Chapter Text
Jackson bit his fingernail, spitting it out from the small open frame of the car window. The wind blew it back in. “Motherfucker,” he mumbled.
He bent down, trying to find the nail. He’d lost it.
“You better find it and get rid of it before we arrive, I don’t want that in my car.”
Jackson sat back up with a heavy sigh. He looked out the window, watching as green hills passed by. “Gotta give it to them, it’s a nice location.”
“Yeah?” Bee answered without turning their head from the road. “Better than Florida.”
“Jesus, Bee, you drive like a grandma.” Jackson turned his head towards them, waiting for a response. His need for attention was growing.
“You’re a driving instructor, I don’t think you should be encouraging this behavior.” They answered, “Also stop kicking with your legs, I get it, you hate not being able to drive, but you’re pissing me off.”
Jackson did hate not being able to drive. He looked down at his cast hand, all types of doodles on it, including the names of his coworkers, well some of them. Jackson wasn’t a social person, he knew that, everyone knew that.
“We’re almost there, yeah? Just hold on a little longer.”
—
Jackson didn’t remember anything from the ceremony, he didn’t bother to pay attention, just like he wasn’t paying attention to what his great aunt was saying.
“Could at least act like you were listening,” Bee whispered as soon as the old lady left. “Sometimes you can really be rude.”
He just rolled his eyes at that, Jackson didn’t want to be here, especially considering it was his dad's side of the family. He despised his father.
“I’m going to get a drink,” Jackson said more to himself, than Bee.
On his way to the bar, he couldn't help but watch as the bride and groom danced to some old pop song he definitely knew but couldn't remember the name of. He smiled, at least someone's having fun, he thought.
With a drink in one hand, Jackson made his way outside, hoping to find a place to smoke. He had to admit that doing it was much harder when one of your hands is in a cast.
He hears a loud ‘It's Britney, bitch’ come from inside and a mixture of laughter from people, Gimme more starts playing.
With struggle, he tries to light his cigarette, “God fucking dammit.”
“You look like you need help.”
Jackson turns his head, a man is looking at him. He’s shorter than Jackson and wearing a clerical collar.
“Fuck me, am I really getting caught by the priest?” Jackson sighs heavily for the second time that day, “Are you going to confiscate this from me?”
“Well, you don’t look under eighteen, so no, plus,” He moves closer, “I was going to ask for one after helping you.” He smiles.
What kind of priest smiles after asking for a cigarette?
“I don’t think you're allowed to have one Father.”
“God’s, cool with it.” The priest steps closer, taking the cigarette from Jackson and lighting it for him. When handing it back, he smiles again.
“You’re a bit creepy.”
“And you didn’t pay attention during the ceremony.” He holds his hand out, waiting for Jackson to give him a cigarette.
Jackson does.
They stand there, Jackson eyeing the priest every few seconds, but the priest pays no attention, or at least he acts like it. “What happened to your hand?”
“Suicide attempt.”
“Well shit.” The priest takes a long drag of his cigarette.
“You’re not gonna tell me how that’s sinful?” Jackson asks, the priest only laughs. “Why would I do that?” He turns to Jackson. “Let's go sit down.”
—
“Your accent,” Jackson says as he passes the bottle of whiskey, that he bought, to the priest. “What is it? I know it’s not Welsh.”
“And how do you know that?” He smiles slightly, raising his eyebrow, waiting for Jackson's answer.
“My sibling's boyfriend is Welsh, and he does not sound like that.”
“You’d be right, it’s not Welsh,” He takes a sip, “At this point, it’s more of everything, it is its own accent.”
Jackson snorts and takes back the bottle, “That’s dumb.”
“You call it dumb,” He moves closer, “I call it genius. Each to their own.”
Jackson looks down at his cast, a small drawing of a dog looks back at him. He smiles and turns his head. “So, what does your accent consist of?”
“I’m glad you asked.”
The priest then goes on a long story about how his mother was Estonian and his father Texan, and how the environment he grew up in influenced him. Jackson just listened and nodded along when appropriate.
“There’s still of course some bit of Welsh from all the years I’ve lived here.” He sighs, something similar to what Jackson had sounded like earlier. “Sometimes it hits me just how old I am getting.” He takes out a cigarette.
Jackson looks dumbfounded, “I thought you didn’t have any?”
The priest stares at Jackson with a questioning face before it hits him. “Oh, yeah, I do, I just wanted to find a reason to talk to the hot angry guy.” He smiles, again. “Thought it might work, and it did.”
Now it was Jackson’s turn to look at the priest with a questioning face. “You,” he points at the priest, “Thought I was hot?”
“Think,” he says, “I think you’re hot.”
Jackson let out a laugh and after it, he couldn't stop laughing. “You’re the weirdest fucking person I know.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” He had sort of a fond look on him, Jackson stopped laughing to look at the priest properly for the first time.
