exorkismos | open / heaven created a miracle

"But you're wearing it," Marcus says, his eyes following the pair of them, "aren't you?"

Strange sensation: his instincts know what's going on and his brain hasn't caught up yet. He takes two steps, tailing Joan and Daniel as they stagger towards the door. His eyes track Joan's arm about Daniel and, abruptly, he remembers that she has a knife.

She unlocks the door. He opens his mouth, and acts on his oldest instinct: attack first, draw fire. Provoke what's hiding out into the open. "What, you surprised I didn't tell you?" He breathes in, though it doesn't feel like it takes. He can feel sweat sticking beneath the collar of his shirt. "Why would I tell you, Joan, hm?"

Anger breaks into disappointment; she'd fight him, usually, but there's other shit to worry about. She'll break his jaw after they're out of this fucking house. "Is anybody fucking home?" She yells into a comfortably beige hallway.

Looking back over her shoulder, she glowers, "yeah, because I'm a dumb skank who can't be trusted, I got it, Holy Father."

She's always wearing her metal. She only takes it off to bathe. That doesn't seem worth explaining, though she can't figure out why, and then the thought is gone from her mind, folded neatly away and unquestioned. It still itches, and the itching is getting worse, but she's used to bearing up under pain-- is it pain? No, no, just discomfort. Minor. Even easier to ignore.

More stuff to pile up in the I'm sorry about this corner, more stuff to feel bad about later and feel nothing about now.

"Because you've got all the sodding subtlety of a ten-ton truck," he murmurs, real exasperation creeping in. He's starting to get the shape of what might be going on here, but he can't quite bring himself to shape the words in his head.

There's the clamour of footsteps on the stairs, a flight or two below. Andrea O'Neill, Marcus judges, from the sound of the footfalls. "Joan," Marcus says, "how are you feeling right now, out of interest?"

"Danny?" Andrea's calling as she comes up the stairs. "Father Marcus? What's going on?"

Joan practically throws the stupid kid at his stupid (she assumes) mom (she's sure). Gentleness has never been in her realm of possibility. "Your kid's all better," she says, "and if you do any shit like that to him again, I'll burn your fucking house down."

She should probably be... different. Maybe she would be. How did everything get so murky all of the sudden? She's usually unbridled in her conviction, decisive, forging forward. Why does she feel so listless and bereft?

Oh, right, because her only friend has finally revealed how little he thinks of her. Fucking duh, Joanie. She turns back to him, and leans in close, finger pointing a straight arrow of accusation toward his chin.

"If you're gonna goad me," she says, livid and dire, "come up with more original fucking material."

The collar of her button down is open, and it's possible to see the blister beginning to form over the cheap, tacky metal coiling that holds the pendant of Saint Margaret in place under her shirt.

Andrea stumbles, Daniel throws his arms around her. "Who the hell are you?" she gasps. And then: "Danny, oh my God, sweetie — "

Marcus says, "Take him and your husband, go to the nearest hospital, get him checked over. Just drive."

"But you — "

Seething, suddenly, far angrier than seems possible, he rounds on her and snarls, "That ain't a suggestion, that's what you're gonna do. Take your boy and go. We'll be gone by the time you get back. Go!"

He hates himself for it. Her eyes go big and scared. She almost trips dragging Daniel with her as she descends, yelling for her husband to come help her goddammit.

Just as soon as it appears, Marcus' anger melts off. He's breathing too fast, and now he can see the welt forming at Joan's collarbone. Something comes over him, dizzy and sick. He takes a few steps back, crosses the threshold of the attic door, trying to get her to crowd him in and come with him. He wants her in a small, confined space. Controllable. He can't afford to lose her in this massive house. Can't afford to lose her full stop.

Oh, Jesus Christ, what's he done.

He manages to keep the horror and the guilt from spilling out into sorry, oh my God, oh my God I'm so so so sorry. Takes a shaky breath and keeps needling. She's smart. Hopefully the demon isn't. "What, you saying you've heard that before?" Another step back. "There's a shock."

