The days leading up to Shadi's visit are busy. Zevran stays home Monday to finish recovering, and after a quick early morning lesson on the basics of internet searching, online shopping, and how to use the debit card, I leave him with the task of finding a phone for himself while I'm at work, with a side job of practicing his writing by sending me messages now and then.
It's ridiculously busy in the clinic as second cluster of infected people make their way in with the same virus Zevran has, and I only get a moment to read all of the messages he sends me after I've cleared the rush and can finally stop for lunch-- at around three o'clock, two hours before we close. Frankly, I'm lucky I don't choke on my food as I read through Zevran's epistolary transformation from starry-eyed delight to frugal indignance.
Van, there are so many phones. Hundreds. Thousands. How does anyone make a choice?
Originally meant to converse with a person. To simply talk into them? They had something like this in Tevinter, so I once heard, but with crystals.
There are apparently two internet modes: regular and private. Why is this?
These cameras make the most marvellous paintings. Better detail than any artist could achieve.
They want SIX HUNDRED dollars for a phone? And this is the lower end? One could buy an apartment in the Antivan Alienage for that price, Van. Does this thing come with a patch of land as well?
Tell me these things do not need to be replaced constantly.
Perhaps we could use smoke signals to communicate. Surely this is more reasonable.
I have to pause and put my egg and lettuce sandwich down to crylaugh into my hand for a good five minutes before I can finally collect myself enough to give him an answer.
Excuse the late reply :)
Don't worry about the price. A phone's a good investment, and unless there's a defect, they last many years if properly cared for.
Don't rush into choosing anything if you don't see something you're very taken with, and don't use your card money to buy the phone. That's not for buying a phone.
My phone's going like a wild thing during the remaining consults, my trip to Doug's , and I even get a couple of buzzes once I've stepped out from visiting Mam-- perfect timing, actually, a good reminder to look at my phone before things can spiral into another panic attack.
There are at least ten messages, starting as enquiries as to how one acquires a phone without using money, and when it dawns on him that I intend to pay, the protests ensue, because of course they do.
I chuckle and hit the Call button as I start the car up. A few rings in, I'm on the road and the ringing stops as he picks up.
"Hello!" I say brightly.
Silence.
"How's it going, Zevran? … Zevran?" The noise of clicking keys begins in the background. Ah. He doesn't realise he can speak back.
"The computer works like the phone. You can talk to it."
The keys stop. "Ah," he chuckles. "I did not know that. Hello, Van."
"Hi, there. I'm on the way home now. Do you have everything you need?"
That gets quite a laugh out of him. "My dear doctor, I have more than I could possibly need."
"Ooh, you just wait 'til you meet Shadi. You're going to find out about all sorts of things you had no idea you needed."
Shadi's family on both sides are all generous and prodigious shoppers, with various members boasting certain specialties: price, bulk buying, quality, shipping… the list goes on. I've never seen a network like it. At family celebrations, rather than hiding the price of the gifts they bought, they brag about the below-market rate at which they got it. That can go for quite a while when each member buys several gifts apiece. Shadi's area of expertise is unusual things, which makes them a hit at just about any occasion, but especially birthdays.
I only realise my mind has been reeling at the truckload of things Shadi is sure to inform me that I will be purchasing Zevran (assuming they don't simply buy them first themselves) when Zevran's puzzled tone breaches my ears and drags me back out of the thought tornado I've been whipped into.
"Ah… Van? You are making many humming noises."
Shit, I can't even conceal fascinated coos.
"Hah. Sorry, Zevran. I was thinking about how much I think Shadi is going to like you. I'll tell you a bit more about them when I get home, which will be soon, I guess, if you really don't need anything."
"I do not, presumably until your Shadi proves otherwise."
"You're a smart one, Zevran. Accepting that Shadi knows best is the first step to succeeding with Shadi."
§
On Thursday morning, I'm awake at the most ungodly hour. Shadi thought I was only joking when I said I'd make them pizza, since I absolutely never cook, but Hennie came by on Wednesday during my lunch break with her promised delivery.
