Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/486526.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Angels_&_Demons_(2009)
  Relationship:
      OMC/Patrick_McKenna
  Character:
      Patrick_McKenna, Archbishop_(future_Pope), OMC
  Additional Tags:
      not_particularly_graphic_but_squicky_all_the_same, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-07-08 Words: 1896
****** Drift Among the Faithful ******
by micehell
Summary
     He would be strong, for all of them.
Notes
     This came from my wondering why Patrick, raised by the then
     Archbishop, wouldn't have somewhat the same values as the man. I
     mean, if the Pope was kind of moderate about his religious beliefs,
     why was Patrick such a zealot? This is one (very wrong) explanation
     for why that is.
     Title from I'm Not Jesus by Apocalyptica ft. Corey Taylor.
Years ago they'd built a new cathedral, jewel-bright and gold, on the grounds
of the old, but Patrick liked the old one best. It was little more than ruin,
now, the west end, the nave, and the transept all gone, the apse and the
ambulatory dank and dark, like shadows of their former glory.
Father Connor liked the old cathedral, too, always following Patrick when he
came out here, watching him carefully as he walked among the crumbling stones.
Patrick didn't mind, though, happy enough to have someone to talk to while he
waited for his father to finish his business up at the main building.
"There used to be a lady's chapel behind here, and a radiating chapel to the
side, just like Amiens. But the east end is squared, which seems to be an
English thing. I wonder why?"
Father Connor nodded his head, as if answering something, but since Patrick
hadn't asked a question that could be answered by a nod, he didn't know what.
He shrugged, going back to the sunken apse. The altar had been built from
marble from the local quarry, thick and immovable, standing the test of time
better than most of the building. There was still a crucifix hung above it,
carved from the same stone, once garish paint chipped away until the far more
elegant marble underneath shone through like God's light.
The father had laid out some sandwiches and water, and he called Patrick over.
Father Connor tried to hand him his glass, but he spilled it, hands shaking
like he was cold.
"Are you all right, Father? I can run down to the main building if you're ill."
Patrick was half-off the broken buttress he was using as a seat, but Father
Connor waved him back down, smile as shaky as his hands. "It's all right,
Patrick. Just a tic I get sometimes. It's nothing to worry over. Drink up;
you've been playing hard all morning."
At sixteen, Patrick didn't really want to think of what he'd been doing as
playing. More like exploring church architecture. He figured any information he
could glean would be helpful when he reached the seminary. He'd already looked
over the coursework, and knew that it was one of the electives you could take.
He ate his sandwich slowly, the thick peanut butter sticking to his mouth as he
chewed. Patrick wasn't fond of peanut butter, didn't like the texture, and you
had to drink like a gallon of water just to choke the things down, but father
had said to mind Father Connor, so he could hardly complain of the lunch he'd
been given.
Couldn't complain about the man at all, even though he found him odd. He never
said much when he was around, just looking at him as if he were afraid Patrick
would disappear if he didn't watch his every move. He was hardly a
prepossessing man even in his silence, his alb hanging about him like a sack
cloth.
Patrick thought he would always wear the cassock when he became a priest. He
liked white, and several girls had told him he looked good in it, but the
cassock definitely had more panache. Patrick laughed around the peanut butter,
almost choking on it, knowing his father would certainly disapprove of such
vanity.
After he finally finished the sandwich, Patrick looked around for anything else
he could do to pass the time. There would likely still be several hours to
fill, since his father rarely finished before late afternoon whenever they
visited here.
The sun pressed down overhead, warm in the crisp air, and his lunch settled
uneasily on his stomach. Patrick felt his eyes start to blink heavily as sun
and air and lunch all went hazy.
Father Connor's voice broke through the haze, asking softy, "Are you tired,
Patrick? Why don't we just get you somewhere to lie down, so that you can sleep
while you wait for your father."
He hadn't meant to sleep the day away, usually full of energy while the sun was
up, but Patrick let himself be led deeper into the ruined church as lassitude
washed over him.
The altar was cold against his skin, and Patrick couldn't remember why that was
wrong. Father Connor's hands were cold, too, pressing against his back,
pressing him out against the too cold marble, and Patrick wanted to tell him
that he didn't sleep on his stomach, especially not when the peanut butter was
still giving him issues. But he couldn't get the words out properly, only able
to say, "What?" as Father Connor pulled at his pants.
That struck Patrick as very wrong, waking him up as cold hands pressed into his
body, into a place they shouldn't be. He managed to get words out now, a loud
"No!" that echoed against the stone around them, but no further, and Patrick
wanted to cry as he realized that no one would hear them.
