The unpleasant atmosphere in the dining room was becoming an all too common occurrence. It was breakfast time once more, and tempers had not improved any overnight. Again, food had been prepared, with a tower of pancakes and other items in the center of the table within easy reach of whoever wanted them. However save for Xander's small stack – which he was devouring with great relish – nobody seemed to be much in the mood for eating.

"I am not the bad guy here!" asserted Buffy, pointing at herself angrily.

Blowing out a puff of air, Willow snidely remarked, "You're obviously checkin' a different 'Who's Who' guide."

"At least mine makes sense!" was the retort.

Dawn rubbed her forehead painfully. "Nothing about this conversation makes sense."

Like a starving dog with a porterhouse steak, Buffy refused to let the matter drop. "Willow, you need to—"

"Alright, just calm down," Tara interjected, a note of irritation finding its way into her tone. "If you're bound and determined to be mad at someone, Buffy, it should be me."

"Oh don't worry, I'm savin' up plenty of mad for you, too," assured the Slayer. "Unless, of course, you plan to finally stop making with the cryptic and actually, you know ..." She gave an exaggerated shrug. "Explain something."

"I will," the blonde witch agreed, trying to soothe frayed nerves and tempers. "I promise, I'll tell you everything I know. But ..." Unable to hold Buffy's intense, penetrating stare, her eyes dropped. "I can't. Not right now. It's ... hard."

It wasn't going to be that easy. "You wanna know hard? Hard is sitting here watching you not tell us a damned thing and getting screamed at every two seconds because, hey! Actually remembering we're on the Tri-Mouth here, so mysterious returning dead friend who refuses to answer questions? All signs point to evil."

"She's not evil!" Willow's defiant exclamation came mere moments before the redhead leapt to her feet and moved to stand behind Tara's chair, resting her hands protectively on the blonde's shoulders.

For just a second, it looked like Tara might duck away, allow Willow's hands to fall to the side and break the contact. But instead, she closed her eyes and seemed to draw strength from the connection. "This isn't ..." she began, then sighed and shook her head. "Maybe I should just leave. Go to a hotel or- or something."

Finally, everyone seemed to find a topic they could agree on. "No!" cried Buffy, Willow and Dawn in union, then they began to talk over each other.

"This is your home!" Dawn insisted, reaching out and tightly grasping Tara's hand.

Buffy was nowhere near as comforting, but every bit as adamant. "I want you right here where I can keep an eye on you."

Willow looked the most pained, as though she'd been kicked in the stomach. "Baby, no!" she entreated, squeezing Tara's shoulders. "I need— You should be here. With ... everyone." A flash of anger overtook the redhead, and she glared furiously at her best friend. "How can you be like this?" she accused between clenched teeth. "When you came back, it was, like, a month before you told us anything about what happened to you!" Unconsciously, Willow began to rub Tara's shoulders in a soothing back-and-forth motion. "You more than anybody should understand how hard this is."

The outburst did nothing to sway the Slayer; her arms were crossed and absolutely everything about her was unyielding. "And you more than anybody should know that just because she's back doesn't make it all bunnies and cotton candy."

Frustrated almost beyond words, Dawn exclaimed, "You know, I'm actually looking forward to school!"

With emotions running so high, nobody noticed as Xander sighed heavily and speared another three pancakes. Rising, he snatched the nearby bottle of syrup along with his plate and left the room without a backward glance.

At Slayer Central in the large training room, Faith helped Xander to zip-up his puffy suit. It wasn't an easy task considering she was still operating with only one arm, but she managed well given the circumstances.

"Thanks for doin' this, Xan," Faith told the carpenter. "'Preciate it."

Xander nodded briskly in response as the Slayer moved in front of him, checking to see that all was safe and secure.

Faith waved her injured arm and grinned. "Doc says this'll be off in a couple days. Can't be too soon for me. This wounded chicken routine got old two days before it started." Her grin broadened but then she looked into Xander's expressionless face.

