The Batcave || Alaric & Faith
"Nice. You the man in charge around here?" Faith's impressed and she sounds it. It's been awhile since she's seen pretty, gigantic Alaric (or any of the East Coast Scoobies), and is almost pissed at herself for doing away with Stefan's upgrades and reverting back to her juvenile, gothy kickwear.
Her sleek lines and expensive slacks, draped berry tone shells and camisoles replaced, today, with tall boots and a black muscle tank sporting a gigantic black widow - the same color olive green as the mini pleated corduroy skirt she picked up at Good Will on her way through the Midwest. Ball-chain necklaces, coal rimmed eyes and curled hair. Nails and lips so dark red they'd pass for brown. She looks like a fucking idiot, at her age.
She's almost got an excuse. It was a long hitch. Armory being damn near on the other side of the country and Faith being broke off her ass, habitually. Took longer than she thought. Almost two weeks of hitching, sharing Lyft's with passengers who wanted more than just enough change to cover her mileage and getting busted for sleeping in public spaces and foreclosed properties. The crappiest motel on the planet is where she landed but at least there's a shower, at least there's basic cable, coffee and wifi.
Dead on her feet, though. Keeping up with Alaric on sheer steam, trying not to plop down into one of those too-expensive chairs and just nap through whatever it is he's saying. They're moving through a room where artifacts are being held in glass cases and Faith's brow bends, eyes focused in on a bit of merch they're passing - an antique Colt, under glass like a pheasant. She hikes the strap of her bag to a more comfortable spot on her shoulder and keeps moving, "So, you got somethin' to show me, right? Didn't come all this way to watch you walk, not that I'm complaining."
