Zechariah smiled, politely. Fuck. Foiled by good taste.

His smile was more sincere when Elijah called it a kind thing to do, but also … more reserved. Had he not figured he would become an accessory to Menachem’s woman-stalking and brother stabbing, he might have offered help instead of judgment.

Well. Help and judgment.

His own smile faded when Elijah looked uncomfortable. Sore subject? … O-oh. God damn. He wanted to hug the poor thing. How did he get by without family? Could they have had a giant family together? They- they still could. Just not the way Zechariah wanted to.

“My children could use a godfather, someone who is closer to where they will be raised should something happen.”

Zechariah cast another sympathetic look his way. A waiter arrived, standing with a refined bored look as Zechariah talked.

“I would have suggested a slander suit, especially if she is not a woman of means – but the crowd is hungry for the blood of men—” he glanced to the waiter, “—presumed to be interested in other men.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the waiter droned when eye contact was finally made. “May I take your orders?”