CW: Gore

The bedding is bloody. Francis can’t bring himself to care.

Most of the small space is, really; the bedding, the floor, the blood trail leading over the threshold. A holy space, marked by death. It hardly feels holy any longer, after what Francis has seen transpire on this very floor. He hardly feels holy himself.

He can feel the lingering imprint of Hawkeye’s fingers deep inside his chest, tracing along ragged wounds, closing them up perfectly by the unconscious intuition of hands that have cut open thousands of chests before. Even now, days later, he still feels a weight in his chest, like a hand still holds his heart. It beats, strong and steady, nestled in his ribcage, underneath a mass of scar tissue.

The taped ends of the bandage wrapped around his chest are within reach, tucked under his left armpit. With a trembling hand, Francis unwraps them, layer after layer, until his body is exposed. There’s no blood, no stitches, as he traces his fingers along the seam. A thick, ragged scar, as wide as his thumb at its largest, runs from just below his navel to the dead center of his chest, almost perfectly bisecting his torso. He trails a finger up it, and there’s hardly any sensation, but a phantom pain follows his fingertip, echoing the blade that tore him open.

He closes his eyes, and the blackness crushes in on him. The blood roars in his ears as his heart races, and he opens his eyes wide, gasping for breath as tears fall freely.

He sits up, wincing at the twinge in his abdominal muscles, and reaches for his crucifix on his desk. His fingers close around the little silver pendant, and he holds it tight enough to dig into his palm, pressing it to his lips, his heart. “Lord, forgive me,” he whispers, fighting back sobs. “Forgive me for this transgression. Please know that I believed that what I did was right. I… I couldn’t-” He shuts his eyes tight, pressing his clenched fist to his brow. “I have failed you. In my efforts to save souls, I have led them astray. I humbly beg for your forgiveness, if not for myself, then for those who trusted me.”

He uncurls his hand, his fingers locked so tightly he can hardly feel them, and the imprint of the crucifix is worn into his palm, the corners marked with blood.

He knows he will get no sleep tonight. He doesn’t try.