Part One

There was still no answer at Apartment 92 when Buffy knocked the third time. Unwilling to give up, she tried the doorbell again, pressing her ear against the peeling brown paint to see if she could hear it ringing. Still no answer, nor was there any indication of movement inside. “Shit,” she hissed under her breath, tugging up the wilted strap of her tank top as she headed back toward the car.

The humidity outside was stifling. Buffy felt as if she was trapped inside a big oven, which someone with a penchant for cruelty had begun to preheat. She ran her forearm over her brow, wiping away the beads of sweat that had gathered there.

“No one’s there,” she said when she reached the parking lot, not bothering to look at the person she was addressing. But in her peripheral vision, she saw him and took comfort in the fact that he was still there. Sometimes she worried that she would look back and find he wasn’t.

Safely concealed within the building’s shadows, Spike cast doubtful eyes towards the sky as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “We’re wasting time here, Slayer.”

She winced at the nickname, wondering if he’d ever call her anything else again. It wasn’t as if she’d asked him to. They didn’t have conversations like that anymore. “Quit saying that,” she said. “We’re not wasting anything. This girl is just as important as any of the others.”

Pulling his gaze from the sky, Spike stared hard at her. It wasn’t quite a glare, but it was close. “I just don’t see why you have to gather all these Slayer-types up. You hunt ‘em down and herd ‘em across the pond, whether they want to go or not.”

Sighing in frustration at the fresh start of an old argument, she replied, “They need to be trained, Spike. They need to be educated about their calling and how to handle it. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

Spike snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, whatever. Apparently this particular Slayer doesn’t want to be found. We’ve been all over town, and she slips away right before we get there. Maybe you should just let it go. Let the bint live her life, short as that life might be.”

Buffy spun around to face him, lingering in the sunshine just outside the building’s shadows, knowing he couldn’t join her there. “Look, if you don’t want to be here, find a payphone and book yourself a plane ticket home. I have work to do, and I’ll get the job done, with or without you.”

“Have you looked at the sky?” he snapped back, jabbing a finger at the dark clouds gathering to the southeast. “Have you paid attention to any of the news reports? There’s a bleedin’ hurricane coming in, heading right for New Orleans, which in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in. That doesn’t concern you at all?”

“Not really, no,” she said, pulling a map out of the back pocket of her cutoffs. “Now we’ve got one more lead on this girl, and I’m going to follow it. Her parents have a house north of town. She might have gone there because of the storm. Are you coming with me, or should I just drop you off at the airport?”

“Doubt I could get a flight. Town’s clearing out, in case you haven’t noticed. People are evacuating. If this Slayer of yours has a shred of common sense, which you obviously don’t possess yourself, she’s probably already packed her suitcase. You’re not going to find her here.”

Buffy glowered at him as the line of clouds passed over the sun, sending everything into shadow. The truth was that she was a bit concerned. She’d seen the boarded-up windows and the people crowding the gas stations, topping off their tanks before they headed inland. But part of her didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was just a big, swirly thunderstorm, wasn’t it? Why should she be afraid of a little rain and wind? Besides, giving up now would be equivalent to saying Spike was right, and there was no way in hell she was going to run up the white flag when it came to arguing with him. She was going to find that Slayer and put her evasive ass on the next flight to London if it killed them both. And then she’d rub his nose in it.

Spike threw his unlit cigarette to the ground, muttering a string of curses underneath his breath that Buffy didn’t catch. But to her relief, he got into the backseat of the car and pulled the blanket over his head without another word of protest. Buffy slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, cooing happily when the air conditioner came to life. Shooting a final glare at the backseat, she pushed the air vents so that they were all hitting her directly – and nowhere else.

She hoped it was very uncomfortable underneath that blanket.

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Their next lead was further inland, which proved to be something of a challenge. The freeways were packed with evacuees, forcing Buffy to find more creative paths to take toward their goal. But after an hour had passed since she detoured from the main road, she realized she had spent every minute of it trying to convince herself that she wasn’t lost.

It was all Spike’s fault, of course. He was ignoring her, refusing to speak, and that was terribly distracting to Buffy. He didn’t even yell at her when she accidentally drove over a median, testing the limits of the rental car’s shocks and the patience of every other driver in the vicinity. But the second the sun dipped behind the cloudy horizon, Spike emerged from the blanket, leaning forward so that his face very close to hers. “Pull the hell over, Slayer,” he growled. “I’m driving.”

She let him, and to her relief, they found the house they were looking for five minutes later.

“Bloody hell,” said Spike when he saw the boarded-up windows adorning the old antebellum home. “Do the words ‘I told you so’ mean anything to you? Because if not, they’re about to. Trust me on that one.”

“Shut up, Spike,” she snapped. “There might be someone still inside. C’mon, let’s go knock on the door.”

Clenching his teeth, Spike followed her out of the car but not up to the porch. He leaned against the side of the house and stared up through the summertime foliage of the ancient trees that dotted the property. The wind had picked up considerably since they’d left the apartment complex, and the enormous branches were beginning to sway wildly in protest. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he tried to light it, but the wind kept blowing out the flame on his lighter.

“All right, I give,” said Buffy after five minutes of futile knocking. “She probably evacuated with her family. Let’s just go back to the hotel and wait this storm out. We’ll contact her when she comes back to town.”

Spike flicked his useless lighter shut. “We won’t make it to the hotel.”

“It’s not even raining yet,” she argued. She had more to say on the matter but was interrupted by the sudden spatter of raindrops in her face. They were harsh and biting, like no rain she’d ever felt before. “Okay, please tell me these people just forgot to turn off their sprinkler system.”

He didn’t reply but continued to stare at the groaning tree limbs above them. His wary silence frightened Buffy more than anything. He looked like an animal that knew instinctively when nature was about to do something not-so-nice. “So what do we do?” she asked.

Spike sighed and nodded toward the house. “Nothing like a little breaking and entering to get the evening off to a nice start. We’re in for a bumpy ride, I’m afraid. Oh, and Slayer? Just so we’re clear: I fucking told you so.”

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To be continued.

