       The motel room's a damn mess, looks like someone tried to kick the shit out of a ghost and ended up wailing on the furniture, instead. Faith's cautious when she enters, leaves the door open in case she's got to scramble out but it's dead quiet --- maybe he finally pissed off something he couldn't outrun?
Gross -- the whole place is fricking gross. She reaches for the top half of a broken whiskey bottle laying on a pile of glass and more bottles at the edge of the bed, turns it over in her hand, "Hnn, damn." She's not entirely new to his benders. Sweeney never really has highs, but his lows are low even by her standards. Reminds her of Spike in that way. Always chasing some maladjusted idea of happy, some faded memory of a time when the world was scarier and kinder at the same time. Distant recollections of tenderness, maybe. Of catching a break now and then. She doesn't know him as well as she pretends she does but she knows he's lived longer than he ever wanted to. She can relate.
   It's a surprise when she finds him, all seventy-five feet of him slumped on the floor on the other side of the bed. You'd think he'd be too big to miss but here we are. She tosses the bottle aside, wipes both hands on her thighs as she approaches. What the hell is she supposed to do with him like this? Too big to make soup out of, probably taste like crap if she did. The memories brought back by that inside joke trigger a half smirk, little sad but this isn't exactly a happy situation. "I know there's pain," Faith almost sighs it out, trying to keep her voice soft and steady because she doesn't think he needs a lecture. She slowly crouches beside him, reaches out to gently lift his chin in her hand, "Why do you lock yourself up in these chains? I'm not really fit to help anybody, Red. I dunno what I'm doing, here. You gotta help me out, okay? Come on."
                   (plotted)  accepting ;; @debtcanceled​​​
