Zevran's tattoo has been steadily fading. In the days leading up to the first dose of the ointment, he was starting to wear his hair in a messy bun– a hairdo which, despite any implications of quickness the name might have, took him an age to style.

Since he started on the tattoo removal cream, though, he's donned a half-up, half-down affair. Long in the front, bun at the back, such that both his cheeks are mostly concealed. When I occasionally ask to see the skin to check how it's going, he shifts the hair, watching until I give him the nod, and then it falls back into place like a stage curtain.

It's unfortunate that he's insecure about it. Swollen cheeks are a fact of life at some point or another for many people, but I don't think that's the main bother for him. Where one of the fatter swipes is fading, a long keloid scar is coming into view. Under another part near his eye are a handful of coin-sized hyperpigmented patches. One or two deeper pockmarks are peppered around as well.

I ask myself what to say to him, whether to say anything to him, over breakfast one morning. Which, in all truth, is a ridiculous thing to do; I might as well ask the fucking vacuum cleaner. At least it's expected to suck. In the absence of any input from my cleaning electronics, I draw blank after blank.

Tim was my go-to guy for advice on anything related to feelings or diplomacy. Ironic, really, since he was such a foul-tempered shit most of the time. He revelled in every opportunity he got to tell me to shove whatever textbook I was reading up my arse, and positively exulted in the shocked look people would get when, after speaking to him with the sugary sweetness reserved for anyone they saw in a wheelchair, got a machine-read, "Ah, would you ever fuck off!" for their trouble. To be fair, though, it was often well-deserved, and I exulted whenever he did it, too.

I never got better advice from anyone, though. Tim had seen it all and knew people better than anyone. He promised me I could talk to him about anything, which was as close to an 'I love you, Vannie' as he got, and unless Tim puts in more of an effort to leave the immortal realm and pay me a fucking visit once in a while, that promise is no longer worth the disk space it took to make his AAC vocalise it to me.

I hate Tim for leaving me, and I hate myself even more, because I've so effectively pretended he and Linney and Moustafa were never here that it's the first thought I've had of him in weeks. Shadi's painfully-correct admonishment rings in my ears and dear God, what I wouldn't give to crawl back into bed and pretend today doesn't exist.

"Van?"

My breakfast comes into view, and I realise I have been staring down at my plate for who-knows-how-long. I pray for death and glance over at Zevran, summoning a smile that is woeful levels of unbelievable.

"Hello," I say with all the charm God never gave me.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you all right? I know you are quite taken with the way I cut fruit, but you have been gazing at your portion intensely enough to set it alight."

"Hah! Can you ever appreciate good art enough?" I reply airily, taking a spoonful of fruit salad and shoving it into my mouth before said orifice can make any more of a tit out of me.

Zevran acknowledges my decidedly unsatisfactory answer with a chuckle. The genuineness of his laughter is questionable, but even at its most counterfeit, it's more than my theatrics deserve.

"What about you?" I ask after a moment. "Are you… you know, all right?"

"Oh, I think I am," he says sunnily. "What is there to complain about? As much breakfast as I please, and the most ravishing company to enjoy it with. I am living quite the charmed life, I think."

"Right," I nod. My eyes dart to his half-tattooed cheek and then away again. "Well, you know…" ('you know,' 'you know,' 'you know.' God, Van, do you ever say anything else?) "You can always talk to me about… stuff… whatever's on your mind. Anything, really."

Zevran leans back in his chair like a lounge lizard, smoothing the hair down over his cheek; the muscles in his neck are pulled taut. "Anything, hmm?" He takes his lip between his teeth and flashes me a wolfish grin. "My dear Van, if you would like to hear some of my exciting adventures, you need only ask. I can supply anything from high-intensity pursuits, to Antivan nostalgia, to tales of toe-curling debauchery!"

"I…" Blinking, I try to meet his gaze to lessen what must look like determined shiftiness. That ship has long sailed, if the vague hardness in his eyes is anything to go by. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I wasn't really expecting the conversation to go this way, but uh… go ahead and tell me about," I jam my hand into my hair and tug at my curls, "the… strangest thing you ever saw. In Antiva, that is."

"Hmm!" He rubs his chin, frowning thoughtfully. "Now that is a good question. I have seen many odd things in my time, and it is hard to know which one stands out the most. You come across a good deal of unusual people on the job, no?"

I shrug. "How about one of them, then?"

"Consider it done. There was one fellow, a fairly well-to-do merchant who took out a contract on himself." Zevran sighs with relish. "Oh, it was delightful! My favourite contract by far."

"He took the contract out... on himself?" I mumble. "That's an expensive way to end it all."

"Ah," Zevran holds up a finger, "but he didn't want to die! He intended to fake his own death and make a fresh start in Orlais. When you think about it, coming to us for help was very clever of him."

I concede with a nod. "So what did you have to do?"

Zevran faces me and crosses his legs on the chair. "Well!" he says. "Normally, killing is meant to be a clandestine affair. The authorities can only do so much to overlook your trespasses, after all, so it is best not to do too much to bring attention to oneself, no?"

"Right."

"But this fellow had to die in front of his loved ones, because without a body to bury, they might have simply believed him missing and started to look for him." His eyes are gleaming now. "So we had to do something a little more elaborate, no? The usual seduce-and-kill would not work here."

I nod. "So what did you do?"

