Mother the doctor knows something is wrong
Cause my body has strange information
He's looked in my eyes and knows I'm not a child
But he doesn't dare ask the right question
~Suzanne Vega~
Chapter 6
They both seemed quite content with silence during dinner; each was lost in their own thoughts.
Buffy puzzled over the confusing array of silverware set out on the table, before deciding to be an equal opportunity employer and use all of them in turn. While she ate, she snuck glimpses of him watching her through carefully lowered lashes. Simply seeing her eat seemed to sadden him for some mysterious reason – she couldn’t begin to fathom why.
At least watching her gave him something to do, since he wasn’t putting any effort into eating. In the past she’d seen Spike decimate a blooming onion and crunch through the bones of spicy buffalo wings as if they were potato chips. Tonight he trailed his fork through uneaten cuts of beef, lost in a world of his own.
As she tore off a chunk of bread, she considered how much effort this must be for him. Whatever kind of stunt he’d pulled to create this Victorian world, he was giving it his all to play the part of a proper English gentleman. What on earth had inspired him to conjure up this as the way to seduce her?
It came to her in a flash, and she smacked her forehead with her hand, which was, unfortunately still grasping a large section of bread and crumbs scattered out – a mini bomb of carbohydrates.
“It was Halloween!” She was triumphant.
“I beg pardon?”
“Halloween! When I dressed like the old fashioned damsel. You thought that was my inner fantasy and that it might be your way in. That’s why you did all this.”
He sighed, then shook his head and pushed back from the table.
“Again, I’m not him. Not Spike. I’m William, with no memory of these things”
Now that their silence had been broken, it seemed to embolden him. He drew a deep breath, almost as though he were bracing himself for some kind of impact.
“Buffy.” He always said her name with such deliberation. He drew it out, apparently feeling uncomfortable with whatever it was he was about to say. “I notice our wedding portrait is missing.”
She took a deep breath of her own and continued to chew on her bread.
“The portrait that you’d tied above our bed is missing, Buffy. Where is it?”
He wove his fingers through his unruly hair, tugging absently as he waited for her response.
“I put it away in the big wooden closet thingie.”
He nodded at her again, but there was a slight question in his bright blue eyes.
“It…bothered me. Looking at it. It just seemed better to put it away.”
“I understand,” he said, carefully. And then added, oddly, “Thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For not destroying it.” His gaze flickered down to his lap, and he moved his hand away from his hair with a deliberate motion.
Such attention on his hands made her conscious of her own hands, and she tucked them under the table as well. There was a ring on the third finger of her left hand that she’d rather not discuss just now. As she’d put the portrait away, she’d considered tucking the ring away as well. But a closet floor was no place for a ring. It could get lost, especially on a rolling ship. And though looking at it made her feel uncomfortable, considering taking it off made her feel even worse.
And so they sat awkwardly, hands tucked under the table, neither looking at one another and desperately casting about for something to say when they were interrupted by two sharp raps on the door. Assuming that it was George, come to take away their dinner, she moved to the most out-of-the-way location she could think of: her corner of the bed.
Spike opened the door to admit George and, much to her disappointment, two other men. One of them was the dreaded Dr. Charles Crowdner, who had spent the better part of the day trying to rid her of her ‘delusion.’ He greeted her with a polite “Good evening, Mrs. Pratt.” She rolled her eyes in response, which she was pretty sure was the Emily Post approved response in such a circumstance.
Spike and the doctor conversed about the quality of dinner that evening and how the air had been fine for an evening stroll. ‘William’ did a fine job conversing in a stuffy gentlemanly manner. While the two men bored one another, the staff member who had followed the doctor into the room immediately set to fiddling around with the electrical bell that sat atop their door, which was a bit odd, because the bell had been working perfectly; she’d been hearing it brrng throughout the day.
George cleared away their dinner dishes and placed them on a cart out in the hall. He returned with a small folding cot, which he placed against the wall near the head of the bed before leaving the room with a bow.
As soon as George left, the doctor stepped out into the hall and retrieved a large metal case, easily three feet square and weighing, by the sounds the doctor was making, an impressive amount. The crew member that had been fiddling with the electric bells moved in to help, but the doctor waved him away, muttering something about the contents being ‘highly sensitive equipment.’ He placed it on the floor next to the table with a groan.
Buffy watched with curiosity and more than a little dread. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” she muttered to herself.
“What is it, Buffy?” Spike asked.
“British TV reference. You wouldn’t get it.”
