TITLE: From L.A. With Love

AUTHOR: Eloise

RATING: PG13

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 6 of 8. Title nicked from Ian Fleming.

Chapter 6: Casino Royale

He was an idiot.

You would think that over the years he would have learned to recognise and therefore mediate his behaviour accordingly, but evidently not. It wasn't surprising really. If his father's regular attempts to beat the idiotic tendencies out of him had been unsuccessful, it was unlikely that he would succeed where dedicated paternal determination had failed.

She was the enemy; he had known that, and she had made no attempts to deny that fact. And yet he had snuggled up to sleep next to her, a hart to her wolf. Or more precisely, a fly to her black widow spider.

He did not suffer from arachnophobia, thank God. He would never have survived his childhood if he had been in the least afraid of spiders. The Wyndam-Pryce family home was over a hundred and fifty years old, and various examples of the arachnid species inhabited some of the smaller darker damper areas of the house. He had spent too many hours locked in the cupboard under the stairs with one of these harmless creatures to feel any great fear.

On the contrary, he'd grown quite fond of the company. But those had been spiders of the nursery rhyme variety, the sort that would perhaps have put Miss Muffet off her curds and whey. The creature that was currently making its way along his inner thigh would have caused Miss Muffet to simultaneously wet her bloomers and pass out.

It moved slowly, with a delicacy of touch that made him want to whimper, and not in a good way. Each leg moving independently, the minute hairs on each limb tickling like tiny teddy bear paws as it continued its lazy ascent up his rigid body. It paused at his groin area, and Wesley wondered if the creature was actually channelling Lilah. She'd mated with him, and now he was about to be consumed. With pain. As the tiny paws resumed their death march, he released a soft breath very slowly, feeling the incessant tickle on his stomach. If he could just stay still now…

The desire to sneeze came from nowhere and very quickly became a physical necessity. He fought the urge valiantly, but it was a battle he could not win. The spider was now on his chest and seemed to sense something was amiss. It raised one leg and allowed it to hover in mid air in a questioning manner.

Wesley took a deep breath, frantically trying to remember his Academy lectures on kinematics and the law that states that impulse equals change of momentum. He was sure it was one of Newton's Laws of Motion, which had been detailed in Principia. For some reason, they had been required to read this in the original Latin, and he wondered vaguely if it'd lost something in translation, as he couldn't quite remember if this was the first, second or third law… and now he was really quite angry for as far as he could remember there had been criminally little discussion on the really quite valid problem of how much force would be needed to propel a black widow spider off of your chest and what exact magnitude of sneeze would be required to accomplish this…

He conducted the experiment regardless. The sneeze was satisfyingly loud and extremely violent, and the spider shot a few inches in the air. With a degree of speed which he didn't actually believe he possessed, Wesley rolled to the right and the spider landed next to him on the mattress. He scooted off the bed and seized a shoe, then whacked at the now swiftly scuttling arachnid. The application of shoe to expensively pocket sprung mattress had the unfortunate effect of catapulting the creature off the bed, and the next three thumps of the shoe were accompanied by considerably girlish screams.

Wesley sat back on his heels, waiting for the telltale shooting pains in his left arm. His heart, however, was still beating. Much faster than his body preferred, admittedly, but he was still alive. Which was more than could be said for the spider. He dropped the shoe and eyed the squashed remains with some sorrow. Not its fault, really. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he knew how that felt.

He was about to clean up the mess when he noticed a matchbook on the floor by the bed. He lifted it gingerly and then reached up to switch on the bedside light. The cover was black matte, decorated with the slightly oriental motif of a rising sun, detailed in bronze embossed relief. He opened it and read the hastily scrawled message inside.

13th at 8pm

Mr Big

XXX

Hers. She had dropped it accidentally and now at last he had a clue, something that would put him ahead of the game. He was finally going to regain some control of his life. He turned the book over and read the address on the back. Then sighed softly to himself and lowered his head into his hands.

He ran his hand appreciatively over the impeccable dinner jacket and silently thanked Gunn for the up to date info on his current location. Last time he'd been here he'd been a little overdressed for this club. Actually, when he thought about it, he'd been a little overdressed for life in this town.