He laces his fingers together, eyes gleaming. "Oh, it was marvellous. Rinna had planned it out so that one family member would witness it. In the tavern where the man's uncle tended to make a nuisance of himself, the man took a seat beside him, pretended to run into him, see?"

He waits for my nod, and presses on. "When the two men are halfway through their first drink, Taliesen, who is dressed up as a guard, grabs our mark by the collar and accuses him of being responsible for the recent murder of one Rosario Valletta. He strongarms him out of the tavern with his uncle pursuing him, and takes him down one of the alleys leading to the town hall.

"And here comes my modest part!" He gives a smug little wobble of his head. "Amid all the protests from his uncle, I dart out of the shadows in commoner clothing and attempt to pickpocket our mark. This starts a scuffle, and Taliesen pretends to be the usual incompetent guard who cannot quite outdo me, and I land a stab right here," Zevran gently taps the midsection of the chest where the aorta and vena cava lie, "where our mark has an enormous bladder full of sheep's blood under his tunic!"

My mouth falls open. "Get out of town! Did your man play along?"

"He did!" Zevran chortles gleefully. "Under my instructions, he clutched the area near the incision and pretended to lurch with every breath, and he squeezed the bag to make blood gush out at rhythmic intervals!"

"Amazing. What'd you do with the uncle, then?"

"Oh, he was loud. Mmm! Screaming like a fool. We had another human on the team who kept him from coming any closer while I fought Taliesen off and dragged him away."

"Sure he could've just followed the trail of blood to you, though?"

"Ah, that's the genius part. There was a well built over an underground aqueduct close by, and we made it look like I had dumped the body there. The man put on a change of clothes, shook our hand, and took the first carriage to Val Royeaux."

An astonished laugh tumbles out of me. I can't even blink; my eyes are so wide that shutting them is physically impossible.

"Unbelievable," I whisper.

Zevran beams. "Oh, but it's entirely true, let me assure you!" He links his fingers and drapes them over his belly triumphantly. "And there are plenty more tales where that came from!"

"Hah. I don't doubt it." I chuckle, spear a banana heart, and down it.

"Your turn now," he sits forward in his chair, eyeing me with a wicked grin.

I pause mid-chew. "... Mmh?"

One of Zevran's elbows slides onto the table. He props his head up with a hand, and the other arm is slung over the back of the seat. "Tell me a story about you, my dear Van."

"... Me?"

He snorts. "Is there another Van in this room?"

"Only in the event of a car accident." I catch my lips tightening at the words 'car accident' and quickly look down at the last bite of my fruit salad. "Uh, right. Let's see…"

I am racking my brains for a story. Granted, I'm now also tamping down thoughts of Moustafa's blood on my gloved hands, and Mam pinned to the bed under the ventilator giving her twenty kisses of life a minute, but between all that I'm definitely looking for a story. I have stories galore about doctor life, but that's not what he wants to hear about.

I could tell him about the time I held a live, wriggling fish in my bare hands and it smacked me in the face with its tail.

Too short. Over in one line.

Or the first time I went on a plane.

Long, despite not having an actual plot. Possibly boring. Have to go to work in three minutes.

And now I'm drawing blanks. Amazing. Somehow, in twenty-five years, I have done absolutely nothing of note, and certainly nothing that would be of interest to him.

"... Van?"

I realise I've been staring at the last dregs of my food and keeping him hanging, and force myself to look up. I wish I hadn't; he's watching me with a small, warm smile that makes me curdle with shame.

"If you are wondering what kind of stories are suitable," he purrs, "be assured I have an appreciation for tales of all sorts."

My shoulders draw up in a shrug. "I don't really have anything."

Zevran raises an eyebrow at me. "I find that rather hard to believe. You, Van Amell, have no stories about yourself at all?"

"Not really, no." I shrug again and get to my feet before my burning cheeks can sizzle my face off. "Anyway, I'd better go to work. Send me a message if you… you know…"

You know…

"... Want anything, or need to talk about… stuff." I finish. I don't dare look him in the eye, but then I force myself to because the poor bastard is used to people trying to kill him. Sure enough, he's got that shuttered-off expression he gets when he's retreating into his shell, and it's entirely my fault.

"S-sorry," I stutter quickly, "I, ah… don't have any stories. But sure if I think of something, I'll, uh…"

My God, you're pathetic.

I stop talking before I make it any worse. With an apologetic wave goodbye, I'm out.

I fucking hate myself.

§

Mom and Baba's visit is firmed up for Thursday, as that's the day Shadi comes to the Bay clinic. They'll drop them off at work in the morning, spend the day with Mam, and then we'll all come back for the planned dinner and shenanigans. It's perfect.

The night before, Zevran and I are awake until late, working up a sweat in the kitchen. Tonight's lesson is marinades. I had no idea he was experimenting with sauces; there's never anything out of place in the kitchen. To call Zevran a neat freak isn't quite the truth; he simply leaves everything precisely as he found it, making it look as though he'd never been there. Sometimes I wish he'd leave a glass or two lying around, or forget a spoon in the sink, just to leave some indication of his presence.

As it is, though, he's been tracelessly brainstorming with small amounts of different condiments that have been gathering dust in the pantry. I can't be sure if he found recipes on the internet, or if he thought them up himself, but up to now, it's been nothing but a long line of successes.

"Try these if you please, Van," he holds two teaspoons out to me, "and see which you prefer." One of them has a dollop of something akin to satay sauce, and the other has a distinctly molasses-like consistency to it, but it's a deep, warm purplish-red.

