Buffy's green eyes were focused squarely on the ground. For some reason, she felt ashamed. She didn't know what to think or what she was supposed to want. She looked every bit as defeated as she sounded when she offered up what might've otherwise been a snappy comeback.
"I could just kick the door down," she pointed out. "I'm sorry. It's a reflex." And a coping mechanism all at once. "Ambrose, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I didn't ask for this, but the fact is that I have it. It's not going to go away if I go into retirement. I don't want to lose you, and believe me! I don't wanna die. I love you, but I'll fight if I have to fight. If I can do something, I will do something."
Buffy stood up, reaching out to touch his hand and hoping he wouldn't pull away from her. "Would it make it better if I promised not to die? I mean, I can be pretty stubborn, you know. I'll just look Death in the face and say something clever if it comes. Then I'll just walk away, come home, and we'll break another microwave or something."