gammarayed replied to your post: i was rewatching the exorcist season one with my...
the best part is right after this when tomas does not pick up what marcus is very heavily putting down because he’s too busy being a Very Good Empathetic Listener and marcus just rolls his eyes because he still can’t tell if he thinks tomas is a beautiful angel or just the worst
the eye roll that says i’ve had 40 years to practice flirting while demons are Happening and i don’t know why you can’t just get it together and look at me for 5 seconds and appreciate the things that are happening with my face but also let me appreciate your face because i think i’m in love with it but i also wanna punch it and we can smooch or fight i don’t care which right now just PAY ATTENTION TO ME TOMAS
marcus/peter au where marcus falls face first into domestic pine-scented bliss
At the start of the week, Marcus owns two shirts. By the end, he’s up to seven, with their tags cut off and neatly folded away in the drawer that Peter says belongs to him. He’s never had a drawer that belonged to him. He’s stayed at places, and those places had drawers. There’s a difference.
“I hope they fit,” Peter says, when he presents Marcus with the new shirts, holding them up against Marcus’ frame and frowning. His fingers brush against Marcus’ chest. He must be able to hear Marcus’ heart thudding, shaking through his whole body, but Peter doesn’t say anything about it.
“I can’t accept these,” Marcus says, or tries to. He mumbles it, as his fingers curl around Peter’s gifts.
Peter smiles, and it’s beautiful as the fucking sunrise. “Take them. Make me happy.”
Marcus doesn’t think he can manage that second bit, but he takes the shirts.
UGH I’m so sorry how long this took. I was so stoked to write this prompt, but of course, it became a much more involved…thing… than I planned. Whoops.
Anyway, enjoy this speculative Season 3 Hurt (there is comfort, I SWEAR, but probably not enough)
When Marcus finds him, it’s a scene ripped straight from his nightmares.
The ones that’ve haunted his dreams since Marcus began this frantic search, since that moment at the pier, where God reached out, wrapped His almighty fist around his heart, and uttered a single name. Visions of Tomas - strung up, strung apart, beaten and violated, staring at salvation without recognition - have congregated in his head. If this bombardment of tormented, paranoid images is what Tomas drudged through at the Kim house, Marcus can’t believe he emerged so intact, because he’s ready to bash his skull against a wall and snap at every threat that stands in his way.
In the worst of these nightmares, Tomas bats honeyed irises that are stained black as coal at Marcus, and smiles when he sees the blood drain from his face, delights in his despair. And out of his cracked, blistering lips - once so soft, so aching to be kissed - croaks Andy Kim’s voice.
“Bloodied your hands for nothing. Sullied your soul, and for what? This beautiful, sordid flesh?” The devil mocks every memory of Tomas, every good, golden inch of him tainted by its smug, filthy touch. When he wakes from this particular horror it’s with a cry of rage, mingled with a plead for mercy.
Marcus keeps his fears on a chain and leashes them tight, strapped around his wrist like a noose of rosary. It is a blessing and a curse in equal turns, being the child of his father’s wrath. Simon wasn’t wrong when he called Marcus a pit bull, for his tenacity, and now that he’s caught the scent of blood, he doesn’t intend to stop until he’s got his quarry clenched between his jaws. What the devils often forget is that the most ravenous dogs are led by their protective instincts. He tempers these more violent impulses with thoughts of holding Tomas in his arms, when it’s all said and done, and feeling raspy breaths tickle over his bared collar, mellifluous as God’s forgiveness.
But it is one thing to hope, to claw his way through the battlefield to find Mouse’s fallen soldier, to wade through the carnage with the unrelenting fervor of the Tinman, come to reclaim his heart - it is another to bust his shoulder through the hinges of a door and receive a mouthful of the dank room that reeks of sweat. All air flees from his lungs, his expectations shattered on the floor.
After weeks of going out of his mind with guessing, the sight of Tomas - head between his knees, mess of overgrown curls spilling over his neck, where his fingers have dug into the tendons, right above his spine, which spasms with uneven shudders of breath - reduces his ratcheting heart-rate to zero. He steps into the dimly lit room and pauses, arms clamped at his side. The caution is exuded with effort.
So many of his nightmares begin this way: Tomas, remarkably whole and within his reach, asking Marcus to save him, please - only to slip through his grasp at the slightest provocation. Marcus has awakened with his name on his tongue, resignation in his throat, more times than he can count. Enough times that Mouse has noticed, and rightfully, she’s the first to reprove Marcus for his weakness; Tomas is a liability so obvious, so glaring she can’t even seem to resent it, though she isn’t above using his wrath to her advantage. But in this instance Mouse has lagged behind his warpath, interrogating, tidying, watching - she is rough in her approach, starkly pragmatic.
