Chapter Text
Before last Sunday, Blanc hadn't been to church in forty years, and hadn’t felt any kinship or nostalgia in longer than that. Yet, the silent vigil in the waiting room reminds him of the prayer groups his mother used to take him to. In absence of religious symbols, there is a reverence in the air. It feels almost holy here.
This does nothing for Blanc’s nerves. He taps his foot until other visitors have moved away from him, annoyed by the sound. Philip sits next to Benoit and holds his hand, absent of anything to say. Geraldine keeps talking to different law officials on the phone, which is the most productive of their respective spirals. If there’s anything he’s never been good at, it’s waiting. This…limbo they’re in drives him mad. There’s no clear path in front of him; just repeating reminders that he has no control over this. He’s done everything. He found Jud and got Cawley arrested without beating his face in. He even allowed the police to pester him with questions after Jud was rushed away.
Now there’s nothing left to do but wait.
Benoit hates this.
A quarter past midnight, he realizes it’s Friday; almost an entire week since things unraveled so quickly. Then again, they had been unraveling for some time. He’s past the point of guilt–Philip is right about how unhelpful it’s been–and has landed at whatever stage comes between depression and acceptance in grief. It’s ominous to say it like that he’s grieving Jud while he’s still very much alive. However, Benoit doesn’t have another word to verbalize the loss he feels. He doesn’t just grieve Jud, but he grieves his mother too. The loss of one has somehow tangled itself with the loss of the other in his mind. Perhaps it’s because they are the two people in his life he hasn’t settled up with in one way or another. Benoit Blanc, the great detective whose deductions and insights bring impossible cases to a satisfying conclusion, cannot solve this. There’s no answer, just a way through. The thought makes him more anxious.
At some point, Geraldine steps away to talk to the police detectives charged with officially processing this case. He bites back snide comments about having solved the case for them and watches the waiting room door like a hawk.
It’s damn near three in the morning before one of the dozens of medical professionals walking in and out of those double doors comes for them. The doctor, a woman who reminds him painfully of Marta, approaches them. Benoit shakes Philip awake. “Good news, doctor?” His voice ticks up at the end.
“Good news,” she confirms with a nod and Benoit melts into his seat with relief.
“How is he?” Philip asks because Benoit’s too overwhelmed with the fact that Father Jud is okay.
“Stable. Mr. Duplenticy needs a full blood work up, but that can be done later when he’s stronger. We had to give him a transfusion. He’s being admitted, so we’ll keep an eye on him, but he should be cleared to transfer out of the ICU and into step-down soon.” Before he can get too comfortable, the doctor adds, “But no visitors for right now. He’s sleeping a lot off. We’ll call you when he’s up to seeing people.”
What he wants to do is demand to see Jud, curse the doctor out, and storm to Jud’s bed, all consequences damned. Philip seems to sense this, so he rests a stern, but warm hand at the junction of Benoit’s shoulder blades. He keeps just enough pressure to ground Benoit without pushing him. The detective takes a deep breath. “I understand, doctor. Thank you.” He gathers his coat, adjusts his cufflinks, and smooths the wrinkled front of his shirt. Philip collects himself much faster, perhaps for his caring less for Benoit’s flair. They leave the temple of the waiting room and are soon out in the cool, humid streets.
He texts Geraldine that they’re leaving and will be back when Jud wakes up. She doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t expect her to. Philip squeezes his shoulder and then nods towards the parking garage. Benoit takes his hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses it so reverently, like it cleanses him. He rests Philip’s hand against the side of his face, scratching his husband’s smooth, warm skin against the scruff Philip keeps pestering him to shave.
Vanilla and lilies.
They stay like this for a long time–or perhaps it’s a short time that doesn’t feel like one to him. It’s Philip who breaks the trance first, running his thumb over the corner of Benoit’s jaw before he kisses him on the forehead. “Everything is alright now, love,” he says, sounding almost equally tired as Blanc feels. “Let’s get to bed. I’ll drive.”
For the first time, the drive doesn’t feel like a molasses crawl. It’s slow, but the sense of urgency that had its boot on his neck all week has now let up. It’s a cool April night and the city hums, lively, but muted to him. Things may not be okay now, but there is a way forward.
The memory of Jud seated on the rectory’s too-low couch, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward towards Cy Draven. “Finding the sustaining power to wake up everyday and do what we’re here to do in spite of the pain,” he tells the room. He’s so damn earnest he makes Blanc’s teeth hurt. “Daily bread.”
