Father Luca is sometimes a little lost in London. The city is big and while Vatican had been large, it had been full of his brothers and sisters. London is full of life and people, and while he loves that 80% of the time, sometimes he feels like he's drowning in it. Unlike brother Will, who took residence in the Buckingham Palace, Luca found one of the many deserted Churches in London and settled down. Vatican was more than happy to shoulder the fees for him for a little while at least. Most of the riches of the church had been already either robbed or taken to other locations. There was a big wooden cross behind the altar and some old bibles, dusty bottles of wine for the communion and some of the cassocks in the back were his size. Nothing fancy, but just enough for Luca.
He shopped in the nearby grocery store and mostly spent his time trying to get to know the people who lived in the area. Trying to bring some security into their lives.
He was selecting vegetables in the grocery store for his soup today when a man stumbled in, crazed look in his eyes, climbing his way on top of the fruit display and started to chomp on the apples. He sat like a big cat, holding himself in place with his hand, hunched over his legs. He was eyeing the customers in the shop with redshot eyes, drooling mindlessly until his gaze fell on the priest.
Luca swallowed, putting down the basket he had been carrying. He had seen this on his way to London. Glimpses of it. But he hadn't been the one who dealt with it. Not this close up. Something was wrong with these people. Something evil was inside them. Something that thirsted and took without a permission.
He backed away, a hand curling around the cross around his neck. "In nomine Patris, et Fílii," he started, voice trembling mildly. The creature - because you couldn't call it a human with good conscience with its hunched way of walking and growl that had nothing to do with human communication - growled and started to claw its way down from the pile of fruit. Luca's back bumped against the shelves, his fingers quick to draw a cross across his chest. "Et Spirítus Sancti. Amen."
The harsh light of a grocery store was not what Crawford had wanted to deal with that day. His head felt like a rotten melon ready to burst, because he'd spent his night off doing exactly what he hated his customers for. Getting belligerently drunk. But when he'd finally been able to get to his feet without feeling sick, he discovered that he'd forgotten to go to the store. For the last three weeks. So it was either the stale dredges shoved into the back, or dragging himself out to buy something.
He didn't even get a basket, intent on just getting as many frozen dinners as he could carry and getting out as fast as he could. But as he made his way into the store, he realized he should probably grab something moderately fresh for if Donavin showed up. But thoughts of produce left his head the moment he approached the area. He didn't logic or reason to know what he was looking at, the way the man perched atop the display.
Working in a bar put him in the territory of easy targets. Weak minded, impaired, desperate people. Those who would not give a demon much of a fight. Through sheer exposure, he'd learned how to spot the difference between the average drunk lunatic and one who was possessed. One had even tried to take a ride with him. Once. It had latched on one night when he'd had too much to drink, but by the next day it had a fair bit to deal with. Crawford wasn't quite the same after that, picking up a few new bad habits. But after that, he wasn't afraid of them anymore.
He didn't think. He just acted. He rushed in, moving rather quickly for a man of his size for compromised he was at the moment. A fist grabbed the thing's hair, a knee slamming into its stomach. It took no time at all, pinning the thing face-first on the floor, with a knee driven between it shoulder blades.
"Don't know who you're prayin' to," he drawled, his voice still thick an Irish accent despite having been in the city for a long time. "But they'll do fuck all to help."
It happened too fast for Luca to realise that he was standing there, clutching the edge of the shelf and no longer in danger. The man was restrained against the floor by the redhead speaking in thick accent that Luca could barely understand.
"Thank you," he muttered, his own English heavily accented. He hasn't had to use it a lot in Vatican. "But you're wrong. This is a demon. It will run in the sights of God."
He drew in a slow breath, deciding that if this person could act so bravely, so could Luca. He turned back to the shelf, looking amongst the bottles of oil until he found it. 100% olive oil. He broke the seal on the bottle and knelt beside them. He tilted the bottle and wetted his fingertips in it, then started to draw a cross on the possessed man's forehead. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica." The man twisted and groaned, trashed on his stomach as much as he could, his eyes dead set on Luca, hissing between his teeth at him, the cross on his forehead misting with heat rising from it.
