Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

From watching others attempt it, Wesley had always expected on-the-spot strategizing to be difficult -- impossible, even, coming from him -- but now he was finding that it actually wasn't all that challenging.

"Get your coat," he ordered Faith, leading her down the stairs. (As if he would let her walk behind him, not two days after what had happened.) To Angel, he explained, "Slight change of plan. In about twenty minutes, the Council's Operations Team is coming here. They'll expect to find you gone and her drugged."

( And him a ponce. No, Wesley wasn't letting that go. )

[[Warning for mild gun violence in this. Taken and adapted from Angel 1x19, "Sanctuary." NFB, NFI, OOC is love, all this was preplayed with a cool person I know called MYSELF though I stole icons from all the canonmates and old guest stars ever, what are you gonna do about it? Up early for... other stuff coming later. Shh. Follows this, this, this, this, this and this. DONE SPAMMING NOW. Almost.]]

Wesley had thought he would go home. Or, well, back to school, rather, though for a while now "home" had been the best word for it. Either way, he'd been on the verge of calling for a cab from the mainland when he suddenly just -- couldn't. Not now, when his ineptitude was so obvious from looking at his face. Or really any part of him -- the injuries covered most of his body, and his every step or movement was accompanied by a wince of pain at the very least. And as he didn't much favor the idea of returning to school so people could gawk and bear witness to said ineptitude, he found himself somewhere rather uncharacteristic.

In a bar. In Baltimore. Where he was throwing darts, with exceptionally precise aim, at the bulls' eye of the dartboard. It wasn't even interesting, and he certainly didn't need the practice given that they hit one hundred eighty every time, but the only other thing he could think of to relieve this much anger would involve a gun, and all of his were locked away in his dormitory.

And he was drinking beer. Apparently if you looked this beat-up, people tended not to ask for identification, though he'd foregone his usual choice of scotch out of wariness of whatever swill they'd be passing off as whiskey here.

He was having a miserable evening, but that was fine so long as no one was around to bear witness to anything he'd botched up. Throwing darts, at least, he had some skill at. And practicing in spite of the limp, the pain all over his body that the bad American beer was doing absolutely nothing to help numb, and the lack of feeling in his throwing arm, well, that was an extra challenge, wasn't it?

( It was a bit unfortunate that Wesley had been hoping not to reminded of his failures tonight. )

[[Taken and adapted from Angel 1x19, "Sanctuary." NFB, NFI, OOC would give me the warm fuzzies, and this is post six of seven. Follows this, this, this, this, and this.]]