King of Hearts

Author's note: There are two versions of this chapter. In the (original) long version, the visit to Madame Tussaud's in London is more detailed. While Mariana and I were in favour of the long version, Sid and Karbear thought the chapter should be shortened a bit, so I decided to let readers decide for themselves whether they enjoy building the atmosphere of a wax museum or prefer more action. This is the short version. You can find the long version at my site, http://www.buffythevampirelayer.com
Spoilers: There is a minor spoiler for Angel S3, but if you haven't seen S3, you might not even recognize it as such.
Credits: The Shakespeare quote used by Sir Rupert is from Othello I,3, ll. 289-90. I changed one word, for obvious reasons.
For this part, I used the interview "How do they do that?" printed in the Madame Tussauds Souvenir Guide, London, 2004. And, in case anyone from Madame Tussaud gets their hands on this story: this is a hint! SMG is there, so what are you waiting for? Ask JM as well! We'd love another wax figure from the Jossverse!

Sir Rupert was standing near the window in the King's study, looking out.
Spike cleared his voice. This was not going to be easy. "Sir Rupert... Just wanted to tell you... you had a point. I'm... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... man, I'm no good at this. I was upset, and... frustrated, because I really wanted to help the people at the shelter out, and..."
"There is no reason to come in here stuttering and apologizing like a olboolboy whose dog ate his homework, Your Majesty," Sir Rupert said coldly, without turning around.
"I understand you're mad, Sir Rupert," Spike tried again, "But I want you to know that you were right when you said I was stubborn, and I had to pick my battles. I appreciate your advice, and I came back because I see now that my doing was wrong."
Sir Rupert did not reply, nor did he face Spike.
"Are you gonna talk to me any time this year?" Spike asked,
Sir Rupert heaved a sigh, but otherwise did not show any reaction.
"How ‘bout looking at my face?" Spike tried to keep his temper. "Are you gonna scold me by ignoring me?"
Sir Rupert did not say a word.
"Bloody hell," Spike exploded, "What else do you want me to say? That I overreacted? That I was being childish? All right, I can say that, I already told you I'm sorry! I don't know what you expect me to do!"
Sir Rupert turned around. Spike shrank back when he saw the fire in the middle-aged man's eyes, the fury. Sir Rupert's voice was calm, dangerously calm. "Stay the hell away from my daughter."
Spike blinked. "Your..."
Sir Rupert cast a newspaper down on the desk.
Spike stared at it for a moment.
On the new Sun's front page, there was a big fat headline saying:
PRINCE CHARMING'S ROYAL ORGY
Who's that lucky girl?
Underneath, there was a picture of Buffy, seated on his lap at the disco. A big red circle was printed over the enlarged part of the photo where his hand disappeared under her skirt at the juncture of her thighs. Buffy's eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted in orgasmic bliss. His own face was clearly recognizable.
"I had no idea..." Spike's voice trailed off.
"Of course not. You never do," Sir Rupert snarled. He turned to walk away.
"I'm sorry, I had no idea she was your daughter," Spike began, "But you have to believe me when I tell you I'm serious about her. Sir Rupert, I'm in love with Buffy."
Sir Rupert cast Spike a look of contempt. "You are in love with what she represents. Normality. The simple life. The path not taken."
"It's more than just that!" Spike said fervently, "Buffy's an amazing girl, she's bright, and she’s beautiful, brave, compassionate... I could go on for hours and still wouldn't have an adequate description. This is not a crush. The more time I spend with her, the more I realize how much she means to me. She's the one. I love your daughter. And I want to be with her."
"So what?" Sir Rupert snapped. "How far could this relationship possibly go? Are you going to marry her? Make her your Queen? An American on the British throne? Even you are not that na¿ve. But you are not going to hurt Buffy, I will not allow it. Over my dead body."
"I'd never hurt her, I want to see her happy, that's all," Spike said helplessly.
"Then walk out of her life now." Sir Rupert took off his glasses and glared at Spike. "If I find out you touched her, or try to contact her ever again, I will personally put her on the next flight to California and make sure she never comes back to England."
"Sir Rupert," Spike said calmly, "I'm sure we can sort this out. Forgive me if I'm being blunt, but Buffy is a grown woman. You have no authority whatsoever over whom she is seeing or where she lives."
Sir Rupert chuckled silently. He began polishing his glasses.
"Are you familiar with British history, Your Majesty? When James II fled the country in 1688, Parliament held that he had 'abdicated the government' and that the throne was vacant. The throne was then offered, not to James's young son, but to his daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange, as joint rulers."
Spike frowned. "I don't need extra tuition; Lady Roberta's doing just fine!"
"I believe she skipped an important part," Sir Rupert said dryly. "It came to be established not only that the Sovereign rules through Parliament, but that the succession to the throne can be regulated by Parliament, and that a Sovereign can be deprived of his title through misgovernment. I have watched closely most of the life you’ve been leading here at Buckingham Palace and I've been reporting it to Parliament on a regular basis. A King who wants to be officially approved in his Coronation has to be a role model of character and ethics. His only concern must be the welfare of his country. So far, I have been making efforts to cover up your... trespasses. But as matters are, I might as well suggest Parliament to reconsider the value of a British monarchy so depraved of character and propriety; and propose certain changes regarding the order of succession, due to misbehaviour and indiscretion of the successor, to preserve the country's best interests. The result could be... unfortunate for the sovereign."
Spike frowned. "Are you threatening me?"
Sir Rupert held his gaze. "Oh, yes."
"You don't have that much of an influence."
Sir Rupert's face was deadpan. "Just try me."

