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Author's Notes: I'm still working on my other fic, No Hero, but I had this damned plot bunny wriggling around in my head and I had to let it out!
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Boulevard of Broken Dreams


“I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. Don’t know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone…” The voice of Billie Joe Armstrong blared from a nearby radio alarm clock, rousing the sixteen-year-old from a sound sleep. A fine-boned hand felt around clumsily and silenced the machine with a resounding slap, and a moment later, the music was replaced with a snore.

“William, come downstairs! You don’t want to be late for your first day!” Joyce called up the stairs with a shake of her head. Teenagers. She remembered being that age and was exceedingly grateful that she had grown up in gentler times.

Upstairs in the locked bedroom, an eye finally cracked open, bright blue and hazy from sleep, and the curly-haired boy muttered unintelligibly under his breath, stretched languidly, and promptly toppled out of bed into the floor. “Bloody ow!” He scowled at the sheets that had caused his less than graceful exit from the haven of warmth and finally dragged himself to his feet.

“You have fifteen minutes!” Joyce warned as she plated bacon, eggs, and pancakes.

“I’m coming, Mum!” he shouted, jumping into his uniform of black on black. Dashing into the bathroom, he gave his reflection the two-figured salute and hurriedly plastered down the mass of white-blonde ‘poncy boy’ curls. He hated his hair. The rest of the package, he admitted, wasn’t half bad at all.

Finally satisfied that nothing short of a sixty-mile-an-hour gust would disturb his hair, he grabbed his backpack and hurried downstairs into the kitchen, draining a glass of orange juice in a single gulp.

Joyce eyed her adopted son’s attire and held back a disapproving comment. After the incident in Los Angeles, she had hoped for a fresh start in Sunnydale, but William had lopped off his hair, bleached it, and started dressing like a reject from a Billy Idol look-a-like contest. She worried that the principal and his teachers would never be able to look past his appearance, much less his record. Not to mention… She didn’t even want to think about that.

“Don’t give me that look, Mum,” William said in between bites of his pancake. Glancing at the clock, he cursed under his breath and rolled the last cake into a small morsel, cramming it into his mouth all at once.

“Please don’t do that in the lunchroom,” Joyce pleaded tiredly.

The look on his mother’s face was enough to convince William that this was not the time for his trademark sarcasm. Instead, he nodded politely and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’m off, then.”

“Walk carefully,” the woman instructed. “A-and don’t forget that this is a fresh start for the both of us. The school was nice enough to –”

“To let me in, I know,” William finished. “I know, Mum, trust me. I can’t bollocks this up.”

“You really can’t afford to.” Kissing William’s cheek, she thought to ruffle his hair, shake out the gel and fluff it into soft curls, but she knew he would be horrified and make himself late by gelling it again.

Giving Joyce an affectionate peck on the cheek, he hurried out the door. Though he would never admit it, he was looking forward to the fresh start his mother often spoke of. He looked forward to being able to walk down the hallway without his fellow students looking at him as though he’d sprouted a forest of heads. He looked forward to not being the laughing stock in English class because of a rather idiotic poem he’d written as a freshman. He looked forward to living in a town that wasn’t full of vampires.

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An hour later found William with the newly acquired knowledge that every high school in America was exactly the same. He had witnessed the principal, who’d seemed like an all right, albeit annoying bloke at first, rip up and tape back together his record; he had seen a brunette beauty by the name of Cordelia utterly destroy the self-esteem of a waif-like girl with auburn hair – all because she disapproved of the girl’s fashion sense; he had immediately been written off as one of the outsiders because of his own apparel.

He had, however, also learned that the auburn-haired girl, Willow, was a kind soul who smiled at him openly, and that her friend Xander was a decent fellow – he’d even apologized after barreling into William in the hallway. As he stepped into the library, he glanced around appraisingly. So far, so good. For a small town like Sunnydale, the library appeared to be well-equipped.

“Hello?” William called to the seemingly empty library. “Mr. Giles?”

At length, a tall, care-worn man who looked every bit the librarian emerged from a back room. He studied William for a moment before speaking. “I know just what you’re looking for,” he said confidently, slamming a large tome onto the counter. Giles shot William a knowing glance.

