Tristan knew he was being openly rude. But then again, Mr. Meijer had been rude in many ways, and as a doctor, Tristan had broken many social conventions to stop harm before. All the same, he was uncomfortable. The misunderstanding only made it worse. But he knew none of what he wanted to say could be openly said.

"I just meant that there's other options for you, should your position as a... cleaner... prove not what you had hoped for. You have my address if you need it," he explained. Then he nodded at the kid, nodded at Mr. Meijer for formality's sake and receded to an empty seat somewhere in a corner. Was he shivering?

Chéri’s confusion was only growing. In the end, the good doctor gave some explanation, or something with a passable resemblance “Alright, I will clean monsieur’s house and once I am done I will come around.” Apparently Chéri had not read that as the offer of steady employment. Or simply wasn’t accepting long term employment in service. Their clothes suggested it could hardly be the case, either way. “But are you alright?” He asked Tristan, maybe noticing himself that the doctor was shivering.

He turned to Zechariah and said “I think the doctor is not feeling well?” He spoke really slow, to make himself more understandable. Luckily enough his accent wasn’t too strong right now.

Zechariah wore his confusion at the doctor’s response openly. Was he afraid he would out him? Surely he knew better than that.

But it was then pity that he looked up Dr. Wells with.

“Il êtes étrange,” Zechariah waved off. “When … uh … périodes? Travail?”

Translation:

“He’s a strange one.”
“… periods … work?”

Tristan had already moved away by the time Chéri addressed him and he did not feel like shouting back across the pub. He gave a short nod and then pretended not to watch anymore.

Still confused by Tristan’s reaction, Chéri didn’t insist any further. The man had offered them a drink, worrying once for their physical health sounded like nice enough to return the kindness. Chéri stared a little longer then turned to Zechariah.
Trying to guess what their new employer meant, Chéri suggested “So, if you want, I can come to your house now, clean and then we will see it from there, yes?” The man had come across as a little too peculiar for Chéri not to top his natural suspiciousness with some extra caution. They spoke slowly and enunciated, trying to sound as clear as possible.

Zechariah almost had more to fear for, but he did not.

“Oui.”

He cast a withering look Dr. Wells’ way, then looked down to his glass.

“As soon as I finish this … auhm…” Zechariah gestured to his cup. “Alcool. Laisse-moi finir.”

Translation:

“Yes.”
“Alcohol. Let me finish.”

Chéri nodded and smile reassuringly. They were gonna wait for Zechariah. Honestly, considering what had happened to them in the last week, waiting for a man to finish his drink was a welcome break from grinding and hustling, even just mentally.

“Alright. Just that?” Hey, maybe Zechariah was here to drink more and Chéri knew better than putting anything, even their empty pockets, between a man and his drink.

“Oui, juste que,” Zechariah repeated, then gestured to the chair next to him. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”

Yes! He had successfully memorized some utterly basic French.

Translation:

“Yes, just that.”
“What is your name?”

Chéri nodded and approved, then sat next to their new employer. Out of habit, they just imitated how Zechariah was sitting and looked around, soaking in the sort of movement they could find in the pub.

Then Zechariah asked. In other circumstance, they would have answered differently, but in this case they just said “Chéri.” Which could be quite confusing, but on the other hand it was better to know now, while they still could reach the good doctor, if Zechariah was going to be bothered by… well, them.

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.

Translate:

“Sweet? As in ‘my sweet’? No, no. You pick something else. Something else … legal (English accent).”