dad, hey

the candles flicker with the opening of the church door, casting twitching shadows up the wall and into the hidden arches— where angels rested were she in the mood to humor her sister’s turns of phrase. but there were no angels on guard tonight, just the two of them trying to bypass imagery in favor of tangible. after all, she’d never tried the communion wine, and why there was no time like the present. like bible study, movie night, spinning off excuses until there was simply the truth. presence for presence. and a glass of holy wine.

She remains in the viewfinder for a moment, image etching in the pupil like old photography would to sheets of tin. Light exposed, color blooming, developed but not distributed, one click following to capture time in a single frame. The camera continues to be held in both of his hands while her offer reaches him before it’s lowered down to his lap. His head shifts back against the wall behind him, eyes lingering on her before the slightest movement passes as a nod. “All of them,” he tells her, accepting the offer to full capacity, chin tipping up. “The ones you don’t think are good enough? Don’t throw them away in my set.” And just in case there are other plans at the last minute… “I’ll know. I counted them.”

His vision tightens around the edges, taking in her last remark. Somehow the corner of his lips quirk until they’re made to purse, raising her camera again, readying it. “And?” he asks. “If they want one? They can take it. I don’t work for the church.” Another shot, subject looking at him, a golden shine across her cheek. “You don’t want your face to show?”

“even if they turn out blurry?” searching for an out, trying to find the reason why a deck might fall one short. as if there could be one photo in there that she needed for herself alone, just to be safe. the squeeze in her heart at the notion he’s truly counted. was attention to detail always to expected, should it be thought of as so charmed.

“they don’t need my face.” a little fierce burst, protective over herself or some version of herself. the wondering thought that she might not want to be recognized anywhere for anything if it meant that she could continue this version of her life. “you don’t work for the church?” she didn’t think of his position as a job per-say, but there was something that she would have assumed. that he wanted to help, that this was a safe space. now she was left uncertain. she presumed nothing, she asked nothing of it either— though her gaze lingered, questioning what she knew. “you just know the best angles then.”

He processes, the speed of a Windows 95, loading up the program of an understanding nod, belated is an understatement. One boy. It comes as a mixed bag like a lot of things that are being thrown around here. His jaw shifts, swallowing back the first few words he can think of that the more experienced side of him knows won’t do him any favors. “All right,” he settles on. “He’s just one boy,” he agrees with a shrugging shake, hitting a tone that’s gotta pass for being honestly dismissive, like it’s no big his daughter has glomed onto a father’s nightmare. He’ll quit while he’s ahead, even with his hands on either side of his crossed arms, a poor attempt to warm himself up to the idea before him. At least he’s got the nine o'clock part back. He’ll take the small wins where he can get them.

“Do you want to… take some snacks along with?” he asks after the silence has passed between them long enough to start again on a better footing, a reboot. “You could give the… one boy a plate of dinner, if you feel up to it. I don’t know what kind of grub the church is dishing out, but it can’t hurt.”

there’s a moment of stability. the quiet beats where they’ve both finally waved their white flags, and the tension breaks. she can’t say who’s won. she has a curfew but she gets to go, he knows there are very high incentives to not break this said curfew on her first time out. maybe there aren’t supposed to be winners in these sorts of things, who’s to say.

the sigh finally escapes with his prolonged offer, as though she couldn’t quite help herself from one final separation from the moment. “i just—” her dish is rinsed clean, wynn is perched in the corner watching, there is still time on the clock where white flags might be switched out. she stares at damion, trying to figure out why he would offer, confusion scrawled across her forehead for the briefest of moments before she can shrug it off. “okay. a plate. sure.” why not. she could suffer the expression she would get in the car, though she doesn’t have to pretend to be happy about the idea. “fine. that’s okay?”

He knows his mistake at first tone back. His body sighs out all the air inside, like a deflated balloon that’s been let go of at full capacity, so close to reaching its full potential. It’s all too late to recapture, now, not that he can bring himself to give up on trying to get back what has been lost. “No, listen, no one ever said anything about anyone being stupid here. I didn’t mean it like that, all right? I’m just saying boys aren’t all sunshine and rainbows sometimes, but that’s nothing on you.”

