A/N: Disclaimer, this fic is not an attack on any religion, just an idea I had while listening to Lana Del Rey. Warning for what some might consider blasphemy.
You were better then any religion I ever subscribed too. Which is unfortunate, really.
…
Charlie's mother had been very religious when he was little. Following after her, he will always remember the feeling of crossing the threshold into the church and watching her bless herself with the water from, what to him, appears to be a rather ugly bird bath.
He trails after her to the pews, following her like a baby duck follows it's mother to the middle row, where they walk down the isle and take their seats. His small feet barely reach over the edge of the pew as he boredly looks around the church, paying no attention to the sermon booming around them, but gazing at the huge stained glass windows, and the candles with frozen wax dripping towards the floor.
Church was a boring weekly excursion that was followed by an even more boring excursion. Sunday school. As a child, he didn't care for God one way or another. If God was real, he would pose to his mother, then why does he let bad things happen? His mother, or his teacher would smack him with a hand or with a ruler, if he was very unlucky.
He supposes that he did little to make himself likeable as a child, but believing in something with no proof simply seemed strange to him, but he also didn't really like being hit with a ruler, so he simply plays along with what his mother tells him believe, and after a time, he even starts to believe it himself, after all, why would she lie to him? What would she get from that?
…
No one ever really explains death to him. Which, considering his mother's lack of teaching of the other subjects of his childhood, should not come as a shock. At first, he'd simply thought that it was just another boring excursion to Church (even though it was a Tuesday, and they normally went to church on a Sunday) His mother dressed him all in black, that morning. Black pants, black shoes and socks, she helped him struggle into his best white shirt and then a black suit coat he doesn't recall owning. She ties a little tie around his little neck and informs him that he looks very smart, and exclaims how proud his father would be.
He's not sure how wearing a tie would warannt his father's highly sought after praise, but he's a slightly vain child, so he accepts it A different car is waiting for them, and it takes them to the Church. It's different, on the inside, however. Not the one they usually visit. His father sits in a box on a table.
His mother blesses herself with water, and he trails after her like a duck to see the box. His father lies still and quiet. A stupid cousin, one of the many family members who have begun to fill the church after then, says that he looks like he's sleeping. Even not really knowing and not really understanding, Charlie knows that hes not just sleeping. He's seen his father sleeping. He slept on his side, with the blankets pulled tightly first around himself, and then around Charlie when he clambered up next to him in his bed. An uncle he's met only once before lifts him so he can see properly.
Dressed in his neat police uniform, his father's pale face stares back at him, eyes closed and lips flat and pale. It almost looks like a mockery. His father was never so still, not in any of the time that Charlie knew him. He also never had such a blank expression. He was always smiling and talking, tryig to convince his small but serious child to smile and joke with him. Charlie hesitantly reaches a small hand out to touch him, tiny fingers unsure of where to put themselves. He feels cold to the touch. Nothing like his father. No one tells him what death means or why his father was so still and quiet.
But he can put two and two together and realized that the box that he watched them lower into the ground from his perch on his mother's hip was the one his father had been lying in. She tells him, after they leave, that he's gone back to God, that he's an angel watching over them. Charlie doesn't know if he believes it, but he's glad for the explanation at any rate.
…
After that, his she becomes a lot stricter about their evening prayers, and she insists that he should always pray for his father, amongst the other things like love and food that he also prays for. There's really nothing he can do about it, so he watches on with a blandness that he's never felt before when they pray.
When they say grace at the dinner table, he always closes his eyes and bows his head, a gesture that becomes such a second nature to him that he's surprised when people don't do it. He sometimes gets to say Grace, sometimes gets to thank God for feeding them, and 'for the bounty we are about to receive from your basket' and 'many hearts make a home'. It's useless to him, by this point, if God loved them so much, then why would he have done these things to them? But his mother tells him not to question God, so he doesn't, because he's a good child.
But no matter how old he is, and what his religion is, he never understands how anyone could think that suffering is a blessing.
…
Apparently, it takes three miracles to become a saint. Charlie is fairly sure that Bake fits the criteria pretty well, if he's honest. He's not really sure what constitutes a modern miracle, but he's certain that whatever it is, Blake's been there and done that.
Blake, as a whole, appeared to be the very opposite to his mother in terms of religion. He's never once seen the man go to church, (not that he's a whole lot better). But one event that stands out in his memory, is his first meal that he shares from the start at the Blake house, where Jean says go for your life and he looks at the food, before tilting his head in prayer.
