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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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.