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The watch on your wrist ticks time away with all the speed of molasses through cold water. Another sigh passes your lips as you look out the window of your coffee shop, watching the sun just begin to dip down the horizon. It’s only 5 PM, but the Winter nights are making it get darker sooner and sooner. Not for the first time, you find yourself wishing for the comfort of home, and the arms of your favorite anti-pope.
Ever since you started dating the newly ascended Papa when he was still a Cardinal, the two of you have had an evening ritual before bed: A small glass of chardonnay if the mood calls for it, a tandem shower, a comforting facial care routine, and some cuddling on the couch while you watch your favorite shows together. When you remember that you’re stuck here for another hour you sigh again, closing your eyes briefly and feeling bad for yourself.
“Excuse me?” Your eyes fly open in response to the question, finally appraising the person in front of you at the counter. The apology falls quickly from your lips as you straighten yourself fully, back into your perfect customer service mode. You’ve been at this job for almost two years now, and it feels like slipping into a second skin at this point. “Are you still open for business? I was hoping to get a hot chocolate for the walk home.” The woman at the counter glances outside, where the wind has already started to pick up slightly into what bodes as a strong Winter storm on the horizon.
“Of course, of course! One hot chocolate!” As you ring her up, you can’t help but notice her eyes looking at you scrutinizingly. When she points surreptitiously to the necklace hanging between your breasts, you smile. “Ave Sathanas, Sister.” The standard greeting of the Church falls from your lips before you can second guess yourself, and it’s comforting when she immediately seems to recognize the phrase.
“And in His light,” the customer replies to you with a wink, clearly showing that she’s been to the Abbey services at least once. The machine dings and you turn to retrieve the full cup of hot chocolate, swirling a small squirt of whipped cream on top of it before handing it to the girl at the counter. You smile gratefully when you notice that she’s slipped a large bill into your tip can.
The other Sister leaves after tossing you one more wink, making her way to the door of the coffee shop and opening it by bracing her shoulder against the door. A blast of cold air comes through the door and you shiver slightly when it reaches you. By the time you’ve warmed up again the girl is long since gone, and even the bell tinkling from the door has stilled. The time passes slowly and finally by the time you look down at your watch again, it’s time to close up shop for the evening.
Closing up doesn’t take you nearly as long as you expected it to because of the lack of customers today, something that you’ve decided to now see as a blessing, but felt like torture at the time. By the time it’s half past the hour you’ve already cleaned and put everything away for the evening and are finally counting the till when your phone dings. You drag it out of your back pocket and light up the screen, smiling when you see that it’s your love, Papa Emeritus the Fourth.
“Home to me soon?” the text reads, short and simple, but you know he’s obviously missing you as much as you’re missing him. All of these years together, from Archbishop to Cardinal and then from Cardinal to Papa, you’ve been through it all with him. You smile and text him back quickly with one hand while you untie your apron with the other and sling it over your shoulder.
“On my way. Bad day. We relax when I get home?” Your text is short and to the point, and his response is shorter still: “Of course.”
You shoulder your way through the front door of the cafe and lock it behind you, a smile already spreading on your face when you consider who’s home waiting for you. Even now, even after all the two of you have been through, he’s still there for you. You can practically feel the warmed soap on your cheeks already, and slipping into your car and putting into gear is quickened along by just the thought.
The drive through the snow-dusted city streets is slow and almost serene. The flakes fall softly from the darkening sky, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights as they touch down. There’s hardly anyone else out driving at this time, which only heightens the sense of solitude you feel in the car. The only sound breaking the silence is the soft hum of the engine and the low, rhythmic beat of the heater.
Your phone buzzes again, drawing your attention to the screen momentarily. It's another message from Papa Emeritus the Fourth. "Safe travels, love. The house is warm and the wine is poured." A smile creases your face as you glance back to the road. He always knows how to brighten your day.
By the time you pull into the driveway of the Abbey’s lot for Siblings, the snow has started to fall more heavily. It dusts your hair and coat as you make your way to the back door, a shiver running down your spine as the cold wind picks up. You hurry inside, taking a moment to shake off the cold before removing your coat and heading down the hallway towards the Papal suites. The two of you moved into the youngest Emeritus brother’s room at the beginning of last year, and slowly but surely it was beginning to feel like HIS.
The chambers are warm and inviting. The sound of crackling from the living room indicates a fire has been lit, casting an inviting glow throughout the stone rooms. And there he is, your Papa, his all-black vestments exchanged for comfortable evening wear, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in hand, waiting patiently for your return.
"Welcome home, love," he greets you, a soft smile on his face. You respond with a relieved sigh, shrugging off your coat and coming to join him on the couch. He wraps his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before handing you the already poured glass of chardonnay. It’s sweet and pleasant on your tongue with an undertaste of vanilla and chilled just enough to be refreshing without being cold— just the way that you like it.
You nestle into his side, savoring the warmth of the fire and the comfort of his presence. He stays silent, allowing you the peace and quiet you so desperately crave after a long day. His hand rests reassuringly on your knee, thumb rubbing in comforting circles that threatens to lull you to sleep if you aren’t careful.
You sit like that for a while, just soaking in each other's company before you finally break the silence. "I love you, Papa," you whisper, looking up to meet his gaze. His smile is tender and genuine, reaching his eyes as he replies, "I love you too, my heart."
And in that moment, all the hardships of the day seem to melt away. You have him, and he has you, and as the snow continues to fall outside, you realize there's no place you'd rather be. Tonight, you're not just the employee of a coffee shop. Tonight, you're the loved one of Papa Emeritus the Fourth. Tonight, the two of you have a date with some goat's milk soap and a hand towel in the cavernous hall the Abbey calls a bathroom.
