Title: From Here

Author: mistymidnight

Rating: Meh...PG-13? Or T, or whatever politically correct version of film ratings ff. net is using nowadays.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, as always, owns the characters and BtVS. Gidgetgirl owns the plot of the fic.

Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place after season four (BtVS) and season one (AtS), but does not follow the canon of seasons five and two.

Summary: A slayer, a witch, an ex-demon, and an eternal snob--mothers?

Author's Notes: Wow, lotsa reviews for just the first chapter. In fact, there are almost as many reviews for this one chapter I've posted (10 so far) as there are for all five chapters of 'Willow Rosenberg, Child Psychologist' (14). But I digress. (No! Don't just brush it off! Don't you see? I was guilt-tripping you all!)

Anyway, I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me.

Paint Samples, Names, and Phone Calls

"No. It's too sea-green-y. It'll make the baby seasick."

Joyce looked at her daughter, one eyebrow raised. "The baby or you?"

Buffy slid the paint samples across the counter of the hardware store toward the bored-looking salesgirl, who replaced the paint samples in the display rack with the other, less nauseating colors. "I'm honestly not sure," she replied. "And it doesn't really matter, anyway. It's pointless to be looking at paint samples for a baby room when we don't even know where the baby room's gonna be." Joyce opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by Buffy in mid-rant. "Don't even say you know what we'll do. I can't raise a baby in the dorms. I probably won't even be able to stay in college. And it's not like we have a bunch of spare rooms lying around the house. The baby'll most likely be staying in my room, and painting my room any baby-friendly color is pointless anyway, because all the stupid pregnancy books say that babies don't see in color."

Joyce sighed and hoisted her purse strap back up onto her shoulder, knowing she was defeated. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have taken you to the hardware store with me. Next time I need wall mountings, I'll just come by myself."

"Probably not a bad idea, seeing as then I won't be here to get distracted by useless paint colors in the first place." There was a pause. "Wanna go get lunch?"

Joyce nodded and began to walk toward the cash register to pay for her purchase, her daughter in tow.

"I don't understand why we can't name her Nickel. It's a perfectly good name."

Xander Harris rubbed his forehead. "Anya, hon, you can't name your child after currency."

Anya frowned. "That's not true. People name their daughters 'Penny' all the time."

"That's because it probably means something deep and meaningful in a dead language."

"It doesn't. I'm sure of it. So if people can name their children Penny, why can't I name my child Nickel?"

Xander sighed yet again. "Because kids hate their parents already, as a general rule. You don't need to make the situation worse by naming them after currency."

"Nickel is a nice name!"

"If you want to embarrass the hell out of the kid."

"There are plenty of names worse than Nickel. Like Ruth. Why would someone name their child Ruth?"

Xander considered for a second, before replying, "I don't like the name Ruth, either. But we can't name our daughter Nickel."

Anya pouted. "Fine, you can veto my choice. But I get to veto one of yours."

"Go ahead."

There was a long pause, before Anya finally ventured, "You know, sweetie, before I can veto one of your suggestions, you have to actually suggest something."

Cordelia sat in the office, filing papers, waiting for Angel and Wesley to come back from slaying the current demon-of-the-week. She had to admit it: she was a little nervous. Okay, more than a little. She didn't know why. True, she had decided to finally talk about her…current situation…with Wesley, but it shouldn't be bothering her this much. I mean, I slept with Wesley, she thought to herself, rolling a piece of paper into a tube shape. Wesley! In theory, the worst part should be over.

She unrolled the paper tube and then began to roll it up again, this time in the opposite direction. I guess it could be worse. I could be pregnant with demon spawn again. So much for swearing off sex forever.

The door opened and Wesley and Angel came in. Cordelia felt her nervousness grow even greater.

"Uh, I've gotta go…do…something," she said in a rush, grabbing her coat and making as speedy an exit as she could. Why do I have to be such a chicken about this?

"You're making progress," Willow assured a frustrated Cordelia later that afternoon, as she twisted the telephone cord in her fingers. "You got up the courage to do it this time, even if you didn't go through with it. That's something."

"It's not 'something' enough," Cordelia protested, taking the bowl of ice cream phantom Dennis had offered her. "I just can't do it, Willow." She took a bite of ice cream, then inspiration struck. "Hey, maybe you can do it for me! Y'know, it'll be like a spy movie. You wear some kind of high-tech earpiece, and you can talk to Wesley, and I'll just tell you what to say from a safe distance away."

"'A safe distance'? Cordelia, he's the father of your child, not a terrorist."

Cordelia groaned. "I know! It's just so hard! Why is it so hard?"

"Because he's your friend. And it's awkward."

"Thank you, States-the-Obvious Rosenberg."

"It'll be less awkward once you talk to him."

"I know." There was silence on the line before Willow spoke up.

"Besides, where would we get a high-tech spy earpiece, anyway?"

mistymidnight