“Good answer.”

He had intended for the words to come out lilted, mocking. A natural response to his discomfort with the lack of tension in the room; the sooner he bothered Arthur into lashing out at him again, the easier it would be to let go, again, of how wonderful it felt to exist in an almost harmonious state with him.

It wasn’t even ‘almost’ – he could have even forgotten how much of a struggle it had always been to be understood by other people, with how easily he felt himself fall into step with Arthur.

But he didn’t have the heart for it. Not when Arthur kissed the same hands that had so brutally sought to destroy him. And without the bitterness, the words just came out soft.

Malachi settled comfortably, leaving his hands above his head where Arthur had put them. Dark eyes tracked the doctor’s every movement, curious and fond.

As he had done when the cut had initially been made, he steadied his slow breaths beneath the press of Arthur’s tongue and, after that, the gauze. It stung like hell, especially when the gauze rubbed the raw edges of the wounds, but the priest was seemingly unaffected – even upon hearing the claim that Arthur knew him better than to leave them unstitched.

He was right, of course. Malachi gave a slow blink in response, and another when his glasses were stolen.

Unable to help a small, sly smile, Malachi turned his head and hid it in his arm instead.

“If you can see out of them, go for it,” he murmured. One of his legs wormed up and over Arthur’s, resting atop his thigh.

“Don’t go gentle on me,” he recited, voice firm. “I can take it.”