"Hey, you sure you're up t' this?" she questioned with concern. "I can make the girls run never-ending laps instead. Almost as fun."

The carpenter simply grunted his reply. "Let's do it."

Faith half-turned to the small crowd of assembled Juniors. "Gotta love a man who's direct." She beckoned with her forefinger. "Alright, you heard the man. Haze, you first."

"Yay!" declared Hazel with much enthusiasm as she took a confident stride forward. "Beating on Xander! So much better than laps."

"Never too late to change my mind," warned the Slayer.

Hazel tucked one arm into her, folding it like a wing. "Buh-cawk," she taunted in an enunciated tone accompanied by a sneaky grin. Faith was not amused and treated the Junior to a threatening frown. Wisely, Hazel lowered her arm and cleared her throat.

"Okay, done," she promised in a small voice.

"Damn straight, you're done," the Slayer told her with certainty before focusing her attention on Xander. She narrowed her eyes at his air of apparent boredom. Normally, such an exchange would have incited at least a chuckle from the carpenter but his jawline was set tight and his lips held no trace of a smile. Faith shrugged and turned to address the gathering.

"Today," she began in a business-like tone, "we're focusin' on precision and recall. You'll come up here and execute a series of punches exactly as I'm pointin' 'em out. An' I mean exactly, I don't want you so much as a centimeter off or you do the whole thing over again from the beginning. Now pay attention."

The group formed a semi-circle in order to better see what was about to transpire. Snagging a ruler, Faith started to prod at various points on the carpenter's puffy body, hitting at a dozen or so seemingly random locations in rapid succession.

"Got that?" she inquired. The Juniors appeared to be far from certain, but Faith declined to wait on a response. "Good. Let's go."

With that, she took a step backward – out of the line of fire but still in close enough proximity to have a perfect view of the upcoming exercise. Hazel shadowboxed as she hopped lightly from one foot to the other while throwing Xander a mischievous smile. The carpenter looked down at her, his mouth drawn into a silent and mocking sneer. Confused, the Junior dropped her arms and tilted her head to one side.

"Sorry, am I speakin' some weird language where 'let's go' means 'stare at the target'?" clipped Faith.

Hazel jumped slightly and vehemently shook her head.

"Then let's go," ordered the Slayer sharply.

Hazel instantly burst into action. The first few blows landed squarely on their intended targets and Faith nodded with satisfaction. But the following sequence called for an initial jab to the shoulder then one to the chest, followed closely by two successive punches to the shoulder again and this time, the Senior Slayer was far from impressed.

"Stop stop stop," she called, waving her good hand. Hazel promptly obeyed and turned to Faith who was rapidly approaching the solidly set figure of Puffy Xander.

"Hit him here." Faith indicated the fleshy joint beneath the suit located between the carpenter's chest and his shoulder. "Not here," she instructed, pointing to the bony section. "You wanna break your hand?"

The Junior smirked and Faith sighed as she took a step backward. "Do it again."

Hazel gave a small click of her heels. "Jawohl mein fuhrer."

"An' if you're gonna insult me," stated Faith dismissively, "do it in American. Go."

Still amused, Hazel began the routine over again. Xander shuffled restlessly at the sequence of jabs and appeared to be getting aggravated by the constant poking.

"Hold it," commanded Faith.

Sighing, Hazel dropped her arms and turned to the Senior Slayer with a furrowed brow. "I thought I nailed it this time."

"You got the shoulder," Faith told her, "but you zoned on the stomach."

Pursing her lips, Hazel replayed the exercise in her mind for a moment. "Gah," she muttered. "I did."

"'Course you did," assured Faith with a touch of mock arrogance. "I'm always right." She grinned at Hazel's open-mouthed gape. "An' you're gonna agree cuz you don't wanna get stuck on kitchen duty with Andrew for the next two weeks, right?"

The Junior's mouth snapped shut like a steel trap. "Boy Faith," she hastened to reply. "You're so right, there's nothing left."

With a smirk, the Slayer ignored the barb. "Again."

