Malachi’s frown lasted only for a moment, replaced soon after with a careful, practiced neutrality. He wasn’t disappointed in him for not having killed a man, of course – his casual admission just raised more doubts than it smothered.

So, rather than say as much to Arthur, he hummed a low sound of acknowledgement and left the matter alone.

It didn’t matter in any case. Lies, at least, were like a well-worn coat draped over his shoulders.

At the mention of Mable, Malachi glanced over with a narrowed gaze – it was unclear by the way he mirrored Arthur’s squint if he was annoyed or merely bothered by the sun.

“She…”

He had promised honesty, even if he was not sure how far that extended on Arthur’s side.

“…She’s a girl I’ve been taking care of. She and her brother were on the street when I found them, and I’ve been trying to help them settle in. As for what you would do,” Malachi averted his eyes, watching the road before them as they walked. “I have no idea what you’re capable of. What reason did I have not to believe you?”

The priests answer brought an annoyed frown to Arthur's face, but it was accompanied by a nod of understanding.  Anyone who'd never met him before, and whose first impression had been what Malachi's had been, wouldn't put it out of the realm of possibility that he'd hurt a little girl.

He wasn't offended, but he was... upset, slightly.  Not at Malachi, but - at himself, maybe?  For allowing such a foul perception of himself to linger for so long in the other man's mind.

"I'm capable of a lot of things," he said, watching Malachi watch the road.  "Murder, even if I haven't done it yet.  Blackmail, and I have done that.  But girls?  Young girls?"  Arthur made a face.  "Eugh."

He didn't say it to get praise from Malachi, or to seem like an upstanding man.  Arthur said it because he didn't want Malachi to think him the type of person to stoop so low.  Not that low, anyway.

Next, Arthur wanted to ask about Malachi's supposedly broken and bleeding heart, but he was hesitant to bring up anything along that topic.  They had just seemed to begin to get settled into - whatever this was.  He would hate to ruin it so quickly.

Instead, he asked, "those scars on your body, you did those to yourself?"

Yet, Arthur said. He hadn’t done it yet. And that still did not break the priest’s focus from the road, but the word ‘blackmail’ caught his attention.

Not enough to propose a question, not nearly; that would only open the door for such questions to be asked in return, and Malachi did not wish to lead the conversation back to him. The important thing was that Arthur was not depraved enough to hurt Mable, or any other girls like her, and perhaps for his own sake more than any trust he’d gained, Malachi chose to have faith in his odd response.

“Alright,” he said. “I believe you.”

The threads linking his buttons to his cassock kept digging into the cut. Every time it felt like the blood had dried, stuck to the fabric, the movement of his body jostled the buttons and tore the congealed substance free to shed anew.

Malachi did not immediately answer the next question. For a few quiet seconds, it seemed as if he might have ignored ever hearing it, but then he said, “yes. Most of them.”

No one had asked him much about them before, on account of most people not having seen them. He had never had to come up with any answers.

“There are a few I could not reach; my father finished those. But he was…”

He hesitated, searched for an appropriate word. Settled on, “queasy.”

There had been a lot of blood, and Malachi’s hand had not always been so sure with a knife. His skill was evident in the clean designs that covered most of his skin – but in several spots along his back, it was clear the lines had been done over several times, cut open again and again until they were right.

“Who would you kill?” he asked casually, tossing another glance Arthur’s way.

“If you could choose anyone. Who would it be?”

Malachi's answer only served to make Arthur more curious about the scars.  Again, he wanted to rip the mans clothes off and memorize every inch of his skin and scars with his eyes and fingers and tongue.

They were nearly at his office, if they hurried.  Perhaps after his shoulder was stitched back together, he could return the favor and bandage up Malachi too.  And if he got distracted while working, well.  Really, that was Malachi's fault, wasn't it?

"That bastard in Ravenscar," Arthur answered immediately, glaring at nothing in particular.  "The Queen.  My brothers.  You.  Oh, can I only kill one person?"

Arthur's list was extensive, that much was obvious.  if you're going to kill one person, you might as well kill as many as you'd like.  Murder wasn't something someone could come back from, no matter who you confessed to.

"I suppose if I'm only choosing one person, and it could really be anyone... no, yeah, I'm going with that Ravenscar idiot.  I really despise that man.  Should have put him out of his misery when I had the chance."

As they walked, Arthur's hand clenched and unclenched weakly.  It would be fine, he was certain, but he'd really need to let the thing heal completely if he wanted to keep it that way.

Was there a part of his body Malachi could stab without such harsh repercussions?  As a doctor, he should probably know the answer to that, the answer being no, but as the shamelessly perverted man he was, Arthur was considering how important the meat of his thigh really was.  Did he need all of his fingers and toes?

"What about you?  Who would you kill?" he asked, and then as an after thought, "if you haven't already, I mean."  Arthur's tone was joking, but he did seem genuinely interested in whatever answer the priest would give him.

My, that man in Ravenscar must have offended him quite thoroughly. Or perhaps he simply held onto those things tighter than the average person would; Malachi could not fault him for it, if he did.

The list continued on, growing with each person named… and the admission that he’d kill Malachi himself did not seem to come as a surprise, but – brothers? Arthur had brothers? It was so strange to think of him existing in a family unit, growing up alongside other people. It was difficult to imagine him having ever been a child at all.

