Carefully and methodically, Xander's eyes trailed over the deep grooves of the inscription. His consciousness obviously registered the significance, but still he refused to accept the reality. At his side stood Anya, cradling a small offering of flowers. She moved slowly and deliberately, separating the flowers into two sprays. While Xander watched in numbed silence, she placed one arrangement at the foot of Willow's marker. As she quietly stepped away, Xander emerged a little from his reverie.

His bewildered gaze followed her path to a nearby gravesite and he was visibly shaken once more. His breath hitched as he was struck by yet another overwhelming wave of grief. He scrubbed his stinging eyes, hoping perhaps that it was only an illusion. But the carved lettering leapt from the marble with stark clarity.

Dawn Elizabeth Summers, 1987-2003. She held the key to our hearts.

Setting the remaining bouquet in front of Dawn's headstone, Anya returned to Xander's side. Shaking his head, he resumed his study of Willow's resting place, not seeming to notice when he knelt and began ceaselessly arranging and rearranging the spray of flowers. It seemed that every muscle in his body ached, but still he maintained his position, whether from choice or inability to do otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Neither spoke for a few, endless moments. Eventually, Xander broke the silence.

"I don't get it. How could this happen?"

Anya was instantly sympathetic to his pain. "Each time we come here, I think it will be easier and suddenly all make sense." She shook her head. "It never does."

"I thought ... I thought it was better." He waved a hand as if to encompass the entire world. "Hazel, my eye ..." He looked up at Anya. "You."

She failed to comprehend the implication, but was eager to offer consolation regardless. "It'll be okay," she soothed.

Vehemently shaking his head, Xander crushed one of the flowers within a tight fist. "No, it won't. It can't be okay." He stared remorsefully at the mutilated flower and tried to smooth the delicate petals, but they were beyond repair. "Willow's my best—"

Xander's voice broke and he was unable to finish the declaration. Immediately, Anya was there, on her knees, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. Her expression revealed the depth of her concern.

"Let's go home," she murmured. "You need rest."

A bitter laugh forced its way through Xander's clenched teeth. "Sure, because that's what cures a trip to Bizarro World."

This odd proclamation made no sense to Anya, but she appeared content to simply chalk it up to a lingering hangover and overpowering grief.

"You'll feel better," she assured, helping Xander to his feet and slipping an arm around his waist. "We'll keep the shop closed today."

Despite his emotional state, Xander still managed to regard Anya with a touch of surprise and perhaps even awe. "Now I know I'm loved."

Anya dismissed the announcement with a shrug. "You're in no condition to use deadly metal tools anyway."

She started to steer him away, but Xander was reluctant to leave. He dragged his feet, hampering their progress, hoping perhaps that if he just stayed long enough and kept staring hard enough, he could put everything right.

But Anya was determined. "Come on," she coaxed gently. "It's for the best. You should trust me – I've had intimate experience with misery."

"Ahn?"

"Yes?"

"How did...?"

But Xander's probe trailed into nothingness. He couldn't finish the question, or was perhaps unwilling to hear the answer. He shook his head.

"Never mind. I— Let's just go."

With a final glance over his shoulder at the two gravesites, Xander allowed Anya to lead him out of the cemetery.

Anya opened the door to their apartment, a firm hold on Xander's hand, but her tight grip wasn't truly necessary. His fingers were entwined around her own as though he might never let go. He shuffled behind her, lost and bewildered, the assuredness of the morning now all but evaporated. She led him to a comfortable, over-stuffed armchair in the lounge and he collapsed into its depths with a heavy sigh. Exiting the room without a word, she returned almost immediately, toting several items with her, the most notable being an oversized chenille blanket. Setting the other objects on the floor, she knelt to remove Xander's shoes and then shook out the blanket. With tender care, she draped it around Xander's lower extremities, making sure to tuck his feet into the soft folds. Xander seemed somewhat bewildered by the attention, but offered no resistance or complaint. Nodding with satisfaction, Anya retrieved two books from the floor and placed them on a small table next to the chair before switching on the lamp. It emitted a subdued glow.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"The same thing I did on Sunday, and the time before that, and the time before that," replied Anya, her tone sounding almost bored. "Taking care of you. Someone has to, and I know you won't do it." She rolled her eyes. "You come back from the cemetery and get lost in those books, and don't eat or drink or notice your legs have frostbite and will likely contract gangrene and fall off."

Soberly, Xander regarded his swaddled limbs.

"Gangrene?"

Anya nodded. "Well it gets cold."

"Thanks," Xander told her warmly.

She tossed him a tiny smile and then sharply snapped back into serious mode, gathering up the remaining items – a large accounting book and calculator – from the floor before getting to her feet.

"I'm going to go audit the ledger in our bedroom," she informed him with a pat on the shoulder, "so you can be alone when you cry."

Confusion struck Xander once more. "Thanks?"

With a 'you're welcome' inclination of the chin, Anya made good her departure, closing the door behind her. Cautiously, Xander eyed the books Anya had deposited on the small table. The spines bore no identifying titles. Although roughly the thickness of a slim paperback, the two books were longer and wider. They were both approximately the same size, though the covers were different colors. They appeared relatively worn, but were by no means ancient.

