- - -

Preparations, once the decision is made to fly to New York as soon as possible, are nerve-wracking. There is so much to do before leaving that Buffy can't even imagine going to sleep, which is funny, because after a year in Rome, she sorta got used to eight hours a night. Eight hours that before Rome, would've been a luxury. As it seems it will be now.

And we go full-circle, she thinks dryly. Except I have much cooler hair.

She spends the limo-ride back to Wolfram & Hart being briefed by Angel's crew as to where the best patrolling spots are, what kind of monsters she should expect to encounter, and how exactly to get Gumshoe Demon out of cashmere.

"Gunscu," Wesley says, staring at Buffy as if she's some rare, fascinating specimen of stupid.

"Bless you," Dawn chimes in, giggling from the rear seats, where she's wedged between Lorne and Gunn. Buffy turns to the left and gives her a dirty look, then zeroes in on the hand Dawn has propped comfortably on Gunn's knee. Gunn makes a strangled noise in his throat and jerks his knee away, looking stoically out the window. Dawn pouts, rolling her eyes at Buffy.

Satisfied, Buffy turns back to face Wesley. "That's what I said, Wes," Buffy says impatiently. "Goonshoo." Except now she's saying it a little like, go on, shoo, and at the despairing look on Wesley's face, Buffy feels a sharp tug of nostalgia. That's a Watcher look. She misses her Watcher.

She misses Slaying.

As if on cue, her hands tighten and her knee does that restless jiggling thing that always gets on peoples nerves. Her eyes dart back and forth, taking in Wesley and Fred, sitting practically on top of each other, and Angel and Cordelia, conversing quietly with each other. And then there's Spike. Spike, who's looking at her bemusedly, eyes flickering from her face to her jiggling leg, back to her face again.

"Nervous habit, Slayer?" he asks.

"I need to beat things up," she blurts earnestly. "This--" she gestures helplessly. "It's a lot to process."

Spike nods. "I can see how that might be," he says, his hand a steady, reassuring pressure on her knee. There is no more jiggling as she looks up into his eyes, searching for the answers to all the questions she's had since last summer, trying to communicate her own answers to him. His grin is slower to unfurl away from all the craziness of post-reunion. Sadder, more reflective. But even and calm, and Buffy feels a jump in her belly at how well his eyes seem to be reading her. Despite everything, he's always mostly understood her. The best and the worst about her, and suddenly, Buffy wants to make sure it's only the best from here on out.

Her hand catches his and squeezes. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "This isn't exactly roses and butterflies, is it?"

Spike's expression is wry. "Don't expect it to be, with us. And you haven't got anything to apologize for, Buffy. Never have. I don't labor under the illusion that I'm some great hero, deserving of your affections. Always been glad of what you could give me, however you could give it." His eyes darken. "It's when I started asking too much of you that things went wrong, and I won't be doing it again. I'm here however you want me to be."

Buffy's heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest. She can't deny that Spike had often scared her away with his, er, overzealousness. She could never apologize for treating him like scum back then, because, well, back then, he was. But in the later years, when Dawn and Glory and then Heaven had happened--Spike had been different. He'd been there in some inexplicable, against-all-laws-of-nature way. And it hadn't been about just getting in her pants, although that was what she made it into, that horrible year back from Heaven.

She hadn't been able to make it into anything other than sex, really. Was half a person for so long, too scared of her own rage to want to live there with Spike, too skeptical of her light to believe it was enough to change Spike. So she'd let their dance become perverted and twisted and painful, and if that was all Spike had ever known, how was he to blame for encouraging it, for being desperate for the hurt?

It makes her ache to think of how much wonder she saw in his eyes the night she let him simply hold her.

She's whole enough now to feel better about parting with that piece of her heart, though. With giving it to someone. Someone like Spike, who has never known gentle love, a steady, accepting hand in the dark. Spike, who gives one-hundred and ten percent of who he is to who he loves, no matter if she's a crazy crackwhore of a vampiress or an emotionally stunted, damaged bitch of a vampire slayer. Spike, who has infuriated her, frightened her, disgusted her, enchanted her. Loved her.

Been loved by her.

"I want you," she says, taking a deep breath, "to be with me in every way." She closes her eyes and lets herself lean against him, feeling the world tilt on its axis as she holds her breath, waiting to see how he'll recieve this.

His hand clenches a bit tighter on her knee, but that's the only irregularity to him at all as he lays his cheek gently against her head. Buffy suddenly feels giddy and full, like a balloon about to burst.

