TITLE:  From L.A. With Love

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: Softish R, to be safe

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

SPOILERS: through episode 4.2 – Ground State

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter 5 of 8. In which there is some pain. Quite a lot of pain, actually, and not all of it unpleasant.

Title nicked from Ian Fleming. Mangled quote from 'the Importance of Being Earnest' by Oscar Wilde.

Chapter 5: The Spy Who Loved Me

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. And in the thirty four years that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had existed, he had broken at least eight. That he knew of.

Firstly, a hairline fracture of the cheekbone, the result of an Under 11 prep school cricket tournament, when he'd valiantly attempted to thwart the cricket ball's trajectory to the boundary line by stopping it with his face.

Then the forearm and collar bone he'd fractured when he had fallen awkwardly during fencing practice with his father. This had earned him first an exasperated lecture on his clumsiness, and then grudging admiration when he had endured the resetting of the bone in his arm without a whimper. He had almost bitten through his tongue in an effort to hold in the screams, but the brief word of praise that his father had bestowed upon him had made the pain worthwhile.

The two vertebrae had been shattered during the mayor's ascension in Sunnydale, while the explosion in their old offices had contributed to the cracking of three ribs.

As agonizing as all of these injuries had been, they simply paled into insignificance when compared with his current predicament. How ironic, that the breaking of one of the smallest bones in the body could cause the greatest pain. Of course, the fact that his little finger was being slowly broken by a psychotic madman with serious amputation issues, was contributing somewhat to his discomfort.

Lindsey was taking forever.

He held the finger delicately between the steel pincers, and was pulling up, ever so gently, ever so excruciatingly slowly, till Wesley could feel the bones shifting, separating, moving inexorably towards breaking point. He was not screaming, however; preferring instead to divert his energies into discovering new and inventive ways to combine the various obscenities he was muttering through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, salty sweet as tears running into his mouth. At the table in from of him, Drusilla was going for the Oscar in decidedly deranged.

'Wicked child!' she squealed, clasping her hands over her ears. 'Nasty, filthy, dirty mouth! He needs to be punished; to be made clean!'

She stood up suddenly, and clapped her hands together. 'Oh please, let me do it, let me wash his mouth out!' And she was standing beside Lindsey now, her dark eyes sparkling with demented glee. 'Shall I fetch the soap now, Stepdaddy?'

Lindsey paused in mid torture, allowing him a brief moment of respite. 'Gag him with soap? Don't see why not, Dru. Be my guest.'

Wesley saw Drusilla lift something from the table, which he assumed was the aforementioned soap. That was it. He could cope with the whole mistaken for a spy scenario, the surreal world which was his reality now. He could even cope with having his extremities mutilated, and dear god how he hoped that Lindsey would stop at fingers. But he was not going to sit there and have his mouth washed out with soap like he was six years old again and his mother had caught him swearing under his breath in Latin.

'Right, that's it!' he hissed, fighting against the desperate desire to scream until he blacked out. 'You put that bloody bar anywhere near my mouth and so help me I'll kill you, you lunatic bitch!'

Lindsey laughed in that eerily unhinged way that takes most megalomaniacs years to perfect; then caressed the damaged finger with the edge of his claw. Wesley's whole arm tensed as cold steel reconnected with heated flesh, and he felt something move in the hollow of his elbow, a switch shifting against the sweat-slick surface of his skin.

There was a flash of gun metal grey, and the hidden blade swung free, slicing through the arm restraint like titanium through steel.

'Hah!' Wesley couldn't help shouting, though he was aware it was not very professional of him. He quickly manoeuvred round and cut through the other manacle, freeing not only his arm, but also allowing him to stand up and face the other man, ready for hand to hand combat, so to speak.

Except that Lindsey was not offering any sort of protest at his captive's sudden liberation. He was instead doubled over, holding his arm protectively to his chest. It was only when Wesley took a step forward and almost tripped over it, that he noticed the steel claw on the ground.

'You cut off my hand!' Lindsey sobbed. 'Again!'

