There was that infernal noise again, ringing in his ears the way it had for the last several days. Echoes of it haunted him everywhere he went; trickling through the rush of water through the river, thudding against every stone underfoot, clinging in discordant notes to the harmonies of every hymn.

What was it that he could not believe: that Mable would have been present here, waiting for him, and that she would not have been all too willing to talk someone’s ear off while she did it? That Arthur would not have indulged her? That he would not have been depraved enough to hurt her?

The story was painfully believable. What shocked him instead was that he had ever felt any kind of affection for a man all too capable of doing such a thing.

“Stop,” he insisted as the doctor spoke of her blood. “Stop it, stop–”

Mable’s tears, Mable’s blood.

Before the voice on the other side even finished – before the priest could think it through – Malachi stood and exited his side of the booth quickly. A short pivot saw him throwing open the door to Arthur’s side instead – one that Malachi, without anyone at the church to take his confession, had never even seen.

It was too dark for him to see much of the man sitting inside. Malachi himself blocked out the light.

Fueled by instinct alone, he grabbed for the doctor’s collar to yank him up.

“You’re lying,” he ground out from behind gritted teeth.

His actions, on the other hand, suggested his belief.

The sound of Malachi exiting his side of the confessional booth had Arthur disappointed for a moment, before he realized that it was because Malachi was coming to him.  That realization had him more excited than meeting the drunk devil at the brothel had.

Light poured in from behind Malachi, silhouetting him and hiding his face, but Arthur didn't need to mourn for long.  Soon, he was close enough to admire, even as he was being spat at by the man.

Arthur's grin fell at the accusation, and he averted his eyes like a child being scolded.  "Yes, I'm lying," he admitted.

"That is my real sin, I'm afraid.  I can't seem to stop, even in confession."

A hand closed around the one around his collar, but Arthur did not try to remove it.

"It is very nice to see you again, Malachi.  I hope you can forgive my fibbing.  I did come here with honest intentions, I swear."

He was going to smash his sick, perverted skull in, right here in the confessional. Let his poisonous blood curse the spot where he’d defiled someone so pure, and sweet, and innocent; let all of Saint fucking Hilda’s be a testament to the fate deserved by Arthur Adams, a new Sodom, new Gomorrah.

He was going to ruin him for even daring to look upon her face.

He was going to–

“Wh-”

When had all of the air been sucked out of the tiny space?

Malachi glared, wide-eyed, down at the bruised and beaten face of the doctor. The one he’d already broken for far less than a twisted lie about his perfect, darling Mable. Arthur’s hand burned his skin, and the priest shoved him harshly back.

“You are – sick. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Too many things, his mind supplied, but the question tumbled out all the same. Thank God they were alone in the church.

Arthur allowed himself to fall back and his the confessional with a heavy thump, the impact jolting his shoulder and making him flinch.  Malachi's question made him laugh again, but it was quiet this time.

How many times had Arthur been asked that before?  Countless times, he was certain.  Throughout his entire life, by nearly every person that had met him.  It was more of a comfort to hear Malachi say it than it was an insult.

"Lots," he said, standing up straight again, supporting himself against the confessional.  "I don't have a list, but I can think of many things off the top of my head."

And what a strong reaction from the man too!  Arthur wasn't surprised - people were always so protective over children, but Malachi did not just seem like a priest concerned about some child.  Arthur was suspicious of the girl's origins.

"Really, tell me who she is, please!  You have me curious now, Mal, is she your daughter?  You're acting as protective as a father, and not just of the church."

“No,” snapped the priest, almost wishing that Arthur had kept up his ruse a little longer so that he could have strangled him to death with a good conscience.

Malachi made no effort to move out of the darkened space, but it was cramped. There was room enough for one, but not two, not with the bench in there.

The unfortunate design meant he had to either stay right there in the doctor’s space or leave entirely, and, well, he had a feeling that walking away would be worse.

“Am I not allowed to care about a child if she isn’t my own? And you shouldn’t have even- how did you even know about her?”

