@success_story

[exorkismos]

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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[exorkismos]

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."

[success_story]

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?"

[exorkismos]

"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."

[success_story]

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.

[exorkismos]

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.