A/N: Just about everything in this story is symbolic. From the storm, to Spike’s lighter that just won’t light, to the missing Slayer, to the house. Even Buffy’s poor driving choices. I think there were three symbols in the first paragraph alone. There’s going to be a lot of that, so keep your eyes open. I’ll post what everything means after I put up the final chapter.

I'm eventually going to turn this into a series of Buffy and Spike traveling around together.

Upon first glance, the house seemed icky and uninviting to Buffy, like something from a haunted house ride at a theme park. It was, in a word – old. And she didn’t know quite what to make of that. She had always thought of her house on Revello Drive as old, but this place was positively ancient in comparison – maybe even older than Spike.

Still, when she looked a little closer, Buffy had to admit the house was rather grand. The rose and lattice china displayed behind etched glass certainly hadn’t come from Ikea. The people who lived here were very wealthy and not afraid to let their guests know it. But there was something off about the place that Buffy didn’t like – something gaudy and excessive, which stifled much of the charm of the impressive furnishings. Spike sniffed at the paintings on the wall and muttered something about nouveau riche.

“At least it isn’t a Bed and Breakfast,” he said. “You’d be running for the hills at the very idea.”

Buffy ignored the remark and continued looking around. The place was clean, if a little creepy. She was pleased by the lack of spider webs and dust on the heavy wooden antiques. But something niggled at the back of her mind, like something was there watching them. She peered up the long staircase to the second floor and said, “If Boo Radley is hiding up there, I’m so gonna kick your ass.”

Spike blinked. “I’m sorry, did you just make a literary reference?”

“What? No, I saw the movie,” she said. “Wait, there’s a book?”

“Oh, good grief…” he murmured under his breath as he walked down the hallway, his boots thumping on the wood flooring. He spotted an old television, complete with antennas, in one of the bedrooms. The people who lived there might be rich, he thought, but they were old fashioned as well.

Following him, Buffy frowned when she saw him turn the television on. “You’re gonna watch TV? Your priorities are seriously messed up, you know that?”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he aimed a glare in her direction. “News report? Might be helpful?”

While Spike stared at the black and white television picture, trying to discern what was being said through all the static, Buffy busied herself with other things in the room. She poked at doilies and gave the perfume on the vanity a cautious sniff, but her eyes never left Spike’s back as she hovered around the room behind him. Times like these were the only occasions she would allow herself to really look at him – when he was occupied doing something else and wouldn’t catch her.

“Damn,” he muttered, standing up to adjust the antennas. “Lost the channel. You hear what they said?”

“Nope,” she replied, setting down the perfume with shaky hands. It smelled like her mother. “Don’t care, either.”

“Well, you should,” he said as he clicked the television off. “It’s not looking good out there, Slayer. You better be glad these people boarded up the windows before they took off. I wonder if they left supplies around or took everything with them?”

Buffy followed him out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, shaking her head incredulously. “Oh, please. We’ll be out of here in a few hours, tops. Just chill out.”

Spike wasn’t listening. Opening up the refrigerator, he frowned and said, “No water in here. Grab some pitchers, Slayer. Bowls, cups, whatever. We need to get some water out of the pipes now before the storm moves through. Won’t be long now.”

A quick search through the cabinets unearthed a variation of pitchers, which she handed over to him. “Wait, is this stuff for me?” she asked, watching in distaste as he placed a pitcher under the faucet and began filling it up. “I’m not drinking tap water.”

“You will when you get thirsty enough.”

Pouting, Buffy opened the refrigerator and glared at the meager contents. “Haven’t these people ever heard of a Brita filter?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Look, why don’t you go make yourself useful for once? Go hunt for a flashlight or something. No candles, if you can help it.”

“How come you know so much about this stuff?” she asked, ignoring his request. “Hurricanes, I mean.”

“Went through one. Long time ago.”

Buffy stared at him carefully, noting the uncharacteristic tension in his shoulders. He carried the same wariness she’d seen earlier as he’d watched the tree limbs outside. Come to think of it, he’d been that way ever since he’d first heard of the storm. “You’re really kinda wigged out, aren’t you?” she said.

Spike shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You’re serious?” she snorted. “It’s just a little rain and wind, Spike. Don’t be such a baby.”

He stared at her. “Have you ever been through one?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “California doesn’t really get that kind of thing. But hey – I’m an El Nino survivor. That counts, right?”

Spike gave her a look that clearly implied it didn’t. “You ever heard of the big Galveston hurricane? September 1900?”

She shook her head.

“Crack a history book sometime, and you’ll see why I’m quote-unquote, ‘wigged out.’ Dru thought the Texas coast would be a nice vacation spot after we left China – she always knew where the action was going to be before it happened. I’d never been to the States, so I thought, why not? Galveston was the big thing back then. Bloody playground for the rich and stupid.”

“So a hurricane hit while you were there? A bad one?”

Spike nodded. “Dru kept babbling on about the wind and the waves, how merry it would be when they would come dancing across the island. I should have known she was being literal.”

Buffy waited for him to say more. “And…?” she asked. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

“No,” he replied evenly. “That’s just all I really care to share with you.” He set a second pitcher of water on the counter beside the first. “Now then, that should be enough water for you. I’ll look for you some food. Now be a love and go find those flashlights, yeah? You’ll be wanting them when the lights go out.”

Buffy’s frown deepened. The lights were going to go out? Groaning, she trudged out of the kitchen and began her search.

She’d already looked through the bedroom with the perfume in it – nothing there of particular interest. So she continued down the hallway a bit and found another bedroom, which was crammed with antique sideboards and an enormous four-poster bed. She flicked the light switch and stared up at the high ceiling, delighted with what she saw. “Ooooh, ceiling fan,” she said to herself. “Thanks, Mister Radley.”

Forgetting all about the flashlight, she tugged on the cords of the fan until it was set as high as it would go. It was probably older than she was, but it worked. The humidity was thick, even inside the house, and the fan did little more than push the hot air around – but it was better than nothing. She threw herself onto the bed, surprised when she sank down into the cushy, feather mattress. Maybe the house wasn’t so bad, after all, she decided, letting her eyelids droop as she listened to the rain. The stress of the day was beginning to hit her, and with it came fatigue. Being in close quarters with Spike wasn’t exactly easy.