*

"I can't believe he said that!" Buffy exploded. "How dare he talk to you like that?"
Spike shook his head. "I just can't seem to get over it! Sir Rupert is your father?"
Buffy shrugged.
"But... you told me it was Buffy Summers, not Buffy Giles!" Spike protested.
"It's my mom's second husband's name," Buffy confirmed, "She married Hank Summers while she was pregnant 'cos dad couldn't marry... a bourgeoise," she said the word with a hint of bitterness. "Big mistake!"
"So, what do we do?" Spike asked, pointing at the newspaper. "Bloody hell, I didn't want it this way! I used to like your dad, he's been a great help since I got here, but I will not let him keep me away from you."
Buffy sighed. "My dad's alright. I'm sure he didn't mean what he said. He would never suggest to Parliament you're not worthy of ruling the country. He just needs some time. We have to take things a bit more slowly. Keep our distance."
Spike clasped her hands. "I'm gonna go mad if I can't see you!"
"You can see me," Buffy replied, "We just have to be careful. Meet in secret. And make sure there is no camera around," she added, pointing at the newspaper.
Spike smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that, luv."
"I'll survive. I guess the scandal's much worse for you, with you being King and all."
Spike shrugged. "In a week people won't even remember the 'scandal'. Tomorrow's Maundy Thursday. I'm going to Canterbury, visit the Cathedral and stuff. I attend the mass and give money to the poor of the community. A symbolic act, you know, the Sovereign is also Head of the Church of England. Lots of press and fans."
Buffy smiled when Spike called his subjects his 'fans'.
Spike shrugged. "Lots of people. Anyway, it's a big event, and I'm sure I can make them forget a bad headline."
"So I can't see you tomorrow." Buffy pouted.
"I have an appointment at Madame Tussaud's this afternoon," Spike informed her. "They want to cast my face in wax for posterity... How about you come around when they close?"
Buffy grinned. "Sounds like a plan. And don't worry about dad, I'll talk to him."

*

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would upset you," Buffy said.
"Upset? Oh, Buffy. Do you not remember anything I taught you? Your mother and I tried to pass moral values on to you. It appears our efforts were in vain. I assume I need not tell you how disappointed I am in you." Sir Rupert's voice was calm, he did not shout, or freak out, which was more disturbing than any yelling could have been.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Buffy said weakly.
Sir Rupert raised a hand, signaling he was not done talking. "But what hurts me most is that you did not come to me first. You excluded me from your life. You do not tell me who you're dating any more, and I have to learn from a newspaper that my own flesh and blood has abandoned all thought and reason to become a groupie!"
"I'm not a groupie," Buffy protested. "This isn't just about sex! Spike and I are in lo..."
"Do not say it," Sir Rupert snapped, "And do not call King William by his ridiculous nickname. Seeing you like that in that filthy tabloid, with your legs spread like some street whore..." He began polishing his glasses. "You are lucky they do not sell the SUN in the States, your mother would be devastated, and just think of your sister, for goodness sake! You have embarrassed your whole family!"
"Dad, I already told you I was sorry," Buffy replied.
"For what? For doing it or for getting caught?"
"Both," Buffy said diplomatically. "We had too much to drink, we got carried away. It won't happen again. We'll be more careful."
Sir Rupert's eyes were furious. "You are not planning on seeing him again, are you? Buffy, I always thought you were an intelligent young woman. What do you think is going to happen? Do you think you could become Queen? Oh, please! Listen to me, and think about it for a moment. I'm not saying this to render things more difficult for youjustjust don't want you to get hurt."
"I know, Dad," Buffy said softly, "But Spike is not like that! He doesn't care about aristocracy or the fact that I'm not English. Look, a few weeks ago he had no idea he was even the King! He wants me just the way I am."
"Now, yes," her father said with bitterness, "And as soon as he's fed up with one woman, he's going to look for an appropriate spouse and abandon you."
"Like you abandoned Mom?" Buffy countered.
Sir Rupert glowered at her in disbelief. "How dare you talk to me like that?"
"Tell ya what. I don't need your blessing," Buffy replied angrily, heading for the exit.
"Don't you walk away from me!" Sir Rupert said, his voice a low and dangerous whisper.
Buffy walked out and slammed the door.
Sir Rupert shook his head. He slowly walked toward the window and looked down to the courtyard. He saw Spike waiting in the shadows. A minute later, Buffy emerged from the building and ran up to him. Spike enfolded her in his arms and kissed her. Sir Rupert's expression darkened. "'Look to her, King, if thou hast eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.'"

