“The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it.”
Wendell Berry
Will had been pacing incessantly for the past hour, almost to the point of wearing a path through his room, especially near his bedroom door. In the brief moments he remained still, he attempted to leave a dozen times. However, it was the thirteenth time he’d talked himself out of doing so at the very last minute, and that left him utterly frustrated.
He stopped once more as his hand hovered above the knob. Yet, all too soon another reason not to leave sprang forward, causing him to move his hand away from the door and plunge it into his hair. He raked his fingers through it several times and released some of the curls from their gelled prison. In sheer irritation, a sound resembling a growl rumbled from his throat, and he turned from the door and resumed pacing.
“Bloody ‘ell! ‘M actin’ like a soddin’ git! She’s my wife. Well, was my wife, and I’ve been in a bedroom with her before. Hundreds of times! Most of the time neither of us had a stitch on and…” Will stopped momentarily as flashes of Buffy, sans clothing, assaulted his brain. After enjoying these images for a moment, he pushed them away and began moving again. “Where was I? Oh yeah, this shouldn’t be so bleedin’ difficult! All I need to do is just open the bloody door, walk through it, go down the hallway, open her door, and, and… then what?”
Will stopped his pacing once more and realized, gratefully, that his frantic movements had brought him to his bedside. Wearily, he sank onto the mattress while roughly scrubbing his hands over his face. After several passes, he uncovered his face and dropped his hands heavily onto his lap.
“And that’s the rub. It doesn’t even matter ’then what.’ I can’t even get that far. Can’t even get past my bloody door, never mind head down to her room. Why is it that Buffy always bring out the William in me?”
With this question still weighing on his mind, he noticed a dim beam of light spilling from under his door. Buffy Almost as if the light was calling to him, he unwittingly stood and approached it. He placed his palms against the barrier and pressed his ear to the wood. Straining, he tried to hear what she was doing, but he was only met with silence.
While he waited in the darkness for several moments, still not hearing a sound, he became slightly bored, which caused his mind to wander. Despite how all his thoughts had been Buffy-centric from the moment he saw her earlier tonight, his mind seemed to move down a path not often traveled. Strangely, what came forth were memories of his childhood, to a time when he was known only as William.
The Past
William sat on the floor in the den of his family’s home with his legs sprawled wide enough to accommodate a large piece of drawing paper and dozens of brightly colored crayons. He scribbled feverishly, even though there was an already ever-growing stack of completed drawings haphazardly piled on the floor beside him.
Occasionally, he would briefly stop coloring another one of his masterpieces to hastily swipe away a stray lock of his curly hair, which kept falling into his eyes. He knew his parents would be home soon, and since his da had suddenly taken ill earlier today, he hoped the more pictures he was able to make for him, the better he would feel.
When he heard the front door opening, he immediately stopped coloring and ran to greet his parents with his newest picture in hand. Once he passed the archway separating the den from the foyer, what he saw caused him to stop dead in his tracks.
It was his mum, sobbing, with tears running down her cheeks unchecked. She barely made it to the stairs before collapsing. Gratefully, the third to the bottom stair caught her graceless descent. She clenched a large, dark-colored object in her hands, and once she was seated, she buried her face into it and continued to sob.
William stood watching his mum for several moments, unsure what to do. All he knew was his mum was clearly upset, and his da wasn’t there to make her feel better. Reacting to her sadness with his own newly formed tears, he walked hesitantly until he reached her. The picture he was once so proud of, now lay on the floor forgotten.
He tentatively placed his hand on her knee. Startled, she raised her head from the object, which he then realized was his da’s jacket. She stared at him with watery, bloodshot eyes. A few beats passed before she appeared to recognize him, as she seemed to pull herself from the pain for a moment.
His mum whispered his name softly before opening her arms wide. He instantly rushed into them, feeling her love surrounding him as she enveloped him in a warm, tight embrace. She then gently pulled him onto her lap and tenderly touched his cheek to guide him to rest his head upon her chest.
She immediately began an innate motherly sway, rocking slowly while she softly hummed. The comforting combination of the melody and her heartbeat instantly caused a sense of peace to wash over him, even though he knew deep down, there was no peace to be found.
William didn’t know nor did he question why his mum was so upset. Despite his young age, he instinctually knew she needed to give him comfort so, in turn, she would feel comforted herself. For what seemed an endless amount of time, they stayed in this position. All he remembered was time seemed to be measured by the daylight disappearing and the increasing darkness taking its place.
