Sundays are always a potluck for me. It's the day the clinic is open for two hours, mostly to serve the needs of people who don't get any other day off. Usually, it's quite relaxed; rarely am I fully booked on a Sunday, and it's usually the same patients coming in, so the routine of it all keeps things running smoothly.

After clinic duty, though, is another matter entirely. The rest of the day is kept open for Redwood residents, and while most of their care needs fall under Tamika's purview, I'll go from being a layabout in a rubber ducky lab coat to a blue-arsed fly whenever there's an outbreak of a lurgy, sometimes not finishing up until long after dinner.

In the absence of some pestilential thing, though, the relaxed nature of the day continues and after a few hours of work, I get to spend an hour playing go fish with Mam (classed as fine motor exercises administered by a medical professional, no less!) before I clock off at two. Small town doctor living at its very finest.

My Saturday visits to Redwood to see Mam allow me to forecast my Sunday with reasonable accuracy. This morning, as I lean on the kitchen bench and watch the fog through the window, I'm happily cognizant of the fact that my muscles are buttery and loose. Today is going to be a slow day, and after this last chaotic spell, it's very, very welcome.

Of course, a slow day is a day all the same, even if the time isn't shooting past like its arse is on fire. Ipso facto, I have to eat breakfast and get ready to join the snailing proceedings.

When I peel myself off the bench and stick the kettle on for a cup of tea, Zevran appears in the doorway, and though he's neatly dressed and groomed, something looks off. There are small, dark rings under his eyes, his nose is red, and, most uncharacteristically, his mouth is slightly ajar. I'd bet a week's wages he's so congested he can't get a whisper of air in through his nasal passages.

"Good morning," he says to me, looking like he had absolutely not just said gnnd mod-ng.

"Wow. Tell me you've caught a cold without telling me you've caught a cold," I rest my hands on my hips and raise an eyebrow at him as he continues to feign nonchalance.

"This?" He waves a dismissive hand. "This is nothing at all. Do not trouble yourself. What are we doing today?"

"I am going to work, and you," I point at him, "are going to stay home and rest. We'll eat some breakfast, and then it's back to bed with you."

My only response is him looking at me like I'm asking him to recite War and Peace in twelve minutes.

"Oh, spare me the cynicism," I roll my eyes. "Sick people need rest, medicine, and good food. And now that I know you're sick, I certainly don't want you coming with me to Redwood and passing it on to the residents."

I start scanning the pantry for the herbal tea leaves. "Is your throat sore?" I ask from between the top and middle shelf.

"A little scratchy, perhaps, but nothing exciting, I assure you." He follows this up by clearing his throat delicately, and I'm pleased he can't hear me rolling my eyes.

I'm out of herbal tea, it turns out, but there's fresh pre-cut ginger in the fridge.

"How 'bout some ginger and honey tea, hmm? I'll have some, too. The stuff needs to be used. Say no if you don't want any."

He says nothing, and in a few minutes, I've got a pot of ginger honey tea steeping on the table.

"While we wait for that to brew, I'd like to measure your temperature and listen to your breathing, if I may, to check the infection isn't in your chest, too. It's nothing invasive or painful, and we can stop at any time."

He nods, and I'm back in a flash with a no-touch thermometer and a stethoscope. After explaining the stethoscope's function and wiping the earpieces clean after Zevran has had a turn with it, I listen to his chest, which is clear. Good start. The temperature seems high at 38.5 degrees, but it's hard to say if elf physiology is any different; I note it down on a scrap piece of paper for reference. I ask to look at his throat, going very much above the call of duty by obliging him with repeated demonstrations of sticking my tongue out and aaah- ing before he does it himself. Worth, it, though; I can see that it's red, and I think my willingness to cooperate makes him more willing, in turn, to oblige me when I ask him to bend his head down to touch his chest with his chin for the meningitis check. He manages to do it, which is good. It's the same range of symptoms as I was handling last week, so I imagine he caught the virus when he was in the clinic, probably from touching his face with dirty hands.

"When did this start, Zevran?

"Mmm, I felt a little unwell by the time I was in bed last night."

"Any discomfort or pain?"

He shrugs languidly. "A little. Nothing that requires bed rest, though, I am sure."

I shrug back. "You're staying home today, so you might as well. Looks like a thing I saw last week in a few of my patients. You should feel better within two weeks, but if it's what I think it is, I have some medicine that can cut it down to about a day, tops. Are you open to trying it?"

Not many people would say no to something like that, and Zevran is not one of that slender minority. I fetch the antiviral I put aside for myself in the event that I caught it, and he knocks it back with a mouthful of water and a disgusted expression. I laugh, knowing exactly why.

"Tastes like cat piss, doesn't it?"

