Xander saw Cordelia at her locker and began to drift across the crowded hallway toward her. He was halfway there when he hesitated. Perhaps it was the rigid set of her spine, maybe it was the jerky motions of her arms as she slammed books into the locker. He curled back out into the flow and let it carry him past her.

Buffy watched the entire sequence from the far end of the hallway, fascinated by its perverse geometry. She caught Xander's eye as he drew near. He ducked his head, but not before she made a beckoning motion.

"What's with?" she said. "Did you and Cordelia get your poles aligned?"

"If that's some sort of sleazy carnal innuendo, I'm both offended and intrigued," he said.

"No, you dummy. I meant like magnets. You know, like poles together, the magnets push apart? Oh, forget it." She waved a hand. "Allusions are no fun when you have to explain them."

"Forgive my density," he said.

Buffy shook her head. "Forget that. Are you and Cordelia on the outs?"

Xander opened his mouth, looked around, and closed it without saying a word. He tugged at his shirt, a vertically striped gold and blue rayon number. "Not here," he said. "Come on."

Buffy blinked. "Lead on McDuff."

They ducked into an empty classroom. Buffy leaned against the teacher's desk. Xander began pacing the length of the room. He completed two circuits before Buffy cleared her throat. "Are we going to talk or am I just supposed to watch you and divine what's wrong?"

Xander stopped in the middle of the room. "Something is wrong."

"You still having problems with the whole virgin thing?"

Xander shook his head. "No. Well, okay, no but... It's a qualified no. I mean, that's important to Cordelia."

"And you're cool with it," Buffy said.

Xander shrugged. "I'm not saying it's my favorite facet of our relationship, but at least I know why we're not having sex. It's her, I don't know, her standard." He bit his lower lip. "But that's not what's bothering me, at least not right now. It's kind of been back-burnered. Something happened to her when those death-cult jackasses had her. She hasn't been the same since, but I don't know what they did."

Buffy thought for a moment. "You've mentioned it?"

Xander nodded. "I've broached the subject."

"What did she say?"

"After she finished covering her ears and singing the Smurfs theme song at top volume, she ignored me."

"How..." Buffy stopped and coughed. "Have you... God, I so don't know how to ask this... What's the physical sitch between you guys?"

Xander shoved his hands in his pockets. "I've pretty much declared a moratorium on touchies and smoochies. Quick good-night kiss is about it."

"That's probably a good idea." Buffy chewed on her lip. "You know it was probably something sexual."

"I thought it might be."

"Can you deal?"

Xander threw up his hands. "Buff, this really isn't about my tortured psyche. You make it sound like I'm worried that she's cheating on me." He rolled his eyes. "Give me some credit here. I'm not a totally insensitive sicko." He scuffed his shoe on the floor. "I, uh, I know that our dating is completely weird--"

"I'd go beyond weird. I'd say it defies the laws of God and man."

"Thank you for taking that shot." Xander looked out the window. "I really do care about her, Buffy. There's more to her than I thought."

"I think we all knew that."

Xander shook his head. "I don't think we did. I thought I understood Cordelia as well as anybody could, but even before the... thing, I realized that I didn't. And now I want to help and she won't let me."

Buffy pushed away from the desk and stood very close to him. "Xander, do you ever wonder what happened to me while I was... away?"

He frowned. "Yeah."

"But you've never really asked. Why is that?"

He shrugged. "Because I thought you'd tell us what we ought to know when we ought to know it. At least that's what Willow told me to think."

She smiled at him. "And I love you guys for that. That's what you have to do with Cordelia. Give her time." Buffy reached up and touched his cheek. "She's lucky to have a guy like you."

He smiled. "I tell myself that, but I like the way it sounds when you say it."

***

Giles froze at the sound of the door opening behind him. His back tightened and he kept his attention focused on his hands, which rested on the counter. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and normal.

"So, am I being taken to the woodshed?" Lindsay asked.

"Why would you think that?" Giles kept his back to her.

"Well, you seemed pretty put out last night."

Giles stooped and lifted a stack of books to the counter. "I was rather displeased."

"But today everything's cool?"

"Yes," Giles said.

"Wow." Lindsay shook her head. "Just like that?"

Giles shrugged. "As the students say, I got over it."

"Hmm." Lindsay shoved her fists into the pockets of her fawn-colored jacket. "I guess I thought there was some sort of Watcher rule against this sort of thing."

