The room was dark except for the faint light from the bedside lamp, which was warm enough to dispel the clinical cold that still clung to the room's corners and soft enough not to disturb. The scent of ether had faded, replaced by clean linen and the faint trace of the healing salve Dr. Marin left behind.
Damian slept.
Finally.
The antidote had dragged him down like a weight tethered to his spine, clumsy in a way that never belonged to the Emperor. He'd fought it, of course, tried to sit up twice, grumbled something about unfinished paperwork, and only relented when Gabriel leaned over him and whispered, "You swore you'd stay still."
Now he was a tangle of sharp limbs and breath-slowing exhaustion, shirt half-unbuttoned and brow furrowed even in sleep. His hand, though, his hand still held Gabriel's, fingers slack but curled.
