A quiet sound. A laugh that was more breath than voice, and her fingers gave his forearm a grateful squeeze. It was about as close a she dared to tread to saying thank you. Except, perhaps, for a quietly paid compliment: "Fine, have it your way. As post-mojo funks go, you wear yours very handsomely."

It was funny how a shallow piece of flattery could convey more gratitude than more sincere words. The grace, one supposed, was not in the words themselves but in how easily Buffy parted with them. And how glad she was to give in, just this once, to his grandstanding.

But what harm was there in feeding a little canary to the smug cat, hmm? Especially when he'd given her a gift of such magnitude. She was clean -- General-fee, generally -- and that returned a value to her life that she only now realized she had been missing. And for now, she would pretend that it wasn't only because of Nala's occupation.

"You want anything?"