Hesitantly, Xander took hold of the maroon volume which lay on top. He flipped it open. The flyleaf bore a name and date: "Willow Rosenberg, May 20, 2003". "#6" had also been written on the same page, but had apparently been crossed out at some point and "#1" written next to it.

At first, Xander could do nothing but stare, his expression stricken. In his hands, he held the diary of his dearest friend – all that remained of those sometimes unfathomable, sometimes brilliant, but always amazing thoughts that had comprised the mind of Willow Rosenberg. The fact packed a heavy punch, and for a moment it seemed uncertain whether he would continue. But continue he did. Turning the page, he began to read aloud.

"'Here I am again, complete with new diary. A new book for a new life, I guess. Plus there's the part where the past, oh, three years worth of diaries are buried somewhere under Sunnydale, along with practically everything else I ever owned. Not that I'm complaining. Okay, I'm complaining. I shouldn't though, seeing as how I was one of the lucky ones. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Lots of holes need filling in. We've got holes a'plenty ...'"

Headed by Principal Wood, Buffy led the small army of young warriors as they filed into the main entrance of Sunnydale High.

"We had a plan for taking on the First. Not one of our best plans. Pretty much as desperate as we were feeling, but hey, it was a good bet the Big Bad would never see it coming, so we had that going for us. The teams were pretty well split – Faith, Buffy, Spike and the potentials in the basement where the Hellmouth was all Hellmouthy and waiting."

Faith, in the company of Spike and a stream of decently-armed young girls made their way to the school's lower level.

"Me in the principal's office with Kennedy there for backup in case things got ... nasty."

Taking possession of Willow's bag containing the scythe and other necessary items, Kennedy took her leave.

"Giles and Principal Wood guarding one exit against Bringers coming in and Ubervamps coming out."

Giles and Wood indicated the section they claimed as their own and Wood went to secure the area.

"Xander and Anya got the second—"

Pointing down a hallway, Xander glanced at Anya, who nodded her agreement, and she moved off with their weapons.

"And Andrew and Dawn took the last one."

Pulling out several index cards, Andrew began to speak, but with a roll of her eyes, Dawn snatched the cards from his hand and shoved him down the corridor ahead of her. At Buffy's call, Dawn turned and retraced her steps. Buffy started to say something, but Dawn cut her off, refusing to let her finish. The pair exchanged a small smile before Dawn hurried after Andrew.

"The fight ... We won. That's the most important thing, right? Yay us. We paid for it though. God did we pay."

The yellow bus came to a screeching halt on a barren stretch of desert highway. Buffy hopped down from the roof and stared in wonder at the damage left behind. She approached the crater as the other Scoobies slowly exited the vehicle and came to join her. Willow, aided by Xander with Anya hovering close to his elbow. Faith and then Giles. Glancing over her shoulder, Buffy greeted each of them with a smile, happy and relieved that they had made it through unscathed. Then, a tiny crease appeared on her forehead. She scanned the faces, searching for one that was disturbingly missing. Apprehensively, she questioned everybody present, but received only frowns and the shaking of heads in response. An air of mounting anxiety began to form like an ominous cloud above the small band of survivors. Buffy's eyes revealed her increasing panic as she spied Andrew standing alone on the shoulder of the road. His arms hung limply at his sides and his expression shell-shocked.

Buffy made a frantic beeline in his direction and asked a question. His gaze was fixed upon some point in the distance – the gaping cavity that had once been Sunnydale – and he didn't seem to hear her. She repeated the question, more demanding this time. His grief and regret were almost palpable as he looked at her and opened his mouth to speak. But the words simply wouldn't form. Shaking his head, he averted his eyes. And reality hit Buffy like a fist being savagely driven into the pit of her stomach.

Squeezing his eyelids tightly closed, Xander rested his head on the back of the chair for a second before continuing to read.

"'I thought she'd kill him. I mean, right there, I thought we'd see Buffy tear Andrew apart with her bare hands. We might've, if it wasn't for Faith and about twenty brand new Slayers. Even then for second there I wasn't sure they could hold her. But then she just ... collapsed. Everything seemed to go out of her. I guess the exhaustion and everything ...'"

He flipped to the next page, took a momentary pause and then resumed the narrative.

"'We didn't know where else to go, so we made for L.A. It turned out Angel had more than enough resources to help fellow apocalypse-fighters for a little while. Andrew just disappeared not long after we got there. He looked up to Buffy so much, I think he just couldn't stand to see her like that. I know how he felt.'"

Buffy stood before the window in one of the spacious offices located at Wolfram and Hart's L.A. branch. Occasionally blinking, she looked out over the city. She breathed. She swallowed. Her heartbeat was strong. She was functional. But there was no life, no vital spark. She was more dead than any vampire she had ever faced.

Softly opening the door, Giles approached with a steaming mug in his hand. The haggard appearance hadn't quite reached capacity, but it was well-defined and didn't have far to go. He regarded Buffy with undisguised anxiety and offered her the mug, urging her to take it.

