Breakfast at the Hotel California

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Part 1


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And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered.
I don’t have a friend that feels at ease.
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered,
Or driven to its knees.

But it’s alright, it’s alright,
For we’ve lived so well, so long.
Still, when I think of the road we’re travelling on,
I wonder what’s gone wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong.


- Paul Simon, American Tune.


****

So Anya was dead, and Xander was alone. Again.

And it wasn’t just Anya, of course. The vast majority of Sunnydale’s thirty-thousand-strong population had died with the destruction of the Hellmouth. Friends, neighbours...people that Xander had known his entire life...all dead in a matter of minutes - his own parents included.

Funny then, that even with so many losses to grieve, it was Anya’s death that pained him the most. Anya: the beautiful, vivacious, slightly-unhinged demon, who had stolen his heart from the moment she suggested that they ‘interlock’ their respective body parts. Gone. Forever. Just like that.

It made him feel sick just thinking about it.

Ergo, he didn’t do a lot of thinking nowadays.

Given that Sunnydale was now reduced to a smouldering crater, Xander had taken the somewhat necessary step of relocating out of the immediate destruction zone. His current residence was a flea-bitten hotel room in the middle of the Californian desert...a definite improvement on his parent’s basement, perhaps, but nothing to boast about, even by his lowly standards. By day, he did menial work around the hotel for five bucks an hour. By night, he watched black-and-white horror movies and drank himself to sleep. It wasn’t much of a lifestyle, but it suited him just fine.

After all, who needed purpose and direction when there was the all-soothing balm of tequila slammers?

The Scoobies had finally disbanded. Buffy and Willow were gone, as were Giles, Dawn, and the few Potentials (now Slayers in their own right) that had remained in the wake of combat. The last he had seen of them, they were riding away in an old school bus, off to track down the newly-created generation of super-powered teens and train them in the art of Slayerage...or something like that anyway. Xander hadn’t really been listening. His decision to stay behind hadn’t been easy, but - in his heart - there was never any real question of him leaving Southern California. Something kept him tied to Sunnydale, despite the fact that Sunnydale didn’t technically exist anymore. He wasn’t about to try and fight the feeling. It didn’t seem worth the effort.

And so this was his so-called life. Waiting on tables and drowning his pain in an alcohol-induced haze. There were times when he caught himself laughing out-loud at his own patheticness...and then there were times he was so depressed that he could barely speak. It was at night when it hit him the worst, though. At night, when he was drunk and alone, and there was an empty space on the bed where Anya should have been.

And it was then that Xander cried.

****

The Hotel California was located somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the desert, on the highway leading out to Los Angeles and only a matter of miles away from the smoking pit formerly known as Sunnydale. Three months had elapsed since the final battle in the Hellmouth, and the journalists were only just starting to leave the area. An entire town being blown up by a freak meteor hit was big news, even by American standards, and Xander had become something of a local celebrity as ‘the guy who survived the Sunnydale disaster’.

Squinting his eyes – correction, *eye* - against the setting sun, Xander watched as the last news van pulled out of the car park and set out on the long road to LA. He wasn’t sorry to see it go. Journalists had apparently replaced vampires as the bane of his existence, and he would be eternally grateful if he never heard the phrase 'and can you tell us how you feel?' again in his life. What did they expect him to say? 'Oh I’m just fine and dandy, thank you very much. Everyone I’ve ever known has been indiscriminately slaughtered and my childhood home has been reduced to rubble, but apart from all that...yeah, great, never better.'

Get real.

Leaning back against a nearby wall, he watched the van grow smaller and smaller as it rumbled into the distance. A twisted grin of triumph curved briefly at the corner of his mouth. Just for good measure, he lifted his dust-chalked hand and gave a sardonic little wave.

“So long, buddy,” he called, “Hope to see you around real soon. And by the way, that burger I served you the other day? Hope you enjoyed the extra ingredient, you insensitive jackass!”

“Ale’Xander?”

Xander started at the sound of his grossly mispronounced name and turned, surprised to find Pablo Jimenez – the owner of the hotel – standing close behind him. The burley Hispanic man was staring at him with arched eyebrows, a slick streak of sweat glistening on his upper lip. From his nonplussed expression, Xander made an educated guess that his boss had overheard his heartfelt farewell.