He wrinkles his nose and nods, accepting with alacrity the piece of chocolate I offer him to take the taste out. So disgusted that he doesn't even take the opportunity to be a smart-arse and ask me how I know what cat piss tastes like. He must be sick.

Half an hour later, we both have a belly full of baked beans and toast and I'm all but frog-marching Zevran back to his room with the laptop in hand.

"I assure you, my dear Van, there is no need for all this shoving and banishment--" he protests as we reach his room, and I cut across him.

"Now, while I'm gone, try to get some rest. I've written the password to the computer, and this…" I set the laptop down on the bedside table, turn it on, and open the Mercury app, "is how you can get in touch with me. Press this symbol to call me, and you can write a message to me like this," I write bring me food in the text box and hit enter, and my phone vibrates a moment later. I take it out of my pocket and show him the message on the screen, and he looks very impressed. "All clear?"

He nods.

"Okay. Well, I have to run to work, but call or write if you need anything. Otherwise, rest. Take what you want from the kitchen."

I get another, rather more reluctant nod, and I grin back at him. "Good. Well, into bed with you, then. I'm not leaving the house until you're lying down."

And as living proof that hindsight is indeed 20/20, I regret saying that only after the words have left my mouth and Zevran's diffident expression abruptly turns into something devilish.

"You need not leave the house once I'm lying down, my dear," he lounges on the bed and shuffles back a little. "There is plenty of room for you here, and I'm sure I can offer something more interesting than work, even in my current condition." With one hand patting the empty part of the bed invitingly, he uses the other to trace a finger over his lower lip, pulling a sly smile along with it as he does.

It's not joking enough for me to find it funny, and I don't think it ever could be. I give him a withering look, making a point of folding my arms as I do.

"Zevran, it would be disgustingly predatory of me, as the person you depend on for a decent standard of living, to accept your advances. And beyond that, I'm not in the business of sleeping with sick people. I'm not leaving now so I can cry in the car that you haven't passed your plague on to me, believe me."

His face is stone-still for a moment, his sphinxlike expression permeated only by the slight squint to his eyes. If I were to guess, he hasn't had someone seriously turn him down because of the ethics behind it, and he has no clue what to do. That, as far as I'm concerned, is my cue to leave.

"Right. I'm out of here. Be good while I'm gone, call me if you need anything, and don't burn the house down."

The squint turns into some sort of coy look, and with a wave, I depart before a repeat episode can occur.

My walk to the car has me feeling pretty pleased with myself. I don't want Zevran to be unwell, of course, but if it had to happen, the timing is really very good. After an upheaval like what he's just been through, some time where he has to rest and putter around the house and examine it as deeply as he wants without fear of interruption is just the shiny shilling.

Though, I muse as I unlock the car, the illness will blow over-- ideally sooner rather than later-- and that means some sort of routine will have to be established, some sort of normalcy for the poor bastard. Something to busy himself with, friends, and, of course, the administrative nightmare of trying to get him into the system so he's documented. He can't just spend the rest of his days living off the books here. I've had undocumented patients who describe the experience as utterly miserable, living on the edge of society in a constant state of paranoia about authorities catching them and jailing them. That won't be Zevran's life; I can't allow that. But where do I even start? I've already begun lying to people about him. Who can I trust about this?

I turn on the car, and after Zippo's helpful reminder about the magnet re-alignment, I'm on my way to the clinic.

And then it hits me: Shadi. Shadi got me into this in the first place. I can trust Shadi.

At my directive, the phone is ringing, and their sleepy, rumbly voice comes over the speakers.

"Habibti , it's 9:30 on a Sunday morning," they croak. "Have you died, or what?"

"Nice to speak to you too, sunshine," I answer merrily. "How's you and the fam?"

"You did not call me this early to ask me how we are. Not when you only saw me a few days ago, and not when I was dreaming about flicking a spitball at Uncle Jerry every time he made an aphobic comment."

Ooh, what a fantastic dream. I've had the displeasure of running into Uncle Jerry fairly often when visiting Shadi's house, as he often drops the cousins off, and he is the epitome of the sexist, homophobic, everything-ist white man. The only reason he is permitted to keep coming is because his kids are queer and Shadi's place is the only respite they get. "Bring me to the next reunion on your mother's side and I'll make your dream a reality," I declare, not a hint of a joke in me.

I hear a laugh. "Yeah, all right. Alhamdulillah I'm fine," I echo them with a 'hamdulillah' of my own , "and Mom's okay. Her orientation day at the new school went fine." Our mothers are best friends and colleagues who taught at the school Shadi and I attended with our siblings. "Baba's in bed with some virus thing, waiting for the pills to kick in. No other news. How's Mam?"

