No man should be raised according to the belief that all the world's issues were his own. What a terrible thing it was to shoulder the guilt of every wrong, every mistake; to think that it was his own duty to correct them; to always carry the suspicion of something being amiss because something in his life always was, because he could not afford to let it go.

Crane reminded him in many ways of himself. A repressed, kinder version of himself, if he had been half as prudent as he should have been.

Malachi set the roll down, but his eyes were fixed on Crane. Something in them seemed to soften, as if warmed by the sight of his sincerity.

People were... always honest, in their own ways. Even when they lied. Most scrambled for a chance to talk about themselves, too, even when everything in them warned against it. The constable had been nothing but honest with him since they'd met, and it struck him then that this man -- this better, kinder man -- truly only wanted to help.

That was what made him a far better man.

"The food is perfect," he assured. "I'll just have some water. Thank you."

Alright, but what the fuck was up with people always offering milk lately? What strange need did they fulfil in watching him drink it?

Ah, there it was: suspicion.

"You do not have to answer, constable, but this person that you were with before... did you have feelings for him?"

Or, Malachi left unspoken, was he just a distraction for you?