They were so... young.

It was the first thing that clawed at his mind when they turned, eyes as bright and colorful as his were void and dark. They reflected morning light, while he absorbed it. As fine-featured as they were, as prim and proud as they carried themselves, he could not help but think of how desirable a target they must be out in the world. Outside of whatever safety their former caretaker had provided.

Malachi did not look away, though a part of him wanted to.

Whatever reaction they might have been expecting of him, upon hearing their admission, what he offered instead was...

...nothing. Not the slightest indication of surprise or disgust, not even a blink. Instead, a low hum conveyed his acknowledgement.

There were all kinds of entertainers. He knew that as well as anyone else, and whether they meant it as a label of creative pride or of something less appropriate, Malachi had no intention of treating them any differently.

"You must be very talented, if you made a whole career of it," he offered, without any apparent distinction as to which of their talents he meant. It didn't matter. Skill was skill, no matter the medium. Malachi was quiet for a moment after, as he considered their request.

How many hungry people could he feed before Mrs. Higgins said something about it? It wasn't as if he carried around a bunch of money to offer them, to let them buy themselves a proper meal elsewhere. Helping those in need was what the church was supposed to do, and Malachi would not deny someone assistance.

"If that is what you need, I can at least help with that. What is your name?"

Chéri had purposely made an effort not to shock the priest while not lying to him. Their story was not exactly something most priest approved off and if told too openly there tended to be critiques and encouragement that, while not incorrect, were really impractical. But right now, they had the feeling they say much more to Malachi, even here, potentially.

They probably would have done it, had their nature not been so distrustful. All they allowed themselves was an extra twinkle in their eyes, easily readable as partiality. And yes, it seemed that the more ambiguous the other was, the more expressive Chéri became.

And the the next observation came, Chéri didn’t pretend to be humble. “I am. I also look the way people want an entertainer to look. I also have trained almost every day of my life to do what I do,” they were offering a lot of information for their standards and making themselves more known and more ambiguous at the same time.

Malachi needed a little bit of time, but which made Chéri grow nervous, so much so they closed their eyes and bowed their heads forward, praying silently, clutching their bags already, preparing themselves to leave with the mere confort.

Then the father spoke again and Chéri turned in surprise. They wetted their lips, unsure. Their usual shtick was inappropriate for the current situation, as was their name. After long and careful evaluation, Chéri concluded “I don’t have a real one, Père. They call me Chéri.” Darling. That was no name and certainly no name anyone could use in public.

Malachi, despite being a vessel of one of the biggest establishments to disapprove so strongly of pride, was not bothered by the lack of humility in their response. Regardless of his teachings, he thought pride was a good thing to have in one's self and in one's work. It could easily bleed into something bordering arrogance, if left unchecked, but he had always believed that pride was important to have.

Just because they had trained for their whole life to be good at whatever it was they did -- it did not necessarily mean that it was a good thing. There was more to life and living than serving other people, even if... it would have been awfully hypocritical of Malachi to tell them that. They were young, and seemed so full of life despite their efforts to dampen their energy within the church.

It took longer than he would have expected to get a name out of them. Even then, it left him with more questions than answers, but Malachi left them unsaid. He did not want to pry, not yet, not when they still looked wary of his reaction every time they spoke. But could he really call them that? It didn't feel proper, but what else was he to do?

"Alright," Malachi sounded somewhat reluctant. Rising from the pew, he made a gesture for them to follow him away from it, towards the sacristy door.

"Come then, Chéri, and we will at least find a meal for you."

Chéri had accepted that Pére Brennan wasn’t going to share his thoughts with them, positive or negative, but rather stick to their position as a spiritual guide and remain as neutral as they possibly could. It was a good quality in a priest, no doubt, but it was quite unusual. To be fair, there were several things in Pére Brennan that Chéri would have described as “unusual”.

Chéri’s energy, barely tamed, seemed to simmer while awaiting for a response… that never actually came. A subject that tended to be fairly controversial in any relationship and acquaintance Chéri ever had was skimmed over in this particular encounter and this pushed them to express curiosity, openly, by bending their heads to the side.

In another situation, Chéri would have said that any name Malachi saw fit would work for them, but in this particular case they did not want to insult the priest. Not only because they were going to feed them.

Chéri was immediately alarmed by the reluctancy in the other voice, his fingers immediately clutching their luggage, but the gesture said the opposite. They made their eyes foggy and stood completely still, for a moment, mirroring the neutrality they had seen in the other.

Chéri pressed their lips together and in the end they nodded, standing up, almost jumping and then slowed their pace down, to follow Malachi, hat in hand, eyes down, feet so quick and light one could have barely recognised their muffled sounds as steps.

“Please make sure I am no cause of trouble to you,” they added in the end, forgetting to carefully enunciate the words and make themselves clearer.

