Archive of Our Own

Father Garcia was being rather quiet, and not even the car radio provided a punctuation for the silence, but John didn't think he minded too much. As it was, he was soaked in blood, his limbs ached, and he was physically and emotionally exhausted. He wasn't sure if his voice would come out if he tried to speak. Even with the job finally done, he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Amy's bones littered in a sad pile on the floor. Now it was completely dark, all but for the glow of the moon hanging overhead, and John marvelled mildly that for the first time, he didn't fear that something was watching him in that blackness. Somehow, the revelation weighed heavy in his heart.

It wasn't long before the weariness sunk into his bones, and the treeline swayed and shimmered as John bobbed in and out of consciousness. In the haze of sleep, not a single vision conjured itself to haunt him. When he was finally able to hold his eyes open once more, a manner of hours had passed. Father Garcia's head turned to glance at him.

"So, you're with me again, hijo." His gaze focused on the road again. "Talk with me, won't you? Tell me, what's on your mind?" 

"An awful lot." John frowned thoughtfully. "Everything that just happened... Facing all those demons, freeing Amy's soul..." He lifted his head. "Do you think that the Church may reinstate us, given our success here?"

Father Garcia's brow raised momentarily. "Unlikely. Unfortunately, the Vatican is highly concerned with appearances. You may have defeated Astaroth and Malphas, but your past failure and subsequent hospitalization will always color their perception of you. As for me, they've long disdained my willingness to take any actions necessary to do the Lord's work..." He smiled, but it was a bit askew, more of a grimace. "The incident with the Davies family cemented their opinion."

"You really think there's no chance, then..." John felt a weight in his chest. It hadn't been too long since he was denounced, only a year and some change, so the emotions surrounding his expulsion were still quite fresh.

"No, I don't believe so. In fact, it's more likely that they may become a hindrance to us, trying to stop our work because it could reflect poorly upon the Church as an institution for two former priests to go rogue." He laughed quietly. "Could you imagine the headlines?"

John leaned back in his seat, not sure how to respond. Instead, he fidgeted with his hands, grimacing at the sticky mess of blood tainting his skin. He hoped they would find a place to stop, soon, somewhere he could wash himself clean.

Father Garcia deigned to break the silence quickly. "I'm glad that you had the presence of mind to join me, John. I was worried that after all you had been through, you would have been at your limit." His hands gripped and relaxed as he held onto the steering wheel.

John looked at the reflection of the road behind them in the rearview mirror. The neck of the mirror had a rosary tied to it, an ornate wooden one with a figure of Christ carved onto the cross. "It... wasn't an easy choice... But I feel like it was the right one. Until we can stop the Unspeakable once and for all, what happened in New Haven will only keep happening everywhere else. As nice as it would have been to have a chance to rest..."

"You made the right choice." Father Garcia affirmed. "I'm glad... I was prepared to press you a lot harder, had you put up a resistance."

"What do you mean?"

Before answering, Father Garcia checked his side mirror. "I would have let you have your rest, of course, and spend time with your friend, but I would have kept writing you. I would have been more persistent. I would remind you that with your experience, you're one of the few living people who truly knows how to fight against the forces of Hell." He paused, scratching his jaw nonchalantly. "And of course, had you continued to avoid me, I would have come to your doorstep and taken you along with me."

"What?" John sat up a little straighter in his seat. "Really?"

"Sure." Father Garcia chuckled, as if he'd said something much more light-hearted. "I was already fully prepared to hold you at gunpoint if you resisted-- it's just, your friend already looked beside herself. I didn't want to upset her further, so I decided to wait." Perhaps noting the horrified expression on John's face, Father Garcia cleared his throat before clarifying. "I have immense respect for you after everything you've done, John. I don't say this lightly. It is exactly the fact that I am so impressed by you that I need you at my side now."

With no idea how to respond, John sat in silence for a while, contemplating the enormity of what Father Garcia had just said. It was clear that his companion had no disdain for him, but his capacity for coercion was off-putting, somewhat. "... You wouldn't have really shot me, right?"

"Not fatally. That would have been counter-productive." Father Garcia's continued nonchalance was making John's stomach turn. "But I certainly would have convinced you. On this path you've chosen, you have to get accustomed to doing unpleasant work to greater ends." He turned to look, very briefly, at John, his eyes searching. "I need you to be prepared to do anything I ask."

"Anything at all?" John frowned deeply. "I'm more than ready to help you fight the Unspeakable wherever it or its minions emerge, but there are things I refuse to do."

"Refuse?" Father Garcia's brows raised. "That's bold talk after I just admitted I was willing to threaten you to get what I want." His expression relaxed into a smile. "But, what is it that you object to? I haven't asked anything of you yet." His head tilted. "If I told you to, would you hold a gun to someone and kill them?"

Almost at once, John shook his head. "You mean a person? A human being? I'm not going to do that."

"Yes, a person." The windows became studded with droplets. Father Garcia flicked the windshield wipers on and watched them on their rhythmic path. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it? When I made my way into the tunnels under the daycare, I saw your handiwork." He whistled. "You don't look the type to be capable of that."