She turned to look at him, expression several degrees less than apathetic. Her eyes were lackluster and distressingly vacant. Delivering a virtually imperceptible shake of her head, she refocused on the hustle and bustle beyond the window, but didn't truly see any of it. Giles' gnawing concern, already deep, reached a brand new low. He glanced despairingly over his shoulder at a figure standing in the doorway.

"Giles has been trying so hard. Day and night, every single second he spends on Buffy – trying to get her to eat and drink, or just to sleep more than maybe ten or fifteen minutes at a time. He's sure that if we just keep at it, we can get Buffy through this."

Willow lingered on the threshold for a long while. Her troubled gaze traveled from Buffy to Giles and then back again, her features locked in a picture of profound empathic pain.

"Me, I'm not so sure. He hasn't seen her dead before. Not like I have. I feel like everything's falling apart. All those Slayers, everywhere, because of us, but we're in no shape to even try and help them. Giles still doesn't completely trust Angel and his big law firm of evil, so that means we're it. Just us. And we can't even fix ourselves. Seven years. I'm just so tired."

As Willow's restless eyes continued to flicker between Buffy and Giles, a comforting arm slipped around her shoulders. Kennedy. Kennedy held her tight in a one-armed hug, offering consolation and support. These were things that Willow was only too grateful to accept.

"If it weren't for Kennedy, I don't know what I'd do. With Giles trying to help Buffy, and Xander and Anya working hard to fix their stuff, sometimes it feels like she's the only thing I've got left. She's my rock. I don't think I could do this without her."

Gently, Kennedy kissed the top of Willow's bright head. It was an intensely affectionate and fiercely protective gesture.

"I have to go now. We've been talking about heading to Ohio since it has the second-largest known Hellmouth, but I've been getting weird vibes about it, like something's pulling me in another direction. Gotta check that out. Maybe the universe is finally trying to give us something good. I definitely wouldn't say no."

With a heavy sigh, Xander riffled through the book waiting for something to catch his eye. It wasn't long before he found it and began to read once more.

"'It's been almost two weeks now. Giles hasn't said so yet, but I think he's given up. Much as I hate to admit it, I think I'm about to join him. No matter what I try, I just can't hack the Council's systems. And believe you me, I've tried everything. Not even magick works. We're pretty sure someone – that'd be someone not us and someone with some serious magick-hefting backup – stepped in and snapped up everything Councily they could find. All the books, all the resources, all the money ... and the Slayers. We've been able to convince a few of them to join us here in Trillium, but it's not even a fraction of what we activated. Faith managed to get a potential recruit to confess she'd already been approached by another group, so I guess that's that. Giles pretty much gave up then and there. He said we'd just have to make do. Inspiring, huh?'"

At a table in The Common Grounds, Buffy and Willow sat across from each other, talking. Although, more accurately, Willow was doing the talking while Buffy listened. The Slayer was obviously on edge. Her eyes never stopped scanning the area, not even for a nanosecond, and every muscle was wired. There was no part of Buffy that could have even been remotely described as 'relaxed'.

"I met Buffy for mochas today. Sort of a thank you for helping me and Kennedy move into our new place. Which, by the way, is coming along pretty good. I was worried about the size, but I'm henceforth calling it 'cozy', which I think makes all the difference. And only being a few blocks away from Xander and Anya's apartment, I'm hoping for many nights of popped corn and bad movies. It'd be great if we could get Buffy in on that. I'll just have to try harder."

Willow delivered what was apparently meant to be a joke. She waited expectantly, complete with raised eyebrows and face-splitting grin, but Buffy didn't seem to latch onto the funny. It took a while for the penny to drop but then she realized, given Willow's anticipatory expression, that an amused reaction was in order. Anxious not to disappoint, Buffy provided one but it was a painfully token gesture at best. Both were well aware of the fact, but they put up a valiant pretense.

"Buffy ... It's amazing how much you can miss someone, even when you see them all the time. It's like whatever parts of Buffy I loved the most died there on the Hellmouth. I get that. It's hard to know how to deal with her though."

Glancing over Buffy's shoulder, Willow noticed a young man approach. He tossed Willow a warm smile accompanied by a wave of greeting. She returned the smile as he came closer and began to rise from her seat. His arms were extended, as though he were preparing to give her a hug. He never made it.

Before he could even lay a finger on Willow, Buffy had grabbed him by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Spluttering and choking, he scrabbled desperately at Buffy's constricting hold. An expression of sheer terror crept into his panicked eyes as he looked to Willow for some much needed assistance. Buffy's response to this audacity was to squeeze even tighter. Willow was horrified to see his tongue start to protrude as his face turned purple. Rushing to his aid, Willow worked feverishly to pry loose Buffy's locked fingers. She met with not even marginal success. Tugging on Buffy's wrists, Willow tried to pull the Slayer away, yelling that it was okay, that he was a friend, that she knew him. It made no difference. Buffy was fixated on the perceived threat and Willow's frantic entreaties fell on deaf ears.

"Luckily Craig was okay – some bruising aside – but I'm guessing he won't be coming anywhere near me again for the next, oh, EVER. I guess that's sort of default Buffy these days though."

