Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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--- 30^th of March, 1959 ---

The last year of 50s decade was actually just like a mere year in each decade. The late March that brought with itself the late winter that has already died on the horizon, whereas the wee days of spring have already loomed by substituting the relentlessly chilly Boston winter that has assaulted within months the Bostonians with its blizzards, minus and unbearable temperatures. Even when the winter has already died in the limbo, the late March days were yet chilly as if the frosty season hasn’t utterly dissipated.

Nevertheless, today it was drizzling as if God’s mild, episodical weeps poured its crystal, beehive of rain drops. A mild early spring zephyr fanned every surrounding in Boston even the exposed fleshes and hairs like wind farms. The hoary and scarcely lucid sky was clouded by swarm of clouds that have outnumbered the sole sun, which could disperse its vibrant, scintillating sun rays by bathing in dim sun light below. Fortunately, no lighting bolts jolted the ground, shaking it and resulting the horrifying storm.

The elder nun, Mother Claudia has already gathered beehive of 5 nuns, who were sufficiently prominent to welcome the priest in the grand yard of St. Andrew’s church. The pious sisters of the church were sorted by their ages from the youngest to the oldest. The former licentious jazz nightclub singer was in the middle, subsequently reckoning her in between. Neither the youngest, nor the eldest.

All of a sudden, their eyes, fueled with sheer self-consciousness and inquisitiveness were transfixed on the midnight black cab which was parked by the young Monsignor as its car engine halted its recurring, monotonous buzzing in a choir. Sheer self-consciousness as they agitatingly wondered how the rendezvous with the British compatriot will pass, besides is he going to be as genial and polite as almost every priest they’ve encountered, regardless their back story and background. Donned in a conservatively, dark rigid cloth of chastity, concealing in an ebony shadows the sinful fragments of their impure thoughts, grim secrets of the past and the nubile, milky as vanilla fleshes that lead to the insatiable, fiendish sin. Inquisitiveness how the priest looked and how he will behave in front of the holy women.

Once the vehicle parked past the grandiose, alabaster statue with a couple of inches proximity, the car engine’s buzzing subdued in the background. In the meanwhile, the British compatriot, clothed in a charcoal black blazer, a dark, rigid sweater with partly exposed alabaster collar and dark trousers got from the vehicle by locking it. He looked so young. So fresh. So handsome. The horde of women of the cloth swallowed hard especially Jude and her protégé Mary Eunice, nibbling on the silken skin of her bottom plumpish lip pensively, idly. In the corner of their eyes they scanned each feature of his appearance and manners, scrutinizing him. His well-trimmed chestnut hair, capping his head. The light, milky as lily skin tone, sheening his handsome, youthful facial features like Christmas tree’s glimmering lights, adorning discerningly the holiday, prominent furniture.

“Sisters, that’s Father Howard! The new one.” The Mother Superior emphasized his ecclesiastical title by motioning his thin, elderly-like pale lips when the priest shared scarcely a couple of inches proximity with the much older woman. He was the center of the attention from Sister Mary Eunice up to Sister Agnes. The Bostonian was struck by his physical facial features’ magnetic, photogenic charisma, oozing of him like serpentine fatal venom, spat on the recent prey.

“Good day, Sisters! It’s enormous honor of Mother Claudia allowing me to introduce myself in front of you.” The honeyed, nonchalant monologue of the holy man commenced as Jude and Mary Eunice’s flimsy hearts violently drummed in their ribs cage, verging to spring up like a toy-out-of-the-box once if they had got their chances to meet in person Timothy, handshaking for a split second by moving on the next pious member of the clergy. Slight, sheepishly boyish smile parted his lips in a carving. “As the Mother Superior mentioned I’m a new to St. Andrews by having the ginormous pleasure to be part of this church and work together with the sisters even doing sacred missions together for the sake of the church and the people. I’m Father Timothy Howard.” In the interim, the Bostonian chewed on her lower lip girlishly, whilst she was listening attentively his monologue as her protégé exhaled sharply, catching her off guard.

“What bothers ya now, Mary Eunice?” Even if it’s been almost a year since the juvenile sister of the church joined the church at age 16, the uneasiness contoured her facial features along with Jude’s austere concern. Austere whisper caught off guard the docile young lady, turning to face her for awhile.

“Urm, nothing, sister!” Velvety, demure whisper lingered on the young nun’s tongue, biting unintentionally her wet, berry-coloured tongue.

“Then what’s the problem?” The both women of the cloth opted to diminish the decibels as much as possible without interrupting the introduction of Timothy.

“I’ve 2 homelands actually as I’m originating from a wealthy English family from London. And the reason why I’m a face of the church is to help the wretched souls, who’ve lost their path to God and to the light to find it again by making them happy.” Meantime, his chubby, well-defined cheeks tinted ruddily as sweltering heat crawled underneath the facial skin, chuckling wryly in low voice. “Isn’t that the church’s main goal, sisters, isn’t it?” All of a sudden, what it Jude struck first was that he switched from serious up to temporarily sarcastic with his rhetorical question, addressed to the swarm of nuns.

“Exactly, Father!” The pair of nuns exclaimed as one jubilantly, affirming his rhetorical question in strong agreement.

“Excellent! I’d like to express my gratitude to you, Mother Superior, for the introduction once again.”

Shortly afterwards the British aristocrat approached the horde of members of the church by starting with the youngest nun, Mary Eunice. The handshake with her was far from stern, unyielding and showing any signs of authority. They shook their hands as if it bear a semblance of mere strangers or rather Timothy played the role of the teacher, whereas the juvenile woman of the cloth literally the role of a new student who was arcanely self-conscious and uncertain in the new school atmosphere that encompassed her as if it’s her first day at school. Too meek, too coy and too soft handshake. It was a humongous minus for the Monsignor as he moved on the second nun, while the former sleazy nightclub singer scrutinized from closer the motion of their shook hands and his facial features. Even more her cheeks were already daubed in the brightest, dimmest incarnadine pigment, blooming its her abashed condition, contaminating her at the moment.

