Disclaimer: I'm not feeling very creative in the disclaimer section today. Why, you ask? I just wrote a new chapter for my two stories, followed by an intense paper discussing Renaissance sexism in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Get over it! I didn't create Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Angel for that matter, and I don't own any of the characters. Fine! Are all you lawyers happy now? Eat my ass!

Rating: R- sex is a good thing, but not today.

Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.

Author's Notes: New chapter! Yeah, I don't wanna write anymore. I love you all, but my brain hurts. Please read and respond. Ooh, and I put out a new story. Check it out. Yeah, that's right, this is the shameless self promotion hour! I love you all, and you all deserve a cookie!

PS: None today, except that Buddy Christ told me that he has a mondo wedgie and wants someone to pick it out. Volunteers?











Chapter Two- 7:15 AM



"Alright, you bastard. I've taken enough of your shit." Holding the cutting tool inches from her victim, Buffy squinted. "Eat knife!"

Quickly, she brought the knife down, cutting through the soft flesh. But as it slid its way through, juice shot out and penetrated Buffy's eye.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Throwing the knife down, she blindly made her way to the sink. "GOD DAMNED ORANGE!"

A quick flick of the wrist, and the faucet was turned on. Cupping her hands, she let the cool water pool in her hands before washing her eye out.

After toweling off, she went back to the cutting board on the island of her kitchen. Three apples, a bunch of grapes, two bananas, a starfruit, and six kiwis lay on the plastic surface, cut perfectly. All that was needed to complete the fruit salad was the "bastard orange".

Pushing a strand of her honey-blonde hair out of her eyes, Buffy picked up the knife. Cutting the orange into six sections, then slicing up those sections, she threw the rind-less pieces into a nearby bowl, followed by the remaining fruit. A sprinkling of coconut later, the salad was complete.

*Pretty damned good.* Considering the fact that Buffy couldn't boil water if her life depended on it, she felt prided that nothing blew up during her cooking excursion. *That's why Spike does the food-making.*

As if on cue, she heard Spike race down the stairs behind her, skipping the last few steps with a long jump. He was quickly behind her, rapping his arms around her small body.

"Morning pet," he growled into her ear, sending a few shivers through her skin. She could still smell the soap from his shower, his curly hair damp. Without warning, he let go of her, and slid his hands under the skirt of her light purple sundress.

"Hey, leggo!" Turning around, she playfully punched him on the arm. It was then she noticed that he was sans shirt. "And stop prancing around like a peacock and put on a damned shirt!" she yelled, trying to wipe the smirk off his face.

"Why should I? 'S my house too." With an impish grin, he stepped towards her, pinning Buffy against the island.

Willing herself not to smile, Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Because," she whispered, mock seductively, "You know that I can't resist you. I just may have to take you, right here on this counter. And that worries me because if Dylan walked in on us, she may need years of therapy."

Getting the picture, Spike rolled his eyes and walked into the nearby laundry room. Seating herself on the counter, Buffy popped a grape into her mouth. She giggled as Spike came back into the kitchen, apparently pouting, a black shirt pulled on.

"Speaking of our girl," he asked, joining Buffy on the counter, "Just where in the bollocks is she?"

"Out there," she sighed, pointing to their small backyard. "She's been up since 6. Like she has been doing since school let out. If you were a good father, you would've known that. But you were fast asleep."

Insulted, Spike quickly turned his head towards Buffy, then noticing she was kidding. "Yeah luv," he let his head drop to the ground, "I'm a terrible Dad. I need to be punished."

"Oh yeah, I'm going to . . ."

The sex talk was interrupted when the French doors leading to the backyard swung open. Dylan stood at the entrance, muddy from head to foot.

"Mommy, I had an accident." The seven-year-old grinned mischievously when she saw her parents' faces.

Rubbing her forehead, Buffy slid down from the counter and picked up her daughter. "Are you coming to help?" she asked Spike, shooting daggers when he grinned back.

"In a min pet."

As she huffed out of the room, something glittering on her finger got his attention. A bit of morning sun gleaming through the window caught on her engagement ring.

"Shit," muttered the ex-vampire, running his hands through his hair. It had been almost eight years since he had proposed. And each passing year, the question of when kept coming up. But there was always something in the way. Always.

