"If life's not beautiful without the pain,
Well, I'd just rather never, ever even see beauty again."
~Modest Mouse~
Chapter 7
Buffy didn’t know what her first thought was upon waking, because it was quickly replaced by her second thought: mornings are the worst. Whenever anything awful landed in her life, mornings were always the worst – that split second before she realized that everything had been turned upside down only made the moment of realization sting like a slap in the face.
Even before she opened her eyes, she knew; she could tell by the gentle sway and creak of the ship. Still, she opened her eyes to confirm it - paneled mahogany walls, white painted pipes on the ceiling. Ship, sweet ship.
Since her bed was raised higher than a standard bed, his cot was a few feet below hers. The room was so void of sound that she wasn’t entirely sure he was even there. She’d been so exhausted the night before that she’d zonked out before he’d returned from his walk on the deck.
Carefully and quietly, she scooted to look over the edge of her bed.
He was on his back, only two feet away and sleeping deeply. It was odd to see him like that – unaware and vulnerable. Something strange and fluttering caught in her throat for an instant, and she forced herself to swallow.
She couldn’t help but take advantage of the opportunity to study him unaware. He was wearing some kind of Victorian version of a t-shirt, white linen, which stretched tightly across his well muscled chest. One of his arms had been tossed up near his head while he slept, his long, tapered fingers, currently lacking black polish, curled into a sleeping fist. Despite all of his assurances that he was not Spike, the truth was that his body looked exactly like Spike’s.
Next she took a long and appraising look at his face. Yesterday she’d never really looked at his face for any length of time, but each time she’d glanced at him, even momentarily, she’d noticed subtle differences that made her feel very odd inside. Now that he was asleep, however, studying his face shouldn’t be such a difficult thing to do.
The first thing she noticed was the dark shadow of stubble dusting his jaw and chin. She’d never seen Spike in need of a shave before and it definitely made his face appear more human and brought out the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His eyes were closed, and his lashes lay on his cheeks. He had ridiculously thick lashes for a man, really. He should be ashamed, but then when had Spike ever shown much shame? His eyebrows too were… and then she stopped. His scar was gone. No longer marred by that jagged slash – his left brow was now perfect and unmarked.
Well, she supposed that if he had enough mojo to conjure up a ship and period costumes, a little de-scarring would be the least of his feats. Still, there was something subtle, something human about his appearance that made her wonder if, just possibly, ‘William’ was telling the truth. Trouble is, she thought – how can I know for sure?
His eyelids chose that moment to flutter open and she was gazing directly into eyes of the brightest blue, which smiled at her, their corners crinkling up. His mouth also curved into a tender smile before, in an instant, his expression changed totally and was wiped clean, like a cloth sweeping across a dry-erase board.
She scooted backwards in her bed, tucking her head out of sight – but it was too late.
“Good morning, Buffy.” His voice was hesitant. He said her name almost like question.
“Morning,” she muttered in response. She couldn’t quite work up to calling him ‘William.’ To do that would be a kind of defeat. But neither could she find it in her heart to call him ‘Spike.’ He always gave the kicked puppy expression when she used that word. Perhaps she’d just manage to not call him by a name at all or revert to ‘hey you’ whenever she needed to talk to him.
Since there was little space to move around in the room while his cot was set up, she sat up and looked out the porthole. Daybreak was just beginning to spread her fingers across the water, amber shards of sunlight glittering out from the water’s surface. The water was much calmer today, but as she looked out over the ocean, she could feel a lump rising in her throat. She couldn’t help but be reminded of the other ocean that lay near Sunnydale, the place where she belonged and, more importantly, the place where she was needed.
She looked over her shoulder to find him folding up the cot and placing it near the head of the bed, blankets and sheets folded next to it in a tidy pile. As he rubbed his hand on the back of his neck and stretched, she felt a twinge of guilt. That canvas cot looked uncomfortable as hell. Then, she shook her head at herself. She had nothing to feel guilty for. This was the guy who slept on top of sarcophaguses. Unless….he wasn’t. Damn her doubt.
He moved to the wooden closet at the foot of their bed and began putting on his clothing for the day. Since his back was to her, she was able to observe without pretense. The amount of effort that went into clothing was pretty exhausting. No t-shirt and jeans. Layers which included underwear, a shirt, a vest, a suitcoat. It was like watching him put on armor.
She bit her lip. Not that the gear she had to wear was much better, piles of material that weighed an unhealthy amount. She felt like she was dragging a quilt around all day yesterday.
Her thoughts were interrupted by two quick raps on the door. Spike casually attached his shirt cuffs with large bits of jewelry as he walked to the door.