Damion attempts a step forward towards her, but what will he do when he gets near enough to her? Pat her shoulder? Pat her head? His hand lowers back to his side before it can even really be raised, all crossed out as options that will make the impact he needs, already sensing the future, and it’s not roses. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he lands on, he means it even if this household is learning the ropes with a lot of things, including apologies and feelings. It’s for the best if he puts his hands in his pockets, no longer tempted to put on some awkward moment between them that he knows they’re both trying to avoid. “It’s what dads do, okay? It’s part of the job to keep a look out for you.”

“it’s just one. just a boy.” she doesn’t realize that the clarification doesn’t make anything much better, if anything it puts her on shakier ground. as though suddenly she’s not hanging out with a friend, but some that that really is more to talk about. there’s not. she’s already made her negotiations, she’s going to go to the church because there was nothing wrong with it before. and she wants to see julian, still, even if he is a boy.

“i know the signs.” but so much of the fight is already out of her, fire put out just as quickly as it had been stoked. sometimes all it took were those two words, i’m sorry, even though she finds them still nearly impossible to spit out herself. she took a deep breath, although she hardly goes so far as to follow any of the breathing techniques that have been recommended to her. “i just—” she doesn’t know what else there is left to say before she treads into something too much for an after dinner chat. “it’s a church. i’ll be home at nine.”

“You think I will break it? After all this?” Her trailing off voice is picked up easily by him, his words fitting into the valley of hers like missing pieces. There isn’t as much silence left behind because of it, and his palm is filled with the camera in question before he wears its strap, accepting of its high appraisal, enough to value it over himself. It’s part of her, and for the few minutes she’s lending it to him, it’s also a part of him.

He takes his steps back to the location already scouted out, the end of the railing, turning to have his back face it while his eyes return to her. “Step back,” he instructs, waves his free hand off to where he means before patting the banister, the sound being knocked out of the woodgrain by his knuckles. “One hand out. On the banister. Look out. Forward.” Claudia’s face is coated in amber, the profile outlined by the darker backdrop, defined with the wide angle that he can already tell before he can look through the viewfinder. He needs to be on his perch first. His left hand is on the camera, the right on the railing, one leg over before he’s able to straddle the threshold that separates life and death, one inch away from either side.

“When you have them developed?” he starts, back pressing into the wall behind while his heel fits between the spindles, camera raised, focusing on the subject. “You’ll show them to me?”

his directions are listened to, although not immediately followed. she’s not a model, she’s never seen herself in front of the lens, and she has no immediate pressing desire to be turned into subject. if the photo turns out and she’s forever immortalized in film, standing in this church, what does that make her? certainly not as beautiful as the architecture aged around them, but perhaps not everything needed to be perfect just yet. some frames given in the name of practice. her hand finally grasps the banister, “i guess there’s only one way to find out.”

chin tips up, gaze tracking to his precarious balance on the ledge of the church. she lingers for a moment, it seems less dangerous than it should when he does it, as though it were the only angle that could be used at this balcony. and finally with that thought, she looks outward— she waits to hear the click of her camera in new hands. the film now bears the trace of two photographers, she cannot say why that might be so important either, thoughts keep sparking. “if you want you can have a set.” it makes sense, after all the church was his too, why shouldn’t he be able to use the photos for them. “if i turn the full way you know it’ll put my face in full shadow, might work better for a brochure.”

It’s remains hard to wrap his head around the fact that time hasn’t stood still. It’s what he gets for seeing his kids every day; he doesn’t see the subtle differences that have added up over the years. They’re no longer knee-high, round faces, easy homework. Moments like this one remind him that one day both of them will have their own lives outside of this house, and one is already starting to.

His head nods, the kind of ‘okay’ that it’s meant to convey contradicts the worry line across his forehead. He wants to believe. As much as he believes in her, he has less faith in the other half of the equation that can guarantee that she will be fine. “Sure thing, kiddo,” he says, half-hearted smile pushed up before it dips again. “He didn’t…” he tries to slip into casualness, an ill-fitting polyester suit that shows every crease, “pressure you into coming by yourself either, right?”

