First of all, I claim no rights to characters in this fiction, except my OCs. All rights belong to the talented creators of The Exorcist (TV series on FOX). I gain nothing but good time from this fiction.

Now with the official procedure out of the way, I'd like to say this show has ridiculously small amounts of fiction. Like, what the hell, people? It's amazing, and clever, and outstandingly well written...so I'm sort of afraid to sully the great writing with this fiction, but I hope you'll forgive me. I can't wait for the next season, so it took over my head. This is the result. I can't guarantee I'll post regularly, due to personal issues, but I'll try.

Right, here goes.

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Finally after months and months of existing Marcus Keane felt like he's marginally alive again. He had nearly run off of that pier after hearing God's voice again - full and dizzy with all the emotions swimming in his head.

Tomas. He needs to save Tomas, somehow.

By that same afternoon Marcus had already broken off his contract with the fishing vessel he had been working on for the last three months. The work there was hard, it hurt his back and blistered his hands…but at least it was honest work and the exhaustion helped him not to think too much. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. No need for that any more.

He hastily finished gathering the few belongings from the half empty little room he called home. There were so very few possessions he cared enough to bring along it all fit into the dirty green backpack easily. Only now, when he felt like there is some use for him in this world again, Marcus realized how much he hated the life he lived for the last half a year. This tiny, filthy room with mould on the walls. The gruff, filthy men he worked with in the harbour.

Beginning was the worst he remembered - just after he left Tomas and Mouse in that motel and walked off…all he wanted to do was to stop existing. To curl up in some nameless little nook somewhere and not move for a decade. Suicide was not an option of course, he already had one cardinal sin closing in around his neck like a noose - there was no need to hang another one there. So he chose the next best thing - drinking himself into oblivion nearly every night for the first couple of weeks. Only the sight of his unwashed, unshaved hangover face in the mirror brought him back from the brink - Marcus realized he was turning into his own father, which was terrifying enough to stop him.

Soon, however, painful thoughts of this empty existence made him feel like a broken gadget - something that was used and worn down and useless. He was so used to being a gun in the church's hand that now there was nothing left to give him form or purpose. Even if there was, he didn't feel worthy of it. Of love. Of hope. It hurt...and that felt surprisingly good. Pain and shame were in some twisted way comfortable, which ended the former priest on a path to self punishment of sorts. He'd go to a bar from time to time and pick someone up, most often a man - women were too much effort to woo and he didn't have it in him. Men were easier - smile, nod them over, accept a drink and that was enough to land him in a cramped bathroom stall with a filthy old sailor running his large, sandpaper soft hands all over the former priest. Marcus would let them touch him, and service the sorry bastards the best he knew how (which was not an extensive baggage of knowledge) ignoring the putrid smell of unwashed clothes, fish guts and cheap alcohol. But he would never go all the way, never let them take him. The thought of letting one of these unwashed, uncouth men divest him of something he kept for his entire life - sometimes at great cost - made him slightly sick. He desperately tried not to think about Tomas in these moments, not to sully his warm, sweet face with unholy acts. Most days it worked, but he'd still slip from time to time and hold on to the memory of sun reflecting in those brown eyes, just to get through to the end of the evening. It was a fine torture for a short moment while it lasted, but the more he did it, the emptier and dirtier he felt. Like all the dirt on their hands would stick to Marcus and stay there. Soon he got so tired of the scruffy faces, unwashed bodies and slurred voices whispering disgusting little praises in his ears he ended up puking his guts out on the sidewalk after one particularly slimy encounter. That was the end of that.

The last two months he stopped going to bars and started to pray again, the rosary Mother Bernadette gave him always on the chair by his bed. Though he didn't feel worthy of the honour of praying after corrupting himself in nearly every way possible, he still prayed. It was a familiar relief.

And God heard him. Forgave him. Loved him despite all his misconducts.

So now Marcus had a job to do. Again.

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He was an idiot and he knew it now.

Marcus left the little dormitory room in such a hurry he ignored the fact he had no idea where to go, didn't check the ferry schedules ether, so after jumping on one ferry to a nearby island he had to wait for another one 'till next morning. The former exorcist was too restless to fall asleep so instead of finding a room for the night he just kept circling the small streets like a homeless dog, staring through well lit windows when the evening rolled in. Thoughts of Tomas never left the front of his mind, turning in circles over and over - until he felt so exhausted he just laid down on the closest bench in some nameless park.

