There was a shift in the calm posturing that Malachi practiced so commonly. Subtle; it came to life in the tension between his shoulders, the exhalation of that little air of amusement he'd breathed in before. He watched the back of Mister Tully's head when he returned to the stove, and wondered just how likely it would be for Father Richards or Mrs. Higgins to walk in here now.

The other priest was probably resting his head. The lady was not to be seen.

"Francis," said Malachi. He moved in closer -- far closer -- until he stood just behind the beggar, close enough that he could likely feel his breath. Both long arms slipped beneath Mister Tully's, not touching, but framing him in. Malachi rested his chin upon his shoulder while his hands rested at the warm edge of the stove.

"In the future," he whispered, "don't act so pathetic. Have I denied you anything yet?"