Dr. Crowdner interrupted, his voice full of irritation. “William. You’d agreed this afternoon to address her as ‘Elizabeth.’”
“You’d instructed me to do so, but I agreed to nothing at all. This is how my wife wishes me to address her. And need I remind you at last night’s dinner it was you who insisted upon giving her a nickname. Now she has one: Buffy.”
Dr. Crowdner shook his head. “Well-played, William. Clearly, I have underestimated you.” Looking at Buffy, he added, “I’m not quite as easily managed as your husband, however. I shall call you by your true name, Elizabeth.”
“You’re the boss, Charlie.” Buffy responded.
Spike flashed a smile at her, dropping his proper Englishman mask for just a moment, before locking it firmly back into place and looking at the floor circumspectly.
The doctor didn’t acknowledge her remark, but turned to the crewman who was unstringing cords and wires from the bells above the door and pulling them down to the table. Dr. Crowdner began to unpack the large case that he’d brought in earlier.
He hoisted a large metal box onto the table with a thud. The machine itself looked simple enough – large metal box with electric wires going into one end and wires attached to a wand going out of the other end for…electricity? God, she hoped not. What if their idea of fixing her was just shocking her noggin? She’d watched ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ with her mom and was not in favor of going the way of Jack Nicholson.
“Um, Spike? What’s with Dr. Frankenstein?”
He gave her a smile, but it was a nervous one and did nothing to boost her confidence.
Spike nervously adjusted his waistcoat. “Doctor, it is going on nine o’clock. Is it absolutely necessary that we begin this tonight?”
“Time is of the essence, William. The sooner treatment’s begun, the sooner she’s cured, yes?”
“Right here,” Buffy grumbled. “She is right here. But hey, if you want to go all third-persony, that works too. What are you going to do to her with this machine?”
The doctor ignored her, and nodded to the crew member who had been helping him. “I’ll turn it on when you’re ready.”
The other man nodded and stood under the door. He held a wire cutting tool in one hand which he placed around a thick black electrical wire that they’d pulled out of the wall.
“Ready,” the man said.
Dr. Crowdner flicked a switch and the large metal box thudded to life with an uneven bumping sound. No short circuits or flaming jets from the walls. Just an anticlimactic thumping box.
“Well then. Quite better than expected.” The doctor seemed pleased with their rewiring efforts. “Thank you. I expect we may require the use of this for several days. I’ll contact the steward should we require your services further.”
The crew member nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
The machine continued thumping along in the background until the doctor silenced it with the flick of a switch.
“Very well. This should do quite nicely,” the doctor said.
“What is it?” Spike asked, simply.
“This is the therapeutic device I told you of earlier today.”
“I was somewhat distracted today; I don’t recollect discussing any such device.”
“It is for her treatment. As we discussed, your wife suffers from hysteria, William. And though it is a common condition for females, she has one of the more severe cases I’ve come across. This device is the most effective treatment for her ailment.”
Buffy had endured quite enough, and slid down the end of the bed to stand next to Spike. “Yo, Doc. She is right here. She wants to be spoken to and not spoken of. Third person sucked hard enough in English 101 and it stops now. If you’re going to discuss me, you talk to me.”
A wordless void stretched before them, before the doctor capitulated.
“Very well, Elizabeth. You suffer from hysteria. As I said, a common enough affliction for the fairer gender, but in your case, quite debilitating. The word ‘hysteria’ derives from the Greek word for ‘uterus,’ therefore it is only logical that treatment for this illness would be approached from the same portion of your anatomy.”
Treating her brain via her uterus did not seem particularly logical to Buffy, but she let the doctor continue.
“For decades, medical professionals such as myself have provided a standard treatment of digital manipulation for treatment of these symptoms. A pelvic massage to the point of hysterical paroxysm brings the sufferer days, if not weeks, of relief. With the advent of modern machinery, however, we can now cure pelvic hyperemia in a fraction of the time with much greater success rates.”
Buffy looked at him skeptically as he retrieved the wand end of the device. It was made of a smooth, dark metal, about six inches in length and slightly tapered, similar to the shape of a carrot. Dr. Crowdner held the device in the palm of his hand, holding it out for her to examine.
“A doctor places the device near the patient’s perineum. It produces a massaging sensation until the patient experiences paroxysm at which point the session of therapy is complete.”
Buffy shook her head. “How is putting that thing near my cranium going to cure pelvic hypothermia?”
The doctor gave William an exasperated smile.
“Not your cranium, Elizabeth. The device will massage your perineum. Your … personal area.”