Unhealthily impure thoughts submerged her ocean of thoughts with its resurfacing icebergs. Even when she hasn’t peeled a single word with the younger man, she yearned more than anything to snake her yet drop-dead gorgeous, lean and long as tower legs around his mysteriously muscular waist, whilst their luscious lips are savoring heavenly nirvanic kisses, muffled moans and groans zinging like melodious tunes of pleasure. Breathlessly succumbing themselves under the spell of the sinning and sex. Rotating and grinding her hips on his. Their stark bodies’ pale as ghost skins contacting. Their essences amalgamating altogether in unison like yin yang as Jude was yin, while Timothy the yang. Bright contrasts. That was the art of fantasies or rather passive sinning.

“No, no, stupid old whore! What are those nasty fantasies crossing yar mind?” An inner voice echoed in her blizzard of thoughts unwelcomingly, biting her lip by faintly ducking her head humbly, meekly. “He’s a goddamn priest, not yar toy boy for one-night.” The same inner voice cautioned her lividly, attempting to get her out of the wrong track. Out of shadows’ sight. Out of demon’s mind. It was against her solemnly took vows and anything against the church and God. Against her a decade career as a member of the clergy. Against her solemnly took vows. Against the hallowed.

“Good day, sister! It’s Father Howard.” All of a sudden, she was snapped out of her train of thoughts, consequently dwelling in the reality realm haphazardly as she beheld the embarrassingly, howsoever, soothingly offered mammoth, veiny hand. She swallowed hard the budding lump in her throat, seconds before returning the handshake. Her heart raced momentarily.

“Good day, Father! I-I’m Sister Jude Martin!” In the meanwhile, the middle-aged lady introduced herself, shaking firmly, austerely with unavoidable authority his amusingly warm, alleviatingly smooth hand, molting in the skin contacts they established. Benevolently beaming, serene smiles smeared across their lips. What the holy woman longed more than anything was the handshake and his warm, smooth as silk skin to not ebb off and to be ethereally endless. She quickly became fond of him even if it’s been a few minutes since she saw him for first time and spoke to him for a split second. They looked up at one another’s porcelain, still youthful complexions. Drizzling vaguely drenched their conservative, dark wool attires of the church as their armors against the chilly early spring climate. Dew of moistness christened their solely exposed skins to the climate. Their faces, hands and partly their necks.

“Sister Jude!” The British aristocrat repeated in honeyed, British accent her clerical title and name in the same time in symphony. Contagious idiotic content grins flashed as jolting bolts their facial features as light, cheerful chuckles scratched their throats gutturally. Their cheeks throve its gardenias of noxious cerise paint, painting their pale profile prospects.

A quarter a minute later the last two nuns who shook their hands with the ambitious Monsignor were decent enough, although ablaze jealousy sketched the middle-aged woman’s face at the sight of Timothy being with another woman than him. When the introduction and handshakes have already progressed in meeting the new Monsignor, Mother Claudia cleared her throat tepidly, seconds before declaring the only woman of the cloth who’s going to take on a tour the British aristocrat in the tuberculosis, old hospital.

“And sisters, that’s not all! Father Howard is genuinely delighted to introduce himself to all of you. But keep in mind that there’s going to be only one sister, who’s going to tour him around the tuberculosis hospital.” She emphasized the last sentence, whereas Jude’s ogle was transfixed to Timothy until he returned the ogle as she averted promptly fearfully her ogle from him, chewing on his lower, plump lip. Sharp exhale heaved from the top of the Bostonian’s brittle lungs. “And she’s going to instruct him, educating him about the mental institution. And it’s going to be Sister,” Temporal pause silenced resiliently, cunningly each living soul as the sound of drizzling played rhythmically in the background. Every nun’s irises were darted to their mentor as they expected the punchline of the joke in no time, all ears listening. “Sister Jude!” Meanwhile, the elder nun declared triumphantly her name, earning promptly pair of jealous, frustrated looks, tattooed on the other women of the cloth’s complexions. The middle-aged woman’s heart violently throbbed in her constricted chest as its heart beats pulsated into her ears. Grotesquely disappointed frowns carved their lips.

--- *** ---

In the meanwhile, Jude and Timothy had a grave, nonetheless, somewhat sincere and personal metaphorically conversation as they entered in the facility, in order to tour it as Jude was the tour guide.

“This facility was built in 1910, the early twentieth century! Up to nowadays it’s serving as a tuberculosis ward, serving as the biggest one on the East Coast.” The both devotional members of the church have already stepped inside the old institution as Jude toured him on the first floor at first, wearing a girlish, coy smile, smeared as a natural make-up across her lips, incapable of wiping it off since she’s so fond of the new Monsignor. He didn’t peel a single word during her educational monologue, accentuating her grave professionality.

“So it’s almost 5 decades since this tuberculosis ward is situating yet?”  The younger man quirked his thick eyebrow elegantly, glimpsing at Jude’s parchment, angelic complexion, opting to not admire her ethereal natural beauty, concealed in its miserable, tiresome cloth of the chastity. They were encompassed by galore of patients, who were conveyed to their impending destinations. Their wards for cure by sufficiently professional doctors. The reek of medicine, urine and disease waffled past their sensitive nostrils.

“Exactly, Father! Father, may I ask something?”

“Of course, Sister!”

“What made ya to join St. Andrew’s church today?”

