It was an incredible stroke of luck for both men to be in the same city at the same time. John hesitated to call it fate. That was reserved for a person's final moments or finding an unopened pack of cigarettes on the street.
Though John lives in Atlanta these days after leaving England, he still travels quite frequently due to his work. He'll go where the money is, or if someone desperately needs help, but preferably the two can overlap. And the priest, or ex-priest, had said he was in the area before John had a chance to take another out of town case. Luck.
After recommending the bar John arrives first, not at all bothered about drinking on his own. At least this time he's not half-dressed and staring vacantly in the mirror. He orders a gin and tonic, no garnish thanks, and sits on one of the barstools. As he waits he withdraws a pack of cigarettes from his inner coat pocket and frowns. His fingers itch for a light, but it's too early to be thrown out of a non smoking establishment. Instead he fusses with the box, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand and sliding it along the wooden counter.
Marcus is late. His truck didn't start, he nearly got run over trying to hail down a bus, and then he ended up in a conversation with a street preacher. He comes through the door twenty minutes after they agreed to meet, straightening a battered leather jacket and scowling distractedly.
It takes him a moment to work out who in the bar is most likely to be the man he's looking for, but when his eyes light on John his calculations simplify slightly. Natty blonde hair, fidgety. Makes a lot of sense.
He hops up onto the barstool next to him and says, "Alright. I'll have whatever lager's on tap." He's got a thick Midlands English accent, rough and deep. After a heartbeat's pause, and the realisation that if he's wrong, this could be an opener which'll get him in trouble, he adds: "Uh, assuming you're who I think you are, anyway."
By now John is on his second drink, which is tame for him, but he may as well at least make half an attempt at a good first impression. When Marcus approaches John isn't upset in the slightest. He's certainly made his friends wait a fair number of times. Either his new contact was coming or he wasn't, no sense in getting worked up about it.
As Marcus sits John turns to him with a grin, attention no longer focused on the cigarettes. He hadn't expected a priest in a leather jacket, but then again he hadn't imagined anyone rigidly uptight either. "If you're looking for teenage caterwauling this is the wrong place, but you've found the right person."
The phrase had left an impression, but ever quick to make a crack at himself John is far from offended. His own accent quickly indicates John as a man from Liverpool, albeit one who has done a bit of traveling, resulting in a manner of speech not quite as thick as it had been in his youth. When the lager is set in front of Marcus, John lifts a finger toward the bartender to indicate that he is paying. At least for now.
John’s accent catches Marcus more than what he says: his whole demeanour changes, his shoulders relaxing and a crooked grin breaking across his face. “Scouse lad, are you? Wasn’t expecting that. Cheers.”
He knocks his glass against John’s and takes a gulp, then wipes foam from his moustache and exhales happily. The beer’s not good, but it’s cold, and that’s all he asks. “So how did you end up as a professional wizard in Atlanta, of all places?”
Simply hearing the word 'scouse' from an accent resembling home draws John in to a comfortable sense of familiarity. Most here have never heard it, and even less would know what it meant. He returns the touch of the glass, already prepared for further drinks to come.
"Promised a friend who has since passed on that I would stay close enough to protect his daughter from threats beyond a simple mugger. She's here so I'm here. But I was given a house in return so I suppose it's not altogether terrible."
He takes his own sip which gives way to a more lengthy swallow.
Marcus whistles at the mention of a house. Exorcists get nothing so fancy — certainly not excommunicated exorcists, anyway. His days are spent in his truck and in motels, or occasionally on the sofas of various friends willing to risk the potential ire of the Church.
The question makes his lips twitch, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Business, I s'pose. Work, anyway. Business implies I get paid for it beyond, you know, charitable donations from the occasional grateful relative. I dropped in as a favour for a friend of mine, heard word about a possible possession, but wasn't what it looked like. Just a very old man being treated like shit by his kids. Managed to pull some strings, got him away from them. But the motel's paid up for a little while longer, courtesy of that pal of mine, and." He shrugs, takes another long swallow of beer. "You know. Gift horses, something something."
He can't justify wasting the expense by moving on just now, but he's antsy too: he doesn't like being without anything to do.
The life of a proper exorcist seems no fun at all. John listens attentively, knowing all too well about staying in strange motels and valuable time wasted.