Crawford had a lot of strong opinions when it came to religion and God. Struggling to keep the demon on the floor, to figure out how to take care of the situation. In the bar it was easy. He'd knock them out and hand them over to someone who could get the thing out. Or there was someone there who knew the necessary words or whatever it was.
Running in the sight of God. That got a sharp glare, at least. But his attempt to reply was cut off as the thing beneath him tried to shake him off. The man who was its host may not appreciate the broken nose it earned him, smashing his face into the floor, but Crawford didn't care. He just knew that when he looked up, it seemed like the priest was leaving. He started to wonder how such a spineless man had managed to survive so long. But he was back with what made about as much sense to Crawford as if Luca had grabbed a turnip off the shelf. But he wasn't in a position to ask questions.
The words, at least, sounded about right. A jumble of Latin nonsense, as far as the redhead knew. But it had some of the same words in it he'd heard before during these things. Given the priests earlier words, one might expect something more dramatic. But the hiss and heat was somewhat anticlimactic with the demon still tense beneath him, even if he'd stopped thrashing somewhat.
"Oh. Yes." Crawford said, dryly. "He's sure turned tail, this one. Fleeing in outright terror from your precious God." He let out an irritated sigh and tightened his grip on the thing's shoulders. "Don't know if this is your first ride, Padre, but that if you don't hurry this up, that slimy bastard's gonna think you're its next free ticket." This, he knew from experience.
"I... have never performed an exorcism before," Luca admitted, looking up into the blue eyes of the man helping him. "I've seen this... I... Please, hold on a little longer."
He returned to his Latin, muttering out the whole verse while holding his cross above the oiled forehead, his hands trembling and eyes wide. How long was this supposed to take? How would the events fold out? He didn't know. That was the gist of it.
But once he had rattled out the verse, all the way to the knowledge of Truth commands you, it seemed as if the demon calmed, the man seemed almost like he was sleeping.
Somehow it seemed awfully anticlimatic.
"Are you done abusing that poor guy?" asked a lady who now approached them with her lips pursed disapprovingly under the dyed red hair.
"Oh, Madame, I assure you--" Luca started, struggling up to his feet.
"This is ridiculous." Another voice joined the woman's.
For the look on Crawford's face, Luca may as well have called the man's mother a whore. He was horrified, offended, and if he weren't currently preoccupied with making sure the demon didn't try to take a bite out of the priest, would have probably thrown a punch. Or something equally rude. Isn't that all priests were actually good for these days? When demons (and by extension maybe angels) were real, tangible things, belief sort of went out the window.
"What the hell kind of priest are you?" Crawford hissed through his teeth when the guy finally went silent. He knew it wasn't right. A little too well. Sure, some people passed out after, but not like this.
But before either of them could do anything, the gawkers started to comment. Crawford's teeth ground together. "...like they've never seen a bloody demon..." he said under his breath, before raising his voice.
"Quite the opposite," Crawford said to the first woman. "This man's a nasty sexual predator. Heard all those nasty rumors 'bout priests and altar boys. Decided it needed switchin' around. Gets off on snatchin' up men of the cloth."
"There weren't any demons in Vatican," Luca said quietly, his eyes troubled as he looked down at the man who seemed to be sleeping. There hadn't been much anything of this sort in Vatican. They had all been so sheltered inside the walls. "Not before the massacre."
When the redhead provided an explanation to the onlookers, Luca hesitated, quietly shaking his head even if it seemed to satisfy their audience.
But he didn't have time to cultivate any of those thoughts. The demon in Crawford's hands trashed and aimed to headbutt the man holding him down. Something broken spilling out from the man's mouth, an ancient language that none of them could understand while the man's chest rouse and fell quickly.
"Ímperat tibi Deus Pater;" Luca hissed and pressed the cross against the man's forehead. It caught on flames, the oil burning with blue flame. "Imperat tibi Deus Fílius; imperat tibi Deus Spíritus Sanctus."