The trip had been difficult at best – nearly impossible at worst. Taking him along with her to locate new Slayers had seemed like a good idea at the beginning. Things hadn’t been good between them in a long time – not since she’d found out that he was alive when, for two long years, she had thought him dead. It was difficult for her to forgive him for that. Only now, after months of apologizing and explaining, Spike was angry with her, too. He was struggling to forgive her for not forgiving him. It was a hopeless, baffling mess that made her want to hide under a rock. Possibly drop a second rock on his head.

For a long time after their reunion, they’d fought as badly as they ever had in his soulless years, but at least he was there to fight with. The alternative still gave her nightmares sometimes. But right before the trip, they had started to become indifferent to one another, barely speaking on the few occasions that they saw each other. That bothered Buffy more than any argument they’d ever had. It was part of the reason she’d asked him to come along.

Dawn had been the one to suggest taking Spike on the trip. “People argue with each other on vacation, Buffy,” she had said. “It’s like a given. At least you guys can’t ignore each other on the road, right? Even fighting is better than that. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even make up.”

Buffy snorted. There wasn’t much chance of that happening. Not with the way Spike had been acting. Granted, she hadn’t been the easiest person to get along with either. But at least they were talking to each other again. Most of what they said was cutting and sarcastic – but it was communication.

Staring up at the wobbling ceiling fan, she found herself thinking back to her brief conversation with Spike in the kitchen. She still wasn’t worried about the hurricane, regardless of everything he’d said, but the fact remained that he’d actually talked to her in a real sense. He’d even told her a bit about his past, which he rarely did even back when they had been close. More than that, she’d been willing to listen. That was new. Still, she wasn’t sure if she liked the change yet. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for it – or if she was ready to forgive him.

In the distance, thunder rolled across the city.

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To be continued.

A/N -- Sorry this was so short. More soon!

Feedback?

Part Three

Buffy didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she woke up with a gasp. Had the bed just been shaking, or was she dreaming? The room was stiflingly hot and so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. Apparently the house had lost electricity while she’d been asleep. But more frightening than the darkness was the roaring outside. What was that, she wondered as she sat up wide-eyed in the bed. She’d never heard anything like it, at least not outside the Hellmouth. Surely that couldn’t be the wind?

“Spike?” she called out in a small voice. The heaviness that clung to the air seemed to carry her words no more than a few feet. There was no answer.

A chill ran through her as something caught her eye in the far corner of the room. It was a pale, wispy glimmer that Buffy hoped was merely a product of her imagination. She stared at it in disbelief as it danced playfully across the room and vanished a few moments later through the wall. Okaaaay, she thought. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fists, she decided it was high time to get the hell out of there.

Reaching out in the darkness, she inched her way off of the bed, feeling for the edge with her fingers since she couldn’t see it. She felt something beside her on the mattress and picked the object up, realizing after a moment that it was a flashlight. Spike had probably left it there for her in a rare moment of foresight. She fumbled with the switch and had to shake the batteries, but it worked. With the aid of the pale swath of light, she got her bearings and rose from the bed. She couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.

The house had been creepy enough earlier when the lights were on, but it was downright terrifying when cast into complete darkness. The roar of the wind outside wasn’t helping her nerves. It howled like a banshee, ripping and scraping across the exterior of the house. Buffy grabbed for the wall, keeping her hand on it for support as she made her way down the hallway.

“Spike?” she called again. “Spike, where are you?”

Still no answer. She wanted to cry – and that was pissing her off. She was the Slayer, she told herself. Or at least a Slayer. There was no reason she should be afraid. But the fact remained that she was alone in the dark, in a strange house that was practically shaking under the force of a hurricane – not to mention the strange glimmer she’d seen dancing across the bedroom. Perhaps under the circumstances, she should cut herself some slack and accept the fact that she was terrified. Or alternately, she could stand up straight, find Spike, and kick his ass around the room for leaving her alone. She selected Option B. At least it would be distracting.

She did stand up straight and lifted her chin for good measure. Armed with new confidence, however superficial, she made her way into the kitchen, the last place she’d seen Spike. Apparently, though, that was hours ago. Who knew where he’d gone while she’d been asleep?

Without warning, an icy chill ran over her exposed skin, and for the first time that day, Buffy wished she had worn more than cutoff jeans and a tank top. She looked around, wondering where the cold air was coming from. It was biting and unpleasant, and it only amplified the feeling that something wasn’t quite right in the house. She’d suspected as much the very second she’d walked in the door.

The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up when the floorboards creaked behind her. She whirled around with her flashlight and cried out in alarm at what she saw.

It was a man’s face – and only his face – floating about six feet off of the ground, where it had probably stood on a body once upon a time. His skin glowed pale in the darkness, and his brow was thick, casting a heavy shadow over his eyes.

Buffy thought about running, but her feet simply wouldn’t move. Wait a second, she reasoned. Slayer here.

And with that realization came new confidence – genuine, this time. She clenched her fists and gave the apparition a look that clearly implied he should find someone else to mess with. To her surprise, the face faded away into the shadows, leaving her breathless and shaken.

The floorboards creaked again, this time immediately behind her; she swung around without a second thought. Her fist came into contact with a surprised face.

“Bloody hell!” sputtered Spike as he fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. “That fucking hurt, Slayer!”

Buffy’s shoulders relaxed when she saw who had snuck up behind her. “You’ll live,” she replied between deep breaths as she tried to calm herself.

“The hell’s gotten into you?” asked Spike as he got to his feet, gingerly touching his split lower lip. “Look like you’re about to come unhinged.”

“There’s something in here,” she told him. “In this house. I thought I saw…”

“Yeah, I know,” he cut her off. “Ghosts. Two of ‘em, I think. There may be more, I dunno. Probably wondering what we’re doing in their house.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What? We can’t stay here, Spike. No way. This place is just … ugh.”

Spike gave her a questioning look. “Not like you to get so worked up, Slayer. What’s the what?”

“I don’t know. This place is just unnerving me for some reason. I don’t like it here at all.”

“Well, there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Ghosts can’t hurt you. Might spook you a bit, but well – they’re called spooks for a reason. Can slam doors and throw things at you, but I don’t see that as being much different from living with Dawn. We’ll be fine. Don’t see that we have much of a choice, anyway.”

