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marcus keane ([personal profile] exorkismos) wrote2018-05-29 06:20 pm

@poleaxed

The last dregs of the congregation are returning to the pews after taking Communion when the heavy chapel doors bang, so there's a little bustle to cover the noise, but not enough. Marcus freezes, winces. Oh. It's Sunday, is it? Yes. It's Sunday. No chance of grabbing the priest for a private chat about the minions of hell, then, not until this wraps up.

He shakes off his moment of surprise easily. The other church-goers don't. He doesn't take much notice, but he doesn't blame them either; he's lanky and a little stooped, dressed in slept-in and rained-on black and with his hat casting shadows over his bruised face — and there's blood trickling from his nose, though he's not really cognisant of it. He swears under his breath, leaves muddy bootprints on the floor as he stumbles to the back pew and drops his bag too loud. The distinct acidic tang of sweat pours off him.

Some lessons on behaviour in Church are so ingrained, through, as to be muscle memory: he genuflects hurriedly (though getting up sends a pang through his torso — that's a bruised rib, he notes to himself with a grimace) and takes his hat off. Wipes his face and is startled by the crimson streak along his knuckles. "Ah, God damn it."

Nudging the woman next to him, he says, not really quiet enough, "Sorry. Got a tissue?"
poleaxed: fight; sad; angry (tries as hard)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 06:27 pm (UTC)(link)
When some weirdo staggers into the church, Joan is immediately seized with a sickening feeling of familiarity. While she's never rolled into mass that fucked up, she has been that fucked up before. Hell, she's been worse. But when Sunday comes by and she's in that kind of state, she cleans her shit up and hides the worst of it. Jesus, what happened to this guy?

Far from understanding creating empathy, she just feels embarrassed. If she ever went to church like that, she would have been slapped, worse than slapped, she would have doubled the investment of whatever pain got her in trouble in the first place. It all reminds her of old regrets, a life she's well passed living in, and an angry annoyance at- yeah, yep, he's next to her.

She cringes when he swears and doesn't spare him a look of barely restrained contempt when he speaks to her. Sure, her Sunday best isn't great-- jeans, a hoodie over a T-shirt-- but that's why she's in the back, and that's probably his thought process, too, and oh, for fuck's sake, she hates this.

But she does grab a dirty rag out of her pocket. It's not a tissue-- it's actually smeared with engine grease-- but this fucker can deal. Her whisper is harsh but flat, not echoing into the rest of the room. Unlike, you know, some shit.

"I will drag you out if you faint."
poleaxed: joke; static; tired. (cause you wanna be)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 07:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Joan refuses to be disarmed; his obvious amusement at her annoyance only makes her less willing to share her (generally overflowing) displeasure. She rolls her eyes and gives a little shake of her head, casually dismissive.

She leans in a little closer to him, not caring if it upsets his personal spare or confuses him. A quick sniff tells her what she needs to know. "Not wasted. Thanks for that."

Of course, that means he's not in here to dry out, and the way he came in suggests he's not in here to duck a fight. He'd looked genuinely confused when he staggered in, but he knew how to blend once he was in the right place. And, again, he's British.

So, none of it adds up. Well, that's fine; makes it someone else's problem. "Keep the rag. Don't need your staph infection."
poleaxed: angry ; static (saved)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 08:18 pm (UTC)(link)
The traditional answer is something about the Devil quoting scripture. Joan's always hated that, because it sounds snooty as hell. She gives him a flat look instead, clearly unimpressed, and wishing they were in a place where she could jab him for insolence.

"Do I look like Him? 'Cause that'd be a first."

But she keeps talking. Someone else's problem, yeah, but it's becoming a scab she can't stop picking. A more self-aware person would realise when they'd already consigned this problem to the pile of things they consider their particular duty to deal with. Joan barely notices another thing to shoulder. It's not like her life is rife with responsibility to begin with.
poleaxed: sad; static; scx. (hunter.)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 08:50 pm (UTC)(link)
And, meeting a challenge with a challenge, Joan likes that, as loathe she is to admit it. If he turns his head vast enough, he'll catch her shooting the other asshole a very strategically covert middle finger.

