My god, in him I will trust.

He parked the car out front, not bothering to lock it. His shotgun was slung over his shoulder- he didn’t feel as though he needed to leave it behind, this time.

John was clearly getting his mail to and from his location. That meant he was here. It had to. And he was hiding from both authorities and Garcia himself. No good, trying to hide from God.

Onto the front step, he glances back at the car where he briefly sees someone staring back at him. He’s seen it for a while, especially on nights like these. It’s a sad comfort, to think his own John was there with him.

But right now, he has to focus on the missing one.

@fathergarcia1987

His own missing poster is on the front door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. But John is a predictable person- out back, he keeps a spare hidden in the bushes.

It’s so quiet here, it’s like the night is holding its breath as Garcia shuffles about. That terrible sponge of silence when something is going to happen.

He checks under the doormat first, then the bushes out front. They used to be there in a hidden false stone, he had found it once before. But it’s different now, even if the houses are the same and both just as empty.

He doesn’t have trouble scaling the fence. Even in his age, he’s learned that being caught is a problem and movement is valued above all. The landing is solid, and he gets to his search again.

It’s in the back, and he smiles slightly as he slips back the cover of the fake rock to look down at the key. It looks just like the one he has, the one he still keeps on him- hadn’t even occurred to use it, and won’t ever.

Opening the back gate is much easier on his body this time around, and he circles to the front to get to the door but slows down as he passes by the window.

Maybe, just maybe, John would be inside.

But he’s not. Nobody is. Garcia can see through the drapes with the shine of the moonlight, illuminating that living room. It looks empty. Nobody at the couch, nobody in the kitchen- he can see straight to the back door.

There looks to be a figure at the back door, but unmoving. A trick of the light, even now. Still, there’s muddy shoe prints by the door. If John hadn’t been there, somebody had. All the reason to check it out.

Otherwise, this looks like John’s house…

Save for the full body mirror on the wall. Something John would never be caught dead owning.

Who knows. Maybe this one was just different.

He stands and stares at the figure before deducing they’re either not real, or might be easier to subdue once he’s inside the building.

The footprints are curious. Did it rain lately? Not that he can recall. That means somebody must’ve been in the woods. That spells trouble.

He stares at his own reflection staring back at the mirror for a moment longer before properly heading to the front door and unlocking it.

As soon as he’s inside, he turns and locks the door behind him, then finally takes in the scene before him.

…

It’s cold. None of the fans are on, nor the A/C. The power itself might even be cut, given nobody is here to use it.

So why was it so cold in here when the night outside was so much warmer?

Garcia could likely tell.

Whatever was at the back door is gone, though not the footprints. There are some at the front too.

Garcia steps on a letter that was slipped under the door. There’s only one, and it’s not his- this came from the apartments. Lisa. It looks like he’ll have to save the girl himself. John isn’t around to do it.

The rest of John’s mail is sat on a table beside the door. Half of it is unopened- bills and scam. But Garcia’s is. Stepped on, though the tread isn’t familiar (there’s a pair of shoes by the door, but the marks don’t match. They appear to belong to hiking boots). Opened, read, and then sorted. The letters inside seem to have been taken, but the envelopes remain. A reminder.

There’s also one from a “Joseph Renz” that was opened and taken. Looks like the contents remain a mystery.

The shadows on the walls are long and dark, like looming pillars of black against the wallpaper.

It’s too dark here to be safe.

This is not hallowed ground.

#reblog #in person #john ward #the-initiation

Calling out into the dark was always an invitation for the wicked to reach out. But with the gun on his back, he dared anything to try.

“ John? ”

Someone had to have been here. Letters aren’t responded to on accident. Aren’t sorted on accident. People don’t exist on accident. And sometimes, they don’t even disappear on accident. Especially, especially when they still exist.

A mental note that he’ll need to visit that complex. Lisa might not know him, but he’s not letting the girl suffer.

He walks to the kitchen first, the back door, holding onto his cross necklace. If there’s anything here, he’s going to get rid of it.

“ John, Hijo, are you there?”

Whatever will charge him will deserve its comeuppance.

He parked the car out front, not bothering to lock it. His shotgun was slung over his shoulder- he didn’t feel as though he needed to leave it behind, this time.

John was clearly getting his mail to and from his location. That meant he was here. It had to. And he was hiding from both authorities and Garcia himself. No good, trying to hide from God.

