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Hell's Kitchen is not exactly the nicest neighborhood, but the community holds together somewhat. Somewhat. That is, when they aren't trying to tear eachother apart. Once, Saint Bartholomew's Church was important to the people here, a place of worship and community. Unfortunately, those days are long past. A revival style Cathedral, it is built of grave gray stone with four columns out in front before its main doors. It has two somewhat ornate towers on either end of the front of the building, and from the windows on the side— which are all boarded up— it has more then one story.
From the front it is not immediately obvious that the Church is abandoned: it is surely run-down, but as the front has only doors and no windows, and its stone facade is sober and serious, it being 'run down' is not even immediately obvious. Stone wears well, after all.
The Church has become a haven for the homeless in the neighborhood, a place of safety. Inside, all the pews have been removed there are people and pallets and blankets all over. People are hungry and not especially clean, and not especially healthy — but there is no wariness. These people are safe. The only part of the Church which remains tidy is the altar at the far end, with its crosses and censors.
As it happens, it has a wide roof and a door that leads to the upstairs room: that door is not actually there.
*
There is one thing that can be said without doubt: New York has some amazing architecture. If you come from a place like Europe or, say, Asgard, it's probably not so impressive. But when your church was formerly a dairy queen that someone gutted and decided to build a pulpit in, well, everything looks impressive.
Jay doesn't know how he got here, but it isn't as if it's easy to get lost if you can, say, fly. Not that he is at the moment. The young man is hiding his wings under his button up shirt over his tee, not that it stops the feathers from sticking out the bottom. He went out for an aimless, wandering walk, and his feet have happened to stop in front of the rugged, statuesque looking church. No clue about the area, the people, the history, there's the briefest flicker of a maudlin smile as he presses forward, across the street, thong sandals clicking with each step. It isn't until those clicking steps hop up the stairs and he tugs a door open that he realizes what this place has become. A silent 'o' forming up on his lips, peering into the shadowed sanctuary, it's a feeling of numb shock that propels him forward, past the threshold. The echo of the door shutting heavily behind him heavy and oppressing, shutting the world out.
The country man lingers at the entry for long seconds before with a shuffle, his feet press forward again. Compelled toward the altar at the far end. Curious, a little perplexed at the apparent care put into it. The entire building a half step to the left from the world outside, and Jay tenatively exploring. Not entirely certain if he's allowed to roam, but unable to stop himself.
*
He wasn't there: he couldn't have been, because no one could have missed him, surely. But he steps out of a shadowy corner— perhaps the shadows explain his sudden appearance— and when the dim light falls upon him, his general properties are made clear. Most prominant is his size: he's well over six feet. He's not very much shy of seven, in fact. Its not the tall, skinny kind of thing either: even though not an inch of his skin is visible his shoulders, chest and arms are thick with what looks to be shaped muscle. Otherwise, he is a smear of darkness. He's wearing black jeans and a black shirt, and a belt that has a skull on the front and looks, oddly, to be a chain. Over the shirt is a black hoodie, and that hood is pulled up and over his head, leaving his face cast entirely in shadow. Over that, is a worn, threadbare trenchcoat taht is also black, and looks as if it has a few holes in it.
"This is a sanctuary." The man's voice is deep, but there's something rough, gravely about it: in the last moments of his life he inhaled flame, and though one can probably not guess exactly what caused the damage to his voice, its probably obvious there was some. "If you mean it no harm you may find what little succor we can offer. If you do mean it or any of my people harm—" The threat is more then merely implied.
*
Jay startles visibly as the figure pulls away from the shadows, his face can't get much paler than it is already, but the lump formed on his back expands as he gasps and pivots away; and automatic, animal fear response. Attention flickers wildly over the unknown figure, going up-up-up for an impossible seeming amount of time before they reach the hood that voice eminated from. "Wh-where—?" Jay whispers in surprise, trying to reconsile any of this in his brain. Trying to make it over that stumbling block, firstly.