"Right." With a nod, I try the peanut one first. My glaring ignorance when it comes to food shines through here. Mom and Baba both insist on heavily-spiced dishes, and I've grown up on them, had a whole rack of spices sent with me when moving to Camphor Bay. But hell if I know which spice is which.

The marinade's flavourful, though. Sweet, savoury, plenty of bite to it. I nod approvingly. "This one's great. Especially for chicken, I think."

Zevran nods, pleased. If I didn't know better, I'd say I just passed a test of some sort. He hands me the other spoon.

"Mmm," I lick the spoon clean in an instant. "Plums and… I think I feel the burn of pineapple, is it? Gorgeous. Sweet and sour. Mmm! Could have that on chicken or beef."

He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the sides. "I think we have a favourite, no? We used a similar sauce in Antiva, but for pork."

"Do you want some pork for yourself? I can pick it up for you now to marinade. We just need to cook it in a separate pan."

Zevran shakes his head. "No, no, it is not necessary. I find I am not missing it so very much. Now giving up fish, ah! That would have been much more painful!" He touches a hand to his head. "A life without chowder is hard to imagine."

I snort. "What about alcohol? You want any of that?"

He shrugs. "Alcohol… it was good for making life seem sweeter than it was. And fun enough, certainly, when everyone else was drinking, but again, it is simple to do without. I do miss the sweet burn of a rare Antivan brandy, though."

"Mmm… not sure how to recreate that, unfortunately. Certainly not with anything safe for consumption. If you do, though, go ahead and give it a try."

Zevran chuckles softly. "I would need some special equipment to make brandy, I think. Perhaps later. In any case, I am pleased you like the sauce. This one will go on our chicken," he sends the tray of chicken thighs over to me and passes me the bowl full of the plum marinade, "and once we have evenly spread the marinade, it will sit in the fridge overnight to take up the flavour."

I am a pathetic little dose who couldn't cook up a lie, let alone a main dish, but I assured Baba that I would be feeding the family. Evenly spreading anything sounds like an impossible task, given the contours of the chicken. Which means, in practice, that I'm a pathetic little dose who has painted herself into a corner.

I carefully tip a small dollop of marinade onto one chicken thigh. It takes a bloody age, and I'm sure I'm not doing it right. Heat is creeping into my cheeks and I silently beg the sauce to leave the bowl faster, but it's viscous and the chicken is an odd shape but it needs to be covered evenly and oh god, could I not just fall over dead? Shadi could move in and keep Zevran much happier and entertained–

A hand carefully touches my shoulder, and I nearly launch the fucking bowl through the ceiling. A second hand, though, was evidently anticipating this, as long, bronze fingers go onto the lip of the bowl and hold it steady. If my face gets any hotter, the humours in my eye are going to start boiling, and then we'll really be in trouble.

I glance to my left; Zevran smiles and squeezes my shoulder. "Forgive me, Van, I did not mean to startle you," he says kindly. He doesn't wait for my reply, stepping a little closer. "I forgot to mention something about the sauce."

I realise my hand has started to shake; I clench my muscles to keep it still. The hand on my shoulder delivers a few more kneading squeezes. "Oh, yeah?" is all I manage to get out. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? I think it might be. At least I'll get to see Tim and–

Oh, ouch.

Zevran's voice cuts through my bastarding head. "When it comes to applying a marinade," he says smoothly, "there is no need to worry about perfection. Oh, it's well enough to try and distribute the sauce evenly as you pour it out, but we will need to turn the meat over anyway." He chuckles and waggles his eyebrows. "I should have warned you that this would be a hands-on procedure. Like when you doctors apply your ointments and potions all over your patients' skin, no?"

Dear god, why did it not occur to me that I could just rub the marinade on the damned meat? Why was that not an option?

I smile thinly. "You know what? That didn't cross my mind once, but it should have. I'm going to murder my brain. Not once, but again and again."

Zevran snorts. "Do try not to. I am sure you could not practice medicine with a murdered brain. Think of it! Being that mindless, you would have to become a politician or something equally gruesome!"

A laugh, a real stupid motherfucker of a cackle bursts out of me. Thoroughly emboldened now, I dump the marinade over the chicken and work that bastarding sauce in with my hands. Zevran grins, his fingers drumming my shoulder, and he hums encouragingly.

"Mmm! Yes, Van! Show no mercy!" he eggs me on. He reaches out and moves my hand off the meat I've been working on, and over to the next one. "No need to work it in too much. That is the job of leaving it overnight. We only need it to be covered. Massage that meat any more, and you might have to marry it, no?"

I'm shrieking with laughter. The music's turned up, and Zevran's singing along and shaking his moneymaker while he watches me finish the job. Suddenly, I'm looking forward to the potato salad lesson coming up.

§

We were up until ridiculous o'clock again. Three forty-five, this time. I never once noticed it passing as we worked. Zevran is spring-loaded with stories and ideas and questions about how the world works, most of which I still can't answer but he still doesn't care. The guy is fizzing with life, ready to dive into something offering even the vaguest enjoyment at the drop of a hat. Inconveniences and mistakes are smoothed over or gilded with praise, as though they'd been hoped for all along. He's medicine in a body, and I wonder if he knows it.

But the night's long past now, and it's with half a can of the energy drink Tamika equipped me with that I drive to work. I may actually be firing on more cylinders than Zippo is. What's in this damn beverage?