Bursting is bad, she tells herself sternly. Not enough space in this teeny tiny--okay, huge-- limo to burst. Don't burst.

His knee nudges hers and she expells a giant gust of air. Yellow dots swim in her vision.

"You alright there?" Spike asks, voice all rumbly and low.

"Oh, yeah," Buffy says weakly. "Just, um, have you ever felt like a balloon?"

Spike growls. "I've been cutting back," he says tightly. "Where'm I carrying it all, huh? In my face? Is it the jawline? Probably the gut. It's just the cling of the shirt, I swear it!"

Buffy rolls her eyes. "You look fine," she says crossly. "I was talking metaphorically, not asking if you're bloated. Which, incidentally, is the dumbest thing I've ever heard--do vampires even get fat?"

Spike coughs discreetly, though Buffy's sure she heard 'Angel' somewhere in the ruckus. She nudges Spike, scandalized, but Angel just keeps canoodling with Cordelia. Buffy sighs, relieved. No bloodshed in the teeny tiny--okay, huge--limo.

Then Angel kicks Spike in the shin, a pretty impressive feat considering the fact that the seats are so low he's all squished up with his knees to his chest.

"Wanker," Spike mutters under his breath. Buffy rolls her eyes again, though she can't help but notice that Spike was sorta right--Angel does look a little puffy, lately. Still, it's not sportsmanklike to rub it in, so she hides her smile and thanks the powers (silently) that her man has cheekbones of steel.

"So, Buffy, while you and Spike are patrolling, and the others are doing their legal-eagle, wrangling jet-planes and Old Ones stuff, where does little sister get factored in?" Dawn's face is all eager beaver, looking way too excited for Buffy not to be suspicious.

"Why?" she asks. "Where does little sister want to be factored in?"

"We-ell," Dawn starts, her voice taking on that wheedling tone Buffy knows only too well, "Since Gunn was supposed to be my bodyguard--"

"Baby-sitter," Buffy interrupts sternly. Spike doesn't quite stifle a snort fast enough, and she elbows him sharply.

"--whatever," Dawn continues loudly. "I was just thinking that he could show me around town, maybe give me tour of the college life over at UCLA."

Buffy arches her brow. "Dawnie, it's 11 p.m," she says slowly. "It's been awhile since it was my scene, but somehow I doubt classes are in session--even night classes. Even so-early-we're-having-them-the-night-before morning classes."

"But there's the whole authentic college nightlife experience! Gross, greasy food late at night, bands playing on the quad--"

"Crazy drunk kids making demon sacrifices." Buffy shakes her head. "Nuh with the double of the uh, missy. Been there and done that."

"Well, I haven't," Dawn grumbles, folding her arms and looking mutinously out the tinted windows. She has to look over Gunn's hulking body to do so, however, and he wriggles uncomfortably, already nervous about his implication in Dawn's scheme. (His expression pretty much screams "Don't kill me, big-sister-who-is-a-Slayer-and-crazy-besides!" Buffy thinks she doesn't see this look on Dawn's potential honeys nearly enough, and it almost endears Gunn to her.)

"I was drugged and chained up enough for the both of us," Buffy addresses Dawn bluntly. "Let's leave aside demons, for a second, shall we? College guys? Abercrombie and perv? No way. Nope. Never."

"What about when I'm, you know, in college?" Dawn asks, her eyes rolling in that way that makes Buffy want to challenge every person ever who claims Dawnie isn't so her sister.

"Three words," Buffy says, leaning in. "All girls school."

Dawn makes that weird shrieking sound in the back of her throat, and Buffy leans back, satisfied. She looks around the limo, taking in the vaguely horrified looks of everyone else.

"What?" she asks snippily. "Any of you wanna take her around horny-boytown? Maybe get fed to a giant snake?"

Everyone busies themselves with looking out the window. Buffy scoffs. "That," she says, "is what I thought." She turns her head to glare at Spike. "And that's enough muffled laughter from you, Mr. Unhelpful Undead. You realize that Dawn and I are, in many not-gross ways, a package deal? You wanna be with me, you have to protect and look out for and annoy her. A lot. All the time, in fact."

Buffy's arms are folded and her mouth is in an anxious line, and she knows without looking that Dawn is just as interested as she is in Spike's response. The kid's good at dealing with many things, but abandonment is not one of them. Buffy has a sneaking notion that if Riley or her father were to come back around, Dawn would be giving them an even bigger freeze out than she's giving Angel. Heck, she threatened to light Spike on fire when he showed back up in Sunnydale, and she liked him from the start!