For a moment, John's blood ran cold. Of course, he knew exactly what Father Garcia was referring to. "I wasn't in my right mind...! Gary-- or Astaroth, whichever it was-- he injected me with something. I lost control of my body, I was hallucinating!" He looked at his own hands, now sickeningly aware of how full the space underneath his fingernails felt. His fingertips were stained with the blood and viscera of the thralls he had slaughtered. "Without that drug, I never would have had the physical strength, much less the mental ability to do such a thing..."

"How can you be so sure?" Father Garcia swerved lightly to avoid a dead animal on the road. The rosary on the rearview mirror swayed from side to side. "Surely, what the drug did was only amplify your internal dialogue. You knew the thralls were dangerous, heathens, and that you needed to triumph against them. Why not, then, use every last ounce of your strength to tear them apart? Surely, it felt good to take those who had hurt so many, and destroy them with your own hands. You need to be prepared to do whatever it takes to defeat your foes."

"I'm prepared for a lot. I've risked my life so many times..." John pushed his hand through his own hair. The blood was dry, now, and the individual strands of hair were sticking together and tangling. He didn't want to think about what Father Garcia was suggesting. He didn't want to dive back into the memory of his drug-induced fugue fury and realize that part of him might have enjoyed it. "I'm not prepared to start killing people."

There was a prolonged period of quiet. When Father Garcia spoke again, his hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make the faux leather creak. "You were prepared when you shot Michael, weren't you?" A deep shadow crossed his face, darkening his expression.

Distraught, John's fingers twitched. "I didn't know that he was a child-- when he approached me, he appeared like a twisted demon! I was trying to protect myself."

"And protect yourself, you did. And Michael died plastered across the street in those desolate hills." Father Garcia lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his brow. "I won't begrudge you trying to stay alive, but you need to acknowledge that you're not only capable of killing, but you're more than willing to do it under the right circumstances. Face that truth about yourself." He reached towards the middle console to adjust the heater. "I need you to trust me when I tell you what those circumstances are." 

For a moment, John fell still. He took a deep breath before speaking again. "I know I can look at a demon and fight it. A person, though...?" 

"How many people did you face who tried to kill you, in these past few days? Either indirectly or by their own hand?" Father Garcia shook his head. "Your enemies will not hesitate to end your life, hijo. You must be prepared to face them with the same energy." 

"I can't..." John murmured, chest tightening. "I can't."

Wordlessly, Father Garcia spun the steering wheel, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road before stopping the car completely. It was closer to dawn now, and their path was still devoid of any traffic as they sat isolated on the roadside. Father Garcia turned to John, one arm still on the wheel, as if to box him in. Despite being slightly shorter, he somehow managed to loom overhead. "You can. More importantly, you will. I won't allow you to avoid the truth any longer." His frown deepened, painting furrows against his wizened features. "You're a good man, John, but you're naive, pitifully so. It makes you susceptible to demonic activity, and their whispers can trick you so easily. I will drill that childlike gullibility out of your head. Barring that, I will guide you until you know to only trust in myself, and the Lord." 

John's hands gripped into fists against his knees. Father Garcia's frame was taking up most of his vision, and he focused on maintaining eye contact, as desperately as he wanted to avert his gaze. He wanted to defend himself, but he knew that Father Garcia was right, at least to the point that demonkind seemed able to string him along with almost trivial simplicity. His own feeble‐mindedness frustrated him to no end. "I... I just want to do what's right."

"Then I want you to believe me when I say I know what right is." Father Garcia's expression softened somewhat. "You're a capable man, John, and the events of the Profane Sabbath have proven just how strong your soul is. I'm confident that you will not fail me."

"I don't want to fail you." John's lip stiffened as he felt a swell of determination in his chest. "I don't want to fail anyone, anymore. I cannot falter as I did in the past." He swallowed, steeling his nerve before nodding. "I'll do what must be done to prevent the Unspeakable from walking the Earth, to protect the innocent from harm."

Finally, graciously, Father Garcia turned to the steering wheel once more, pulling back onto the road towards God-Knows-Where. His smile shifted the corners of his moustache. "That's what I like to hear, hijo. Draw upon your inner strength. It won't lead you astray, and neither will I."

The murmur of the engine gave John a chance to fall quiet once more, looking inward. He briefly looked back on the hallucinations he'd had during his drug-fueled rampage in Garyland. At some point, he'd touched his own face, and two other, smaller hands had reached for him, as well. He had been smiling, hadn't he? He had been enjoying it. And what of Amy? Did she, too, revel in the bloodshed, in the painful deaths of the ones who had hurt her? Shaking his head and forcing himself back to the present, John lifted his fists to his eyes, rubbing them as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his legs. Everything felt sore. He'd seen so much. 

From the driver's seat, Father Garcia reached out to rest a hand on John's back. The heat of his palm was immense, and on contact, spread across John's back until he felt fully shielded by the warmth of the kind touch. So all-encompassing was the power behind that one hand that it could surely guide John, like the hand of God, to tell him where to go, what to do. He felt at that moment that he would go willingly.