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aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years

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The First Storm

It isn't often Paul Hill finds himself terrified of a storm, but the first storm he experiences on Crockett Island would be enough to put the fear of God into anyone. Set during Less Than Holy

Two fics in three days, whaaa? Really though, I knew I wanted to write something with Paul's perception of storms corresponding with his emotional state, with the reader helping him calm down. I didn't know I would actually write a bit of backstory for this AU Paul. I'm happy I did, though.

gif by @shazadlatifgf

The First Storm - 4.5K

tw: a light panic attack

It was father Paul’s third night on Crockett Island. He served his very first mass for his new congregation in the morning, a chilly late february Sunday. To say he was nervous was an understatement. Most of these people had only ever known one pastor their entire life, the esteemed Monsignor John Michael Pruitt, who was currently recovering in a hospital on the mainland.

—

Paul met him in the Holy land and had been the one to stop him from walking off into the desert on his own. He helped the older man wake up from his haze and then led him back to their hotel, and they began talking. Monsignor Pruitt told him about all the good people in his town, all with a smile on his face and kind words to say about every single one of them. But there always came a point in their conversations when John Pruitt stopped talking. His eyes became unfocused and he looked around himself in near panic. He suddenly didn’t recognise him, didn’t know where he was and kept muttering two names. Millie. Sarah.

Paul knew the signs, unfortunately. He remembered coming to visit his elderly grandfather, reading to him, helping to feed him, and bringing him tea. Sometimes they shared long talks until old Phillip Hill became too tired, sometimes he stared at his grandson like he was a stranger. By the end, he was in too deep, his mind slipping into memories and disregarding the outer world entirely. By the end… by the end it was a relief when he left to join his wife up above. For him, surely. For Paul… Well, he was glad his grandfather was no longer in any pain, but he did miss him terribly.

So each time he lost the Monsignor completely, he knew what to do. He’d bring him to his room, sometimes even helped him get ready for bed, if John Pruitt was too far gone. He’d order melissa tea from the hotel service and wait until the elderly priest fell asleep. Then he’d sneak out and go to his own bed, saying a quick prayer for his new friend before falling asleep. Monsignor’s mind worked better in the mornings and he usually had no recollection of how he got to bed in the first place. But he seemed more jovial and quite excited to tell Paul more stories.

When the day of their departure came, Paul decided he couldn’t let Monsignor go by himself with a clear conscience. The younger man himself wasn’t needed anywhere. Before coming to this journey, he served as a substitute at a small parish near Boston, but seeing as their priest returned from his mission, Paul was currently jobless. The Monsignor was surprised that the younger man decided to tag along with him, but he seemed delighted and promised to introduce him to everyone on Crockett Island. But there was something wrong… The young priest couldn’t tell how, but he felt something was wrong indeed.

That little something was unfortunately proven right. During their first transit flight, John Pruitt still shared stories of people of his parish. ‘Ed and Annie Flynn, they are amazing people, Annie is a saint, and both of their sons are such clever, nice boys!’ Or ‘Bev Keane, she’s very zealous, knows the Bible by heart, every single word.’ and ‘A young woman recently started coming in. I don’t think she’s from the island, because I don’t know her and she sits back during communion, but she seems very lovely!’ . John Pruitt told stories of Erin Greene, who came to bring new life to the little town, ‘such a dear girl!’ , poor Leeza Scarborough, who despite being bound to a wheelchair never missed a single sermon, and Joe Collie, whom he wished he could help but didn’t know how.

Paul tried covertly asking about the women John mentioned during one of his episodes. “You did say something about, um, Millie, I think?” The elderly priest stayed quiet, a strange look appearing in his eyes. Paul decided not to pry and they talked of other people once more. However, an hour before the plane was supposed to land, Pruitt got quiet again. Paul thought perhaps he fell asleep, or maybe his mind wandered off. Looking at him though, he discovered not only was Monsignor awake, he also looked very aware. But also quite ill. Something was definitely wrong.

“Monsignor Pruitt? Are you feeling well?” Paul asked, concerned. The old man didn’t reply, but he shook his head no and continued staring in front of him. He stayed this quiet during the entirety of their second flight, looking worse by the second. And as they left the aeroplane, John Pruitt grabbed at Paul’s shoulder, steadying himself. His hand was warm, way too warm. “Monsignor?” was the last thing the old priest heard before he lost consciousness.

