Anya: Shouldn't we stab him through the chest? Isn't that what we do when these things happen?
Warren: Pretty bitchin', right? I'm like Obi Wan?
Andrew: Or Patrick Swayze.
Willow: No, I have to get out of the house. Xander's installing the new windows, and he keeps giving lectures on proper tool maintenance. Tool talk—not my thing.
Willow: I'm talking. Don't interrupt me, insignificant man. I am Willow. I am death. If you dare defy me, I will call down my fury, exact fresh vengeance, and make your worst fears come true. OK?
Andrew: Hey, your hair's not even black anymore.
Xander: What're you doing back in town?
Andrew: You'll get nothing out of me, carpenter.
Anya: No, you were great! And I wasn't sure if I should slap him, but then he made me want to slap him, so I thought, OK, slap him!
Buffy: How did you do it? How'd you get your soul back?
Spike: Saw a man about a girl.
Anya: Maybe it's another musical. A much crappier musical.
Buffy: I know these guys. I fought them before. We aren't being haunted. This isn't some demon. It's all the same thing. Spike's ghosts, the people you guys saw, from beneath us, it's all the same thing. I know what we're up against. The First.