“Ale’Xander, you gotta call waiting for you on the line. Some girl called Willow.”

Xander blinked, slightly flustered. “Oh. Oh great, thanks.” He paused, then grimaced suddenly. “I err, I was kidding about that burger thing by the way.”

Pablo – to his credit – simply shrugged. “Kid, I don’ give a fuck about what you did to those bastards, but it’s gonna be your ass on the line if the Health and Safety Inspectors come knocking. Gettit?”

“Got it.”

“Good, now go talk to your friend. You can start cleaning the bathrooms as soon as you’re finished.”

****

Back in the relative cool of the hotel foyer, Xander wiped a hand across his damp forehead, sandals slapping noisily on the faux-marble floor. Willow had made a point of calling at least once a week since she had left for parts-unknown, and Xander appreciated the gesture. At least he was sober this time. The last time she called, he had a vague memory of slurring emotionally down the phone that he wanted to kill himself and be done with it, which had ultimately led to a panic-stricken Willow vowing to be on the next flight back to California. It had taken days of threats and pleas to get her to change her mind. Not that he didn’t want to see her, of course, but the thought of having her mother over him when all he wanted to do was get drunk and sleep wasn’t all that appealing.

Allowing himself one final sigh, he picked up the receiver and held it against his ear. “Hey Will.”

“Xander!” Willow’s achingly familiar voice rang out against the silence. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“Definitely *not* thinking about killing myself, no siree. My world is awash with sunshine and happiness.”

“Hm, sarcasm. Way to make me feel better about your mental health, mister.”

“You know I like to make you worry – it gives me a sense of self-importance.” He hesitated, then crossed his fingers behind his back. “Seriously though, all is well in the land of Xander.”

Even over a phone line, he could sense his friend frowning in concern. “You know, if you need me to come over, it’s no problem. I’m here you know.”

“I know, and I appreciate it, but really – I’m fine. Besides, Buffy needs you. How else is she going to find all these new Slayers without my favourite glowy-Wicca-girl to help her out, huh?”

“Giles can find his way around a spell book, and Dawn’s getting pretty good at the whole magic thing. ...Tara was a great teacher.”

At the mention of her dead lover, Xander noted the sudden note of wistful sadness that entered Willow’s voice, causing him to experience a painful pang of empathy. He knew - more than anybody else, if fact – what it was like to lose someone that you loved. It hurt. It hurt like Hell.

“How is Dawn?” he said quickly, making a desperate bid to chance the subject before the conversation could dissolve into a mutual angst-fest.

“Oh, you know...Dawn-ish.”

“May I interoperate that as ‘annoying the sweet bejesus out of Buffy?’”

“Yup.”

“Ah.” Xander made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and forced a smile – a wasted gesture really, given that Willow wasn’t even present to be fooled by it. “Glad to hear that some things never change. There is order in my universe once more. Where are you guys anyway?”

“We’re in upstate New York at the moment – we’ve found two Slayers here already. That makes ten in total. Giles is talking about opening a training facility for them all...seems pretty serious about it too.”

“A Slayer school? For real?” He gave a weak chuckle. “Boy would that make for an interesting curriculum - literacy, arithmetic, and the fine science of ritual torture and demon killage. Harkens back to my own school days actually, come to think of it.”

“Hey, we had our fun.”

A moment of silence fell between them.

“Xander?”

“Yeah Will?”

“I miss you.”

Xander sighed and screwed his eyes shut, holding his hand up to massage his temples. For some reason, Willow’s words of sincerity made his head hurt.

“I know. I miss you too.”

And at that moment, he really meant it.

****

Night had fallen hours since. The sky was streaked in shades of obsidian and purple, the air heavy with the scent of cactus-blossom. Out here in the desert - far away from the neon-glow of the city - the stars shone with diamond-like intensity against the surrounding darkness, and the whole world was still and quiet.

...Dead.

