Rating/Content: Rated R for violence, adult themes, sexual situations, and all that good stuff. Most doesn't surface until a bit later on, but be warned the last part of this chapter might be a little disturbing for some people.

Spoilers: Umm...all the Spike eps, I guess. There is a tiny reference to the episode Lessons but nothing too spoilery. I'm not sure, but I'll assume there will be some more season seven stuff in there later on.

Category: Drama. There will be some Spike/Dru romance. Later chapters will contain some Spuffiness.

Summary: The life of William the Bloody, told in full.

Feedback: Please. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Email: good_girls_gone_bad@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and UPN. The story is mine, but it is based on the brilliant writing of the BtVS team—most especially on the episode Fool for Love, which is one of my favorites. In other words, NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE! Please don't sue me. :P

Author's note: I got the idea for this story sometime back. After watching Fool for Love I had all these visions in my head of what Spike's early life was like. When I watched the episode Lessons this season the visions changed, grew. Upon learning of these visions, someone recommended the book These Our Actors to me, which details Spike's early days as a vampire. I have to say I was disappointed with that book. The characterizations were a bit off, as was the continuity with the Buffy mythology. It seemed to move to quickly, to merge events into one tight little time frame. I'm not saying it wasn't well written, because it was. It just wasn't the same vision I had in my head. The reason I'm saying all this is because I read the book (which was approved by ME to be the "official" story of Spike, I guess) and I know my story does not follow that story arc at all. This is on purpose. I'm not interested in expanding that version of events; I'm writing my own. It will follow Spike from 1860 to present day and will span all the seasons, which means it will be long. Bear with me and, if it totally sucks, let me know. I don't want to write thousands of words of pure crap.
 

London, England

"William."

No answer.

"William!"

No answer.

"William!"

"Hey!" Nigel elbowed his seatmate, hissing from the corner of his mouth, "Wake up, stupid. The master is calling you!"

Nine-year-old William shook himself out of his reverie and gazed around dazedly. The one-room schoolhouse was dim, the light of the lamp unable to compete with the dreariness of the winter day. Around him, the other students were sitting quiet and erect in their seats. Only their eyes moved, gazing at him. William's eyes slowly fell to the front of the room where Mr. Stewart, the schoolteacher, was tapping his foot and glaring. He gulped.

"Ye—yes sir?" William's voice—high and soft, like a wooden flute, cracked a bit, faltered under the angry glare.

"William, if you would be so kind as to come up to the front now. I have been calling the third class for ten minutes and I find my patience wears thin with waiting."

William scrambled from his seat and hurried up the aisle, his insides quaking at the master's acid tone. He clutched his book to his chest like a shield as he stood with his back to the room, facing the teacher's desk. He was the only member of the class, everyone else being either too old or much too young for the third reader. This made it much harder for him because the master asked him the same number of questions on the text as he would a class of six, only William was expected to answer them all and answer them correctly. He rarely succeeded and, because of this, the master looked upon him rather unfavorably.

Stewart opened an arithmetic book and held it in front of him. "Let's see how much of yesterday's lesson you retained, shall we, William?" he asked, a slight smile twisting his thin lips.

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Tell me, what is the product of one hundred twenty-three and sixteen?"

William closed his eyes, lips moving silently as he worked the figure in his head. After a moment, he opened his eyes. "It is one thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eight, sir."

"Correct." The master flipped a couple of pages in the book. "Divide two thousand four hundred and sixty-four by sixteen."

William chewed on his bottom lip, thinking frantically. Long division wasn't his strong point, particularly when it had to be done without benefit of slate and pencil. He ticked off numbers in his head, his fingertips quivering in his pockets as he counted. The master raised an eyebrow, indicating he was taking too long, and William broke into a sweat, counted faster. "One hundred fifty-five," he gasped eventually.

"One hundred fifty-four," Stewart corrected. "Ah...so close and yet so far. I can see you need more practice, William. Give me your slate."

William handed him the small board and a piece of chalk. He waited as Stewart quickly jotted down a problem then took the slate back from him. He started for his seat, but Stewart called out and stopped him.