“I think one shook my bed while I was asleep.”

“Maybe it thought it was high time you woke up,” said Spike. “Getting nasty outside. Was about to come fetch you myself. The bedrooms are too exposed. Could be a nice tree through the roof come morning.”

“Can’t we just go into the basement?” she asked. “That’s a safe place, right?”

Spike shook his head. “This is New Orleans, Slayer. You’re not likely to find a basement here. Place is a swamp – they don’t even bury their dead underground. I’ve already made us a place in the middle of the house.”

Buffy wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “What kind of place?”

“C’mere,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. He padded through the house confidently, unconcerned with the darkness or ghosts, while she shone her flashlight into every corner she encountered.

“Shall I hold your hand, Slayer?” mocked Spike as he led her into a parlor, one of the few rooms that was situated in the center of the house.

“Here’s an idea,” she shot back. “How about I hold yours? You’re the one who’s freaked out by the storm.”

“Touché,” he replied evenly. “So what do you think of the room? Does it get the fabled Slayer stamp of approval?”

Buffy frowned at the parlor. It was probably quite beautiful in the daytime, but it was too dark for her to think much of it at that moment. It was lit only by the few candles Spike had painstakingly set around the room, supported on all sides to keep them from toppling. He was apparently afraid of starting a fire should the storm somehow find a way inside the house. It struck her as odd. She’d never known him to be so purposeful about something like that. She wondered again exactly what had happened to him in Galveston.

The room was mostly comprised of wooden surfaces. The hardwood floors were covered in gaudy, expensive rugs, and a fireplace sat cold and unused against the wall. Two paintings, framed in gold, hung above the mantle – a man and a woman from another time. There was a baby grand piano in one corner of the room and a gathering of couches and chairs in the other. Buffy found the room stiff and uninviting.

She glanced down and saw that Spike had located supplies and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. There were blankets, pillows, water, and other necessities. She noticed he’d also brought in the emergency bag they kept in the car, filled with weapons, medical supplies, and changes of clothes. She hoped they wouldn’t need any of that, but it was nice to know it was there all the same. Beside the bag were all the things only Spike would think to gather in an emergency – a variety of crunchy, flavorful snacks, a deck of cards, a variety of dilapidated books from the library, and … was that alcohol? God, she hoped so.

From the looks of it, Spike had already had a few drinks himself. There was a cool anger about him, something she often noticed when he was slightly intoxicated. Spike followed her gaze to the bottles he’d lined up on the coffee table. “Pinched ‘em from the wine cabinet,” he explained. “‘Fraid I’m gonna have to be pretty damn hammered if I’m going to last the night.” The ‘with you’ was implied.

“Hope you’re willing to share. Seems I’ve got the same problem.” Buffy threw herself down on the couch, which was stiff and uncomfortable, and watched him pop the cork out of one of the bottles of wine. “You know, you could try being a little nicer,” she said. “It wouldn’t kill you or anything.”

He glanced up at her, surprised. “What, it’s all me, then? You’re not doing anything wrong yourself? Please.”

She blinked at him as he filled the wine glasses, feeling a little stunned at the venom behind his words. When had they started being so cruel to each other? She didn’t know if she could handle much more. “Listen, Spike,” she said, accepting the glass he held out to her. “Can we maybe stop? Even if it’s just for tonight?”

“Stop what?” he muttered, taking a seat beside her on the couch.

“The snarking,” she replied. “The fighting, the insults. I just get tired sometimes.”

He was quiet for a moment, as if he was letting the words soak in. To her eyes, it suddenly looked as if he was about to cry. That surprised her. Somehow it hadn’t ever registered how deeply Spike was hurting because of the rift in their relationship. He was mentally curled up in the fetal position, lashing out at her to keep from being hurt himself. She’d always assumed he was simply angry with her because she’d rejected him – but no, Spike was just hurting. But damn it, so was she. Her throat grew tight, and she looked away, feeling a fresh wave of resentment flow through her.

“I don’t mean to show my adolescent side,” said Spike, “but you bloody well started it.”

Buffy tasted her wine thoughtfully before replying. “I know,” she admitted. “Let’s both just try to make it through the night without killing each other, okay?”

There was another pause, and she felt him looking at her. “Right then,” he said, reaching for the deck of cards. “Fancy a game of Rummy? Might as well get comfy and find a way to pass the time. ‘Fraid we’re gonna be here a while.”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I’m not in the mood for Rummy.”

“Poker, then? We could play for your knickers.”

“Whereupon I forget about what we just agreed on and kill you out of spite.”

Spike smirked and began to shuffle the cards. “How about we enlist the help of our resident ghosts and play Hearts? Need four for that game. Bet they’re as bored as we are.”

Across the room, the flames on all the candles flickered and nearly blew out. Buffy turned to glare at Spike. “Don’t say stuff like that,” she hissed.

“You pick the game, then,” he said, holding out the deck for her to cut.

“Go Fish?” she asked hopefully.

He rolled his eyes and snorted. “Brilliant. God, this is going to be a long night.”

The game proceeded without further conversation. By the time they worked through the first bottle of wine and into the second, Buffy was feeling warm and slightly more relaxed, though not as relaxed as she would have liked to be. The shadows all seemed to be moving around her, breathing with hidden intent. Spike was distracted as well, she noticed – constantly tilting his head to listen to the wind. The storm had worsened considerably since she’d woken up in the bedroom, and she could actually hear debris flying down the street at times, crashing into trees and street signs, even the side of the house. An eerie whistle floated above it all as the wind picked up.

“Galveston,” said Buffy, breaking the silence. When Spike glanced up at her curiously, she said, “Tell me more about the hurricane you were in. Was it like this?”

Spike’s entire countenance changed, going from slightly tense to absolutely rigid in a matter of seconds. “No,” he replied in a quiet voice, looking away. Setting his cards down, he began searching through his pockets. She knew he was after his cigarettes. Her question had apparently unnerved him.

“What was so different about it?” she pressed. Curiosity was beginning to gnaw at her.

“Dunno,” he replied dismissively. “Stuff.” His hands emerged empty from his pockets, and he let out a frustrated sigh. “The hell are my fags?”