“Um… No. I need a soddin’ history text, not this,” William said disdainfully of the book. He didn’t bloody care about the ‘vampyr’ nonsense; he just wanted to start over.

“No? Are you quite certain, Mr. Summers?”

“How did you know my --”

“I know more than you think, William,” answered the Englishman. “Do you really believe that you are here by coincidence? Do you know why it was imperative that you attend primary school in England?”

“I’m… gonna be late for class.” With that, the platinum blonde raced out of the library at top speed. He felt shaken to his very core. What had the librarian meant when he said it had been imperative that he attend school in England? Rather than going straight to class, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. He leaned back against the side of the building where, hopefully, no one would find him. Apparently, hope was not in his corner that day.

“Aha! I should have known!” barked the assistant principal.

“Bloody Hell…” William crushed out his cigarette and turned to face Snyder, the ferret-faced man who, in spite of his hatred for the students (or perhaps because of it), had been promoted to assistant principal.

“For some reason, Flutie thinks we should give you a chance,” the man said disdainfully. “So for that reason and that reason alone, I won’t expel you right now. There are things I will not tolerate: students loitering on campus after school, horrible murders where the blood has been drained from the bodies, and also smoking.”

“Wait, wait, back up. Who was murdered? When…?”

“That, Mr. Summers, is no concern of yours,” the assistant principal snapped. “Get to class this instant, and if I catch you out here with a cigarette again, I will have you expelled!”

Without uttering another word, William scurried inside and retraced his steps to the library, finding it exactly the same way he’d left it, empty save for the sharp-eyed Englishman, who was still standing vigil over the counter, watching the doorway expectantly. He had known William would return. “All right,” he muttered, “why am I here?”

“I had hoped you would return quickly,” said Giles. Tucking the large book under his arm, he moved to the table in the center of the room and set it down. “Sit, and I’ll explain everything.”

Heaving a sigh, he reluctantly sat down, watching the Englishman apprehensively. The last thing he’d wanted was to become involved in another vampire problem, but…

“I trust the assistant principal found you and let slip that a murder had been committed on campus.”

“You… you bloody sent him out there to find me, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” Giles answered, “And now, I have a question for you. If you wish to have nothing to do with your calling, why do you care that someone was murdered?”

William gaped. Finally, he mumbled, “Never said I cared. I’m just curious is all.”

“I see,” Giles mused aloud. “Well, I suppose the, um, the background information as to what your calling is won’t be required, will it?”

“I don’t have a soddin’ calling! I killed some vamps, set the gym on fire, end of story.”

“Yes, but there i-is so much more to it than that. You’re the chosen one, William. Not only that, but you are the first male slayer ever documented. Th-this is… is unprecedented! It has never happened before and –”

“Then why has it happened now, hmm? Can you tell me that, or are you just going to launch into another of your bloody speeches. I’ve heard it all before. ‘One girl in all the world… until now.’ Whooptie-fucking-do.”

“A-as far as we can tell, the only explanation is that your mother was a slayer and your father was a watcher. Relations between watchers and their slayers have always been forbidden, but…” At William’s expression of shocked horror, Giles let the rest of that thought fade. “Oh, dear. Y-you didn’t know?”

For a moment, William looked horrified, but then he laughed uproariously. “You mean to tell me that my mum was a slayer? Mum’s… she can’t even do a split much less… all that karate nonsense I was doin’.”

“I meant… I meant your birth mother,” the Englishman corrected gently. “W-wait here.” With a sigh of resignation, Giles disappeared into his office and returned moments later with a shoddy duffle bag. William remained frozen in place, his clear blue eyes now clouded with anger.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare tell me that my mother isn’t my mother,” he began coldly. “Don’t even… I would know my own bloody mother! We… we have the same curly hair, and we both like poetry, and… and…”

“Your blood type is A negative, is it not? Do you know anything about how people are born with their blood types?”