"No, not a rule, but I would advise you to be more responsible in the future."

Lindsay nodded. "It was kind of spur of the moment. I should have called Faith."

Giles tugged at his earlobe. "That would be wise. Her emotions seem very fragile and she is extremely attached to you."

"Is that why you were upset?" Lindsay tilted her head to one side.

Giles opened his mouth, then closed it and took a deep breath. "Why I was angry is not the issue." He turned away. Lindsay stared at his back for a moment, then pivoted on her heel and walked out of the library.

***

Mr. Quisling picked a microscopic fleck of lint from the thigh of his trousers. The suit was a single-breasted worsted that from one angle looked black, from another deep navy blue and from a third perhaps charcoal-gray. His shirt was a brilliant white and freshly laundered. Quisling loved Egyptian cotton shirts with a passion bordering on eroticism. He was even enamored of the way they wrinkled, of the myriad tiny creases that formed in the crook of the elbow and at the waist. His tie was silver-gray with a fine black diagonal stripe.

The phone buzzed. The receptionist picked up the receiver, listened, then replaced the instrument in its cradle. The smile she turned toward Quisling was as bland and professional as a massage parlor handshake. "He'll see you now," she said.

The Mayor stood behind his desk, looking out of the window. The pose would have been more dramatic if his office had overlooked something grander than the parking lot. Quisling stood in the center of the room, feet shoulder-width apart, weight distributed evenly. He did not shift or fidget. The Mayor continued to look out the window. Quisling continued to stand. He could stand there for the rest of the day if need be.

"I hope this is a progress report, but something tells me it isn't," the Mayor said. He turned from the window and sat behind his desk. Quisling sat in one of the visitors' chairs. He tilted one foot up to examine the shine on his cap-toe oxfords.

"No," he said when he was satisfied that his footwear was up to snuff. "Mr. Trick did instruct me to assure you that our work continues unabated and that we are making progress. That is not the primary purpose of this visit, however."

The Mayor leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. "I have a sneaking suspicion that you have something to ask me."

Quisling inclined his head toward the desk. "You are very astute. As you are well aware, we are now faced with not one but two Slayers. This has taken a toll on our tactical force and calls for a change in strategy." Mr. Quisling smiled at the Mayor. "I understand that you have some pets."

***

Willow stopped in the middle of the hallway and checked the number above the door. Room 222. This was where she was supposed to meet her pupil. She took a deep breath, shook her head and pushed open the door.

He was alone in the room, seated in a desk in the far corner. Willow stopped and tried not to stare. Willow had never thought of herself as one of the better-looking people in school, but compared to this guy, she felt like Julia Roberts in a Versace gown.

It started with his hair. If it were a quarter-inch longer, it would be a buzz-cut; a quarter-inch shorter and it would be shaved. It was neither, just a dark stubble covering his skull. The ears would have been prominent regardless, but the haircut did not do them any favors. Freckles scattered across his forehead and both cheeks. Below the neck it got worse. He was the skinniest person Willow had ever seen. His arms looked like pencils protruding from the sleeves of his plaid shirt. His elbows looked like baseballs stuffed into a stocking. It occurred to Willow that between the haircut and the arms, he could make a good living posing for famine-relief posters.

He turned his head and looked at her. Willow blinked. His eyes were a beautiful liquid brown with long, graceful lashes.

"Excuse me," she said. "Are you Tyler Pittman?"

"Yeah," he said in thick twangy drawl that Willow couldn't place, but which she was sure had not originated within five hundred miles of Sunnydale. "You my tutor?" To Willow's ears it sounded like "Yew mah tooter?"

"I'm Willow Rosenberg." She put her books on the teacher's desk. "What subject do you want start with?"

He slouched down in his seat. "Don't matter. You're wastin' your time."

Willow nodded. "Well, Principal Snyder told me I had to be your tutor, so let's give it a shot."

"You give it a shot. I don't need tutoring."

Willow scrunched up her nose. "Your GPA says otherwise."

"Who gives a rat's ass about GPA? I know the material."

Willow pursed her lips. "Then why are your grades so bad?"

He threw up his hands. They looked like flyswatters at the end of his scrawny arms. "Grades just mean you know how to suck up to the teacher. I'll bet you get good grades, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, I--"

"And I'll bet every teacher in this school thinks that you're just the best little girl out there." He looked as though he might spit. "All you grade suck-ups look the same. Makes me wonder about the chicken and the egg."

