Yvette glances through red and puffy eyes at the awkward trio, then snorts a ridiculous little laugh.

"I apologize," she huffs, "for what must be the most socially uncomfortable workday of your lives. ... At least I hope so. For your sake, I hope nothing ever tops this."

She then picks herself up and goes to the car, all on her own.

The driver opens the door for her, silently, and does not initiate conversation again.

There is still her choice of drinks inside.

She eyes the bar that comes with the car thoughtfully, then shakes her head and flops over to lay in the backseat and try and hold in most of the sobbing until she's not in front of anyone anymore.

If she got herself ridiculously drunk, she'd acknowledge how lonely and touch starved she feels right now, and come up with the bright idea of picking someone up at a bar or something, and then she'd be right back into trauma zone and. Nope. Nope, she's just going to go home and. Figure out how to cope with years of traumatic memories of being an evil version of herself, and everyone she loves being dead, one of them by her own hand.

No one will bother her. She will receive her first delivery of blood the next morning.

Yvette decides that, for right now, she hates the bed and doesn't want to sleep in it. She summarily builds a pillow fort to sob in. It's ridiculous and childish and absurd, and that therefore makes it completely perfect for putting as much distance between her and her soulless self as possible as quickly as possible.

She considers methods of suicide if she decides to go that route. Most efficient thing would be to go outside in the daylight with no cover around for miles, then take her ring off and throw it off a cliff or something. This thought terrifies her and she decides very quickly that she's... not going to do that.

Mostly she doesn't consider much of anything, though, except I didn't even get (or think) to say goodbye or does anyone in Sunnydale even care that I'm 'dead'? or oh God how can I possibly ever work with Jack literally ever, holy shit??? or all of the micro-evils she committed towards everyone around her without her soul, just because she could, while carefully sidestepping anything that would make her worth anyone's actual time.

She thanks the delivery person who dropped off the blood, drinks it immediately (to prevent throwing it away in a fit of misery and self loathing) and returns the container. Then: back to the pillowfort of misery.

Blood deliveries will be slightly more plentiful and frequent than necessary for healthily sustaining a vampire.

For the first week, no one will try to contact her or visit her beyond the deliveries.

Good. She's not up for being social.

Partially because everything is generally awful, but also because she's suffering from the effects of ceasing to be a soulless hedonist with regular access to the high of magic. Which is to say: she is going cold turkey on her addiction, and within a few days she's got even more reason to hate everything.

She drinks her blood when it's delivered, rather like she's drinking poison.

Poison that sustains her, at the least.

Another week goes by. The third Saturday after she got her soul back, someone buzzes her apartment at an unusual time for her deliveries. The small screen next to her front door helpfully shows who this surprise visitor is.

Ugh.

She claws open the door (not literally, she is capable of controlling her strength, even as she's incapable of controlling her shivers) and stares at Jack from sunken eyes. To say that she looks like shit is an understatement. Her hair is a stringy red-brown mess, she's covered in a sheen of sweat, her skin is an unsettling shade of grey instead of pale alabaster, and she looks incredibly unhappy with her existence right now.

"What," she says, flatly.

Flinch.

"I, uh, wanted to check on you."

"Magic addiction withdrawals. I'm not dead yet. Yaaay." She sounds completely unenthused by this.

"—you stopped using magic?"

"Mmhmm. At least t-the, the level of, look I was basically a self obsessed hedonist without my soul, of course I was going to use more magic than was smart."

"Oh." Pause. "I'm sorry."

"Yep, I bet, sure sucks investing in a witch that then immediately can't do magic for a while."

She hisses and closes her eyes. "—I didn't mean that, I'm just a cranky bitch because everything really sucks right now, sorry."

"—that's not it. I'm sorry for causing you so much pain."

"Oh." She considers this.

"Yeah objectively speaking it would have been kinder to just kill me," she agrees. "But uh, thanks?"

She nods. "I do not like killing people that don't..." Shrug. "Deserve it. If you would actually prefer to die, I do not feel like you have any obligations towards me or us."

She stares at Jack, and tears fill her eyes.

"Fuck off," she snarls. "There are things in this world that are worse than I ever was as a soulless monster. Like Hell am I killing myself before killing them."

And then she slams the door in her face.

...well. She can't say she didn't expect that or doesn't deserve it. She sighs and goes away.

Yvette leans against her front door wearily, then slowly slides down it so she can sob against it in perfect solitude. Again.

Why is everything so awful.

The walls provide no answer.

Jack won't come visit her again.

hey if I want to cope with my horrible trauma by murdering things that deserve it, how do I go about doing that in a way that is not completely self destructive?

The response is prompt:

How in-person do you want your work to be?