The Fabulous Ladies Night Club (2/8)
Title: The Fabulous Ladies Night Club
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: R
Genre: genfic: action-adventure, humor, drama
Word Count: ~14K
Character: Xander
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set between S3 and S4 of Buffy. Written for
spring_with_xan . Lots of thanks to my lovely beta,
firefly_124 . There’s a Spanish Glossary to have open in another tab for easy reference.
Summary: The road trip that wasn’t. After graduation, Xander only makes it to Oxnard before his car breaks down, and he finds himself washing dishes at The Fabulous Ladies Night Club. Forty miles to get back home might not seem that far, but sometimes, it can take a lot to cross.
Previous parts: Part 1
2.
Gino’s large spoon bangs away at the sides of the bowl as he mixes together what the menu refers to as his ‘famous meatballs - just like Mama used to make.’ His forearms flex with the movement, the rippling of the muscles somewhat muted by a thick coat of hair. Xander’s amazed that a completely bald man could be so hairy everywhere else. And if they’re going to make him wear a hairnet, you’d think the health department would adapt it for where he’s actually hairy. Arm nets - the man needs arm nets. Xander tries not to think about Gino’s arm hair in the food because he’ll eat dinner here tonight. After all, it’s free. Hey, maybe after eating here a while, I’ll hack up a hairball like Jesse’s cat used to. A Gino hairball.
Disturbing thoughts combine with the smell of raw hamburger in the poorly ventilated, hot kitchen to make Xander’s stomach roil. Not even the excessive amount of breadcrumbs Gino uses can soak up the scent. You’d think I’d be used to it. I mean, Gino makes those little abuses of the term red meat every Wednesday, but …
But maybe it’s drinking more beer in the past three days than he’s had in his entire non-adult life that’s doing it to him this week. La Cocina doesn’t card, making him a little disappointed that he hasn’t had to use the fake ID he worked so hard to get before leaving Sunnydale. Or, well, in terms of alcohol. He did have to show it to Doris to get this job.
As if called by his very thoughts, she breezes through the doors. “Gino, you still working on those balls?” She laughs, heels clicking across the floor in staccato accompaniment. “You better be glad Wednesdays are a bit slow, or the ladies would be in here gnawing your … something off. As is, table six just ordered three plates of spaghetti topped with them, so chop, chop.”
Gino grunts something that could be an affirmative or a fuck you. Hard to say because Xander’s still trying to learn how to interpret the different inflections, but it’s enough for Doris to turn towards Xander.
She picks up a plate from the clean stack. “Looks like it’s getting time for you to do the bleaching again.”
His stomach heaves a little more at the thought of adding bleach fumes to the already ripe olfactory mix, faint sour burn in the back of his throat, but he nods even as he wonders if he’s turning green. And is green even my color? On Willow or Buffy, it brings out their eyes.
Doris isn’t fooled. One eyebrow cocks. “But tomorrow should be slow enough for that. For now, get out there and help Carlita finish setting up the bar.”
“Thanks, Doris.” Drying his hands as quickly as possible, he practically scurries for the door, though he’s still not fast enough to avoid the pinch. Sharp yet sweet pain that jolts him as she always hits just the right/wrong spot.
“Still firmer than you look under those jeans.” Doris’s voice thrums with amusement. “There’s hope for you yet.”
Cheeks hot with embarrassment, he doesn’t look back, and anything more she says is lost under the music as he pushes his way into the club.
Trey is on stage. The newest dancer, he’ll work most of tonight since Wednesday’s the slowest night of the week. Jorge tells Xander this is just the way it goes, that putting in the time lets you get your routines down before you perform for the weekend’s big tippers.
Rod Stewart’s singing “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy,” and Xander remembers seeing the video on MTV late one night, wondering if anyone actually thought the man in black spandex with 80s rocker hair was sexy and if so, then does Xander ever have a shot at being it?
Jorge whirls over to Xander and yells in his ear. “Can you believe this mierda, man?” He hooks a thumb toward the stage. “What is the gringo trying to do to the chair?”