He started with the eyes, blue, and not the kind that you can’t figure out if they’re more blue or green, no, as blue as one's eyes could be. His hair was the second most noticeable feature. Sort of dark blonde, with roots the color of chestnuts. His face was covered with freckles and slight stubble. And of course, he had that stupid smile on him that he had on every time Jackson's eyes met his.
A stupid face, he thinks, very stupid.
“Hope I didn’t make things too awkward.”
“No,” Jackson smiles, “you didn’t.”
“Good because I was starting to feel very fucking awkward.”
—
“So what exactly happened with your hand?”
“I’m gonna have to tell you, aren't I?” Jackson leans back a bit, positioning himself to feel more comfortable.
“Have you seen ladybird?”
“The movie?”
“Yeah.”
The priest pauses for a second. His eyes suddenly get wide open, and he has a fleeting look. “You jumped out of a car?”
Jackson closes his eyes, “Yeah.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Do you have a good relationship with your father?” Jackson opens his eyes again and turns to look at the man next to him. The priest looks neutral as if the question means nothing to him.
“Never saw him much, he’s dead now.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t feel bad. My parents got separated when I was young, and he passed soon after. It’s only the words we speak of him that keep his soul lingering around.”
“That’s poetic.”
The priest laughs. “Guess I have a way with words.” He looks at Jackson and then at his hand. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
Jackson thinks back to his father's car. It always smells of cheap booze, the floors of the car full of dirt, old papers, and bags. He still remembers his father's words. “Your life has been a constant disappointment to the entire family.”
It was true, Jackson knew that. He didn’t really have a career, he wasn’t interested in women, and his lack of social skills made him unwanted by everyone.
“Having a son like you wants to make me take my own life.”
That’s when he jumped. That’s what Jackson tells the priest.
“I don’t think complicated is a big enough word for your relationship with your father.”
Jackson thinks about what it would be like if he didn’t have a father. Would it be easier? Would he then yearn for some kind of father figure? Did the priest think about that? As painful as his relationship has been he does share a few good memories with his father, but they’re overruled by the pain caused by years of verbal abuse. He hates to think about it, but maybe he would’ve turned out better without him.
Hoping to change the conversation Jackson asks something that’s been staying on his mind for quite some time now. “Why did you become a priest?”
“Ah, so you've finally asked,” He laughs. “I guess it was because I found comfort in God. I like to tell myself that I’m not so lonely with him around. I didn’t have any career aspirations, truth be told I didn’t want to live either, I didn’t see a future for myself.”
He stands up and turns around to look at Jackson with some sort of worry in his eyes. “I should’ve asked you sooner if you’re alright with talking about…” he tries to make out something with his hands, waving them around, “darker matters.”
Jackson smiles at the thoughtfulness. “Yeah no, I’m alright.”
“Okay. Okay, okay. Well, I had a day when I was convinced I was going to uh, unalive myself?” The priest looks nervous and Jackson realizes the memory of it might be more worrying to the priest himself. Painful. “I didn’t even know where I was. I had driven to some small town, and suddenly I was in a church, and this priest there just kept staring at me. He wouldn’t leave, he just kept looking. Finally, he came up to me and asked me what was wrong, and I just burst into tears.” He laughs.
The priest sat down again with a heavy sigh. “Kind of cliché I know. Long story short he took me in, he was like the father I never got to grow up with. And then he died too. Fucked up isn’t it?” He stared ahead, not looking at anything. “This time it fucking hurt though. I really miss him.”
Jackson took his hand, fingers intervened, and places a small kiss. “I’m sorry.”
The priest leans in, his eyes looking at Jackson’s, their lips almost touching. “I wish I could kiss you.”
Jackson smiles and touches the priest's cheek, he can feel the stubble under his fingers. “I would let you.” Jackson leans back slowly, “But we both know that’s a bad idea.” It hurts to say it, but it would hurt more to ruin this poor priest, Jackson thinks.
“At least one of us is smart.” He says, leaning back as well. The priest suddenly stands up and looks at Jackson excitedly. “Want to have one last dance before I go?”
Jackson looks behind him, most of the people have left and only a small group of guests remains. Including Jackson's family who doesn’t seem to be too worried about his whereabouts. “Okay,” he says.
The last song that starts to play is Sparks by Coldplay. Romantic, Jackson thinks, really sets the mood.
“The nights gone by fast hasn’t it.” The priest says, holding out his hand. “You’ve been nice company.”
Jackson takes his hand and practically sweeps the blonde into his arms. “So this is how the night ends?” Jackson asks, “I’ll never see you again won’t I?”
“Probably,” the priest answers, “Unless… If you ever come back here you know, my church is in the town.”
“I’ll be here during Christmas.”
“Six months. Then we will see each other in six months.”
Will the priest still be here then, Jackson thinks. It’s a long time. He won’t wait for you.
“Will you wait for me?”
The song ends.
“I will.” Then the priest lets go of Jackson's hands and steps away. “Six months?”
Jackson drops his hands. “Six months.”
After that, he’s gone and Jackson is left standing alone in the moonlight.
“Six months,” he mutters to himself.