Away from the women, there was a shift. Aslan was still far more guarded than even after mugging him and finding him in a half-feral state … but he would actually look at Malachi.

Malachi wouldn’t believe him. There was no way he would believe the truth. Of course he wouldn’t. Aslan spent so much time lying to throw everyone else both off her trail and out of her path. Who would believe him, and about such a ludicrous sounding thing at that?

So, Nettie was ‘like a daughter’ to him. Was his father like a father to him, too? Fair enough: she was not his problem, then.

… How old was Nettie? She looked about his age, and he found himself searching out every little line, every indent in his skin like he was looking for tree rings. What was he, thirty?

“The Whitby Ripper used to be down the street from here,” Aslan answered.

Well, ‘answered’.

“He’s dead, now, but he was not the only one targeting nubile young women here.”

Here. As in right here, down the hall, to the left and then right here.

He glanced to the door, left open for propriety’s sake. Saw no one lurking, and so stepped too close for the mere sake of giving him water. Still was burning with the flirty ‘detective,’ and found himself alleviated by a lower priority of looking out for Nettie. He took Malachi’s jaw in his left hand, like he was going to bring him down for a kiss … and then pressed the lip of the glass to his mouth instead. Drifted his free hand down to catch Malachi’s wrist, guiding his hand to the stem of the cup.

“I followed your suggestion, Malachi,” he said, keeping his light voice low.

It didn’t work. All it did was make him ache with loneliness in addition to guilt. But that wouldn’t bolster his next sentence, accompanied by a brush of his fingers over Father Brennan’s Roman collar.

“Perhaps you should try mine.”

If nothing else, at least the detective did not cast such a judgmental look upon him now. Caught him looking a bit too closely, but it wasn’t as if Malachi was doing anything different to him, narrowed gaze scanning that pretty face for an answer.

Which, the one he gave – not so comforting to hear. It lifted some small measure of suspicion from his vaguely concerned expression, but not all of it.

Teeth worried at the inside of his cheek, craving something to distract his anxiety.

“How reassuring,” the priest gave, monotonous as ever.

Nettie was not this man’s concern. Unless… he was suggesting that he was the one that might endanger her, should Malachi not keep her away. He turned over the words, considered what they might have meant, but any potential discoveries flew away once the other stepped close. Too close. Malachi wanted him even closer.

That glint in his eyes hadn’t faded by the time he touched his jaw, and left the priest peering down with the thinnest of veils to hide the heart of his suspicions. Would he threaten him here? Call the other chaperons in and have him beat for good measure?

(God, he wished he’d kissed him one last time before he’d left, as if that would have lessened his need now to kiss him again.)

Cold glass met his lips. Malachi’s fingers coiled about the stem, keeping it in place while the detective made his show of touching a stark white collar.

“Did you?” he returned, mirroring the other’s lowered volume. He hoped his bed smelled of lavender, strong enough to infiltrate his dreaming mind too. Malachi tipped the glass back, downing some of the water to soothe his sore throat. It didn’t, though. It only drew attention to the ache.

“I don’t know,” he said. Less than half-full, he held the goblet between them. “I rather like the way you call me Father.”

Not to mention all of the other, more pressing issues that he’d be faced with if he actually left this path. This lonely fucking path that at least provided a home and work for him in Whitby.

Flippantly, he added, “I’d likely have to move back to London, and I doubt I'd have the pleasure of running into you there.”

Judging by Malachi’s deadpan tone, at least he wasn’t especially upset by the possibility. Or perhaps he was just in that flux again, of being annoyed that he existed and also wanting to remind him that yes, there had been fucking and it had been fantastic. He wished he shared that annoyance, that he might be a smidgeon easier to resist. But then, considering this handsome, flirtatious priest allowed a certain little bird to lure him alone with him again? He wasn’t sure how well that was working out for him, either.

The smell of dried lavender was mainly from Malachi. The stalks he had used as incense had not been close to the closet, but they had been close to the bed. It had felt important to make some sort of distinction between the way they prepared it – and besides, the smoke of it was more pungent and stuck longer over other odors. It lingered strongest in Aslan’s hair.

His eyes dropped to Malachi’s throat when he swallowed, then drew back up and pretended he was innocent when that deep voice spoke. Aslan stepped back to be less suspiciously close with an exasperated look, like he hadn’t just been letting his own mind wander down paths it ought not. Was the pantry big enough for two standing? What about kneeling? His head turned to a shelf near the stove. Their oil wasn’t that far from him …

Not here. Not with his precious niece chatting up her imminent demise.

He leaned against the only slightly dusty counter, palms resting on it behind him.

“I have some work that would be easier done from London,” he shrugged with a coy look. “I suppose I could fly on by to visit, Father.”

Malachi would be far safer in London, even given all the problems of … well, London. At least in London, there was less likely to be someone actively planning his murder – right?

“Do you have family there?”

