I watched Bill for the first time a few months ago and when I was coming up with ideas for what Ian would do post-canon, it spiraled into a full story which ended up in shipping him with Gabriel, so here's that, I guess. Take a look at the #Gabrian tag on my Tumblr (unusual-ly) for more shippy content~

No I don't think any of what happens in this prologue is realistic but if Ben and Larry can take all those creative liberties in writing the film itself, I can take even more while writing a fanfic! Updates should come weekly

Prologue

He had been to public executions before. Many of them, in fact. Not really of his own accord, but whenever the Earl of Croydon expected him to accompany him to one. Ian certainly wasn't squeamish, he saw his fair share of blood on a regular basis (mostly his own), but he didn't find executions all that fun to watch regardless. He just didn't see the appeal. Today was different, though.

Today was the day the Earl of Croydon himself would be executed, and Ian wasn't going to miss that for the world.

He arrived at the familiar grounds of Tower Hill early, much earlier than any other spectators, and looked around. The chopping block sat out in the open, sparking a feeling of anticipation in Ian. Soon, this place would be bustling with people, and the man responsible for all of his troubles would lay his neck right there... and Ian would be free of him. Where he would go next, he had no idea. His family didn't live in London, and they had long since fallen out of contact anyway. He couldn't even be sure that the plague hadn't reached them, or that they hadn't driven out to live elsewhere for one reason or another. But he could worry about all that later. For now, he was going to enjoy this day.

Too eager just to wait around, Ian decided to wander the grounds for a little while and walk off his excess energy. It was quiet this time of day, before the crowds would arrive and the earl would be escorted out. The final preparations were being made and if he could keep out of sight, Ian might be lucky enough to see some of it. This was a special day for him, after all. He wanted to know everything he could. So he made his way to the tower itself, to see what he could find. Maybe he'd even come across Croydon himself in his prison cell, and give him a few choice words with no punishment.

Instead, though, fate offered him something far, far better.

When he came across the executioner's uniform, something made him stop still; the voice in his head that he had always silenced, that always insisted he should fight back and risk whatever would come of it. Who was going to hold him back now, the Earl of Croydon? He no longer held any power of Ian. Or anyone. The room had been left unguarded, likely to give the executioner his privacy and hide his identity, which meant no-one noticed when the wrong man slipped inside.

Ian expected he would come to get ready soon enough. If he was going to do anything, he had better do it now. But was it worth it? Surely, there would be consequences. He needed to think it over. He didn't have the time to think it over.

Don't think. Don't you dare ruin this by thinking.

– NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH –

"Thought Ian would've been here, at least."

Oh, I'm closer than you know...

Ian lifted the black hood from his face and grinned. While the priest and guard were busy with the earl, kneeling him at the chopping block and reciting passages, they briefly made eye contact. Ian's smile only grew wider as he watched the face of his former master fall and completely drain of colour.

"Ian?" he gasped in shock, his voice barely even there.

As he was forced down onto the block by the guard, Ian stood over him with a cruel smile that Croydon had never seen him wear before, and spoke in a tone he had never once heard; "Right you are, my lord."

With that, Ian lowered the hood again and raised the axe. The earl barely had the time to choke out his last word before his head was severed.

"Ian...!"

The blade sliced through his neck with surprising ease; with a strength that came from years of abuse, pain and misery.

"... Ian...?"

He didn't hear the confused voice of the guard standing nearby. He was quite distracted.

A short, loud and uncontrollable "ha!" burst from Ian's mouth. Then another. Within seconds, a peal of giddy, near maniacal laughter had overtaken him and he dropped the axe haphazardly to the ground. It took him a moment to even realise someone was grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind him. Another pair of hands ripped the hood from his head and his laughter died as his eyes met the captain's. The weight of what he had done suddenly hit him.

"You are not the executioner."

Every last drop of ecstasy drained from him and Ian began to struggle. But there was no excuse. He impersonated a court executioner. If he couldn't escape now, he would pay the price. So he had to escape. He had survived everything life had thrown at him up until now. He would survive this. He had to.

"Wait, please!" but they didn't, "Croydon was to die anyway, what does it matter who kills him?"

The crowd was in uproar; fights and arguments were breaking out over whether or not he was justified, more of them insisting he wasn't. Of course, none of them knew Ian and his connection to the Earl of Croydon. Moreover, people on both sides were blaming the captain of the guard just as much as Ian himself, on the grounds that he should have caught him sooner. The shouting voices blended together into pure noise, and Ian tried to wriggle free with everything around him descending into chaos. He managed to tear one arm out of the guard's grasp when he was distracted with the mob's attacks, and lost his glove in the process. The guard was eventually pulled away from him and Ian let himself be lost in the crowd. He threw the other glove to the ground, along with the cloak, and fled.

He found his own clothes strewn across the floor and guessed the real executioner had found them, and he wasn't about to stick around to let him catch him as well. He grabbed everything and kept running. He couldn't stop now, but he had to get rid of the uniform as soon as possible – it would only give him away. He needed to find somewhere out of the way to change, and then get as far away as possible.

Run. Just run.

– NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH –

It surprised her to think it, but staying in England may have been the best choice she had ever made. Things may not be perfect, but it was far better than her life back in Spain.

Gabriel was standing before her mirror, in her room at Bill's new house in London. Technically, the house was owned by the Earl of Southampton, who had been given the responsibility of providing Bill with the funding he needed to get his theatrical career up and running. But they – Bill, Anne, their children, and Gabriel – were the ones who lived there. And she was overjoyed with the arrangement.

She inspected her hair, which had grown only a short amount in the time since their disastrous play/plot, but the curls she had been trying out looked promising. Her dress – recently made – was a deep navy blue, not unlike the one she had worn for the play, but perhaps not quite as fancy. That dress had lace cuffs and trimmings, and she wouldn't waste those on simple everyday wear. She saved her best work for the costumes she was designing for Bill's next play, which would also be her official acting debut.

Thinking about those designs, though, sent her mind drifting back across the ocean, back home, where she had left behind so many of her beloved disguises. Once upon a time, those disguises were her only way to truly feel like herself. She could move on now, but she still missed those dresses, and the life she had back then. She missed her friends, as well, despite the way they treated her at times. She'd worked with Juan and Lope for years, and leaving them felt almost like leaving her own brothers, but, as she had come to tell herself, if they couldn't accept her completely, they didn't deserve her friendship. She had made her choice.

So, now she was here. Gabriel Montoya, no longer the Master of Disguise, but a member of the company of, and perhaps closest friend to, William Shakespeare. She had little money to her name – the king was meant to have paid them when the job was done, which, of course, never happened – and would stay with Bill until she could earn enough to make her own way, and until she was more accustomed to life in England. What little she had brought along with her, particularly her old uniform, weapons, and such, was locked in a trunk in the corner of the room. She couldn't bring herself to even open it, much less get rid of anything from it. That trunk was all she had left of her old home, and so she would keep it, safe, and hidden away.

When she weighed the pros and cons of the situation in her head, she came to a simple conclusion: whatever else may happen, whatever life she could have chosen, there was nothing that could possibly make her happier than she was now.

She was sure of that.