It wasn't that he'd let his guard down, but rather Luca's words distracted him. It was one thing for a priest to never have done an exorcism. But to have almost no interaction with demons at all? Some how, he'd always assumed the Vatican was some might stronghold full of warriors. But that was based on the few priests he actually knew, and only a vague understanding of how the Catholic church was organized.
He'd been about to let out a string of obscenities at the priest, when his hands slipped as the demon sudden threw it's head back and he got the man's scalp to his nose. It wasn't enough to make it bleed, but he certainly saw stars.
With a growl and a curse, he shoved the man back down to the floor, just in time for the flames to erupt. He was trying to not think of those syllables that were pouring out of the demon's mouth. Though they were even more alien to the redhead than Latin, he was more familiar with it. Somewhat. It was the language that haunted his dreams. The sort of voice that had him finding every humanly possible way to avoid dreams. The sort of sound that made something primal in his gut seize up in terror.
Luca understood perfectly the anger and the fear. Most of his brothers had also been afraid to perform the exorcism. It was something so very few wanted to do these days. Luca was starting to see why that was.
He gave the redheaded man merely a pleading glance, steady, languid Latin spilling from his lips. He crawled closer, sprinkling more of the oil on the blue flame while commanding the spirit to leave this body. The howls of the man writhing on the floor were getting more and more animalistic and Luca pushed and pushed more, practically pushing the man into the redhead's hold. There was something dark and evil in those eyes that kept staring at him. Something deep that made him want to turn tail and run.
As so many probably had done. But he couldn't. He had promised to look after these sheeps of his lord.
The man was growling, snarling while drool dripped from one of the corners of his mouth and he pressed right back against Luca, trying to formulate words on his twisted lips.
And then suddenly it was over. The air clearing, the flame going out, the man slumping down, unconscious.
"Satanam aliosque spíritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen." Luca's voice was trembling, his eyes wide and raw.
That seemed sufficiently dramatic to Crawford, but he still didn't trust Luca. He'd leaned back from the flame, but still maintained his grip on the man's head through the process. Only when he heard the tell-tale word of "amen," did he let his grip slacken. Giving the priest a look of weary irritation, he shifted his position, shoving the man onto his back and settling across his stomach.
He checked the man over as best as he knew how. Eyes, mouth, pulse. Making sure he was still alive and there was no further sign of the thing that had possessed him.
"Congrats, padre," he growled. "Ya didn't kill him. Your prize is dealin' with whatever comes next." Because he only knew how to treat himself after these things, and he doubted the store employees would appreciate such treatment of one of their customers.
The shop security had already rounded up on them, alerted by the customers. Some of them were explaining what had happened and the other security guard was stepping to Crawford telling him to get away from the unconscious man whose face was drenched in olive oil and his forehead now branded with a cross.
Luca gave a troubled frown as he stood up, reaching over to lay his bony hand gently on Crawford's shoulder. Just a brief touch then he was turning away. "I'll explain all this to them," he said in his accented English and smiled to one of the security guards, approaching him carefully.
A half an hour long episode full of animated explanations, phone calls and sometimes exasperated Italian spilling from Luca's mouth; they were forbidden to leave, police came, an ambulance, taking away the "victim" and several threats to put handcuffs on them and walk them out of the shop. In the end the police received a brief phone call that resulted with them releasing both Luca and Crawford, post-haste. Luca had been right, brother Will would know which string to nudge. Most likely the string had been his sister, the queen.
Exhausted from all the commotion, still hungry and his shopping undone, Luca finally picked up his basket and approached Crawford with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about all this. Thank you for all you did. I'm father Luca Gabrielli." He offered a hand in greeting. "Could I possibly repay your help somehow? Perhaps a dinner?"
