Footsteps echoing, Xander and Anya made their way along the quietude of the corridor's tiled floor. The walls were white, clean and sterile, barren of any adornment, save for a row of closed doors on either side. At the end of the hallway was a room. Its door was also closed, but there was a large window affording a view to the interior. It was this room that was the couple's ultimate destination.

Through the glass, Buffy could be seen, sitting in bed, propped by a pile of pillows. Her arms and hands lay still atop the sheets, which had been pulled up over her chest. Her eyes were open but unseeing in a face that was pale and ashen. She blinked from time to time, but was otherwise catatonic. It was a state of being Xander recognized. Buffy had been there before, when Glory had taken Dawn.

He reached out and touched the window, palms resting against the cool pane.

"You said she was on vacation," he murmured, focus never straying from the figure on the bed.

"Yes. 'Vacation'," agreed Anya, executing air quotes as she had in the car earlier. "I thought the sarcasm was implied."

"Ah. Sorry," nodded Xander. "I usually get it, but I must've left my sarcasm detector in my other universe."

Anya's face was lined with concern. "I know today's been hard, but—"

Slowly, Xander turned to her. "No, Ahn," he told her with a sigh, "you don't know. I don't even know."

"You've been strange all day," frowned Anya. "I thought at first it was simply the lingering effects of too much alcohol, but it's not, is it?" She regarded him questioningly, but his gaze traveled back to Buffy.

"What happened?"

"Xander ..."

"I know that just asking is probably going to bend time or flip reality or send the whole thing whizzing down my leg," he said, "but I've oddly stopped caring. What the hell happened?"

Anya's anxiety mounted as she stared at his face. He looked at her with eyes that demanded an answer – eyes that begged for one. "Please. I have to know."

She sighed. Although failing to understand the need, Anya was willing to comply.

"Where do you want me to start?"

"From the beginning is a time-honored tradition," suggested Xander. But Anya appeared frustrated with that response, so Xander made the effort to clarify. "I know about ... about Dawn. Tell me about Buffy."

Crossing her arms, Anya leaned against the wall and took a semi-deep breath.

"Well, after Dawn and Sunnydale, Buffy was different. She wasn't Buffy anymore." She shrugged. "I mean, except that she was, of course. But she changed."

Xander nodded. "That's what Willow's diaries said."

"I've read them," said Anya, her tone flat. "She was sugarcoating it. Buffy was a freak. She couldn't work with anyone. She couldn't train. She was patrolling all the time, like a runaway train in one of those action movies when they pull too hard on the brake lever and it snaps. Giles could only barely keep a leash on her."

A flash of hope crossed Xander's features. "Giles," he repeated. "Can't he wake her up? Maybe magick, or an herbal supplement or something."

Anya glanced through the viewing window.

"Well you can ask him."

Puzzled, Xander followed her gaze to see Giles shuffling out of the adjoining bathroom. He moved slowly, almost painfully, like an old man. Lowering himself into a chair next to Buffy's bed, he gently took her hand into his own and stared absent-mindedly at the night sky, crisp with stars and a crescent moon. Ruefully, Xander noted that the Watcher's appearance had undergone no improvement since that morning. Indeed, if such were possible, he looked even worse.

"Though I don't think there's anything he hasn't tried," said Anya wistfully. "He even asked Tara to help him once, but they couldn't even get a flicker. Last I heard, he was all but begging some witches in England to help him, but they've apparently become partners with the new Watcher's Council and can't. Or won't." She paused for a moment. "They aren't. I guess that's all that matters."

As Xander watched, Giles chafed Buffy's hand, apparently trying to bring some warmth to the limp fingers. He said nothing, merely perched on the edge of the chair with bowed head and slumped shoulders.

"But I'm leaving out whole chapters of drama," said Anya, resuming her reclining position against the wall. "It actually looked like things were getting better. I think Giles was really getting through to Buffy. But then Tara came back, and so much for that."

"Willow thought Buffy and Kennedy were going to hurt Tara," acknowledged Xander.

"Willow was right," Anya confirmed. "At least partly. Buffy convinced Kennedy they had to 'incapacitate' Tara for Willow's safety. Kennedy said she didn't want to kill Tara outright, and I don't think she lied." She thought about that for a moment and then nodded confidently. "Anyway, Buffy told Kennedy to keep Willow back while she took care of the rest."

Xander swallowed hard. It wasn't easy to hear, but he needed to. "And then?"

"And then Buffy stabbed Tara," Anya replied. "Only Willow got in the way." She glanced through the window once more. "Buffy was going for a quick kill. She's very efficient."

Obviously playing the scene in his mind, Xander winced. When he next spoke, his voice was thick.

"She snapped."

"Snapped, crackled and popped," Anya agreed.

She fell silent. Together, they stood at the window overlooking Buffy's hospital room. Giles, still cradling Buffy's hand, didn't appear to have moved a muscle. But his cheeks glistened damp from what could have been the tracks of tears. Anya's expression caved into one of deep sympathy. She turned to Xander.

"This isn't one of his easier nights. I'd better take him home before he goes out on the road and gets himself killed. Do you want to wait here?"

"Yeah, I'd ... That would be good."

