Silliness!
Never let it be said I can’t mock myself. FG-verse, very far in the future; a bit of silliness with Josh and Christa that is 100% angst-free. Enjoy. Points if you spot the Hot Fuzz reference.
“What happened to your hand?” Christa asked.
“Hmm?” Her mentor, pastor and friend Joshua Croft looked up from the papers spread out over his desk and blinked. “What about my hand?”
Fair enough asking, she thought. She wouldn’t have asked herself if she hadn’t been so bored. She’d finished her homework (school, Sunday school, and magical) and grown weary of the book she was reading. Ordinarily she could watch the kids on the playground next door, or at least count cars going by, but it was raining so hard today she could barely see the lilacs outside the window of Josh’s office, much less the road or the playground. So she’d turned to studying Josh instead.
Not like he was hard to watch, her teacher. He looked barely older than she was, though Christa knew he was a little under twice her age. Handsome, in a geeky sort of way, with glasses, thick eyebrows, and a nearly constant smile. He also had a scar on the back of his right hand that he’d never explained and she’d never asked about until now.
“What happened to it?” She got up from her little table and chair by the window and came over to his desk to poke at it. “How’d you get that scar?”
Josh (he refused to be called Mr. Croft or Pastor Croft, on the grounds that he was no more holy than anyone else in the church and that it made him feel old) looked down at his hand as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh. I fell on a nail when I was a kid. Zach was furious with me. He had to miss a baseball game to walk me to the emergency room.”
She glanced at the picture of his oldest brother, then eyed the scar doubtfully. “You fell on the back of your hand?”
Josh shook his head, and turned the hand over. The small circular scar on the back of his hand was matched by a slightly larger circle on his palm. “It went all the way through.” He smiled at her suddenly. “I think they heard me screaming in Memphis.”
Christa almost asked what Memphis had to do with it, before she remembered that he’d grown up in Tennessee. “Oh. Must’ve hurt.”
“It was the single most painful experience of my life thus far. Have you finished your homework?”
He would ask that. “Yes.”
“All of it?” he asked.
She scowled. “There’s no need to sound skeptical. Yes, as it happens, I’ve finished all of it. Can we get to the practicals now?”
Josh shook his head, and shoved his glasses up his nose absently. “In a minute. I’ve just got to finish the paperwork for the social next week and then we’ll work on magic, all right?”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, and let him get on with it, going back to her chair and staring morosely around the office.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already memorized it back when Pastor Drucker had been in charge. Of course, Josh had changed it a bit, hiding the sickly green wallpaper with overflowing bookcases, removing any sign of technology except for a fifties rotary phone, and (the most interesting change of all) removing every religious icon except for a single Jesus-less cross. The old pastor’s widow had had a fit.
Christa rather preferred it. She had to deal with Jesus staring at her in sermons anyway, so why should she have to deal with it getting lectured? Not that Josh lectured her anyway.
She was getting sidetracked again, and neither Pastor Drucker nor his widow had anything to do with her lessons right now, except probable disapproval.
Bored, bored, bored... she stared at Josh’s college and seminary degrees, displayed on the minuscule patch of wallpaper he’d let live. She’d seen them a hundred times before, but she’d never really read them. University of Chicago, Northern Baptist Theological Seminary, one Joshua T. Croft...
...oh, now, wait a minute.
“Josh?” she said, into the silence, suppressing a fit of giggles.
“I’m almost finished,” he said, absently, and scribbled something on the top sheet of paper.
“That’s not it,” Christa said, and this time the laughter in her voice must have gotten through, because he looked up at her, a question in his eyes. “You have a middle name?”
The puzzlement didn’t go away. “It’s Trevor,” he said. “You’re full of questions today.”
“That makes two I’ve asked,” she said, “and that’s not the point anyway. Do you have any idea how heretical you are?”
Josh frowned. “Elaborate, please.”
“Well...” she had to pause to hold in a giggle. “Your name’s Joshua T. Croft, right? JTC? And you’ve already had one hand pierced by nails.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josh said, with great dignity, “and I’m going to finish this paperwork.”
“You’re three nails and a lance away from Cruxifiction,” Christa said, and giggled again. “I call dibs on Mary Magdalene. But where does that leave Abram?”
He chuckled, though he didn’t look up. “Probably holding off the entire Roman army single-handedly. Or else several thousand years earlier fathering children on handmaidens.”
“Chris is so fond of pretending he’s not related to you...that makes him Simon Peter, right? And Zach can be Matthew the tax collector since he likes working for the government. Hey, will you walk on my swimming pool?”
Josh tossed his pen at her. “Hush, Mary. Aren’t you supposed to be washing my feet with your hair or something?”
Christa snorted. “Yeah, right. Different Mary, o pastor and Biblical scholar.”
The pastor and Biblical scholar wasn’t paying attention, being busy scrabbling in his desk drawer for another pen. “Seriously, hush. I’m almost finished. Half a page more and... no, you know what, go outside and practice your shields.”
She threw his pen back at him; it skittered across the desk and into his hands. “It’s raining.”
“I know,” Josh said, using his ‘I’m-not-stupid’ voice. “I said practice your shields. Keep the rain off you. Oh, and be sure to stand somewhere where you can’t be seen from the road.”
