Church: Steve/Claire
There were no second thoughts.
Steve hadn't been to Mass in a long time. A long time. It wasn't that he had no faith—his faith mostly existed in people, but it was larger than that too—it was just that it was a hard place to be. It was familiar, even in an unfamiliar building, with unfamiliar people. His ma had found a job, all the way in Brooklyn, via her priest from back home. The Catholic Church then was like a sort of employment agency for the influx of Irish immigrants, many of whom were women. While Steve had never been what you'd call devout, he was steeped in the culture of (early 20th century) Irish Catholicism.—He heard the piano as he neared the doors of the church. He hummed along thoughtlessly as he let himself in.
The church itself was beautiful. It radiated good cheer and calm, and the small community of people seated were all talking amongst themselves. Those in the pews all had their backs to him. He was dressed dressier than he ever was at the bar, and he tugged on the tongue of his tie, before smoothing it over himself, as he surveyed the scene as it was set.—He knew Claire by the back of her head. He hadn't seen her looking, but work with (or just know) anyone long enough, and you get to know the relative shape of them.
He slid into the seat next to the young woman, quietly, reverently. Christmas Eve was gathered all around, bringing its soft, snowy hush of veneration. It was like the church itself was cradled in some great palm. Steve looked over at Claire, catching the hymnal fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. "Hey," he said in a soft voice. As the piano music continued to play, Steve laid his hand, palm up, on one thigh, ready for Claire when she was.