With a nod, Anya opened the door. Giles didn't even notice her arrival until she spoke to him, and then he visibly started as though rudely interrupted in the middle of a daydream. At first, he shook his head, seemingly reluctant to leave but Anya was nothing if not persuasive. She also lacked little in the determination department and Giles had no choice but to eventually yield. Roughly scrubbing his eyes, he straightened his tie before allowing Anya to steer him into the hall. Silently, Xander observed their departure before entering Buffy's room. He stared at Buffy's pale face and vapid eyes for a long time. But she was, of course, apparently unaware of his presence.

"Hey Buff," he finally whispered.

There was no answer and although Xander presumably didn't expect one, an expression of disappointment crossed his features anyway.

"I woke up this morning thinking it was one of the best days ever," he told her with a wry smile. "Until the magical mystery tour that is my life decided to take a spin through the Ninth Circle of Hell. We should be circling the wagons, you know?" He paused and looked at her. "Assembling the Avengers. Only it looks like the Avengers became psychotically depressed and killed each other."

With a sigh, he claimed Giles' vacant chair.

"What am I gonna do?" he asked miserably. "I thought this was everything I wanted, but ... I don't think I can handle this. I need you. I need Willow." He glanced toward the door. "I need a Giles who can remember to shower and eat without reminders. I need a world where the Marquis de Sade didn't get to play editor-in-chief with my autobiography."

His gaze traveled back to Buffy. Still no response.

"Come on," he urged. "This catatonic thing – this has gotta be like wearing the same dress to two parties, right? Big medical fashion don't?" His grin was hopeful for a moment. Still nothing. "Give me something here," he said despairingly. "You know me, I'll take a little thing a long way, but'cha gotta get me started. I'll take anything. Please."

Nothing. Not even the most meager of flickers.

Running his hand through his hair in frustration, Xander pushed up from the chair and walked to the far side of the room, berating himself severely for the lack of success.

"Did you really think her hearing alterna-Xander would make it better?" he chastised with an angry shake of the head. "If only Willow was here, she could—" The ensuing sigh rasped in his throat. "If Willow was here, we wouldn't have this problem, would we? Now think."

Eyes tightly closed followed by silence indicated the presence of just such a thought process, but the few short moments were interrupted by the sound of an opening door. Turning, Xander found Faith halfway into the room. She had immediately stopped upon spying Xander already there and appeared taken aback to see him.

"Faith?" he greeted.

"Hey ..." she quickly returned. "I, uh ..."

He glanced toward the bed. "You came to see Buffy?"

Already in the process of leaving, Faith waved a dismissive hand. "Nah. I mean, yeah. But it's cool. You go ahead."

"You don't have to go," he told her.

For a second, it appeared that Faith would go anyway, but then she seemed to change her mind. Closing the door, she fully entered Buffy's room. The atmosphere grew a little uncomfortable.

"I am having ... a very weird day," said Xander eventually.

Faith chuckled. "You got a measure for normal?"

That brought a tiny smirk to Xander's lips as he conceded the point. Still, they continued to maintain their positions – Faith by the door, Xander by the wall and a silent Buffy somewhere in between.

"Gotta admit," remarked Xander, "I'm a little surprised to see you here."

Faith shrugged. "Yeah, well ... She never visited me in my coma. I'm lookin' forward to bein' all superior about that when she wakes up."

Immediately latching onto what he perceived to be a sliver of hope, Xander clung to the notion. "You think she'll wake up?"

It was clear that Faith didn't really believe that for a second. "Course she will," she said confidently. "Never give up, never surrender. That's the Buffy way, right?"

"Right," said Xander in a flat tone.

"She just needs someone to kick her in the ass," Faith assured. "Me, I'm only too happy to provide that service. Remind her how it's just rude, leavin' other people to clean up your mess."

Crossing to Buffy's bed, she looked down at the pallid face.

"All these Slayers you made," she reprimanded. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to take responsibility for your pets? Least you could do is walk 'em once in a while."

There was no reaction and Faith turned back to Xander.

"See that? No respect." She rocked on her heels and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "Saw your girl takin' Giles home. Tell her thanks."

Xander nodded. "I will."

"He comes up here every day," continued Faith. "Sometimes twice, if he forgets he's done it already." She refocused on Buffy. "An' you can't even say 'hi'. Breaks his heart." Her attention returned to Xander and she tilted her head to one side. "Don't much see you here."

Embarrassed and unable to provide a decent explanation, Xander averted his eyes. "I, uh ... With the shop, I guess I—" he stammered.

"Didn't mean that like it sounded," she said in something close to an apologetic voice. "It's good you got stuff outside all this. Must be nice."

"You don't? Have stuff?" he ventured.

"Sure," shrugged Faith nonchalantly. "I got five minutes all mine between 7:55 an' 8."

Xander frowned. "Well you should come over more. Tonight, maybe," he suggested. "There's tuna ..."

But Faith dismissed the proposal.

"Can't. Gotta patrol the northeast part'a town straight from here, then meet the fourth shift for a few circuits. After that, be about time for the morning meetings."

"Do you have sleep penciled in somewhere?" asked Xander with genuine concern.

She pondered for a moment. "Got a nap some time Monday I think."

Xander took a step toward her. "Faith, that's too much."

"Well it'll be a short nap," she reassured with a smirk.

"Not the nap," said Xander impatiently. "The everything that isn't a nap."

"Someone's gotta do it," returned Faith. She scanned the room. "Anyone else volunteering?"

