"Torture a guy for a couple hours, he never lets you forget it." There's a sincere depth of loathing behind the flippant words; for herself, for Wes, for the whole fucking situation. Her hands curl into tight fists, reopening the cuts on her hand, blood seeping through the bandage. "Not like I broke anything they couldn't set, damn."

It's pretty clear there's more emotion behind the words, and Faith heads to the kitchen to escape them. She's still essentially half naked, but the physical shit is always easier than the emotional, and she's feeling pretty naked there too. After locating another bottle of tequila she cracks it open and takes a long slug, then sets it on the counter. Slowly she unwraps the bloody bandage on her hand and stares at it, ignoring the way Eric perks up.

"'Consorting', Jesus fucking Christ," she mutters, then squeezes her fist tight again, until the blood sluggishly flows; holding the hand up she stares at Eric, challengingly. "Want some, Fang?"