Disclaimer: noo... have a movie to watch can't explain further.
Distribution: got a way to send me a link?
Summary: Post In for a Penny In for a Pound... hey Whistler...
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: BA

A rat scurried over his toes, thinking it was safe. It wasn't. It was dinner. His dinner and his meager meal. As he chased the rodent down the darkened alley, his pocket clinked. That's right. Clinked. There were coins in it. 11 pennies and one British pound. An odd gathering of coins, but they were full of special meaning.

Three of those coins had been given to him. Two pennies and the pound, one of the pennies hung around his neck on a new cord. The old one had rotted off, but its red replacement had been doing fine for the last five years. Nine years since he first saw his sunshine, six since his last meeting with her.

Eternity never felt so long or lonely.

Tripping on his shoelace, he sprawled into a wall and fell down beside a trash can. Well fuck. His fist slammed into a crate beside him, his frustration overwhelming. He hadn't caught a rat in a week. They weren't hard to catch if you could scuttle across the pavement on bent legs. Stupid genetics.

Mother nature never made anything easy. She didn't. It rained when the weatherman said sunny; snowed when it was to be warm; was windy on the most mildest of days; weather needed to die. It did, really he wasn't just saying that because of the last two decades and a half he'd been utterly homeless. Yeah and he hadn't been subjected to her cruelty. Uhhun.

His head rested against the brick wall, he'd get up in a minute when he wasn't so tired. His eyes were at half mast when a new smell hit the air. Instantly alert, his body was working on auto pilot as he half crouched, ready to spring and attack.

"God, are you disgusting."

A glare from twin dark eyes, sliced the fellow apart who dared talk to him. He wasn't in the mood. Go away.

"This is really an unforgettable smell. This is the stench of death you're giving off here. And the look says crazy homeless guy, it's not good."

Sighing, he hung his head. Man, this wasn't his night. Or his week for that matter. Stretching his legs out in front of him, it displayed like a warning that he had muscles in places humans never dreamed of. He could move like a cat, and growl with fangs just as well.

"Get away from me."

"What are you gonna do, bite me? Oh, horrors! A Vampire!"

The dramatics weren't needed at all, especially when he was grumpy. The words however deserved his attention. When hunting he always played quiet, never bragged, and never killed out in the open. He should have been invisible. Not to be seen. Well there were ways to remedy that. Pictures of red blood danced through his mind…

"Oh, but you're not gonna bite me 'cause of your poor tortured soul. It's so sad, a vampire with a soul, how poignant. I may physically vomit right here."

"Fuck off, I'm not in the mood to play games."

The guy's hands went up in a hasty entreaty as he mumbled about him coming for a walk. A graceful standing, showed the strength behind the diminished form, the flicker of amber eyes, more then enough of a hint to beat it. The demon must be dumber then he looks, he didn't run.

Did he mention that tonight just wasn't his night? Yeah he thought so, really hated being repetitive there. Not interested in following the crazy little man out of the alley, he shook his head, hoping the guy would give up and go away. No such luck.

"Hey look! I'm here to give you a message."

"I kind of already figured you were a flunkie."

"Yeah to the higher Powers and all. Look they got a message for you, they want you to go to Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles?" he drawled, his tone drenched in skepticism and doubt.

"Yeah to meet the slayer."

Nodding his head, he turned to leave down the other end of the alley away from the street. One thing about New York was its ability to have many side streets and dark turns. It was easy to escape. Vaulting over the concrete wall, he landed with a thud.

There. Now let's see that little demon flunkie find him now. Looking away from the wall, he gasped. Standing before him was none other then the demon flunkie himself, with his hand extended towards him. In a moment his jaw would close, but even that was impressively odd.

"Name's Whistler. You are going to meet the slayer."

"Angel; and Whistler, no offense but amscray okay? I'm not ready to be dust just yet."

"You're walking filth. You are already dusty."

"Why, thank you…" came his condescending sneer.

"Just one little peak at her and you can go okay?"

"Why?"

"Let me show you why."

It felt like something was pulling him inside out and all the directions got mixed up. Feeling nauseous, he was glad he hadn't eaten that rat. Poor little thing, would've ended up all over him. Yum.

The world righted many moments later, but every step had his legs quivering. Halting to gather more of his senses, he felt the stirrings of anger rise up within his being. His clenched fist, was aching from wrapping itself too tightly around the British coin, out of its velvet bag in his pocket already.

"Don't ever do that again pip-squeak. I haven't been into that whole torture routine, but I could make an exception for the incredibly stupid."

"Oh quite growling, you haven't got the fangs for it. Now hurry up, she's going to be going out with her watcher in about ten minutes for her first kill."

"Oh goody, what fun."

Whistler looked over at him and smiled widely, showing off his pearly white teeth. When he was just about to say something he intoned quietly. "Don't say it. Don't even say it."

"Got to be a spoilsport don't you? Regular mugwamp that you are."

"Could I brood in silence here?"

"Yeah sure thing Angel boy."

The demon didn't notice the daggers shooting from his eyes, probably didn't see the amber haze creeping forth. What good is it being all vampirist when you couldn't scare the shit out of a nuisance like him? He needed some food, his demon was seeing red, and he didn't think Whistler would like what's on the menu. For that matter, would he really like what's on the menu?

Shaking his head, he thought back to about a week ago when he was walking in Central Park in New York City. He had already picked up his penny for the year, and was desperately hoping to run into her that year in the park. It seemed like the best place to meet her, what with all the attractions. However she is a girl, he should have gone to Macy's.

She's fifteen now, probably already winning the boys over like bees to honey. That thought bothered him. No it really bothered him, made him want to pummel something. Jealousy? Hardly. Oh who was he kidding? The girl had grown up in his mind, and his body was only eighteen. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't had any fantasies.