It takes a moment to get over the nonsense of this space and the threatening man, but Jay swallows and tenatively begins once again, uncertainty written into his features. "Ah…can't say Ah've ever purposely done anyone no harm." His voice doesn't sound as certain as he wants it to be, tight and a little high, that southern lean sounding a little like a guitr string wound too tight. "Certainly not in a home-a the Lord." His brows knit down, curiousity starting to take hold over fear and cautiousness. The young man tilts his head slightly to one side, trying to make out more details of the figure. "/Yer/ people?"
*
The man extends a hand to an old woman who sits nearby on the ground, knitting of all things— a bit of normalcy in her otherwise somewhat aimless existance. His hand for the moment remains in shadow, so only the motion is likely to be seen. "My people." his gravely voice agrees, moving with a certain effortless grace towards the pale young man. "I protect them. In here those who no one cares about, those who no one wants, those who no one even sees, can sleep warm and safe at night. I can give them little else, but that much is in my power to give." He doesn't approach too close, though, before he turns and walks towards a side door, lifting a should in half a shrug, "Come with me." He pauses, and some sense that he is being rude registers vaguely, "I am… Al." This is said with a certain vague uncertainty in his voice.
*
The steps (?) made toward Jay have him straightening to his full, but unimpressive comparative height to the stranger, though to his credit and folly, there is no shifting of his feet in retreat. At least none before he turns and moves off in another direction. Jay exhales a breath, careful to make it soundless, like he just won a game of chicken with a pair of tractors and now needed a moment to let his heart stop beating out of his chest. Blood in his ears, the young man glances back and forth to the dirty, depressed figures strewn about like forgotten toys the city played too hard with. He hesitates just long enough, then wets the corner of his mouth and rushes to catch up, the sound of his sandals clicking resonantly around him.
"Al?" Again, uncertainty in Jay's voice, but less high-strung than before. Verdant eyes climb up, up, up to the back of Al's hood as he follows. "Mah name's Jay. Pleasure t'make yer acquaintence, Al." Attention flicking back and forth, watching the odd mix of beautiful architecture fading into debris and strewn, forgotten people. His expression open a guileless; curious rather than disgusted.
*
This church, like many grandly made cathedrals, is shaped like a cross. The side wings are for purposes beyond main sermons, and it is into one of these wings that the man who named himself Al leads. There's more light here: the building evidently has electricity, but since only every third light works, the illumination is not grand. "Al. Albert. But Albert was my grandfather." This is said with a touch more certainty then the original introduction of his name. He opens a side door, and they are led into… a kitchen. For staff who once lived in the Church, and for Church functions, something approaching a professional kitchen was needed. Only, its out of date by a large margin, and half the places where appliances should be are nothing but mars on white floors. There is more light here then anywhere.
He moves towards a stove that looks simple but functional, and on it is a large, deep pot of something a bit more then a soup but not quite a stew, that is bubbling mildly. A bowl is fetched from a counter with one hand — and now at last his hands are visible. Both look strong, but misshapen: his flesh is like melted wax. But that doesn't seem to have hurt his dexterity, for his grip is light an deasy. He spoons some of the soup— which is mostly vegetables, and cheap ones, but more flavorful then might be expected— in, and then takes up a spoon. He turns, and reaches his burned hands out to offer each to the stranger. "Jay." he greets, "It is our tradition. The food they provide: they beg, they… do whatever they need do. And what they keep most for themselves, but a vegetable here, some meat there, a bit of salt. And everyone is entitled to one bowl per day. When new ones come, we feed them before we ask them for anything." He nods to a table in the corner with chairs about it, where kitchen staff once ate or worked. Who knows which?
*
Jay has made some decisions in his life. The most current of questionable ones being following an unknown man into the side room of a decaying church in Hell's Kitchen. Which likely accounts for his hesitation as the pair of men move from the main sanctuary and into the wing. The explanation of his name draws a distracted nod as Jay looks around the living space that Al has fashioned for himself. "Is that…Father Al or Pastor Al or somethin'?" Following the nearest logical line of thought.
