Xander gathered up the three sleeping bags that lay scattered across the floor of his living room and bundled them unceremoniously into the spare room.  There, the bed lay unmade, with several of Willow’s spell books scattered on top of the covers.  Dawn’s sleeping bag was still unrolled on the floor next to the bed.  Xander dropped the additional bags he held on top of it.  Housekeeping was not at the top of his priorities today.  If the girls wanted a neat room, they could straighten it up themselves.  After several nights of sleeping on his living room floor, he wasn’t feeling like the world’s most attentive host. 

        Xander returned to the main room of the apartment to find most of his guests milling around, scattering the crumbs of their breakfasts, and generally acting as out-of-sorts as he felt himself.  Giles was holding the small of his back and complaining about the sleeping arrangements.  Anya came out of the kitchen.  Great.  It wasn’t bad enough he had all these houseguests, his ex-girlfriend had to come to visit too.

Anya stared at Giles in concern.  "You shouldn’t be sleeping on that couch," she said, and then brightened.  "Why don’t you come stay with me?  I have a comfy bed."

        Xander opened his mouth to protest out of automatic jealousy, and then shut it.  Anything that reduced the population of his apartment was to the good. And no way would Anya let Willow or Dawn room with her instead.  She knew both of them still woke up screaming at least once a night.

        "Yeah, then it'll be just you and me, sleeping in this room," said Andrew to Xander.  "At least until some of the other girls get out of the hospital."

        Before he could respond, Dawn clumped past him and threw herself onto the couch.  "No sign of the creatures of the night yet this morning," she commented, glancing at the door of what should have been Xander’s bedroom.

        "They were out late last night," said Willow, following Dawn slowly to avoid spilling the cup of coffee she held.  She still moved carefully, neck and head stiffly erect, as if she felt the lingering effects of her concussion. "Hunting." 

        "Hunting what?" asked Anya nervously.

        "Vampires," said Dawn defensively.  She fingered the bandage on her neck, and added less certainly, "Other vampires.  I think." 

        "Just vampires and the odd demon, I imagine," said Giles.  "There's no sign of anything more sinister lurking about Sunnydale."  His cheerful tone sounded forced.  "Certainly no sign of the First.  Everything indicates it has lost its ability to access this plane, perhaps permanently.  Unless Willow's latest researches-?"

        "Nothing," said Willow.  "No sign of that particular Big Bad anywhere.  The coven back in England has found another little girl with the potential, though.  I got an email this morning.  But she's only in kindergarten."

        "You can't expect any of these new kids to become a Slayer any time soon, Giles," said Xander.  "Instead of a Scooby gang, you'll have a Chosen One who wants to patrol with Laa-Laa and Tinky Winky."

        "They are certainly too young now," said Giles. "But I'm hoping that it will be many years before another Slayer is called.  And most of the girls in the hospital should recover sufficiently to be candidates again.  However, it's very encouraging to have some names, some more girls we may be able to train for the future.  Now that the line has been restored."

        "Even if it is wearing a cast and bandages and won't be released from the loony bin for another three weeks," agreed Anya. 

        Andrew brightened.  "We should go visit Amanda after we see the others today.  The nurses should let us in now.  They haven't had to restrain her since that one time."  He went over to a side table and began sorting through some comic books. "I'll bring The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen to read to her.  She used to like that."

        Giles winced.  He'd taken Dawn to the hospital after leaving Spike and Buffy in the graveyard, to be met by the news that one of the girls in the burn unit had gone on a a rampage, fighting with berserker strength against the personnel who had been trying to care for her.  They had had to tranquilize her and strap her down.  Her injuries had also begun to heal with amazing rapidity.

        Apparently, Amanda had regained consciousness near dawn, and had been just barely alert and strong enough to be called when Buffy snapped Rona's neck.  This had been good news, of course.  The fact that she was now the subject of intense psychiatric evaluation and would probably not be released for at least a few more weeks was not.  But it appeared that the final diagnosis would be some sort of strange, allergic reaction to the pain medications she had received.

        More of an allergic reaction to finding herself the Slayer.  She's seen too much of evil, and she's not as pleased with this development as I'd hoped.  But she'll do her duty, once she's healed.

        "How are the others?" asked Dawn suddenly.

        "They're doing better," said Giles cautiously.  He moved to sit next to the girl.  "They should all recover almost completely, although some of them will carry scars for life.  They're proving to be very resilient, though.  You could visit them with us, come see for yourself."

