Just Another California Summer
Every day the sky's blue, flawless and flat as paint. Every day the air stinks of tarry asphalt, dust, and dying flowers. It smells like Buffy's grave, like dirt so dry it crumbled and rained off their shovels as they dug.
Every day it's hot. Giles wanders Sunnydale, sweating, burning, watching people eat ice cream while Buffy lies dead. He wishes he knew what kind she liked. He should have bought her ice cream, taken her to that skating show, not laughed at her shoes. He knew she'd die young, after all.
She should be here for this perfect summer.