exorkismos | @success

@success_story

It’s raining in Gotham, so hard the whole city feels like it’s underwater, and Marcus doesn’t make it three blocks after leaving the Evans house before he’s doubled over laughing. Hard, pained, endorphin-high noises that come right from the bottom of his rib cage. He’s soaked and glad for it, the rain sluicing off some of the grime of his work. He’s got a Tupperware full of leftover stew in his bag. Patricia Evans had insisted. She’d actually tried to make him stay the night in the guest room, but Marcus had needed to be out. Moving. Getting his head clear. He has a surprisingly okay and surprisingly cheap room not so far away, anyway. He wants movement and then he wants stillness, privacy. He wants to call Tim and purr smug and happy and tender down the phone at him. The demon in Adia Evans had been crying by the end of it, begging for forgiveness. Marcus had granted it and seen her eyes clear in that very moment.

In fact — but the rain blurs the touchscreen when he pulls it out, makes it hard to compose a message. He leaves it, tucks it back into his pocket. At least the phone is charged. He’s more vigilant about it since Vermont. He talks more to Tim, leaves fewer silences; he knows it’s not exactly what either of them want, but it’s better than not trying.

He should walk. Get somewhere dry. Heat up the leftovers. Make that call. But for now, he just leans back against the wall and lets the rain drench him, promises himself he’ll start walking again in just a second, just a moment: giving himself longer and longer to enjoy how easy his breath comes in moments like these, how the leaden weight of guilt has eased up off his chest. Done enough. He’s done enough.

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The case surfaced shockingly late. Last twenty-four hours kind of late. He wouldn't have even heard rumblings of it except for a bitter would-be mafioso spitting it in his face while he secured the restraints. Really, takin time out the way for a little low-level drug bust, huh? Big guy. What's the problem? Gettin too old to handle ya standard child traffic? That's the real problem in this goddamn city--people always after the kids.

He has nothing to say to the man. He's already packaged them for the police; the time for threats and quips is well past. But he does follow the tip, all the way to the Narrows in the rain to make sure his pulse on trafficking rings is as flat as when he last checked. The family causing hushed, frightened noise in the neighbor is newly quiet--so freshly silent that Bruce catches the stranger on the move from the home. On foot, so he has time: peek in the window, tap the weeping family to be sure that they aren't fearing reprisals, notify the GCPD of a policy child abuse situation silently but the home seems secure for now. He can double-back if he hears from Gordon.

Stranger is on foot. Batman can extrapolate his path in half the time it takes to travel it, even in the rain. In this cloud and evening dark, he's barely even perceptible to citizens whose eyes pass over him out their windows, inaudible over the slapping sheets on cement. The Bat of Gotham can be upon Marcus before he senses anything but the rain stopping above him. Look up: a black mass hangs over Marcus from the second floor, obscured by the cape and the rain, shielding and stalking all at once, waiting.

Until Batman drops, two feet in front of Marcus with the same rush as the rain. Huge hands, huge arms seizing him shirt and jacket and throat to pin Marcus against the wall and an inch or two off the street.

He has to roar over the weather. "Adia Evans."

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Words coming choked about the pressure on his throat, voice splintering — he’s limp for a second and then he’s twisting and struggling, leg coming up to boot at the — thing’s armoured stomach — which is about when the thing starts to resolve into the shape of a man, sort of, instead of just a mass of darkness and gripping hands.

Sort of a man.

The snarling not-face resolves into a mask. Marcus doesn’t even hear what the sort-of man is saying. It doesn’t make it through the potent mix of panic and slightly hysterical hilarity that’s making him shake. The worst thing to do would be laugh —

So he ends up laughing, of course, ragged and gulping for air and convulsing in Batman’s grip. Fucking — Batman.

May as well be a mass, a black hole for as much as he gives against Marcus' struggling or panicking or laughing. The last grates along his eardrums even through the cowl; never can tell if the kind of giggling is insanity or insecurity. The best thing to do it wait, wait it out a few seconds before jimmying him up a little higher, bare white teeth under all the black and gray. "Adia. Evans. You can tell me, or she can tell the GCPD."