Through the process, Crawford grew more and more irritated. The fight and struggle had done wonders for his headache, but as adrenaline faded it returned and felt worse than ever. It was really his fault there were threats of handcuffs, as he yelled and got in the cops faces. He knew them. They'd been in his bar to deal with similar scenes. Or so he assumed. All cops were the same to him and he couldn't tell them apart most days.
Then there was a phone call and they were let go. Not knowing the priest could ever have such ties, he thought it was for him. It left him with a sick, sinking feeling in his cut. His step father was an influential man in the city, and did all he could to halt anything that could lead to negative light being cast upon him. But it was usually more subtle. Crawford would lad in a holding cell and before he could be properly processed, he'd be let go. Perhaps some of his rowdier behavior was because of this. In part because he knew nothing would stick, and in part because he wanted to make life hell for the old man. But to make direct calls to the scene of the incident? Would he be so proactive?
With the cops done, Crawford pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, inspecting the contents. Maybe he should just fuck off out of there, have a smoke, and get food somewhere else. Stocking up could wait. Then there was a hand offered in his field of vision. He'd forgotten the priest was still there.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to the other's face, unimpressed. Repayment. That was a concept that sat so oddly with most of the nights events it sounded like another language. From his perspective, he'd not been helping, and Luca had made a simple situation worse with his ineptitude.
"How about you hand over a tenner and we call it even?" he growled, because the last thing he wanted to do was spend time with this guy.
Brown eyes widened a little bit and Luca bit his lip, not sure what he had done to upset this man. Another man would have walked away, surely, but to Luca, all God's creatures were perfect and he swallowed his own hurt feelings with a small smile and awkwardly rubbing his neck with the hand that had been refused.
"I'd feel strange paying you for your good deed. But if you are in need of money, of course I will help."
He studied the redhead with eyes that talked loudly of hope and conviction. Luca wasn't someone who would turn tail and run when someone stabbed him once.
"My church is nearby. I'd be more than happy to cook for you. You'd save today's food money at least."
If Luca thought all of Gods creatures were perfect, Crawford had a few examples to put that faith to the test. Like a man who murdered his wife and abused his children for years while putting on a pretty face for the public that loved him. The horrible things he'd done to his youngest son that left him permanently fractured and fragmented. The dirty money and support he willingly accepted from one of the filthiest criminals of the city. A man who quietly sought ways to use demons for his own purposes. A man who was rumored to keep a few possessed specimens caged for his own reasons. But that would require Crawford admitting how he knew any of this.
He let out a derisive snort as he crammed his half empty pack of cigarettes back into his pocket. "Means you're not wantin' to reward me for a job well done," he scoffed. "Means you're feelin' right guilty about cocking it all up."
He fixed Luca with as hard a look as he could manage while feeling like someone were using a jackhammer on his skull. "Tell ya what, if you're feelin' so desperate to repay my 'valiant' efforts, you come by my house o' worship. Say round 7 or 8, when I'll be there." He rattled off the intersection of where the bar was. Let the priest get a taste of the real world. The perfect little creatures who would never set foot in his domain.
Luca didn't know anything about that and he wouldn't, unless Crawford would share. He knew that he wanted to reach out to this person and thank him, that was all he knew.
He blinked when he was told he had ruined it all, but he didn't argue, merely just looked down for a second. He had done the exorcism as well as he could remember. He'd need to brush up on those skills obviously.
"Oh, thank you for the invitation," he said softly and it might have sounded like someone refusing the offer the but</i< just lingering there.
But it never came and Luca most certainly meant to follow up with the invitation.
And in the moments following the words, Crawford did wait rather expectantly for the refusal. For that glimmering moment he'd thought the priest might actually have a little spine, as the bar wasn't exactly an upstanding establishment. He'd thought maybe, just maybe, the other had found a sliver of sense. But, disappointingly, nothing happened. That was it. Just thanks.
Shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath, Crawford just walked away, deeper into the store. He had to stock up at least enough to get him through to his shift. And get something to smash this headache.
