set the night of Gabriel's shooting, after this
Gabriel was pacing back and forth in Lucien’s bedroom, his hands tangled in his hair, a haunted expression on his face. It had been a couple of hours since Ransom shot him, even though it felt like much longer. How the hell had he let that happen? How could he have been so stupid, so unprepared? He wanted to scream, to go back to Raphael’s suite and start punching the black dragon until there was nothing left of him but bloody sludge. But he couldn’t: as the son of two Councilmen, he couldn’t afford such outbursts—especially not while his fathers were locked in the Council chamber, deciding Morozov’s fate. They would sentence him to death—they had to—but that still wasn’t enough to ease the warlock’s nerves. His mind was spiraling in a loop of fear, anger, and doubt, but he couldn’t let himself be crushed by it, not while he was in Lucien’s territory, under his watchful eye. He could’ve tried to rest, but his trembling body was flooded with adrenaline, so sleep wasn’t even an option. He was left with only one choice: focus on something else. Someone else. The only one available was his unlikely savior, Cairo Fucking Gaudet-De Luca.
Gabriel rolled his eyes. The last person he wanted to see was his brother, especially with his hands still shaking and his clothes bloody and torn to pieces, but anything was better than being alone with his thoughts right now. Once he made up his mind, he sprang into action, rushing around Lucien’s suite and gathering all the supplies he needed: stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, pulse oximeter, thermometer, penlight, reflex hammer—and a bottle of whiskey. That last one was more for his benefit than for Cairo’s. He wasn’t thrilled about not having his state-of-the-art equipment—it had been left on the sidewalk when Ransom shot him, he guessed—and having to make do with the dusty old tools of a doctor who probably hadn’t seen a patient since the fall of Rome, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Rise and shine, princess,” he said in a deadpan tone as he approached Cairo, who was still lying on Lucien’s immaculate couch. “Sit up and undress. I’m going to examine you and make sure you’re okay. In case my tone isn’t clear enough, that wasn’t a request.” He uncorked the whiskey and took a long swig before grabbing Cairo’s left arm and checking his radial pulse. “Why did you do it?” he asked simply, offering no further context, trusting that his brother was sharp enough to understand the subtext: ‘why did you risk your life to save me?’