“Why won’t you talk to me about it?” she asked, unwilling to let him change the subject. “I don’t get it. What happened in Galveston that was so horrible?”

“Why do you keep pushing this?”

“Why do you keep avoiding my questions?”

“Because it’s none of your damn business,” he snapped. “You made it clear to me months ago I wasn’t one of your nearest and dearest anymore. Don’t see any reason why I should tell you anything.”

Buffy bit the inside of her cheek, steeling herself against getting into an argument with him. Whatever he was hiding from her, it was personal. Deeply personal. No amount of yelling at him was going to make him open up – quite the opposite. If she wanted to figure anything out, she was going to have to play nice with the stubborn vampire. Maybe she would get some answers out of him eventually – if she didn’t kill him first.

Fanning out her cards in front of her, she smiled at him derisively. “Got any queens?” she asked through clenched teeth.

Spike flinched. “Go fish.”

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To be continued.

Part Four

Near midnight, the ghosts grew suddenly restless. To Buffy, it seemed as if their activity increased with the tempo of the storm. As the wind picked up speed outside, books would randomly fly off of their shelves, banging into walls or falling to the hardwood floor with a crack. Lamps would topple, sounding in time with the groaning of the trees outside. Sometimes the faint outline of a face would appear in the far shadows of the room, its dead gaze flickering in the dim candlelight.

It was about to drive Buffy mad.

While the storm obviously made Spike uncomfortable, the ghosts didn’t appear to concern him much. They annoyed him but didn’t seem to frighten him in the least. His attention was drawn instead to the creaking of the house, as it seemed to almost stretch and bow over under the weight of the wind. When he wasn’t staring anxiously at the eastern wall of the house, he busied himself with drinking, tinkering nervously at the piano, or reading from one of the books the ghosts had tossed his way. Sometimes he did all three at the same time.

Buffy couldn’t concentrate on anything. The book Spike had set in front of her remained unopened. Next to it was the game of Solitaire her nerves had kept her from finishing. She sat in a dim circle afforded by a single candle, clutching a blanket so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She shivered even though she was far from cold. The only thing she seemed capable of doing was thinking – and none of her thoughts were particularly comforting.

She couldn’t figure out why she was so afraid. Fear wasn’t a sensation she was used to, not unless she was facing down a god or the original source of evil in the world. A hurricane or a ghost hardly matched the might of Glory or The First – so why did Buffy feel so afraid? It took her a while to figure it out, but when she glanced at Spike’s back, seeing the way it was turned resolutely against her, she finally pinpointed the real problem – and it just about scared her to death.

She was alone.

Even through the darkest times of her life, Buffy had never been truly alone. Sure, there was a certain amount of isolation that came with the Slayer job description, particularly when it came to the bigger fights – but she had her physical strength to make up for that. In her everyday life, however, she had always had people around to support her, even when she didn’t want them there. Her parents had been there when she was young, then Giles and the Scoobies had come along. Angel had been there, too, for a time. And then of course, there was Spike. During that horribly dark period of her life, he’d been there for her the only way he thought she’d let him. He’d continued to stand by her side until he burned to ashes.

But that was a long time ago.

He was sitting only five feet away from her now, but it wasn’t the same. The rift between them might as well have been a literal chasm. Physical proximity had nothing to do with it. She had made it clear that he wasn’t allowed the privilege of closeness with her anymore. It was meant to be a punishment to him – only now she discovered she was also suffering from it. A big part of her wanted to ask him to come sit by her and maybe talk to her like he used to, but pride was a difficult thing to swallow. And the fact that he’d stopped trying to communicate made her even angrier. It was turning into a vicious cycle, spinning and churning like the storm overhead.

On the coffee table in front of her, the last candle in the room blew out, casting the parlor into complete darkness. It hadn’t been the first time that evening that it had done so. The ghosts seemed intent on leaving them in the dark. Candle after candle had gone out, and Spike had finally given up trying to keep them all going.

“Could you relight it?” Buffy asked Spike, clutching the blanket tighter to her chest. “You’re the one with the lighter.”

“What’s the use?” asked Spike, not budging from his place on the piano bench. His tone was tired and annoyed. The storm was wearing on him. “The ghosts’ll just blow it out again. ‘Sides you’re not doing anything but sitting. Don’t need light for that, do you?”

“That’s not the point,” she argued. “And what about you? Weren’t you reading?”

“Vampire, remember? Can see the words in the dark if I squint hard enough.”

“Just give me the damn lighter, Spike. I’ll do it myself.”

She heard him sigh and get to his feet. His boots thumped loudly on the hardwood floor as he crossed the parlor – he wasn’t the stealthiest vampire when he was annoyed. There was a flicking sound that she barely heard over the shriek of the wind, and a tiny flame spouted from Spike’s lighter – only to be blown out a split second later.

He muttered a curse, trying to get the lighter going again and again. “Damn thing won’t stay lit. Oy, stop that!” he called to the ghosts. “What’s the harm of a little candle? Girl doesn’t like the dark, see? Not doing you any harm.”

Fear had gathered into a tight knot in Buffy’s stomach. “Why are they doing this?”

“Hell if I know,” he replied, flicking his lighter shut. “Dunno what to tell you, Slayer. Looks like we’re in the dark until they get tired of playing games.”

“Great,” she muttered, burying her face in the blanket. “Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any better. What’s next? Pianos flying across the room?”

Spike threw himself down on the couch beside her. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be giving them ideas.”

They grew quiet then and listened to the storm together. If there was thunder, Buffy didn’t hear it – the winds shrieked and whistled louder than any thunder she’d ever heard. The rain sounded uncomfortably close, as if it was falling right there in parlor around them. “Shingles must all be gone,” Spike noted. “Rain’s hamming right on the wood, now.”

Something hit the side of the house with such force, the floor and walls vibrated and shuddered. Somewhere in the foyer, a frame fell off the wall and the glass shattered when it hit the floor. “Our rental car isn’t going to make it through this, is it?” Buffy asked timidly, afraid to hear the answer.

Spike snorted. “Lovely thing, insurance.”

Another piece of debris hit the house, and the chandelier began to sway. “I didn’t know it would be like this. Are you sure we’re safe in this room?”

“Not really, no.”