A chubby blond porter stood at the portal holding their breakfast tray. Spike thanked the boy and took the tray, before closing the door behind him.
He set it on the bed while he unfolded the small camp table and chairs. Buffy slid off the edge of the bed and settled into a chair – her tummy rumbling at the scent of freshly baked bread.
He lifted the cover from the tray to reveal a selection of fruit, cheese and breads, along with an assortment of breakfast meats and a brewing pot of tea. At least with calmer seas she was feeling less nausea. She dug in.
Breakfast went much as dinner had gone the night before. There was no conversation and very little eye contact. He stirred an unholy amount of sugar into his tea and swirled the spoon in the cup – his expression contemplative.
When they’d finished breakfast, he gathered up the plates and placed them out in the hall. He went to the washstand and began to rummage about in a small leather bag which had been hanging from a hook just to the side of the sink. After a few moments of searching, she could hear him mutter.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
“I cannot seem to find my razor.”
“Oh, that. They took it. The doctor and his wife took all those things yesterday morning.”
“Why on earth would Dr. Crowdner take my razor?”
“I suspect to keep it out of my hands. They were very polite about it, but I definitely got the sense that they were keeping the sharp things away from the crazy lady.”
He met her eyes, his lips thinning to a line. “I’m sorry. This must be extremely demeaning for you.”
“It’s no big, but it would be nice to get them back. I like having pointy things near me. It’s kind of like a habit.”
“They’ve a barbershop on board. Would you mind if I stepped out? My face is in dire need of a shave.” He rubbed his hand along his stubbled jawline.
“No problemo. I understand. You should see my legs.” She winced. Why did it seem like most of the times she spoke she ended about once sentence past the point where she should really have stopped talking?
He gave her a very perplexed look before nodding and leaving the room.
Feeling ridiculous in her granny gown, she opened the closet door, only to let out a defeated sigh. It was like looking at Blankets R Us or the back room of an upholstery store, just yards and yards of material that she was so not in the mood to drape herself in.
She was feeling ansty and frustrated and just a little bit pissed off. What she needed, what she craved, was a good training session with Giles.
Bunching up her fist, she punched into the row of hanging dresses, which met her blow with a defeated whoosh of air.
What she wouldn’t do for a pair of shorts and a tank top.
~*~
William lay back in the barber chair, eyes closed, as the smooth blade slid up the edge of his jaw line. The rhythm of this, the familiarity, was a steady comfort.
He’d had very little wait time for the chair, the other gentlemen in the shop giving him stiff nods and appraising glances. They’d been involved in animated conversation just prior to his arrival; by the abruptness at which they’d turned silent, it wasn’t difficult to guess that the topic of conversation had been William and his mad wife.
Since the top choice for gossip was sitting in the room with them, the other customers had to make do with speculating about a third-class passenger who had gone missing last night. It was assumed that he’d gotten drunk and fallen overboard, poor lout.
After giving his razor a few strokes on his leather strop, the barber moved to the right side of William’s face. The barber tilted William’s chin upwards with a steady hand before beginning to shave his neck.
William consciously relaxed his jaw with a sigh. It felt so odd to be away from her, he was filled at once with a mixture of longing and, he hated to admit it, relief. He felt horribly guilty about that last emotion, but there it was all the same. Being in her presence was so painful at times that he could only endure it moment to moment – and could never manage to think very far ahead. He couldn’t stand to contemplate what would become of them if she did not regain her memories, if they remained ‘Buffy’ and ‘Spike,’ in her mind – never returning to Elizabeth and William.
“Sir?” the Barber interrupted William’s train of thought and William opened his eyes to see an assortment of aftershave products displayed before him on a tray. He selected the laurel water and dabbed it on his cheeks and throat before drying his hands on a white towel which the barber offered to him.
He left the room with a nod, freeing the undoubtedly relieved passengers to commence speculating about him once again.
Although he was tempted to take a short walk on the deck, he turned instead towards his room, feeling compelled not to leave his wife alone for long. The confines of the cabin would feel restrictive under normal circumstances, and their situation was far from normal. He knew that it must be especially trying for Elizabeth, who had far too much life in her to tolerate being confined for long.
He turned the latch and entered swiftly. As he stepped into the room, he nearly tripped over his wife, who was lying on their cabin floor. Startled, he took a step back.
She was wearing a bright blue chemise and bloomers – and only wearing that. Her hair back in a ‘ponytail’ – she was lying on her back on the floor, arms behind her head and lifting her arms and legs in unison while she counted.
“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…”
“Elizabeth?” In his shock, he called her by the wrong name. “What are you doing?”