        "Maybe," said Dawn.  "I don't like hospitals much." She shrank down in the sofa cushions, shifting away from the Watcher.

        Giles watched Dawn with concern.  Since that night in the basement, she'd become distracted and clumsy, breaking things easily and staring at the mess as if she'd no idea how she'd achieved it.  And she was too quiet, never wanting to go anywhere, barely talking to anyone except Buffy and Spike.  He'd been surprised at that; he thought that she would be angry that the two had made the decision to turn Buffy and traumatized by soulless Buffy's attack.  Instead, she was gentle with Buffy and clung to Spike—at least, she clung to him whenever the vampires bothered to emerge from the bedroom and associate with mere humans.

        "I hear noises in there," said Anya, eying the bedroom door nervously.  "Do you think they're having sex right now?"

        "Anya!" protested Giles.

        "Well, we don't know exactly how Buffy got her soul back," said Anya unrepentantly, "and until we do, it seems to me that her orgasms may not be our friends."

        "We know how it happened," said Andrew, still paging through comic books. "Spike explained it."

        "If you call that an explanation," said Anya.  "Getting a really goofy look on his face and saying that she was in an alternate dimension doesn’t really clarify the matter much."

        "It pains me to jump in and agree with Anya," said Xander, who had paused in his task of collecting the dirty plates that littered the room.  "But when Spike starts talking about angels requisitioning wings, his first fun stay in the high school basement comes to mind."

        "Some kinds of magic have to take place on two dimensions," said Willow.  She sat up straighter, still moving carefully, but showing sudden animation.  "Maybe Buffy's soul did something, wherever it was.  But on this plane, I think it was tasting Dawn’s blood that brought Buffy back to us." She smiled at the teenager.  "The connection to her own blood through her sister.  You brought her back, Dawnie."

        "And what does that say about me?" said Dawn very softly.  Only Giles’ ears caught the girl’s next words.  "Can I call my soul my own?"

        Anya was still standing in the center of the living room, staring at the bedroom door.  "Even with souls, they're still vampires," she said.  "Extra-strong ones.  I don't like thinking about them ever being out-of-control ones."

How does Spike control himself at moments like this?  Buffy couldn't begin to try; she was whimpering one moment and snarling with fangs bared the next as his full weight bore down on her and he moved inside her.  Above her, his eyes were as profound as the twilight sky, and he chuckled lasciviously at her unrestrained cries and movements.

As hard and fast as his thrusts were, they weren't enough.  Maddened by her need, Buffy shoved at his shoulder, meaning to roll them over so that she would be on top.  That way, she could control each movement.  She would be in charge.  Me.  Buffy.  Not the demon that lurks inside.  Not the demon that lurks inside both of us.

Issues much, Buffy?  This is sex, not self-actualization therapy.

In her confused haste, she knocked them both off the bed and they landed on the floor in a tangled heap. 

"Gah," she growled in frustration, struggling to her hands and knees.

Spike was behind her instantly, grabbing her around the waist.  A moment later, he was inside her again, penetrating her from behind while she was still on all fours.

        "Grrr," growled Buffy, this time in mindless satisfaction.  She had always loved it like this, the way animals did it.  Animals that didn't have to think about who they were with and why.  Animals that just knew what it felt like and could enjoy passion without words, especially words like "relationship," "soul," "right," and "wrong."

Except the animal on the top usually didn't rain kisses down its mate's back and neck while murmuring, "I love you."

Buffy had learned to appreciate some words, at least.

She reached behind to push Spike away as she raised herself up on her knees and twisted her body.  Before his mutterings could change from sighings of affection to protests of frustration, she was astride him at last, riding him so that they were face to face, and his expression was one of unambiguous love and desire again.

"Had to see you when you said that," she gasped.

"I love you," he purred obligingly.

"Had to make sure you still looked at me the same way—even when I don't look the way I used to."

Spike morphed into game face at last.  "You're my girl," he said.  "Whatever faces we wear."

The final remnants of tension in Buffy's body gave way.  She would have sent an inhuman howl echoing through the apartment and moving Xander one step closer to an eviction notice if Spike hadn't rolled them both over again and brought his fanged mouth down over hers, his tongue delving deep into her.  She felt the sting of his incisors against her lips, and blood flowed into her mouth.  She could tell from the sharp, salt taste of it that his lip bled too, and she lapped up this bit of him eagerly.