Joan watches Marcus scream at the family of dutiful idiots with a dull expression. This is already wearisome. Disappointment is so fucking regular in her life, this is-

Ha.

She knows that trick. Her dad used to do it all the time, when shit was really bad. Try to lead her into certain places in the house or the garage where he'd have a fighter's advantage, like he needed more of one being a hundred pounds and thirty-four years older than her. But even if she didn't have that experience, there's a niggling feeling, an itch in her mind- she sees a figure of shadow behind Marcus in the attic, shaking its head.

She squints, blinks, but it's gone. Probably just stress. Years after Luke died, she thought she saw him everywhere.

Anyway, back to this motherfucker. She rounds on Marcus, stomping her feet, but not getting in grabbing distance. She's best at fighting older men, it's who she grew up fighting, she knows the way they try to play it, the way they always fucking do. "You want me to lay it out for you? Lazyass. I'm dumb, I'm ugly, I'm loud, I'm mean, I'm a flat-chested bitch with a shitty face before the scar and I'm going to Hell. I get it. Fuck off with it."

It's hard to really raise someone to true froth-mouthed rage when their default setting is anger. Anger, and all its shades; anger, annoyance, rage, bitterness, fear, pain, spite, regret, disappointment, everything about this is so fucking disappointing, and it hurts. It hurts like her neck hurts, like her throat hurts, something stuck in it, like the pain on the skin of her throat-

Don't think about that.

"What I don't-" she takes a deep breath, steeling herself for... something. She isn't sure. "Get. Is you. This. Torturing people in attics. You're a smart person. Shouldn't just... believe things 'cause the church says so. Said so. A hundred years ago, Marcus! A hundred fucking years!"

"Come on, Joan," Marcus says. "That ain't why I believe it. You know that's not how it works." Come on. He needs her a bit closer. He doesn't need to grab her, he just needs to get the door bolted behind her. Contain the problem. "Hard-headed stubborn bastards like you and me, we don't look to dogma to back up faith. We like looking at what's right in front of us." Come on.

Down below, there's the clatter of a door. Outside, a car starts.

His eyes drop again to the hollow of her throat. "Your neck ain't doing so good. You feel that? It's gonna make you try to ignore it. And I think you're pretty good at ignoring pain, right? Don't."

"Then what am I supposed to- don't you dare fucking compare us like we're buddy-buddy." That makes her angrier, that hits a mark deep down. He's not like her. He hasn't done shit that she has. He hasn't lived a comfortable life, she can see that, but it's not- "We're not the same. We are not the fucking same! You think- you think I can't see what you're doing? Trying to fucking lure me in? Like I never been in a fight with somebody taller than me? If my dad wasn't dead, he'd be your age. You think I got scars like this from winning?"

She angrily swipes at her face. There are a few steps missing in that argument, usually something she's a stickler for, making sure shit's explained and laid out as crystal fucking clear as possible. Especially when she's mad, when the whole world snaps into place, when everything makes sense. But she feels kind of muddy-headed, like she did when that window opened (it just opened, who has attic windows that open that easily?). She ignores that, too.

"I know what you're trying to pull," she says, breathing hotly, nearly panting. "And I'm not-"

His words break her concentration, and she stops, flinches at nothing, and begins scratching, clawing at her neck.

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.

Joan puts up a good fucking fight, and its a dirty, cruel thing, and it's all her. Kicking and clawing, she knees him in the balls and smacks her skull against his temple, opens her mouth, ready to bite something vital, when-

He pushes her away.

He's not just going to beat on her? That's confusing. What's his aim? But then the world begins to spin, and she drops to her knees. "What-" This isn't right. Something is wrong. Her neck hurts, hurts almost as bad as the time Matt almost choked her to death, when her mother said Thank Christ it's winter, you can wear a fucking scarf, now go to school. She looks at her fingers, and there's blood under the nails. She did that to herself?