Your evening ritual with Papa Emeritus the Fourth is a beautifully choreographed routine, honed to perfection after countless nights together. It begins the moment you step into the large, marble-tiled bathroom, its sleek, polished surface echoing the understated elegance of its occupants. The room is already awash with warmth from the shower steam and the glow of flickering candles placed strategically around the room, their light dancing on the walls and casting a soft, inviting glow.
Papa takes the lead, his hands unerringly finding the bottle of vanilla-scented soap. The smell is intoxicating, reminiscent of your earlier shared drink, comforting and familiar, an essential part of the fabric of your shared moments. He pours a generous amount onto a plush, sponge-like loofah, its bright hue a stark contrast against the marble background. As he works the soap into a rich lather, the air fills with a comforting bouquet, a symphony of sweet fruitiness, layered with subtle undertones of oak and vanilla, a memory of sun-drenched vineyards and aged wine barrels.
He then guides you under the warm shower stream, your skin instantly appreciating the perfect temperature that you've come to expect. The tension in your muscles starts to release, your body responding to the enveloping warmth. You close your eyes, bracing yourself for the exquisite pleasure that is about to come. Papa loves washing your body with his favourite soaps, indulging in feeling every curve and line of your body under his hands— your body, under his eyes, feels like the most perfect marble sculpture.
His strong hands, skilled and gentle, make their first contact with your skin, the soft loofah loaded with the aromatic soap following suit. He begins at your shoulders, the firm yet tender strokes of the loofah kneading the tension out of your muscles, leaving only warmth and relaxation in its wake. His methodical motions create an exquisite friction that not only cleanses but also gently exfoliates your skin, removing the grime and fatigue of the day.
As the vanilla-scented soap meets your skin, it feels like velvet, like a satin blanket being drawn across your body. Its bubbles burst on your skin, their tiny pops a symphony of sensation that sends delightful shivers up and down your spine. The fruity scent of the soap becomes more potent, filling your nostrils and creating a warm, enveloping cloud around you. It's the smell of home, of your shared moments, of him.
He methodically works his way down your back, every stroke making you more aware of the changing texture of your skin, from the roughness of the day to the polished smoothness that the soap brings. His hands, strong and sure, navigate the familiar terrain of your body with a lover's knowledge, no corner left unattended, no area left untouched by the luxurious lather.
Once the ritual is complete, and your skin is shining and rejuvenated under the soft, flickering light, you rinse off under the warm water. The soap washes away with a silky fluidity, leaving your skin feeling soft and supple. By the time you step out of the shower, towel-dried and glowing, you feel renewed. Every part of you feels pampered, from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. Your body feels lighter, your skin softer, and your spirit uplifted, ready for the comfort of his arms and the promise of another shared evening.
“Papa?” you ask as you towel your face off gently, daubing at the wet patches of your cheeks.
“Si, si, the show list is already on the TV, amore. I will join you in a moment, I just have a quick letter to send with a Ghoul, eh? Ah, and the fireplace.” You perk up at the mention of getting to choose the show tonight, grinning ear to ear and practically skipping back to the bedroom. The room is dim, lit only by a couple of table lamps and the silvery glow of the moon streaming in through the bay windows, turning the room into a space of comfort and warmth.
The bed is large, with a plush mattress that’s always welcoming after a long day. It's neatly made, the sheets fresh and crisp from the laundry, carrying a faint scent of the lavender fabric conditioner you both love. A large, flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall across the bed, the only modern intrusion in the room's classical decor. It’s already lit up and paused on your show, the remote laying perfectly on top of your pillow as though it was being presented.
By the time you’ve gotten situated and comfortable on the giant bed he’s already joined you, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. The silk sheets feel cool against your skin at first but gradually they warm up, cocooning you in softness. He wraps an arm around you as you snuggle against him, your head finding its usual spot on his shoulder. The feeling of his skin against yours, warm and smooth from the shower, is a sensation that never gets old.
Papa takes the remote, scrolling through your shared list of favorite shows. You've got a variety of options, ranging from thought-provoking documentaries to lighthearted sitcoms, some being shared favorites, while others are a result of individual preferences. Tonight, however, you both settle on an old favorite, a cozy crime series you’ve watched numerous times but never tire of.
As the show begins, the soft, familiar tune of the opening credits fills the room. The light from the screen flickers across your faces, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow. The characters you've grown to love appear one by one on the screen, their familiar faces and voices adding to the sense of comfort and contentment.
Throughout the show, you share silent laughter, gasps, and knowing glances, all the reactions that come naturally when you’re engrossed in something you love. His fingers idly trace patterns on your arm, a subconscious act that’s as comforting as the rhythm of his breathing against your cheek.
The TV casts a hypnotic, wavering glow on the room, the characters playing out their stories as you and Papa settle further into the warmth of your bed. Your eyelids become heavy, the soothing cadence of the dialogues lulling you towards sleep. You're cocooned in warmth, the cool silk sheets, his comforting presence, and the familiar television show combining to create a perfect end to your evening.
As you start drifting off to sleep, Papa lowers the volume, casting a tender glance your way. His fingers gently brush away a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as soft as a whisper. And in this quiet moment, as the day fades into the night and another episode plays on the screen, you know there's nowhere else you'd rather be. You're exactly where you're meant to be, in the arms of the man you love, your world shrinking down to this quiet, shared moment.