His daddy was faster, was he? That was the second mildly-concerning thing she'd said about his 'father.'

Somehow he doubted that it would be the last.

What kind of man had this poor woman married?

(Perhaps he was assigning too much of the blame on the man in this equation, but it was not often that he met women that drank themselves into a stupor because they were treated well.)

Malachi mirrored her look, but had the gall to look surprised with a lift of dark brows.

"Holding out on you?" he repeated. "No. The other priest made off with it all."

As much as a part of him wanted to see just how far she would go, he could not empty the church of their wine. He had already displeased Father Richards enough with his actual charity. He did not want to find out how venomous he could become if pushed farther, if only to save himself from the bishop's ire.

So what else was he to do?

"But if we find some other clothes for me to put on, I can go out and find more with you."

"No, no," Malachi shook his head. "He's not here. Not right now."

Which other priest was she referring to?

Perhaps it was Kemble. That one seemed to have been rather unpopular among the congregation, although Richards had a streak of judgement in him as well. If this woman had meandered her merry way through the church doors before, he supposed he would not have been surprised to hear that either of them had mistreated her for daring to have a real problem.

Malachi watched as his 'mother' sorted through her own feelings on the matter, and offered his own solution when the time came.

It was not a good one. Not even slightly. But God, it was so hot in here in his black robes, and sometimes he just wanted to get out.

Pushing himself up, Malachi leaned down just enough to grab both of the woman's hands in his own, and pulled to try to help her up.

"Careful," he warned. "Slippery floor. Where are we going?"

She could thank fuck too if she wanted. Malachi didn't give one.

What he did give a fuck about, however, was the awful stench she transferred to his hands. Making a face, he looked down at them, turned them over in brief inspection. The woman had walked in smelling of alcohol and piss, and neither one felt particularly great slathered on his hands. Or his poor cassock, because she just had to fall and grab onto his elbow too. He did what he could to steady her, and held an arm out in case she needed it, but oh, he hoped she didn't take it.

"Thank you," he returned, a reflection of sincerity himself.

Malachi followed cautiously after her, ready to reach out and grab her should her legs decide to give out again. Eugh, the smell would be all over him then. It was a blessing that she made it to the door without incident.

He stepped out to walk beside her, eyes squinted in the harsher light. Dare he go back for his saturno? That ran the risk of her inevitably getting her dirty hands on it, so... no. No, that was not happening. By the time he made it back into the church and returned, she probably wouldn't even be here. And- what was that? He was James now?

"That depends," answered 'James.' He did not want to know what she needed a crowbar for.

"You need it before or after we change my clothes?"

It was not a pleasant experience, having an intoxicated woman fall against him every few feet. Even less so when said woman reeked of every awful thing that went in and out of her body.

She needed a crowbar before they got the clothes. Which meant she needed it for the commission of what he was quickly realizing would be a crime. Malachi met her guilty look with an unmoved, unamused glance of his own.

Alright, so he wasn't as uptight about following the law as a priest probably should have been. But doing something illegal while still in his priestly attire? That was a bit far. He could get caught, and getting caught was not on his agenda.

The fact that this woman (piss-drunk and pissed on as she was) treated him so... tenderly, though, in calling him by her presumed sons' names and easy little terms of endearment... his heart was a whole lot softer than it really should have been, and he hated it.

"Okay," he relented, "but we can't let anybody see me doing this, or I'll get kicked out of the church. Then I'd fall into those sinful thoughts you warned me about, since I wouldn't be a priest."

Oh, she had far too much confidence in him.

Two fists, too much brain, and not a single weepy, unwed missus getting... what? The line of Malachi's mouth cracked into a smile, and his amusement only grew upon having his arm slapped. Whoever Claude was, whoever Noah and James were -- he felt for them, truly, and their alcoholic mother...

...but God if he wouldn't have traded his own mother for her, in that moment. She might bumble around, break into things, stain herself with booze and piss, but at least she was kind. She didn't seem like the type to push her armoire down on top of her child, or to toss them from the second-story window. No, this woman at least seemed like she cared.

"Fine," he agreed. "You're right."

Malachi set to looking, then, casting a glance from one side of their path to the next. Not too many sticks around, but he grabbed what he saw. Snapped the first two right in half when he tested them, but the third was sturdy, less of a twig than a real stick.

"Here," he returned to her side and pushed it into her hand.

"Will that do?"