neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: January 9, 2001
Setting: Tadfield Manor, chapel
Status: Private - John and Kit (complete)
Summary: We need to talk...

It'd had been one of the last stops on their tour, and perhaps it had been a coincidence, but she suspected John had realized just how much the place would appeal to her.

It'd been a while since she'd been in a church, but the solemn faces of saints and angels etched in bright stained glass took her right back to mass when she was young: crowded into a pew, she and her sisters in dresses with far too much lace for her taste, while her mother reprimanded Peter for tugging at his tie. Maybe it was the rarity of such occasions - the stark memories of not knowing when to sit or stand, of not understanding the sermons delivered with such certainty - that made them stand out, but Kit couldn't deny the unique sense of peace she'd always found within these walls, looking up at these faces.

It helped that, to an artist's eye, every shade, every angle of this place was laid out perfectly, with such startling stillness that entering the chapel felt like walking into a photograph. She'd had every intention of trying to capture some of the surreal feeling of the place, and had even brought her sketch pad. But instead, she found herself simply sitting there, near the front, contemplating the elaborate adornments of the altar in this gorgeous place.

Threaded | Flat

Whether by happenstance or design, the hinges on the chapel door operated almost completely silently, and so after a time it came to pass that Kit herself was being observed in much the same way she contemplated the room.

John leaned in the doorway, studying the familiar profile silhouetted against the warmly lit stained glass of the windows. He hadn't quite known what led him to deviate from his usual path down to the bar and come in here, but it was the kind of impulse that rarely led him wrong, so he hadn't questioned it.

God, she was beautiful. They'd never gone to church together--John very rarely set foot in such places, except on the occasional bit of business--but the surroundings, wood gleaming richly in the muted colors of the window light, suited her better than anything he could remember. Like she belonged in such a place, he thought, smiling wistfully at his own flight of fancy. Like she was hallowed, something too clean for him to touch. Some truth in that, maybe, even if Kit herself would find the idea ludicrous.

"Waiting for divine inspiration?" he asked, and then cleared his throat, as the question had sounded a bit husky.