Trey straddles the poor, defenseless piece of furniture, blond hair almost brushing the floor as he humps wildly at something half way between its back and empty space, and Xander finds it too disturbing to watch for long. “I don’t know. Maybe he watched Flashdance again.” He shudders, remembering the time Roberto went on in leg warmers and little else. “That never ends well.”
“I can do better. Doris, she will realize this soon.” Jorge grins at him. “Even you can do better. I was busy with my own señorita, but Marisol told me you danced well with her.”
Xander runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “Yeah, well, Marisol is your sister, so she’s gonna say nice stuff about your friends.”
“Are you loco? She would say things as bad as she could because she’s my sister, so she means it.” Jorge nods his head to the left, grinning. “Must go - table one, they want me.”
Xander watches his friend saunter up to the table of women. Jorge leans over the tall blond who’d waved for him, flashing a flirtatious smile. He’s one of those good-looking guys who knows it, and Xander could easily hate him for it if it weren’t for the fact that Jorge’s nice to him instead of thinking he’s a loser like the popular guys at Sunnydale High did.
Carlita’s happy to see him, her smile brightening her face more than her overly blond highlights ever could. “Xander! Praise Guadalupe! Can you get the extra highball glasses from that cabinet up there and swap them with half the wine glasses? Then I need that new case of vodka unpacked. No one’s drinking wine anymore.”
Rearranging glasses and bottles as per her instructions gives him time to look around. The Fabulous Ladies Nightclub isn’t such a bad place, or at least not once he’s out of the kitchen, the age of the tables hidden by tablecloths, the dark walls made to look good with low lighting. The stage shines brightly, the music plays loudly, and the women whoop and smile no matter how much Jorge and Xander think Trey’s dance stinks.
Carlita gently elbows him out of the way to get to the vodka. “Sorry - gotta make a round of Shanghai Slammers. That’s about it for set up. Why don’t you go ahead a take these now?” She waves her free hand toward a tray half full of glasses and chopsticks. “I’ll try to send things back more often so Doris stays off both our asses.”
“Especially since it’s my ass she’ll really be on.” Rubbing the body part in question, he fakes a pained expression.
She laughs, a rich, full sound, head thrown back with the force of it. “You’re too funny! Now go before she actually has cause to do something.”
Jorge gives him a wave as he moves past, and not even Gino’s derisive grunt when he enters the kitchen can quash Xander’s happy.
~~~
Xander’s glad to be twenty-four more hours away from the abuse of beer when the next night hits. It makes leaning over a sink full of hot water and off-brand Clorox doable. Yes, that’s right, kids - bleach fumes in smelly small spaces make the fun! He drops the last few plates in, not too worried if his apron gets splashed.
The doors don’t even have time to do their thunk, thunk, thunk of swinging closed by the time Jorge’s already beside him, body vibrating with energy, hands shaking with it. “Xander, man! This is it - just as I told you!”
“What, Seven showed up and said she wanted to assimilate you into her own personal Borg of two?”
“No, estúpido!” Jorge backhands his shoulder. “I will be a dancer!”
“Really? That’s great, but … uh … how? I mean, Doris said your new routine was good and all, but I thought she also told you to keep working on it. Besides, that means she fired someone, and if she’s in a firing mood, then I’m so out of here.” His hands flail wildly towards the sink. “I waited a whole extra day to do the bleach, and she said she was okay with it, but what if she was only saying that to test me, and -”
“Xander!” Jorge’s hand shakes his shoulder, and when Xander looks at his friend, he can see Jorge’s smile wavering a bit. “It is not really my routine. It is that Martin did not come to work and does not answer the phone.”
“But he loves this job! You’ve heard him - all with the stories of adoring gazes and willing women and … and did I mention the willing women?”
“Sí, any yet, he is not here.” Jorge’s smile returns in full, megawatt force. “And that, my friend, means I will be on stage and you will be the waiter.”
“Wha- … waiter? Me, a waiter?”