*

The view of the studio in West London was breathtaking. It was located on the top floor, overlooking the city, with loads of windows and enough sunshine for art work.
A red-haired woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a sleeveless black pullover, with virtually no make up on, hair out of her face in a neat ponytail, walked up to him along with a middle-aged woman with curly dark hair and an aquiline nose.
"Hi, I'm Jeni, I'm a sculptor for Madame Tussaud's," the redhead said lightly, shaking his hand.
"Hello, I'm Lisa, I'm a hair and colour artist. How do you feel, Your Majesty?"
Spike shook their hands and was very relieved none of them made an attempt to curtsey before him. They treated him politely, but cordially, like a normal person, not like the King of England. This was going to be a nice change. "Actually, I'm a bit nervous," Spike admitted.
"Most people are," Jeni replied, "People are quite vexed at the thought of having a double made of wax. Just relax, time will fly!"
Spike took a deep breath. "Okay, then. Shall we proceed?"
Jeni nodded. "Sure. I'll take your measurements in the pose we'll be sculpting you. If you have time, we can arrange a second sitting, some time next month."
"Yeah, that'd be cool," Spike agreed.
Jeni seemed pleased. "Good, then we can check our work in progress against realreal thing!"
"I'm going to take some photos of you first," Lisa explained, "It's for catching your skin and hair colours."
Spike agreed, and then he looked around awkwardly. "Where... do you want me?"
Lisa and Jeni exchanged tell-tale looks.
"Over here," Jeni told Spike and led him to a large window. "That's perfect. Just stand there and try to look like a king. Take your time to find a pose you're comfortable with, because that is going to be the pose in which you will be immortalized. Oh, and we're gonna take a billion photos."
"Look like a king," Spike murmured. "Easier said than done." He shifted uncomfortably, then imagined himself in Westminster Abbey. Sir Rupert's words came back to him. Are you going to marry her? Make her your Queen? He imagined Buffy, by his side in the church, wearing the crown jewels. He began to relax.
"Gorgeous," Jeni whispered. "Stay just like that."
Lisa took what seemed a billion photos indeed. "That one's gonna be our masterpiece," she said enthusiastically, "I don't remember any monarch's sculpture looking good enough to win a pageant, but this one will."
"Yeah," Jeni confirmed, "Can't wait to model those cheekbones."
"Hope I get his baby blues right," Lisa told her, "Couldn't bear to mess up that colour."
"Hey, we should make ourselves a copy to take home," Jeni joked.
Spike crimsoned slightly hearing the women gossiping about him.
"Don't blush, Your Majesty," Lisa said reassuringly. "If I don't get your skin colour right in the pics, your double will look like he just had a workout. Or some incredible sex," she added, which did not help matters.
Jeni giggled. "Just don't listen to us; we don't get to make a king's figure every day. Normally, we're quite professional."
Jeni came up to Spike with a utensil that looked more like a torturing device from the Tower than a tool. It was pincer-shaped and made of metal. Jeni put one half on top of Spike's head, the other one at his chin. She announced a number, which Lisa put down in a book.
Then Jeni measured the length of his nose, the space between his eyes, the size of his ears, lips, and other proportions of his face the same way.
She then began to measure Spike's arms and legs, fingers, chest and waist with other devices.
"How long will it take to make the figure?" Spike asked.
"About three months," Jeni replied, "We should be ready to unveil it at your Coronation in June."
Spike's stomach churned at the word Coronation.
"Have you seen lots of our work?" Lisa asked.
"Well, I went to Madame Tussaud's as a kid with my mo... with my... I guess you could say foster mother. I'm looking forward to seeing it again. I'm getting a private tour of Madame Tussaud's when they close in the evening. My advisors thought it best, to avoid masses of visitors and press."
"So much has changed, you'll be surprised!" Jeni said. "And you must visit Chamber Live, and the Serial Killers!"
He frowned. "Serial Killers, huh?"
"Yeah, y'know, Jack the Ripper and stuff. We normally have live actors there pretending to be figures. The piercing screams we get from the visitors when the figures begin to move are priceless. Well, guess most people don't give much thought about why it's called Chamber Live. So, warm up those vocal cords before you enter, Your Majesty!"
Spike looked at her oddly. "I'll keep that in mind."

*

Sir Rupert was still upset when he took the phone call on his secure line. The display showed an unknown number to him. He did not usually get external calls on this line. "Hello," he said sharply.
"Is this Sir Rupert Giles?" a soft female voice asked.
"Yes, this is he speaking," Sir Rupert confirmed.
"Your secretary gave me this number," the woman told him.
"Who is this?" Sir Rupert asked sharply.
"Call me... call me... Doe. Jane Doe. I need your help," she said without revealing her true name.
"If you do not even want to tell me what your real name is, I'm afraid I cannot help you."
She chuckled. "What's in a name, Sir? What use is my name to you unless you're planning on using it in a magical ritual?"
Sir Rupert felt annoyed by the woman. Of course the fact that he had not seen his daughter for the whole afternoon and suspected she was meeting her lover secretly had nothing at to to do with his bad mood. "What can I do for you, Miss... Doe?" Sir Rupert asked sourly.
"I have to talk to Spike."
Sir Rupert did his best not to burst out laughing. "I take it you mean His Majesty King William V."
She sighed and giggled, her voice was musical like silver bells, almost hypnotic. "As I said, just empty sounds and wasted breath. But this is important. I need to talk to him."
"Of course," Sir Rupert snorted, "You and the rest of England's yellow press."
"This is part of why I'm calling. I'm talking about the King's past. You saw the SUN's headlines this morning, I suppose?"
Sir Rupert felt his face go white with anger when he thought of Buffy and the fact that the whole nation had seen her making out with the King. His voice was cold. "I do not know where you got this number from, and I will tell Miss Whithers off in case she really gave it to you."
"Sir, I assure you I have a good reason to..."
"I have not the faintest idea how you managed to trick her into revealing this number to you, just let me be clear about this and do not endeavor to call again. If you require information on King William, from now on address the press speaker's office, please? Miss Whithers will give you the number. Good evening."
"No, listen," the woman insisted, "don't hang up on me, I must speak to His Majesty in person - if you won't let me talk to him..."
Sir Rupert hung up on her and shook his head in disbelief. Journalists were a pest. And especially the Irish ones, like that woman. They seized every chance to discredit the British monarchy.

