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Chapter Text

Tomas leaves Chicago with about three full weeks' worth of clothes, which he obviously thinks is quite modest. "You have eighty-seven very slightly different pencils there, in your little bag," he tells Marcus, setting a backpack on top of his overstuffed duffel, which had prompted Marcus' arched eyebrow all on its own. "You have a - a cassette player. I am going to bring my running shoes, and I don't care what you think about it."

"Gonna be spending a bit of time at the gym, are we?"

Tomas huffs, takes a seat on the bench next to Marcus. "If I was only allowed to bring two shirts, a ratty old sweatshirt, and a bag full of junk, you should have told me that."

"I've also got a bible," Marcus says. "And a hat."

"Oh, forgive me, I did not bring a hat."

Marcus heaves a dramatic sigh. "I suppose you'll still do," he says, and Tomas snorts, but doesn't answer further. At this hour of the night, the station is nearly deserted; they're the only ones on the platform, the only ones to board the train that eventually hisses to a stop in front of them. No one to see them off; no one to see them at all. Though of course, that's by design.

They find an empty row near the back of the car, space in the overhead compartment for Tomas' things. Marcus tucks his case under the seat by the window and settles in, lets Tomas choose to take the seat next to him, rather than leaving a gap.

Bennett says I should think about getting out of the city, he'd said, and without even blinking Tomas had replied, so when do we leave?

He's asleep before the next stop, hands folded in his lap, his head on Marcus' shoulder. Marcus hands over both their tickets when the conductor comes round, then spends the night drawing windmills, watching the moon set, listening to Tomas breathe. When the sun starts to come up, Marcus reaches under his seat for his hat, settles it carefully to shield Tomas' eyes, and switches to birds.

*

They go south, then west, then north again. Their trail of train tickets dead-ends somewhere in Kansas, where the rails stop; the cases they've been hoping for haven't appeared and the next bus out of town isn't until Tuesday and for now the best solution they can come up with is the corner room at the miniature town's only motel. Even after the burst of activity in Chicago, the church seems to be dragging its feet; Bennett, it turns out, isn't quite sure what to do with them just yet.

"We're your personal freelance exorcists, Bennett," Marcus tells him. "Find us a demon."

From the room's water-spotted window Marcus can see straight down the main street, clear to the stoplight on the other end of town, glowing green-yellow-red through the night. The phone is a heavy plastic rotary dial with a coiled cord, at least twenty years old; Bennett's voice sounds thin and metallic and very far away. "Just keep your heads down for a few days," he says, like that's some sort of solution. Like Marcus has ever been able to keep his head down in his bloody life. "I'll be in touch."

Marcus would throw the phone, but with his luck, he'd break it and the motel would try to argue it's some priceless antique. Tomas is watching him from the foot of the bed nearest the door, his shoulders hunched, his eyes tired and worried. "There's a bus out on Tuesday," Marcus tells him "We're supposed to keep our heads down until then."

Elbows on his knees, Tomas looks up. He's been off all day - quiet and nervous and clinging, like something's got him just a bit unsettled - three long days and nights in a series of Amtrak cars, perhaps. The reality his decisions have bought for him. The too-wide stretch of the sky. "Keep our heads down," he repeats. "Are we - in danger?"

"Don't think so," Marcus says. "Think he just means I shouldn't go looking trouble, 'cause he'll be bringing us some." There's a good chance, he thinks, that one of them has the wrong impression. He's just not sure which of them it is. "He'll get us a lead. If we've got enemies in the church they won't be coming after us immediately, and if we keep quiet enough, they may not come after us at all. They've got much bigger things to worry about than two harmless wayward sheep. We've just got to give them some time to forget about us."

"And what are we supposed to do until then?"

Marcus shrugs. "Wait," he says, and grins. "Make sure we don't let on we're actually the wolves."

Tomas nods, and looks away again. Outside, a diesel truck downshifts, slowing for the light.

"It's like this, sometimes," Marcus says, just to fill the space. "It isn't always all - awe and glory."

"Is that why you draw? To pass the time?"

"Partially," Marcus says. Tomas doesn't answer. The gap between the beds is narrow enough that if he were to sit, he'd need to slot his knees in between Tomas', link them together like a child casting shadow puppets on the wall - here is the church, and here is the steeple.

He gets a pair of clean shorts and his sweatpants from his case, instead.

All things considered, he's had much worse showers.

