Like most things in life, Ropati vaguely guesstimated Mr. Brennan’s weight soaking wet. Halved, then halved again (because how much could a thing that size weigh?) his estimate of the fellow’s luggage, and held one lone hand out to take it.

Ropati sunk, arm first, like a rock. The bag hit the stairs, and Ropati banged his other elbow on the railing. His glasses slid down, and he pushed them back up hastily with his forearm.

He blinked, raised his brows, then straightened his back once more. Cast the bag a look as though to say, ‘well played, bag,’ and used both hands to heft it.

“Tough bag,” Ropati said, looking a bit sheepish himself.

He would have expected a thing like this to rip under the weight.

“Thank you.”

When they stepped in, someone was standing there, staring back … holding a strongbox underarm.

Uh oh.

Mister Fa'afili was going down.

“Shit–” Malachi hissed without thinking, immediately stepping forward to try and help or at least steady the older man, but he'd caught himself (mostly) before he could.

Wide-eyed, he could only blink. Mister Fa'afili picked the bag up with both hands this time, and Malachi said a silent prayer for the man's poor arm.

“...Yeah.”

Malachi got the door without another word about it.

He followed Mister Fa'afili inside, and let the door gently shut behind them. Before he could even look around the interior, someone else was there, staring on with what appeared to be as much confusion as Malachi felt.

“Hello,” he offered, after a moment of silence lasted too long. This at least spurred the poor man into action.

“Hello, can I… help you?”

Malachi looked to the man beside him, as if his question was directed at him instead.

“This is Saint Hilda’s, right?”

[[CW: colonialism + [blatant] violence]]

Ropati was all too used to hiding his pain, lest it make him expendable. His body wasn’t getting any younger, and his strained arm burned for it, but he hefted it like nothing had gone especially awry.

If nothing else, he would comfort himself with Mr. Brennan’s reflexive ‘shit!’ each time he lifted an agonizing box. The curse words had been learned the same way that children learn the midday sun is hottest. Then, it was promptly beaten out of them like the spirit of any Peruvian lordlings who didn’t get theirs straight out of a bottle.

Mr. Brennan looked to him. Ropati did not meet his gaze. He did not know who this man was, but he did not look like a priest and he had a strong box under arm. Either he was volunteering, or he was stealing it.

Neither were matters Ropati was inclined to interrupt.

“No, no,” Ropati started, content to remove himself from the scene of a potential crime as promptly as possible.

But Mr. Brennan asked for clarification. The man seemed even more flustered by this.

“I- yes,” the man answered. “Just helping out!”

“Let me show you to the …” shit, where was a good place to point him that let this guy steal in peace? “Washroom. It has been a long journey, has it not?”

The man's answer failed to bring him any comfort. Likely on account of the fact that the man was probably in the middle of burglarizing a church.

Malachi had known plenty of thieves, but it was rare that he ran across them like this.

His mouth opened again, as if he meant to ask something else, before his traveling companion's voice interrupted anything he might've said. Malachi frowned -- what would he want to go to the washroom with Mister Fa'afili for...? But it didn't take long for him to register Fa'afili's attempt.

"Ah!" he sounded all too enthusiastic then. "Of course, yes, the washroom. Very long journey, indeed."

Malachi moved, stepping out of the potential-burglar's path with a wave for Mister Fa'afili to move too. He started walking farther into the church, and didn't dare glance back.

"Surely it must be around here somewhere," Malachi pondered aloud, if only to show that he was definitely not paying attention to the man near the doors.

In broad daylight. Hm. He supposed he’d been getting away with it until they got here, but it still felt like the youth was getting bolder these days. Or maybe it was just the British.

Hopefully not the British.

Speaking of the British, Mr. Brennan was either desperate for a wash or just not keen on rocking the boat right after getting off of one. Ropati wasn’t about to complain. He was pretty sure he’d caught something something feed the poor in some of those street sermons, and this seemed like the most direct way.

“Other way,” Ropati said, conveniently keeping a sociable distance right in the doorway and blotting out most of the light (and robber). “Is there soap in there?”

Apparently the teachings hadn’t said a whole lot about soap. He’d learned to carry his own early on.