His thoughts were interrupted by a high shrill from the downstairs bathroom.

"No Mommy, that's my favorite shirt!"

"Spike!" screamed Buffy; "You get in this bathroom now! Or I'll never, EVER . . ."

"Bloody hell," he moaned, "I'm coming! I'm coming!"



"Persephone, the maiden Goddess, hear my call!"

"Demeter, the mother Goddess, hear my call!"

"Hecate, the crone Goddess, hear my call!" There was a slight pause. "Why do I have to invoke the crone Goddess?"

"Because it completes the circle. And Laila and I already take up two of the invokes, so you have to take the last one!"

"Well, I'm just as much her mother as you!"

"And we understand that!"

"So can't we take those technicalities into account?"

"WILLOW! We're not being technical! We're teaching! Get over it!"

Giving Tara a quick evil eye, Willow sat back on her haunches. "Hecate," she over-enunciated, getting a quick eye roll from Tara, "The crone Goddess, hear my call!"

In the center of the small circle lay a candle, a deep emerald green. When the last Goddess was invoked, the flame began to dim, then burned with twice the intensity.

"Alright," whispered Tara, grabbing a leather pouch from behind her, "Take the sand, and spread it around the candle." She then handed it to a wide- eyed Laila, mesmerized by the flame.

"'K Mommy." As Laila poured the sand, Willow picked up her ritual dagger and slid the blade across her thumb. Tara did the same action with her dagger. A small dot of blood peaked from the skin, and when there was enough, the two women spread it in the sand.

Laila watched intensely. "When do I get to do that?" she asked, pointing at the dagger.

Willow sighed. "The same day I let you go to Amsterdam, alone, with my credit card."

"So, never?"

"Pretty much."

Giggling, Tara continued with the lesson. "We've just given our offering, so if we were actually doing the reversal spell, this is the point where we'd start the chant."

"But," added Willow, "Because you live with a bunch of fuddy-duddies, this is the point where we blow the candle out and go eat a big bowl of Froot Loops."

"Much better Mommers," admitted the child, running out of the darkened room.

Shaking her head, Willow bent down and blew the flame out, just as Tara turned on the light.

"I don't think she's liking the lessons." Tara sat next to Willow, brushing the sand into a pile.

Quickly giving her partner a kiss, Willow laughed. "She's nine! And summer started four days ago! She'd rather goof around outside then sit in a dark room learning spell preparation!"

"Still," Tara complained, "She's not as focused as she SHOULD be."

"Tara baby," sighed the redhead, "She'll get it, someday. We know she has some incredible powers. It'll just take time."

Smiling, Tara leaned her head on the brunette's shoulder. "Since when did you become the reassurer?"

"About the same time I became the crone Goddess."

Someone at the room entrance coughed. The two Wiccas turned, seeing their child waiting, arms across her chest.

"I would like my Froot Loops TODAY!"

"Impatient little wench," whispered Willow. "Ok," she said to Laila, "Let's go put some dyed sugar in your belly."



A bird sat outside the window, singing some beautiful tune in the bright June morning. The sun, up at least an hour, would now be shining through the windows, but the thin curtains shielded the light, making the room glow warmly.

Stretching her arms above her head, Anya shifted in her large bed. The Magic Shop wasn't open for a while, leaving the morning free to lie in bed, soaking in the peaceful climate. Not once-

"GILLIAN! GET OUTTA THE BATHROOM! IT'S MY TURN!"

"BITE ME, MONKEY BUTT! WHEN I'M DONE, THEN YOU CAN HAVE IT!"

"MOM! GILLIAN WON'T LET ME GO PEE!"

"DAD! RYAN WON'T DIE!"

Making a face of bitter disappointment, Anya slid out of bed, pulling her silk robe over her nightgown. She opened the door, just as her thirteen- year-old daughter screamed.

Ryan had, somehow, thrown Gillian on the ground, and now sat on her back, pulling her hair like horse reins. Gillian thrashed underneath the ten-year- old, desperately trying to buck him off.

Rushing forward, Anya swiftly picked the boy up, then separated the two when Gillian attempted to retaliate.