The next thing he knew was warmth. Someone's warm hand was touching his neck. It was burning hot, the hand…or rather his own body was cold to numbness. Marcus barely had it in him to open his eyes at the moment. All of the morning mists seemed to have seeped into his bones and crystallized there making his body ridiculously heavy and so very, very cold. The exorcist grunted and forced his eyes open to be greeted by the sight of a broad shouldered man in a dark coat crouching over him.

"Sir, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" the stranger asked in a low, cultured voice and after months of sailor slang it dripped over Marcus' ears like warm honey.

"'m fine." he croaked out trying and failing to get up. The damn limbs just wouldn't cooperate and his half awakened mind was too foggy o fully process the sudden desire to crawl in between the lapels of that soft looking coat, curl up against the warm body there and fall back asleep.

"You're on the brink of hypothermia." the stranger deadpanned "Do you have somewhere to go? If not I'll take you to the hospital."

The annoying nuisance had dark grey eyes with a bright yellow sunburst around the pupil and they were sharply focused on Marcus at the moment, seemingly exploring his face with unnerving scrutiny. It was enough to make the blue eyed exorcist move.

"No." he replied instantly. Wasting time was out of the question. "No hospital. I'll be fine. I have a ferry to catch, love."
Marcus hurriedly reached for his bag under the bench and was ready to take off when the stranger decided to clarify:

"By the ferry I assume you mean the one that left half an hour ago?"

"Shite." All of the nervous energy driving him to move drained away in an instant, as if someone had pulled the plug, and the exorcist limply fell back down on the bench. The thought of Lord knows how many hours treading the same narrow streets was maddening. Just like all wild animals Marcus Keane hated to be caged. "Shite." he repeated wearily.

"If it's any consolation there is another ferry leaving in exactly three and a half hours." the man said neutrally, still looking at the exorcist inquisitively "In the mean time it would be a good idea to get something warm into your system."

"What is it to you?" he bit out a little too scorchingly and regretted it the next moment. The poor fellow was just trying to help…

"I'm afraid it's my job." stranger said without any sign of anger at Marcus' outburst.

"And what's that, then? You a doctor? A priest, perchance?" the exorcist asked sarcastically. Now that would be hilarious.

"No, I'm a federal servant. And sleeping on benches is against the law, so technically I can arrest you..."

"Federal...?A copper?"

"Along the lines." the man answered with a small crooked smile.

"Wonderful…I'll be off in a second, officer, no need to get your knickers in a twist."

"I never said I intend to arrest you. I'm off duty, here on a private matter and waiting for the exact same ferry." After a pause he added "There's a diner down the street. If you're planning on getting up from that bench anytime soon perhaps you'd like to join me for breakfast? It's on me."

Only then Marcus realized how he must look like - an old, skinny fellow with scruffy hair, frostbitten fingers and worn out clothes, sleeping on a bloody bench. 'Great, I look like a stray dog, who's been kicked one too many times' he thought begrudgingly and already prepared to tell the man to bugger off, but stopped at the last second. What good will it do? Another three hours of wandering about didn't seem very appealing…if he has no other options at least some company (that does not smell like fish) might be nice.

"Sure." the exorcist finally answered calling up his toothiest grin " I hope they have half decent coffee."

"We'll see." agent said reaching a hand out to Marcus "I'm Jonathan Archer."

"Marcus Keane."

The coffee was awful, but at least warm, so Marcus couldn't exactly complain. His hands stung on the cup as the heat returned slowly into his fingers and joints. Despite the fact he refused Jonathan's breakfast offer the damn copper still ordered him an egg sandwich and nagged until he ate. In that respect he painfully reminded Marcus of Tomas and his incurable mother hen streak. It was about their only similarity, really. Where Tomas was all soft curved lines, caramel skin and warm greenish brown eyes accompanied by a gentle voice with a rich Spanish accent, this man was the complete opposite. While they made small talk - which Marcus was proficient in faking - he took time to observe. Jonathan Archer was an unusual specimen for a bureaucrat - composed of strict, clear cut lines, his light skin tone contrasted strongly with dark brown hair, streaks of silver already in it. 'He'd make a great study in contrasts and shadows. Well over forty.' Marcus decided absentmindedly. Despite the age when most men end up a little (or not so little) soggy around the middle, this one was trim and athletic, not an inch of unnecessary fat…or muscle for that matter. Actually everything about this man seemed very…utilitarian. Plain dark blue sweater, small watch on a black leather band, clean hands with short nails, no wedding ring. The only thing out of place was a scar - or rather two identical scars - on the inside of his wrists. Marcus would have asked if it wasn't so wildly inappropriate. Instead he settled on something a bit less intrusive:

"So what brought you to this grey little island?"