He's not even aware that he's done something out of the ordinary until Mattie laughs at him. He stops mid prayer, and looks up to find everyone starring at him. His face suddenly turns very red, and he feels humiliated. Blood pumps in his face and he feels like he might faint. He clears his throat in his typical way, struggling to come up with a way to break the looming silence. Blake, as per usual comes to his rescue.
"I didn't take you for the religious type." He said, and Charlie doesn't miss the glare he sends in Mattie's direction. He does a pretty steallar impression of a fish-out-of-water for a few seconds before replying
"Habit, I guess Sorry." Mrs Beazley, sitting on his left, pats him on the arm, and assures him that it's fine if he wants to say Grace, that she'll even say it with him but he dismisses the offer as quickly as he can and tries to forget it ever happens.
Mattie followed him up to his bedroom that night and told him she was sorry she laughed, just slightly shocked because she had never taken him as the religious type. He brushes her off and insists that he's not upset, he's /fine/ perfectly / fine/ and she should put her concern somewhere that would be useful. She says she's still sorry, and he, rather a rather Un Catholic way, tells her to 'piss off'. He's quite glad that she leaves him to stew in his own humiliation for the next little why.
…
Saint Charles, as far as Charlie knows, is considered the Saint of Learning and the Arts. His mother named him for the man, and often told him that growing up, when he, like most children, brought home drawings and art projects from school. She would tell him that Saint Charles was shining on him, and he had a gift.
He's not a very gifted artist. In truth, his childhood art projects were just that. Childhood art projects. It was no predictor of his future talents. She just wanted something to believe in, he understood that, be he often wondered why she chose him to bestow her dozens of views and expectations on. When he didn't take art in highschool, choosing instead, advanced and core Maths, advanced and core English, History and Woodwork.
After some deliberation, his mother exclaims that woodwork is art and he supposes it is, but that's not why he took it. She tells him over and over the stories and such until he finds himself unable to care about the saint at all.
When he joins the academy, she informs him that St Michael is looking out for him now, and gives him a pendant to wear around his neck 'for luck' he's fairly sure that you aren't supposed to wear jewelery when you're a police officer, so he carries it in his pocket, for luck, he decides. He's not sure why his mother thinks this will help him at all, her 'Saint Michael' had never helped his father so he's not sure why he would pity him. But he doesn't think too much about it. Thinking about his father for too long made him sad and after the whole 'saying Grace' incident, the last thing he wanted was for Blake to think he was upset.
He'd never hear the bloody end of it.
After a great deal of searching in the library, he uncovers that there is infact a Saint Lucian. He's the Patron Saint of Beauvais, which to him, just looks like a big church. He can't think of a saint that would suit Blake less. (Even St Jude would probably be more fitting, although Jude Blake doesn't really have the same ring to it)
St Luke, he thinks, is probably more fitting. The Saint of Doctors. If there was a trait Charlie could pick to define Blake, just one singular trait, Doctor would probably be it. Alright. Maybe that wasn't A trait, but rather, a group of them, but still. It was a very good summary of the man. Or perhaps fatherly. He hadn't thought to look up the saint of fathers. So doctor it is. Perhaps
His father had said to him, when he was very young, that his Patron Saint was St Arnold, Patron Saint of Beer. Looking back, he supposes it makes sense his father would think that. His father's name was Michael. He, like Charlie, was a police officer. And yet he was more faithful to St Arnold. Alcoholisim wasn't something you talked about in his Congregation, so no one did.
He knows what it sounds like, when he describes his father as 'not all bad' but there's no other real way for him to put it because that's what he was. Not all bad. He was pretty bad, but not bad enough that his only son wouldn't feel unsafe in his presence.
His parents slept in separate beds. His mother, on the left of the room, his father on the right. He's sure his mother never forgave his father for making her sleep on the 'evil' side of the room. Even as a child, he'd always been slightly scared of his mother, who preached far more then his father about corruption and evil.
He'd never felt that way about his father, no matter how drunk he was, and no matter how late he went to bed, as a little boy, Charlie always found his way into his father's arms in the night. To him, it was like a game. Tucks his stuffed bear under his arm, and then walks over grimy floorboards, past the china cabinet where all the plates were chipped. Tiny feet go onto tip toes as he opens the door and then closes it behind him. He walks around to his father's bed, carefully peels back the blankets and nestles tight up against him as his father drapes an arm around him, holding him closely.
He likes those memories. His mother was never like that. Even as a child, he'd never dare to disturb her in bed. Even if that meant playing quietly on Saturday morning when his peers would listen to the radio, he would sit on the couch and read one of the few books they had that wasn't the Bible. It was a cookbook, they never had the money to actually make the food inside, but it was nice to look at the pictures, and think about how some day, he was going to make all this food.