He figured an aunt or uncle, or a close sibling, perhaps, considering he had been on … ahem, bad terms with his father to put it lightly. Nettie’s parents would be his first guess, judging by the time implied spent with her.

When the detective removed himself from his immediate reach, Malachi lifted the glass and downed the water he had left. Still didn’t help any, but he suspected it had less to do with any calming properties of the water and more to do with the inflammation in his throat. Hacking up blood did him no favors, and their previous encounter hadn’t either.

He took a step forward and set the goblet down on the counter, near the other’s hand, glass settling down with a gentle ‘clink.’

Ah, how he made it sound so simple. Malachi gazed down at the emptied cup, watching the way the light reflected and bent through it. Spun it slowly back and forth with his fingertips. There was something comforting in knowing that this elusive man before him entertained the thought of visiting, but- how long would that suffice? Would he give a damn about a former priest in London if something in Whitby caught his interest?

Useless to think about, he supposed. It was all theoretical. Hinged on the idea that the detective would care enough to actually visit in the first place, and that he wouldn’t just rejoice in his departure. It’d make things easier, him being gone.

“I do,” he replied, letting his focus lift from the cup back to his face.

“I’m certain they would be delighted to see me back,” something about his tone implied the opposite. “But the house is mine.”

His mother was living in it, sure, but that didn’t have to be the case. It was too big of a place to live alone – unless his goal was to drive himself insane – but he’d take isolation over sharing days with her.

Malachi took another slow step forward, back into the little bird’s space. Raised a hand to thread his fingers through his hair, corners of his mouth subtly upturned with the familiar scent.

“I’d miss it here,” he said, but he didn’t brush it off. No, there was… a lot to consider. But he was less and less opposed to the idea as the days went on.

He stepped away, pivoting quick to grab the glass and walk back to get more water.

Plausibly deniable innuendo in the middle of a busy street? That was fine. Having sex with a priest, under his sacred cross, in a presbytery, with Christ’s attendants traipsing through the halls? Also fine. This queer little dance mere yards away from his sister, where voices were all about and anyone could walk in unfettered? Aslan’s gaze flitted to the open door when Malachi set his glass down, close once more.

The look on his face was guarded once more … but Aslan still dared a brush of his fingers across the back of Malachi’s hand. His fingers returned to their previous spot afterward, though Aslan remained studying Malachi even as he contemplated the cup.

It was sounding more and more as though Malachi were quite alone in his world … but did he just say house? The house was his?

“You … rent a whole house in London?” Aslan tried to clarify. “But sleep on a prison cot here?”

He couldn’t imagine owning property in London, let ago foregoing using said property in the name of a priesthood he hated. He was also hyper-aware of their proximity: too close, not close enough, close enough to get them both killed, arrested, or both … but could he have another kiss before their untimely demises? His eyes went, again, to the open doorway, tongue darting out across his lips as he contemplated closing the distance, leaning into Malachi’s touch.

Too late. When Malachi took the glass for more water … Aslan was equal parts relieved and on edge. He worried about leaving Nisa to her own devices for too long. That she might get bored, and somehow find a gruesome way to entertain herself. Or, worse – that she might draw conclusions about he and the priest, secreted away for a couple of minutes. Conclusions that were ridiculous on their face … ridiculous like a young woman with a body count that veterans would envy. One more glass.

“Then holiday here,” Aslan suggested.

As soon as it flew out of his mouth, the idea was warming to him. Neither present enough for Nisa to both get annoyed by and catch in time to kill, nor so absent that Aslan would feel like he’d died a virgin anew from the gaps of some form of intimacy. A life of feast and famine instead of just famine.

… Hm. Bad metaphor around a cannibal. At least he’d be eating Londoners instead.

Rent? God no. He almost laughed at that, but caught himself before the sound escaped. Perhaps it was better to let him think that he just funneled money into a house he didn’t even live in, just for the sake of… what? Having it?

“Sleep is a strong word,” he said instead. The point he made was a valid one, whether said ‘prison cot’ was actually slept on all that much or not.

Malachi pivoted, swept his fingers to catch the stem of the expensive glass.

It was his hope that, with him out of the room, Nettie might feel more free to socialize with the other women in the meantime – but in all likelihood, he imagined he’d just worried her beyond that. And for what? He should have conducted himself better. Should have let the detective’s presence be as easy to ignore as, say, the vows he’d broken with him.

The poor mistreated vows that he desperately just wanted to break with him again.

Back turned, Malachi watched the water slowly fill the glass. It made him feel a little better about the smile that dared cross his face.

“Ah,” he gave a nod, though his eyes remained on the water. “Alright.”

Was it an agreement? An assurance that he’d try? Leave the priesthood? Hard to tell, faced away as he was, but it sure sounded like a better shot at… at anything, than this. And that was the problem.

He wasn’t supposed to want more. He’d promised his life to the Church, forsaken all desire for anything else – but, of course, he had not quelled everything. Hadn’t truly given up anything but honesty, in taking his vows.