"If different is what you're after you could always stop on by the house. It's a mill house just outside the busier areas of town. Lots of trees, magical artifacts on every wall." John lifts his glass, motioning his wrist in a circle to indicate a nebulous idea of people watching.
"Those colleagues of yours would be yelling for days, you'd love it."
John does not in fact know if Marcus would love it, but he loves it. And for John that's what counts.
Marcus snorts, shakes his head. "Every wall? Sounds like the Vatican, mate. Okay, sure. Fine. Get me drunk enough and I'll come look. I'm guessing fifty percent number-of-the-beast conspiracy theory bullshit, at least. Always got a headache from that sort of carry-on."
He fidgets, and after shifting his weight somehow manages to lounge, despite being perched on a barstool. He kicks the legs idly. "What counts as a magical artefact, then?" he says, giving John a wicked, lazy kind of grin which implies he's spoiling for a (mostly friendly) fight.
John's used to skepticism. Maybe not the same kind of skepticism that Marcus faces, but it's easy to doubt magic. At the assessment of his house John rolls his eyes. Sure, the every wall thing was an exaggeration on his part, but the Vatican? Nowhere close.
Sometimes it was better to explain with actions rather than words. In response to Marcus' question, John does not speak, but instead quickly finishes the rest of his drink. Then he reaches into a coat pocket to retrieve what looks like a small coil of thick string stained with blood.
With a loose grip John holds the string between thumb and forefinger and gives it a flick. Instantly both ends of the string flick outward and tightly coil around John's left wrist and Marcus' right. The bind continues to wrap around their wrists, pulling the pair closer together until the sides of their hands touch. The binding is tight, uncomfortable, and unbreakable.
"That I reckon."
He tosses Marcus his own lazy, smug grin before inclining his head toward a table where two other men currently enjoy their own drinks.
It's not the existence of magic that troubles Marcus. Traditional Catholic teaching is fairly straightforward on that: magic exists, and it's evil. That particular insistence, though, sits awkwardly in the light of votive candles, medals, miracles, incense, ritual. Nevermind actual Catholic magical practices. Marcus once worked alongside a curandera in Ecuador to exorcise and heal a woman whose demon made her scream so long her throat never recovered.
But the work is the work, and this is different. He frowns at the string — and then when it snaps about his wrist something changes very rapidly in his expression. Something feral flickers in his eyes, his lip curls back from his teeth, and for just a second he looks like he might take a swing at John, or maybe something more animal — lunge forward all teeth and claws.
It's brief. He inhales, comes back to himself and settles, though his jaw is tight. "Yeah," he says, his voice low and tense, "if you're trying to start something. Are you?" He gives a hard yank on the string, not surprised when it does nothing to break the hold. "Let me go."
John considers the question. He is just as likely to enter a scenario with a plan as to not. This is the latter. Everything about tonight was. Meeting someone new didn't generally warrant a strategy and he allows impulse to direct his decision making.
He acts as if he hasn't heard Marcus as he explains casually "Sinew from Achilles' heel," noting that the string isn't string at all. Then without warning John jerks his own wrist which is attached to Marcus and pulls it closer toward himself. Something almost unworldly has awoken in Marcus as the other man's adrenaline races. It's fascinating to witness every feature of a man become so sharp. It's not often a person reveals themselves in such a raw state, ready to tear themselves away from a situation through their own self-made claws.
Finally acknowledging that Marcus spoke at all, John makes direct eye contact with the eyes that he can almost feel burning into his soul. He knows this is likely a terrible idea, and one that he will not walk away from unscathed.
Marcus snarls when he gets dragged forwards, teeth gritted together. He looks like — not like a wolf, more like a city fox or a starving dog, something lean and hungry and only more dangerous for being a little desperate.
For a few seconds he just stares at John, watching: waiting for him to back down or blink.
When no surrender comes, he says, "Okay," quiet and final. Then his boots hit the floor as he slides off the barstool and he kicks out — not at John, but at the legs of his stool, trying to topple him to the ground. He's well aware that if he does, he'll go down with him. That's fine: if he falls right he'll still have the upper hand.
