Malachi's comment piqued Arthur's curiosity immediately.  What was worse?  When had he seen it?  Why had he seen it?  Was worse on someone else, or himself?  Malachi didn't get those scars on his body by accident, that much was obvious to the doctor, and he so wanted to know if those flowers were worse or a reaction to it.  But he swallowed all of his questions for another time, perhaps when he was not bleeding out inside a goddamn catholic church.

"Can walk now better than I could when I was born," he replied flippantly, exiting the confessional and tossing the devil mask he'd been tossed somewhere in the rows of pews.  He had no use for it, and he sure as hell wasn't bringing it back to his office when he had Malachi instead.

The bright light outside of the small confines of the confessional really emphasized what a fucking disaster Arthur looked.  Blood down the front of his shirt from Malachi's wound, and more down his back from his own, enough that the hem of his pants were even getting damp now.

At least Malachi could hide beneath a black cassock that nearly reached the floor.  Arthur wanted to roll his eyes.

"Follow me, then.  I'll be sticking to side roads to avoid prying eyes, but if we do run into anyone..." the doctor paused, in thought for a moment.  "Is there someone you hate a lot?  Say we got into a fight, and he looks a hell of a lot worse than me.  Come on."