The Penny Series

Ficlet 24) Lucky Penny
Summary: Well now that I'm here and not there, I've got one thing to say to you. "LA just sucks..."

He sprawled morosely across the overstuffed couch in the dingy room, with a cup of blood in his hands. Everything looked gray, was gray, the gray of shadows. The color of the sky before a raging storm- the color of her eyes as she fell asleep before he broke their dreams.

“Fuck,” he cursed, turning his head away from the walls before guzzling the cold blood and forcing himself not to cross his eyes at the awful taste. “Damn city--” He took another gulp and drained the mug dry before setting it down with a thump on the rickety table on his left.

He was angry with himself for a thousand things and more. Life stretched before him: cold, lonely, desolate. Without her he was nothing, no one, a nobody. Maybe he should be glad for that, but he wasn’t. He hated it- hated the damn world and wished it to hell and back.

Catlike, he got to his feet, grumbling. “Been there, done that.”

He swiped the mug off of the stand and stalked into the miniscule kitchen with the bare bulb swinging. With angry movements he slammed the refrigerator open, jerked out another red bag, flung it into the microwave while kicking the fridge door shut, punched the buttons for 45 seconds, and hit start with a jab of his thumb.

The whole place smelled like rotten eggs from the sulfur in the water. God knew what he smelled like from the one shower he had taken before declaring the thing to be the most evil object in the world when the hot water he’d been using to remind him of Buffy’s sweet, tantalizing heat had gone frigidly cold. A week and a half had gone by and he still hadn’t showered. He needed to do that, had been meaning to, but he hadn’t had the energy to move or care.

She wasn’t in his life anymore, and he had better get used to the bachelor's way of living. An existence worthy of hundreds of stakes shoving themselves into his heart, splitting open the stake that had resided prior to the newest torment. Los Angeles could go to the devhe whe wasn’t lost; his home was with her, but he had to stay away, had to because anything else was….

And staying away was unacceptable.

The two weeks he had spent without her had been the worst of his existence. Fourteen days to recall the sound of her voice saying something to make him smile. Three hundred and thirty six hours used to remember the feel of her lips brushing along the back of his neck, her breath against his lips, and her heartbeat echoing in his own dormant chest. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes he’d told himself to not look back on what he’d given up to keep her safe. One million, two hundred and nine thousand, six hundred seconds he had damned himself to be without her… one million, two hundred and nine thousand, six hundred seconds he had had to keep functioning while his heart was breaking two hundred and twelve miles away.

He couldn’t live like this. He was a dying man without oxygen, a thirsting man without water, a hungry man without sustenance; without Buffy, he was nothing. His existence was pointless, without light, and he would surely die, like a plant without the sun. He was already slowly shriveling away. What was his purpose?

A knock sounded at his door. Well it wasn't like opportunity came everyday and actually knocked on his door. Confused, he ambled over to the door, almost expecting it to be broken down with a triumphant shout of gleeful anger. His heart jumped into his throat as he leaned closer, trying to determine the sound of her breathing or the sweet tang of her fragrance.

The knock sounded again, more impatient this time. A heavy brogue voice called out from the other side, leaving a bitter wound in his ever hopeful soul.

“Would ya open up, mate? I know you’re in there- this bleeding ‘eadache says so.”

Quizzical, he opened the door and peered outside.

“There ye ‘re. I’ve got a message for ye from the uppers,” said a squaeaseeasely man looking out from under a fedora.

Ah so that was how it was going to be…

You could always identify them by the fedoras…

Now how on earth did the metaphor of the white hat come about if they all wore black hats?

“Ye going to invite me in ‘ere?” the shabbily dressed man groused, stepping over the threshold, taking off his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink. My ‘ead’s killin’ me.”

He opened the door wider, letting the man elbow past him and offering scornfully, “Come in then.”

The stout little man turned from where he had stashed the liquor for times when he needed to drown out the memories. Staring beadily at the intruder, he sanctimoniously drew himself to his full height and arched back against the doorframe. “Well, who are you?”

“A buddy of Whis’ler’s,” he replied, tossing back a shot of Irish whiskey, shuddering in delight before sighing wistfully. “Now that’s the good stuff. Galway brew, nothing like it anywhe’es in the world is there, mate?” He threw back another glassful and gave a little shake with a grimace on his face. “Always know when ye’re at an Irishman’s place. It’s like fire in the gut. Nothing like that English sludge they‘ve got the nerve to call alcohol.”

“So you know Whistler, and now you’re here because?” he asked, making his annoyance clear. There was a pity party to get back to. They were always thrown better with one partygoer and not two.

“Vision,” the man said simply, as if that really explained it.

“Vision,” he drawled, walking a wide berth around the guy into the open kitchen. “Right. So who are you?”

“The name’s Do’le, and you’re Angel, the vampire with a soul.”

