She’d told him once. About the snowy morning she’d shared with Angel. He’d scoffed and tried to chalk it up to the Powers way of making sure Angel’s shadow would always be around to properly pester Spike.

After that last year at Sunnydale, he’d often wondered why Angel’d gotten off so easy from his little run in with the First, whereas Spike had been beaten, broken, and drained from his ordeal. In his more downtrodden moments, he believed it was because Buffy had loved Angel more. Or, at all, really.

But right now, watching Buffy frolic around in the snow like a kid, hurling snowballs at her sister – he was finding it hard to be even the tiniest bit bitter.

Maybe it was the sunlight glinting off the snowflakes in Buffy’s hair that had something to do with it. He’d have to remember to compose some particularly bad poetry for Angel regarding that sight in the next “Thanks for the Shanshu” letter he sent. After all, Angel did so enjoy Spike’s poetry…

Of course, that’d have to wait until after he taught a lesson to the Slayer who’d just pelted him in the back of the head with a snowball.

Being a Watcher, Giles thought he’d had a decent grasp on what it meant to have sleepless nights. Night after night, he’d stay up, waiting for Buffy to report in from patrol, so that he could log the information into his diaries. There was always the niggling worry that this time, she wouldn’t phone, but invariably she would. A warm cup of tea and a good book later would find him sound asleep in the comfort of his bed. The nights since Jenny’s death, however, brought a whole new meaning to sleepless nights, when his bed was made of thorns.