Work Text:
What was a man of God without His presence? To walk through life, hands empty where they had once born the light of the creator? Could it be enough to know that it was once there, that God had once worked through him? Or would the crushing emptiness of His absence drive Marcus mad? Such questions that slammed through Marcus' mind in the small hours of the morning, staring at the ceiling of countless nondescript motels throughout America's Northwest. Such questions that brought tears to his eyes and an ache to his heart that never truly faded.
Was the loss of His touch a punishment for the life he had taken, for the lives he had taken before? He had felt justified taking every one, but the losses were still felt deeply, his shame succinct. Was God still there, watching his suffering the way a parent watches a child set in the corner for talking back at dinner? God was always there, he knew. He knew He was there, but that Marcus couldn't feel Him was torture. It was in his suffering that he could sympathize with those who invited Hell's residents into their souls.
He understood the dying woman promised health and a long life with her loved ones by the demons who knew her weakness and her strength.
He understood the addict shunned by society, promised pleasures unending by the creatures that knew how he longed for a deeper, more sustainable joy.
He understood the orphan whose parents were stolen by war being tricked by the love of a kindly old woman whose face hid an abomination beneath it.
He understood those who had always yearned for God's love but always felt passed over by it, and how they thought they finally found Him in some twisted beast who claimed to be the One.
And oh, how horrified he was to find that he almost understood those who had fallen from the light. The demons who had known God's love and favor as His angels, who had been cast down in their pain and discontent when humans had gained God's favor. The feeling stuck in his craw, made him physically ill. When one no longer feels the light, a vacuum is created to fill the hole. The wound inside Marcus grew as he traveled, and nothing could fill it.
What really could take that place?
He had tried relying on his faith, of the memory of God's hands, of His beautiful, awful voice. To believe, and to have that belief sustain him, but it was like trying to survive on the memory of water when one is lost in the desert. He found himself forgetting a little more of the feeling every day, while everything else he felt only grew in strength. Each day, the vacuum drew in more pain, highlighting his many sins with a vicious clarity.
He wondered if this was what it was like to have the Devil slipping in; if it waited for the slings and arrows of life to carve out a big enough piece of the soul that a demon could find it a comfortable fit. If all it took was the cruelty of life for a person to allow evil in, what chance did Marcus have? He, who had begged forgiveness for his sins without believing himself worthy of that forgiveness. He, who had taken the life of more than one of God's children, and most recently had done so in order to save someone for who Marcus had entirely selfish feelings for.
The threat to Tomás' soul was too much for Marcus to bear. His precious, righteous soul, the creation of which Marcus quietly believed that God must have personally attended to. When his thoughts did not linger on God and His absence, it lingered on the memory of Tomás. It lingered on the passion with which he existed. It lingered on his stupid, stupid need to save every life they came across. It lingered heavily on the way he challenged Marcus' long held beliefs about what it was to be an exorcist with his terrifying gift. He lingered on the implications of that gift, and the sights it had shown them both...
And the image in Marcus' mind eye always remained the same.
The sight of Tomás white-eyed, grappling inside with a demon in a place that Marcus could not follow, a place he could not protect him. Tomás carried inside him an immeasurable strength, and the denizens of Hell wanted it badly. That Tomás offered them residence to protect those they sought to help twisted at Marcus' insides, made him sick down to the bone. Things so foul should never be allowed near something so beautiful, but the strength of Tomás' will and the impetuousness of his youth had stayed Marcus' hand. He was an asset to God in every way, but the terror he instilled in Marcus was succinct.
He feared losing him to the Devil. He knew not to what lengths he would go to prevent that from happening. He would that he would at least kill to protect Tomás, and the knowledge came as a bitter reminder that Marcus was not a man, but a series of flaws made flesh. He was prone to so many things, to so many sins, often feeling that he was some sort of holy warrior rather than a vessel through which the Lord could act.
He feared the way he loved Tomás. He feared the way he found himself watching the other man in the rare times that the world was quiet. He feared how powerful he felt at his side. He feared he would lead Tomás astray, and cause his downfall.
He feared he might have already damned him.
But the fear that weighed most heavily on him was one that had filled him with horror since the first time he saw Tomás allow himself to become compromised.
He feared that in the event that Tomás was integrated, he wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done.
He feared that his love for him would have him follow Tomás into the depths, to surrender himself to the very thing he had fought against his entire life. The seduction of a demon was something Marcus was well-acquainted with, but something he could easily resist. But were the whispers of wonders and love from Tomás' lips, he might very well lose himself. With Marcus' inclination towards sin, it might even be easy to give himself over.
But it wasn't all fear.
No, when Marcus found himself thinking of Tomás, it felt as if light crept at the corners of the wound in his heart. When he thought of Tomás, he thought of God, of glory, and of love. All the things he feared for Tomás were rooted in that love. The bond they had nurtured through prayer, through violence, and through the indescribable urgency of exorcism was something that helped when Marcus felt himself slipping. When he doubted God, he remembered Tomás' devotion. When he thought of the cruelty that God allowed, he thought of Tomás' unwavering kindness.
In Tomás, Marcus could remember God's voice more clearly. Though he was just a man, just a priest, he was so much more to Marcus. Tomás was the anchor that held him steady and the light that guided him in his weariness. He had spent so long by himself, standing in the doorway, beaten and nearly broken by the hordes of Hell, but when Tomás was at his side, he felt stronger than he ever had.
When Tomás entered his life, Marcus was renewed.
Perhaps it had all been a test. Maybe God had wanted him, in some grand and roundabout way, to question Him.
Like a muscle grows stronger after being damaged, perhaps his crisis of faith was how he would find renewal.
And maybe the only way to hear God again was to be at Tomás' side, to shield him against the great schism that was to come.
As the sun set over the vast expanse of the Pacific, Marcus turned away, burying his doubts. Maybe God would never speak to him again, never touch his soul the way He had in the past, but that didn't matter. He had Tomás, and through him Marcus knew his faith would be strengthened. He would protect Tomás with all he had, so that God could work through him to cut a swath through the darkness.
Marcus need only to trust his instincts to bring him back to his side.