How disappointing, that Malachi wasn't the blood father of that girl.  It would have made him so much more interesting, but Arthur supposed he didn't need secret children to do that.  Already, he knew the priest to be a drunk, starved for opium and attention, and a sado-masochist that carried a dagger on him, perhaps even now.

There was not much that could make him more interesting than he already was.

"I have eyes, Malachi, and I don't just hide away in my office all day.  I'm out in town just as much as any other person.  I've seen the two of you together - more than once now that I think about it."

Slowly, Arthur let himself fall back onto the bench within the confessional, staring up at the other man's face.  He had to squint to barely make out the details, and doing to made his healing nose sting uncomfortably.

"It's not so far of a reach to believe you two may be related in some way.  She follows you like a shadow, and... you two came to Whitby around the same time, didn't you?"  The doctor shrugged.  "But if you say she's not your daughter, I believe you.  Don't be surprised if the rest of Whitby doesn't, though."

Was it theoretically possible that Malachi had children?

Yes. It was. And if he did, they’d have been about that age. But he knew for a fact that Mable was not his daughter, not by blood, even if he loved her as if she was.

Malachi breathed in shallowly through his nose, his dark glare fixed unblinkingly on the man before him. It was all too familiar a feeling looking down at him, but it was one he could not easily or willingly define. They were too close. He knew that.

The explanations given were easy enough to believe, but… how did Arthur know all of that? In fact, how had he even known who Malachi was, when he’d removed his mask? He couldn’t recall ever seeing the doctor before that night, and certainly not in church. Malachi might have been a community leader, but surely his name reached farther than his face.

“Doctor Adams,” he said evenly. “Have you been watching me, or do you make it a habit to know about all your local priests?”

Whatever. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, and he leaned back against the door to add another measly inch of separation.

“What did you come here for, really?”

Malachi might have thought that they were too close, but he was wrong.  They were not close enough.  Not nearly.  Arthur hated to see Malachi lean away from him, but he did not let it show on his face.

"Just the Catholics," he said with a smile.

In truth, Arthur had just made it a habit to watch and remember everyone he could, should they come find him for treatment.  It was his duty to know how best to serve each and every person in town, individually.

But he wasn't going to say that, not when he know Malachi wanted so badly to be special, even to someone like Arthur.

"I told you, I came for confession!"  Arthur motioned to the space that confined them, his foot inching closer to the other's across the floor.  "Oh, but also - to return this.  It belongs to you, after all."

With the words, Arthur produced the devil mask Malachi had worn to the masquerade.  He held it out, careful not to crease or otherwise tarnish the thing more than it had already been.

What a wonderful day to be Catholic.

Malachi raised a brow as Arthur reminded him of where they were, as if he could truly believe that he’d come for nothing other than confession. If it was God’s forgiveness he sought, he was afraid he’d gone about it all the wrong way.

This, he did not voice. He didn’t think he had to.

It hadn’t occurred to Malachi, until the moment he laid eyes on the cursed devil mask again, that he had left anything of note behind at the doctor’s office, but- shit. He had. Once the damned thing was off, he’d forgotten the mask entirely.

“I don’t want that,” he dismissed, not moving to take it. “I don’t need a reminder of that night.”

He had enough of them imprinted on his mind, and his flesh, he didn’t say.

Unable to help himself, he tilted his head and, in a mockingly concerned tone, asked, “how is your shoulder? Does it look as awful as your poor nose, doctor?”

The mask was lowered back into the doctor's lap without argument.  He had been expecting Malachi would reject it, but hoping for otherwise.

It wasn't as though Arthur hadn't given him any other reminders.

He shook his head lightly at Malachi's question.  How amusing he was when he was sober.  Arthur almost preferred him like this.

"Worse, if you can imagine it.  I managed to stave off infection thus far, but I've still a long way to go."  He did not mention that he lad lost some feeling in his fingers, and that it had not yet returned either.  He didn't think it was relevant.

In the same tone as had been used against him, Arthur shot back with his own questions.

"How is your heart?  Still broken and yearning for me, Malachi?"