With the intention of intimidating his new companion, he opened the fridge and pulled out the blood that was the most congealed, ripping open the bag with his ivory fangs. Glowering at Doyle through amber eyes, he poured the blood into a cup, taking time to make sure it plopped satisfactorily. He made a small salute at the drunk Irishman and bottoms upped.

“That’s truly disgusting there, mate. You should get newer blood, and at least warm it up. God, you’re a slob, aren’t you?” Doyle accused, before rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Why couldn’t Whis’ler have just done ‘t like ‘e always does? I mean he’s been with the brooding vamp wonder ‘ere from the beginning, and it’s not like I’m complaining, but Whis’ler doesn’t ‘ave those nasty headaches to contend with either.”

“Who’re you talking to?” he asked looking upward as well, trying to discern something in the water stains that marked the ceiling.

“Po’ers That Be. The good guys upstairs,” Doyle replied, shifting a look down at him before looking back up as if awaiting an answer to his soliloquy.

He continued to stare at Doyle, unconsciously wiping a bit of blood away from the corner of his mouth. “You never did tell me why you were here, Doyle.”

“The Po’ers ‘ave a special interest in ye, just like they do with that pretty little sla’er you left back on the ‘ellmouth. Bunny something?”

“Buffy,” he corrected automatically, irritated with the error.

Doyle held up his hands defensively. “‘ey! No need to get defensive there, Angel. I’m a bit sloshed right now. ‘t was a mistake anyone could have made.”

“Well it’s Buffy,” he growled. “She goes out every night, putting her life on the line for the good fight, the least you guys could do is get her name right.”

“Well she’s why I’m here,” Doyle retorted, clutching his head with a wince. “An’ keep the noise level down, will ya? My skull is poundin.‘”

Scared, he took an anxious half step forward demanding to know how she was. “She’s okay, right?”

Brightening, Doyle flashed a pained smile. “Peachy keen. If ye’re expecting her to put on a smile when she‘s dying inside.”

Grieved, he left the confines of the small kitchen, feeling claustrophobic. The white hat followed him out of the kitchen, dogging his heels, until he whirled around and shoved him against the wall.

Amber eyes flashed menacingly as he leaned in, pressing his nose into Doyle’s face. “I don’t know what you people want from me, but this isn’t helping,” he snarled. “I can’t be with her without jeopardizing her and I don't need to be hearing from you about how she’s dealing with my absence. I know I hurt her,” he finished in an aggrieved whisper. “But I can’t change that, no matter how much I want to.”

“Ye goin’ to let me go now?” Doyle asked breathlessly.

He dropped him and turned away, throwing himself onto the hard wooden chair. Desperately trying not to succumb to the despair creeping into his soul, he slouched over his knees, hiding his vulnerability from the prying eyes of his companion. He could handle being miserable as long as she wasn’t dying right there along with him. If she could be happy, it would be worth it.

But now even that threadbare illusion had been stripped from him by the sympathetic do-gooder in the room.

“Leave,” he commanded dejectedly, wanting to surrender to the sleep lurking behind his tired eyelids.

“Sorry, mate,” Doyle murmured softly, picking himself up off the floor. “But I can’t do that. I’ve got to convince you not to go hurling yourself into the white void.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he rumbled tiredly, deciding that instead of defenestrating the intruder, he’d go to bed.

“Glad to help, but ye’re not getting away that easily. Ye ‘ave to stop wallowing in past mistakes and keep moving forward. It’s the way o’ the world, an’ once you’re a someone on the team, ye can’t go back t’ being a nobody.”

Pulling the scratchy cotton sheets back from the bed, he speculated dryly, “Guess it’s too late to ask to have remained a nobody, isn’t it?”

Doyle grabbed the other end of the sheets and yanked them back up. “You ‘ave to get outta this room, buddy. There’s souls to be saved.”

Frustrated, he ripped the sheets out of the guy’s hands. “Yeah, well my soul doesn’t seem to be on anyone’s saving list with the exception of Buffy’s, so if you don’t mind, I really want to get some sleep.”

Quickly climbing into bed, he flopped back against the pillows and promptly closed his eyes.

“Yes but-”

He opened an eye and focused it on the beady man’s eyes. “She’s the only one who has any clout with which to dictate to me. It’s her list that counts, not mine or yours or theirs. Good dawn.”

Doyle tore the bed sheets away from his head and for the first time looked peeved. “Now ye lis’en to me, Angel. Don’t be ‘n ass. Get up, I’ve got to show you something.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered sarcastically before sitting up. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“What part o’ you bein’ a somebody didn’t ye understand?” Doyle asked exasperatedly, stalking out of the room.

He hesitantly followed after the angry, inebriated pest. When said pest opened the door and walked out, he almost let out a sigh of relief, but then Doyle looked over his shoulder and motioned for him to follow. Resigned, he tread lightly after the secbadlbadly dressed white hat to come into his miserable unlife.

