The horror flickered across his guest’s face, and Zechariah’s smile tightened to an uncomfortable line. His hand hovered, empty. Rejected.

Unconvincingly, Zechariah moved his hand to straighten out his cuff, as if he had not just been looming there in a fixed position for far too long to claim that the original intention.

“Perhaps you need the doctoring, then,” Zechariah laughed, but it came out defensively, “… my friend.”

Dr. Wells was perfect. Educated. Eloquent. Pleasing to the eye. He was probably even born in England, and wrote poetry that rivaled Chaucer in his free time. Of course he would not desire him.

… That just made Zechariah want him more.

“Some champagne should have you right as rain. Just a moment.”

Champagne was not strong enough, so he brought them a bottle each. Ugh. This would barely take the edge off.

He set out the extra champagne bottle and Shabbat glasses on the coffee table, then took a seat at the far end of the couch. He started handling the cage around the cork not unlike it was a snake charmer's basket, rearing to burst forth and bite him with one wrong move.