Chapter Text
He could hear the drip of blood in the quiet of the place. It had been silent at first as the stone absorbed the drops. He watched it distractedly, allowing it to build into a small pebble, the sound becoming louder as it’s depth increased. The surface tension broke with the next drop and it spread slightly, small pin pricks of splash around the circumference marred the symmetry. His mind remained focused on the sound of the dripping, eyes unseeing now as they looked at the stone and his fingers dug into his arm. He increased the pressure to slow the bleed, it seeped through the fabric, the warm liquid coated his fingers and ran down into a different ending. Back into the fabric or onto a new destination on the stone. Part of him was upset at the end of the slow, calming drip. His nail dug through the fabric, feeling the tear in his flesh, it dug deeper, catching on the edge of the bullet fragment. He worried it with his nail, the sharp, fresh pain clearing his mind as he worked it free. It slipped and he heard the dull metallic thud as it fell and rolled under his seat. He curled his palm around the muscle and pressed firmly, feeling the bleeding slow with his breathing. He sank back against the hard wooden bench, listening again to the absolute silence around him. The doors hadn’t opened since he’d entered, so he closed his eyes and relaxed, breathing in the air, unbidden memories coming back as he identified the smell of wood and dust and incense and extinguished candles.
A door opened in the distance and feet walked slowly towards him. He cracked open an eye, watching the dark dressed figure move unhurriedly, passing into light and dark from the high set windows, faint traces of smoke from candles giving a solidity to the light. The figure opened a door and entered the small wooden confessional, closing it behind him. He watched his feet, visible under the edge, shoes cared for, but well worn, moving slightly across the wood of the floor, then back as their owner knelt for a few moments before resuming their position. A deep seated muscle memory found him moving, crossing the space and opening the other door before he was barely conscious of doing so. He sat down heavily on the narrow wooden seat, the small amount of light showed the plain grille set in front of him and the thin red cloth provided for privacy if he wished. He knew that some never used it, wanting the repentant to face their confessor.
The silence lengthened. He could see the other man still at first, his legs visible through a small gap where the cloth fell clumsily, then a pale hand brushed his knee. A small cough announced that he was waiting. Bond tipped his head back against the wood, senses clearing and started to rise.
“It’s okay, take your time. I know that it can be difficult.” The man hesitated, he could see his hand move slightly, as if to hold him back. “I feel that your coming in here wasn’t intentional.” There was a long pause as he sat back, the edge of the seat pressing into his spine. As with all of the elements of the place, physical comfort was not provided. “If you want to talk, I’m here, but if you just need a quiet place to be with your thoughts, that too is fine.” There was a rustle of fabric as the priest sat back, waiting.
He breathed deeply through his nose, the heavier, closer air of the confined space pressed briefly upon him, before he allowed his body to relax. The wax of the wood was mellow, aged, calming, for him anyhow, not necessarily for the countless who had been here before, voluntarily pouring out their deepest secrets, while no doubt keeping others still contained, the duplicity curling at the edge of their consciousness, the final get out clause if they were so blessed, that they could always repent at the last minute and accept salvation. He eased the grip on his arm, the fabric sticky, cooling now, the metallic tang of the blood was filling the space. He flexed the muscle, knowing his mistake as the warm bubble touched his palm. He bunched the torn edges of the fabric together and pressed the improvised tamponade into the open flesh, allowing the sting of pain to centre him.
“Bad day at work.” He slotted the memory away, couching it in dispassionate words suitable for retelling. “Then again, a good day for me usually means a bad one for someone else.” The man is silent, allowing the words to come. “Sorry to take up your time, as you surmised, my being here is accidental.” He can hear a small chuckle.
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“That’s as bad as one of my lines.” He hears the laugh again and a spark of something ignites in him. He shakes it off and rises. “Thank you for your time.” He opens the door with his left hand, wincing slightly. “Sorry about the mess.” The noise of the street is deafening.