Arthur returned to his couch with a basket of many things, eyebrows raised at Malachi's warning.  How reassuring.

He set the basket beside the man on the couch and pulled from it a small leather pouch, needles of various sizes held securely within.  The doctor had to squint to find the right one and pull it out, holding it out for Malachi before handing him the thread next.

"You're concerned about hurting me?" he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice as he began unbuttoning his shirt.  "I was sober sewing myself up, and I was doing that practically blind.  You, at least, can see."

Blood had dried on the walk around the wound in Arthur's shoulder, but the worst of it was still shiny and wet with gore.  Arthur pressed his bundled up shirt to it to wipe away the worst of it, teeth clenched.  He threw the shirt aside when he was done and motioned to the basket.

"Pour alcohol over it first to disinfect it, then you can start.  Don't worry about any mess, I'll clean it later."  Eventually.  At some point.  Probably.

With that, Arthur took a seat on the couch.  His back was facing Malachi, and he did not seem at all uncomfortable despite the fact that the man behind him was the reason he was in so much pain.

"Don't go gentle on me, either.  I'm a big boy, I can handle it."