Malachi had never minded pain. Being hurt was something he had grown accustomed to before anything else: scraping his little knees every time he fell down the hill to his family’s hut, throwing rocks at the village wall that flew back at him instead. As he got older, the pains increased, but so too had his tolerance.

Along the way, somewhere, he taught himself to enjoy the things he once just tolerated. There was less to be lost, that way, with his composure calmed and body buzzed.

At the very least, it made for an easier stitch.

If he could ever learn to do the same with the kind of hurt that hammered slowly away at his heart, he would consider himself enlightened. He breathed out a shaky sigh and blamed it on the drag of a needle and thread.

“Just a… detective,” Malachi said, noncommittal. “I think that’s what he was.”

It wasn’t like said detective had ever actually told him anything himself. Malachi shifted slightly, lips parting as he turned farther into his arm to bite the pale skin. There still existed the remnants of the previous mark he’d left upon it the night they met.

“If-” he took a breath, releasing his arm, “if you- want to. Yes. You’re…”

Oh, it was getting harder to think. The pain hadn’t bothered him much before he had to think about him, but now he struggled despite the doctor’s gentle care. One of his hands moved down to touch the thigh that rested over Arthur's, fingers pressing against the clothed spot where the scar laid beneath.

“Ah-h ah, you’re- you can… do whatever you want.”