A/N: This story has been brewing for a long time. It took me over three months to write and other three to get up the courage to post it. It is the longest fic I've ever written, a little bit over 110000 words in total. It's finished however, so chapters should be uploaded regularly. First few chapters are beta-read by the wonderful Vshendria and I want to thank her for her support and advice during the creative process. I also want to thank all the folks over at the exorcist discord server who encouraged me to write and finish this beast as well as to Gaia who helped with the Latin:)

Fair warning: this story contains minimum smut, lots of angst, some action and plenty of comfort. All mistakes, whether grammar, plot wise or technical/medical are mine only. You're welcome to point them out, just be gentle please:)That's about it. I hope you enjoy the story and maybe leave a comment for a starving author;)

In lumine spectatoris

Peter woke to the smell of fried bacon, eggs and beans. It was a bit of a strange combination, but Peter had gotten used to it. He'd learned quite early on that it was one of Marcus's comfort foods—that and coffee that could melt asphalt.

Peter ran his hand over the already cold spot Marcus had occupied last night and looked at the clock. It was a bit earlier than they usually woke up which, combined with the sounds coming from the kitchen, meant that Marcus was indeed nervous. For a moment Peter wondered whether his partner had even slept.

With a sigh, Peter rolled out of the bed and went downstairs and into the kitchen. Marcus's old cassette player was blasting The Daylighters. Marcus was standing by the stove, putting the last of the bacon on a plate. His body was moving in rhythm with the music and Peter could hear a soft humming. Smiling, he moved across the kitchen silent as a cat, grabbing Marcus around the waist from behind. Something must've announced his arrival though, because Marcus didn't even startle. He just twisted his head around for a kiss and leaned back against the firm body of his partner.

"What gave me away?" Peter asked, putting his chin on Marcus's shoulder and taking in the smell of the bacon.

"I saw your reflection in the window." Marcus pointed with his spatula and chuckled. "You were lucky too. I would've probably elbowed you if you startled me like that from behind."

"You never did before," Peter protested and grabbed a piece of toast. Marcus turned the stove off and leaned against the counter facing Peter with a smirk.

"Well, you've never been great at sneaking around."

"Maybe I just wasn't trying."

"Good. Keep it that way, then. I hate surprises."

"You didn't say that last time I got you a present." Peter wiggled his eyebrows and Marcus chuckled.

"I still saw it coming a mile away. But I appreciate the effort, really. Breakfast?" Marcus lifted a plate filled with food and enticingly waved it in front of Peter's face.

"Mm hmm... that's the only reason I got up this early," Peter admitted, grabbing the plate and putting it on the table, then turned back to Marcus who was still leaning against the stove with a small smirk on his face.

"Now, I can only guess why you woke up before the alarm." Peter stepped in next to Marcus, their sides brushing as he reached for the coffee pot and poured himself some rocket fuel. Marcus shrugged, arms crossed over his chest.

"I didn't peg you for someone who'd get nervous about the first day at a new job," Peter said as he leaned against the counter, his side pressed close to his partner, while he sipped at the coffee.

"I'm not nervous," Marcus half-heartedly protested. "Just... not used to being around so many people at once. Or... since my time at the boys' home."

Peter nodded, eyes understanding but also curious.

"I would've thought that as a priest you had to say a mass or something. With an audience."

"I was a bit... stage shy," Marcus admitted and Peter was amused to see a slight blush creeping into his cheeks. He had to stop himself from leaning in and kissing him, just because he knew it would lead to something else and right now Marcus needed to talk.

"You stage shy? Hard to believe." Peter smiled and Marcus gave him a look.

"I was more of a one-on-one priest... or exorcist. The powers-that-be realized it quickly enough after I choked on two sermons. Adjustments were made and I could focus on what I was good at."

"Getting the world rid of demons and putting your own soul at risk," Peter added softly and wasn't at all surprised to see the wistful look on Marcus's face. Peter gritted his teeth, his free hand seeking Marcus's palm.

He knew Marcus's past was a touchy subject and that included his vocation. He had been an exorcist since he was twelve, a fact that never ceased to amaze Peter as well as make his heart clench in horror. He couldn't even imagine what it must've been like and he didn't want to. Marcus had spent twenty years working for the Church and God, trying to repent for his sin, for shooting his own father. Twenty long years of self-sacrifice and being led by God's voice, until one day Marcus made a mistake and a young boy died. Maybe he could have overcome the loss if not for the fact that God stopped talking to him as well. What was left behind was a shell of a man.

