06-12-2014, 03:14 PM
Right, a somber thought responded to Hood, you were there to take lives. The man had called him 'Preacher'. Another American, did that mean he was recognized? His neck bowed under his own shame.
It was a topic of many a discussion in Seminary. When, if ever, is the taking of another human life justified? There were factions that did not condone murder even in the face of defending one's self or family. That violence was the vanguard of humanity, and a man can only control his own actions. Pacifists always, without exception. While yet other groups suggested the bloodiest wars could be in God's name, citing the Old Testament. In the safe bubble of his church, Jensen himself stood against harming anyone, ever, even to fight back. Jessika had called him 'gentle' and 'good' for it. He upheld the notion of turning the other cheek as humility of the highest sort. Then again, he was Texan, such unending neutrality went against his upbringing.
He wanted to crawl away from the table, away from Hood and Connor's harsh judgements. Three times now Jensen called on the Gift to do such work and twice he left men for dead.
Thumbing the bottle cap, he looked up only when Connor leaned to whisper: "I think that's a dude,
" and Jensen nearly choked.
The lowness of his gaze lifted, hesitant and unsure. Hood twisted in his seat and exchanged words with the woman behind him.
She winked, and Jensen visibly paled, if it were possible to drain any more embarrassment from his face. Charlene barked vociferous laughs, "Well, if he wants a different kind of cherry, I'll be right over here."
He shifted uncomfortably and offered an uneasy smile for the scantily clad woman. I don't even know what that means. He doubted he wanted to find out.
Whatever the innuendo was, it twinkled merriment across Hood's otherwise steely expression. The contrast was unsettling. "Now what the fuck's gone wrong in your lives that you're roaming Zamoskvorechye district and picking fights with the mafia? You want to rack up a whole lot of ass-hurt, I hear Charlene there's a far softer hand outside the boxing ring."
Jensen swallowed and hoped Connor would respond first. Why traipse around the worst parts of Moscow looking for hopeless causes? Because they're not hopeless, he wanted to say. The stranger, with his whip-like disapproval of their acts, was unlikely to see the blessing of such a cause. Did Jensen even know himself?
"Redemption, I guess."
No, he shook his head, frowning, that wasn't quite it.
His mind went back to the laying of hands on the children, and eventually his gaze drifted to the singed hole in Connor's shirt. "I've never felt more alive, more connected to the whole of existence, than when it comes."
Did Connor remember the healing? Did he remember slipping in and out of consciousness? Jensen's urges that he hold on?
He shot his gaze back to Hood and did his best to not let it wander over the man's shoulder. It was hard not to, though.
"I wasn't there to save them in the sense you're thinking."
He recalled Aria's warnings, but the need to explain himself was too sweet to ignore. "Let me see your hand?"
He laid his own hand across the table, palm up, nodding that Hood place his own upon it. "Please?"
It was a topic of many a discussion in Seminary. When, if ever, is the taking of another human life justified? There were factions that did not condone murder even in the face of defending one's self or family. That violence was the vanguard of humanity, and a man can only control his own actions. Pacifists always, without exception. While yet other groups suggested the bloodiest wars could be in God's name, citing the Old Testament. In the safe bubble of his church, Jensen himself stood against harming anyone, ever, even to fight back. Jessika had called him 'gentle' and 'good' for it. He upheld the notion of turning the other cheek as humility of the highest sort. Then again, he was Texan, such unending neutrality went against his upbringing.
He wanted to crawl away from the table, away from Hood and Connor's harsh judgements. Three times now Jensen called on the Gift to do such work and twice he left men for dead.
Thumbing the bottle cap, he looked up only when Connor leaned to whisper: "I think that's a dude,
" and Jensen nearly choked.
The lowness of his gaze lifted, hesitant and unsure. Hood twisted in his seat and exchanged words with the woman behind him.
She winked, and Jensen visibly paled, if it were possible to drain any more embarrassment from his face. Charlene barked vociferous laughs, "Well, if he wants a different kind of cherry, I'll be right over here."
He shifted uncomfortably and offered an uneasy smile for the scantily clad woman. I don't even know what that means. He doubted he wanted to find out.
Whatever the innuendo was, it twinkled merriment across Hood's otherwise steely expression. The contrast was unsettling. "Now what the fuck's gone wrong in your lives that you're roaming Zamoskvorechye district and picking fights with the mafia? You want to rack up a whole lot of ass-hurt, I hear Charlene there's a far softer hand outside the boxing ring."
Jensen swallowed and hoped Connor would respond first. Why traipse around the worst parts of Moscow looking for hopeless causes? Because they're not hopeless, he wanted to say. The stranger, with his whip-like disapproval of their acts, was unlikely to see the blessing of such a cause. Did Jensen even know himself?
"Redemption, I guess."
No, he shook his head, frowning, that wasn't quite it.
His mind went back to the laying of hands on the children, and eventually his gaze drifted to the singed hole in Connor's shirt. "I've never felt more alive, more connected to the whole of existence, than when it comes."
Did Connor remember the healing? Did he remember slipping in and out of consciousness? Jensen's urges that he hold on?
He shot his gaze back to Hood and did his best to not let it wander over the man's shoulder. It was hard not to, though.
"I wasn't there to save them in the sense you're thinking."
He recalled Aria's warnings, but the need to explain himself was too sweet to ignore. "Let me see your hand?"
He laid his own hand across the table, palm up, nodding that Hood place his own upon it. "Please?"