marcus keane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exorkismos) wrote2018-05-29 06:20 pm
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?"
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?"