"Jesus Christ of Almighty," I gasp at her as she produces what must have been about three kilograms of ripe tomatoes from her walker and places them on my desk. "I don't think I eat that much food in a week, even without cooking it down."
"Yeah, so you know what you're gonna do?" she grins broadly at me, and as she is well aware of my lack of cooking expertise, I can only imagine what sort of hilarious kitchen misadventures she's stifling the urge to laugh at.
"I'm going to... take a course on canning food?" I guess.
Hennie's smile goes smug before it quickly drops into something more pensive. "Actually, that's not such a bad idea, kid. Think about that one, too." And the gloating resumes, "No, you wanna get that handsome man who's visiting ya-- Carlos, was it? Hah, that's right! Ya thought Doug wouldn't tell everyone at the over 60s stretch club, huh?"
I scowl and snap my fingers. "Doug! That unconscionable gossip."
Hennie throws up a hand. "Ah, who could blame him? That shit's juicy, kid. Juicy! Now, you're gonna get that cute visitor and give him this recipe," she slaps a piece of notepaper on my desk whose title reads 'Georg's tomato pasta salad,' "And you're gonna have him make it for ya."
I glance through the recipe a little more closely; it calls for a kilogram of tomatoes.
"I think there's more tomato in this than pasta," I murmur. "Maybe it should read 'tomato salad with pasta' instead."
"Agh, don't even get me started on that," which she says as she's absolutely getting started on something. "I said that to Georg, and he replied that he mentioned tomato first, because ingredients on products are listed in the order of biggest amount to smallest. I told him that his pasta salad has less pasta than salad, and the man was up all night havin' a dilemma. In the end I let him win so he'd finally get some sleep. God, he's a fuckin' kook."
"You married him," I point out. Hennie shrugs at that.
"Yeah. We got a lot in common, I guess. Anyway, I'm outta here. Eat your damn lunch, and make that man of yours prepare those damn tomatoes."
I smile. "He's not my man, but thank you. You really spoiled me here."
She's on her feet now, and delivers quite a firm clap to my back. "Don't mention it. Eat 'em up."
"Yeah."
"Attagirl."
With that, she's heading out, moving far more easily now than she was last week, and I call after her, "Take some antibac on the way out! You don't know where I've been!"
Her laugh and the spray of the automatic hand sanitiser dispenser are the last I hear from her before she's away again.
It's an absurd thing to be awake so early in the morning. I only went to bed four and a half hours ago. I should have just bought two or three ready-made pizza bases while I was at Doug's , but something-- innate foolishness or a love of suffering, perhaps both-- made my feet propel me past the ready-to-go section where all my usual staples are, and into the mysterious, previously unvisited baking section, where I picked up a bag of pizza flour (pizza has its own fuckin' flour?) and two boxes of dry yeast.
I can't cook. I have no idea how to cook. I'm only able to make food that's even vaguely nutritious or edible because it comes pre-everythinged. Chopped, seasoned, even cooked if I can wangle it. Hell, if I could get it pre-eaten, I'd do it. Fuck cooking. Never do I feel more woefully inadequate than when I'm cooking. Such a basic, necessary skill in life, a way to make friends and win hearts, a language that can please and comfort and build up yourself and others, and I simply can't. I can mitigate the worst of the anxiety by taking a few days to read up about the recipe I have in mind and build up the courage to try it, but my repertoire remains paltry at best since I usually fail at my first attempt.
And yet I chose to make the dough from scratch, and now here I am, at three o'clock on Thursday morning, sitting at the table and staring at the recipe I've summoned from Google on my phone. Because I was so anxious I couldn't do more than sleep fitfully for a few hours.
And for good reason. How hard is it to fuck up dough? On a scale of one to ten, it's "don't follow a recipe, you'll know the dough is right by the feel of it." Jesus fucking christ. It took a semester's worth of anatomy and a week of prac on the surgical ward before I was comfortable palpating abdomens, and they want me to do the same to the dough and assess it with only a half-hour of background reading?
"Fucking shit," I utter grimly, hunting around for a piece of paper. I have to somehow cram an entire baking school fundamentals course into the next four hours, looking into the chemistry of dough, how flours work, yeast, oh, Jesus Christ. And that's not even including the practical side of things.