Arthur might have settled on the so-called Ravenscar Idiot, but Malachi’s soft hum suggested that he did not fully believe it. Why settle?

He murmured, “it doesn’t have to be just one.”

But the doctor had answered his question, and he was satisfied enough with the list.

Malachi’s teeth worried at the inside of his bottom lip, more out of habit than anything else.

“I have,” the priest confessed, staring forward at the road ahead. It was getting easier to say it every time he did. Less emotion caught in his throat with the words’ every passing, as if the guilt had simply been a block in need of clearing through the admission.

“I would kill…” he let his eyes fall to the space just before his feet, watching each impending stone before he stepped over them. “My mother. It would only be returning the favor.”

She couldn’t rely on his money to fund her lifestyle if she was dead, that was for sure.

“Why your brothers?”

Malachi's confession earned him a glance, but no other reaction came from the doctor as he waited for him to finish.  Arthur hid any surprise he felt well.

A murderer.  Malachi Brennan, priest, father figure to little girls and boys from the street, was a murderer.  It was not such a hard thing to imagine.  What was hard, was - well.

Arthur adjusted himself in his pants.

"Because they're terribly annoying.  I have no clue why my parents had children after me, but it was a mistake.  They're awful."

How had he done it, Arthur wondered.  With that knife he carried with him?  Did he stab someone to death like he could have done so easily to Arthur?  Or did he use his hands to beat someone, or strangle them, or some other creative method he wasn't thinking of?

He forced himself to take a breath, calm down.

"What does that mean, return the favor?  I thought your father was the one carving your skin, what's your mother done?"

Of the three people he’d now told, Arthur took the news of his being a murderer best, Malachi thought. A part of him supposed it was only natural; the other two had never experienced violence at his hands the way that Arthur had. Certainly never so brutally.

He did feel a twinge of guilt, every time his eyes landed on the poor nose he had broken – but it never lasted long.

It hadn’t killed him, and Malachi counted them both lucky for that. But he’d deserved it.

“Ah,” that seemed an appropriate answer to him. “Most people are. Mistakes, that is.”

He couldn’t help but wonder the specifics of it, though, if there were any to be found. What kind of a family produced a man such as Arthur? Were they all as twisted as him, or were they terribly, uncomfortably normal? It didn’t matter – it wasn’t as if Malachi would ever need to know – but he tucked the questions away, lest they consume him.

“Oh. She…”

Malachi bit his lip as he pondered that one. Admitting to his father’s murder was one thing, but he’d never talked about… the rest of it. Never even gave himself the time to think about it, now that it was over.

“When I was a child, she often tried to… get rid of me. I was- adopted,” that was the kind word for it anyway, “my father married her after he found me, and she hated me. Still does, I suppose,” he tilted his head from one side to the other, dismissive. “I already killed my father. So I’d kill her, next.”

What a tragic story.

Most childhoods were, but Arthur couldn't call his own that.  If it was, it was his own fault, so he'd never let himself think about it long lest that the conclusion he truly arrived at.

And Malachi said it all like it didn't bother him, but it must have.  Why else would he want his mother dead?  Not his mother - that woman.  If Malachi thought she deserved to be dead, Arthur believed him.

He glanced at Malachi out of the corner of his eye.  "Would you like to?  Kill her, I mean.  Not hypothetically."

The question wasn't definitive, either.  Just curious.

Because if he did, well.  Arthur couldn't see a problem with that.  Malachi wouldn't be sacrificing anything, he was already a murderer, and that woman deserved it as far as he could see.

And if he didn't, that was his own choice.

But if he did...

Malachi bit down harder on his lip, and only lifted pressure once a thin trail of blood had trickled down.

Would he like to kill his mother, not hypothetically? End her the same way he had ended his father, or – take his time with it, the way he hadn’t been able to before?

That begged another question: did he really want to kill anyone at all?

“Yes,” he answered, quiet. “I would.”

His gaze swept the street, and when he was sure no one else was near, he reached over to let his fingers brush lightly over the doctor’s wrist. The touch was fleeting, minimal. He wasn’t even sure why he did it, besides the fact that he wanted to.

“She lives in London, though. I’d just as soon never see her again.”

Arthur pushed his wrist further into Malachi's touch and turned to look at him.  He couldn't see his face clearly, but he could see that the street was empty.

London.  How far was London from Whitby?  Apparently very far, but distance had obviously not made Malachi any fonder of the woman.

The hand not in Malachi's reached up to the mans face, pulling him down for a quick and bruising kiss.

"Bring me along, if you ever go to London," he whispered as he pulled away.  "I'll help you.  If you want help."

He held Malachi's gaze for another moment before turning back to the road and continuing their journey.  He seemed to try very hard not to look at Malachi again.

"Come on, we're just around the corner now.  If you take any longer, you'll have to carry me the rest of the way there, and no one wants that."

The windowsills were still broken, and the steps up to the door were still dirty, and it was still one of Arthur's favorite places in Whitby.  He waited outside the door for Malachi to catch up, giving the man a fleeting look up and down before struggling the lock open and leading the way inside.

Blood still decorated the ceiling, but it was only noticeable if you knew to look for it.  The spatter on the wall had been cleaned, and papers and boxes and books that had been dirtied were relocated to a far corner of the office.  The couch was still empty.  Arthur motioned to it.

"Sit, I'll get the supplies.  You know how to suture a wound?"