Even as Buffy maintained her vice-like grip on the hapless Craig's windpipe, her expression remained neutral. Her eyes, lifeless and devoid of any emotion.

"It's like there's nothing in there but the need to protect everyone she used to care about. I don't think she even remembers why any more."

Xander thumbed through the pages. He was now close to the end of the maroon volume.

"I did it! Well, technically, Xander did it and I just helped, so ... We did it! I can't believe how much I've missed seeing both of Xander's eyes. When I was little, I used to wonder which of his eyes I loved the most. I never could decide, but now I gotta go with the left. Not even a contest. Hello again, Xander's Left Eye! I've missed you so much!"

In the center of the living room he shared with Anya, seated cross-legged on the floor and holding hands, Xander and Willow faced each other. Kennedy hovered close to Willow's shoulder – not exactly lording over her, but watching vigilantly with arms folded across her chest, ready for any emergency. Sitting at a nearby table, Anya kept an equally careful eye on the happenings. Her leg jiggled up and down in restless nervousness, but she said nothing.

The numerous flickering candles scattered throughout the room had burned down considerably, the flames dancing atop deep pools of liquid wax. Willow chanted softly, her expression one of fatigue. But as tired as Willow might be, Xander by comparison was exhausted. His brow was furrowed in extreme concentration. Around the perimeter of his eyepatch, a glow had materialized, gradually becoming increasingly radiant, as though something bright and brilliant were hidden beneath, just waiting for the opportunity to emerge.

"I'm so glad Anya finally convinced him to do the spell. Xander was being all Mr. Burden, saying how an eye was nothing compared to what some people lost, but Anya pooh-poohed all that. 'You're being noble and self-sacrificing and stupid. People died and I'm sorry, but you letting yourself stay maimed won't bring them back.' At first he wouldn't even talk about it, but you know Anya."

As the luminescence gradually faded, both Willow and Xander slumped forward and their hands broke the connection. Unable to contain herself any longer, Anya rushed to Xander. She stood, waiting and watching impatiently as Kennedy tended to the worn out but buoyant Willow. Gathering together, the three women focused on Xander. Tentatively, he raised a hand, almost afraid of what he might – or might not – see. With agonizing slowness, he removed the patch to reveal an eye, whole and perfect and fully-functional. His ensuing grin was wide and beaming as he blinked at the trio of expectant faces. Obviously delighted, Kennedy immediately returned the grin and Willow was so happy, she was nearly reduced to tears. But Anya displayed little emotion as she inched closer. Reaching out, she cupped Xander's chin in both palms, and forced him to rivet his attention solely on her. She examined the new creation from every imaginable angle, assessing and critically evaluating as though she were appraising a three carat diamond. Xander's grin just broadened as he pulled her toward him and kissed her instead. Kennedy and Willow exchanged a before Willow refocused on the exuberant couple. Kennedy's expression was one of supreme pride as her gaze remained locked on Willow's joyous face.

Shifting position in the chair, Xander probed the area near his left eye. It was indeed healed and whole. Thoughtfully, he closed the maroon journal and returned it to the table. He paused for a brief second before retrieving its blue-bound companion. Flipping through the first few pages, his fingers came to halt upon reaching an entry that was remarkable in its starkness. Of Willow's customary impeccable penmanship, there was no sign. These letters had been scrawled with a shaky hand, its author obviously in a heightened state of nervous excitement. There was only one line.

She's back. Oh god she's back.

Xander stared at the pronouncement for several seconds before moving to the next page. The following entry was of normal length and the handwriting neater, but still clearly indicated a condition of some lingering distress. Clearing his throat, Xander began to read.

"'Tara's back. You'd think writing it would make it feel more real, but nothing about this feels real. Except her. I've never in my life been so sure of anything. This is Tara. This is my Tara and she's come back to me'."

The small den was rather crowded – Willow, Kennedy, Xander, Anya, Giles, Buffy and Tara were all present. But far from being a pleasant gathering, the atmosphere was strained and tense. Having positioned herself between Tara and the rest of the room, Willow was all but screaming at Kennedy and Buffy. Kennedy was giving as good as she got, but Buffy simply listened quietly. When she did open her mouth, the words were delivered in a calm and unemotional tone. Nevertheless, her flat gaze remained fixed on Tara and there could be no mistaking her deadly desires. Acting as primary, although unsuccessful, mediator was Xander, assisted by Anya and even Giles, who plainly didn't trust 'Tara' one bit, yet recognized that the situation called for sound reasoning, rationality and above all, cool composure.

"Buffy wants to kill her. She already tried the first time she saw Tara. I keep trying to tell her that it's okay, but she doesn't listen. And what's worse is that Kennedy agrees with her. I thought that maybe Kennedy would ... I don't know, understand? Be on my side? God I wanted her on my side, but I can't trust either of them. Especially Buffy. I have to do something."

