The morning arrived with an unforgiving chill, and though the sunlight timidly peeked through the curtains, it failed to bring any warmth to Fang's limbs. He stirred, blinking away the remnants of sleep, his body sore yet strangely light. The venom was gone, its paralytic grip faded, and though his wounds throbbed with dull ache, they had mostly closed. He sat up cautiously, the ache in his chest reminding him of Madeline's cruel efficiency. He could breathe again, but it was labored, and every breath reminded him that survival had been no small feat.
Channing was still asleep beside him, slouched uncomfortably in a chair, a damp cloth resting in his hand, likely prepared to replace the one on Fang's forehead. His face was lined with exhaustion but bore the faintest impression of peace. Fang looked at him with complicated gratitude. He would never admit it aloud, not yet, but he knew the care had come from a place of love and guilt both.