A message pings on my phone, and thanks to the text-reading software Shadi downloaded for me ("Whaddaya mean you didn't know you could–? Oh god, you're such a fucking technophobe!"), Zippo reads it to me over the speaker.

Squeaky is pregnant exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark.

I squint, and elect not to reply before the last five minutes of my journey are up. As I pull into the carpark, Shadi is already there. They're perched on the kerb, their thumbs aflurry as they type at record speed. As I step out of the car, energy drink in hand, they look up.

"Squeaky's six weeks pregnant," Shadi says, rather more calmly now.

I shake my head. "No, she's not."

"She is!"

"Baby, you need certain parts to reproduce, and Squeaky's are gone. Lovingly removed and then safely disposed of. She is eggless. Wombless! Where's she going to keep her nonexistent foetuses?"

"She's still got them, Van!"

My mouth falls open. "What?"

"Her belly is swollen! We took her to the vet and they did the ultrasound and there's two foetuses in there!"

I check the ingredients list of my energy drink for hallucinogenic substances.

"Van?" Shadi's hand waves in my periphery.

"I'm listening, I'm listening," I take a sip of the (apparently hallucinogen-free) drink and set it down on the roof of my car. "Well, if they didn't do the radical hysterectomy, what did they take out?"

"They think it was a couple of cysts and some surrounding tissue."

"... I must be losing my fucking mind here," I say, half to myself and half to Shadi. "You're not seriously telling me the veterinarian mistook cysts for a uterus and ovaries? I understand cats have small organs, but anyone with a vet science degree would know which bits are which, surely."

"Yeah, well…" Shadi scuffs the bitumen with their foot, "funny you should mention that. The assistant actually told us that the vet who did it… um… fudged all her credentials."

I blink. "Sorry, what?"

"Yeah… she never set foot in vet school, and now she's being taken to court for malpractice." They rub their forearm. "The clinic gave her the ass yesterday and have been getting in touch with all her patients to let them know."

"Jaysus."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway," they brighten substantially now, "she's fine! Want a cat?"

"I... God, I have no idea. Just… okay, look, I'm open to it." I pull my keys out and drag Shadi toward the clinic. "I need to prep for a small procedure of my own–" I pre-emptively hold up a finger as my best friend starts to smirk, "which, by the way, I'm fully qualified to do! Anyway, just… God, I don't know, call Zevran and ask if he wants a cat. Tell him I'm happy enough for it, but it's his choice."

I unlock the front door and step inside, with Shadi's operatic impromptu ode to Squeaky and her estimable offspring ringing in my wake.

Predictably enough, I get plenty of messages while I'm doing my darnedest to focus on debriding Ms. Jyoti's leg wound. In a way, it's perfect timing. Ms. Jyoti, after several bad experiences with the doctors in town, is very afraid of healthcare workers and medical procedures in general, but her son Aaryush, who lives in the Bay, has been my patient since I was apprenticing here, and he brings her out from Luz to see me.

With the phone going off like an essential tremor, I keep them both distracted by talking about the prospective cat and the influx of messages awaiting me about said feline. Squeaky's photo is up on the wall, and Ms. Jyoti is going off that to make conjectures about what colour our little sausage might come out as.

The wound care's done before we know it, and once the dream team are off and hobbling, I can– quickly– check to see what Zevran thinks.

Van, Shadi is offering me a cat.

Well, us. They said you already know.

But you want me to decide. Why?

If you have concerns because you will be away for many hours, do not fret. I can take care of the cat without trouble.

I will gladly pay for the food if that is a concern.

… Perhaps that is not a concern.

I do not know what Shadi would do with the cat if we said no. I think I am quite fond of cats but if you are not so certain yourself?

I said to Shadi I was also open to having a cat and they said that means yes. Is this agreeable to you?

What colour do you think it will be?

I chuckle and send a quick message back.

Hi :) I wanted you to decide because I'm out of the house for most of the day and if you're going to be at home for a while, you might well have a cat getting in your face for long stretches.

That is not an issue, let me assure you.

Great! Then it's settled. We should go and pay Mother Squeaky a visit when we get a moment ok?

Look up calico cat genetics to see what colours the bab might be. Gotta go for now. Talk in a few hours! :) :) Glad you're happy.

Lunchtime is past schedule and passes in a blur. The work fridge is crowded with dishes– appetisers that Mom and Baba dropped off on their way to see Mam, and I give a brief but honest thanks to God that I told them not to make anything too big.

Shadi leaves the clinic before me. Kelly tells me, after my second-last patient is out, that Mom and Baba picked them up so they could visit Mam, too. Since Mam has short-term memory issues, she won't remember that Mom and Baba were only there half an hour before, so it'll be joyful reunions all over again. They apparently stuck their heads in the clinic to say hi, and they were sorry they missed me. Cute.

With the three of them away on their visit, I have enough time to wrap up my paperwork, buy flowers for Mom and Baba, and get home to put the last bit of the dinner together. Zevran, bless him, has the table set, and eyes me in surprise as I walk through the door laden with the food Mom and Baba made.

"I… thought we were feeding your parents, Van," he murmurs, opening the fridge door as he steps to the side to let me through. "This seems to be quite the other way around."

I chuckle as I put the plates in the fridge. "Yeah, well. I only said to bring an appetiser or two, and this is about as minimal as it gets."