"Do it here, if you please, William. Do try to hurry, though, as I do have other students to attend to today."

His palms sweated as he grasped the pencil, awkwardly propping the board on the crook of one arm to read the problem. His eyes widened with shock as he saw the neat line of numbers: 348, 382 by 18. He looked up at Stewart questioningly.

The teacher smiled, nodded. "Go on, William. That problem is rather advanced, I know; but it is located in the fourth chapter of your book—the chapter you would be working on had you studied as you should have. Now: do the problem."

He did his best, but William knew even before he handed the slate back to Stewart that his answer was wrong. The teacher's long-suffering sigh only told him what he already knew.

Stewart shoved the slate back to William, his voice and his eyes thick with disdain. "Do go wash this display of idiocy from your slate and take your seat, William. You tire me with your stupidity, and so you shall learn or not learn your lesson as you will; I am done with you for today."

Gulping back tears, William stumbled down the aisle to his seat. There was a container of murky water and a dirty rag on the desk, which he and Nigel used to wash their slates. He dipped the rag in the water and took a few quick swipes at the board. His hands were shaking so badly that when he moved to replace the rag, he dropped the slate. It crashed onto the desktop, tipping the water over. A sheet of liquid splashed across the desk, hitting Nigel's slate. The rows of accurately worked sums melted away as the chalk ran down in milky-white streaks, dripping onto the desk and Nigel's pants leg.

"WILLIAM!" Stewart's voice was terrible, his face livid as he surveyed the damage done. He stood up, clutching the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white. "Come up here now." The italics with which he said this made William shiver. He dragged his feet on the way up the aisle.

Stewart cocked his head, smiling at William, making the boy squirm. "I can see I've taken the wrong path with you, William."

Something in the tone chilled William's stomach and he shivered. "S—Sir?"

"You see...I made the mistake of assuming you were capable of reading a book and retaining the information found therein. Obviously, this is not the case. I appear to have overestimated you, William; this is the third day in a row you have been unable to figure a simple division problem—a problem that is found in your textbook and should have been worked already, had you been following your assignments. Yet why should I assume you capable of such a task when you can't even manage to clean your board without making a mess and disturbing the whole school?"

William cringed, his thin body quivering in his neat suit, craving flight. All year he had sat in the second row, studying diligently, talking to no one, trying to shrink himself to invisibility. All year he had tried to avoid the wrath of this pale, thin man who regarded young boys with contemptuous dark eyes and cruelty. Now he was thrust into the spotlight, vulnerable, without escape. He curved his shoulders inward and gnawed on the inside of his cheek in an attempt not to cry.

Stewart's nostrils flared, as if scenting his young pupil's fear. He smiled just a bit, one long-fingered hand reaching underneath his desk. "William, go to the woodpile, please."

His tone was perfectly pleasant, but William flushed red with embarrassment then paled with fear. "S—sir, if you please, I didn't mean to upset the water. It was an accident."

"William, I am not going to tell you again. Go to the woodpile."

"But—but sir, I—"

"Shall I do it in front of the entire school then?" Stewart's hand appeared from beneath the desk, his long fingers curved around the end of a long, very stout, willow-switch. He stepped out from behind the desk, raising an arm threateningly.

William ducked his head submissively. "Forgive me, sir. I will do as you say."

"Outside," said Stewart.

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It was well after sunset when William limped up the steps of his house. He lived a distance from the schoolhouse and the walk was always a timely one, but given the fact that he was now moving as slow and stiff as an old man the journey took twice as long. He closed the back door behind him and began to remove his wraps in the warmth of the kitchen.

Heavy footfalls in the hall told him his stepfather had heard him come in and, sure enough, moments later the kitchen door swung inward. "Where have you been?"

Looking up at his stepfather's angry face, William felt a surge of fear very similar to the one he experienced at school. Even though Owen had never laid a hand on him, he had threatened it enough to make William wary of him. The three days he had spent locked in a broom cupboard that time he spilled ink on the parlor carpet had taught him Owen was not a man to be taken lightly. He arranged himself into his most submissive posture and fixed his eyes on the clean-scrubbed floor. "I'm sorry. I tried to hurry but—"

"Your mother's been worried sick!" Owen grabbed William's shoulder, unmindful of the pained flinch the touch produced. He dragged the boy out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "I suppose you got thrashed again? Maybe it will stick this time, though I doubt it. You are a stubborn creature."

