Oh. He just… agreed. So easily, at that.

Malachi swallowed his discomfort and dipped his head once in a nod. It was strange to speak to him almost normally, closer to the way he had before his identity had been found out, but not bad.

Not… terrible, that was. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Arthur would twist his words back into daggers and curse him again with that haunting laugh.

“I’m sure that I’ve seen worse,” was his flat response. He had offered, and he didn’t need Arthur caring about whether or not he was queasy. Malachi’s hand fell away from his shoulder when touched, and the priest moved to grab his cassock off of the floor instead. He grabbed the discarded devil mask too, and pushed it into Arthur’s hand.

As he stood, he pulled the long, black garment back on, and set about the arduous task of buttoning it up. The fabric stuck to the line of blood cut down his chest, scratching at the edges.

“I don’t. We should go before you bleed out in my confessional.”

There were supplies in the presbytery as well, of course. Malachi simply had no desire to parade Arthur through the halls, bleeding, and the idea of Richards, or Higgins, or Tully running into them was even less appealing than the walk.

“You can walk fine, can’t you?”

He'd made it to the church… that had been before they reopened a vicious stab wound, but how much blood did a person really need?