Onto the front step, he glances back at the car where he briefly sees someone staring back at him. He’s seen it for a while, especially on nights like these. It’s a sad comfort, to think his own John was there with him.

But right now, he has to focus on the missing one.

@fathergarcia1987

His own missing poster is on the front door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. But John is a predictable person- out back, he keeps a spare hidden in the bushes.

It’s so quiet here, it’s like the night is holding its breath as Garcia shuffles about. That terrible sponge of silence when something is going to happen.

He checks under the doormat first, then the bushes out front. They used to be there in a hidden false stone, he had found it once before. But it’s different now, even if the houses are the same and both just as empty.

He doesn’t have trouble scaling the fence. Even in his age, he’s learned that being caught is a problem and movement is valued above all. The landing is solid, and he gets to his search again.

It’s in the back, and he smiles slightly as he slips back the cover of the fake rock to look down at the key. It looks just like the one he has, the one he still keeps on him- hadn’t even occurred to use it, and won’t ever.

Opening the back gate is much easier on his body this time around, and he circles to the front to get to the door but slows down as he passes by the window.

Maybe, just maybe, John would be inside.

But he’s not. Nobody is. Garcia can see through the drapes with the shine of the moonlight, illuminating that living room. It looks empty. Nobody at the couch, nobody in the kitchen- he can see straight to the back door.

There looks to be a figure at the back door, but unmoving. A trick of the light, even now. Still, there’s muddy shoe prints by the door. If John hadn’t been there, somebody had. All the reason to check it out.

Otherwise, this looks like John’s house…

Save for the full body mirror on the wall. Something John would never be caught dead owning.

Who knows. Maybe this one was just different.

#reblog #in person #john ward #the-initiation #//ooc: ominous 0_0

He stands and stares at the figure before deducing they’re either not real, or might be easier to subdue once he’s inside the building.

The footprints are curious. Did it rain lately? Not that he can recall. That means somebody must’ve been in the woods. That spells trouble.

He stares at his own reflection staring back at the mirror for a moment longer before properly heading to the front door and unlocking it.

As soon as he’s inside, he turns and locks the door behind him, then finally takes in the scene before him.

Garcia drove his truck as far out as he could, parking it off the road to not get hit. His eyes scanned his passenger seat warily, gaze glazing over the blood stains. (Dried. He should’ve cleaned them out, but it was a reminder of the man who bled out by his side.) He really should have brought his shotgun, but this was something where he needed the trust of others. He needed to present as safe, not as a threat but as a companion. Usually weapons put a damper on those efforts.

He knows how to work these forests to his liking, how the shifts and turns come and go. Set out with a place in mind and you will likely end up there, if you’re meant to.

It seems tonight, he was meant to find The Ark. He utters out a prayer for himself before approaching it, gaze firm. Not matter what he was told, he knows the truth. Nothing in his building is holy. He can’t let himself be swayed.

Maybe it’s lucky he doesn’t spy anyone in blue outside. Maybe it’s age getting to him.

All the same, he stands at the gate of the devil and knocks.

@fathergarcia1987

John had been waiting. Eagerly. It wasn’t often they had visitors- willing ones, anyway. And this time, he’d made sure everything was perfect.

He’d spent the day on his hands and knees, scrubbing the chapel floor until his nails cracked and the scent of bleach and old wood clung to his skin. The others had helped, of course. They always did when he asked nicely enough. But John had taken it upon himself to polish every corner. Personally.

Not that the opinion of another man meant much to him. It didn’t. Not really.

…Though perhaps it was the name of the priest that had stirred something. That name. Garcia.

Earlier, he had spent nearly an hour at his Garcia’s side- resting his head in the man’s lap, whispering apologies and reassurances and things only he could understand. He held his hand as he always did, warm fingers curled tight around cold ones. Father hadn’t responded, but that was all right. He never needed to speak. His presence was enough.

Now, John sat in one of the pews, robes unnaturally neat for once. His back was rigid with anticipation, his single eye fixed on the chapel doors. As soon as he heard the knock he shot to his feet.

He quickly brushed any dust from his sleeves, adjusted his posture, then practically shimmied to the door with a strange, boyish energy. He flung it open with a smile.