"RYAN ALEXANDER HARRIS!" screamed the woman, poking her finger into his chest, "We have MORE than one bathroom in this house! And your sister is not a horse!"

When Gillian began to smirk at her brother's punishment, Anya whipped her head around. "And as for you, Gillian Elizabeth Harris, being thirteen does NOT give you the right to make the bathroom into your own club house!"

Tears started to streak down Gillian's face, and the very emotional girl ran to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Ryan simply smiled, then went into the bathroom.

Rubbing her neck, Anya made her way down the stairs, muttering something about boarding school. Passing the living room, she entered the kitchen.

Xander was at the stove, cooking the morning breakfast of eggs. Without looking up from the pan, he thrust a cup of tea into his wife's hand before she could say a word.

"Thanks," she sighed, seating herself on the barstool. Letting the scent of raspberry waft into her nose, she started taking short sips. "Just where were you during that wonderful family moment?"

"I knew that my lovely wife, the ex-vengeance demon, could handle herself." Xander smiled, even when Anya threw an apple at his back.

"So," started Anya, flipping through the newspaper, "What are you doing today?"

He laughed. "I'm exploring the exciting world of dry sheet-rocking." Picking up the spatula, he mixed the eggs around. "What about you?"

"Oh, we're having the Autumn Equinox sale! All blue candles half-off!" As she spoke, her eyes lit up.

"Awn," her husband sighed, turning around, "Isn't the Autumn Equinox in . . . autumn?"

The brunette moaned, rolling her eyes. "Xander, you hold sales for event in the future so the customer can prepare. Also, it gives the illusion of paying less, even though the time to buy should be after the holiday."

"My mistake." He turned around, not liking the economics talk. "So, how do you want your eggs?"

Before she could respond, there was a scream.

"RYAN!!! Eww, get that away from . . . MOM!"

Anya turned to a chuckling Xander. "Removed."



"Now I know my A B C's, next time won't you sing with . . ." the singing stopped, "Bridget, we do not put crayons in our nose. Take it out now. Darling, take it out now! GILES! Take that away from her!"

"She'll be perfectly alright, Olivia. Stop worrying."

When he saw her look of firm resolution, Giles set down the paper and took the crayon out of his daughter's hand. The three-year-old began to cry.

As if the noise could get worse, there was shouting from the other side of the table.

"Dad, tell Derek that I'm am too a human!" cried six-year-old Paul, hitting his brother at the same time. They had been fighting for half the morning.

"Boys, stop it now!" Growled Olivia, her morning toast in hand.

Pushing back in his chair, Paul began to pout, while eleven-year-old Derek sat up, happily smiling.

Giles caught that look. "Derek, because you insist on being a nuisance, I guess you'll just have to come with me to the Magic Box today." Scowling, the boy flopped down.

Olivia began to say something, when she saw the clock behind Giles. "God, I have to go. I've got that bloody meeting with the beneficiaries." She stood, walking around the rectangular table, kissing everyone. "See you tonight," she called, picking up her bag and going through the front door.

Standing, Giles began to pick up the breakfast dishes, as the boys ran to watch TV. Soon, he could hear scuffling echoing through the apartment.

"Boys, we'll have none of that today!" he yelled, pouring soggy breakfast cereal down the drain.

He could hear Olivia's car start up, then leave the complex.

Taking his glasses off, Giles sighed. Something was going on with Olivia. After Paul's birth, she took over the gallery once run by Joyce. But as the years passed, she kept spending more time there, claiming she had work to do.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head when he closed the dishwasher. His little theory was not something he wanted the kids to pick up on. So, Giles put his glasses back on, and sat back at the table.

Little Bridget now happily bounced in her highchair, singing some little song and holding her stuffed frog.

"Daddy!" she called, reaching out to be picked up. Giles pulled her out of her highchair. Giving him a quick hug, she slid to the ground, running to be with her brothers.

Sighing, Giles pulled out the obituaries, looking for any strange deaths. Except for the many "unusual bite marks", there was nothing.

As there had been for many years.

Was Sunnydale becoming a . . . normal town?

"Dad, you have to come see this!" cried Derek, indicating the breaking news on the TV.

Apparently not.