Then, without a word, she gradually stood. While he remained cradled to her chest with his arms still looped around her neck and his legs hooked around her waist, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Once reaching her destination, she removed their shoes before sliding them under the covers. For the rest of the night, he stayed in the safety of her arms. Eventually, her murmured soothing whispers had lulled him to sleep.
Unfortunately, this first childhood memory was formed at the tender age of five—the memory of his father’s untimely passing.
After this memory faded, more flashes of his childhood came and went: his first day of school, learning to ride a bike, and his being fitted for glasses.
William was a shy child and stayed mainly to himself. He had only one good friend during these years, but when he was ten, his friend moved away leaving William virtually alone. It was at this time he had decided instead of seeking out new friends, since most of the other children were cruel to him, that he preferred the company of friends who existed in the pages of books and, more importantly, his mum.
As his memories continued, he purposefully skipped over the years during his solitary, gawky early teens. Then abruptly, like a stick jammed between the spokes of a spinning wheel, his memories stopped. In his mind’s eye, he was faced with the one he dreaded above all others. It was this single day, a balmy October morning, when his entire world changed forever.
This day started as they all normally did, with him taking care of his mum. After administering her daily doses of medication and informing the visiting nurse of how she’d fared the night before, they had a light breakfast of tea and toast together before he left for school.
Once he arrived, he headed straight to his first class. He quickly passed by all the other sixteen-year-olds hanging about chatting and snogging in the hallways. After he took his seat, he began pulling out the prior evening’s assignment, anxiously waiting for the class to begin.
Soon, following the bell, a wave of students entered, all grumbling that yet another day of school had begun. The professor took his place at the head of the class and, without delay, started the day’s lesson—Victorian writers.
The night before during his readings, William was intrigued that one of the most famous writers of the period, George Eliot, was actually a woman who used a male penname, so that she would be taken seriously. As he read the story of her life, he intimately understood how it felt to be burdened by other people’s perceptions, especially when those notions were far from the truth of who one truly was.
Once the other students quieted, his professor started the lecture by reading a poem by, George Eliot called, "Sweet Endings Come and Go, Love.”
”Sweet evenings come and go, love,
They came and went of yore:
This evening of our life, love,
Shall go and come no more.
When we have passed away, love,
All things will keep their name;
But yet no life on earth, love,
With ours will be the same.
The daisies will be there, love,
The stars in heaven will shine:
I shall not feel thy wish, love,
Nor thou my hand in thine.
A better time will come, love,
And better souls be born:
I would not be the best, love,
To leave thee now forlorn.”
During the reading, William was transfixed. It felt as if each word touched his very soul. To him, this poem spoke of the pain his mum felt after his da’s passing and how she never seemed to truly smile after that day. William knew his mum loved him deeply, but he also knew she still mourned his da. It was clearly evident when he looked into her eyes. There was something missing. That spark was gone.
When the professor finished the poem, he asked the class what it had meant to them. He was met with mostly silence, but there were also some whispered snickers from a few male students calling the author a “Nancy boy.”
William, on the other hand, had dozens of feelings and thoughts about the piece. His mind recited them all, yet he couldn’t say a word. Finally, after gaining courage from some hidden part of himself, he tentatively raised his hand to give a response. This would’ve been the first time he had voluntarily given an answer in any class. But before he could be called upon, the headmaster of the school knocked on the classroom door, interrupting the lesson.
With a brief nod from the professor, the headmaster entered and immediately approached the other man. While hushed whispers began between the two adults, William resumed his readings about George Eliot and completely tuned out the goings on in the room.
So when he heard the headmaster speak to the class, he wasn’t fully listening. He believed he heard his name, but quickly pushed the notion away. William mainly kept to himself and was never in trouble. It wouldn’t be he whom the headmaster was looking for.
Then, he felt a sudden change in the room. The normal chatter was gone, replaced by an eerie silence. Feeling slightly unsettled, William looked up from his readings and immediately noticed both adults staring at him intently. Also, even without looking around, he could now feel the other students' gazes. William shifted uncomfortably under everyone’s scrutiny before he heard the headmaster’s second request for him.
Even though he’d never been in this predicament before, William promptly began collecting his belongings. All the while his mind filled with dread as he tried to ignore the other students' whispered questions and muttered boorish remarks.
William’s fears got the best of him while he followed the headmaster out of the classroom and down the hallway. His mind raced with thoughts of what he had done. Even though he couldn’t image what it could be, he felt his anxiety rising all the same. Once they arrived, William was brought into an office where another teacher, whom he didn’t know, was waiting.