Turning her head, she regarded Buffy pointedly and waited.

Buffy simply stared directly ahead.

"Didn't think so," concluded Faith.

"But you need more help," Xander told her. "You're like all the Slayers and the Watchers rolled up in a frazzled stressy package. You can't do it all on your own."

Faith didn't respond. Instead, her gaze returned to Buffy. Slowly but surely, Xander made the connection.

"That's why you're here."

Initially, Faith said nothing, simply continuing to focus on Buffy.

"Not a day goes by I don't think about runnin'. Just hoppin' a Greyhound to wherever," she finally admitted. "I'll still fight the monsters and crap, just some place where all I gotta do is look out for me. Few years back, I would'a. But he needs ..."

Her head swiveled in Xander's direction. He could see now how tired and truly wiped she was – never in his life had Xander ever seen her so depleted and worn out.

"He calls me 'Buffy' sometimes," Faith confessed. "He never knows he's done it. He'll just be talkin' about something, and out it'll slip. I tried correctin' him on it at first, but he looked at me like I was crazy." She shrugged casually. "I don't bother tryin' no more." She glanced down at Buffy. "You win again."

"I'm sure he doesn't ..." began Xander comfortingly. "Faith, I know Giles respects you and is grateful for you. You're holding that place together. Even I can see that."

"He needs Buffy," she declared, before staring down angrily at the unheeding woman in the bed. "He needs you."

"That's not what—" Xander hastened to amend.

"And me," Faith continued as though she hadn't been interrupted. "And the Council, and Watchers, and Slayers. He needs all that. So that's what I try and be."

Xander was momentarily dumbfounded by the Faith before him, someone he didn't entirely recognize. A Faith whose eyes were shining a little too brightly, a little too wetly and a little too vulnerably.

She shrugged and stretched her arms out. "But there's still just me."

Instinctively, Xander moved toward her, but she closed up and took a deliberate step away.

"Don't," she gritted. "Just ... just don't."

"But I—"

"Lemme alone," she snapped, turning her back.

For a second, Xander hesitated. But then, he gave a short nod.

"See you soon," he told Buffy softly, giving her a tiny wave of goodbye. The gesture went unacknowledged.

He lingered for a minute more, affording Faith the opportunity to come around, should she so chose. She didn't. He departed, closing the door behind him.

Faith stood rooted to the spot, unmoving and silent, though her shoulders trembled – just a little.

Opening the door to the apartment he shared with Anya, Xander virtually dragged himself inside. As he slowly removed his coat, Anya emerged from the kitchen, surprised to see him. For a second, his eyes sparkled at the sight of her and in that instant, it seemed that everything was alright with the world – they were together and nothing else mattered. But it was for just that instant.

"I thought you were still at the hospital," she chided. "You were supposed to call when you were ready for me to come get you."

Xander didn't respond with words. Instead, he wrapped Anya in his arms and held her tightly. Not fully understanding the impulsive gesture, she blinked but returned the hug. They stayed locked in the embrace for a while and then Xander pulled away.

"I walked," he told her. "A little alone time, the cool, sub-artic breeze ... We're just a roaring fireplace and two cups of sanity from the perfect evening, you know?"

Anya frowned. "Xander, that's almost two miles."

"It doesn’t matter," he shrugged.

But she wasn't convinced. "Yes, it does matter! You could have been killed! Painfully! Or if not killed then devoured from the waist down, so you had to drag your bloody torso all the way—"

"Anya," said Xander forcefully.

She relented, for the time being at least.

"There's something wrong." He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Something I need to tell you."

"What is it?" she asked, immediately alarmed. "You don't have colon cancer, do you?"

"What? No, I— What?"

"I read an article a few days ago about how men your age are twice as likely to get colon cancer now than they were just ten years ago," she informed worriedly.

"I don't have colon cancer," returned Xander.

Anya's eyes widened. "It's not prostate cancer, is it? Because your odds of that are terrifying at best."

"It's not cancer," said Xander, holding out a restraining hand to stop the anxiety-ridden flow. "Would you stop with the cancer? I'm fine." Anya's posture relaxed a little. "It's everything else that's wrong."

She shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Anya ..." Gripping her shoulders, he steered her gently but firmly to the couch, making her sit down before he took a seat next to her. Tenderly, he grasped her hand. "Since I woke up this morning I've noticed that there's something wrong with the world. Very, very, very wrong. If you took all the wrongest things ever and combined them, you still wouldn't have enough wrong. This is wronger than—"

"I get it!" Anya interrupted. "Albeit in an abstract sort of way." She stared at his serious expression. "What kind of things?"

He squeezed her fingers.

"Well, you—" Then, he brought himself up short, realizing that the most prominent thing at that moment probably wasn't the best one to start with. "—you take for example, Willow and Dawn. I cannot stress enough their not-deadness." He glanced into her puzzled eyes. "When you talk to Buffy, she actually responds, and in ways that are mostly understandable. Giles both knows what a razor is and how to use it. We are the Council. Need I provide more wrong?"

"Whatever you drank last night?" Anya told him in no uncertain terms. "Never again."

Xander smiled – a sorrowful little smile. "I'm taking that as a yes. Tara doesn't smell like an ashtray and has a wonderful relationship with a fully-alive Willow. Kennedy is leading a Council branch in England. Faith—" He paused for a second. "Still has a lot of issues, actually, but they're completely different." He turned now to fully regard Anya. "And I still only have one eye."