It dawned on her in a flash. “Oh, no you don’t. This whole area,” she waved her hands over her body “is very personal. I’m personally attached to it.”
“I assure you, I’ve used this treatment on literally hundreds of patients. You simply need to lie back and…”
Buffy didn’t let him continue. “Voldemort, I promise that if you come anywhere near my hoo-hah with your wand, I’m breaking it in half.”
“Please, calm yourself, Elizabeth. I assure you, we only have your best intentions in mind.” The doctor’s voice was firm, brooking no argument.
“We? Spike, you’re on board with this?”
Spike had been watching the conversation unfold while tugging on his hair and fidgeting about nervously. When she called him by name, it took a moment for him to register that she’d even been speaking to him.
“If there’s even a chance that this treatment could assist you, it would seem a wise course of action,” he responded.
“But I don’t want him to do that to my body. Do I get a say in what happens to my body?”
Spike thought for a moment before giving her a resigned look. “You don’t wish to attempt this therapy? Just for a moment?”
“A definite ‘hell no.’ It looks way too cattle proddy to be anywhere near my lady parts.”
“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Dr. Crowdner, I’m going to have to insist that we pursue this course of action another time.”
“Another time?” Buffy asked, and she could hear the doctor asking the same question, very nearly in unison with her.
Spike held up his hands. “It’s late. I’m exhausted. We all are. Doctor, I understand your urgency and I thank you for your time and efforts on my wife’s behalf, but I shall not go against her wishes in this.. And Eliza….buffy, I know that you’re tired, but you must understand that the doctor is only trying to help. Let’s be amenable to attempting this one another day, shall we?
Buffy nodded, not entirely sure of what it was she was agreeing to, but fairly sure it meant the Dr. Feelgood and his wand of wonder would leave. A Victorian vibrator. Who knew? When she got back to her own time she hoped she could find a way to tell Giles and her mom. People from the 60s and 70s thought they invented vibrators and orgasms in general.
She’d half expected the doctor to be angry, after all the time and trouble it had taken to set up the machine. He surprised her by giving Spike an understanding smile.
“I understand, William. Elizabeth’s shyness is also quite common among my patients.” He placed the wand next to the machine before turning to face Spike again. “On occasion when the wife has been reluctant to have the treatment performed by her physician, she has instead allowed her husband to administer therapy. This might be your best course of action, William.”
“The machine looks rather complicated.” Spike looked at the doctor dubiously.
“Not at all,” Dr. Crowdner reassured. “The switch is a simple enough matter. The rest is fairly straightforward as well. Place the wand on her perineum – ask for her assistance in finding the most sensitive area – and let the machine perform its stimulating action. There are several attachments in the case should the wand not produce paroxysm within a reasonable amount of time.”
“Ah, well…yes,” Spike said, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.
“I’ll leave it here for a few days, but my medical opinion is that you insist upon immediate treatment. You can’t wait for her to become reasonable if reason has left her, William.”
Spike nodded, and the doctor shook his hand.
“Good evening then, William.” The doctor glanced up at Buffy in her corner of the room. “Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Sleep tight, Charlie,” she responded with a wave.
He shook his head as Spike stepped to the door to see him out. Once the door was closed, he turned toward the cot that George had propped at the head of the bed earlier that evening.
“Are you tired?” He began to unfold the simple canvas cot.
“Exhausted.” She nodded. “Did you pack pj’s for me?”
“PJ’s?”
“Pj’s….nightgowns. Something for your abductee to sleep in?”
He looked at her, wearily. “I believe you packed some nightgowns, but I’m not certain where they are.”
“Really. Since you claim that we’re this married couple – you’d think you’d know where I keep my stuff.”
“We aren’t in the habit of wearing nightclothes, Buffy.”
And that shut her up pretty effectively.
While she rooted around through the large wooden closet, he unfolded the pile of sheets and blankets that had been placed in a tidy pile next to the cot. Now that it had been unfolded, it took up a large section of floor space and making the bed appeared to be somewhat awkward.
She didn’t find anything that looked like a nightgown right away, though there were absolutely loads of silky long shorts and chemises. She finally unearthed a white granny gown from the very bottom of the pile. Just the ticket.
She turned around to find him putting a pillowcase on a pillow that had seen better days.
Spike nodded at her awkwardly. “I’ll just go for a walk around the deck while you change, then.”
As he placed his hand on the latch, she stopped him with a question that had been forming in the back of her mind all evening.
“Spike? I find something very odd.”
He dropped his hand from the latch and turned to look at her, his blue eyes puzzled. “What is it?” His voice was calm, but weary.
