The lamp is burning low upon my table top
Snow (snow) softly falling
The air (the air) is still in the silence of my room
I hear (I hear) your voice softly calling

Outside, snow crusted to the frozen glaze of the window pane. Buffy’s fingers curled idly around the glass of wine, twirling it around on the table. Shadows spun as well, cast from the small lamp sitting beside her, from the fire flickering in the hearth. God, she even had a fireplace. It was too rustic, too perfect. A small, isolated cabin on a cold winter’s night, a fireplace and an oil lamp, a glass of wine and an old, worn book of poetry. Any minute now a handsome, half-frozen stranger would pound on the door, telling her of his plight. She would offer him warmth, food, shelter, and they would look into each other’s eyes and fall deeply, hopelessly in love. And there they would be, lost in their perfect little idyll, trapped by the snow storm.

No, Buffy reminded herself. This was real life, and the only strangers stumbling by would be vampires, whom she would kill. That was what she did, after all. Kill vampires. That was why she was here at all.

Briefly, Buffy wondered how Giles was. He’d wanted to come with her, but she’d assured him that she was twenty three and thank you very much, she could handle a little vampire gathering by herself. Even if it was on a mountain in Vermont. Even if the cabin cost a fortune to rent for the weekend. At least they didn’t ask questions. After all, they thought she was skiing.

No, nobody would be coming, Buffy told herself. She was alone, and she should enjoy it while she could. Tomorrow she would go hunt out their hiding place. Tomorrow she would attack them, if the snow had stopped. Maybe even if not. And once they were dead, as all the vampires always were when they met her, she would go home.

No, that was wrong too. Not all vampires were dead after they met her. Sometimes they were just gone, just away.

Buffy remembered the last time she’d seen snow, six years before, and shivered at the silence.

If I could only have you near
To breathe (to breathe) a sigh or two
I would (I would) be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter’s night with you

"Where are you Angel?" Buffy whispered, watching the snow through the frosted windows. "Last time it snowed, it was a miracle, and I loved you. And now you’re gone."

She could just imagine him there, right beside her. This was the perfect setting for him. He always had a fireplace, and oil lamps. The pieces of artwork, the elegant decorating (meant to please the more discriminating vacationers) would set off his gorgeous elegance perfectly. He would watch her with those dark, hurt eyes, and speak in silence, in the perfect silence of the cabin.

Over the past five years, Buffy had learned many things. Things she wished Angel could hear. Things she wished she had known when she had a chance to change his mind. Now there was no chance. Now, there was no Angel and all her wisdom was for nothing.

It wasn’t like she’d been celibate all this time. She’d had relationships, everything from a movie date to David, whom she’d been with for eight months. What she’d realized in those five years was that all the things she’d always thought mattered in a relationship, didn’t. Sure, sex was nice, but it certainly wasn’t everything. If you didn’t have lose, and trust, and devotion, none of that mattered.

Buffy didn’t care if she could never had Angel. What she wanted most at that moment, was to hold his hands again.

The smoke (smoke) is rising in the shadows overhead
My glass (my glass) is almost empty
I read again between the lines upon each page
The words (the words) of love descending

She didn’t realize until almost too late that her hand had tightened around the wine glass, almost too much. She smiled bitterly as she lifted it to her mouth, took a small, slow sip, and set it down again. She gave a tiny sigh and looked down, to the open book in her lap. The pages were worn with turning, a few of the poems had blurred with tearmarks. Of them all, the front page, the one without any poems, was the most read though.

Always, it said, and his voice whispered it over and over in her mind. Always. And yet here she was, and he was gone. Always. He was the one that had walked away from her, and she the one that couldn’t let go. That couldn’t ever let go.

Many things she had learned. Not the least, that it didn’t matter that he had walked away. His love was written in every line of that book, whispered again and again, sung through the poems and in the white silences between the lines. He loved her, he always had and he always would. And so she read it, over and over, savored each line, each remembered whisper and kiss. He loved her. He had walked away, but he loved her.

Swallowing tears, Buffy took another sip of her wine and began to read again, wondering where Angel was, if he ever thought of her.