He never did, but as an adult, he's fine with it, really. St Charles isn't the Patron Saint of cooking, after all. Or Policemen, for that matter.
…
Being Baptized by Blake was not really how he intended to spend his after noon.
Alright. Perhaps Baptism was not a good way to describe the situation, but that's what it feels like. They'd spent the day chasing after murderers, which was nothing new, not really. Except for the fact that he wasn't actually chasing anyone. With a bad ankle after Lawson's failed attempt to get him to play cricket, he was strictly confined to the station and non dangerous activities. How dangerous could questioning someone at the Boat House be?
Well if you're Charlie Davis, then probably very because God hates him or something. After being knocked down and tied up, he's begun to pray for the first time in months, reciting both the Lords prayer and begging God to release him because he can't go out like this. But nothing changes. In fact, if anything, the situation gets worse.
They throw him into the lake, with rocks shoved down his police blazer. Watching the world above him slowly vanish and water fill his vision, he swapped to praying to St Jude instead because he's never been in a more desperate situation in his life.
As black begins to fill his vision, and his limbs stop working, his last thought, is a prayer to St Rita, the Saint of impossible situations. Because this is it. This is how he's going to die. He wonders, briefly, if he could communicate telepathically with Blake and pray to him for saving. His last thought before falling unconscious, is the incredibly un-cathloic 'You're a dickhead, Charlie Davis.'
…
Then suddenly there's air in his lungs and hands clearing rocks from the inside of his blazer. He pants furiously, air only half filling his lungs, as a hand on his face checks to see if there's something preventing him from breathing. Then a comforting hand in his hair as he's lifted up all the way and then taken to the bank of the lake. "That's it, Charlie. Just breathe." Blake promises, as he turns the man to his side as he suddenly spits water out of his mouth and onto the grass. Blake's hand goes back to his hair, smoothing it back and away while he struggled to breathe.
After several minutes, air begins to come more easily, and Blake lets him sit up, only so he could press Charlie's wet head against his chest and hold him tightly, and in a way that was far more fatherly then Charlie could have anticipated. The hand is back in his hair as his eyes water up and then over. "God Charlie." Blake breathes, before pressing his nose into Charlie's hair. Charlie's hands tighten in Blake's shirt, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of aftershave and antiseptic that still clung to Blake's skin.
…
Blake was better then any religion could ever be, Charlie thought, turning the pendant around in his fingers. The party was over, thankfully. By party, he of course meant Blake's birthday party. Sure, Charlie might have had a near death experience just three days ago, but hey. It was only near death, after all.
He's never been one for parties. His mother always said they were full of sinful teenagers. She probably wasn't wrong but that doesn't make him feel too much better about it. He helps Mattie make the Doctor a cake (and by help, he obviously meant doing all the work and allowing Mattie to put the candles on) As he washed the plates that they'd served the cake on, he supposes that Blake would be a far better diety to worship then any Saint or even God.
Unlike God, he supposed he had proof Blake existed. Unlike Saint Michael, Blake had never willfully allowed him to be hurt or, if he could help it, get hurt. Which was a bit of an odd feeling. And Blake also shared his opinion that there was no need for suffering, that it was no blessing. And unlike even his own father, Blake really did seem to care about weather he lived or died. His mother always said that there was no death, only leaving to another place.
Blake seemed to care deeply for mortal life, and he supposes it's good for him in the long run. He finishes with the plates, and drapes a tea towel over them, and considers that Blake would not really like to be worshiped. He'd say something like 'I'm just a man, Charlie. No man should be worshiped.' But really, that was fine.
After some minutes of deliberation, he knocked twice on the door of Blake's office.
"Come in, Charlie." Blake said, and so he did. He walked over and sat in one of the chairs. "Have a nice night?" Blake asked, in a cheery fashion that even Charlie Davis cannot help but be slightly pleased by. He smiles back slightly.
"I suppose." he said, "I didn't get to give you your gift?"
"You shouldn't have." Blake scoffed. Charlie set the little wooden box down in front of him.
"I made it.." He said, softly, as Blake runs his fingers over it.
"It's lovely. What am I meant to put in it?" He asked, after a moment. Charlie reached into his pocket and passes him a pendant.
"Saint Luke. Saint of Doctors." Charlie nods.
"Hm." He agreed. "Pendants have never kept me safe." He said, finally. "But maybe it'll bring you some luck."
"I don't believe in luck he said, but put the pendant in the box and put the box by his lamp. Charlie smiles at him.
…
It takes three miracles to become a saint. Blake must have at least ten.