Zevran gulps audibly, but the smile creeping across his face is genuine.

"Antivans are notorious overcookers as well," he says delightedly. "I like them already. Come, Van! We can prepare the chicken now that you're home."

"Ah, gotta shower first. I'll be with you shortly."

As is always the way when one is on a set time, we're still not quite finished cooking when my phone rings.

"Ya Van Bug," Baba says, pop music playing in the background. "Are you home yet, my darlin'?"

"Yeah, Baba, I'm home. Are you driving?"

"Mom's driving. We just left now."

"Okay. Come over whenever. Was Mam all right?"

"She's good, baby," Mom calls out.

"Okay, we'll talk to her in a few minutes," I hear Shadi protest. "The good part of the song's coming up. Turn it back up! Say hi to Carlos!"

Baba quietly admonishes Shadi, and with a chuckle, I start the wave of 'love you, byes' and conclude the call.

After passing on everyone's greetings to Zevran, we have another ten minutes of frantic preparations before there's a knock at the door. He glances over at the door, and his smile looks a hint forced.

I sling an arm over his shoulder. "They're going to love you," I squeeze his upper arm affectionately. "Want to come up to the door, or will you wait in here?"

As if a switch has been flicked, he slips into an easy, smooth facade. "Oh, I would hate to be a bad host. To the door we go!"

We step over together, and I keep a hand on his shoulder as I open the door.

Mom and Baba look at us like we're Eid gifts. Both of them let out thrilled squeaks, and I'm passed between them to get hugged, kissed, and my cheeks patted proudly. I melt under the affection, wondering briefly why Zevran and I haven't kidnapped them and brought them out here.

"Look at her face, Mansour," Mom coos to Baba, smoothing a hand over my cheek. "Got a little flesh there again, Vannie, thank God! Still too thin, but you look so much brighter now!"

"Masha'allah," Baba says warmly, pulling me into another hug. "You're eating better, huh? Keep it up, my darlin'."

"You have Carlos to thank for that," Shadi says over Baba's shoulder.

None of the Zegna family are short. All three of them have to look quite a ways down to catch the eyes of both Zevran and me.

I grin up at them and pat Zevran on the shoulder. "That's right. This one's been feeding me up since the day he arrived." I gesture up at my folks. "My Mom, Gia, and my Baba, Mansour."

Mom's eyes gleam behind her huge, red glasses, and her smile's a K wide. She's the first to step forward.

"Call me Mom, baby, everyone does." She holds her arms out. "Do you like hugs?"

Zevran gives her a playful smile. "Why yes, ma'am, I do," he says, just in time to be snapped up in Mom's arms.

Mom gives him a Mom Hug, which is not unlike a Shadi Hug in terms of firmness, duration, and rocking, but unlike Shadi, she tends to speak throughout. Croons of 'Ooh, he's a good hugger!' and 'Thank you for feeding our girl' join Zevran and Shadi's chuckles, until she releases him. My Baba, somewhat shyer than Mom, goes in next, and Shadi gets a hug in after him.

Once we're inside, they make a point of not looking at the moving boxes I still haven't unpacked. Instead, God bless them, they ooh and aah over their flowers, and Mom pushes a paper bag into my arms.

"Baba and I were walkin' past that little shop that sells the funny socks– what was it called, Mansour?"

"Frock Off," Baba cheerily supplies.

"Frock Off, that's it," she nods and taps the bag. "Had a sale on. We found a new work shirt for you, baby."

My hands go cold. That shop isn't cheap, even during a sale, and Mom and Baba continually refuse to accept money from us kids beyond what's needed to stay afloat. I open the bag and pull out a white, long-sleeved button-down peppered with ladybirds, and because I'm a burnt-out idiot who couldn't get a grip on a superglued handlebar, I'm so choked up I can't even squeak a 'thank you' out.

"Bugs for Van Bug!" Baba says with a grin, bouncing a little on his toes.

"And Carlos, we weren't sure what your size was, so we played it safe and got you socks, honey." Mom gently pries the bag out of my hands and passes it to Zevran, who accepts it and extracts a pair of tube socks patterned with leaves and insects of every possible colour. "We were on a bug bender!"

Zevran hums delightedly, drawing one bare foot up without so much as a wobble and pulling one of the socks on. "Oh, my," he says through a broad smile. "You spoil me, thank you. Don't they look fabulous?" He eyes me smugly and adds, "now you and I are a pair of buggers, Van, see?"

Baba, perennially weak for shitty jokes, snorts with laughter and claps Zevran on the back.

Quite predictably, I'm still wavering between dissolving into honking great sobs and lovingly scolding the folks for spending money on me. Memories flash just a little too vividly of them and Mam at the table, each nursing a cup of tea for dinner while us kids ate, and that just about brings me to my knees. But of course, nobody knows that because I'm keeping it together so cleverly– which is to say that I'm standing stock-still and praying everyone's forgotten I'm here.

Mom, who sees through my stupidity as readily as she always has, takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face the direction of the laundry room.

"Go try that on, Vannie," she instructs matter-of-factly. "Baba's got the receipt, so we can take it back if it doesn't fit."

"Ah," I creak. "Sure I need to make the tea first–"

"No need," Zevran sweeps past me into the kitchen. "I can manage that easily enough. Now, who will have what?"