“That’s a very good question, Sister!” All of a sudden, they stopped in the middle of hallway as they were all alone after one of the young doctors transmitted an old patient in a wheelchair to the other ward. At the moment, the former licentious jazz nightclub singer nibbled on her upper lip bashfully, looking up at his charming, young-looking face. “As I mentioned earlier today, I’m a priest with two homelands and it’s going to be a great opportunity for me to collaborate with the nuns in the holy missions and becoming the first Anglo-American Pope in the history. It’s going to be also a great opportunity to help the people to be happy as they find a path to God and the light without struggling.”

“I see. I’m sure it’s going to be a fantastic privilege to work with ya, Father!”

“Sister, can you just call me Timothy?” In the interval, she bobbed obediently her head in agreement, softening her facial features.

“Of course, Timothy! You can just call me Jude.”

“Jude!” He repeated once again the name she accepted after joining the church a decade ago to rescue herself from the somber, inescapable diabolic grip of the demons and shadows of her past such as the one-night stands, boozing insane quantity of sweet, mouth-watering liquor, singing in old, filthy nightclubs in a jazz band and the gloomy secrets of her past and back story. “And back to your words, I can’t disagree with you! I’m completely we’re going to be a brilliant team players.”

“For sure!”

Chapter Text

Author's Note: The second chapter is based on Panic! At the Disco's song Hallelujah! I hope you like and enjoy this chapter along with the perfectly atmospheric for its chapter song. 

--- *** ---
--- A Week Later or So ---
--- 6th of April, 1959 ---

The evening hours have already loomed on horizon during the Easter week. The early April days in Boston were balmier and the chilly weather was bearable as well. The leaves, flowers and plants have already gemmated the bushes and trees, thriving through the balmy, early spring days with its dim sun light, dispersing its saturatingly brass sun rays and bathing everything below in a light sun light, coating it sunny armor against the lukewarm spring climate, common for Boston. The days were more rainy and cloudy.

It has been almost a week since the religious members of the church have seen each other as the Bostonian was utterly devoted to instruct her protege Mary Eunice and supervise the patients, who struggled with variety of illnesses. In the past a couple of days, Timothy had individual hallowed missions, associated with visiting the tuberculosis ward even when he had somehow the chance to behold the holy woman that instructed him back on his first day. Notwithstanding the relentless circumstances, he wasn't lucky to see her at all. Furthermore, the British aristocrat's daily schedule was hectic with galore of stressful engagements, filling his daily life by paying a visit to other places in Boston or somewhere out of the small city of Massachusetts.

The both saintly members of the clergy's upsetness for the almost week of not seeing one another escalated especially in the older lady's case. What it struck her first about the younger man was actually not only his memorable appearance with his elegantly trimmed chestnut hair, his cocoa brown orbs, dappling them with pure innocence and benevolence, oozing of his stares, besides his pale as ghost skin tone and his tall, leanly muscular figure, concealed in the vain snake skin of the dark, wool attires of chastise; moreover, his benevolent and calm nature reckoning his maturity and erudism, in fact, in general the men of the cloth must be well-educated first and foremost, afterwards taking solemnly their vows without even daring perilously breaking them.

A beehive of blanched aureate stars embellished the nocturnal, darkened sky, glimmered along with the outnumbered alabaster moon, hovering in the darkness as its moonlight gleamed below.

When the swarm of doctors were beyond busy with the patients as their myriad ages from newborns up to elders, whether struggling to persevere severe, unspeakably disturbing sicknesses up to the morgue, awaiting them, the middle-aged lady was in the hospital's kitchen, cleaning after the cooks since they've spent countless hours cooking and baking food for the hospitalized patients. The double shifts for the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer were criminally, excruciating weary for her, but she couldn't complain anyway. She was doing this for almost over a decade.

Chunks of food motionlessly, generously coated as a layer on the counter top and some of the ingredients for the dinner meals weren't even sorted back to their places by default. The blonde was all alone with her own prejudices and train of thoughts in the kitchen, cleaning the godforsaken mess and sorting the ingredients properly just like before. As if they weren't even touched before. Or rather, scarcely used by a single soul and a stark human hand.

Storm assaulted Boston's outskirts as playful bolts jolted down the ground, shaking it with itself in a rhythmical, tempest dance, whilst heavy rain poured as if God was weeping, grieving over the general population's sins and heinous wrongdoings, besides nurturing the plants and the soil for more natural fertility. God’s emotions were poured in the art of heavy rain, the seasonal phenomenon whether of joy or sorrow. Even if they were of joy or sorrow, they’re still healthy and beneficial for everything that flourished until it fades due to the lack of care and moistness they yearn for. The vicious storm encircled the old tuberculosis ward as some of the inmates were terrified to bones by a spontaneous jolted bolt, bewailing in affliction and fear.

All of a sudden, a handful of light door raps caught her off guard as she was cleaning the food chunks of the cooks as they’re having a break for a few hours before getting back to work. At first, the Bostonian thought it was one of the doctors, nuns or her favorite nun Mary Eunice to ask for her council or something.

“Y-Yes? Come in!” Little did she know who was the person in front of the double kitchen door until the British compatriot opened warily the door without trying to earn her prompt attention, whereas she was focused on her crucial task at the moment. Timothy chewed on his lower baby-pinkish lip by closing gingerly the notoriously squeaky door, subsequently tiptoeing up to the older lady. His cocoa brown pools, dimly illuminated by the dim light’s lamp with its saturating brass illumination glowed them like full moons, infusing them with mischievous slyness and willpower. It was oblivious to the pious sister of the church that the ambitious Monsignor was in the kitchen, consequently rendering her not alone at all.

“Good evening, Jude!” Suddenly velvety, British accent muffled past her petite, sensitive ear as he was right behind her, startling her as her heart raced.