At the age of thirty-three, Marcus Keane had been reduced to a man with neither faith nor hope, stuck in St. Aquinas Rest Home by the order of the Church. It was either that, and days spent in "therapy sessions" with other lost priests, or leaving the Church altogether. For a man who had spent most of his life under the auspices of the Church, leaving hadn't been an option. After all, what good was an exorcist who had lost the voice of God and his faith? He was useless, just an empty vessel, used up and broken. He had nowhere to go.

This was the man whom Peter had encountered on a warm summer day while visiting a friend. Jim had been an army medic and had served alongside Peter for two tours in Afghanistan before being shot in the leg and discharged from the army. After all the horror he'd seen, Jim turned towards religion and became a priest and by some twist of fate ended up working at St. Aquinas, helping out other priests suffering from PTSD. Peter occasionally wondered what might have happened to those priests but he didn't really dare to ask.

Peter could remember that day clearly...enjoying the fresh air, walking down an alley lined with trees near the barracks serving as apartments, talking to Jim about common friends from their tour. Jim's leg wound still flared up from time to time and when Peter noted his friend's limp becoming more pronounced, he led them to a nearby bench. Peter listened to his friend, his eyes roaming.

The place brought out strange feelings. On one hand, it was calm and peaceful; everything seemed to be created to relax the eye and the soul. On the other hand, the men promenading about the grounds were giving Peter the creeps. Old men, young men, walking in small groups, silent, with dead eyes. It was disconcerting to say the least. Peter's focus turned towards another small group, who were clearly attending some kind of therapy. Five men were sitting in a circle on the grass, doing breathing exercises, taking turns talking, each with a rosary in hand. Peter knew he should have looked away; he was feeling like a voyeur. He didn't belong here; he shouldn't watch these broken men struggling with their faith and their conscience.

Except not all of those men were old.

He was sitting with legs crossed under him, in stark contrast to the other men. The rosary was laid on the grass next to him and his hands were occupied with paper and pencil, drawing slow lines. Peter would've thought him to be the therapist, but judging by the annoyed look on another man's face who was also holding a notepad and a pen, the younger one was simply ignoring the session and doing his own thing. And Peter knew he was much younger than the rest of them even though he couldn't see his face. The cropped tuft of dirty blonde hair shone in the sun like a halo and Peter couldn't pull his gaze away. Something about the man just called out to him.

As if feeling his gaze, the man lifted his head and looked straight at Peter. Their eyes locked and the man frowned, the pencil in his hand wavering, mouth parting in silent question. Peter swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The man was the first one to break eye contact. He resumed his drawing but Peter kept watching him and saw the occasional covert glances thrown his way, as if checking he was still there.

"You should be careful about that one," Jim warned with a soft smile, and Peter startled. He had totally forgotten that he wasn't alone.

"Sorry. What?"

Jim chuckled.

"That guy you're eyeing. He's a difficult man. His story is complicated and sad."

Peter wasn't even trying to pretend he didn't know which person Jim was talking about. Instead he looked back towards the man on the grass, just in time to catch a quick glance his way, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Who is he?"

"Father Marcus Keane."

"How long has he been here? And... why?" Peter asked, knowing full well that St. Aquinas wasn't just a sanctuary for broken, burned out priests but also a box in which the Church could lock up the deviant ones. He didn't think the man in front of him was either of those. He knew it in his gut. Still, he was an ex-soldier himself and Intel was key in any mission.

Jim's mouth twisted in a grimace.

"He's an exorcist. He was brought in last year, after a case went horribly wrong and a child died. "

Peter blinked.

"Are you serious?" He wasn't a big believer, verging on being an atheist, but he could usually accept that people believed what they believed. However, he thought the notion of demons in real life was preposterous.

His friend just shrugged.

"He's a soldier, Peter, just like you."

"I'm not a soldier anymore," Peter quickly corrected, then shook his head. It didn't matter anyway. Be he an exorcist or not, as a priest Marcus Keane was bound by his vows to God. And what were the chances that he would return Peter's interest? Peter was just fooling himself in thinking maybe he'd found someone who could bring some light into his life.

Peter could feel Jim's eyes on him and realized that he was being very obvious. Blinking, Peter turned his attention back to Jim and let Marcus Keane slip from his mind; at least that's what he was trying to pretend. He was acutely aware of the moment when the therapy session ended and the men from the group dispersed. Well, all but the one who stayed sitting on the grass, doodling. The only difference was that he was now slightly turned, keeping Peter in his line of sight. As if that wasn't enough of a sign, Marcus looked right at Peter and turned the page on his sketchpad so now he had a fresh sheet in front of him. Peter bit his bottom lip and Jim chuckled.