My temper and nerves are both climbing again as I furiously scribble page after page of notes and diagrams, the more I learn only serving to make the overwhelmingly larger amount that I don't know manifestly clear, and my imminent failure even more so.
A cramp eventually overtakes and my fist clenches so hard around the pencil I snap it. It's a bad one, so painful I'm gasping (quietly as I can), and I can't seem to make it ebb; the little that I try is ineffective, and it's so distracting I can't collect my thoughts.
"Van?"
I snap-to fluidly, turning around rapidly in my seat with my angry claw held close to me, to see Zevran standing in front of the staircase in his pyjama pants, hair up in a messy ponytail. He regards me with a tiny frown.
There's a moment before I respond where I have to manually unlatch my jaw to speak. It's incredibly laborious for something that could only be taking a fraction of a second, and I know Zevran's not missing a single detail of it, his eyes darting to various parts of my face, shoulders, and hands.
Mouth free at last, I try a smile that I abandon when it's met with continued scrutiny. I can't hide anything from this guy. Fool that I am, I unconsciously grip the pencil bits a little harder, and my seizing hand gives a nerve-bursting throb in response. I doubt Zevran thinks my gasp was the sigh I tried to pass it off as but as always, he is polite in his scepticism.
"Hey there," I finally manage. "What are you doing awake at this time of the night? Can't sleep?"
He gives a half-shrug, strolling over and joining me at the table. "Assassins who sleep heavily tend to have poor longevity. We take what sleep we can, and must be ready to react at the slightest sound." A small chuckle comes out of him as he taps his ears. "And we elves have rather keen hearing, on top of that. You have been awake for some time now."
Another hard grip, another wave of pain. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry," I shake my head. "I didn't mean to wake you--" My words cut out as he makes that low chortle, the one that invariably features when he finds something I've said humorously irrelevant or unnecessary.
Zevran points his nose at my broken pencil-holding claw of a hand. "That cannot be comfortable. My hand is hurting just from looking on."
"The chair's comfortable, at least," I offer hopefully.
That makes him smirk. "How optimistic of you." He holds out his hand near my cramping one, gesturing at it. "May I? I have a wealth of experience in fixing such hand troubles."
"Ah, don't worry about it, it'll come good soon enough."
My platitude is taken as well as platitudes usually are, and Zevran manages to look both amused and unimpressed all at once.
"My dear Van, if there is one thing being a Crow has taught me, it is that if you can minimise your suffering, you ought to." He tips his head, adding with a little shrug, "of course, if you truly do not wish to, I will not press the matter. It does seem a shame to stay this way when you could be much more comfortable, though, and I would be only too pleased to help."
Though his voice is oozing with his usual playful charm, his expression is one that takes me aback. The winning smile is in place, but it's smaller than usual, diluted by a wary hopefulness that pinches at his brow and mouth.
I'm trying to find a polite way to decline; he's not here to magick my cramps away. That's hard to do when he's watching me like that, though, and my hand throbs angrily as the stress makes me inadvertently clench harder. For someone who doesn't like to be serious, he looks so earnest, and I find myself forcing down the truth that it would be downright churlish to push him away when he's trying so hard to do something nice for me.
With declining now off the table, the only option left is to accept, and I do, giving a tiny, appreciative nod and sliding my aching hand a little closer to him.
Zevran's smile broadens, eyes crinkling, and he waggles his brow like he had been anticipating victory the entire time.
"See? I have a tendency to grow on others. Now, let's take these away first…" he coaxes the pencil halves out of my grip and sets them on the table before curling his fingers under mine and opening my hand out, which is absolute agony.
It only takes a second for him to home in on the offending muscle and set to work, using featherlight touches as he kneads it with his thumbs from insertion to origin, the palm of one hand keeping my fingers open all the while.
"Mmm. My word, you have a very insistent protestor here," he says through a soft chuckle. "I like a challenge." I can't manage more of a reply than a lip-bitten smile; the massage is fine, but the twinges of pain continue to grab my attention like sudden, loud screams.