Hazel feinted once or twice before pummeling into Xander, who fidgeted and began to look decidedly peeved.

"Wait," came the order for a third time. Hazel's shoulders slumped as she turned to Faith and so, was totally unprepared for Xander's reaction.

With a snarl of, "That's it!", the carpenter forcefully thrust out his arm and with incredible ease, ripped through the puffy suit. Balling his hand into a fist, he swung viciously and caught the Junior squarely on the jaw, lifting her off her feet. With a tiny groan, Hazel landed heavily in a rack of weights and fell to the ground, where she lay apparently unconscious. Before he could wreak any more damage, Faith sprang into action. Seizing Xander's arm, she twisted it behind his back. Operating one-handedly, the Slayer did an excellent job of restraining the carpenter but it was obviously only a matter of time before he broke free and the struggle for power was not destined to be a long one – although, for the moment, Faith was the victor.

In the meantime, the remainder of the Juniors had rushed to Hazel.

"She okay?" puffed Faith, jerking Xander's arm higher.

One of them nodded and shot the Senior Slayer a quick glance. "She's starting to come around."

Faith indicated the exit with her chin. "Get the doc up here, I want her checked out." She stood on tiptoe and gritted in the carpenter's ear. "Okay, what the hell's goin' on?"

Xander ceased his struggling for a second and shrugged as well as possible. "She was irritating me."

"So you thought you'd act like Superman the Wife Beater?" queried an angry Faith. "An' how'd you bust outta this suit?"

"Don't know," admitted the carpenter casually. He regarded Faith contemptuously over his shoulder and pulled his arm from her grip. "Don't much care, either," he added in the same tone before unzipping the remainder of the puffy suit and tossing it aside. He strode purposefully toward the door.

"Hey!" yelled Faith at Xander's retreating back. "You coulda really hurt Hazel!"

The carpenter paused and turned to face the Slayer. "Then I guess next time she'll get it right first try." A small mirthless grin formed on his lips as he left the room.

Faith dug in her pocket and whipped out a cell phone, swiftly punching numbers. She tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for a response.

"Hey, Oxford?" She glanced over at Hazel who was now sitting up and gingerly probing at her jawbone. "Think we got a problem ..."

"You'd think there'd be more paperwork," remarked Tara, unable to keep the frown out of her voice.

Tara sat half on the left-hand cushion of the couch and half on the middle as she leaned over to peer at the screen of the computer balanced on Willow's lap. The redhead's eyes stole the occasional furtive peek at Tara, obviously delighted by the other woman's close proximity but managing to maintain a cool façade.

"Well before Sunnydale became Craterdale, there woulda been," Willow explained. "But the paper part of the paperwork was in some clerk's office, an' that's pretty much non-existent now. These days, people stick more to digital anyway. Which is, you know, an open-doored Nirvana to little hackers like me." Grinning, she wiggled her fingers in the air, then executed a few more keystrokes. "And there we go."

With an air of satisfied completeness, Willow sat back against the couch and both women considered the open database displayed on the laptop screen. The header read "Vital Records, Sunnydale, CA" with the sub-header of "May 2002". One row in particular had been highlighted: "Maclay, Tara L. DOB: 10/16/1980 DOD: 5/7/2002". Several options underneath the selection offered the user the opportunity to choose – among other items – a coroner's report, police report, and death certificate. All had been highlighted, but none were open.

Willow glanced to Tara and twisted the laptop toward the blonde. "You wanna do the honors?" she asked with a gentle smile.

Reaching out slowly, Tara's finger hovered over the delete key for a minute, but was then retracted. "I dunno. It just feels ... wrong."

"Wrong?" echoed Willow, sitting up straighter. "Tara, the only thing wrong here is the fact that these stupid documents had to be made in the first place. We're putting it right, making it the way it should be." Holding Tara's hand between both of hers, Willow locked her eyes with the blonde. "You. Here. Alive. The way it should be." Her tone grew firm and resolute, her words etched in stone. "And nobody will be able to say otherwise."