“oh my god.” the exasperation is clear in her voice, whatever white flag she might have been waving is pulled back quickly at the new target that’s being aimed for. the question might have been a valid one in a world where she walked blindly into every situation and didn’t think anything through, but she was pretty darn certain she’d learned her lesson on that one far enough back to know. “no. he didn’t pressure me to do anything.” it’s equal parts defense of her own judgement, but also a swipe and keeping julian’s reputation in tact. big talk for someone he hadn’t even really met. “do you think i’m stupid?”

she didn’t walk into traps, and she made sure to stay out of most people’s way. this was the first time she’d even considered hanging out with someone outside of school and of course it’s met with twenty questions. “i want to go, i asked. it was me. okay? he’s doing me a favor. i’m not— i don’t get pressured into doing things.” the implication stings more than it should, she knows there’s no reason for it to. but still, she hates to think of herself in such terms. weak, malleable, manipulated. she’s not. why would he say that? the thought repeats again, finding its way to being voiced in such obvious wounded terms.“why would you say that?”

He doesn’t know how to take her answers. They land like lead the moment they’re in the air, held down by his gravity. He has no reason to believe she’s lying, but he doesn’t have the experience that supports it to be the truth either. Caught in limbo, he merely watches her for a moment before his lips shift, vague acceptance until there’s proof to go against it. After all, wasn’t Reina beloved by her father? It is possible. It is. “Good,” is his only comment before he turns away, banister held onto by hands and attention alike.

He has one other frame to try for her. For as much time as he’s spent in the church, he’s had the chance to know the right composition from the right advantage points. It’s only her last line that grows the return of a half-smirk before his face is angled back to her. “You think I could catch you? From down there?” Julian’s head gestures to the ground, the drop that’s well beyond the height of a pew. “This is where your faith is?” But his fingers flex, demanding again for the camera. “I’ll take it. That way? It won’t drop.”

she stares at the hand that’s been outstretched towards her as if she’s not quite sure what it could mean to come so close to her. logically it’s for the camera, and she will get there, but there’s some beat of hesitation. good rings in her ears, she didn’t realize there was potential for any bad. but she untethers the camera from around her neck, pressing it into his hand with nervous breath. shes giving up her most prized position without even being prompted, he doesn’t have to ask a second time. “you break it...” but she doesn’t finish the statement, doesn’t bother with even wondering if he might. they both know that it’s the most valuable thing in the room right now. and it’s not going to drop. “fine. where am i standing?”

The no scatters across the kitchen like broken glass, each fragment flying in some random direction that doesn’t mind what it pierces. It showers across Damion, who blinks back, the world of patience bolstering him. He doesn’t have the kind of temper the kiddo has, not even at her age did it ever flare up that hard and fast. Though, at her age, he also didn’t go through all the things she already has. It’s the only thing that keeps him from doing much more than frown at her. “Hey,” he calls out, firm but constructed poorly, wouldn’t hold up if it was meant to be a permanent structure. He tries to fortify it with a crossing of the arms against his chest while eyes betray the foundation. “We don’t shout in the house, all right? Especially when we just set up a curfew for the first time.”

He could revoke it. He does have that power. He just doesn’t have the heart to pull out the card. He’s half-way there in a threat with no finger to pull the trigger, but all he needs is a good enough smoke screen to get by. “Listen, I’m not saying you can’t go, but it doesn’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes on the”–he stops himself from saying date again–“meet up. We can go grab a cone when you’re done. What if you invited the boy to tag along, huh?”

she knows this is the moment where she’s supposed to say that she’s sorry, she apologizes, she takes it all back. they’re supposed to be working on accepting their faults or something like that, learning how to be better. she can’t bring herself to do that. all that she offers is a wince as he crosses his arms, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her. so she waits, but it doesn’t happen. which is almost worse, conflict engineered by her own nerves about what. it was just a meet-up.

“i don’t need an extra pair of eyes, okay.” finally a comment makes its way out, but it’s lost most of the fire that was there before. the wounded retreat after realizing that she’d gone so far. there was no shouting in the house claudia rose. “i’ll be fine.” she thought about adding once again that it was a church, but she’s can’t push her luck any more. she meets him in some imagined half way. “maybe we can get ice cream tomorrow.”

A sternness seems to be embedded in Julian’s facial muscles, implanted from birth or from recent years is debatable, some may even say it could be hereditary; he does not put himself into that category and never will. Whether nature or nurture is to blame, Claudia is watched and listened to in the same rigid light. “Who decides what is good?” he poses, animation of shoulders and head, demanding gestures to understand, to jump to a fight if the answer supports it. “You? Or? Him?”

