Aria had settled in for the evening, intent to catch up on a few shows she’d neglected and eat the Chinese she’d ordered not long ago. Thinking it was the delivery arriving she opened her door with a smile. One that faded to concern at the sight of the man, a friend she supposed some part of her thought.
“Oh Marcus..” she said softly and opened the door wider for him to enter “Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”
The lines of his face had deepened into sharp creases since she had last seen him and his skin looked pale and sallow, sickly. Not unlike the faces of the possessed.
His hands shook as he let her guide himself into her home and a part of him wondered why he was there, with her instead of … well, where else did he have left to go? He'd spent the last three days on his knees praying until his legs were numb and sore at the same time and his throat stung with each swallow.
Not a word. Not a sign. Nothing. He had lost and God had finally abandoned him.
So Marcus had gone to the only person left after having been recalled to London that had ever made him feel the presence of the Saints.
And now he let her coax him into a chair and watched her, quiet and pained, as she prepared tea and handed him a cup with pale, delicate hands.
As she pulled away, he caught one of those hands in his, larger, but made bony from years of ascetic living, darkened from the harsh Mexican sun and wrinkled and so old. Damn, he thought, I've gotten old. Her hand in his seemed to have the same pale, silvery appearance as the scars that were scattered on his skin and he let go again.
"Thank you.", he said then, belatedly, embarrassed by his own thoughts, but unable to pinpoint if it was the musing in general or the sudden, visceral repulsion at the idea of making her a scar through his touch alone.
"I lost the boy in Mexico.", he said instead.
