-- so on earth

[Eoin McDaniels]

There were too many proper folks with top hats around him. Eoin walked with his spine straight and his head up, all soldier instead of Whitechapel skulker, but they still looked at him like he was something scraped off their boots.
It was no fair. He did look better, he thought. His eyes were clear. Eoin had a dark and melancholy face — he was a handsome fellow, just too gaunt and too disheveled. Maybe one day he could take care of that. He was staying off the pipe more, he was really trying. The fists he had buried in his pockets had a tremor nonetheless and there was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. It was freezing cold.

He wanted to turn away so badly, but he had set his heart upon finding the priest. This goal kept him occupied today. It was an empty day, no work at the docks, nothing to do at the Greenstreets, just cold nothing. He wanted to crawl into a den up Limehouse causeway, that's why he instead headed for St. Paul's, all the way.
Wynn had helped him once, in a dire place. Eoin didn't know if he was looking for him hoping for more help, or if he was simply pissed that he had gone off to do better, and wanted to let him feel it.

It was no use, going to the cathedral directly. They would not help someone like him, looking around for Father Wynn, there was no chance. The cold wind picked up. His teeth chattered, briefly. If he were on the nod, he wouldn't care about that, he thought morosely, and headed towards the street close by where he knew the clergymen kept their quarters. Mass would soon be over. He fell back into a side street and waited.

Finally, the tall and gangly silhouette of the priest advanced towards his position. Eoin waited until he walked past, then he stepped out and followed him. His stare remained fixed on the back of his head. Wynn was recognizable by his curls and stick-out ears. Eoin caught up to him.
"Fancy seein' ya here, father," he said at his shoulder, bracing for him to turn and look; envisioning for him a trap to reveal in his expressions his dismay to see who had found him in his new and improved haunts.

[Luc Wynn]

A truth that Luc had early accepted of his work in the East End was that the nature of one's religion mattered far more, and yet far less, than in the finer parts of the city. While those who had so little clung to their scraps of identity and hope, worked to make themselves stand apart even as the clung to their insular communities, especially those immigrants who were lost in a sea of Englishness, no one in the East End was so secure as to reject the help a priest might give.

At first, the injustice of it all had turned his stomach – though it still did, if he thought on it for any length of time. Worse, he had come into those small, poor chapels full of righteous fire and determined to fix everything. He would help to heal the sick, bring succor to the needy, lift those most despicable wretches from the throes of licentious sin!

It had not quite worked out that way.

The filth and squalor had disabused Luc of some of his hopes for humanity, but it had also reaffirmed his faith time and time again. Every babe and failing body was blessed with a sincere hope for the future; an ache that longed for happiness and comfort for them, no matter what shape that took. It had been one of the strangely proudest moments of his life, a little over a year after he'd come to Whitechapel, when he had been saved mid-mugging by none less than Billy Lamb of all people. The butcher was a devout Catholic, and Irish enough to see no difference between the English and the Welsh when it came to the lack of quality of their character. But he had knocked the skinny would-be thief along the head, and in that gruff voice announced that Luc was a good 'un.

But that had all been left behind, at least in the curate's mind, when he had moved those scant miles here, to the gleaming heart of Anglican belief. Luc had missed it, of course, the strong personalities and meaningful work, but not until he felt the familiar pricking on the back of his neck did he realize that he hadn't really missed it; not so much that he wanted to be mugged here of all places.

The voice that accompanied the heavy, hurried steps put him slightly at ease, at least. It had been some time, but yes, Luc knew Eoin McDaniels, and there was a surprised half smile on his lips as he turned to greet the man – only for it to shift into a concerned frown at the sight of him. It was clear that he had fallen prey once more to the opium dealers of the East End. He was sickly, far too lean, and was even more disheveled than normal. But, as Luc looked closer, he saw that those eyes were clear, and the sheen of sweat upon him was likely from withdrawals, not the poppy itself. "I could say the same of you, Eoin." Another gust of wind fair cut through him, and he fancied it must have felt far worse to the other man.

"Come on, it's too cold to speak out here. My rooms are just ahead." Privately, part of him bemoaned the cleaning that would need to be done, lest the lice and nits and scabies of the East End find him once again. But he would not stand in the freezing, biting wind with an ill man just to satisfy his distaste. Though, as they walked, he could not help but point out the obvious: "You're back to your old ways, I see." He did not hide the disappointment in his voice. Eoin was just a man, perhaps more given to sin than most, but Luc knew better than most that he was also capable of much more than this wain, ugly gauntness of body and soul alike.

[Eoin McDaniels]

Eoin had sought mortification and disgust in the eyes of the priest, and when he did not find those reactions, the wave of determination radiating out from him flattened. The mix of anger and premature defensiveness he had been coasting on left him, and he remained somewhat disoriented. He flexed his hands in his pockets. "Go t’ yours?"

