Joyce would be proud.

Silly question I need answered for a fic I'm writing. When you hang up the phone, what do you call the little button or buttons that sever the connection? I'm trying to describe someone tapping them to see if the connection is dead, or if he can get a dial tone.

Am-Chau, I like how you've set up the pairing, and given how important the Darla-shaggage was to Angel's journey, I'm looking forward to seeing what changes (and doesn't change) from this point on.

I call it the switch or, sometimes, the cradle, because I remember rotary phones. (that could be a fun memory riff for Spike/Angel, remembering all the different types of phones they've seen making a note )

Many thanks! (BTW, I have a Bakelite rotary phone from about 1940 or so that still works. It's funny to watch people confronted with a dial for first time in eons.)

I like the idea of Spike and/or Angel doing a memory riff on something like telephones, etc. Anya might be fun to drag into a conversation of that kind as well.

Depending on the phone type, it might be a talk button (cordless), otherwise, cradle works.

I would google myself... Actually, I have, but my pen name is too common, and my actual name is too obscure. Still, I am a massive whore for feedback. Maybe I should try again.

(Want more Oz.)

(That is all.)

Soon there will be more Oz/Angel. Just let me recover from this burst of original novel writing.

Very small chunk, to try and prime the pump

As Buffy entered the kitchen, she heard sounds from the laundry room. "Dawn? You'll wake Mom."

Joyce came out of the laundry room, wearing her robe and leaning on her hated walker. "It's me, Buffy."

"Mom?" Buffy went to help her into a chair. "Oh, Mom, you've only been home for two days, you're supposed to be still resting, not worrying about the laundry."

"Well, from the size of the piles in there, someone should be." She looked down uncomfortably. "Actually, I was hoping to get a few things done before either of you woke up. I--had a little accident--spilled ..."

Buffy noticed her mother wasn't wearing anything under her robe, and she suddenly realized just what kind of accident Joyce meant. She called on every ounce of Slayer stoicism not to react to her mother's embarrassment. "You could have called. I'd have heard. I'd have been glad to help."

Pride replaced embarrassment. "I'm never going to get better if I don't do things for myself. But I will let you move things from the washer to the dryer."

"OK. And while we're waiting for the washer to finish, I'll make some breakfast."

"Thank you, dear."

Buffy took a few extra moments looking at the contents of the fridge, trying not to cry. It was just one of those bobbles on the road to recovery. Compared to how she was just a few weeks ago, Joyce was practically ready to run a marathon. They'd had the hospital's resources to depend on, though, before. Now, while Joyce might not still need extensive care, it was up to Buffy and Dawn to see to the needs of an invalid. And that on top of trying to make sure the world didn't end. Again.

She got a grip and pulled out the eggs and ham. Lesser mortals did this sort of thing every day. A Slayer could take care of her recuperating mother and protect the Key. All before breakfast. Which she could cook too.

She took the eggs and a bowl to Joyce. "Here, crack the eggs into this. I keep smooshing them in my fingers, stupid fragile things. Don't worry about any little bits of shell or anything like that. Dawn and I are used to that. I'm going to go get the paper." She hurried out before Joyce could finish her disbelieving look and move on to Lecture on Proper Breakfast Preparation.

More, please.