Ah. This little creature was hesitant too. Malachi watched their careful expression as they remained still, and wondered how long it had been since someone had offered any kindness to them. They looked far from sickly or hurt (they were closer to glowing, in fact), but there were other cruelties beyond the struggles that came with learning to fend for one's self. The world was harsh, and the people within it were harsher.

Their flighty demeanor conjured visions of a frightened deer, ready and willing to run.

(Rarely did the poor things run in the right direction.)

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly when they stood.

Malachi turned, guiding them easily out of the aisles. At the sound of their voice he turned his head, but did not stop his stride.

"No trouble at all," he assured, hoping that he had understood the phrase correctly. "That is why I am here."

Once he'd made it to the door, he pushed it open, and held it for Chéri to pass through. The sacristy was tidy and clean, but Malachi paid no mind to it, continuing on towards the presbytery.

"Ah- here," Malachi did stop then, and turned to face them with a hand held out. "I can carry that for you, if you like. I'm sure you must be tired."

Chéri had already decided to follow, they just had to decided how. They really didn’t have a choice if they wanted to eat right away and starving any further ought to be considered attentively, but as they did not mask their uncertainty, Père Brennan did something completely unexpected: he smiled. It was an very subtle change, but the meaning was vey clear to Chéri: come, you are welcome.

It was then that they decided to move, really, and follow, even protesting slightly. Chéri smiled with only one side of their mouth and said “even though I am not part of your flock?” They pointed out.

The sacristy looked how Chéri could have pictured it. They didn’t look around, feeling very much like an intruder, but instead kept their eyes on Malachi, involuntarily imitating the way he moved and, more importantly, didn’t move. Malachi offered to take their bag and Chéri blinked a few times.

The priest wasn’t going to rob them, of that they were sure, and he probably wasn’t going to be able to outran them anyway, but it felt wrong, the other man was an authority, while Chéri… Chéri hadn’t eaten in a few days and had been running away for a while. They sighed deeply then handed the bag with a swift, precise move, without admitting it in words.

In handing Malachi the bag, Chéri had handed him all their worldly possession and, inevitably, a certain amount of trust. And since they had made that first step, they allowed themselves to make a second one “Do… ships travel to France from here?” they asked, hesitantly.

Not a part of his flock, they said, but that was where they were wrong. Malachi opted not to say anything, but he did not suppress the subtle widening of his smile. This Chéri might not have been one of his congregants, but they could be -- and even if they chose never to walk through the door of Saint Hilda's again, he would still give them help when needed. Whether they traveled with his flock or someone else's, or even no one's at all, they were still a worthy part of creation.

Malachi led them through, and upon stopping, noticed again the reluctance that kept Chéri from immediately handing the bag over. Surely they understood that he would not steal it, nor take it from them if they wished to carry it on their own... but the added physical weight likely wasn't helping anything. He watched, patient as could be, and the luggage was wordlessly handed over.

As swiftly as he'd turned around, he was on the move again, glancing once to ensure that Chéri was still following him.

"I... could not tell you, I'm afraid."

He had spent as little time at the docks as he could, after all. Malachi carried the bag at his side, light in the strength of his grip.

"Why do you ask, chéri?"

The word sounded less like a proper name on his tongue, and more like the term of endearment it was usually used for.

Père Brennan didn’t respond. Chéri didn’t insist. They were not accustomed to force anyone’s truth out of their mouth, even though normally they read it on their body and found it easy to guess. But whatever Malachi had to show was hidden half by his demeanour and half by his robe.

The priest was patient with them, again and again and Chéri was keenly aware of it, like a prey trying to identify a shadow as a hunter or a casual passer by. Not yet a friend, even though they were testing him for that, in some capacity.

Chéri was following and stopped suddenly when the other turned, making an effort to make some noise, aware of their stealth.

Chéri nodded, taking the answer in. Chéri shook their head “I’m trying to understand what my options are.” And having those two syllables as their name sounded only natural.

“I also need to know if I can easily be reached, here,” they added, still weary of confidence to an extent, but determined to bring themselves to trust Père Brennan at least to some degree with more than what was absolutely essential.

Malachi was not fully confident in his interpretation -- nor in his understanding of what they might have meant. Trying to understand their options, that he caught, but the rest of it... he could not tell from the sentence alone if they wanted to be reached, or if they wished to avoid any potential ships from France.

Determined not to leave Chéri in silence, a low humming sound signaled his acknowledgement of at least having heard. Malachi's free hand went to open the door to the presbytery once they'd reached it, and again held it until the youth had passed through.

"Is it a good thing, to be reached?"

His voice came from behind, from the doorframe. He stepped inside and let the door gently shut.

Pére Brennan did not immediately elaborate further, but this time Chéri did not expect him to. They had learnt that the preist needed time to contemplate -or merely understand french-. The question that was returned to them was no surprise.

"No. It is safer if I cannot be reached easily. Also, it is harder to find me." There was something, back in France, probably someone who should find them.

Upon receiving the invitation, Chéri marched in, this time with no hesitation.