Colonel Blake was, in point of fact, standing in front of the Chaplain's tent, staring at the aforementioned man of god with the face of a man who'd just been asked whether or not he preferred bat guano as a topping for hamburgers.

He'd woken up that morning in the usual fashion, by the grace of that screeching monster that took its daily fee of blood, leaving the Brujah taxed and nervous until the beast calmed down a bit and he dared to creep out of the coffin the edge of which he'd finally grown accustomed to not tripping over. He walked slowly the first few steps, nearly on tiptoe with fear of rousing the creature, until it finally seemed that he was he, himself once more, and none other. Still it bothered him. He'd woken up to this voice every evening since the plane crash. And how many nights was this going to go on? He didn't have an answer. Nobody in the camp, had he asked around (which he hadn't, never having been the morbid sort), had the answer. Not even the little dragon perched on his Company Clerk's shoulder. Some things, including the time and manner of a Kindred's meeting with Final Death, lie beyond the view of the most far-sighted.

But, for now, the moment of angst passed, replaced with a moment of.... no, not confusion. He was too befuddled to be confused. Too shocked to be befuddled. And just the tiniest bit... nervous.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Father?" he finally stammered, beginning to doubt his own senses. Father Mulcahy hadn't possibly just said that he wanted--

"Come inside," the Priest spoke firmly, looking around the compound for the individual who wasn't supposed to know of Henry's whereabouts this evening, and for those two who weren't even supposed to know he was back.

Henry complied, perhaps against his better judgement.

"I really think," the Father continued, turning on a light that illuminated both Henry's unnaturally pale complexion and the slight flushing of his own face. He'd never had to have a conversation like this before, and he couldn't help but feel rather awkward. "I really think it's the right thing to do. And as I suppose I have neither the time nor the poor sense to send the question to the Chief of Chaplains... I thought I'd simply... tell you."

"Tell me..." Henry echoed vaguely, still not quite believing what he was hearing, his voice taking on a hint of an incredulous tone that evidently struck ill with the priest, from the way his eyebrows lifted themselves, and the way he spun around on his heels in mid-pace to face his old C.O.

"Well, ask you, I suppose, Henry, though I honestly didn't think you'd object. Do you object, Henry?"

Henry took a deep breath and lifted a hand in objection to the charge, but, as he was about to speak, was cut off--

"Colonel Blake," Father Mulcahy began again, his voice suddenly cool and formal, "I don't know that you ever noticed, during your time here at the four-oh-seventy-seventh, but I've always tried my hardest to do what I can for this unit-- in both a professional capacity and in all other capacities I've found it within my... capacity to fill."

Henry stepped forward, trying to object, again, but, again, was cut short--

"Furthermore, Colonel, I think you'll agree that your present... state falls well within the realm of both the profession in terms of which I've joined the army, as well as within that of my more recently acquired occupation."

Mulcahy crossed his arms behind his back and managed to look genial and deadly serious at the same time as he continued: "And-- as much as I don't look forward to it being the case, I fear that if you refuse the help I feel I can offer you in my office as Priest of this outfit, I will find myself without any further options, and will here and now show you in more detail than will be pleasant the trappings of my new position."

Henry watched his priest begin to froth at the mouth, and squared his shoulders as his own beast rowled up in reply. He opened his mouth, expecting to be cut off again, lifting a finger to try to get his own two cents in. Then, as the priest was silent, he fell so, too, his hand becoming unclenched and falling to his side.

"Well. Um. Since you put it that way, Father."

Henry looked around, unsure of the procedure, here. "Should I sit down?"

"Yes. Yes, please do." The Father turned his back, leaning over his accoutrements while attempting to sound like at least one of them knew what was going on. He turned his head and chuckled softly, nearly warmly again, back at Henry. "Come on, Colonel. You've seen this done before," he reminded him.

Henry thought back to all the grueling O.R. sessions... the priest just a flicker in a corner, a flash of purple, a gleam of silver, a flurry of patterned motion that seemed only to exist on the periphery of reality.

"I guess so, Father... though most of the time I was kind of busy in there..." he prompted helpfully: "You know... with the surgery?"

He could see the priest's head bob in a gentle nod, "I understand, Colonel. Why bother with the ones that were already lost, when your attention could be spent on the ones that could still be saved?"

Henry lowered his head at the mention of the ones lost, the unsavable ones there hadn't even been any time to shed a tear for. "Something like that, Father."

"Then you'll understand when I say that those men-- that those boys who received my attentions were ones I saw as still being able to be saved."

Henry looked up from his reverie, fairly startled at the sight of the chaplain in all his various attire coming at him, half-tempted to run, to get the hell out of there.

"Usually, of course, the boys who come through here are in no condition to tell me differently. But you, Henry Blake, are a different case. I believe your soul may yet be redeemed. But you-- do you believe that?"

Henry looked up and tried to lighten the mood with a chuckle. "I don't suppose that saying "no" right now would be the best idea, huh?"

Mulcahy didn't seem amused.