*

"Sir Rupert's hung up on me!" she complained. "How am I supposed to come to terms with Spike on this if he won't even listen to me?"
"Well, you gave him a fair chance," the man sitting next to her commented, "There's no way he's gonna get away from his responsibilities. Seriously, you should see a lawyer."
Her eyes widened. "A lawyer? Liam, I don't know if I can afford..."
Liam gave her a business card. "This is the number of a very qualified lawyer. I've worked with her once or twice. Call her today, tell her I sent you."

*

Buffy tensed up a little when she heard the front door being locked, the lights going down to a minimum.
Just make sure you're the last visitor, and get yourself locked up in the buig, Sg, Spike's voice echoed in her head. Buffy was not afraid oing ing taken for a burglar, she knew Spike. He would have no difficulty talking the guards into granting them their privacy. She took a deep breath and took off the black wig and sunglasses she had been wearing on the Tube to avoid being followed. Her face had been on the front page of Britain's biggest tabloid; she had to be careful if they did not want any more headlines.
Buffy had got off the Tube at Baker Street and turned left for Madame Tussaud's and the Planetarium. She had queued - actually, there hadn't been a real queue that late in the afternoon - and then paid for her ticket, moaning in physical pain at the price. She had taken the elevator down to the exhibitions, but hidden in the ladies' room until the last visitors had left and the cleaning woman was through. The woman had cast her a questioning look, Buffy had murmured something about "lost track of time", only to disappear in the already cleaned men's room. The place was deserted and a bit creepy.
Buffy walked into the first room, which was called "Blush", a party where visitors could mingle with the stars. Wax figures of famous actors and pop idols were scattered across the room. Buffy cast a look at the figure of a blond actress in red leather pants and black jacket. On the column, there was a plaque that read ACTRESS SARAH MICHELLE GELLAR. "You're a bit on the short side too, aren't you?" Buffy asked the figure. Of course she did get get a reply. Buffy shrugged and walked on faster . She had to find Spike.
She headed through the double doors into the next exhibition called "World Stage". For a moment she thought her search had come to its end because she saw the Queen and her family - next to another sign reminding her that a photo was 5 pounds -, no doubt the place where Spike's figure would be located once it was finished. But Buffy's King was nowhere to be seen. The silence was starting to freak her out if she was completely honest.
"Spike?" she asked into the silence. "Where are you?"
No reply.
Her steps echoed on the floor, in the empty hall. So many people dreamed of having Madame Tussaud's for themselves for some time, and yet she was nervous and anxious to get some company. This was ridiculous. She should just enjoy her stay while she waited for Spike. Buffy headed through the exhibition and then slowly descended the narrow staircase leading to the basement, walking by a figure of Alfred Hitchcock.
"Of course," Buffy murmured, "That guy needs to have stairs! He can't fuck on the ground floor, can he?" Along the corridors Buffy was strolling by, several signs warned her:
"To Chamber of Horrors and Chamber LIVE. Be prepared to show ticket. Note: No visitors under the age of 12. No photography or videos, please. This way to skip the Chamber."
Buffy hesitated. Which way now? Should she skip the Chamber? She heaved a sigh. Spike would probably wait for her somewhere within. It was dark, there were no particularly valuable figures in the Chamber, and it was likely there weren't too many surveillance cameras because the Chamber LIVE contained real living actors during the day. If given a choice, Buffy would have skipped the Chamber. It was the stuff many legends were made of. There had been a cash prize for anyone who could last a night down there. Only three people had, one of them a night watchacciaccidentally locked up down there. Buffy shuddered at the thought of being trapped with the spiked (no pun intended) heads of the leaders of the French Revolution and the figures of mass murderers. Yeah, it was totally like Spike to wait for her in that dismal place. She had no alternative. She would have to examine its depths. What could happen to her down there, anyway? All figures were made of wax, weren't they?
Buffy walked through the door... and shrieked.
Leering at the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, wooden stake in hand, was Vlad Tepes, looking even more creepy in the red light around him.
"Relax, Summers," Buffy told herself, "It's just a figure of a long-dead Walachian duke. There are no real vampires, especially not at Madame Tussaud's in London in the 21st century, there are no real vampires!"
She made a mental note to never to talk to herself again once she got out of this place. She passed a block of cells with dim green lighting and the figures of famous British killers. She was glad she did not know all of their stories. Buffy felt relieved when she reached an archway. Then she realized this was not the end of the Chamber of Horrors, but the entrance to Chamber Live, an inner-chamber of the Chamber of Horrors which imitated a maximum security prison which had been overtaken by the inmates. And for which visitors got charged an extra fee. Buffy had never been in there before.
She read the words:
ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE!
"Yeah, right," Buffy said. "Spike?" she called into the silence. "If you've forgotten about our date and I go in there for nothing, you're toast." Of course, she did not get a reply. Instead, the sounds which had until now been turned off began to play. She heard a bell toll the death knell. "This is the right place, then," Buffy told herself. With a deep breath, she vanished into the all-consuming darkness of the cellblock.
It was a room without light. Rather, a narrow corridor with bars and high walls on both sides. She entered the cage and jumped as the door screeched shut behind her. She immediately thought of the poor night watchman locked up for a whole night in this dismal place. She told herself this was just a show for tourists, and at this hour there were not even live actors down here, that it was just her imagination. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her palms were becoming sweaty. As she turned the next corner, flickering white lights went on. The bars of the cells cast long shadows, which made orientation hellishly difficult. Without her eyes having had time to adjust to the darkness, white lights went on and off at a breathtaking speed. She only saw her surroundings for the fraction of a second, enough to see a ghostly white figure in a straiket ket and a grotesque mask, who reminded her a lot of Hannibal Lecter. She walked on, stumbling through the cellblock, surrounded by oscillating darkness and flashing lights. She would have preferred utter darkness to these quick changes of light because she could hardly see anything. For a moment, Buffy thought about smashing the lights, but she decided against it. She heard the shouts and moans of prisoners gone insane, saw their shadows on the walls, their bloodstained clothes and imagined them leaping at her any second now. She heard a woman scream. It was deafening. The scream seemed to be right behind her. Buffy turned around with a start, and became glued to the spot by piercing beady black eyes staring right into hers. Buffy stifled a scream. It was just another wax figure which she had not noticed before because it had not been illuminated. Buffy heard steps behind her. She was sure they came from the speakers, but they seemed so real.