Peter barely noticed the reaction, his attention elsewhere. He didn't feel self-conscious, after all Jim was quite aware of his orientation. There was no need to hide anything.

However, when Jim gave an exaggerated groan and stood up, Peter turned back to him with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm sorry to cut our visit short, Peter, but I need to prepare some material for my own group of misfits. It was lovely to see you and don't be a stranger, okay?"

Peter stood up as well and hugged his friend, saying his goodbyes and promising to return in a few weeks when he had business trip planned in the area. The priest nodded and slowly headed back towards the barracks. Peter stood there, suddenly bereft and wondering just what he was supposed to do. His mind told him to walk towards his car and mind his own business, but his heart and gut were pulling him towards the figure on the grass. The figure that was now sitting frozen as a statue, eyes locked somewhere near Peter's feet. The pencil in his hand wasn't moving.

Peter took in a deep breath and let it out. He knew if he left without a word he would regret it. It was always easier to regret the things you didn't do rather than those you did. In the end, there was really nothing to lose. Peter steeled himself for rejection and stepped on the soft grass, adrenaline pumping through his veins as if he was going to war.

He stopped a few feet away from Marcus, his eyes pausing at the half done sketch of the bench with a familiar figure sitting on it. He wanted to introduce himself coherently. Instead, the first thing that came out of his mouth was, "Am I that good looking?"

Perhaps it was the right thing to say. Marcus Keane looked up, eyebrows raised and the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. That was the moment Peter realized he was lost.

Much later, when Marcus packed up his meager possessions and walked away from the Church, right into Peter's waiting arms, Peter jokingly repeated the question.

"Am I really that good looking?" The real meaning of the question was Do you think I'm worth it? To leave this all behind? And just like then, Marcus looked into his eyes and said, "Yes."

That had been almost a year ago. Since then many things had changed for the two men, starting with their living situation and ending with the fact that Marcus was still bereft, trying to figure out what he should be doing next. For a while, it was okay. Marcus had needed time to heal, to find his footing in the world that wasn't running according to the rules of the Church. There were many nightmares and a few meltdowns, but soon Marcus started looking outside of the bubble that was their little household. When he found his first job it was hard manual labor for a moving company and Peter knew that Marcus enjoyed every minute of it. He came home covered in sweat and dead tired, but with a clear head and even though he griped about his whole body protesting, the next day he woke up with a fresh mind and went to work with a smile. At the same time, Marcus kept searching for a job that would bring him the same sense of purpose that being an exorcist had. For a time he didn't have much luck in that department... there was only so much satisfaction from physical labor. Building houses was good for the mind, while helping out at a homeless shelter was good for the soul. But Peter knew from the late night talks they had in bed that neither of those filled the void the Church had left behind.

"Maybe teaching will do the trick," Peter said as he was brought back to the present by the nudge of Marcus's hand and eyes..

"Which trick would that be?"

"Helping you get rid of your stage fright," Peter answered with a smile, and sipped at his coffee.

"I really think I'd rather face a demon than a bunch of hormonal teenagers," Marcus sighed. Secretly Peter had to agree with that sentiment; however, he wasn't about to voice it.

"I, for one, feel much better about you facing the teenagers. It's... safer."

Marcus snorted.

"You clearly haven't met that many teenagers."

Peter shrugged.

"Not since I being one myself," he admitted, then pulled Marcus's hand, still clutched in his own, to his mouth. He gave it a kiss. "But I trust your ability to command a room. Or, you know... become one of them. I already have to remind you to keep your feet off the table, use a coaster and throw your laundry in the basket instead of the floor."

"It sounds as if you aren't appreciating all my charming qualities," Marcus groused but his eyes were twinkling with mirth. Peter smiled, mission accomplished.

"Why don't we start on that breakfast? I know you wanted to go in a bit early so Roger could give you the rundown on your new class."

Marcus sighed and pulled Peter into an embrace, putting his half empty coffee mug on the counter.

"You owe me for this one. While breaking my back by lugging furniture or doing floor work wasn't my dream job, I'm starting to wonder if it wasn't safer than facing those little devils."

"Well, maybe I want you to come back home smelling fresh once in a while? And not griping about sore muscles. Maybe spending some time around the younger generation will give you more energy."

"Blasphemy!" Marcus smacked Peter on his backside. "I have more energy than you know what to do with." Marcus wriggled his eyebrows and moved his hips provocatively. Peter laughed, pushing him towards the table.

