Joan's body continues to thrash, the creature inside of it howling. The screeches are muffled, though, by the thick musty fabric, even as it burns Joan's mouth and face. Her eyes roll back in her head, the demon making her body convulse, kicking wildly and without particular skill. There's knowledge, somewhere in Joan's mind, of how to get out of situations like these, how to use all her advantages, how to win fights you're under-prepared for. The demon doesn't access it. She just screams.
When Marcus comes back, he'll find bloody tears and eyes devoid of pupils, the creature inside of Joan trying to push them both to the limits of endurance.
" — and thereby escape the punishments of eternal damnation, amen," Marcus gabbles on the last edge of his breath, then heaves an exhale as he comes back up. "You shut up or I'll turn the water in your goddamn cells holy."
He has to shut up, though, to tug at the end of the duct tape with his teeth, his other hand trying to keep the fabric in her mouth.
Joan's body goes slack. After a seeming eternity of thrashing, she manages to get control back, though she's not sure if that's good or bad or how any of this works, really. She just knows that she's tired and hungry and for the first time in her life, she kind of wants to die. For tactical reasons, of course.
She lays there, panting on the shitty bed, and looks up at Marcus with heavily lidded eyes. Somehow through her exhaustion she's doing her best to communicate annoyance.
With a ripping sound, Marcus gets the end of the tape free and is about to start wrapping it around her mouth to shut her up...when he sees her eyes. Stark and green and glaring at him. He's not sure he's ever been so relieved to be glared at.
Fuck it. He yanks the stole out of her mouth.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Look at you, lucid and everything. 'S alright. You're doing fine."
She spits and coughs when the thing is out of her mouth, and gets green-black gunk on the bed, which she notices and immediately reacts to with visceral disgust, inching away from it in wormlike movements hampered by handcuffs and general fatigue.
"I didn't know laundromats had a taste," she murmurs wearily. It's the cleverest thing she can dredge up at the moment. "How-" her eyes flicker to him. "How'm I 'doing good'? How does this even work?"
"Patience," Marcus murmurs, wipes her chin with the corner of the purple stole: an automatic, perfunctory movement. "Patience, prayer, faith." He glances up, trying to take stock. They can move into the ensuite bathroom, perhaps. More walls between them and the angry neighbour. But if someone comes knocking, there's no way to get out. The alternative is that he can chance driving Joan somewhere isolated. They're outside of town. If he floors it (and he can, thanks to the engine), they could find a layby easily. But that means being trapped in a car if the demon resurfaces, and it means she could more easily escape again...
He looks back to Joan. "We're making it angry," he says quietly. "That's when it gets harder to hold it back. So you ain't doing anything wrong when you can't fight it down, that's what we want. Get it angry enough, it makes mistakes, it loses its grip, it's more vulnerable to what I'm doing." He gnaws his lip a moment. "What we're doing. Do you — Joan, listen. Do you know anything about it? What do you...if you had to say what it looks like, what it's scared of, what it's called?"
It's gotten into her. Maybe she's gotten into it too.
"Yeah, but I mean..." She frowns. "What makes it leave? We convincing it or kicking it out? I skipped that bit of Sunday school."
But his question dredges up a memory of the creature's twisted mind, and she flinches from nothing, reacting to half remembered images. Burning pyres, snow and prayer, sacrifice... She squares down, forcing herself to think. It's all she can do, and she's stubborn and determined to win.
"I'll tell you," she says, "but you gotta promise me something first."
Marcus snorts. "The latter," he says. "Maybe we do it the nice way, with forgiveness and compassion, maybe I get it running scared. Either way, it leaves you."
He watches her, tense and thoughtful, and has to resist the urge to smooth her hair back or wipe her brow. He's sure she'd find such attention horrible to receive just now. "What are you bargaining with me for, huh? We're on the same side here." But: "What do you want?"
She nods and continues to think, expression dark with concentration. It twists an already unlovely into a gruesome thing. She usually uses it to be imposing. Now it's just a byproduct of unsettling thoughts.
"With or without the demon, I'm already going to Hell." She says it with a forward, if tired, decisiveness; she'll hear no argument. "I'm not afraid of what it'll do to my soul or any of that shit. I don't wanna die, but I'm not gonna let it use me to hurt you." She adds in a quick afterthought, "or other people."
Such a compassionate little whore, a voice whispers in the back of her mind.
She ignores it. "You gotta promise to kill me if shit gets out of hand. If I'm in danger of killing people or hurting them. You have my guns. You know how to use 'em?"