His eyes dart up to me for a moment, and either I'm obvious or he's a mind reader as he sympathetically adds, "Ah, it is unpleasant for now, but you will notice soon that there is more time between the spasms, no?"
The intervals between contractions seem to be growing at minuscule rates, but he's not wrong: after a good thirty seconds of this, I can definitely feel an improvement.
"Mmm," I nod. The muscle is starting to loosen a little, at long last . "It's really helping. You're fantastic at this."
He chortles, looking pleased. "I am surprised you did not simply ask me to step in. You say you know about my life before, and yet you would prefer to sit with your hand like a bear's paw than spend five minutes getting a massage."
??? Massage, what?? Is this guy trained in physiotherapy, too?
"Well, I do know some very essential information about your life, certainly," I reply, "but my interactions with you in the story were limited, so no, I don't really know what you're talking about now."
He looks genuinely surprised at that. "Hmm? Most people around me for more than a few minutes find out about my massage skills. I have lived here for nearly two weeks and still you did not know?" A droll laugh tumbles out of him. "My, my. That must be a record. Well, you need not be kept in the dark any longer.
"You know, perhaps, that I grew up in a whorehouse, yes? There was one whore who was in high demand for her very unique massages--"
Zevran, who appeared to be in a content storytelling mode, sits up and watches in alarm as my entire body, aching hand and all, recoils, a byproduct of my mind leaping to the worst possible conclusion. You were seven when you left that place!
As if reflexively, he releases my hand the moment it starts to pull back, and moving away like that is the worst thing I could do. Of course, I only realise that when hurt flashes so quickly over his face that it almost has me second-guessing myself as the smile comes back. I don't know what more to do than sit there, trying to contain my horror as it chokes me up and makes my eyes prickle. I've had to handle cases of that disgusting sort of thing more times than I'd like as a doctor, and I still can't always keep my eyes dry when I have to deal with it, but this was a far more violent reaction than usual.
"I'm sorry," I whisper behind my hand, shifting back toward him but keeping a respectable distance. "I just-- Jesus, Zev, you were only a child--"
My words die there as I realise I called him by a nickname. The absolute perfect time to get overly familiar with someone, especially after interrupting their goddamned story by flailing like a fucking tube man and visibly stifling tears. Excellent job, Van.
And yet, it seems well received. Realisation dawns on him and injects life into his face, the sphinxlike look of his smile washing away as his eyes crinkle at the sides. He gives a warm laugh and leans forward again over the table.
"Ah, my dear Van! I see what you are thinking." And the man wags a finger at me, the least of what I deserve for my performance back there. "No need for any alarm on my behalf, though it is appreciated. No, I did not learn anything erotic from her. The whores kept us well away from that side of operations."
A relieved sigh puffs my lips out, my head shaking a little and hand reminding me I am still cramping, if rarely.
"I'm--" I clear my throat and swipe the errant water out of the corner of my eye with my sleeve. "Sorry. I'm relieved you were at least spared that." The last word is almost spat out, and Zevran is visibly taken aback for a moment. It makes my heart sink hard. Has anyone ever been angry for you?
We've had many bouts of wordless staring, and this feels like the easiest one so far, because this time, his shock turns into something new, something softer. A smile that has the tiniest glow to it. It's making a smile turn up on my face, too.
Before I know it, Zevran's hand is reaching out toward my claw, and he catches it happening, too. "I saw that twitch," he explains. "There is still work to be done, if you are of a mind for it." He has the gentlest, most inviting look on him, and feeling nourished by his own success, I let him take it.
"Now, back to my story," he continues, genial as ever while kneading my shitty muscle. "The prostitute taught us the bones and muscles of the body and about easing tension and knots and the like. We had a collection of diagrams that she would draw, and then when she could get a volunteer whore, she would use kohl to draw the muscles on them. Marvellous, brilliant woman she was." And of course, along comes the saucy addition, "Naturally, I added the erotic knowledge when I was of an age to appreciate such things," supplemented with a wink. "I do not think she knows how much I benefited from her teachings in my Crow education. Always excellent for learning where to deliver backstabs. Not to mention these hand massages were very useful for the cramps I would get from holding a drawn bowstring for hours on end. Perhaps she was how I survived." He shrugs a little, slowing the motions with his thumbs and keeping them deep now. "Though perhaps it was luck. There was another prostitute who was a fortune teller, said I wouldn't die young. She was surprised by that, and now I think on it, I am a little, myself."
