The man felt the heat of the angel's sentiment, yes. It was a promise of both protection and vengeance. It was a nigh holy rage, even if it was not screamed. It was, Damian realized, what came before that crackling blue.] You are strong enough. [This was uttered in earnest, and Damian squeezed the boy where he still held him.] We will find out how to help the families. Your notion was a good one.
[Misha was looking less and less well, and it was as if the boy had poured his vitality into Damian, into calming him, and the scales were suddenly tipped. So, the man was glad when the angel agreed to lie back, and he crawled up against his side, turned onto his hip, so he might drape himself across Misha with arm and leg and wedge of torso. Their legs still dangled off the side of the bed they were sitting on perpendicularly, but that was fine. Damian stuffed the t-shirt between his cheek and Misha's chest to stave the bleeding, and with his other arm, which, as mentioned, was draped, he folded it at the elbow, so the hinge of the joint was on Misha's chest, and his hand went up to the boy's face. Fingers traced under otherworldly pallor under eyes the color of dirty ice.] Thank you, [he repeated, this time in Arabic.]