Why I shrug when Shadi can't even see me is a mystery, but it happens anyway. "Eh. She had three big seizures yesterday," I pause reflexively as Shadi makes the sad noise I knew was coming. "Well, so JJ tells me, anyway. She was relaxed and listening to a book by the time I got there, so I left her be in case she was drifting off to sleep."

They make another soft 'mmm,' and the noise never fails to comfort me. Frank in their sadness and laden with warmth and compassion, which is Shadi to a T. I'm untensed enough from it that I push on a little. "Guess I'll find out what's going on this afternoon. Anyway, though, that's not why I'm calling you."

"Man, I thought you really wanted to know how we were doing, but okay. What'd you call me for, huh?"

"I need to make a booking."

"A b-- what?"

"You heard me. Take next Friday off."

Shadi's disbelieving scoff makes me snort a little. "Gonna tell me why you suddenly want me to call off work for a day?"

"Apfff. Eighteen years of friendship– siblinghood even– and three of working at the clinic, and you still don't remember it's closed last Friday of the month? The same one that I use to bum around with you and the folks for the day? Gosh. I want you to sleep over at my place Thursday night, maybe stay until Saturday or Sunday, if you like. Can Mom and Baba spare you?"

There's a shriek of triumph. "Alhamdulillah, you're finally going to fix your room! I'll be there. Do you want me to bring paint?"

"Ugh, don't get ahead of yourself, m'theydy," I grizzle back. "This is for something entirely different. Believe me, though, if you come to my place after work Thursday, even if you can't get Friday off, you won't regret it."

"So… you'll make me pizza and brush my hair?"

"Anything for you, baby."

"Anything, huh? So we can play ten rounds of dominos?"

Fucking Shadi. I hate dominos with a passion and they know it. Time to end the call. "Shadi-- Shadi I have to go, I just got to the clinic. Give my love to Mom and Baba, and bring your sleepover stuff--"

"You're not at the clinic, the car hasn't even said anything!" Shadi protests, but I'm already plastering them with a wave of 'byes' and 'I love yous', and the last thing I hear before I hang up is a loud, acquiescent groan. Good. So that's the other half of the week sorted.

And I wasn't exactly lying. I pull up in the parking lot maybe a minute after that, and open the clinic with a spring in my step.

My luck compounds through the day. Only two people are scheduled for the entire two hours, and both consultations are fast. It leaves me with plenty of time to start thinking through what I need to do to help Zevran get a bit more settled, as well as independent. The federal government has a scheme that provides benefits to newly-arrived Summoneds. Things like accommodation and transport assistance, and financial help while they navigate their way around life here. Since he has to stay anonymous for now, though, it's on me to sort it out.

I decide the best way to do it is to get him a prepaid debit card in my name, which I'll automatically load an above-average wage onto each month. With all his costs of living being covered, he should be able to buy whatever he wants, or at least save for it with ease. He needs a phone and be taught how to use it, and to learn how to do online shopping.

An hour and a half into clinic duty, I sit with a goopy brain and a rather extensive list of everything I anticipate Zevran will need. There is undoubtedly much more that I haven't thought of, but administrative things never were my strong suit (hence the change in brain consistency).

I end up leaving shortly after; I don't do walk-ins on Sunday unless it's an emergency, but as a rural doctor, I'm always on call for emergencies anyway. It gives me the opportunity to nip into the hypermarket and pick up some chilli chocolate for Zevran (god bless placebos) and put an order in with the delicatessen section to hold some chicken and vegetable soup and a wholegrain baguette for me so I can collect it on the way home. That'll be dinner for us tonight.

I also pick up a SIM card and pre-paid debit gift card and load $1 000 onto it, which should tide Zevran over until I can get to the bank and order the proper reloadable kind.

Another half-hour later, I'm at Redwood, armed with a bunch of gerberas in every colour Doug had to offer ("Where's your handsome man, Vannie?" "Not my man, Doug, and he's sick in bed. Sorry to disappoint. I'll bring him when he's not handing out the plague like you hand out roses when you've overstocked." "Agh, come on, that happened once!").

Duties are a little heavier than anticipated as I take over wound care (the nurses were run off their feet), and I end up finishing at three o'clock. Flowers in hand, I make my way to Mam's room, where she's relaxing in bed in a set of joggers and a baggy t-shirt, browsing her tablet. I knock on the door, and she looks up at me and smiles.

"Hello there." My accent's all but gone, but I make it as strong as it once was whenever I speak with Mam, who never lost hers. "Remember me?" She rarely answers that she does, and never that I am of any relation to her, but I ask all the same so that I can give a more plausible story, depending on what answer she gives.