"Well now that's just silly," retorted Anya. She extended a forefinger and moved to jab Xander's left eye but his reflexes took control and he recoiled immediately. "See? You have both eyes," she explained. "There was the meditating, the anxious waiting and then poof, no more disfiguring, ugly socket. I watched you regrow it with Willow myself."

He brought the offending finger to his lips and kissed it. "No, you didn't, Anya. It never happened."

"Then one of us is clearly insane," declared Anya, "and I have a very strong opinion on which of us I think it is."

"Let's just say, for the sake of argument," Xander attempted, "that I'm not insane."

Anya rolled her eyes. "Oh all right," she conceded, plainly humoring his whim. "The problem has been since this morning?" Xander nodded. "Well, what was the last thing you remember before then?"

Frowning, Xander concentrated. "I was in a bar," he recalled. "I was supposed to meet Willow's friend for a date, but I stood her up and—"

With a gasp of shock and horror, Anya smacked his upper arm with all the force she could muster.

"Xander!"

"Okay, can we also say for the sake of argument that you're not gonna do that again?" he requested painfully.

Anya was prepared to bargain. "That depends," she said primly. "Do you have a whole string of hypothetical floozies waiting to date you in Crazy Xander Land?"

"No." Xander flinched as she raised her hand threateningly once more. "No, okay?" he insisted. Somewhat reluctantly, Anya lowered her hand. "And anyway," he muttered, "it's Buffy and Willow's fault."

"Sure, blame it on the dead and nearly-dead." Anya's tone was marginally sarcastic.

"Would you just help me out here?" implored Xander. "Without smacking?"

His response was a series of low grumbles, but at least she didn't appear to be resuming smack-mode. "Fine," Anya agreed, albeit ungracefully. "What else do you remember?"

"Not much," admitted Xander ruefully. "Whiskey by the quart has been known to have that effect. I was ... I was telling a story to the bartender. I'd had about five or six drinks by then, and this other guy walked up ..."

Anya was instantly suspicious. "This isn't an elaborate set-up for a terribly unfunny 'A man walked into a bar' joke is it?" She sniffed at the flat look Xander leveled in her direction and shrugged. "What did they look like? Did either have horns, or perhaps a tail?" She blinked expectantly. "If they had blue mucus, you could be dealing with a Chinktol curse. I hope you're not. They're very unpleasant."

"Thankfully mucus-free," he hastened to reassure. "They were both normal, everyday looking guys. Bartender listened, poured drinks, went on about his business. The other guy bought me a drink, we talked about some stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" asked Anya, eyes narrowing.

"Life. Loss. Pretzels," said Xander. "The usual kind of thing you would chat about."

He visibly wilted beneath the 'how could you be so stupid?' look that Anya tossed his way.

"You discussed your life with a complete stranger in a bar at the center of three Hellmouths?" She shook her head in total disbelief.

"Yes?" Xander replied in a small, high-pitched voice.

Her grip on his hand tightened. "Xander, listen to me. At any point did you ask for anything? Did you wish for anything?"

"No," Xander told her, not even taking the time to ponder that question. "Most emphatically no. Super-sized no with a side order of no. I would remember making a wish."

A tiny puff of relief escaped Anya's lips.

"I think," he murmured dubiously.

Anya's wide-eyed, incredulous stare returned in full force.

"Well you try half a dozen glasses of whiskey and see if you remember everything you say!" Xander defended, fidgeting uncomfortably.

Apparently overwhelmed by the sheer idiocy, Anya could do nothing but sigh and then sigh again.

"Okay," she eventually began, settling down to enumerate the possibilities. "Well there aren't that many male vengeance demons, seeing as how we women are just plain better at it. Tell me what he looked like, maybe I'll recognize him."

"Let's see," frowned Xander. "Kinda old, maybe forty-ish? Tall, dark eyes, not a lot in the hair department ..."

An indescribable flicker crossed Anya's face. "Did he look like he'd just finished a hard day of selling used cars?"

Xander nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, actually. That sounds right. He gave me his name, what was it...?" The frown deepened. "Dave? Donald?"

"D'Hoffryn!"

"No," refuted Xander, sure and certain. "I'd definitely remember that."

"It was D'Hoffryn!" Anya affirmed with undeniable conviction. "I should have realized. This is entirely his kind of thing – hard-luck businessman working the bar scene." She regarded Xander accusingly. "You had drinks and made a wish, Xander. And not just to a vengeance demon, to the Lord of vengeance demons!"

"So ... no chance of escalating this to his manager for a refund then."

His answer was yet another crushing blow to the arm. Snatching her hand from his grip, Anya got up from the couch.

"Hey!" protested Xander. "We agreed, no smacking!"

"Quiet!" commanded Anya sternly, making her way to the center of the room. "It's been a while since I've had to do this."

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, inhaling slowly. Then, with equal deliberation, she exhaled.

"Beatum sit in nomine D'Hoffrynus. Fiat ... Uhh ..." Her forehead creased in irritation as she struggled with the elusive chant, beginning to mangle the words. "Fiat hoc spatiun ..." She shook her head impatiently. "Blah blah blah, you know the rest, come on!"