As the heated argument spiraled, Willow, face contorted with anger, yelled at Kennedy. Eyes blazing, Kennedy stormed away in disgust. But she didn't leave the room, simply retreating to a corner where she fumed in silent frustration and rage. Stepping forward, Giles had apparently decided this was a prime moment to forcefully intercede. Xander and Anya instantly supported him. Buffy offered nothing, either physically or verbally. Her gaze continued to be locked on Tara as she moved toward Kennedy. Upon reaching her destination, Buffy engaged Kennedy in muted conversation. Tilting her head, Kennedy listened to Buffy's words. She nodded and began to relax a little. Through eyes narrowed with suspicion, Willow watched the clandestine exchange.

"Soon. Before they figure out why she's here."

Only a breath away, Tara hovered behind Willow. Her body was rigid save for her hands which restlessly clenched and then unclenched again. Willow watched Buffy and Kennedy, while Buffy and Kennedy watched Tara ... but Tara was watching Willow. And there was no trace of fondness or affection in her expression.

Abruptly, Xander's head jerked upward, as though he'd suddenly unearthed the last piece to a mystifying puzzle.

"Tara," he whispered before hurriedly turning the page.

But it was blank, as was the one that followed and the one after that. Only empty pages. No more entries. Nothing.

Holding it by the spine, Xander frantically shook the diary. It surrendered no hidden secrets.

"No, no," he insisted despairingly, "don't clam up on me now."

"Are you talking to yourself again?" asked Anya, moving quietly into the room. "If you keep doing that, we'll have to enlist professional help. Although, inconveniently, that's not covered under our insurance, so please don't be insane."

With a wave, Xander indicated the journals. "Where are the others?"

Anya frowned. "There are no others."

A look of dismay invaded Xander's features.

"Are you better now?" queried Anya, kneeling at Xander's feet and chafing his ankles through the blanket. "You've been there for quite a while. It's almost time to be social and enjoy a meal cooked by others, but if you need more time to cry—"

Xander regarded Anya's upturned face and shook his head. "That's okay. Dinner at Tara's, huh?" His gaze traveled to Willow's final entry, still open on his lap. "Wouldn't miss it."

Not surprisingly, Tara's residence exuded a welcoming warmth that could be sensed even from the outside. Yet, there was something oddly sterile about the interior of the small house, as though the implied coziness didn't penetrate far beyond the surface level. Obviously, the dwelling was inhabited, but it didn't seem to fall within the classification of a home. The living room contained a large armchair and comfortable sofa, but it was difficult to picture anybody occupying the space, settling in for a pleasurable evening of watching television or playing a game of cards.

There was also a distinct lack of personalization. Some pieces of artwork hung on the walls, but appeared to be nothing more than attractive prints that been purchased pre-framed, rather than works specifically chosen for personal reasons. They seemed, to all intents and purposes, to be no more than peripheral enhancements to the décor. There was one notable exception, however. Lining the walls of the hallway were a collection of photographs – most of them, shots of Willow.

Upon hearing a knock at the front door, Tara hurried to answer it. Anya and Xander stood on the top step. Immediately, Anya thrust a bottle of wine into Tara's hands.

"Hello! Thank you for having us over!" she said. "Please enjoy this customary beverage."

Tara accepted the gift, but there was no smile of gratitude, not even a cursory one of politeness, and she was obviously not very happy. Frowning, Anya regarded her with an odd look.

"That's not particularly welcoming," she noted.

Apparently, Tara had been unaware of her glum expression. She shook her head. "Sorry."

Stepping aside, she motioned for Xander and Anya to enter. Both shed their coats and hung them on the nearby rack.

"Something wrong?" asked Xander, a little coldly.

Tara checked her wristwatch. "She's late. Again."

Turning on her heel, she made her way to the kitchen. Xander and Anya followed. Grabbing a small stainless steel bucket, Tara dumped the bottle inside and then went to the freezer for ice cubes.

"Is that a habit?" queried Xander.

Tara glanced over her shoulder "What's today?" Anya was about to supply the necessary information, but the question was rhetorical. "No, wait," continued Tara. "It doesn't matter because the answer is yes."

As soon as the words had rolled off her tongue, Tara realized she had been snippy and she gave a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry, I—" She sighed again. "There are appetizers in the dining room, a-and you guys know where the glasses and stuff are. Help yourselves." Then, she muttered under her breath. "I need some air."

She grabbed the pack of cigarettes and lighter that lay within easy reach on the counter and exited through the rear door, closing it behind her. With a narrowed gaze, Xander watched her leave while Anya removed the bottle of wine from the bucket. It wasn't yet chilled, but Anya didn't seem to care.

"Would you like some?" she asked.

"Yeah, thanks," Xander replied distractedly.

As Anya began to root around the cupboard for glasses, Xander opened the door and stepped outside.

Tara was standing on the back porch, leaning against the railing on her forearms. Next to her was a plastic ashtray. It had been well-utilized and the porch was apparently its permanent resting place. Staring into space, obviously still extremely irritated and lost in thought, Tara failed to notice Xander approach. Given his expression, Xander's own fury was brewing just below the surface. He leaned against one of the upright posts, arms crossed over his chest.

"Got yourself quite the happy little home here."

Tara jumped at the sound of his voice, then gave a bitter laugh. "That's us. A modern day Ozzie and Harriet."