He felt the familiar warmth of embarrassed humiliation at his behaviour on that particular evening; the night he'd first met Angel. He'd come to the club, full of pompous determination, demanding that Buffy report immediately to him. And he hadn't missed the little smile which had touched the vampire's lips when Buffy had slid her hand into his jacket pocket and removed the amulet. He really must have been the most insufferable prig, although he was fairly sure Angel wouldn't have used those exact words. But he had travelled a long road since his Sunnydale days, he was sure of it, and he hardly trembled at all as he pushed the gilded doors that led into the Casino Bronze.

It was utterly unrecognizable. Gone was the post modern industrial interior with its utilitarian stage set and bar area. In its place was opulence of an almost decadent degree. Almost every surface glittered with burnished bronze; the wall bore decorative motifs of the trademark rising sun, as well as garishly coloured paintings of various historical and mythic scenes. He recognized Helen of Troy, Joan of Arc; even the Medusa was represented in these murals.

By far the most striking of these was the fresco that was painted on the ceiling of the former nightclub.

It seems at once incredibly familiar yet somehow alien. And then he realised why. In the centre, where there should have been the depiction of the creation of Adam, there was instead the reclining figure of Eve, her fingers reaching out to grasp not the hand of God, but a deep blood red apple. The other half of the apple was pierced by the sharp fangs of a golden-eyed serpent. The frieze was truly breathtaking in its audacity.

He stood for long moments, gazing at the mural, lost in genuine admiration for the conception and accomplishment of such a project. Then let his gaze drift down towards the occupants of the casino.

The first thing he noticed was the women. At every roulette wheel, black jack, dice and poker table the main participants were the women. There were men, of course, well dressed and immaculately groomed; hovering on the arms of their companions, but the actual gambling seemed to be predominantly the preserve of the females. A few lone males sat at the slot machines, feeding quarters mindlessly into them, but as far as Wesley could see that was the extent of their participation.

It occurred to him then just how much he stood out here. As he moved into the main games concourse, the crowd parted, creating a pathway to a table in the centre of the area. He shrugged internally and followed the route, then had to bite back a gasp of surprise as he recognized the player at the head of the table. Then remembered the handwritten scrawl in the matchbook – who else would be Mr Big in Sunnydale but the mayor?

Richard Wilkins was looking decidedly well for having been blown to pieces nearly three years previously. He was in full evening dress, a snakeskin belt and watch strap the only allusions to his demonic alter-ego. He smiled broadly and raised his hand to greet Wesley, a kindly uncle greeting a wayward nephew.

'There you are. Care to join me at the table?'

Wesley had given up on feeling surprised at anything that happened now. It was simpler just to accept the impossible and get on with it, rather than drive himself mad trying to rationalize the situation. He made his way to the table.

The dealer looked over at Wilkins, who nodded his head just a fraction, and a new deck of cards was produced. He shuffled them expertly and began to deal. There were three players already at the table, and they lifted their cards and began to sort them, so Wesley followed their lead. Rather than the traditional four suits he had been expecting, the cards all depicted people in various occupations, bearing their names. Wesley looked down at his hand, held awkwardly in splinted fingers, and discovered Mrs Bun the Baker, Miss Grits the Grocer's daughter and Master Bones the Butcher's boy.

Happy Families. They were gambling on Happy Families. He watched as the mayor placed a handful of chips in the centre of the table, and then the other players contributed their stake. He pulled out his wallet and offered a hundred dollar bill to the dealer, who exchanged it for a little pile of black and bronze chips. Then tried desperately to remember the rules of a game he'd last played in prep school.

'Please can I have Mr Mug the Milkman?' Wesley realized the woman opposite was addressing him. He searched through his hand, and passed her the requested card.

'Thank you,' she answered and laid out the first family of the game. There was a smattering of applause from the onlookers, who then turned to look at Wesley. He assumed it must be his turn. He flicked through his cards, then turned to the mayor.

'Please can I have Master Bung the Brewer,' he asked. The mayor's smile wavered slightly, and his hand curled into a loose fist. Then he relaxed.

'But of course. My pleasure, Mr… um?'

'Wyndham, Peregrine Wyndham.' He felt he ought to try and use the cover at least once.