Their kiss seemed to last forever, his mouth becoming more and more insistent.  Buffy suffered a momentary panic when she realized she couldn't draw breath properly, then an instinctive surge of triumph as she remembered she didn't need to.  She let herself drown in his embrace until she realized that they were both lying completely still, limbs intertwined, in an unnaturally silent room.

        Some time later, they lay on the bed together, sleep eluding them both. Buffy's eyes slitted open, and her gaze flicked around the dark bedroom.  Although the blinds were shut tight against the late morning sun, she had no trouble making out her surroundings.  But, except for the body lying next to her, there was nothing here worth looking at.  Not the untidy piles of clothing and sheets on the floor.  Certainly not Xander's bland bedroom furniture.  Not the art on the walls, which was of distinctly motel room quality.  And especially not the blanket that had been tossed over the huge mirror above the dresser.   She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow for a few more minutes.  Then she rolled on her back again.

        "I’m hungry," she complained at last.

        "There’s a quart of Porky’s finest in the fridge," Spike replied.  His voice was still lazy with happiness. 

        Buffy moved away from him, irrationally irked that he was content.  "I don’t want to go to the kitchen," she sulked.  "They’re all out there, and I don’t like the way they look at me when I drink blood."

        "I’ll get it for you."  He rolled over on his side to smile at her. "Warm it up in the microwave.  Breakfast—uh, dinner—in bed. Couple of mugs at 98.6 for us to share."  He paused.  "If you don't like it straight, I can mix something in it."

        "One of your Weetabix cocktails?  No, thanks."  She lay on her back, arms crossed, sulking.  "We both know I don't really need to feed, and that pigs' blood won't help.  Damn, it’s just gruesome to walk into a room full of your friends and think ‘Happy Meals!’  I hate these cravings."

        He leaned over her.  "Don’t fret, love.  You’ll learn to suppress them.  Besides, old Rupert thinks we may not be done changing.  We can stand a lot more sunlight than any vamp I ever heard of, and I quite enjoyed that plate of garlic bread the witch prepared the other night.  And I will treasure forever the memory of Xander's face when he realized you didn't need an invitation to get in here. Maybe we’ll be able to kick this blood drinking habit eventually.  Go on the wagon.  Find a twelve step program or some such."

        She smiled faintly, but shook her head.  "You know as well as I do that's not going to happen.  The blood-drinking goes deeper than all the other stuff.  It's all about what we are."

        He stroked her cheek gently.  "Well, maybe. But there's more to unlife than food, love."

        "What is that, Spike?  Besides the fighting and the sex, which I admit are a whole lot nicer than the dietary requirements."  She smiled reluctantly, running her fingers lightly over his shoulder and along his upper arm.  "I thought that last battle would end it all for us. Nothing more to do.  Instead—"

        "Immortality making you cranky again?  This isn’t heaven, but it’s better than bloody boring Paradise.  That was a different kind of pain.  One I couldn’t do anything about."

        "That’s my guy," said Buffy, throwing herself back down against the pillows and rolling her eyes.  "Give him perfection, and he’ll fight his way out.  Just for the sake of the fight."

        "Bloody right.  Don't know how even William stood the Mad Girl's nattering and those endless days for so long."  He ran a hand over her stomach and up to cup one breast; his lips were soft against her throat.  "And who's the girl who decked an angel on her way out of Eden?"

        She snorted, partly because his touch tickled, partly because she was amused in spite of herself.  "What a jerk.  I can't believe those clowns are allowed to run the afterlife."

        "Not sure they are," muttered Spike into her shoulder.

        Buffy grabbed his shoulders and jerked his head up, staring into his eyes.  "What does that mean?" she demanded. 

        He sighed and sat up.  "Been meaning to mention it," he said.  "Secrets have caused us enough trouble.  It was something the Mad Girl said."  He always referred to the Drusilla he'd known in Paradise that way. 

        "Damn, and damn, and damn," said Buffy emphatically, seeing where this was going.  "Prophecies and mystical revelations!"

        "'Fraid so, pet."  From his expression, he disliked the notion as much as she did. "Before I escaped, she said something.  'All confusion and chaos.  Or it would be if someone didn’t need the man in the monster.  And the monster in the girl.'   He grimaced and added carefully, "'A very special someone.'"

