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.
"Like she'd listen to me," Marcus snorts, and tries to wrestle her down so that as much of her is submerged while her face is still just above the water, red hair coiling like tangles of deepwater seaweed in the bath. Of course she's right. Demons are always a little bit right, even when they're lying. That's why they're so hard to resist. Everyone's a sinner: there's a way into everyone's spirit.
But Marcus can resist the draw. Yes, he wants to save Joan because he's always balancing those he's saved against those he's damned. Tip the balance enough and maybe it'll be okay. And he wants to save her because she's too much like him when he was younger, and maybe if someone had looked out for him, he wouldn't be cursed with this desperate need to look out for others. But it isn't just that. There's a drive in her, ferocious and pure in its simplicity, at least, which is still a kind of purity. She's all banged up, dented out of shape, and Marcus sees God in her like he tries to see Him in everybody, without all that much trying. He likes the God he sees in her.
He leans over and snarls, out of breath, "The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord thunders over the mighty waters." She's shaking in his hands. He crosses her brow. "Come on. Leave her."
The creature in Joan turns her head to bite Marcus' wrist, and Joan recoils-- she won't hurt anyone else she loves, and she wrests control back for a moment, another. "No no no fuck you fuck-" she gets water in her mouth and chokes, bile spits from her and she's crying. It's all too much, it's too much and she's tired and she wants to go home but there is no home to go back to. There's no safe place to rest.
If she gives up, the thing will kill Marcus.
So she keeps fighting.
She reaches out of the water and grabs for Marcus' hand, pressing it to her face and curling around it. She doesn't know why. It just makes sense at the time. It hurts like nothing the fuck else on earth, hurts worse than her father, hurts worse than Luke dying, and that in itself is a freedom. She never thought anything could hurt worse than that.
She realizes the thing in and beyond her chest, the soul or whatever, doesn't burn as much anymore. One eye opens between Marcus' fingers. "How do you know if...?" If it's over.
"I've got you, I've got you — " His other arm is looped beneath her shoulders, keeping her head above the water. He's soaked from the elbow down, and splashed across the chest with bile and holy bathwater.
And Joan opens an eye.
How do you know if it's over? You just know, Marcus wants to tell her, but that's not good enough for Joan, who is sick of superhero bullshit. "Shh," he murmurs, taking his hand from her face, "give me a moment, let's see," and he takes the medal from the pocket of his jeans, rubs it between thumb and forefinger a moment before he puts it into her hand, curls her fingers over it.
No one's ever been this gentle with her. He wants to tell her she doesn't deserve it, but he probably knows. He's probably just being nice because she got a demon shoved up her ass. But as soon as she sees the medal, all thoughts fly; she grabs it and holds it close, almost greedily. "Okay," she says, taking a few slow breaths. "Okay."
She looks up at him and wants to say thank you. Wants to thank him for everything and apologize for messing it all up, for sticking her nose in when it wasn't wanted.
Instead, what comes out is, "now get the fuck out so I can take a shower."
Joan's barb sticks in — and Marcus bursts out laughing. He leans back on his knees by the bath and drops his head and covers his face with his hand and laughs so hard his shoulders shake. "Sorry," he gasps between breaths, "ha, I'll — gimme a second — "
He shakes his head, hauls in his breath to try and calm down. It's not easy. A few aftershocks of snickering shake him. But eventually he manages to say, "I missed you, duck," face all crumpled with an exhausted grin.
He gets up unsteadily, offers her a hand. "I'll get out," he promises. "Just a moment." He wants to strip the bed and order food. Joan said no hospitals: good, he doesn't like doctors either. But first, he has to ask, "Lemme get the first aid kit from my bag. Check you over. Then I'll piss off."
Joan watches in quiet horror as he laughs. Is he possessed, too? Is something wrong? But no, idiot, he's just relieved to the point of crying, and that's another new feeling. Why would anyone-? No, no, he's just relieved she's not trying to kill him anymore. That's a sensible thing to feel.
And then I missed you, and that doesn't make sense either. She holds her medal close, eventually ties it back around her neck, setting it firmly over half-healed burn scars, and watches him with intent curiosity, sitting fully clothed in a rapidly cooling bath.
"You're a fucking weirdo. Sure, I'll look you over, too." There's more she wants, though. She realizes it suddenly.
"Is it-" it's vulnerable to ask. She hates that. Joan stands, getting water everywhere, but water's already everywhere, so fuck it. She trudges toward a towel and starts trying to dry herself off, even though she wants to shower instead. She also wants to burn these clothes, which means she's going to need replacements. She walks past Marcus and grabs some clean ones out of her dufflebag, folding them in a corner of the motel room that isn't sodden with water or demon goo for later. "Is it like an infection," she says, carefully, "where once you get it, you're more likely to get it again? Or like chicken pox? Once you had it, you're less likely? Which is it?"
He's got a small first aid kit in his bag, reasonably if cheaply well-stocked. His hands shake a bit as he gets it out, but the routine of unzipping the case and laying it out open, resting on the side of the bath, helps him feel more grounded.
Still, the question makes him stop and hesitate.
"...I don't know," he admits. "Some people it happens once. Some people it happens more than once. Most people, it never happens at all — the lucky ones." He gets up to wash his hands at the sink, scrub black sticky bile from under his fingernails. Apparently to the tap, he says, "I don't know what'll happen. I'm sorry."
She's not made for gentle, but like recognizes like; neither was he. Whatever made him (the cult?) wanted an instrument, not a person. What made her wanted a blank space, but it got a weapon instead. Still, she tries, setting a wet hand on his wet shoulder.