"More like who, not what." the man paused for few long seconds, seemingly looking for the right words "I was wondering how to start this conversation, but there is no sane way to say this, so…I was here looking for someone. A man I don't really know…by the name of Marcus Keane."

It made every hair on Marcus' neck stand up. They have found him. But why bother with this game? Why not just kill him in the park with far less witnesses? The only plausible option he could think of was fairly simple - they need information. About Tomas, maybe?

"You found me. You lured me here. And what happens if I choose to just stand up and leave?" the exorcist said quietly, counting potential witnesses…or collateral damage.

"Nothing. You will walk through that door. But, please, Marcus... please wait. When I came up to you lying on that bench, I didn't know it was you. Only when I saw the face of my accidental stranger did I realize I've found you. It's my third day here, and I was about ready to give up jumping from one island to another trying to pin you down…"

"And who put you up for this search?" Marcus growled sitting back down in front of Jonathan. Two can play this game.

"A young priest. The name's Tomas Ortega. I hope you know him?" agent asked carefully, as if not sure if the name will get any kind of reaction. It did. All colour drained from Marcus' face only to come back with a vengeance.

"You know where Tomas is?" he said almost in a whisper, not daring to think what this may mean.

"Not exactly..." the dark haired man trailed off, seemingly unsure how to continue.

"Then you mind explaining me how he could have asked you to find me?" Marcus demanded, voice slow and calculated - the one he uses when trying to drag a demon out. Tone meant to gnaw at the places it hurts most...unfortunately after a second it gave way to complete shock.

"I...ah...had a dream. A series of dreams, to be exact." the agent said looking extremely uncomfortable. All Marcus could do is sit there, rendered speechless. He'd been in this situation before, over a year ago, when a lovely young priest came to look for him in another God forsaken hole, and stammered shyly about the dreams he'd had.

"What?" was all the blue eyed man managed to squeeze out. Jonathan just sighed, clamped his hands together, as if in prayer, and spoke up much steadier:

"Look, I know how this sounds, and believe me if I hadn't been the one to experience it I would have laughed...but now I simply don't know what to think. Just for the record, the bureau tests it's agents' mental health periodically, so I'm not disturbed in any way...and despite that nearly two weeks ago I had a dream about a young man, a priest, chained to a wall in some strange room. I tried to get him free, but it didn't work. Upon waking I wrote it down to the iconic dream every policeman, fireman or soldier has regularly - the nightmare of being unable to save someone...but the next night I have the exact same dream. This time the priest stops me from meddling with the chains and insistently keeps telling me his name, last name and ID code, which, mind you, is a very strange thing to hear in a dream. When I woke up I couldn't help but get that ID code into the search system, and had a minor meltdown when it all correlated - the name, last name, occupation…and the fellow was missing for the whole year according to the record. So I tried to dig up as much as I could about him. Eventually ended up falling asleep at my desk and dreaming of him again. He showed me the time you spent in Chicago, during the…er… kidnapping of young Miss Rance. At the time I was there too, to investigate the nine murders committed in the same neighbourhood. It was strange to see the same time from the viewpoint of a different person…

"What did he show you? What if I don't believe you? What can you tell me to change my mind?" Marcus asked piercing the man to the spot with a scrutinizing gaze.

"He showed me a demon." Jonathan said quietly, looking at his palms spread out on the table. "That girl was not kidnapped. She was possessed. He showed me a tiny room with mattresses on the floor and a chain hooked into the middle of the floor. Pillows were stuffed into the window…and you were yelling at her…it…"
Marcus was starting to feel positively sick. The spinning sensation of déjà vu left him slightly lightheaded. Apparently God has a sense of humour - a dark and nasty one.

"What else?" the former priest forced his voice into a steady and low grumble.