Up ahead in the distance, a shimmering light blinked into existence. Two lights. Headlights. Time passed. The lights grew bigger, closer, brighter; the bleak desert silence broken by the distant rumble of an engine. It was the only car on the road that night and, after what seemed like hours – though it may just as equally have been a matter of minutes – a bug-spattered SUV pulled up into the hotel car park. The engine revved weakly for a second or two, then spluttered and died.

There was a lengthy pause. Then, presently, the driver’s door opened and a bleached-blonde figure stepped out into the halo of the security light.

With an audible ‘click’ of a lighter, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag, pale lips parting to emit a cloud of blue-grey smoke. He had been smoking non-stop since LA and his duster reeked of stale fag-ash. Not that he particularly minded...with the scent of own burning flesh tattooed forever onto his memory, the smell of nicotine seemed almost comforting by comparison. He frowned and quickly pushed that thought aside. Okay, so he had recently died a horrible and gruesome death...there was no need to be getting *morbid* about it.

Lifting his eyes upwards, he scanned the low-rise building in front of him with languid interest. With one critical glance he took in the flaking paintwork, the gaudy neon sign, the grimy windows...and, despite himself, shuddered.

“I’ve been in some pits before,” he muttered to himself, “But this...*this* sets the standard.” He took another long breath from his cigarette, shaking his head in a theatrical look of woe. “Xander Harris, what the hell were you thinking?”

With one final sneer of distaste, Spike pocketed his lighter and began to move – somewhat reluctantly – towards the hotel entrance.

****

“She was the love of my life, you know...”

“I hear ya buddy.”

“...I mean, the *love* of my *life*...”

“You want another beer?”

“...She was smart, beautiful...an absolute animal in the sack...everything a guy could ever want...”

“I’ll get you another beer.”

“...We should have spent the rest of our lives together..."

“Absolutely. The rest of your lives.”

“...How did I manage to screw things up so monumentally?...”

“Because you treated her like shit?”

Xander swayed slightly on his chair as he considered the old man through his one good eye, prodding the air emphatically with a pointed finger. “That’s right my friend. I treated her like shit. I broke her heart and messed up her life and behaved like a general all-round dingus. And you know why?”

The old man (Xander didn’t care to remember his name) nodded in drunken sympathy. “You’re an asshole?”

Xander took another swig from his near-empty bottle of beer. “Yup, that I am. A big, dumb, stupid asshole. The king of the assholes. In fact, if there was a country populated by assholes alone, they would probably elect me as their president. *That* is how much of an asshole I am.”

The old man didn’t say anything to that, just looked confused and squinted into his drink. Apart from the furious whirling of the ceiling-fan, the room was still and quiet. Pablo Jimenez had styled the bar’s interior with a Mexican theme, painting the walls in an aggressive shade of orange and decorating the tables with plastic cactus plants. Pablo thought it was retro. Xander thought it was nauseating.

The two men were the only ones present in the hotel bar that night. Xander was supposed to be serving, but – after it had become clear that he wasn’t going to be overrun with customers – he had decided to join the old man in a drink. Or two. Okay, twelve. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the combination of garish surroundings and too-many-beers was now having an unpleasant effect on his constitution. A vaguely sick feeling welled in the pit of his stomach, his head reeling in an alcoholic mist. Was it just him, or was the floor revolving beneath his feet?

...When Xander Harris got drunk, he got blind stinking drrrrrunk.

“I don’t feel so good,” he announced suddenly.

The old man blinked at him blearily. “You don’t look so good either, kid.”

Xander squeezed his eyes shut, head rocking from side to side. His mouth felt like he had been chewing on cotton-wool and there was a dry bitterness at the back of his throat. Not a good sign.

“I want Anya,” he mumbled sadly.

The old man took a long draught from his beer, then leaned over the table and patted him helpfully on the shoulder. “Hey, you’ve still got me.”

The sentiment, however, did little to make Xander feel better. A deep furrow of concentration appeared between his eyebrows. He was no longer swaying, and his usually tanned skin had acquired a noticeable tinge of grey. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he declared quietly. There was a further moment of stillness, and then: “Oh yeah, definitely gonna throw up.”

