Archive of Our Own ^beta

His first mistake is not picking up the phone. 

In Jud’s defense, it’s been a long fucking day. And not one that he’s keen to recount. 

He’s kept the damn thing turned off for most of the day. As a rule, he stays fairly available on Sundays, but—well, extenuating circumstances call for extreme reactions. Thankfully, he had kept enough of his head after Mass to force a shutdown instead of what he wanted to do, which was to hurl it against the wall and watch it shatter into a million tiny pieces. 

Night is young, though. 

He’s done everything he’s supposed to. He’s filed the report and cleared away the altar and locked the tabernacle. He’s talked to the bishop and the reporters and the worried parishioners and the children’s ministry attendant and the several, several well-meaning old women that cornered him on his way out of the sacristy and demanded that he be available to accept their casseroles the following morning. He’s done it all. 

And yeah, it’s very touching that Our Lady of Perpetual Grace has grown enough to even have parishioners and a children’s ministry and well-meaning old ladies. It’s great. Everything’s great. 

But when Jud’s phone goes off fucking again, right as he collapses on the rectory couch, blessedly alone for the first time that day, something in him snaps. 

Benoit Blanc, the caller ID rings. Fantastic. 

He figured the detective would’ve heard something by now. Jud’s not in the habit of livestreaming his services, but the incident was caught on camera anyway. He hasn’t checked, but he’s sure the reemergence of the killer priest has already made its way around the internet. 

Jud sighs, heavily. Watches the phone ring out. 

There’s a pause. Then it vibrates again. Same name on the screen. 

He really, really should pick up. 

But God above, he really doesn’t want to have to convince another person that he’s fine. 

Jud swings himself up, ignoring the way his head spins with the sudden movement, grabs his phone, and smashes the Do Not Disturb button. With that done, he shoves the stupid thing under the couch cushions. 

Immature? Yes. Unpriestly? For certain. Does Jud care? 

Not particularly. 

With that, he shrugs on a jacket and bursts outside, not caring that the door slams behind him. 

He’s going to town. 

His second mistake is getting drunk. 

And, listen, Jud’s gone through a lot of concussion protocols. Like, a concerning amount. He knows, even if he’s not technically concussed right now, that drinking after taking a hit that hard to the head is a bad idea. But he also knows that he’s not a fuckin’ Protestant, and that alcoholism is the birthright of every good Catholic, so maybe give him a fucking break, yeah? He’s well within his rights to have a beer or two. 

Or six. 

It’s not his fault that he gets so passionate about church politics when he’s drunk. 

“Listen,” he slurs at Tom, “All ‘m saying is that the story of Phoebe establishes apostolic precedence for the female diaconate, and they coulda realized that at Vatican 2, but because John 23 was such a little bitch about it—”

“Okay! Okay, Father, I think you’ve had enough.” Tom laughs nervously from behind the bar. He glances surreptitiously around the bar, no doubt thinking that a drunk priest is the exact last thing anybody wants to see in a bar. Especially a drunk priest with a black eye. 

“Is there anybody I can call for you, Father?”

“Mmmm.” His vision spins like he’s riding a tilt-a-whirl. Everything feels fuzzy. Foggy? Fuzz-oggy? “No. Phone’s in the couch.”

For some reason, this just confuses Tom. Jud’s not sure why; it made perfect sense to him. Still, he can sense when his welcome has run out. 

“I gotta—I should go. Gotta write a homily in the morning. God bless you, alright?”

He makes a wild sign of the cross over the entire bar. It’s not his best blessing, but it’ll get the job done. 

He waves off offers of a ride as he stumbles back outside the bar in a scene all too reminiscent of one of the worst nights of his life. But he’s not thinking about that right now. 

(He’s thinking about it.)

“It’s not fair.” He complains, only when he’s sure that he’s far enough into the woods that nobody will hear him, squinting up at the sky. “I was doing everything right. And good. Why’d I have to get hit?”

The sky does not answer him. 

“You’re such a dick sometimes, Y’know that?”

God doesn’t answer that one either, except for a wayward brush of wind. 

He’ll go to confession tomorrow. It’s fine. 

“Stupid.” Jud keeps muttering as he tramps through the trail. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Gotta do all this shit and solve a murder and people still wanna fuckin’ hit me? Can’t even hit back. It’s fucked up, Man. Not cool.”

His prayers—because that’s what they are, even when they’re broken and caustic and nonsensical—last him all the way back to the rectory, back through the heavy goddamn door—and why is this shit so fucking heavy, anyway? It should be open, always open, Jud should always be open and ready and available, like a real priest—and finally, back on to the fucking couch. 

