While Tully took a seat at the table, Malachi searched the cabinets for a glass. Found one, and started to bring it over before he realized that Tully had probably meant for the priest to have a drink too. With him.

He went back and grabbed a second glass.

Didn’t respond to the little inquiry regarding his refusal to speak of the detective, because that’d be talking about him more than he currently could cared to.

Malachi reached a long arm into the back of the pantry, rifled around for a second, and retrieved a tiny glass bottle of deep red liquid. He set the glasses down in front of Tully and poured a bit of the wine into both, then held one out to the younger man.

“Blood of Christ,” he joked, stone-faced.

He sat down after that, trying to keep his… what was it, nervousness? Shyness? Awkwardness? Whatever the fuck it was, he needed it contained. He couldn’t talk about the only thing that was on his mind, so what else was there? Even dead lovers felt safer.

Oh.

“Linus,” Malachi said, glancing down into his glass. “He was…”

God, this was hard too. He took a big sip from the wine.

“Would you tell me more about yours? About… Lewis?”