"We have good safety and healthcare here," I assure him quickly. "You'll have a very long life to spend in surprise."
His chin dimples as he considers my statement. "Now there is a thought. Growing old is not something that occurs to people like me. Thoughts of the future seldom go beyond the end of an assignment for most Crows, since it is more likely than not that we fail and end the victim ourselves. I cannot imagine what it will be like, being old, but perhaps it is worth investigating."
That makes my heart swell. It's about six sizes too big for my chest now. He's neutral-curious about continued living. It's a frankly miraculous turnaround for someone who threw themselves at a Grey Warden with every intention of losing the fight only days prior, and Christ almighty, I could just about jump for joy.
"Only one way to find out," I say with what must be the stupidest, most hopeful smile. It's a weird thing to be so invested in someone you've barely met, but is it really that odd when I was the one who summoned him here? Either way, whatever I can do to tempt him to stay on the path of the living, I swear I'll do, if he'll just keep on keeping on.
Zevran shakes his head and smiles. "Van. Now tell me, how is your hand, hmm?"
I glance at it and his hand pauses to let my fingers flex experimentally. Movement is fluid and the muscle is lovely and squashy now. I wonder to myself how effective a hand massage would be for finger agility compared to my usual piano warm up scales.
"Haven't had any spasms for a little bit now. I think it might be the last of them. Thank you, Zev--ran." I blink awkwardly but carry on as if I had not made the same hideous mistake twice in five minutes. "I think that's done the trick."
He rolls his eyes in amusement and releases my hand. "You worry too much, Van. Call me Zev, it is quite fine. Now, back to the original purpose for my visit: what is it that keeps you wide awake at this time of the night, hmm?"
Zevran glances at the small stack of pages under my right elbow and raises an eyebrow at me. "Emergency note-taking? Are you afraid someone is going to steal the internet and you must preserve its knowledge on paper?"
I shrug helplessly, the burn of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks.
"... It is something personal?" he prompts gently when I fail to give him anything more of an answer, giving me a remarkably understanding look for someone who's likely never had their own privacy respected.
"No, no, not at all," I shake my head, pushing the notes toward him. "It's just a little research on dough-making before I try my hand at it myself."
Zevran leafs through the pages (I think I'd written about ten, plus another two pages for diagrams before he showed up) and then looks up at me with outright bafflement on his face.
"I do not understand half of what I just saw. The words, the pictures… does dough mean anything apart from bread here?"
"Well, it's an informal term for money as well, but no, this is food dough."
Squinting, he scans the first page a little closer. " 'Hydration causes these to become flexible, sticking to each other via crosslinks and forming--' Van, what is this?"
I swear my face must be glowing like a forty-watt bulb right now. If any more blood gets redirected to my cheeks, I'm going to pass out from low blood pressure.
"It's describing what happens when you mix flour with water," I croak. "It's… it's very interesting when you read about it."
He nods, looking at me like I have missed the point of his question entirely. "It is, yes, but one need not have some twelve pages of such complicated information to make dough, I assure you. Civilisations have been mastering this long before they were able to even read and write."
Oh, god. Not helping, Zev. I feel like the only person in recorded history who is unable to do something so simple, and the shame eats at me like acid. I don't have an explanation for him that is satisfactory; financial and time poverty drove the majority of my ignorance as I spent my afternoons studying, earning what money I could, and helping my brother Tim with his cares, but Zevran taught himself to cook with a lack of ingredients, minimal time, and likely few modern conveniences. However I look at it, privilege is the only reason I don't know how to cook. But I feel I owe some sort of reply.
"Household tasks were divided for efficiency in my family," I finally offer. "My sister was the one who helped my mother with cooking and household maintenance, so I never had anything to do with any of that until very recently."
