[CW: mentions of murder, child abuse, CSA, drug use; violence]

The wooden wall that divided through the center of the confessional, as Malachi found out, did not make for a comfortable pillow. It was too cool and too hard where he rested against it, and yet he could not rouse within himself the energy to lift his head.

Eyes closed against the darkness that surrounded, he raised a hand and played idly with the small, wooden door that covered the grate, sliding it back and forth in a repetitive flickering of what little light passed through from one side to the other.

It hurt his bruised hand with every movement of his fingers, but he did it all the same.

How many confessions had he already heard since the morning’s service ended?

Too many. And before the service started too, as an older fellow had wished to clear his conscience before communion.

It was a good thing. He should have been glad for the abundance.

Malachi breathed out a bored sigh. Letting the wooden board be, he resigned himself to wait a little longer, lest anyone else seek the Lord’s forgiveness.

It had been a good long since Arthur had willingly entered a church.  The fact that the doctor had even been considering going to such a place would have been enough to make his father cry, especially if he knew his reasoning.  Really, there was only one thing that could pull him to the church, and it was no God.

Well.  Not the God the church was built for, anyway.

Face bruised, nose broken, and shoulder sewn up haphazardly, the man made his way towards St. Hilda's with an almost pleasant smile, a spring in his step, and a devil mask that did not belong to him.

Arthur opened the door and let the weight of them slam behind him, walking past pews before he realized the man he was looking for was not here.  He scanned the room before his eyes landed on -

The confession booths.

Oh, this was too perfect.

He continued towards those wonderful little wooden closets, stepping inside the empty booth and shutting the door behind him with only minimal difficulty.

"Father?"  Thin and calloused fingers fiddled with the mask, and though his voice sounded it, Arthur was not nervous.

Father?

Oh, fuck. When had he fallen asleep? Jolted by the sudden sound of someone’s voice, Malachi lifted his head, blinking a few times into darkness.

That certainly didn’t help orient himself.

It must have only been a few minutes, considering the cramping in his neck was minimal. More important was the person on the other side, and – had he just… imagined that it sounded familiar?

“Yes,” he answered, voice soft, and slid the wood off of the grate to allow pinpricks of light through.

“I’m here.”

Arthur's only regret was that he could not clearly see the man on the other side of the mesh paneling.  Already it was so difficult, since Malachi had broken his glasses last they'd seen each other, and now this thing between them here.  But it would be worth it in time, he was sure.

"Father," he said again, pleased that it really was Malachi Brennan on the other side, and not some other false prophet.  "I'd like to confess my sins, but... it's been a while since the last time.  Are you willing to hear me, still?"

It was not his imagination. There was a familiar quality to the man’s voice, one that set the priest on edge in a way he couldn’t quite define.

Malachi couldn’t help but frown at the tiny, obscured view he had of him.

Surely it couldn’t be… him. There was no way he’d visit the church, right?

“Of course,” he said, willing himself to remain unaffected by the similarity.

“Start with your most serious sins first and work from there. Everything you can remember.”

"My most sinful?" Arthur repeated, laughing a little.  "My, Father, straight to the point I see.  Alright, let me think..."

What was Doctor Arthur Adams' most grievous sin?  The man personally believed the answer was up to interpretation, it depended on morals and laws and so much else, but... he had a few ideas.

"Murder," he said after a moment.  "Five, maybe six years ago in Ravenscar, I murdered a man who I think very much deserved it.  He came to me looking for - some remedy or another for a sore throat.  I gave it to him and a week later he was still not satisfied, even getting worse he said, and blamed me.

"Of course, you can imagine my offence to such a thing, and an argument was had.  I came out victorious, in the end, and he dead on my floor.  Shall I go into further detail, Father, or move on?"

Malachi uttered a blasphemous intermingling of a prayer and a curse beneath his breath.

“You don’t have to- go into detail,” he hissed, suddenly strained, without any trace of the softness he’d reserved for a faceless sinner.

Murder! Why was he not surprised? His eyes had widened for a fraction of a second, shocked by the casual manner with which the man confessed to a mortal sin, but now they squeezed shut as if that would make him disappear.

Of course it was him – Arthur fucking Adams – and of course he would find him in the confessional, where he was obliged to stay and listen.