The swift kick takes John by surprise and he tumbles to to ground. After landing hard in a somewhat seated position John jerks his wrist, determined to bring them both on an even level. As Marcus too falls, John lunges forward and throws the full extent of his admittedly light body weight forward. He's hoping for a tackle, but being tied at the wrists has brought about an added wrinkle that John hadn't fully considered.
This wouldn't be the first time that John has instigated a fight. It is also not the first that he has instigated and expected to lose. In this instance every provocation stems from curiosity. Marcus is a wealth of contradictions: an ex priest who still has faith, someone itching for a fight when not too long before he was willing to give counsel. John is almost unsure of which of it a real, but he's certain that at least a bit of it will reveal itself through broken skin.
John's shoulder catches Marcus' in the sternum, knocks the breath out of him, but Marcus barely notices over the adrenaline already singing in his veins. There are more than a few startled gasps and stares from onlookers: those don't really sink in either.
Marcus tries to grapple him back down to the floor, twisting his right arm up so that John's left is yanked painfully across his body and trying to get his knee into John's stomach. Through gritted teeth, he hisses: "Fucking — arrogant prick. Snap it off, cos I don't want to have to break your arm."
Watching Marcus struggle with the object he can't control is almost gratifying enough in itself. John is a prick, and his own adrenaline surges through his body as he is reminded of such.
"Alright."
The single word is an echo of Marcus' earlier "okay." But where Marcus was final, John allows the word to linger. He stills, making no move other than to grin through the pain and show the entirety of his teeth.
Instantly the sinew snaps off both of their wrists and as it is in the air John catches it in his opposite hand. With his dominant arm free he reels back and strikes Marcus across the face at full force with the sinew.
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for ~exorkismos
Though John lives in Atlanta these days after leaving England, he still travels quite frequently due to his work. He'll go where the money is, or if someone desperately needs help, but preferably the two can overlap. And the priest, or ex-priest, had said he was in the area before John had a chance to take another out of town case. Luck.
After recommending the bar John arrives first, not at all bothered about drinking on his own. At least this time he's not half-dressed and staring vacantly in the mirror. He orders a gin and tonic, no garnish thanks, and sits on one of the barstools. As he waits he withdraws a pack of cigarettes from his inner coat pocket and frowns. His fingers itch for a light, but it's too early to be thrown out of a non smoking establishment. Instead he fusses with the box, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand and sliding it along the wooden counter.
no subject
It takes him a moment to work out who in the bar is most likely to be the man he's looking for, but when his eyes light on John his calculations simplify slightly. Natty blonde hair, fidgety. Makes a lot of sense.
He hops up onto the barstool next to him and says, "Alright. I'll have whatever lager's on tap." He's got a thick Midlands English accent, rough and deep. After a heartbeat's pause, and the realisation that if he's wrong, this could be an opener which'll get him in trouble, he adds: "Uh, assuming you're who I think you are, anyway."
no subject
As Marcus sits John turns to him with a grin, attention no longer focused on the cigarettes. He hadn't expected a priest in a leather jacket, but then again he hadn't imagined anyone rigidly uptight either. "If you're looking for teenage caterwauling this is the wrong place, but you've found the right person."
The phrase had left an impression, but ever quick to make a crack at himself John is far from offended. His own accent quickly indicates John as a man from Liverpool, albeit one who has done a bit of traveling, resulting in a manner of speech not quite as thick as it had been in his youth. When the lager is set in front of Marcus, John lifts a finger toward the bartender to indicate that he is paying. At least for now.
no subject
He knocks his glass against John’s and takes a gulp, then wipes foam from his moustache and exhales happily. The beer’s not good, but it’s cold, and that’s all he asks. “So how did you end up as a professional wizard in Atlanta, of all places?”
no subject
"Promised a friend who has since passed on that I would stay close enough to protect his daughter from threats beyond a simple mugger. She's here so I'm here. But I was given a house in return so I suppose it's not altogether terrible."
He takes his own sip which gives way to a more lengthy swallow.
"And you? Business or pleasure?"
no subject
The question makes his lips twitch, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Business, I s'pose. Work, anyway. Business implies I get paid for it beyond, you know, charitable donations from the occasional grateful relative. I dropped in as a favour for a friend of mine, heard word about a possible possession, but wasn't what it looked like. Just a very old man being treated like shit by his kids. Managed to pull some strings, got him away from them. But the motel's paid up for a little while longer, courtesy of that pal of mine, and." He shrugs, takes another long swallow of beer. "You know. Gift horses, something something."
