Arthur moved between Malachi's legs as he settled, too eager to get closer, closer, and closer still to the other man.  He was all too happy to remove the rest of the mans cassock, but only as far down as was necessary.  With Malachi's chest exposed again, properly now, and with his head back and hair mussed up, he looked ethereal.

This was Arthur's.

He'd ever felt so proud.

"Darling, I swear to you," he said, awe dripping from his voice, "I will never leave a mark on you that isn't permanent if I can help it."

Arthur took Malachi's hands in his and kissed every scar and bruise he saw across his fingers and knuckles.  He was glad that beating him hadn't left him without consequences, and on his hands no less.  Malachi was surely reminded of him constantly, whenever the cuts stung, whenever he saw his own discolored skin.  The thought of it sent a thrill through the doctor.  He wanted Malachi to live like that forever.

Satisfied with his hands, Arthur placed them above Malachi's head and bent over to clean his bloody chest, first with his tongue and then with fresh gauze soaked in alcohol.  He was gentler than Malachi had been with him, only because he knew the next step would be unpleasant.

"Truly, you don't need stitches in these," he said, tracing the horizontal cut across Malachi's skin.  "They'd heal fine on their own as long as you didn't aggravate them, but I think I know you better than that."

The leather pouch was retrieved and a new, clean needle selected.  Arthur went to pick up the thread next before pausing.  Without a word, he reached up to Malachi's face and stole the glasses from his nose.

"Hope you don't mind me borrowing these, beautiful."