(no subject)
On occasion, Wesley saw fit to traverse the Island with a book within his hands, perusing the text of some Latin-based spell or perhaps some Arthur Conan Doyle piece, which never failed to entertain him. He had learned the ways and paths and with the boardwalk, he could make his way with relative ease. He would slip shoes off and walk the beach to the literary stylings of an archaic and familiar style that never failed to soothe him.
Something was strange, though. Something couldn't be right.
Wesley couldn't possibly be seeing the cupboard out of the corner of his eye, simply sitting amongst the low tide of the Island and waiting for him. It seemed all too much a terrible oasis, to see the grooves of that familiar wood, a memory he could never forget. Scars, whether from his father, from Faith, or from that day, those scars didn't fade, no matter how much time healed them.
He could hear ticking and he warned his post-traumatic mind to cease that, as it wasn't funny. His hands trembled slightly as he turned the page of his book (a Latin book that discussed Classic Greek's relation) and he smoothed his palm over the words on the page. His legs, unwillingly, took him in the direction of the cupboard and he felt the world spin away as though it couldn't remain when him and the cupboard sat, stayed, and here he was, staring at his past and it refused to stop ticking.
"Stop that," he instructed aloud, staring at the cupboard.
He was two feet away and it was still ticking. Ticking and ticking and Wesley was beginning to fear that it was no longer only his mind being deceitful. A year ago and he discovered a file on Faith Lehane and a compound that could tranquilize an elephant or a potent and rebellious Slayer. Now...it couldn't be. Nothing could be so cruel, nothing. The book was thrown down and trembling fingers, an aching arm, they opened the cupboard and he was tripping backwards on his feet when he saw what he did, ticking and gloating at him as if it hadn't ensnared him once, hadn't burned down the whole building around him.
There was a being this cruel, he thought to himself as he stumbled and hurried backwards, desperate to run. Any further thoughts, however, were silenced by the loud booming of the explosion and once more, he was thrown to the ground. All he could think was one thing, that one fleeting prayer that someone would find him. Dryly, tired, Wesley opened charred eyelids and stared at the smoke above him, floating in disarrayed patterns. "Angel," he murmured, half-pleaded, and he began to fight to stay conscious as he thoughts of the Shanshu scrolls that the cupboard possessed. "Angel..."
[He's on any beach you want to find. Details are in slated]
Something was strange, though. Something couldn't be right.
Wesley couldn't possibly be seeing the cupboard out of the corner of his eye, simply sitting amongst the low tide of the Island and waiting for him. It seemed all too much a terrible oasis, to see the grooves of that familiar wood, a memory he could never forget. Scars, whether from his father, from Faith, or from that day, those scars didn't fade, no matter how much time healed them.
He could hear ticking and he warned his post-traumatic mind to cease that, as it wasn't funny. His hands trembled slightly as he turned the page of his book (a Latin book that discussed Classic Greek's relation) and he smoothed his palm over the words on the page. His legs, unwillingly, took him in the direction of the cupboard and he felt the world spin away as though it couldn't remain when him and the cupboard sat, stayed, and here he was, staring at his past and it refused to stop ticking.
"Stop that," he instructed aloud, staring at the cupboard.
He was two feet away and it was still ticking. Ticking and ticking and Wesley was beginning to fear that it was no longer only his mind being deceitful. A year ago and he discovered a file on Faith Lehane and a compound that could tranquilize an elephant or a potent and rebellious Slayer. Now...it couldn't be. Nothing could be so cruel, nothing. The book was thrown down and trembling fingers, an aching arm, they opened the cupboard and he was tripping backwards on his feet when he saw what he did, ticking and gloating at him as if it hadn't ensnared him once, hadn't burned down the whole building around him.
There was a being this cruel, he thought to himself as he stumbled and hurried backwards, desperate to run. Any further thoughts, however, were silenced by the loud booming of the explosion and once more, he was thrown to the ground. All he could think was one thing, that one fleeting prayer that someone would find him. Dryly, tired, Wesley opened charred eyelids and stared at the smoke above him, floating in disarrayed patterns. "Angel," he murmured, half-pleaded, and he began to fight to stay conscious as he thoughts of the Shanshu scrolls that the cupboard possessed. "Angel..."
[He's on any beach you want to find. Details are in slated]