His smile was stretched too wide, too precise. His hair hung in shaggy, tangled tufts, visibly unkempt despite the rest of him appearing somewhat put together. One eye was missing entirely, the wound old but clearly self inflicted. Necessary, he'd once claimed. He had to get rid of her. She saw too much.

“Hello, Father,” he greeted, voice syrupy with his usual practiced warmth. “Welcome to the Ark.”

A moment passed, then his head tilted slightly.

“Mind your step.”

@fathergarcia1987

So it is him. His poor heart tangles into a knot as he looks over John, but he tries not to let his concern seep into his expression. No, instead he shifts it to warm.

“ John! It’s- ah, thank you. It’s wonderful to be able to actually get to see the Ark for myself.”

He has to stand firm, so that he does. The shadows here lay on too thick but he can’t see any immediate threats to him. It’s a church, this he knew, but he hadn’t a clue how old until he stepped inside. It’s also… clean? The bleach is strong. Goodness. They absolutely murdered somebody here.

Yep, should have brought the gun. At least having it on his back would make him feel safer.

As he gazes around, he tries to mask it as awe. “ Dios mio. This place is truly huge… you don’t see many churches as big as this nowadays. Intentando reducir las iglesias a poco más que una gasolinera. Convirtiendo a Dios en una conveniencia… but you! Look at this place! You’ve done fantastically here, haven’t you?”

He smiles back at the man in blue. That poor eye. What’s with the eye? That’s the second time now.

After the initial burst of excitement from opening the chapel doors, John’s smile faltered as he took a long, silent look at the man before him.

His eye narrowed. His posture stiffened.

He looks like him.

His heart thudded violently against his ribs, a hollow, thunderous beat he swore the other man could probably hear. He stepped back, slowly, shakily. He was still holding the door open, still trying to smile- but the forced warmth in his expression was strained now.

He never got nervous. Not like this. Not unless something was wrong.

Or…right…

The priest stepped inside, and John let him, nodding along quietly to his words never once taking his eye off him. He kept a cautious distance. Not out of fear but reverence. Suspicion. Maybe even awe.

His hand drifted almost subconsciously to the golden dagger hidden beneath the folds of his blue robes, the cool metal a familiar comfort against his trembling fingers. It wasn’t a threat. Just a habit. A safety. A reminder.

Because this couldn’t be a coincidence. Not with that face. Not with his voice. Was this Father Garcia? Had he healed? Had the Lord restored what had once been taken- his sight, his youth, his warmth?

…Had he always looked like that? John’s memory twisted uncertainly, unable to say despite agreeing that he’d seen him mere hours ago. He’d held that hand so many times. But this-

Then the priest said something kind…praise…and it cut through John’s haze like a bell ringing in a dream. He blinked, visibly startled, and flushed deep red.

“I- thank you…” he stammered, his voice thinner than usual. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, tried to pull himself together. Play it cool, play it right. If this was truly him, he couldn’t afford to disappoint.

“Thank you, Father! Yes- yes, we’ve done our best here,” he said, grinning now. This one was real. A boyish, earnest smile, trembling at the corners. “It’s always looked like this. For as long as I can remember.”

His voice grew a little firmer, though his hands were beginning to shake…just slightly. He laced them together in front of him.

“This is my home,” he said, quieter now. “My place of worship.”

I need my Father Garcia.

John had been shifting all the while Garcia had looked around. It occurs to him a little too late he shouldn’t be turning his back on the man just because his face was familiar- by no means could he trust this rendition. Then again, he wouldn’t trust anybody in this building. Even with his back facing a wall, he still wouldn’t feel safe.

… It’s easy to read how unsure John is. It must be terrifying to him. Especially when he’s the only person still in contact with the man sharing his name. Garcia isn’t trying to replace somebody who’s given up here- he’s a guest with the wrong face.

He still looks warmly at John, taking note that John’s own grin quivers alongside his hands.

“ You’ve protected it well. Against the elements, vandals, the unholy…” As if. “ … And in return, I can see it’s sheltered you for as long as you’ve wanted it to. What a wonderful place, what a wonderful home.”

He could bring something up, but John has said that he doesn’t believe in coincidence. If he mentioned a man John just happened to resemble, he wouldn’t know how he might respond.

Instead, he lets a spry smile sneak to his face. “ … I must really look like him, hm? You’ve been staring a while… I couldn’t imagine any other reason you would. This must be strange for you- my apologies.”