In my defeat, and with a helpful shove from Shadi, I shamble off and try the shirt on. Even though it's a smidge too big (no doubt they're hoping I'll fill out more), it's an indisputably fabulous look, and as I step out and announce as much, the agreement is unanimous. Zevran has Shadi snap a picture of him and me together; in a display of flexibility that has the entire company gasping, he effortlessly stretches his leg up against his head, showing off his bug sock to best advantage from his position beside me. The affectionate telling-off due my parents is waylaid. For now.

My thanks, of course, is not, and once that's out of the way, it's quickly revealed that we're all quite hungry. Enough so, in fact, that we take our teas straight to the dining table and get started. The kitchen quickly fills with the clinks of wooden serving spoons against secondhand serving bowls; chairs slide on the lino floor, adjusting for belly space and proximity to the food. Through the propped-open back door, the rolling crash of the afternoon tide carries on the breeze, and vigorous praise over various dishes, along with multitudes of thank yous and could-you-pass-mes constantly crop up.

Baba takes a mouthful of potato salad and chuckles delightedly. "Gad, this is good, Vannie."

Amid resounding agreement from Mom and Shadi– and Zevran, the wicked man, I nudge my seatmate and pat his shoulder.

"I learned from one of the best," I jerk my head at Zevran.

Zevran is quick to put his fork down and hold his hands up. "Ah-ah," he reprimands playfully. "I cannot claim credit for anything but the advice to make the potato salad a day in advance and refrigerate it." He shrugs. "Surely that is commonsense, though. Most things are better when they are mature."

Mom and Baba, who are both getting into their fifties, both visibly thrill at that last remark, and nod in agreement.

"Gosh, I like this guy, Vannie!" Mom declares, and smiles conspiratorially at Zevran. "Van's always had good taste in friends, Carlos, y'know."

Shadi and I share a snort at this; we both have almost no close friends outside of each other and the dead siblings, and Mom knows this very well. Nice way to compliment Shadi, though.

Before Zevran can voice his confusion at our reaction, Mom quickly follows up with, "Anyway, honey, tell us everything. How long have you known our two ragamuffins? How'd ya meet?"

I make an effort to stifle an awkward laugh, but Zevran, as if he expected the question (more to the point, why didn't I?), gives a good-natured chuckle.

"Ah, do you know, Mom," he says, resting a hand on my shoulder, "I think Van tells this better than I do."

Everyone looks at me, Zevran included.

Now I do laugh awkwardly. "Right. Yeah. Yaani…"

Baba's eyes dart between Zevran and me, shining like diamonds. He leans forward and, with his elbows on the table, rests his head in his hands, smiling dreamily.

"Ooh, Van Bug!" he hums delightedly. "Is he a nice boy?"

While I 'oh, Christ' despondently, Zevran waggles his brows. "Oh, Mr. Mansour–"

"Call me Baba, hon," he corrects him.

"Thank you. Baba, I can assure you I am a very nice boy–"

"Oh God shut up, no you're not," I cut Zevran off, having finally regained my speaking capabilities, and nudge him in the ribs.

Zevran gasps and touches a hand to his chest. "But I am," he protests in a wounded purr. "You would not call me 'sweetheart' if my heart were not sweet, surely–"

Amid Baba's thrilled cackle, I bury my face in my hands. "Toad man," I moan, wondering why bastarding Shadi hasn't come to my rescue yet. I never should have allowed Mom and Baba to keep an eye out for a date for me.

"Vannie! You told me it was just platonic. Sneaky!" She clucks her tongue and gives Zevran a sympathetic look. "And she's callin' you Toad Man? He doesn't look a thing like a toad, Van, baby! He's very handsome. Call him Tiger or somethin', huh?--"

I hold up my hands. "Right— right! Let's just… clear things up a bit here, if you don't mind. So, Carlos and I are platonic, first of all."

Mom and Baba deflate momentarily, but then some sort of resolve settles over them. "Don't you worry, baby," Mom assures me. "We haven't forgotten. We'll keep an eye out for someone nice for you– and Carlos, honey, are you looking to settle down? Baba and I are pretty good matchmakers, y'know."

Interest blooms on Zevran's face, and I can't tell if it's real or fabricated, but it falls by the wayside in either case as Mom, smiling like the cat who's got the cream, turns back to me.

"Aw, we've embarrassed Vannie. Sorry, honey, I'll save that for later. You were gonna tell us about how you met?"

For a second, I catch myself wishing we could go back to the wretched matchmaker conversation, but an answer is needed, so an answer I must give.

"Right. So… hah. The thing is, I know Carlos because I… summoned him."

My parents let out a synchronous shriek of astonishment, which is most assuredly not an exaggeration of either the volume or the sound itself.

"Ya SUMMONED him?" Mom exclaims.

Zevran smiles and nods. "She did indeed," he says smoothly. "I arrived… mmm… around two months ago now, I think, wasn't it, Van?"

I nod. "Yeah, that'd be about right."

Mom and Baba gape at me.

"Wh–? When did this happen? When did you summon–? I didn't even know you'd summoned someone, Van Bug!" Baba gasps.

"No, well, ah… no, you wouldn't."

"But why didn't you tell us, baby?" Mom chides me gently. "Why'd you keep it a secret?"

A shake creeps into my hands; they look so hurt. I'm not the sneaky type at all, and summonings are no small thing, so it's hardly a wonder. The fact that Zevran's watching me so intently as well isn't helping. I look up at Shadi, and they give me a shrug and an apologetic smile.

