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 does a sorry job of keeping himself opaque. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce watches him and reads. He didn't get this reaction out of mentioning Jason. Maybe it's the photograph. Possibly. Some people are sensitive.

Marcus looks at the picture with familiarity that makes him wonder, though. "...You said you don't have children?"

He's startled into a laugh by the question, even though it feels like an inopportune moment and he quickly cuts it short with a brief expression of self-rebuke. He just doesn't get that one often. "No. Uh, never a thing I thought about, really. Even after I left the priesthood." Which they haven't discussed while Bruce is wearing this mask, but the scotch is settling in and Marcus doesn't really have much patience for delicacy when sober.

"But you're missing someone right now." Soft but fast, meant to catch him off guard just a little. "If not a child, who are you missing?"

Marcus spears him with a look, and says, prompt and deadpan as anything, "I mean, I reckon by now Bishop Conlan downstairs will have just about convinced himself I've fucked off and he can relax. I'm ready to ruin that moment of relief."

Bruce warms slow, but laughs loud when the full idea overtakes him, and claps his free hand to Marcus' shoulder--keeps it there to lead him along with. "Well, let's see if the good Bishop hasn't had enough wine to make him a little friendlier. Anyway, if we don't get down, we're going to miss the salmon puffs. I know that sounds incredibly--I know how it sounds. But you'll thank me, I promise..."

The hall is in fuller swing as they come down, and Bruce keeps Marcus close as they enter a more Bacchic throng that they left. More flutes, more trays, more music, and more waitstaff rushing back and forth. The music is a bit louder, and everyone just a little bit looser. Bruce doesn't seem concerned by the party, but he can't find who he's looking for; no one has seen his son for the last half hour.

"Alfred." The Butler. The father/mother. The barrier. Bruce finds him first, one hand at Marcus' shoulder and the other at Alfred's. "Damian?"

The older man has to lean much closer to be heard. "Out for a cigarette, sir."

The scowl Bruce gives is entirely genuine. He pushes the two men at his hands nearer. "I'm going to pull him back in. Make sure Mr. Keane here gets a salmon puff? I'll be back. Don't lose him!"

The crowd pulls Bruce in before he even completes a step away. Alfred stays close, but the look he gives Marcus is appraising, at kindest. "...Mr. Keane, was it? You must be some kind of musician, then?"

Bruce steers him and Marcus has to swallow down a moment of alarm. Wait! isn't a good look and it won't be listened to, so he raises his eyebrows and gives into it. Fine. At least it means he can justify his continued presence at the party as not his fault. Which might be important, later, when trying to explain to Tim, you know how I promised I wouldn't pry.

He's already admitted that he wants to meet Alfred, though, and he relaxes, grinning, immediately much more comfortable with him than with Bruce, though he recognises the barb in his words. He didn't expect him to be English, except now he thinks about it of course he is, and he didn't expect him to look quite so much like he's popped out of a BBC drama, but again: of course that's the case. "Marcus," he says by way of introduction, sticking his hand out as Bruce gets swallowed up by the crowd. "Youth worker, actually, but I'm not gonna contest the compliment."

Alfred takes his hand only slightly less assertively that Bruce, with none of the manufactured warmth. The man is working, not to mention set on edge by an observation: "Master Wayne gave you the tour of the house? Every thing in order, I hope?"

It’s not the first time that Marcus has been called out for snooping. He grins, totally shameless, and says, “Yeah, it’s gorgeous. How’s the party going? Can’t be easy, corralling this lot. Had any troublemakers?”

He snorts, amused but not smiling. "If there's no trouble, it's hardly a party. I believe Master Wayne mentioned the puffs."

Bruce has given him these requests before, plenty, and they run the gamut from real requests for special treatment and code for get this asshole out of here. Worry over the Wayne heir's location left them without time for much clarification, so Alfred draws a line somewhere in between, cutting Marcus out of the crowd in the wake of a moving server. His fingers pinch at Marcus' elbow to herd him along.

The area they enter isn't a kitchen, but a side room set up as an intermediate space, hors d'oeuvres trafficking in from the kitchen and out by not-yet frazzled wait staff. There's an aluminum urn of coffee in the corner that two servers are huddled near, and Alfred is about to come up with some bit of small talk.

But before Marcus steps fully through the threshold, he's shoved forward--grabbed by the back of his collar and his shoulder. The person grabbing him (Damian, barked about six feet too far back) doesn't relent until Marcus bumps hard against the sturdy table, covered by two protective clothes and a collection of dishes waiting for washer. It rattles.

Marcus had wondered if salmon puff was code for don't let him steal anything. Being gently removed to a sideroom provides some evidence for the theory. But he's perfectly willing to go along with being steered for now, interest piqued by Alfred and the chance to sample more food a welcome second objective. Towed in Alfred's wake, he says cheerfully, "Yep, real reason I — Jesus!"

He stumbles and growls as he's grabbed and shoved into the table with a crash and a rattle; his elbow drives back hard, purely on instinct, teeth baring in a snarl.

