Beyond their windows, the sky outside was darkening with each passing minute, casting the landscapes they passed through into shadow. Already someone was taking it upon themselves to light one of the lanterns inside. It flickered into life and threw a warm, golden glow over the passengers.

A lighter tint to Arthur’s hair, as well, highlighted itself in the strands that still stuck out in the messy way that Malachi had left them. As he awaited the doctor’s response, his eyes traced the outline of his profile, and the different ways he had affected it.

The mess that his fingers had made of his hair. The slightest glare off of glasses that had once peered down at him through the eyes of his father. The broken nose, the bitten lips, the healing tissue at his neck. Then he looked away, to glance over the inferior sight of everyone else that sat on the moving cage that was their train car.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him that Arthur gave such a genuine answer. The poor man was fretting over how to make a good impression on the Brennans, for God’s sake, and that should have been indication enough that this, for some reason, mattered deeply to him.

“Then there is your answer,” he offered, in a tone softer than he’d managed since his throat had been hurt.

Seeing that no one was looking upon them in that moment, Malachi extended a hand towards him, fingers brushing gently through Arthur’s hair. They made peace of the chaos they’d stirred, smoothing down the strands that flipped out.

“Just be yourself. That’s what I have you around for. My family deserves no more than yours, believe me,” Malachi insisted, letting his hand fall back to his lap. “If they don’t like you, it’s because they don’t like anyone. They certainly don’t like me.”

He leaned forward to look out of the window, and added, “it won’t be much longer. I’m sure my mother will already love seeing us in so late.”