taxonomites | [ visual ] | [ location: casa lehane ] if wellness is this what in hell's name is sickness

Entry tags:

[ visual ] | [ location: casa lehane ] if wellness is this what in hell's name is sickness

Faith has been in Taxon for nearly a year, now. As the date creeps up, she's been withdrawing little by little; Connor's staying in her place, sure, but he can read the vibes and let her keep her space. Even the trips to see Godric and Eric have dropped off, because there's the upswing in maturity she's working with and talking about her shit. One is a work in progress, the other isn't her thing and never will be.

So when her tablet helpfully clicks over to visual, it films Faith's lower back for a moment, the sheets tangled around her legs. She hasn't been sleeping well lately, her dreams restless and weird. So when she rolls over and sees the ghost sitting on the side of her bed, she assumes it's more dreaming.

"Don't have time for this shit." Her mutter is audible but slurred, and she rolls over, exposing the edge of her underwear. "Sleeping."

It only takes a moment for her to wake up fully, though, Slayer instincts rocketing her into consciousness. "...Boss?" She almost sounds hopeful. No response, and her expression goes shattered, nakedly heartbroken before hardening again. "What, the First wasn't enough? Back the hell off me and take off his face."

When the ghost doesn't respond she scrambles out of bed, her movements uncharacteristically jerky and awkward. "I said get the hell out of my apartment." The beer bottle that crashes against the wall has no effect, the Mayor's placid expression doesn't change, his hand still reaches out to her. "Get the fuck out, now."

Another beer bottle, and her tablet shows her face growing panicked as the Mayor crawls closer, Faith scooting back as fast as she can to stay out of reach. "You're not him." It's quiet, desperate, to herself, and the feed closes on her slamming a fist into the ground hard enough her dresser rattles and repeating it, even more quiet and desperate. "You're not him."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Yeah, fuck you too, Wes." She waits until he's out the door to spit that out, at least, her voice sharp and angry. It doesn't matter what happens, this is where they always end up. She's a rabid dog and he's the one who slipped her loose the choke chain. "Always a freaking pleasure."

Slumping back into the couch and closing her eyes, Faith swallows a few times, convulsively. "Okay, whatever." Her feet sting when she stands up, but it's good, distracting. "I need more booze."

True to Godric's word, Eric isn't doing any fussing or crowding in the vicinity of Faith. He watches Wesley and Connor leave, a mildly derisive expression on his face. It's almost a shame, he would have enjoyed a little violence.

"I could visit a hatch if you're out," he offers, addressing practical booze-related matters, as opposed to the evident underlying emotional issues going on here.

Godric lets Faith go, knowing better than to tell her to stay off her feet. She wouldn't listen. Instead, he goes in search of that broom himself, which happens to be, more than likely, also in the kitchen. At least he can keep her from doing further damage to herself by stepping on broken shards.

"I'll clean up the glass," he announces. He shoots a look at Eric that implies he should keep an eye on Faith while he does so.

Eric gets the message loud and clear, remaining standing himself in case Faith suddenly topples over, which actually doesn't seem too remote a possibility at the moment.

"Quite the social butterfly, aren't you?" He asks, which refers (in a roundabout sort of way) to Wesley. There's a veiled question of 'what's his deal?' in there somewhere.

"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?"

Edited 2010-06-25 00:09 (UTC)

Well, that explains a lot. Of course there are still some considerable gaps in the tale, but Faith's reaction to Wesley makes some sense now, at least. Eric's eyebrows lift a fraction or so, but he makes no immediate comment. When Faith wants to talk, she talks. There's no sense trying to cajole things out of her, and he's by no means a shrink, in any case. He wouldn't think twice about torturing someone (if he considered that they had wronged him or one of his, had interfered with his business or otherwise deserved it), and Faith's guilt is entirely alien to him.

The blood attracts him, undoubtedly. She is exceptionally tasty after all, and the fact that she's half-naked mixes regular lust into the mix with the other kind. That said, he's also very very old, and well practised at controlling his impulses. He eyes her hand for a moment, consideringly, before answering in measured tones:

"Not if you're only offering so that you can fuck yourself over. Or him, equally."

Unless Eric's got a couple days and a degree in psychology, there are always going to be gaps in the grand saga of Faith and Wesley. The people who were around for the whole freaking thing still have gaps; for that matter, so do the two star players. Just how it works.