When he comes out, Tomas is dressed for a run, shorts and his silly cut-off shirt. Marcus can't help giving him a look. "It's two in the morning," he says.

"I don't think I can fall asleep yet," Tomas says, apologetic. "Is it okay? If I go out for an hour?"

Marcus shrugs. "Do what you want."

"Okay," Tomas is quiet for a second, frowning like he's got something important to say; in the end, though, all he says is, "You don't need to wait up for me."

"Wasn't going to," Marcus says, and Tomas shuts up, and leaves.

He isn't asleep when Tomas gets back, but he's pretending to be. Tomas lets him get away with it. Marcus doesn't hear him fall asleep for quite some time, either, but he figures the least he can do is return the favor.

*

Dawn breaks, and Bennett hasn't called.

In the other bed, Tomas is asleep - finally, sprawled out on his stomach, his body loose and relaxed and for a moment Marcus wishes their window faced east, wishes that he could open the curtains and let the sun rise across Tomas' back, shadow and warm light flooding the soft peaks and valleys of his skin.

Instead, he gets himself up, and gets dressed.

Marcus walks the length of Main Street, motel to the second stoplight, and sees what there is to see. At a run-down garage with signage reading simply Bud's, he pays cash for an old truck and a new road atlas; he fills the tank and picks up some snacks at the gas station, then heads back to the motel to wake up Tomas.

He finds Sinatra on the radio, which around here is probably the best he's going to do, and figures if Bennett had really meant sit still and wait and don't do anything at all until you hear from me then maybe he shouldn't have left it so open to interpretation.

Tomas - somewhat disappointingly - is already awake when Marcus lets himself back into the room. He's stood at the desk by the window, sweatpants and sleep-mussed hair and the creases from his pillow still imprinted on his face. Marcus' note in his hand and a deep V of shadow between his waistband and the sunlit cut of his hip. Walkies, the note says, which is more detailed than the ones he used to leave saying, simply, out; still, Tomas' brow is creased in confusion when he turns toward the sound of the opening door, and Marcus can't quite keep himself from smiling.

"Good morning," he says, and makes sure it comes out cheerful enough that just the tone will have Tomas even more confused. "Come on, let's go, I've got coffees in the truck. Don't feel much like sitting around waiting for Bennett, do you? Let's go and find ourselves a demon."

"What truck?" Tomas says, helplessly, and Marcus feels his smile widen.

Chapter Text

Nancy Collins of Beaver, Kansas - wife, mother of two, host to a demon who's rather defensive of her housekeeping - is the most interesting thing they've seen since Chicago. It takes them three hours and a well-timed comment from Marcus about the dishes in the sink to go from Nancy pouring them tea at her kitchen table to Nancy having two sets of pupils; eight minutes after that they've got her on a futon in the cellar, chained to her husband's billiards table while her twin babies scream in their swings upstairs. It's not ideal, but the door can be locked from both sides, so it'll do.

"No matter what you hear," Marcus tells her husband, both of them stood at the top of the stairs while Tomas tries not to get bitten down below them, "do not open this door."

"The fuck's wrong with her," the man says, wide-eyed, and Marcus slams the door on him and the babies both. He figures he'll send Tomas up in a couple of hours; at six months old the babies will need to eat soon, and Marcus doubts Nancy's husband has ever so much as held a bottle in his life.

Less than an hour in, though, and it becomes clear Nancy's husband is going to have to fend for himself - the demon inside Nancy loves Tomas.

"Tiny Tomas," it's calling him, before they've even made it through their first litany of the saints. "The boy no one wanted. How much longer, do you think, before he sends you away too?"

To his credit, Tomas barely even wavers - a flick of his eyes toward Marcus but no hesitation in his response, no doubt or uncertainty in his steady pray for us, pray for us, pray for us. He's done so well lately, none of the fear and fumbling that had marred their first days with Casey Rance; he's learning, and so quickly that some days Marcus can barely keep up.

The demon seems to like that, though, and it smiles with Nancy's mouth. "You may be in his good graces now, but for how long?" it says. "Sooner or later, Tomas, you'll make a mistake. He'll see all the ugly, broken, false little things that you are. He'll see it too. You're not worth keeping."

"I silence you, unclean spirit," Tomas tells it smoothly, and Marcus feels his heart fill up so fast and hard that he thinks his chest might burst. "You have no power here."