His voice trailed through the wind. Was Wynn being serious? Probably. Wasn't much the type to gaff around. He looked at the somber façades of the buildings around the cathedral. Tall and sturdy and owning the history of this place, that did not include the have-nots. Eoin would sit in the priest's new abode akin to something the cat dragged in and he knew it.

But the chill was deep in his bones. He had come a long way from the east end for just this moment — as senseless as it was. Confronting Wynn, who used to be a fixture around Eoin's side of the city, with what he had so easily shaken off the soles of his fine leather shoes, by presenting him with his own visage. Now he'd done it and it had not given him the thrill he had been looking for.

"Alright," he said after a while. The disappointed comment the priest gave him about his appearance didn't register so much with him, he knew that plenty. "Been up and down the same ol' ways forever, father," he replied and they started walking. "Not all that many streets around, ya see." And then he added, "Been worse. Am trying to keep off," he made a movement with his hand as if it was hardly worth mentioning and then he walked silently until the house was in sight.

"How you've been, Luc? Like it better up here?"

[Luc Wynn]

Perhaps there were other places he could have taken Eoin; certainly not the chapel itself, unless he wanted to earn the ire of not only the vicar but everyone within it. A bath house would be most appropriate, but there would be only those selfsame dirty, parasite-ridden clothes to put back upon the Irishman's washed body. It was too cold to stay outside, even if Eoin hadn't looked so poorly, and so it was Luc's quarters or nothing.

And he would not send the man away, looking as he did.

A noncommittal hum was the curate's only response to the matter of fact statement about Eoin's nature. It was heartening to at least see him trying, and to know that it was a truthful statement. For as poorly as he looked, he must have only recently given up the pipe again.

The question surprised Luc in a way it probably shouldn't have. It was polite small talk, after all, wasn't it? "It's certainly different." The non-answer was given as he fished his key out of his pocket, hurrying to unlock the door and ushering himself and Eoin inside. It was still quite cool in the small home, given that he'd been away at the cathedral all day, but at least they were out of the wind. "I can't pretend this isn't a much more privileged life, but I miss the people there. Most of them, anyway. I felt much more useful in Whitechapel." He spoke as he busied himself with the stove, quickly building a fire to warm the room.

Straightening, he fixed his guest with a level gaze as he dusted the ash from his hands. "I can't imagine you've come all this way just to ask after me, Eoin." There was no accusation in the words, but a gentle prompting. If it was in search of caring hands for this latest bout of withdrawals, Luc would be hard-pressed to agree to such a commitment, even as he would be hard-pressed to turn the man away.

[Eoin McDaniels]

Eoin slipped through the door with his shoulder pulled high and a slouch to his posture, suspicious eyes darting around the hallway. They did not meet anyone else and the chambers of the priest were more austere and simple than he had imagined. They were, of course, painfully clean. Someone scrubbed and swept these floors on the daily, Eoin determined. With the wind and fresh air gone, he could smell himself like one smelled the cage of an animal from far away. Something nasty lived in this cage — cracking bones between its dirty teeth and itching itself with its claws.

He glowered at the priest. Wynn irritated him by his mere sanctified presence. But he had no reason to hold on to his anger. It flashed and dissipated when he watched him ready tea on the stove.

Luc Wynn was a few years younger than Eoin and he looked often tired, but also scarcely afflicted by life. He was encased in something protective. Was it given to him by God above, Eoin wondered, or by his genteel father on earth, and his money?

"Why can't ya imagine, Luc? What's yer trouble?" he prodded at him. "Aren't I a sheep of yours too?"

He extended his hands towards the teacup. They shook miserably. His eyes were full of sharp scrutiny. Of course, Luc Wynn was the wrong kind of father and Eoin excluded from his parish. He knew that.

"Fancied t' see how dey treatin' ya."

There was a little pause before he added, "Room's alright. Nice an' clean. 'til ya dragged me in." He laughed but didn't think it funny.

[Luc Wynn]

There was a trick to it, something that Luc had never been able to put to words - knowing which dogs would bark and bare their teeth, and which would bite. Eoin would bite, if given cause, but even so Luc did not shy from the anger he had seen in the man's face, nor did he hesitate to steady Eoin's hand with his own even as he pushed the warm teacup into it. "Yes, Eoin, you're my most gentle of lambs." The gentle sarcasm was softened further by a smile, but the curate did not hesitate to add, "I don't remember you often stopping by for merely a chat."

It was his duty to help the destitute and the needy, yes, and he didn't begrudge Eoin for his weaknesses. But neither would he allow the other to play the victim or attempt to guilt him. But then he smiled at the other man, gesturing to the room at large. "I've moved up in the world, my friend, as you can see. Now I've proper walls!" His little one-room apartment in the East End had made do with blankets hung to offer limited privacy, and was half as large as his quarters now.