John felt a flicker of relief when Garcia noticed the oddity in his behavior- because now, at least, he didn’t have to pretend. Not entirely.

“You…do,” he murmured, voice tinged with disbelief. “You even sound like him…”

He stepped closer without hesitation, drawn in like a moth to flame, and reached out- fingertips brushing against the older man’s coat, his face, as though confirming something real. As though trying to prove this wasn’t a ghost.

There was no warning. He was simply touching him, gently but intently, like someone handling a holy relic. His expression twisted into something unreadable…part awe, part fear, and something else far more fragile.

This couldn’t be real. Could it?

He’d met versions of himself before. That was fine. That made sense in the grand, divine design. But this, he argued, this was different. This was different becayse this was Father Garcia. His Father Garcia. His blessed, sanctified, rightful shepherd.

His thoughts were spiraling. It didn’t fit right. His obedience…his unwavering, absolute loyalty- had always belonged to one man. And now here he was again. Different, but the same. Close enough to unravel something deep inside.

John’s face quivered- he looked like he might break down entirely, confusion and longing welling in his eyes. His hand, almost instinctively, sought out the priest’s, and when their palms touched-

Warm. Alive. Not cold like before. Not imagined. Not dead.

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

His other hand trembled slightly by his side, the realisation dawning like a migraine behind his eye. He should take his meds. Probably.

…

Nobody cries like this over somebody still alive, he knows.

He squeezes John’s hand lightly, unsure what to make of all this. How casually he had just reached out. Like Garcia was an object, like he wasn’t sure Garcia was there at all.

He doesn’t know how to comfort the man, because he’s still so clearly in mourning, still so clearly processing the world in front of him.

“ … I had someone like you, once,” he confesses gently. “ I suppose that’s why when I learned your name, I was so eager to come back. A strange blessing, to be able to look up and see someone so familiar again.”

He’s careful not to pull away. Not to startle. If John flips on him, maybe he’ll consider something else. But this is just a scared boy in need of his mentor.

And he’s just a lonely old man who misses his son.

John is…uncertain. His thoughts scramble like moths in lamplight. This man, this priest, he is Garcia. Not his Garcia, no, but Garcia nonetheless. And that was enough to stir the ache in his chest like a wound torn back open. He had missed him…God, he had missed him more than words could ever touch.

Somewhere deep within, under the layers of delusion and devotion, John knows his Garcia is dead. He knows. But knowing had never made it easier to believe. Garcia had been his shelter in a world that was constantly out to get him. The only kindness he'd ever known. How could he ever let that go?

And now- this man stands before him. Holding his hand in the exact same way. Gentle.

He hears Garcia’s voice often, too often. Whispers, commands, reassurances. He’s long since stopped questioning if it’s real. Blind obedience is easier than facing the absence.

But this…this was different. This was flesh. This was breath. This was him. Alive. Speaking.

John’s fingers twitch. His whole body trembles harder now, wracked with impulses that confuse and suffocate him. He wants to lunge- to end it, tear it apart, scream at the heavens for giving him this but taking away his own. But he also wants to collapse into the man’s arms, sob until there’s nothing left, beg to be held and told it wasn’t his fault.

Instead, he stands there. Frozen.

Silence.

Then, finally, his voice is small, splintered, barely even above a whisper…but he speaks.

“…Yes.”

It wobbles, fragile and thick with unspoken agony. He’s seconds away from breaking entirely.

Oh. Oh, this is no good. If there are others here and they spot John so upset, it might end badly. If John breaks down, who knows what other emotions might come out?

He moves a second hand to John’s arm, barely the ghost of a touch to not jar him terribly.

“ … Perhaps we should sit down, h- John. Take a moment, breathe. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

But he does want to. Out of all the familiar faces, he knows next to nothing about this one. John seems the most emotionally fragile of the lot. The others need him physically, but this one needs him here and now.

He isn’t even aware of the concern that soaked into his expression, eyebrows knit with worries. All he knows is who he sees.

The first thing to give are his knees.

They hit the stone with a dull crack, but John barely notices. Pain is just another thing, another signal that he’s alive, that this is real. And it has to be. He has to be.

His breathing comes fast and shallow as he stares up at the man before him- the man whose face is practically carved into the walls of his soul, whose voice still hums deep in his mind.