His chair scraped back with an audible clatter as bolted away from the table, stumbling towards the exit with graceless, uncoordinated movements. There was a bang as the door slammed shut behind him, and - in the hollow quiet that followed - the old man remained alone, blinking stupidly at the now-empty doorway.

“So you won’t mind if I finish your beer then?” he called.

****

After he had finished heaving the contents of his stomach into the nearest toilet, Xander slumped down on the cold bathroom floor and wondered dispassionately how it had come to this. How had his life gone from being engaged to the woman he loved, doing a job that he was good at, and being a valuable – if occasionally underappreciated – member of the Scooby-gang, to being a washed-out loser drunk? A washed-out loser drunk with only one eye, no less. If someone had told him that this was the way that his life was going to pan out, he might have ended it all back in High School and saved himself from a lot of unnecessary aggravation.

A cold shiver of nausea ran down his spine, and he allowed his head to roll forward to rest against his chest. A clammy film of perspiration covered his skin. Oh God, he wasn’t going to throw up again was he? He waited for a moment or two, but the promise of further sickness failed to materialise...thankfully. He heaved a sigh and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, deciding to take this as a sign and call it a night.

...Now if only he could remember how his legs worked...

From somewhere behind him, he heard the door to the bathroom open and close again, heavy footfalls sounding against the tiled floor. His cubical was wide open and anyone who walked past right then would have gotten a great shot of Xander Harris at the pinnacle of his patheticness: drunk, immobile, and on the verge of passing out. He wished that he could summon the energy just to close the cubical door and wait for whoever it was to leave, but – somehow – it seemed like too much effort. Besides, it was probably just the old man that he had left in the bar, come to drag him out for more beer and drunk-talk...

The footfalls came to a halt directly behind him.

“Well, well, well...this is a pretty picture. The Slayer’s comic-relief slouched over a toilet-bowl. Looks like you’ve finally found your place in life, Harris.”

Xander froze. Even through the heavy fog that seemed to have fallen inside his skull, he instantly recognised the voice...though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. After all, it was impossible! Dead people didn’t just spontaneously come back to life! Well...okay, maybe *some* did...but this wasn’t Sunnydale anymore, and Xander had thought that his I-see-dead-people days were well and truly behind him...

Slowly, hesitantly, he turned around, swallowing against a sudden tightness in his throat. “...Spike?”

“Got it in one.”

The bleached-blonde vampire looked down at him with sardonic distaste. His hands were stuffed in his duster pockets, his head tilting ever-so-slightly to the left. There wasn’t a mark on him to indicate that that he had previously been reduced to a shouldering heap of ashes.

Xander shook his head helplessly. This *so* wasn’t happening.

“But you’re...you’re dead.”

Spike sighed, with all the self-sacrificing patience of a parent explaining something exceedingly simple to a small child. “That’s kind of given – you know, me being a vampire an’ all.”

“No, I mean...you *died*. Remember? Spooky amulet, big ol’ flash of light...you were dusted, I saw you.”

Spike frowned indignantly. “No need to sound so bloody pleased about it.”

Xander gulped breathlessly. For one surreal moment, he half-expected Drusilla to jump out from behind the bathroom door and scream “Surprise!” When this happy little scenario failed to materialise, however, his brain was completely stumped for an explanation. Well, except for maybe one perhaps. The only explanation which seemed to make sense right now, in fact.

“I’m hallucinating,” he announced, voice steady with quiet certainty...

...Before his fragile hold on consciousness broke and he passed out.

Spike blinked in surprise, then scowled, eyebrows drawn together in an exaggerated look of annoyance. That wasn’t *quite* the reaction he had been hoping for. No tears of happiness, no screams of terror...the boy hadn’t even tried to kill him in a frenzy of hurt and rage. Didn’t he care?! Didn’t he care that Spike had died and gone through an unimaginable torment? Didn’t he care that Spike had spent the first few weeks of his resurrection as an intangible ghost? Didn’t he care that Spike had been forced to – he shuddered – *help* Angel?!

He glared irritably down at Xander’s limp body, deeply incensed by the boy’s apparent lack of feeling.

“Hallucinating?” He paused to scratch at a phantom itch on his forehead. “Pfft, no such luck I’m afraid, mate.”

****