She looks up at him, and there's fear and anger and a lot of hate. "What are you trying to do? Use small words, since I'm so dumb and all."

"...who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call for help — "

Out of breath, he crumples in kind, knees creaking as he thuds down in front of her and grabs for her shoulders. "You ain't dumb, you ain't stupid. You were right." He laughs, horrible, then grimaces: "There wasn't a demon in that kid, not by the time you poked your bloody head through that window. This — I didn't tell you because I was scared of this — "

No. He can't go down that route, or he'll end up pleading with the thing in her head instead of compelling it to leave. He breathes in shaky, the edge of a sob, and steels himself with bared teeth gritted. "The medal 'round your neck. Holy symbol. It's burning you cos the demon can't stand it. Joan. You believe in God?"

They're stuck here, slumped on the floor, staring eye to eye like kids. She hangs her head. "No I'm not. I'm here, aren't I?"

She stares at him, and he's finally talking straight with her and not trying to attack, so she listens. They're not the same; she's worse.

Her answer is immediate. "Of course I believe in God." She holds out her hands to the room around them, as if the existence of a higher power is evident in the O'Neil's attic. In the dark recesses of her mind, she thinks she hears laughter. "I won't ask if you do. Never figured you were a fucking zealot."

Marcus snorts, shakes his head. "Well," he mutters, "ain't like I went into the priesthood for the pay." Not like he really had a choice in the matter. He swallows, and he says, "Did my first exorcism at the age of twelve. At the moment, my hands are all that God's got to work with."

Careful, not looking away from her, he takes one hand off her shoulder and opens up his Bible. Feeling his way through the pages. There's a folded corner he's trying to find. "I know I ain't exactly given you any reason to trust me. And I know at the moment there's something in your head making all that worse, right? Making you angry, making it so you can't focus."

"Oh, god, you were in a cult." She drags a hand down over her face, genuinely sorrowful for a moment. How did she not see it? How did she miss something like this. It makes her next comment more tired than angry. "You may not have noticed, but that's always how I am, Marcus. Default setting. Before the age of twelve."

That actually throws Marcus, makes him blink and start back a little: "Catholic Church, same as you," he says, almost offended.

Thrown enough to be a little snappy, he says, "This is what they do. Take the path of least resistance. Is burning up under that saint's medal you've got on default, too?"

She thinks they means the Church and she looks up, confused why he's going on about her metal again (it hurts, it hurts, she's not taking it off). "Stop making excuses for them. Church is fucking huge, if you haven't noticed. Making a kid do a fucking exorcism-- I don't care if it was 'real' or not, that's a cult. A sect, if you want, whatever, it's a cult sect. Taking fucking twelve-year-olds isn't the path of least resistance?"

As she talks, as she tries to logic her way through this, her hand reaches for her collarbone, hovering there. She notices it almost belatedly and moves it back to the floor, the fingers balling into ugly fists.

"What are you — " He's vaguely aware they're talking at cross-purposes, and that she's not making sense. The Church is a big, ancient machine for gnawing up people and spitting them out appropriately holy. The Church is different from God. It's still not a cult, it's still the Church, it's still something like family. He shakes his head. "Not the point. Church or no Church, I'm telling you I know what I'm doing."

He catches the movement of her hand, looks back to her. "What's your explanation for how your neck feels right now, huh?"

"You're telling me something really fucked up happened to you when you were little. You-" But his question is a good one, she has to credit that. She doesn't like the feeling on her neck, and she hates that she knows the source of it.

She reaches down from the metal, slipping it out of her shirt to let the pendant hang there. Saint Margaret, who killed a dragon like Saint George, so her confirmation name would match Luke's, because at the time all they cared about was fighting fantasy monsters in the back yard with sticks.

She watches the skin of her fingers begin to blister under the metal.

"I always knew I was going to Hell," she says, a little sad, maybe even dreamy. She doesn't share this shit with other people. "I just didn't think- Didn't know it would start like this."

