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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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.

Marcus is quiet, half sullen and half shell-shocked, tailing Alfred. When the butler starts to discuss this family he has to blink, and it takes a moment for him to parse what he's saying. But then he nods, rubbing his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose: "Yeah. Uh. Yeah, no wonder." A pause, and: "Thank you. Thanks. I know you didn't step in for my sake, but. Cheers anyway. What's — where are you taking me?"

"Upstairs." Ha ha. The third floor hall loops around the building, doors and no doors and then doors again. "You said it's been several months since you met Tim." He keeps moving at a clip, but Alfred looks back briefly. "...How is he?"

Oh, good. Jokes. Marcus gives a dutiful smile. The question disrupts it. He frowns, not necessarily upset, just — struggling to say. "He's — it depends." After a pause; he doesn't want to say it, it sounds self-aggrandising, but it's true. It's not a thing. Tim's recent forays into taking care of himself are probably seasonal, if anything.

"Better. Better recently, I think. He's doing more stuff, looking after himself more, I guess. I hope. He was getting, uh...claustrophobic." He grips the back of his own neck, bites his lip. "What Bruce said back there, about dragging him into — I don't. I don't want to. That ain't how it is."

Alfred absorbs, not pausing in his steps or, when they arrive at the door he wants, in shuffling through the keys in his pocket. That sounds right--claustrophobia and the slow, enthused crawl out. "He's always flourished with a full schedule. You know, Timothy was meant to run the company--the son that met and negotiated senators and mysterious strangers at galas." Another amused, unsmiling look at Marcus. "Master Damian hasn't quite developed the skill for it yet.

"How would you say it is, Mr. Keane?" The room behind the door is small--a storage space, half books, a quarter covered furniture, a quarter taped boxes. Alfred walks the length of them, searching. "If you aren't dragging him in, what are you doing?"

Tim as CEO. Marcus smiles, can’t help feeling fond warmth kindle in his belly. Yeah, makes sense. He watches Alfred search, a little wary of what he’s looking for. Wary, too, of the question. He has to take a few moments to work out what he wants to say.

“It’s...that’s the only thing we’ve fought about, you know. He wants me to let him in on more cases. I don’t know what I’d do if he got hurt. But.” Marcus bites his lip, then grimaces. “I dunno. Been thinking about it a lot, and maybe I shouldn’t act like he’s fragile. Or like I — like I’m not.” This last comes with a scared sort laugh. He doesn’t know if he’s making sense. Some of this he’s only understanding as he says it, after hearing Bruce and Damian below. If he sees the threads he pulls them, he can’t help himself — it’s cruel, it’s patronising, it comes from a place of love and care and that makes it worse. He doesn’t want to be one more bastard with an overdeveloped conscience saying I know best and then running off alone into the danger he’s forbidden Tim from approaching.

“He wasn’t — when I met him he was choking. Slowly. Slow enough to know exactly what was happening to him. And I know the answer to that ain’t to pull him into more danger, but doing nothing wasn’t ever an option. Me and Tim, we’re pretty similar in some ways, believe it or not. Both of us need to be doing things. We don’t trust complacency...when something’s easy, we get suspicious. Start wondering what we’ve missed, or what we’re doing wrong, or whether we deserve any peace. So.

“So we’re trying to find some place between us, something that’s safe, safe-ish, but — happy. For both of us.” He scuffs his toe against the floorboards, scoffs. He’s not looking at Alfred. “Stop both of us from feeling like safe and happy are opposites. ...Work in progress.”

"If he makes his way nearer to happy with you," His hands tremble gently as he pulls a medium-sized box off the shelf; older every day, made older each day with days like this, "you'll have done something no one in this house ever could, Mr. Keane."

Good luck, that is. Thank you, that means. One arm braces beneath the box, the other at it's side as he hands it to Marcus. It isn't very heavy, no more than fifteen pounds. Alfred pats the top as he passes it. "These things have been found over the years. I've asked Bruce to remember them on his annual visits, but he never does. If you don't mind."

Marcus blinks, mouth coming open, nervous; is that approval? He's surprised by how much he wants it to be approval.

Thank God for the box that Alfred is handing him; thank God for the excuse not to linger on the question of Tim's happiness. He swallows hard and tries a smile. "Oh. Thanks. More snoop bait. Box of mysterious temptation. Just what I needed, that." It's a long drive from here to Ohio. Longer with a box he probably shouldn't look through sitting in the back of his truck. Probably it's old clothes, maybe a book or two from the weight. Maybe some technological paraphernalia Marcus has no way of understanding. "I'll — yeah, I'll make sure he gets it."

Alfred snorts, both hands gesture for Marcus to shoo. "I'll see you directly to the door, Mr. Keane." Snoop-proofing. "You'll need a car back into Gotham, I presume?"

"Once I grab the rest of my worldly possessions from His Grace's car, yeah." He settles the box under his arm, shooing obediently but not without a pleased, slightly smug expression. "He misses you, you know. Didn't say it, but he does. Told me you held everything, everyone together. I didn't really get it at the time, but I do now."

Gifted by Marcus back to him, Alfred clears his throat and laughs. Getting older every day, he's too soft if hearing something as small as that winds him up. "I should hope he does. I imagine he's had to learn to cook something besides eggs without me. None of these mongrels sleeps without being told, either. He better damn well miss me. Tell him--

"Tell him hello." Because apparently none of them can work up you're missed without provocation either.

Marcus laughs, delighted rather than mocking, eyes creasing with the force of his smile. This, like everything else, explains a lot. "I'll tell him all that, word for word," he promises. "On my honour."

The Bishop's car keys are with the valet, and Marcus charms and/or gently threatens his way into rescuing his belongings. Shouldn't have brought the bag out, really, he thinks, stowing the Bible safely back at the bottom of the ancient rucksack where it knocks against rosary beads and candles. Hell, he shouldn't really have come.

He looks up at the manor from the driveway while the car comes around. Too big for light to get in, Tim had said. He'd had some trouble picturing it: like a schoolhouse, maybe? Like an old church? It's not. Too many people in the first, too much comfort in the latter. Now he gets it, sees a little of how the house folds in on itself, tucks its secrets away. The front windows are bright, smokers spilling out onto the steps — no Damian, of course. Alfred would have been careful to ensure their paths didn't intersect. He feels a twist of anger and guilt at the idea.

The car tyres crunch across the gravel. He gets in, propping the box on his lap and his elbows on its top, and then he picks up his phone and starts mapping out the quickest route to Paucity, Ohio.

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