Paring: Spander (of course)
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.
Thanks to the amazing Petxnd for the banner.
Wesley hadn't slept a wink all night. Not because of the lumpy, horse hair
mattress and not because of the repeating action of the refried beans he
ate for supper at Rosie's cantina.
No, Wesley's sudden insomnia was the result of the incredible epiphany
he was experiencing. This whole trip that had started out so badly, now
had become the turning point in his previously well organized and mundane life.
The episode in the bar had felt so natural. It was a conversational duck
and dodge. Point and counterpoint. It had thrilled and invigorated him
and he knew now that by living all these years to meet other peoples
standards and expectations, he had cheated himself out of knowing his
full potential and destiny.
But no more. He had reached the fork in the road and was choosing for
himself the direction he wanted to go. He suddenly knew who he was.
He could envision himself traveling through the dark corners of the
underground of society. Lethal, invisible, cleansing the world of the scum
of the earth that insisted on victimizing the innocent then hiding out to
Wesley would seek them out and bring them to justice.
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Rogue bountyhunter.
It had an amazing ring to it. He could see it printed on business cards.
It came with unlimited wardrobe possibilities. Camo pants, trim cut jeans.
Doc Martin boots that laced up the front. Possibly a tattoo.
Exotic locations. Dangerous and mysterious characters like the one's he
read in books. Wes knew the pay was iffy. Some bounties paid high,
others barely enough to cover expenses. He didn't care.
He had amassed a small fortune over the years from his practice and could
sell out his share of the partnership for enough to support himself for years.
By three a.m. he had given up on all thoughts of sleep and sat at the
small battered wooden table in his room, making lists and jotting down
ideas. He needed to learn all he could about electronic surveillance
equipment. He would purchase a pair of high powered binoculars and
good, leather gloves.
'Oh!' He thought. 'The cool one's with the fingers cut out!'
Like everything else in his life, Wes would approach this with a well
organized and researched determination.
He hoped a false moustache would not be needed, but one could never tell.
He was surprised at how quickly 7 am rolled around. He took a quick
cool shower and dressed. He decided on a leisurely breakfast at the
cantina and a stroll around town. He would keep a sharp eye out and
when Warren slipped into town, Wesley would be ready.
"Good morning Rosie. Could you fix me some tea and toast please?"
"Si. Good morning Mr. Wessey. Rosie fix you a desayuns."
Wesley wished desperately that he had stuck his pocket dictionary in
his pocket rather than leave it on his bedstand.
"Yes, well, if that means tea and toast, then we are good. Si? Oh,
and it's Wesley, not Wessey"
Wes folded his napkin neatly and laid it over his lap. Within minutes,
Rosie had returned with a large plate of something resembling scrambled
eggs, piled high with green peppers, onions, cheese and mushrooms.
Beside it she sat a large bottle of hot sauce and a steaming mug of what he
assumed was tea.
Wesley stared at the plate and his stomach wagged it's finger at him in warning,
'Uh, oh. Don't even think about it unless you want to deal with me and
my downstairs neighbor, Dumpy Bowel.'
Wes looked up at the pudgy smiling face.
"Well, this certainly looks, ah, interesting, but I think maybe I will just
sip the tea."
Immediately, Rosie frowned.
"Senior Wessey no like?"
Wesley buckled. Just because his new profession may require him to be a
ruthless killer, that didn't give him license to insult large Mexican women
who have generously cooked for him.
"No. No. It looks wonderful!!!"
With no further hesitation, Wesley dug into the plate, scooping a forkful
of spicy omelet into his mouth. His eyes lit up.
"Oh, my God! Rosie! This is fantastic!"
"It is bueno?'
Wesley shoveled in another mouthful.
"Si! Si! Mucho bueno!"
Rosie smiled, patted the gringo on the back and headed for her kitchen
just as Wes picked up his cup and gulped a mouthful of piping hot,
blasting strong, Columbian coffee. He prided himself on the fact that
it didn't come flying back out his mouth or nose.
30 minutes later, after scraping the plate clean, Wes peeled of several
bills and dropped them on the table before calling out.
He waited for the answering,
"Si, Senior Wessey."
He then stepped out into the blazing morning sunlight, mumbling under
He looked all up and down the dusty dirt road that served as Main street.
It looked identical, right down to the old men sitting on the wooden
benches draped in colorful ponchos. Wesley wondered if they had even
gone home last night or if they just sat there 24/7.
The rest of the morning was mind numbing boredom. He wandered
up and down the two relatively safe looking streets in the town, avoiding
the back alleys and unnamed business that sat there.
He logged time, with the other old men, on the benches that were scattered
throughout the town. When the heat of the early afternoon sun started
to scorch him, he stepped back into Casa Del Diablo. The patrons
inside were already drunk and had been for some time. Wes decided
to leave, wondering if this really was their whole life.
Finally deciding it didn't matter, Wes turned to the left and started toward
the post office. There was a small push cart with an old woman selling
vegetables and fruit that sat to the right of the government building and
Wes headed there.
He perused the bright red clusters of hanging peppers and felt up the
sacks of oranges casually feigning interest.
When the old woman began to eye him suspiciously he knew he had
to either buy or move on so he did both. Just as he turned to go,
he saw the dust cloud of an antique old Ford truck rumbling toward
him. Quickly, Wes turned his back and ducked behind the thick
forest of pepper trees.
Peering around, he watched as the truck sputtered to a stop in front of the
post office and the door swung open with a loud creak and a slam shut.
Wes jerked his cell phone from his pocket.
He snapped once as the Americano stepped from his vehicle, his ball
cap pulled low over his eyes.
He snapped again as the man took off the hat and wiped the sweat from
his forehead on his shirt sleeve.
He snapped a third time when he entered the building and a fourth as he left
minutes later. When Wes was certain he had gotten several good pictures
for a positive identification, he slipped away.