“She — ” Calming down slightly, panic-laughter subsiding and leaving just his chest heaving, his breath coming a little hard. His hands stop scrabbling about his neck quite so feverishly. “She’s fine, she’s okay. Christ. I’m.” This is going to go badly, he realises, sagging back against the wall and trying to quell every useless bar fight instinct that’s telling him to knee him in the balls then headbutt him while he’s cringing because — Marcus knows his strengths. He’s scrappy and he fights dirty and he gets to an endorphin-high place where he feels invincible, but he’s really not. If he starts trying to fight Batman he’s going to end up broken. Non-lethally, as far as he knows, but that doesn’t mean non-painfully.

He takes a long slow breath, forcing it through his teeth, and finally managing to get words out in a better order: “I’m a priest, I was a priest, she was sick and the family wanted me there — she’s okay. You can go and — well, no, you can’t, not looking like that, kid’s got enough nightmares, but. Jesus Christ, I know how it looks, but we ain’t on opposite sides. Adia’s fine, she’s doing good, she’s fine.”

"You don't look like a priest." Some of the growl damps down as Marcus stops struggling, a little tit for tat. "You don't act or sound like one, and I know every clergyman from here to Westchester." A slight exaggeration to make a point, but he knows them well enough to say this man doesn't have parishioners here.

Give a little, get a little: Marcus' toes can touch the ground now. balls of his feet even, heels. It's only fair that he gives: "Only dying girls need priests, so why don't you try again?"

Back on his feet and incapable of knowing when to cut his losses, Marcus croaks, “Yeah well, you don’t look like a sodding detective but here we both are.” His upper lip is curled up in a nasty snarl, voice rumbling low in his throat. “She was dying. She was going to die. She wasn’t...something was attacking her, something fucking horrible and too big for her to fight off on her own, so I helped her. That’s it. That’s what I do. You can ask her. Ask her. Or her mum or her dad or her granddad, they’re all back in that house, they all saw. But she’s been through enough without the bloody police whisking her away for questioning.”

"Something you might have considered before making a show of child abuse." His grip drops away, but his body goes nowhere. Two inches on Marcus and about a hundred pounds, Batman still traps him against the wall. One gauntlet plants over his shoulder, the other open between them. "Your phone."

Marcus growls at him like an untamed dog, “I didn’t hurt her, I wouldn’t,” and doesn’t hand over his phone — like hell.

"You're about to prove it." Picture this is as an opportunity--very lenient! He doesn't move an inch for all the hackling. "You're going to call while I track the signal. You make me believe this checks out, and I call off the cops.

"Play ball, Father."

More prickling, Marcus baring his teeth further under that brusque, patronising tone that he’s using, biting down the urge to brawl and struggle and spit. Instead, he just winds his jaw tight, pulls his phone from his pocket. It’s still raining, takes him two tries to unlock it with the water tapping on the surface. “Marcus,” he says. “Said I was a priest.”

Marcus can continue to hold the phone. Batman's fingertips tap to the back of it though, eliciting a window to appear on the screen: Connected. Tracking device, access to cellphone networks across the city to ensure that Marcus isn't calling a dummy number to impress.

"Even less reason for you to be in that house." But he's familiar with the talk that Marcus fires off, something big, something fucking horrible. Waiting for the ringtone, he pushes: "Who sent you? Corrigan? Constantine?"

“God,” Marcus says tartly, privately glad that he can still hold onto the phone — Christ, he’s got four numbers saved and one is Tim’s, and — he can’t think about that or he’ll start laughing again, not because it’s funny but because what else is he meant to do.

Patricia Evans’ number isn’t named in his phone but it’s his most recent call: he hits the button to redial and says, smarmy and sharp, “Spose you want her on speaker so you can really enjoy worrying an exhausted innocent?”

"I can hear it." He corrects and glares Marcus down. God. So insanity is still on the table. "Don't frighten them. You're just checking in." He has more parameters to give, as playfully as Marcus seems to take this. But before he can lay them out, Evans is picking up the phone, as exhausted as Marcus promised and fearful for hearing back from their exorcist so soon after relief was in sight...

“Marcus,” Patricia says, her voice coming tinny and alarmed, and Marcus quickly brings the phone to his ear to calm her down.

“Easy, easy, it’s alright. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Why are you calling?”