"And neither do you," Nancy says. She draws her legs in toward her chest, rests her chin on her knees. "You left behind everything you had. You left behind your family. Your parish. Where will you draw your strength from, now?"

"Saint Anthony," Tomas says, and Marcus murmurs, Pray for us. "Saint Benedict, pray for us. Saint Bernard."

The demon groans and buries Nancy's face in her pillow.

They keep working.

*

They're somewhere north of the seventy-fifth hour - Marcus is about to stop counting - when the thing finally cracks. It's one of those rare breaths of calm, where everyone's resting. They're all three of them sprawled out on the futon on the floor; Tomas is holding Nancy, and Marcus is staying near enough to get a grip on Tomas - who's breathing steady and even and slow, like he's going to fall asleep at any moment now if he hasn't already, and it's not that Marcus doubts him, he just - knows better.

Really, he should know better than to be indulging it at all - and maybe Nancy's demon isn't particularly strong, maybe she's been fighting fiercely since long before they arrived, but still. Marcus begins a Hail Mary and even Tomas barely responds, "the Lord is with thee" coming out all mumbled and slurred. Marcus should wake him; should scold him for his carelessness, his lapse in judgement. But maybe, he thinks, it's alright to let Tomas' judgement lapse a little, just for tonight - maybe that's where he's supposed to come in, still. They're all a bit worn out, the demon included. For now, Marcus decides, Tomas can keep sleeping - whatever it's got left for them, Marcus can handle well enough on his own. Quietly, if he's lucky.

Like it's been listening - it probably has - the demon opens Nancy's eyes, tilting back her head to look straight at him. "My," it says. "We're all getting very close, aren't we, Father Marcus?"

"Good morning," Marcus says softly. "I'm speaking now to the entity inside Nancy Collins. Tell me your name, and the day and hour of your departure."

The demon rolls Nancy's eyes. "Oh, I am so tired of that shit," it says. "Come on, don't you have any new material?"

Marcus smiles at her, strokes her hair. "Oh, I'm sorry. You want to hear the new stuff? Profane thing, you are forgiven. Leave this body and be redeemed."

"No, thank you. I like this body. It's comfortable."

“She doesn’t want you. You aren’t welcome here.”

"You'd know something about that, wouldn't you?" the demon says. "Being unwanted."

"You've already tried that one, sweetheart," Marcus says. "Fallen angel, banished from grace, you are loved."

The demon smiles at him, slow. "Keep your voice down," it whispers, reaching up to trace one long-nailed finger down the side of Tomas' throat. "You wouldn't want to wake him."

Marcus fights to control the twisting in his gut - not well enough. The demon curls tighter into Tomas' arms, pressing Nancy's face into his stomach. "Poor exhausted thing," it says, wrapping Nancy's arms around his waist. Tomas sighs in his sleep, mouth falling just a bit open. "Look what you've done to him. Look what you've made of him."

He doesn't think about Tomas in the mornings, making faces at himself in the mirror, counting grey hairs at his temples. He doesn't think of Tomas at some grimy rest stop, hurriedly washing blood from his hands while Marcus keeps an eye on the door.

"We glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance," he tells it.

"And you think he will persevere with you?" the demon says, and laughs. "You think you can keep him here? He's meant for so much more than this, Marcus. You know it. You know he's going to do it too. Use you up and discard you. Just like all the others."

Tomas' head droops sideways against Marcus' shoulder. "And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts," he says, half into Tomas' hair. The thing inside Nancy groans and Tomas is a soft solid weight against his side and Marcus thinks that between them they could pull the core out of the earth. "You are forgiven. Release this woman and be redeemed. You are loved."

"Loved," Tomas says against Marcus' shoulder, a mumbling echo. Marcus traces the sign of the cross on Nancy's forehead and the demon hisses, arching her back, but slowly, languidly; it's almost over. The next time he does it there's no reaction at all. When he asks Nancy to open her eyes, he's nearly certain it'll be only her in there, looking back at them.

"Tomas," he whispers, first. Tomas deserves to be awake for this.

*

"You know I'm not going to," he says later, in the truck, in case that's what Tomas is still thinking about.

"You are not going to, what?" Tomas says, without looking at him.

"Get rid of you."

That earns him a sharp glance.

He should stop, he thinks, and doesn't.

"Tomas. Come on, you know better than that. Once you let them in, once you start believing in their lies, you lose all - "

"Is it?"

