Mercedes is sinking like a stone at the (reservoir) wrote in repose,
Re: Sunday Service: Mercy/Shiloh
The new blessing looked young, man. Mercy figured around his age, or close enough to, although one couldn’t discount the fact that Mercy was pretty shit at discerning ages in general. And Father Browning was taller by a couple inches, but Mercy was broader across the shoulders and chest. (Since the oldest wolf he knew was at least a thousand years old and looked about thirty, standing closer to 5'7" as a man, he figured he could be cut a little slack.) So it was up the air. But he’d met a few small-town pastors in his life, and compared to the rest this guy seemed more likely to be a kid dressing up in his dad’s too-large suit and playing preacher — or he would have, if Mercy hadn’t seen him sermonize the hell out of those wide eyed church ladies.
He’d been more interesting to watch than the old farts, that was for sure. Mercy wasn’t wild about the whole faith-in-other-people thing personally, but the topic was an easy one to get behind and he bought into the guy’s overall approach. Father Browning had hit all the right notes. He came across as authentic, without seeming to try too hard. Now, he looked warm and approachable, without coming across as insincerely buddy-buddy. It was definitely working for him.
Standing next to Father Browning - Leo - in front of the church and shaking his hand in a brief squeeze, Mercy decided that the guy was either genuinely, obnoxiously pious, or he deserved a nomination next go ‘round at the Oscars.
Cynical? Naturally. But Mercy’s feelings about the church were a minefield of conflicting opinions, and he was a cynical man, period.
“Nice to meet you, Leo,” he said around his cigarette’s filter as it dangled carelessly from the corner of his mouth, taking the liberty of familiarity as presented. Squinting a little against the sun, he glanced over at the happy, socializing souls where they were trickling back to their cars in the parking lot. Then back to meet the pastor’s gaze, with the oil-slick of an ironic smile on his face. “Mercy," he offered in return, gesturing with a brush of his fingers against his own chest just below his pendant of St. Agnes and the lamb where it hung on a thin, silver chain above his collarbone.