'Well, technically, it wasn't me last time…' he began, and then closed his mouth again. He also managed not to make the Wilde-ian observation that to lose a hand once may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose it twice seemed like carelessness. He really didn't think Lindsey was in the mood to appreciate it.

Drusilla wrung her hands and leaned against the table for support. And for better access to the weaponry. She seized the now familiar scythe and swept it towards his head with unerring accuracy. Wesley attempted to block the blow with his own wrist blade, but unfortunately it chose that moment to retract, so instead he ducked down, and caught her ankle, yanking her to the ground. Her head connected with the edge of the table and she went down hard, the blade falling uselessly to the side. Wesley glanced at the now cataleptic Drusilla and a somewhat distracted Lindsey and made a run for the door.

To be met by a coolly indignant Lorne.

'I did warn you, Wesley.' He folded his arms across his chest and stood in the passageway, blocking any escape. 'Told you to not to interfere. But no, you always have to go picking at things best left alone.'

Wesley pulled the Walther PPK from his waistband and looked at him apologetically. 'Lorne, please, I don't want to hurt you.'

'That didn't stop you last time.' As cool as before, but this time his eyes flashed red hot with anger.

In the room behind him, Wesley could hear Lindsey shrieking curses and issuing orders to unknown minions to stop the Englishman at all costs. He didn't want to shoot Lorne, but if it came down to it, he was willing to hurt him. He checked the safety catch and then quickly raised the butt of the gun to bring it down on the demon's temple.

And he is struggling desperately as the light reflects off a statuette bright with blood.

Lorne caught his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip and shook his head. 'No, we're not doing this again.' He pulled him close, till they were almost nose to nose, then swung him round and kicked his foot against a barred door. It opened onto a dark alley at the back of the club.

'Get out of my sight. If he catches you here again, he will kill you. And I won't stop him next time.'

With that, Lorne shoved him out into the stultifying warmth of the Miami night. Wesley stumbled and hit the ground, automatically putting out his hand to break his fall. The shriek of agonized protest from his little finger was nauseatingly intense, and he decided that passing out would be pleasant about now. He was vaguely aware of other shouts around him and suddenly he was being hauled up and dragged along the alley, his feet barely making contact with the ground.

'Come on, English, get your pansy ass moving!'

Clearly fate had other plans for him. His arm was slung around what he sincerely hoped was Gunn's neck and he clung on for dear life.

'Shit, Wes, what the hell did you do to him?' Gunn hissed as he pulled him into the street at the end of the alley. 'I leave you alone for five minutes, and you've got Steelfinger's whole crew gunning for you.'

As if to attest to his statement, a stray bullet whizzed past them. They moved into the crowd, confident that the minions wouldn't be able to pick them off in the relative safety of the busy street.

'I – uh – cut his hand off again. Accidentally,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

Gunn glared at him for a long moment and then his face creased into a broad grin. 'Well, yeah. Accidental amputation, that would do it.' He held out his hand and Wesley unthinkingly slapped his own hand down, then howled in pain.

'Think he might have broken my finger,' he explained weakly, trying to salvage some dignity. He was tired and cross and his finger hurt like buggery, and all he really wanted was a splint and some really strong painkillers. And maybe a bottle of Balvenie. And to curl up in a bed somewhere and pretend this wasn't happening. That would be good.

Gunn obviously sensed his embarrassment, as he simply tightened his grip on Wesley's shoulders and guided him towards the hotel.

*~*~*~*

Three hours and one detour to the local ER later, they returned to the hotel, Wesley's finger splinted and bandaged. The doctor had pronounced it broken, and there had been questions raised as to how exactly the injury had occurred. Gunn had sidestepped them very neatly, going into unnecessary detail on his friend's accident prone nature. Wesley had illustrated this by tripping over his shoelaces three times. Only two of which had been intentional.

Gunn had returned him to his hotel room, handing him the pack of painkillers they had issued in the hospital, and instructing him to get some sleep, as they had another lead to follow in the morning.

