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[mr_demonology]

Hospitals in Los Angeles had never been Wesley's favourite place in the world. That was something of an understatement. Typically, the reasons one found themselves in hospice had to do with injuries that couldn't be explained -- not unless you wanted to try explaining 'I was impaled by a three-horned demon' to the orderlies as Wesley once had,

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[shot_my_shoes]

"And undoubtedly no need for that either." Harry might never have seen the man before in his life, but he knew someone in pain when he saw them.

He bent down to pick the papers up and handed them to the man without looking at them. Besides not being interested in other people's personal possessions enough to pry without their permission, he couldn't read handwriting that quickly. "Dr Harry Sullivan," he introduced himself, hoping that adding the 'Dr' would mean the man would be more likely to listen to him and less likely to snap for him interfering.

[mr_demonology]

Wesley was rather happy to hear that someone was a doctor and sat back upon the couch with a dazed bit of a smile. He supposed if there was alcohol about, it might be a substitute for stronger painkillers, but even then he had never liked being too fuzzy. "Thank you," Wesley murmured graciously. "Old habits die hard, I suppose." Even the clumsiness Wesley had sworn he would abolish.

[shot_my_shoes]

He smiled, understanding that. "It's not something bad, I hope?" He didn't know, but he hoped the man had seen a doctor about whatever was wrong with him. It didn't stop him from being concerned, though.

[mr_demonology]

"Well, roughly two months back, I was blown up," Wesley said, quite politely given the fact that he had, in fact, been blown up. "I'm alive, thankfully, but I'm not precisely in the best of fighting shapes," he ruefully added, gesturing to the myriad of small bandages littering the visible spots on him.