Her jaw dropped. “Spike.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, getting defensive and piqued. “I’m no expert at these things, you know. Did everything I know to do and guessed at the rest. Whole bloody house is a trap if you ask me. If the roof and walls make it, we still might have to deal with flooding before the night’s over.”

Buffy stared at his profile, barely visible in the darkness. “You’re really good at this reassurance thing. Did you know?”

“Wasn’t trying to reassure you. Just telling you the truth. Want me to lie?”

“Yes,” she said mechanically. “Yes, I do.”

She froze when his hand closed over her wrist. She could feel his eyes on her, glittering in the darkness, burning with gravity. “Relax, Slayer,” he said in a low tone that was probably meant to be soothing. Instead it made her want to cry. “We’re gonna be fine, yeah? No need for me to lie.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yeah, actually I do.”

“Then why do you keep talking about traps and floods and then start staring at the ceiling like it’s about to come crashing in on us? It’s not helping me feel better about things. God, I need another drink.”

A glass flew across the room, unseen by Buffy’s eyes, and smashed into the wall. “Sure about that, Slayer?” asked Spike, bemused. “Ghosts appear to be teetotalers.”

“I don’t care. I need something to help me calm down.”

Spike rose from the couch and went for the open wine bottle on the piano without another word. Buffy found his attentiveness surprising and a bit out of character. She didn’t mention any of that to him, though. If he wanted to act civil toward her, she certainly wasn’t going to complain. As he poured her a glass, she retrieved his lighter from the coffee table and tried to get it to light. Spike might be okay with sitting in the dark, but she certainly wasn’t.

On the fifth try, a weak flame appeared. “There!” she said, bringing it to the candle with a triumphant smile. She looked up, her pupils huge in the dim candlelight.

One of the ghosts – the man – was standing next to her, looming impossibly tall over her seated form. His eyes were bottomless wells of darkness, burning into her like acid. His lips moved wordlessly, revealing a black hole of a mouth that made no sound. He didn’t have to speak. It was obvious to Buffy he wanted her gone. The man drew his hand back, and she saw the glimmer of candlelight flashing off of a mirror as it flew from the wall.

And smashed directly into Buffy’s surprised face.

---------------------------------------

To be continued.

Part Five

Spike didn’t understand what had just happened. One minute Buffy was sitting on the couch, looking a bit anxious but generally all right. The next minute, she was on the floor, crying out as if she was in great pain. She swiped at the air in front of her like she was trying to ward something away. There was no apparent reason for any of it that Spike could see.

He was at her side in a second, and he gripped her by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Slayer. Buffy. Snap out of it. What the hell just happened there?”

“What do you mean, what just happened?” she cried, trying to push him away. “Didn’t you see it?”

“See what?”

She stopped struggling against him, and a shaky breath eased its way from her chest as she looked at the ground around them. “The glass disappeared,” she whispered as she touched her face, “and I’m not cut.”

Spike watched her expression transform from fright to bewilderment. “What are you talking about? You’re not making a bit of sense.”

“That mirror,” she said, pointing toward a beautiful framed looking glass on the far wall. “It flew at me. It crashed into me. The ghost threw it. I watched him do it. Didn’t you hear it smash?”

Spike shook his head. “Had my eyes on you the whole time. Didn’t see a ghost or anything else fly at you.”

“Well, I didn’t imagine it,” she shot back, defensive and flustered.

“I didn’t say you did,” replied Spike carefully. “Probably our ghosties playing a nasty joke at your expense. It was a trick, Buffy. A mind game. You’re not hurt, right?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, her voice shaking almost as much as her body. “I can’t stay in here anymore, Spike. That’s it.” She pushed past him, toward the parlor door. The room seemed to be crushing her, and she couldn’t get out of it fast enough.

Spike was at her heels, following her to the foot of the stairs. “This isn’t a good idea, Slayer. I don’t know how safe the other rooms are.”

Buffy spun around. “You think it’s safe in there with those … those things?” When she turned back to the hallway, something caught her attention upstairs – a light flickering in one of the bedrooms. She thumped up the steps after it without a second thought.

“Not upstairs!” argued Spike vehemently. “Slayer. I’m not kidding here.”

Buffy wasn’t listening. They hadn’t been upstairs yet, so everything around her was new to her eyes. She couldn’t see much in the dim hallway, but what little she did see pleased her. It was more open on the second floor, with better circulation in the air, so it was cooler despite it being upstairs. The light she saw was coming from one of the bedrooms to her right, on the opposite end of the house from the parlor.

The lit bedroom was charming, and it appealed to the woman inside her instead of the girl. Instead of antiques, she found tasteful wrought iron and a white cotton awning over the bed. Several candles were lit all around the room, and they gave off a clean, soothing scent. She wondered if the ghosts had lit the candles? If so, why – especially when they’d purposely blown all the candles out downstairs?

“Here,” she told Spike, who was hovering in the doorway. “I want to stay in here.”

Spike was eyeing the window in the room with a wary expression. It was boarded up, but he obviously didn’t like being so close to the outer walls of the house. “I dunno about this, Slayer…”

“I’m staying, Spike,” insisted Buffy. “You can go back to the parlor if you don’t feel safe.”

He sighed dramatically, with a bit of a growl at the end, as if he would like nothing better than to wring her neck. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, giving in. “I guess I’ll go get our supplies then.”

Watching Spike head back downstairs, Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around her new surroundings. The candles were brightly lit and showed no sign of blowing out. They were so radiant that she almost felt the need to squint; her eyes were slow to adjust from the dim light downstairs. Yes, this room was far more agreeable, she decided. The rain and wind sounded closer than ever, but with the light surrounding her, she somehow felt safer.

Her serenity was short-lived. Downstairs there was a sudden commotion – a loud crash followed by a thud. She heard Spike cry out and curse. Just when she’d gotten to her feet to see what was wrong, she heard his boots coming up the stairs.

“Ghosts are after me now,” he grumbled when he came into the room, his arms full of their supplies. He set Buffy’s pitcher of water on the nightstand and dumped everything else unceremoniously on the floor. Then he rubbed the back of his head gingerly, as if it pained him. “Threw a damn dictionary at my head. A big one. It’s like they don't want us in that room for some reason. Leaving us alone in here. I wonder why?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, there was a terrible sound above the house. A slow creaking, like a door creeping open on rusted hinges, followed by a deafening CRACK – louder than a rifle shot. Buffy gasped and leapt to her feet. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, as if the air had suddenly become electrified.

