Hello again! My muse completely deserted me for this fic, and only yesterday did I manage to drag her back kicking and screaming. Of course, it didn't help that real life has been kind of a beast in recent weeks, but things have mostly settled down now. Anyway, there aren't a whole lot of chapters left, so hopefully real life and my muse will both behave until the end this time. *knocks on wood*

The rest of the dinner passed just as awkwardly, but Buffy thought—or maybe hoped—that it had gone well overall. At one point after a particularly long and nasty silence, she had mentioned that Angel was an artist. Joyce's interest was immediately piqued whether she wanted it to be or not, and some of her wariness leaked away during the course of the ensuing animated discussion about style and subject matter and eventually even art history. The fact that Angel had so much experience and sheer knowledge—much of it firsthand—about her professional field was clearly a very large plus, as far as she was concerned. Buffy struggled not to grin as the subject carried them all the way through dessert, delighted that she seemed to have found the elusive key to maternal approval. Then, after what had seemed like a lifetime, the torturous ordeal was over, and Angel departed.

Subconsciously holding her breath, Buffy made her way into the kitchen where her mother had started on the dishes. Too nervous to speak at first, she simply joined her in the task, carefully drying the plates and silverware and putting them back in their boxes to go downstairs until the next time they had company worthy of them.

"So, uh, what did you think of him?" she asked, feeling like her whole torso was vibrating with her anxiety. The sensation did not suit her lasagna-filled stomach well, and she felt a little sick.

"Well, I don't think I need to tell you that I had a lot of doubts," said Joyce. "I had a hard time believing he would be any different from the time I met him last year."

"Please tell me there's a 'but' coming," said Buffy, trying to sound light and teasing, but not quite managing it because of the way the plate she was drying shook in her hands. "Or even a 'however'," she babbled on. "Those are nice too. Everyone likes a good however every now and then…." She trailed off feebly at her mother's raised eyebrows, then went back to wiping the already dry plate with the dish towel.

"However," said Joyce, pronouncing the word with a slight chuckle, "I was very impressed by what I saw in Angel this evening."

"Really?" asked Buffy, the hope she had felt while watching Angel and her mom discussing the elements of French Impressionism that could still be seen in modern art rising within her.

"It's hard not to be impressed by a man who is obviously both willing and able to go to the ends of the earth for my daughter," said Joyce, still chuckling. Buffy beamed even as her cheeks reddened slightly. "So, um, judging from the looks you and he were sharing, I guess you two are pretty serious."

"Yeah," said Buffy. "We haven't talked about the future a whole lot, but I know he wants this to be for the long haul, and so do I." She decided not to add that, as a Slayer, the long haul for her would probably mean some time in her twenties.

"Are you sure, Buffy?" asked Joyce seriously, trying not to let her alarm show on her face. Accepting that they loved each other at any level beyond teen infatuation was one thing. Accepting that they wanted to be together for the rest of—well, the rest of Buffy's life, anyway, was another matter entirely, and one she hadn't thought she'd need to be prepared for earlier than Buffy's second or third year of college at least.

"I'm sure," said Buffy softly, looking down at her Claddagh ring and thinking that she really ought to get Angel a new one to replace the one he'd lost in Hell.

"Does he make you happy?"

"More than anything," she said. Her heart filled with warmth.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Mom!" she said, her face turning a vibrant scarlet as the warm, happy bubble in her heart burst and sent all its heat flooding into her cheeks. That conversation had been excruciating enough the first time around. Her mother's expression was unrelenting, however, and also told Buffy that she knew the true answer already. "Yes," she said finally.

"Are you being careful?"

"That's not exactly an issue with him," she said, staring determinedly at the countertop, her face still very red.

"What do you mean?" asked Joyce, confused.

"Angel's a vampire, remember?" said Buffy quietly. "He can't give me a disease or get me pregnant."

"Oh," said Joyce. "Of course. Sorry, I guess some of these questions are pretty much knee-jerk."

Buffy was suddenly visited by a startlingly vivid mental image of a beautiful child whose features were the perfect blend between hers and Angel's. A child that would never exist. The image was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left an awful ache in its wake. "Was that the last plate?" she asked.

"Um, yep, I think so," said Joyce after a brief check of the sink's contents.

"I'll go put these away."