"In case you missed a step, Wes left. Not like giving you a taste is going to do shit when he's not around to get all British about it." Now, Faith, that's not the whole truth. But she'll take the rejection with feigned nonchalance. "Whatever. If you don't want any, no skin off mine."

Edited 2010-06-25 00:36 (UTC)

Finding a broom is thankfully not difficult. It looks as if it's been there, waiting patiently by the fridge, since the house first became inhabited. It's probably never been used. Godric isn't yet out of the kitchen with it when Faith makes her remark, and he pauses.

No, torture a guy for even a short time, and he doesn't forget.

But there's clearly more to the story than either Faith or Wes have let on, and their dynamic is overtly complicated. This is not a cut-and-dry case of anything, and Godric shakes off the sudden cold feeling like he tends to try and shake off most of the traumas in his life. His rate of success is questionable.

Continuing into the living room, he begins sweeping up, his sharp ears picking up the conversation in the kitchen.

"Stop ruining all my hard work and put your bandages back on," Godric calls out somewhat dryly. He can smell that she's removed them.

Humans are so complicated. Well, that's not strictly true - often they're unbelievably simple, but the unpredictable emotions, the strange caprices? After a thousand years it becomes more and more difficult to understand them. Now it seems, in doing Faith a kindness (even a selfish kindness) he's somehow knocked her pride. Actually, maybe that's not humans. Maybe it's just women. Either way, Godric's re-entrance is a welcome one, even if the image of him sweeping seems bizarre. Back home they'd have lackeys for this kind of thing.

He might be undoing his theoretical good deed with the action, but he moves closer to Faith, taking her wounded hand before she has the chance to follow Godric's instructions (or not, as the case may be). He bows his head to lick the cuts, slowly - it's weird how the action could either be gross or erotic, depending how you look at it. "They'll heal faster," he says, simply, once he's done. And now, because let us not forget that he's a pervy jerk, he smiles, a little lewdly. "Yum."

See, Faith? Eric still thinks you're totally bite-worthy.

Edited 2010-06-25 01:09 (UTC)

Faith is all set to roll her eyes and take another sip before actually doing what Godric says-- anyone who thinks she's awful at taking orders just never gave them the right way-- when Eric grabs her hand and licks the cuts, slowly. She doesn't shut her eyes even as a shudder rolls through her body.

Every Slayer's got a death wish, sure. But Faith's is closer to the surface than most, and something that should set off all her alarms just makes her breathe faster, wait until Eric pulls back to shove closer, push him back towards the counter.

"Perv." But pot and kettle, because her eyes stay glued to his redder than usual mouth until they're kissing.

Godric's speed and keen eyesight makes sweeping up every last tiny shard of glass a quick task. He's well aware of what's going on in the kitchen and he smiles slightly as he moves on to the bedroom. He'll let things progress naturally, and should they result in their logical conclusion, the bedroom will soon be glass-free and ready to occupy.

As he steps inside, he once again checks for ghosts, but the coast is still clear. Briefly, like Eric, he reflects on how odd it is for him to be cleaning at all.

It will come as a surprise to no-one that Eric is only too happy to reciprocate Faith's advances. In fact, Faith can probably feel just how happy he is, given the proximity of their bodies. For once, (because, let's face it, Eric always has some kind of agenda) he hadn't planned on this happening.

...not that he's complaining. He does pull back from the kiss after a moment, however, to supply the delayed comeback: "Takes one to know one, Faith."

It's more than a little screwed up, a Slayer being okay with two vampires in her space like this. Not so much the sex as just allowing them in, macking on one of them in the kitchen while the other sweeps up her freaking bedroom. But Faith has never been good at expectations, and Robin proved this is the closest she can ever get to normal.

So when Eric snarks at her she rolls her eyes and licks traces of red off her own lips, trying to shove back the images of Wilkins still lurking behind her eyes. "Nah, really? Always thought they gave Slayers gold stars for shacking up with vamps."

"Gold stars?" Eric smiles with genuine amusement, and of course there's more than a little fang on show. He thinks Faith looks very attractive with blood on her mouth, and that she'd probably make a good vampire... which of course is full of all sorts of irony.

"That hardly seems like an effective motivational tool." He reads magazines sometimes - they're full of bullshit modern buzzwords like that. He likes to toss them in from time to time. Particularly if he can make them somehow suggestive, as he's currently doing. Not-so-subtext: he can motivate her better than gold stars, and who gives a fuck what 'they' think, anyway. He lifts one of his large pale hands to brush the hair away from her neck, dipping his head to kiss her collarbone, as if to demonstrate.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only