"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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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.