Pulling the chair from his little table, Luc pointed at it imperiously. "Sit down. How long since you ate last?" Too long, if the gaunt look about him was any indication. Curates were not encouraged to keep food in their quarters, given the risk of inviting pests and the sins of gluttony and sloth. That did not stop Luc's minor act of rebellion in taking hard cheese and bread from the kitchen for the days that he did not have time to join the others for meals. Today he had also taken a pair of meat pasties, and it was one of those that he placed in front of Eoin now.

For all his awareness that he couldn't tend to the other man now, it couldn't quite stop Luc from voicing his concern in his own way, as much as the other man would allow. There was no reason to naysay the matter of Eoin's hygiene. Luc wouldn't lie about it, and the man had already said what there was to say about it. (That did not stop him from wondering if he could commandeer the bath the curates shared for the hour or two it would take to scrub the filth from the Irishman's body.)

[Eoin McDaniels]

It was the simple gesture of Luc steadying his hands to prevent Eoin from spilling his tea that disarmed him, finally, against the priest. He sat himself down when told so and looked down on the tea.

As far as he was concerned, proper people talked all day long about God's grace, but did not deign to stand too close to the downtrodden. Their words meant shite to him. The touch of these clean hands — without hesitation, despite Eoin's visceral knowledge that he was repelling — made him grow quiet, and softer in his shoulders.

He took a first sip of tea. "No lamb," he conceded. "weary thick skull ram. Put me ta pasture, I beg." He glanced over to the priest. It was true, he was no frequent caller back then and he did not often come around needing nothing. Eoin needed and wanted something always. He felt he could not afford not to.

But he did not go all the way here for a cup of tea and a morsel of food. What he needed was less simple to put in words. "Is a dreary day, Luc," he said. "want t' pass time, is all. Too weak fer work. Too hungry t' get strong. Too poor t' eat. Too ragged an' dirty ta be around decent folk. Easier to climb inna den," he counted out. "Haven't," he added to drive home the notion that he was serious. "Livin' hell," Eoin surmised.

He was not at the point to cut out at once and go through days and weeks of sickness, did not want to do it like that again. He was so poorly his body might give out on two weeks of puking and twitching and no sleep. So he cut back and delayed every dose and spent his time half-sick, half-useless, scraping it. When he smoked, it was too little to give him anything worthwhile, just kept him going. Pure misery. But he had stopped his decline. Somehow he needed to get through the deep dark valley. All that kept him going now was his anger, that had reached him around his 30th year through the numbing fog.

He was not done. Eoin would leave his mark yet on this rotten City. He took a few bites out of the pie, giving a lot of time to each of them. It was entirely unappealing but he forced it. It was good he had come here, he thought.

[Luc Wynn]

It would be an easy thing, to blame some innate failing of Eoin's spirit for his worst habits. Many people did just that; thought of it as a moral weakness, the same as lust or gluttony. And perhaps, he would allow, there was an element of truth to that thinking. Lord knew that Eoin had little compunction against taking advantage of the slightest opportunities, and as far as Luc knew (though they had not discussed such a thing, aside from the odd crass comment from the other man) those opportunities included any kind of pleasure, not just the lure of opium.

But he had also seen the man in the throes of a physical illness, not entirely too different from cholera or consumption or any other cruel and wasting disease. There was no moral failing that Luc was aware of that would cause a man to leak so copiously from near every orifice.

To dismiss the struggle, or to coo and claim that Eoin need but trust the process, or that he should merely put his faith in God; all would ring false, the platitudes offered from those too ignorant or insipid to truly consider the position the man was in. Practical answers seemed a far better way to show his concern for the other; if faiths without works was dead, surely love was the same.

"Do you have a safe place to weather it out? I cannot house you here, but..." And he hesitated then, catching his bottom lip to worry it gently with his teeth as he thought, considered the amber liquid in the cup his hands were still wrapped about; looked equally gravely upon his thoughts in examination for true concern versus the innate biases that he was not immune to.

"Mrs. Dougal, who owns the apartment I lived in? She would rent to you, if I vouched for your good behavior." His brow furrowed as he lifted his gaze to stare at Eoin, as though he could divine the man's future merely by tracing the features of that blunt face. His misgivings about this route were many, and he would hate to hear of any trouble caused by Eoin at the cost of the elderly widow. "If you're truly intending to see yourself rid of the pipe, I would have you safe, warm, and fed while you are ill." Luc would not act like he could not afford such an act of charity. Even if he had to go with fewer luxuries, for fear of asking his father for a greater allowance and having to reveal where his money was going, it would be no true hardship at all.