A figure fell down from the ceiling right above her.
Buffy shrieked.
The figure was stopped above her head by the steel construction holding it. Just another effect. The adrenaline rush was almost too much to bear, Buffy's hands were shaking. She forced herself to keep on walking. Figures were leaning against the iron bars of the cells, some of them in chains, others in straitjackets which had been torn to shreds. She heard knives being drawn. She heard screams and moans, and laughter. Deep, dirty laughter. Insane giggles resounding from the walls, echoing through the darkness.
Then everything went pitch black around her. No light, none at all. But with the lights, so has gone the sound, which the most disturbing. Someone had turned off the miracle machines of the perfect illusion. Or it had stopped because the power had been interrupted.
Buffy cursed herself for wishing for complete darkness instead of flickering lights. Now she could not see a thing. Shghedghed and felt for the wall to orient herself. She shrieked when her hand touched a nose. Buffy ran her hands over the face and down the chest before her and noticed with relief that she had just almost run into one of the wax prisoners. The nose was cold, the hair like straw, and the body tough and durable under the straitjacket.
Buffy let go off him and touched the wall. Okay. Keep to the wall. The way out must be e.
e.
Buffy looked for any streak of light that could be indicating a door, but could not find one. In alarm she thought that maybe the lights were down in the whole building.
Her theory proved wrong. She saw one of the smaller flashlight lamps still in service, further down the hall, lighting only a small part of the hall for the wink of an eye.
Buffy gasped. In the brief moment the block was lit, she saw a dark figure, dressed in a long black coat, a black hat shadowing the face. The figure stood in her way.
"Okay," Buffy said aloud, "You're just a wax figure. I'm not scared." She prepared to walk past the figure quickly. The next flicker of light hit the figure. Buffy blinked. Had the pose changed? Buffy took another step toward the uncanny thing. She was only another yard away. The light flickered again. And Buffy saw the silvery blade of a knife shining in the light.
She screamed and ran.
He held her in a firm grip before she was past him, holding the knife to her throat, pressing his body against hers from behind. She felt the cool blade against her skin. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Then her body recognized the familiar scent, the way he carried himself. Buffy shivered as he pressed her against a cell and the bars dug into her back.
"Spike," she breathed in relief.
"Call me Jack," he rasped. He ran the knife down her chest, ripping off the buttons of her blouse with it. The button of her jeans followed.
Buffy whimpered. "Why can't we hav have sex in a normal place?"
Her body responded to his touch at once.
Buffy giggled nervously. "Let's get out of here, the chamber's making me nervous," she suggested and headed for the exit as his cold hand closed around her wrist. She was startled, yet she knew it was inevitable, so she kept her balance and her outer indifference, although she shuddered with anticipation.
She looked at him with questioning eyes.
His expression was dark and unreadable. "We'rayinaying here," he said, sounding so low it was almost a whisper, the words spoken in a hoarse voice, yet unmistakably commanding.
"It's not exactly a romantic setting," she replied calmly, "I thought maybe... there's a grand piano in the lounge, and we could..."
He stepped behind her, so close he must surely hear her heartbeat, yet without touching anything but her wrist, still tightly locked in his hand. "Aru feu feeling uncomfortable?" he asked.
A heat wave surged through her body, she knew if she did not leave now, right tha that very second, she would find herself closing her arms around his neck, holding on to him, breathing his scent, begging him to throw her down on the floor where they were, to make love to her right there in the darkness of a painted cell block. She shuddered. She wanted candles and champagne, rose petals and silk sheets. Her reply was barely a whisper. "No." She felt herself trembling and hated herself for her weakness at that moment. Damn it, she wasn't in any danger, she had survived the Tower, why would she be scared now? She knew his body, and she knew the way he was thinking. What could he do to her that she wasn't utterly familiar with?
His hand let go off her wrist and caught her fingers, intertwining them with his. For the first time, Buffy noticed how long his fingers were, and so perfectly manicured she could hardly believe they were a man's. She could not help but imagine how easy it would be to let these fingers caress her now.
"Spike," she began, gasping.
"No," he silenced her, holding the knife to her throat. "Jack."
"Listen, let's not play this game," Buffy said in a trembling voice. "There are so many nicer things we can do at a wax museum..." She slowly turned to him and caught a glance from his stern eyes. She smiled at him seductively, closing her arms around his neck and drawing near to kiss him. He jerked away and refused kis kiss.
Buffy felt hurt, demeaned, humiliated in the worst of ways. Damn the men, they never knew how to send signals! What had she done wrong? Her other men had always responded to that smile, the suggestion of everything she had to offer. She turned away to leave, but he wouldn't let her. His hands clasped her shoulders, pulling her towards him and pushing her deeper into the darkness of the chamber at the same time.
"What the hell...?" she began, when his determination made her fall silent at once.