In a place where the foundation is built on forgiveness, he sticks out like a crack in the wall, even when he’s silent and listening, even when his eyes are slowly guided back to her in time to catch Claudia when the camera lowers. He shares the contact with her, attempting to unravel a riddle that doesn’t exist. His head nods once in finality before turning to look forward, both hands on the banister to search with at least a new frame of mind towards the work at hand. “You think you have the shot?” he asks, glance thrown to her. “If not?” One of his hands lifts up, palm up, intention clear to take the camera from her. “There’s another angle to try.”

"i do.” she’s resolute in her statement, given quick enough that he should know there was no second guessing. she picked what was good in her work, she knew better than to let mediocre photos be hung on the wall in the name of support. there was no reason, not when she could do better. “i think if he had his way the walls would be full.” she softens, ever so slightly with the statement, camera lowered half an inch at the thought presenting itself and taking root. because, she realizes in the moment, that is the complete truth. but there’s nothing more to express. 

tasked with such a new knowledge, she could only find the way to backtrack in her own work. “i have a shot.” but her streak of honesty continues on, there’s no reason in pretending like she knows exactly what she’s captured. it’s not like she’s been actively in charge of all of the elements. a church at sunset is hardly a studio set. “but not from whatever angle you’re thinking.” the taciturn acceptance of his suggestion, not quite taking direction, more accepting suggestion. there was no reason not to take a picture anyways. was she in a particular hurry to leave? “am i going to have to stand on the railing.”

He’s really stepped in it, now. Thought he could slide the word in without causing the house of cards from tumbling down, but he’s thrown into a pit of faces that scream jokers instead. “All right, all right. Hold on there, Ansel Adams, I’m just asking if there’s a chance some wires were crossed here.” Damion’s face always holds a tint of unintended apology to it, as if all he wants to do with his kids is understand them. It helps to try to make them understand back that he’s not here to hold them back, only in the cases that prevent them from getting side-swiped by some lunatic in a mustang.

“Do you need one?” he asks after taking a pause, his own words slow and steady, packaged as an extended offer instead of a threat. “You won’t know I’m there. Fred and I can follow you there and wait in the parking lot.”

 “no!” she shouts louder than she meant and quicker than she wanted. the immediate and absolute shut down of the idea that she needed them to come along with her. she was just trying to spend some time with a— friend. she was just trying to spend some time in the church, she only wanted to talk to julian outside of the constraints of school, without the leering of inquisitive eyes. was it so much to ask? why did she want to ask it at all? his suggestion almost drove her from the entire line of inquiry, but another breath went in and out. she dug her heels in.

“i don’t need a babysitter. god, it was a joke.” there’s venom that she didn’t know that she could talk with, a pause taken as though she’s startled by the words coming out of her own mouth. they so rarely had these disagreements anymore, there hadn’t been a reason to. finally settling into a routine, and here was the disruption. was it that she couldn’t be trusted, or that something was wrong with julian, or something that she couldn’t puzzle out. “you already said i could go anyways.” and she was going to, it was the only thing she was sure of in the moment. “take wynn to go get ice cream or something. i’m fine.”

He doesn’t take her for her word, but there’s no laugh that follows either. It simmers in the air, tugging at the brows, a wondering look that lasts only a moment. The remnants that are left behind as the truth is told are there simply because a word like ‘dad’ is spoken, wrapped around in kind and thoughtful gestures, all of which paint a foreign relationship that not even Father Rafael can mend. Damion Killgrave is someone that has earned the care and trust of his daughter, and he can’t fully understand it.

“It isn’t good enough that you took it?” he asks, still edged in his lack of comprehension, his own reservations making their rounds. Eyes stay on her in silent thought before he steps over to the edge of the second floor, overlooking the nave of the church, led by scarlet carpeting to the pulpit and altar. It is the same place where he’s heard the priest warn about judging others, sometimes during mass, sometimes directly.

“Here.” The head tips up, the short gesture for her to follow one more time, hand sliding out across the banister as if making room for her. “He has an office? For what? Art?”