Marcus blinks. "Sorry?"

"Is it," Tomas repeats, like it's the words themselves that Marcus hadn't understood. "A lie."

Marcus can barely make him out in the darkness; just the angle of his stubbled jaw in the glow from the radio, shadows pooled around his throat. "Of course it is," Marcus says, though he means for it to come out sounding a little more firmly than it does. "What on earth have I done to make you say that?"

He hears more than sees Tomas shrug, his leather jacket shifting softly against itself. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was all of those times that you sent me away, and told me that I could not be an exorcist, and that I could not help you, and that I was a liability, and - what are you doing?"

What Marcus is doing, and has been doing since he heard the tone in Tomas' voice, is guiding the truck to the side of the road, bringing it to a stop. It's got Tomas looking at him, at least, and Marcus turns to look at him back, arm hitched up on the back of the seat. "Listen to me," he says, and this time it comes out perfectly firm. "You asked me to train you. I know that you're going to make mistakes. You'll learn from them, yeah?"

Tomas nods.

It's too easy to let his hand slip down, cup his palm against the side of Tomas' neck; too easy to notice how Tomas leans into it like a purring housecat. "Then you've got nothing to worry about," he says; he means for it to be reassuring, but perhaps it - doesn't quite hit the mark. For a minute Tomas just looks at him, and Marcus looks back. Behind him, a semi truck roars past - in the far lane, but still going fast enough their own truck rocks a little on its tires in its wake. Marcus feels his fingers catch and drag on the short hairs at the back of Tomas' neck. I need you, he wants to say, and can't. It's never felt like this before. I've never known anything like this and now that I've got you I never want to be without you again.

"Well," Tomas says, and his voice is low and almost too close in the dark and Marcus has to fight the urge to hold his breath. "There is one thing I'm a little worried about."

He should pull his hand away. He should have done it a long time ago. Tomas leans a bit more against him and in the dim light Marcus can just see him - the playful tilt to his head, faint spark of a smile in the shadowed wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Marcus curls his fingers, just until he feels his nails brush skin. "What's that?" he says, and Tomas' smile widens.

"I'm worried you might be planning on spending another night in this truck," he says, perfectly serious, and something catches in Marcus' chest. "I think we've earned some decent rest, don't you?"

Marcus does think so. He thinks Tomas has more than earned it - Tomas deserves a private suite at the finest hotel money can buy, a wide bed with soft cotton sheets and one of those big deep whirlpool tubs with the jets. What he'll get is a double at some roadside motel, perhaps a muffin for breakfast if he's lucky, but - well. Marcus can at least get him that. He nods, and breathes, and makes himself pull away. "Yeah," he says, hands slipping back onto the wheel, checking over his shoulder before he puts the truck in gear and starts to accelerate back onto the highway. "Right. Get the map out, then. How far to the next biggish town?"

Chapter Text

"I want to go home for Christmas," Tomas says, one night - firm and oddly hesitant at the same time. "I want to see my family. I want to go to Mass."

"So go, then."

"Marcus, I want you to come with me."

Something tightens in Marcus' chest, and he glances up from his bible. Tomas is sat cross-legged on the other bed, cell phone clutched in both hands, looking over like Marcus might hold all the secrets of the universe. Marcus adds another careful line to his tree. "Do you now," he says.

"Yes, I do. We both need some time to rest. Come back to Chicago with me. Olivia will cook for us, we can take Luis to see the tree. Just for a couple of days."

"Doesn't sound like anything you'd need an exorcist for."

"No," Tomas says, entirely too sincere. "But it does sound like something I might need my partner for. Especially since he doesn't have anywhere else to go."

People like Tomas, Marcus thinks, aren't supposed to happen like this to people like him. People like Tomas are supposed to stop by his life only briefly, only until they've gotten what they want from him. They aren't supposed to ask him to spend Christmas with their bloody families. They aren't supposed to ask him to stay.

"You know if Bennett calls, we'll have to leave."

"If he calls," Tomas says, and shrugs. "Maybe he doesn't, and we have a nice relaxing holiday."

Christmas is whatever nearby church Marcus looks up in a phone book and a rare early night in bed. He thinks of Tomas the other day, at the diner where they'd stopped for lunch, salad forgotten in favor of shaky cell phone video clips of his nephew's latest football game. Marcus had eaten most of his cucumbers before he'd noticed. "You remember what I said, don't you?" Marcus says. "Nice relaxing holidays aren't exactly part of the job description."