Wesley closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He was torn between sheer elation at still possessing all his fingers, and exhausted despair at his current situation. He dropped the pills onto a lamp table next to a dark leather club chair, and opted instead for the medicinal benefits of a double measure of Balvenie. He had done extensive research on the contents of the bar before he had left earlier this evening, and was pleased to discover a large variety of decent single malts had been provided for his drinking pleasure. He poured three and a broken finger of Scotch into the glass and took a long swallow, hissing in pleasure as the liquid burned all the way to his stomach.

He set the glass down and began the rather tricky process of one handed removal of his clothing. The jacket wasn't too difficult, but the fine buttons on the shirt were proving a bit of a challenge. He swore softly in frustration and tried to pull the garment over his head, moving towards the bedroom. He succeeded in entangling his left arm in the neck of his shirt and tripping over a discarded shoe.

'Perhaps you could use a bit of a hand?'

Wesley froze. The voice had apparently come from his bed. He struggled valiantly with the errant shirt, finally managing to pull it over his head and fling it onto the floor next to his bed. Then stared at its occupant.

Lilah Morgan, attorney at law, employee of Wolfram and Hart, or as he preferred to call it, Evil Incarnate. In his hotel room. In his bed. And not in the least sleepy.

She lay beneath the virgin white bed linen, the fine cotton accentuating rather than disguising her body. The sheet undulated softly, clinging in all the right places, hinting at the delicate curves and hollows promised below. It was more than clear that she was naked below the sheet, save for a thin black velvet ribbon tied in a prim bow around her throat. It stood out starkly against the creamy skin, almost pearlescent in the moonlight that spilled through the uncurtained window.

'Hello, Alexei,' she giggled, her voice full of feigned innocence. She pulled the sheet up around her shoulders demurely, and blinked once, very slowly, allowing a good view of very long full lashes.

He eyed her with suspicion, trying to ignore the involuntary reactions his body was having to this undeniably seductive sight. He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly acutely aware of his own naked torso, and fought the ridiculous urge to cover his nipples with his fingers. He tried to look stern.

'I think you must have me confused with someone else.'

She flashed him a heartmelting smile, and did the slow blink again; obviously enjoying the effect she was having on his helpless body.

'Oh, I don't think that's the case, Mr Pryce. You and I know each other intimately.'

He stared at her in uncomprehending horror. What she was suggesting was unconscionable. He had never, would never have, although there was no denying the allure of the woman, you would have to be made of stone not to consider the possibilities….

He gave himself a mental shake. No, Wesley, no. There will be no consorting, fraternizing or otherwise associating with the enemy in any shape, form or… even if it was such a lovely form. He had never before noticed how incredibly tempting the evil lawyer bitch from hell now seemed to be. Of course, he had never before come upon her naked under his bedclothes in a wonderfully atmospheric hotel room, so that might have something to do with it.

'Perhaps I could refresh your memory…?' She lifted the sheet a little, and patted the bed beside her, smiling like a lioness that has spotted the gazelle with the trick knee and in-growing hooves. And damn him if he didn't just slide into the bed next to her, his body moving independently of his brain. She shifted onto her side, and her hands dropped to his belt, carefully filed nails intentionally grazing the skin of his stomach, setting his teeth on edge and sending his adrenaline levels sky high.

'Here, let me help you with that,' she purred, deftly unbuckling the mulberry belt and pulling it through the loops of his trousers. There was a soft hiss of leather through air, and the belt was free, though not discarded, he noted with some trepidation. She snapped it firmly, then slid it under his head, down to his neck. Wesley whimpered, once, very softly, never taking his eyes off her.

'You've been a very bad boy.' She leaned down to whisper in his ear, and he bit his tongue into silence. 'You told me you didn't care, didn't want to know; and all the time you were looking for him and lying to me!' Her voice rose on the final phrase, and she pulled him onto his side, one hand twisting the belt firmly around his neck, the other at his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down past his knees, and off.