She puts the tablet down and sits up, frowning a little. "I don't, I'm sorry," she says apologetically. Her voice is a gentle drawl that belies the hours of gruelling speech therapy she slogged through after the accident. "I don't think we've met before." Even so, she beckons me in, gesturing at the seat by her bed. "But I'm a little scatterbrained at the moment, so it's probably why. Come in, so. Sure you look like you've come a long way."

With an appreciative nod, I step inside and sit, careful not to posture myself in an over-familiar way. The vase beside her bed is empty again; another resident has a habit of taking them while Mam's having a shower, which I thought was best solved by supplying new flowers daily. The other person gets flowers, and Mam gets new ones before she really notices the others are gone.

"No, no, it's fair that you don't remember me; you're a student teacher, aren't you?"

She smiles proudly. "I am. Just finished my second-last classroom practicum. Did I teach one of your wee ones?"

I nod. "You did. Jamie, his name is. He came home today saying you'd finished with them last week, and you did a fine job with him, Miss Sullivan. He's a happier boy thanks to you, and I wanted to give you this to say thanks from him and me." I hold up the flowers and Mam's face lights up.

"Oh, you're good," she coos as she clasps the bouquet between her hands. "I do love gerberas, and this bow!" She regards the elaborate knot pattern in the bow with the same fascinated admiration she always has for Doug's handiwork, and beams at me before she starts hunting around. She's looking for a vase, and I pre-empt her a little, offering to fill the one beside her bed with water. She sees where I'm pointing and has a small lightbulb moment but declines my offer, saying she'll do it herself in a minute.

We make small talk as I ask about her studies. Many of the things she tells me are repeated from previous visits, but it's a perfect starting point for a stranger, and I know enough to be able to segue into knowing some of her friends-- which I do; Shadi's parents are like my own, and I can slip in news about them, too. Doing it makes the conversation flow much easier and grows more meaningful, and it's when it gets to this point that I love and hate the moment. I'm reminiscing with Mam, sharing familiar discourse that I've been starved of for years and will have to rebuild from scratch on my next visit. At the same time, though, I'm lying. I'm an impostor, availing myself of a familiarity that isn't genuine or necessarily mine to take. I console myself with the belief that it keeps us both ecstatically happy for a short while, keeps her memories fresh since she has nobody else here to share them with-- that the good outweighs any potential immorality that lying brings.

But the guilt is always there, and I can seldom last more than an hour before I have to get away. Away from her, what I do is easily justified, but the trust in her face makes a justification hard to see when we're in the thick of it.

Today, I wrap things up saying that I'd better go and pick up Jamie from cub scouts, and she asks if she can give me a hug. It's been a while since she did that, and I accept immediately, making sure to keep the embrace as light as I can so that I don't slip and cling onto her like a rhesus monkey. But she hugs me firmly, and I can smell a faint trace of the orange perfume she likes to wear, and Jesus Christ of almighty, I'm so close to losing it. I think of something stupid to distract myself, like Shadi pelting dominoes at me, and the crisis is temporarily averted.

With a wave and wishes of a good afternoon, I make to leave.

"Ah, 'scuse me, I didn't catch your name, after all that."

"Aoife," I say automatically before mustering a chuckle. "Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself."

"Ah, sure don't worry about it," Mam waves a hand good-naturedly. "I forget things all the time, myself. Aoife, would you tell me what you put in your hair for them curls?" She brings the same hand up to her head, fidgeting gently with her hair. "I can't tame mine like that."

There's nothing to tame, Mam. Our curls sit exactly the same, but yours are longer and blonde.

"Ah, sure yours'll be breaking the hearts of every young man around, Miss Sullivan," I reply. "They're lovely as can be. But I'll give you the name of the hair oil I put in after I wash it. It's better than conditioner." I scribble down the name of an oil blend I use and give it to her, making a mental note to buy her a bottle the next time I'm at Doug's.

She takes the paper appreciatively and by the time we've exchanged see-you-laters for real this time, I'm pretty sure she's forgotten who I pretended to be. The vagueness in her smile is unmistakable, and it eats me like a corrosive until I'm out of there and sitting in the car, dragging in lungfuls of air with the urgency of a drowning person. If I have any mental dialogue, I can't hear it over the sound of my gasps. My fingertips are tingling, head growing lighter and lighter by the minute, and I should have distracted myself earlier, but I just didn't have the capacity to find my phone and scroll through it. Once the tingling starts, though, I never seem to be able to calm down, so there's only one way this is going to end, and it's coming at me fast. I barely get enough time to lean back in my seat before my brain cuts out and everything snaps into nothingness.

I don't imagine I've been out for a long time when I come to. Probably only a second or two, since my head hasn't moved far from the spot it was in when I conked out.

I open my eyes. My ears are ringing, but at least my vision is regaining sharpness and colour, a sort of reverse fade-to-black. After a couple of slow breaths, I'm hankering for a distraction and fumble around with shaking hands to take my phone.