“I got — mm, pretty stupid, actually. I guess I got worried. Wanted to make sure you were all holding up.”

“That’s not stupid. It’s, it’s nice of you. We’re pretty — we’re pretty shaken, I mean — it’s okay, though. We’re, um, we’re all downstairs. Watching movies in the background. Not good to be too quiet. We’re all sleeping here tonight.” Marcus nods. That was how he’d left them; the whole family clustered together in the living room with all the blankets and duvets they could find, Adia’s granddad holding onto her and Patricia flitting about, nervous and quick: food for Marcus, water for Adia, bowl for Adia to throw up into, painkillers, bandages, hot tea. Movement, movement, movement. Settling in for a long night with a sick kid, but not — Marcus had gotten lucky, had gotten the demon quick enough — not an emergency room visit. Adia’s nauseous and dizzy and sleep-deprived and there are bruises all over her, but she’s not as physically broken down as some possession victims are after their experience. “Adia’s throat hurts. I’m making her eat soup.”

“She keeping it down?”

“Um, seventy percent of it? I guess?”

Marcus laughs, relieved, and Patricia joins in, a bit sodden. “Good. Better than it was.” He looks to Batman, tries not to choke on the surreality of the situation: gives him an angry, flat look, this what you wanted?

His hand follows the phone to Marcus' ear, and Batman arches over him as he draws nearer. Listens as much as follows the display inside his cowl, showing this is indeed the phone of Patricia Evans and has been for five years. The noise in the background is peaceful and unconcerning, the speaker's voice a convincing combination of nervous and exhausted and sincere.

He considers activating the out-facing camera on Evans' phone, but a chorus of colleague reminders in his head remind him that's a bad idea, you need to stop doing that, that's way over the line--

So he just listens till he's satisfied, turning in when Marcus fixes him with a questioning look. He nods. Stiff and commanding, good to go, soldier.

Marcus wrinkles his nose at the proximity, and gives him a wordless sneer when he nods — expression vanishing when Patricia asks him, "Is there — you know — is there anything that helps?"

They've had this conversation. He exhales, sad and sorry. "What I told you," he said. "Let her take her time. She knows what she needs."

"She's so young."

"Yeah. I know. Hey, listen. She's tough. So are you."

"Can you — are you staying in town? She already asked when you'll be back. And — you're always welcome here."

Half-glance to Batman. He's assuming that's permission, too, to kick around for a little longer. "I can stick around for a few days. I'll see you soon. Get some sleep."

"You too. God bless you."

That seems to surprise him, get to him, his eyebrows flicking up and a slightly more vulnerable expression crossing his features before he gets a handle on it and shuts it down. "Yeah. God bless," he says, automatic, touched, and hangs up. Raises his eyebrows at Batman.

At Batman.

Christ.

It's enough that the case can wait till he gets back to the cave tonight, but it's still added to his docket. He straightens and pulls his hands away, unimpressed at the showy look he gets from Marcus--but less acidic than a moment ago. Without his covering, the rains comes back on Marcus with a vengeance.

"An exorcism." He guesses with near absolute certainty. "How long have you been performing in Gotham?"

"Ding ding ding." Correct, you win. "Been here about three weeks. Leaving in the next few days, like I said." He scowls and cuffs water off his face — doesn't make a difference, his jacket is soaked anyway. His phone goes back in his pocket. "I don't stay. Anywhere. Don't get your Kevlar knickers in a twist over that."

Three weeks. Three weeks, someone should have tipped him to this. At the very least, the rate at which the computer catalogues Marcus' face, they'll know if he's ever in town again.

"Leaving in the next few days, but not before revisiting the family." He can take his time observing, clarifying, protected from the elements by design. Sorry, Marcus. "You should proceed knowing you'll be observed.

"Who sent you here?"

"Yeah, I guessed you'd be keeping an eye," Marcus says, snappish and brittle, yanking his jacket collar up about his chin for a little more warmth and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Who do you think I answer to? Huh? I told you. Big man upstairs." He shakes his head. "But yeah, alright, you wanna know who gave me the address? Friend in the Vatican got a tip off. Patricia was trying to pretend it wasn't happening, but she couldn't take Adia to church any more though cos she'd scream, the ex-husband mentioned something to his mates, it got back to the congregation. Bit of a scandal, shock and horror, divorced parents screwing up their kid — Catholic fucking delight, imagine."