And then the dam fully breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, the words tumbling out, breath hitching between each one. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t mean to let it get so bad, I didn’t mean to let the church rot, I tried. I swear I tried- please don’t be disappointed in me.”

He reaches forward, trembling hands grasping at the hem of the man’s coat like a penitent clinging to a relic. His grip is desperate, clawing, like if he lets go even for a second, this blessing will vanish into dust.

“You came back,” he whispers, awe struck, tears sliding down his cheeks. “You came back, oh Lord, I thought I was going to die without you, I thought- I thought maybe I had to.”

His body shudders violently with each breath. “But you’re here. You’re really here.”

And never mind that his blessed Father Garcia’s body still sits just a few rooms away, slumped in his old bedroom chair, skin long gone gray. Never mind that John still visits him every night- brushes his hair, kisses the cold knuckles, lays in his lap and whispers sweet things to his corpse.

That was just sleep. Just quiet.

This was him awake. This was a miracle.

“I prayed,” John sobs, “I prayed and I waited and I suffered, and He gave you back to me- I knew He would, I knew He wouldn’t take you forever.”

He’s laughing now between the sobs, a delirious sound. His hands reach up reverently to cup the sides of the man’s face. He stares into his eyes like he’s trying to memorise them again, drink them in before the dream fades.

“I love you,” he breathes, eyes wide, lips trembling. “I never stopped, you know? Even when your hands were cold, even when you stopped answering- I still brought you flowers. I still held your hand every night. I still kissed you.”

His voice drops, soft…broken.

“I didn’t mind that you didn’t kiss back.”

His forehead presses against the man’s abdomen, and he crumples fully now, bowing so low he might as well melt and become one with the floor.

“Don’t go,” he pleads again, voice barely audible. “Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me again. I’ll do better. I’ll be good. I’ll be perfect if that’s what you want. I’ll burn for you, bleed for you- I’ll tear my eye out again if it means you’ll stay.”

He’s shivering, utterly undone.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows. He knows the truth. That it doesn’t make sense. That the body is still in the other room. That rigor mortis doesn’t undo itself.

But this man smiles like him. Speaks like him. Feels warm.

So John lets himself believe.

Because if this is a lie, it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

John’s knees- this was a reaction he had tried to steer away from. Goodness! Poor thing, he

And then it all comes out, and Garcia can only listen.

Worry is his first response. John reads as delusional, never a good thing. Well meaning, but intentions are easily lost. Challenging a delusion is dangerous, especially when John is so engrossed in it, but affirming it is no better. He has to walk a neutral ground.

It shifts to horror so easily as soon as he realizes what John is saying. If Garcia was- if that man was dead, had been, how long was John alone? How long did he do this, how long did nobody stop him? Why wasn’t he deterred, how far did J

The last wave of emotion rolls in before he can understand it. How his very heart drops. This poor man, this poor boy. He’s looking for something he cannot have and something Garcia refuses to give.

How does he even begin to respond with such a broken man at his feet?

Well, that’s an easy question, actually.

He drops to his knees in turn, ignoring whatever ache is inspired in his body, and hugs onto John tightly. Making sure they aren’t looking at eachother, sure, but still held close and firmly. Still warm. Still secure.

“ Hijo mío, pobre hijo mío, no mereces este dolor. No has hecho más que darlo todo, así que ¿cómo puedes seguir ofreciéndote? ¿Qué hombre podría decepcionarse de ti?”

… John likely doesn’t understand all of what he says. He doesn’t mind that.

“ You’ve done so much, John, I don’t know what more anyone could want from you. You’ve remained so strong, even when The Lord challenged you, even when it seemed dark and unending. How could you ever disappoint me?”

He should let go, maybe. It’s not safe here, not like this. He doesn’t, clinging on tighter yet.

“ I thought all I would do is let you down, that it would hurt forever and I could do nothing.” This confession isn’t entirely for him. “ And I’m so grateful I can finally change that, do something, be something.”

“ Please. Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t change. Just… just breathe. Let it out, hijo…”

John doesn’t speak anymore.

He can’t.

There’s no room for words- only the awful, broken keening that escapes him as he collapses against Garcia, clutching him like a lifeline. He drags him close, closer, until their chests press tight and he can bury his face in the fabric of the coat, inhaling the scent like it could stitch his shattered heart back together.

