God, he was trying so hard.

Did everyone in Whitby want to fuck him?

Did the whole fucking parish have deep-rooted father issues and masochistic tendencies?

Or maybe they'd all just sussed him out before he'd even had a chance to establish himself as anything else but what he was. Malachi wondered when he'd let himself become so transparent; if it had happened without his notice, or if some part of himself had wanted to be seen in spite of his efforts to hide. But God, he didn't want to pack up and leave again. A priest had no home, but Malachi wanted for something, somewhere, sometime, to at least become familiar.

The beggar set his hand atop his head. So the priest twisted his fingers through his hair.

"Do you think that I need help keeping them in line?" Given the indignation that edged into his tone, the question was clearly rhetorical.

Close as Mister Tully had made them, Malachi leaned in closer still.

"Down, boy. I didn't tell you to touch me."

He released his grip, and his hand fell back to his side.