“Slayer…” said Spike slowly, grabbing a hold of her wrist, ready to run.

And then part of the house simply exploded.

Both of their ears popped with the sudden change in pressure. The floor in the bedroom shook, and the furniture shifted, sending pictures and vases tumbling. None of candles toppled, thankfully. “What the hell just happened?” cried Buffy.

“I think a tree just fell through the house,” Spike told her. Releasing her wrist, he opened the bedroom door and looked downstairs. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Guess that’s why the ghosts wanted us out.”

Spike had guessed correctly. An enormous tree, snapped right in the middle, had taken up residence inside the left wing of the house, causing part of the second floor to collapse down onto the first. The parlor was almost completely destroyed. The right wing of the house, where they’d relocated, was dusty and windy now that it was open to the storm, but otherwise unscathed. “Hopefully the structure’s still sound,” said Spike. “If it isn’t, we might being taking another tumble before the night’s through.”

“Oh, God,” whispered Buffy, inching back toward the bed. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Closing the bedroom door to shut out the wind, Spike glanced at her wearily. “Just lay down, Slayer. Ghosties led us in here, right? Even lit it up for us. Must be safe.”

Buffy didn’t care about the damn ghosts. They had frightened and tormented her, and she didn’t trust them. Her heart was racing and she looked around the room wildly, feeling trapped. There was simply nowhere to go. The house could fall down around them, and even if they got out of it in time, they’d only be pushed outside into the wrath of the storm. She put her face in her hands and tried to stop shaking.

“Slayer…” Spike said in a low voice, eyeing her with concern. “Come on now; just calm down. We’re all right.”

She nodded and tried to take deep breaths, but the edge of panic refused to leave her. He took her by her elbow and led her over to the bed. She pulled away from him instinctively when his hands lingered too long. “Here now,” he said, ignoring her brush off. “Lay down. God, you’re burning up.”

She pushed his hand away from her forehead. “Don’t touch me.”

But a second later, she felt something wet on her forehead, replacing his hand, and she changed her mind about objecting to his touch. There was a splash of water, and Buffy opened her eyes to see Spike seated next to her, dipping a handkerchief into the pitcher of water he’d brought up from the parlor. He touched the wet cloth again to her face, and it felt amazing on her skin – refreshing and cool and very much needed.

Still. He was touching her. She felt she shouldn’t allow that, much less enjoy it. “Spike…” she started to protest.

“Hush now, Slayer. I’m not patronizing you, so don’t start with me. Just trying to calm you down, yeah? So shut your gob and let me treat you proper for once in your life.”

She did. He took his time tending to her – starting with her face, going all the way down to her feet, blowing lightly on her wet skin so that she shivered. It was a wonderful feeling, being wet and cool after such a hot, muggy day. Her heartbeat slowed as she relaxed down into the feather mattress, feeling her body become loose and heavy. He guided her over onto her stomach eventually, and he washed her back and shoulders as well – as much as he could around her tank top.

When he was done, he left the damp handkerchief on the back of her neck. “Wish I had some ice,” he said. “Know how much you like that. This will have to do.”

His words angered her and stirred her from her reverie. Who the hell did he think he was, trying to work her like this? She felt like he was taking advantage of her fear. If he was trying to soften her up and weasel a pardon from her, it wasn’t going to work. “I hate you,” she whispered.

“No, you don’t,” was his quiet reply. His hands were in her hair, his thumb on the pulse of her temple. He sounded quite convinced of the truth behind his words.

He was right.

“No, I don’t,” she admitted, speaking more to herself than to him. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I don’t think I could ever really hate you, Spike. It’d be like hating a part of myself.”

He took his hand out of her hair but didn’t rise from his place beside her. “Know the feeling, pet.”

Her eyes opened then, and she suddenly realized that the fear had left her. At some point, she’d forgotten all about the storm and the ghosts and the tree that had nearly crushed them. Spike was beside her, and for the first time since she could remember, she was glad to have him there. She didn’t feel alone anymore.

When she looked up at him, she saw that he had turned away from her. He sat on the edge of the bed with his feet on the ground, elbows resting on his thighs, hands folded in front of him. She stared at his back, like a black pillar in front of her. She could tell from his posture something heavy was weighing on his shoulders. It hurt to see him like that, and she almost reached out to touch him.

He started talking before she had the chance.

“It was the first falling out Dru and I ever had,” he said, out of the blue. “The first big one, anyway – where we actually parted ways for a while. We had an argument about Angel. We’d seen him not long before in China – Boxer Rebellion, you know. I got mad at her, really puffed up, and…”

Buffy blinked in surprise, realizing he was telling her about the 1900 hurricane in Galveston. “And what?” she prompted gently, urging him to continue.

“And I left.”

“You left Galveston? Before the hurricane hit?”

Spike nodded. “Was trying to punish her, you know? Let her know I wasn’t going to put up with her, if she was gonna be that way. Anyway, I didn’t make it far. I ended up right across Galveston Bay, in Texas City. Loved her too damn much to go further, and besides, she had called my bluff. I thought she would have tagged along with me, regardless of my little tantrum. I told her if she didn’t get on that train with me, that was it. We were through. I didn’t really mean it, but threats were the only thing you could really use to motivate Dru when she had her mind made up.”

Spike ran a shaky hand through his hair as he continued. “And then the storm hit, and it tore into Texas City – and that was nothing compared to Galveston. There it was just Atlantis. The whole place turned into the sea, Buffy. Little houses sticking out of the bleeding ocean. You can’t imagine it. And the whole time the storm was passing – hours and hours of it – I knew Drusilla was out there on that fucking sandbar of an island, all alone, with no one to take care of her. Stupid girl couldn’t find her gloves if they were on her bloody hands. And I had just left her there. Spent the whole night crying and worrying about her. Felt like the world was coming to an end, smashing all to pieces around me.