"Not like that," he replied curtly. He ripped her top from her body violently, tossing it away so it landed somewhere in the dark. She had not worn a bra and was shivering, instinctively trying to cover her breasts with her hands, but he blocked her way. She was too full of rapture and excitement to stop him when he thrust her against the bars of a cell with a vehemence most women could not take without getting major bruises. She was breathing heavily. She trembled with the chill when he pushed her jeans down her tanned legs. "Like this," he whispered, brushing the skin of her shoulders and neck with his lips while his hand found her panties and cast them away as if they were nothing but a small obstacle in his way. Buffy felt the blade of the knife was not sharp, it would not hurt her, but it freaked her out he was still using it. "What would you do to save your life?" he asked while he ran his hands up and down her body.
"And if I don't want to..." she whispered, at the same time yielding to his touch.
Spike chuckled. "If you don't want to... I see the way you looked at me when you realized it was me and not another wax figure." His fingers played with the soft skin around her entrance, teasing her so much she gasped. "How could you not want to feel me..." She heard the rustling of the coat, then the sound of a zipper and the buckle of a leather belt hitting the floor. With a side glance, Buffy realized they were just beside the figure of an inmate. The wax figure's brown eyes were staring – no, glaring – at her. "...inside?" he whispered.
"Sp... Jack," Buffy said breathlessly.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I don't think I can do this," Buffy replied in an unsteady voice, "Play this game, I mean. This whole Jack the Ripper setting... I don't think I can play the whore."
He was covering her neck and shoulders and finally her breasts with light kisses like the touch of silk. His voice was soft and seductive as he replied: "Then, let me be your whore."
The unresolved tension was unbearable. Buffy felt her eyes wet with tears. She was not conscious of the fact that her thighs parted, she just felt the thrust that made her drive her fingernails through the soft tissue of his shirt and into the skin of his back, the unsettling rhythm set by Spike, the glow in his eyes, and the wetness in her own, the sweat breaking from her skin as she attempted to get rid of his shirt, his condescending smile upon her struggle, and she clung to his body to get a little relief from the heat surrounding them. Her cheeks were flushed with arousal by now, the pulsating energies devouring her, as she moved closer and closer to a peak. She clenched around his enormous member within her, deep down still embarrassed she was doing this, with a man she had no future whatsoever with; drawing in his scent, shaking with desire through his every move, shamelessly giving herself to him in a place where everyone could enter and see them. His fingertips caressing the soft skin of her breasts were so cold she felt her nipples harden at his first touch, shiver with cold as the hot tip of his tongue met them. He pressed her against the bars, as he kept moving within her, and she gasped silently whenever she hit the surface. She ran her fingers over the strong muscles of the arms that held her in a firm grip, the only thing supporting her, inhaling the cold sweat, listening to his heavy breathing. He pulled her legs up and ordered her wordlessly to lay them around his waist, parting them so widely it was almost painful. She could do nothing but obey. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, his expression telling her he heard it and reveled in it. Then he plunged his full length inside of her, both of them screaming their lungs out and tossing her over the edge. She felt her world explode into kaleidoscopic chasms of colours, her muscles convulsing around him, her body struggling to get away from him by an instinct of self-preservation, but he wouldn't let her, still holding her in an iron grip, so she kept exploding, crying out her agony and failure to understand what was happening. Her world kept turning, yet he kept tormenting her, kept her screaming until her voice was hoarse, until she begged him to stop. He brushed her hair away from her wet face and bent down to kiss her violently.
"Not bad... for a starter," he said teasingly.
She stared up at him. "I'm not a starter," she protested, "I know lots of..."
He chuckled. "I don't define starter by what you know. There are many things you've never even imagined, things your former lovers had neither the guts nor the stamina nor the imagination to try. They wouldn't even put a few candles up for you..." He lowered his voice, "Let alone use them for any other purpose. Relax and close your eyes."
She fought against the impulse to do as he said, but finally closed her eyes. She felt him shift above her, sliding down her body, until he was sitting on the floor between her thighs.
"I want you to know that I respect you as a person. The way you are."
His words were a soft caress, making her want to seize him and draw him back to her to kiss him, but his hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back to the former position, prevented her from doing just that. "I want you to know," he said in a low and gentle voice, yet with an amount of resolve that burnt into her mind like fire, "Because when we're done, you might have doubts on that." She felt his head between her thighs, licking her outer lips and slowly moving to her center. Then she felt his tongue slide further, thrusting gently inside. This time it was as if a veil was lifted, and she was slowly drifting above the clouds, not exploding, but dissolving into a dream herself.
"I love what you're doing," she whispered absently. Buffy did not have to open her eyes to know his mouth widened into a grin, with sparkling eyes looking at her. Her heartbeat went like a drum. After endless moments of pleasure, she seized his shoulders and drew him close to her again. He stood up and slid into her effortlessly. They began to move rhythmically. Only then did he allow his own release.
Spike closed his eyes briefly. His momentary bliss could not block out the realization that their moments together hadn stn stolen.
"Will it always be like this? Sneaking away like criminals, hiding our feelings in the dark?" he asked thoughtfully. He did not want to end up like that Charles bloke.
"I'm not sure," Buffy sighed. She studied his expression. "I love you. You know that. Right?"
She had said the three words. And as much as Spike wanted to be happy, he could not because he knew what was at stake. If I find out you touch her, or try to contact her ever again, I'll personally put her on the next flight to California ... I might as well suggest Parliament to reconsider the value of a British monarchy so depraved of character and propriety ... the result could be... unfortunate for the sovereign... as a king, I could make a difference ... if I really go back 'to the hole I came from', I'll never make a difference in anybody's life.
Spike kissed her softly. "We should get back to the palace before anyone notices I've been gone for too long. Can you take the Tube? We mustn't be seen together."
Buffy felt a sudden chill. This wasn't the reply she had hoped for.
Spike hardly spoke a word after that. He knew he could not do this, he could not hide. For hours, he could not even sleep.

