The pass of Paul's thumb over God's shoulder, through his rags, is light enough to be ignored. He doesn't tighten his arm around God, nor does he flinch at the invocation of the name hanging between them.
"So am I," he says, genuinely, "And for more than that."
Paul is good at apology, when he wants to be. He retained the skill of genuine contrition, something that people in his position so often fail to acquire in the first place. He applies fleeting pressure with his draped arm, a tiny shift of weight.
"But that's-" He raises his other hand, sweeps lightly at the air in front of him. "That's pain. That's regret. There's enough of that."
The residual warmth left in God's body bleeds through to Paul's. It's a very human warmth. He feels it, improbably, in the hollow of his throat, and it comes through again in his own voice, like the magic trick of passing a coin from one hand to the other.
"You could have left me to suffer. It was what I deserved, breaking bread with your enemies, inviting them into your house, letting them steal from you. I would have let me suffer. But you stayed. You even helped me, when I asked you to."
The grey phantom of the burn is in his hand, in the rest of him. Once consumed by fire, the ashes never leave the body, even if they cannot be found in the marrow. He flexes his fingers.
"That's what I'd rather remember. That's why I'm here." A pale, gentle smile touches the corner of his mouth, on the far side from God's view. "I want to help you, Teacher. I never stopped wanting to help you - and I tried to. God, did I try. But I've never been very good at letting go of the things I love."
"Will you let me help you, if I ask? Would you trust me with that, if nothing else?" He turns to look at God - at John - again, eyes softly, tentatively green. "Please."
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"So am I," he says, genuinely, "And for more than that."
Paul is good at apology, when he wants to be. He retained the skill of genuine contrition, something that people in his position so often fail to acquire in the first place. He applies fleeting pressure with his draped arm, a tiny shift of weight.
"But that's-" He raises his other hand, sweeps lightly at the air in front of him. "That's pain. That's regret. There's enough of that."
The residual warmth left in God's body bleeds through to Paul's. It's a very human warmth. He feels it, improbably, in the hollow of his throat, and it comes through again in his own voice, like the magic trick of passing a coin from one hand to the other.
"You could have left me to suffer. It was what I deserved, breaking bread with your enemies, inviting them into your house, letting them steal from you. I would have let me suffer. But you stayed. You even helped me, when I asked you to."
The grey phantom of the burn is in his hand, in the rest of him. Once consumed by fire, the ashes never leave the body, even if they cannot be found in the marrow. He flexes his fingers.
"That's what I'd rather remember. That's why I'm here." A pale, gentle smile touches the corner of his mouth, on the far side from God's view. "I want to help you, Teacher. I never stopped wanting to help you - and I tried to. God, did I try. But I've never been very good at letting go of the things I love."
"Will you let me help you, if I ask? Would you trust me with that, if nothing else?" He turns to look at God - at John - again, eyes softly, tentatively green. "Please."