MISSION: n/a; post 423*PROMETHEUS TIMEFRAME: Sept 28th, around 0200 LOCATION: warehouse kitchen PAGING: open to all agents
West is a hot mess after the mission, both physically and mentally. Pretending to be rich and snooty for most of the night is a huge buzzkill, and any vestiges of a good mood are torpedoed by his conversation on the ride home. The first thing West does when they get back to the warehouse is slip out of the ruined suit. A sigh of relief escapes his lips when he loosens the last bit of the half-Windsor and unbuttons the top two buttons at his throat and neck. He carefully unties the silk scarf from around his arm, careful to keep it separated from his items. Once he gets back home, he’ll figure out where it came from and mail Jack a new one. After he shrugs out of the suit jacket and long sleeved shirt, he has space to assess the damage.
The cut is small. A small trail of blood sluggishly wraps down his arm and to his wrist, and West mops it up with his already destroyed shirt. His stomach growls, a firm reminder that he did not eat this evening because the food was actually awful. Using the sleeve of his shirt as compression, West wanders into the dining area of the warehouse, hoping to find enough to make something. He keeps a small, portable first aid kit tucked under his good arm as he moseys through the empty hallway. Most of the agents have retired to their rooms and West enjoys the quiet.
Not even five minutes later, after multiple failed attempts to open a jar of peanut butter with one hand, West has a classic PB&J on bread hanging from his mouth and a needle poised against his arm when another agent walks in. He looks up, head snapping towards the door as a majority of the sandwich falls to the counter from his bite.
“Uh, hey,” he says with a mouth full of food as his arm drips onto the counter, and thankfully not his sandwich.