Once they entered, the teacher, a middle-aged, heavyset woman with graying hair pulled into a bun that accentuated the lines etched in the corners of her eyes, stood, approached him, and gently placed her hand on his back. Without a word, she slowly guided William to one of the matching set of high-back, leather chairs situated in front of the headmaster’s desk. After he sat, the pair of adults followed. The woman sat in the adjacent chair to William, while the headmaster took his seat behind his desk.
William waited anxiously to hear why he was there. All too soon he knew. After the woman tenderly sandwiched one of his hands between hers, she’d delivered the devastating, soul-crushing news.
“William, your mum, well, I’m aware you knew she was quite ill…” and that was all he remembered. He could no longer hear anything but the pounding of his heart nor see anything, due to the watery veil of tears that blanketed his vision.
The rest of his memories surrounding the time of his mum’s death remained only flashes in his mind: sitting on his bed, dressed in all black, cradling her picture in his hands. Then too, there were memories of the priest speaking highly of his mum and how brave she was during her life that was cut far too short and the slow procession of mourners to the gravesite, where they stood in the cold, steady rain that masked his falling tears.
His uncle, his last living relative whom he’d only met twice before, awkwardly wrapped his arms around him, trying to give comfort. Sitting in his den with all the furniture pushed against the wall in a macabre circle, and being surrounded by dozens of people, but feeling utterly alone, as he heard only bits and pieces of their words as they spoke directly to him and to each other: “I’m sorry for your loss.” “She was so young.” And “What will happen to young William now?”
It wasn’t until later that night, when he was sitting alone in his room that one coherent thought finally settled in his mind. "What will happen to me now?" It was strangely at that moment when his Uncle Rupert had emerged in his doorway looking more than a bit worse for wears. His clothes were rumpled, eyes bloodshot, and he held a tumbler filled with amber liquid.
Again, William only remembered fragments of this one-sided conversation, but one thing remained certain—he was being taken from his home, leaving England, and going to the States—California to be exact.
William never responded to his uncle, which he might have taken his lack of words as acceptance. This was far from the truth. From the moment his uncle left, a fury that William had never felt before ignited inside. He was not going to be taken from his home, taken from everything he’d ever known, to be carted over five thousand miles away to a strange place with a virtual stranger.
Instantly, he’d made his decision. He began rushing frantically around his room. First he grabbed all his money from its secret hiding place, hastily stuffing it in his pockets with a few important mementos. Once done, he threw on his jacket and climbed out his bedroom window. Despite William never having left this way in the past, he gracefully clambered down the old oak tree as if he’d done this a dozen times before. Once his feet landed firmly on the ground, he took off running.
He continued to run even though his lungs burned from his rapid, strenuous breaths, and his legs shook from exertion. He finally stopped when he could go no further. His body almost buckled from exhaustion. William bent over and braced his hands on his knees, while he tried to catch his breath.
Once he’d slowed his breathing, he stood and looked around to figure out exactly where he was. Even though he’d been living in London all his life and he felt he knew the streets pretty well, it seemed as though with the shroud of darkness covering the city and his mind still gripped by grief, he had to finally admit he was lost.
Defeated, William pulled from his pocket the poem of "Sweet Endings Come and Go, Love,” that he’d ripped from his literature book and clutched it in his hand. With weary steps, he walked over to a small alleyway to his left. He sat down heavily on a pile of wooden crates near the back door of some hole-in-the-wall pub. While the tears began to flow in earnest, an unexpected but oddly soothing voice coming from the shadows stopped his sobbing instantly.
“And I wonder…what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?”
William’s gaze snapped up from the poem in his hand, and searched the shadows trying to find where this voice had come from. When the owner of this voice stepped out from the darkness, she began walking toward him. She’d appeared to almost glide upon the air. Before he could react, she was tenderly wiping away a stay tear from his cheek while she spoke her last word.
At first, he was in complete awe. She was the most beautiful girl, no woman, he had ever seen. She had large, inquisitive blue eyes, long raven hair full of soft curls, and her willowy figure was accentuated by a velvet, form-fitting crimson dress.
He stared at her for a few moments before he was hit hard with the reality that some strange and possibly crazy woman was standing before him and blocking his only way out of the alley. He quickly pulled away from her touch, almost as if she’d burnt him. His anger from earlier came through when he responded to her crazy words.
“Piss off!”