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then, courtesy of a momentary burst of fire, D'Hoffryn materialized in all his glorious majesty. He appeared tall, imposing – and thoroughly unimpressed.

"Honestly, Anyanka," he rebuked, "would it hurt you to follow tradition just once?" He turned to look at Xander. "Mr. Harris," he greeted in amicable fashion. "How good to see you again. Binocular vision suits you quite well indeed."

"Cram it, D'Hoffryn," snapped Anya. "What's the big idea of giving him a wish?"

"The same concept behind giving a wish to anyone, Anyanka," he replied cordially. He spread his hands and looked up to the ceiling. "I saw a soul crying out in pain and like a soothing balm, I—"

"And that 'soul' just happens to be my Xander?" inquired Anya, raising an eyebrow.

D'Hoffryn nodded. "His pain was considerable." He shrugged. "I'm equal opportunity."

"Not that my pain-scale isn't just a little skewed right now," Xander interrupted dryly, "but I think we both know this wasn't what I wanted."

"Isn't it?" D'Hoffryn appraised Xander critically. "Do you deny that this world has certain appeals? Your depth perception, for example. Or perhaps more importantly, your now-blooming relationship with Anyanka."

"Our blooming relationship?" echoed Anya with a frown, whirling to face Xander. "Our relationship doesn't bloom?"

"Ah," mused D'Hoffryn. "You haven't told her."

Anya's challenging gaze traveled from Xander to D'Hoffryn and then back again. "Told me what?"

The silence that followed was thick and awkward.

"Anya, there's ... In the other world ..." Xander tried to explain.

"We're not together," she concluded.

"No, but—"

"Well that's no problem," she determined, kneeling at Xander's feet. "Just go find me and tell me that you're sorry for everything you ever put me through, and that you'll spend the rest of your life making it up to me."

She regarded him with eyes that were expectant and glowing with hope – albeit a guarded hope. Xander's wretched expression revealed everything. It was painfully obvious he would like nothing more than to be able to do that. It simply wasn't possible. Slowly, she got to her feet, awareness beginning to penetrate.

"I'm dead, aren't I." Her voice was flat.

Xander was unable to reply. With a simple nod, he averted his face, lips pressed together.

"You didn't tell me that part," she complained sulkily.

"Do try not to be too angry with him," urged D'Hoffryn. "After all, what good is making a wish to bring someone back to life, only to tell them they shouldn't be?"

"A wish to— Wait a minute, that's what this is about?" At Xander's nod of misery, Anya punched him in the arm. "Just how stupid are you?!"

"Well apparently stupid enough to think that 'no hitting' means no hitting," he returned, rubbing the sore spot.

"First of all, it was 'no smacking'," Anya promptly reminded, "and that was a punch not a smack, and second of all, you know better!"

"Okay," said Xander, becoming a little snappy himself now. "Let's just forget the part where I didn't know I was making a wish and jump right to the bit where we say, 'his heart was in the right place'."

"No, no platitudes for you!" she denied, throwing her hands out to the sides. "Were you not listening when I regaled you with many stories of horrible vengeance? They never turn out like they're supposed to!"

D'Hoffryn chewed on that for a moment. "Well there was that one time back in 1300-something. That little village in Bucharest?"

There was a short intermission in the tirade as Anya was forced to nod her agreement. "Yes, okay, that one time." The intermission was over. "But apart from that, never!"

She turned her full attention to D'Hoffryn. "Undo it," she demanded curtly.

"The wish is not yours to retract, Anyanka," he advised with superior huffiness.

So instead, Anya immediately refocused on Xander.

"Xander, you have to undo this. Take the wish back."

"But—" he objected.

She moved toward him threateningly. "No buts, no arguing." Each word that followed was punctuated by a savage poke to the chest. "You – take – it – back."

"I can't," he murmured fearfully.

Anya rejoined him on the couch. "Look around you, Xander," she urged. "You've been here less than a day and already you're all hunched over and miserable. You made this world, but do you really want to live in it?"

Xander didn't reply, neither to confirm or deny.

"Everything's falling apart," continued Anya. "Can't you feel that? I've been trying so hard, with Giles and Tara and Faith and Kennedy, but it isn't enough. Nothing we do ever makes any difference, and now I know why: This isn't how it's supposed to be."

"Maybe I don't care," whispered Xander, fumbling for her hand.

But Anya flounced beyond his reach. "Oh please."

"Maybe I don't!" he insisted, angrily pushing up from the couch. "Maybe it's my turn to be selfish, huh? Maybe it's time for Xander Harris to get the mojo workin' for him for a change." His fists were clenched at his sides. "Angel dies, but Buffy gets him back. Tara dies, but Willow gets her back. You die, and what do I get?" He chuckled harshly. "A pat on the back and job well done?" His lips twisted into a sneer. "To hell with that crap! I finally got what I wanted, and the world can go screw itself!"

Anya treated him to a long and hard stare.

"Well then congratulations," she replied sternly, "because you killed Dawn, and you killed Willow, and because of you, Buffy will never have another meaningful thought again."

Instantly, Xander's righteous fury crumbled around him and he hung his head. Anya's expression softened as she stood before him and stroked his cheek.

"Are you so sure you don't care?" she asked tenderly.

Seizing her hand, Xander pressed it against his face and held it there, leaning into the open palm with closed eyes. He seemed dangerously close to tears.