William clenched his jaw in refusal to answer, for he already knew what Giles would say in his desire to prove that he had been adopted. In truth, he had suspected that he might have been adopted since he was eight years old and his mother had sent him to England to a private boarding school. She had seemed distraught about the whole ordeal, while his father Hank had been perplexed. In the end, though, he had chosen to forget about that aspect and had instead focused on the adventure of living in England, where he had developed his accent.

“Joyce’s blood type is A positive, Hank Summer’s is O negative. You are –”

“Why did she send me to school in London?” William interrupted.

“Your adoptive mother Joyce has lived in Los Angeles for the majority of her life, as well you know, and when she was a young woman, she befriended an eighteen-year-old by the name of Gloria Mason. She was the –”

“The slayer, I get it! Why England?!”

“Your mother, your birth mother, left you in Joyce’s custody as per her agreement with your father, along with a request that you spend at least some of your years in England where your father could be close to you and not have to give away his cover.”

“Why didn’t my father just take me to live with him, then? Was being a watcher that bloody important to him?!” William demanded heatedly.

“I-it was complicated… for him, um, as I’m sure you can imagine. He loved your mother dearly, and after she died, his career was all he had left. He thought himself… unfit to be a single parent, and as Joyce wasn’t able to bear children of her own… Your mother, ah, ultimately made the decision that, in the event of her death, you would live with Joyce. It was… it was the best thing for everyone involved,” Giles responded, his voice weak with exhaustion and… regret?

“You.”

Proud that William had figured it out so quickly, and more than a little worried about how he would be received, the Englishman nodded. “Me. D-do you not remember me at all, William? I was there for all your football games, and… and when you nearly got expelled from Brighton, who do you think persuaded Headmaster Thompson to let you stay?”

“Don’t do that!” William bellowed. “Don’t act all chummy when you soddin’ well valued your career over me! Was that was it was about, hmm? Maybe you blamed me for her death. ‘If she hadn’t borne a child, perhaps she would have been stronger,’ was that it?”

Giles paled visibly at William’s perfect imitation of his accent, and he had to admit that, at one point, his words had been accurate. “Perhaps at one time, but, William, the important thing is that you’re here now… I tried to, um, to conceal your identity from the other watchers, from the council, but now that you know of your destiny, I can better prepare you…”

“Get bent!” William stood so quickly that he knocked his chair to the ground. “How much does Mum… does Joyce know?” he inquired.

“Don’t do this. She is still your mother and you will treat her with respect. She knows… she knows everything.”

“But she isn’t my mother, is she?” William asked dismally. “My mother is dead, and now you’re tellin’ me that it’s my job to finish what she started, to kill them all, the… the vampires.”

“And demons,” Giles added in a whisper. “You have so much responsibility, William, and it is a lot to ask, but… If I’m to be your watcher, you’ll need to be trained properly.” All business again, the Englishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses.

“The way you trained my mother? Yeah, you must be a real pro. You got her killed, after all.”

Flinching visibly, Giles slid his glasses back into place as he implored, “Joyce loves you as much as she could love a child of her own, possibly more. Don’t take this out on her. If you wish to tell her that about our conversation, that’s –”

“No!” said William fiercely. “She’s already worried enough as it is. I don’t want her panic. Besides, when everything went to Hell in LA, she never said anything to me about it. She never let on that she knew, so that’s how it’s gonna stay. Whoever’s killin’ kids around here, I’ll find ‘em, I’ll kill ‘em, and then I’m done. I quit.”

“Being a slayer is –”

“For life. So I’ve heard. I’m changin’ the rules, and I don’t need your help.” Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, William turned away and started toward the door.

“William!” Giles called after him, grabbing the bag he’d retrieved from his office. “This was your mother’s. I know she would want you to have it.”

After studying the bag for a moment, William forced himself to lock eyes with Giles, and he was met with the startling realization that he had his father’s eyes. He took the bag wordlessly and inclined his head in thanks before fleeing from the library.

The moment the door swung closed, the watcher crumbled; burying his face in his hands, he wept silently for the woman he had been unable to save, and for the boy – his son – he had condemned to death. He never noticed the wide eyes of Willow Rosenburg and Alexander Harris peeking around the shelf, both confused, and both thinking the same thing: that explained a lot.