Disclaimer: Not mine. Xander belongs to Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Burn Notice belongs to Matt Nix (and whoever he works with).
Xander stared at the closed door bemusedly. After eleven years of fighting for his life, nearly getting married to a former vengeance demon, living in every habitable country in the world, training slayers, and making a name for himself in the more demonic circles, he found himself here again. Standing, in just his boxers, in front of a closed door, moments after getting to know a woman in the most physical sense. That said something about him, he was sure of it. The situation almost made him nostalgic; the last time this happened things were easier. Their biggest problems then were a demonic mayor and a Napoleonic troll of a principle. Of course, this time, his pants remained on the opposite side of the door, and it wasn't a demon or slayer doing the door-slamming. So it was a bit of a let-down. He normally got better treatment when he managed to find a human
woman to spend time with. Of course, considering that he met her while she was planting a bomb in a demon-run nightclub, she still couldn't be considered completely normal. Then again, she just threw him out of her room instead of trying to sacrifice, eat, or maim him, or any combination of the three. So, points to her.
Still, standing in a second-floor hallway, wearing only his boxers, holding his shirt and shoes, and feeling the warm wind brush across his bare back, was not really the way he wanted to end an encounter of that type. No help for it, he supposed; like it or not, that's what happened. After coming to this conclusion, the scarred man turned and stepped away from the door, right into another man.
"Hello," Xander greeted cheerfully, hoping to keep the man too confused to actually ask why he was standing outside a hotel room, holding the majority of his clothes. After receiving the man's return greeting, he began to walk passed the man, whistling and pulling his shirt on as he went. When he reached the stairs he finally stopped long enough to pull on his shoes, grateful that he was in one of the vacation capitals of the world. Wandering around in a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, bright blue boxers, and flip-flops would draw eyes anywhere but Miami.
'First stop,' he thought to himself, 'is another pair of pants. Then deal with the G'thirjkla demons who want to turn Miami into a feeding ground. After that's done, maybe another attempt to locate Madeline Weston. No getting distracted by pretty women this time, either! Giles said he really
needs to talk to her about something involving her son.'