"Then there was another room, with stained glass windows, like they have in churches...the chairs were floating in the air...and you had a...strange rosary in your hands, like two nails crossing..."

That was the final straw. Come hell or high water, Marcus knew he has to at least give this strange man a try. He did fall into the exorcist's lap right after God sent him to save Tomas...It may be God's will or it may be a clever trap, but there is no way of walking into this relationship with a Cheshire cat grin, like he did with Tomas. This decision has to be made here and now - with no mask of fake superiority, just smithereens of fragile hope and frostbitten fingers. Finally settling on a decision Marcus took a deep breath and quietly said:

"Reach out your hand, palm up. Go on." when Jonathan did so without a moment of doubt, he rummaged under the neckline of his ratty grey shirt and dragged out Mother Bernadette's cross, placing it in Archers hand. It was both a proof and a test. When the agent drew a sharp breath, Marcus fully expected him to drop the sacred item, but instead long calloused fingers wrapped around it, mapping the still warm metal in his palm.

"Jesus..." Jonathan spoke just above whisper "that's the rosary from my dream. It's all real, isn't it? The demons, the crazy Spanish priest...Jesus."

"Yeah, pretty much. Sorry to tell you, love."

"No. No...it's fine. I'll wrap my head around it, just give me a minute." the dark haired man said, still fiddling with the cross in one hand and lifting the other to rub his temple in slow circles "I was sort of hoping you'll tell me I'm mad and send me home. If being crazy is the better option, I'd say the situation is pretty shitty."

"Do you still want to find Tomas?"

"If I'm not wrong...if this whole mess is as real and as big as I think, it's not just about him. But the man in my head does need help, and soon."

"The what?" Marcus asked a little puzzled, crooking his head to the side, sort of like a cat.

"I...ah...sort of started to call Tomas that after the first few days of dreaming of him. At the time I just thought I was going crazy. Honestly, I'm still not sure that I'm not."

"I can't say if you're screwed in the head or not, but that actually happened."

An uneasy silence lingered for a few moments before Marcus spoke up again:

"God spoke to me yesterday." he said out of the blue "It's been a long...long time since he last spoke to me..."

"Okay..." Jonathan said slowly, clearly not sure how to react to that confession "What did he say?"

"That he still loves me." Marcus said with a watery smile, staring at his half empty cup. It infuriated him to no end to spill his guts like that to relative strangers, but there were very few people in his life, who were more than that...so it just happened sometimes. "And...and that Tomas is in trouble, that he's waiting for me to come and help him...save him, somehow..."

"We will. Save him, that is." Jonathan said with unwavering resolve and it made the former priest feel a little steadier, like the ground under his feet was less shifty and his feet less wobbly. Maybe they could do this together, but he still had to be sure this was not a trap.

"Do you have any idea where we could start looking for him?"

"He was travelling with a woman and I managed to trace them up to Canada border. Then they disappeared from radar. When I had the dreams I asked him the usual questions any cop would ask a kidnapping victim - what can he see in his confinement? Is it day or night? What can he hear? And so on. I gathered they must be somewhere close to North Pole, since he said it was half dark all the time he's been there. He heard boat sirens. Also no one he could hear spoke French...so I can only assume Alaska."

"Alaska?!" Marcus asked dumbstruck "Are you taking the piss?"

"Unfortunately no."

"That's a bit of a trip...You sure you can spare the time?"

"Three weeks, that's all I have. Well, it was three weeks, now it's two weeks and three days, then I'll have to go back to work, so we better hurry. It's best if we talk somewhere more private, then I'll tell you where I think would be the best to start."

"And where d'you think we should go, then?"

"I have a hotel room booked, it won't boot us out until midday, so we have about three hours. We can discuss the route there. Also...well, frankly you need a shower." the agent said smiling a little sardonically.

"How nice of you to mention it...Fine. But first we'll pass by a church." Marcus said getting up from the chair and rushing through the door without backward glance.

"Why are we going to church?" Jonathan asked, keeping in stride with the rushing priest.

"Because I'm bathing you in holy water to see if you catch on fire. Just in case."

"Well I certainly won't catch on fire, but I might catch pneumonia instead." the agent complained half heartedly.