The touch surprises him. He doesn't recoil from it, though; just looks up, eyebrows lifted. Smiles at her in the mirror, almost regretful. He wishes he could offer her like-for-like, I know how it feels, but he can't.
"No," he says honestly, shrugging. "Dunno know why. Been plenty of times I should have been. Could have been."
She frowns sourly, retracts her hand, refusing to be seen as weak. He's not, actually, Luke. He didn't get it. That's not his fault, realistically, but some part of her blames him for it.
She keeps it to herself, because nobody the fuck else cares.
"'Should have'? There rules for this shit?" What made her weak and him strong?
"Not really. Should have in that I go near demons and I antagonise them, and when they're pissed off they try to cause havoc. But I got plenty of lessons in how to fight 'em off." His mouth twists, a little savagely. Those lessons weren't kind.
He dries off his hands, and he says, "You didn't do anything wrong." Looks up, and at her. Eyebrows raised. "You shook it off. That's it. You did that. Now. How's your head doing?"
She groans dramatically, and doing it under her own power is sort of a thrill. "Did they teach you to only speak in vague in that creepy little secret society you got put in?"
Fuck how she feels. She'll bother with that later. Now that the 'ordeal' is over, she wants answers, concrete ones. Faith is beautiful and real, but it only goes so far; she's learned that the hard way, and she just did again. No superhero bullshit.
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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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But Marcus can resist the draw. Yes, he wants to save Joan because he's always balancing those he's saved against those he's damned. Tip the balance enough and maybe it'll be okay. And he wants to save her because she's too much like him when he was younger, and maybe if someone had looked out for him, he wouldn't be cursed with this desperate need to look out for others. But it isn't just that. There's a drive in her, ferocious and pure in its simplicity, at least, which is still a kind of purity. She's all banged up, dented out of shape, and Marcus sees God in her like he tries to see Him in everybody, without all that much trying. He likes the God he sees in her.
He leans over and snarls, out of breath, "The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord thunders over the mighty waters." She's shaking in his hands. He crosses her brow. "Come on. Leave her."
i thought i replied to this fucking tag omfg.
If she gives up, the thing will kill Marcus.
So she keeps fighting.
She reaches out of the water and grabs for Marcus' hand, pressing it to her face and curling around it. She doesn't know why. It just makes sense at the time. It hurts like nothing the fuck else on earth, hurts worse than her father, hurts worse than Luke dying, and that in itself is a freedom. She never thought anything could hurt worse than that.
She realizes the thing in and beyond her chest, the soul or whatever, doesn't burn as much anymore. One eye opens between Marcus' fingers. "How do you know if...?" If it's over.
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And Joan opens an eye.
How do you know if it's over? You just know, Marcus wants to tell her, but that's not good enough for Joan, who is sick of superhero bullshit. "Shh," he murmurs, taking his hand from her face, "give me a moment, let's see," and he takes the medal from the pocket of his jeans, rubs it between thumb and forefinger a moment before he puts it into her hand, curls her fingers over it.
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She looks up at him and wants to say thank you. Wants to thank him for everything and apologize for messing it all up, for sticking her nose in when it wasn't wanted.
Instead, what comes out is, "now get the fuck out so I can take a shower."
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He shakes his head, hauls in his breath to try and calm down. It's not easy. A few aftershocks of snickering shake him. But eventually he manages to say, "I missed you, duck," face all crumpled with an exhausted grin.
He gets up unsteadily, offers her a hand. "I'll get out," he promises. "Just a moment." He wants to strip the bed and order food. Joan said no hospitals: good, he doesn't like doctors either. But first, he has to ask, "Lemme get the first aid kit from my bag. Check you over. Then I'll piss off."
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And then I missed you, and that doesn't make sense either. She holds her medal close, eventually ties it back around her neck, setting it firmly over half-healed burn scars, and watches him with intent curiosity, sitting fully clothed in a rapidly cooling bath.
"You're a fucking weirdo. Sure, I'll look you over, too." There's more she wants, though. She realizes it suddenly.
"Is it-" it's vulnerable to ask. She hates that. Joan stands, getting water everywhere, but water's already everywhere, so fuck it. She trudges toward a towel and starts trying to dry herself off, even though she wants to shower instead. She also wants to burn these clothes, which means she's going to need replacements. She walks past Marcus and grabs some clean ones out of her dufflebag, folding them in a corner of the motel room that isn't sodden with water or demon goo for later. "Is it like an infection," she says, carefully, "where once you get it, you're more likely to get it again? Or like chicken pox? Once you had it, you're less likely? Which is it?"
She hopes he won't lie.
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Still, the question makes him stop and hesitate.
"...I don't know," he admits. "Some people it happens once. Some people it happens more than once. Most people, it never happens at all — the lucky ones." He gets up to wash his hands at the sink, scrub black sticky bile from under his fingernails. Apparently to the tap, he says, "I don't know what'll happen. I'm sorry."
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"Were you ever...?"
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"No," he says honestly, shrugging. "Dunno know why. Been plenty of times I should have been. Could have been."
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She keeps it to herself, because nobody the fuck else cares.
"'Should have'? There rules for this shit?" What made her weak and him strong?
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He dries off his hands, and he says, "You didn't do anything wrong." Looks up, and at her. Eyebrows raised. "You shook it off. That's it. You did that. Now. How's your head doing?"
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Fuck how she feels. She'll bother with that later. Now that the 'ordeal' is over, she wants answers, concrete ones. Faith is beautiful and real, but it only goes so far; she's learned that the hard way, and she just did again. No superhero bullshit.