Kitchens are familiar, no matter how run down they are. Jay settles slightly, his voice coming down from that high-strung range and back to its natural mellow lean; the bulge beneath his shirt looming over his shoulders compressing into a smaller lump behind his shoulders. The two figures a juxtaposition between darkness and color; the red-headed young man is patient as he plants himself in the center of the room, out of place and unapologetically awkward. The bowl automatically reached for when it is offered, Jay's fingers hesitate an instant when he sees the gnarled hand offering it out to him. Carefully, Jay takes the bowl, some ashamed warmth hitting his ears and spreading as color as he nods and manages swiftly, "Thanks." He quickly makes his way toward the suggested corner and chairs, curious eyes dropped into the bowl as he ambles, clicking, in that direction, dropping bonelessly into the seat.
*
There's a pause, and 'Al' does not quite know what to do for a second. Then he shakes his head, "No. I am not a man of god. I am only… Al. Al. Simmons." He moves over after the hesitation, to go settle across the table from this stranger, but beneath the shadows of his hood, his eyes are alert. There's something about Jay's back but he hasn't gotten a good look, and where some are curious, he is cautious. "This was once a place of god— and many of my people still pray, and maintain the alter." He shrugs, and up close, the shadows don't completely hide his face. Though details can't be made out, it lacks the… regularness, the smoothness, of skin. Considering his hands, one could easily assume the burns cover far, far more then just those. "I do not begrudge them that." There's a pause as he considers, and with his rough voice asks, "Are you like them? Lost? Forgotten? Alone?"
*
Confusion greets Al's correction that he isn't a man of God, so the follow up has to come while Jay hovers over his bowl of soup, lifting his eyes up from it to try to find the eyes that live under that hood. "God's everywhere. Just because it's a little broke down doesn't mean He ain't here." His tone is certain, no longer surprised by the state of Al's skin, now his eyes flicker back and forth under the hood, searchingly for a moment. The question causes that curiosity to cool and Jay to withdraw, looking back down at the offering settled in front of him. Jay crosses himself and picks up the spoon, idly stirring the soup while he waits for it to cool. "Ah got family. M'brother's in town." His tone rings dully, unconvinced by his own excuse. "Ah was lookin' fer a church to spend some tahm at. Always made me feel better back home. You from here?"
*
"He may be, but I have never known Him." Despite these words, there is a certain reverence in the words themselves. Al's voice, while harsh sounding due to the damage, is soft in tone. "I do not stand between man and his God. But I know nothing of that: I know well the Adversary." Then he shakes his head slowly. Despite the negation, his words speak otherwise, "I am from … near here. Near enough. This place… I found it when it was near ruin, and slowly have made it livable…" Barely. "…and have brought in those of need. But I am… I am not from anywhere, not anymore. Not since the fire. Not since I lost my wife." There's a pause, some sense that some expression is playing over the scarred man's face, but beneath the shadows it is not visible. "You will find no father to take your confession here, you will find only old stone that once served holy purpose and now serves mundane need. But you would not be the first to pray before our altar. If you wish it, you may take what comfort that gives. No one will harm anyone who seeks this sanctuary." This last is said with a certain fierceness, and for a moment— for just a blink of an eye— there's an impression of green light in his eyes, and an impression of a face, deeply scarred by fire. "Family is good. Trust me in this, Jay. Cleave to your own while they live. That is a blessing few you will meet within these walls know."