"When have I ever not done what's best for the bit, hm?" Spike asks, his voice all gentle and beguiling. But Buffy will not be swayed, not even by that eyebrow arch thing he does that's so sexy and--

Oh. Drool. She pats her lip furtively and glares even harder at Spike. "There was that time you were evil and tried to eat her," she reminds. "Oh wait, let's just call that the entirety of junior year."

Spike makes a face. "Extenuating circumstances, love. I was, as you said, evil. And little girls were my favorite--"

Buffy, Dawn, and Cordelia all say in perfect, disgusted unison: "Ew." Angel only looks (disturbingly) nostalgic.

"Anyway, once I warmed up to you and your lot...or, actually, once you all tied me up like a dog, kept me chained to a chair, and made me wish I could stake my own self, me and niblet bonded."

Buffy huffs. "Oh yeah, over your undying hatred for, what, authority figures and the word 'no'?"

Spike smiles. "Don't be jealous." His lips brush her hairline and she sinks into him with a grudging sigh. "We bonded over how much you drove us crazy."

"Um, but for him, it was that weird, icky, latent sexual obsession way," Dawn clarifies. Her eyes get misty. "We pretty much spent all those times Giles was supposed to be 'babysitting' me playing cards and making up new ways to torment you." She smiles fondly. "Spike came up with the infamous laundry idea. It was genius, I gotta admit."

Buffy's melty snuggle with Spike halts. "That was you?" she asks, in a deadly serious way. Spike blinks, then flashes a nervous grin.

"Erm, not exactly," he says. "I just gave the girl a suggestion or two." Buffy's eyebrows knit. "Hey!" he says defensively. "You kept me tied up to a chair. With Giles. Giles, who, need I remind you, spent his days cross-referencing and watching the BBC. Sometimes at the same time."

Buffy shoots a sour look at him. "You told Dawn to wash all my clothes in the wrong cycle so they'd shrink. So they'd shrink in a way that rendered them unwearable." She sputters at the memory. "I had to wear her sparkly Carebears t-shirts for a week, Spike!"

Dawn and Spike share a reminiscent smile and Buffy narrows her eyes.

"Mmm," Spike says. "And what a week that was. The day you wore that blue one, with the hem that rode up?" He arches an eyebrow and licks his lips. "Good day." Buffy scowls and Spike smiles wider. "Hey, BBC. Cross-referencing. At the same bloody time, remember? I had to get my jollies somehow," he says defensively.

"Well, good luck getting your jollies ever again," Buffy says sweetly. Spike flashes an alarmed look at Angel, who smirks and gives a 'You're on your own look.' Which, of course, he would. Buffy never got to withhold sexual favors from Angel, 'cause sexual favors turned him all evil. She shoots a slightly charitable, considering look at Spike. At least her trump card works with him.

"Sorry, love," Spike says, utterly, innocently contrite, and utterly, innocently full of bullshit. Buffy sighs. Guess a person can take the obnoxious out of the vampire, but taking the vampire out of the obnoxious--well. Aside from not making sense at all, that notion's impossible. Vampires are always obnoxious. Difference is, her obnoxious vampire is very, very hot, and Buffy is very, very shallow.

Also, he loves her. Which really does count for more than just about anything at this juncture, considering that she pretty much (and despite her best judgements) feels the same way for him.

She gives a small smile. "Fine," she says reluctantly. "I guess it's just good that you two get along." Her eyes are stern when she faces Dawn. "When we get back, I'll take you around campus for the official tour, and Spike will take you for the whole nightlife thing. Only I'm not responsible for how many guys he turns away with his intimidating swagger--or his, you know, insults. Don't come crying to me if he calls them poncey little nancy boys with very bad hair."

Another surreptitious glance at Angel.

"Also? No plotting to ruin my wardrobe, read my diary, or overthrow my command. And no lighting his hair on fire. Got it?"

Dawn gives a huge sigh. "Can you at least sign a waiver that says you guys have to stay, like, 25 feet behind me at all times?"

Buffy screws up her face. "Um, no," she says, at the same time that Spike says, "Not on your life, bit."

Buffy looks to Spike, shares a small smile. Call her creepy, but hearing him get all authoritative and parent-y gets her hot, and oh God, she's just a Fruedian nightmare, isn't she? She blinks and shakes herself out of it. "For now," she says, "You can come to New York with us, while Gunn stays behind and makes sure Wolfram & Hart doesn't get taken over by hostile undead beings."

Angel clears his throat. "Been there," he says. "Done that."

