Note: This is a work of slash fiction. That means it will deal with homosexuality. If you disapprove of homosexuality, that's your right, just as it is my right to write this story. I have done my best to write with respect to all people: Catholics, homosexuals, heterosexuals, atheists, &c.
Disclaimer: Van Helsing is a character created by Bram Stoker who at this point is more or less public domain, but the fact remains that I am making no profit from this story and own no characters you recognize.
Chapter One
The Knights of the Holy Order were numerous and strong, the stuff of legends really. Dispatched, they ventured into darkness and from those fringes recovered what was lost, righted what was wrong, fixed what was broken, then slipped away, unnoticed with luck, unwelcome without, and unthanked either way. Even their holy confessors understood that it needed more than prayer to refresh a man from this and allotted a day of rest once the task was complete.
Some Knights did not care for this day of rest. Gabriel Van Helsing was notable among them. He seemed so ill at ease in the Vatican, he did not pause to see the apothecary before attending confession. The confessional was a business for him. The Cardinals wanted his soul clean, so he attended, was cleansed and received his marching orders.
After that, matters became much simpler: visit the catacombs for new and relevant weaponry; tease Carl; leave. And Gabriel was happy.
Cardinal Andre Jinette sat in the confessional, waiting. No one could miss Van Helsing's arrival. He seemed to compensate for the secrecy he was forced to keep by arriving with as much mess, noise and fuss as he could. If he felt particularly satisfied, this might be confined to a dozen traumatized pigeons and an angry, stomping march through the chapel. That was a good day for Gabriel Van Helsing.
Andre sighed and removed his galero. No one would see, not through the confessional screen, so there was no harm done. Where was Van Helsing? This absence was beginning to annoy him. It was their routine. Van Helsing came to Rome; Van Helsing complained; Van Helsing was dispatched. He had been in Rome nearly four hours now, all of which Andre had spent sitting in the confessional not being visited, and he was growing annoyed!
Mostly Andre considered himself a child-minder, at least in reference to Van Helsing. For the Christians among the Holy Order he provided spiritual as well as literal guidance, but when it came to Van Helsing, Andre understood that his duty was to handle tantrums and rein in the man. And, in his modest opinion, he fulfilled this duty admirably.
Where, then, was Van Helsing!? Andre twisted his galero, frustrated. Their relationship did not involve dillydallying and waiting around! He relied on Van Helsing, and this surprised even Andre: he relied on Van Helsing because he enjoyed their interactions. He enjoyed their spiteful banter. He enjoyed the way they acknowledged their relationship with mutual hatred so stale it was no longer there. More affection existed between the two than hatred or anger.
The ring of a bell rolled through the holy place, announcing the evening worship. Andre Jinette sighed, stood, and jammed his hat onto his head. As he headed out of the confessional, he wondered if he should come back later—just in case.
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The vespers bell reached every inch of the city, from the holiest heart to the scummiest hovel-hole. It called many holy men up from the catacombs or out from the libraries. It called peasants, whores, merchants and beggars from their vocations. Even those not willing to attend, atheists and Christmas Catholics and those who simply found droned Latin absolutely boring, looked up from the daily grind.
A tavernkeeper smiled and called the supper options. They hadn't changed since the previous evening, and the evening before that, and so forth for the past forty-one days. As always, Gianni the keeper offered his patrons beer or ale, soup and bread or bread and soup. He was half-blind in one eye and his teeth rotted into a strange lack of alignment; his wife Ilse was an angry old German who settled after pilgrimaging to the Holy Land, a sharp-tongued woman apt to snap her wooden spoon against the hand or shoulder or another available place of any man out of line in her tavern. It kept them busy, the order, and the fact that Ilse knew her way around the spice rack.
In the alley behind the tavern, pressed against the back wall with her skirt above her waist, Louisa looked up as though to see God at the Vespers bell. Had He been looking down, He might have been displeased with the look of contempt and rebellion on the young woman's otherwise beautiful face. Louisa had a score to settle with the Alpha and the Omega, and any time he wished to appear to her she was ready. He was not, it appeared, so Louisa merely tapped her costumer on the shoulder.
"Ten seconds and I'm charging another hour," she warned, and almost smiled when the warm coin passed into her hand.
Meanwhile, in the heart of a holy place, a panicked friar leapt from his bed in a state of panic. "Oh no, oh no, oh no! Oh God preserve me and damn it all!" This particular friar had a number of things to worry about, and being late to vespers without his zucchetto did not top the list. He did not like his zucchetto, anyway. He was not tonsured, so it served no purpose but to be one more nuisance item he was constantly losing. No, being late to vespers without his zucchetto seemed unimportant at the moment, because Carl faced the most embarrassing episode of his life since the day his brothers learned he had chosen Saint Peregrine as his patron: today topped that. Today Carl was late to vespers, and he was naked.
"Carl, what are you doing?" This mumbled question came from Gabriel Van Helsing, who rubbed his eyes, blinked, and asked, "Why are you getting dressed?" He had only just woken.
Carl paused, one leg jammed halfway into his trousers. Carl was the sort of man who dressed sitting down. He was the sort of man who always dressed sitting down, because otherwise he tended to fall, and the stones tended to bruise him. And Carl didn't like that. So his tone was a touch harsher than he liked when he replied, "Vespers."
Gabriel propped himself up on his elbow and raised an eyebrow. "Vespers?" he asked, incredulous. "And your trousers are backwards."
Carl dropped his pants and mustered as much dignity as was possible for a man looking utterly frantic and scrawny. Years spent poring over books and maps and messing about with chemicals did not contribute to an impressive physique. He was reedy and pale. "I am a friar, you know."
"You're a friar who has spent the past four hours committing copious venial sins," Gabriel replied. There was laughter in his voice, but that did not carry to Carl, whose panic deepened. He began upending his cell in search for that zucchetto. "Carl," Gabriel murmured. Carl hesitated only a fraction of a second, then returned to his work. "You're really a Catholic," Gabriel realized, and found himself staring as though seeing a pink elephant. "Carl, would you please listen to me?" he asked.
Again Carl would not respond.
Gabriel sighed. He had hoped it would not come to this, but Carl left him no choice. Drastic measures were called for. "Carl, if you don't talk to me I won't tell you where the zucchetto is."
Carl turned to Gabriel, wearing a frustrated expression with his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm not going to Vespers, am I?" The answer was clear, if silent. "Won't… won't that bother God?"
At that, Gabriel laughed. "I don't have a direct cable to Him, Carl. I know as much about His will as you do."
"But you… you're…"
Carl gave up. Gabriel was laughing too hard to listen.
to be continued...