MotorcycleMaintainance

Disclaimer: Xander Harris and the situations connected to Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB network. No connection or ownership by the author is suggested or implied. It's not very accurate about motorcycles, either.

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Xander Harris cruised slowly past the Superdome in New Orleans, glancing at the signs directing members of the "Restaurant, Commissary, and Industrial Kitchen Suppliers Association of America" convention to where the various programs were being presented. He was three months into his roadtrip around America. He had spent much of that time astride a motorcycle he had purchased, at a considerable discount, from his Uncle Evan's used car business. He had actually had his heart set on a Harley, but had found it prohibitively expensive, so he settled on a Yamaha, customized and airbrushed with large, gold, Mexican-style crosses. It sure as hell couldn't hurt, he thought.

His roadtrip so far, while not exactly living up to his wildest dreams, had at least lived up to his modest ones. And though he hadn't gotten to rescue any nubile young women who offered their bodies to him in gratitude, he also hadn't seen a single vampire, demon, or zombie. And to a boy raised in Sunnydale, that was the best possible world.

But it was September now, and Xander was starting to get tired of the heat, the dust, and the loneliness of the road.

He rolled into the French Quarter, and before long found the youth hostel mentioned in Willow's going-away gift to him: a copy of "Let's Go: USA." They wouldn't open for guests until four, he was told, but he was welcome to leave his motorcycle if he liked. He did, carrying his saddlebags and helmet with him. As he walked through the streets, he noticed the tourists giving him startled glances, and moving out of his way ahead of him. It wasn't until he saw his reflection in a shop window that he understood why. His hair was longer and shaggier, and the beard he'd decided to grow after the third day of trying to shave in a public bathroom after camping out the night before had filled in nicely. That, combined with his roadworn clothes and gear, pretty much screamed "Road Warrior."

"You've found the secret to cool, Harris," he told himself, "it only involves three months of being a homeless biker."

But he did have a home, he though, and it was about time he went there.

He checked his funds and his road atlas and realized he could be home in three days. And he had enough for a fabulous day and night in the Big Easy. Or at least not as poverty-stricken as the last three weeks.

Xander's first stop was one of New Orleans' approximately seven million tourist shops, this one off Jackson Square. He bought a postcard, already stamped, of Bourbon Street, wrote "I'm coming home," addressed it to his mother, and dropped it in the mail.

He continued on to Cafe du Monde, which came "highly recommended" in Willow's book. Three dollars, two fantastic coffees, and a plate of beignets later, he had to agree.

Xander had spent much of his roadtrip avoiding the usual tourist sites, and as a result he had nothing to bring his friends. He checked "Let's Go" and headed to the Old French Market. It was everything the book had promised. He bought pralines and hot sauce for his parents, a book on the history of voodoo in Louisiana for Giles, and porcelain clown masks for Willow and Buffy.

He continued strolling around the French Quarter, and was surprised how relaxed he was now that he knew he was headed home. He browsed in jewelry stores and antique shops. He stopped into the House of Voodoo, and picked up a catalog for Willow, too.

As the sun began to set, the bars opened, spilling their music into the streets. People thronged around Xander, from drunken college kids to old couples with their cameras. Bright lights played across their faces, and Xander found himself smiling broadly. He stopped outside a large tourist-y looking bar called Pat O'Brien's. The sound of hundreds of tipsy voices singing "Sweet Home Alabama" accompanied by raucous piano poured out the front door. Xander went in.

The piano bar, despite its size, was packed, and a little loud and drunk for Xander's taste, so he wandered to the patio and sat at a table. The air was starting to cool, and it was quiet away from the street. He ordered a beer, noting with some satisfaction that his new look seemed to negate the need for an I.D.

"A motorcycle, a beer, and not a hint of evil," he thought. "This is undoubtedly the life."

Music drifted over the patio, and Xander felt his mind drift with it. In a few days he'd be back in Sunnydale, thrust back into the thick of the slayer's war. Angel had once called him her "white knight." He had meant it to be mocking and cruel, but Xander had taken it as his mark. He was Buffy's knight, her loyal lieutenant. He had suffered for her; he would die for her.

But for now he was resting. With the mayor's defeat, the major evil in Sunnydale had been banished, at least for now. Xander knew it was only a matter of time before the demonic void was filled, but he was pretty confident things would be quiet for awhile.

As he was musing, a woman came over to his table. She was older than him, at least twenty-five, and a bit unsteady on her feet. "Care to buy a girl a drink," she asked Xander, her voice low and throaty.

"This is more like it," Xander thought, and he gestured toward the seat opposite in what he hoped was a cool manner.

"I see from your helmet you're a biker," she said, "have you been on the road?"

"Yeah," Xander said casually, "I've been spending the summer cruising,
seeing this great country of ours."

A waitress approached. "Something for the lady," she asked.

"Hurricane," the woman answered, then she turned back to Xander. "That's so interesting," she continued, "where are you from originally?"

"Southern California."

"Oh, a surfer, too," the woman cooed, "that's such an interesting way to live. Surfing, biking. I've never done anything like that. I was hoping I'd meet someone like you."

Xander felt a surge of excitement. This would make his trip complete- a passionate night with an anonymous stranger. "Well, you know," he said as nonchalantly as he could, "I've never been one to just sit around. I'm what you might call a thrill seeker."

The waitress returned and put down a tall glass of some frozen fruity concoction. "Eight dollars," she said.

"Ouch," Xander thought, but he ponied up.

The woman took several small sips of the drink, then turned back to Xander. "My husband went off today alligator hunting," she said. "He was supposed to meet me here an hour ago." She rubbed Xander's arm suggestively. "Wouldn't it just serve him right to find me here with some hot stud biker," she went on, "show him there's plenty of guys out there to take care of me if he won't." She leaned in close, curled an arm around his neck and absently twirled a finger through his hair. She kissed his ear gently. "You'll help me teach him a lesson," she whispered huskily, "won't you sugar?"

And as Xander realized he'd just been made an unwitting pawn in this woman's inebriated psycho-drama, a slow smile crept over his face. He slid his arms around the woman's waist and pulled her closer. "Well, you know," he said softly into her ear, "tonight's your lucky night. Because I'm not just some drifter."

"You're not?" she said, a hint of worry coming into her voice.

Xander nuzzled her hair gently. "Oh, no," he went on, "you see..." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm a vampire killer."

She pulled away from him, really alarmed now. "A what?"

Xander spread his arms expansively. "Well, not just vampires," he said. "Demons, zombies. There was once this guy made of bugs..."

The woman forced a laugh, like Xander had just made a joke she didn't quite get.

Xander leaned in close again. "I mean, I could go on all night," he said, "I've fought and killed things that would stampede you and all the other suburban cows in your petty little minivan world."

The woman pulled away. "You're crazy," she said.

Xander leaned back and took a long draw from his beer. "Maybe," he said, "but I don't manipulate people for my own amusement."

The woman gave a disgusted snort and stood up. "Jerk," she exclaimed.

Xander grinned knowingly. "Not me, baby," he said.

The woman turned on her heel and marched away.

"Enjoy your stay," Xander shouted after her.

A few moments later the waitress returned to his table. "She sure got out of here in a hurry," she said, taking away the half-empty hurricane glass.

Xander nodded. "She wasn't really my type," he said, then turned his attention to the waitress. "So," he said, "are you from New Orleans, originally..."

Read the sequel- King of the Highway
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