He shivered as her hand returned to the waistband of his shorts, terror and arousal vying for supremacy. Some small, dark and very deeply buried part of him recognized the terror as the reason for the arousal, but he swallowed that realization down; now was not the time for that sort of introspection.

She released her strangle hold on the belt, and his breath came out in a rushed gasp that strangely happened to be her name.

'Oh, good boy. I'm glad to see you remember my name.' She cocked her head to one side, and he did not like the gleam that he could actually see forming in her eye. 'You do remember my name, don't you, Alexei?'

He nodded reflexively, and she grabbed his injured hand, forcing him to roll onto his stomach.

'Ow! Lilah!'  he yelped, impotent against her grip around his fingers.

'Don't struggle,' she said patiently, loosing her hold on the splinted fingers just a little. 'I won't hurt you if you don't struggle. Well, not very much,' she giggled, slapping her hand down onto his backside hard enough to make him jump. 'Now, you haven't answered my question fully. What's my name?'

He wasn't sure what answer she required. Perhaps she had some sort of twisted mistress slave relationship with the man she believed him to be. 'Um… mistress?' he ventured, earning himself another slap.

'Very funny, Pryce,' she laughed, not sounding too annoyed. 'Perhaps we could come back to that one later. Guess again.'

'Er… Lilah Morgan?' He was at a loss. The three smacks he received confirmed his failure.

'No, no, no! I knew you weren't listening. I knew it!  It's Lilah Romanov, Agent Triple X.' She leaned long on the second 'a' of Romanov, emphasizing each of the other syllables with a slap. 'And I know exactly who you are, Mr Wesley Pryce, Agent 007. Alexei, indeed! You weren't fooling anyone back in L.A., you know.'

She wasn't hitting him any more, and to be honest he wasn't sure if he was relieved or a tiny bit disappointed. He rolled cautiously onto his side again, and looked up into her suddenly suspiciously bright eyes. She swiped at his face blindly, angry at being caught off guard.

Wesley grabbed her wrist with his good hand and pulled her down beside him, her mouth meeting his, teeth clashing together in a sudden vicious kiss.

'No! You're not getting your way tonight!' There was a brief skirmish for control, and to Wesley's surprise, he won. Felt her relax into the kiss. He nipped her lip firmly with his teeth, then reached up and pulled out the prim little black bow, tossing it to one side.  She actually shuddered with pleasure.

'Oh, you're such a bad, bad, boy!' she whispered mockingly, and he gave her hair a good sharp tug, pretending he didn't savour the hiss of pain that accompanied the action.

'Shut up, Lilah,' he said, quite equitably.

'Make me.'

So Wesley did.

*~*~*~*

Wesley woke up in pain. Various degrees and types of pain, it had to be said, but pain nevertheless. His little finger, of course, was the most insistent and least pleasant. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a little salsa rhythm of agony. And then there was his back. She had carved her passion into his flesh with nails and hands and… he eyed the belt somewhat wistfully. Lilah had been really quite expert at wandering that fine line between extreme pleasure and unbearable pain. Had crossed it a couple of times, of course, but that was only to be expected. He turned over and was surprised to find the bed empty. Perhaps she was in the bathroom.

He pulled the sheet up over his chest, and pondered the events of the night. All in all it had been fairly stressful evening, what with the torture at the hands of a psychopath and then the new and disturbing discovery that he not only got off on pain, but had clearly been in some kind of sadomasochistic relationship with the legal representative of hell on earth, and had enjoyed every minute of it.

He put his good hand behind his head, and was musing on this mind-altering revelation, when he felt a tickle near the top of his foot. He glanced down to the end of the bed, expecting to see Lilah crouched there, wrapping a silk tie around his ankle. There was no one there.

Now the tickle had moved further up his leg, halfway up his calf muscle. A light twitching sensation, as if someone were brushing a feather over his leg. Moving ever so slowly upwards. Wesley lifted the sheet very carefully and peered underneath.

Making its way up his lower thigh was a small, but extremely deadly black widow spider.