Henry shook his head, "Look, Father. I don't know what you want me to say. Can I be redeemed? Redeemed from what? From the incident with that kid? I've had an entire village on my back for that one! From nearly killing Hawkeye? Well, I saved him, didn't I? For drinking blood?" The Brujah's eyes, having flashed with anger a few seconds previously, now turned away and stared at the floor. "Well, I put up with enough on account of that..." he ended in a mutter, the priest's hand, out of nowhere, coming to rest one finger on the underside of his chin and lift it up, looking down into his eyes, repeating something he'd said what now seems a lifetime ago.

"God bless you, Henry Blake."

He gently shut the vampire's eyes. Henry leaned back, nervous, but willing to oblige, suddenly calm as the rush of Latin words came soothingly from the Hunter's mouth, the words unintelligible but clear.

Equally unfathomable was the simple touch of the priest's thumb over his shut and dead eyelids, the light dab of oil smudged there exuding a kind of warm lethargy as the words of the last rites rambled on quietly in the background.

The warmth spread up across hid forehead, dripped down his cheeks and took root at the top of his spine, beginning to seep downward and soak into each still part of his lifeless form.

His dulled attention became roused slightly when he heard a screaming, but he was too near gone to do much about it, even when he realized that the screaming belonged to none other than he himself, mingled with the higher- volumed and more frantic chanting of Latin-sounding prayers and imprecations, only a few words of which he recognized from his medical training.

He wondered vaguely, as he fell into unconsciousness, whether the priest had always prescribed twice-daily administrations of morphine along with his last rites.

~

"Henry? Colonel Blake?" Mulcahy's voice, now once again solicitous and gentle, roused him from his unexpected slumber.

He made a vague noise of acknowledgement to the priest, though he felt more inclined to make one concerning the throbbing pain in his skull and chest. He found himself stretched out on the chaplain's neatly made cot, and was glad of that fact, at least. Saved him the trouble of having to lie down.

He chuckled softly, stopping when the gesture caused the aching to increase. "Must have been some party, Father. Pity I don't remember it."

Father Mulcahy placed a cool rag on Henry's forehead. "What /do/ you remember, Colonel?" He slowly and cautiously pressed the rag down.

A moment passed in thought, in the course of which Henry's memory of the past hour came trickling back. He frowned anew at these aches and pains, and lifted himself up into a sitting position, lifting his hand to hold the rag to his forehead himself. The eyebrow that wasn't slathered in rag made a serious effort to list itself as a gesture to the priest.

"Father, what on earth did you do? It's not polite to kick a man while he's down for the count, you know."

Mulcahy rose from his knees and came to sit beside Blake. "I know, Henry," he answered in a low murmur, "And, to be honest, I'm.. not exactly sure what I did to you. I'm... not very experienced at this sort of thing, you know, I just... kind of went with it."

Henry clambored to his feet, wincing at the pain in his skull, even as it seemed to fade. "He "kind of went with it,"" he muttered, "Like some improv piano piece." He shook his head.

Mulcahy looked up timidly. He might have felt bad for 'experimenting' like that, if it weren't for some already evident results.

"Henry," he murmured. "Do you know you're breathing?"

"What are you talking about, Father? Of course I know I'm--"

Henry paused. He was, in fact, drawing air in and out of his lungs on a fairly regular basis, a habit he'd fallen out of in the last week.

He focused on it, and halted again. He waited. There wasn't any prickling in his lungs, there was no further ache added to the diminishing pain in his head, there was no lightheadedness or other indications of a need for air. Yet when he turned his attention back to the priest, again, he found he resumed the practice automatically.

He stood with his mouth gaping open as he further realized that the ache in his head had been throbbing only because his heart had been busy shoving blood through his veins in their normal, natural patterns. And that the cool rag on his head actually felt cool because his forehead was actually warm.

He took a few breaths as he contemplated this. No, it wasn't really that big a deal. He'd produced the same effects before, it just took some effort and more resources than were pleasant to spend, in terms of the hard- sought vitae.

What DID startle Henry into turning back around and sitting down, his eyes wide in something near panic, was the vague recollection from a few minutes ago that he had woken up to the sound of Father Mulcahy's voice. And that that had been the only sound to wake him. Indeed, all was quiet, and, as he focused on the quietude, he felt a sense of being alone with himself that he hadn't felt since the crash.

He patted down the pockets of his vest, the pockets of his pants, in a gesture indicative of the fact that he felt he had misplaced something.

Or someone. Where was that pesky beast, anyhow?

"Holy cow..." Henry muttered. He found it. It took a little bit of prodding introspection, of tenatively slipping his psyche into areas of his soul that he'd been barring off for the last week for fear of what might come out. He found that beast, all right. And instead of being the object of a lion's mauling paws, he found himself being, proverbially, of course, batted by a kitten.

The beast had gotten beaten over the head with a spiritual rolled-up newspaper, and had scampered off to live in silence with its tail between its legs. It whimpered when prodded, and exuded a weak claw that Henry was able to gently put back in place with little effort at all.

He turned to the Father.

"You know, John Francis Patrick Mulcahy, I could just about kiss you."

Mulcahy rose, smiling as he saw Henry Blake re-emerge, at least partially, out from under the curse of vampirism that had been placed upon him. "I'll take your word on that. Welcome back, Henry."

~