—

It was a rough few days. Monsignor Pruitt was promptly taken to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, most likely caused by faulty food. Which wouldn’t be that serious really, but with the priest’s old age and the health problems that went hand in hand with it, the doctors insisted it’d be better for him to stay in the hospital to recover. Paul agreed. The monsignor did too, to some extent, but he didn’t want to leave his parish without a priest for such a long time, as he'd been 'gone too long already' . Paul Hill didn’t know why he said what he said next, didn’t know why an idea so spontaneous felt so absolutely right. He’d grown fond of the old priest, and wanted him to recover in peace, without him having to worry about his congregation. It all came down to why he even became a priest in the first place - he just wanted to help.

“I will stand in for you.”

—

And so here he was. It was all rather rushed, but it could've been much worse. He explained Monsignor's and his situation to the dioceses under which Crockett Island fell, phoned his family to send more of his clothes, personal objects and anything else he could need while standing in for the old priest, seeing as he travelled to Israel rather lightly. He found the correct dock from which the ferry to Crockett left and managed to go all the way to the rectory without alerting anyone. He spoke to Monsignor Pruitt on the phone, assuring him he'll take care of his flock and explain what happened. It all went down so quickly, but as he finally sat down on the tiny (and rather uncomfortable) sofa in Pruitt’s little house, he felt he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

That is not to say the last few days didn’t take their toll on the young priest. As he stood on the porch of the rectory, watching the clouds becoming darker and darker by the second, he felt that familiar uncomfortable tingle in his stomach. He was nervous. Paul usually didn’t mind storms, in fact, he often enjoyed them. Sometimes though, mainly when he was going through some stressful times, the comfort he normally felt, when raindrops hammered against his window and a deep thunder roared through the sky, turned into utter terror. Some stormy nights he’d be able to sit outside under some shelter and keep watch for lightning bolts, contently breathing in the smell of earth mixed with rain, other nights he’d press his hands to his ears, painfully hard, trying not to scream each time the thunder almost shook the very ground he was cowering on. Trying not to weep in fear and embarrassment. It was like the chaos of the tempest could latch itself onto his inner turmoil, and when it did, it shook Paul to his core.

He let out a long breath, trying to calm down. Paul went inside intent on distracting himself from the ever nearing storm. He changed from his priestly attire during the day into a pair of washed out jeans, a simple grey t-shirt and a very warm and comfortable blue bomber cardigan. The priest made a cup of tea and sat down, opening a well read old Bible and trying to drown out the loud sounds of rain entirely, which was quite difficult, considering it was the only thing he could actually hear. The many lights in the rectory calmed him somewhat, so, of course, they went out not five minutes after Paul’s heartbeat started slowing down.

The man was plunged into absolute darkness, panic immediately rising within him. Between cursing himself for not preparing any candles beforehand and wincing as the entire room was suddenly illuminated by a different kind of light, he bent his legs to place his sock clad feet in front of himself and hugged his knees with his arms. Paul closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing and steadying the little tremors that started coursing through his hands. Suddenly though, his ears perked up. There was a new sound among the booming thunder and the loud noise of millions of raindrops falling all around. A pitter-patter of feet hitting wet gravel, slowly getting closer.

He opened his eyes and saw a different kind of light in one of the windows, light blue, like the thunder, but much smaller and moving erratically. His curiosity managed to outweigh his discomfort and he crept to the window. It was hard to actually see anything in the dark, especially through the thick curtain of rain, but Paul saw the light, clear as day, and the sound of footsteps grew louder. There was a person, running through the storm, a flashlight in their hand to light their way, wherever they were going. ‘Are they mad?!’ thought Paul and, without thinking, he ran to the door. He opened it wide and stepped out onto the porch, immediately getting drenched by the rain which was flying in all directions because of the wind.

“Hey!” he called, as loud as he could, but another thunder rolled through the skies at the exact same moment, drowning out his voice and making him gasp and cringe. “Heey!” he called again and this time, the person, who was now some 40 yards away from him, nearly by the church. They stopped and shone their light in his direction. “Come inside, quick!” he called again, managing to do so before another giant flash of light illuminated the entire sky and more roaring came, making his already trembling hands shake violently. The person stood still but for one second, before they made a dash towards his door. They both ran inside and Paul threw the door closed with a bang. His unexpected visitor put their light (which turned out to be a mobile phone flashlight) onto a little side table close to the door, and it helped illuminate their face.

Father Paul instantly recognised it as belonging to the girl he saw in church earlier that day, the newcomer who sat back during communion.