The tears fall fast and hot, soaking through cloth, leaving him breathless, soaking in his own grief. He isn’t just crying, he’s mourning. Loud and ugly and real. There’s no pride left. No dignity. He is just pain in a body.

He can feel the warmth of the man’s arms around him, and it’s wrong. It’s right. It’s too much. He sobs harder, because the warmth means he’s alive- but Garcia isn’t alive. He knows that. He knows. He sees the body with his own eyes. Sat beside it, kissed the cold hands, wept against the rigid shoulder. It hasn’t moved in months.

So who is this?

Whoever he is, whatever, he feels like him. Speaks like him.

The Spanish completely washes over John, he doesn’t understand a single word, but it sounds right. Sounds like the nights when Garcia would hum softly to him in the chapel. Like the prayers whispered into his hair when he was still small…Still Melissa, before he ever had the words to explain the pain of being in the wrong skin. Before he ever understood what love meant beyond that warmth, that voice, that safety.

John sobs harder.

He holds tighter. Tighter. Nails digging into fabric and flesh, as if he could claw this moment into permanence. If he lets go, it’ll vanish- he’ll wake up, he’s sure of this. He’ll be alone again, sobbing beside a corpse in a church that smells like mildew and dust surrounded by cultists he truly couldn’t care less about.

He’s tried to wake up before.

God knows how many times he thought about it- sober. Those long, terrible nights when the pills ran out and reality was too sharp. He’d sit beside Garcia’s body, hand in his, whispering apologies into the silence. ‘Please come back. Please wake up. I’ll be better. I’ll be good.’ And when silence answered? He’d scream. Scream until his throat tore itself raw. He’d scream at anyone- at God, at Buer, at himself.

Why did You take him? Why did You leave me?

Sometimes he thought if he were quiet enough, good enough, if he just curled up beside him and stopped breathing, he could follow. Just go wherever Garcia went. Let go. Slip beneath the earth and rest.

But he never did. Because he still heard him. Because the hope wouldn’t die.

And now- now here he is.

Alive. Warm. Holding him. Touching him.

John’s body continues to tremble violently. His chest heaves with every breath, tight and ragged- asthma, probably. He doesn’t care. Let it come. Let it take him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, the words nearly shredded by his sobs. “I’m- I’m so sorry, Father-”

He doesn’t even know what he’s apologising for anymore. For not dying. For not joining him. For crying. For existing. For loving him too much. For still being the little girl kneeling in the pews, staring up at her savior with wide eyes and thinking: this is safety. This is love. This is what God feels like.

Because it was always him.

Garcia had been everything. Is his everything. The first to call him John. The first to make him feel real. The first to make him feel holy.

Now he’s here.

And John clings to him like the last light in a dead world, choking on sobs, on love, on grief so vast it could drown the sky. Because this feels like heaven. But heaven was never meant to last.

And he knows-

God never lets him keep the things he loves.

" Breathe, John. Please. I'm here, I'm right here, hold on as much as you need to."

It hurts, these claws in his back. Almost trying to tear him inside out, trying to verify he's real. He's not the man, he's not the right man, and he won't ever be, but lord does he want to replace whoever ruined John this terribly.

How is he supposed to turn away such a broken soul with a face like his.

The Lord makes all the best people suffer so dearly, bleed out, scream to be heard and never make a sound. And it seems more and more that it's always the same man being put through too much for any one person to carry. Maybe that's why there's never just one.

Just because John was made to suffer like this doesn't mean he should forever- or that he should do it alone.

It's so scary, hearing the erratic breathing, feeling the heartbeat against his own. What if it stops? What if it goes too fast? What if it happens again, and what if it happens in his arms?

" Get it out and breathe. Don't be sorry. Just be here with me, okay? I have you, hijo, just stay here with me."

It's a touch more selfish than he should say, but he doesn't care. If he has to stay overnight in this terrible place, he will. His crucifix and his faith are surely enough. Nobody will tow his car anyways, nobody goes down this way.

He has no plans to stay longer than he must. John's just in need. That counts for something.

Garcia can't give up on someone now. Not again. Not as every iteration he's read of has.

He's going to be the one that stays.

He’s practically choking on his own sobs now.