The smile she received was heavy and seemingly burdened but genuine; still though, Tara slowly pulled her hand free. Willow didn't try to stop the action nor did she choose to dwell on it, instead returning their focus to the laptop. "Now c'mon," she encouraged with a charming, full-toothed smile. "Exercise the power of the Internet, and laugh at a state that hasn't bothered to significantly upgrade its security in ten years."

Nudging the computer just slightly toward the blonde, Willow waited with barely contained excitement. There was just another second or two of hesitation, then Tara's finger shot out and decisively punched the delete key. A progress bar suddenly appeared and quickly filled as they watched with anticipation. Soon it flashed the message, "Files Deleted".

"Whoo-hoo!" crowed Willow, pumping her fist in the air and beaming at Tara.

"I feel so ... so ... Matthew Broderick," Tara decided with a grin. "You know, from Wargames?"

Nodding her complete agreement, the redhead added, "Only without all the nuclear holocaust, and much less tic-tac-toe."

Their enthusiasm was infectious and each woman fed off of the other like a field of dry grass before a wildfire. In that moment, it seemed as though the past few years and countless hardships slipped away, leaving only old feelings and precious memories. But it was fleeting at best, and Tara quickly appeared uncomfortable. She looked away, shattering the moment.

Unwilling to let it so quickly disappear, Willow pretended not to notice the abrupt change and instead turned the laptop back toward herself. "Okay," she continued in an upbeat tone, "so I'm thinkin' next up on our to-do list is gettin' copies if your college transcripts, so you can maybe re-enroll in the fall? You, uh ... you didn't get to ... take finals that year, so I-I'm not sure how they marked ... that." The redhead faltered for just a brief moment and then quickly recovered. "But no problem! We'll find out, and if it's something bad, we'll just fix it."

Turning back to the computer, Willow began typing away at full speed. Like a month irresistibly drawn to a flame, Tara seemed unable to keep from leaning over and watching the hacker at work, and Willow's face split into another wide grin at the nearness. "Hey, we can even maybe see about fixin' up a few things?" Willow suggested, waggling her eyebrows for emphasis.

Tara brought her hand to her chest with an exaggerated gasp. "Willow! Are you actually suggesting that we be less than 100% honest with my grades?"

"No! No, of course— Well yeah, okay, maybe just a little." The blonde shot her an incredulous look, but Willow could only grin in response and nudge Tara with her shoulder. "C'mon! Wasn't there ever at least one grade that you just know was completely unfair?"

Crossed arms seemed to bring that line of conversation to a screeching halt. "No, we absolutely can't do this. It's immoral and it's wrong and no."

"No, no, you're right," Willow readily agreed, turning back to the screen with a disapproving frown. "Wrong. Completely wrong. I metaphorically slap my wrist for even mentioning it." As her tapping resumed, she grinned and watched Tara from the corner of her eye.

The blonde was deep in thought. "Though you know," she drawled, "there was that one project ... for Professor Ashmore?"

"You worked really, really hard on it ..." nodded Willow sympathetically.

A line appeared between Tara's brows, the faintest hint of irritation. "... and she still gave me a 'B' ..."

"... brought down your whole grade in the class. Oh, and remember Francine Sloane?"

"She bragged for the rest of the term about how her project only took her one night – a night of no small amount of drunken revelry – and she got an 'A'." The faint irritation had become a full-blown case.

Willow sighed and shook her head ruefully. "Such a travesty."

All negativity vanished as Tara grinned at the redhead. "You—" she poked Willow in the shoulder "—are a temptress."

"Just wait until we get to your math classes," responded Willow in a low, alluring tone.

Again they both began to laugh, but as Tara glanced up, she spotted Buffy standing in the doorway. Despite the fact that the Slayer was leaning against the wooden frame, her posture was anything but relaxed. With crossed arms and a thin, narrow stare, it was only too painfully obvious Buffy was not happy. Not in the least.

