He’d been expecting to be brushed off, at most. For that reason alone, surprise pushed its way onto Malachi’s otherwise unreadable face when Arthur pulled him into a kiss.

It was too quick, but he returned it all too eagerly for a man that should have been upset over the thought of his mother.

And Arthur wanted him to – to bring him with, if he ever went to London? God, the look on his mother’s face if he brought such a peculiar man along with him. It would almost be worth the pain of being around her.

Not that he would suffer for long, if he was following Arthur’s implication properly.

What a mess that would be. Fortunately for Malachi, Arthur did not look his way again, so he did not feel like as much of an idiot for the small smile it provoked.

By the time he made it up the few steps to the door, he had regained whatever measure of composure he'd lost along the way. It felt better to be indoors again, away from any prying eyes – even if the doctor’s office was still in a regrettable state.

How was it possible for a doctor to live like this?

Malachi gave a distracted nod and moved to sit, eyes searching elsewhere in the room. One leg crossed over the other, and his hands folded neatly atop his knee; he might have even looked dignified, if it hadn’t been for the bruises and bites that littered his skin.

“Yes, I do,” he answered. “I’ve never been trained, but I’ve done it before.”

Not to mention he’d watched his own thigh get sewn up recently.

“…You might not want to be sober for it,” he warned ‘casually,’ aware of how much confidence that would instill in the priest’s suturing abilities.

Arthur returned to his couch with a basket of many things, eyebrows raised at Malachi's warning.  How reassuring.

He set the basket beside the man on the couch and pulled from it a small leather pouch, needles of various sizes held securely within.  The doctor had to squint to find the right one and pull it out, holding it out for Malachi before handing him the thread next.

"You're concerned about hurting me?" he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice as he began unbuttoning his shirt.  "I was sober sewing myself up, and I was doing that practically blind.  You, at least, can see."

Blood had dried on the walk around the wound in Arthur's shoulder, but the worst of it was still shiny and wet with gore.  Arthur pressed his bundled up shirt to it to wipe away the worst of it, teeth clenched.  He threw the shirt aside when he was done and motioned to the basket.

"Pour alcohol over it first to disinfect it, then you can start.  Don't worry about any mess, I'll clean it later."  Eventually.  At some point.  Probably.

With that, Arthur took a seat on the couch.  His back was facing Malachi, and he did not seem at all uncomfortable despite the fact that the man behind him was the reason he was in so much pain.

"Don't go gentle on me, either.  I'm a big boy, I can handle it."

Uncrossing his legs, Malachi took the needle and thread.

That he could see was… a matter of opinion. Had it been any darker in the room, it would have been one he wholeheartedly agreed with.

As it was now, he waited until the doctor was faced away to fish the glasses out of his pocket and put them on. Didn’t need to give Arthur any more cause for concern, not when he’d agreed to let him do this.

(They looked… incredibly similar to the pair Arthur had worn before, but older. Decades older.)

“As if I would,” Malachi huffed, setting the needle and thread aside in favor of the alcohol.

Without warning, he poured it over the wound, watching the way the blood seemed to bubble and foam in reaction. Arthur was right, it was about as far from ‘nice’ as one could imagine, but Malachi was resolute.

He wiped the excess blood and liquid away with a bundle of gauze, and then took the needle and thread in hand to set about his work.

“Have you been hurt before?” he asked, carefully piercing the needle through his skin. “Like this, I mean.”

The smart comment made Arthur grin a moment before the alcohol was poured, his shoulder jerking away from the bubbling, searing pain on reflex.  Arthur forced himself still with a gasp, his head falling forward and out of the way.  It stayed there as Malachi wiped his shoulder clean and began his work.

"Nng - no," he struggled.  "I've been hit but never, nn.  Stabbed, hhah, fuck."

The doctors hand reached up and gripped his greasy brown hair, as if more pain somewhere else would distract from the worst of it.

It did not work very well.

"Have - have you?  Mentioned bein' stabbed at - the party."  Arthur did his best to keep his voice and breathing even, if only to keep his pride, but it really was pointless.  Malachi's hands were more sure than Arthur's own had been, if only barely.  Not only that, but he wasn't watching to see what his next move would be.  Every prick and pierce and pull was a shock on top of the pain.

How Arthur had managed to go as long as he did without getting stabbed, Malachi would never know.

There was still something pleasant about being the first to leave such marks on him.

The way his breathing fell apart beneath his hands was beautiful. Had it been anyone else subjected to it, he might have paused, and checked in with them to make sure they had not changed their mind about their level of sobriety… but Arthur knew how to speak.

If he wanted something, he could ask him. Malachi continued on at a steady pace, willing his thoughts not to linger too long on the lovely noises he made.

“Yes,” he said easily. “Recently, in fact, in my thigh. It’s only nearly healed now.”

Pausing in his task for only a moment, Malachi leaned closer, closer. His lips brushed the skin just below his neck, pressing a kiss between his shoulders.

“Almost done,” he whispered, and resumed the push and pull of the needle.

"Ah?"  The thigh sounded like a horrible place to be stabbed.  But more pressing than that was the fact that Arthur had seen Malachi's thighs before, and he's still managed to miss the damn mark.  He supposed both times Malachi had been undressed in front of him weren't really the best circumstances to memorize his skin, but knowing he could have noticed it and didn't made him frustrated.

