flock by the shoulders and shaking them.
The sunnier, kinder side of him, the side that kept his flock close, was much the same. Not afraid to touch, he used it as a means of connection, crossing the physical boundary so people let their guard down - a tactic well known by many manipulators and cult leaders. An encouraging clap on the back or a squeeze on the arm. It would have been admirable, if it weren’t for the rest.
Monsignor Wicks didn't like Jud. That much was obvious.
Despite this, and while making the fact known to his flock, during the last few weeks the senior priest had started to offer these physical assurances to him.
A warm hand clasping the back of Jud’s neck. A squeeze of the arm that was just a little too hard. A friendly pat on the cheek that shook him up just a little.
He didn’t put it together at the time.
Then Jud went and told him how he really felt.
That night Jud had struggled up the stairs to his bedroom, hand on his aching ribs. His view of the Monsignor changed that night, not that he had made a good impression from the start. He winced as he lifted his shirt over the red marks that were quickly darkening into deep bruises. This man was violent, but more than that, he was dangerous to the lives of his flock.
Monsignor Wicks’ view of Jud Duplenticy changed that night too.
-
Some days passed and Jud saw the Monsignor hardly at all. Around noon on Saturday, three days after the incident, Jud’s bruises were still tender and dark but beginning to fade. Martha appeared in the kitchen beside him.
“Monsignor Wicks wishes you to meet him in the church.”
Jud started. She had a habit of doing this, making no sound when she entered a room.
“Thank you, Martha.” He said haltingly and perhaps a little sarcastically, catching his breath. “Uh, did he say why?”
“Yes.” She said. There was an expectant pause from Jud.
“May I ask why?”
“He’s not happy.” She said in a warning voice, walking off like a school girl sewing dissent. Shit.
Jud let out a weary sign and went out the door headed out to the church.
Tramping through the ferns Jud’s anxiety started to rise, they hadn’t fully spoken since Wicks had beat the tar out of him in the garden, and tomorrow was mass.
It started to rain just as he reached the doors, and it was dark inside.Monsignor Wicks was standing on the stage looking up at the missing crucifix. Jud wondered if he was thinking of his mother.
“Monsignor Wicks? You wanted to see me?” His voice carried the echo of that old empty room.
The old man turned around and gave him a tight smile and he walked up the pews.
“Father Jud, yes.” He didn’t go on. Jud reached the base of the steps and stopped, looking up at Monsignor Wicks.
“Uh, what can I do for you?”
“I think a better question is, what can I do for you? Father.” The air of calm the Jud had painted on on the walk over melted off in an instant.
He offered a confused smile. “I’m not sure I-”
“I thought you might like to unburden yourself.” He said, voice growing louder. He descended the steps, stopping just one away so he could look down on the younger priest.
Jud recognised the power play immediately and his stomach turned, his body trying to get him ready to run already. He hated that. The power this man had over his senses. The fear built up over many months. He set his jaw and swallowed his nerves.
“Certainly Monsignor, if I do something requiring your absolution, I’ll call on you.” The lines on Wick’s face darkened.
“So you say you have not done anything requiring absolution?”
Jud let out a huff. “I- What is this about?”
“Sixty dollars went missing from the collections box last week, and forty the week before that. Martha also informs me some of the silverware is missing, on top of some personal items from my own rooms having disappeared. Tell me again that you don’t wish to give confession, Father Jud.” There was a pause as the reverberation of Wick’s powerful voice faded to silence.
“I didn’t do any of that.”
“Lying is a sin Father.” Jud felt his frustration mounting.
“You know what? Fine. I'll give my confession.” He clapped his hand together dramatically with a tight fake smile. “Bless me Father for I have sinned - it’s been three days since my last confession.” He said, leaving no room for Wicks to react.
“I’ve lied! On Thursday Martha was hanging a painting of some protestants getting smited by the archangel Gabriel and she asked me what I thought and I said ‘looks great’ but really I thought it was quite distasteful. I’ll confess to that, I will not confess to something I didn’t do!”
“You lie, boy and you disrespect this holy sacrament, God himself, and me!”
“This is ridiculous, I’m going” He turned to leave but a strong grip on his bicep prevented him from moving further.
“I will not suffer sin in this holy place.” His tone was calm, almost sad, but the threat was there. Jud’s heart started to race. He tried not to feel like a trapped mouse.
He turned toward the Monsignor, arm still caught. Then against his better judgement he said, “Are you feeling quite alright, Monsignor?”
The older man’s face turned to an ugly sneer for just a moment before Jud was thrown onto the stairs.
A cry left his lips as the marble stair met with his brittle knee and already bruised ribs. He recoiled in pain, shocked by the sudden assault and unable to draw breath.
“If you will not confess we’ll have to save your soul another way. Penitence!” He roared. With Jud still struggling on the ground he lifted him by the back of his jacket and dragged him up the rest of the stairs, pushing him to his knees in front of the altar.
Jud’s right knee screamed in pain, he didn’t think he’d be able to walk but he tried to stand, breath finally returning to him, ragged and hoarse.
He reached a hand up to the altar to steady himself and a hard burning pain coinciding with a loud clang made his recoil. Tears sprung to his eyes and he let out a barely audible scream, grasping his hand which was now bleeding. He collapsed forward into the altar, head against the cool marble.
He heard a quiet shuffling and clinking and put the pieces together.
“Now if you’re good I won’t have to use that end again.” A belt buckle, he’d struck his hand with a fucking belt buckle. Sobs escaped his lips as they finally allowed themselves. The pain in his hand was searing, he knew he’d be lucky if his fingers weren’t broken.
Warm pressure on the back of his head sent a shudder down his spine. Wicks grabbed his collar with his other hand and yanked his jacket down his arms.
“This is for your own good son.” Wicks said gently.
