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[buenpastor]

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[buenpastor]

[ from here because we've lost control of our lives. ]

[ falling asleep is easier than tomas thought it would be, but not three hours later he startles awake, sweating, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

he doesn't know where he is at first, the couch and the blanket are both unfamiliar, and he only doesn't bolt because he's dealt with much worse lately. he has steps to follow now, breathing is the first one.

[missio]

[ the light in the bedroom is dimmed, but still on. there aren't any sounds coming from the doorway. it's taken a lot of willpower for marcus not to head out into the night, and the only thing that's stopped him so far is his unexpected guest.

in all truth, he didn't think he'd find tomas here. after the rances, that night at the bar, he could scarcely imagine the man would want for anything more, so well-immersed he was in all the things he'd have to sacrifice if he wanted to keep glancing through the keyhole of marcus' work. marcus is curious to know, and equally certain it's none of his damn business, which means he'll probably find out eventually. he's pretty sure the truth would spill out unwarranted if he so much as breathed the question, which is why he'll wait to ask.

he's tired, but he doesn't rest well in pre-furnished spaces, doesn't bother to acclimate himself to creature comforts. he's been etching out his own map of the city, a charcoal topography that begins with the churches and city hall and expands outward. if at some point he's tempted to delineate the prone form on the sofa in careful pencil strokes he manages successfully to tamp down the impulse--for now. ]

[buenpastor]

[ it takes a minute or two for tomas to remember, the bar, the drinks, the city— he's pretty sure marcus was real, but that's really all he's sure of.

he doesn't remember the nightmare clearly, something coming, dark and angry and with teeth. it's not real, he can tell that much, but his heart is still beating too fast and his shirt— his only shirt is sticking to him, soaked with sweat. he's too old for night terrors.

he sits up and scrubs at his face and then stands up. he doesn't go to marcus' door, doesn't want to until he's calmer. instead he walks past it and into the bathroom. ]

[missio]

[ he's in the middle of drawing the ornate front face of city hall when he hears movement, glancing up. it's probably a bathroom trip and nothing more, but something about it still feels wrong.

gingerly he starts to set aside the charcoal, the paper. but he doesn't move just yet. ]

[buenpastor]

[ it takes too long for it to be a bathroom trip. tomas washes his face, and then drinks some water. he considers a shower, but it's very late and it's not his place and there aren't any towels.

he's back out ten minutes later, still not feeling calm. he hesitates in front of marcus' door on his way back to the sofa. ]

[missio]

[ he knows somehow, without the benefit of senses, that tomas wants to talk, or wants company, or wants something else equally trite, but he knows when he rises to open the door that it isn't a particularly kind gesture but rather an entitled one. since they've met it's like he's been entitled to tomas' house, his life, his unspoken words, and that hasn't really changed even after their acquaintanceship should be rightfully over.

he's in sweats, a tank. the scratches from where casey clawed him on his forearms and shoulders are healing well. he looks tomas over, his brow furrowed. ]

Morning.

[ it's still pitch black outside, no sign of getting lighter. ]

[buenpastor]

[ at least tomas can be confident he didn't wake him, he sighs, lifting a hand to rub at his own neck, the bandage on his hand is gone, torn off at some point during the night; the line of teeth marks above his thumb look angrier in poor lighting.

it takes him a long moment to respond, like he has trouble understanding that one word. ]

Still a few hours away, I think.

[missio]

[ the sight of the bite on tomas' hand deepens marcus' frown just a little. the door is open enough that marcus in the doorway doesn't seem like an intentional barrier, and he's still close enough to pitch his voice low. ]

Are you alright?

[buenpastor]

[ tomas nods then shrugs, hand still on his neck, trying to rub away the tension of the past month. ]

I don't know. [ he looks at the doorway but isn't sure it's an invitation. ] May I... ?

[missio]

Yeah.

[ he steps back to admit tomas. the room is sparse, default furnishings--he just got here too, after all, and is otherwise accustomed to living small. most of his personal effects are on the nightstand: pencil and paper, the large rosary from sister bernadette. ]

Come on.

[buenpastor]

[ remembering where he is hasn't made him any less disoriented. after weeks of going between the convent, his apartment, and the church, being somewhere new feels wrong.

he steps in, and without any other furniture, sits on the edge of the bed, looking at marcus. ]

Did you sleep at all?