He tried to kick back, to get rid of the weight settling behind him, but the
world still spun around him, and Father Connor just stepped closer, catching
Patrick's body between the cold marble and the heated flesh pressing against
his back. He tried not to cry (sixteen was too old to cry, too old to cry), but
he couldn't stop when his body was breached, the pain more than he'd expected,
more than he'd ever felt.
Even knowing that no one would hear him, Patrick screamed again, "Father!" but
the only father here was one who wouldn't help. He just pressed a hand across
Patrick's mouth, pulling his head back painfully as he shoved into Patrick
again.
With his head pulled back, and his eyes opened wide in pain, Patrick could see
the crucifix above him, the beauty underneath the tarnish. He kept his eyes on
it, that beauty, barely able to breath around the hand, around the pain, and
prayed that it would end. That someone would come.
He was still praying, still watching Christ's eyes (one faded blue, one graying
marble), when his prayers were answered.
It didn't seem like an answer at first: Father Connor calling out as he stilled
inside Patrick, heat washing out of him, his own father calling out, heat
building as he cried, "What the hell are you doing?"
It didn't seem like much of an answer when Father Connor was pulled away from
him, either, the pain of his leaving Patrick's body almost as great as his
entry. There was no one there to hold Patrick up now, so he slipped down the
altar to land in a heap on the cold, broken stone that had once been a
beautiful marble floor.
It was then, numb with cold and alone on the floor, that Patrick finally
realized that his prayer had been answered. He'd wanted it to be over with, had
wanted someone to come. He'd prayed, looking at the crucifix (looking at those
sad, cross-colored eyes), and his prayers had been answered.
Patrick didn't have long to marvel at the reward for his faith, because he
heard his father cry out again, no words this time, just a jumbled sound that
was part pain, part anger. And he was sixteen, and too old to cry (too old to
cry), but he couldn't help it, not wanting Father Connor to hurt his father.
He tried to tell his father about the crucifix, about the rewarded faith, but
it was lost as Father Connor cried out once more, part fear, part pain,
breaking off abruptly as he fell to the floor in front of Patrick. He didn't
move, didn't speak. Just stared at Patrick as he'd always done, one eye blue,
one red from the blood that spread and pooled under his head.
The world seemed to hold its breath then, nothing stirring for what seemed like
forever to Patrick, but might have been no time at all. He couldn't really tell
anymore, seconds seeming to last eternity, his heart beating far too fast to be
right. But time finally broke, finally reformed into sense as his father cried
out, "Oh, God, what have I done?"
Patrick had been told since before he could remember, since long before his
father was even his father, not to take the Lord's name in vain, but he didn't
think that this was. It was honestly a question directed at God, and Patrick
wished, with all the pride he wasn't supposed to have, that he'd been more
careful, been smarter, been better, rather than put his father in a position to
need to ask that of God.
If his father received an answer, Patrick didn't hear it, everything going
blurry after that, running together like the fading colors of the crucifix.
Whispers washed over him (We must keep this quiet! For the boy's sake, for the
Church's sake), and touches (Hold still, Patrick, just hold still, it's almost
over), and finally, blessedly, it all faded away.
Patrick was in his own bed when he woke, the curtains drawn, the room dark, as
if someone had died there. His father was sitting beside him, in lay clothes, a
bible clasped tightly in his hands.
He didn't look up, but he seemed to know Patrick was awake, because he started
talking. "What that man did to you… it wasn't just a sin, Patrick. It was a
sacrilege. To hurt you, to do that, on an altar…"
The bible was old, pages yellowed and crossed over by spidery lines of thought
in the margins. It was one of his father's most cherished possessions, but it
was falling apart under his hands now, fingers gripping too tight, curling the
spine and cracking old leather as his father shook beside him.
"Murder is a sin, Patrick. That's something you know. Something your life has
taught you far too early. But sometimes… sometimes it's necessary to take
drastic measures. To protect those who need it. To protect the Church, even
from those within."
The bible was useless now, pages broken like confetti as they drifted to the
floor.
"You come from a race of warriors. You are one yourself. You'll come out of
this stronger than before. I know I can count on you. I know you'll do what's
right. One day, when you're a priest, I know you'll work with me to insure that
such… sacrilege never happens again. You can do that for me, can't you,
Patrick? You can keep this secret for the good of the Church?"
Patrick's memories were clouded, but the pain in his body was like a map to
what had happened. He could still see the crucifix before him, could feel the
man behind him, could remember praying that someone would come and stop it. And
someone had, like proof of what faith could bring you.
He wanted to share that proof, to share that faith, but his father needed him
not to. The Church needed him not to. So Patrick just nodded, and looked at the
remains of his father's cherished bible, spilled across the floor like the
debris from the worst party ever.
His faith had saved him. His faith could help save the Church. Patrick nodded
again, fingers pressed over the broken bible, taking the vow his father had set
him.
He would be strong, for all of them.
/story
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