"Easy tiger. Save it for later. I have a feeling you'll be singing a different tune when you get home today."

"Spoil sport," Marcus grumbled and sat down, starting on his breakfast. Peter sat down next to him and they ate in a companionable silence to the accompaniment of Marcus's cassette player. Peter hoped with all his heart that this would be the way they would spend the rest of their days. Together, deep in love and at peace with the world. He hoped it would stay that way forever.

"I know this was pretty much at the last second, Mr. Keane, so I really appreciate you taking this job."

Roger Stanley, the principal of the Bridget's high school, shook Marcus's hand and pointed him towards the chair. It was good that the man had a welcoming smile on his face; otherwise Marcus would have been reminded of all the times he ended up in the principal's office as a child. Every time such a visit had occurred, Marcus had walked out sore, because back then being sent to the principal at a Catholic school meant only one thing. Marcus had often found himself on the receiving end of a wooden ruler or with knees bruised from all the kneeling. He remembered clutching the rosary and repeating Hail Maries until his throat was hoarse. It had always struck him as pretty antithetical for any so-called Christian man to take such pleasure in torturing children.

Shaking off the memories, Marcus gave a tentative smile, his eyes taking in Roger's office. He would have loved to walk around, to touch and feel random items on the shelf, assessing, trying to figure out the person in front of him. But that had been his modus operandi as an exorcist, his approach to finding a way to know the person he was trying to help. There was no need for that now so Marcus settled in the chair, trying to look relaxed even though his body wanted to fidget.

"Did you get all the material you'll need for this month?"

"Yes, the package arrived a few days ago. It seems your students are a bit more advanced in Latin than usual for public school."

"They sure are," Roger said with a proud smile, leaning back in his seat. "Our school is one of the few that are competing in the Certamen. We haven't won yet, but we only participated twice so far and I'm confident that next year we can win."

"That's impressive," Marcus muttered, knowing well that the Certamen competition was quite prestigious and nothing to scoff at. It required a lot of knowledge, not only about the Latin language but also Roman history, mythology and more. Good memory, a talent for languages and a quick wit were a must.

"Yes. We are working very hard to steer our students the right way. If we get good prestige from the competition, we become eligible for more programs that will help the school. This is not a rich neighborhood as you surely noticed, Mr. Keane. Most of these kids aren't trying to get into good colleges. I will be happy if I can manage to get most of these students to graduation. Many kids drop out. But there are a few who show promise and could go on the higher education."

Marcus nodded. He knew the neighborhood; he also knew that Roger kindly had left out the high odds that some of those kids would fall prey to drugs or crime. Marcus thought they should be trying to encourage everyone, not just the prodigies, but he was also aware of the reality. If nothing else, the past few months he'd spent helping out at a homeless shelter had opened his eyes to the world beyond the protected sameness of the Church.

"With what you just told me, I'm surprised you'd even consider hiring me. I don't have any teaching experience, after all."

"That might be," Roger admitted, though there was an amused twinkle in his eyes. Marcus was becoming more relaxed by the minute, especially as the man in front of him reminded him less and less of his past experience in Catholic school. "But you came highly recommended by Father Sebastian. He said you were tutoring kids at the shelter. He also assured me you have a far better understanding of Latin, its history and several other ancient languages than anyone he's ever met."

Marcus inclined his head, letting out a sigh. Of course Father Sebastian would give him glowing reviews. The man had been trying to steer him towards working with children since the first time Marcus managed to calm a screaming five-year-old-tearing through the shelter while his mother had been trying to figure out where they would sleep after being evicted from their home.

"Mr. Keane—" Roger began, but Marcus stopped him with a raised hand.

"Please, call me Marcus. I'm not much for formalities."

"In that case, call me Roger." Roger smiled, then turned serious. "I'm aware we can't expect any miracles from you, even though I'm sure you'll do just fine. Teaching takes some experience, especially where teenagers are concerned. But unfortunately our Latin teacher had an ugly accident and will need several months to recuperate. It is almost the end of the school year and there's really not that many people with a solid knowledge of Latin who are willing to sub in on such short notice."

"I understand. And if I'm correct, the Certamen competition for this year is already over?"

"Yes... and no. We're already trying to prepare for next year. There is a study group that we'd like you to take over for the time being. It would be low pressure, the students will be all seniors next year and they mostly have their study plans set. Here's some of the material our last teacher used." Roger pushed over a thick folder and Marcus internally groaned. It looked like he had plenty of reading to catch up on and he hadn't even officially started work yet. Roger gave him an apologetic smile.

