HARD TIME
34/47
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

SPECIAL THANKS TO WHOEVER NOMINATED HARD TIME AT
THE RUNNING WITH SISSORS AWARDS.
That means a lot!!!





Thanks to the amazing Petxnd for the banner.


Wesley wondered if every case he would be going on would be this miserably
hot. Didn't fugitives ever run off and hide in the cool climates of the northern
states? 'Fucking bastards'.

He shifted slightly on the hard bench outside the small hardware store
and he discreetly tugged his sweaty dress pants out of the crack of his
ass where they had been stuck for the last two hours.

Squinting, he held his wrist up and flinched when the blazing sun glinted off
the expensive time piece that circled his wrist. He had sent the pictures
nearly an hour ago and was waiting, less than patiently, for a reply.

Forgetting about the one hour's time difference between the coast in
California and this God forsaken little village in Arizona, Wesley had
wanted to kick himself in the pants when he realized he may have
e-mailed the pictures too late. Spike might have already left for work
and won't get the information until he returned home that evening.

Wesley couldn't imagine sitting here all afternoon. But, then again, if Spike
did cal,l and Warren was identified, what did that mean? What was Wes
supposed to do? The time here on this uncomfortable bench at least gave
him the opportunity to think about his options.
At least till his brain fried and sizzled out his ears.

Wesley had positioned himself in this area due to the choice vantage point.
He was able to clearly watch the old pick up truck that the subject had
come into town in and he knew that the maybe-Warren was still in the
cantina. He hoped Rosie wasn't serving him the last of her wonderful,
spicy, omelet. Wesley was getting hungry.

Finally, after he had scooted around for the umpteenth time and pulled the
damp fabric away from his sweaty nuts, his phone rang, vibrating quietly
in his pants pocket.
Quickly, he tugged it out and flipped it open.

"Yes?"
"Wes, Christ, Wes, it's me. It's Spike."
"Good Lord, Spike, what is it? Did your Mr. Harris recognize the man?
Is this his 'Warren?"

"No this isn't Warren, if there even IS a Warren. This is Jesse, the victim,
this is the man Xander murdered!"

Wes sat silently and wondered if his brain, like the famous fried egg,
was finally cooked. This is your brain. This is your brain having a fucking
heat stroke.
"What? Is he sure? How can that be?"

Spike wanted to reach through the phone and grab his cousin around the
throat and shake the shit out of him.
"Listen to me, Wes. Xander was convicted of murdering this Jesse fellow
but they never found the body......"

Wes huffed.
"I read the transcripts. I am well aware of the facts of......GOOD LORD!
Spike, are you telling me that this is....."

"Well, fuck, that took long enough! Now, listen, don't lose sight of him!
Get as many pictures of him as you can. Don't let him see you, we can't
afford to let him get spooked. If he looks like he is leaving town, just let
him go. We don't want him to know we are on to him. We need to take
as much evidence as we can to the sentencing judge and get the conviction
over turned."

When what Spike was asking began to sink in, Wesley groaned.
"Oh, hell, Spike, you want me to stay here, don't you?'

"Please, Wes, please. We can't lose him now. I'll take the pictures to the
judge first thing in the morning and...."

Wes immediately put personal discomfort aside and let his professional,
legal mind step in.
"No! No, Spike, you can't. It isn't enough and we will only get one shot at this.
We need to solidify our case, carefully collect our information and make sure
our evidence is rock solid before it is presented. If it means Mr. Harris remains
incarcerated for another week or so, so be it. That is still preferable to the
40 years he is currently facing."

Spike gritted his jaw and paced restlessly. He knew Wes was right, but he
want Xander out NOW.

"Yeah, I know you are right, look, I gotta go back in to work. I'm not sure
what I'm going to say to him. I don't want to get his hopes up. Fuck, Wes,
I can't tell you how much this means to me. I don't think I can ever repay you.
but when he gets out, we'll throw you a hell of a party and I will personally
pop out of the fucking cake. Gotta run. Thanks again. Bye."

Spike never waited for an answer. He knew he had been out in the parking lot
too long and God only knew what Conway was doing on the unit. Checking
his watch, he was relieved to see there was still 12 minutes till the outside
movement with "D" unit. With luck, his inmates were still locked down.

Spike ran back inside and up to Intake.

It was a good thing Spike hadn't expected an answer when he rang off his
conversation, because he wouldn't have gotten one. Somewhere after
"hopes up." and "Fuck, Wes.." Wesley's hand, and the phone in it, had
dropped away from his ear. He had slowly risen to his feet causing the
borrowed poncho to tumble to the ground, forgotten.

Wesley's eyes, still squinting against the blazing sun, were now locked on
the ones that were staring back at him from across the narrow dirt road
that was Main Street.

The young, dark haired Americano had returned to his truck. His hand
had gripped the old, worn handle and his thumb was on the button when
he stopped. He felt that odd, "I'm being watched" feeling creep up his
spine and tap him on the shoulders. Despite the heat that could put Hell
to shame, his skin had raised in gooseflesh.

If he were honest with himself, he had been expecting it.
The United State was a huge, vast country with no corner safe to hide.
He knew in his heart this day would come, he just didn't anticipate
that it would be so soon.

Carefully, he removed his hand from the truck door and he turned around.
With the morning sun to his back, his eyes quickly found the source of his
discomfort.

The only other non-Hispanic around for miles and Jesse was certain the
man was not here to buy souvenirs. He saw the man was talking, probably
reporting, on a cell phone and watching his truck.

Jesse's green eyes stared as the man slowly, lethally, rose from the bench
and focused on his target. Fear locked Jesse's legs in place and he couldn't
force himself to move.

The man's poncho hit the dirt and was ground in as he took a step forward.
Jesse's breath filled his lungs and he forgot how to exhale. His hand fumbled
behind him for the truck handle while his brain screamed,

"RUN!!"

Choosing to abandoned a 1948 Ford truck that he knew wouldn't start
on the first, second, or possibly third try, Jesse took off. Without pause or
hesitation, Wesley was now close behind.

The dust under their feet kicked up clouds of dirt that billowed into a
choking trail that followed up one street and down another. Wesley
was amazed at how much good those cycling classes down at Bally's
apparently had done. He was closing in fast.

At the last second, Jesse ducked down an alley and out of sight.
Wes followed to find it an area of clothes lines strung from window
to window and garbage stacked up everywhere.
A stray, feral cat darted by with a rat in it's mouth.

Wesley stopped, thrilled to see the other end of the alley blocked off.
It had been a tactical error and Jesse was trapped somewhere, hidden
in the filth and darkness.

Wesley took a moment to catch his breath before stepping in, his voice
low and gentle.

"I know you are here Jesse. I'm not going away until we talk. I promise,
that's all I want. I'm not here to arrest you or hurt you. I just want to talk."

Slowly, reluctantly, from a far corner, Jesse rose to his feet.