"You'll be dead," he told her in a quiet, broken voice.

"Yes," agreed Anya sadly. "That's my least favorite part as well."

Bringing her hand to his mouth, he kissed the palm and then the tip of each finger in turn. His lips lingered for a long while, delighting in the warm flesh as though trying to commit it to memory.

"I have to," he finally said. "I'm so sorry."

Anya nodded. "I know."

She didn't clarify which part of Xander's statement she was acknowledging, but maybe it wasn't important. Suddenly, Xander crushed her body to his in a close embrace. He buried his face in her hair, clinging tightly as if the merest relinquishment of his hold would mean losing her forever. Head resting on his chest, Anya returned the hug with equal ferocity. Tears spilled from her eyes, but she refused to succumb to the sobs which bubbled in her throat.

"Xander?"

His eyes remained closed and he was unable to speak, but Anya wasn't necessarily waiting for him to answer.

"Please don't stand up any more of your trollops," she told him.

In spite of everything, Xander choked a laugh. "What?"

"You're paving the way for vengeance," she said morosely, "and that's just not very smart. Back in my day, I would have smote you three or four times over by now for abandoning those poor women." She hugged him tighter. "And also, I ... I believe you should date."

Releasing her, Xander pulled away. Swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, he regarded Anya as though he'd never seen her before.

"Okay" he said slowly, "did we undo the wish already, because there's no way you can be my Anya."

"I believe you should date," Anya reiterated. Insisted. Then she grimaced. "Saying that phrase gives me a strong urge to vomit, so please don't make me repeat it again." Noting Xander's perplexed expression, she began to explain, factually and to the point. "I don't want you to be alone. You need someone who'll make you do things on Sunday besides sit in your underwear and watch football. Someone who knows that you like that noxious grape soda. Someone who will wash your back in that spot you always try desperately and without success to reach, and who will throw the blankets back over you when you kick them off at night. Someone who ... " Her lips visibly quivered and her eyes shone. "Someone who will be able to do all the things that I wanted to do with you but never will."

Unashamed, Xander allowed his tears to flow. Taking Anya into his arms again, he showered the top of her head with kisses. "I love you," he whispered.

Xander's eyes traveled to D'Hoffryn, who had been standing, silent and waiting, throughout the entire episode. He arched an eyebrow at the sudden attention.

"I take it back," Xander muttered, face streaked with tears. "Undo the wish."

D'Hoffryn studied Xander for a moment before delivering a sage yet meager nod.

"A wise choice, Mr. Harris," he commended. "Wise, and painful." He paused for a moment. "No."

Apparently, neither Xander nor Anya had been expecting a denial. Stunned, Xander could only blink in disbelief.

"No?!" questioned Anya, voice muffled by Xander's chest. Pulling away, she quickly spun on her heel to face D'Hoffryn. Her expression was incredulous. "No?! What do you mean 'no'?!"

"I am under no obligation to reverse any wish, Anyanka," D'Hoffryn said with a shrug. "I choose not to reverse this one."

"You can't do that!" protested Xander. He looked to Anya for confirmation. "Can he do that?"

"It's not like he has a pretty amulet to smash," Anya replied, still glaring at the demon. "D'Hoffryn writes the book when it comes to vengeance, so ... yeah, pretty much."

D'Hoffryn regarded Xander with an even more generous amount of severity than usual.

"Are you aware, Mr. Harris, that Anyanka's soul was residing in one of the lowest, most tormenting Hell dimensions prior to your wish?" He nodded at Xander's horrified face. "I believe it was, as a matter of fact, most recently in the possession of the Circle of Vitreia. To break this wish will send her back there."

Anya was somewhat shocked and more than a little scared. "The Circle of Vitreia?" she repeated with a whisper. Then she tilted her head and a hint of something akin to pride crept into her eyes. "That's the big time. I had no idea I was so famous." She shook her head, lapsing once more into fearful mode. "But the Circle of Vitreia?"

"The now-humanized soul of a demon that brought forth a millennium of wrathful agony is a treasure unlike any other," pontificated D'Hoffryn. "You won't find that on the 'Antiques Roadshow'."

As D'Hoffryn spoke, Xander became even more stricken. If he'd ever envisioned Anya's ultimate fate, he had apparently never imagined anything even close to a hell dimension.

"Trading through the black market of the nether realms," D'Hoffryn ticked off, "utilization in various demonic rites, and, of course, the endless, abject torture ..." He nodded to Anya. "Yes, I daresay you were in the most unpleasant of places."

"Maybe because I deserve to be."

This time it was Xander's turn to be incredulous. "What?"

"You heard what he said," returned Anya. "A millennium of wrathful agony. That's really an extraordinary amount of agony. I should know. I inflicted it." She looked at Xander mournfully. "I've had a lot of time to think about pain lately, seeing as how everyone is in so much of it all the time, and this is really stunning work."

D'Hoffryn executed an elegant bow. "Thank you."

Acknowledging the gesture with a small nod, Anya continued. "Back in my vengeance demon days, this sort of constant, every day pain is what I strove for and, if I may say so, achieved on more than one occasion. But I never felt it. Even when I gave up being a vengeance demon to save those horrible fraternity people, I didn't think about all the things I'd done in the past that I couldn't undo. Not until coming here."

