City rain is gritty and acidic, tainted by smog and dust. It doesn't rain often in LA, but when it does- when the air is cool and muggy, when the California sky is blotted out by sheets of silver clouds- he remembers. The air tastes of things that draw him back across an ocean and a hundred years into the past, back to the yellow haze and slick uneven streets of old London, back to blood and freedom and family. Today Spike pushes until that last spark of Angelus flashes through soulful brown eyes, and for a moment, he's home.
((Random, yes.100 words, starting from the word 'rain'. Not completely happy with this, c+c appreciated.))