He arched an eyebrow. "I somehow don't think our lives would've made it past the 1950s censors."

"No," agreed Tara. "Probably not."

There was an uneasy silence as Tara continued to fixate on some point in the distance while Xander studied her carefully, not particularly concerned whether or not he was being covert about it. Clearly, he was attempting to reconcile the Tara he thought he knew to the Tara he now suspected was before him.

"I'm sorry about ..." apologized Tara, gesturing over her shoulder. "In there. It's just, she knew we were having guests over." Angrily, she flicked her ash onto the ground beyond the railing. "She did this on purpose."

"Gotta hate it when there's people you think you can trust, then it turns out," he gave an exaggerated shrug, "not so much."

A tiny frown creased Tara's forehead. She wasn't exactly sure she was following Xander's train of thought.

"I mean, it can be such a big leap, you know?" continued Xander, his upper lip curling. "You'd never see it coming. One second it's, 'hey, there's my best friend's girlfriend'. Who'd've thought one day it'd be, 'hey, there's my best friend's killer'."

Immediately, Tara recoiled at the harsh accusation.

"Xander!" admonished Anya severely from the open doorway.

It was doubtful Xander heard Anya call his name, but even if he had, it would have probably made no difference. Tara took a step backward, Xander's words having cut her more deeply than any knife. But Xander wasn't about to let Tara off easily and he pressed his attack.

"Yeah," he sneered. "I know why you came back. I know all about your 'mission'. I just can't— Even when you told us, I never believed you could've done it, not even for a second." His hands tightened into clenched fists. "It's Willow."

Flinching, Tara shook her head. "I don't—" she began tearfully.

"She trusted you. She loved you," Xander accused, thrusting his finger at Tara.

Anya squeezed his arm in a tight grip. "Xander, you need to come back inside now."

"Did she even see it coming?" demanded Xander, shaking off Anya's hold. "Did you look her in the eye? How hard did you twist the knife, Tara?" He took a threatening stride forward. "How long did it take for her to die when you—"

"That's enough!" ordered Anya, forcefully positioning herself between Xander and Tara.

Grudgingly, he stemmed his words, but was unable to control the physical seething as he glared at Tara over the top of Anya's head. Holding onto the rail for support, tears streamed down Tara's cheeks, but she met Xander's challenging stare with a formidable one of her own. Roughly shoving Xander backward, Anya hurried to comfort the distraught Tara, but her presence was barely acknowledged.

"Sometimes I wish I had done it," Tara spat back. "At least then I wouldn't have to live with the guilt of still being here without her."

Anya placed a protective arm around Tara's shoulders. "Hey, no more guilt," she soothed. "We made a promise. The least you can do is pretend when we're around."

"'No more guilt'?" Xander was stunned. "She killed Willow!"

Eyes blazing, Anya tossed Xander a look of disbelief. "She did no such thing and you know it."

He blinked and tried to process this news, running a hand through his hair. Bewildered, he shook his head.

"Ignore him," Anya appeased, giving Tara a consoling hug. "He's been like this all day. Personally, I think he's still drunk."

Xander remained in a state of confusion. "But ... but she was brought back to—"

"Yes, to kill Willow to stop her from going bad and losing her soul," said Anya impatiently. "I know all this, I was there."

Throughout the whole ordeal, Tara's redoubtable gaze had never left Xander's face, not even for a moment, and it didn't falter now. "I was ready to," she admitted. "Is that what you want to hear? I might've, I don't know. I guess we never will."

"What's going on?" came a demanding voice from the doorway.

Xander whirled to find Kennedy standing in the doorway. Her hair was damp, as though she'd recently showered, and pulled back into a ponytail. Her legs were astride and her arms firmly crossed. She wore a suspicious frown that encompassed everyone within its line of vision.

Surprised and a little confused, Xander could do nothing but stare.

"Oh, uh," mumbled Tara, sniffing back the tears and averting her face. She swiped at her wet cheeks with the palm of her hand and covered her actions by taking a long pull on the cigarette. She flicked the ash over the railing and took another puff before turning back to Kennedy.

By now, Anya had joined Xander, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, her previous anger at Xander set aside for the moment. She beamed brightly as if to say, 'aren't we just the perfect couple?'

"Just ... you know." Tara shrugged. "Talking about old times."

Kennedy's eyes narrowed as she moved to Tara and inspected the ravaged features. Tara couldn't look at her.

"You've been crying," accused Kennedy.

"Onions," lied Tara without missing a beat. "For the stew."

Plainly, Kennedy wasn't buying the explanation but in near apathetic fashion, she didn't push.

"You're late," frowned Tara.

Kennedy shrugged. "Yeah, well ..." She planted a quick peck on Tara's cheek. The gesture was almost automatic, as though it were something expected of her but didn't require much thought one way or the other. "Scary monsters to fight, a world to keep safe." Turning, she nodded a greeting to Xander and Anya. "Hey."

"Hello," returned Anya pleasantly.

Xander, still trying to come to terms with the idea that Kennedy appeared to be the new woman in Tara's life, responded with a half-hearted little wave.

"So you need to freshen up then?" Tara asked.