*
There are many questions Jay could ask, but his expression falls some time between Al's mention of a fire, his wife, and the rest. Fingers still from their stirring, frozen in place as anguish floods his youthful face. Probably for the best with as little sense as the rest of Al's disjointed explanation makes. The fierceness of Al's certainty is what snaps Jay out of his vivid teetering on the void of mourning; green light making him jolt up straight in his seat, a visible tremor moving beneath his shirt and down his back briefly. "Whoa. Ah—" Jay halts his exclamation, the light so brief that he doubts it was there to begin with. "Sorry, Al. Th' light in here's a little trippy." He blinks again and looks back down to his bowl, 'tasting' it with a heaping spoonful, entirely unassuming of any nefarious intent from the unknown pot. Entirely trusting. "Ah love m'family, don't get me backward on that, Sir. It's part of what makes bein' here so hard. Just me 'n' Sam, he's off all th' time. Ah'm supposed to be not thinkin' about things, but bein' out here all I can do is get stuck in mah head. You've got purpose here with these folks, protectin' yer people. You maght not think yer a man of God, but yer doin' His good work." Jay assures with absolute certainty as frustration ekes into his tone.
*
"What I do here is simple." Al shakes his head slowly, folding his burned hands together, and being quiet for a time. "I am a man of violence. I lived the whole of my life in violence, I am as trained in violence as any man who lives. I served my country, I led men to fight, for honor, for country, for family. I served my country in… other ways. So when people set their eyes upon my people, here, I make sure they understand the folly of that. They are not given a second warning." There's a certain level of discomfort in his words: hearing something like compliments directly? He doesn't know how to process that. The soup for its part, is nothing special but it has nutrition and worth. The flavor is not even bad. It lacks finesse, focused entirely on practicality. He tilts his head to the side, lifting it up— and in doing so shows his face for a moment as his eyes fall silent. His face is as terribly scarred by fire as his hands. A moment later his head is bowed and cloaked in shadow again, "You know responsibility. You had the chance to step up, to take lead, but you did not. You walk in the shadow of what you could have been." The man lifts a hand, "I understand this. I, too, failed my family. So I protect these. What will you do, to redeem yourself? You know you have a debt to pay."
*
The soup isn't any source of complaint. Jay consumes it spoonful after spoonful without hesitation and pretty absently while he listens to Al explain his life, his past, his reason for doing what he does here. A faint wrinkle appearing between Jay's brows as they twitch together a time or two, uncertain. He shakes his head slowly, brushing his hair out of his eyes with a swipe of his hand across his face. The quick allowance of the light across his face turns Jay's expression into an empathetic wince, the severity of the burns leaves Jay aching, the skin on his forearms prickling with goosebumps. He's silent for a moment after that glance. Searching for the mystical sequence of words to soothe any bit of what Al carries. "Violence begets more violence, but it sounds lahke you got int' all that because y' wanted t'do the same thing yer doing here; bein' a guardian." Simple thoughts and answers, Jay rolls one shoulder backward slowly.
Dumbfounded is the right word for the look Jay gives Al. His features malleable and the young man has zero ability to guard how he's feeling, so slapped in the face by that insight from a stranger fills Jay with a swift shame that steals his appetite. The spoon set down, verdant eyes follow it as Jay's chin drops, searching over the battered surface of the table for some answer to Al's sharpened question. The back of his shirt stretches taut as that uncertain bulge under his clothes grows, making his silhouette a little larger, but entirely dwarfed by his host. Jay shakes his head, his hair flicking back and forth with extra movement. "Ah don't know. Ah missed mah chance t'do what they expected. Now Ah'm here because of everythin' else, the best thing Ah can do is to stay away from 'em." Right? Jay seems uncertain of that answer. Peering back up at the scarred man in the hood, uncertainty in his eyes. "…how'd you know that?"
*
"For all of my evil, I know I can do some small good: these people who most don't even see as people. For all the horror, for all the monster that I am, these.. these." Al spreads his burned hand out to gesture through the wall to where the homeless gather, "… are safe. I am a demon who hates the devil." There is a long, ragged breath, and the man rises. He is a tower in his own right: he barely even fits into the room. But, he might notice a shifting in Jay's back, be is not positioned to see it clearly. "Who does not miss chances?" he wonders in his grave, soft voice, "Who does not have regrets? You are wrong, brother of Sam. The best you can do is not to stay away. The best you can do is find someone — anyone — you will stand beside, and say: these are my brothers." He lifts a hand up and pushes back his hood, and his head is as horrific as could be assumed before. There's no hair: his skin is black and red, and melted, the whole over. Its a miracle, of a kind, he survived such severe wounds at all. "It doesn't matter who you choose, who you stand by. Find those you will stand by. I know mine." He nods firmly, his face grim but serious, "THey are the lost of Hell's Kitchen. These people have no one else to protect them, so why not a demon who mourns? You are welcome to pick them, too. But pick someone, jay."
