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Jud remained seated at the edge of the stage even after Martha was carried away, expression vacant. His hands were clasped, but not in prayer—to keep them from shaking, Benoit suspected.
Benoit turned his gaze away from the haunted priest, looking instead to where Geraldine was talking quietly with another officer. He gestured, catching her attention, then raised his eyebrows and nodded to Jud. It was a mark of how familiar she had become with his mannerisms in these hectic days that she immediately understood him, and waved her hand dismissively. Do what you want, he interpreted, it's not like he’d go far.
Blessing granted, at least in the procedural sense, Benoit approached Father Jud and reached a hand out to him.
"Father," Benoit said quietly, "I think it's high time you got some rest."
That, at least, got Jud's attention. Blinking owlishly first, he then took Benoit's hand. Benoit found he was offering more than the appearance of support with his outstretched hand. Father Jud genuinely seemed to need the assistance, lurching slightly once he was upright. Keeping a hand at his elbow, Benoit led the way out of the church. Jud stumbled more than once, and Benoit simply adjusted his grip without releasing him.
Once they arrived at the rectory, Jud still seemed disinclined to take independent action. He was overwhelmed, maybe, exhausted certainly. Without commenting, Benoit ushered him upstairs and set a shower into motion. Once pointed in that direction, Jud gathered clothes and disappeared into the bathroom without further prompting. Benoit was certain the boy would be glad to be clean—Benoit would certainly appreciate not having to look at those filth caked clothes anymore.
Benoit lingered in the hallway until the pipes began to groan with the effort of producing hot water. Then, with that taken care of, Benoit descended to the kitchen and began his inspection. There was enough in the way of provisions that Benoit could fix sandwiches. There was a part of him that wanted to give in to the urge to feed the man soup, but Benoit set to work with a bread knife instead.
As he was plating the last small sandwich, there was a rustle of fabric and the gentle thump of stocking feet on stairs. Benoit peered out of the kitchen door to see Jud gripping the rail tightly for his careful descent. At the bottom of the steps, Jud met his gaze, seeming surprised he was still there.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you remember when you last ate?” Benoit returned a question for a question.
“Uh—” Jud looked genuinely thoughtful, which meant Benoit’s concern was founded. He’d already known, but it was always good to receive confirmation.
“Sit down,” Benoit instructed. “It may be a humble meal, but it will certainly be better than nothing.”
“You really don’t have to,” Jud told him, then continued before Benoit could object. “Thank you.”
Once Jud settled himself on the couch, Benoit returned his attention to the kitchen, inspecting the silver kettle. When he went to shift it, he found the lid was not as firmly attached as it seemed—it fell to the floor with a surprisingly loud clatter.
When Benoit crouched to pick it up, he heard a quiet groan from the other room. When he peered around the kitchen door again, Jud was pressing his fingertips to his temples.
Benoit, when he put all the pieces together, felt a bit foolish for not figuring it out earlier. He had been rather caught up in convincing Jud not to confess; perhaps he should have followed the thought to a conclusion about why Jud was missing time. It wasn't just the ever-present guilt pushing Jud to believe falsehoods, though it was a significant factor.
“You were knocked out earlier this evening,” Benoit said, soft but matter of fact. Jud glanced over at him, lowering his hands. “And I gather that you're feeling unwell. You have a concussion.”
“Oh. Oh, that makes sense.” Jud's initial surprise faded quickly to resignation. He sighed, wiping a hand across his face. At least now he was no longer at risk of spreading mud at the gesture.
“I get them easily, since…” He gestured vaguely, letting Benoit fill in the blank. Which he could do, of course, but felt uneasy letting it lie when a lack of specificity could in fact be an indicator of severity.
“Since?”
Jud frowned at him, but even if he suspected what Benoit was doing, he played along.
“Boxing. Concussions are a common injury. I've had them before. And I did get hit pretty hard.”
“And by your estimation, should you be seeing a doctor?”
“I'm fine,” Jud answered immediately, which was not actually an answer to the question he had been posed. “My head hurts, sure, but mostly I'm just... Tired.”
“Hm,” Benoit said, unable to crush the worry blooming in his chest. Part of him wanted to step back out of the rectory and see if any EMTs lingered on the scene. Another part saw the bruiselike shadows beneath Jud's eyes and wanted to respect the implied request.
He decided to split the difference.
"Stay up with me for a while yet. You need to eat anyway," he suggested, and before Jud could offer any objections, inquired, "What do you have in the way of pain relief?"
Jud was quiet for a moment, rubbing his fingers together in a way Benoit was entirely certain he was unaware of. “Uh, shouldn't use the ibuprofen. But I think there's Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. Bathroom,” he clarified unnecessarily.
