Joyce was dead. She knew that. She knew she was lying on the couch, not in her comfortable bed. And certainly not wearing that awful Harlot lipstick that Faith had taken from her when the Slayer also threatened to take her life merely to spite Buffy. But that wasn't how it ended, not even close. Not even a little bit, not even any, not even a smidgen, at all.
The blond woman smiled as her dark-haired lover reached out a hand to her.
"Come on, now, Joycie. We've both got people waiting on us."
Smiling, Joyce reached forward and took Faith's hand, and they walked toward a third figure, smiling, gracious, always the father figure in their strange little triangle of affection.
This wasn't a bad memory at all, Joyce thought. It simply tasted a little bitter.