Something flickers in Marcus' expression, his eyes going a little wider. If his dad had ever got to his age Marcus would look just like him. The resemblance is strong enough that sometimes he flinches at mirrors. Sometimes, when he shouts, it's like it's not him talking. Like Patrick Keane is back again, roaring through his mouth.
Then he shakes his head clear and takes the moment of her distraction to grab at her, drag her into the room and turn, shove her away. And he bolts the door.
"I'm sorry," he says, panting, back against the door, "Jesus Christ, oh God, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry." Dry mouth, barely the spit to say it: "Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell..."
It's rushed and ragged, his heart beating so hard it hurts. He doesn't do this for people he knows. People he cares about. It's too difficult to get any kind of distance.
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Then he shakes his head clear and takes the moment of her distraction to grab at her, drag her into the room and turn, shove her away. And he bolts the door.
"I'm sorry," he says, panting, back against the door, "Jesus Christ, oh God, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry." Dry mouth, barely the spit to say it: "Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell..."
It's rushed and ragged, his heart beating so hard it hurts. He doesn't do this for people he knows. People he cares about. It's too difficult to get any kind of distance.