'Ah, yes. Mr. Wyndham.' Wilkins emphasized the name to make it clear he knew it was a pseudonym, then passed him the card. Wesley added it to his hand and was getting ready to lay out the family when he became aware that the crowd had gone very quiet. The mayor was eyeing him with disdainful satisfaction.

'You forgot to say thank you. That means you forfeit the card. If there's one thing I can't abide, it's a lack of good manners.'

Wesley returned the card reluctantly, and turned his full attention to his hand. There was a degree of skill to the game, he discovered. By listening carefully to the other's requests he was able to predict which player had a particular family, and tailor his own requests accordingly. As the game proceeded, the other players dropped out, and finally only he and Wilkins were left, five families laid out in front of each of them. The tension at the table was palpable, the onlookers stood breathless in the shadow of the lowered lights, watching silently. Wilkins blinked once, so slowly that it seemed almost inhuman, then flicked his tongue out to touch his lips.

'Please may I have Mr Pryce the Pugilist?'

Wesley looked up sharply and saw the corners of the mayor's mouth quirk up with smug satisfaction.

'I'm sorry, I meant Punch…the Pugilist.'

Wesley passed him the card and Wilkins accepted it greedily, hastily shoving it into his hand, ready to lay out a family.

'You forgot the thank you.'

Wesley was fairly sure if there had been someone careless with pins at that particular moment he would have heard them drop. The seconds that followed seemed to last forever, time slowing and dilating wildly. Then Wilkins smiled, a falsely bright smile that didn't quite hide his displeasure.

'Ah, so I did. How kind of you to remind me.' He plucked the card from his hand and returned it, his face a mask of polite sportsmanship.

Having now gained the upper hand, so to speak, Wesley made a formal request for the Master Dip the Dyer's son, remembering to thank the mayor for his donation, before laying out his final family. There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and a very subdued round of applause which died away almost before it had begun

'My congratulations to you, Mr Wyndham,' Wilkins said softly, hissing on the sibilants. 'You are indeed a worthy opponent. I don't believe I've ever lost a game of Happy Families before.'

Wesley gathered the pile of chips from the centre of the table and pushed them to the dealer, who exchanged them for several thousand dollar chips.

'Oh, Beginner's luck, I can assure you. I haven't had much experience with happy families, really.' He wondered if the mayor could detect the irony in his words.

'And how do you plan to use your winnings? Perhaps I could tempt you to a game of Risk? World domination's a bit of a hobby of mine.'

Wesley smiled his dissent. 'No, I think I've reached the limit of my luck tonight. I think my guardian angel is telling me to quit while I'm ahead.' He threw in the angel mention quite deliberately, and was disappointed to elicit no reaction whatsoever from the mayor.

'A wise decision, perhaps. It never does to tempt fate, does it?' A sudden broad smile spread across his face, magnanimous in defeat. 'And there is plenty of alternative amusement available.' He leaned over to a somewhat underdressed waiter and conferred with him quietly.

'Ah, it appears that this evening's entertainment is just about to begin.' He gestured towards a doorway which led into another room. 'I'm sure you'll find our floorshow very interesting.'

Wesley took a glass of champagne from the waiter's proffered tray and obediently made his way into the small auditorium.

He realized quite quickly that apart from the scantily clad waiters, he was the only male in the room. That was remedied as the first strains of music were heard and the dancers arrived on stage. He was using the term dancers in the loosest sense of the word. The men in question were dressed in full fire-fighter gear, which they removed quite haphazardly to the pounding of the eighties classic 'Holding out for a Hero'. The thought occurred to him that if you were actually trapped on the eighth floor of a burning building, you would be severely disappointed if these were the heroes you were holding out for.

From the catcalls and general squealing that was going on in the room, it was clear that none of the females present held this pragmatic view. As the dancers stripped down to their protective underwear the excitement in the auditorium reached fever pitch, with small skirmishes breaking out over the ownership of the various discarded items of clothing.

Wesley noticed in particular two women fighting over a T-shirt that was still actually being worn by one of the dancers, a tall rather muscular dark haired fellow who was looking directly at him with haunted eyes and Good God, it couldn't be. He blinked and adjusted his glasses. Xander Harris.