Tomas huffs. "Fine," he says, leaning over to plug his phone into its charger. "If you don't want to go, then you don't have to. And if we are called, I promise that I will answer. But I'm going home for Christmas. I would like for you to come with me. You do with that whatever you please."

He flips his light off and pretends to go to sleep, his back to Marcus; it's obvious he's only pretending, though - he's breathing all wrong - so Marcus takes his time adding a cascade of falling leaves to his tree before switching off his own light and turning in himself.

Tomas is gone when he wakes up; the note he's left propped up against the alarm clock next to Marcus' head says he's gone for a run, and he'll be back by eight. It's nearly seven thirty, so Marcus rushes a bit, slipping into his clothes and out the door before Tomas can return and ask what he's up to.

It costs him fifteen cents per page plus half an hour spent waiting for the computers at the public library to print off the route from North Dakota to Chicago. A tank of gas and paying off their balance at the motel uses up the last of his stipend from the church, but it's worth it - more than worth it, Marcus thinks in the truck, watching as Tomas goes to put the sun shade down and the directions tumble from their hiding spot into his lap. He'd spend twice as much just for a chance to put that smile on Tomas' face.

"So you changed your mind," Tomas says.

Marcus shrugs. "Didn't know I'd made it up in the first place." He turns the key in the ignition, and takes his time picking a radio station; Tomas is still grinning when he looks up again, eyes all crunched up and one corner of his mouth higher than the other, and Marcus wants to laugh but forces himself to frown instead. "What?"

"You're really going to come with me."

"Nah," Marcus says. "Thought I'd drop you off and pop round Saint Aquinas for the weekend, see if any of my old mates want to catch up. D'you want to go, or not?"

The smile softens but doesn't disappear, and Marcus has to fight the urge to snap at him harder, force the issue, see just how unpleasant he's got to be before Tomas quits looking at him like that. Tomas breaks it first, though, huffing out a soft laugh and shaking his head as he turns to the printouts, tucking his chin into his scarf. "You want to make a right out of here," he says, and Marcus doesn't know how he manages to make it sound like he's saying thank you, but.

*

They reach Chicago late the next day, in the wake of a storm; Marcus spends the last hundred miles or so hunched forward in his seat trying to find the road, Tomas praying silently in the seat next to him. Marcus is giving thanks himself by the time they get there, half for their safe arrival and half for the thought that in a few moments he'll be able to forget about the snow, and the cold, and possibly about the outside altogether, but his good mood doesn't last long once they're inside; Tomas' flat - never the warmest, most welcoming place on earth - is bloody fucking freezing. "You pay for heat, don't you?" Marcus snaps, curling his fingers up into his palms.

"I told my landlord I would be out of town for a few months," Tomas says, shooting Marcus a quick glance. "He - may have set the thermostat a little low."

"You think?"

Tomas frowns, brows drawn together and mouth downturned into a sad little pout, and for a moment, Marcus is almost sorry for mentioning it. “I’ll leave him a message. Hopefully he hasn’t left town yet for the weekend and he can be here in the morning.”

Predictably, the man has indeed left town for the weekend, and cannot be there in the morning; the pipes won't freeze, but Marcus thinks he might, and he's not even sure he's being that dramatic about it.

"It won't be that bad," Tomas says, sounding entirely too reasonable as he pulls what seems like half of what he owns out of his hall closet. "If we really cannot stand it, I'm sure Olivia will let us come sleep on her floor, but I have a whole box of blankets in here somewhere - you know that one is just decorative, right?"

Marcus does know - it even feels silly, stretched ineffectively across his shoulders like if it tries hard enough it might become a sad little woven shawl - but he thinks it makes his point. "You're going to be in a world of trouble if your pipes freeze - "

"The pipes are not going to freeze. They would have done it already. And besides, I don't think that any of them are even on an outside wall. Here, put this on."

Marcus catches the jacket thrown - unintentionally, probably - at his head, and frowns at Tomas, even though Tomas isn't looking. "This isn't mine."

"No. But it should fit." He sits back on his heels and grins at Marcus. "You look ridiculous."

"Gonna look just as ridiculous wearing your jacket," Marcus grumbles, but he unzips it and starts to shrug it on. Tomas shakes his head and disappears back into the closet, and since he's not looking, Marcus turns and tucks his nose into the jacket's collar. It smells like the closet, like dust and plaster and cool still air, but underneath all that, he finds what he's looking for - it also smells just a little bit like Tomas. Marcus closes his eyes.