“i take a lot of pictures.” the question has an obvious answer, fired back quickly in the defense more of damion’s choices than her own art work. she would never let him hang up something subpar, even if he insisted that it was a masterpiece. the shattered glass frames of her first few photos. it was just supposed to be encouragement, but she would never settle. “that doesn’t mean they all need to be displayed.” the harshness of her comment lingers for an extra moment, as though she’s searching to understand why he asked in the first place. she might have completed the thought if not distracted by his hand on the banister.

she finds her place without thought, eye to the camera lens as she leans over the banister, looking at the new angle of light the second level has brought her. there’s a few beats of absolute silence, and then the shutter clicks. “he’s an architect.” the camera is lowered just enough that she can see his face without obstruction, searching for the answer that he was really looking for in his questions. she could feel something lingering, just below the surface, but hadn’t figured out just how to respond. so instead she settles for the obvious, just. “i think the structure of a building, captured well enough, would do great there.”

She jumps down to explore, his legs blocking the path from her until he decides otherwise. It’s his invitation, though, presented with a tilted up face before his hands push himself off from his perch at the back of the pew, feet now on the ground. They land barely with any difference in noise, as defiant as the last, more determined in their standing, the purpose of belonging in spite of his religious status in limbo. “Next time? Use them,” he tells her, eyes flickering to point out her jump, as if the impact is something tangible to catch, as if the catch by offered hands is the exact point that needs to be made. “If not? You’ll twist an ankle. And then? You won’t have the choice.” The slightest tinge of a smirk is brushed off as his head nods to the side, the direction of where they need to go. “Come.”

The entrance is turned through. The small fountain of holy water is passed, viewed to him nowadays as something as commonplace as a coffee table in someone’s home. As the stairs are reached, the remainder of light glides through the windows, sprawls out all over the second floor, as if it’s the first and last touch of the sun within the entire church. Everything takes on a tawny finish. The pews are turned into golden oak, the carpet is now more orange than red, and the light fixture that hangs above that centers the vaulted ceiling pales in comparison.

“The photos. What will you do with them?”

“will i?” she hopes it comes off as a joke, although the ever present specter of injury has never quite escaped the peripheries of her thought. it’s easier these days to say that it’s because wynn always picks such morbid documentaries to watch, but she’s not sure that’s entirely the case and it’s not a topic she’s going to broach here of all places. not with him. not when she’s just laughing, and the whole world is a cascade of gold, she can pretend for a few moments that everything is normal and the joke was just a joke.

she follows him without question regardless, something about the leader and disciple, the trusting and the trusted, how great the photos will look from the spot that he’s pointed out. clearly he has an eye for it as well, but she’s not in the business of just handing out compliments either. “i bury them.” it’s a joke, a poor one, given away by the sigh that accompanies it. besides, she likes the truth of it all the same. “no— my dad frames them. sometimes he uses them to decorate too.” 

they pass shrines that a better girl would consider holy, that she might even stop to take in for a moment if not for the stained glass that was awaiting her. and her preoccupied thoughts make their way to the surface one way or another, finding a safer respite as the stairs are climbed. “he’s got an office closer to downtown, i want one good enough to go there.”

“You know him?” She doesn’t. He already knows the answer, but it doesn’t mean what he sees in her face. There’s natural curiosity, a wonder to what he means by what he says, like she’s taken to heart what he’s said. He sees what else there could be, and his brows knit together to squash it, shaking his head with it. Father Rafael is the only person left to have his trust, and with it comes his loyalty. “He’s good.” Simple and direct, no room for interpretation. There’s no need to elaborate, but he’d rather spend more time talking to her than in silence. “He has seny.” But she doesn’t know what that means. No one here but the man in question does, and he will never hear it come from him either. “He has…sense,” he explains without being asked to, the closest word he can grasp to what it can translate to.

His eyes follow her, even when her back is turned, her attention through her camera lens, even before she asks her question. She probably doesn’t catch how it makes his head tilt up, his turn to look curious at her before his lips form a straight line. “No.” The camera shutters, can hear it under her fingers before her voice takes up his hearing again. She manages to tug one corner of his mouth up, breaking the stillness that formed before. “You’ll need them to come down?” One of those hands raises, points above them where the second floor overlooks where they are. “Up there? The view is the best.”

he has sense. she nods just the once, more a confirmation that she’s heard the words, or at least what they’re supposed to mean. it’s not that she disagrees, but rather she simply doesn’t have enough information to say either way who she might really know. she trusts julian’s words implicitly, with a startling immediacy that makes her question her own judgment more than anyone else’s. she doesn’t know any more about this boy than he knows about her, and all the stories that lurk just under the surface. and still, she doesn’t question the judgement that’s been rendered.