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The small white church with peeling paint and a slightly crooked cross on top was as desolate as it looked like from the outside, so the two strange men committing unholy acts went completely unnoticed. After agent Archer was thoroughly drenched in holy water he, fortunately, did not catch on fire (begrudgingly the man even drank a gulp or two under Marcus' request), so it was the exorcist's turn to be drenched, in a far more pleasurable way.
When the agent said he had a hotel room, he wasn't joking. The shower had clean cream tile floor, seemingly endless supply of hot water and soap that did not smell like cheap lavender air freshener. Thus, Marcus took his time under the spray, allowing heat to seep into his limbs and make his usually pale skin ridiculously pink. There was no threat of someone barging in like it used to be in the building he lived in – it had communal showers. Nasty, but at least functional. This was different...a luxury he had long forgotten to crave. Marcus decided his body does not fit well in the fancy environment. He was too old, thin like a wraith, covered in scars, blisters and creaking at the joints. Just like the shower back in the wreck he called home – nasty, but functional. 'It'll have to do' he thought a little bitterly. 'So long as this old shell does not give out on me before I find Tomas, I'll be happy.'

More than half an hour later he stepped out into the main room with dry hair and relatively fresh clothes to find Jonathan curled up in one of the armchairs. His eyes darted to Marcus the moment he moved through the door and turned back to a laptop screen just as quickly, like it was a barely conscious movement. A reflex.

"Well, now that I don't stink anymore, will you tell me where are we going?" he asked with the usual charming ease, plopping down on the bed like it was his.

"Kaktovik, most likely. There were few deaths reported there, with various organs missing, so I can only guess it's...ah...demons. Christ, that sounds strange."

"You'll get used to it. By the way, you said you were in Chicago for the murders in the neighbourhood. Since when is it federal business?" Marcus questioned laying himself down fully, with hands above his head.

"Since year and a half ago, when the first killing spree like that hit New York. You see, it's not just Chicago or Kaktovik - it's all over The States and not only." that got the exorcist's attention very quickly. He even sat back up in bed with a shocked expression as Archer continued "I worked with war crimes at the time, but when this case grew and grew, the higher ups simply dropped it on my head."

"You mean to say that all of these people had organs missing? What organs exactly?"

"Just like Chicago - hearts, livers, skin of hands and feet, eyes, genitals..."

"Do you even have any idea what it's used for?" Marcus asked, half angry. Why the church didn't know about this and let some amateurs chase demons?

"Ceremony of ash. Demon invocation." Archer answered without skipping a beat. It stunned Marcus into silence for a moment.

"How in the bloody hell do you know that?"

"It's my case, so it's my job to know. Though I didn't expect actual demons...for me it was just a cult of whacky demon worshipers until now. I liked the cult version infinitely better. It's at least something I'm familiar with - I know how to hunt humans. Demons...not so much."

The agent still kept his eyes on the screen, marking something there with a thick red line. The lights from computer screen cast blue reflections on the thin metallic frames of reading glasses Marcus remembered wasn't there before. On the spur of the moment he felt the desire to draw it, to imprint that profile in stark lines of black and white. Maybe he will, sometime.

"That happens to be my job. The only one I know how to do properly." the exorcist said under his breath and a little louder added "What are you doing there? A little colouring to soothe the nerves? I heard it's become popular..."

"I'm calculating the fastest and least crowded route to Kaktovik. We should be there in two days if we make one motel stop. I assume you drive?"

"I drive just fine, but no posh hotels?" Marcus teased good naturedly.

"Too many booking procedures, too easy to track." Jonathan answered ignoring the jabs completely. "We'll need to get a new car and some warmer clothes for you when we get to the mainland."

"Do you ever get the stick out of your arse?" former priest bristled a little, annoyed at being ignored.

"Do you ever get it in?" the reply was mostly toneless, maybe a little annoyed, but the wording made flush rise up Marcus' neck. Tacky bastard didn't even notice, thankfully. "On a more proper note, you do realize we are on the clock here?"

"You think? And where the money for the car and clothes will come from? I hate to tell you, love, but I'm about as rich as a beggar."

"My account." Archer answered without skipping a beat.

"Sorry?"

"I'll buy it. This country pays feds reasonably well, and if you do try to do your job properly there's not enough time to sleep, let alone spend money, so they sort of accumulate. After ten years I have a minor fortune. At least now it will come in handy."

