Word Count: 479
Spoilers: None. Post-Chosen, in some non-comics spoiled futureverse where Buffy is living in England and working for the new Watcher's Council
Summary: if it stayed like this, she wouldn’t care if the snow lasted to Christmas.
Author's Note: For the prompt: Snowflake from sb_fag_ends.
For a Sunnydale girl like Buffy, snow was rare. It was something to be wondered at, to be thought about only at Christmas, as the tree was trimmed with silver snowflakes and delicate icicles of twisted glass; then forgotten again as they were packed back into their box for the next year. Winter wasn’t something to worry about in her part of the sunny state, where earthquakes were more common than the cold, white stuff; so she never did.
After a winter or two with Giles in England though, she’d realised most people thought the wintry weather was so much nicer to look at than to actually deal with. Automobiles got stuck. The trains didn’t run. The British complained a lot, then skipped out on work and complained about that. The whole country ground to a slippery halt. The watchers in the Watcher’s Council would shake their heads as they sat in the warm by their roaring fires, despairing the state of their nation over endless cups of hot, sugary tea. Few of them actually enjoyed snow, not unless they were skiing in Val d'Isère anyway.
But Buffy loved it,
Wrapped up warm, she’d still patrol; dragging Spike with her out into the crisp, cool air. She was just glad to be out in the night with her partner, away from the endless talk of apocalypses and the next prophecy to predict a demon to rise. She’d fight it when it was ready, not discuss it to death before it had even awoken. And Spike was always good company; even though the cold temperatures slowed his dead body down and his reflexes were sluggish. he never complained though, because she snuggled close to keep him warm. This was their time and she treasured it, and she knew he did too,
As they walked through the winter wonderland, snow would start to fall again in soft, silent flurries, flitting around them like soft downy feathers shaken loose from the wings of a tattered angel. She didn’t care that her fingers and toes were cold, or that she could barely move her arm to raise her stake in her huge puffy jacket; she didn’t think of the damage winter’s icy breath was doing to the exposed skin on her cheeks, making them rosy with the chill, or about how much moisturising she’d have to do to fix it; she didn’t even care that few vamps were likely to be trudging through the drifts for an elusive meal anyway, and as she shared quick flirty kisses with Spike amongst the snowflakes, she couldn’t care less about the chaos the snow caused, because if it stayed like this, quiet, pretty, romantic, she wouldn’t care if the snow lasted to Christmas.
She would kiss her dead lover in the white of the winter, cold lips to cold lips, and she would never feel warmer.