“Oh, Timothy! Ya really scared me.” In the interim, she turned to face him as he offered her a benevolent, heartwarming smile, smeared across his pale-pinkish, soft as satin lips. What the blonde’s blizzard of thoughts was immersed was by impulsive, blunt cussing, scratching her throat, fortunately, dying on her tongue tip which was almost spit as serpentine venom. If she wasn’t lucky enough to abstain from the inevitable strafe, on the contrary she would significantly, haphazardly change the younger man’s worldview on her or at least caution her to control her own language due to its boundaries and the cussing was actually a sin. What Timothy were his first thoughts on the holy woman that escorted him to Briarcliff Manor by educating him about the hospital was that she’s astonishingly mature, down-to-earth, appealing, charismatic, although her stern and coldhearted nature, concealed in the cloth of chastise. “We haven’t seen each other for almost a week.”

“And that’s the problem, Jude! Are you actually busy with something?”

“Not exactly! I’m just cleaning after the cooks after cooking tons of meals for the patients and their night shift is starting very soon. Just within a few hours.”

“I see! I decided to pay a visit to you since I don’t have anything that keeps me busy.”

“Oh! Do ya want me to cook something really quickly?” Once the middle-aged woman finished with cleaning the food chunks from the kitchen by caching them in the trash bin after gathering them in a fistful pile, Her naturally rosy-coloured, heart-shaped lips curled in a beaming, mirthful smile, flashed upon her porcelain, yet young-looking complexion as a few long mop of stray once glossy due to the different lifestyle, now they lost its genuine glossiest nuance, pigmenting the amber tresses, framing ideally her beautiful facial features. Her chubby cheeks tinged cherrily as stuffy heat crawled underneath her facial skin like a mite.

“Sure!” He strongly agreed, attempting to not admire her ethereal grace, tattooed naturally from head to toes of her petite frame. “Are you a good cook?”

“I guess.” Smug, mischievous smirk crawled like a spider, webbing the corners of her mouth in facial flex, emitting husky, ironic chuckle, lingering on her berry-coloured tongue. “What would ya like for dinner?”

“Mmm, coq-au-vin?” The French meal was the first meal that has actually popped up momentarily into his hectic, recurringly functioning railway of thoughts.

“Of course! Anything for ya, Father!” Meanwhile, the blonde gathered attentively the ingredients for coq-au-vin to prepare it within a few hours by serving it for her recent and sole guest without an ado. He rolled his chocolate brown irises once she addressed him wryly with his ecclesiastical title.

While the saintly woman of the cloth was chopping the onions on tiny pieces, contouring them with each chop cubs, the man of the cloth preferred to keep his proximity with the blonde without violating her personal space so much and disturb her as she accidentally cuts herself or scorches her fingers or fists unintentionally.

At the moment, the middle-aged lady was utterly focused on chopping, somewhat delaying to reply her favorite priest’s utterances or enquires especially if the episodes of coq-au-vin’s preparation deserved more attention.

“Aren’t you peckish either, Jude?”

“For sure but that doesn’t matter at all!” The blonde unintentionally welted her thumb, slitting it as her rosy-coloured, soft as velvet lips bleated a shriek in soreful pain which she has mustered, nibbling on her upper lip loathly, blinking frequently her eyelids as the sensation of the pain overally christened her epidermis in goosebumps. Her heart skipped a beat abruptly. Luckily, her bleated shriek was sufficiently audible for the British aristocrat, ambling up to her. “Ouch! Shit! I didn’t expect that.”

“Is everything alright, Jude? Did you cut yourself?” In the meanwhile, he stepped alongside her by taking her elvish, dumbofundingly creamy as baby skin hand into his larger, secure, bringing it up to his eyes to survey in a scrutiny the slit on her thumb.

“Yeah, I did! It happens sometimes.”

“It’s okay! I need a bandage and disinfectant to treat the bleeding cut.”

“It’s somewhere in the cabinets especially the medical one.” The Bostonian instructed him, baring her ivory, still firm for her age teeth stoicly, persevering the physical pain after the unintentionally cut by sliding with the chopping knife’s top the ocean of chopped onions as they were zapping along with the vegetables.

“It really should stop to bleed once I disinfect it in a jiffy.” Paroxysm and shivers down her frail skeleton of pleasure, sweetness and vague embarrassment sedated her bones and muscles as the younger man traced gingerly, featherly her thumb, taking a deep breath. “I hope you’re alright, because it looks serious.” A half a minute later he scurried up to the multiple choices of cabinets, rummaging the medical cabinet in the kitchen, searching for a bandage and a disinfectant promptly.

“Serious? Hah! Don’t be so silly, Father!”

“Jude!” His British accent emphasized firmer her name, rolling his eyes after collecting the bandage and disinfectant to daub its medical liquid on the welt, thereafter binding it with a protective strip of the rigid, gypsum material.

“Urm, yes, Monsignor?” Stammering inquiry in fiendishly scoffing manner scalded her tongue, parting her lips as he applied the disinfectant foremost, seconds before bandaging it warily.

“Stop with addressing me formally as if I’m a university teacher or somebody you’ve a huge respect for!” In the interval, he ligatured her thumb. “We’re alone and there’s a big difference between the professional and personal world!”

“I can’t disagree with ya, Timothy,” This time, she rather corrected herself by glimpsing at the baking coq-au-vin, making sure the things were alright, afterwards turning to the British aristocrat, offering him an alleviatingly sympathetic smile, hardening the kiss, pressed on her lips. “But we’ve just seen each other twice, numbering today.”

“At least, it’s better than once or never!”

In the imminent hour, the both members of the clergy discussed abundance of discussions, mooted just before the prominent, first ever coq-au-vin dinner they’re going to have together. For example, their top topics were from business to personal without prying blatantly, banally in one another’s personal space. The former sleazy jazz nightclub singer didn’t mention anything about her grim past that was Pandora’s box of her paradoxal, rueful secrets, caged without having any intentions of opening the hazard Pandora box ever again by resuscitating the protagonist from her past life. Judy Martin. The impulsive, selfish, reckless bimbo, whose essential goals was to mute the pain of the heartbreak and the dynamic, melancholic roller coaster she’s been through for ages, thanks to the intoxicating, sweet liquor, lacing her tongue and temporarily forget about the soreful agony and pain mentally and physically even via the one-night stands, fearing of falling in love and being blissful again. Nevertheless, Timothy opened a bit in front of his favorite nun by talking about his family background without getting in farther details.

