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.