She gave him a dirty look, then turned her head to concentrate upon what she was doing.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m exercising. Twenty.” She lay back on the floor and stretched her arms above her head, pulling the silky chemise fabric tightly against her breasts.
His cockstand was immediate and ferocious, forcing him to quickly turn his back to her.
“What?” She grumbled at him. “Am I not ‘properly attired’? Trust me; I’m wearing more coverage than ninety-nine percent of California right now.”
He bit his lower lip and did a little counting of his own. Concentrating upon numbers did a grand sum of nothing to will his erection away. Perhaps if he just stepped past her he could settle at the table and read the guide book he’d purchased before their journey.
He turned around to find her lying on her back, arms still behind her head. She was lifting her legs off the floor and making slow circles with them. It looked to be at once the most uncomfortable and most erotic thing one could do with ones legs. He thanked god that split-crotch bloomers were completely out of fashion. If she’d been wearing those at this moment, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d have been consumed by his lust - a sudden spark originating at his cock and eventually set his entire body aflame. The last thing remaining would be his smile.
With his hips, and erection, circumspectly facing the wall, he side-stepped around his wife as she settled her legs back upon the floor and placed her arms by her sides.
After retrieving his guide book, he settled into the folding chair and opened the book to a random page. Anything to take his mind off, his eyes off, her. His gaze flickered down to where his wife lay on the ground, not two feet away from him. Her chemise had ridden up enough to expose a small section of her stomach. He could just see her navel winking at him coyly behind lace trim.
She was doing hip thrusts. Her arms and legs supporting her weight, she lifted her pelvis in the air in a rhythmic pattern, while counting, her voice breathy, “Ten, eleven, twelve.” Oh, he was damned for certain now. There was no hope for him whatsoever.
As her hips lifted into the air, he could see the faintest trace of her dark curls, just showing through the fabric at the juncture of her thighs. He gripped his book tightly and willed his eyes to the page. His eyes were, unfortunately, having none of it and remained firmly focused on Elizabeth’s hips.
She sat up then, her back to him, and lifted her arms high above her head as she began a series of stretches. He could see the slightest trickle of perspiration running down the side of her neck and forming a little damp spot, just where her chemise met her shoulder. He licked his lips. It would be wrong, it would be exceedingly strange to want to kiss his wife’s neck in such a circumstance, he knew. To find that even such a thing as her perspiration would arouse him, would cause him to crave…
She shifted position, turning to face him. Perspiration caused her chemise to cling to her breasts in the most alarming and pleasant way; the tips of her nipples peaking the fabric. His eyes immediately flashed down to read his book. He was so quick that she would have never noticed that he was staring at her. Ravishing her with his eyes, really. He bit his lip again. Was his erection noticeable? It might be, from her position on the floor. He crossed his right leg over his left, blocking her view and effectively solving that potential problem.
While remaining seated, she began a series of slow leg lifts. Though he was concentrating upon his book, he could tell that she was looking at him. He redoubled his efforts at reading. By all accounts, anyone would be convinced that he was fascinated with this guide book and paying no attention whatsoever to his wife.
“I’ve never seen anyone do that before.” She startled him and he very nearly dropped the book.
Recovering quickly, he smiled and said in a nonchalant voice. “Do what before, Buffy?” He was immensely pleased with himself that he’d remembered to call her Buffy in these circumstances.
”Read a book like that.” She lifted her legs into the air and held them there while she counted slowly.
“It’s a standard guide book.”
“Not that.” She lowered her legs before beginning another lift. “I mean, the way you’re reading it. Upside down.”
Dear god. He scrambled to turn the book right side up, before turning it back to the upside down position. “It’s a …a map.”
“A map,” she repeated and he thought the whisper of a smile might have crossed her lips, but it blew away before he could be certain.
She began to bend down – reaching down to touch her toes, then to place her palms on the floor before springing up vigorously to begin the process again. Her breasts bounced perkily to her rhythm.
He clenched his jaw and forced his concentration back to the maps, which looked surprisingly like a Table of Contents page.
~*~
A few raps on the door interrupted Buffy’s exercise routine.
“Three guesses as to who it is. The first two don’t count,” she grumbled.
She scooted behind the door while Spike opened the door a crack. “Good morning, Dr. Crowdner.”
“Good morning, William. Forgive the early hour, won’t you? How did you fare last night?”
“Fine. All is well.” Spike tugged nervously on his hair.
“Yes, well, I was hoping to begin therapy this morning. Is your wife up and dressed?”
“Tell him I’m naked and armed,” Buffy hissed from behind the door.
His cheeks flushed a bright red.
“She’s not precisely…prepared for company at the moment, doctor.”
“Very well. Perhaps we could take a stroll on the deck then, William. There are several matters regarding her therapy that we should discuss.”