Once the meal was already ready, throughout it was served in plates by sitting motionlessly on the dining table and they seated against each other. During the initial minutes of the dinner process, they masticated in silence. The older lady was beyond self-conscious and agitated, factly, her recent guest and the new Monsignor in the same time was savoring for first time her dishes especially his favorite, coq-au-vin.

“What do ya think of the coq-au-vin that I cooked for ya specially?” The posed question dripped like saliva from her lips after contemplating blankly, eagerly as a falcon her forthcoming victim. She sensed the vehement heart beats, pulsating into her ears, verging to have a heart attack once she receives his honest answer.

“I really like it. I didn’t know that you’re such a pretty astonishing cook.” All of a sudden, the blonde’s cheeks tinted even more sanguine than before, without oppressing a rejoicing, diffident smile, carving across her lips effortlessly. Timothy was far from incredulous how Jude was a marvelous cook and pouring her entire energy and efforts, rendering them insatiably mouth-watering.

“Aw, thank ya, Timothy! That’s so kind of ya!” She expressed modestly her gratitude, vomited in her cordial exclaimation, bobbing girlishly, demurely her head.

“No need to! I like your cooking.”

“Ya don’t have any clue what else I can cook one day, besides coq-au-vin.” Meantime, joyful, radiant snickers shed from their lips like fallen fruits from the tree due to its uncontrollably potent wind, fanning and lurching them, swinging on the branches.

“I’d love you to cook more meals except coq-au-vin. I’ve to admit I’m a terrible cook.”

“Aww, really? It’s fine to be a terrible cook. Ya can always learn how to cook. Ya have a whole life to learn.”

“I can’t agree more with you!”

Chapter Text

--- *** ---

--- A Year Later ---

--- 25^th of December, 1960 ---

A handful of months remained until Jude and Timothy could remark their second platonic anniversary not only as devotional members of the clergy, collaborating altogether in the hallowed missions they’re attending to do, furthermore of their remarkable, promising friendship. The truth was Timothy was amidst the fewest true, loyal friends she’s ever had in her life. Life which was a dynamic roller coaster, full of hazards. Life which was a roller coaster from the protagonist she used to be back in her life before joining the church up to the pious member of the clergy, marrying herself to God spiritually and bodily, besides solemnly taking her vows. The protagonist with the sleazy lifestyle of boozing insane, unspeakable quantity of alcohol to mute the pain and the shadows and demons’ inner voices of her grim past, reckoning her former fiancé’s relentless heartbreak that shattered her flimsy heart on trillions of tiny, flimsily and frailly glassy pieces. The one-night stands with the variety of men, whether young or approximately her age to dip herself in the hazy, profound seas of the oblivion, in spite of feeling nothing else than temporal carnal pleasure. Thereafter coming to her senses a couple of hours later or rather waiting patiently for them to be deeply kipping so that to gather her stuff, subsequently making her way out of the old, crummy motel’s room and its façade. Singing in old bars in ordinary jazz band.

Today was a significant worldwide Christian holiday which was a prominent day for the blonde by deeming it as more prominent than her own birthday. The day of Christ’s birth. Even for today annually or almost annually there was a nun party by assembling the sisters of the church in a private hotel by reserving the bar somewhere in Boston’s outskirts. Somewhere far away from Briarcliff. Somewhere to have fun, to celebrate the birth of Christ’s day, taking its place somewhere with mirthful atmosphere, encircling them in its carols’ embraces. Somewhere far away from their ecclesiastical responsibilities and missions, occupying their daily schedules, unable to rest for almost a single second. They longed for distraction and a day far away from their bids and responsibilities, regardless how weary they’re eventually.

Through the past months, Jude and Timothy were dumbfoundingly close as the drastic close platonic relationship they shared as team players in saving wretched souls and being friends with abstaining from sharing their intensifying, potently romantic feelings they’d for one another.

A ginormous dining table was adorned with a cashmere crimson-oyster carpet, followed by empty dishes, a bowl with galore of candies with diversity of flavors, swarm of long alabaster lit up candles and empty glasses for drinks.

Sea of holy women were situating in bar as some of them were dancing, whereas some of them were conversating with each other.

In the meantime, music was recently playing on the recording vinyl recording where the barman was guarding it, boating in the background as a distraction.

“You say you've got kisses and swear that they're brand new! I think that's fine if you ain't lyin'! But make me know it do! Come on now, make me know it! Then go ahead and show it!” What it was peculiar for the saintly sisters of the church was that instead of a Christmas song or a song that was associated with the holiness, it was rather playing the outstanding Elvis Presley with his song Stuck on You, chanting eloquently the lyrics.

Jude and Mary Eunice were seating on the dining table, whilst the juvenile woman of the cloth snatched an enveloped white chocolate flavor candy, unwrapping its wrapping meekly with her slim, pristinely long fingers.

“I’ve always waited up to the day of Christ’s birth!” The elder woman of the cloth’s confession slipped from her tongue as serpentine venom, gawking glassily at the beehive of women of the cloth that encompassed them. Sheepishly girlish smile touched her protégé’s heart-shaped lips under its tender touch. “I can admit I consider it as more special day than my birthday.”

“Your birthday was like a month ago.” The orphan evoked out, seconds before munching with her ivory, youthfully firm teeth the white chocolate candy as its sinful, sweet savor lace her tongue and teeth like the insatiable, sweet sip of the strongest, most intoxicating liquor.