Zevran makes an interested hum and nods. "That is very practical. Then perhaps I can recommend myself as a teacher in your mother's absence?" He waves a hand over himself with pizzazz. "I am told my breads are very moreish."
I've already benefited from a hand massage; I can't accept his offer to show me how to make dough at four-fucking-thirty in the morning too. It's unpleasant and overwhelming and I'd love to just flee the house and sit on the beach for an hour.
When my polite, if rather feeble, declination is half-formed in my head, he rises from his chair and sweeps over to me, resting one hand between my shoulder blades.
"Come, it will be fun! I will make it fun, I promise." Zevran's smile is broad and gleaming, roughly with the dimensions you see on a used car salesperson, but is entirely genuine. He seems to think he has gotten a foot in the doot since I accepted the hand massage, and I don't exactly disprove it as I acquiesce in my flustered state.
Zevran is brimming with enthusiasm and contagious warmth that takes the teeth out of my anxiety as he gently, gently steers me out of my chair and to the pantry where I take out the flour and a packet of dry yeast. With a soft ' hmm? ' he carefully shifts my hand holding the yeast closer to him.
"This is your yeast?" He crinkles the packet with his fingers. "It feels like powder."
I check the instructions on the sachet. "Yes, it keeps for longer when it's dry. I believe we will need to put it in water for a few minutes before we can use it."
"Marvellous," he murmurs before returning to his full height (such as it is) and gesturing grandly at the kitchen counter. "Come, then, dear Van! To our workspace! Our yeast awaits."
He takes a large glass and after playing with the tap to get the temperature he desires, fills it with water. "Yeast and Antivans have much in common," he explains as he directs my hand under the tap to sample the lukewarm temperature. "We like the warm and breed like rabbits." He's in his element now, eyes sparkling like diamonds as I snort a little and inadvertently wet my face by clapping my dripping hand over my mouth.
"And we like sweet things, of course. This poor yeast, stuck in a bag for so long. Oubliette living is not fun, I can assure you." He winks at me as he takes half a teaspoon of sugar from the sugar bowl and drops it in the glass.
The remark was framed so simply, so playfully, as though he was talking about a ballpit and not a torture chamber. Why on earth should anyone know about what that's like, least of all him?
The silence is suffocating until Zevran steps in, a little more dramatic than before.
"Ah, lovely Van, you are forgetting the bread and getting lost in your thoughts," he scolds me waggishly. "Come, we must prepare our surface! This area here must be covered with flour." He waves a hand at the countertop which, thankfully, I cleaned before going to bed.
I blink at him. "What, just… put it onto the countertop?"
Zevran raises an eyebrow. "Mmm? You do not wish to prepare your dough on the floor, surely?"
"Well, no, but what about a bowl? I mean... straight onto the counter?"
"It is easier to work with when the sides of a bowl aren't pressing into your arms," he makes a kneading gesture in the air above the counter, arms parallel to the bench surface. "Like this, you see?"
He looks like he knows what he's doing, and he gives a good argument. I nod and open the bag of flour, taking a small handful and sprinkling it all over the counter.
"Ah! There is almost nothing here!" Zevran laments as he wipes a finger over the surface like a fussy person checking for dust. "We are not making dough for a mouse, my doctor! Surely this is to feed people?" When I confirm that it is, he taps the bag. "One of these makes bread for three hungry people."
"It seems like such a lot of flour..." I murmur, eyeing the bag. It's a kilogram, and that's when it's dry, sans other ingredients.
"And people are very hungry," he affirms with a nod. "Especially when the food is as good as this will be!"
A moment of hang-the-expense seizes me; I empty the whole bag onto the counter.
"Ah, yes, this is much more like it!" Zevran enthuses, gesturing almost proudly at the sizeable pile of flour. "Now, we must make a small… how do you call it..." his words trail off as he taps his chin thoughtfully, "a well , you might say, right in the middle of this heap, to put our water." He pinches his fingers and thumb together like a bird's beak and makes a downward motion demonstratively, which I copy to make the recommended depression.