        "Who the—"  Buffy was enraged now.  "Who, Spike?"

        "No idea.  Someone very high up, I imagine.  Celestial VIP."

        "I don't care if it's—" She bit off any attempts at speculation.  "I don't care who it is.  Someone played us, Spike.  Some damn thing out there arranged it all, just so we'd wind up here, a couple of magically enhanced bloodsuckers, able to do—what?"

        "Don't know, pet, but expect we'll find out," he said.  "And I think Dawn's involved too.  Not just because she's kept that bit of extra strength the Power bled into her.  Because the Mad Girl used to babble about a key that opened lots of doors." 

        "Damn, damn, damn," Buffy repeated.  "Another stupid avert-the-apocalypse mission.  And this one will probably be even harder than the last one.  They always are.  I wouldn't mind so much except—it's like the past two horrible years have turned out to be nothing but an audition for the next job, which I don't want any more than I wanted the last one.  It was all arranged, Spike.  Even that beautiful afternoon under the tree in Paradise.  I hate knowing that someone set that up—"

        He caught her hand and spoke urgently.  "Doesn't make it anything less than it was, love."

        "But to let us have that, then take it away!  Whatever did this is cruel beyond belief."  She saw his reaction to her anger and grief and turned away.  She didn't want to be responsible for that look.  Not any more.

        Some things never changed.  Buffy got angry and upset.  Spike tried to make her feel better.  The pattern of their relationship.  She knew that his voice would soften and he'd begin to coax even before he began to speak.  "Coming it on a bit too strong there, love.  We both left that place of our own free will.  Besides, we still have each other.  And—"  His arms wrapped around her waist from behind and his lips moved against the back of her neck, just as William's had done in that faraway place.  "—you can’t tell me this was any better there than it was here right now."

        "It was simpler there," she said, less fretfully, giving into the sheer pleasure of his body pressed against hers.  "And so beautiful."

        "The sun shining. Our hearts beating as one," he murmured.  His tone was sarcastic now, but his mouth was still soft and teasing.

        "Our hearts beating period.  And it was very sweet and wonderful.  Just perfect.  If we could be like that again—"  She realized as she said it that her whining had gone too far.

        He released her.  "Nostalgia's all well and good, Buffy.  But don't confuse me with William.  I'm not him.  And if it's that git you're imagining you're shagging now—"

        "I don't," she interrupted.  She flipped her hair back and shifted away from him.  "You're not William.  I get that.  Just like I get that I'm not the girl he met in Paradise."  She moved into game face.  "But you're not the Spike who came to Sunnydale, either."

        He was unimpressed.  "Hardly a newsflash, love.  None of us is what we were yesterday, or the day before."

        "Not many people change as much as you did, though.  And William is a part of that change.  I love who you are right now, Spike.  Whatever you are."  She shook her head, restoring her human features.  "So let's stop arguing about who we are and figure out what we do next."  She leaned over, looking deep into his eyes, their faces only inches apart.  "And to before we can do that, I need to know what it is you really want."

        He looked away, as if he were trying to distance himself, but then put out a hand and ran it up and down her arm.  "Thought you knew that, pet."

        She twitched away, rolling off the bed.  "Don't lie to me, Spike.  And don't use sex to distract me.  You just said you wouldn't keep secrets any more.  What do you want?"

        "Doesn't matter," he said at last.

        She stared at him, adamant, her arms crossed.  "What you mean is, 'it's not possible.'  That's different from 'it doesn't matter.'"

        He sighed and stared at the ceiling.

        "You wanted to be human, didn't you?"

He sputtered with anger then.  "See, if that isn't just like a woman!  You had to say, it right?  Okay, it's what I wanted.  But what's the point of even talking about it?  It's not like you could run down to Super Target and buy me some humanity!  And now, you're not even—"  He stopped.

        She turned and walked to the window, moving the blinds slightly and squinting outside, making sure that the tiny sliver of light that entered the room slanted away from her and the bed.  He was right, of course.  It didn't make anything better to say the words.  Not only couldn't she give him what he wanted, she didn't even possess it herself any more. 