"It doesn't," Marcus says. His hand at her shoulder digs in. She's bony and too lean and he can't look much longer at her blistering fingers. Angry — not at her, but angry all he same — he tells her, "You ain't going to Hell. Not on my goddamn watch, you understand me? Listen. Listen, I can stop this. Whatever you think of me, I can stop this."

He's found the page. His eyes flick down. "Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'" Looking up: "Say it. Come on. Call and response. 'He is my refuge and my fortress...'"

Adamantly, "You can't pray away being a murder-aah-" and then she crumples to the floor, as if struck. Which is weird, because she never lets herself fall in a fight if she can help it, and she especially doesn't let herself cry out. Matt and Dad used to make fun of her for it, every time she squealed or cried, said it was a girly thing, and she stopped as soon as she could, and now- "That fucking hurts, stop. What's wrong with me? This doesn't happen..."

She doesn't let herself look at him, suddenly fascinated by the dusty grains of wood in the floorboards. Her medal hangs from her neck, no longer pressed to her chest by her shirt, though the metal keeping it around her neck still blisters at her skin.

The only response Marcus gives to the admission of murder is a flicker of his eyebrows.

Later. He'll address that later. More important things right now. "I know, duck. I know. It ain't you I'm trying to hurt, it's what's sitting in the back of your skull. Say it after me, Joan, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust.' You believe that, don't you?"

Does she believe in God? Of course. Does she believe God loves her? Certainly. Does she believe that means He'll help her in any way in her life? Maybe, sometimes. Does she trust Him? Certainly not.

But that's clearly too complex a conversation to have with someone who grew up in a cult. She thinks she can hear laughter in her head. A beautiful woman is sitting next to Marcus, laughing her ass off. Oh, fuck, this is really-

She tries to say the fucking words, struggling with every syllable. "He is my ref-refuge a-ahh-and my fortress, my G-fuckyougoddammit-God in who I t-" And then it breaks off into nothing as Joan's body crumples, curling into the fetal position, twitching and growling.

Her hands grab at the medal, snapping the chain before flinging it toward Marcus' head.

The words that come out of Joan's mouth are sing-song light, too feminine and sweet to be Joan's by half. The tenor of her voice has changed, light and airy. Almost too much so, a sugary quality one could choke on. Marcus may find it familiar. "Good luck with saving this lost little lamb. A murdering whore who hates God? You pick excellent company." The laughter that comes out of Joan's mouth is chittering and childlike.

The medal catches Marcus in the cheek though he ducks, makes him flinch and hiss, but he snatches it from the floor anyway. She'll want it back.

The thing talking in Joan's voice without Joan's inflection makes his stomach tip with guilt and anger. He's done this. He's done this to her.

But he's going to make it right. "Yeah," he says, voice rough. "Yeah, I do." Medal in his palm, he snatches her wrist, pressing the metal against her skin. "You're desperate. You jumped into her because you were barely holding onto Daniel. If you were clever, you wouldn't risk getting on the wrong side of both of us." He grips tight, feeling the metal heat up and the bones in her wrist grind, and starts up his psalm again in a hiss: "Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge — "

"It's true, it's true," the voice coming from Joan's mouth giggles with it, melodious and sickly-sweet. "Daniel was such a pretty boy, and I like those, but it never sticks. Saving himself for marriage, never had a violent thought in his life. This one, though, I could make a home out of--" And then she hisses and writhes, trying to pull away from Marcus' grasp.

A light breeze passes through the still-open window to their backs. With considerable strength, the creature wretches herself back, cursing in an ancient tongue. She begins skittering toward the window, more reptilian in movement than human.

She wrenches away so hard that pain shoots up Marcus' forearm, but the snarl that escapes his lips is more fury than agony: "Shit!" Idiot, he curses himself. He should have closed the window. Blocked it off somehow. He dives for her, trying to grab her around the waist and wrestle her down, hissing in her ear:

"His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness — leave her!"

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