Here's Your Heinken

BY : mcee
Category: > Spike(William)/Xander > Spike(William)/Xander
Dragon prints: 1863
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

 


Can't be.


It is.


SonofaBITCH.


I snatch the phone off its hooks and bring it to where my head is, approximately, buried in a surprisingly plush hotel pillow.


"This better be good," I over-enunciate, sounding, in my opinion, very threatening.


"Xander Harris?" someone chirps back with the voice of a person who's, well, up.


"No."


"Mr. Harris, we …"


"No. I am sleeping. I've been sleeping for--" I violently grab the alarm clock on the bedstand and stare at the bright red numbers with groggy eyes still itchy from the smoke. "-- fuck, for twelve minutes. I am going BACK to sleep now, and I will deal with you in the morning."


I'm about to hang up but the voice on the other end launches into a high-pitched chorus of WAITWAITWAITWAIT and I bring the handset back to my ear. Murderous thoughts float idly around my head by now.


"You realise I'm going to have to beat you in the morning."


"Mr. Harris, there's a situation..."


"Look, I've slept a total of forty minutes since 1991, none of them consecutive. I will give you one thousand dollars if you let me sleep an hour. One fucking hour. A thousand dollars. Do the math." And I hang up. There's something hard digging in my hip, and I figure it's the MagLight on my belt. Undressing has become so trivial in my life at this point. Who cares - all I want is an hour. Gimme an hour and I'll take care of everything. A flat surface, and sixty minutes.


 


RIIIIIIIIIING.


Oh you've GOT to be kidding me.


I pick the thing up roughly, too exhausted to fight suddenly. "Whaaaaat."


"Mr. Harris, please, he's down here at Reception and he's... well. And he's disturbing the other guests." The voice sounds a little more pissed off now.


I sigh. "I'll be down in a minute."


"Please." Click.


Fuck ME.


 


I hoist myself up and my boots fall heavily to the industrial carpet, the kind that gives rug burn. The alarm clock is upside down on the wrinkled bedspread and I pick it up to look at it again. 4:22. I grab the keycard and go downstairs.


I catch my reflection in the mirrors of the elevator. Wow. Do I always look like this? I really do look like I haven't slept an hour in the past decade, and my stubble is at least two days old. I won't even try to remember last time I got a haircut. I'm so shaggy I'm almost trendy, I decide. This is the t-shirt I put on yesterday morning, and it's wrinkled from the suitcase and the day's work lugging cases around. Then I remember this is why I own own black t-shirts. And shirts? Forget shirts. I haven't worn shirtsleeves since the last time he insisted on taking me to some glamoured-up party I left two hours later, alone. And I faintly remember a life-style that didn't involve wearing the same jeans for a week.


I hear his voice as soon as the elevator doors ding open, and the pounding behind my right eye starts again.


"Listen, just unlock the fucking door and we'll be on our merry way!"


"Sir—"


"We'll just be in there for a little bit."


I turn the corner and see the scene I'm about to break up. The whole thing is achingly familiar: there's Spike, trashed, hugging a skinny blonde to his leather-clad hip and arguing with the prim young woman behind the desk. The night manager, whom I've had to deal with way too many times already, stands behind the clerk with a look of nervous annoyance. I wander over.


"Hey."


The manager scowls at me. Behind the glazed expression, there's a brief look of recognition on Spike's face.


"Xander. There you are. Tell Mr. Proper here to unlock the pool."


What now. I scratch at my neck. "Unlock the pool?" That doesn't even make any sense.


"Yeah, the pool. Katie and I want to go in for, you know, for 'a swim'," he finishes with a smirk, leaning against the counter for balance.


"Who's Katie?"


He points at the girl next to him, this young thing in hip-huggers that do nothing to hide what must be the last of baby-fat. Here we go again.


"Spike, you can't go in the pool." Manager Man throws me a grateful look.


"Why not!" he slurs, and I can tell this won't be a hard fight to win. He's just about done.


"Because." I turn to 'Katie'. "What are you, twelve? Go home!"


"I'm with HIM."


"The hell you are. Get out of here before you start liking it."


Because really, all this guy needs is another one of THOSE. Spike pouts but immediately loses interest, and the girl just huffs and leaves. I'm getting too good at this.


I address the manager. "Sorry about that."


"No problem, sir. But he might as well be spitting venom at me. He'll have to do much better than this; I've been making enemies all over the country way longer than he thinks.


Spike is playing with the bell and I drag him away by the arm. "Good going, dickhead." We step inside the awaiting elevator and start our ascent.


"Wha, I was just fraternising with the locals..."


"Mind keeping your pants buttoned so I can get me some shut-eye?"


"You can sleep on the bus," he mumbles.


"No, I can't, because you're in there too."


He grins at me. I want to smack him. "Keep you awake, do I?"


"You realise I've been cranky since, like, March?"


We reach our floor. He pats me in the back as we step out into the quiet hallway. "Price of doing business, pet."


"Price of picking up after you, it is. Now go to your room."


"Wow, you're strict."


"And for the love of PETE don't come out of there til I come get you in the morning." I stop at my door. He stops with me.


"Oops."


I close my eyes painfully. "What now."


"I forgot my keycard."


Sigh. "Get in." 



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