The screen comes on and it's almost overwhelming to be spoiled for choice. There are so many things I could do with the phone... I could browse the internet for a while, but I can't think of anything I want to look at right now.

Message Shadi, maybe? Nah, I left them on tenterhooks and they'll insist on distracting me by winkling my secret news out.

Ah! Message Zevran. Yes, it's a good time to check on him without seeming like I'm breathing down his neck, ask him if he needs anything, and it's good reading and writing practice for him to boot. I nod in agreement with myself, because somehow my body has to wave the suggestion through before anything can get done.

Hi, there. :) How are you feeling? I'm finished for the day; is there anything you need/want from Doug's while I'm out?

The replying… status comes on almost immediately, and it stays on for a while.

hello van i am quite fine thank you

i do not need anything but i appreciate the offer

you are coming home now

that was a question

I snort to myself, resolving to show him the punctuation symbols on the keyboard when I get home, and the wonders of the shift key, too, while I'm at it.

I should be home in about 15 minutes. Call me if you need anything, don't write; I can't read messages while I'm driving. See you soon!

By the way, I have news! Tell you when I get home :)

With that, I set the phone down, make the drive to pick up the soup, and finally, I'm home again, grocery bag in one hand and the baguette in the other. I decide not to call to Zevran as I enter the house in case he's fallen asleep; zytraxadine can really take it out of a person. Just as I set the soup down on the kitchen bench, a noise from behind startles me so badly my bowels almost evacuate then and there. Or at least they would have, had I not swung around with the baguette in my hand and had it narrowly miss Zevran's face (only because he dodged it, too).

"My dear Van," he remarks with a far less congested tone as he straightens up and regards me with a grin, "you will need a better weapon than bread if you intend to fight someone and win."

I snort and set the baguette down. "On the contrary. You think accusations of violence will hold any water when all I did was wave a breadstick? You sound a lot better, by the way."

And he looks it, too; much less red in the nose, and his mouth is closed when not in use. There's still a little tiredness to his eyes, but it's far less pronounced now than it was before.

Zevran gives a little nod and sits down at the table. "Mmm. I am surprised how quickly your foul-tasting medicine is working. We did not have anything that speedy in Thedas."

I had wondered for a while there if mages were of any use in treating infectious diseases; had the presence of Tevinter mage during that outbreak in the Alienage been of any use at all? Were they even treating infectious diseases that we know of here, or was it some sort of illness unique to Thedas? Dragonblood plague, perhaps? Ferelden fever? Who knows?

"We've come a long way," is the frankly pathetic answer I offer before following up with something substantially more useful: "are you hungry?"

He shrugs a little. "I could eat."

"Good." I produce the grocery bag. "I brought dinner home. Just let me shower first, and I'll be right back."

When I'm back in the kitchen a few minutes later in my pyjamas, I see Zevran sitting at the table, examining the enormous tub of soup.

"This container is fascinating," he murmurs to me. "Warm to the touch, transparent, and yet very durable."

"The material's called plastic. Same as the light in the fridge. And inside the container is chicken soup lovingly made by Doug's husband Jeremy, served with a side of dangerous blunt object," I jerk my thumb at the baguette.

Zevran peers at the soup with interest. "So it isn't just Antivans who take to the broth during periods of illness, it seems," he murmurs, tapping the lid with a finger.

"Apparently not," I shrug. "Anyway, I'm going to have some now. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and I'm starving. Do you want me to heat some up for you, too?"

My answer is prefaced with his low, smooth chuckle, but his smile has a tinge of warmth to it. "You spoil me, Van."

I chortle, taking the soup and a couple of bowls over to the microwave. "Spoiling someone is zapping their food for them? Wow. You'll have to tell Shadi th--" I stop and spin around. "Oh! Shadi! Right!"

Zevran's bafflement at the wide-eyed freak staring at him is palpable, and I quickly return to the task of heating the soup.

"That was the news I was going to tell you. You'll remember that Shadi is the one who works with the machines you saw in the clinic, right?"

I get an 'mmm?' in response. The microwave beeps as I set the time, and the soft hum of cooking food begins shortly after.

"Yeah. Well, it's also thanks to Shadi that I even learned about you at all."

True, deep interest comes to Zevran's face now, and he leans forward in his seat, regarding me keenly.

"Shadi's a far better storyteller than me, though, so I'll leave to them to give you the background, but I took the liberty of inviting them over here next week to stay for a little bit." I pause and frown. "Oh, actually… I really shouldn't have just taken the liberty, not when you live here, too. I'm sorry about that."

He blinks a little, but is quick to shake his head. "Not at all. Invite whomever you wish. This is your house."

