Damian glanced over, eyes bloodshot but sharp, and lifted the spoon anyway. "If Edward brings one more 'healing broth,' I'll declare war on the kitchen staff."
Gabriel made a soft noise, halfway between a laugh and something far more dangerous. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and crossed the room barefoot.
Damian didn't move. Didn't flinch when Gabriel reached up and pressed a hand against his chest, palm flat, fingers splayed.
Warm. Steady. Still his.
"You smell like soap," Gabriel murmured. "And fever. And that stupid citrus shampoo I told you to throw out."
"Means I'm clean," Damian muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth again.
"Mhm, I assume you have the same aversion to healing foods like me. Now you know who Edward is."
"I should give him a vacation."
Gabriel huffed, amused despite himself. "You mean exile."