That night, he was right where he said he would be. He'd dealt with the headache the only way that ever really worked (no one would notice the alcohol on a bartender's breath). He looked far more at home behind the bar of the old, run down building. The whole place looked as though a stiff wind might blow it down. It was dimly lit, smelled like an old basement, and held only a small scattering of patrons. But the night was young, relatively speaking.
Crawford himself was leaning over the bar, both hands planted on the counter, fierce gaze boring into a man who looked rather pickled. "You wanna to drink here, you pay up front. We don't run a bloody tab for degenerates. So you got two options: pay up or I chuck your arse out the door!"
Luca spent most of his day by cooking and reading up on exorcism. He knew the practice already, of course he did, but it had been a long time since he had followed a practising exorcist to a job. Vatican had had a problem with dwindling interest towards this profession for a long while.
He cooked, he read, he cleaned the church. Then he put on his cassock again and left the church to be on time when he entered the pub some time later. Of course he was an unusual sight in the pub but even in the dirties places he was used to having some respect and kindness because of his profession. He wasn't worried, not really.
He approached the bar and saw the man from earlier talking to a customer. He decided to take a seat by the bar, smiling at Crawford when he managed to catch his attention but not saying anything as he didn't want to interrupt.
A few of the patrons eyed Luca warily. No one gave him any trouble, but they seemed uncomfortable with him there. Most, however, seemed to prefer to act like he wasn't there at all, focused on their drinks or their company instead. A woman who had been sitting at the bar seemed more uncomfortable than most. She got up a little too fast and relocated to the completely opposite side of the cramped space. Her profession wasn't exactly one the church approved of.
The man Crawford was yelling at muttered something incoherent into his empty glass, before pushing it toward the bartender. Crawford didn't move, staring at him, letting out a hard breath, but the drunk man just stared at his glass like it would fill itself. Crawford then turned his head toward a man sitting in the shadows where the bar met the wall. The man was roughly the size and weight of a refrigerator. Crawford just jerked his head at the man, and the problem took care of itself. The fridge man lifted the drunk man as if he weighed no more than a bundle of grapes, and shoved him out the door.
Only then did Crawford slide his gaze to Luca. If he was surprised to see the man, he didn't show it. "Welcome to the real world, Padre," he said, standing into his customary slouch. "Fraid all we got for the likes of you to drink is water."
Luca smiled at the other customers pleasantly but today he wasn't here to do the lord's work, he was here to meet the redhead from earlier. He wasn't sure what good he could do here, but he had been invited, so here he was.
His smile widened when he was noticed by the familiar bartender and Luca took a seat by the bar counter. The woman who left with hurry also got a smile from him, no judgement here.
"No tea?" he asked. Usually you could get a cup of tea in any establishment in Britain. Perhaps not in this one. "Thank you," he said as if it had been a genuine welcome.
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deo_volente) wrote2017-03-17 11:08 pm
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He shopped in the nearby grocery store and mostly spent his time trying to get to know the people who lived in the area. Trying to bring some security into their lives.
He was selecting vegetables in the grocery store for his soup today when a man stumbled in, crazed look in his eyes, climbing his way on top of the fruit display and started to chomp on the apples. He sat like a big cat, holding himself in place with his hand, hunched over his legs. He was eyeing the customers in the shop with redshot eyes, drooling mindlessly until his gaze fell on the priest.
Luca swallowed, putting down the basket he had been carrying. He had seen this on his way to London. Glimpses of it. But he hadn't been the one who dealt with it. Not this close up. Something was wrong with these people. Something evil was inside them. Something that thirsted and took without a permission.
He backed away, a hand curling around the cross around his neck. "In nomine Patris, et Fílii," he started, voice trembling mildly. The creature - because you couldn't call it a human with good conscience with its hunched way of walking and growl that had nothing to do with human communication - growled and started to claw its way down from the pile of fruit. Luca's back bumped against the shelves, his fingers quick to draw a cross across his chest. "Et Spirítus Sancti. Amen."
Someone help him. Please.
