Chapter Text
The first time Levi comes to him, Father Erwin Smith, priest and holy servant of the Lord, has just finished looking over his sermon for Sunday mass. Taking care not to blot the fine onion-skin pages in front of him, covered margin to margin with long-sloping cursive that's stained the side of his right hand, he caps his fountain pen with a satisfied sigh, secure in the weighty assuredness of the presence of the parishioners that will fill tomorrow's pews. They will enter, broken birds weighed down by the albatrosses of their worldliness. They will exit, buoyed with confessions and communions, to discover that they can fly again.
The table lamp on his oaken desk glimmers soft gold across the room, weaving light fingers through his hair and dancing cantatas across the planes of his cheekbones as he stands up to ready himself for bed. His shadow stretches long across the bedroom as he pads over to the armchair in the corner where he's laid out his vestments for the coming day. He picks a near invisible ball of lint from a stiff cotton shoulder, rolling it soft and thready between his fingers. Cassock, collar, clerical clothing laid out neat and ready to accept the holy vessel of Christ, and erwin straightens the fabric out again for what feels like the tenth time, reveling in the way the starched material feels against the pads of his fingertips.
The first time Levi comes to him, Father Erwin Smith, priest of St. Anne of the Sunset Church, has the taste of mint toothpaste in his mouth. His teeth are glossy clean against his tongue as he mouths his bedtime prayer, thanking the Lord for the graces and favors that have been bestowed upon him this lovely Saturday in the middle of January. He asks the Lord to allow the holy angels to stand about his bedside to protect him from sin, and, with his eyes closed tight and his forehead tucked against the join of his hands, he does not see the way the light from the desk lamp across the room flickers, wavering across the burnished gold of his hair.
He stands up, the Amen tucked into the corner of his cheek like a butterscotch candy, releasing its benediction a sweet flavor, reassuring and steady, the taste of faith in a broken world.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." He will hear it tomorrow, will hear the phrase for the rest of his life, the words slick sibilant syllables driven to excess, delivered in spades. He will fold his hands neatly, delicately, in his lap, breathing in the heady scents of incense and candle wax, and he will deliver absolution through the latticed slats of the confessional. A Hail Mary here, full of grace, an Our Father who Art in Heaven there. Whitewashes against the black backdrops of sin, and ink dissolves into milk, a cycle. And, like Atlas, he spends hours in the confessional, late afternoon sunshine through the stained glass of the chapel painting his face with rainbows, and bleaches away time and again the darkness that threatens to encroach on the sacrament of the blessed.
He pads over to the desk, reaching out to click off the desk lamp. It scatters gold filaments across the text of his sermon, a holy nova of words, bittersweet alchemy of transforming sinners into saints. He runs a finger lovingly over the indented scrawls on the pages, kisses the blots of ink that leave faint streaks over the pad of his fingertip as he mouths the scripture to himself, just one last time. Vanity, veritas, mingling together on the page, and he can imagine the parishioners looking up at him with tears in their eyes. It's almost intoxicating, and Erwin has to remind himself very firmly that the power of judgment is not his to bestow.
A mere vessel, he scolds himself sternly as he clicks the light off, darkness sweeping inky tendrils across the bedroom. He fumbles his way to the bed, one step, two, dimly lit with the orange glow from the street lamps outside. The comforters are reassuringly, almost endearingly, scratchy against his bare skin as he slips between them, shivering in the winter chill, goosebumps dotting the flesh of the image of God making bodily lumps beneath the blankets. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath that makes his lungs ache with the cold, and waits for dreams to come carry him away.
They reach out, gossamer inky strands of memory, tugging him into slumber, and the first time Levi comes to him, he is already caught halfway between this world and the next, tangled in the silky shroud of sleep so that Levi's pale figure is just a soft blur in the growing gloam. He comes out of the corner where the armchair is, untangling itself from the folds of the clothing of the clergy, and milky skin blots out the orange light seeping through the window. Erwin's voice catches in his throat, a plea for help, a cry for salvation lost somewhere halfway between his mind and his mouth. He tries to curl his hands into fists at his sides, tries to prop himself up on his elbows to reach out for the crucifix hanging solid and wooden over the headboard, but his body refuses to obey, caught in paralysis at the devastating beauty of the demon who stands patiently at the side of his bed.
Incubus. The word comes quick to Erwin's half-awake mind, sexuality in Christian demonology, and he half-remembers late nights spent in the canonical libraries, poring over texts so fragile that they crumbled yellowing in his palm at the slightest rough exhalation. It lodges itself firmly into his brain, growing inky roots. The holy texts and the sermon for tomorrow's Mass sit heavy on his desk, but the demon takes no note of them, meaningless words on parchment. A sham, a scandal, a charlatan. Erwin aches to pray for mercy, the Latin words of exorcism and safeguarding slippery in his head, dancing butterflies through a net without a bottom.
The demon kneels, ink swirling into milk, resting his pale arms on the bed, the mattress barely dipping underneath the pressure. He rests his chin on his crossed wrists, examining Erwin with a curiosity that is bittersweet and frightening in its sheer humanity. He reaches out a slender finger, candle wax in the gloam, to brush over Erwin's lips, and it is all Erwin can do to stutter a gasp through parted flesh. The chill pervades him and threatens to suffocate him with its sensuality.
"You know what I am." The incubus speaks, soft sibilant syllables that stroke their way through Erwin's mind, painting themselves with the silk of sleep. It is a statement, not a question. "Don't you, Father?"
Erwin cannot bring himself to look away as the incubus takes back his hand, pressing kisses to his fingertips. He can almost feel the lingering chill against his lips, and, for the vaguest of moments, a fleeting thought not of his own consideration slips through his mind, asking what it might be like to kiss, to be blessed again.
A grin, fleeting thin and crooked, across his face as he stands again, inky shadows across the planes of Erwin's cheekbones. He leans forward, and Erwin frantically tries to close his eyes, but his eyelids refuse to obey, drying and cracked wide open to accept full realization of his corruption, bittersweet alchemy of tarnish.
A kiss. Feathered lightly across his forehead, almost mocking in its tenderness and illusion of fragility. The chill weights Erwin's eyes closed, chapped flesh against his skin.
"Good night, Father. Sleep well." A chuckle, a hissing laugh fading away into the recesses of his mind.
The first time Levi comes to him, Father Erwin Smith wakes up the next morning with a migraine blossoming at the base of his skull. He winces in the early morning sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window, the chapel bells playing a serenade to compete with the mourning doves roosting in the eaves of the rectory. Once his eyes have adjusted to the sudden brightness, he looks around the bedroom to find that the pages of his sermon have been scattered everywhere, soft meaningless cursive into soft meaningless words.