She walked slowly down to the basement, staring at the box in her hands without really seeing it. She was being ridiculous. This shouldn't be getting to her as much as it was. What kind of mother would she be, anyway? Constantly out fighting demons and vampires, risking her life on a nightly basis, and Angel in the same situation. What would happen the night one or both of them didn't come home? What if a demon attacked their home instead, and they weren't the ones who got killed? And it wasn't as if there weren't alternatives, if they actually did manage to get enough stability into their lives to be able to be parents. Infertile couples adopted children all the time. She put the box on its high shelf and went back to the stairs, trying to think about something else.

[o]

Having finished washing the rest of the dishes, Joyce pulled the plug at the bottom of the sink to let the soapy water drain. Then she turned and looked at Buffy, who had just reentered the kitchen. After a few seconds, Buffy pulled herself out of her reverie and met her gaze. Joyce's expression was deep and affectionate and seemed to carry all eighteen years of her motherhood behind it, but it was also laced with hints of humor and shrewdness. "I know this whole…," she paused, waving a hand vaguely as she cast around for a good phrase, "'Meet the Mom' thing was something you probably wish you'd never had to put Angel through." Buffy offered a weak, guilty smile. "But it means a lot to me that my eighteen-year-old superhero still cares enough about what I think to do something that scary of her own free will."

Joyce smiled—a tremulous, brittle thing—, then turned back to the sink and put her hands down on its edge for a long time before looking at Buffy again. "It's hard, sometimes, that when I look at you, I don't see a little girl anymore. You've become this beautiful, strong, brave, and responsible young woman. You face things I can't even imagine every other time you leave this house." Forgetting that her hands were still covered in sudsy water, she walked over and pulled her daughter into a hug. "Oh, Buffy, I'm so proud of you."

It was more than Buffy could handle at the moment, and soon she and her mother were both crying and holding each other. When they eventually pulled apart, they laughed upon catching sight of each other's tear-streaked faces, and then Buffy said that she'd better head off for patrol.

"Will Angel and Faith be with you out there?" asked Joyce anxiously.

"Probably just Angel tonight. Giles is still a little wiggy about letting Faith go on patrols. He mostly just wants her to focus on her double agent stuff for now."

"I guess that's reasonable. Now, go make the streets of Sunnydale safer."

Buffy grinned and saluted her, then practically skipped upstairs to her room to change out of her dress.

[o]

It only took about five seconds of being out of the house for Angel to appear at her side, seemingly out of nowhere, as usual. She almost laughed as she slipped her hand into his; he'd retrieved his coat from his apartment during the twenty minutes since she had last seen him. Meanwhile, he noticed the tear tracks on her cheeks and frowned. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"What?" she said, momentarily confused. "Oh! Yeah. Happy-slash-emotional tears. No worries. It looks like Mom almost completely approves of you. We ended up having 'the talk' again, which was less fun, but it was mostly all good."

"That's a relief," he said, his mild tone not doing nearly enough justice to how relieved he actually felt.

It wasn't until they reached the third cemetery that they ran into anything demonic, and even then it was only a couple of fledglings and one other vampire who might have been a few decades old at most. The fight didn't last long. Both fledglings were disoriented and sluggish in their movements, and the older one, most likely their sire, was simply no match for the likes of Buffy and Angel.

After dusting themselves off from that fight, they visited a couple more cemeteries just to reassure themselves that they weren't shirking their duty, but all of the tension left over from dinner and the recent fight meant that their minds were very much elsewhere. They barely made it into his apartment and got the door closed and locked behind them before they were kissing furiously and tugging at each other's clothing.

[o]

Much later, Angel lay awake, listening to the gentle sound of Buffy's even breathing and relaxed heartbeat.

"If you could have kids, would you want them?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Thought you were asleep," he said, chuckling. "What brought this on?"

"Just, something Mom and I talked about got me thinking…," she said, frowning at the finger she was tracing patterns with across his chest.

"Yes," he said firmly.

"You would want kids?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm," he confirmed.

"Good," she said with a decisive nod of approval. Then she smiled. "I love you," she said, snuggling closer under the blankets and kissing him on the cheek.

Yay, more painfully awkward/heartwarming mother/daughter moments! And yes, Buffy and Angel are totally functional enough at the moment for all that "long haul" talk, as opposed to in canon season three. Hence happy end-of-chapter scene. Now then, as you may have already deduced from certain parts of the dialogue in the chapter, the title was a very deliberate play on the phrase "Deus Ex Machina", which, as you can see, I do actually know how to spell properly. Plays on words are fun, but plays on *Latin* words are ten times better. *Nerd pride*. Okay, I'm going to go away now...