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More of Wesley in the Den
Aug. 6th, 2001 10:20 pmThe tunnel from the parking grotto was damp and dark, but surprisingly free of grafitti. Wesley stepped over the puddle at the base of the stairs at the end of the tunnel and looked up. Green and yellow light filtered down through the smoke that drifted out of the doorway next to the stairs. Scents of tea and whiskey fought in the small space, underneath the sullen glow of the Exit sign.
He headed into The Den.
The music inside was loud, but not earsplitting. An overheavy bass thudded through his chest, but the murmur of conversation carried a bit over the noise from the silver and black jukebox in the corner. The pool tables were felted in pink, but the low light glinted off of glossy, dark hardwoods and brass fittings throughout the rest of the bar.
He passed the pool tables, the dark haired man meeting his flickered glance with dark agate eyes, then bending again to set up his shot with an outstretched fake hand. His left hand. Wesley kept walking.
He though he saw a glimmer of peroxide blond hair by the dart boards, and turned, but the only blond over there had curly hair to his shoulders, and the bare, sun-kissed shoulders of which no vampire could boast. His companion twirled his dark moustache and winked in Wesley's direction before tossing a dart at the target with negligible effort. Wesley decided that his pocketbook would not bear the strain of playing with them, and returned to his path to the bar.
He sat on a stool next to another curly-haired blond. This one seemed almost too young for the bar -wasn't the drinking age higher in the States?
The young man shifted his coat and turned toward him, sizing Wesley up with eyes too old for his face, then turned again to his stein. "Try the cider. They've got Strongbow on tap."
Wesley nodded and sat down. The cider appeared before he had a chance to look up, and when he did, there was no one behind the bar. He sipped, and smiled at the dry wash of apples on his tongue. "Thank you. I'm Wesley Windham-Pryce." He held out his hand.
The man in front of him looked at it for a moment before shaking. "Rich Ryan."
He headed into The Den.
The music inside was loud, but not earsplitting. An overheavy bass thudded through his chest, but the murmur of conversation carried a bit over the noise from the silver and black jukebox in the corner. The pool tables were felted in pink, but the low light glinted off of glossy, dark hardwoods and brass fittings throughout the rest of the bar.
He passed the pool tables, the dark haired man meeting his flickered glance with dark agate eyes, then bending again to set up his shot with an outstretched fake hand. His left hand. Wesley kept walking.
He though he saw a glimmer of peroxide blond hair by the dart boards, and turned, but the only blond over there had curly hair to his shoulders, and the bare, sun-kissed shoulders of which no vampire could boast. His companion twirled his dark moustache and winked in Wesley's direction before tossing a dart at the target with negligible effort. Wesley decided that his pocketbook would not bear the strain of playing with them, and returned to his path to the bar.
He sat on a stool next to another curly-haired blond. This one seemed almost too young for the bar -wasn't the drinking age higher in the States?
The young man shifted his coat and turned toward him, sizing Wesley up with eyes too old for his face, then turned again to his stein. "Try the cider. They've got Strongbow on tap."
Wesley nodded and sat down. The cider appeared before he had a chance to look up, and when he did, there was no one behind the bar. He sipped, and smiled at the dry wash of apples on his tongue. "Thank you. I'm Wesley Windham-Pryce." He held out his hand.
The man in front of him looked at it for a moment before shaking. "Rich Ryan."
