At that, Malachi’s hand did pause. Curiosity had always ruled much of his own life, but very rarely had anyone, apart from Nettie, cared to inquire too deeply about him.

That Arthur was curious enough to ask him made him feel… strange, but he did not mention as much. At least the questions were centered on his family.

He continued writing at a slower pace.

“Her father, yes. Levi. He is… nine, ten years younger than me? I can’t quite recall,” he admitted. “I believe he and his wife run some sort of business in London. Levi is as much of a parasite as my mother, but he can be more difficult to entertain. He… tires of things, easily.”

Levi had been kinder to him than Miriam, but that had not meant all that much.

“It is possible that he and his wife could be there, but the same goes for them. If you want to make a good impression, just – appeal to them. I’m sure they will expect any guest of mine to be a disappointment, so prove them wrong.”

If there was anything that Malachi was not worried about on this trip, it was Arthur disappointing him. He did not tell him that, though, and when the doctor’s light touch found his wrist, he watched it closely.

Malachi had not exactly been affectionate since he’d yanked him through the office door. Not in the way that had been typical of him thus far, at least. He had no intentions of changing that while they were on a train, surrounded by other people, no matter how much Arthur’s presence at his side might have tempted him to do just that.

He was hurt. It would pass, but it hadn't yet.

“They are,” confirmed Malachi, writing out the end of the letter.

But why was Arthur asking so many questions? Why did it… matter so much, to him? It came as a surprise to Malachi that someone like him would care to make a good impression, and not upset them, and – even more so, to care about his opinions on the matter. The priest tried to clear his throat, but the sound was still rough.

After quickly signing off his name, Malachi pushed the papers aside and turned in his seat to face the doctor slightly better, searching to meet the lovely green gaze behind his borrowed glasses. He had no idea why it was so important to him, but it was… cute. Terribly cute.

“Arthur,” he started, “they will like you just fine, love. If they want you to join in their insults, as I’m sure they will, then do so.”

You’ve done it enough already, he did not say.

“What if it was your family we were going to see? What would you want of me?”

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.”

One could only hope that Arthur took his own words to heart. It was not a big deal to Malachi whether his family liked Arthur or not – he liked him, terrible and cruel as he was, and as much as he wished he didn’t. The opinions of others did not matter unless they could affect them adversely, and Miriam would not live long enough to disapprove and inform the police.

Leaning back into his own space, the priest tucked the briefcase securely back under his seat. Crossed his legs, neatly folded his hands, set them atop his knee out of habit.

“Oh, God, no.”

Malachi shook his head, as if the question was simply absurd.

“She’ll have had dinner already, with her friends perhaps, and she will not allow the servants to cook for us since we did not announce ourselves first,” that was the way it always went. He had not visited in nearly five years, but he suspected little had changed.

“I’ll cook for you, if you need. I imagine my mother will retire to her room soon after seeing us in, so as not to let you see her tired. God forbid. Tomorrow she will have prepared herself, and I’m sure she will arrange for a proper dinner.”

Ugh. He could already feel… London, sticking itself to him. Or perhaps it was already there inside him, in the inflection of his peculiar accent, clawing itself out the closer they got. It felt like another world, dealing with his mother and his family. The priesthood had at least been an escape from that.

“Is that alright? Did you want me to arrange for you to stay elsewhere while we’re here?”

From the doubtful look Malachi sent him, and the suspicious lift of his brow, it would have been reasonable to think that the priest had taken the question for some sort of jab.

“I know how to cook,” he insisted, but argued it no further.

He had raised many children, after all, one of which had lived with him off-and-on throughout her life. His own childhood had seen proper meals as a scarcity, but he had always done his best to make sure that no other child that came into his life went hungry. It could not always be helped, but most times it could.

As a teenager himself, that had meant learning to cook. Various churches without maids such as Mrs. Higgins had only reinforced the need to cook for himself, if he wanted to eat at all – which, was not always the case.

Malachi leaned his head back against his seat. Arthur’s response brought a hint of a smile to his face, and without turning his head, the priest looked to him from the corners of his eyes.

“Alright. I didn’t actually want to go through the hassle of finding you a place,” and he didn’t want to be away from him either, as sad as it was. London, his mother, his family… it was a lot. He needed opium to get through it.

(And he would miss him. He couldn’t quit imagining Arthur hating it all, hating him, realizing his family was right.)

Malachi slapped the doctor’s leg. Just a fraction, a tiny bit of the agitation he felt from the train, funneled out through a (kind of) playful slap.

“Be not afraid, Arthur. I will not lose you or let you starve, nor will I let anything happen to you that is not the result of my own hands.”