“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.”

In near perfect clarity, Arthur watched Malachi smile and turn away, and he was never do glad to have glasses before in his life.  With ease now, he threaded the needle and went to work, starting at Malachi's stomach and going up.  Arthur had never been so careful with a needle in hand before.

Even if Malachi said he could take it, Arthur wouldn't allow him to walk around with sloppy stitches.  The doctor couldn't allow anything but perfect stitches on a man so beautiful.

"Who stitched you up before?" he asked meanwhile, curious.  "On your thigh, when you were stabbed?"

No one as careful and meticulous as Arthur was being right then, he was certain.  Had Malachi sewn his own leg shut, maybe?  Arthur hated that thought.

Malachi deserved utmost attention, both when breaking him and putting him back together.

"If I ask nicely, will you show me the scar?  I'd like to ensure it's healing properly."

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.”

The priest had been doing so well, before he had to speak.  His movement wasn't jerky, but it was so different compared to the way he'd just laid before, Arthur couldn't help but pause.  He watched his face, his hand not holding the needle meeting Malachi's where it rested on his leg.  His thumb pressed into the muscle and meat, massaging it in small circles.

"Malachi, look at me," he said, his voice not leaving room for argument.  "I'm nearly done.  Just stay still until then, and then I'll bandage you up and you'll be good as new.  But you have to have to behave, and watch me."

Arthur took Malachi's hand and massaged the palm of it as he returned it beside the other, against pillows and cushions and black curls.

"I'm nearly done," he said again, "and if it gets to be too much, tell me."

Quicker than before, but no less carefully, Arthur continued stitching.  This time, he glanced up every so often to make sure Malachi hadn't let his eyes wander.  He still managed to finish faster than he planned, tying the last suture with ease and retrieving a small glass jar, fresh gauze, and adhesive tape.

"This salve is going to keep your wound clean," he explained, scooping come onto his finger and rubbing it gently into the sewn up skin.  "It will also help it heal nicely, so I'm not going to apply it again after this, but I don't want you suffering more than necessary."

Next, Arthur spread bandages over the sticky skin and taped it down, explaining the process of that too in the same even, calm voice.  Only when he was done did he put his things back in the basket and put his hands on Malachi's thighs again.

"Well?  How are we feeling, beautiful?"

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.

Arthur hummed in approval at Malachi's reluctant promise, more than a little amused by his pout.  He leaned forward to kiss him again, short and sweet, as a reward.  "You were very good, Malachi.  Let me take off your trousers, now, and stay there.  Remember to watch me."

The doctor's hands worked diligently at the top of Malachi's pants, even lifted the man's hips for him to pull them down.  Even though he was loathe to get up, he really would prefer Malachi's clothes all the way off, so he stood for only as long as it took to take off Malachi's shoes and pants.  He settled back onto the couch when he was done, eyes already on the scar on Malachi's thigh where he'd touched before.

"Hmm... yes, I see it now," he said, observing the skin with an overly critical eye.  Arthur rubbed over it again with his thumb, eyes narrowing.

"See, whoever did this was a piece of shit," he explained very seriously.  "I can see it in the stitch pattern here at the top, and the uneven way it healed here.  Yes, a very terrible piece of shit.  Horrible detective too, or whatever he was.  Should have never touched someone like you, but it's alright.  I have just the thing for this."

He rubbed circles around the scar for a moment longer before he leaned down, teeth bared.  Harsh, like their first night together, Arthur bit the scarred skin and quickly soothed it with his tongue.  He kissed and sucked, focusing his efforts on where the skin was darkest and most raised and bit again, repeating the cycle until a bruise had formed, hiding any evidence a stab wound had ever been there to begin with.

"There we are," he said, very pleased with himself.  "Much better like that, don't you think so, my darling Malachi?  This is difficult treatment, but I'm happy to provide it to you whenever you need it.  And even when you don't - better safe than sorry, you know."

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.

Had Malachi never been touched like this before in his life?  This thought was not surprising, or hard to fit into what Arthur already knew of the man.  Malachi carved his own skin and had his father help him do so before killing him, grew up with a so-called mother that tried to get rid of him, was stabbed in his leg and still called a broken heart worse pain.

Above all that still, he was a priest.  Of course no one had bothered to look at him and see him, even the obvious.

But that was okay.  Arthur would relish in his beautiful, genuine reactions to this treatment.  He would enjoy every second, every sound and tremble and twitch and gratitude with skin deep modesty.

He should pluck Malachi's out of his skull and dissect them, or keep them in a jar.  Arthur wanted to be under that dark gaze forever.

Slowly, Arthur trailed kisses from Malachi's hungry lips across his face.  Up to his cheeks and eyes and forehead, tender and careful.  Lower, and Arthur grew more starved.  He nipped and tasted up and down his neck and further until he reached bandages.

How could something of his own intention come back and ruin his plans like this?  The only reason Arthur didn't tear them away right then was because he was running out of gauze.

"Where?" he asked Malachi, looking back up to his face.  Arthur's hands dragged down his body to his hips, and back up again to his shoulders.  "Show me where else."

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.”

No more of him.  "Good," he whispered, taking Malachi's hands in his own again.

Arthur brought them to his lips just as he had before, this time starting at his nails all the way up to his elbows.  He covered every spot of skin he could reach, as if trying to give Malachi a glove made of spit and lips and -

When he was done with the top of Malachi's arm, he turned it over and did it over again from the tips of his fingers.  Didn't stop at his elbow, this time, delivering small but sharp bites to his bicep that bruised immediately, and soothed each of them with a kiss before making another.

Malachi's other arm went the same way and Arthur finished with another bruise to a still unmarred spot on the mans shoulder.  He pulled back, admiring the changes he'd made to Malachi's body with a smile.

"Where else?" he asked again, "what else do you need?"