And then Malachi kissed him, and Arthur's frustration turned to fury.  "Hurry the fffuck up," he demanded, voice rough and shaky.  How could he do this to him, kiss Arthur while he was like this?  When it was so important that he not move, not even to kiss him back?

How cruel this man was.  And how lucky Arthur was to call Malachi his.

"Ah - hhah, Mal, shit," he hissed.  The doctor's hand let go of his hair and pressed against his face instead, only to immediately jerk away from his bruised and broken nose.  "Fuck, ah, fuck me, Jesus... you don't hold back when you're pissed, do you..?"

Ha! A smile curved his blood-stained lips, amused and entirely involuntary. A warm huff of breath met Arthur’s skin where he kissed it again, just as chaste.

“But you sound so lovely like this, Arthur,” he purred, but in spite of his words he did not push farther. He wanted it done as quickly as the doctor did, if only so he would not have to worry about the wound tearing and getting even worse.

Malachi moved quicker after that, but the guidance of his fingers was no less precise. He wasn’t trying to hurt him, after all, but the idiot should have taken some opium, considering how much of it he seemed to keep around.

“It’s your own fault,” he insisted, stitching slower towards the end so as not to disturb the skin more than he had to. “You provoked me on purpose.”

And hurt his feelings, but admitting that felt like giving him far too much to work with the next time he decided to piss him off.

The needle passed through the last stitch. He finished it off neatly, setting the bloodied needle and remaining thread to the side.

“There. Does that… feel right?”

Maybe Arthur had provoked Malachi, but it was Malachi who lied.  And maybe Arthur was a hypocrite for telling him not to, but a priest should know better.  Arthur was not a priest, and never would be, so he had no oath to honesty.

His shoulder twitched and rolled in a circle, testing the pain and mobility of it once Malachi was done.  It felt fine - he had no way to know what was right and what was wrong.  He only knew his own stitches had been weak and sloppy, and Malachi's felt clean and precise and was done much faster on top of all of that.

But Arthur didn't bother saying as much to Malachi.  Too much effort, he figured, and he didn't want to talk about his shoulder anymore.  He wanted to kiss Malachi.  So that's what he did.

Arthur kissed Malachi like he had the first time, at the brothel bar, like he wanted the man to eat him because he did.  He couldn't get over how good it felt to be torn apart and put back together by the same person.  He wanted it done to him a million more times, and he wanted to do it to Malachi until he was more thread and needle holes than person.

Hands pulled at the buttons of Malachi's cassock, slowly pulling away the cloth from the mans own bloody skin and Arthur kissed there too.

"Feels perfect," he muttered against skin wet from blood and sweat and spit.  It was Arthur's favorite taste.  "Shall I return the favor?"

Well, he took the lack of complaint for a ‘yes.’ It looked about as well as any other stitched up wound he’d seen.

He opened his mouth to say something else, perhaps to scold him for having torn his first stitches out – but Malachi was silenced when Arthur’s lips met his own. It was all too easy to give in, to melt into the feeling of wanting without holding himself back.

If that was the indulgence Arthur promised, he wished to have met him so much sooner in life. How had he gone so long without it?

The touch of Malachi’s hands was light where they moved across his skin. Exploring, admiring, memorizing every line and curve his fingertips passed over.

When Arthur’s kisses traveled down his chest, an audible sigh escaped from Malachi’s throat. His legs shifted underneath him as he turned and leaned back, lying down over the cushions. Sure, he didn’t quite fit on the couch – but he didn’t seem to care that much.

Malachi nodded, black hair splayed over his face much like it had done the night before.

“Yes,” he whispered, caressing appreciatively up the doctor’s chest from the bottom of his ribcage to his collarbones. “As long as you make sure it scars.”

Arthur moved between Malachi's legs as he settled, too eager to get closer, closer, and closer still to the other man.  He was all too happy to remove the rest of the mans cassock, but only as far down as was necessary.  With Malachi's chest exposed again, properly now, and with his head back and hair mussed up, he looked ethereal.

This was Arthur's.

He'd ever felt so proud.

"Darling, I swear to you," he said, awe dripping from his voice, "I will never leave a mark on you that isn't permanent if I can help it."

Arthur took Malachi's hands in his and kissed every scar and bruise he saw across his fingers and knuckles.  He was glad that beating him hadn't left him without consequences, and on his hands no less.  Malachi was surely reminded of him constantly, whenever the cuts stung, whenever he saw his own discolored skin.  The thought of it sent a thrill through the doctor.  He wanted Malachi to live like that forever.

Satisfied with his hands, Arthur placed them above Malachi's head and bent over to clean his bloody chest, first with his tongue and then with fresh gauze soaked in alcohol.  He was gentler than Malachi had been with him, only because he knew the next step would be unpleasant.

"Truly, you don't need stitches in these," he said, tracing the horizontal cut across Malachi's skin.  "They'd heal fine on their own as long as you didn't aggravate them, but I think I know you better than that."

The leather pouch was retrieved and a new, clean needle selected.  Arthur went to pick up the thread next before pausing.  Without a word, he reached up to Malachi's face and stole the glasses from his nose.

"Hope you don't mind me borrowing these, beautiful."