"It seems like the water will run everywhere, since the flour moves so easily," I ponder aloud.
Zevran shakes his head. "No, no, usually there is no mess with this. Not unless you begin to knead the dough without oiling your hands first, of course. I do hate when that happens; I am finding dried pieces of dough on my hands for days afterward, but with your wealth, we are in no danger of that." He begins looking around, "where do you keep your oil? ...Van? V--?"
I'm caught frozen in situ, and my alarm must be plain as day. What does someone like me need oil for? The only reason I even have flour and yeast is because Shadi brought them over a year ago.
"... Van? Something is wrong with the--?" He stops as realisation dawns on his face. "You do not have any oil?"
"Ah, no, sorry," I say almost absently, staring at my hands and hating myself and everything about this moment. Three years ago, I was gregarious and confident, completely immune to this kind of fear, and the bitterness that comes with being aware of the loss stings to buggery.
Zevran's warm, melodramatic voice begins again and cannonballs into my attention.
"Ah, but it is no tragedy, my dear doctor!" he trumpets, carefully resting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "A little dough on the hands is easily washed off with water and patience, and we can purchase oil from Doug later today, no?"
He chuckles and produces the yeast water with his free hand, which now has a good layer of foam on it. "Shall we proceed? I would hate to keep the dough waiting."
The grin he makes is so comically wicked that I can't help but laugh, even if it's only wanly. But a wan laugh is all it takes to reset my mood, and apparently also to boost Zevran's. He looks hugely pleased with himself, even if he downplays it with a soft, evil little chortle.
"Now comes the fun part," he declares, pouring the water into the pit, then taking a tiny pinch of salt and throwing it on top of everything with a flourish. "We mix dry and wet, and then once it is combined, we knead."
While I get my hands absolutely covered with this Plaster of Paris-like substance (which will no doubt harden in much the same way), Zevran has one hand on my shoulder, demonstratively squeezing and flexing his fingers into what little meat is there. The motions are firm and deep, but not painful; they would be if he went any harder, though. His other hand is held in front of me, making the same motions in mid-air.
"You see the way I squeeze your shoulder until the flesh has no more give?" he asks. "You must be like this with the dough. Of course, there are no bones and things to get in the way, so you will squeeze much tighter, but work with that. And then," he takes the skin on my shoulder and tugs at it gently, "pull it, stretch it, fold it over and pull it again. See how elastic it is becoming?"
And he's right. It is getting stretchier. And less sticky, too, which is a welcome bonus. I nod, and for a brief moment, amid another round of encouraging remarks from Zevran, it feels like even I might be able to make dough.
"You know," he muses after a while, "perhaps it was for the best that we did not use any oil today."
I glance up from my kneading. "Hmm? What do you mean?"
"The dough is nearly ready when it no longer sticks to your fingers. It takes out much of the guesswork to have a point of reference you cannot ignore," his eyes twinkle in amusement. "Less fun when you must pause to do something else, though. We had a sudden ambush on one of my missions. I was in our hideout, nowhere near as finished with the dough as you are now, and had a terrible time trying to wield my blades to deal with the sudden interruption. Oh! I spent hours washing the dough off my knives and leathers. Never again, I swore."
My eyebrows are nearly sky-high at this point. It's one thing to watch someone tell stories of whirling blades and daring confrontations on a computer screen, but to have someone regaling you with them face-to-face is spellbinding.
"Good god," I utter softly. "So did your attackers die of laughter, or was it the knife wounds that got them in the end?"
"I flatter myself it was a bit of both," Zevran smirks back. "I am nothing if not a showman." He nods down at the dough. "This is ready. See how smooth the surface is now? Put it on the counter and give it a small squeeze, feel how supple it is under your fingers. And see? It bounces into shape again quite quickly. Yes, this is just right." He grins at me. "Ah, you lied to me, surely, Van! This is not your first time making dough, is it?"
I chuckle and shake my head. "You're engaging in outright flattery now."
"I say you are talented because it is true," he protests in an innocent tone. "Should I lie to you and tell you you are no good at this?"