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He didn't even get a basket, intent on just getting as many frozen dinners as he could carry and getting out as fast as he could. But as he made his way into the store, he realized he should probably grab something moderately fresh for if Donavin showed up. But thoughts of produce left his head the moment he approached the area. He didn't logic or reason to know what he was looking at, the way the man perched atop the display.
Working in a bar put him in the territory of easy targets. Weak minded, impaired, desperate people. Those who would not give a demon much of a fight. Through sheer exposure, he'd learned how to spot the difference between the average drunk lunatic and one who was possessed. One had even tried to take a ride with him. Once. It had latched on one night when he'd had too much to drink, but by the next day it had a fair bit to deal with. Crawford wasn't quite the same after that, picking up a few new bad habits. But after that, he wasn't afraid of them anymore.
He didn't think. He just acted. He rushed in, moving rather quickly for a man of his size for compromised he was at the moment. A fist grabbed the thing's hair, a knee slamming into its stomach. It took no time at all, pinning the thing face-first on the floor, with a knee driven between it shoulder blades.
"Don't know who you're prayin' to," he drawled, his voice still thick an Irish accent despite having been in the city for a long time. "But they'll do fuck all to help."
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"Thank you," he muttered, his own English heavily accented. He hasn't had to use it a lot in Vatican. "But you're wrong. This is a demon. It will run in the sights of God."
He drew in a slow breath, deciding that if this person could act so bravely, so could Luca. He turned back to the shelf, looking amongst the bottles of oil until he found it. 100% olive oil. He broke the seal on the bottle and knelt beside them. He tilted the bottle and wetted his fingertips in it, then started to draw a cross on the possessed man's forehead. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica." The man twisted and groaned, trashed on his stomach as much as he could, his eyes dead set on Luca, hissing between his teeth at him, the cross on his forehead misting with heat rising from it.
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Running in the sight of God. That got a sharp glare, at least. But his attempt to reply was cut off as the thing beneath him tried to shake him off. The man who was its host may not appreciate the broken nose it earned him, smashing his face into the floor, but Crawford didn't care. He just knew that when he looked up, it seemed like the priest was leaving. He started to wonder how such a spineless man had managed to survive so long. But he was back with what made about as much sense to Crawford as if Luca had grabbed a turnip off the shelf. But he wasn't in a position to ask questions.
The words, at least, sounded about right. A jumble of Latin nonsense, as far as the redhead knew. But it had some of the same words in it he'd heard before during these things. Given the priests earlier words, one might expect something more dramatic. But the hiss and heat was somewhat anticlimactic with the demon still tense beneath him, even if he'd stopped thrashing somewhat.
"Oh. Yes." Crawford said, dryly. "He's sure turned tail, this one. Fleeing in outright terror from your precious God." He let out an irritated sigh and tightened his grip on the thing's shoulders. "Don't know if this is your first ride, Padre, but that if you don't hurry this up, that slimy bastard's gonna think you're its next free ticket." This, he knew from experience.
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He returned to his Latin, muttering out the whole verse while holding his cross above the oiled forehead, his hands trembling and eyes wide. How long was this supposed to take? How would the events fold out? He didn't know. That was the gist of it.
But once he had rattled out the verse, all the way to the knowledge of Truth commands you, it seemed as if the demon calmed, the man seemed almost like he was sleeping.
Somehow it seemed awfully anticlimatic.
"Are you done abusing that poor guy?" asked a lady who now approached them with her lips pursed disapprovingly under the dyed red hair.
"Oh, Madame, I assure you--" Luca started, struggling up to his feet.
"This is ridiculous." Another voice joined the woman's.
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"What the hell kind of priest are you?" Crawford hissed through his teeth when the guy finally went silent. He knew it wasn't right. A little too well. Sure, some people passed out after, but not like this.
But before either of them could do anything, the gawkers started to comment. Crawford's teeth ground together. "...like they've never seen a bloody demon..." he said under his breath, before raising his voice.