William submitted to being dragged up the stairs to his bedroom, but when Owen pulled out a large brass key, he protested. "You aren't locking me in?"

"You're bloody right I am," Owen snapped. "In trouble at school, late coming home—do you think you can just waltz in and do as you like? You're being punished, you are, and you won't be leaving this room until I say it is time. Do you understand me?"

William nodded sullenly but he knew better than to talk back. He lay back on his bed, painfully aware of the lesions on his back, and listened to the telltale click as Owen turn the key in the lock, barring the door. Something hot and tight swelled in his chest, and he clenched his jaw. "Someday..." he whispered.

He didn't say any more. He knew that no matter what he did Owen would still own the house as surely as Mr. Stewart owned the school. Since his father's death two years ago, Owen had been ruling William's mother with iron hand. She had always been drawn to strong men—William's father was a strong man—and she never attempted to question Owen's authority. Like any proper wife, she submitted to her husband completely, even when her instinct and better judgment told her not to. William knew she would never change and, unless Owen suffered an untimely death like his predecessor, he would be around for a long time yet.

Still, some part of William's mind couldn't help fantasizing about the time he would be an adult and strong, able to withstand the brutality of people like Stewart and Owen. Someday, he wouldn't be afraid of them any longer. Someday...he would make them pay. He fell asleep smiling, thinking of it.

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He had known she would come to him and she did, bearing a cool wet cloth, a bowl of glycerin water and plate of cold dinner. It was very late and he had been asleep a long time when he awoke to the gentle shift of the mattress, a soft hand against his cheek. She smelled of lavender, and even though it was after midnight, she was still dressed, still wearing that beautiful watered silk dress he loved. Yellow, it was, like the sun, like buttercups, like her hair. The softness of her skirts brushed his wrist as she leaned over him. "Darling..." She had turned up the lamp just a bit, just enough for him to see the dim outline of her face in the glow. There were tears glistening in her eyes as she stroked his mop of sandy curls. "I came as soon as I could. Did he hurt you?"

William sat up, wincing as he did so. "A bit."

"Let mother see."

Her hands helped him to unbutton his jacket, his shirt. She eased his trousers down, folded each item of clothing carefully before putting it on a chair. She turned him so his naked back was to her, crying softly at the bloody welts that laddered his flesh. "Why darling? Why?"

He gritted his teeth, hissing in pain as she bathed his wounds with glycerin and with tears. "I tried, Mother. I studied every night." His voice choked slightly. "Yet, it did no good."

"Shh," she whispered, her lips following the path of the washcloth. "It's all right. These things take time for everyone. I remember when I was a girl..."

She left the sentence unfinished, but it didn't matter. The crooning sound that replaced words was melodic and pleasing, and William closed his eyes as her fingers drifted over his body, finding the hidden hurts and soothing them. She drew him against her, his back pressing into her breast so softly it didn't hurt, and covered the side of his face and neck with kisses. "Darling, darling," she murmured, petting and stroking until his tears subsided.

He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. She was only twenty-five, and she looked even younger than that. She was beautiful: small-boned and frail with porcelain skin and pale blonde curls. Her red cupid's-bow mouth trembled a bit with her tears. He loved her better than anything, better than life, and even though the things she asked of him confused him sometimes he never denied her. She was perfect in his eyes, flawless, and he would give her anything she wished. So when her breathing came a little quicker, and her hand strayed from his chest to move lower, William made no protest. It was a little strange and sometimes he thought perhaps it wasn't something other people did, but it never occurred to him to object. He merely laid his head in the hollow of her shoulder, closed his eyes, and accepted her love. Because that's what it was. Even if it felt a little odd sometimes, a little wrong, that's what it was: love. Wasn't it?

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End of Prologue

Please review and let me know what you think! :)