Faith is very, very asleep when the phone rings, so she ignores it and snuggles back down into her bed. After a minute, it rings out and it's lovely, silent Saturday. And then the phone starts again.
By the tenth circuit, Faith is finding it very difficult to go back to sleep. Spike's hand reaches out and smacks the phone down so it flops on the pillow next to him. He paws at the buttons and mumbles a half pillow-covered, "Yeah?" somewhere toward the receiver. He barely listens before nudging it towards Faith. "F' ya." He rolls over.
"What?" Faith's voice clearly spells out grave danger for whoever is on the other end.
"Don't take that tone with me!" Buffy's voice promises that she laughs in the face of Faith's grave danger. "And I'm disinviting you from Thanksgiving."
"What?" Faith's voice is getting clearer, and underneath the belligerence is panic. For once in her life, she was actually looking forward to Thanksgiving. "Why?"
"Are you missing anything, Faith?" Faith has never heard her name spoken more coldly. She looks around the room: bed, dresser, windows, Spike. Everyone seems in place.
Spike rolls over, grabs the phone. "Go shag your husband, Boffy, and leave us alone." He clicks off the phone, tosses it somewhere beside the bed and pulls Faith toward him, settling back into sleep.
"I must have really worn you out last night," Faith chuckles, but snuggles back as well.
"If you need me, I'm up for anything," he growls, but it's slipping around a yawn, and damn, this bed is comfortable. And then the phone rings.
"Don't answer it," they mumble simultaneously.
"HANDCUFFS!" Buffy's voice screeches from their answering machine. "Please explain to me why I woke up to find my five-year-old and my two-year-old playing police with real handcuffs."
"Crap," Faith says, and picks up the phone. "B, listen..."
"And don't try to convince me that they're ours because we always keep things locked up."
Spike cracks an eyelid. "I never really wondered about the sexual escapades of Buffy and the saintly souled one, but now..."
"Stop wondering, Peroxide Pete," Faith snaps, as Buffy rattles off a list of creative tortures for when she gets her hands on him, loudly enough for him to hear feet away from the phone.
"You tell him, B." As soon as she says it, Faith has the feeling that it was the wrong thing to say.
"Don't try to get out of this!"
"B, I'm getting damn tired of your shrieking."
"And I," Buffy says, her voice dropping to her deathly quiet, overly enunciated tone of fury, "I am getting damn tired of you not acting like a responsible adult. God, it was bad enough when you were an entitled teenager who was supposed to be in charge of saving the world, but one would think that once you were actually an adult, you would stop being such a disappointment." She hangs up, and Faith realizes that it's for moments like these that Buffy always insists on having one phone that she can slam back onto the cradle.
Spike takes Faith out to an amateur boxing match to try and cheer her up, but she doesn't even want to make fun of the boxers' sloppy footwork with him, so they leave early. When they return, there are three increasingly tearful messages from Buffy on the machine and one from Angel just starting to record. Faith picks up the phone, rolling her eyes even as she does.
"Jesus, Angel. I know that with you being a real boy and all now, you have this whole 'must impregnate' thing going, but couldn't you knock up someone who doesn't go completely psycho when they've got one in the oven?"
Even over the phone, Angel sounds guilty. "Would it make it better to know that you're both re-invited for Thanksgiving?"