Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

There really was nothing quite so unpleasant as taking a phone call from his father, Wesley thought irritably. The book he'd been reading remained open on the desk in front of him, but knowing that he'd be called out on it if his father could hear pages rustling in the background, he didn't touch it.

The topic for the day was Parents' Weekend. While Wesley thought his position was fairly obvious -- that there was absolutely no need for his father to make an appearance, thank you very much -- it seemed that they needed to belabor the point.

"...and you see, Wesley, if it were any other weekend, I'm sure I could move things around, but I do have quite a bit of paperwork I need to get to, and I just can't justify taking the time away from my desk."

Of course.

"Yes, Father, I understand," Wesley said, hoping that would wrap up the discussion and knowing at the same time that he wouldn't be so lucky. "I -- "

"And really, I hardly see a reason to attend, particularly if doing so would just merit more insults from the caustic young women you call your friends," his father went on. "After all, it's not as though you've accomplished very much. Only three people ran for Student Council and you couldn't manage to get yourself elected president? Well. I think that speaks for itself, don't you?"

"Yes, Father."

Today sucked.

[[Door and post open.]]

Wesley hated his cell phone for two reasons. One: it was large and bulky and he could not figure out how to work it. And two: Whenever it rang he knew he was about to hear something unpleasant come out of his father’s mouth. Especially when it was the wee hours of the morning and Wes had been hoping to sleep in, but of course it was late morning in England and that was all his father cared to think about.“Hello, Father,” he said dully. 

And, okay, he always tried to be a good son and all that, but he was privately amused by how remarkably predictable his father could be. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was not the sort to bother with small talk or asking how Wesley was doing unless his intent was to criticize in some way. It turned out that today was not one of those days.

“Wesley. Your mother wants you home for her birthday.”

Abrupt and to the point, and unabashedly upholding the well-known fact that it was never Wes’ father who wanted him home – just his mother. Whose birthday was in three weeks.

“I see,” said Wesley, waiting for some kind of qualifier, like he can’t go because his grades aren’t good enough or he wasn’t polite enough when he answered the phone.

“There’ll be a portal set up for you tomorrow at one o’clock, boy. Do your best not to miss it the way you did several years ago, as they’re really quite expensive to create.”

Those “several” years were actually eleven, when Wesley missed the portal to an alternate dimension his class was studying at the Watchers’ Academy. He had been five at the time, and yes, his father had to pay for a new portal to be created.

“I’ll be sure to catch it, Father,” he said dully.

“See that you do.” And Wesley was about to end the conversation when his father added, “Oh, and boy? I was informed that you hit the shoulder of a target in your marksmanship course last week. Next time, I’d advise that you aim more carefully in order to secure a fatal wound.”

Wesley took care to say his goodbyes pretty quickly after that. After hanging up, he slumped on his bed, completely annoyed. Three weeks at home was not something he was looking forward to at all. Because while he’d been doing quite well in his marksmanship class and had managed to at least tolerate his self-defense class, his father would obviously find something about his performance at Fandom worth extensive criticism. Plus there was that whole thing where it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d completely embarrassed the Watchers’ Council and allowed his charge to try to help a giant snake destroy the world. That was always worth criticizing.

He started packing his stuff, enjoying how much lighter his luggage was after he’d unloaded a dozen books on Tara the previous night. Which meant that he’d have less to do while hiding away in his suite at home, but at least he wouldn’t have to fall over when carrying his things to the portal. Probably. Not.

[establishy for a three-week AFK, but cabinmates or visitors or whoever are free to overhear the call or see Wes fall over with his bags if you want.]

Wes was on the phone with his father, and he was not enjoying himself.

"Yes, Father, I understand." He switched the phone to his other ear. "It's simply that the course itself hardly seems challenging at all, and it puts me in rather an awkward position to be taking a class from a girl who I - well, never mind." 

He listened to his father's deprecating response, then calmly went on, "Yes, I know. However, if I had been a more adept Watcher, I would not be at this school to begin with, which makes that point rather irrelevant." Before his father could say anything else, he gritted his teeth and said, "Send my love to Mother," then slammed the phone down.

He was furious. Stuck in this school, in a class he couldn't possibly deal with taught by the very woman responsible for his being here, with a roommate who might be insane and things happening to him like getting stuck on the roof with a bratty cheerleader. He'd take the regulations and demands of the Watchers' Academy over this any day, or the awkwardness and routine embarrassment of Sunnydale. Right now he hated Fandom with a passion. He crossed the room and slammed the door shut and then collapsed on his bed, groaning a little when the door only bounced back open.

[ooc: open! come chat with him, he's cute like this! after the next 20 minutes I have class, though, so it'll be SP after that.]