Don't swear out loud. The bird isn't in the Bible.

She considers his words-- someone who doesn't just take the dogma at face value deserves consideration, and it puts a wrinkle in her annoyance enough that she can concentrate on the priest again. Calming words, it settles her temper to a low boil.

She points to a carving of Christ at the altar, all gaunt and strung up bleeding. "Point of coming in's to keep an eye on Him." For her, anyway, but she doesn't like him enough to clarify.
poleaxed: fight; sad; hand (a master)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 09:19 pm (UTC)(link)
And that makes Joan snort, a carefully dulled sound pitched to sneak beneath the litany. "That hasn't got anything to do with God. Just means you don't have a day job."

And, because she's a judgmental prick and she knows it, "don't ever do things just for the sake of doing 'em. Waste of everybody's time."
poleaxed: tired; joke (well i tell you)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 09:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Another roll of her eyes; clearly this is getting nowhere. This guy is... more interesting than she initially assumed, but she initially assumed he was a drunk or a junkie. And to be fair, junkie hasn't been ruled out yet.

"Somebody doesn't give their best advice to a guy who wanders into a church bleeding and doesn't know what day it is," she murmurs, "bigger asshole than I can stand."
poleaxed: fight; sad; hand (a master)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)
Another snort. She shakes her head. "Joan. Try to win the fight next time."
poleaxed: joke; static; tired. (cause you wanna be)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-29 11:22 pm (UTC)(link)
And Joan goes through the motions. It helps that she's not recently out of a shitkicking fight, but she likes the rhythm of it regardless. It's safe, parameters to stay in where she knows all the moves. Comforting in its familiarity. And, like she said, it means she can keep an eye on God.

She's getting ready to leave when Marcus speaks up again, and she shrugs. "Dunno. Only been in town a week." And she's not intending on staying; the only jobs she can get are part-time or don't pay under the table, and like hell she's going back to waiting tables. "Maybe he lost a fight, too." She turns for the door, never having been a dawdler.
poleaxed: shock; static (you want a woman)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-30 12:44 pm (UTC)(link)
"Well, that's a creepy thing to say to a priest." Joan says it with a smile, but it's the sharp, challenging kind. The soft ones don't sit well on the hard features of her face.

And when they're out-- "And that was a creepier thing to say to one. Jesus. I'm gonna be pissed if St Edmund's is in with the mob." Because it means she's going to have to kick someone's ass before she leaves town, and it's more shit to worry about when she gets out of here. Christ.

She shoots Marcus a dirty look-- a symptom of her own worries-- but it cools after a moment, fading into exasperation. It won't do any good to show she's annoyed; he's more than proven that.

"Yeah, I'm expecting to fly." She's walking toward a car at the back of the lot-- she's not special, she didn't get here early either-- that's a Frankenstein of different parts, the model consistent but the paint job scratched and not matching the color of the door, the hood, the trunk. It's a dinky little sedan with plates from two states over, but in nice condition to a careful eye, tires maintained and without any sign of rust or denting. Worrying about looks in a car, her older brother and her father both agreed, is for pussies.
poleaxed: angry ; static (saved)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-05-30 04:13 pm (UTC)(link)
"You take house calls?" And then, "Christ. Should've come to my house when I was growing up. Would've paid to see that fight."

Daddy, can we move now that you've shoved a priest's head into a wall?

She shakes her head and, for once, doesn't show offence, if only because it gives her an opportunity to slide in another Neil Young reference. "It's sedan delivery." Anyway. "I bet yours runs worse."
poleaxed: shock; static (you want a woman)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-01 02:25 pm (UTC)(link)
"If she's mouthing off..." Joan shrugs, finding herself reveling in telling black comedy jokes to a priest. Even if he's an ex-priest (and she can guess why, from the way he acts, Jesus). That's an ugly thing, to enjoy it that much just because of what he used to be. God damn, she's a fuckup.

Well, no fixing that; it's been that way since birth.

And then he says something that entirely distracts her-- it's been far too fucking long since she worked on a car that wasn't FrankenFord. She can feel her fingers itching for it.