Her presence in the room immediately caused Tara's own demeanor to slip, and the light, playful atmosphere from mere moments before evaporated. For just a heartbeat, their gazes locked, but Tara quickly averted her eyes.

Seemingly oblivious to all but her own good mood, Willow continued working on the laptop. "So after this," she bubbled, "how about we see what we need to getcha some official, 'Hi, I'm Tara!' ID...?"

"We have to do something."

Giles glanced up – the phone clenched in his hand and his finger poised in the middle of dialing – to behold Buffy stomping into his office, her face like thunder. "Buffy! How serendipitous. I was just about to ring you," he informed her, gesturing with the handset.

The Slayer wasn't interested. "Keep your dippity-doos," she dismissed, "we don't have time for that."

Her turn of phrase earned a frown, but Giles chose not to pursue it as he returned the phone to the cradle. "No, I suppose not. We need to—"

"We need to find out what it is," Buffy interrupted, her tone decisive as a general planning a final assault.

To his credit, Giles tried his best to figure out where she was coming from all on his own, but it was futile. "I'm sorry?"

"The thing," she explained unhelpfully. "The thing in my house cozying up to my best friend. The thing that keeps making these friggin' homemade breakfasts. It's evil and it's dangerous and I want to know what it is."

Nodding his head, the Watcher mouthed a silent 'Ah' as he moved around to perch on the corner of his desk. "Well that's something of the real problem, isn't it? I mean, we can always force Tara—"

Buffy glared. Hard.

"—or- or the ... the 'thing', as you say, that looks like Tara," Giles hastily backpedaled. "We can always force her to submit to- to examinations, but ..."

"But...?" the blonde prompted impatiently.

Fishing out a handkerchief from his back pocket, Giles tugged off his glasses and began to clean them. "Well I'd say that's distasteful at best, wouldn't you? I mean, have you actually sat down and had a talk with her?" With his unaided vision, Buffy's blurry scowl was easy to ignore. "The similarities are ... quite convincing." His task complete, Giles stuffed the cloth back into his pocket and regarded his Slayer carefully. "I would really rather we get her cooperation before succumbing to more drastic measures."

"Don't tell me she's got you fooled too."

"Far from it," he refuted, moving back behind the desk and sorting through the mess of papers strewn across its surface. "However I'm also prepared to consider all possibilities." He glanced up, regarding Buffy from over the rim of his glasses. "Something, which I must confess, in your ... rather agitated state, you seem reluctant to do."

"Agitated?" she echoed, tossing her hands into the air in frustration. "Yeah, you could say that. Giles, every second Willow spends with this Attack of the Clones wannabe is one second more that she gets totally sucked in! I mean, you should've seen it. I just spent ten minutes watching them, and Willow's acting like ... like ..."

"Like Tara's back."

Buffy jabbed her finger at Giles. "Exactly! And that—" Cutting herself off, Buffy rubbed her aching forehead. When she spoke next, her anger had given way to concern and more than a little sadness. "Giles, it's gonna break her when we find out what it really is. We just got mostly-whole Willow back." The Slayer threw him beseeching look, appearing almost to beg him to make everything okay. "I don't want to lose her again."

Once more the Watcher stepped around the desk, this time moving next to Buffy and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I know. I understand. And we will get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes."

Searching his eyes, Buffy seemed to find enough reassurance, and she nodded, relaxing considerably. "So, where do we get started?" She gazed around the room expectantly, as though the answers were simply waiting there for her to find them. "Point me at a book, I'm all geared up for being Book Girl."

"Well, we don't. Not yet."

"But I was all geared up and stuff." Buffy's bottom lip was sticking out in definite pout formation.

"Yes, and believe me, I'm marking the day down in my calendar," responded Giles dryly. "But we have an issue at hand that's rather more pressing."

Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"It appears that Hazel has received an unscheduled stay in the infirmary. Mild concussion."

That got the Slayer's attention. "The wicked strong first-person plural girl?" she asked, in possibly the most convoluted way possible.

"No, no, not our attacker," replied Giles, his face grim. "Though I suspect you'll never guess who it was."