Wesley nods. "Quite." Buffy wrinkles her nose, feeling another one of those stupid but insatiable-curiosity-inducing questions coming on. It wouldn't do any good to ignore it, else she'll be wondering forever (like during key points of battle, she once almost got her head torn off by a Hrack demon, 'cause she was wondering what the difference between Skeet Ulrich and Johnny Depp was) so she just gives in and asks. They're only two blocks from Wolfram & Hart anyway, and she's getting tired of all of Angel's cronies listening in on her business.

Besides, Slayer ADD is not to be ignored.

"How come you guys say 'quite' so much?" she asks Wesley curiously. "Whenever I tell Giles that his sweater's ten years out of style, or ask him if he wants to strangle Andrew even more with each passing moment, he's all, 'Yes, quite. Like the quite exponentially empowers the sentence with its punctuation powers." She frowns. "It's just weird."

"Is there gonna be a language barrier to contend with now, Slayer?" Spike snorts. Buffy hushes him, poking him in the gut. Wesley's got his fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose, that look of weary disbelief that Giles wears so well. Buffy can't help but muse over how fun it is seeing that expression on someone else's face.

Wesley finally blinks slowly at her, mouth slack. "Er," he begins. "Just, uh, one of the many quirks of the British language, I suppose," he says. He shares a look with Spike, and Buffy's a little suspicious it's that annoyed 'Americans' look that Giles aways gets whenever she and Willow and Xander make up a new word.

Before she can respond with "Also, how silly is calling underwear pants?" Fred pipes up. "Oh! We're here!"

Despite herself, curiosity makes Buffy peek behind her shoulder, out the window. At the massive, gleaming, really freakin' insidious-looking building towering over them. She's still gaping at the fortress of Evil Minions, Inc. when the limo enters the below-ground parking deck. She's startled out of her awe by the sheer amusement of watching Angel grumble and groan through a voice-recognition and thermal heat (or really, lack thereof, with him) check of everyone in the car. When her turn comes up, she says her name nice and loud, and is somewhat pleased to hear the electronic voice sound a little scared.

"Slayer, comma, the," the voice intones, sort of in the vein of 'Good going, boss, she'll be great for business.'

"Better believe it," she mumbles ominously, then stifles a shriek when something hot passes over her.

"Sorry," Angel says apologetically. "Body scanner. It's probably being a little overzealous with you, seeing as...well, according to Wolfram & Hart files, you're not exactly an ally."

Buffy narrows her eyes. "Evil," she accuses. "With your evil machines that have minds." She shoots a paranoid look at the machine outside the limo, casting a red light across the bodies in the car, and shivers as she remembers Moloch and Ted and--Buffybot. Spike seems to remember this too, because he has the grace to blush when she darts a look at him. Angel just gives a roll of his eyes. "You scoff now," Buffy tells him darkly. "But what happens when the computer tries to eat your brain?"

Angel looks about to laugh, before it apparently hits him that yes, in their lives, it could--and probably will--happen. He frowns and Buffy smiles smugly. "Computers aren't always your friend, Angel." she says. "When we were going through old Watcher's files, we found records of this group of ninja assassins that had a whole enclave of robo-impersonators from the Council."

Wesley raises an eyebrow as the limo comes to a stop. "A robot of my father," he says dryly. "That'd be a sight to see. I was always under the impression my dad was a robot."

Dawn gives a serious look. "That's only funny when it can't be true," she reminds Wesley. "I mean, Buffy totally blew up the ninja hidey-hole, but maybe Roger Wyndham-Pryce-robot escaped." She taps her nose, then her temple, significantly, and Buffy can't help but think again that her sister is really, really weird.

Apparently, Wesley thinks so, too. The doors open and they begin to file out, but he turns to Dawn. "How do you know my dad's name?" he demands suspiciously.

Dawn smiles a serene smile over her shoulder. "Read his file," she says. "Also: read yours. Fun fact? Your middle name is officially the lamest thing I've ever heard, and did you know they keep incident reports from Watcher Academy on file, too? Like, say, from someone's seventh year?"

Wesley's eyes widen. "Yes, well, um. Not relevant, not at all. Robots are a threat, I do agree. Let's focus on--hey, now! Buffy's going to be evil very soon!"

Cordelia is looking at Dawn with an expression of deep respect. So is Spike. Buffy feels like she should be worried that Dawn is so good at being a snoop and blackmailing people with scandalous pasts, but she's so grateful it's not her diary the kid's reading anymore, she just let's it slide.

