taxonomites | [ 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

Buffy makes a vague effort at a straight face here. "Don't be stupid Angel, I still like you." Just not in the way where they make out in graveyards constantly, which is a phrase she's tactful enough to leave out. "And Spike, you know I like you."

Pause.

"I just like making fun of you more."

Spike grins at her. She does like him. A lot. More than Angel. "I love you, Buffy," he declares.

And then he stumbles back towards Angel and aims another wobbly punch at his face.

Spike actually manages to land that punch this time and Angel stumbles back, but manages to get in one of his own in retaliation. "What was that for? I don't love her anymore!"

Well, that wasn't true. Angel did love her, but not necessarily in the romantic sense. Not anymore. But, he's not exactly articulate enough to elaborate at the moment.

It's actually a pleasant surprise to find that Angel saying he doesn't love her doesn't feel like a knife in the heart, like it would have done a while ago. Granted, it doesn't make her feel spectacular either, but she knows that he's impressively drunk, and he doesn't mean that he doesn't care about her - she knows he does, the same way she cares about him.

Meanwhile, Spike's declaration of love is both hilarious and sweet at the same time. It brings warmth to her cheeks and makes her smile in spite of herself. She rolls her eyes, however, when the fists start flying again - and she's suddenly reminded of the whole reason she got into this ridiculous conversation anyway.

"Oh crap, I was supposed to be checking on Faith. Would you boys just... quit it already? And try not to have sex. Again."

Spike topples back onto the table after Angel's punch. It wasn't that it was that hard a punch, he's just very, very unstable right now. He raises his fist, planning vaguely to retaliate, but then Buffy speaks, and he turns to her instead.

"We're not having sex again! Ever! Even if you and Cordelia sleep together!"

Angel falls back into his human face and looks rather pleased by the mental imagry that Spike's provoked with that last bit. He's male and very much not a saint and his alcohol-numbed mind can't stop him from withholding that smirk that he'd otherwise not allow to show.