His bed is upstairs. Bed sounds nice. He should go to bed. 

Fuck bed. He’s already on the couch. 

Jud turns over, determined to pass out and forget this whole awful fucking day, when something pokes him in the side. 

He ignores it. It doesn’t go away. 

Grumbling, he shifts around, digging through the couch until his fingers wrap around an Iphone. 

Aw, hell. Phone’s in the couch. 

Jud squints at it. He’s at three percent, because of course he is, and DND is still on, because of course it is. When he swipes up, however, he can read 3 Missed Calls and 7 Unread Texts from one fucking aggravating detective. 

Jud groans, and drops his head in his hands. Now he really might just smash the fucking thing, but then he’d have to buy a new one, and…

“Padre? That you?”

Jud’s head shoots up in horror. 

Sure enough, the screen on the floor lights up with Blanc’s name. 

“Son? You alright?”

Stupid, stupid callback buttons. Stupid, stupid Father Jud.

“‘M good!” He spits out hurriedly, trying to come up with some sort of excuse for why he’s called Blanc at–what time is it?---Oh, God, it’s nearly midnight. 

“Uh.” He says intelligently. “Um.”

Say something, anything, damn you to Hell—

“Did y’know that in Germany they serve the wine outta St. Sebastian’s skull?”

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“...what?” 

What. 

“You can, uh. It’s a pilgrimage site. I always wanted to go.” The words fall out of his mouth unbidden. “He’s my patron.”

“Jud.” The voice coming out of the phone has turned sharp. “Are you okay?”

Jud’s hands shake. His stomach plummets. 

Oh, God. He’s gonna be sick. 

“Fine.” He manages to get out. “I—Sorry. Sorry, I gotta go. Sorry.”

He hangs up before he can say anything else. 

The silence that echoes through the rectory is somehow louder than before. All Jud can hear is the wind whistling through the pines outside and his own ragged breathing. 

With a groan, he drops his head back in his hands. 

He is such an idiot. 

His third mistake is not buying nonstick pans. 

He’s been meaning to for a while, given that all the cookware in the rectory is from the sixties and is probably giving him lead poisoning or something, but when you only have one priest living on the property, kitchen renovations tend to be low on the priority list. 

Still, when he’s awoken that morning to the sound of his smoke alarms going off, he thinks that maybe he should’ve thought about it a little sooner. 

Jud’s moving before he’s even fully awake. He falls more than runs down the stairs, panic only rising with the smell of smoke, and oh, sweet mother Mary, is the church on fire?

He bursts through the kitchen door and stops in his tracks at the sight. 

“Shit, fuck, shit, goddamit, fuckity-shit!”

Benoit Blanc, clad in a rainbow apron, stands in the middle of the church kitchen, holding a smoking pan and swearing up a storm. 

Maybe Jud died. Maybe this is his hell. Heaven?

Purgatory. Maybe this is Purgatory. 

Blanc notices him standing dumbly in the doorway. “Oh, good, you’re up! Marta, he’s up.”

Jud’s about to ask who the fuck Marta is when he realizes that Blanc’s on the phone. 

“I was attempting to make you some eggs, here.” Blanc continues. “But I’m afraid the culinary arts are further out of my wheelhouse than those of deduction. Don’t worry, now! I’ll have all this cleared up in a jiffy.”

“...The front door was locked.” is all Jud can think to say. 

Blanc just levels him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Father. Sit!”

He sits. He’s not sure what else to do, to be honest.  

Blanc nods in satisfaction. “Good. Now, you chat with Marta, here—Marta, Father Jud, Father, Marta—and let her check you out, she’s a nurse. I’m going to go do something about that infernal racket.”

The “infernal racket” is Jud’s smoke alarm, because, again, Blanc has almost lit his church on fire. Nobody else seems to be concerned about this, Blanc least of all. 

“I already went to the ER.” He says. For some reason, he can only keep saying the most inane bullshit in response to whatever Blanc throws at him instead of what he needs to say, which is something along the lines of what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen, you insane old man?

Blanc snorts derisively. “Some doctor you must’ve seen, then, to let you go looking like that. No, you talk to Marta. She’s ten times better than those old quacks.”

“Benoit.” The woman on the phone says. She sounds amused. “What did I tell you?”

“Yes, yes, I remember, not technically licensed and all that rigaramole.” Blanc waves her off. “So long as the good father here gets a clean bill, I don’t give a damn.”

