Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't even want it to be this time.

Timeline: Post season 2 finale.

Note: I've got no excuse for this.

Altar call

Mike Spencer can't sleep.

"Been spendin' some time with my shirt off recently," he'd said. It was an off-hand remark and they were cops for Pete's sake! They had more important things to worry about.

But, then again, they're cops-- even if Andy ain't a very good one-- maybe they'll remember. Maybe they'll suspect. And that could be the hole that sinks the damn boat.

There had been some kind of hoodoo going on for sure. Maryanne knew about that old kind of of witchcraft, that mean kind that folks in these parts know better than to talk too loud about not believin' in. And that's gotta be as good an excuse as bathtub gin ever was for things to get out of hand. Right?

That first time he couldn't believe his eyes. Boozin' and dancin' out in a field and he walked smack into a wet dream. Girls slippin' out of their shirts to show just how old they were. Girls chasin' each other around in the moonlight, titties bouncin' like Baywatch had come to Bon Temps. And when he opened his eyes, everything was clear. If they just let go a little more, they'd get there.

He found religion that night in a little lady's blouse. They all did. If not in that blouse, then somewhere else... that was the secret Maryanne knew. Nothin' like a roll in the mud to remind you you're all made of pure light, clean and free and unfairly wrapped up in pigeon toes and a beer gut.

He wasn't the most Bible Thumpenest man in Louisiana but Mike spencer knew a holy woman when he saw one. And Maryanne Forrester was holy. He knew because when he was around her, he felt holy too.

But after... he knew right away that there was something shaming in it. Maybe it was the throaty voice still ringing around the edges of his ears, riding the rims like the tongue of an emphysemic hooker. Lo, Lo Bromios. There was something shaming in a drunk's honesty, in a zealot's joy, in meeting God.

So he lied... they lied.

People find God everyday, in Church, or on the ocean, or at the bottom of a bottle. But then a new day comes and sometimes they just... forget and wonder aloud where the bumps and bruises came from. Sometimes they sit down over cheeseburgers and fries to look each other in the eye and deny they've been saved. It's weird, he thinks, like some kind of backwards Communion.

But that's people for you. What you can't remember can't be your fault.

But now Mike Spencer can't sleep.

There's the problem of Andy Bellefeur. "I've been spending some time with my shirt off," he'd told Andy. A mistake.

Now he can only lie awake, eyes wide in the dark, and pray that Andy was too drunk to remember.