“And then the next day came, and the storm finally passed on. And you know what the real kicker was? The fucking sun came out. After all that hell the sky had unleashed the night before, it decided to do me one better and offer something that would kill me for sure. I had to hide all day, and you know how long summer days are. I thought I was going to go mad. And then the boat ride came, across the bay to the island. I’m not sure what bothered me more – the thump of hundreds of dead bodies hitting the boat, or the lack of buildings left standing on the island.

“I got to the island and went to the place where our hotel had stood. The lot was scraped clean. There wasn’t a stone or a piece of wood to be found. Nothing but sand. And I looked at that sand, and I thought surely her dust had to be mixed up in it.”

“Obviously you found her,” said Buffy gently.

Spike smiled. “Yeah. The daft cow was on the beach, dancing in the waves when I found her, hours later. She never did tell me what happened to her during the storm, and she kept teasing me that I’d missed a right good show. I could have ripped her lungs out, I was so angry. I think I might have tried. Vowed never to go through one of these storms again. But then my intentions always get shot to hell when I’m around you, don’t they, Slayer?”

“Huh,” said Buffy, after a moment of thought. “I just figured something out about you. That’s what all your fussing tonight’s been about, hasn’t it? You needed to take care of me because you weren’t able to take care of Drusilla that night.”

“Don’t try to turn this into some chauvinistic thing, Buffy, when you know bloody well that’s got nothing to do with it. Don’t need you poking fun at me now. I know you can take care of yourself, but sometimes it’s nice to let someone do for you, you know? Wouldn’t kill you to let someone in once in a while.”

“I let you in tonight, didn’t I?” she asked. “And I wasn’t poking fun. It just wasn’t what I expected, I guess. So thank you … for taking care of me.”

“Thanks for letting me,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “So yeah … I ‘fessed up about Galveston. Now it’s your turn to let me in on a secret.”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t have any secrets.”

“Sure you do,” he shot back. “Like why you won’t forgive me.” When she looked away quickly, he pressed on, unwilling to let the matter drop. “Already admitted that I fucked up, Slayer. I don’t know how many other ways I can say I’m sorry. What exactly do you want from me? What do I have to do?”

“I can’t forgive you, Spike,” she said simply.

“Why the hell not?”

“If I did that, I might start feeling things for you again.” She blinked up at him. “It’s already starting to happen. I can’t let it.”

“Being with me’s that terrible, is it?”

“No. But this is the way my life goes, Spike – the second I let myself love someone, they’re taken away from me. You were.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “You think me burning up had anything to do with you?”

“Would you have gone down into the Hellmouth it wasn’t for me?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Buffy, this is ridiculous. Please tell me there’s another reason you’ve shut me out.”

She turned her face away from him and didn’t reply.

Spike chuckled incredulously, shaking his head. “Well, then. At least now I know. And I have to say, Slayer – that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life. And I’ve lived a hell of a long time, pet.”

She couldn’t help but smile a bit into her pillow, knowing he couldn’t see. Maybe it was a little stupid, she thought. “It’s hard though, sometimes,” she told him. “Remembering that I’m angry with you.”

She felt his fingers in her hair again – just a brief touch before he rose from the edge of the bed. “That’s good to know,” he said quietly. “I hope you’ll change your mind.”

She sat up and watched him walk away from the bed. “You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Have I ever?” He stooped and retrieved a book from the floor, one of the things he’d brought up from the parlor. “Well, except for that one time.”

He seated himself in a chair beside the bed and opened the book. “Wuthering Heights,” he read out loud. “Chapter one. ‘1801. I have just returned from a visit to my landlord - the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with…’”

The storm faded away in the background, and only Spike’s voice remained. Buffy sat back against the pillows, letting her eyes drift shut as he weaved her a story.

-----------------------------------

The night was long but bearable after their reconciliation-of-sorts with each other. The storm did its worst to the old antebellum home, but it was still standing when the sun finally came out again the next day. Neither Spike nor Buffy had slept a wink through it all, and they were glad when peace fell outside. Both felt physically battered by the storm, as if their own bodies should bear the same sort of injuries the house had.

When they peeked outside to see the damage, Buffy’s jaw dropped at what she saw. The yard was submerged under several feet of water. Had the house not been elevated, it would have flooded. Branches were everywhere, and they got their first good look of the large tree that had hit the house. It had snapped in two halfway up the base. Other trees were blown down in the yard and down the street.

The car had seen better days. The hood was dented in, and most of the windows had been completely smashed out. Still, it might have been drivable had it not been for the fact that it was radiator-deep in water.

“Not that bad actually,” said Spike, staying inside the safety of the shadowed porch. “We got off easy.”

Buffy turned to stare at him. “That was easy?”

They were hesitant to go back inside the house, still unsure how safe it was, so they lingered on the porch, where the air was cool and clean. The storm had blown the humidity out of the city. Together they unearthed a porch swing from under a pile of branches and roof shingles. The house owners had apparently taken it down for safety for the duration of the storm, but Spike and Buffy managed to get it hanging again. Together they sat on the swing and watched the floodwaters begin to recede.

Spike stretched out his arm behind Buffy’s back. She tried to pretend it bothered her, though it really didn’t. “I’m still mad at you, you know,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Uh-huh.”

“Last night didn’t change any of that.”

“Of course not.”

“Haven’t forgiven you yet either.”

“Whatever you say, Slayer.”

She glanced over at him, trying not to smile, knowing he was teasing her. “But other than that, I’m glad you’re here, Spike.” She looked out into the watery expanse before them. “Do you think the flood will recede soon?”

“Eventually, yeah,” Spike replied. “But I think we’ll make it though just fine anyway. Don’t you?”

His words carried a deeper meaning, she knew. Buffy smiled at him – just a hint of a smile, so he wouldn’t think she was melting inside or anything. “Yeah, I do.” They swung back and forth in silence for a long, peaceful moment. “Okay, so maybe I forgive you,” she said, suddenly, all in a rush. “You know … just a little bit.”

Spike smiled as he lit up a cigarette. “Yeah. Kinda figured.”

------------------------


The end.

But to be continued in another story. This is a series, remember? ;)




A/N: Want to read about the symbolism in this story? Check out this entry in my livejournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ladywenham/174092.html?thread=3030284#t3030284