"I know, believe me. It might seem like a lot at once, but I'm sure you'll get into the swing of it quickly."

"Not seeing any other option," Marcus muttered and took the materials, though he didn't look at them. He saw Roger taking in a deep breath in preparation for another speech and prompted, "There's something else."

Roger paused then chuckled, and Marcus waited for the other shoe to drop.

"I know I might be asking a bit much, and I'll understand if you just tell me to stuff it."

"Go on, hit me," Marcus said with a smirk, and Roger nodded.

"We have another student here, a junior, who is showing great promise. You'll meet him soon, I think you have him in your second period. His name is Tomas Ortega."

"Go on."

"We would like him to compete next year, although we haven't managed to persuade him yet. Perhaps you might try to focus on him a bit?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow, because the request sounded just a bit strange. For some reason, Roger looked a bit uncomfortable. "What's the matter with him?" Marcus asked outright and Roger sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"He's a troubled young man. This year he lost both his grandmother and his mother. He had to transfer from a Catholic school in Mexico here to Chicago to live with his older sister. It's... a lot for a young boy. Tomas is very intelligent and a very nice kid, but... I'm worried he might... get lost."

Marcus frowned.

"Is he involved with a bad crowd?"

"No, quite the opposite. He has some health issues and they make him a bit of a pariah. I don't know him that well, but... he excels in all his classes and he's a good kid. He just needs some guidance."

"So you think that getting involved in such a high stress competition would help?" Marcus looked doubtful. "And what health issues are we talking about?" Marcus knew that there were certain issues that might cause one kid to ostracize another, although he'd thought that there would be less bullying these days. Obviously he was mistaken.

"Tomas sometimes suffers from episodes. It's nothing serious, but it looks... scary. The other kids fixate on that and I'm afraid that, despite our no bullying policy, Tomas might become a victim if something doesn't change."

"And you think that making him part of the Latin team would help with his popularity?" Marcus asked a bit doubtfully.

"It won't hurt. It would at least give him a way out in the future. He will need to apply for scholarships sooner or later. I was just hoping we could provide him with some personal attention."

"Why do you think I'll be able to help him? By the sound of it the kid needs a counselor and some normal friends. Not a substitute teacher of Latin."

"You were a priest, Marcus," Roger said frankly, and Marcus tried not to jerk at the word. He didn't need to be reminded of his past and Roger obviously didn't have all the facts. Marcus never really considered himself to be a priest, but an exorcist. There was a distinct difference. But Marcus wasn't about to explain, so he just motioned for Roger to continue.

"Tomas grew up in a very religious family. Some... familiarity with the subject and one-on- one attention might help."

"I'm not a priest anymore," Marcus stated, his voice a bit tight.

"Pardon me, Marcus, but being a priest is not something that you simply forget. You spent many years of your life helping people, listening to what ails them, absolving them of their sins. I think you might to do more good for the soul than a psychotherapist prescribing drugs."

Marcus frowned. Roger's stance on the subject was rather unorthodox for a school principal and Marcus was wondering just how much of a believer the man really was. He couldn't see a cross anywhere, not in the office, not on Roger's body as jewelry, but that wasn't all that surprising. Most public schools nowadays frowned heavily upon any religious symbols on display. While Marcus had an inkling to ask the principal about his personal beliefs, he rather decided not to, as it might steer them just a bit off topic.

Marcus sighed and straightened a bit on his chair.

"You know you're asking quite a lot from someone without direct experience, right?"

Roger smiled.

"What can I say? You came highly recommended."

Marcus frowned at that, not sure just why Father Sebastian's opinion would have much weight in the circles of public high schools.

"I'm not promising anything," he said finally, tucking the thick folder under his arm. "But I'll at least try to talk to him. I will have to, after all, he is in my class." He stood and Roger followed suit, looking almost relieved.

"That's all I'm asking. If you'll need anything, my door is always open."

Marcus nodded. He was at the door when Roger cleared his throat, as if he wanted to add something.

"Any other lost souls in need of saving?" Marcus asked a bit sarcastically.

"For the time being, let's see how you do with this first one, shall we?" Roger replied with a smile that sent chills down Marcus's spine. In that moment the sun shone through the window at such a strange angle that Roger was backlit and Marcus wondered if any of their conversation had been real, if it had all been a dream. He blinked and the room was normal again, and Roger just a friendly administrator looking out for his pupils. Marcus nodded, a bit disconcerted.

"Good luck, Marcus," Roger said as he walked out the door.