“Or you could come with me,” Malachi ventured, voice lower still.

A portly man passed through the doorway and Malachi straightened up. Turned around, bringing the glass to his lips to sip at it. While the third party (intruder, he thought bitterly) went to fetch something from the pantry, offering but a glance to the other two, the priest finished his water and set the glass back down.

“I should check on Nettie,” he said, “show me back to the sitting room?”

Huh. What an excessive fellow. He’d considered pointing out some of his own hiding places, lest Malachi be hard on luck … but it sounded as though those gold rings were just the start of his advantages. Of course he’d be an eccentric rich.

What did that say of the rest of his lifestyle, then? Was this priesthood a holiday from his usual, on the hunt for a new type of victim? Or perhaps, as one of the women at the brothel liked to speak of, he was one of those types who liked to throw himself over the laps of the less fortunate for some strange sort of carnal penance.

The strangely easy agreement was hardly a signed contract … but he supposed that meant Malachi was going to holiday here? Was he not already on some sort of strange, self-imposed holiday here? How long had he been a priest, even? Long enough to get moved multiple times by his own admission, but who knew if that were weeks or years.

There was a shift behind Malachi, at the suggestion. Before Aslan could make any answer to it, however, a man was moving through.

“Mr. Walters,” he greeted, out of habit.

“Mr. Koch,” he answered back absently as he passed to the pantry.

Damn it.

“Of course, Father,” he said to Malachi, polite and aloof once more.

It was far from a confusing path, though it had begun to quiet down. Substantially. He heard men. Men, men, and more men. A woman who sounded more mature than either Nisa or Nettie, and men again. His meander at just ahead of whatever pace Malachi set picked up, hands sliding into his pockets with the briefest of uncomfortable looks flitting across his face.

While the men made promises of a better life, Nettie had been worried especially as her uncle seemed bothered and was now taking a long time to get water. Water he had denied when she had offered, but accepted when this stranger suggested it. Maybe he was avoiding her.

Nisa had suggested she distract herself and they stepped outside together. They'd already said their farewells to the women in the household so no one batted an eye when they went out the front door and out of sight.

So a name was revealed by his own little slip.

The near-frown that Malachi had chosen to present before this Mr. Walters grew strained; he had to stifle his odd little victory for his sake. Still there was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he gestured for Mr. Koch to go ahead.

He wasn’t all that sure why a name had to be a mystery – wasn’t sure what the detective supposed he’d do with it, if he’d known a full name from the start. Was that too much, to him? Too close, too personal; did he prefer to keep Malachi at so far a distance that their only time together should be holidays?

Malachi followed after him. Did his best to refocus his thoughts on matters other than the heart and dick. Succeeded only partly, until he found the thinning crowd strangely devoid of his niece.

Had she gone outside to wait for him? Oh, he hoped she had taken some of the other ladies to wait out there with her. He was hardly concerned about being out on the street himself, but the detective’s odd line of questioning had planted a seed of worry.

“She’s… not in here,” mentioned Malachi, loud enough to be heard over the stream of other voices. He knew for a fact that she wasn’t, because he could see over the heads of nearly everyone there and he didn’t see Nettie – or the sister.

That, for some reason, set him on edge.

“Neither is your sister.”

Malachi crossed towards the door instead, cutting a path through a crowd that (for the most part) parted easily.

Aslan, a full-grown man, did what any full-grown man would do being caught out on something he’d rather not be: he rolled his eyes.

At least there were plenty of people with the same last name. His father’s case held no flame to, say, Magnus Carrington, and even less fire to those outside of law enforcement. But sometimes, sometimes, there was this perpetual news reader or that York busybody who fancied an encyclopedic knowledge of all the ne’er do wells.

Had he not stayed involved with local constabularies? Had he, instead, kept his head down weeding and whatever it was the Gardeniers did on the side to make life a little more livable? Perhaps his family’s shame would have finally faded … the known shame, at least.

All Malachi needed do was loom, but Aslan was picking up his pace to retrace his steps to where he’d left his sister last. An uncomfortable look over his shoulder as what he feared was voiced aloud. Not by the couch. Not anywhere in the room.

“Excuse me,” he butted in to a conversation near the couch.

The man and woman startled apart from what sounded like a tense conversation.

“Did you see where my sister went?”

“Oh, yes, she left already,” the woman said, with a glint of delight. “Weren’t you supposed to be walking her? She took Nettie instead.”

“Thank you,” Aslan called over his shoulder, already running to catch up with a much more long-legged priest.

Shit. Whether Malachi cared for her or not, he couldn’t see him being thrilled about this outcome.

But where would Nisa have brought her victim in such short order? He figured it was difficult to carry her ‘tools’ in her dresses, and she had been so insistent on getting both she and Malachi to ‘visit’. To give her maid a challenge.

“Nisa?” he called out. “Sorry to keep you waiting! Are you here?”

Please let her still be in shouting distance. Please let her still be in shouting distance.