        She'd tried, the first couple of days after the change, to convince herself that she was just the old Buffy in a slightly different package, but it hadn't worked.  Whenever she tried to act as if it wasn't too different from a fashion makeover—hey, I'm a Midnight instead of a Noon now!—she was assaulted by the memory of Dawn's hot, salty blood in her mouth.  She couldn't even feel ashamed of the way she'd cried for hours after she got her soul.  Or for the way she'd begged Spike to stake her, just as he'd once begged her.  If she was ashamed of anything, it was the impatience she'd once felt with Spike and even Angel.  Finally, she understood the challenges they faced.

        Consciously, she stopped breathing.  That helped a little; the scent of humanity eased, and she was tempted less.

She should have been wigged out by her attempt to feed on her own sister.  She should be thinking, "Oh, gross!"  That was how she talked about it to the humans, when she couldn't avoid the subject entirely.  But Dawn's blood had been the most wonderful, delicious, intoxicating thing she'd ever tasted.  And the sensation of her fangs sinking into living flesh had been—no, not good.  But it had felt right.  Perfectly evil. What she was meant to do.  Unless she kept an iron leash on her desires, she would literally kill to enjoy that experience again.

She wasn't just the old Buffy in a slightly modified body.  Her humanity was gone, replaced by a completely new set of physical laws to obey and terrifying urges to try to ignore.  And her soul sometimes seemed like a pitiful opponent for the hunger gnawing in her belly.

        She realized that Spike was talking again.  His voice was gentle, shaded with regret.  "Want lots of things, pet.  Want Beckham to go back to Man U.  Want a hair gel that doesn't give up in the rain so I don't have to stop to zhush my 'do while I'm battling for my unlife against overwhelming odds.  Want them to stop making movies based on bad TV shows.  Doesn't mean I expect to get them, or that I'm going to waste eternity being miserable because I can't have them."

        No, I'm the one who's the expert at making myself miserable.  And right now that seems like that really should be the next item on the agenda.   Isn't that how it goes?  Become a vampire.  Get your soul back.  Brood. 

Maybe it's time to throw out the agenda, Buffy.  You've never been good with schedules anyway.  And you've had enough of being miserable for three lives and one unlife.

She turned to look at Spike. He has a lot more to brood about than I do.  Oceans of blood to regret, where I only took a sip.  And now I've forced more guilt on him, because of what I insisted he do to me in that basement.  Buffy knew that his first horrified protest when she'd asked him to turn her would would echo in her mind forever.  And she'd been grateful, in a cowardly way, that she hadn't been able to see his agonized expression in that pitch-dark room.

But now, he's the one trying to cheer me up.  I should be grateful for that instead of wanting to throw something at him.

        The problem was, there was only one way to really deal and move on.  And that was to acknowledge her human life was over.  And the hardest thing for her to admit about that loss was that she didn't entirely regret it. 

        For just one more minute, Buffy peered out into the sunlight and tried to hang onto her old, aching need to be normal, to consider herself just another girl.  That desire had been so much a part of her human self.  But the part of her that had always wanted to be wild, to glory in her power as a Slayer, rose up and took charge.  Finally, inevitably, she let it.

        She released the blinds, and the tiny ray of light she had let creep in disappeared from the room.  It didn't matter.  She could see clearly in the dark now.

She wasn't giving up the old Buffy entirely.  She would go on to fight evil, and probably win, because that was what she always did.  And, eventually, her friends would stop jumping up and stuttering whenever she came into the room.  And, maybe, they'd forget the things she'd said when she didn't have a soul.  Or, at least, they'd convince themselves that she hadn't meant those things.  Because even though a part of her had meant every word, she still loved them and she needed to rebuild those bonds.  She would find some way to conduct a semblance of a human life that included them.

        But changes would need to be made, and soon.  The Scoobies had encouraged her to stay near them, and she appreciated their awkward efforts to treat her like the woman she had once been.  But it just wasn't working.  Xander needed his bedroom back, and she and Spike needed a place of their own.  Not a crypt.  Someplace where Dawn can be comfortable visiting.  But where I can let myself breathe most of the time without smelling people.  So that means--what?  A cozy cabin in the woods for Spike and me to share?  Just the two of us, far from the madding crowd?  Except it's not just the crowd that maddens Buffy.

She shuddered at the thought of Spike as a permanent roommate.  She loved him, but he wasn't going to be the easiest person to unlive with.  When she'd thought he probably wouldn't survive the confrontation with the First, she'd put up with a lot.  But, now, with the prospect of eternity before her . . .