If I could know within my heart
That you (that you) were lonely too
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter’s night with you

Once in a while Cordelia would call, when they fought a particularly strong vampire, or had some kind of warning for Giles to research. She always told Buffy something of him, in a sort of kind, pitying voice, as if she knew that Buffy had never moved on, despite the string of boyfriends, the jocks and the brains and the shy admirorers she’d dated, searching for one that could fill her soul again. Buffy was glad for the information, but she hated the pity. Mostly because Cordelia had a point, because she probably deserved the pity. Poor Buffy, never got over her boyfriend that dumped her in high school.

Dumped her. Buffy nearly smiled. What an apt description. She’d never liked it, it made her feel like a piece of garbage or something, but maybe it had a point. Not that she thought she was garbage-like, but...well, she hadn’t had a lot of choice in the whole matter.

But none of that mattered. None of it.

She’d been angry for a long time. It seemed like forever. Slowly, that had faded, the hot white rage and anger that had burned everything in it’s path. One morning she woke up beside some sophomore, and began to cry, because she had no more anger left, only pain. He thought it was something he did, poor boy. What was his name? Sean. He was sweet, but no one was Angel. She’d spent the day crying, and the night and then the next morning she vowed that if Angel ever changed his mind, that if he was ever lonely or hurt, she would go to him. She loved him that much. She didn’t care that he had left her. If she knew, or even suspected, that he was alone, that he was sitting alone somewhere thinking of her as she thought of him, she would run to him, wherever it was, and change his mind.

Buffy closed her eyes and imagined he was there, curled her fingers tightly, imagining that she was holding his large, calloused, beautiful hands, that he was there, right beside her, and felt deep inside her the joy that could have brought.

Fire is dying my lamp is growing dim
The shades (shades) of night are lifting
The morning light steals across my window pane
Where webs (where webs) of snow are drifting

Firelight glowed on the walls for one more moment, flared and then dimmed. Buffy stirred, letting out a tiny sigh of resignment as she remembered where she was. She must have drifted off in the chair. Her book was still open in her lap, to the first page, with Angel’s dedication. On the table beside her, a few drops of red wine still sat in the glass. The lamp was nearly burned out, and the fire had nothing more to burn. She shivered at a bit of cold air that had somehow gotten in and taken advantage of the dying fire. Moving slowly, she stretched, setting the book aside and standing up, walking to the fire to add some wood. The sky outside was lightening slowly, though the sun would not show his face, for the snow still fell in sheets. She paused by the frosted glass, wondering how there could possibly be that much snow. Tiny flakes stuck to the glass, creating beautiful lacy webs of ice.

She sighed, turning back to the cottage. She rubbed futiley at her neck, wondering how she’d possibly managed to fall asleep sitting up with her neck at that angle. She drank the last few drops of wine, poked at the fire again, and went to fetch more oil for the lamp. So much for her little fantasy...the night was over, and here she was, still alone. Of course. This was real life, and she would never be anything else. She was the Slayer, it was probably one of those fate things.

Buffy opened the kitchen cabinet, looking for the oil. She paused to pull out a pan and begin some oatmeal for breakfast. She didn’t know how she was supposed to hunt vampires in this weather, but she had to try. She filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil, grabbing the oil to take back to the lamp. It was getting light yes, but in that gray twilight kind of way that it did when the entire sky was covered with think gray clouds, and the world was drenched in small, icy pieces of laces.

THUMP! Buffy nearly dropped the glass cover of the lamp, jumping like a startled rabbit. What? Who? The owner of the resort said no one would disturb her, especially not him, so who would possibly be knocking on the door? Giles wouldn’t have disobeyed her instructions and followed her, would he? Carefully she set the cover on the table and stood, taking a deep breath and walking to the door. Someone had probably gotten lost in the storm and gone to the wrong cabin, or maybe the owner had been worried about her...

Her heart racing beyond all reason, Buffy opened the door.

If I could only have you near
To breathe (to breathe) a sigh or two
I would (I would) be happy just to hold the hands I love
On this winter’s night with you
And to be once again with you

He looked the same. Well, of course he did. Vampires never grew older, never died. Their eyes met. His hair and exposed parts of his skin were covered with snow. Without voilition, Buffy found her hand reaching out to brush some of the white from his spiky dark hair. Their eyes didn’t unlock from each other and after a moment, she pulled her hand back, surprised at himself. Surprised at him for being there. She swallowed.

"Are you half-frozen? Shall I save you?" she whispered.

"Only you could save me," he replied. And slowly, so slowly, Buffy smiled, took his hand, and pulled him inside.

The End

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