"How about we all take a tour of Casa de Poofster first, and then me and you will go out and kill nasties till all the arrangements are made." Spike says, slinging his arm comfortably around Buffy's shoulders. She finds herself leaning into his embrace, as if they were in high school, and he was the prize-winning quarterback and she was the cheerleader. Well, once upon a time she was a cheerleader--

The image of Spike, fangs and all, snarling behind a Razorbacks football helmet, muscles flexing underneath all that spandex, flashes through Buffy's mind.

"Luv?" Spike motions to his chin. "You have a little..."

Buffy wipes furiously at her chin. Twice in one day--she really is turning into Xander.

"Wow," Dawn says dispassionately, passing Buffy as they enter the employee elevator into the building. "Twice in one day. You really are turning into Xander."

Buffy rolls her eyes as Spike gives a rude gesture at that opinion. The elevator responds again to Angel's voice activation, and then, with a shudder and a jerk, it's off. Her hand automatically finds Spike's, fingers lacing through his as her breath catches. Funny, she thinks, how there are eight other people in this elevator, but the only presence she feels through the sudden, irrational fear, is Spike's. She's no shrinking violet, but--

"I hate elevators," she says quietly. "They remind me of--other small, dark, airless boxes." She itches her neck, looks down, embarrassed. "You understand. You said." Her fingers move as to let go, but Spike catches her hand and holds fast. She looks to him, and he is gazing down at her with a storm of feelings reflected in his eyes--understanding, guilt, sorrow, and something soft that she never wanted to see before. But she likes seeing it now.

"There's no shame in shying away from deathly heralds, Buffy," he says, equally as quiet. "Tell the truth, I'm happy that you're not chasing the spectre of the afterlife so zealously anymore. And I do, you know. Understand. Don't think I would much fancy getting back into my own mahogany and ash."

Buffy ducks her head, absurdly grateful for his understanding. Beside her, Dawn lays her head on Buffy's shoulder, a sisterly tilt of her chin in affection. Despite Buffy's efforts to keep her voice pitched low, the elevator does have two vampires, a demon, and a little sister with freakish, bat-like hearing. Behind her, Angel gives a wordless show of support, a whisper of his hand against her shoulderblades. She's touched at his concern, and casts him a thankful glance.

Spike's hand tightens on hers and she smiles. Leave it to Spike to ruin the heartwarming moment he started. She squeezes his hand back, a subtle reminder that it's the twenty-first century and she likes her vampires slighty less possessive than in the Victorian age.

Also? She always likes to remind her boyfriends that she could so beat them up. Wait, boyfriend?

The elevator jerks to a stop and the doors part. Lorne is the first one out, turning to face them and giving a beckon. "Come on, kiddies. Let's give the Chosen One a behind-the-scenes peek at the institution that keeps evil rolling in style."

"Hey, we're not evil--" Angel begins, casting Cordelia a desperate look.

Cordelia snorts. "Yeah, just morally ambigious, I've heard it all before. Ooh, is that woman wearing Gucci?"

Buffy and Lorne turn to look. "Yep," they say simultaneously. Buffy slants an assessing look at Lorne.

"Good eye," she praises. Spike mimes vomiting into a nearby plant and she renews her grip on his hand. Any boyfriend of hers has to have a healthy appreciation for her unhealthy appreciation of shoes. Wait, there it is again---boyfriend?

She looks speculatively at Spike. If her inner monologue is anything to go by, she really ought to ask Spike where they stand. She can imagine how that conversation would go: "Hi, honey, you know how we were mortal enemies and you tried to kill me and I tried to kill you and then you fell in love with me and we had dark, depressing sex until you tried to force yourself on me, repented and then went to get a soul, by which time I was too world weary to even consider a relationship, even though I told you I loved you and finally meant it while you burnt up and supposedly died? And you know how you're back now? Well, can we boyfriend-slash-girlfriend? No, that wouldn't be moving too fast, not at all."

Buffy bites her lip. Maybe her inner monologue should hold its horses for a bit. For now, the fact that Spike is back and holding hands with her and they're not beating each other up is establishment enough for her.

"Come on," she says. "Show me around this nifty den of sin. We'll talk shoes later."

The tour is actually pretty cool. Fred and Lorne are effusive guides, peppering the standard "This is the copy room, that's the mail room," with colorful commentary such as, "This is where Mary from Demonic Languages accidentally invoked the wrath of a mucus monster, it took her forever to get the snot-rockets out of her cashmere!" or "That's where the gals in Cursed Texts accidentally got their eyelids sealed shut--it was sorta funny till they started walkin' into walls and spilling coffee everywhere. Incidentally, ya'll should remember to read the fine print on any boxes you might stumble over, there in Cursed Texts."

