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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!

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