*

Earlier that afternoon...
Lilah Morgan led the young woman into the office.
"What can I do for you, Miss...?" She looked at her questioningly.
The woman hesitated. "Call me Jane," she said, her voice heavy with an Irish lilt.
"All right then, Jane," Miss Morgan agreed with a smile. "What can I do for you?"
"Thank you for making the time for me at such short notice," she said reluctantly, her raven hair, silken and shiny in the sunlight that fell in through the high windows. "I wasn't sure about coming here, but my friend Liam insisted that I see a lawyer about my problem immediately."
A smile rushed over Lilah Morgan's lips as the name was mentioned. Liam O'Connor was trouble. She had defended him successfully in several trials when he had been accused of political agitation against the British government. If Liam was involved, it usually meant a lot of publicity and free advertising for the firm.
"Don't worry," Lilah assured her, "I'm sure Liam means well, and he has perfectly good reasons for recommending you to seek professional advice. Whatever it is, we are there for you."
"It's complicated," 'Jane Doe' admitted, "And I must insist on your silence."
"Of course," Lilah said. "What would you like to know?"

*

"Good evening, Agent Wyndham-Pryce," Lilah greeted the secret agent when he opened the door.
"Lilah." Wesley frowned. "What brings you to my humble home?"
She ignored the irony and smiled. "Information."
He shook his head. "Not interested, thanks. There are more attractive women than you willing to sell themselves for information or money out there, and to be honest, I despise women of your kind."
Lilah shrugged. "They all say that, and yet women of my kind, as you put it, seldom sleep alone."
Wesley made to close the door. "We are born into this world alone, and we leave it alone, so why bother in between?"
Lilah pushed the door open and walked up to him, hips swaying more than necessary according to the very moderate height of her heels. "Why not give it a try?"
Wesley opened the door and stepped aside. "Don't let me keep you."
Lilah closed the door gently. "Do you always give your chances away that easily? I'm not here to ask information. I want to give you information. You work for the secret service; you should be interested in information."
Wesley chuckled. "Don't waste your energy, Lilah."
Lilah looked at him with defiance. "I'm not surprised, Wesley. Of course it would be easier for you to impress a clueless lady from a noble family, not to mention she has been out of the game for five years at her boarding school for girls."
"Don't talk about Lady Winifred like that," Wesley snapped. "She is a respectable, well-bred lady, her father has served the country for many years as Head of the secret service, and..."
Lilah shrugged. "Face it, Wes, aristocrats marry amongst themselves, and you don't have any titles apart from 'fool'. Is a virgin princess what you want? Are you afraid you can't put up with a real woman?" She opened the door again and turned to leave. "Sleep tight, Wes. There are things you don't learn from books."
Wesley slammed the door and threw Lilah against it. He tossed his glasses somewhere on the coffee table. "Depends on the book," he replied.
Lilah felt how the zipper of her tight leather pants was torn open impatiently and triumphed silently. She unbuttoned Wesley's shirt with hasty fingers, so he would have no time to reconsider the breathtaking kisses and the torn undergarments. She let him throw her down on the bed without resistance. "Don't tell me you've read the Kamasutra," she whispered with open irony.
Wesley smiled knowingly. "In the original Indian."
She ran her fingers down below his waistline. "Impressive," she commented, leaving the reference open to interpretation.
She lay still and showed no reactions to her partner's attentions, neither refusing nor welcoming. Though she felt like uttering a soft moan or an enthusiastic cry, she bit her lip and kept silent, for this was about power, and she would not show him he had any sort of power over her. Hell, even if this turned out to be the best lay she had had in years, she'd be damned if she couldn't make him come first. She made an attempt to slide down between his thighs, but he would not let her. His hands held Lilah's hips in an iron grip, and she felt the heat rising, her cheeks blushing, and her voice growing hoarse. Yet she kept pretending she felt nothing.
Wesley covered her neck with meaningless ks ans and whispered: "There's really nothing human about you, is there?"
Lilah was determined to control this game. She knew what would make him feel weakness.