With that, he stalks off, thumping his fist against the walls as if that’s going to magically make the alarm stop. 

“Hello, Father.” the woman says, and it’s just then that Jud realizes she’s talking to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thanks.” Jud says automatically. Then, “Wait. Sorry, but—who are you?”

She laughs. “I’m a friend of Benoit’s.”

“Oh.” For some reason, it had never occurred to him that the detective did normal things, like make breakfast and have friends. “And you’re a nurse?”

“Soon.” She says. “In school for now. But I know enough to tell you if you should go back to the hospital, which, frankly, you don’t. But Benoit worries.”

“Oh.” He’s like a broken record. “Okay. Um. About what, exactly?”

“He feels responsible for us, I think. Likes to make sure we’re alright after he leaves. He saw the video of that horrible man attacking you in Mass and panicked.”

Jud winces. The memory of a fist flying into his face halfway through the Liturgy of the Eucharist is not a pleasant one. Something in Marta’s sentence sticks out to him, however. “Who’s ‘us’?”

“His past cases.” Now she sounds surprised. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.” Jud says. “I don’t know how he got in the building.”

Marta sighs and mutters something in Spanish that doesn’t sound entirely complimentary. “I met Benoit when my old boss was murdered by his grandson.”

“Oh.” Now things are making more sense. “Okay. Um. Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She sounds genuinely appreciative. “I am sorry about yours.”

“Oh, God, don’t be.” He says before he can stop himself. “I mean, um. Thank you. That’s very kind.”

She laughs before continuing. “There’s a few of us. I’ve been meaning to have everyone over, but things are busy, you know. Still, it’s nice to know that you’re not alone, hm?”

“Not alone in being pawns in a murder. Right.”

“Exactly. You get used to it.”

Oh, God, is he going to get used to it? Is Jud about to become one of Blanc’s friends, on-call for whatever illegal nonsense the detective finds fitting to mess with next? 

Just then, the alarm shuts off, and said detective waltzes back through the door, looking far too pleased with himself. “Well, Marta?”

“He’s fine, Benoit.” Marta says. Jud hears the smile in her voice. “You worry for nothing.”

Blanc scowls at the phone. “I do not worry. I…ponder. Very deeply.”

“Hmm.” Marta sounds unconvinced. “Well, you don’t need to ponder Father Jud anymore. Just let him get some rest, ok? And Father, it was nice meeting you. I’d love to bring my mother to one of your Masses one day, but she doesn’t know much English.”

“We’re going to have a Spanish Mass.” Jud says before he can remember that that’s not exactly important right now. “I’ve been working on finding a celebrant.”

“I see why you like him, Benoit.” Marta says. “I’ll be there. And, Father?”

Despite himself, Jud leans forward. “Yeah?”

“Welcome to the club.”

With that, she hangs up, and Blanc and Jud are left alone. 

Jud shifts uncomfortably. Glances up. 

Blanc looks pissed. 

Looks back down. 

“So.” He hears from above. 

“Where’d you get the apron?” He blurts, either in a desperate attempt to stall or sheer curiosity, he can’t tell. 

Blanc grimaces. “It’s Phillip’s.”

“Is he here?” Jud brightens, just a bit. He’s been wanting to meet Blanc’s partner. 

“No. He doesn’t take kindly to middle-of-the-night road trips.” 

Jud sinks lower in his chair than he thought was possible. “Nobody asked you to come.” He mutters against his better judgment. 

Blanc’s disbelieving scoff confirms that that was the wrong move. “Oh, so you just call up anyone in the dead of night sounding like you went nine rounds with a raging bull? That’s just for nothing?”

With a sigh, Jud forces himself to meet Blanc’s eyes. To his surprise, although they’re pinched with anger, none of the scorn or disappointment he expects to see is there. 

“You’re right.” He says. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have called you. It was inappropriate. I’m sorry, Blanc. You didn’t have to come.”

The resulting sigh that Blanc lets out could blow down trees. “Father Jud, you might be one of the most inconceivably, unintentionally frustrating people I have ever met.”

“Thank you?”

“You wanna know why I am upset? Why I have dragged myself away from my husband’s loving embrace to come to this monument of hypocrisy and make you breakfast?”

“Well, technically, you didn’t make breakfast.” Jud feels the need to point out. “And I know why you’re here. It’s because you saw me get my shit kicked during Mass and you feel bad, and I’m telling you, Blanc, you don’t need to. I’m fine.”

Blanc raises a singular eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.” He forces himself to stare Blanc down, willing his face to remain impassive. It’s not a lie, he tells himself. It’s just not saying the dishonest part. 