That silenced the former priest quickly and easily. 'What kind of a man simply accepts the idea of demon's existence without more than a few minutes of rubbing his temples? Is ready to drop the comfortable lifestyle he's had for years and spend his money on something not even directly concerning him? To stand up and walk the extra mile following nothing more than a faint vision of something he barely believes?' Marcus had to admit that, despite his severe and taciturn character, Archer is an impressive man, someone worth respecting, if not liking.

"Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

"Go to sleep, we have an hour to spare, better not waste it."

The exorcist nearly growled, tempted to take his prior unspoken compliments back. There were few people in the world, who would dare to blatantly order him around...and he just had to get himself stuck with one.

"You know I'm already starting to hate you."

"I know. It's a common reaction."

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Eleven days ago

Tomas laid on a lumpy mattress in yet another room. They just keep moving him. There is not much to do in between the interrogations and the dreams. He's been switching between the two so often it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. When they come to interrogate him he goes into the spirit world and stays there. When the sights in his dreams become unbearable, he drifts back to reality. Whenever he was in the real world, the weight of Mouse's gun seemed to be imprinted into his hand. Tomas couldn't stop wondering what did they do wrong?

His first weeks with Mouse had been a fog. He would just drive when told to, eat when told to and discuss how to track the whole spider web of demons. And think of Marcus. 'Where was he? Did he eat properly? Did he find someplace to go...and maybe the demons found him before that?'

Mouse was so different from Marcus – she only saw the big picture and left the small details, like the lives of one or two people, out. So they would track a demon (most commonly someone in an old alcoholic or a homeless hag) interrogate them and try to perform an exorcism. Tomas soon learned to get into their heads without invitation, and though the sights there left him borderline sick, he'd get some valuable information. If the exorcism worked, they would just pick up and leave. If not, Mouse would shoot the host. And so they climbed up the ranks in hopes of finding the source of the infestation. The missions got more complicated when their targets became well known and respected citizens.

During those six months Tomas learned to use guns and hate them.

In the still hours of the night, alone in his motel room Tomas would think of the joy of turning his head to the side and seeing Marcus sprawled on the nearby bed, snoring. The old songs from Marcus' cassette player rang in his head even now, after all these months.

In the dark room they kept him in, he wanted more than ever, to feel the warm and safe pressure of Marcus' hand on his neck...but Marcus wasn't there. And neither was Mouse. They had separated upon the attack two days ago, so Tomas didn't even know if she was still alive. The ambush had been brutal and well planned, so they ended up separated like sheep and herded in different directions. Despite her harsh manner and tendency to overlook human emotions, she was not a bad person...just a little hardened, and Tomas hoped she was alright. Alive, at least.

The darkness of his cell was suddenly ripped to shreds by a bright light flooding through the doorway.

"Good morning, father." a demon smiled pleasantly "I'm happy to tell you, that today you'll have the pleasure of meeting a very important lady. Be nice."

"Hello, my dear." Said a soft, almost purring voice of a tall red haired woman. She swayed into the cell smiling broadly "I hope you're comfortable here. If not, I'll be happy to find you a more suitable environment."

With those words she laid a hand on Tomas forehead and his eyes rolled back.

He woke up in a motel room, music playing quietly in the small kitchen area. Marcus was standing there, with his old jeans and worn shirt, a tea towel over his shoulder. His hips moved from side to side slowly in rhythm to the music. Tomas got up and edged to his mentor slowly, unable to believe he was lucky enough to see him again.

"Morning." Marcus said turning towards him with a smile "I'm making English breakfast, I promised you back in Chicago. We have eggs this time."

"Marcus?" Tomas asked hesitantly, almost trembling on the spot. When the taller man turned, his expression instantly filled with worry.

"Tomas, love, what's the matter?" hands were on his face, warm and rough, just like he remembered "Are you alright?"

"I...I think. I can't remember what happened yesterday. Where are we?"

"Rhode Island. And I'm not surprised, you had two beers yesterday. It's a wonder you're up and about..." Marcus smiled cheekily and pecked the corner of his lips before turning way. Tomas froze, blush spreading all over his face. When there was no comment Marcus turned back at him and smiled even wider "Well now, I think the eggs can wait. You look much more appetizing."

Without warning Marcus' lips were on his, hot and demanding, making his knees quiver. His mouth fell open to ask what was going on, but the other man's tongue slithered in and made him forget all logic. God, how badly he wanted this...he didn't even know it himself before this moment. Desperately Tomas clutched at Marcus' shoulders and pulled himself closer, pushing their chests together.