To the question of how he would know? He says nothing at all. He has eaten the sin. It is his sin now, and he bears it: but having born sin in hell before, it is almost a welcome thing.
*
Drama is something that Jay can properly appreciate, but when Al throws his hood back, the appropriate and predictable level of horror floods his expression, eyes as round as saucers and mouth fallen open as he swiftly stands from his seat, stumbling over it with a hook of his sandal around a leg of the chair, making it scrape over the floor with a stutter. It's a reactionary move. Still, for all his shock, Jay's expression softens quickly with pained wonder as he takes a closer look at the self-proclaimed demon in front of him. Whispering hard, "Good Lord, Al. What the hell happened t'you?" Unable to tear his eyes away from his companion for the evening, horrified awe at what Al's endured, Jay's a soft touch kind of summer child. Not that he doesn't /hear/ what's being said to him, but it takes him a while to rewind what he's heard and process it properly, entirely forgetting his previous question in favor of his most recent one. "Yer no more a demon than Ah'm an angel, Al." He shakes his head slowly, trying to convince the man.
*
The shocked movements do not surprise Al. Yet, his expression looks… sorrowful. Pained. He might have expected the feeling but as much as he knew it would happen, it doesn't change when it comes. "A man I trusted betrayed me." is his only answer to what happened to him: the story his appearance tells might be inaccurate, but at a certain essence, its close enough. There was betrayal, there was fire, and Al is now what he is. But, despite these injuries, Al looks to be both strong and deft: his hands rise, clasp his hood and lift it over his head again, "Remember what I said: choosing your people is important. Stand by them when you make the choice. The simple kindness of trust is… it makes me think that there may actually be a god. Don't ask me if I love him or hate him, because while I can tell you I hate the devil, that other question— of god— I can not answer. But." He shrugs, turning, "You are welcome to our sanctuary as you need it. Here, no one will harm you. Within these walls, I will not allow it. But you may come or go. For now, I need the night."
*
Realizing his error a few moments too late, Jay's brows come together as his mouth flattens into a pressed line. It isn't so much a frown, but for as alien as it may look on his naturally pleasant face, it may as well be one. Nodding mutely, to either Al's explanation of what happened to him, or in acknowledgement to what he said, it isn't terribly clear. "Ah understand, Sir. Yer raght. Ah've got things that Ah need to make raght again. Ah didn't know quite how, but you make some good sense." Another habitual wetting of the corner of his mouth, Jay takes his bowl up off the table with the intention of cleaning up after himself, hesitating a long moment as he stares into the dark under Al's hood. "Ah think it's natural to wonder what His plan could be for us when things go all wrong. T'doubt. They say you shouldn't but, we're only human. Ah guess the only thing that Ah might say is even if you ain't sure you love God, He still loves you, Al. You dig?" Jay looks down and slowly slides his feet to the side, hedging around the lofty figure as he cleans his place. "Thanks. Fer the welcome, and soup. Ah think Ah'll come back soon if you don't mind it. Catch some Z's and Ah'll just take care of this."
*
"If He can love a soul as black as mine, then perhaps He is more then I expected." murmurs softly from the shrouded man. He pays no attention to matters of cleaning or keeping matters. That Jay feels a need to clean is noted but simply filed. "I do not sleep in the night, in the night alone I am free from the horror in the eyes of all that look on me. But. Come as you need. If you come, give what you can. That is the way of our people. Now. Good night. The night calls." And with that, the man who named himself Al but who feels nothing for that name, stalks away. There is a certain sound: metal against metal.