He had hoped his rude brush off would make her go away. Instead, she seemed even more fascinated with him. She moved closer and boldly settled her body between his parted legs, hanging over the edge of the crates. She then placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart and leaned closer to him, her full lips brushing against his ear.
“Your strength inside calls to me; it’s a siren’s song I cannot ignore. Come with me, and we will show all those who had written you off as weak, how wrong they were. You are a strong man trapped in the confinements of a boy’s mind. Let me help you break free from that prison and show the world who you truly are— a fighter.”
In his mind, well the rational part, he knew she was crazy. This was crazy. But there was something about how she looked at him that seemed to look beyond an awkward teen and saw something more.
It was at that moment he’d decided he was no longer going to be William— the shy, quiet boy that hid behind books. He would become who this peculiar woman saw in her mind’s eye—the fighter.
Acting completely out of character, William grabbed her by the upper arms, and after his gaze flickered across her features briefly, he’d covered her mouth clumsily with his. After he placed several sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on her lips, he felt her laughter pass his and echoed through the alley. Her laughter stirred his anger once more. He pulled away quickly, his eyes narrowing. When she noticed this, her laughter ended, and she immediately tried to calm him.
“So hungry my fighter is. I will show you how to pleasure me…soon. Right now, we must see Daddy. He will let me know if I am allowed to keep you or not.”
With that, she shimmed out from the cradle of his thighs and held her hand out to him. Without a word, he slid his hand in hers and obediently followed her out of the alley and into this new life.
It was that night when he had found out who “Daddy” and, more importantly, who this woman was. Her name was Drusilla, and her “Daddy” was a hulking, brutish man named Angelus.
William was also introduced to a small group of runaways that night. They were a mix of damaged and disowned teens who didn’t want to live by society's or their parents' rules any longer. In the streets, they were the masters of their world. William found out quickly where his place was among them—at the bottom.
William became the lookout when they broke into businesses, homes, and cars. He was the last to receive the scraps from stolen meals. He slept on the floor with no blankets, while everyone else had a warm blanket and even a couch to sleep on. As for Angelus and his girlfriend, Darla, they always took the biggest bed in the place where they were squatting. Then there was Drusilla. She ended up staying wherever and with whomever the fairies told her to.
Every time William wanted to walk away from this new life, his mind quickly brought forth the alternative: going back to his uncle and inevitability leaving for California. Even though he hated this option, he hated his current life more. However, on the several occasions he decided to leave, it seemed Drusilla sensed his mind faltering, and she would coax him back with cunning words and a few chaste kisses, quickly crumbling his resolve.
For the next month, William continued in this dreadful life, until one night his world changed once again. That night started out like every other. The group had met up at their regular hangout after they are separated earlier to “dine and ditch.” William stood alone in the shadows of the building, while the others were chattering excitedly, deciding what to do for “fun.”
William kept his eyes downcast, but randomly stole glances toward Dru, who, along with Darla, was clinging onto Angelus’ arms, as the trio remained deep in conversation. Abruptly, Angelus shrugged the women off and began walking toward the group. William dropped his gaze again, not wanting to catch Angelus’ attention. His eyes remained on the ground until a pair of shoes entered into his line of vision. Slowly, he raised his gaze and met with Angelus’ hardened stare.
“So, Willie, Dru thinks you’re worth somethin’. I begged to differ, but since she’s convinced me to give you a chance, I've decided to give you this one time to prove your worth. Whadya say, boy?”
He was at a loss. Angelus had always tormented him, calling him names and pushing him around. Fortunately, those times were few and far between. William did fairly well at staying out of his way and keeping to the shadows. The only time he showed himself was when Angelus barked out orders to their small group. As did the others, he just nodded and scurried to do his bidding.
At first, William silently questioned why he and the others followed Angelus so devoutly, but he now understood completely after his short period of time being here. Even though Angelus was a bastard, he kept those beneath them fed and warm, and when living on the streets of London that was all that mattered.
So that night when Angelus had approached him, William knew he needed to prove his worth. When William felt a brutal blow land above his left eye, it was obvious how Angelus wanted him to prove himself. Instantly, he felt the bolt of pain ricocheting through his head. His vision blackened for a moment, and his mind spun.
William staggered to the right to gain his footing and instinctually threw out his hands to brace himself against the rapidly approaching wall. He immediately felt something hot and wet trickling down the side of his face.
He raised a shaky hand and gingerly touched his brow. After exploring the area briefly, he felt another flash of pain. He slowly withdrew his fingers and brought them into his line of vision. Seeing the tips dripping red, he knew what had happened. The blow had snapped his wire frames and the sharp metal had sliced into his brow.
