Baileigh Solis

Is it all right if Spike comes to stay at the house for a bit? He's...just had a bad time lately, and I'm worried about him, and he needs some time away from the school. It's just him and his girlfriend, Amelia. I know we have the room but...I dunno. Figured I should ask.

Sometimes, people just needed hugs. Baileigh was convinced that more than one villain in a book, or a movie, or a television series could’ve been completely turned around if someone had just offered them a genuine, heartfelt embrace. Just a damned hug. Wouldn’t have cost anyone a thing, really, and so much unpleasantness could’ve been avoided. Really.

Not that Adam was one of those cases. In fact, she was pretty sure his issues were a bit too far gone for simple hugging to cure them. But that really wasn’t the point at all. He was sitting in front of the fireplace, glaring down at his drink and the flickering flames as though both had done him some great personal wrong, and he looked…well, moody, sure, but more than that. He needed a hug. He probably needed a lot more than that, but a hug was a pretty good place to start.

So she sat down in his lap and gathered him up in a tight embrace, resting her cheek against the top of his head, silently indicating that she’d sit here as long as he needed her to. Since he couldn’t talk about whatever the hell it was that had put him in this mood, she didn’t know what else she could do but feed him, pour him a drink, give him a place to stay for a bit, and hug him. It was an oddly helpless feeling, which seemed to be happening a lot, lately. She didn’t care for it.

“It’ll be all right,” she promised him, not knowing if it was really true or not but fairly certain it didn’t really matter, either way.

No woman in their right mind would not wonder. No matter how they might pretend otherwise. They have the exact same damned mouth and of course the thought crosses her mind whether or not their lips move the same way or if a couple centuries more experience really does make that much more of a difference.

The glass of wine at her right has nothing to do with the impulse--it would take the rest of the bottle and something else much harder for that to be a viable excuse. She’s watching him talk, chin in her hand and head tilted slightly to the side as she studies him and searches for those subtle differences. And there are a few. Words and vowels make different shapes of their lower lips, their smiles are their own. Little things you have to look for, though she’s never had a problem telling them apart. Should all other things appearance-wise fail, she just waits for them to open their mouths and say three or four words, and she knows who she’s dealing with.

He glances down at his drink and does not bite at his lower lip as Julian would. She huffs in annoyance, slaps her palms against the table, heels clicking harshly against the floor as she stands and circles around to his side. He watches her quick flouncing approach with a raised eyebrow, possibly wondering what the hell he said that could have piss her off even a little, possibly wondering if she planned to hit him, but the lack of anything but an exasperated pout in her expression must mollify the apprehension and leaves behind only the hint of bafflement.

She doesn’t think he was expecting her to bend down and kiss him. His lips part slightly, she suspects from surprise, and she takes full advantage, slipping her tongue through the breach to tease briefly against his. That he tastes of bourbon is the first blaring difference; Julian has not, in the time she’s know him, partaken of anything alcoholic but wine, sangria, and on one unusual occasion, a vodka martini (which she’d naturally made ‘shaken, not stirred’ jokes about until they no longer amused her). This is a harsher taste, earthier somehow. Not unpleasant but certainly different.

She does not take offense to his very momentary lack of response, nor is she surprised when she feels his fingers thread into her hair and tug to the right, tipping her head just so to mold her lips firmly against his. It’s the same fit that she’s used to but all similarities end there. Not better necessarily, but undoubtedly different. He is a very, very good kisser, but more controlling; he kisses. He is not kissed. It doesn’t feel as though he’s conscious of it, or trying to, it’s just his way.

Yet he willingly follows her lead when she breaks the connection, raises an eyebrow at her as she sucks the taste of bourbon off of her bottom lip and frowns thoughtfully. Her expression relaxes into a bright smile, and she pats his cheek gently with her fingers before she straightens and goes back to her chair. “Just curious!” she chirps as she sits down and resumes the same pose as before, chin propped in her hand as she waits patiently for him to pick up the conversation, wherever it had dropped off before. Now, at least, she can pay attention to his words, rather than his mouth.