he remembers exactly how this began. cole anderson had blindisded with one of the more conflicting topics of catholicism a few weeks into his attendance at connor's parish, leaving him to decide whether or not to be truthful and explain that dogs had no souls and thus did not go to heaven, therein crushing the hopes and innocence of a bright-eyed, seven-year-old, or skirting around it in a borderline lie of omission. children, it seemed, were the most honest individuals second only to dogs. nothing like adults who lied most often to themselves about their feelings or their responsibilities and the actions they'd taken in life.
he remembers the first time he locked eyes with his father, hank anderson--watching the vivid blue of them rolling in exasperation at his inquisitive son. he remembers the first time he'd heard that rich, low voice, the muttered explanation that they'd just bought a puppy, hence the sudden outburst from his normally slightly shy son.
dogs are god's creatures, like any other. what's your dog's name? i like dogs.
seeing the slightest smile brighten up the tension from mr. anderson's face stuck with him later that evening during prayer, where he asked for forgiveness for not answering cole's question to the fullest extent and explaining that he was only doing it to preserve and protect a child a little longer. he doesn't think about the way it had really made him feel--rather, thinking about the way the approval had helped to do in shaping his response. sometimes connor wonders if he's really meant to help guide the parishioners given his age, lack of experience in the real world, and a lack of connection to anyone meaningful in his life aside from his brother niles and god himself.
that had been part of the reason he'd come here at all. to feel something. to serve a purpose. to make positive connections and help affect change in the lives of men and women from every demographic, regardless of history, race, age, or orientation. sometimes the methodical way he classifies his parishioners makes him feel like he'll always be an outsider looking in.
until hank's presence had picked up. it had started innocently enough--stopping in to make sure cole was doing well in daily school participation with church, attend a monthly confessional, say hello after connor's weekend saturday evening mass. hank was a good man, even if he didn't always have the confidence in himself to believe it, and more than that...he's the first parishioner connor had felt he truly found a real connection in. it's not long before he's starting to wonder if that's more than he bargained for, however.
especially when lately, his dreams are filled with temptation. the kind that connor had taken a vow to suppress--the kind that had never been much of a bother until now.
(hank's gravelly voice chuckling low, in his ear rather than on the other end of the confessional grate. hank's big hands doing more than encompassing his own with polite handshakes. hank's smile, his praise--)
he needs to put a stop to it. the question of how is proving to be more difficult than he imagined, unfortunately, especially when hank asks to meet him privately in his office one day. he smooths back his hair, trying to calm the tremor in his breathing and adjusts his collar before opening the door with a polite upturn of his lips.]
Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.
Please--come in.
[he steps aside to usher him into his office, knowing it's a little impersonally stocked with volumes of religious works, a few symbols from his predecessor but nothing that particularly speaks to his own touch or identity within the church. he bites his lip absently, folding his hands atop the rich mahogany of his desk and hopes his expression doesn't look as dazed as he feels sitting on the other end of this man.]
psl | whatalesyou
he remembers exactly how this began. cole anderson had blindisded with one of the more conflicting topics of catholicism a few weeks into his attendance at connor's parish, leaving him to decide whether or not to be truthful and explain that dogs had no souls and thus did not go to heaven, therein crushing the hopes and innocence of a bright-eyed, seven-year-old, or skirting around it in a borderline lie of omission. children, it seemed, were the most honest individuals second only to dogs. nothing like adults who lied most often to themselves about their feelings or their responsibilities and the actions they'd taken in life.
he remembers the first time he locked eyes with his father, hank anderson--watching the vivid blue of them rolling in exasperation at his inquisitive son. he remembers the first time he'd heard that rich, low voice, the muttered explanation that they'd just bought a puppy, hence the sudden outburst from his normally slightly shy son.
dogs are god's creatures, like any other. what's your dog's name? i like dogs.
seeing the slightest smile brighten up the tension from mr. anderson's face stuck with him later that evening during prayer, where he asked for forgiveness for not answering cole's question to the fullest extent and explaining that he was only doing it to preserve and protect a child a little longer. he doesn't think about the way it had really made him feel--rather, thinking about the way the approval had helped to do in shaping his response. sometimes connor wonders if he's really meant to help guide the parishioners given his age, lack of experience in the real world, and a lack of connection to anyone meaningful in his life aside from his brother niles and god himself.
that had been part of the reason he'd come here at all. to feel something. to serve a purpose. to make positive connections and help affect change in the lives of men and women from every demographic, regardless of history, race, age, or orientation. sometimes the methodical way he classifies his parishioners makes him feel like he'll always be an outsider looking in.
until hank's presence had picked up. it had started innocently enough--stopping in to make sure cole was doing well in daily school participation with church, attend a monthly confessional, say hello after connor's weekend saturday evening mass. hank was a good man, even if he didn't always have the confidence in himself to believe it, and more than that...he's the first parishioner connor had felt he truly found a real connection in. it's not long before he's starting to wonder if that's more than he bargained for, however.
especially when lately, his dreams are filled with temptation. the kind that connor had taken a vow to suppress--the kind that had never been much of a bother until now.
(hank's gravelly voice chuckling low, in his ear rather than on the other end of the confessional grate. hank's big hands doing more than encompassing his own with polite handshakes. hank's smile, his praise--)
he needs to put a stop to it. the question of how is proving to be more difficult than he imagined, unfortunately, especially when hank asks to meet him privately in his office one day. he smooths back his hair, trying to calm the tremor in his breathing and adjusts his collar before opening the door with a polite upturn of his lips.]
Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.
Please--come in.
[he steps aside to usher him into his office, knowing it's a little impersonally stocked with volumes of religious works, a few symbols from his predecessor but nothing that particularly speaks to his own touch or identity within the church. he bites his lip absently, folding his hands atop the rich mahogany of his desk and hopes his expression doesn't look as dazed as he feels sitting on the other end of this man.]