She dug a key out of her pocket. How novel, really, to be wearing formalwear with pockets. How convenient. In that moment, she almost envied men. Buffy tossed the fob from palm to palm and rotated the problem in her mind. Would her own corresponding self, back home, approve of this quieter and more domestic Slayer? A woman more apt to spend her evening drying the dishes Jack Sparrow washed instead of patrolling graveyards. On some level, she knew that doubtless her other self would envy all this peace. But she'd look down upon it, too. Down her nose. And know in her heart of hearts that one of them was doing the better work.

"Jack's pretty fond of one simple yardstick: that we should simply be able to ask whether we can live with ourselves, and the choices were making. Everything else is gravy."