He’d been expecting to be brushed off, at most. For that reason alone, surprise pushed its way onto Malachi’s otherwise unreadable face when Arthur pulled him into a kiss.

It was too quick, but he returned it all too eagerly for a man that should have been upset over the thought of his mother.

And Arthur wanted him to – to bring him with, if he ever went to London? God, the look on his mother’s face if he brought such a peculiar man along with him. It would almost be worth the pain of being around her.

Not that he would suffer for long, if he was following Arthur’s implication properly.

What a mess that would be. Fortunately for Malachi, Arthur did not look his way again, so he did not feel like as much of an idiot for the small smile it provoked.

By the time he made it up the few steps to the door, he had regained whatever measure of composure he'd lost along the way. It felt better to be indoors again, away from any prying eyes – even if the doctor’s office was still in a regrettable state.

How was it possible for a doctor to live like this?

Malachi gave a distracted nod and moved to sit, eyes searching elsewhere in the room. One leg crossed over the other, and his hands folded neatly atop his knee; he might have even looked dignified, if it hadn’t been for the bruises and bites that littered his skin.

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “I’ve never been trained, but I’ve done it before.”

Not to mention he’d watched his own thigh get sewn up recently.

“…You might not want to be sober for it,” he warned ‘casually,’ aware of how much confidence that would instill in the priest’s suturing abilities.