Christa rolled her eyes, but went. And later that evening, suffered an unexplainable fit of coughing when the family thanked Jesus for supper.
“What happened to your hand?” Christa asked.
“Hmm?” Her mentor, pastor and friend Joshua Croft looked up from the papers spread out over his desk and blinked. “What about my hand?”
Fair enough asking, she thought. She wouldn’t have asked herself if she hadn’t been so bored. She’d finished her homework (school, Sunday school, and magical) and grown weary of the book she was reading. Ordinarily she could watch the kids on the playground next door, or at least count cars going by, but it was raining so hard today she could barely see the lilacs outside the window of Josh’s office, much less the road or the playground. So she’d turned to studying Josh instead.
Not like he was hard to watch, her teacher. He looked barely older than she was, though Christa knew he was a little under twice her age. Handsome, in a geeky sort of way, with glasses, thick eyebrows, and a nearly constant smile. He also had a scar on the back of his right hand that he’d never explained and she’d never asked about until now.
“What happened to it?” She got up from her little table and chair by the window and came over to his desk to poke at it. “How’d you get that scar?”
Josh (he refused to be called Mr. Croft or Pastor Croft, on the grounds that he was no more holy than anyone else in the church and that it made him feel old) looked down at his hand as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh. I fell on a nail when I was a kid. Zach was furious with me. He had to miss a baseball game to walk me to the emergency room.”
She glanced at the picture of his oldest brother, then eyed the scar doubtfully. “You fell on the back of your hand?”
Josh shook his head, and turned the hand over. The small circular scar on the back of his hand was matched by a slightly larger circle on his palm. “It went all the way through.” He smiled at her suddenly. “I think they heard me screaming in Memphis.”
Christa almost asked what Memphis had to do with it, before she remembered that he’d grown up in Tennessee. “Oh. Must’ve hurt.”
“It was the single most painful experience of my life thus far. Have you finished your homework?”
He would ask that. “Yes.”
“All of it?” he asked.
She scowled. “There’s no need to sound skeptical. Yes, as it happens, I’ve finished all of it. Can we get to the practicals now?”
Josh shook his head, and shoved his glasses up his nose absently. “In a minute. I’ve just got to finish the paperwork for the social next week and then we’ll work on magic, all right?”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, and let him get on with it, going back to her chair and staring morosely around the office.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already memorized it back when Pastor Drucker had been in charge. Of course, Josh had changed it a bit, hiding the sickly green wallpaper with overflowing bookcases, removing any sign of technology except for a fifties rotary phone, and (the most interesting change of all) removing every religious icon except for a single Jesus-less cross. The old pastor’s widow had had a fit.
Christa rather preferred it. She had to deal with Jesus staring at her in sermons anyway, so why should she have to deal with it getting lectured? Not that Josh lectured her anyway.
She was getting sidetracked again, and neither Pastor Drucker nor his widow had anything to do with her lessons right now, except probable disapproval.
Bored, bored, bored... she stared at Josh’s college and seminary degrees, displayed on the minuscule patch of wallpaper he’d let live. She’d seen them a hundred times before, but she’d never really read them. University of Chicago, Northern Baptist Theological Seminary, one Joshua T. Croft...
...oh, now, wait a minute.
“Josh?” she said, into the silence, suppressing a fit of giggles.
“I’m almost finished,” he said, absently, and scribbled something on the top sheet of paper.
“That’s not it,” Christa said, and this time the laughter in her voice must have gotten through, because he looked up at her, a question in his eyes. “You have a middle name?”
The puzzlement didn’t go away. “It’s Trevor,” he said. “You’re full of questions today.”
“That makes two I’ve asked,” she said, “and that’s not the point anyway. Do you have any idea how heretical you are?”
Josh frowned. “Elaborate, please.”
“Well...” she had to pause to hold in a giggle. “Your name’s Joshua T. Croft, right? JTC? And you’ve already had one hand pierced by nails.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josh said, with great dignity, “and I’m going to finish this paperwork.”
“You’re three nails and a lance away from Cruxifiction,” Christa said, and giggled again. “I call dibs on Mary Magdalene. But where does that leave Abram?”
He chuckled, though he didn’t look up. “Probably holding off the entire Roman army single-handedly. Or else several thousand years earlier fathering children on handmaidens.”
“Chris is so fond of pretending he’s not related to you...that makes him Simon Peter, right? And Zach can be Matthew the tax collector since he likes working for the government. Hey, will you walk on my swimming pool?”
Josh tossed his pen at her. “Hush, Mary. Aren’t you supposed to be washing my feet with your hair or something?”
Christa snorted. “Yeah, right. Different Mary, o pastor and Biblical scholar.”
The pastor and Biblical scholar wasn’t paying attention, being busy scrabbling in his desk drawer for another pen. “Seriously, hush. I’m almost finished. Half a page more and... no, you know what, go outside and practice your shields.”
She threw his pen back at him; it skittered across the desk and into his hands. “It’s raining.”
“I know,” Josh said, using his ‘I’m-not-stupid’ voice. “I said practice your shields. Keep the rain off you. Oh, and be sure to stand somewhere where you can’t be seen from the road.”
Christa rolled her eyes, but went. And later that evening, suffered an unexplainable fit of coughing when the family thanked Jesus for supper.