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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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?”

He should feel good about this, Marcus thinks, considering Bruce's hand for a moment. Doesn't he technically have the advantage in this situation, given that he knows who Bruce is? Doesn't he?

Probably not, no. His gut instinct is too good for that. Right now, his gut's telling him you fucked up, congratulations.

He takes Bruce's hand, steeling himself for a very American handshake: iron grip, hard shake, eye contact, white teeth. "Oh. I'm just here for the food. Not really high society material, me." His smile twists even further into a grimace, and because he can't help himself, has never met an inopportune comment he didn't want to make, he says a bit too brightly, "Not a crime, is it?"

His grip is distinctly herding, smile set to make it feel like you want to come along. “If there’s any crime, the guilt’s on me.” Bruce jokes easily. “My family’s been throwing these parties for nearly a hundred years. If a person can’t be comfortable here, I must be doing something very wrong.

“Is this your first time in Gotham, Mr. Keane?” A nod of his head towards the small liquor cabinet, and he drifts that way. “Your name wasn’t on the list. Also not a crime, by the way—the Bishop never names his plus-one.”

The handshake doesn't quite work. Some of Marcus' grim sense of being in over his head is fading as he starts to appreciate the total difference in body language. Probably that's the minimum that Bruce Wayne does to protect his secret, but it's a striking change. Marcus doesn't follow him, but pivots to watch.

"Yeah, well. In this case, that'd be because he was really hoping I'd stand him up." Hands back in his jacket pockets, cagey and uncomfortable. "First time, yeah. Here for work." Don't stare, Marcus, don't sound so snide — but he can't help it. Probably the champagne isn't helping him swallow down what he's desperate to say, which is can we be done with the bullshit now please. "Recommend me the sights?"

He gives Marcus the same laugh he’d give an actual stranger for the joke, pulling out a decanter half full of brown and two glasses from the cabinet. “Well. It’s self-serving, but Wayne Industries headquarters was a modern marvel in the late twenties, and in my humble opinion, it’s damn near perfect still.”

Bottoms full, no rocks, poured as freely as he talks. “The old train station is a mall these days, and well worth the walk around. There are a few statues around city hall that would take your breath away. And of course, there’s the cathedral tour.” He gives Marcus a half-grin as he brings the glasses over, offering one by the rim. “If you go for that sort of thing. What kind of work do you do?”

Cathedral tour. Marcus shoots him an undisguised but sullenly mute acidic look over the top of the offered liquor. Takes a gulp before he remembers you're meant to sip, Christ, that was a bad decision — he did the same thing the first night with Tim.

He exhales, and his shoulders relax as he decides to give up. "So," he says, drawing out the vowel bright and conversational, and wandering to the desk so he can lean a hip against it. Fidgeting the glass. "So, fuck this. Never been good at the subtle stuff. More of a brute force kind of bastard, personally." He smiles at him tightly, lowering the glass. "Just easier, innit. You know what I do, I know what you do. Where's that leave us?"

He warns Marcus careful a little too late, grinning into his own glass. “Sorry—no ice in the office.” As if that’s the problem, and not the gulp. He takes a seat at the edge of the chaise, leaning casual over his knees. “Well, you know what I do, but—I’m sorry, did I miss you mentioning? Do you work for the church?”

This might actually be worse than their previous conversation. He takes another drink, still not quite a sip but somewhat less ambitious than his last foray. It's good. Of course it's good. It's better when he's not slugging it down. "Yep," he says, terse and irritable. "That's me. Travelling man of God. Proper circuit-rider style."

“You don’t seem too thrilled about it.” He sips demonstratively, tongue clicking against his teeth as the scotch clouds up his whole mouth. “Benefits not great?”

A long exhale through his nose, and Marcus relaxes his shoulders slightly. "I dunno," he says, and his voice actually softens. "Get to work with kids, that's pretty good. Following what God's telling me to do, that ain't fashionable to talk about at one of these events I guess, but. That's good, too. And I ain't ever had to wear a suit in my life, which is a nice little extra. That costume can't be comfortable."

He laughs into his glass, picks at the tie that he's already undone. "It's not so bad if you find one that works. It's the accessories that'll kill you.

"You know, if you're looking for work with kids, Gotham always needs another person looking out for our youth." Bruce peers at Marcus for a quiet moment (Adia Evans, not even thirteen, asking for him almost every morning for a week after, every evening when she had to give in to sleep) and pats his breast pocket. "The kids in this city see more darkness and tragedy before thirteen that most of America knows in a lifetime. Any friend of the Bishop..."

He rises, moving towards the opposite side of the desk for the righthand drawer. "Would've sworn I had a business card around here somewhere. We aren't the only ones, but Wayne Industries has a number of outreach programs that need help. There are more downstairs if you want introductions."

“I’m...” Marcus feels adrift. At the back of his skull the dull irritable boys’-school feeling of someone pretending not to have a laugh at his expense itches. And he’s got that elbows-on-the-table compulsion, too, has to fight off the urge to throw back the rest of the scotch to — what, prove a point?

Stupid thing to do, so he tamps down the urge. Instead he gnaws his lip, worries his phone in his pocket, says, “Nah. I ain’t staying. Sorry.”

He finds the card he was digging for and brings it over anyway. Settles hip against the desk next to Marcus, head tilting to get him by the eyes surely. "Just think about it. Like I said, we always need help with the kids. And it's good to have friends in any town."

Patricia Evans, trying to get back to work slowly with one eye on her daughter, talking Marcus' ear off every time he stops by, needing that point of contact. Sense of security. Quietly: "Where's God calling you next?"

After a moment, and with a palpable reluctance, Marcus takes the card. He doesn’t want to get mixed up in this capes bullshit. But.

But at least this way, if he ever comes back, it won’t be such a surprise. And if Bruce sees anything that needs his help, then maybe he can be of use.

“I dunno,” he says, stowing the card in his jacket pocket, where he’ll probably let it get dog-eared before he transfers the contact details to his phone. Just out of spite. “He doesn’t like to give hints too early. But I...might go visit a friend.”

"More bishops down the coast?" Bruce smiles, warm in his mask and in a little bit of scotch. "Very social for a man who doesn't do society."

“Ha. No.” He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then tries, “What are you angling for, seriously, because this is — pointless. Isn’t it?”

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kiSSES ON HIM

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just. puts my face in my hands.

I swear Bruce will cave....but not yet

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