She ran her fingers over the scar on his throat where a terrorist, Justine, had cut him the year before during her arrest. He had lost a lot of blood and had been in critical condition for days. Wesley stopped her hand in the movement.
"You think you know everything."
"No. Not everything, Wes," Lilah disagreed, "But I wanna know. I wanna learn. How she did that to you. How you felt." She clung to him and brought his head down to her lips. In a voice so low it was almost inaudible, she said: "What would you do to me if I were her?"
Wesley's expression was dark.
Lilah wrapped her long legs around his waist. "Just go for it," she whispered encouragingly. She wasn't prepared for what he did to her next.
Wesley brushed away the hair from her shoulders, tenderly at first. Then he examined the skin of her neck slowly. A discomforting feeling stole over Lilah. She gasped as she felt him enter her. Then, without warning, his hands closed around her neck. Firmly. "You need it hard and violent, don't you?" Lilah was stunned at the brutality of the act. She felt bruises forming, and she struggled for breath. She tried to pull away, but his thrusts continued, and so did his pressing hands on her neck. Lilah was surprised to find she panicked. Had she driven him over the edge by telling him to imagine her as Justine? Would he kill her right then, in his own bed?
Wesley's expression was totally unreadable. He saw the sudden fear in Lilah's eyes, and it satisfied him, just a little, to see he was not as predictable as that woman thought he could be. And yet she was close to a peak. For a moment, Wes thought of letting her slide into the dark and awaken her with more subtle methods, but he spontaneously decided it was enough.
As he let go of her neck and she drew breath again, Lilah arched up against his body. Her neck hurt like hell, but it was worth it, for she had done it, she had made him show all the aggression lurking beneath the surface, and he would soon be ready to do anything she wanted. It was as if he wanted to pound every bit of depravity out of her, to end her laughter of triumph, of victory. It was not until then that Lilah allowed herself to give in, not until he was prepared to take his release from her without paying any attention whatsoever to whe she she was climaxing or hurting. Lilah collapsed, yet only for a moment. Then she turned on her back and began another round of the dangerous game.
Yet after a while, Wesley's impatient way of so predictably dominant male behaviour gave way to something else. He stopped hurting her and began with gentle caresses. He no longer insulted, but whispered soothing words and compliments into her ear. He delayed his own release for her sake. And his kisses were no longer a convenient way of silencing her, but prolonged exchanges of affection.
Lilah looked at him questioningly. "What...?"
"Don't speak," he ordered gently and closed his eyes.
Lilah realized what was going on. He was somewhere else in his mind or rather with someone else. Well, she might as well play along. She ran her fingers through his chest hair and returned his kisses with a tenderness that equalled his. Lilah Morgan provided the perfect illusion. Instead of awakening his aggressions, now she evoked his vulnerable side and took on a more modest passivity. She was very careful to make her own moves hesitantly and let him take the lead, as a younger woman with less experience in that area would have done. Her tactics did not fail her. After what seemed hours, his tension finally eased. The name he whispered in her ear in the moment of greatest rapture wasn't hers. It was that of the British lady whose father was Head of MI 6. Lady Winifred.
Lilah sighed. Well, she could have imagined him to be the good-looking guy from her gym. Why did the good s als always come up when everything was over?
Deep inside, Wesley knew he was cheating himself. With a sigh, he kissed good-bye his vision of a completely naked Lady Winifred, cheeks flushed with the heat of their lovemaking and totally spent in his arms. Instead, he had to face the empty reality of Lilah Morgan. This wasn't love. It was just sex.
"You know that sinking feeling you sometimes get the morning after? It arrived early."
Lilah smiled, pleased with herself. "The King's got a secret lover," she informed him.
"So I am told," Wesley replied with unveiled sarcasm.
"Not the blond girl from the SUN's title page," Lilah said impatiently. "A dark-haired woman. An Irish Catholic woman at that. Now, isn't that a case for national security?"
Wesley raised a brow. "How do you know about this?"
"She's my new client," Lilah said, "And she's pregnant."
TBC...