I shake my head. "Doesn't work like that, Zevran, I'm afraid. For as long as you're here, this is your house, too, and you have an equal say in who comes in here."

It was necessary to say, but it doesn't mean it was well-received. Zevran chuckles blankly and shakes his head back at me.

"Ah, we both know that is not the case. I did not buy this marvellous place, so it cannot be said that this is my house--"

"It absolutely can, and it is," I interrupt him gently. "This is non-negotiable. Even if you have no rights anywhere else on this planet until we can get you registered, so long as you're under this roof, you have an equal say in how things go here." I fix him with my Serious Doctor Face and receive a shuttered expression in return, and we stay that way for a time. I'm sure my uneasiness is as plain as his is (since when do assassins fidget?) but we are both steadfast in our resolution not to be the first to break eye contact. Well, until the microwave goes off, anyway, which scatters our foolish stubbornness like an upended dish of birdseed.

"And that brings me back to this news," I continue as though we hadn't just engaged in an ocular shootout with each other, swapping Zevran's bowl of soup out for mine and giving it to him. "Plates are in that cabinet up there, and the bread knife is on the metal strip just underneath," I add with a quick wave at a cabinet just beside him before getting back on topic.

"I mindlessly invited Shadi, because Shadi's about the only person I know for certain I can trust to know about you. The real you, that is, not Carlos Lunch the mystery friend. And they're also the only other one I can trust to help us get you some sort of resident status here-- only if you want, that is."

Zevran sits with his full bowl of steaming hot soup, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. The start of a frown is beginning in his eyes and gently pulls at his eyebrows.

"I am happy to meet Shadi, though I must say that this business with settling in seems a rather complicated endeavour," he says after a while.

"Don't wait for me. Eat your soup while it's still hot. Here's some salt, pepper, and chilli flakes if you need them," I push the condiment rack toward him, but he doesn't touch them.

"It is a lot of trouble to go to for someone you barely know."

I smirk. "The fact that I used my only summon to get you here should speak of the lengths I'm willing to go for 'someone I barely know,'" I make bunny ears with my fingers, "but even so, this isn't much trouble at all, especially not when the spoils are as big as they are if we succeed."

Zevran's entire body is rigid now, and it's only when the microwave goes off again that he's jolted out of his statuesque bearing.

"What… would happen if we were to succeed?" he broaches, surveying me like I'm about to rip the rug out from under him and take back what I said. But I'm absolutely thrilled, because at last, he's looking a little beyond the here and now.

"Excellent!" I enthuse, setting my bowl of soup down and taking the chair near him. "Questions are good, and so is curiosity. To succeed means you're registered on the same list as every other person living here. It makes you a citizen and that means you are entitled to everything a citizen is entitled to as well."

I break off a hunk of the baguette and put it on my plate. "Don't you want any bread? Soaks up the broth nicely."

His scrutiny only lasts a moment before he takes a knife and neatly cuts a smaller piece for himself, but I postpone my lecture about him not getting enough food for the time being.

"Summoned people are entitled to assistance from the government while they establish themselves. They usually get a monthly stipend that covers their costs of living and assistance with education, transport, and accommodation."

His eyebrows shoot up, and it makes me laugh a little.

"Sounds good, doesn't it? Until we can get it sorted, though, I've got a workaround in mind."

"Oh?"

I reach into the bag and pull out the prepaid debit card. "This is called a debit card. We don't have coins or the like any more. All our money is stored on these." I hold it out for Zevran to take, and he does, turning it over in his hands and running a finger over the chip.

"It is very thin," he murmurs in fascination, holding it at eye level to observe from all angles, as if looking for flattened coins.

"Another intelligent machine," I explain. "Money is received and spent in the form of messages, and all that information is kept on the machinery in the card. Merchants have small machines to examine the card and put a message of deducted money on it, and occasionally you will be asked to give an access number for it to let the message be put on the card. Keep that number a secret from others. This one's number is…" I gently lift the cardboard that's hanging off the end of the card. "2795. Don't worry, it's simple, and you can practice a few times on the machine in the clinic when nobody else is in."

He nods before rubbing his chin. "If you do not have coins, though, I imagine I will not be able to use the little money I brought to somehow put inside the card."

"Oh, shit!" I wave my hand and laugh, shaking my head at my own forgetfulness. "That's the part I forgot. Instead of the government paying you, I'll pay you. Ah-ah, don't worry," I hold up a hand before he can protest. "I make a lot of money, remember? Besides, I'm responsible for dragging you out of Thedas without warning, so there's no question that I should be covering whatever you need. You'll get a stipend of five thousand dollars per month, which is about the average monthly wage before tax. All of your costs of living- food, transport, accommodation, clothing, equipment, whatever-- that's all covered, so you can save or spend the money as you please. I'll show you how to use the computer to do your shopping, and then you'll be ready to get started."

