Darling, he still called him, like it wasn’t by intention to mock him.

More surprising than any cruel-intentioned endearments, though, was the lack of resistance to his request. Malachi leaned into him gladly, the arm around his waist providing what support it could while his hand caressed slowly across his back.

When his fingers dampened, stealing blood that had ran down from his shoulder, they did not press. They did not dig, either, nor even drag over the injured skin beneath his shirt.

Like this – Arthur’s lips so soft against his own, warm bodies pulled so close, touching the doctor with a gentleness oft reserved for delicate, priceless things – he could almost pretend they were doing more than just using each other.

“Arthur, love,” Malachi whispered, finding his soft breaths at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He kissed him there, then the other side, then centered another kiss to his lips.

It frightened him.

It didn’t feel like enough when he finally pulled back, cheekbones dusted pink in the dim light of the booth. The priest tried to hide the way it flustered him. He nudged at the doctor’s knees in an effort to encourage him to get off.

“I don’t want you to die,” he admitted, hoping to just move past it by moving onto something else, “not from that.”

He touched his wounded shoulder, firmer this time.

“Don’t let it get worse. You don’t- do you want me to…”

It just felt awkward, wanting to help him, so he didn’t say it out loud. Arthur was a doctor anyway, he could do it himself – but he’d claimed that it was worse, and it had torn again so easily, and he wouldn’t be of any use to him dead.