WHAT IF...: Marvel OC One Shots

| "Bless The Sinners" |

"God, bless the sinners." A child muttered under his breath, his head bowed in prayer. He was kneeling at a pew beside his grandfather who muttered to him quietly, telling him which prayers to whisper.

The cathedral was colder than usual. Then again, that was what the winter months did, didn't they? Even if people came into the old stone and stain glass building seeking warmth, the shell of it still shook with the wind outside. The light oak benches were cool to the touch, high ceilings and recently mopped floors allowing the wind to carry more openly from the large wooden doors, all the way down the empty rows of seats, to the priest's altar. Jay could hear the flames of the altar candles flickering whenever someone else walked in. It was the only lights the church offered at such early hour, wavering and threatening to blow out as they were.

There weren't more than a few people scattered around, kneeling in the pews and whispering prayers. It was far too early. On his way there, it was still dark— he gauged it by the soft buzzing of tall street lamps as they shone over the darker scape. It looked like fire to him all the same, some bright splotches illuminating the darker and lower flames. Some flames were beautiful— he'd learned to seek beauty in the chaos and in the turbulence of War. Some were otherworldly, the kind that mulled through until only ash was left in their wake, all just for the sake of burning as bright as they could. Those were his favorite. She was his favorite.

He couldn't tell her that yet. He couldn't really tell himself that either and still, that fire that burned within him. It was the same one that burned within her, and left his apartment in flames one way or another. He couldn't tell her that he'd grown so comfortable with her fire, that he'd grown to gravitate toward it, closer and closer until there was no space between them, no unshared air that didn't catch with smoke from their blaze. No strings was what they agreed upon, it was what worked, and yet he found himself caught in her acrobatic silks all the same.

It was different, it was unusual— listening for her always, gravitating to her without a second thought, worrying, when he'd spent so long thinking his life was better lived on a whim. Better to blaze a trail and leave only ash than stay and burn overtime. It was easier. Less explanations, less complications, for sure. But with her, he didn't have to explain anything, nor did she to him. There was understanding in the similar weight of their ever changing lives. And yet, Irina Barton and their midnight games was a constant. At least since she'd extended her stay in New York. Was it— no. He was getting distracted now. He was here for something else.

Jay sighed through his nose as heard the church bells chime signaling the early morning. With how long he'd been listening to the chatter inside the church, he imagined it was brighter by then— were the street lights off? He listened for the lack of the buzz. Even then, he wasn't optimistic enough to think even the new light outside would ease the bite of the winter air.

God, bless the sinners.

That's what he was there for.

He sat leaning back against the wood of the pews, his head tilted up like he was facing toward the larger cross that hung from the front of the altar. He tried not to move much, muscles still sore from the beating he took merely hours before. His knuckles were bright red still, they stung in the cold though he was grateful for the numbing feeling it gave him. His dark brown hair was messy, blown around from the wind surly. The deep red of his glasses drew stark contrast against his hair and tanned skin, the rounder lens shape contrasting with the sharp and chiseled features of his face even as they were taunt with tense muscles. The red of his glasses matched the cut on his lip that still ached if he spoke for long enough. He could feel the bruises forming beneath his eye and across several areas of his body. But there he sat, in the church pews, lean and aching muscles covered in a black sweater, and a charcoal grey coat over that. The hand that rested on his knee was looped through the handle of his folded cane that sat beside him, his other arm draped across the back of the seat, index finger running along the wood like he was taking in the feel of it, the coolness to balance the heat in his blood. Like he was feeling for figurative braille inscriptions on the seat, hidden scriptures that would give him some sort of answer, even if it was fleeting further and further from sense and logic.