He should have known. This again. His nostrils flare and he snorts, laughing because he's upset, because he doesn't want to show it. "Doesn't make any sense," he mutters. "Just tell me what you know, Joan, and it won't come to that. I ain't going to agree to kill you. That's — "
That's what it wants him to do. He cuts himself off, swallows, tries a different tack.
"Maybe you ain't concerned about your soul, but mine's got enough on it. So if you're so given up on Heaven, let me try for it. How's that? Since you don't wanna hurt me and all." He grimaces, sort of like he's smiling, but it's rictus-like. "Ain't much worse you can ask from me. So don't."
"Fucking-" she's too tired to cuss him out properly. She just glowers, hair falling into her face and cutting the intensity of her normally pretty intense glare with strands falling over her eyes.
"Guilt tripping motherfucker. You really were a priest." She groans and shakes her head. More hair falls into her eyes, and, irritated and tired, it makes her only more snappish. "Fucking confess and repent. If I'm hurting people, doesn't matter why, I deserve to be put down."
Marcus laughs in her face before she’s finished her sentence. “I know exactly when someone has to be put down,” he hisses. “And you ain’t anywhere near that.”
Screw this arguing. He’s the exorcist here: he’s in charge. And he’s making an executive decision. He looks around the room once more, then stands up. He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, and then he bows to scoop up Joan again. “Change of scene,” he tells her.
She's so fucking tired. Not in her body or in her mind, which she's used to dealing with, but it feels like her actual fucking soul is being chipped away at. If that wasn't the case, she'd never let herself show such vulnerability- "You're gonna make me beg," she says, voice teetering on the edge of true weariness. "You're gonna make me fucking- beg. Marcus, I need you on my side. Please."
"I'm on your side, Joan," he says, and his voice has a veneer of anger but it's chipped and peeling over desperation. "I'm on your bloody side, you just don't know what that feels like. What do you want me to do, you want me to lie to you?"
He kicks in the door to the bathroom, crouches to put her down on the floor. Back leaning up against the tub. "There's no world in which I put a bullet in your head. Got that? Now listen, listen to me," he's on his heels, pushing her hair back from her forehead, cradling her face between two hands. "Listen, shhh. I'm gonna fix this no matter what, but you can help me speed it up. Let's make this quick, duck. Quick and easy. Please. Tell me what you know."
"Fuck you!" She spits, and it's all her, none of the demon, but there's still bile enough in her throat to cough up. "I had somebody on my side. They're fucking dead, and it's my fault. I'm never letting that shit happen again. This isn't fucking about you, stop making it about you."
There are tears in her eyes. She hates that. She hates that she's begging. There's nothing about this that doesn't bring anger curling up in her throat, and that anger usually strengthens her, but everything is muted. Her soul hurts, her actual soul; she thinks she can feel it.
"You don't wanna shoot me, fucking fine. Gimme some goddamn assurance you can keep me from hurting people. And be. Specific. None of this superhero crap."
A little fleck of black bile splashes Marcus' cheek and he bats it off unthinking, wipes his hand on his jeans. He shakes his head and stands, and he reaches over behind Joan, to the bathtaps. He twists them both.
Above the sound of the rushing water, he says flatly, "Holy water," and shoves the plug in place. The tub starts to fill. "No lasting damage to you. But it'll hurt. Weaken it."
"Laima, or Lamia, or some shit like that. She was a goddess in a... cold place. I mean, she's a fallen angel, all that shit, yadda yadda, but honestly? I think she's pissed the place she was worshipped in is all Christian now. She was fine having some weird... sex cult, after she fell."
Marcus doesn't respond for a moment. He bows his head, nods, and then he says, "Okay. Lamia. Thank you."
He doesn't like this. He doesn't exorcise people he knows. This feels cruel. He swallows and tells himself to stop being so weak. He wants to tell her it'll be okay, but that feels a little like he's protesting too much.
Instead, while he's waiting for the bath to fill, he goes and locks the door, locks the small frosted glass window (narrow, but Joan could squeeze her shoulders through with demonic determination). "I have your medal. Give it back to you once we're done here."
"It was a gift," she says, because it's the only thing she can think to say. "From my brother. The dead one. She... It, uh, told you all that shit, didn't it?"
It's told him a couple of things. That Joan's a murderer, that her brother's dead and it's her fault, though he doesn't get the sense that she killed him. Maybe it's guilt talking: she thinks she murdered him because, what was it, she wasn't paying attention.
Maybe it's not.
Marcus hesitates, hand on the door. "That you had a brother. A couple of brothers. That one died. That you think it was your fault. That track?"