Zevran's been gaping at me this entire time, and I don't know what to say to him. There's not much more to say, really, not without overloading the poor man more than he already is; I take a huge mouthful of bread instead.

We eat in a silence that's absolutely stifling until I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out and glance at the screen: it's a message from Shadi, and the phone buzzes again and again as more messages roll in.

I got Friday off

Tell me what's happening

Tell me

Tell meeeee

Tell me or I'll steal your fridge

"Sorry to use my phone at the table, but I need to send a quick message," I apologise to Zevran, who shakes his head and gestures that I should proceed.

Van I swear to twelve different gods

I groan.

Shadi omg, can you not make my phone vibrate so much that people think I'm using teledildonics?

Also, you can have the fridge, I've taken out what I need. Love you baby.

You are a snake Van

Somehow, presumably by a passing breeze or something equally unlikely, my phone was switched to do not disturb mode, and I remembered the other thing I had bought for Zevran today.

"Ah! Yes. You'll need some technology of your own, and the most important one is a phone." Some minutes pass where I explain exactly what can be done on a phone, and more importantly, what requires a phone, which takes up at least half of the conversation.

"Go on, have a look through my phone to get a feel for how it works."

He puts his spoon back in his bowl and watches as I slide my phone over to him. One of his index fingers hovers hesitantly over the screen, and it takes a small explanation of how to navigate the phone before he is willing to touch it.

"It seems so very fragile," he remarks as he cautiously taps open the Planet app. "Ah! And you have the maps on the phone as well. Very good!"

I chuckle. "The phone is fragile, but we can get a good, sturdy case for yours, and something to protect the glass screen as well."

This is received with an appreciative nod. "It is odd that one would rely on something so breakable," Zevran murmurs.

"With the right case, it's almost indestructible, don't worry. We'll sort you out."

Zevran's eyes dart up to mine and stay there. I'm hugely tempted to look away; it's making me feel like he's staring right into the back of my head, combing through my thoughts, but I'm not one to allow myself to be intimidated. Especially when in all likelihood, the only thoughts he'll find there are ones about medicine and the physical challenges that come with sleeping upside down.

"Something the matter?"

And the smile clicks into place. He leans onto the table, the top half of him lounging like a lizard by his soup while the lower half of him perches on his seat.

"My dear Van, forgive me for staring," he croons. "You are very beautiful and intriguing, and I could not help but wonder what it is you desire. I would be only too happy to give it to you."

I blink. "World peace? Can you do that one?" Ridiculous answer, but it's the first one that came to mind.

He gives a breathy laugh. "That is a little out of my range of talents. But perhaps there is some knowledge you seek? Learning to move like a rogue? Administering the perfect massage?"

I squint at him, and my disbelieving words are out before I can stop them: "Zevran, has anyone ever treated you decently, or have you gone all these years completely surrounded by self-serving arseholes?"

There is a vague ripple of something over his face, like a raindrop pelting into a completely still puddle, before he laughs a little.

"Oh, I have been around many such holes in my time--" he begins, and I cut him off before he can take me down that avenue.

"Yes, and I imagine the majority of them were about the dimensions of the average human adult," I say coolly, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms.

I think it catches him unaware, as a laugh suddenly bursts out of him that rings through the kitchen and makes his eyes crinkle deeply. It's nice watching him laugh. I'll have to do that more often but not say anything about how I like it, not after the way it went last time.

"The premise of your question is wrong at its foundations," I say once he's gotten a breath in.

That's got him interested. There is still a sensuality to his movements, but they take a backseat to his curiosity as he straightens up in his chair a little. With a small flick of his brows, he indicates that I have his full attention, and I proceed.

"You're asking what I want from you, as though I have to want something from you because I'm treating you decently." I shake my head irritably, which has him watching me even closer, head tipping ever so slightly to one side. The idea that he feels obligated to give something of himself in exchange for civil interaction makes me seethe, and I don't like it. I don't want to display my temper in front of him. I doubt he would even understand why I feel as angry as I do, and so I sigh to take the heat off.

"I think a better question is: why not? Why shouldn't you have somewhere decent to live, or care when you're unwell, or food when you're hungry, or to just… not be treated like dirt? Here, in this region at least, it's not being spoiled or overly indulgent to expect the same standard of living and treatment as any other person." I hold up my hands as he squints at me. "Now, to be fair, you don't know entirely how things go here yet, but I'll help you as much as you need, and I know Shadi will as well."

That relaxed pose takes a rigid tone to it, and he holds it like he's been marinated in liquid nitrogen. The only change of any sort is in his face, where I catch a hint of frustration as his eyes narrow. I chuckle and shrug.