He grimaces, rounding his shoulders over. "Some of the rumours were bullshit and some of them weren't. Got passed on through a whisper network. Some local deacon got scared, far as I know, tried to look for support from the higher-ups. Didn't find any, but it got back to people I know. And I decided to come here to check it out."

"Tell your friend in the Vatican a heads up would have been polite." Not that he would have been happy about all this if he'd gotten wind, but he might have conducted the investigation himself--gotten in an investigator he could trust here, instead of having to call police on and off, dealing with an overgrown punk in the rain at the end of his shift.

Not that Batman is handing out business cards or anything. He trusts the goddamn Vatican has means of getting ahold of who it wants. "Give me your name."

Fuck. That is — that is very good, and he laughs, a proper laugh not panic, though it's only brief and comes out a little chattering. The adrenaline has worn off and now the cold is working its way into his joints. "Oh, he — yeah. Good idea. Next time, count on it." Because if there's anything to glean from this interaction, it's the image of Bennett and Batman each trying to make the other blink.

"Marcus. Marcus Keane." A stupid, thinks-he's-funny part of him that no longer has a fucking armoured gauntlet pressing into his trachea desperately wants to make the joke, what's yours, but. But. He grits his teeth, recognises sleep deprived bad judgement for what it is. "But once I die of hypothermia it ain't gonna matter, is it. Can I go."

"Marcus Keane." He repeats for memory, dark shape shifting as he steps back, going for his grappling gun. "You know, a cab would get you out of here faster. Might have even given you a head start on me."

It wouldn't have, but the patronizing jab come as natural as breathing. Marcus isn't the only one at the end of his rope of the day. Through the rain, the raised grappling gun still bangs in the confines of the alleyway. "I want you out of my city, the minute your work is done. I'll be watching till then."

And he will, though for tonight he simply disappears, pulled up to the roof and wizarded away from there. A new case means an extra file to fill out when he gets in; he aims to get in as soon as possible. Files fill, faces registered, notes passed along to the team around town, Batman bookmarks their latest stranger and goes to bed to watch another day.

Days. Week. However long Marcus stays, he has Robin keep movement tabs, makes period rounds on the family home when his patrol draws him close. Things seem to be on the mend in the Evans' house, but he keeps Corrigan in the back of his mind to be safe. (He would rather not invite Constantine if he doesn't have too.) The safety of the family feels assured. Marcus Keane feels well-managed.

Bruce actually closes the case on the day of the gala. He closes a few, prompted by Alfred to do a little spring cleaning of the case file. The new quarter for Bruce Wayne could match the new quarter for Batman. Besides, he needs to be at this party mentally and physically; Damian has been playing stand in for the last year, but people want to see the head of the house. It's in their home, after all. It couldn't be easier, Master Bruce.

So he's there. Case closed, suit fit, smile on like a spotlight in the crowded hall. The long drive outside is crowded too, lines of cars parked by carefully-instructed valets. These events are always huge, but for Wayne Manor--for Bruce Wayne--the turnout usually triples. Even though most of the guest list won't meet the man himself, people come for the historic manor. Alfred brought on extra staff, and early, to make sure the place was spotless top to bottom, to make sure food kept leaving the kitchen and tables and banisters stayed clean--and that more private hallways went without trespassers.

The case is closed. So when Bruce spots Marcus Keane slipping in through the main entrance, a little better rested and a little cleaner but no less rough for the wear, his program skips. Case is closed, but Keane was prepared to leave town. Case is closed, and Bruce is two drinks in with the DA and general counsel for Wayne Industries right this second, and he'll get to it. The second he has time to map out where Bruce and Batman are, he'll get to it.

There are a lot of seconds to spare. Marcus disappears in the crowd--not likely on purpose, but he blends in a sea of sparkle and suits. Bruce doesn't realize he's gone until it's been nearly an hour and a half, and a few people have beat him to the man. One of the cocktail servers mentions meekly that they saw him disappear up the stairwell there. Another admits to having run to the bathroom for a moment, rather than guarding their post.