—

You were an idiot. You were an idiot and got yourself caught in this horrid storm. Originally, you had been taking an afternoon stroll, hoping to get some writing inspiration and secretly thinking about your interaction with the charming new priest in the morning. You liked strolling through the Uppards. Most of the stray cats were quite feral and ran away as soon as they caught your scent through the tall bushes, however, every now and then, a few of them would get curious and investigate, even let you pet them.

You thought you had enough time to get back home before the storm began, but the first few little drops that fell on your head soon turned into a full blown shower and the sky got dark fast. You started running as fast as you could, using your phone’s flashlight to guide your way through the shrubs, careful not to step on any cat that could suddenly appear in front of you. You were soaked to the bone and well aware that you’ll soon be freezing, even though you were running. You basically jumped right over the little bridge leading from the marshes back towards the town and carried on, the quickest route back to your home leading around the church.

But only, as you neared the church itself, gravel rustling under your feet, you heard something other than just rain and thunder. It almost sounded like… a voice? A distressed one, too. “Heey!” You turned towards it. It was the new priest, you could barely see him, standing on the porch of the rectory. “Come inside, quick!” A lightning bolt tore through the sky and you wasted no time in running towards him. He shut the door behind the both of you once you finally stepped over the threshold, rather hard, too. You set your phone down onto the first flat surface you saw and stopped to catch your breath.

In the light of your flashlight, you finally got a good look at his face and blinked in confusion. There was an expression of fear there, his eyes were wild and when yet another cracking louder sounded around you, nearly shaking the ground with its intensity, the charming priest’s entire body visibly jerked and his eyes screwed shut. You were at a loss for words. You were standing in a house you’ve never been to before with a man you only met today and who was an absolute stranger to you. It was obvious the storm was making him feel panicked and miserable, terrified even, and you wanted to provide comfort, seeing as he saved you from the rain and most likely from a nasty cold as well, but you had no idea how.

If you knew him a little better, if he was your friend, you’d probably wrap your arms around him, whisper gentle words of consolation, perhaps pet his hair. But not only was he a stranger, he was also a priest, and you didn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

So instead, you slowly reached a single cold, wet hand out, and put it on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, but made no move to shake your hand away. “Hey,” you said softly, getting his attention, “how about you sit down?” His breathing was shallow and his eyes still wide, but then he blinked, once, twice and stiffly nodded his head. He walked to the sofa and sat down on it, hands gripping his knees. “Okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, than to him and began untying your sopping wet shoes to take them off. Your socks were equally drenched, but at least they weren’t muddy. Next to go was your jumper, the wet wool was heavy and freezing and you thought for a moment, before you just opened the door and threw the garment out on the porch. No use having it drip all around the floor here and making you freeze to death.

You made your way over to the priest, whose entire body radiated tension. There was no point in asking him if he was alright, because even in the near darkness you could tell he was definitely not. You kneeled in front of him and once more reached out a hand, putting in on his own which seemed intent on crushing his knee. He looked at you and his large soulful eyes were literally screaming. “Do you know where the candles are?” you asked, your voice only loud enough for him to hear over the rain and wind outside. He shut his eyes again and shook his head. “Alright. Do you mind if I go look for them?” Paul opened his eyes again, a tiniest hint of gratitude hidden behind the panic in the nearly black orbs. You went to fetch your phone and put it next to him on the sofa, so he wouldn’t have to sit in the dark while you were searching the rectory for candles. And after a bit of thought, you took a hold of the blanket that was haphazardly thrown over the back of the little couch and draped it over the priest’s lightly trembling shoulders. His hands left his knees to grab at the blanket and wrap it tightly around himself.

You spent several minutes looking around the room to see if you could perhaps spot the candles hiding somewhere in plain sight. You didn’t. Erin kept her candles in the kitchen cabinets, you remembered, and perhaps Monsignor Pruitt did too. The first one you checked only contained mugs and glasses, good thing to remember, maybe you could make some tea for the priest later. The next cabinet had various plates in it, and the one next to it had various durable foods stored inside, pasta, rice, canned goods, etcetera. Only one cabinet remained. You took a deep breath and opened it. You were wet, cold, a bit miserable, and worried for the priest, so you grinned in victory at the various candles of all shapes and sizes, complete with a large pack of matches.

There was no coffee table, so you pulled a chair from a dining table nearby and began lighting up a candle after candle. You left one large one and several smaller ones on the chair itself, but then started putting the little lit candles on every flat surface, making sure nothing flammable was nearby. Soon enough, the rectory was bathed in a pleasant warm orange glow. It wasn’t exactly bright, but you saw father Paul’s face clearly now. He stared into the flames of the candles placed on the chair, still trembling a bit and flinching at every loud boom of a thunder. Acting on instinct, you pulled close curtains on all the windows. Tea, you remembered, that could help him calm down.

