He missed the London, cut ‘em with a knife, fogs. The days you could actually walk outside without a protective cover. Not seeing an inch in front of your face, or being seen. The excitement of walking a short block, not being sure what lay ahead, and feeling the moisture coat your skin.
And rain. How he missed rain. Standing outside with your face turned upwards, feeling it pelting down into your eyes, into your mouth. The sting of the little drops as they bounced off your skin. Refreshing. Cleansing, even, if he cared about such things. He longed to see her drenched with rain.
Northern European snow. Snow so deep it came up to your hips. Watching Dru make snow angels, then laugh when she rose because they didn’t look a thing like Angelus. Watching the children throwing snowballs. He realized with regret that Dawn had never been in a snowball fight. Neither had Buffy. The closest she’d been to winter was in an artificial ice rink.
He’d never told her that he was a good skater. Thought it would work against his image. Of course, his big bad reputation was already tarnished beyond repair. Maybe he should ask her to go skating with him.
But it was the rain he missed most. Incessantly sunny days became repetitious. He’d like to take her to a rainy clime. Without the rain, how could you enjoy the sun?
On the other hand, maybe that was something she understood far too well.