Which leaves the hall to the south wing of the house open for Marcus to wander. It's dark. Freshly laundered and heavy with chemical cleaner still a little damp in the thick carpet. The windows lining the hall along the south wall let some moonlight, some starlight into the corridor. Framed prints along the wall, painting made digitally and printed to solve the issue of light bleaching paint, and the issue of so few of the subjects being able to sit still long enough to be painted. The dark hallways featured portraits of the Waynes of old. The windowed hallway shows of Bruce in the last decade, Bruce Wayne and his son as a boy--the same lookalike that's downstairs now, schmoozing along with his father. The pictures of him as a boy hint at none of the charm or ease that Damian Wayne gained in the last few years. There are older boys, college age and teenaged, smiles ready and soft even in the painting. Women, including two redheads that Marcus will have seen milling about below, older and statelier now than their wild looks in the portraits might have predicted.

And there's Tim. Just the one image: a family portrait about half of life-size, Bruce Wayne standing with his hand on his son's shoulders, the young man with an easy smile at his left shoulder, leaning, and Tim at his right. Stiff, unsmiling, arms folded around himself and rendered forgivingly by the artist to not look as tight as he'd felt for the reference photograph. There are two Great Danes laying on the floor at their feet.

The second floor southside holds Bruce's study--leather-topped desk and chaise lounge, shelves and shelves of books, ancient lamps and hanging lights and an impressive grandfather clock behind the desk. He lets Marcus wander about halfway in before clearing his throat, leaned against the door. His jacket is open, pushed back around his hands in his pockets, smirk as carefully loosed as his tie. "You know, typically, we save the home tours for before and after the festivities. In about two hours, this will be the hot spot for--scotch and cigars. Mister...?"

Dust or bleach, Tim had said. Today it's the latter. Marcus stands a long time in front of the picture, and then he says, quietly and to apparently no one, "Yeah, laugh it up," in that voice he uses when he hears precisely what God is saying and hates the fact that he hears it. In this case: you knew what you were getting into, didn't you, deep down?

He'd come to the party relaxed, amused: the bishop had invited him, out of pure embarrassment. Out of pure spite, he'd accepted. The look on the poor man's face had been something to see at the time, and nothing compared to when Marcus had accosted him at the party and clinked their glasses of complimentary champagne together with a wink. Free food is free food, anyway, and it'll be something funny to text Tim about. Which he needs. Because he's mentioned the case being closed, but he hasn't said anything about Batman. It's starting to eat at him because maybe he should, but if he says it now Tim will want to know why he didn't say it immediately...

He's not relaxed anymore, to say the least. Once he's turned away from the picture his shoulders are up and he prowls restlessly, looking for — he doesn't know. Something to fidget with, something to make this make more sense. Or maybe just an exit. Maybe he should just go, he's eaten enough and raised enough eyebrows for this to count as a success, he could just leave and try to forget it.

He actually stops a moment before he realises Bruce is there, as he finds himself in the study and takes a moment to stare and try to make a decision. In his pocket, his fingers curl around his phone. This, he supposes, is also an opportunity to come clean. Maybe that's good. He swallows — and then Bruce speaks, and Marcus jumps.

Christ, does he always just come out of nowhere?

Marcus exhales, spins around and smiles — tight, unhappy, teeth together. Nothing like the wild snarl a few short nights ago. All that restless energy held up tight and stiff in his shoulders, his hands digging hard into his pockets, elbows pinched into his sides. "Keane," he mutters, and tries to work out what the play is here — but he doesn't think he's controlling his features particularly well. He's staring at Bruce with a surly, bitter expression that doesn't fit with being caught snooping.

“Mr. Keane. I’m Bruce Wayne.” His right hand goes to turn up the dimmer on the hanging lights, then extends towards Marcus almost warmly. “Welcome to my home. I don’t think I caught you and the—bishop? At the entrance.”

Up close (out of costume), he’s two inches shorter. His voice seems higher, body seems smaller in the fit gray and black suit. All smiles and unassuming, despite Marcus’ poor poker face. “So—not enjoying the party?”

i'm sorry, my angel man

I’m SO HAPPY

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kiSSES ON HIM