The look of dumb pleading in the man's eyes was pitiful in the extreme. It was obvious that he was not on stage by choice. Certainly not his own. Wesley wasn't sure if Xander had recognized him, or if the look of helpless entreaty was simply directed at the only male in the room not employed by the casino. He wondered if the term employed might be rather euphemistic in Xander's case. The word enslaved seemed more appropriate. And if Harris was being held here against his will, it was entirely possible that others might also be captive. The music reached a crescendo, and the frenetic throng were now attacking the stage with real desperation. Wesley saw Xander's eyes flick to a door to the left of the stage marked private. Using the frenzied crowd as cover, Wesley made his way down to the stage area, then sidled over to the door, leaning casually on the handle. It gave way easily.

The door must have been soundproofed, as the silence on the other side was decidedly eerie, considering the amount of noise that was being generated in the room he had just come from. It was a long dimly lit corridor, with a number of what appeared to be dressing room doors leading off from the passageway. He pressed down on a handle and was not surprised to find it locked. In fact the whole backstage area had the air of a prison about it. Too late he realized that the main reason for this impression was the surveillance cameras positioned along the length of the passage.

He barely had time to register his self-disgust as a foot hit him in the small of the back, expelling the air out of his lungs and knocking him to the ground. He remembered his broken finger this time, and allowed his face to break his fall.

'Ow!'

The foot connected with his kidneys as if its owner held some sort of grievance against that particular organ. He managed a weak groan of agony and lifted his throbbing face off the floor in an attempt to identify his assailant. He saw heavy heeled boots, and a flash of skin-tight black leather wrapped around a well-developed calf muscle, before his face was mashed against the floor again, a hand tight around the back of his neck.

'Stay down!'

He knew that voice. Had been given a foretaste of hell accompanied by that voice.

'Faith.'

His head rang with pain as she rapped her fist on the back of his skull.

'You don't get to speak, asshole,' she informed him without any great anger. 'You just get to scream.'

But he wasn't tied this time and he had the advantage of righteous indignation on his side. He reached up with his good hand and grasped a fistful of long hair, pulling it as hard as he could. She gave a satisfying shriek and released her grip on his neck enough for him to flip over onto this back. She still seemed to possess her slayer reflexes, if not the actual strength, as she was on top of him instantly, her leather clad thighs tight around his rib cage.

And she was squeezing. Hard enough to make breathing a problem. He looked up into kohl lined eyes that burned with malevolent joy.

'Just want to hear you scream, that's all.' She grinned wickedly and dug her knees into the sides of his chest.

He was beginning to feel faint, the pressure on his lungs was almost unbearable, and then suddenly it stopped and he was being pulled up roughly, and shoved hard against the wall.

'The boss wants him alive.'

A new voice, one he recognized from his tenure as failed watcher.

'I wasn't going to kill him, B.' Faith sounded huffy, but not really angry. 'I was just having some fun.'

'I've seen your idea of fun, Faith.' Buffy kept his arm twisted behind his back, with just enough force to make sure he couldn't move. 'Last time you cracked three of Harris' ribs.'

'That was just foreplay.' The little giggle in her voice made him shiver in sympathy for Xander.

'Whatever.' Buffy pulled him away from the wall. 'You. The boss wants to see you. Now.'

Wesley took a quick breath and spoke with a confidence he did not feel. 'I'm not afraid of Wilkins.'

Faith began to laugh. 'You thought Dick was the boss? Oh, please. Sure, he manages the casino, but the boss?'

'Faith!' Buffy spoke sharply, and pushed him in front of her.

He had the choice of co-operating or having his arm broken. He chose co-operation.

The slayers frogmarched him along the corridor until they reached a door. Buffy knocked once and then opened it, shoving him into the room while keeping a firm grip on his wrist.

He saw a heavy oak desk, beyond which lay a black leather swivel chair, currently facing the opposite wall.

'On his knees, please.'

Immediately two feet hit him behind the knees and he collapsed onto the floor. There was movement behind the desk and he looked over, only to receive a smack on the back of his head from Faith. He kept his eyes on the floor.

After a few moments a pair of leather boots came into view.

'Mm, pretty boy.'

Wesley trembled as a finger traced over his chin, then tilted his face up, and he looked into the face of a witch.

'Allow me to introduce myself, Mr Pryce. The name's Willow. Pussy Willow.'