Philip rounds the car past the Duplenticy apartment building. Benoit cannot pick out Declan Duplenticy's specific unit, but he chooses to believe one of those lit windows belongs to a man waiting for his son’s forgiveness. Perhaps, somewhere in whatever vague unconsciousness that comes after death, Marjorie Blanc has left the porch light on for him. The thought, ridiculous as it sounds, heartens him.
Daily bread.
It’s a crisp morning, the Sunday after Easter, when Jud Duplenticy wakes up. Benoit isn’t the one who actually picks up the phone because he’s finally sleeping for the first time in a week. With no crime to solve and nothing to do but wait, the detective has defaulted back to his staunch belief that getting up before eleven am is a cardinal offense.
This is why Philip has to wake him up and tell him that Jud can see visitors. The brilliant and ever stoic Benoit Blanc has never gotten out of bed faster.
When he’s walking to Jud’s room, Benoit finds himself almost as nervous as he was the day he asked Philip to marry him. All this intelligence comes up short in moments such as these where there isn’t one right way to do things. For this reason, he’s always preferred well-defined problems. Guilt is largely black and white, and motive can be proven given evidence, but the ill-defined questions of who deserves forgiveness, how one can even begin to ask for it, and what to do next are not. Benoit does not know what to say.
So on the way here, he buys a tacky Easter basket for children from a corner store and hopes the gift will give him time to figure his speech out. Over the phone, the nurse had been very clear when she told Philip that Jud has limited visiting hours, and they should come as soon as they can. Philip drives them back to the hospital and, under the pretense of picking up lunch from the cafeteria, leaves Blanc to his confession. “I’ll be back in half an hour,” Philip tells the detective and then disappears before his husband gets a say in the matter.
So, ever the logical being, Benoit goes to Jud’s room immediately, and stands outside it for the better part of fifteen minutes.
With a sigh, he checks his watch and realizes that the time he gets with Jud to apologize is dwindling. Benoit straightens his collar and adjusts his grip on the handle of the brightly colored basket before he pushes the door open.
For how much his mind has built this scene up, it’s very ordinary. The curtains are drawn and light pours in through the window. Jud is sitting up in bed–a fact that would make Blanc exceedingly upset if he didn’t look so wrapped in thought. Experimentally, the detective takes a few more steps towards Jud before the man whips his head to him, eyes so-briefly frightened. “Hello Padre,” he greets, fighting to keep his tone light. He holds up the ostentatious, cheap gift encased in shrink wrap. All of sudden, Benoit feels very silly about his peace offering. “I got you an Easter basket. I must confess–no pun intended, Father, I promise–I’m not too familiar with whatever Catholics do beyond prayin’ and hostin’ egg hunts.”
Jud stares at him and Benoit immediately starts stumbling back over his words, regretting every part of his approach. “O-of course, that’s neither here nor there. Traditions change with time.” He waves his hand and hates the way it flits anxiously about. “Easter is a figment, as is the religion behind it.” What is he saying? “I–well, that’s not quite what I meant.” He clears his throat, though that does little from the heat rising to his ears. “Mean. It’s not what I mean–well, it is an institution that I adamantly oppose, but we can agree to disagree. I’m tryin’ to respect that. So…I got you an Easter basket.” He looks to Jud, feeling helpless. “It has bunny shaped chocolates?” He adds weakly.
Jud’s face is, for once, aggravatingly neutral. Benoit isn’t sure if it is his age, his eyes, or his own personal stake that prevents him from reading the priest. The silence makes him antsy. Benoit feels unfairly exposed, vulnerable, and every other horrible thing that comes with being guilty.
He finally opens his mouth and finds his voice. The detective starts to say something that sounds an awful like his response to Father Jud’s offer to stay for mass, but the man beats him to it.
“It’s good to see you, Blanc,” he says, voice genuine and soft. “How have you been?”
Despite himself, Blanc finds it in him to laugh. “Father Jud, I am more inclined to you that, what with you being the one in a hospital gown and all.” His joke is a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood, but Jud laughs anyway.
“I’ve had better days,” the priest allows. “But, it’s better than the alternative.”
That kills whatever ease Blanc had begun to feel. He frowns. “How are you, Jud?”