Willow wanted to throw an eraser at him, but that would probably be bad tutor etiquette. "Okay, you say you know the material. Let's, let's put your money where your mouth is. At the battle of Waterloo, Napoleon--"

"Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo because General Grouchy followed an allied feint toward the Prussian border and because there was no infantry support for Marshal Ney's cavalry charge that broke the British line. Oh, and they forgot to spike the British artillery when they overran it."

Willow blinked. "Okay. Well, let's try science..."

***

Quisling hesitated before stepping up on the decrepit porch. A small analytical wedge of his mind contemplated his extreme negative reaction to this place. Certainly the inhabitants' uncouth practices contributed to his distaste, but in a moment of rare and complete honesty Quisling had to admit that a large portion, perhaps the majority of his animosity was because the place reminded him of home.

One of the planks groaned as he placed his weight on it. What a perfect simile, Quisling thought. He knocked on the door again. This time the door was opened by a woman, or by what used to be a woman. She looked Quisling over from top to bottom, then stepped aside. He entered, wincing as he saw the same drab, decrepit room as the last time. Then he noticed one change. "Got rid of the crossbow?"

The female vamp shrugged. Her face held even less expression. "You know the way."

"Indeed I do." Once again he descended the stairs. This time the light was on. He noticed the stocky vampire with the missing fingers and the nasty scar. Their eyes met.

"New guard upstairs," Quisling said.

Coyne grunted. "Told you LePage wouldn't last long."

Quisling motioned toward the interior door. "Is he in?"

Coyne nodded. "He's expecting you." A brutish grin twisted the unscarred side of the vampire's face. Quisling nodded and crossed to the door. He rapped lightly with the back of his knuckles. A strange, bitter odor filled his nostrils.

The familiar, sepulchral voice came from the other side. "Come in." Quisling pushed open the door. The Reverend's inner sanctum was permeated with an acrid smell. Charcoal from the brazier in one corner accounted for part of the stench, but that was overlaid with an odd aroma that reminded Quisling of childhood Sunday afternoons when his father grilled hamburgers. He hurried to push that memory out of his mind.

The Reverend Othniel Hampton sat in his rocking chair, looking as still and hard as the wood itself. Only his eyes moved to look at Quisling or rather, his left eye moved to follow Quisling. The right one sort of focused on a point somewhere to Quisling's left. The Reverend stood, a motion at once fluid and weighted with antiquity.

"Thank you for seeing me," Quisling said. "It is very gracious of you to admit me again."

"Sweet words," the Reverend said. "I fear they will lay in my belly like gravel."

Quisling smiled. "A cautious man is a wise man. I would ask you to trust me, but I believe that would be a waste of my time."

A corner of Othniel Hampton's mouth twitched. "It would. I assume this is not a social call. What is your purpose?"

Quisling rubbed his hands together. "We are both suffering under the present situation. Two Slayers, working in concert, has never occurred before, at least not in recorded history. They are inflicting a heavy toll on each of our organizations."

"I do not have an organization." The Reverend sat down and began to rock. "My followers are not afraid."

"I'm sure they are not. Your followers look tough and seasoned, but I cannot help noticing that there are fewer of them than the last time I was here."

"The weak falter and are sent to their final destination. The worthy survive and create more like themselves. It is not a tragedy. It is the way that the weak are separated from the strong."

Quisling nodded. "Well spoken. Still, the Slayers afflict us both. We both desire to be rid of them. Mr. Trick has sent me here with a proposal."

The chair stopped in mid-rock. "Your master sends his lap-dog to me to flatter and cajole. You should come to the point."

It required a great effort for Quisling's face to remain still and calm. "Mr. Trick has formulated a plan to rid us of the Slayers. I have been sent to ask for your cooperation."

Othniel Hampton's eyes burned like hot coals as he stared at Quisling. "Why should I work with your master? He is but a child."

Quisling nodded. "True. But when the Slayers are dead, we have no desire to rule over the Hellmouth. Our only wish is to complete our contract and move on. Sunnydale will be yours."

"Sunnydale is mine already." The Reverend's voice was thick with contempt as he flung the words at Quisling.

"But it will be yours without a Slayer," Quisling said.