But she is not here to decipher, so Marcus must rely on his own thundering heart, traitorous at the best of times. He makes a fist and digs his nails into his palm until the pinch of pain overcomes any illusion.
Relief fills his mouth like a wave and he drowns in it, inundated by the scent that is undeniably Tomas, lingering below the stench of misery and ill. He spies a filthy mattress in the corner, decorated only by a thin, torn up blanket; what stands out are the restraints, connected to the wall by a link of chain. Marcus flits to the raw, reddened marks on Tomas’ bare wrists, and they match the streak crimson of that flashes over his gaze, dousing the scene in blood.
When he speaks, though, all that he can muster is a ruined whisper, “Oh, Tomas.”
It echoes loudly in the quiet. Already strained by his position, the quivering muscles in Tomas’ forearms tense in anticipation, then his neck cranes with a crack that is too distinct for comfort, revealing that gorgeous face in all its wretched glory. Looking at him steals Marcus’ breath, always; from the first glimpse, something about Tomas made him a martyr. Even with the ugly scratches on his cheek and temples, the brown splotch of dried blood crusted over his upper lip, he is beautiful in his suffering. The pink veins of his eyes, framed by dark hoods of exhaustion, contrasts against the skin marred by bruises, and altogether he is a picture reminiscent of St. Sebastian.
Marcus swears a litany of vengeance against those responsible, pressing , wishing if was a windpipe. And Tomas, eyes flayed open and mouth parted, watches the shadows pass over his expression in silence. Stifling his anger, Marcus edges closer, a sigh on his lips. “Tomas, luv-”
Perhaps it’s naïve to expect his own relief to be mirrored, when he left Tomas, weepy and wanting, not all that long ago. Yet it’s Tomas, he thinks, always so willing to give; it’s as much a virtue as it is a detriment. Nevertheless, Marcus is forced to a frank, stuttering halt when Tomas flattens himself against the wall.
“Noo,” he moans in a low warble, and Marcus recoils, stomach cringing at the tremor in his voice. He reaches out, all set to soothe, as if this alone can keep the monsters at bay (it used to, in the dead of night, in the cramped beds of whatever motel they’d found lodging, with him poised between Tomas and the nightmares that bared their terrible, wicked teeth). He needs to touch Tomas this instant and ensure he never hears such a noise from him again.
Except when he tries to draw him in, Tomas jerks, eyes frenzied as they scurry around the room, chased by phantoms that have seeped into the waking world. Chest constructing with dread, Marcus searches for a milky white film over his eyes, but there is none, nothing to suggest Tomas shouldn’t be fully aware. There is a delirium to his actions that makes Marcus wonder if he isn’t too late, after all - something he cannot fathom, much less accept.
“Tomas, it’s me. It’s Marcus.” He enunciates every word with slow, deliberate clarity, conveying a calm he doesn’t feel. He sinks to his knees, so he’s not looming, not a threat. His voice is nothing but tender when he speaks. “It’s me, darling. I’ve come to take you away.”
He lets that digest, lets that gaze swarm over his face, praying for a sign of lucidity. He considers how many days Tomas has been imprisoned here, somewhere between dream and reality, and has to clamp down on another surge of unwelcome rage, unwilling to frighten Tomas further.
“C'mon. Mouse is waiting,” he prods, gently. Summons a smile that doesn’t quite fit, warped as he is, seeing Tomas this way. “We don’t have much time.”
Let me take you somewhere safe, he begs with his eyes. He is earnest as he’s ever been, sweat beaded on his brow, crouched between Tomas and the door, palm upturned in offering. Just shy touching, though he sorely yearns to. Let me take you far, far away, wrap you up warm, and never let you go.
Tomas glares at the offer with contempt. Or rather, the coals of a once burning fire of contempt, now subdued - though no less scathing.
“It’s not real,” Tomas whispers, and it strikes Marcus with the force of a slap, stringing across the cheek. It isn’t the words or the rasp of them; it’s the chilling certainty. There is no trace of delirium as he says it and a burst of alarm showers over Marcus like ice.
“This is real,” he insists. “You’ve got to believe-”
And he can’t help how he places a hand at the nape of his neck, as he so often did before. “Don’t touch me,” Tomas hisses, flinching away. Marcus retracts at the shock of rejection, anguished when Tomas screws his eyes shut, muttering, “You’re not him, you’re not.”
“Please,” Marcus beseeches, every inch of him trembling. Eyes flicker open, enthralled by a vision that’s past his shoulder, climbing the walls. Marcus can’t take it any longer and gathers Tomas’ face between his hands, squeezing warmth into those cold cheeks, spattered with wounds that he’s beginning to believe were self-inflicted. "Tomas, hey! Listen. You have to stay, stay here. With me.“
“You always say that,” Tomas croaks, and it’s a quiet, vicious noise that ends in laughter. “And it’s always a lie.”
