Alastor nodded even though Angel wasn't likely to see it. Instead, he took a bit of cloth and dipped it into the sticky poultice. His hands, gloved or not, would never touch Angel's skin. He knew the look of someone who'd been touched enough.

It was arguably the only thing he truly had empathy for: that feeling that another's touch was burning, freezing, crawling under the skin and wouldn't give a moment's peace.

Alastor began applying the poultice little by little, adding bandages as soon as the scrapes and bruises were covered by the bitter-smelling mixture. He began murmuring under his breath as green magic swirled about Angel, seeping into the other's body and encouraging healing.

If Angel listened close enough, he'd be shocked to hear not curses or forbidden tongues but prayers almost buried beneath Alastor's customary static.