While Zechariah may have been Chéri’s primary target … gin was his. He sipped, aware of the steady gaze (and Dr. Wells’ mercurial presence) upon him.

(It was probably because he rejected him, Zechariah decided.)

At first, Zechariah’s face was unreadable.

“Chéri? Comme en … ‘mon chéri’?” he said, openly exasperated. “Non, non. Vous peut autre chose. Autre chose … legal.”

Then he thought of the likely results of letting a young, queer-looking French thing that chose Chéri as their name of choice have a second chance at picking a name. He shook his head and held his finger up.

“Pierre.”

He took a generous swig after that. This kid was going to get arrested – his main hope was they didn’t take Zechariah down with them.