“Chingada, man! The chicas, they like a little something to look at off the stage as well. Who you think is going to do it? Gino?”
Xander looks over at the older man, who grunts. This one is definitely a fuck you.
“But who’ll wash dishes? What with the bleach? And … and … there are chopsticks …” He looks around, trying to find anything in the once-hated kitchen to cling to, anything offering security.
Shrugging in one graceful and economical lift of the shoulders, Jorge begins undoing the bottom buttons of his shirt. “Doris, she has already called her nephew Ernie. He will wash the dishes until someone new is found.”
“What are you doing? Stage is thataway.” Xander jabs a finger towards the doors.
“You do not think you can be a waiter in clothes like those. Doris said I am to give you my shirt for tonight.”
Xander unties his apron and looks down at his old Batman t-shirt, admitting even to himself that the holes and ripped hem won’t cut it, the cracks in the screen printing aging Michael Keaton even more than time itself has worked on the real man. It peels from his skin with the softness of old cotton and comfort.
Holding out the royal blue button up, Jorge grins. “Besides, it is not as if I will be needing it.” He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, fingers curling to frame his groin, and cocks his pelvis forward. “I have my costume, and once I am in it, the chicas, they will all know that, even though I have named him Jorgito, I am armado.”
“You’re a … uh …” Xander waves a hand at what he thinks is the general direction of Jorge’s midsection while looking anywhere else. “An armadillo?” He tries for the Spanish pronunciation, double els turned into soft wye.
“No, estúpido! My penis, it is large.”
Xander shrugs the shirt onto his shoulders, wishing he’d had something to pull over his head instead. ‘Cause I don’t think I could be any redder. Talking comfortably about penis size must be covered in the cool-kid classes. “That’s … uh … that’s nice for you.”
Jorge wags his eyebrows. “And even nicer for the caliente chica when she returns.”
“The redhead?” Full lips writing promises on the air flash through Xander’s mind.
“Sí.” Jorge’s eyes lose focus. “The redhead.”
Feedback appreciated.
Part 3
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: R
Genre: genfic: action-adventure, humor, drama
Word Count: ~14K
Character: Xander
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set between S3 and S4 of Buffy. Written for
spring_with_xan . Lots of thanks to my lovely beta,
firefly_124 . There’s a Spanish Glossary to have open in another tab for easy reference.
Summary: The road trip that wasn’t. After graduation, Xander only makes it to Oxnard before his car breaks down, and he finds himself washing dishes at The Fabulous Ladies Night Club. Forty miles to get back home might not seem that far, but sometimes, it can take a lot to cross.
Previous parts: Part 1
2.
Gino’s large spoon bangs away at the sides of the bowl as he mixes together what the menu refers to as his ‘famous meatballs - just like Mama used to make.’ His forearms flex with the movement, the rippling of the muscles somewhat muted by a thick coat of hair. Xander’s amazed that a completely bald man could be so hairy everywhere else. And if they’re going to make him wear a hairnet, you’d think the health department would adapt it for where he’s actually hairy. Arm nets - the man needs arm nets. Xander tries not to think about Gino’s arm hair in the food because he’ll eat dinner here tonight. After all, it’s free. Hey, maybe after eating here a while, I’ll hack up a hairball like Jesse’s cat used to. A Gino hairball.
Disturbing thoughts combine with the smell of raw hamburger in the poorly ventilated, hot kitchen to make Xander’s stomach roil. Not even the excessive amount of breadcrumbs Gino uses can soak up the scent. You’d think I’d be used to it. I mean, Gino makes those little abuses of the term red meat every Wednesday, but …
But maybe it’s drinking more beer in the past three days than he’s had in his entire non-adult life that’s doing it to him this week. La Cocina doesn’t card, making him a little disappointed that he hasn’t had to use the fake ID he worked so hard to get before leaving Sunnydale. Or, well, in terms of alcohol. He did have to show it to Doris to get this job.