"My, my, aren't we eager this morning" Marcus whispered into his ear before licking the shell lazily and trailing kisses down Tomas neck. A small involuntary sound left the priest's lips when Marcus started to suck the pulsing veins in his throat.

"M...Marcus...Oh Lord..."

"It's alright kitten, c'mere" the older man whispered, pulling Tomas by the hem of his jeans and squeezing his ass lightly. "I'll take care of you."

Tomas didn't need to be told twice. He pressed his half hard member into Marcus' hip and moaned at the friction, humping the hard bone there despite the shame. He just couldn't stop, it felt too good...

"Oh dear, what a dirty boy you are...Humping my leg like a filthy little whore...What would the Archbishop say?"

Tomas froze on the spot, trembling with the effort to keep still and think. Something was not right...Marcus would never say these things to him, not in that mocking, vicious tone. He looked up to see two copper eyes gleaming down on him and tired to back away.

"No. NO. No no no. Get off me!"

"What's the problem, kitten? You loved it just a second ago..." the demon looked down at him, contorting Marcus' face into a cutting smile.

"You are not Marcus! Get away from me, unclean spirit!"

"I'm afraid, that's as good as it's going to get, dear father. Do you think Marcus would ever dare to sully you? To take away the last bit of virginity you have left? That part IS still virgin, yes, kitten?" the demon sneered and squeezed Tomas' ass tighter, even when the priest started to struggle. Marcus' face buried itself in Tomas' neck and licked a long stripe there, it made the young priest positively sick. With all energy he had left he tried to break the demon's hold on the dream, but couldn't. It was too strong, and fake Marcus was groping him lower and lower...but suddenly the demon's hold broke all on its own...

And Tomas opened his eyes in the dark room. The demon was walking away, with a sneer on her face.

"What is it? You interrupted my fun!" she hissed at one of the guards.

"I'm sorry my lady, but the old wolf is coming closer and closer to finding the truth. He nearly caught two of our operatives yesterday in D.C."

"Archer? He still hasn't given up?" she pinched the bridge of her nose theatrically "Well, then let's push his superiors to offer him an early pension...or early grave if he doesn't stop digging. Poor Jonathan, he must be lonely to have that much time for work...Make sure to correct that error."
The red haired woman just smiled cruelly at her servant and turned back to Tomas.

"Now, my dear father, we'll continue on that note some other time. I'll give you a moment to stew on those thoughts and maybe play with yourself a bit." with those parting words she took off, heels clicking on the tile floor.

Then he was left all alone in the dark, but erotic thoughts were the last thing on his mind. He may have found his way out.

The next hour or so Tomas stayed very still, trying to concentrate. A cell was not exactly the best place for meditation (and he really hated to call it that) but it was necessary. His gift required taming and control, so this practice of concentration and mind gymnastics was the only thing that really helped. Mouse was never a fanatic about her faith – she was more of a soldier than a nun at the moment – so it did not bother her, that he indulged in what was more associated with Buddhism than Catholicism. Meditation gave him stability, sometimes in a way that even prayer couldn't. He prayed daily, of course - before the practice, usually, but the voice of God still evaded him. At least directly.

A couple of months back he developed an ability to find people in the spirit world by name alone. The ability still required some refinements, although that didn't make it any less effective, just slower. If he knew how they looked like, it helped...but this time he will have to go without the visuals. It was his only chance to get himself out of here.

Jonathan Archer.

Jonathan Archer.

Jonathan Archer.

Tomas thought over and over, concentrating on the name. He stepped into the spirit world and allowed the flow of information filter through him. In the dreamscape frames from the lives of various jonathans archers flew by his eyes. There was slim chance to pick the right one, but he had to try.

An elderly man playing with his granddaughter in the yard. No.

A fellow around fifty, labeling books and putting them into shelves neatly, then rolling away with a library cart. No.

A boy around fifteen, playing video games on his couch. No.

A man sitting in front of a desk full of photographs. People with their eyes missing, mutilated bodies with gaping holes in the midsection...'That might be the one' Tomas thought with a shudder. 'What a horrible job to have. Then again, who am I to judge?'

Shivering lightly with exhaustion he reached out to the consciousness behind the frame.