[Eoin McDaniels]

Eoin looked up from his teacup and the further Luc went with his words, the more he hung to every syllable that formed and manifested in the air. His first reaction was disbelief, then hope, then suspicion, then anxious astonishment. These waves of emotion rippled across his face in quick and fluid succession.

"Yer bein' serious," came finally the assessment.
Eoin looked away. He dropped his gaze to his shaking hands. What does he want, he thought. What can he ever want out of this? Is he a being that good and righteous?
"Do ya really think I could have t'a place?" he asked. "Not like am lookin' now, Luc. No way."

Eoin stared down at the mince pastry and started eating it with desperate determination. Christ, he felt like being sick. But he fought back the urge and drank another sip of tea. He did not trust this yet. Would Luc stay true to his words not only today, but tomorrow? What about the day after that?
"Don' know what t' say. Yer too kind, Luc. Gets ya in trouble," he warned him and glanced at him sideways. "See, I want t' stay off. Sick of it. But I need time, t' put some weight, cut me hair, get half decent. Or I might not make it. Ya get me drift?"

He folded his hands into each other, seeking to feel them stilled. Eoin struggled to explain that shutting him in as he was now would see him in the bed with his dirt and sick without reserves to carry him through. He would arrive on the other side a husk of nothing with nowhere to go. But would Luc give him another chance if he did not jump to go immediately? Could he afford to give anything else but groveling accolades?

Eoin outstretched his hand towards the priest. "I want t' get right. I swear, Luc. Promise. Let me get towards it."
Suddenly he asked: "Can I wash me clothes here? Will do it myself, just need water an' soap."
Something moved behind his dark eyes. He waited, on the edge of his seat, what the priest would say.

[Luc Wynn]

It was a bold offer, for the both of them. It was well enough for Luc to fear for how the apartment might fare, or how poor Mrs. Dougal might handle Eoin if he behaved poorly, but the priest was not ignorant of the leash it represented to the other man. It was an obligation, a form of ownership to lord over him; the threat of homelessness while he was in the midst of his illness. The thought sat uneasily in Luc's stomach, so he could only barely fathom what it might feel like to Eoin.

"You do need a scrub, and you would need to stay well-washed." It was not an accusation, but a frank agreement. It was the opium that made Eoin filthy, but he had never seemed a man particularly concerned with hygiene even when sober. That would have to change if he wanted to stay in the apartment, if only to the extent of daily washes with a basin. It would help, too, if he was no longer laying on the filthy and nit-covered mattress in the opium dens.

"If you eat too quickly, you'll just throw it up." A gentle reminder was easier than lingering too long in the awkwardness of being given gratitude he felt ill-deserved. Luc knew that Eoin had the truth of it; that blind compassion could be dangerous, no matter how much it might help another. Wasn't it worth it, though, if Eoin kept his word and stayed away from the pipe this time?

"I don't want you to feel obligated. Get yourself better, and I'll consider that reward enough." He took the reaching hand in a firm grip, shaking it as though the deal had been made. Ultimately it was still upon Eoin's broad shoulders to make the most of the opportunity, but Luc would give him what tools he could. As for the matter of the Irishman's clothing, though... Luc looked over him, and his nose wrinkled at the dire state of the clothing. "You can wash them, but it won't do much without washing yourself first."

They weren't quite of a size, not normally, and Luc was a scant few inches taller. But it was close enough, he thought, and the alternative was Eoin walking home dripping wet in the freezing cold. So he released the man's hand, instead crossed to pull a trunk from under his bed. Digging through neat stacks of sweaters, he found an older, more stretched knit sweater in, appropriately, a rich green. Trousers would be a bit long, but at least they could be cuffed, and so Luc also took a pair of beige corduroy pants from the trunk. And, with a final glance up at the other man and a further wrinkling of his nose, he crossed the room to his small wardrobe to retrieve a clean pair of cotton drawers.

(He very purposefully did not think of what condition Eoin's drawers might be in, given the state of the rest of him.)

"Finish eating at a reasonable pace, drink all of your tea, and then go three doors down to the left. That's the washroom. I'll go draw a bath for you, and once you've cleaned yourself up, we'll go pay Mrs. Dougal a visit." It was not the tone of voice that brooked any argument, for all that his brows raised in silent askance. Luc would not begrudge the man his autonomy and dignity, in this or any other actions. That aside, he still did not hesitate to step out to the hall, following his own directions to the small washroom the lower-ranking clergy shared. Another luxury of this place was that there was proper plumbing, hot water and all.

As the bath began to fill, the temperature of the room quickly began to rise and Luc quickly hung his cassock on the back of the door, lest he sweat through it, leaving him in a plain shirt and his black trousers; hardly a priest anymore, by the look of him. With the towel and toiletries he gathered in his arms, one might even mistake him for a valet as he waited patiently by the filling bath.