To be touched so delicately was something Arthur was not accustomed to.  He had always believed worship was raw and vulgar and dizzying, but this was none of those things - and it felt better than worship.

Why would God want a religion in his name when he could have this?  Could have just one, Malachi Brennan beside him and be more than satisfied?

Arthur didn't care to know the answer.  This, Malachi, was God's loss, and Arthur would relish in his misfortune.

He didn't even flinch away from that name Malachi so persistently called him, despite Arthur's demand for otherwise.  Any anger he felt evaporated when he was kissed again, and again, and again.

It was - harder than Arthur expected, to allow Malachi to pull away when he finally did.  He was almost offended, but more so at the fact that he had not been the one to pull away first.  Though his body ached from the unusual position he was reluctant to get up, but he wasn't given a choice at Malachi's gentle and insistent touch.

The mention of death caused a lift in the doctor's brows, just slightly.  He flinched under Malachi's hands, curling his lips against the pain.

"Yeah," he answered Malachi's unasked question, "please.  Unless you're queasy, it's not nice to look at."

Not nice was probably an understatement, but Arthur didn't want to overexaggerate what he couldn't even see.  Stitching it had been an adventure and a half that mostly consisted of the man stabbing himself with needles, struggling to even get the damn thing threaded, coughing up blood and cursing Malachi for breaking his fucking glasses.

Arthur's fingers touched the top of the hand on his shoulder, urging it away.  The lack of pressure almost seemed worse, by the grimace on the doctor's face.

"I've got supplies in my office, if you don't mind the walk there."  Did churches carry things like that?  Arthur had no idea.  A better question might have been, did Malachi, but Arthur was not one to assume, not when it came to other's around him being just a little bit competent.