Pinned. She had her pinned. Perfect. Perfect. Or almost pinned and almost perfect. There were still some feet left between the Slayer and the vampire. Just some feet. And feet were easily crossed.

Buffy charged -- aiming for the proper pin -- with her blade between herself and the demon. Its sharp edge slipped behind guards and nails and the Slayer shoved upwards as well as backwards, slamming Drusilla into the house's simple siding. Forcing her against those protections even without an opening to make them apparent.

"Don't you know what they say?" She practically spat. "You don't get to choose them. Your family."

It was a lie and she knew it. Buffy had done little else but choose her family for years, now. But the slow burn and careful construction of trust and love never felt like a choice. It felt natural. It was nothing like stealing a life and forcing an unlife onto a chosen childe.

The blade was against Drusilla's throat, now. Buffy brought a violent knee up to subdue the vampire. It wouldn't knock any non-existent wind out of her, but it would hurt.

"They choose you."

One last push. The scythe -- fabled and mystical and purpose-built for this very job -- cut into the vampire's neck and at first the work was ragged and tough and Buffy's arms jerked with a clumsy sawing motion. But soon, all was dust. The wind caught a handful of it and danced it up to the sky. The rest settled on the grass. On Buffy's arms. On her clothing.

She dropped her forehead against the house with a sigh. Done.