Disclaimer: Don't own Book, don't pretend to. Just using him for my own personal fulfillment, not trying to steal food from the mouths of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
Author's notes: For the "new beginnings" challenge. Also, I'd like to thank Cassie E—Six reviews? I think that's more than my mom's ever given me!—and Trisana McGraw for their feedback on the last couple of chapters. I know, I'm a crappy review responder. Not that great a reviewer, either, now that I think about it. But I honestly do appreciate getting comments from readers, so thank you.
He hadn't been in a church in years. Truth be told, he hadn't felt the need; he had better things to do on Sunday mornings, and he didn't need some the feeling that some mystical godlike eyes were staring down on him, disapproving.
He didn't feel them now, though. The whole church felt different, like the place knew him, and was saying, "Where you been? I've been expecting you!" It was a little creepy, but better than staying at home with the nightmares.
He'd slept like a baby for years, but in the last few weeks, he'd been suffering from insomnia. He kept getting into bed, jumping out of it, jumping in again, sure that this time sleep would come. For reasons he didn't understand, his mind was troubled with images of blood and dead, staring eyes. He recognized them all.
Well, criminals got what they had coming, didn't they? If they were gonna play fast and easy with the law, there wasn't any reason he shouldn't play fast and easy with them. At least, that's what he'd told himself. Maybe he shouldn't have killed the last target's whole family, as he was wearing a mask and they probably couldn't have identified him anyway. Still, there was no sense in taking risks.
His caution wasn't helping him now. The last few days, the dead started speaking to him. Monster, they called him. Inhuman.He didn't understand why he let them get to him so much—he'd been called a lot worse than "monster" in his days. Something, though, something about their raspy dead voices and their sad eyes was ruining him, melting the cool professionalism that had been his trademark. Maybe it was because some of them were so young—killing kids had always been one of his least favorite parts of the job.
He didn't understand why this was all happening now. He'd been doing his job for years without a twinge from his conscience, and suddenly every gorram person he'd ever killed was back to haunt him. He couldn't sit for a moment without wondering who from his long and colorful past was going to pop up next. He called his doctor, who told him to get more sleep. He considered, briefly, going to a psychiatrist, but realized that it wouldn't change anything. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting too old for the job.
He thought, after he called up Boss and told him he quit, that would be enough. But the nightmares still came, and now they were calling him "coward." Tell the truth, that one kind of stung.
Then, last night, without even really realizing what he was doing, he'd gotten on a transport for the nearest church. As the transport whirred by in the darkness, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Place like that, nobody would ask his name, it wouldn't cost a cent, and maybe he'd get some measure of peace. Or maybe, given his line of work over the last decade, the roof of the church would fall in on him in an act of divine retribution. Either way, he'd be rid of the nightmares.
So…here he was, staring at the plain wooden altar. Now what?
"Can I help you?" He jumped at the voice, his hand automatically reaching for his blaster, but he forced it down before he actually drew the weapon. It was only a young Shepherd—no harm.
"I…" He carefully considered his next words. Just how far was he willing to go to make the nightmares go away? As far as it takes. "I was wondering…how do you go about joining the church?"
"Oh," the Shepherd said, sounding surprised and pleased. "Do you want to become a member?"
"No, I…I want to…" What did he want? "I just want some peace of mind."
"Well, you've come to the right place," the Shepherd said, sitting down on the pew next to him. "I'm Shepherd Matthews."
"I'm…" He suddenly wished he had another name, a name the Boss and his colleagues couldn't track him by. More than anything else, he wanted some time to think without being pressured to return to the job.
"It's okay," the Shepherd said. "You can be whoever you want to be, here."
He'd always thought he was all right with who he was. He was good at his job, he was a good citizen (more or less), he was an okay friend to those who didn't double-cross him. But somehow, he felt uncomfortable sitting in this church with blood on his hands. Maybe giving another name would make him another person, a person who'd never killed anybody and slept easy at night because nobody had anything against him. He ran his hand over the bible sitting on one side of the pew, and met the Shepherd's eyes. "Book," he said. "My name's Book."