There’s no poise, no mask, no Order left in him- just simply a man undone. His chest seizes with every breath, hitching, rattling. His face is slick with tears, snot, spit- disgusting…but he can’t bring himself to care. He clings to Garcia like he’s a lifeline. Like if he just holds on tight enough, God surely won’t take him away again.

And then the priest says it.

“Hijo.”

John stops breathing for a moment.

It knocks the air out of him like a blow to the ribs. He trembles violently in his arms, not because of the cold, but because that name…that word- it’s his.

His Garcia called him that.

Before that- when he was little, still Melissa, back when his skirts still brushed his knees and he knew nothing but the scent of candles and dust and Garcia’s hands on his shoulders- he was “hija.” And he beamed every time. No one else got called that. Just him. Just her.

And then when he came- when he became John, when the blood had dried and he could finally breathe in his skin again…Garcia didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at him with those same soft eyes and said, “hijo.” Like nothing had changed. Like he was still his. Still loved.

John clutches at the fabric of his clothes again, sobbing harder (if that was even possible at this point), chest heaving so badly he can barely breathe. It sounds like a death rattle. And in a way, it is. The death of reality. The death of reason. All that’s left is Garcia. His Garcia. His blessed father who returned to him.

And still, still, some buried part of him wants to hurt him.

John’s fist shakes as it rises. He could hit him. He should. For dying. For leaving. For throwing him to the wolves and calling it God’s will. For making him lead the Order alone. For warping him into something hollow and obedient, something he still wants to be, even now.

But his hand just falls. Limp. Useless.

Instead, he drags himself forward and curls into Garcia’s lap like a broken child. He presses his face into his chest, sobbing so hard now it sounds, as he claims himself to be, beyond human. He doesn’t care how he looks- he’s humiliated, filthy, bathed in grief- but it’s still safer here than anywhere else in the world.

He clings.

Because no one else ever held him like this. Not even Lisa- not like this.

And even if it’s all in his head, even if this man isn’t his Garcia and his real Garcia is still cold and dead and sitting in a chair in the next room, he doesn’t care.

Because this Garcia is warm. This Garcia holds him. This Garcia calls him hijo.

And John loves him.

He always has. Since he was a little girl, all pigtails and Sunday shoes, clinging to his cassock and giggling at sermons she didn’t understand. Since he was a boy, raw and red and wrong in his skin, begging God to let Garcia still love him.

And he did. Didn’t he?

Even when John knew- when he was sober enough to remember the bruises, the whispers in the dark, the guilt, the fear…he still loved him.

He still loves him.

Even when he screamed himself hoarse at God and Buer for taking him. Even when he kissed his cold fingers night after night in that chair, whispering I miss you, I miss you, I’ll be good if you come back. Even when he held his dagger to his own throat more than once, shaking, desperate, begging to die just to see him again.

And now he’s here.

Alive.

John sobs harder.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again, barely audible.

It’s all he has. Just those words, over and over. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

For what? he doesn’t even know anymore.

For everything.

For nothing.

And still, he clings.

#reblog #johnlovesyou #john ward #in person

… He knows, deeply, he cannot be the man John is looking for him to replace. He doesn’t want to. Who even would?

There’s been a hole carved out of the man in his arms and nothing can repair it. Especially not him. He needs to go. He needs to leave. To maybe take the body of whichever disgusting man ruined John and send it where it belongs.

But John is pressed against him and he doesn’t feel his hold slipping at all. Before he curled, he felt the hand slip away, waited for some sort of pain to find him. He shouldn’t be waiting for it. He can’t be here. This was too far out of his jurisdiction and now he can’t take this back even if he wants to.

…

He feels like a monster for regretting his coming here.

Selfish for coming here, selfish for wanting to leave. Selfish for thinking he could replace something, selfish for thinking he cannot.

It’s in Spanish as he prays for them both. So John doesn’t recognize his words, so John doesn’t hear him saying how neither of them should be here. How the grounds are beyond salvation, how he knows the light of God has not shone here in a very long while. How the only good deed done was the death of a terrible, terrible man- and if he wasn’t gone yet, how Garcia would gladly send him off personally. He prays for John more than anything else- that he leaves, that he’s safe, that he finds somebody to hold him properly, that somebody can love him in a way that’s real.

What else can he hope for? Vengeance too late, intervention so long coming and meant for the hands of somebody else, comfort only sending John deeper into the recesses of his mind.