“no. i can manage it.” the teasing rings true, but she still feels some need to prove her own abilities, no matter the task. a little child still crying out that she can do anything just as well as anyone else. she jumps down from the bench, her shoes hitting the cold stone of the church floor with an echo. she’s yet to master being able to quietly do anything, instead she announces where she is at every turn it seems, up the bench in a clumsy manner, back down from it all the same. the camera remains steady though, protected in her own two hands. “show me.”

He’s not going to tell her he didn’t excuse her from the table. He’s not a warden. They reached an agreement, and if she wants to go without saying anything, he guesses he’ll take it, but not if he can help it. It gives him some life to see her turn around, hooked by photos, wanting to connect to her interests as much as possible. Photography is great. It’s no architecture path, but he’s happy for whatever works for her, just as long as it keeps her on the straight and narrow, out of any trouble. He’d like to say that the church should be a safe bet when it comes to that, but he’s still holding out on those reservations.

“Sounds great, kiddo. I was thinking we could pick a spot later, but go at it. You’re the artist. Whatever you say goes, okay?” As long as it’s just… this part. Not the whole… come home late stuff. That’s not up for renegotiation. But he nods along, anything to bridge the time, moving away from his chair and headed towards the connected kitchen with her. “So, this’ll be a blast,” he goes on, knuckles tapping slightly against the counter as if to cement its existence. Yep. Still there. All level. Nothing wrong here. Not in their house. “Whose big idea was all this? Did uh…”–this name just isn’t getting any easier to say–“Julian ask you?”

she thinks of all the blank white walls that could be filled with her photographs. the task should be daunting, but all it does is make her want to work hard, to strive for perfection. if a photo is hung on a wall, eventually people will see it. and she refuses to give them the occasion to comment anything more than it’s beautiful. it does sound great, and her dishes are rinsed amidst the concentration that it brings to her features. it’s enough to let a nod slip by in answer to the questions that he’s asking her, her guard lowered in relief over not having had to continue the most excruciating part of the conversation. they agreed on a time, well enough. she doesn’t need to keep anything else from him.

“i was looking at the windows anyways.” it sounds more defensive than it should be, considering that he’s just asked a question. she was staring at the windows when she should have been watching the priest during mass, and she got caught by someone who should have been paying attention to the words being spoken all the same. she’s not sure that it’s anyone’s fault, but there’s something that makes her skin itch when the priest starts talking about how they’re all going to get into heaven. “he just thought it would be a good idea.”

“It’s serious? To stop you from getting hurt?” he questions, though not in any tone that’s close to opposition. He is not here to take the offer of divinity, but there’s something to be said for being the shield and sword to another power higher than your own, higher than what you’re even able to comprehend immediately. “You don’t know good priests,” he settles on, dry humor spread back to her with a flicker of movement to the brows.

Her camera is held in her hands, mechanical responses heard from her touch. He watches how the snapshots are processed, his eyes drawn to the window before being shared by her–a concept that is jokingly touched upon before being shunned. “No?” he sounds amused because he is, chin tipped up and at an angle with eyes on her from the corners. “That’s it? I will have only one? You?” Sights linger on her, even twists to keep her in the line of vision as he shifts around, finds a seat out of the back of the pew in front of them, feet still near hers while she stands.

“That makes you faithful to who? God or me?”

“you don’t mean that.” she studied his face or a curious second, trying to place if it really was a jab out of turn or if there’s some hidden truth. she has no reason to suspect that the father is not a good priest. but she doesn’t live with him, and she has no idea what the truth could be. she can’t be the one to say it. her thoughts stutter with the thoughts that were suddenly trying to claw their way out.

“did you want more than one?” the camera is finally set to the side of her attention again as she walks along the bench, getting closer to the details of the glass that she’s been able to capture so far. it seems easier, to focus on the window than look back down and see if she was supposed to be joking or there was another question that she was missing. “you only have so many hands.”