As if called by his very thoughts, she breezes through the doors. “Gino, you still working on those balls?” She laughs, heels clicking across the floor in staccato accompaniment. “You better be glad Wednesdays are a bit slow, or the ladies would be in here gnawing your … something off. As is, table six just ordered three plates of spaghetti topped with them, so chop, chop.”
Gino grunts something that could be an affirmative or a fuck you. Hard to say because Xander’s still trying to learn how to interpret the different inflections, but it’s enough for Doris to turn towards Xander.
She picks up a plate from the clean stack. “Looks like it’s getting time for you to do the bleaching again.”
His stomach heaves a little more at the thought of adding bleach fumes to the already ripe olfactory mix, faint sour burn in the back of his throat, but he nods even as he wonders if he’s turning green. And is green even my color? On Willow or Buffy, it brings out their eyes.
Doris isn’t fooled. One eyebrow cocks. “But tomorrow should be slow enough for that. For now, get out there and help Carlita finish setting up the bar.”
“Thanks, Doris.” Drying his hands as quickly as possible, he practically scurries for the door, though he’s still not fast enough to avoid the pinch. Sharp yet sweet pain that jolts him as she always hits just the right/wrong spot.
“Still firmer than you look under those jeans.” Doris’s voice thrums with amusement. “There’s hope for you yet.”
Cheeks hot with embarrassment, he doesn’t look back, and anything more she says is lost under the music as he pushes his way into the club.
Trey is on stage. The newest dancer, he’ll work most of tonight since Wednesday’s the slowest night of the week. Jorge tells Xander this is just the way it goes, that putting in the time lets you get your routines down before you perform for the weekend’s big tippers.
Rod Stewart’s singing “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy,” and Xander remembers seeing the video on MTV late one night, wondering if anyone actually thought the man in black spandex with 80s rocker hair was sexy and if so, then does Xander ever have a shot at being it?
Jorge whirls over to Xander and yells in his ear. “Can you believe this mierda, man?” He hooks a thumb toward the stage. “What is the gringo trying to do to the chair?”
Trey straddles the poor, defenseless piece of furniture, blond hair almost brushing the floor as he humps wildly at something half way between its back and empty space, and Xander finds it too disturbing to watch for long. “I don’t know. Maybe he watched Flashdance again.” He shudders, remembering the time Roberto went on in leg warmers and little else. “That never ends well.”
“I can do better. Doris, she will realize this soon.” Jorge grins at him. “Even you can do better. I was busy with my own señorita, but Marisol told me you danced well with her.”
Xander runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “Yeah, well, Marisol is your sister, so she’s gonna say nice stuff about your friends.”
“Are you loco? She would say things as bad as she could because she’s my sister, so she means it.” Jorge nods his head to the left, grinning. “Must go - table one, they want me.”
Xander watches his friend saunter up to the table of women. Jorge leans over the tall blond who’d waved for him, flashing a flirtatious smile. He’s one of those good-looking guys who knows it, and Xander could easily hate him for it if it weren’t for the fact that Jorge’s nice to him instead of thinking he’s a loser like the popular guys at Sunnydale High did.
Carlita’s happy to see him, her smile brightening her face more than her overly blond highlights ever could. “Xander! Praise Guadalupe! Can you get the extra highball glasses from that cabinet up there and swap them with half the wine glasses? Then I need that new case of vodka unpacked. No one’s drinking wine anymore.”
Rearranging glasses and bottles as per her instructions gives him time to look around. The Fabulous Ladies Nightclub isn’t such a bad place, or at least not once he’s out of the kitchen, the age of the tables hidden by tablecloths, the dark walls made to look good with low lighting. The stage shines brightly, the music plays loudly, and the women whoop and smile no matter how much Jorge and Xander think Trey’s dance stinks.
Carlita gently elbows him out of the way to get to the vodka. “Sorry - gotta make a round of Shanghai Slammers. That’s about it for set up. Why don’t you go ahead a take these now?” She waves her free hand toward a tray half full of glasses and chopsticks. “I’ll try to send things back more often so Doris stays off both our asses.”
