bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,

Writer's Block

Title: Writer's Block
Author: BmblBee
Rating: NC17 overall.
Paring: Spike/Xander
Disclaimer: The Bee owns nothing. Certainly not the characters or products
mentioned in this story and unfortunately, the Bee makes no profit from it.

Summary: This story is a light hearted comedy/mystery.

It is based slightly (very slightly) on the plot of the old movie
"House Of Long Shadows". It is an HUA that tells the story of a very successful
mystery writer, Alexander Harris, who is suffering from a severe case of writer's
block. Against his better judgement, he accepts a $10,000.00 bet with his
publisher after claiming he can crank out a full manuscript in a 24 hour period. This
short story is his struggle to do that and the bizarre obstacles that pop up.

Warnings: Sexual dialogue and M/M slashy acts.

As always, special thanks to the amazing Petxnd for her wonderful banners.

Xander stood with a confident smile on his face and shook his publisher's hand,
sealing the deal. He then casually sat back down to finish his latte as the older
man turned to leave. When Ethan finally reached, and turned the corner out of
sight, the grin disappeared from Xander's lips and he gripped the edge of the table.
He whimpered loudly, shuddered and capped his hissy fit off by banging his forehead
repeatedly on the table top.

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Damn!"

Ignoring the frightened looks of the other customers along with the Mothers who
clutched their small children to their bosoms and the flamboyantly gay man protectively
scooting his pink poodle behind his feet, Xander jumped up. He snatched his laptop
off the adjoining chair and he tucked it under his arm. Then, like a football player
cradling the prized pigskin, he darted off in the direction of home.

The curses he muttered and stuttered as he rushed down the sidewalk of the exclusive
neighborhood were directed squarely at himself. When he agreed to the coffee meeting
with Ethan he fully intended to explain that the reason he had not turned in a first draft
of a new manuscript was because there was no new manuscript.

Xander was suffering a severe case of writer's block. That, and a side order of
constipation had Xander totally plugged up. And not in a good way.

He had tossed and turned in his bed at night trying to come up with an original concept.
Something catchy that had not been done to death and no matter how hard he tried,
he failed. His brain had apparently burnt a fuse.

He planned on explaining that to Ethan, to tell him that what he needed most was
a break. A relaxing, stress free year off, maybe lying on the sun kissed beach in the
south of France. With a Shirley Temple in his hand. And a cabana boy's head in
his lap.

Spending money so freely that his accountant would promise him his first born child
if he would stop. Xander, who had seen little Benjie, who had his father's lopsided ears and his mother's flared nostrils, would laugh and swipe his well used debit card up the crack of said cabana boy's ass charging another night of wild debauchery.

But somehow he had gotten snookered. Now he had no sun tan, no helpful towel boy
who spoke no english but understood the universal language of the blow job, and worst
of all, no escape from his own looming career death. Instead, he had gotten suckered
into an impossible bet that he didn't have a snow ball's chance in hell of winning.

All these thoughts and more of the same beat themselves into Xander's brain as he ran
through the front door of his high rise building. Zipping past the doorman, Xander
shouted as he hurried toward the elevator.

"Morning, Nick. Please have my car brought around. I'm going out of town for a couple days."

Nick tipped his hat and smiled.

"Will do, Mr. Harris."

Once inside his apartment, Xander paused to take a deep breath and an assessment
of the ugly situation. Being a man of his word prevented him from simply ignoring the
agreement and besides, he never forgot that Ethan's encouragement was the reason
he had become so successful. Thousands of good books were written every year, but
if the publisher doesn't promote it and push it, they will die on the shelf. No, Ethan
had taken the young fledgling writer under his wing and made him a literary super star.

Xander was screwed.

He checked the time on the clock. 8:15. That meant if he took 15 minutes to stuff a
few things in a bag he could be out the door by 8:30. He would cruise by the corner
deli for cold cuts and beer and be on his way by 9:00. Ethan had said it was a little
over an hour's drive out of town.

"Perfect. That's fucking perfect."

Xander smiled and relaxed slightly as he grabbed what he needed, making sure he had
an extra battery for his laptop just in case the generator would not work, some clean
underwear and his trusty pocket thesaurus.

"A long, quiet car ride is just the ticket for coming up with a workable plot. One tiny
bug of an idea, that's all I need. Hell, I've started with less. Shit, I may just win this bet after all."

Bolstered by a false sense of confidence, Xander flung his duffel bag over his shoulder
and he sauntered down the stairs to the lobby where Nick stood smiling with his
hand held out offering up the keys to the prized, fire engine red, Mazda Miata.

"Thanks Nick. I'll be gone till tomorrow afternoon. See you then."

Nick smiled and accepted the ample tip. Xander Harris was not only a great author, he
was a hell of a generous man. Nick liked that in a tenant.

"Have a nice trip, Mr. Harris."

Xander settled into the leather seat of the small sports car. He adjusted the mirrors.
He punched the coordinance and address into his GPS and reviewed the directions.
He buckled his seatbelt. He sighed and knew he had fucked around long enough
when he saw Nick frowning and looking like he was about to come over and inquire as
to what the fuck the problem was.

Xander smiled and waved to the doorman one last time before pulling out and onto the
lovely, manicured, palm tree lined street. After a quick run on the deli for sliced turkey,
swiss cheese, bread and beer, Xander was on the way. Right on schedule.

Within minutes he crossed the city limits. He dialed his satellite radio to The Roadhouse
and he was ready to clear his brain for the stunning story idea that, at any moment,
would form and explode inside his head, roaring to life.
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