"Ha!" Tomas cries, tumbling backward into the hall, clutching a plastic tote and accompanied by an avalanche of shoes. It ruins the moment - Marcus startles in his seat like he's doing something wrong - but perhaps that's for the best. "I knew this was in here somewhere." He pops the lid off the tote and dumps it out across the floor, sending two rolled-up sleeping bags in Marcus' direction. "See? We'll be fine."

Marcus rolls his eyes, though Tomas doesn't look up to see it; he's busy picking himself and a few blankets up off the floor, coming over to sit next to Marcus on the couch. "I'm gonna text Olivia and see if she wants us to bring anything over," he says.

"Tomorrow?"

Tomas gives him a look. "No, tonight," he says, swiping at his phone. "Tonight everyone goes to Olivia's, and tomorrow we all meet at the church for midnight mass. I told you in the truck, remember?"

"Well, yeah, I just didn't think you meant - who's everyone?"

"Well," Tomas says slowly, and Marcus thinks, oh, here it comes. "Luis usually has a couple friends over. There's - Lucy and Marc, they live downstairs, and the baby, she's gonna be two this year I think. Olivia's friend Caroline, she has two sons. Mi tío Gael, y Martha if she's still living with him, I don't know. Dani and her sisters, they grew up with Olivia, and probably - "

"That's half of Chicago already, isn't it?" Marcus says, and it must come out sounding a bit desperate; Tomas sets his phone down on the table, turns to look at Marcus with another of those sad, worried little frowns.

"Marcus, if you don't want to come, you don't have to," he says. "I'll - tell them your parish needed you, or something."

"Because they all think I'm still a priest, too, don't they." At least Tomas has the grace or good sense to look a bit guilty - and Marcus understands, but - still. "I'm sorry, love. If it's really alright with you, I think I'm gonna have to pass."

Tomas shrugs. "If that's what you want, that's fine," he says. "I'm sorry. I just - didn't want you to be alone tonight. That's all."

Then stay, Marcus thinks. He doesn't say it. He's too surprised at himself. He's thought about it, of course he has - a quiet holiday weekend spent just the two of them shut up in some motel room somewhere, eating takeout and watching old movies - expected it, even. The only logical destination their route through nowhere could lead to. Thinking about it hadn't necessarily meant he'd wanted it - except, maybe it does. "You're still coming home after, aren't you?" he says, and even that - it isn't until he hears it that he realizes how it sounds. What a tremendously stupid idea this has been. He should've had Tomas drop him off at that motel room somewhere, let him come on his own.

"Of course I am," Tomas says - too gently, like Marcus doesn't regret asking the question enough already. "I'll have Olivia make up a plate for you."

"Extra gravy," Marcus says, "just to see how you get it back here," and Tomas rolls his eyes, and that settles the matter, at least for the next few moments; Marcus pulls out a sketchbook while Tomas texts with his sister - who, as it turns out, does need a few things, which Tomas decides he'll pick up at the drugstore round the corner - no, the shop by the L stop - as he laces himself back into his boots, checks his coat pockets for his scarf and keys and phone.

He's almost out the door, one hand already resting on the knob, when he looks back. "You're sure you don't want to come?" he says, the corners of his mouth just a little turned down, like he can't quite believe Marcus is passing this up. "Olivia said that there's plenty of room."

"Yeah," Marcus says, and makes sure that when he glances up from his drawing the motion is careless, absent, an afterthought. "Go on, go and see your family. I'll be fine."

"Okay," Tomas says. "I probably won't be back until late, so - "

"Bye," Marcus says pointedly; Tomas gives him a look, and shuts the door behind him just as pointedly, which Marcus thinks is fair - least he's gone, and the flat is quiet, and Marcus has a few blessed hours of solitude in front of him, for the first time in months.

Seems like the perfect time to have a bit of a look around.

There's not much in the flat that's unknown to Marcus. Tomas had practically given him free rein on the place when he'd stayed here before - Marcus had never squandered an opportunity to poke around a bit, and he'd never really bothered hiding it, either, and after a while Tomas had stopped protesting, either by choice or lack thereof. Still - it's almost like a compulsion - the moment Tomas is out the door Marcus finds himself getting to his feet, looking for something to rummage through.