"Nah," said Kennedy. "I grabbed a shower at work."

Tara took another puff and breathed out the smoke. "You could've called and told me you'd be late."

Kennedy considered this for a moment and then shrugged. "I didn't." Her nose wrinkled with disgust as she noted the cigarette dangling from Tara's fingers. "I thought you told me you'd quit those things?"

Tara shrugged. "I didn't."

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, locking eyes in a type of unspoken challenge. Neither was the victor, both looking away at the same time. If Kennedy found any of this bothersome, she certainly didn't let it show. Instead, she headed back inside.

"Stew, huh?" she threw casually over her shoulder, as though nothing had occurred. She didn't wait for an answer.

As Kennedy disappeared, Tara ground her cigarette into the ashtray.

"It should be done by now," she told Xander and Anya as she passed on her way to the door.

But Xander and Anya didn't follow immediately, as Anya still had something she wanted to say. She got on tip-toes to whisper, and Xander obliged by leaning closer.

"Please try not to make Tara upset again tonight," she urged. "I would like us to keep some friends, and it's not like we have an infinite supply to draw on any more."

Much like Kennedy, she didn't wait for an answer, simply patting Xander's arm as she steered him into the kitchen.

Kennedy and Tara sat across from Xander and Anya at the dining room table. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread cut into neat slices and a large block of cheese occupied the center, together with an arrangement of winter flowers in a crystal vase. Before each of them was a bowl of stew and a glass of wine. The company ate in uncomfortable silence and Xander couldn't seem to stop staring at the existence of a Tara-and-Kennedy coupling.

"Could you pass the butter?" asked Anya, breaking the uneasy hush.

With a startled blink, Xander emerged from his reverie and slid the butter dish toward Anya, who promptly loaded her knife and liberally spread a slice of bread. She took a bite and then appeared determined to keep the conversation alive.

"Tara, what did you do after you left the shop this morning?"

Somewhat taken aback that anyone was talking about anything, Tara composed herself and pondered on a suitable answer.

"Oh, uhm ... I, uh, I went to the library and read for a bit." She swirled her spoon around the bowl. "Then there was the art show at the community center."

"You had an art show?" queried Xander, taking a sip of wine.

Tara shook her head. "I just went to look."

"There's a surprise," chuckled Kennedy with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Instantly, Tara's eyes narrowed as she looked in Kennedy's direction, but Kennedy was busy with her meal and Tara made no comment.

Anya nodded. "It sounds like you had a very productive day."

Kennedy's derisive snort earned her another sharp gaze but again, Tara held her tongue and her attention eventually reverted to Anya.

"Well my day didn't revolve around killing and death," she noted crisply, "so I'd say it was meaningful."

Kennedy frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?" challenged Tara, arching an eyebrow.

"There's nothing more important than what I do," Kennedy told her brusquely. "I'm fighting to keep people safe. To keep you safe."

Tara's eyebrow inched higher. "Oh, is that why?"

A worried crease appeared on Xander's forehead. "I think I liked it better when we were awkwardly non-talky."

However, Anya was taking everything in stride. "And how was the killing?"

Shooting Tara a parting glare, Kennedy returned to her stew and addressed Anya in a mildly cordial tone.

"Good. I found a nest of some sort of orange gloppy things on Sheridan. Bit dicey for a few minutes there, but Slayer skills win in the end."

"You're hurt?" queried Tara. Her expression dissolved from annoyance to concern for the first time since Kennedy had arrived home.

"Few cuts," said Kennedy dismissively. "They'll heal." She stole a sideways glance at Tara's apprehensive face and her defensive cloak of antagonism slipped a little. "I'm okay," she reassured gently.

Tara continued to regard Kennedy with some anxiety for a few moments, but all too soon, the mask of irritation was back in place. "You shouldn't patrol by yourself"

"Christ, not this again," declared Kennedy, throwing down her spoon. It clattered into the bowl.

"There are plenty of Slayers now," Tara told her through tight lips. "There's no reason why you—"

"They get in my way," returned Kennedy, pushing away her stew and resting her elbows on the table. "They don't know what they're doing, and that could get us both seriously dead."

"Of course they don't know what they're doing," said Tara snippily. "That's why you have to teach them."

"That's Faith and Giles' job," stated Kennedy firmly with a dismissive wave.

"It's supposed to be yours too, remember?"

Kennedy leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes. "The last thing I need is a wacky sidekick."

Eager to alleviate the mounting tension, Xander leaned forward. "It doesn’t have to be like that. I remember when Buffy would—"

He recoiled, the words of advice dying in his throat, as Kennedy leapt to her feet. She slammed her fists on the table with such force that the dishes rattled and water spilled from the vase. Anya quickly grabbed her wine glass before it could topple over.

"You do not say that name in my house!"

Xander blinked in confusion. That he was totally floored by the outburst would have been a gross understatement.

"I was just—" he began.

But Kennedy was in no mood to listen. "I won't tell you again," she warned, tone deadly serious.

"Stop it," said Tara sharply. "It's not his fault."

Relaxing a little, Kennedy returned to her chair, but the death-glare fixed on Xander continued to linger.

