Drusilla remembered a time, not even very long ago, when the two of them had lived out of a stolen car. The windows had been painted black to keep the sun out. It was miserable, yes. But even that sort of life was better than being alone.
And they were vampires. Whatever they didn't have, they could get. As it was, Dru's belongings were strewn more or less all over the world. She'd left most of her things - or rather, Spike had left most of her things behind in Sunnydale when they'd fled so quickly. After that, she'd shed belongings in Italy, in South America, in Los Angeles, and still other places she barely remembered. Little of it she hoped to salvage, and for the most part, she didn't care.
Everything that mattered most to her was contained in the small suitcase sitting on the floor of the bar.
"I've always liked crypts," said Dru in answer, perhaps a tad wistfully. "They reek of death."
Her hand had absent-mindedly strayed to his face again. This time she traced the line of his scarred eyebrow with one finger.