exorkismos | @success

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.

Threaded | Flat

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."

i'm sorry, my angel man