"I think you'd better just tell them," they say softly, and frankly, I could murder them for that because doesn't that remark stir up the dramatic tension in the air. Mom and Baba practically start climbing over the table at that.

I sigh. "I… look, Carlos isn't the most… legal candidate for a summoning, see–"

I'm cut off, somehow, by dead silence.

"Not legal in what way, honey?" Baba asks after a moment. His eyes flicker up to Zevran, and the agreeableness on his face is all but gone. "Is it him specifically, or is his AU banned?"

"Well, I presume it's the AU–"

"What d'you mean 'presume?'" Mom asks sharply.

I shrug with as much off-handedness as I can muster. "To be fair, he probably isn't allowed to be summoned either–"

"Why?" Baba asks insistently. "Why isn't he likely to be allowed? And why are you summoning illegal people? Baby, you could lose your medical licence if anyone found out. Nine years of hard work, all gone overnight!"

"Well, he has a criminal record. But sure, he didn't have a choice–"

"What did he do?"

I look over at Zevran. Just beneath the small smile, his face is hard enough to cut a diamond.

"D'you mind if I explain to them? Or would you rather?"

You can almost hear the at-ease facade click into place on him. His limbs loosen like they were ordered to.

"No no, please," he gives a small, inviting wave. "I did say you tell these things better."

With a nod and a sigh, I turn back to the folks. "Carlos was bought on the slave market as a child by the local equivalent of the mafia. He was forced to become an assassin."

"He's…" the colour is draining from Mom's face in real time. "He's killed people?"

Zevran smiles with the modest guilt of a pre-dinner cookie thief. "Well, yes, I have," he says, quite placidly, "A great many. But be assured, I only intended to kill the people assigned to me, and I did my best to give my marks a very good end." He waggles his eyebrows exactly once at the last part of that, and Mom and Baba's lips thin substantially in consequence.

Mom holds a hand up at Zevran. "You can just stop with that, right now. I don't know what the hell my daughter– my only surviving daughter," she adds furiously, "is doing with a career killer in her house, but this ends now. Van, come over this side of the table, please, baby."

"Mom," Shadi speaks up gently now, "he's fine. Really."

"Shadi, none of this is fine," Mom says angrily, throwing a hand at Zevran. "Do you see how flippant he is about all of this? He has been living in the same house as your sister for two months! And you've visited him, too!"

Baba shakes his head. "I don't understand, Van," he says pleadingly. "Did you bring him out here because you wanted to die? Is that it, baby?" He reaches across the table and holds my hands, his huge thumbs stroking over my poky, sharp little knuckles. "I know it's been a hard few years, but you didn't want him to…?"

I squeeze his hands back. "No, Baba. And look, what reason does he have to kill me? I got him away from horrific conditions. The gangsters put him in oubliettes, a torture rack, starved him, beat him… it's appalling! He's free here. And safe."

"It is true," Zevran pipes up again with a rather enterprising nod. "I failed on my last mission, and the penalty for an incomplete job among my employers is death. A very gruesome one, too." He gestures at me delicately. "I owe your lovely daughter my life. And Shadi has been very kind to me as well. Truly, they are the last people I would wish to harm. In fact, I would gladly protect them with every resource I have."

"Even if that's true, Vannie, what about everyone else?" Mom admonishes. "Did you think about the vulnerable people in your life before you let him just move in? About who might be at risk from an ex-murderer? How well d'you really know this guy?"

My hands slide out of Baba's as I straighten up indignantly. "I take issue to the suggestion that I did this impulsively," I say firmly. "My entire career's based on interactions with vulnerable people! You've all been reliant on me since I was a child to supplement the family income. Most of my life, I've been responsible for others, and I'm deeply offended that you think that after, what, thirteen years of this, that I'd suddenly chuck all that and gamble the safety of this family, of this entire town, on a whim?

"Not only that," I add, "but need I remind you that Uncle Danielo went to war and shot the shit out of over a dozen people? He chose to become a soldier, even though he could've made a better living as a plumber. You let him sleep in your house while his roof was being fixed."

"Well, we didn't want him there–" Baba protests uncomfortably.

"But you let him in anyway!" I cut over him. "Not worrying about what a guy with military know-how might do in a poor neighbourhood." I huff a sigh and put an arm around Zevran's shoulders. The guy's stiff as a board, and glances at me from his periphery like a frightened dog.

"I trust Carlos implicitly," I say simply. "That's the end of the story. I want to get him registered so that he can live in safety and dignity here, which is what I was hoping you and Baba might help us with."

"Christamighty, Van," Mom feeds her fingers under her glasses and rubs her eyes. "This is just… gawd. Gawd." She turns to my father. "I can barely think straight, Mansour. What the fuck."

"And Shadi." Baba cups Shadi's cheek. "Habibi, you didn't tell Mom or me. You know who this guy is, and you didn't worry for a second?"

Shadi, ever resistant to Baba's Big Eyes of Disappointment, shakes their head. "Not really. He's not the kind of guy that kills for no reason. It's self-defence or a contract, and neither of those are an issue right now." They shrug. "I trust him, too."

Our parents heave positively exhausted sighs. Simultaneously, of course. After spending four-fifths of their lives together, I doubt they'd know how to sigh independently.

Baba kneads the bridge of his nose between his finger and his thumb. "What do you want us to help with, Van Bug?" he asks, quickly adding, "I'm not saying I'll do it, but tell me anyway."