"You need it looked at?" She opens the trunk of her dinky sedan, so he can clearly see the wealth of mechanic's tools, well-used but well taken care of, laid out and ready.
poleaxed: joke; static; tired. (cause you wanna be)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-01 05:00 pm (UTC)(link)
If she rolls her eyes much more, she's gonna get a headache. "Yeah, I hear faith without works is a dead motherfucker. Get in the car and tell me about the old lady who beat the shit out of you."

She shuts and locks the trunk before opening the driver's side door, getting in, and leeeaning across the divide to unlock the passenger's side. Automatic locks, what the fuck are those. As soon as the engine roars to life, the entire frame starts to shake, vibrating just slightly. There's also a half-second of blasted music; she turns down the volume quickly, before Harvest echoes through the entire parking lot.
poleaxed: sad; static; scx. (hunter.)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-02 04:36 pm (UTC)(link)
And Joan can sense when she's being... not quite lied to, but something off. She keeps listening.

Joan moves the sedan out of the parking lot, and the rattling stops, smooths out, the car running without a bit of complaint. Well, as long as they stay under 60, and don't ever floor it, which they thankfully do.

She listens to Marcus' little story in the meanwhile, chewing it over. Something's off. Ex-priests don't go to pray for funzies. Don't get kicked around by sick old(er) women on the regular. Unless there's some embarrassment, something deeply wrong, something they don't want the real, actual priest poking around at, either out of shame or a lack of expertise. Or both.

Joan's voice is about as close as it ever gets to gentle when she says, "she was a junkie, you mean. And you let her hit you."
poleaxed: joke; static; tired. (cause you wanna be)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-03 12:49 am (UTC)(link)
"Agnes Dority," she supplies on habit alone. Used to be, she'd get paranoid about people figuring out who she was, but google searches don't turn up her name at all. You really have to dig, to find the missing person report filed after the double murder, almost ten years ago in the middle of shitsville, Delaware.

Also, she thinks he'll get a kick out of the middle name. Somebody always does.

"Maybe you didn't have to hit her, but fuck. Could've done something. You look like shit." Because it's her problem, now. She's too lonely not to worry, though she guards it with a gruff exterior. "I'm looking for a town with good racing. This ain't it. Lucky this car'd be shit for it."

Not strictly true-- she'd like a steady job as a mechanic, maybe finally settle down, but quick drag racing cash is always welcome.
poleaxed: tired; joke (well i tell you)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-04 01:45 pm (UTC)(link)
She's ready to be annoyed until he throws himself in with her. Anyone that stupid deserves the crooked smile pulling at her scarred lip. Dammit, she thinks she likes him. It's been fucking ages since she talked to a priest for any amount of time, even if he isn't one anymore. That probably just makes him better to talk to.

So she tells him more jokes about her name, because some stupid and lonely part of herself likes making people laugh. Nobody ever laughs around her. It's novel and exciting.

"Gets worse. Three older brothers. Matthew, Mark, Luke." Her parents weren't even that religious, beyond a general observance of tradition; they just liked matching names.

As for racing-- "Drag racing. Need a better car for it, though. This one's got a fine motor--" she'd know, she put it in herself, "but the frame's shit. Get above seventy and it'd shoot out like a cannonball."

Not strictly true, but it's how she explained it, the one time she needed to when someone was dumb enough to leave her alone with their inquisitive five-year-old.
poleaxed: smile; (i cured my skin)

[personal profile] poleaxed 2018-06-07 11:37 pm (UTC)(link)
She shrugs, one-shouldered. "Sometimes that happens. Less impressive, though, more like being called a cunt and told to get lost. No, sometimes it's legal, and then you find the flyers and whatever and enter. Sometimes it's not, so you gotta find the places where it happens, but you get a pretty good eye for it. Long stretches of road nobody's on late at night, where the cops won't notice, or get paid not to. Just gotta make sure there's no gang money in it."

Joan frowns. That was a lot, and she's not used to people being interested in, well, her. "Why d'you care? There's money in it, but unless you've got a real strong, light frame and you can fit the bill for new parts, I can't do shit for you."