[CW: Religious guilt and penance themes]

The house was empty, except for Mrs. Higgins in the kitchen, but she graciously left him alone. Gabriel dropped down in a chair in the dining room, depleted. He had just returned from a house visit to one of the poorer families in the parish. He could still stay in if he wanted on doctor's advice, but after his outburst of this morning, it didn't feel right to reward himself with rest. Perhaps his sin had sprouted from being self-absorbed for too long, and it required attention to the needs of others to make him right again. If his head started hurting again or it wore him out, well, that was his penance.

But he had only been confronted with his own failure and spiritual barrenness. He had felt detached from the people he had spoken to and their suffering. He found himself indifferent, even impatient with their complaints. He had said what he knew he had to say and had gone through the gestures and words of the blessing they had requested, but all he had thought about was going home, and he had caught himself rushing through the ritual. 

Now he felt worse. He placed his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands. But soon he rose. He didn't deserve a rest after that display of selfishness. He went to the kitchen and after repeated protest from Mrs. Higgins, he returned with a cloth and a bucket of water and soap. He knelt down and began to scrub the floor.

A tall silhouette slipped through the front door, and the house was a little less empty.

Malachi took off his glasses and tucked them away in his pocket. Most days he didn't need them, but when his morning was spent juggling three separate and very distinct issues, well. The strain sort of got to his head.

After mass, he'd spent part of the day in his room, reading and rereading sections of his bible until the words began to jumble in his head. After that... he'd gone out.

His swift passage through the house was silent, save for the gentle swish of black fabric. Malachi lifted a hand to his mouth to cover a yawn as he walked. Perhaps the world would favor him tonight and let him sleep.

Or...

The sight of Father Richards on the floor, scrubbing away with a cloth, saw his footsteps slow to a halt.

Or, Malachi thought, he would earn himself another headache and try again tomorrow.

"...Evening, father," he greeted. Resigned to his fate. "Cleaning?"

Gabriel didn't hear Father Brennan approach until he spoke. He sat up, resting the cloth on his tighs without worrying about his cassock absorbing the water. He felt hot as he looked in Brennan's direction but avoided his meeting eye, like a schoolboy before the school master. "Yes father... Father, I... Please forgive me my behaviour at breakfast this morning. I don't know what possessed me." The devil, he was beginning to fear. Now he brought his eyes up briefly to meet the other priest's.

Well. At least Richards bothered to speak to him now.

Standing with his hands folded neatly at his back, Malachi observed the seated priest.

"Frustration, I suppose," he supplied for him. Malachi took a step closer, and then crouched down to almost level himself with Richards. He threw a glance to the floor he'd seemed intent on cleaning.

"I should have told you about our guests beforehand. That was my mistake. You don't have to apologize to me."

Gabriel was uncomfortable when Father Brennan crouched down to his level. It offered him a closer, more intimate look, and Gabriel didn't want to be looked at. He felt tired.

He looked at the floor just in front of Brennan. "A... warning in advance would have been helpful," probably he would have skipped breakfast altogether, "but that is no excuse for losing my temper. I'll... make sure to guard my tongue better and..." And what? Be more charitable? Nourish a meeker spirit? He tried so hard, but it seemed the harder he tried, the more he lost his grip on himself. "and... be better," he concluded awkwardly. More shame and failure weighing down on him.

From the looks of things, what Richards needed to be doing was not guarding his tongue and being 'better' in a general sense. Malachi did not look convinced, but he did not try to pick his words apart or challenge him.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," he said, and refrained from reaching out to touch Richards' shoulder like he wanted to. Something told him it wouldn't have been well-received.

"I am always happy to listen, father, if you ever need to get anything off of your chest. Frustration is understandable, but you should not let it fester."

Gabriel knew that that was what he needed. He hadn't confessed in some time, and surely the sin had been building up inside of him and festering there. But he had been reluctant to ask Father Brennan. He preferred to confess to a priest he was not working with. What was said in confession remained in confession, and the sin was done away with, yet it might still feel awkward. But when would he be able to travel to the next parish again, with how unwell he felt? And they hadn't had a visiting priest for some weeks.

He finally put the cloth in the bucket, suddenly feeling the cold of the water on his legs. He looked up at Father Brennan. "Perhaps, father, you would hear my confession. If it's convenient."

As soon as the request reached his ears, the corners of Malachi's lips curved upwards in the makings of a smile, not quite fully realized.

"Of course," he agreed with a dip of his head. "Now is convenient. Shall we speak in the confessional, father, or is there somewhere else you would prefer?"

He could not imagine Richards wanting Mrs. Higgins as a spectator.

Malachi straightened up, and held out a hand in silent offering should the younger want any help getting up.

The confessional was probably the safest place at this time of day. "Yes father," he agreed. He let Father Brennan help him up, grateful for the gesture even more than the support. In all that Gabriel had seen of him so far, Brennan had imitated Christ more perfectly than himself or any priest he knew, and it gave him some comfort that this priest would hear his confession. For though it didn't matter in the end - any priest represented Christ in the sacrament - it was easier to experience the Lord's presence when the priest was... Christ like.

"I'll put the bucket away and come to the confessional, father." He assumed father Brennan would need some time to prepare himself anyway.

Once he had helped Richards to his feet, Malachi returned his hands to rest comfortably behind his back. In truth, he had not expected the other to so willingly agree to confess after his obvious irritation with him that morning -- but he was not about to complain.

"Take your time," he said. After giving a polite smile, Malachi turned away to head out of the presbytery and into the church itself. Whatever he had been doing before he returned that evening, it had clearly not exhausted his enthusiasm. He slipped his glasses back on once he'd made into the confessional, and waited.