The Reverend began to rock. His right hand stroked his chin as he slouched down in the seat. The chair creaked. Quisling stood, unmoving as he felt sweat begin to gather at his collar.

***

"Hey," Buffy said as she waltzed through the kitchen door.

"Hey yourself," Joyce Summers replied. "How was your day?"

"Oh..." Buffy attempted to smother a gigantic yawn. "Whoa. Oh, I asked Faith and she said that they'll come to Thanksgiving dinner."

Joyce nodded. "You certainly seem to have become good friends."

Buffy took an apple from the bowl on the cabinet. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, we do have the whole shared Slayer-thing." Buffy bit into the apple. "What I'm saying is, Willow's been great; nobody could ask for a better friend. But Faith and me, it's like we're hard-wired into each other, y'know?"

"Sort of." Joyce gave her daughter a quick hug. "I was worried about you. You were so mopy and sad. But that's changed."

"Yeah. The Slaying gig seems to make a lot more sense these days." Buffy swallowed and gave her mother a light kiss on the cheek. "I'm gonna hit the books. We have to patrol later. I love you." She grabbed her books from the table and rushed out of the kitchen.

***

Cordelia opened the front door, cupping her keys in her hand to prevent jingling. She stopped just inside the door and listened. The house was quiet, which was not unusual. She hesitated for a moment, then tossed the mail onto the hall table. It landed with a smack and a shush as it slid across the polished marble. The house remained still, so she assumed her parents must be out. She crossed the foyer and went up the stairs to her room.

She put her books down on the desk and turned. As she did her gaze fell on Xander's sweater, the one she'd worn home from the Bronze. It lay on the floor, kicked partially under the bed. Cordelia picked it up.

It was just another of Xander's awful sweaters, frayed in places and the hem and cuffs stretched out. It smelled like him. Not like some awful cheap cologne, but like Xander himself. Cordelia stood there, lost in thought with the garment wadded between her hands.

Why not call him? Why not tell him? She realized that she was twisting the sweater into knots. She sat down and looked at the phone on her bedside table. Like everything else in the room it was color-coordinated and decorator-approved. All she had to do was reach out, pick it up, and tap in seven digits.

She looked up from the phone and saw herself in the mirror. That was the girl Xander thought he was dating, the girl in the mirror. As Cordelia stared at her reflection she had a quick, chilling mental flash. She saw herself confiding in Xander, then she saw him talking to Buffy.

Mirror-girl's face hardened. The last thing she needed was for Buffy to know her business. Cordelia turned away. She folded the sweater and placed it on the bed, then picked up a textbook.

Homework. Something productive and task-oriented. That's what she needed.

***

"Why so grumpy?" Willow said as she looked down at Oz.

"What makes you think I'm grumpy?" Oz asked. "I could be moody."

Willow shook her head. "I've seen you moody. I've seen you taciturn, I've seen you reticent, and once I've even seen you truculent, and you're grumpy today."

"Couldn't I be Sneezy or Doc?" he said.

"Okay," she said. "If that's how you want to be." She pushed his shoulders and slid to her right. Deprived of the pillow of her legs, his head thumped down on the couch cushions. He tried to turn and look at her, flailed his arms for a moment as his balance left him, and ended up flopping onto the floor.

"You don't seem amused," Oz said from his prone position.

"That's because I'm not," Willow said as she rose from the sofa and crossed the room.

"Care to share?" Oz said, clambering to his feet.

"You're not sharing with me," Willow said in an accusatory tone.

Oz nodded. "You're right." He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up even more. "Okay, the deal is, we asked Trey to become a permanent member of Dingoes today."

Willow frowned. "But isn't that a good thing? I mean, he's a great player, isn't he?"

Oz made a hunching motion with his shoulders. "Yeah, he is. It's just..." He looked away and when he looked back his eyes were filled with something Willow had not seen before. "He's better than me. He can play things I can't play, that I'll never be able to play. He's great... and he's going to take my band away from me."

"Oh, Oz." Willow rushed across the room and threw her arms around him. "Dingoes could never go on without you."

"They could," Oz said, his voice muffled by her sweater. "I think they might."

"I know how you feel." Willow sniffled, holding back hot, sudden tears. "Buffy's spending all her time with Faith and it's like, hey, I was here first." She felt Oz stiffen in her arms. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," he whispered. "Do you hear howling?"