Well, this idea left as quickly as it arrived. The rectory’s stove was an electric one, therefore useless in the current situation. Damn, you could have sworn it was a gas one, at least it looked to you as such before you lit the candles. However, on one of the burners stood a kettle and when you touched it, told to do so purely by your own subconsciousness you supposed, you were quite delighted to feel the little sting on your fingers. There was hot water inside, and while not boiling anymore, it’d be enough for tea to steep in. Remembering you saw some earl grey in the third cabinet you opened, you fetched two random mugs and put a teabag in each, before pouring the hot water over them.

You carried the tea back towards the sofa and, without a word, father Paul moved to sit a little closer to the edge of the sofa, prompting you to take the now empty seat beside him. You did and held out one of the mugs for him to take. He appeared to be a little calmer, the thunder ‘only’ making him tense up now, instead of full on flinching. He still stared into the flames, his expression less panicked, but still unhappy and now also appearing tired. “A little better?” you asked softly, blowing on your tea. He nodded and started biting on the inside of his cheek. “It’s not…” he began, sadness in his rich voice, “it’s not always this bad… Almost never, really. I actually even like storms, it's just-” he broke off after another loud crash from the skies.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped out, “you haven’t known me for a day and you already have to… comfort me, because I got-... spooked by a stupid storm... That’s some first impression as a priest I gotta be making now.” Yes, he was still a stranger, but you hated how self-deprecating and ashamed he sounded. Without thinking, you took a hold of his free hand. Paul gave you a surprised look. “Don’t…” you whispered, looking into his eyes, “don’t. We all get spooked sometimes. And many people are terrified of much smaller things than this hell of a nasty storm. Besides,” your thumb stroked over the priest’s large hand, “I don’t think it’s really just the storm that made you so wound up. You said it yourself, you usually like them. Perhaps you’re just… under a lot of stress. Which of course you are, I mean, you stood before total strangers today, talking to them from a position of authority, I mean, I’d be sweating bullets. But you weren’t. You were awesome. You were charming and kind and knowledgeable and approachable. Just like a good priest should be. That’s my first impression of you. As for the second,” you scooted just a tad closer to him, “my second impression is that you are a man who went out of his way to give me shelter from an abominable storm. The storm terrifies you, and you still went out and got yourself drenched, just to help me. And I think that’s pretty awesome, too.”

Paul’s expression softened and he gave you a small, but honest smile. And you were so glad your face was only illuminated by the candlelight, because it hid the fact you blushed seeing that smile. It made his face look so open, and little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, in which you saw pure gratitude written. “Thank you,” he said, and squeezed your hand, but didn’t let go of it. He turned his head away. “You’re right,” he spoke then, “these last few days… have been quite stressful.” You waited for him to elaborate. Another thunder - the priest’s hand squeezed your own again. “Let’s talk some more,” you said, trying to get him to focus on you instead of the tempest raging outside.

“You can talk to me about what’s been bothering you, if only to get it out of your system. Or, if you don’t want to talk about it, you can tell me something about yourself.”

So Paul talked. He told you everything that happened from first meeting the Monsignor in Israel up until today, holding your hand the entire time, and the more he talked, the less he tensed up each time the ground underneath trembled with the storm’s intensity. Gradually, his body relaxed and once he was done with his story he seemed nearly as calm as he was when you first spoke to him in front of the church. “No wonder this monstrous cloudburst got you so worked up, this is enough pressure to throw anyone out of their element. Especially so suddenly… Your first storm here is always the worst. It gets better after that,” you said then.

He looked at you with a slight smile: “How about you, then?” You frowned at the question. “What about me?” you asked. He chuckled lightly: “How come you got stranded in the storm? I mean, Monsignor Pruitt told me a little about you, but he never mentioned you're fond of going for jogs in thunderbolts and lightning, which I think is rather peculiar.” You giggled and rolled your eyes. You supposed it was your turn to talk.

And so you did. You took turns talking about your lives, what was before Crockett Island, and you talked long, long into the night. So long actually, that neither of you noticed that the storm slowly fading away until there were no other sounds than your voices, and while many of the candles died, the rectory wasn’t as dark as it had been before. And the entire time, you held each other’s hand.