“Certainly,” Spike agreed. He nodded in Buffy’s general direction, but kept his eyes trained on the floor, as he slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Buffy leaned against the wall and sighed. She’d dodged another doctor bullet – but only just.
Well, well ‘William.’ This morning had been a bit of a revelation after all. Just when he’d put on the Proper Englishman Mask so well that she began to think he was telling the truth, he’d gone all ‘Spike’ on her once she started to show a bit of leg.
Oh sure – he’d acted all awkward and polite at first. But when he’d been sitting behind her, she could see his reflection in the mirror behind the wash basin. How his gaze trained on her ass, her thighs. The look in his half-lidded eyes, even the way he curled his tongue behind his teeth just before biting his lip – that look was pure Spike. She kicked herself for being halfway to believing him.
And he had the audacity to claim he was studying maps, upside down. In case he needed to navigate while standing on his head. God, he was the king of lame.
She was feeling more than a little sticky and gross, so she went to the wash basin and ran the tap for a moment. After dampening a cloth she washed her arms and neck while she contemplated what to do about Spike.
How long could he play at this game? Even worse, what if it weren’t a game and she really had somehow landed back with a human version of him? Did he know anything, and if so, how would she convince him to be honest with her?
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her, grimly. She appeared different in the mirror, older. Her hair was darker and her nose had a slightly strange upturn to it. She also looked…older. Whatever he’d conjured up, it hadn’t done her any great favors in the looks department.
She untied the twine holding her ponytail together and began to brush her hair with frustrated, angry strokes.
Regardless of the little changes she saw in the mirror, she was still herself. The Slayer. Not powerless. So why did she feel so damned weak in this situation?
“What Would the Slayer Do?” She asked her mirror self, imagining a Sunnydale Buffy looking back at her.
“Kick his ass until he talked?” Her reflection suggested with raised brows.
“Not really an option since I no longer seem to have Slayer powers.”
“Slayers aren’t just known for their brawn. Find a way to get past his defenses.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Easy for you to do. Think. What is Spike’s weakness when it comes to you?”
“Well, as cringe-worthy as it is to admit. It seems to be his penis.”
“Uh huh. I think you just saw Exhibit A while he was watching you exercise. So the key to finding out i this whole thing is a set up, to see if he really is Spike, would be to…”
“Attack him via his penis?”
“Exactamundo!”
“And how would I do that?”
Her mirror-self gave her a very patient look and then Buffy noticed something in the background of her reflection: a large machine sitting atop a table. It was large and grey and had a peculiar looking wand attached to it.
“As far as a Spike test goes – that looks to be the gauntlet. If this whole thing was a set-up to get into your pants, he wouldn’t be able to pass this test. He’d never be able to keep up the pretense. And once you got him to admit that he was behind it, you’d be halfway home.”
Buffy groaned and turned from her reflection. She moved toward the wooden closet at the end of the room, carefully avoiding even looking at the large metal box on the table sitting beside it. As she stripped out of her slightly sweaty blue underwear she considered the pros and cons of allowing her ‘husband’ to apply such ‘therapy’ to her nether regions.
She selected a chemise and bloomer set that bordered on red, then slipped a simple dress of dusty pink over her head and began the arduous process of buttoning it up. Her mind was torn. There were so many possible courses of action that it was impossible to know the right path. Meanwhile, she felt the constant pull of her family and her duties back in Sunnydale. She couldn’t stand to contemplate what would become of her if she couldn’t set things right. If she remained ‘Elizabeth’ to his ‘William’ – never returning to ‘Buffy.’ It simply couldn’t be an option.
There were two brief raps on the door; the latch lifted and the door opened just a crack. “Buffy, the doctor would like to see you for just a moment.” His voice sounded awfully weary for eight in the morning.
“Come in,” she replied, still not entirely decided on her course of action.
William came into the cabin and Dr. Crowdner followed close behind, his arms full of books.
“Good morning Elizabeth. I trust you slept well.”
“I slept marvelously, Charlie. And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.” He placed the stack of books down on their table before continuing. “I’ve just been speaking with William about your therapy and brought several books on the topic which I’d like to go over with you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she interrupted.
“This treatment is for your own good, Elizabeth. You simply cannot continue to resist therapy.”
“I’m not resisting it. I’m quite willing to participate. Enthusiastically, even. As long as William is the one administering it.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you to my betas: DoriansKitten, Capella42 and Lutamira. Also for extra goodies on this chapter, hugs to Science and Wolffan! Awesome artiness by AmyXaphania.
Someone nominated this story for Sunny-D awards – thank you so much!!
Someone nominated this story for Sunny-D awards – thank you so much!!
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