[missio]

I did plan to make the effort eventually.

[ he shrugs. what can you do? his gaze skirts off to the side thoughtfully, tired, and then he's stepping into the bedroom proper and holding a hand out. ]

Let's have a look at that bite, yeah?

[buenpastor]

[ he looks up at him momentarily puzzled, before following marcus' gaze to his own hand. ]

Oh. You were right about it.

[ he lifts it up so marcus can take it. tomas hadn't thought it'd get infected, he'd been wrong. ]

I was going to get something, but it was late and I didn't have a— [ 'recipe' he almost says, but he knows that's wrong. ] receta.

[ at least he doesn't have to worry about marcus not following. ]

[missio]

[ marcus takes his outstretched hand by the wrist, and then slides his grip up tenderly to turn the mark towards the yellow lighting of the overhead lamp. it's still livid to look at, bruised where the demon had dug in hard, and tomas apparently hasn't been able to address it properly since his arrival.

his voice when he speaks is gently amused. ] You went to a party before you went to a clinic?

[buenpastor]

Magic sin city, clinic wasn't a priority.

[ it still isn't, but he's not going to say that. ]

[missio]

Sin city, [ he repeats under his breath. it sounds a little like a laugh.

he reaches for his valise, which sits open jauntily by his nightstand. as it turns out he does carry a first aid kit with him, everything travel-sized and airplane-friendly, and he's uncapping a small two-ounce antiseptic with his teeth. ]

Hold still. It'll hurt a bit.

[buenpastor]

[ he watches and nods at marcus' instruction, biting back a comment about how impractical it is to use his teeth when he could let go of his hand to open the bottle. but he has done the same with luis, made a point of keeping a hold on him until a cut is clean and the band-aid is in place. ]

I guess if you go into etymology, Eudio translates as "good god" which I'm sure isn't meant literally, but as an expression of shock.

[ it's only a joke because it's funny, but tomas would really not be surprised if he were right. ]

[missio]

[ the corners of his mouth twitch upward again and he doesn't make an effort to hide it. ]

If you break it down into parts. Together the parts translate roughly into the idea of clear weather. As good gods are known to provide.

[ a quick one-two spritz of the spray over the row of open cuts that constitute casey's bite. it does sting, as he promised, but only for a moment; then he's setting the bottle aside, patting the cut over with a gauze square and then setting about covering it. ]

You're restless.

[buenpastor]

[ he winces at the sting, but stays still as promised. he smiles when marcus does, it used to unnerve him how easy it was to want to confide in him. ]

I haven't been sleeping. [ between the exorcism, the church, the pope's visit, jessica, and keeping up the theater of casey's disappearance, he just hadn't had the time. ] A couple of hours every few days. And now‐ stress catching up to me, I guess.

[missio]

It'll catch you up, and then it'll pass you by.

[ he finishes wrapping the wound. it's a task performed with some skill--he's been nursing his own small injuries for most of his life, after all.

there's a brief pause as he cuts the gauze, and then he says, still softly: ]

Unless there's something else.

[ he knows there is, can practically feel it. ]

[buenpastor]

There's a lot of else. [ he rolls his shoulder, looks up at the ceiling. ] Jessica.

[ there's a lot of weight to it, especially for a single word. he rubs the bridge of his nose. he doesn't have to look at marcus' expression to know he won't be surprised, he'd called it on day one. ]

[missio]

[ he drops the first aid rubbish on the nightstand, then leans back on one hand, lackadaisical. another day he might've poked fun. he's still not ruling it out. ]

What happened?

[buenpastor]

[ it's a long story and tomas really doesn't want to tell it all. ]

Her husband came to see me, that night after the bar. He's reporting me to the bishop. [ he looks down at his hands, pokes at the fresh bandage. ] She was crying.

[missio]

[ marcus is silent for awhile following the admission, the unspoken truth sitting weighty in the space between them. he'd spared a brief moment after his arrest to wonder where tomas had gone, what he was up to. the man is a lot of things, but he's also unfortunately predictable.

he lets out a breath. ]

Does he have the letters in his possession?

[buenpastor]

I don't know. Why does it matter?

[ he looks up at marcus, frowning. he has a feeling he won't like what marcus has to say about this. ]