Giles bantered with him all the way to the door of Angel's room, where the older man suddenly fell silent. Wesley braced himself, knowing this was not going to be pretty. His insides churned with the thought of what he might find and . . . strangely enough, he detected a scent on the air that wasn't sitting well with him, though he couldn't quite identify it.
Opening the door and pushing it back until it stuck, Giles wheeled him into the room. Wesley's eyes went immediately to the bed and he gaped, swallowing hard and then regretting it when the smell he'd been wondering about coated his throat and made him want to retch.
Angel was . . . thin, so very thin. His bones were barely wrapped in a tight layer of flesh and his features were sunken in deeply. He lay on the bed, his eyes covered over with moist pads. Blood was pumping into him through one IV and out through the other.
"What . . . what is that?"
"That's how we've kept him alive, ish, this long," Giles answered with a sigh as he stopped the wheelchair near Angel's bedside. "The poison has leached into his flesh. It, uh . . . it infects whatever blood we give him. We have to keep up a constant supply, running untainted blood in with one IV and drawing tainted blood out with the other. It's . . . not a perfect system, for obvious reasons, which . . . is why he's declining. If would could isolate the tainted blood we could keep him stable. Or, if we could either clear the taint from his flesh . . . but to do that, we'd need to find something like an antibody, something that will resist the taint."
Wesley nodded, taking all of this in with a furrowing of his forehead. "What's that smell?"
"What smell?" Giles shook his head. "Uh, I smell cleaning agents and . . . blood, but that's all."
"No, it's . . . I don't know, but it's almost overwhelming . . . and," Wesley shook his head, reaching out to touch Angel's hand and then drawing quickly away when he felt the waxy texture of the other man's skin. "I . . . please, uh . . ."
He didn't need to say anymore. Giles turned around his wheelchair and got him out into the hall way. Wesley took of his glasses, laying them in his lap and scrubbing his hands over his face. "God," he whispered, gulping in untainted air.
"There's . . . we're working on it," Giles said, though he didn't sound comforting. That wasn't a bad thing, Wesley didn't believe in false comfort. At least the man was being honest.
Opening the door and pushing it back until it stuck, Giles wheeled him into the room. Wesley's eyes went immediately to the bed and he gaped, swallowing hard and then regretting it when the smell he'd been wondering about coated his throat and made him want to retch.
Angel was . . . thin, so very thin. His bones were barely wrapped in a tight layer of flesh and his features were sunken in deeply. He lay on the bed, his eyes covered over with moist pads. Blood was pumping into him through one IV and out through the other.
"What . . . what is that?"
"That's how we've kept him alive, ish, this long," Giles answered with a sigh as he stopped the wheelchair near Angel's bedside. "The poison has leached into his flesh. It, uh . . . it infects whatever blood we give him. We have to keep up a constant supply, running untainted blood in with one IV and drawing tainted blood out with the other. It's . . . not a perfect system, for obvious reasons, which . . . is why he's declining. If would could isolate the tainted blood we could keep him stable. Or, if we could either clear the taint from his flesh . . . but to do that, we'd need to find something like an antibody, something that will resist the taint."
Wesley nodded, taking all of this in with a furrowing of his forehead. "What's that smell?"
"What smell?" Giles shook his head. "Uh, I smell cleaning agents and . . . blood, but that's all."
"No, it's . . . I don't know, but it's almost overwhelming . . . and," Wesley shook his head, reaching out to touch Angel's hand and then drawing quickly away when he felt the waxy texture of the other man's skin. "I . . . please, uh . . ."
He didn't need to say anymore. Giles turned around his wheelchair and got him out into the hall way. Wesley took of his glasses, laying them in his lap and scrubbing his hands over his face. "God," he whispered, gulping in untainted air.
"There's . . . we're working on it," Giles said, though he didn't sound comforting. That wasn't a bad thing, Wesley didn't believe in false comfort. At least the man was being honest.
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