(Ravenscar. Was he from Ravenscar? Had he just practiced there a while, before they got wise and ran him off?)

No, no. Malachi didn’t care where he came from. He just had to get through his confession with the same attention and care he gave to everyone else… even if his reluctance bled through.

“Sometimes we are – put in… difficult situations, and are forced to make a choice. Please continue.”

[CW for fictitious descriptions of SA on a minor.]

Arthur was not at all dissuaded from the muttered curses, the disgust so obvious in Malachi's voice.  If anything, it encouraged him, and he traced patterns onto the grate separating them as he smiled, considering his next words.

"I'm not entirely sure what to call this one," he admitted, "and it might be more than one.  Perhaps you can enlighten me, Father... listen close to me now.

"It happened on a night not very long ago.  I had been out for a walk after dark, restless with pent up energy, and I passed by this very street - this very church even, Father, and saw..."

He wracked his brain for something, something shocking, anything that would surely bother Malachi.  He wanted to break this kind little persona he put on, make Malachi show his true colors once again.

The vaguest memory of seeing Malachi passing a street adjacent to him floated to the top of his mind, a young girl at his side.  Arthur smiled.

"Father, I saw a young girl, if you can imagine it.  Tall for her age, I believe, loitering outside the church... well, of course I was concerned for her, so I asked her if she was alright and took her inside the church.  She said she was looking for you, too, even."

The man's head hit the back of the wooden wall behind him gently, his eyes squinted to try and see Malachi through the barrier and make out what of his fuzzy expression he could see.

"We talked for a very long time, here, and she was quite pretty Father.  Long, curly black hair - reminds me of yours, now that I think of it, but hers was thicker.  And she was very thin, too, Father, and... well."

Arthur closed his eyes as he continued; trying to see Malachi like this was useless.  Without his glasses, he could hardly read the bloodstained papers in his office that Malachi had left behind.

"I took her into this very booth, Father, and had her all to myself.  She cried, of course, calling out your name very loudly - this is where I fear I may have sinned.  She was so loud, and her voice hurt my ears so much, Father, I struck her across her face.  Many times, I recall, until she quieted.  I left her there after that... don't know what became of her."

His grin when he finished his little lie was massive, and didn't fade at all while he waited for Malachi's reaction.  "So, ah, what is the verdict, Father?"

What – was he…

…

Silence. The final inquiry was met with silence, as dark eyes blinked, and blinked again, and Malachi didn’t even know what he was feeling because it all just went blank.

“……”

The quiet was punctuated only by the sound of his breath, unsteady and shallow.

“The… the ver-…” …dict?

The verdict? What was his verdict for assaulting his –

Arthur was lying. He had to be lying, he must have been, there was no way he had done that and Malachi didn’t believe it. Mable was fine. Sure, he hadn’t seen her, but she was fine. Nothing had happened to her. Not at the church, not in his confessional, not at Arthur’s hands, not while she was waiting around for Malachi to return and spend time with her, like he should have done that night, like he hadn’t done that night, and why hadn’t he seen her since then?

Nausea toiled in the pit of his stomach. His throat was so dry he could hardly speak.

“Doctor Adams,” he started unsteadily, distant and forced out. A complete break from protocol. “If you did something to her, I will kill you.”

Malachi's reaction, when it finally finally came, was everything Arthur had hoped.  He bit his lip and hummed a quiet, happy note.  On the ground in front of him, a foot bounced against the ground at a rapid pace, but everything else about the man was calm.

"Kill me?" he inquired, and then continued in a quieter voice, "do you promise?"

The doctor laughed, just like he had at Malachi's declaration of love earlier in the week.  He hoped the sound of it raked across the priest's skin and burrowed deep, stabbing at every nerve, grated against his ears and crushed his heart.

"Who is she, Malachi?  Is she very special to you?  I can see why, she takes after you a lot, and I don't just mean by her hair.  Her blood... it tasted just like yours.  Sweeter, maybe.  I think that was her youth, her innocence.  I'm only sad I will be the only one to have tasted it...  It was delicious."

He licked his lips, as if he could still taste it, as if he ever did.  The only taste he could recall was of Malachi, from the alley.

It was better than anything.

"Shall I continue, Father, or would you like to hear more of her?"