Almost disappointingly, Marcus finds most everything is right where he'd left it. His tenancy on Tomas' sofa had been intermittent even after they'd finished up with the Rances and started exploring the more theoretical side of demonic possession and exorcism, but he'd helped Tomas lock the place up to leave town, and Tomas isn't exactly the sort to let his environment trend toward chaos, anyway - the mess he's made of his hall closet being somewhat of an exception. Marcus peers inside, but nothing catches his eye, so he wedges the door shut enough it won't catch when Tomas gets home and moves along. In the bedroom, there's a stack of boxes from Saint Anthony's; most of it is diocese rubbish, half-burned candles and battered old hymnals and leftover programs that never got recycled, but perched on top of the pile is a shoebox Marcus doesn't recognize, and the moment he spots it he's reaching out to snatch it up. Everyone's got their favorite hiding spots, and Tomas - Tomas loves his little boxes.

He'd stashed Jessica's letters in one labeled Recipes. Marcus had found a collection of artsy photographs from his Loyola days in a box that had originally held a small desk lamp. He'd uncovered a small unlabeled brown one that held a framed photo of an old woman and a prayer card, printed in Spanish, for Paloma Rivera - that box, he'd decided not to go through any further. The shoebox, though, seems immediately promising; Marcus perches on the edge of the bed, lifts the lid, and finds a clean little row of envelopes, each neatly slit open along the fold.

Letters, Marcus thinks fondly. You sap. They're addressed to the church - some of them marked for Tomas' attention, but all of them having made their way to him eventually. Marcus sorts through white envelopes and brightly colored ones, long thin ones and large, thicker squares; the first one he pulls free has a thank you card inside, some generically pleasant wildflowers printed on the front. Dear Father Tomas, it reads. Thank you so much for letting my son and I stay with you for the weekend. I don't know what we would have done without you. Our new apartment is beautiful and they gave us a discount on our first month's rent for not having it ready in time, so here is a donation for the church. Thanks again, and we'll see you on Sunday! Love, Anna & Sammy Broderick .

The next one is similar, though written in pen on a sheet of notebook paper rather than a card; Dear Father Tomas, thank you for having us over for dinner. It was so cool to see how a priest lives. Mama says to say thank you too for helping us pay our electric bill last month. Dad's first check finally came on Thursday and I'm 14 now so I can get a real job too. See you on Sunday, Sincerely, Alexander J. DeWitt. Marcus keeps reading, though honestly, he doesn't think he needs to; the whole shoebox seems to be in the same vein, every card and letter and scrappy little note.

Dear Father Tomas, thank you for taking our class out for pizza last week.

For helping my son afford a suit for his interview.

For letting my children stay with you, and keeping them out of the shelter.

Half of Chicago might be headed round Tomas' sister's for dinner tonight, but the other half, it seems, has already been here. Methodically, Marcus tucks the cards and letters back inside their envelopes and the envelopes back into the shoebox, though he doesn't take any special care to arrange them as they'd been before. Tomas will know he's been through them, anyway; Tomas will know because he knows Marcus, just a little more thoroughly than Marcus is expecting him to - always has done, since that first day at Saint Aquinas, like he'd looked at Marcus and read the entirety of who he was on his face before Marcus ever had a chance to speak.

He'd known, really, that Tomas was like this

He's always loved how easily Tomas had let him in.

Marcus replaces the box on top of the rest of Tomas' things, lets himself out of Tomas' bedroom, stops just short of letting himself out the front door, out of Tomas' life altogether. The way his luck runs, Tomas would probably be relieved, if not thankful - and sure, Tomas had asked him to stay in the first place, but that had been before he'd really known what it would be like, missing the dinners and the football games and the comfort of his church - before Marcus, before he'd had something to compare it to, and Marcus' hands itch without his bible in them so he can't imagine what all this must be like for Tomas. It's on the table by the sofa, where Marcus had left it, next to his pillow, the one Tomas leaves out for him, and - mine, some small and awful part of him thinks, before he can stop himself, or just the one he gives to his guests?

Relief, in a way. This, at least, Marcus knows what to do with, and he sinks to his knees in front of the couch, rests his head on folded hands. Bless me, father, for I have sinned.

