Scribbles and Drabbles

Notebook Drabble 27 - Fallen Priest

Someone had to check him out of the hospital; he couldn't go home alone. Not while his leg was in a cast and putting weight on it might destroy his chances of walking again. Charlie wasn't bitter about that. Yes, he didn't want to lose his leg. Yes, he understood that he'd need help for the next few weeks. That fact left him with nightmares as his limited opinions hammered against him. 

He didn't have many people he could count on and no one who could look after him for six weeks and more. His opinions were limited. He waited a few days while he recovered, hoping something would happen. No one had appeared yet. Either they didn't care, or the word hadn't escaped into the grapevine yet. Emotions behind both opinions didn't need unpicking.

Honestly, no allies appearing was better than an enemy or someone who'd hurt him offering. 

He phoned his ex-bishop. The nurses started to ask if he needed a carer from the state. He didn't want a stranger to come to look after him - he didn't want to risk getting them marked. Bishop Roberts had the build of a former footballer and the voice of a lion. Warm, strong and booming at the best of times. Bishop Roberts disapproved of his decision to break his vows and leave the priesthood. Bishop Roberts also wouldn't leave him injured with no way to keep himself safe.

"You will stay at the convent." The call ended with little more chat. A sharp order that tugged in all the wrong places but wasn't that surprising. The Bishop was hardly going to offer up a priest or nun to babysit him for a few weeks when they were strapped for cash and needed every hand they could get ahold of. 

He twisted his good foot to stretch out the muscle and picked at a stray threat on his coat sleeve as he waited. Bishop Roberts sent someone to pack him some clothes. They'd dropped them off the night before while doing their rounds on the ward to talk to people who wanted a bit of faith. 

They'd packed his priest clothes - no hint there at all. 

"Sorry, sorry!" Khaled rushed into the clinic room and dropped a bag to the side. "I got waylaid by parishioners wanting advice on growing flowers in the city. Poor things they have aren't coping well with the city air, and you know what people like to call me."

"Afternoon Khaled," Charlie tried not to wince as the man adjusted his coat. Khaled was slender with long limbs and a cheerful voice that grated when the world kept gloomy. Delicate fingers rubbed up and over his chest and shoulder, fixing his collar with the same air of a maternal figure. Khaled liked domestic touches. His view of showing love involved taking care of people. Khaled also disapproved of Charlie leaving the priesthood - not that anyone approved - and called him almost every day to remind him that he could return.

"Do we need to pick up any medications?" More hands, this time stealing papers to read over. Charlie's protest fell on deaf ears as Khaled danced out of reach. 

"Khaled!"

"Nothing we can't pick up later," Khaled nodded, folding the paper into his own coat. He picked up the bags on the bed and started wheeling Charlie out of the room. Charlie gritted his teeth but didn't protest. "How are you feeling?" 

Charlie winced. Softly said but not without feeling, Khaled tightened the invisible noose around his neck. "I'm trying not to think about it too much."

The hospital corridor was cold. The floor was too clean, the walls too white, and the wheelchair wheels squeaked against the clean floor. Charlie's stomach fizzed with nerves. Khaled knew about the supernatural. Maybe Bishop Roberts sent him because he was the only one available, but maybe there was a different reason. 

The church had no reason to protect him now. Maybe even a reason not to actively defend him. People wanted his skin. 

"Not the question that I asked," Khaled said, paying to let someone go first into the lift.