"You've been here two days. I don't expect you to trust me or anything I say to you. I know something about what kind of life you've lived. But when I say something will happen, it will happen, whether you believe it or not. Maybe when it's happened enough times, it will at least seem logical that I mean what I say, even if it doesn't feel that way." I wave a hand to dissipate the tension in the air. "Anyway, enough of this emotional shit. You look like you're about to upend the table."

That catches him out properly, and he fluidly snaps into a new position- one where he mimics my own slouched, arm-folded posture. He's been quiet for a solid five minutes, and I barely know what to do with him.

"Zevran?"

He labours to get a smile on his face, but eventually manufactures one. "Hmm?"

"Eat your soup, please. And I hope you'll have more bread than that. Baguettes aren't nearly as nice the next day."

He snickers. "You see, I knew there was something you wanted from me. A place to put your soup and your bread." A long, scarred finger gestures at my own half-empty bowl. "And you are going to match me in consumption, yes?"

Sneaky bastard.

"... I think I overshot with the bread," I say weakly. "And you forget that you are an active male-- or so I would presume, to look at you." Not going to tell him I've seen him in his smallclothes for a short moment when Shadi had sold his armour to Bodahn Feddic and was yet to stick another set on him. "I am female and substantially less active."

"Ah, but you said I do not trust you! What am I to think if you only have half a portion and I have a whole one? Perhaps you have poisoned it and it takes a full bowl to kill someone of my size." He presents me with the most shit-eating grin, looking dead pleased with himself and his logic.

My mouth falls open. "You're fucking kidding me."

He shrugs with an innocence so artificial I can hear the squeak of plastic as his shoulders draw up. "Perhaps. There are plenty of poisons that work in such a way. I have an immunity to many, but not all. Who is to say you have not slipped something in while you were acquiring it, or even while you heated it?"

I don't even bother to conceal my disbelief. My head's shaking like a doggy on a dashboard, and if my eyes roll any harder, my optic nerve is going to snap.

"Would you like to swap bowls, while we're at it?" I ask sarcastically.

His eyes are sparkling now. The bastard's absolutely delighted, fixing me with a cloying smile as he switches our bowls around. He won't be contagious any more now, so there's no reason for me not to eat what I'm given, even if it's only to shut the bugger up.

"Evil toad man," I mutter after a few sulky mouthfuls.

Zevran cackles. "Ooh, such a scathing insult, my doctor. Truly, I have never been called a toad man before, but ah, how it wounds me!" He touches a hand to his chest.

I go to scoff, but it comes out as a groan; I'm uncomfortably full now. "Ugh, don't taunt me. I'm overfed and sleepy."

He makes a point of looking into my bowl with a scrutinising expression. "Ah, this is a valiant effort. I am convinced. Shall I finish it?"

I push the bowl to him and slouch forward until my cheek is resting on the table between my arms. "Please."

"And then you shall sleep?" He takes the last mouthful from his (originally my) bowl before reclaiming his old one and attacking the final spoons of soup lingering there.

"Ngh. Too early for sleep. I want to watch TV and lie very still on the couch. You can join me if you like?"

His nod is the impetus for me to haul myself to my feet, which I accompany with swiping up the chilli chocolate on the way.

"Here, by the way," I hold out the chocolate as we step into the living room, moving my hand so the package is tapping his palm, and I only cease the tapping when his fingers close around it. "Dessert for you. I eat this when I'm sick because I like the chilli for my throat, and the chocolate because it's chocolate."

I turn on the TV- the news is on- and we sit down on the couch. Well, Zevran sits. I lie down beside Zevran with my head facing him, curling into myself a little.

"Not only for me, surely," I hear him say as he opens the packet and tears the foil. The untouched block of chocolate dips down in front of my face, directly over where the TV is in my line of vision, and the rich, heady scent of 55% cocoa hits my nostrils shortly after.

I let out another groan, astonished by how unappetising my favourite food looks when I'm this full, and push the chocolate back to him with one semi-comatose finger.

"Oh god, no, I meant what I said. I'm never eating again. Eat my bit for me."

A short quietness follows and my sleepiness seizes on the chance to begin seducing me. It works quickly, and as the news reporter's voice ebbs away to a drone, a small snap punctuates the hazy cushion of indistinct sound. It's the clear, crisp noise of good-quality chocolate being broken into pieces that will actually fit into the mouth. After the second snap, I hear a soft, 'Thank you, Van.'

"Get well soon, toad man," I mumble back drowsily. If I say more after that, I do it unknowingly.

My eyes open again… later, I don't know when. I really should put a clock in here. But the TV is off, Zevran's snoring softly beside me, and I have a blanket draped over me.

I'm touched.

I drop off again.