The question isn’t welcome, but Jud, honest as ever, responds, “Pretty bad.” Jud sucks in a sharp breath, indicative of the careful way he’s pulled himself together since the end of his ordeal. A detective less skilled than Benoit wouldn’t notice the slight hitch in the priest’s breathing, but he does. “I…shit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” Jud buries his face in his hands. “I’m going to have to go to confession for punching my dad.”
Of course that’s what he’s concerned with. Benoit can’t help but snort. “Son, that was a long time coming. I think God will understand.” If anyone deserves that understanding, it is Father Jud Duplenticy, the killer priest boy from Albany.
Jud only lifts his hand to give him a half-hearted glare. “That’s not how it works, Blanc,” he admonishes flatly.
“Agree to disagree, padre.” He shifts from foot to foot before settling down in the plastic chair that faces Jud. His hands fiddle with each other as he tries to collect his thoughts. “So, uh, Jud—“
“Did I do something?” The priest blurts out. “Did I make you uncomfortable? Is that it?”
Confused, Benoit replies, “Make me uncomfort—Jud, what do you mean?”
“You stopped answering.” Blanc winces. “I just want to know what I did.”
He sighs, a tired, resolute thing. “No Father, you did not do anythin’ to warrant that. That was my own fault.” His gaze falls to the floor. “I’m a heretic, a proud one. I’ve many issues with religion and a great many more with the church itself. I took those out on you and I am deeply sorry for that. You didn’t do anythin’ wrong.” Blanc raises his eyes to meet Jud’s surprised expression. “You are a good priest.”
Jud’s face twists up like he’s bit into a lemon and Benoit goes back to stumbling on his words. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Blanc to realize Jud is crying.
“Son,” he says, rising from his seat, the Easter basket forgotten on the floor. He comes to the bed side, but his hands hover, unsure of how deep Jud’s forgiveness and tolerance runs. His solution is to let Jud initiate whatever contact he’s comfortable with. “Are you alright?”
“I’m just relieved,” Jud breathes, wiping at his face. “I thought because I–you have Philip.” Jud pops his head up. “Where is Philip? He doesn’t think…?”
“He’s always had a high opinion of you,” Benoit assures him. “Apparently I have a tendency to prattle on about my Watsons.”
“Your Watsons,” Jud repeats and then chuckles. “I didn’t do a lot to help solve things.”
That makes Benoit smile, exasperated, but a smile nonetheless. “On the contrary, you contributed greatly to the case when you weren’t tryin’ to get arrested.”
“I wasn’t trying, you know,” he replies.
“Could have fooled me, son.”
They lapse back into silence. Blanc can tell Jud wants to say something from the agitated way the man leans forward and messes with the bedsheets. “Yes, Jud?”
“So if I really didn’t make you uncomfortable, what changed? I was a priest when we met and I didn’t stop being one.”
He shuts his eyes and faintly smells his mother’s old floral perfume, letting the memory wash over him for the first time in decades. Jud is staring so intently that the detective can feel his gaze even though he can’t see him. “I disagree with religion on a logic basis,” he begins and Jud looks confused. “The notion that there is an all-knowin’, all good bein’ that doesn’t wipe us out from the goodness of his heart doesn’t sit well with me, you see. You’re right–something changed when I worked on your case.”
A look of realization dawns on the priest. “Damascus,” he mutters.
“Yes, Damascus. Grace for those who deserve it least, but need it the most.” Before he’s realized it, Blanc is pacing. “Your example–your charge to turn the other cheek and let bygones be…I had a revelation.”
“A holy revelation?” Jud offers with a smirk because he’s a smart ass.
Benoit gives him a dry look. “Don’t push it, Father.” Jud laughs but gestures for him to continue. “But, yes, some may call it a holy revelation, I suppose. I mentioned my mother was religious. She was a staunch Baptist and we…well, we didn’t get along when I came into my own. She didn’t want a gay son and I didn’t want a religious mother, and we were both stubborn enough to start a cold war over it. I haven’t spoken to the woman since I was 17, which, I’m sure you know, was some time ago.” He wrings his hands. “And I was going to forgive her. Your charge to have grace, to forgive…well, perhaps I’m a little softer in my old age.”
“She didn’t want to see you?”
“I’ll never know. She died before I got to find out,” he admits. “So I blamed you.”
Ever the martyr, Jud’s face crumbles. “Blanc,” he says hastily, almost getting out of bed. “I am so sorry, I–I didn’t mean to–that’s not–”
Oh damn it all.