Father Paul suddenly stopped talking, excused himself, held a free hand in front of his mouth and yawned. You chuckled and, letting go of him, stood up to walk to the window.

“The rain has moved on,

And left a new day,

Nothing seems to move,

Everything is still.

It’s just a perfect day.”

You sang quietly and pulled the curtains on the window apart, revealing first rays of sunshine appearing on the horizon, stars still visible on the west. “You should get some sleep, father,” you turned towards him, your own eyes feeling quite heavy. He observed you with such fondness, anyone would’ve guessed he’d known you for years, not less than 24 hours. “Thank you,” he spoke in a whisper, which you heard perfectly in the absolute silence of the room, “you’ve done so much for me, a man you barely know. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” You smiled and shook your head, walking back to the sofa and stopping right in front of him. You put your hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes: “There is nothing to repay. I mean that. I’m glad to have helped ease your unrest, father. And don’t forget, you saved me from the storm.”

You went to put your shoes back on at the door. They were still wet, but they’d get you home just fine. Your jumper though, that was a different case entirely. Seeing as it spent the entire night out on the porch and was not only soaked but also utterly filthy, you could pretty much throw it away. “Wait,” Paul said as got up and disappeared to, what you presumed, was the bedroom. He came back a few moments later, holding a warm looking cable knit cardigan. “Please, take it, I- I wouldn’t want you catching a cold because of me.”

You gratefully accepted and let him help you put it on. You were right, it truly was very warm, but also soft and it smelled really nice. “Go get some sleep, father Paul, you could really use it after the last few days. I mean, I know you’re supposed to be serving mass in a few hours, but after that, I think you earned yourself a nice long day of rest,” you said, standing at the door. He gave you that soft smile again, and you tried your hardest to keep blood from rushing into your cheeks. “Perhaps. Hopefully.” he replied. “You too should rest.” “I will,” you agreed and smiled at him in return, “Good night, then.”

You walked down the few steps leading from the rectory’s porch and made your way around the little graveyard by the church. But then you turned around: “Also,” you called to him, stopping him from closing the door, “we know each other now.” Your voice, while tired, held cheer within. “I guess we do,” replied the priest, his voice matching yours, “good night, (F/N). Sleep well.”

Father Paul shut the door only after you rounded a corner and disappeared from his view. He blew out the last few remaining candles and walked slowly into the bedroom. As he got rid of his own cardigan and changed into some sleeping trousers, he kept thinking about you, the sound of your voice, your very presence. The moment you stepped over his threshold last night, something inside of him happened, and with each passing moment you spent sitting together on that ghastly sofa, he felt more and more at ease. And he felt so very grateful. He lied down and got comfortable, looking at the ceiling.

His mind kept replaying the song, sung in your voice. He didn’t know it, but it was lovely. And it sounded lovely when you were singing it. Maybe someday you'll sing it in its entirety for him. Father Paul Hill didn’t even realise he closed his eyes, still hearing your soft voice in his head, your tones gently lulling him to restful sleep.

Hello, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3 You can check this story and the entire series on AO3. I love your guys’ feedback :)

Song: Perfec Day by Miriam Stockley

#midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #fanfiction #reader insert #father paul #father paul hill #father paul x reader #father paul x you #father paul hill x reader #storms #panic attack #astraphobia #comfort #fluff #pre romance

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sparrowsfall · 2 years

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JOHN MICHAEL PRUITT ︰ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒 .

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟷 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.

NAME : reverend monsignor john michael pruitt ( alias -- father paul hill ) EYE COLOUR : dark brown, near black. post-resurrection, his pupils reflect a glow that looks like a blood moon. HAIR STYLE / COLOUR : raven black, thick, wavy-curly, length cut to nape of neck. HEIGHT : 6-foot 4-inches. CLOTHING STYLE : these days, he opts for button-downs, cardigans, and skinny jeans, in order to dress the age he appears. as for when he was actually younger, John kept a pretty standard every-day clerical wardrobe ( black slacks and collared shirts ) both under his liturgical vestments or without them. in the privacy of his own company, or when properly “off-duty” and gathering socially with friends, he did have various sweaters, polos, casual button-downs, some different-colored slacks and yes even jeans as was typical of men’s fashion from the late 50s and into the 70s. overall, his non-clerical wardrobe choices visibly favored darker and cooler colors ( blues, greys, greens, etc. ). rarely was he ever seen without his black panama hat. BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE : the big brown doe eyes are the clear winners. but those beefy arms are a very close second.

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟸 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.

