“Good answer.”

He had intended for the words to come out lilted, mocking. A natural response to his discomfort with the lack of tension in the room; the sooner he bothered Arthur into lashing out at him again, the easier it would be to let go, again, of how wonderful it felt to exist in an almost harmonious state with him.

It wasn’t even ‘almost’ – he could have even forgotten how much of a struggle it had always been to be understood by other people, with how easily he felt himself fall into step with Arthur.

But he didn’t have the heart for it. Not when Arthur kissed the same hands that had so brutally sought to destroy him. And without the bitterness, the words just came out soft.

Malachi settled comfortably, leaving his hands above his head where Arthur had put them. Dark eyes tracked the doctor’s every movement, curious and fond.

As he had done when the cut had initially been made, he steadied his slow breaths beneath the press of Arthur’s tongue and, after that, the gauze. It stung like hell, especially when the gauze rubbed the raw edges of the wounds, but the priest was seemingly unaffected – even upon hearing the claim that Arthur knew him better than to leave them unstitched.

He was right, of course. Malachi gave a slow blink in response, and another when his glasses were stolen.

Unable to help a small, sly smile, Malachi turned his head and hid it in his arm instead.

“If you can see out of them, go for it,” he murmured. One of his legs wormed up and over Arthur’s, resting atop his thigh.

“Don’t go gentle on me,” he recited, voice firm. “I can take it.”

Malachi had never minded pain. Being hurt was something he had grown accustomed to before anything else: scraping his little knees every time he fell down the hill to his family’s hut, throwing rocks at the village wall that flew back at him instead. As he got older, the pains increased, but so too had his tolerance.

Along the way, somewhere, he taught himself to enjoy the things he once just tolerated. There was less to be lost, that way, with his composure calmed and body buzzed.

At the very least, it made for an easier stitch.

If he could ever learn to do the same with the kind of hurt that hammered slowly away at his heart, he would consider himself enlightened. He breathed out a shaky sigh and blamed it on the drag of a needle and thread.

“Just a… detective,” Malachi said, noncommittal. “I think that’s what he was.”

It wasn’t like said detective had ever actually told him anything himself. Malachi shifted slightly, lips parting as he turned farther into his arm to bite the pale skin. There still existed the remnants of the previous mark he’d left upon it the night they met.

“If-” he took a breath, releasing his arm, “if you- want to. Yes. You’re…”

Oh, it was getting harder to think. The pain hadn’t bothered him much before he had to think about him, but now he struggled despite the doctor’s gentle care. One of his hands moved down to touch the thigh that rested over Arthur's, fingers pressing against the clothed spot where the scar laid beneath.

“Ah-h ah, you’re- you can… do whatever you want.”

Arthur’s voice forced him back into focus, along with the steady massage of his hand.

It was… strange. For how impossibly frustrating he could be, Arthur’s instructions did well to soothe Malachi back into a state of relative calm. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, he nodded, and his body remained still after that.

He hated it. How sensitive he was to the mere question of who patched him up. It was ridiculous, and Malachi did not know what to do with it but to shove it to the farthest recesses of his mind and let it run out of oxygen without him.

Malachi’s gaze returned to its curious inspection, watching the doctor’s hands while they worked and allowing that to distract him. Arthur was impressive, and not just because Malachi had never seen a doctor work before.

Should he have put the salve over Arthur’s shoulder? Some bandages over top, too? He hadn’t even mentioned anything else before he’d kissed him.

“I-…” he peered up into Arthur’s eyes, shielded by the priest’s own glasses.

They really were a lovely shade of green.

“I’ll be alright. I’ll leave it alone,” Malachi promised, not sounding all too happy about it.

“The other scar is on my thigh. If you wanted to look at it.”

He didn’t move to show him himself, however. His hands were still above his head where Arthur left them, and without the persistent stabbing of a needle and thread, he was too comfortable as he was to move.

At this rate, Malachi was fairly certain that he’d had his clothes taken off more often than he’d ever worn them, around Arthur. A good priest might have – should have – an issue with that, along with every other thing he’d done since… well, since before even meeting him at the bar. If he had been a good priest to begin with, he wouldn’t have attended a masquerade in a brothel.

He wouldn’t have given his heart for it to be broken enough to make him. But, he considered as he assisted in lifting his hips and pulling his legs out of discarded shoes and pants, he also wouldn’t have met Arthur at all.

Probably would have been a better thing for everyone else. For the church, certainly. For poor Nettie’s peace of mind.

As soon as Arthur had returned to sit, Malachi maneuvered his legs to capture him between them again, resting comfortably over his thighs.

“Mm?” he hummed, lifting his head just enough to follow Arthur’s critical gaze. He got all of that from a measly scar, did he?

A small smile formed on his face. It felt odd to have Arthur inspecting the mostly-healed wound, scrutinizing the man that had stitched it on the basis of… stitch pattern? Uneven healing? Malachi kicked himself for being so obvious when mentioning the detective, yet a part of him enjoyed the way that Arthur took him apart.

“Ah!”

Definitely should have been expecting him to bite, in hindsight. Malachi squirmed underneath him, back arching away from the cushions, but he was careful not to pull his leg away from Arthur’s grasp. Sensitive – it should have been less sensitive for scarring over, but it was not. The priest’s face was dusted red by the time Arthur was satisfied with the altered mark.

“I- yes,” decided Malachi, who was mostly caught by the way he’d said my darling more than anything else, and who had, thusly, also decided that words were frustrating and stupid and too hard to get out.

He caught the back of Arthur’s neck and pulled him down. Ringed his legs around his waist the way he’d wanted to, before, and cupped his face between his hands to just – stare at him, eyes dark and unrevealing, save for the same strange gleam from the bar.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, before pulling him into a kiss.

Where else? Malachi took a moment to respond, delayed by the distracting drag of Arthur’s hands over his skin. The lingering pain from both being cut and subsequently stitched up left him dizzy enough, but being shown so much attention – it was intoxicating.

How many parishioners had come by the church already, searching for a priest that was absent again? It had been getting harder and harder to care with the more time he spent away.

Maybe it was just getting harder to pretend to care. If there had ever been any difference.

“Here,” he whispered, drawing his arms to his chest. He wasn’t sure what the doctor meant, if he wanted to ruin or repair; if he was looking to destroy the signs of someone else or simply devour.

Malachi lifted his arms, baring his scraped-up wrists between them. His injured hands, the marks of his own teeth set into his inner arm.

“There’s- nothing else of him,” he said, quieter, without bothering with an explanation he didn’t suppose was needed. “Only you.”