“Alright, you sit tight.”
Benoit went to fetch the Tylenol. When he came back downstairs, Jud seemed to have melted into the couch, head leaned to the side and eyes closed. Before Benoit could react, Jud squinted at him in the dim light.
Tutting softly, Benoit returned to the kitchen to complete the cup of tea that had sparked his revelation. Then he drifted back to Jud's side with the mug, sandwiches, and bottle of pills.
Again, Jud stirred without prompting, evidently trying to humor Benoit's request. He washed down the tylenol with a swig of tea first, then inspected the plate.
“These are nice,” Jud commented. Benoit had overcomplicated the sandwiches, perhaps, preparing something more akin to dainty tea sandwiches. The effort had whiled away the time Jud had spent in the shower, and it was probably a good use of a skill he’d learned for Phillip.
“Eat,” Benoit instructed, picking up one of the little sandwiches for himself.
Lips quirking into a half smile, Jud did as he was told.
Benoit wasn’t particularly surprised when Jud ate slowly, picking at the food. By all rights he should be starving, but if periodic yawning and rubbing at his eyes was any indication, exhaustion was the motivating factor. If Jud was nauseated by the probable concussion, it didn’t show.
Leaning back in his own seat, Benoit studied Jud for a moment. He’d dressed in sweatpants and a tshirt, no doubt for sleep; it was the first time Benoit was seeing him without the clerical collar.
“Do you suppose you'll stay here?” he asked.
“Hm?” It took Jud a moment to process the question. “Oh, of course. I mean, I don’t know what will happen next, I guess.”
“But you do want to, despite all that has happened.”
“I can do good here. Especially now.”
Now that Wicks is dead, Benoit finished mentally. Now that he isn’t poisoning the well.
“What will you do now? Will you be off to solve another mystery?” Jud finished his sandwich, resting his back against the couch cushions again. There were still some left on the plate, but not so much that Benoit felt it necessary to push the issue.
“Oh, I imagine so. But first I'll go home for a time.” Benoit had a few missed calls waiting for him on his phone, in fact. But he had hopes for his trip all the same.
“Can you tell me about it?” Perhaps seeing the expression on Benoit's face, Jud clarified. “I mean about your cases.”
Saved from having to explain the complexities of his home life—or perhaps taking the out being offered—Benoit thought for a moment before expounding on one of the more lighthearted cases he’d taken on in recent years. He wasn’t always called upon for mayhem and murder. Sometimes it was mayhem and theft.
Eventually, Benoit was forced to accept that Jud seemed unlikely to spontaneously expire from the concussion he was nursing and that the man was losing his battle with exhaustion.
“Come now,” Benoit murmured, standing. “Let's get you to bed.”
Again, Benoit found himself bodily leading Jud. Despite his clear lack of energy, Jud seemed steadier on his feet having been fed and watered.
Jud sat heavily on his bed when Benoit deposited him there, and lay down on top of the covers without Benoit having any sway in the matter. His breathing evened out into the cadence of sleep quickly.
Urged on by a swell of foolish sentiment, Benoit watched him for a moment. Hopefully Jud would sleep long enough that the circles under his eyes would begin to fade. Before he could give into the wayward impulse to run his fingers through Jud’s curls, Benoit turned away and tried to make his exit as quietly as possible.
Jud woke abruptly to sunlight stabbing through his closed eyelids. He felt like an idiot for not realizing he had a concussion before it was pointed out to him. But he was out of practice getting punched in the head, and it was probably a good sign he could string those thoughts together now anyway.
Still. There was a throbbing in his head matching his heartbeat. Regretting everything that led to this moment (that's not true, he corrected, even in his own thoughts), Jud rolled out of bed and shuffled down the stairs.
His gaze was immediately drawn to the couch, zeroing in on a blanket folded neatly there. Blanc. The two of them, sitting together until Jud wilted like a flower that had been without water too long.
Shaking his head, and regretting it quite genuinely, Jud left the blanket behind in favor of the kitchen. The bottle of Tylenol was on the counter, set so it would be impossible to miss. Gratefully, Jud shook some out onto his palm and swallowed them dry. Then he poured a glass of water to wash them down.
In the fridge, there was a wrapped plate of the leftover sandwiches from the night before.
There was no evidence of the detective himself. God willing, it wouldn't be the last time they met. Endings in the real world were so often messier than the ones in stories, but Jud wasn't willing to accept this one was completely over.
Jud set this wishful notion aside after a moment, turning his mind to more practical matters. Benoit had granted him a reprieve, but he imagined there were police who wanted to talk to him.