"Hah. All praise is due my teacher, without whom I would still be hunched over a pile of notes with a seizing hand." I jerk my head in the direction of the table, where the pages still sit. "Thank you for your help, Zev. I really appreciate it."
Smiling, he waves my thanks away. "The pleasure was mine, my dear doctor. Now, the dough must go into a bowl and be covered with a wet cloth as we leave it to rise, otherwise it will dry out before we can use it. Incidentally, what is it for?"
When I have explained the concept of the pizza to him, Zevran looks enthralled.
"And you can put anything on top, you say? Chicken, beef, mushrooms, anything?"
I nod. "Just about. Some make sauces with a lot of spice and drizzle yoghurt on it, but it's much less common. You should think about what you might like on yours and let me know so I can pick it up while I'm out today."
He cocks his head to the side. "I cannot come with you? But I am well now. I will not infect anyone at this point, surely."
"Shadi's got the office you used last time," I say apologetically. "There isn't really anywhere else in the clinic you can be unless you want to spend eight hours in the scan room. Right now, the only places you're safe to be by yourself are this house and the patch of land it sits on." I sigh. "This is why I want to get you registered, so it's safe for you to walk around town without running the risk of plain-clothes authorities catching you without me there. When Shadi gets here, we're going to put our heads together and work out what we're going to do, all right?"
Zevran frowns softly. "What changes when I have you with me if I am caught?"
I open my mouth and then close it, realising I need to actually have an answer first before I can use my body to convey it. A tense moment passes as I assemble one, and then I look up at him awkwardly.
"Nothing, actually," I mumble. "Not for you, anyway. You'd still be imprisoned."
His frown deepens. "But something would change for you?"
"Well, if you were caught on your own and mentioned me, I might get a slap on the wrist for committing an illegal summoning as a child, but nothing more, because they'd have no way of proving I knew you were here. Being caught with you, though? They'd send me straight to jail for committing an illegal summoning and then knowingly concealing it. I'd lose my right to work as a doctor, too." I shrug jerkily. "But I promised I'd keep you as safe as I could, and I'm not about to leave your side, even if I do fail. If I lose my medical licence for doing the right thing, I s'pose it wasn't worth having, anyway."
Zevran's lips peel apart just a little, revealing the tiniest flash of teeth behind them; he doesn't take his eyes off me, but they're not roaming over my face and scrutinising me. They're fixed in place, almost unseeing, the rest of his face entirely blank.
A handful of seconds like this is all I can stand before I clear my throat and open the cabinet under the bench, beginning the hunt for something to keep this absolute monster of a dough blob in until it's ready for baking tonight.
That seems to snap him into action, and he quickly takes a cloth off the sink and rinses it while I produce a hideous green bowl and drop the dough in. As he wipes the countertop down, I take a clean tea towel, wet it, and throw it over this curious, squashy thing we made.
"There is plenty of reading for me to do here at home, so I think I will stay in for the day, perhaps even get some extra sleep," he says noncommittally, not looking up.
The heaviness in the atmosphere melts a little, and I try to speed up the process with a laugh.
"Get as much sleep as you can," I reply. "Takes a lot of energy to keep up with Shadi. It's like having a hurricane in the house."
Zevran turns around, fixing me with a grin. "Ah, so you are a calming influence for your Shadi, then, hmm?"
An undignified snort tears out of me before I can stop it. "Ha! Haha! No." I shake my head. "Once upon a time, they were my calming influence. These days, I enable their chaos, usually by joining in. And if Shadi has their way, you'll get caught up in the mayhem, too."
He waggles his eyebrows. "Oh, I am ready for mayhem. And you," he gives me a Look as a yawn sneaks up on me, "are ready for more sleep."
I nod with a guilty smile. The yawn makes me acutely aware of how heavy and tired my arms and legs are, and soft, squishy surfaces seem like the bee's knees at that moment.
Zevran stretches, patting his belly absently. "Perhaps I could stand to rest a little longer, myself." He jerks his head in the direction of the staircase. "Shall we? The dough will proof without any further assistance, I am sure."
Another nod from me, and as the last one out of the kitchen, I turn off the light as I go.