"Quite the opposite," Crawford said to the first woman. "This man's a nasty sexual predator. Heard all those nasty rumors 'bout priests and altar boys. Decided it needed switchin' around. Gets off on snatchin' up men of the cloth."
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When the redhead provided an explanation to the onlookers, Luca hesitated, quietly shaking his head even if it seemed to satisfy their audience.
But he didn't have time to cultivate any of those thoughts. The demon in Crawford's hands trashed and aimed to headbutt the man holding him down. Something broken spilling out from the man's mouth, an ancient language that none of them could understand while the man's chest rouse and fell quickly.
"Ímperat tibi Deus Pater;" Luca hissed and pressed the cross against the man's forehead. It caught on flames, the oil burning with blue flame. "Imperat tibi Deus Fílius; imperat tibi Deus Spíritus Sanctus."
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He'd been about to let out a string of obscenities at the priest, when his hands slipped as the demon sudden threw it's head back and he got the man's scalp to his nose. It wasn't enough to make it bleed, but he certainly saw stars.
With a growl and a curse, he shoved the man back down to the floor, just in time for the flames to erupt. He was trying to not think of those syllables that were pouring out of the demon's mouth. Though they were even more alien to the redhead than Latin, he was more familiar with it. Somewhat. It was the language that haunted his dreams. The sort of voice that had him finding every humanly possible way to avoid dreams. The sort of sound that made something primal in his gut seize up in terror.
"Would you get it over with already?" He growled.
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He gave the redheaded man merely a pleading glance, steady, languid Latin spilling from his lips. He crawled closer, sprinkling more of the oil on the blue flame while commanding the spirit to leave this body. The howls of the man writhing on the floor were getting more and more animalistic and Luca pushed and pushed more, practically pushing the man into the redhead's hold. There was something dark and evil in those eyes that kept staring at him. Something deep that made him want to turn tail and run.
As so many probably had done. But he couldn't. He had promised to look after these sheeps of his lord.
The man was growling, snarling while drool dripped from one of the corners of his mouth and he pressed right back against Luca, trying to formulate words on his twisted lips.
And then suddenly it was over. The air clearing, the flame going out, the man slumping down, unconscious.
"Satanam aliosque spíritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen." Luca's voice was trembling, his eyes wide and raw.
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He checked the man over as best as he knew how. Eyes, mouth, pulse. Making sure he was still alive and there was no further sign of the thing that had possessed him.
"Congrats, padre," he growled. "Ya didn't kill him. Your prize is dealin' with whatever comes next." Because he only knew how to treat himself after these things, and he doubted the store employees would appreciate such treatment of one of their customers.
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Luca gave a troubled frown as he stood up, reaching over to lay his bony hand gently on Crawford's shoulder. Just a brief touch then he was turning away. "I'll explain all this to them," he said in his accented English and smiled to one of the security guards, approaching him carefully.
A half an hour long episode full of animated explanations, phone calls and sometimes exasperated Italian spilling from Luca's mouth; they were forbidden to leave, police came, an ambulance, taking away the "victim" and several threats to put handcuffs on them and walk them out of the shop. In the end the police received a brief phone call that resulted with them releasing both Luca and Crawford, post-haste. Luca had been right, brother Will would know which string to nudge. Most likely the string had been his sister, the queen.
Exhausted from all the commotion, still hungry and his shopping undone, Luca finally picked up his basket and approached Crawford with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about all this. Thank you for all you did. I'm father Luca Gabrielli." He offered a hand in greeting. "Could I possibly repay your help somehow? Perhaps a dinner?"
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Then there was a phone call and they were let go. Not knowing the priest could ever have such ties, he thought it was for him. It left him with a sick, sinking feeling in his cut. His step father was an influential man in the city, and did all he could to halt anything that could lead to negative light being cast upon him. But it was usually more subtle. Crawford would lad in a holding cell and before he could be properly processed, he'd be let go. Perhaps some of his rowdier behavior was because of this. In part because he knew nothing would stick, and in part because he wanted to make life hell for the old man. But to make direct calls to the scene of the incident? Would he be so proactive?
