Snowfall
Snow fell on Sunnydale. Snow fell and coated the streets, the houses, everything in a clean beautiful crust, hiding all that was wrong and unnatural.
Except for him.
He stood on his knees in a park, chilled tears streaking down his face, voices shouting in his head. She had brought him calmness for the briefest of moments, she had saved him, but they returned, the pain of the souls lost, the grief of the people left behind.
Murderer, they whispered. Murderer.
He heard bootsteps on the snow, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and the other man was there, standing above him, his face as cold as the snowflakes in his hair.
"I'm sorry," he said to the man. "I'm sorry I killed her."
The man knelt down next to him, looked at him, and said, in the softest of voices, low enough that only inhuman senses could hear.
"I forgive you."
His lips pressed against his for the briefest of seconds, his touch healing, helping, saving. He closed his eyes, and the man walked away.