Behind them, there is a clatter, and he senses rather than sees Mouse appear. Usually, she can move with absolute silence; this is her announcing her presence, so Marcus doesn’t spook and turn a gun on her. Tomas barely notices.
“Marcus is gone,” he tells him in a hollow voice that stinks of repetition. And it’s salt to the bloody wound, because he’s so firm in this conviction. “He’s gone and he isn’t-”
Tomas swallows whatever pain threatens to choke him, his head falling back against the wall. “I need to wake up,” he groans through gritted teeth. At this point, Marcus is sure Tomas isn’t speaking to him anymore.
Despite his protests, Mouse prowls past Marcus and reaches for Tomas with urgency. “We don’t have time for this. Grab him and-”
Nearly too late, Marcus catches the gleam of light, refracted by the light from the doorway, peeking through his knuckles. “Tomas, no!”
Adrenaline guides his hand, seizing Tomas by the wrist as the shard of glass arches through the air, intending to plunge it into his own flesh. Mouse leaps back violently, and it’s just as well, because Marcus doesn’t trust anyone with Tomas right now any more than Tomas trusts anyone.
“I need to wake up,” Tomas repeats. The cry rings with desperation.
“Tomas, you are awake,” Mouse tries, which only garners a fresh wave of denial and a renewed effort to break free of Marcus’ grasp. It’s agony to watch, and he feels as though Tomas slid the glass between his ribs, a sharp, pulsating pressure where his heart used to be. But in the midst of his wallowing, it occurs that he’s done nothing to convince Tomas - nothing a demon wouldn’t think to try.
“You’re right,” Marcus says, softly. Tomas doesn’t cease his struggling, so he doesn’t stop there. “Tomas- Tomas, listen. I understand. I see now. You’ve got to be sure, you’ve got to be safe.”
He caresses the stubble that borders a pale grimace, thumb pressed into the quiver of his jaw. His voice is a compared to the tenderness of his actions. “So if you need to, use it. On me.”
“Marcus!” Mouse seethes. Marcus doesn’t bother to assuage her, because Tomas is looking at him, truly looking, and there’s distress and apprehension in spades but he’s got his attention, if nothing else. Tomas narrows his eyes, chest heaving raggedly.
“What are you…?” he whispers, trying to discern his intent, discover what trick is being played. Marcus winces, wondering how often his visions must’ve ended in betrayal for to have inspired this distrust.
“Go on,” he goads. Loosens his grip, scarcely aiming the sharp end in his direction. All that’s important is that the blunt side faces Tomas. “You don’t believe, that’s fine. I know you can’t risk it again and well, fuck… I’m glad. Glad some of that self-preservation finally kicked in.”
The laugh that leaves his lips is humorless. He bares his teeth in what can’t be called a grin, coarse in this as he is everything else. “But if you think I’ll stand by and watch you rip yourself apart, you really are fucking delusional.”
All the tension holding up body suddenly vanishes. “Marcus?” Tomas rasps. No longer a question of identity, but of intent. “Why-”
Marcus doesn’t care to hear the rest, yanking Tomas into an embrace and clutching him to his chest.
“God,” he sighs hoarsely, nose buried in those curls, stroking his fingers through his fair, even as Tomas continues to ask why, over and over. The heated promises of the solider have deserted Marcus, replaced by the sweet nothings of a lover. He hopes they’re enough to deafen the doubt that whispers in Tomas’ other ear. “I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m not leaving, not ever, ever again.”
Tomas is a jagged thing in his arms, damaged and underfed, so unlike the man Marcus met, bathed in glow of sunlight that slanted through the windows of St. Aquinas; now he’s the broken priest, fit to be hidden among its walls. Marcus mourns the loss of that exuberance, just as he seeks retribution for the wounds responsible for all this grief. But he isn’t a fool, and when he hears Mouse’s relieved exhale, he’s reminded that this will probably not be the last time he drags Tomas from the brink of self-destruction.
For now, it’s enough that the pieces of Tomas aren’t so scattered that Marcus can’t find them and fit them back together again.
oh my god i could probably make a tomarcus playlist of just soft, aching mountain goats songs but that process would probably?? kill me
Ok 1) that would be amazing and I would die right along with you 2) I started properly listening to the mountain goats more after you posted black pear tree and I’m so glad I did and 3) I’m dying every day thinking about tomarcus I’m in so deep thank you for seeing my tags and understanding
thanks for letting me know my 'stevetony' blacklist still works and also i love you and i will drive up north to kill you myself <3
i cant believe i never responded to this ask. anyway, speaking of stevetony, callout post for @americachavez who’s reading 616 civil war stevetony fixits instead of reading my thorloki comics reading guide
