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Faith uses them when she has to; anything else would be stupid, and she's not. But she doesn't like them, hasn't ever craved their easy power -- not even when she was a scraggy child with a key on a string around her neck.
Bows and arrows and crossbows and knives -- yeah. They involve strength and skills and agility, want a warrior's hands. She's always loved the way wood feels under her fingers. How a metal hilt warms under her touch even when the blade is gleaming-cold.
"You don't do guns ? Why not?" Xander's voice held that note, the one that'd sometimes make her cross her arms under her chest or lean forward a little, always had her put on her best smile, the one that promised everything and gave nothing.
"Feels like cheating."
Willow looked over at her then, wide-eyed, quick mouse glance, and Faith wanted to slap the surprise right off her face. Of course, yeah, she's all about tricks instead of honest work, their troublemaker. Little Miss-Demeanour.
Not that she can spell that, but who cares? She knows what she means, makes sure others know what she means, too.
She doesn't need a firearm for that.
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