Some nights he didn't recognize himself.

Some nights he imagined her youthful body all warm and golden lying next to him in bed.

Out of the Dark Ages now!

Nope didn't work. Had he really thought it would? There's no such thing as child brides anymore… although in this particular case he almost wish there were. He was knocked out of his daze of passion and lust when he ran smack into a tree.

"Careful now, you wouldn't want to fall on a branch."

"Where is she?" he demanded gruffly, not really embarrassed at being knocked literally out of his thoughts. Just a little self conscious mind you.

Whistler silently pointing out through the trees into the heart of the cemetery. A blonde was sitting on a grave stone with a stake in her hands talking to an older man. Must be her watcher. He was talking lowly and pointing to the dirt when a newly dead was sure to rise.

Her hair was long, to her waist, and full of highlights, despite her natural blonde hair. A red parka was zipped up over pajamas with Scooby Doo on them… you know those characters Shaggy and Scooby? Hell she was even wearing fuzzy slippers, how was she going to fight? It wasn't like it was a controlled Council production full of planning. She was going to get killed.

However the less dumb slayers the better, would mean the good fight would get a girl strong enough to last the night after night of demons and vampires. He heard her voice over the wind and she sounded tired and exhausted.

"Merrick," her voice whined just a little, "We've been out here for two hours. I'm tired, can I go home now, the vampire isn't going to rise?"

Why did that voice cause the hair at the back of his neck to prickle? He felt like he'd heard that voice before…

"Yeah, I guess you're right. We'll try again tomorrow."

Suddenly the ground beneath where the slayer was sitting shifted, drawing his attention. Horrified, he just now figured out what the watcher had done. He'd sat the girl over the true grave and exclaimed over the other… making sure he was safe from harm. Bastard.

She yelped when a hand sprung out from the ground and scrambled backwards, terrified at the thing pulling itself out of the coffin. Death had colored it pale and the ground had made it frightening. A werewolf howled, and he suddenly realized it was the full moon… Gothic humor at its best.

He sat there in the shadows watching her jerky movements, and terrified countenance, and wondered if she'd ever make it in the big tough world of the bogeymen. Tonight she'd just found out that the monsters under her bed did exist whether she saw them by the light of day or not.

He winced when she stabbed the poor bloke in the stomach, missing the heart entirely. She even said `whoops' before correcting her mistake. That had to hurt… and the dust swirled around her head, and she sat up coughing.

"Want to know where she lives?" came the voice of the demon behind him.

Not paying attention, he nodded, his eyes riveted on the blonde walking away, seeing her hands tremble on the sharp wooden stake. She was going to survive, she had to. She was too young to die because of fate.

It wasn't even a half hour later, that he was looking into the window of her bedroom like some peeping tom. Which, he guessed, was what he was. He heard her mother yelling at her for a brief moment for coming in so late and her father's answer that she needed to learn a lesson… then he heard them going back to fighting among themselves.

They didn't realize the wounded girl, who stood there unzipping her parka in front of the mirror. Her eyes were captivating and startling blue, with sparkles in them from her tears. That kind of bright look when the sun hits the water and shatters it into brilliantly displays of white fire… it was a muted look when the moon shone on it… but similar.

A tear slipped down her cheek, as she placed the coat over a hanger and stuck it in her closet. He wanted to hold her and tell her it was going to be okay, that she didn't need to cry. He stood there behind the tree by her window and watched as she pulled something out of her pocket and leaned into her closet to retrieve something.

She sat a jar full of pennies on her vanity and twisted the jar lid undone. Her hand slipped into the glass container and carefully placed one more penny on top of the pile of them below it. Shaking hands closed it again before she replaced them back into her closet.

His hand was caressing the penny between two fingers. The edge was smooth now, not a hint of a picture on it. Like what happens to the ground and grass when travelers walk on it for years, or when a carpet is worn thin from pacing. A long developed habit that worked away the lining little by little. He tucked the coin back in his shirt, and took in her image as she slid open the covers and reached to turn off the light.

When the darkness took over her room, he began to turn to walk away when he saw to his amazement a poster hanging on a cork board in her room. Homecoming 1994 and the words scrawled in ink across it reading, "Elizabeth Anne Summers and Billy Fordham."

Holy Shit.

His gaze was once again captivated by the retired blonde who lay on her bed with her eyes wide open and awake. He watched as silent tears streamed down her face to meet on her lips before slipping and falling down into the curve of her neck.

His eyes went down farther and took in the shape of her half formed breasts, and wondered if he could make her forget about the bickering going on in the other room. He wondered who Billy Fordham was, and if she was still a virgin… what? He was a guy after all… but even crying with puffy red rimmed eyes, white clenched fists, and tear stained cheeks he never saw her look more beautiful.

He didn't want to go back to New York. He wanted to stay right here, and defy the rising of the sun… he just wanted to watch her sleep… and dream about her for the rest of his days, but even he couldn't change the course of the spinning earth or the certainty of a sunrise… but he dared exposure through the night to guard over her sleeping form.

His slayer.

His love.

He knew he was doomed for all others, what had he said before? She had bought him for a penny, then invested more with a penny and a pound… by the looks of it she was saving her pennies. A penny saved is a penny earned… but she was going to get more then her money's worth… she'd get it returned with interest rates that skyrocketed.

Slipping into the sewers, he looked around for Whistler, stomping down the moldy underground to keep from bursting into flame. His mind was still hooked around her - heart, body, and soul- a slight cough brought him back from his musings.

"She's prettier then the last slayer hun?"

Wasn't that the truth?

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