Not wasting a second, I explain the concept of an off-record birth certificate and the application process that allows for the procurement of one. The hopefulness that the conversation has turned a corner has turned me into a motormouth, and I have to force myself to slow down several times.

"So… we'd need to make up a story and agree on it," Baba says wearily. "And if we fail, we lose our teaching licences. For a man we don't know that you've summoned without a word to anyone." He shakes his head. "Do you know what you're asking of us? I mean, do you really know, Vannie?"

I shrug with one hand. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I'm not going to try and force you to do something you don't feel comfortable doing. All I ask is that you keep this under your hats." I hold up a finger. "And let me be very clear about this: if you rat Carlos out to the AU police, I'm going straight to jail with him, no question."

Mom purses her lips at me. "Don't blackmail us, please, Evangeline," she says curtly.

"I'm not. There's no threat, Mom. This is exactly what will happen if you let the cat out of the bag. I am perfectly willing to put my career and freedom on the line for this cause, and that's it."

Shadi raises a finger. "Me, too!" they add, shooting Zevran a big, gleaming grin.

Baba closes his eyes. "Ya Allah…"

"Ugh." Shadi folds their arms and arches a brow at our woebegone mother and father. "You two are wrecking the mood. Happy family dinner, my ass."

"Shadi…" Mom says warningly.

"Nope!" The chair clatters backward from under them as they spring to their feet. "This is so embarrassing. We're going home."

"Habibi, we got here twenty minutes ago," Baba points out.

Shadi's already pulling them away from the table by the backs of their chairs. "And we'll be out of here by twenty-three minutes," they say crisply. "Get up." While Mom and Baba are still both watching us, they mouth 'I'll talk to them' to us from behind their backs.

Zevran, who has been blinking fast enough to start a whirlwind with his eyelashes, says, "Ah… if you would rather stay, I am happy to leave you all to it…?"

I shake my head and put my hands on his shoulders. "Uh-uh," I say firmly. "You live here. Nobody is being forced, or even asked to leave, but you won't be driven out of your own home when you haven't done anything seriously objectionable."

Zevran stays in place. Shadi, meanwhile, has been indelicately attempting to unseat Mom and Baba by rocking their chairs, until Mom finally gives in.

"All right, Shadi," she groans. "I'm not comfortable with leaving Van home alone with this guy–"

"If I had any concerns, you think I'd have let him out of my sight?" Shadi asks pointedly.

Mom tuts and tsks, and then concedes with a sigh. She looks at me apologetically. "If you don't mind, Vannie, we might call it a day for now."

"We're not angry at you, honey," Baba adds quickly. "It's just been a shock. Just… give us some time to think about this and settle down, all right?"

I nod. "You know I'm not angry at you two either, right?"

"Yeah, bug. We know."

Shadi suddenly materialises me and elbows me in the ribs. "Get me the laptop," they whisper out of the corner of their mouth. "I'll do a playthrough with them at home."

My eyes widen. "You're a genius!"

"Duh. Now go get it!"

Five minutes later, Mom and Baba are on the front steps with Shadi, giving me far more kisses goodbye than their average, and reiterating several times that at the most basic hint of danger, I'm to call the police, and then them. When Mom is halfway through assuring Zevran that she's willing to do unforgivable things to him should he so much as inconvenience me, the family dinner is drawn to an affectionate but firm close as Shadi frogmarches them to the car. I blow them all several kisses as they drive off, and stop waving only once they're out of sight.

"You know, Zevvo," I say after a moment, "I feel like I should have anticipated that sort of reaction, looking back."

Zevran, looking entirely bemused, acknowledges my remark by meeting my eyes briefly, and then turns back to the remains of the dust trail left by our visitors.

"Hey." I touch his shoulder and pull away again as he stiffens under my fingertips. "Oop, sorry. That must've been stressful, huh?"

He snorts and shakes his head ruefully. "Remarkable, you know."

"... What is?"

Zevran looks at me properly now. "Two months I have been here, now. Two."

I smile nervously. He doesn't sound especially pleased about that.

"... Not good?" I broach, dreading the likely and well-deserved 'not good at all' that must be coming.

"On the contrary. I live better than I could have possibly imagined for myself. I am fed, clothed, sheltered, financed, paid all sorts of friendly attentions… this is the lap of luxury."

I'd be relieved he said that if he didn't look so damned dissatisfied about it.

"I must be a fool, though," he says. "There is evidently a cultural more I have not grasped. Either that, or you are hiding the reason you brought me here in plain sight." Zevran shrugs irritably. "Perhaps you had hoped I might work it out on my own, but I have not."

My heart sinks. "Ah."

"... Ah?" he echoes wryly. "Hm. It is no matter, whatever the reason is, but in any case, I would like to know. I think I am ready. Whatever it is you want from me, if I am not already able to give it to you, I will need to know what it is so that I might begin to train for it."

It takes me a moment to realise I've been holding my breath, and I force myself to breathe in.

"Sure thing," I say eventually. "Fair warning, though, the answer might still seem far-fetched. Or outright harebrained. It's got a bit of background, though, so this could take a while."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Unless the AU police seize me, I have all the time in the world."

"Well, shall we take the discussion indoors, or would you rather go to the beach, walk and talk?"

Zevran chooses the beach, and that's the direction we set off in. My mind alights on the substantial leftovers sitting on the table, and I send a quick prayer off to the closest available god that they're still safe to eat by the time we get back.