With the cops done, Crawford pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, inspecting the contents. Maybe he should just fuck off out of there, have a smoke, and get food somewhere else. Stocking up could wait. Then there was a hand offered in his field of vision. He'd forgotten the priest was still there.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to the other's face, unimpressed. Repayment. That was a concept that sat so oddly with most of the nights events it sounded like another language. From his perspective, he'd not been helping, and Luca had made a simple situation worse with his ineptitude.
"How about you hand over a tenner and we call it even?" he growled, because the last thing he wanted to do was spend time with this guy.
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"I'd feel strange paying you for your good deed. But if you are in need of money, of course I will help."
He studied the redhead with eyes that talked loudly of hope and conviction. Luca wasn't someone who would turn tail and run when someone stabbed him once.
"My church is nearby. I'd be more than happy to cook for you. You'd save today's food money at least."
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He let out a derisive snort as he crammed his half empty pack of cigarettes back into his pocket. "Means you're not wantin' to reward me for a job well done," he scoffed. "Means you're feelin' right guilty about cocking it all up."
He fixed Luca with as hard a look as he could manage while feeling like someone were using a jackhammer on his skull. "Tell ya what, if you're feelin' so desperate to repay my 'valiant' efforts, you come by my house o' worship. Say round 7 or 8, when I'll be there." He rattled off the intersection of where the bar was. Let the priest get a taste of the real world. The perfect little creatures who would never set foot in his domain.
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He blinked when he was told he had ruined it all, but he didn't argue, merely just looked down for a second. He had done the exorcism as well as he could remember. He'd need to brush up on those skills obviously.
"Oh, thank you for the invitation," he said softly and it might have sounded like someone refusing the offer the but</i< just lingering there. But it never came and Luca most certainly meant to follow up with the invitation.
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Shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath, Crawford just walked away, deeper into the store. He had to stock up at least enough to get him through to his shift. And get something to smash this headache.
That night, he was right where he said he would be. He'd dealt with the headache the only way that ever really worked (no one would notice the alcohol on a bartender's breath). He looked far more at home behind the bar of the old, run down building. The whole place looked as though a stiff wind might blow it down. It was dimly lit, smelled like an old basement, and held only a small scattering of patrons. But the night was young, relatively speaking.
Crawford himself was leaning over the bar, both hands planted on the counter, fierce gaze boring into a man who looked rather pickled. "You wanna to drink here, you pay up front. We don't run a bloody tab for degenerates. So you got two options: pay up or I chuck your arse out the door!"
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He cooked, he read, he cleaned the church. Then he put on his cassock again and left the church to be on time when he entered the pub some time later. Of course he was an unusual sight in the pub but even in the dirties places he was used to having some respect and kindness because of his profession. He wasn't worried, not really.
He approached the bar and saw the man from earlier talking to a customer. He decided to take a seat by the bar, smiling at Crawford when he managed to catch his attention but not saying anything as he didn't want to interrupt.
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The man Crawford was yelling at muttered something incoherent into his empty glass, before pushing it toward the bartender. Crawford didn't move, staring at him, letting out a hard breath, but the drunk man just stared at his glass like it would fill itself. Crawford then turned his head toward a man sitting in the shadows where the bar met the wall. The man was roughly the size and weight of a refrigerator. Crawford just jerked his head at the man, and the problem took care of itself. The fridge man lifted the drunk man as if he weighed no more than a bundle of grapes, and shoved him out the door.
Only then did Crawford slide his gaze to Luca. If he was surprised to see the man, he didn't show it. "Welcome to the real world, Padre," he said, standing into his customary slouch. "Fraid all we got for the likes of you to drink is water."
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His smile widened when he was noticed by the familiar bartender and Luca took a seat by the bar counter. The woman who left with hurry also got a smile from him, no judgement here.
"No tea?" he asked. Usually you could get a cup of tea in any establishment in Britain. Perhaps not in this one. "Thank you," he said as if it had been a genuine welcome.