“Especially since it’s my ass she’ll really be on.” Rubbing the body part in question, he fakes a pained expression.
She laughs, a rich, full sound, head thrown back with the force of it. “You’re too funny! Now go before she actually has cause to do something.”
Jorge gives him a wave as he moves past, and not even Gino’s derisive grunt when he enters the kitchen can quash Xander’s happy.
~~~
Xander’s glad to be twenty-four more hours away from the abuse of beer when the next night hits. It makes leaning over a sink full of hot water and off-brand Clorox doable. Yes, that’s right, kids - bleach fumes in smelly small spaces make the fun! He drops the last few plates in, not too worried if his apron gets splashed.
The doors don’t even have time to do their thunk, thunk, thunk of swinging closed by the time Jorge’s already beside him, body vibrating with energy, hands shaking with it. “Xander, man! This is it - just as I told you!”
“What, Seven showed up and said she wanted to assimilate you into her own personal Borg of two?”
“No, estúpido!” Jorge backhands his shoulder. “I will be a dancer!”
“Really? That’s great, but … uh … how? I mean, Doris said your new routine was good and all, but I thought she also told you to keep working on it. Besides, that means she fired someone, and if she’s in a firing mood, then I’m so out of here.” His hands flail wildly towards the sink. “I waited a whole extra day to do the bleach, and she said she was okay with it, but what if she was only saying that to test me, and -”
“Xander!” Jorge’s hand shakes his shoulder, and when Xander looks at his friend, he can see Jorge’s smile wavering a bit. “It is not really my routine. It is that Martin did not come to work and does not answer the phone.”
“But he loves this job! You’ve heard him - all with the stories of adoring gazes and willing women and … and did I mention the willing women?”
“Sí, any yet, he is not here.” Jorge’s smile returns in full, megawatt force. “And that, my friend, means I will be on stage and you will be the waiter.”
“Wha- … waiter? Me, a waiter?”
“Chingada, man! The chicas, they like a little something to look at off the stage as well. Who you think is going to do it? Gino?”
Xander looks over at the older man, who grunts. This one is definitely a fuck you.
“But who’ll wash dishes? What with the bleach? And … and … there are chopsticks …” He looks around, trying to find anything in the once-hated kitchen to cling to, anything offering security.
Shrugging in one graceful and economical lift of the shoulders, Jorge begins undoing the bottom buttons of his shirt. “Doris, she has already called her nephew Ernie. He will wash the dishes until someone new is found.”
“What are you doing? Stage is thataway.” Xander jabs a finger towards the doors.
“You do not think you can be a waiter in clothes like those. Doris said I am to give you my shirt for tonight.”
Xander unties his apron and looks down at his old Batman t-shirt, admitting even to himself that the holes and ripped hem won’t cut it, the cracks in the screen printing aging Michael Keaton even more than time itself has worked on the real man. It peels from his skin with the softness of old cotton and comfort.
Holding out the royal blue button up, Jorge grins. “Besides, it is not as if I will be needing it.” He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, fingers curling to frame his groin, and cocks his pelvis forward. “I have my costume, and once I am in it, the chicas, they will all know that, even though I have named him Jorgito, I am armado.”
“You’re a … uh …” Xander waves a hand at what he thinks is the general direction of Jorge’s midsection while looking anywhere else. “An armadillo?” He tries for the Spanish pronunciation, double els turned into soft wye.
“No, estúpido! My penis, it is large.”
Xander shrugs the shirt onto his shoulders, wishing he’d had something to pull over his head instead. ‘Cause I don’t think I could be any redder. Talking comfortably about penis size must be covered in the cool-kid classes. “That’s … uh … that’s nice for you.”
Jorge wags his eyebrows. “And even nicer for the caliente chica when she returns.”
“The redhead?” Full lips writing promises on the air flash through Xander’s mind.
“Sí.” Jorge’s eyes lose focus. “The redhead.”
Feedback appreciated.
Part 3