There was rather blatant banging from the sanctum. Bold, bold British.

"Ah yes, other way."

Malachi swiveled on the heels of his shoes in an all-too-fluid swish of black robes. Graceful and swift when he wanted to be -- or when he faced the threat of whatever the fuck the man in this church was doing.

"No soap..." he answered, disappointed.

What kind of church had he been sent to? A dirty one filled with thieves, apparently, which was painfully in line with what he should have expected, given the bishop's fondness for him. Maybe if he let them steal enough, he'd be sent somewhere else... there couldn't be that many churches with dirty, sticky hands like this one.

"...I'm starting to think I should have stayed on the boat."

Ropati was already fishing around in his pocket for the bar. Had to be in here somewhere … his hand hit paper, and he let out a breath of relief. Sure, he liked to be the first to break in a fresh bar of soap, but there were some places that were worse to lose it than others.

A hand with a still-wrapped bar of … anti-mosquito soap, hovered near the crack of the door.

For the first time, Ropati looked sympathetically at the priest. Well, the bathroom door Mr. Brennan was behind.

“I should have never gotten on one,” he commiserated. “Let me know if that soap’s any good.”

Doubted he’d see its kind again, but who knew with the British? They brought plants in from every end of the Earth – why not mosquitoes, too?

As soon as Fa'afili sent the bar of soap through the crack in the door, it was taken by the priest's spindly fingers.

"Thank you," Malachi offered in exchange, looking over the soap.

What kind was this? He unwrapped it and brought it to his nose.

It would have been preferable to have washed up practically anywhere else but here, with a man standing just outside the door and another one likely robbing his supposed church. If this was any indication of what his time in Whitby was going to be like, it would be best to excuse himself now and rethink his entire approach. God, he didn't want another situation like the last church he'd watched over.

All things he considered as he hurriedly washed up, grateful for the distraction it provided his hands.

"Good soap," he commented after, sounding distant. Malachi cracked the door a little wider to look out, ears trained for any sound that might have told him to shut it again. In a whisper, he inquired, "has he left yet?"

“You’re welcome,” Ropati answered, turning his back to the door.

To the soap, at least.

Since when were Christians a commodity that had to be shipped in to England? The impression he had maintained was that there were so many of them, they ended up overflowing and pouring out to every corner, every island of the earth.

The water stopped, sooner than he would have hoped. He still heard that man scuffling around doing something. There was a pause in scuffling, and Brennan peeked out. He could see that little white patch on his frock in the unlit room … but what he heard was youthful uncertainty.

If he had a son, he would guess him somewhere around Brennan’s age. He probably didn’t.

Still ran the math every time he met a dark haired someone who could be twenty-two years younger than him.

There was a loud, dragging sound. Ropati’s face twitched, a slide of his eyes over his shoulder as though that alone could show him what he was hearing. His eyes shifted back to Malachi. They both knew this man was a thief. They both knew they were opting out of ‘dealing’ with it, regardless of whether or not they could make any accurate guesses to the other’s intent.

“Think he’s still there,” Ropati answered quietly back, unperturbed.

Nothing more, nothing less … though Ropati didn’t move out of Mr. Brennan’s way, either.

Ah, there it was. That lovely sound of something heavy being dragged.

Malachi did not bother to mask his frown as he continued to peek out from the cracked door. It was about as far open as he could get it, what with Mister Fa'afili standing in the way. He fixed a look on the older fellow's side-profile, but what he thought about the situation (beyond the note of nervousness, that seemed only to excite his otherwise calm demeanor) was unclear.

"Suppose the church must not have been charitable enough," joked Malachi, tone as dead as whatever poor thing the thief was dragging about.

Seeing as his companion had apparently decided not to let him out just yet, the priest disappeared back into the washroom.

If Fa'afili did not want to let him out, then this damned church would receive the cleanest priest they'd ever seen.

With a frustrated sigh, Malachi wet his hair. It would probably smell like mosquito soap, but it was better than confronting whatever nonsense was happening outside the washroom door.

While his fingers threaded through the soapy strands, he called, "you ever sell to this church?"