"Three brothers. The only one worth shit was Luke. We picked matching communion names. Cause... they both fought dragons." He's seen the list of saints she gave him. He can put two and two together. "He was buried with his medal, I made sure. "If I die... I won't go to the same cemetery; you'll probably have to hide my body or some shit, right? But put the medal on his grave. I left the address on the dresser."
Along with her will, but she won't tell him that, or he'll get all spooked again.
St Margaret and St George. Marcus smiles despite himself, just a little, though his heart hurts. He doesn't want to think about Joan dying, he's not going to let her die, but that's a promise he can keep.
"Yeah," he says. "I'll make sure."
He comes back over, shuts the water off. It's lukewarm. He lifts her again to set her in the water, clothes and all, with her hands still shackled behind her back. It's not blessed yet. Just feels a little cool, probably. Seeps into her clothes. "No lasting damage," he reminds her, because it probably won't feel that way, and dips his fingertips in the water beside her. "I exorcise thee, creature of water, in the name of God the Father almighty, in the name of Jesus Christ, his Son, our Lord, and in the power of the Holy Spirit, that you may put to flight all the power of the enemy..."
"Thank you," she says, and she means it. The words are genuine, right out of her mouth. She was expecting more bluster, but there's comfort in contingencies. She doesn't yet truly think she's going to die. She just wants a plan if things go to shit. There's nothing but good in plans. It means there's a future.
Joan expects it to be like the story of the toad that slowly didn't notice until the water was boiling. It's not like that. Suddenly everything is pain, but it's not her skin. Her soul, that thing she could never feel until it got fucking damaged, it's on fucking fire. She writhes despite herself, trying to thrash out of the water and failing.
The creature within her bypasses her constraints, slips through while she's distracted and exhausted. Spite, now, drives it. She holds Joan's head underwater, trying to let her drown. If I can't have it, no one can.
"Oh no you fucking don't," Marcus snarls, and hauls her up by the front of her shirt, other hand coming to the back of her head. "You don't get her, hear me? Lamia? She's too good for you."
It takes a lot to keep her above water. She's thrashing and howling and strong. He's drenched already, almost up to his shoulders, water soaking his shirt. "O God, who for the salvation of the human race has built Thy greatest mysteries in the substance, in your kindness hear our prayers..."
The creature inside Joan uses her mouth to cackle, wet bile and eyes rolled back. Yet the whites of her eyes seem focused entirely on Marcus with unerring clarity. "What-" Joan's body chokes on water- "what, what do you want her for? A sister to replace the family you killed? A little nun for the church that abandoned you? You're as selfish as me."
But her voice is weaker than before. She writhes a little, still thrashing.
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http://bfy.tw/Jb7r ????
When Marcus comes back, he'll find bloody tears and eyes devoid of pupils, the creature inside of Joan trying to push them both to the limits of endurance.
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He has to shut up, though, to tug at the end of the duct tape with his teeth, his other hand trying to keep the fabric in her mouth.
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She lays there, panting on the shitty bed, and looks up at Marcus with heavily lidded eyes. Somehow through her exhaustion she's doing her best to communicate annoyance.
There's a musty rag in her fucking mouth.
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Fuck it. He yanks the stole out of her mouth.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Look at you, lucid and everything. 'S alright. You're doing fine."
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"I didn't know laundromats had a taste," she murmurs wearily. It's the cleverest thing she can dredge up at the moment. "How-" her eyes flicker to him. "How'm I 'doing good'? How does this even work?"
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He looks back to Joan. "We're making it angry," he says quietly. "That's when it gets harder to hold it back. So you ain't doing anything wrong when you can't fight it down, that's what we want. Get it angry enough, it makes mistakes, it loses its grip, it's more vulnerable to what I'm doing." He gnaws his lip a moment. "What we're doing. Do you — Joan, listen. Do you know anything about it? What do you...if you had to say what it looks like, what it's scared of, what it's called?"
It's gotten into her. Maybe she's gotten into it too.
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But his question dredges up a memory of the creature's twisted mind, and she flinches from nothing, reacting to half remembered images. Burning pyres, snow and prayer, sacrifice... She squares down, forcing herself to think. It's all she can do, and she's stubborn and determined to win.
"I'll tell you," she says, "but you gotta promise me something first."
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He watches her, tense and thoughtful, and has to resist the urge to smooth her hair back or wipe her brow. He's sure she'd find such attention horrible to receive just now. "What are you bargaining with me for, huh? We're on the same side here." But: "What do you want?"
