So there the Slayer stood. Two travel mugs on hand and a scarf wound tightly around around her neck. The bottom half of her face. Draped over her shoulders. It was a very long scarf. Buffy stamped her feet to drum up warmth and -- every so often -- nudged her toes against her favoured red-metal scythe as it stood against the bar's outer wall.

And she peered at every figure passing by in the growing darkness.