At some point, Xander had reached out to clasp her hand. She noticed that now and smiled.

"Now I've seen your friends – our friends – and I finally understand what it means to suffer. I get it." She shook her head in wonder. "A thousand years, Xander. That's worse than any person in all of human history. I watched people in torment and enjoyed it. A few good deeds can't fix that."

Anya took a step away from him, although their fingers remained locked.

"I'm sorry that I hurt all those people and I'd take it back in a second if I could," she confessed. "But I can't. This is my punishment, and I have to take it."

A hush enveloped the room. Anya smiled sadly but resolutely into Xander's apprehensive eyes. Only D'Hoffryn appeared unmoved, his dour expression firmly fixed like a mask.

"Very well," he announced briskly. "I'm convinced. I'll reverse the wish."

Xander was taken totally off guard. "Wait wait wait!" he objected. "A minute ago you're all, 'Sorry, Charlie', but now it's—" Xander's tone became a pompous mimicry. "—'I will reverse the wish'?" He shook his head in violent denial. "Now I hear all about evil hell circles, you wanna take her away?"

But D'Hoffryn spoke only to Anya. "I took you in, Anyanka, made you what you were," he said fondly. "I watched over you for a thousand years and every day I was amazed by what you accomplished and what you were capable of."

"Thank you for noticing!" returned Anya, obviously pleased with the praise. "I did work hard, and—" She frowned and waved her hands. "Hey! I just said I was sorry for all that! Stop confusing me with your flattery!"

"You were a legend," he continued, turning to Xander with more than a little pride. "Employee of the month for 219 consecutive years. Nobody's ever come close to touching that."

"The Renaissance was a very good time for vengeance," mused Anya quietly.

Again, she was the focus of attention. "I shaped you. I molded you. You were mine, Anyanka," said D'Hoffryn. "And then you chose to become human." He sighed regretfully. "One becomes accustomed to having something, and letting go is no small task." He tossed Xander a knowing look. "I suspect you understand, don't you Mr. Harris?"

"You knew I'd wish for Anya to come back," Xander realized slowly.

D'Hoffryn raised an eyebrow. "Well I didn't expect you to wish for a pony, no."

Xander was trying to make all the pieces fit and not making a very successful go of it. "So you get me to wish her alive again, but now you're willing to let her die?" Exasperated, he closed his eyes. "Why can't I ever meet powerful supernatural creatures that make sense?"

"Everyone dies, Mr. Harris," D'Hoffryn told him matter-of-factly, "and there's a great deal more to worry about than how or when it happens." He fixed Anya with an affectionate gaze. "I won't have your soul stuck in a realm of torment or used as a bartering chip in some paltry exchange." His eyes drifted to the ceiling for a moment. "Unfortunately, by you choosing humanity and me granting it, we sort of messed up the rules a bit." He shook out the folds of his robe. "I thought my claim to your soul would survive the process. As it turned out, not so much." He gave a perfunctory shrug. "Once you became human again, your soul passed on to more ... mundane and primitive methods of judgment. I attempted to reclaim it as my own, but you and your overpowered friends proved quite annoyingly proficient at defeating my minions."

"You mean you didn't send all those demons to kill me because you hated me?" asked Anya hopefully.

D'Hoffryn tutted at the notion. "Hate is such a strong word. Annoyed me, yes. Disappointed me, absolutely. But you're special, Anyanka. You always have been." He smiled dotingly. "I could never hate you."

Obviously deeply and genuinely touched, Anya moved to deliver a warm embrace, but D'Hoffryn threw up a restraining hand to bar her path and took a deliberate step backward.

"I don't hug," he insisted sharply.

Accepting this, Anya happily made Xander the object of her affection instead.

"I was still attempting to iron out the details when you were most regrettably killed by someone else," D'Hoffryn resumed, "but fortunately, Mr. Harris survived to wish another day." His expression grew quite cheerful. "This has turned out exceptionally well. I thought for a moment there that I might have to keep sending minions after you for the next ten or twenty years." He glanced at Xander. "It's not the expense, you understand, it's the time involved."

"No more demons?" queried Xander.

"Entirely unnecessary," D'Hoffryn reassured. "By recanting her previous misdeeds, Anyanka's soul can no longer be claimed by any of the lower dimensions."

Xander wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "That's it? That's all it took?"

D'Hoffryn shrugged. "Mundane and primitive." His gaze returned to Anya. "I anticipate no trouble in laying full claim to your soul as its rightful owner."

But still, Xander wasn't entirely convinced. "No pit of torture?"

"None," agreed D'Hoffryn soberly. "They never match the décor."

Xander fixed D'Hoffryn under a piercing stare. "She won't suffer." It was a demand just as much as it was a question, but D'Hoffryn was unfazed.

"Not in the least," he guaranteed firmly. "Although I do admit a fondness for late night infomercials, so if that will be a problem ..."

"Oh I love those!" enthused Anya. "Matthew Lesko is an irritating little man, but his information is so valuable!"

D'Hoffryn favored Xander with a small smile. "No suffering."

Xander's gaze journeyed from D'Hoffryn to Anya and then back again.

"So ... So that's it?"

"Everything except the reversal," D'Hoffryn told him. "I do assume your decision regarding the wish has not changed."

Xander turned to Anya and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Anya had done so for him.