 Look at him now.  He's pulling out a cigarette even though he knows I hate smoking, and he's "borrowed" one of Xander's stupid, adored Babylon 5 collector plates to use as an ashtray.

        She glared at him, and he smirked back, blowing a puff of smoke towards her face.  She drew in breath to make an irritated comment—and realized that the smell of tobacco was masking the enticing odor of human blood that had been oozing into the room from the rest of the building. 

        She glared harder.  He smirked harder.

        Damn him.   He could have explained that was the reason for all the smoking in the house.

        Spike was watching her through the curls of smoke from his cigarette, his scarred eyebrow raised, and she could read his features clearly.  He was hoping he'd eased her distress, and plotting to tease a smile out of her.

        He likes making you happy so much, Buffy.  Stupid, sentimental vampire.  That little bit of William never went away, even before he got his soul back.  And it never will.  Even when he's being a royal pain in the ass, he's just trying to keep you from wallowing in guilt and regret.

        And how have you treated him?  He's the only one you haven't apologized to for the things you did and said while you didn't have a soul. And that's not because you know he understands--it's because you know there were times when you were still human that you hurt him even worse.

        Abruptly, she turned to face the dresser and tore the blanket off the mirror, dropping it on the floor.  She stared into a dim, blank, deserted room, empty of all human presence.  She could tell from Spike's stillness that he was expecting an emotional outburst.  "This is kind of cool, actually," said Buffy.  "But it's going to make shopping for clothes a major pain."

        He exhaled then, in a sudden, relieved gust, and she saw the reflection of a puff of smoke drifting over the bed.  

        She turned and saw him sitting with one arm draped across his knees, cobalt eyes questioning, the cigarette dangling from his left hand.

        "You know what, Spike?" she asked in a challenging tone.

        He eyes were still wary. He had no idea what to expect next.  She crawled onto the bed next to him, sliding her body across the sheets, almost, but not quite, touching him before she rolled over on her back to sprawl wantonly before his delighted eyes.

        "I really don't think you've cheered me up enough yet," she said flirtatiously.

        He dropped the cigarette on Susan Ivanova's face and dove for her.

        Yes, William and his soul had come a long way from Paradise.  For one thing, he totally gets flirtation now.  He's acquired lots of other useful experience, too.  Not to mention the fact that his strength almost matches yours, so there's no holding back.  And, yeah, you've always found the fangs and the wrinklies really, really hot.  And then there's the truly breathless kissage. . .

        That night, Buffy and Spike slunk past their human friends with a few muttered comments and escaped outdoors into the welcoming darkness, bickering happily about the best way to corner the remnants of the vampire gang they'd almost annihilated the evening before.  Within an hour, they had dusted two others of their kind and were chasing the last survivor of the nest to the outskirts of Sunnydale, towards the ocean.  The smell of sea salt began to mix with the earthier scent of vampire blood, but couldn't mask it entirely.  Buffy smiled as she tracked her prey. 

        "It's the Slayer!" one of their earlier victims had cried out in terror just before she'd staked him.  He had recognized her new nature, but it seemed that being turned was merely adding to her former reputation.  The nasty things in Sunnydale still feared her.

She felt alive in a strange new way as she reveled in this hunt, in her new senses that made her hyper-aware of the presence of her enemies—and of her lover.  Their hearts certainly didn't beat as one, but Buffy and Spike matched each other, predatory stride for stride, as they closed the gap between them and their quarry.  Listening to the thud of Spike's footsteps as he raced beside her, she began to make longer-range plans.

        She might not be the Slayer she had once been.  She certainly wasn't the old Buffy.  But she still had a mission.  In fact, she had at least two.  Buffy decided she would write her own agenda.  She needed to track down whatever celestial or infernal menace had decided it needed to turn her and Spike into a couple of supervamps, and deal with its issues—on her own terms.

        And she needed to make sure Spike was content.  Because it was clearly her duty to see to it he stayed occupied and more or less out of trouble.  After all, there was no telling what kind of problems he'd cause if she didn't find some way to keep him busy and satisfied.

        The first goal—she gave that job a year, at the most.  She bet she'd have it licked by next May.

        She might just need eternity to work on the second.

I dealt more with Buffy's reactions in this chapter than I originally intended.  But I still left this story with some loose ends and raw emotions, because life is untidy.  Right now, I have no plans for a sequel, so this is --

The End