bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,

Hard Time

Author: BmblBee
Paring: Spander (of course)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bad language and explicit sexual m/m activity.
Summary: Xander is wrongly convicted of murder and sent
to Riverview Correctional Institution where Spike is a guard.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or products named in
this story and sadly, make no profit.
AS 4

Thanks to the amazing Petxnd for the banner.

Wesley squared his shoulders with a false bravado and casually sauntered
over to the bar.
"Beer. Cerveza."

Wesley hoped he had pronounced the word right. The damn dollar
dictionary he bought just yesterday gave no hint as to the correct syllables.
Of course he could always explain the mistakes on his British accent.

The bartender tossed his dingy rag over his shoulder and did as he was
asked, slamming the mug of foamy, warm beer on the splintered bar.
Wes tried not to flinch at the fly floating on the top.

When he skillfully scooped it out and flung it to the floor before gulping
half the drink down, he was in and the others in the bar turned their
attention elsewhere.
Wesley's stomach nearly fainted.

"You got any place to eat in this town? A cantina?"
Wes wiped the remainder of the foul drink from his upper lip.

The bartender, a short chubby, Cheech Marin look-a-like, scratched
his sweaty armpit and pointed across the street.
"Rosie got a place down the road. She serve the best chili. You like it
hot? My Rosie, she serve it hot."

Wesley slid the mug over for a refill, despite his brain and stomach
screaming, "What the fuck?" He knew he had to look like he belonged
here. The bartender poured another glass of piss water and relaxed a bit
as he resumed wiping the bar top.
"She also run the only hacienda. You need a place to sleep?"

Wes was charged. This was the perfect opening and he jumped on it,
careful to keep his voice low.
"Dunno, do I? You see I am looking for a friend of mine. Said he was
coming down this way and I was hoping to run into him before I move on.
Maybe you know him. An Americano. Young, would have only been
here for a few months. Name of Warren."

The bartender stopped wiping, his black beady eyes squinted and his
dark moustache twitched.
"You policio? No Englise."
The bartender threw up both hands and backed away, Wesley could see
he had made a tacticle mistake. He had moved to fast. He immediately
tried the only other idea he had.

"Oh, sorry, must have been another small town he had settled in. So,
how much do I owe you for the beer, this enough?"
Wes, palmed a fifty so it could not be seen by the other patrons and
watched as Cheech's eyes darted around wildly.

"Si, yes, that looks about right. You say your friend is Americano?
a gringo?"

Wes smiled at the save and relaxed slightly, taking a sip of the warm
"Yes, he would have shown up sometime after October. I really am
anxious to see him. Of course he doesn't know I'm coming so it would
be a wonderful surprise."

The bartender wasn't stupid. He knew these Anglo's were anything but
friends. Still, what the fuck did he care. Fifty was more money than he
would make in a month working this shit hole bar. It would put food
on his table and grateful pussy in his bed.

Laying down his bar rag, Cheech leaned close, all the time watching the
other men in the room for any sign of interference. When he was assured
of none, he spoke, his foul, rancid breath topping off the taste of the beer
and insuring Wes would not be eating any dinner tonight.
Or ever.

"Si. A gringo come here about two months ago. He was sick. You know,
he had the demon in his body. Carlos let him stay in a small shack out on
his land till the man sweat it out. He had no money so Carlos let him stay
and work. Carlos has some scruff cows. They not produce much but it
puts food on his table. The gringo, he comes to town maybe once a week."

Wesley listened without comment. When he decided no more information
was forthcoming, he asked.
"When was the last time he was here? What day?"

The bartender opened his mouth, then closed it again. He knew he
was pushing his luck, but what did he have to lose? He shrugged.
Wesley slid across another twenty.

"He always come in on Fridays. He come here to drink, he go to the
post office and he go to the commissary for coffee and supplies."

Wesley was elated. Tomorrow was Friday and he would be ready.
"Do you know his name? Has he said his name was Warren?"

The bartender stepped back.
"I don't ask. I don't want to know. You drink here, do I know your
name? No, and I no want to know. If asked, I never see you here."

Wesley could see from the bartender's body language that the conversation
was over. He had gotten all his money could buy and it was time to leave.
Still, he was thrilled. He had more than he hoped for and a couple more
leads to chase down before tomorrow.

With a curt nod of thanks, Wes slid off the stool and walked confidently
from the bar. Standing on the street outside, Wes could finally take in a
deep breath that was not filled with the stench of smoke, sweat, and a
slight blend of something resembling puke/piss.

He squinted his eyes as they adjusted from the darkness of the interior
of the bar to the blinding glare of daylight, wondering if somehow this
part of the surface of the earth wasn't miles closer to the sun than any
other place he had ever been.

When he was able to again focus, he looked down the street in the
direction of Rosie's cantina. He would skip the chili, but gratefully
accept the room, hoping for the luxury of clean sheets and a shower.

But first he had one other stop to make.
Something else the bartender had mentioned stuck in his brain and it was
a lead that he needed to check on before Warren tried to sneak in tomorrow.

Wes tugged the brim of his cap down further over his face, knowing it
wouldn't do much good. He could feel the top layer of his skin dry, wrinkle
and dehydrate with every step he took. He imagined it would only take
weeks for his soft, supple, well moisturized skin to turn to the dark shoe
leather that covered the faces of all the old men who sat around the village
streets swatting flies.

Ignoring the dust that was ruining his Bruno Magli shoes, Wes headed for
the post office where another twenty bought him the information that, yes,
the gringo came in once a week, usually to mail just one or two letters and
sometimes to collect one through general delivery.

With all these details to add to the facts of his case, Wes was anxious to
get a room and settle in. Once there, he could write a preliminary report
and get a better look at the overall picture then he would give William a call.

The most amazing thing about this whole assignment was the way he felt.
The conditions in this area were deplorable, like nothing he had ever
known, and the fear.......the fear had his adrenalin shooting through the


Wesley had never felt more alive in his life.
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