“Yeah, yeah! With one year I got older and that’s all, Mary Eunice!” The Bostonian retaliation unzipped her naturally rosy-coloured, soft as satin lips, squinting wryly her caramel brown orbs at her protégé’s turquoise orbs, submerged with sheer, childlike innocence, platonic love and warmness. “The birthdays as ya get older, they don’t matter anymore. They’re just like the normal days in the week.” Husky, fiendishly wry chuckle clicked emphatically Jude’s tongue, fixing her wimple self-consciously.

“I think that's fine if you ain't lyin' but make me know it do! You won't have no trouble proving it to me! Come right along you'll find me! Helpful as can be, you say you wanna hold me!”

“That’s true! I can understand how less exciting the birthdays turn to be as you get older.” Mary Eunice’s meekly mellow voice molted after munching the white chocolate candy, molting its chocolate in the corners of her mouth. “I can remember I had a few decent birthdays or rather much different than most of them as well.” Light sigh flushed from her brittle chest. “For example on my tenth birthday, I can recall so far that my adoptive parents bought me a horse plush toy since I’m very fond of horses and their barn of horses back then.” Hoarsely sardonic, inward giggle parted her lips in a nostalgic grin. “And up to today, I still keep it with my valuable belongings.” All of a sudden, the young woman ducked shamefacedly, nostalgically her head, lowering her glassy, jaded gawk at the carpeted flooring and her Mary Jane ebony shoes.

“At least, you had one of your best birthdays ever in yar life, Mary Eunice! I had a few which I could call good enough birthdays which was a long…long time ago!” The middle-aged lady swatted affably, kindheartedly the young woman’s shoulder with the palm of her petite, creamy as baby skin hand, earning her prompt gaze. “For example, on my third birthday just 2 years before my father left us with mom, I got the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen in my life especially as a little girl.” Meantime, the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer ducked distressedly her head as her gaze landed on her lap, recalling her early childhood and one of the best memories she’d ever had especially as an only child being raised in a frugal household with a single mother after her fifth birthday.  “All I remember it was lavender. It was a cotton one. My parents weren’t wealthy at all but they didn’t bother to pamper me anyway, despite they struggled with the money especially my mom, in fact, she’s working as a maid in hotel and she almost didn’t have spare time.” Dew of salty, crystal moistness immersed her frail eyelids unknowledgedly, crystal, bittersweet tears at the recalled childhood memory that resurfaced as an iceberg in the ocean verged to form twin fat tears, gushing down her cheeks. “Or how about my seventieth birthday, just a year before I lost my mother due to the malicious breast cancer she was diagnosed shortly after my seventieth birthday, s-she gave me her memorable ring that she kept it for me.” Twin fat, luminous tears dripped under her eyes, blinking recurringly the dew of salty moistness. Meanwhile, her eyelids were incarnadined as stifling heat ventilated them. “Those are the sole birthdays I could never forget especially one of my birthdays which were actually the final one for my mother. Every time whenever I slip the ring on my finger, I just can hear her words echoing as ghost whispers that watch over me and guard me as a Guardian Angel.”

“And stick to me like glue! Well hearing's deceiving and seeing's believing! Make me know it do! Come on now, make me know it
Well go ahead and show it!” In the interim, the British compatriot snuck up in the overcrowding beehive of nuns after entering in the bar unnoticed by his favorite nun and her daughter figure.

“That’s so sweet! I guess you had a better youth than me, Jude!”

“Think twice! At least, you had foster parents even if they treated ya like shit afterwards.” In the interval, her elvish, amusingly warm hand reached for her shoulder, pawing it in a gentle, amicable squeeze as her delicate fingers gently kneaded the rigidly shapeless fabric of her wool habit, without averting her stare away from her cobalt blue irises. “I grew up with a single mother after I was 5 years old and then lost her when I entered finally in the adulthood. Or rather, when I was already in the adulthood but the life’s challenges called me from much earlier. And I wasn’t a child anymore even before my eighteenth birthday. I was like a child with an old soul.” Suddenly the juvenile holy woman peeped over the hive of holy women, noting the Monsignor sitting by himself in the end of the table until he noticed the Bostonian, offering her a benevolent, beaming smile from a couple of feet away. Mary Eunice’s chubby, well-defined cheeks tinged sanguinely as sweltering heat crawled underneath her facial skin as mite. “A-Anything wrong, Mary Eunice?” Her mentor’s corner of her eye surveyed the angle that her ultramarine blue irises were darted as cupid arrows at the British compatriot, a ladylike, bashful grin carved upon her rosy-coloured lips once she laid her irises on him bluntly, unable to avert them in another direction or angle.

“N-No, not at all, Sister!” Stutter hemmed the orphan’s throat, transfixing her gaze on the older lady with a reassuringly optimistic, down-to-earth smile.”The Monsignor is there.”

“I say hearing's deceiving! Seeing's believing! Make me know it do! You won't have no trouble proving it to me! Come right along you'll find me! Helpful as can be!’

 “I’m not surprised why he’s there. I think I should go.” Meantime, her fingers featherly, resembling a mother caress, grazing her newborn baby’s cheek assuring pat on her shoulder excused her.

As soon as the former licentious nightclub singer got from the kitchen table by passing without bumping unintentionally into the throng of religious members of the clergy by ambling up to the bartender, glimpsing at times at her love interest even if he returned the glance.

All of a sudden, the older lady bumped accidentally in a masculine, taller figure, donned in the dark, wool cloth of chastise.

“Ouch! I’m so sorry, Monsignor!” The blonde excused herself, lightly lowering her head shamefacedly, chewing on her lower plumpish lip in embarrassment. Meantime, his colossal, surprisingly soft hand took hers into his, flinching her at first as she didn’t expect their physical contact to be too real. An idiotically reckless smile captured her lips in a luscious, resilient kiss, almost unable to put a finger on it by wiping off it as her cheeks powdered even more carmine. “I didn’t mean this accident to repeat again.”