"And ... And you should stop blaming Buffy," she added.

Kennedy's features transformed into a picture of total incredulity. Her mouth gaped as she swiveled to face Tara, shaking her head as though she couldn't believe she'd just heard such a statement.

"What?" she spat.

"It's not her ..." Sighing, Tara tried a different approach. "She's suffered enough."

Kennedy's upper lip curled contemptuously. "No! No, she hasn't! It'll never be enough!"

"And what will, Kennedy?" asked Tara, her own temper beginning to rise. "When will it be enough?"

"I don't know!" sneered Kennedy. "Maybe if she'd stop hiding like the coward she is, we'd find out!"

At Tara's angry shake of the head, Kennedy's ire climbed a few notches.

"You're pathetic," she told Tara scornfully before focusing on Xander and then Anya. "You all are. You, Giles, Faith ..." Her tone become intentionally whiney. "'Oh, poor Buffy. She lost her sister. Her 'Get Out of Jail Free' card never expires'."

"It isn't like that!" snapped Tara, eyes blazing.

"It's exactly like that," returned Kennedy. "If she was still here you'd have her over for tea and cakes every freaking day!"

Tara rose to the challenge. "What would you do? Kill her?"

"Yes!"

"Is that all you are now?" asked Tara. "A killer? A murderer?" Her eyes raked Kennedy's infuriated face.

"Why not?" The smile that crept across Kennedy's lips carried a sardonic twist. "I'd fit right in with this crowd!"

Reaching for a couple of slices of bread, Anya put them on a napkin. Getting to her feet, she grabbed a fistful of Xander's shirtfront and hauled him upright also. He complied without protest, obviously dazed and yet transfixed in something of a train-wreck-watching state.

"Thanks for inviting us!" Anya nodded affably to both Tara and Kennedy. "We'll do this again real soon!"

Still holding tight to Xander's shirt, she began to drag him toward the door.

"We can't just—" he objected, looking over his shoulder.

But Anya was determined. "We can absolutely just."

Retrieving their coats, she shoved Xander into the night.

Neither Tara nor Kennedy showed any reaction to the departure of their dinner guests. Indeed, they didn't even seem to be aware the couple had left.

"What happened with Willow was not murder!" snapped Tara.

"Who cares?" Kennedy retorted. "She's still dead! Or did you forget that part?"

Tara pushed back her chair. "How can you even ask that?!"

Kennedy did the same. "I dunno! I guess it's just a special part of me." Her hands clenched. "The same part that wonders why the hell nothing sticks to Buffy just because her stupid sister—"

"Dawn!" Tara all but yelled. "Her name was Dawn!"

Kennedy rolled her eyes. "I don't care! She's just Buffy's little pity crutch to me!"

"God, I can't believe how heartless you are!" Fiercely, Tara tugged her hair away from her forehead in sheer frustration. "Willow would never have wanted you to act like this."

"Don't you dare tell me what Willow would want!" bristled Kennedy. "I knew her better than you ever did! Willow and I were happy before you came back and messed everything up!"

Both were standing now, only a few inches of hostile separation between them.

"If I hadn't gone away, there never would have been a you and Willow!" Tara shouted back. "You wouldn't have even gotten a passing glance and you know it!"

As Xander and Anya made their way, post-haste, to the car, the continuing tirade between Tara and Kennedy could easily be heard, a little muffled but still perfectly audible. Hesitant to leave things in such a deteriorating condition, Xander kept glancing backward to the front door, apparently contemplating a return to the arena complete with a flag of truce. Anya, on the other hand, was munching contentedly upon one of the pieces of bread she had stolen from the table. She offered the other to Xander.

"Would you like some? It's very good."

Xander declined in something of a stupefied fashion.

"Was that supposed to be dinner?" he asked bewilderedly.

"Don't worry," Anya consoled, squeezing his arm. "I have a casserole in the refrigerator. It'll be ready in only 20 minutes at 400 degrees." She smiled brightly.

"It's not that I'm not hungry," stated Xander uncertainly, "but— Actually, no, I'm not hungry now."

"You'll get over that later when you smell it," assured Anya. "It's hearty tuna. There's also celery."

"Sure," nodded Xander absent-mindedly, "but ... but what about...?" He jerked his chin toward the house.

Anya followed his gaze. "Oh they're fine," she dismissed. "You know how it is – the screaming and the hurting, followed by violent sex."

Xander could only rub his forehead.

"It would be nice to make it all the way through a meal one of these nights though," sighed Anya regretfully.

Frowning, Xander shuffled his feet as he walked. "It shouldn't be like this," he murmured.

Anya's gaze drifted back to the house, then she looked at Xander sadly. "It shouldn't. But it is." Shaking her head, she began to search for her keys. "Still, it probably would've been best if you hadn't mentioned Buffy. What else can you expect when you bring up the person who killed their girlfriend?"

Abruptly, Xander ground to a halt, immobilized by shock. Unaware, Anya kept moving for another few steps before noticing he was no longer at her side. She turned to look at him. He seemed rooted to the spot.

"What?" she asked curiously.