He’d been expecting to be brushed off, at most. For that reason alone, surprise pushed its way onto Malachi’s otherwise unreadable face when Arthur pulled him into a kiss.

It was too quick, but he returned it all too eagerly for a man that should have been upset over the thought of his mother.

And Arthur wanted him to – to bring him with, if he ever went to London? God, the look on his mother’s face if he brought such a peculiar man along with him. It would almost be worth the pain of being around her.

Not that he would suffer for long, if he was following Arthur’s implication properly.

What a mess that would be. Fortunately for Malachi, Arthur did not look his way again, so he did not feel like as much of an idiot for the small smile it provoked.

By the time he made it up the few steps to the door, he had regained whatever measure of composure he'd lost along the way. It felt better to be indoors again, away from any prying eyes – even if the doctor’s office was still in a regrettable state.

How was it possible for a doctor to live like this?

Malachi gave a distracted nod and moved to sit, eyes searching elsewhere in the room. One leg crossed over the other, and his hands folded neatly atop his knee; he might have even looked dignified, if it hadn’t been for the bruises and bites that littered his skin.

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “I’ve never been trained, but I’ve done it before.”

Not to mention he’d watched his own thigh get sewn up recently.

“…You might not want to be sober for it,” he warned ‘casually,’ aware of how much confidence that would instill in the priest’s suturing abilities.

Uncrossing his legs, Malachi took the needle and thread.

That he could see was… a matter of opinion. Had it been any darker in the room, it would have been one he wholeheartedly agreed with.

As it was now, he waited until the doctor was faced away to fish the glasses out of his pocket and put them on. Didn’t need to give Arthur any more cause for concern, not when he’d agreed to let him do this.

(They looked… incredibly similar to the pair Arthur had worn before, but older. Decades older.)

“As if I would,” Malachi huffed, setting the needle and thread aside in favor of the alcohol.

Without warning, he poured it over the wound, watching the way the blood seemed to bubble and foam in reaction. Arthur was right, it was about as far from ‘nice’ as one could imagine, but Malachi was resolute.

He wiped the excess blood and liquid away with a bundle of gauze, and then took the needle and thread in hand to set about his work.

“Have you been hurt before?” he asked, carefully piercing the needle through his skin. “Like this, I mean.”

How Arthur had managed to go as long as he did without getting stabbed, Malachi would never know.

There was still something pleasant about being the first to leave such marks on him.

The way his breathing fell apart beneath his hands was beautiful. Had it been anyone else subjected to it, he might have paused, and checked in with them to make sure they had not changed their mind about their level of sobriety… but Arthur knew how to speak.

If he wanted something, he could ask him. Malachi continued on at a steady pace, willing his thoughts not to linger too long on the lovely noises he made.

“Yes,” he said easily. “Recently, in fact, in my thigh. It’s only nearly healed now.”

Pausing in his task for only a moment, Malachi leaned closer, closer. His lips brushed the skin just below his neck, pressing a kiss between his shoulders.

“Almost done,” he whispered, and resumed the push and pull of the needle.

Ha! A smile curved his blood-stained lips, amused and entirely involuntary. A warm huff of breath met Arthur’s skin where he kissed it again, just as chaste.

“But you sound so lovely like this, Arthur,” he purred, but in spite of his words he did not push farther. He wanted it done as quickly as the doctor did, if only so he would not have to worry about the wound tearing and getting even worse.

Malachi moved quicker after that, but the guidance of his fingers was no less precise. He wasn’t trying to hurt him, after all, but the idiot should have taken some opium, considering how much of it he seemed to keep around.

“It’s your own fault,” he insisted, stitching slower towards the end so as not to disturb the skin more than he had to. “You provoked me on purpose.”

And hurt his feelings, but admitting that felt like giving him far too much to work with the next time he decided to piss him off.

The needle passed through the last stitch. He finished it off neatly, setting the bloodied needle and remaining thread to the side.

“There. Does that… feel right?”

Well, he took the lack of complaint for a ‘yes.’ It looked about as well as any other stitched up wound he’d seen.

He opened his mouth to say something else, perhaps to scold him for having torn his first stitches out – but Malachi was silenced when Arthur’s lips met his own. It was all too easy to give in, to melt into the feeling of wanting without holding himself back.

If that was the indulgence Arthur promised, he wished to have met him so much sooner in life. How had he gone so long without it?

The touch of Malachi’s hands was light where they moved across his skin. Exploring, admiring, memorizing every line and curve his fingertips passed over.

When Arthur’s kisses traveled down his chest, an audible sigh escaped from Malachi’s throat. His legs shifted underneath him as he turned and leaned back, lying down over the cushions. Sure, he didn’t quite fit on the couch – but he didn’t seem to care that much.

Malachi nodded, black hair splayed over his face much like it had done the night before.

“Yes,” he whispered, caressing appreciatively up the doctor’s chest from the bottom of his ribcage to his collarbones. “As long as you make sure it scars.”