He removed his now ruined glasses and threw them to the ground. William steadily stood to full height while he blinked several times to adjust his eyes to his new view of the world, sans glasses. Despite the slight blurriness of his vision, he instantly noticed Angelus was now standing several feet away his lips twisted in an evident smirk.
William felt the anger inside him rise. In a mere instant, he was seething with utter hatred—hatred for Angelus and everything a bully like him represented. William rushed him. His yell, sounding like a battle cry, echoed in his wake. After this point, his memories are of only spilled blood, flailing arms and legs, pain, and eventually of himself—standing over the bloodied and beaten body of his once tormentor.
From that moment on, he was no longer William. The person who had answered to that name was now dead and buried with any last shred of innocence and weakness that remained. After he’d beaten Angelus, Drusilla had, in addition to taking him to her bed for the first time, given him a new name—Spike. She gave him this moniker while they lay intertwined in bed as she ran her sharp, talon-like nails over his battered body.
“You are reborn. With birth, a new name is bestowed upon you. You have finally become the fighter the fairies told me about. Sharp and deadly, you have finally become my Spike.”
During the next five months, he became the total embodiment of who he thought Spike should be. Gone was his unruly, drab brown hair: in its place shocking platinum locks, harshly gelled in order to force the curl to obey and lay straight. He never replaced his broken glasses. They were left in the alley along with his past. Also, he no longer hid behind loose, ill-fitting clothes in colors of khaki and shades of blue. Now, his wardrobe was form fitting, in only black and red—the colors of destruction and the night. Of all the changes, he prided himself most on the tri-secting scar marring his left brow.
Along with his outward appearance, his mindset and personality had changed as well. He was no longer afraid of speaking his mind or of confrontation. He actually welcomed the fight, craved it. Whether it was verbal or physical, he threw himself in the thick of it. His motto, “Strike first, ask questions never.” His patience and understanding were replaced by a quick wit and a short temper. He walked the streets of London no longer with a fast paced gait and his eyes downcast, but a cocky swagger with his steely gaze remaining fixed on his surroundings, forcing others to look away. Completing his transformation, his once cultured voice, filled with educated words and topics, was replaced by a brash Cockney accent, littered with crass words and slang.
He became a pivotal part of their merry band of misfits. Yet, he never took the lead. Being the big boss was Angelus’ bag, and he didn’t want any part of it. In his mind, all he needed were these: Dru on his arm and in his bed and the utter respect from the group, even Angelus, which he’d completely earned and demanded.
The William of yore was long forgotten, and gratefully so. This was until one April evening, when he and Dru had broken into a local toy store to nick a new doll for her, when his world changed yet again.
While Spike sat and watched Dru flutter, as a butterfly among fragrant flowers, between several porcelain dolls on the shelves, his lips held a soft smile that only she was privy to. Without warning, he heard the front door crash open and several demanding screams of “Freeze!” Before he was able to grab Dru and run, he was surrounded by a handful of Johnny Hoppers. The pair were cuffed and shoved in the back of their car within moments.
When they arrived at the station, he was quickly whisked into one room, while she was lead away to another. Spike’s agitation and restlessness increased tenfold with each passing minute he waited alone. Since he was handcuffed to the large table in the middle of the interrogation room, he wasn’t able to expend this excess energy.
With his patience completely gone, Spike started to yell and holler, trying to get someone’s attention. It finally worked. A slightly balding, heavy set man dressed in a pair of cheap polyester pants and a striped tie littered with several undistinguishable stains, entered the room.
Before Spike could demand to see Dru, he was rendered speechless by a picture that was thrown on the table in front of him. It was a picture of him. Well, of him prior to becoming Spike. Complete with glasses and floppy, curly brown hair and all. Spike looked up from the picture in amazement.
“Yeah, your crazy, doll lovin’ girlfriend told us who you were. She said some rot about her shapin’ you into who you were meant to be and now you needed to go into the sun. I didn’t have a bleedin’ clue what she was talkin’ about until she gave me your name--William Pratt. The name sounded familiar. It didn’t take me long to remember. You’re the lad, whose uncle from California has been callin’ us nonstop, almost every day, to see if we’ve found you. We thought you fell off the face of the earth or worse, but here you are. With that hair and no specs, I would’ve never had a clue.”