He can hope for a son, sure, but it won’t ever come.

wardofthecross-deactivated20250

John arrived about thirty minutes after giving Garcia a heads up. He’d made a quick stop at a small shop on the way, picking up a few extra things for them- nothing too important, really, just…excuses. He wasn’t proud of it, but part of him wanted to linger. Even if it was just for a meal, even if Garcia sent him off the second his plate was clean, John wanted to be near him again. It hurt to admit how much he missed that closeness.

The ache in his chest only got worse as he reached the front step. He hesitated, knuckles hovering over the door for a second too long before finally knocking- soft at first, then a few firmer taps followed.

He looked like his usual self at a glance- cassock neat, golden crucifix resting just above his sternum, mozzetta draped over his shoulders. But there were little signs…faint scratches near the corner of his mouth, hair slightly messier than usual, the nearly spent cigarette balanced between his lips.

He exhaled, smoke curling from his nose as he dropped the butt to the ground, crushed it under his heel, and waited.

There comes a sound of acknowledgement from the house, but it takes a minute or two for Garcia to actually get to the door. When he does, he...

It's the first time Garcia's actually looked anything but put together. Plain clothes and a well-worn apron, his necklace tucked beneath to not get dirty. No shoes, just two socks that don't match. He must've not combed his hair today judging how it gets into his face, and he quickly blows it out of the way.

" ¡Mírate! ¡Me haces quedar fatal en comparación! Vas tan bien vestido que habría creído que mi casa era una catedral. I'm so terribly sorry to have left you waiting, come in- I hope that wasn't too long. I couldn't tell what you might've wanted to drink, I didn't get anything out for you yet-"

Ah, he's still talking as he waves John inside, going on about how sorry he was for something or other. Garcia seems to corral the man to the dining area, actually- though a glance to the living room yields very little other than he's apparently abandoned it for some time.

The kitchen is warm and smells wonderful. True to his word, he's set places for both of them, empty glasses sitting out. There's also what looks to be box mac 'n cheese he's made, though it seems he's gone through lengths to make sure it doesn't touch the fish, just in case.

" -didn't really know about allergies, and frankly I'm unsure how to really set the table for someone else, it's been a while and I fear I'm probably out of touch-"

At second glance, that makes sense. His sink seems to be full of dishes he hasn't cleaned. His fridge is positively covered in notes and newspaper articles on various suspicious happenings. Garcia's been otherwise occupied for lord knows how long.

" -couldn't tell if you wanted to say grace or not so I held off on touching anything beforehand, but we don't have to if you don't want to, I'm not entirely sure how you practice and all, it's confusing trying to keep up with everything nowadays..."

John’s smile appeared the moment the older priest opened the door. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly at Garcia’s disheveled appearance. He’d grown so used to seeing him in his vestments that this casual, slightly worn look sparked an unexpected warmth in his chest.

He stepped inside without hesitation as Garcia ushered him in. “Please, Father, it’s alright. I haven’t been waiting long at all. Just needed to finish my cigarette,” John added with a light laugh. “Oh! And don’t worry- I brought a few things with me on the way here. Felt bad just showing up empty handed.”

John glanced around the room briefly, noticing the lived in yet kind of abandoned state of the place but didn’t pry. Garcia had his own way of doing things, and John didn’t want to question it.

It had been a while since they’d last connected- John’s mind blanked for a moment…but Garcia’s easy chatter brought him back quickly. The kitchen smelled inviting, warm…it felt like home. Safe. And he’d only just walked in.

John chuckled again at the priest’s rambling. “Please, Father, I promise it’s okay. You don’t have to fuss over me, I’m just happy to see you again.” His voice softened as he looked at the distracted man. “Yes, I’d like that. And I understand. Well, kind of. It’s alright, truly. Please don’t worry so much.”

His whole demeanor softened, calmer than usual. Alu had left him mostly alone today, a rare blessing, and that peace was why John had dared come without the muzzle. He didn’t need (or want) to explain that. Shaking the thought away, he carefully set the plastic bags of groceries on a clear spot of the kitchen counter.

Inside were drinks (and a few alcoholic ones- though John only reakly drank alone, and he wasn’t even sure if Garcia did), and snacks! Mostly just an excuse to stay a little longer.