There was the sound of rushing air and then a painful smack over his back. Jud’s instinctual arching away from the pain was stopped by the hand which kept his head to the altar. He felt it jolt with every swing of the belt, his left hand jumping from the sudden swing of the right.
He was in the ring again, but with no fight left in him. He ached and cried. He prayed. Let this end God please let this end. Through the fog of stinging pain a sickly sweet voice told him that without the hand holding him steady he would probably have split his head open too, and, strangely, that Monsignor was kind enough not to use the buckle end on his back. It got him through the twenty or so lashes that followed.
The striking stopped and he sank further into the altar, sobbing silently in relief. He heard the sound of the belt falling to the floor. A hand on his collar.
“No, please-” He whimpered. Reaching around to grab the hem of Wicks’ cassock, to stop him or to beg, he wasn’t sure. The Monsignor kicked his hand aside with little effort and dragged him away again.
He closed his eyes and tried to muster the strength to fend him off, but then he was thrown back down on the floor. He shuffled backward on his hands, feeling chalky concrete below. When his eyes opened there was the disheveled silhouette of Monsignor Wicks in a doorway.
Jud sat back, disorientated, afraid of what might happen next.
“Five Hail Mary’s, four Our Father’s” With that he reached in and pulled the heavy door of the storage room shut with a loud thud.
He scrambled to his feet as the realisation hit him, knee complaining mightily at the movement.
“Wait, wait! NO!” His voice was harsh and desperate, and the small room greedily absorbed the noise.
His fists pounding on the stone made little effect but the crunching of power in the joints jamming the door closed a little further. There was no way to open it from inside.
“Monsignor!” He shouted despite himself.
The adrenaline started to fall from his limbs and he crumbled to the floor. He cried openly. Not just from the pain. This feeling, the haze of a fight, he had loved it once, he never wanted to feel it again. His breathing grew heavy and shaky, and nausea rose in his stomach. His mind raced. What the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? What the fuck was that?
The cogs refused to even turn. He didn’t know how to pray about this.
He brought his shaking hands to his face. “God help me, please help me.” His voice was high and strained, barely a whisper.
Hours passed slowly in the dark.
He couldn’t tell the damage to his left hand, except that it was swollen and the skin was torn and bloody. His knee still ached, but he was sure it’d be okay. His back stung like a bad sunburn, hot and bruised, thank God he’d had a shirt to protect him. His ribs ached when he breathed.
But worst was the heavy, broad phantom of Wicks’ hand on the back of his head. He could feel it there still - warm, commanding, steadying. Protecting. He shuddered.
He sat there for a long time, thinking. What would he do when he got out? Call up Bishop Langstrom? The police? He would have to.
The thought of it made him nauseous. If, I get out.
-
He must’ve slept. He woke up from a dream about a long silver knife with a start, gasping, heart pounding. The air in the room was getting very thin.
He clasped his hands and prayed frantically, trying to keep his breath small and steady. Daniel in the Lion's Den.
He didn’t know how long it had been. His breaths became longer and deeper, slower, his chest heaving in air but with nothing to feed his lungs. His prayers became delirious and muddled. His fingers and lips tingled from lack of oxygen.
Then, his ears pricked at a distant sound. His heart pounded. He breathed in all he could and expelled from his breath a coarse “Help!”
He heard footsteps approaching.
“Help!” he shouted again, weaker this time.
He panted as the door fell open and light flooded the space, illuminating his pale form propped up against the back wall, lips cracked, eyes red, blood dried on his face and hands.
Air rushed in and overwhelmed him, gasping, tears of relief springing to his eyes. Thank you God, thank you God.
A shadow blocked the light.
“Come Father Duplenticy, I will take your confession now.” Said the calm, commanding voice of Monsignor Wicks. A dark veil fell over Jud’s beatitude.
He wanted to ask him what the hell he was playing at, what kind of sick game this was to him. But he was weak, and Wicks was clearly very unstable. As the cold air filled his lungs he decided the smartest play would be to let Wicks have his way.
His expression was cold as he hastily brushed the tears from his cheeks. Slowly and shakily he pushed himself to his feet and limped toward Wicks, who stood like an iron gate in the doorway. Jud stopped when he didn’t move.
“Kneel.”
“What?”
“Kneel for your confession.”
He grit his teeth, starting to tremble again from the adrenaline and pain. He nodded. Slowly and painfully he lowered himself to his knees before Wicks. It felt like sacrilege.
He carefully clasped his hands together. Swallowed the dry lump in his throat.
“Bless me father for I’ve sinned.” He said in an uneven voice. “It’s been, uhm,” His voice broke. He looked up at Wicks and met his gleaming eye for the first time. He felt sick. Wicks was clearly loving this.
Wicks raised his hand and Jud flinched, but he only pulled back his sleeve to check his watch.
“Twenty-one hours.” He said with relish.
Jud blinked, came back to himself.
“It’s been twenty one hours since my last confession.” His voice shook though he willed it not to. He knew by now that it must give Wicks some sick pleasure to see him so weak.
“I- I have stolen, and I have lied to my fellow priest.” Wicks smiled and nodded.
“It is forgiven. You have atoned”
Lying during confession would surely be pardoned if one immediately confessed said lie. And Wicks had what he wanted. And Jud was free.
Wicks reached out and laid a hand on the side of his head, warm and broad, and the other over his clasped hands. Almost comforting, almost kind. The golden morning light never seemed so cold.
Jud willed himself to be still.
“Well done my son, go in peace.” Jud’s eyes were wide and despite himself tears welled up at the words.
“And,” Wicks lowered himself, gently pulling Jud’s hand in, swiping a tear that had fallen from under his eye. “Clean yourself up? Mass starts in half an hour.” He smiled, patted him on the cheek, and left without another word.