#maxwelltbt

❛ It’s in the blood and this is tradition. ❜ for maxwell // @judaspriested​

Body of Christ. Blood of Christ. Anderson’s hand disappears into the aumbry, disturbing what the boy had helped to settle only hours before. The dark recesses stir his memory, as if he can trace those gloved digits tracing across Christ’s remains.

Enrico can see it, even as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. There’s still grit there, the remains of a deep sleep disturbed only by the priest’s feet on the floor. Ever the loyal son, he had traced Anderson’s steps, caught readily, but welcomed into the little church of Ferdinand Lukes. Suddenly, his hands seem too dirty as he pulls them from his face, pale palms pressed into the bottom of his pajama top in a threadbare attempt to cleanse himself.

“What good will the Eucharist do if they can’t confess?” Removing the sacraments at such an hour paints an easily deciphered story. He’s clever like that. God does not strike him down for pride that Enrico reasons is well-deserved.

Salvation is more than blood -- It is surrender. He’s heard that from the pulpit for over a decade now, and does not flinch from the brutal nature. One needed the fear of God to truly understand him. Yet here the Father fumbled, pulling at the remains of that days Mass. The wine and host seem so small in his grasp, as if they were only toys reclaimed from the orphanage nursery. Enrico’s face is a perfect masque of contempt.

One of the only times Enrico ever got in a physical fight with another person was over Yumiko. 

Kid got in one free verbal shot. Then Maxwell swung for the first time in his life. Just boom. Striking out. Fist to the kids nose and mouth. And would not. Stop. Swinging. He used much more force than was necessary, to the point that in the aftermath the adults that responded correctly called that they just saw a bit of Enrico’s otherwise repressed rage rise to the surface. Of course, that could be sorted out by his mentor, the only man in the orphanage he ever responded well to. Anderson would sort him out.

Instead, Anderson looked at the facts, and how Enrico stood up for someone else rather than himself. That, he told Maxwell, was commendable, his intentions good. He had the children involved write 50 lines from the bible, a tangible punishment he could show others -- Then allowed Enrico and Yumiko in his office, watching the television he kept there on low volume, as he did paperwork. So Enrico sat with what would prove to be the only sister he would ever have, and watched an old flickering screen, and for once in his life he didn’t feel dirty.

and lyric is GIVING MAXWELL THE SWIRLIE! THEY ARE GIVING HIM SWIRLIES AND SHOVING HIM IN LOCKERS!! // @mageshot​

FOOL! His other home was a locker until he ran off at 17! It’s a wonder he didn’t grow gills at Ferdinand Lukes! He was the swirlie KING in his youth! Nothing you do now can wound him --

biggest headcanon moment of hubris for this motherfucker is that he left anderson to argue the case for his protégé to become the new head of section thirteen, then met up with heinkel and yumiko for brunch at a small cafe. they had a nice round of catching up and trying sweets. it was actually really charming. especially when they left to kill time just looking around the city. then maxwell’s stupid little beeper went off, he saw who it was, and smiled and asked the other two to join him -- he’s just about to be anointed as the head of the organization. 

they’re stupefied. that’s not... last time an organization head was sworn in, it took days of debate among the cardinals. it’s only been hours since negotiations began. no one knows who he is. he’s setting himself up for disappointment, they call as they fall into step behind him. he laughs it off, striding along until a car pulls up for him and ferries the trio to the vatican proper. there’s no way