Benoit puts a hand on Jud’s back, firm but kind. “Stay in bed, son. I don’t need you tearin’ your stitches. Like I said, you did nothin’ wrong. I made my choices, and I will live with them. That’s the daily bread you were talkin’ about, right? Carryin’ on in spite of things?”
The priest aborts his escape attempt, either from the pain of moving so suddenly or Blanc’s urging, and half lays back down. “Yeah, daily bread,” he echoes. “I’ve, uh, been trying to work that into my sermons recently.”
“I’m sure your congregation appreciates it.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Jud states. “Seriously, Blanc, if you need anything, I’m here.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Don’t worry, Father, I’ll stick to pesterin’ my husband about these things. You focus on gettin’ better.” In the moment, it doesn’t strike him how easily ‘husband’ falls off his tongue, fitting like the last piece in a sprawling puzzle. Later, he will wonder why, but he will know the reason deep down.
Jud Duplenticy is a good priest. Nothing more, nothing less.
The man becomes quiet again, staring down at his hands, which at present resemble those of a mummy’s more than those of a priest. “I thought I murdered him,” he whispers. “I hated him, Blanc.”
“Which is more than reasonable,” he interrupts. “Anyone in your shoes would’ve. Some would probably take joy in doing it. It wouldn’t have been murder, it would have been self defense. You were in a him-or-me situation, and you chose yourself. No one faults you for that.”
“But I do,” Jud insists. “I almost took another life. Maybe I did in my heart.”
“Everyone thinks I did it. I didn’t do it, but in my heart, maybe I did, and the way it happened was some kind of miracle. And…I don’t know. I’m lost. I don’t know. Jud’s head falls into his hands.
Benoit hesitates and then throws reason out the window. “Would you allow me to help you?”
“Or, you hated him, and in spite of that, you did not kill him, neither in your heart nor in your actions. Don’t you believe that your god knows your deepest desires? You said that Monsignor Wicks’ death may have been a miracle spurred by your hatred. I, quite frankly, say bullshit.” Jud stares at him. “If you really hated him, then God didn’t give you your miracle, so you didn’t kill him. Or–” Benoit holds up a finger. “You hated what he did, and you didn’t hate him, so you didn’t kill him. You didn’t hurt with malice, well, no more malice than anyone would reasonably have, you did it to survive. I won’t hear more of this guilt and shame you carry around. If you truly believe in your god’s unconditional forgiveness, then lay it down. No one needs another carpenter to carry his cross around and crucify himself on it. Isn’t the whole idea that one was enough?”
“Blanc,” he says carefully, and oh Benoit does not like the tone he’s taking. “I think in another life you were a preacher.”
“Don’t say that,” he groans. “I’ve had my fill of religion for the next few lifetimes, thank you very much. I’ll leave the forgiveness and grace to you from now on.”
“I haven’t forgiven them,” Jud divulges, voice quiet as a prayer. “I…I’m trying, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“No one’s askin’ you to, Jud.”
“Blanc, it’s literally what I’m called to do. 70 times 7, you know?”
He sets his lips in a thin line. “And when someone harms you 491 times? What will you do then? What will you do when someone hurts you badly enough that you can’t forgive them?”
“I’m not perfect, Blanc. I can’t forgive unconditionally, I can only try and then pray for where I fall short. I said I haven’t forgiven Ben and Jeremiah, not that I won’t ever.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree, padre.”
“That’s alright,” Jud says, frustratingly patient. “But I’m always here to talk if you want to. You know that, right Blanc?”
“Now who’s the preacher, Father?”
Jud smiles wryly. “I dabble,” he hums, voice light.
Benoit is about to say something–another teasing jab at Jud–when there’s a polite knock at the door. Philip walks in with some premade sandwiches wrapped in plastic. Behind him, Bishop Langstrom sweeps in, his black and red vestments striking a commanding presence. It’s odd seeing the two together; a gay man and a Catholic bishop talking about menial, everyday things.
Then again, Benoit’s life has never really been normal. He tends to seek out these situations.
Langstrom comes up to Jud’s bed. “How are you feeling, kid?”
“I’m okay–”
“Good, because I specifically recall telling you not to visit your father alone.” He looks pissed and Jud shrinks, like a child being scolded by his father.
Benoit can’t help but laugh aloud.