After following Doyle through the sewers quite a ways, he spoke up, demanding to know where they were going. Doyle never did answer him, and he kept trudging along bd hid him feeling for all the world a moron to even be here. A part of him was annoyed by the continuous silence because it let him wallow in memories and none more so right now than the mysterious air Whistler had had, and the first time he knew where his destiny was: slaying in a cemetery.

Elizabeth Anne Summers.

His Buffy.

“Ye’re makin’ me want t’ hurl ‘ere,” Doyle complained, standing by an access entrance to the tunnels. “Could ye stop broodin’ for a minute?” “Ge “Gee, sorry to impose on your sensibilities, pal,” he said wryly, coming to a standstill beside the shorter man.

“Well?” Doyle asked. “You goin’ t’ climb up there o’ what?”

“What’s up there?” he asked suspiciously as he glanced up, thinking it might be direct sunlight.

Doyle grinned, before saying mysteriously, “Why don’t ye go up an’ see for yerself?”

Carefully he lifted the metal sewer lid and peered out from underneath, hoping he didn’t expose himself to a shaft of sunlight. Luckily he was covered by a parked car. He looked around him, and saw nothing but more tires. If he ignored the underbelly of the parked car, he could see to the other side of the street. Perplexed when nothing of note happened, he started to lower the lid when a familiar masculine voice started to talk from the sidewalk.

“Willow,” Giles muttered, his feet walking around the front of the parked car. “Don’t tell Buffy, but this was our last lead.”

The sound of beeping came, as Giles unlocked the car.

“No. I’m afraid nobody had anything worth mentioning. The news is going to break her heart.”

Giles’ feet shifted before him on the pavement, before taking a step back to open the car door.

“More then. What’s worse is, if she’d seen him die, it might have let her grieve, but now she’ll wait her whole life for him.”

The watcher got into his car and started it up before rolling down the window to look out at the traffic.

“Bloody bastard. I’ll kill him, Willow, I swear I will.” Giles sighed, shifting the car into gear. “No. No. You’re right, but I can’t stand the thought of her wasting away for him, because he’s either dead or he’s left for good. Either way, she’ll... Ah thank you!”

The car pulled forward and sped away, followed by another vehicle.

From down below, he heard Doyle say something, but it took him a moment to respond. Carefully, he lowered the lid and descended the ladder to land at Doyle’s side.

“She needs ‘er whi’e knight ‘n shinin’ armor, Angel,” Doyle told him casually. “Surely you can see that.”

He swallowed thickly. “I can’t be that white knight.”

“Ye’ can be,” Doyle retorted. “You just have t’ want ‘t badly enough. Do you want ‘t badly enough, Angel?”

“Of course! I love her!” he cried out.

Doyle nodded, and motioned for him to follow as they walked farther into the tunnels. “Then there’ll be some things ye’ll need t’ d’ then. An‘ ye gotta g‘ an‘ d‘ them now, before the time runs out and yer chance ‘s gone.”

For the next fifteen minutes he was told explicitly what to do to secure his soul in the most enigmatic of fashions. Doyle was so obscure on the details, his head hurt trying to decipher them. Without noticing his companion stopping suddenly, he collided with the shorter man.

Disentangling himself, his escort righted his fedora and said briskly. “Go t’ dock e’ght, and a ‘alf demon by the name o’ Curly Moe, who has a fon’ness o’ the Stooges no doubt, will be there t’ get ye ‘n the freighter t’ Seychelles. When ye get there, it’s up to ya t’ find the path t’ the potential means o’ yer future happiness. I can’t tell you more than that the path you take will dictate the rest o’ your existence ‘ere ‘n this plane.”

“Burly Moo?” he asked, confused, as he began to climb the ladder to the access entrance of the sewer.

“Curly Moe,” Doyle snorted with a disbelieving shake of his head.

He found the freighter easily enough and passed the hours leaning against a stack of crates. He carried nothing with him from his apartment; it wasn't like there was anything in it he really needed. Everything of any importance was in the mansion, including her. Somewhere in his mind he knew what was coming would be a hell in and of itself, nothing of this significance would come easily or cheap.

A shadow emerged from the silent ship and moved towards him. Straightening, he stood at the ready for his guide to take him into the depths of the vessel. Silently following the lanky ruffian into cramped quarters between shipments, he settled in and nodded the man away.

Leaning back against the cold metal of the hull, he closed his eyes and hoped that rats would be in abundance. And despite the need for sleep, he didn’t doze off but was kept awake by the ever jarring movements of the merchant craft on top of the waves. He meditated for hours, reflectingemosemost on the fact that no matter how many months he would be away from California, when he returned he would come back with a prize his lucky penny had directed him to find.