“It’s okay, Jude! I’m so happy to see you on Christmas here.”

“I-I’m not surprised why yar here to celebrate Christmas.”

“The only reason why I’m here is because of you, Jude!”

“You say you wanna hold me and stick to me like glue! Well hearing's deceiving and seeing's believing! Make me know it do! Come on now, make me know it!”

“I-Is that true?” The middle-aged woman’s stammer produced rhymes in her inquiry, biting her upper lip with her still firm, ivory front teeth.

“It’s!”

“Timothy?”

“Well go ahead and show it! I say hearing's deceiving!”

“Huh?”

“Would ya like to dance with me?” At the moment, his round, parchment facial profile was powdered entirely in fresh rubicund pigment, clearing his throat at her posed question.

“I’m not a good dancer to admit.”

 “C’mon, Timothy! I’m sure ya can do it.” The former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer attempted to embolden him persistently by taking his larger, secure hand into her elvish, frail one as their fingers knotted as one, looking up at one another’s eyes, while they momentarily grabbed the other members of the church’s eyes as if they’re a treasure chest as the sole reward for the pirates after researching the island for hours restlessly.

“Seeing's believing! Make me know it do!”

“I didn’t know the nuns were incredible dancers.” The younger man emphasized, swaying his hips by spinning his dancing partner as their jubilant, hoarse chuckles dripped from their tongues.

“Timothy, don’t be that wrong! I haven’t always been a nun. Nor a Saint!” In the interim, the blonde gamely, cheerfully winked at him as he bit unnervedly his lip, consequently pressing the button of her instant snigger as its richness of the undertones accentuated her Boston accent.

“Oh make me know it! Then go ahead and show it! Make me know it! Then go ahead and show it.” The song’s ending was approaching as its instrumental was gradually fading away in the background until in a few spins, the members of the clergy danced the final lines of the song, earning tempest of applauds by the women of the cloth, numbering Mary Eunice, who was masticating another chocolate candy mousily.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This chapter is going to be final as a cherry of the cake with Lana Del Rey's song Lust for Life, subsequently naming it after this chapter. I'd like to apologize if this short story is indeed sloppy, nonetheless bear with me with pouring my entire imagination in the beginning of Nunsignor's saga how they've actually met. 

Is this actually the final fragment of the saga that has a beginning? Is that actually from where everything begins? 

Anyway happy reading! :))

--- *** ---

--- A Few Years Later or So ---

--- 13^th of March, 1962 ---

It has been a couple of years since Jude and Timothy have met as their professional, platonic relationship drastically grew into friendship by having coq-au-vin dinners once a week and collaborating altogether in their hallowed missions.

Today was the day when the British aristocrat, himself has determined to purchase the tuberculosis ward by turning it in a mental hospital for criminally insane by having meeting in face-to-face the doctor of science Dr. Arden. Shortly after the doctor of science and the pious member of the clergy had a grave, professional conversation, consequently asking urgently the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer to pay a visit to his office.

During the days, turning into weeks, throughout months and years of partnership, the both pious members of the clergy especially Jude have developed unspeakably intensifying feelings for the holy priest, having impure thoughts of him due to his enticing charisma and inescapable youthful grace, contouring yet his charming facial features with its photogenic, natural brush. Impure thoughts as jumpcut of their erotical reverie, where they’re protagonists and the former promiscuous nightclub singer was donned in nothing else than her rubicund satin nightie, hugging exquisitely her slender curves, defined beneath the nightie. Donned in something different and unholy. Donned in the shed snake skin satin armor of the Succubus and its true color of Judy Martin, incarnating her true nature. The ravishing red. The color of the woman, masked with masks of the former protagonist she used to be or rather when she was out of her habit, disguising herself as the mere herself and the religious sister of the church. Her long aureate mop of glossy old Hollywood curls pilling up on her shoulders, framing ideally her sheerly angelic, elderly ageless complexion with its gorgeous facial features. Her sheerly angelic, elderly ageless complexion which had the most fiendish honey brown pools, fueled with pure desire, love, passion and warmness, dappling its deep, hazy pools with the bright pigments of the sin and unholy. The Succubus with the milky as oyster, creamy as silk skin tone, the golden hair and bloody red lacy negligee was Jude. The succubus, longing for the ambitious Monsignor’s waist with knotted lean, still drop-dead gorgeous legs circa it. Their muscles grinding and rotating, whereas muffled breathless moans and groans in pleasure dripped as gore from their soft lips, pressed on each other in nirvanic, sultry kisses. Their flimsy hearts throbbed vehemently into their chests. Their soft, mossy skins contacting.

The diabolically impure thoughts were the forbidden fruit in Jude and Timothy’s friendship by immersing the woman of the cloth’s blizzard of thoughts relentlessly, bluntly. Or, that was unrequited love also. Or who else knows?

With the elapsing time, what the British compatriot could notice in Jude was her diligence, maturity, dedicated responsibility for the consequences and the missions they’re doing together, besides the authority oozing of her and welcoming its new visitors.

Little did the blonde know what were Timothy’s intentions of calling her exceedingly into his office after the grave, professional conversation with Arthur Arden, one of the best professional doctors in the mental institution.

The former sleazy jazz nightclub singer was reclining unnerved on the brick wall of the long, profound hallway of the recently transformed institution into an asylum for lunatics. Her long, slim as flute stings fingers were fidgeting, playing uneasily with each other. She was already waiting patiently for Timothy beside his austere office. Her ivory, yet firm anterior teeth chewed on her upper lip unnerved. She felt like her own protégé as if the younger Judy has crawled underneath the skin of the older, authoritative woman of the cloth, sedating her bones and muscles at the thought of meeting in person her favorite priest especially in private. Citrine brown orbs, laced with inquietude and shyness were casted on her pale as alabaster, frail hands, gawking jadedly the motion of her playing fingers. The vehement heart pulsations pulsated into her sensitive, petite ears, coiffed in her dark wool, conservative wimple of the chastise as sacred armor against the demons, the unholy and sins. Her naturally rosy-coloured, soft as burlap textured lips parted in a grotesque, insecure frown, flexing her jaw line.