"No, it hasn't," she said with determination. "Because, Xander, you have to make this right for you again." Her smile turned devilish. "And if you don't fix it, I'll find a way become a vengeance demon one more time just to make you regret it."

"Must you tease so?" sighed D'Hoffryn wistfully.

Setting his jaw, Xander delivered a tense nod. "Alright."

D'Hoffryn regarded Xander critically before accepting and sanctioning the decision.

"Meeting you was good for Anyanka," he said approvingly. "It was a terrible misfortune that you were not fated to be together." There was a miniscule trace of sympathy in his voice. "Say your goodbyes now. You'll not see her again."

Swallowing the huge lump in his throat, Xander made a valiant attempt to blink back the tears as he turned to Anya, only too aware that this was the final chapter in their story. Straightening his back, he stepped forward and folded her into an all-encompassing embrace. She reciprocated willingly, eagerly – almost despairingly. Regardless of the fact that she had died once before, and even secure in the knowledge of what would transpire when she died again, there still remained a sense of fear and apprehension. She was thankful for the comfort Xander offered.

"Anya—" he whispered.

She placed a gentle forefinger over his mouth. "Don't say it, Xander. Whatever it is ... it doesn't matter. Just kiss me."

And he did.

Their lips met with passion and desire, longing and sweetness. So much sweetness.

Standing side-by-side, Dawn and Willow's tombstones kept each other company in the cold winter night.

In his office, Giles had passed out, a three-quarters empty bottle of scotch by his outstretched hand and some photographs of Buffy and the Scoobies scattered across the desk.

Tara and Kennedy had inched their way to opposite sides of their bed, clinging to the sheets with their backs turned away from each other. Neither slept.

In Buffy's hospital room, Faith couldn't bring herself to look at the figure occupying the bed. And she paid no attention to the blood dripping from her knuckles onto the floor, the by-product of a fist that had savagely punched and shattered the window.

Isolated within her self-imposed cocoon, Buffy blinked occasionally as she stared vacantly into the distance.

And still, Xander and Anya luxuriated in the glory of their kiss, desperate to make the most of their final moments together as the world seemed to fade slowly to white.

Rays of an early morning sun filtered through the blinds into a darkened bedroom. On one of the night tables was a clock radio. As its dial flipped to 7:00 AM, the fading refrain of a song could be heard and then the voice of an overly-perky announcer.

"Time to rise and shine, Trillium," he said with chirpy enthusiasm. "There's a world out there waiting! It's seven-ay-em on a gorgeous Thursday morning and I just know you don't wanna waste it."

From beneath the sheets came a sleepy groan of protest.

"The weekend's a bit of a ways off yet," continued the buoyant message, "but never fear – yours truly, Zakk Zapp, and the rest of the 101.5 WWWA team will help you get there. Stay tuned throughout the hour as 3WA announces the winners to last night's Santa's Little Helpers contest, and for your chance to win tickets to—"

Zakk Zapp was abruptly silenced as desperate fingers scrabbled for the snooze button and found their mark. Mission accomplished, the hand appeared to have now expended its paltry energy reserves and flopped limply onto the pillow nearby. There was another unintelligible mumble as the hand began to feel around the empty space, ostensibly searching for something. However, it was a fruitless endeavor and the quest came to an untimely end, fingers still curled but frozen. The immobility was followed by a sigh.

The mattress bounced as the hand was retracted and its owner turned over, the arm draping across the left side of Xander's face. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, curiously and contemplatively. He glanced toward the small table on the other side of the bed. It held a lamp, a glass of water, a couple of well-thumbed paperbacks and an eye patch. Retrieving the latter, Xander slipped it over his head, settled it in place and then went back to staring at the ceiling. A smile crossed his lips.

"There's a world out there waiting," he echoed before throwing back the comforter.

With a springy step, Xander came downstairs. The banisters had been decoratively wound with tinsel and in front of the living room window, a large tree had been lavishly trimmed, complete with stacks of festively-wrapped presents nestling beneath its lower boughs. He headed for the kitchen, but then stopped to savor the welcome sizzle of something frying in a pan and listen to the muted voices filtering in his direction.

"That'd be nice," Tara was saying. "I just hope you guys aren't pushing him too hard."

"Oh pooh," dismissed Willow.

"Exactly," came Buffy's voice of confidence. "This is good. We are all social creatures and Xander must heed the call. Besides, when it comes to blind dates, I owe him big time."

"I know it's bossy and pushy and lots of other really negative adjectives ending in y," Willow was apparently conceding, "but if there's anything I know in this crazy mixed-up world, it's Xander. He needs this. Without help, he's just gonna sit there forever feeling lonely a-and guilty and still more negative 'y' adjectives."

As he absorbed the words, Xander tipped his head to one side and thought for a second. Then, instead of continuing into the kitchen, he made his way to the hall telephone. Pulling out his wallet, he searched the contents until he found the scrap of paper he'd been looking for. Thoughtfully, he placed it on the small table which housed the phone. He paused, but the hesitation was brief. Removing the handset from its cradle, he began to dial. He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the call to be answered, but he didn't have to wait long. He smiled at the voice.

"Hi, Serafina? It's Xander. Rumor has it that it's a gorgeous Thursday morning. I was wondering if you'd like to maybe get a cup of coffee and enjoy it with me ..."