It isn't that they planned this; it's simply that they have a plan. Alfred sees the Wayne men come in looking stormy and automatically goes to shoo out the help and block the door. Bruce has to stop his son, but he has to lock the door to the hall first before anyone follows them in and Damian runs his mouth.

Damian isn't operating on a plan. They were off-duty for the night--until now, of course. His hand snaps around the elbow that Marcus throws at him, twisting to wrench that arm painfully behind his back before rolling the man over to face him.

He has his father's eyes in green and height in a slimmer model, but Damian is still imposing in size. Dressed to the nines, but not someone that belongs here: head shaved bald, skin-fit top crawling all the way up his neck and all the way down his palms still doesn't hit the tattoos creeping out from under his collar and over his knuckles, leather skirt, leather pants, leather boots--he's more of a gothic monk in green than a someone who should be here.

The voice still ties him to his family though; he sounds almost exactly like Batman as he bends Marcus back over the table. "What were you doing in Paucity, Ohio?"

The growling demand stops Bruce from pulling him back, freezes Alfred at the opposite end of the table.

Marcus snarls again, again struggles although he knows there's no point — but there's an incredulity to his expression that wasn't there the other night when Batman was growling at him. Here, he hasn't done anything.

But then Damien says Paucity and Marcus' eyes widen in disbelief and alarm. "In — " He chokes on the echo, eyebrows up, and ends up accidentally telling the truth in very genuine tones of simmering righteous anger: "Visiting my boyfriend, you prick. That a crime? Jesus Christ, let go."

Over Damian's shoulder, tension visibly leaks out of Bruce's posture, leaving just frustration in his voice when he calls his boy again like snapping for a dog. Behind Marcus, too, there's an exhausted Master Damian easing closer. But Damian doesn't give an inch.

He's close enough to see the ripples under the surface. He knows he's right the moment Marcus speaks. "Did he tell you to come here, your boyfriend? Why are you here, don't lie to me, you haggard witch!"

That's Bruce's hands forcing Damian back by his chest and arm, apologizing even while he tries (tries) to break Damian's grip. "Mr. Keane, I'm sincerely sorry--stop. Stop."

"Witch, that's new — never had that before — " A breath of harsh, unhappy laughter escapes him as he twists aggressively in Damian's grasp. He can feel his heart racing, not slowing down at Bruce's attempts to drag his son back. "What the hell is this about? What are you talking about?"

"I'm not a sniveling, grieving mother you can trick with religious trappings--" The Evanses, he's been watching the house, too. "--I won't be patronized in my own house--!"

Bruce handles Damian's wrists with a force that might break anyone else, pulling him back from behind like a biting hound. Growls in his ear as he wrenches Damian back, warning him to relent, but Damian addresses him with his eyes till burning into Marcus'. "Drake is compromised--he's compromised, he's in danger--"

"Damian--"

"Father, are you blind?!" Slowly, shakingly, his arms are forced, crossed over his chest. Bruce human-straitjackets him against his chest. "You let him in our home, how much did you show him?!"

Alfred's hands light at each side of Marcus arms. He watches in case the man flinches, but gives him heads up in the form of a dry joke, quiet enough for only him. "You wondered about troublemakers, Mr. Keane? Out the back, he's had a bit much--"

But even as Alfred veers him away, Damian kicks up in Bruce's hold and bellows: "Keane!" There's a knock on the door from the hall side that no one acknowledges. Damian spits, strong as a curse, "If you touch him, I'll have your head, do you understand? If you go near him, I will rip you apart!"

"No, wait, wait — who's Drake — " Fuck, fuck, let that not be who he thinks it is. God help him, there's an easier way to do this — except coming clean might not help —

Out the back, he thinks, he can wait until Alfred steers him away, sort it out with him instead of with either Damian or Bruce. Alfred's the barrier. Alfred seems the least likely to punch him in the mouth. But it takes effort to rip his eyes from Damian, not to say I'm not going to hurt him I swear to God I'm trying not to.

"Pennyworth, don't you hide him! My pocket--Father, give me my hands. Give me my hands." A beat while Alfred and Bruce exchange glances, and Alfred keeps moving Marcus towards the opposite door--but Bruce (don't move met with i won't move) lets Damian go.

In the wide pocket of his skirt is a Bible taken from the vehicle that brought Bishop Conlan and his guest. Damian holds it out as if to read from it, but he just flips through pages (drawings) till he lands halfway through Psalms. He holds the book open and up for Marcus to see, a sketch of Tim from months ago smudged from carriage. "Witch! Answer for this!"

