Did Zevran look different? Jack couldn't say. His last memory of the man's face was the distinctive off-coloured, sunken pale of someone who's dead and mostly exsanguinated, too still and faintly glossy with the water they'd used to get the worst of the blood off. Plus it was hard to focus on him, mind flitting hummingbird-erratic to a thousand things, skittery and terrified of the incomprehensible thing that was Zevran breathing and moving, Zevran without a speck of grime on him, Zevran in the damned kitchen drinking coffee in a terrifyingly ugly sweater like a one night stand cocooned in borrowed clothing, Zevran-

Zevran smiling at him.

"Oh. God."

The Jack's voice, when it finally evaded the leaden obstruction of his tongue, carried a dozen intonations, high among them what is happening and am I going mad, with a close third being taken by I literally cannot believe you. He took a shivery breath and forced himself to advance a step, just enough to put the mugs down on the table and let himself sink into a chair, before his suddenly-unreliable knees could deposit him on the tile. If there was a correct response he didn't know it. He didn't even know how to make the world go un-fuzzy at the edges.

"Zev." He swallowed thickly, and croaked a noise that was half laugh and half something he refused to contemplate, leaning back in his chair and looking up at him with that same lingering, distraught disbelief.