FEARS : that he’s wasting his life on a path he’s good at, but not supposed to be on. and death, in regards to both himself and losing his loved ones to it. GUILTY PLEASURE : sleeping with the local hot navy wife <3 BIGGEST PET PEEVE : micro-management --- despite needing the assistance in his older age, he got fairly heated whenever Bev insisted on bossing him around even before the dementia set in, he likes to function independently whenever possible. tardiness. the teens texting during youth group and mass ( “damn phones” ). passive aggression and cold shoulders ( crockett’s small town gossip culture took some getting used to ). and other people’s stubbornness and refusal to listen to his point, which is ironic, considering he himself is about as damn mulish as they come. AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE : truly and honestly he just wants to take his place at his family’s side. all of the hard work he’s put into his priesthood and helping his community sometimes feels like he’s trying to push the loneliness out of sight and out of mind by staying busy ( ... and he is ).

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟹 : 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒.

FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP : wash his face. drink some coffee. then he’ll be able to properly think about the day ahead. THEY THINK ABOUT MOST : how unfathomably tiny and almost insignificant his life must be in the grand scheme of things. his life’s meaning, and the meaning of everyone else’s. is he doing this right? does God truly love him as much as everyone says He does? ( sometimes he’s not so sure, John reassures everyone otherwise but he knows that He tends to dole out suffering just as often as love, if not more so ). is his loneliness a blessing for having experienced love at all, or is it penance for a sin? death’s meaning, most notably. the things that frighten him are often the things that fascinate him most. and then, mercifully, the overwhelming fog of his thoughts clear. all that’s left are thoughts of his girls --- millie’s summer dresses have him flushed under the collar. and seeing sarah sport the little pins he found and ( anonymously ) gifted her on her overalls brings a smile to his face. WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED : events of the day. things he ran out of time for and needs to complete in the morning. how empty the space beside him feels. WHAT THEY THINK THEIR BEST QUALITY IS : his faith and devotion ( he means to God, but I’d argue his faith and devotion to the people in his life is even more profound ).

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟺 : 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑?

SINGLE OR GROUP DATES : single. even if it wasn’t primarily because he shouldn’t be dating at all, he’d still prefer one-on-one dates. he wants his partner’s full attention. he’s a little greedy like that! sue him! TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED : loved, absolutely. BEAUTY OR BRAINS : it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate beauty, but he is most certainly the type to enjoy deep conversations about faith and academic subjects and life / the world around him in general. DOGS OR CATS : he truly adores all animals, but if he was pressed to pick? cats. mickey would surely have something to say about it otherwise.

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟻 : 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘…

LIE : yes. John has a penchant for collecting skeletons in his closet --- literally and figuratively. BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES : yes. a little too much, even. BELIEVE IN LOVE : not only does he believe in it, but he’s hopelessly caught up in it. no one should have let this romantic be a priest, honestly. WANT SOMEONE : “want” scratches only the surface of this man’s longing.

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟼 : 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑…

BEEN ON STAGE : not in a theatrical sense. but all eyes are on him whether he’s commanding the room from a pulpit or a lecture hall platform. public speaking is a big part of his career, so i’d say that counts! CHANGED WHO THEY WERE TO FIT IN : unless it’s for purposes of flying under the radar as a born-again old-man vampire? no. John marches to the beat of his own drum, for better or for worse.

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟽 : 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒.

FAVOURITE COLOUR : shades of dark jungle and forest greens. moody grey-blues are a close second. FAVOURITE ANIMAL : partial to birds of all kinds! corvids, raptors, and parrots being his favored. FAVOURITE BOOK : The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. FAVOURITE GAME : games can be sub-categorized --- sports games: baseball and boxing. ; card games: poker, spades, solitaire. ; puzzles and strategy: chess, sudoku, newspaper crosswords, and scrabble. ; drinking: he and millie have a date night game where they watch book-to-movie adaptations and take shots / sips of wine each time the film makes a particularly shitty deviation from the original plot. these two book snobs end up drunk as skunks and howling with laughter, more often than not.

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟾 : 𝐀𝐆𝐄.

DAY THEIR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE : tuesday, november 1st ( all saints day ) HOW OLD WILL THEY BE : 86 ( not that it matters a ton anymore lmao )

𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁 𝟶𝟶𝟿 : 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄.

I LOVE : my family I FEEL : hopeful, perhaps naively so. I HIDE : it only because i need to. only because it’s for their own good. I MISS : her. I WISH : there was more time.

#study.#dash games.

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