He doesn't even remember the portrait of Tim in there until Damian starts flipping through it. The first flash of red is just that Damian is touching it, that he's holding onto the oldest thing Marcus owns, the only weapon and only shield he's ever had. Then he realises what he's looking for, makes a quiet noise of alarm. "That — " Flushing angry, embarrassed, teeth back on show, Marcus twists to face Damian and says, "That's mine. Fuck's sake, I — we —"

The explanation is reasonable, is the worst thing. It just sounds absolutely insane. "Listen. Listen, don't just scream at me. We met through work," he says, "months ago, we — he helped me with a case. A family in Paucity, a girl who — it doesn't matter. We...kept in contact." He hears that come out of his mouth and laughs, hard and hurting, a short sharp noise that scrapes his throat on the way out. What's wrong with him, that he can't just say what he means? That this, out of everything in the situation, is what trips him up? "God. No. I mean. I — we've been together since." Clumsy, awkward phrasing. He's numb with nerves, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "This? All of this? Me being here? Just bad luck, or maybe God's having a laugh at my expense. Take your pick. But this ain't what I wanted, I don't want any of this fucked-up vigilante shit, don't want to do anything that drags him back into it, don't want to hurt him. Now give me my fucking Bible."

"Together." Bruce repeats flat and tight.

"You mean you're fucking him." Bright and cruel, Damian's eyes scrape over Marcus, down and up again with a sneer. He holds the Bible out and open in his hand. "Christ, Timothy."

"He told you about us?" Bruce demands urgently, up to Damian's side quickly then to Marcus'. "Why. Is the Vatican asking questions? What the hell is going on?"

Edited 2018-04-18 19:18 (UTC)

The Bible gets ripped from Damian's hand, Marcus sneering right back, "Yeah, fuck off, Siouxsie's missing banshee — no." Turning, incredulous and furious, to Bruce, to say, "No, he told about about himself, cos I was curious how the fuck a tech consultant knows so much about field medicine and dead languages. Not to mention why he wanted to spend his time off tailing a sodding exorcist. He never gave me real names. I never asked. You don't factor in. Sorry to disappoint."

Bruce's nostrils flare, Damian's hands raise, the two men like a Magic Picture--cross your eyes and pull away to see them come together almost at once, just a second off from each other: "Then why are you here?"

Jesus. Jesus Christ, this explains a lot. He stares at both of them, incredulous, and laughs again. "Why am I — seriously?" Hand to his forehead. "Yeah, the Vatican sent me to spy on you. No, Jesus Christ, what are you talking about? I came here to piss off Conlan and to eat for free. I came here cos the Evanses are gonna be okay and I thought going to a fancy party would be more of a celebration than sitting in some dive. Which, hindsight, that's hilarious. But this is a fuck-up, not a sodding conspiracy."

"You need to stay away from him." Damian hisses first.

Bruce volleys, "This is dangerous for his sanity, we've kept the threads between us to a minimum for his sake, Mr. Keane. If he sees them, he pulls them--"

"You need to leave him the hell alone."

"--don't drag him into any more of your cases. We've worked too hard to give him the existence he wants, but he can't help himself--"

"You can't conceive of the ruination--"

The barrier: Alfred asserts himself between Waynes and Keane, back to Marcus and palms to the others. "That's enough. That's quite enough, sirs, you're meant to be hosts tonight. This strikes me as being markedly rude to your guests. All your guests."

Bruce, six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, has learned over the years to shut his mouth to certain tones. He quells, backing up a step and straightening his jacket. Damian still protests. "I'll kill you." Over Alfred's shoulder, venomous even as Bruce pulls him back, easier this time. "If he's muddled by any of your magic, I'll murder you, preacher. Demon's Head, they called my grandfather, there's no place on earth you could hide from me."

Hissing, just as venomous, unwisely squaring up, "Do you think I don't know, do you think I don't care about — " But Alfred steps between them, and though it's a physical effort Marcus stops himself, takes a ragged breath. And just like that, after that first push, all that frenetic energy drops away in horrible freefall. He's wan suddenly, hollowed out of all the anger and the disbelief and finding, as ever, guilt flooding out like black water into every available space. He can't respond to Damian's continued threats beyond shooting him a dismissive sneer.

Alfred keeps his back to Marcus in the minute it takes him to snipe Damian down, curt, offended assurances that he'll be taking care of this just as well as he can. They do need to be back in the crowd, but as much for the crowd as for their own tempers. The men of the house bitterly, screechingly put their people faces back on to be herded out, not without last glances--especially from Damian, whose glare melts uncannily into a smile just before guests can see him through the door. Wait staff comes flowing back in immediately, frantic with empty trays.

Clearing his throat, Alfred's hand comes to Marcus' elbow again, as if this interlude hadn't occurred. "Come." A nod to the back door. "Out the back now, come along."

Not to the kitchen, but not to the door either. Through the kitchen. Alfred starts to lead Marcus up a darker set of stairs. "This family has never done well with lookers-in, for what I'll assume are obvious reasons." This comes drifting down, preempting a switching on of dim lights in the windowless third floor hall. "Master Timothy's exit and absence are no exception to their tendencies. May even be an exacerbation to them. I'm sure you understand." That's an apology.

@success_story

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"youth worker" this is chefs kiss

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seal claps!!

GREAT also hello i finally name the made-up city tim lives in :\a

SHRIEKS ahhhh and also lmfao what a good name

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MAN I WAS GENUINELY HOPING EXACTLY THIS WOULD HAPPEN

8)))))))))))) also whOOPS button smashed too fast

I'm just. revelling in this thread.

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BEH

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