"It was a wedding cake," Gabriel admitted, making a face. "I can't even bake a danish, but I baked a wedding cake." Thus the weirdness. Something was wrong; he just wasn't sure how, exactly. Not that he was going to let on quite yet. Instead he looked thoughtful. "Mind you, there's an idea. Nothing wrong with giant danishes."

Except that the mere thought was making him feel sick again and, really, a human constitution sucked. It was just wrong that the thought of more sweets should make him feel worse. "That's why I'm out here," he told the old man. "All that food in the kitchen--guess my co-slave started to get worried I might have something more to add to the mixer."

And, frankly, throwing up was an experience he had thus far managed to avoid and would very much like to not have. It had been a close one when he'd come in, which was why he'd stationed himself out here. "To be honest," he grumbled, eyeing the far-too-bare cabinets, "I'm about ready to climb the walls. I can still smell him trying to bake things and it's driving me nuts."