Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 6 - Monstrance Clock

"Here, uh, this is my suite," Papa's fingers flourished as he opened his door to you. He stood to the side for you to step inside. He had an impish look about him.

"You understand I see the whole church as your house, right? This shouldn't warrant whatever you're doing with your eyebrows." You stepped and observed; you didn't know what you were expecting, but it was gothic and lived in. Worn leather couches, television, dark woods, smelt of incense, leather and aftershave.

"If you see it like that, this would be 'my bedroom'." He said low.

"You're incorrigible," your brows drew, "from the layout, I'd guess that is your bedroom." You pointed to a closed door off the kitchenette with its back marble bench tops. You scanned about and noticed the names of records hung on the walls, a player stationed at the back beside an extremely worn chair. You smiled softly, noticing a bowling trophy you would never have guessed.

"You seem to see a lot, caro Pittore," his mischief was dying.

"If a painter isn't observant, what's really the point? Abba, huh? Signed too." You pointed to one of the framed records.

"Cannot fault their...lure," he nodded, "the bathroom is just through there," he pointed. "I'll change in my room unless, of course, you'd like to join me."

You could never tell if he was serious, so you just laughed him off, "I don't think I'd fit in there with you and your ego."

"Pride is one of the greatest sins of all," he took your jab as a compliment, "I think you'd fit nicely; you'd be surprised, it is rather...large."

"I am sure it is, Papa." You lightly hit his arm, shaking your head and walking to the bathroom, leaving him standing alone in the lounge.

After scrubbing at your hands with resin-scented hand wash and attacking the smudges on your face, you dropped one of the suspenders on your overalls and pulled your long-sleeved shirt off your arm and shoulder. You hissed, peeling back some bandaging to see the transparent film beneath. It felt hot and was bleeding, but would it seep through the plastic? You bit your lip. You looked at the toilet paper and thought about some assurance before dressing yourself back up.

"Hey, Papa," you called through his door, unwilling to get too close.

"Yes, Pittore?" He called back, and you were trying to forget how naked he could be.

"I feel weirdly okay about asking this, but do you have any pads?"

Some rustling came, and you wondered if you'd read him wrong on the feminist front. He appeared mostly buttoned in a crème shirt and dark trousers. "Ah, I'm sorry to hear it, Pittore; at least no pregnancy this month, uh?" He gave a celebratory fist pump.

In your case, no pregnancy any month, not that you'd bring that up with Papa.

"Just give me a moment." He strutted across the lounge and bobbed by a drawer in his bathroom, and you realised he was only in socks, and he seemed even smaller without his pope-hat and shoes. His gloveless hands returned with an extra absorbent pad for you. "Uh, you can take extras if needed; they're just under the sink."

"You know, for all your flirting, this is the single most attractive thing you've done thus far." You took in his black curtain of hair for the first time as one strand threatened to get in his eyes.

"-" He looked confused for a moment as if, for once, it was not on his mind to try and bed you. "And that's why I do it," he winked, recovering his smile.

You watch the bob of his throat, the rise and fall of his half-unbuttoned chest. You caught a glimpse of black ink tattoos. "Thank you, Papa," his warm fingers brushed your rough, chemically treated hands as he handed you the pad. You suddenly remembered when you'd first met him, and he'd kissed the back of your hand. For some reason, it tingled. As if the mark was still there. Somewhere else, you realised it was the first time you'd seen him with legs, and he had nice thighs.