Slowly, Blanc begins stalking around the small kitchen, eyes sweeping over the counters. “There is a layer of dust in this kitchen unlike anything I have ever seen before. The contents of your fridge consisted of a can of beans, three eggs, and communion wine. Indents in the couch suggest you’ve been sleeping there more than not.”

“Wait, Blanc, hold on a second—”

“And then there’s the chapel.” Blanc continues. “Looking beautiful, by the way. And popular, clearly. I assume that’s why part of the church’s budget has been set aside for security. And I assume the several new prayer groups and community service programs you’ve been running have something to do with that as well.”

“How did you know about that?” Jud asks weakly. It’s all he can do at this point. 

“I picked up a bulletin on my way in, kid, I’m not magic.” Blanc scoffs again. “No, not magic at all. But you know what really vexes me here, Father? You know what’s got me so damn perturbed that I had to get in the car and come all the way up here?” 

“What?”

“Your hands.”

Jud glances down. “...There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“Exactly!” Blanc slams his own down on the counter, whirling around like a courtroom lawyer. “Not a thing wrong with them! Completely intact! Smooth and unblemished as a baby’s bottom.”

“So—what?” Jud asks, fighting his rising temper. “You want me to have fucked-up hands? You’re mad because my fingers aren’t broken or something?”

“I am upset because I know damn well that you know how to use those hands, and the telltale absence of any bruising on your knuckles proves that when that puffed-up neanderthal pummeled you in front of your own congregation you let him.” 

“I can’t just go around hitting people, Benoit!” Jud’s on his feet before he realizes it, chest heaving. 

“Oh, yes you can!” Blanc roars back. “Yes, you can, especially when they hit you first. I know you’re all committed to welcoming wayward souls with open arms and whatnot, but damn, Jud, nobody said it had to come at the cost of your own life!”

“Blanc.” Jud tries extremely hard not to let his voice get cold. “You have quite literally just described the Gospel.”

“Bah.” Blanc waves this away with a dismissive hand, which makes Jud’s eye twitch in turn. “So, what, you’re just going to spend the rest of your life trying to serve people that want to hurt you? Take your licks and turn around and invite those same people to supper?”

“Yes.” The conviction in Jud’s voice shocks even him, but suddenly, without any warning, he knows this to be true. “Yes, Benoit, I will spend the rest of my life doing exactly that, because that’s the job. That’s what I was born to do.”

Blanc stares at him for a long moment. Then he sighs, and deflates back into a chair.

“I know.” He mutters sullenly. “God damn it, I know you were. I just—fuck. I don’t like it.”

Slowly, Jud sits back down across from him. “I don’t always like it either. I promise, I didn’t wake up yesterday morning hoping to get punched in the face.”  

“You sure about that?”

“Shut up. My point is—look, I used to be the one going around punching guys, right? And God showed me another path. He showed me love when I was at my lowest. It’s an honor to do that for somebody else. Even when it hurts.”

Benoit eyes him. Then, grudgingly, he says, “They must’ve loved you in the seminary.”

This, at least, makes Jud crack a smile. “Hated me, actually. I was kind of a smartass back then.”

“Oh, back then. Right.” Blanc leans all the way back in his chair, glancing out the window at the early-morning light that’s begun to bathe the table in a warm glow. 

Jud snorts. They sit in contemplative silence for a second, and Jud feels something in his chest settle. 

“I just need you to know that you’ve got people looking out for you.” Blanc says suddenly, eyes never leaving the window. “You might be a paragon of godly grace, but at the end of the day, you’re no less man the rest of us. Ephemeral and vulnerable. No harm in letting people worry about you occasionally.”

“Well.” Jud says, mulling this over. “You know, if you really wanted to help me, you could start by buying me breakfast. Since you just burnt my last three eggs and all.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Blanc says offhandedly. “Phillip made cinnamon rolls. They’re in your office.”

Jud steeples his fingers. Counts to ten. Takes a breath. Lets it out. 

“Why,” He asks slowly, “in the name of God, would you not start with that?”

Blanc shoots him a sharp glare. “Cinnamon rolls are for people that answer their cellular devices.”

“That is a cruel and unusual punishment.” Jud informs him. “And I can only pray that God extends His mercy to you for it.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Blanc drops his head into his palms. “Go on then, you little shit, and make sure you bring me back one too.”

Father Jud smiles, a real smile, and sets off for his office.

Maybe he hadn’t been making so many mistakes after all.