He can't justify wasting the expense by moving on just now, but he's antsy too: he doesn't like being without anything to do.
no subject
"If different is what you're after you could always stop on by the house. It's a mill house just outside the busier areas of town. Lots of trees, magical artifacts on every wall." John lifts his glass, motioning his wrist in a circle to indicate a nebulous idea of people watching.
"Those colleagues of yours would be yelling for days, you'd love it."
John does not in fact know if Marcus would love it, but he loves it. And for John that's what counts.
no subject
He fidgets, and after shifting his weight somehow manages to lounge, despite being perched on a barstool. He kicks the legs idly. "What counts as a magical artefact, then?" he says, giving John a wicked, lazy kind of grin which implies he's spoiling for a (mostly friendly) fight.
no subject
Sometimes it was better to explain with actions rather than words. In response to Marcus' question, John does not speak, but instead quickly finishes the rest of his drink. Then he reaches into a coat pocket to retrieve what looks like a small coil of thick string stained with blood.
With a loose grip John holds the string between thumb and forefinger and gives it a flick. Instantly both ends of the string flick outward and tightly coil around John's left wrist and Marcus' right. The bind continues to wrap around their wrists, pulling the pair closer together until the sides of their hands touch. The binding is tight, uncomfortable, and unbreakable.
"That I reckon."
He tosses Marcus his own lazy, smug grin before inclining his head toward a table where two other men currently enjoy their own drinks.
"I don't know. Might be of some use in a fight."
no subject
But the work is the work, and this is different. He frowns at the string — and then when it snaps about his wrist something changes very rapidly in his expression. Something feral flickers in his eyes, his lip curls back from his teeth, and for just a second he looks like he might take a swing at John, or maybe something more animal — lunge forward all teeth and claws.
It's brief. He inhales, comes back to himself and settles, though his jaw is tight. "Yeah," he says, his voice low and tense, "if you're trying to start something. Are you?" He gives a hard yank on the string, not surprised when it does nothing to break the hold. "Let me go."
no subject
He acts as if he hasn't heard Marcus as he explains casually "Sinew from Achilles' heel," noting that the string isn't string at all. Then without warning John jerks his own wrist which is attached to Marcus and pulls it closer toward himself. Something almost unworldly has awoken in Marcus as the other man's adrenaline races. It's fascinating to witness every feature of a man become so sharp. It's not often a person reveals themselves in such a raw state, ready to tear themselves away from a situation through their own self-made claws.
Finally acknowledging that Marcus spoke at all, John makes direct eye contact with the eyes that he can almost feel burning into his soul. He knows this is likely a terrible idea, and one that he will not walk away from unscathed.
"No."
no subject
For a few seconds he just stares at John, watching: waiting for him to back down or blink.
When no surrender comes, he says, "Okay," quiet and final. Then his boots hit the floor as he slides off the barstool and he kicks out — not at John, but at the legs of his stool, trying to topple him to the ground. He's well aware that if he does, he'll go down with him. That's fine: if he falls right he'll still have the upper hand.
no subject
This wouldn't be the first time that John has instigated a fight. It is also not the first that he has instigated and expected to lose. In this instance every provocation stems from curiosity. Marcus is a wealth of contradictions: an ex priest who still has faith, someone itching for a fight when not too long before he was willing to give counsel. John is almost unsure of which of it a real, but he's certain that at least a bit of it will reveal itself through broken skin.
no subject
Marcus tries to grapple him back down to the floor, twisting his right arm up so that John's left is yanked painfully across his body and trying to get his knee into John's stomach. Through gritted teeth, he hisses: "Fucking — arrogant prick. Snap it off, cos I don't want to have to break your arm."
no subject
"Alright."
The single word is an echo of Marcus' earlier "okay." But where Marcus was final, John allows the word to linger. He stills, making no move other than to grin through the pain and show the entirety of his teeth.
Instantly the sinew snaps off both of their wrists and as it is in the air John catches it in his opposite hand. With his dominant arm free he reels back and strikes Marcus across the face at full force with the sinew.