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This is the moment when it all comes together. Soft raindrops hit sideways on the glass panes, wind turns the cool air to biting cold, and heavy, overcast clouds obscure the moon and stars.
Jean is at her desk. She's working, as per usual, late into the evening. It's been barely a year since she's taken over this desk, and far less time since she's started to feel comfortable in it.
Lisa sits on the couch, half dozing, half reading. Jean never asks her to stay, and Lisa never asks her to leave, but there will be a moment, in a few hours time, where Lisa will stand, yawn, and announce she is going home and Jean will look up, pretend as if she has just noticed how late it is, and follow. Not yet, though.
Then, the rhythmic sounds stop. Jean notices it first, the metronome of raindrops beating in time with the strokes of her quill suddenly gone silent. She turns, looks, and smiles.
Snow does not fall like rain—it twists in the boughs of the wind, careless and haphazard, whimsical. Frost creeps up the corners of the window, where it catches and lingers for just a bare moment before melting into droplets. It is too warm, too late in the year, for the soft powder to linger, but it is tenacious all the same; the last vestige of winter releasing its grip over the city.
"Lisa," Jean breathes, voice caught in awe.
Lisa stirs, blinking one eye open with a murmured sound of acknowledgement. She follows Jean's wide-eyed, lopsided smile to the window. The twirling flakes sharpen into view, and she finds herself with the same enchanted grin as Jean.
Snow is not a stranger here. In the deepest months of winter, it falls in sheets day after day, where it must be shoveled and set aside for daily life to resume. It is a nuisance, then, another obstacle on Jean's never-ending list of things to do. It is dirty, and messy, and it brings portents of burst pipes, stranded travelers, and closed roads. It's a relief when, just as suddenly as it descended upon the city, the snow starts to melt faster than it falls, and the streets are made into rivers of water that awaken spring blossoms of calla lilies, dandelions, and windwheel asters.
This snowfall, however, is impermanent, inconsequential. In the morning, the snow will melt and the air will be cool with the scent of fallen rain. The sky will be bright and clear, and nobody, save those burning the midnight oil, will ever know it was there.
"Let's go."
"What?" Lisa is still blinking away the stupor of sleep, comfortable and warm beneath Jean's coat.
Jean stands, and offers a hand that Lisa reaches for. Jean’s gloves are cool metal in this warm room. “In the snow. Just for a bit.”
Lisa is tired, perfectly content with the glow of the fire and the heavy weight of blankets and the scent of borrowed clothes and the familiarity of their unspoken rituals. But Jean’s eyes are clear blue skies, shining with childlike wonder, and she cannot deny her this. “Okay.”
The halls of the Ordo Favonius are empty, of course. It is late, dark, and cold, and the marble floors reflect the chill back onto them as they walk. Lisa shivers, and wraps Jean’s coat more tightly around her as its owner drags her by the hand forward. Jean stops in front of the two large doors, and waits. She puts her hand on the door, but does not push. Instead, Lisa places her hand over Jean's, and presses, feeling the door resist briefly before it swings open.
Snow billows into the hall, dusting the two of them in a soft white flurry. Jean lets go of Lisa's hand and runs forward, letting the flakes cling to her clothes. The air is undoubtedly cold, the type of cold that is carried on the breath and fills one up from the inside out. Yet Jean is all smiles, all awe and amazement and Lisa can't help but be warmed by the sight of her from the shelter of the doorframe. It is a side of Jean’s so carefully guarded and rarely seen, and Lisa is grateful to be privy to such unabashed wonder.
Jean looks, just noticing Lisa hidden from the falling snow. She steps and pulls Lisa forward. The snow falls gently around them as they stand close enough to bask in the heat of each other’s breaths. On Jean's blonde hair the powder is invisible, but the snowflakes are bright against Lisa's brown, and catch on her eyelashes before melting. The falling crystals sting like frostbitten kisses where they land on unprotected skin.
Jean fumbles, bringing her hand to cup Lisa’s face just as Lisa leans forward, and they bump noses into each other. They laugh. Jean's face is flushed pink. Lisa's is too, and they lean forward again, and succeed in pressing soft lips to soft lips.
It does not last. It is cold, very cold, and even the warmth between them is not enough to stop Jean shivering in the absence of her coat. When they pull away, they both break out in laughter, again, at their foolishness, their longing, their nervousness laid suddenly bare as they shuffle back into the hall and close the door behind them.
For the night, for the precious moment shared only between them, it is everything, and it is enough.