All of a sudden, the sister of the church took a handful of steps as she brought her elvish, fragile hand, balled into a fist, tapping amiably, lightly on the mahogany’s wooden door as her courage plucked up suddenly to give a try whether if the younger man was in his office or on the contrary, he was busy with something else.

“Come in!” The blonde’s breathing hitched once Timothy replied promptly, nibbling on recurringly her lower, plumpish lip.

“Good day, Timothy!” Meanwhile, the blonde entered in his office after turning the doorknob, thereafter shutting the door behind her as he ushered her politely to seat against his cherry wood bureau, offering her a sheepishly boyish smile, nicking across his pale-pinkish lips. “I was waiting for ya for a few minutes.”

“Good day, Jude! You weren’t supposed to wait outside.” In the meantime, the younger man removed his citrine eyeglasses from his parchment, youthful complexion, leaving them aloof on the bureau with the pile of sorted exquisitely files. “I was expecting you here for a few minutes.”

“Oh!” The middle-aged lady demure stare averted for a split second, lowering it to the dressing table, emitting huskily wry, dark chuckle, lingering on her tongue. Her chubby, well-defined cheeks mottled incarnadine immediately as searing heat groveled beneath her mossy, palish as gypsum facial skin as an armor, shielding her against the common cold climate, encircling the old, monumental mental institution. “I’m so sorry for the slight delay, Monsignor! I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s alright. You weren’t late at all.” Afterwards she shifted her gaze to his, meeting his alleviatingly cocoa brown irises, ablaze benevolence, pure innocence and hallowed chastise speckled its irises. His honeyed, British accent was sufficiently soothing for the older woman as shivers and paroxysm were sent her body of sweetness, pleasure and elation of listening every pelt word of his with agitating eagerness and respect. Her delicate epidermis was mapped with silken goosebumps. “I wanted to see you in private.”

“I know so far.” A heavy sigh flushed her once constricted chest, unable to control her joyful, agitated as an excited child to open his Christmas present on the Christmas morning under the Christmas tree grin, jolting her porcelain, restless complexion. “For what exactly do ya wanted to see me?”

Temporal silence arched between the both adults, eating them slowly but surely.

“I’d like to inform you that Briarcliff is turning into a mental hospital for criminally insane,” Her hazelish-brown orbs widened at his breaking news by reaching for her petite, amusingly warm hand, squeezing it into his larger, secure at the alleviatingly, lovingly sensation that molted her like chocolate. “It’s going to be officially owned by the Roman Catholic church.”

The Bostonian didn’t know what to say as solid lump budded in her throat, easing the swallow in disbelief at first which wasn’t oblivious and overlooked by the aspiring man of the cloth.

“I know how drastic is the change but first and foremost this institution needs an iron fist that can run it doubtlessly, fulfilling the impossible task for the majority of the members of the cloth.” In the interval, Jude was eagerly, attentively listening to each word of his rational, declaiming monologue, biting her lower lip girlishly, coyly without peeling a single word, in order to not disrespect him. “However, I think there are a few people, who’re capable of running this institution, in my humble opinion! With an iron fist!” He emphasized.

Little did she know who might be amidst the perfect candidates, being portrayed to run the facility for lunatics with an iron fist and murderous, sinister authority without letting somebody to be let down. Meanwhile, her heart, flimsily and frailly drummed in her ribs cage, refraining from exhaling or making another further, idle sound that was out of question. Thumb kneaded the back of her hand reassuringly, overwhelmingly to subdue her uneasiness.

“Moreover, I’ve decided only one of them is capable of controlling everything around there and this candidate deserves to do the impossible.” Sharp exhale surged from the top of her brittle lungs, seconds before the final decision was made. “This candidate is,” She swallowed hard at his emphasis as his tongue clicked, transfixing his warm chocolate brown orbs on her as if he’s a television host of a game, pausing dramatically for gaining the audience’s attention in no time as they’re all ears to hear the formal winner of the game. “You, Sister Jude! But are you completely sure you will be able to accept the responsibility, because once you embrace it, there’s no turning back?”

“I’m more than sure to accept this position, Monsignor! No matter how much energy and time it may cost me.”

“Congratulations, Jude! You’re officially the administrator of Briarcliff Manor!”

What it flabbergasted more than anything the holy woman was that she’s the chosen one for an administrator of the recently owned by the Roman Catholic church insane asylum for criminally insane, who’re institutionalized due to variety of reasons and considered as tremendous abomination in the society. She’d never had the chance of running a facility especially where her responsibility, authority and strong, well-formed character in its evolution through the years were the crucial traits which were required to embrace diligently a responsibility that wasn’t for everybody. Furthermore, since she’s the head nun of the asylum, subsequently it meant she and Timothy could meet more often and assembling together with the crucial goal. Crucial goal of saving and aiding wretched souls, in order to find in the most pitch-black darkness path to the light and God. Reemerging from demon’s ruins. Reemerging in an unholy place and a cold world.

Was that the beginning of the saga? Was that the saga how actually happened between the both religious members of the clergy? Was that actually the emanation of a war between the platonic and romantic, feuding in their professional and platonic friendship in the same time?

Unfortunately, this brief fragment has actually reached its apogee with genuine explaination to the saga that has commenced nowhere else than in Boston especially St. Andrew’s church and cascading the dynamic roller coaster up to Briarcliff Manor, the complex, realistic development of their professionally platonic friendship and relationship in the same time.

Every saga has a beginning.