*

Tomas comes back late, flushed and grinning, laden down with an armload of reusable shopping bags. "Marcus," he calls from the doorway. "Are you awake?" Marcus considers pretending he's not, but the next thing Tomas says is, "Olivia sent food," and Marcus' stomach growls without even asking him first. He gets up, but makes himself move slowly enough that it at least feels grudging.

In the kitchen, Tomas has the bags on the counter, the refrigerator open; he pops up from behind the door to flash Marcus another huge smile. "You really should have come," he says. "Everyone was asking about you."

Marcus snorts, leans one shoulder up against the doorframe. "Yeah, 's why I didn't."

Tomas rolls his eyes, shuffles another stack of containers from the counter into the refrigerator. "Luis thought you were going to be there. He was very disappointed."

"Ruined his night, did I?"

"Well, no. Olivia's friend brought elotes so he was okay. But I thought it might make you feel guilty."

"Spirit of the season, and all?" Marcus says, and makes sure he's not smiling anymore, not even a little, when Tomas straightens up and steps toward him.

"See, this is the problem we have," he says; another step closer and Marcus catches the bright haze in his eyes, the warmth in his cheeks that still hasn't eased, even though he's out of the cold. "You didn't come to dinner, so you did not have any tequila, so you're not getting my jokes again."

Because they're not funny, Marcus starts to say, but he's still drawing breath when Tomas takes the last step forward, and slips his arms around Marcus' waist, and pulls it right back out of him again.

"I missed you," Tomas says, soft and just a little slurred, now, his face pressed into the worn fabric of Marcus' sweatshirt. "I really wanted you to meet everyone."

"I'm sorry," Marcus says, and wraps his arms around Tomas' shoulders - he doesn't know what else to do - seems like it was the right choice, though, because Tomas makes a pleased little noise and nuzzles closer, and Marcus wonders how drunk he is, if Olivia should've sent him home by himself at all. "I - should've known it was important."

"Mm. I should have told you." Tomas hugs him tighter, then steps away just as Marcus is starting to get used to the idea - for the best, since even from that Marcus has to stop himself reaching out for Tomas as he moves away, but he figures it's alright if he lets himself regret the loss for just a second. "I don't know how I'm still hungry," Tomas is saying, his back turned, like nothing had even happened - maybe for him, Marcus thinks, nothing really had, and he smiles at Tomas, even though he knows Tomas won't turn around to see it. "I'm gonna heat something up, you want something?"

"Yeah, sure," Marcus says, and lets himself come into the kitchen, lets himself take the usual seat at the table - maybe tomorrow, he'll even let himself think of it as his. "What've you got?"

*

"Marcus?" Tomas says, much later.

Marcus rolls himself over on the couch. In the doorway to the bedroom, Tomas - wrapped in a blanket, silhouetted in the faint glow from the lamp at his bedside. He'd said goodnight over an hour ago, and it's not that Marcus is sleeping, not really, it's just - he'd thought he was the only one.

"Yeah."

"If you come in here with me," Tomas says, very carefully, "then - technically, we each have twice as many blankets."

Marcus looks at him - the clench of his fingers in worn fabric, the hunch to his shoulders, the downturned corners of his mouth. Sometimes, he thinks, it's almost like there are two of Tomas - the one who's an adversary, the one who pushes Marcus, challenges him, brimming with fight and fury and fire - and then this one, here. The one who needs him, and isn't afraid. "Plus twice the body heat, besides," he says eventually, and Tomas gives him a hesitant little smile.

It all seems so - normal. So everyday, so perfectly usual to settle down for the night with Tomas tucked in his arms, his back to Marcus' front, that Marcus doesn't even realize they're doing it until it's already done. Tomas makes a quiet wordless noise and pulls the blankets up, arching in closer, and Marcus doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands.

"I can't sleep," Tomas whispers, in the dark. "I think I miss hearing you breathe."

Marcus holds himself very still. He wants to reach up, trace a finger down the back of Tomas' neck, along the sweeping lines of his shoulders. Sketch out his skeleton, like it might do some good, knowing the fit of his bones. "Maybe this will be better," he whispers back, unwilling to put any more weight behind his words. Unsure how heavy they might prove to be.

He feels a brush of contact against the back of his hand, where it sits tense and uncomfortable on the point of his own hip; Tomas, his touch tentative but encouraging, drawing Marcus down until his palm rests low on the soft warm curve of Tomas' stomach. "Yes," Tomas says, and Marcus feels it pull deep inside his chest, down where he keeps his faith. "I think it will."