“I don’t understand why you haven’t told me what you think is happening. I mean, if your version of things isn’t a lie – wouldn’t you be at least trying to tell me what you think happened?”
He shook his head. “I don’t follow you, Buffy. What I think happened…with the doctor just now?”
“No. To me. Dr. Crowdner thinks I’m insane. I’ve told you what I think is happening. But I don’t understand why you’ve never said what you think.”
“You’ve never asked.”
“So, I’m asking now. Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think a big bad is messing with me?”
“I don’t believe you are ‘crazy.’ About that fact, I am most adamant. As far as other entities interfering in your life? I find this difficult to believe. You tell me that such creatures exist, and I believe you, but in our time together, it’s not something that has been part of our world.”
“So if it’s not a big bad and I’m not nuts, what do you think?”
He clenched his jaw and looked down at the floor for a moment before speaking.
“You were ill last night. I think that this illness has … done something that has affected your sense of time.”
“You don’t think I’m telling the truth?” She was indignant.
“I believe that you are convinced that you are telling the truth. That somehow you’ve forgotten ten years of your life. I don’t believe this to be true, however. I believe you are the woman I love, the woman I wed – and that you will come back to yourself. That you will come back to me, Elizabeth.”
His eyes still on the floor and his jaw still clenched tightly, he quickly turned to face the door, so she could not see his face.
He didn’t say anything for a few moments, before he cleared his throat and said, very quietly. “I shall take that walk now. Should you be asleep before my return, I wish you pleasant dreams.” And he slipped out the door.
She stood there, numbly holding a granny gown in one hand. Either he was telling the truth, and her heart should be breaking into pieces, or he was the world’s best liar and she should be kicking his ass up and down the deck of this ship. The worst part was – both of these options were horrible. Couldn’t there be a third thing? Was that too much to ask?
Her eyelids were feeling heavier by the second, and she began the arduous task of getting out of her button-laden gown. After a good night’s sleep she’d be in a better position to sort this out. With any luck, she’d wake up back home on Revello Drive and this whole thing could be a dream. They did that on TV shows sometimes, when the writers really messed up the plot. It wouldn’t be too much to hope that it could apply to her as well.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
First of all - thank you for the reviews so much! I have this whole dissertation in my mind about why they're so important. But I'll spare you. Just, trust me, they are. I don't feel like I'm rowing a boat by myself upstream when you're all here.
Thanks to my wonderful betas: Capella42, Lutamira and DoriansKitten - for removing my extra commas, and telling me when things don't make sense - and for not minding when I ignore their advice and put in some part that they think might be better off left out. Swell banner by AmyXaphania!
Thanks to my wonderful betas: Capella42, Lutamira and DoriansKitten - for removing my extra commas, and telling me when things don't make sense - and for not minding when I ignore their advice and put in some part that they think might be better off left out. Swell banner by AmyXaphania!
Chapter End Notes:
This model came along around 1890 and is a little fancier than Dr. Crowdner’s.
The first electromechanical vibrator was used at an asylum in France in 1873, though the first patent was in 1883 by Dr. Joseph Granville. A patent for electric vacuum cleaners didn’t come along for a full ten years after this. Did Victorians have their priorities straight or what? There will be a movie coming out shortly on this topic starring Maggie Gyllenhaal (called, what else, “Hysteria”).
If you’re interested in the topic, I’d recommend a few of the sources I used for it. The first one is everything you want to know, but the second is a nice quick read.
"The Technology of Orgasm: 'Hysteria,' the Vibrator, and Women's Sexual Satisfaction" - Rachel Maines (Johns Hopkins Press, 1998)
“In the History of Gynecology, a Surprising Chapter” – Natalie Angier - February 23, 1999 New York Times
The first electromechanical vibrator was used at an asylum in France in 1873, though the first patent was in 1883 by Dr. Joseph Granville. A patent for electric vacuum cleaners didn’t come along for a full ten years after this. Did Victorians have their priorities straight or what? There will be a movie coming out shortly on this topic starring Maggie Gyllenhaal (called, what else, “Hysteria”).
If you’re interested in the topic, I’d recommend a few of the sources I used for it. The first one is everything you want to know, but the second is a nice quick read.
"The Technology of Orgasm: 'Hysteria,' the Vibrator, and Women's Sexual Satisfaction" - Rachel Maines (Johns Hopkins Press, 1998)
“In the History of Gynecology, a Surprising Chapter” – Natalie Angier - February 23, 1999 New York Times