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"With or without the demon, I'm already going to Hell." She says it with a forward, if tired, decisiveness; she'll hear no argument. "I'm not afraid of what it'll do to my soul or any of that shit. I don't wanna die, but I'm not gonna let it use me to hurt you." She adds in a quick afterthought, "or other people."
Such a compassionate little whore, a voice whispers in the back of her mind.
She ignores it. "You gotta promise to kill me if shit gets out of hand. If I'm in danger of killing people or hurting them. You have my guns. You know how to use 'em?"
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That's what it wants him to do. He cuts himself off, swallows, tries a different tack.
"Maybe you ain't concerned about your soul, but mine's got enough on it. So if you're so given up on Heaven, let me try for it. How's that? Since you don't wanna hurt me and all." He grimaces, sort of like he's smiling, but it's rictus-like. "Ain't much worse you can ask from me. So don't."
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"Guilt tripping motherfucker. You really were a priest." She groans and shakes her head. More hair falls into her eyes, and, irritated and tired, it makes her only more snappish. "Fucking confess and repent. If I'm hurting people, doesn't matter why, I deserve to be put down."
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Screw this arguing. He’s the exorcist here: he’s in charge. And he’s making an executive decision. He looks around the room once more, then stands up. He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, and then he bows to scoop up Joan again. “Change of scene,” he tells her.
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He kicks in the door to the bathroom, crouches to put her down on the floor. Back leaning up against the tub. "There's no world in which I put a bullet in your head. Got that? Now listen, listen to me," he's on his heels, pushing her hair back from her forehead, cradling her face between two hands. "Listen, shhh. I'm gonna fix this no matter what, but you can help me speed it up. Let's make this quick, duck. Quick and easy. Please. Tell me what you know."
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There are tears in her eyes. She hates that. She hates that she's begging. There's nothing about this that doesn't bring anger curling up in her throat, and that anger usually strengthens her, but everything is muted. Her soul hurts, her actual soul; she thinks she can feel it.
"You don't wanna shoot me, fucking fine. Gimme some goddamn assurance you can keep me from hurting people. And be. Specific. None of this superhero crap."
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Above the sound of the rushing water, he says flatly, "Holy water," and shoves the plug in place. The tub starts to fill. "No lasting damage to you. But it'll hurt. Weaken it."
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And she thinks, I deserve it.
"Laima, or Lamia, or some shit like that. She was a goddess in a... cold place. I mean, she's a fallen angel, all that shit, yadda yadda, but honestly? I think she's pissed the place she was worshipped in is all Christian now. She was fine having some weird... sex cult, after she fell."
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He doesn't like this. He doesn't exorcise people he knows. This feels cruel. He swallows and tells himself to stop being so weak. He wants to tell her it'll be okay, but that feels a little like he's protesting too much.
Instead, while he's waiting for the bath to fill, he goes and locks the door, locks the small frosted glass window (narrow, but Joan could squeeze her shoulders through with demonic determination). "I have your medal. Give it back to you once we're done here."
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Maybe it's not.
Marcus hesitates, hand on the door. "That you had a brother. A couple of brothers. That one died. That you think it was your fault. That track?"
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Along with her will, but she won't tell him that, or he'll get all spooked again.
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"Yeah," he says. "I'll make sure."
He comes back over, shuts the water off. It's lukewarm. He lifts her again to set her in the water, clothes and all, with her hands still shackled behind her back. It's not blessed yet. Just feels a little cool, probably. Seeps into her clothes. "No lasting damage," he reminds her, because it probably won't feel that way, and dips his fingertips in the water beside her. "I exorcise thee, creature of water, in the name of God the Father almighty, in the name of Jesus Christ, his Son, our Lord, and in the power of the Holy Spirit, that you may put to flight all the power of the enemy..."
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Joan expects it to be like the story of the toad that slowly didn't notice until the water was boiling. It's not like that. Suddenly everything is pain, but it's not her skin. Her soul, that thing she could never feel until it got fucking damaged, it's on fucking fire. She writhes despite herself, trying to thrash out of the water and failing.
The creature within her bypasses her constraints, slips through while she's distracted and exhausted. Spite, now, drives it. She holds Joan's head underwater, trying to let her drown. If I can't have it, no one can.
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It takes a lot to keep her above water. She's thrashing and howling and strong. He's drenched already, almost up to his shoulders, water soaking his shirt. "O God, who for the salvation of the human race has built Thy greatest mysteries in the substance, in your kindness hear our prayers..."
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But her voice is weaker than before. She writhes a little, still thrashing.
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i thought i replied to this fucking tag omfg.
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