After the fifth "That's where...accidentally did something dangerous that almost ended their life," story, Buffy can't help but raise her eyebrows.

"Sure seems like a lot of, um, accidents happen around here," she says carefully. Angel studiously gazes at a point behind her left ear, which is a dead giveaway that he's about to tell a whopper.

"Buffy," he says gravely. "Of course they're accidents. If these incidents weren't accidents and were instead some sort of calculated effort on our parts to put certain troublemakers in the wrong place at the right time, then there would be..." he trails off. "Gunn, what's the term?"

"Liability issues," Gunn supplies helpfully. Angel nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Those." Then, with a dark smile at Spike, he points to another set of elevators. "That's where Spike accidentally got the crap beat out of him once. By me, by the way."

Spike's eyes narrow. "Yeah, seemed to be a good day for you. Didn't you also turn into a puppet and get eaten by your werewolf girlfriend, too? By the way."

Buffy's eyes get wide. "Puppet?" she asks, trying frantically not to envision a marionette Angel. The image is too creepy for words.

"Girlfriend?" Cordelia asks, voice deathly quiet, hands on hips and eyebrow arched.

"Um. Werewolf?" Dawn asks, looking at Angel with a strange, thoughtful expression on her face. "I wonder what you'd call a werewolf/vampire hybrid. A verewolf? A wampire?"

"Scott Speedman," Lorne supplies. "Ever see Underworld? If every vampire ever looked like Katie Beckinsale, I wouldn't shudder at the thought of tiny little dogs with fangs running around."

"Well, that was a real breakthrough movie," Fred says. "First of its kind!"

"In the genre?" Dawn asks blankly, blinking. "'Cause I know I've seen some pretty bad wampire/verevolf films before. 'Revenge of the Bloodsucking Dog,' 'Rover's Got Bite,' 'Transylvanian Pound,' to name a few."

Buffy makes a note to cancel all the bad Italian cable. Or Andrew's current living situation with them. Dawn doesn't need any more wacky horror films to perpetuate her innate weirdness.

"Uh, no." Wes says, his eyes wide. "I think Fred meant it was a breakthrough in supernatural science. After the movie, she got all sorts of ideas..."

"Ideas that Mr. Party-Pooper and Mr. Party Pooper Two over there nixed," Fred grumbles. She points at Gunn and Angel.

"Hey," Gunn says, "Liability!"

"Also," Angel says testily, looking sorry that he ever brought it up, "Off-topic. Buffy and Dawn have had their tour. I'll call the company jet and make sure it's ready for liftoff in the morning. Gunn, make arrangements for three to stay in New York. Make sure the East Coast branch is ready for Buffy and Spike. Fred and Wes, start the research thing. Lorne and I will work the demon underground for info. And Cordelia? Nina wasn't my girlfriend, she was--."

Cordelia just gives him a coolly appraising look. "Whatever," she interrupts. "Since you obviously don't need me right now, I'm gonna go take a nap," she says loftily, ignoring Angel's gaze.

"Didn't you... just wake up from a coma?" Buffy asks, brow furrowed. Spike snorts behind his hand and she elbows the spot she knows will be sore tommorrow morning. Funny or not, he is so not helping.

Cordelia nods slowly. "Yeah, but I wanted Angel to feel bad about making assumptions regarding my health and well-being. I may have been coma-girl, and maybe I'm not as strong as a werewolf, but I'm still half-demon."

Buffy's eyes widen. "Really," she says. "That's...very enlightening." Enlightening in the way that Buffy doesn't feel at all envious of Cordelia's perfectly curled hair and long legs anymore. Look who's all not-normal-girl now! Hah!

"I'm coming with you and Lorne, bub," Cordelia says to Angel. "I can work over those demon bartenders with the best of 'em. I mean..." she looks down. "I still have cleavage, right?"

Wisely, no one answers her. But she seems satisfied enough by the evidence in front of her face.

Buffy gives a resolved sigh. "Okay, then," she says, looking at the motley crew of assembled avengers. "Me and my man are gonna go do what I--we-- do best, then." She shares a look with Spike. "Kill stuff."

As she's walking out the door, she says over her shoulder, "We've got roughly three days before I turn into a body bag for some hopped up demon god. Let's get cracking."

As exit lines go, Buffy's pretty sure she done good.

- - -tbc- - -