Spike’s gaze moved from the picture to the man and back while the he spoke. He tried to remember what his life was like prior to the past six months. He couldn’t, nor did he want to. There lay only pain. It was only during these past five months, when finally there was none. No more hurt, no more feeling that he was less than what he was. He had become the man that he was meant to be.
All of this was because of Drusilla. She was his savior, despite her craziness that was caused by her beloved “dots.” She delivered him from mediocrity and showed him what he truly was, a fighter.
As he tried to find his voice, another man, a carbon copy of the man sitting across from him, came in. The original man stood and approached his mirror image. The pair whispered back and forth for a moment, then the first man left.
“Well, William, it seems you’ll be keepin’ us company for awhile. See my captain got a hold of your uncle and child welfare services. Guess they all agreed since you’re a “flight risk,” you’ll be enjoying one of our comfy accommodations ‘till your uncle arrives from the States. Lucky you.”
For the first time, Spike found his voice. It sounded as defeated as he felt.
“What ‘bout Dru?”
“Your girl,” Spike nodded, and the man continued, “She’s gone. Her parents came and took her home ‘bout an hour ago.”
After he was told this, Spike had nothing else to say. He kept silent even when he was brought to a solitary cell and given a nasty tray of what they called food. He forgone the “food,” curled up on the cot, and hoped sleep would take him away.
During his time in the cell, Spike only woke to use the loo. The final time he’d opened his eyes, fourteen hours later, a familiar face on the other side of the bars met his weary gaze—his uncle’s.
Spike stood from the cot when the officer began unlocking the cell. When the cell door opened, Rupert had moved from the bars and stood in at the opening, eyeing his drastically changed nephew.
“William, my lord, what happened? I never…you should’ve…I mean... I’m so glad you’re safe.”
Spike didn’t say a word. All he did was return his uncle’s stare briefly, skirt around him, and walk out of the cell. After they left the station, and during the entire car ride, Spike only responded to his uncle’s questions with grunts and one-word answers.
When they reached the house, which was no longer his home since everything that made it so was gone, Spike quickly collected his meager belongings. All the while, his uncle stood in the doorway watching his every move.
He didn’t want much, only a few books, his journals, and a few bits of clothing to tide him over until he was able to get more. Of all the things he collected, the only item that mattered was the box full of pictures of his parents and a book of poems that contained his favorite by George Eliot.
Less than 24 hours later, they were on a plane heading to California, and as his uncle worded it, to begin his new life.
Present
Will blinked steadily as he came out of his memories. He could feel tears that he didn’t initially realize were there rolling down his cheeks. When he stepped away from the door, he noticed the faint light that was there earlier was now gone.
After Will took several deep and steady breaths, he turned and headed toward his bed. He sat down heavily, before resting his elbows on his knees and lowering his face to the cradle of his palms. After a few quiet moments, he lifted his head and his hands dropped to hang between his parted thighs.
Earlier this evening, he had compiled all the bad events in his life into a short list comprised of only three things, with all of them involving Buffy. He didn’t put anything from childhood on the list. It wasn’t because these events weren’t devastating—far from it. Devastation wasn’t, nor was there, a strong enough word to describe the death of his parents.
However, all the things that had happened to him when he was younger, one way or another, had played an intricate part in creating who he is today. As he sat with dozens of complicated feelings and thoughts swirling through his mind, he wished for only one thing. He’d wished for a simpler time, a time when a single scribbled picture was able to make the world right again.
Important Side Notes:
I couldn’t help it. The first line Dru says to William is from Fool for Love. Thank you, Douglas Petrie, for that awesome line. Hell, let’s thank him for the entire awesome episode!
Johnny Hoppers are UK slang for police officers. Dots are the street slang for LSD
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Ok...I have lots to say before we begin. First, I want to thank my lovely betas Sanityfair and Diebirchen for their help. In saying this, please vote for Sanityfair on SunnyD Awards for best beta! She sooo deserves it!!! Secondly, I'm sorry about the delay in posting. This chapter, to say the least, was very difficult to write. I spent a long time on it and I hope that it shows in the content. Thirdly, big thanks to the person/people who nominated me at the SunnyD awards! Big hugs and kisses to you! And finally, there will be brief, I stress brief, Will and other. Do not fret. It's a mere splash in the pan. Now, I've droned on long enough...Get to reading!!!!
Chapter End Notes:
*peeking through fingers* whatcha think? Be gentle, I'm fragile! Reviews are loved and cherished, and even if I don't respond to them right away, I do a mini Snoopy dance with each and everyone!!!! Oh...hope you like the new banner, wanted something new.