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dragonyphoenixTitle: Adrift in a Sea of Discarded Desires 3/5
Series: Double!Verse
Fandom: BtVS
Characters/Pairing: Willow/Spike, Dru
Rating: R overall but more like PG in this chapter
Concrit: Please, in comments
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, not yet, but the will be once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha.
Warnings/Squicks: None in this section
Summary: Sequel to Conjuring Love from the Ashes of an Old Flame – as the love spell wears off, Willow and Spike remain together, but an unexpected arrival might change things forver.
Notes: I read Marge Piercy's Woman at the Edge of Time to get an idea of what it might be like in a mental institution. Excellent story, BTW.
When she'd first arrived, more than a year earlier, Dr. Petra Motherwell, even though she hadn't expected to stay longer than a few weeks or perhaps a month or two at most, had insisted that her office be redecorated. The carpet had been shabby, the paint a terribly distracting shade of pale orange, and the shelves, well, the less said about them, the better. While the new carpet wasn't quite as fine a weave as she would have preferred, it's neutral gray tones combined with the soothing blue of the walls created an atmosphere that was as close to heaven as she expected to find in this city of the angles.
Rising from her chair at the expected knock, she opened the door herself, as was her habit, to let the patient in. She never invited anyone in. It was, she'd been told, an aggressive approach especially with what her colleagues, and she used the term loosely, euphemistically referred to as the mentally unstable, but Petra saw no reason to forgo the habits of a lifetime.
Her patient, Elizabeth Anne Summers, commonly called Buffy, was a tiny thing, not only in size but in power. Sometimes Dr. Motherwell feared that she'd never make any headway with the girl. While Buffy wasn't a complete cypher, take for example her comment about the lack of color in Petra's wardrobe, as if tan and beige, or brown with just a hint of green, weren't perfectly acceptable... Dr. Motherwell shook her head. The point was that Buffy should have been strong, self-confident, and assertive, but these American witch doctors had, in less than a month of getting their hands on her, turned her into a meek little mouse, afraid of her own shadow.
“Um, hello?”
Dr. Motherwell blinked, brought back by the words to awareness of the room where her most important patient, some would say her only patient, waited. “Please be seated,” she said, gesturing to a leather chair, the quality not quite what she was used to, but fairly comfortable for something bought locally. Her hands folded on her lap, Dr. Motherwell added, “Tell me about the nightmares.”
“I'm fine, thanks, and how are you?” Buffy muttered. When Dr. Motherwell didn't reply, she said, “Dr. Campbell never cared about my dreams.”
Campbell was a quack whom should never have been given a license, but she couldn't share that opinion with a patient, no matter how patently true it was. “Differing methodologies,” Dr. Motherwell said. It didn't mean much, but she'd found that most people would accept almost any answer if it sounded professional enough.
Buffy plastered on a fake smile, one that didn't fool Dr. Motherwell for a second although she'd seen it work on other doctors. “Perhaps we could talk about something else?”
“Tell me about the nightmares,” Dr. Motherwell repeated.
Buffy's gaze darted around the room, as is she were looking to escape, searching for a way out of the asylum or perhaps just out of the conversation. When she did speak, her voice sounded wary, as if she were afraid of giving something away. “I'm in my cell.” Pausing, she raised up a hand as if to stop a comment. “I know, I know, it's not a cell. I'm supposed to think of it as my room.”
Dr. Motherwell gestured for her to continue.
“In my dream I've been awake long past lights out, for hours and hours. They're coming for me. I don't know how I know that, but I'm sure. My room is empty, I mean there's nothing there I can defend myself with. I think about warning someone. God, I want to scream, to tell them to run, but I know I'd just get Thorazined up, and then they'd have me for sure, so I keep my mouth shut.”
“How do you know they're coming?” Dr. Motherwell asked.
Buffy shrugged. “It's mostly a feeling, like ants crawling under my skin.” Turning her head away, not looking at the doctor, she added, “When Charlie comes in, the attendant?” She glanced over as if to see if Dr. Motherwell knew whom she meant. “That night he spills coffee on his uniform and has to change it. That's when I know for sure.”
Her head jerking up, Dr. Motherwell asked, “Really? Why would he stick out so?”
“It's not him so much as that spillage happens on the night the vampires attack; it's sort of like a final confirmation.”
“I see,” Dr. Motherwell replied. “When the attacks occur, do you know how late it is, what time it is?”
“Well, no,” Buffy said. “Not like there's a good sense of time in dreams.”
Dr. Motherwell nodded. “Go on.”
“I hear screaming in the hallway, and I know they've come for me, but they're killing others, anyone who gets in their way, anyone they can kill really, and I wish I'd screamed earlier, warned everyone to get to safety, even though it wouldn't have made a difference. I don't remember getting out of bed, but I'm standing in the middle of the room, in a fighting stance, as if I could fight off...” Buffy broke off for a moment, and when she continued, she'd picked up another track. “The door to my cell flies into the room, smashing against the wall, but I keep my eyes on the doorway, where the monsters are. They...” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts, and when she spoke again, Dr. Motherwell understood why. Buffy never liked to speak of vampires, to describe the demons that had gotten her committed in the first place. “You know the vampire faces I've described, the ridges and yellow eyes?” When Dr. Motherwell nodded, she continued. “That's what they looked like except they were identical, as if they were twin vampires or something.”
“Twins?” Dr. Motherwell asked. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah,” Buffy said. “They drop the vamp-face to talk to me. They're identical. So that means I'm crazy, right? Looney tooney Buffy.”
“Describe them, their human features.”
Buffy spoke immediately, as if the features were ingrained in her memory. “About my age, pale skin of course, dark red hair, and they're way into leather.”
“You've had this dream at least twice, right?” Dr. Motherwell asked.
“Uh huh,” Buffy said cautiously. That wariness confirmed Dr. Motherwell's hypothesis. This wasn't a new nightmare. Buffy had probably been dreaming it for weeks, which meant determining when it would happen was of the utmost importance. “Think Buffy, is there anything hinting at a date or time of year?”
“Nope, still a dream. No calendars conveniently popping up.”
“Can you tell how late it is? Can you see anything: shadows, a clock, light from a window?”
“It's not like I get much in the way of outdoor lighting.” Leaning forward, Buffy blurted out, “That's important because?”
Dr. Motherwell jerked in response, surprised that Buffy had asked a question that went to the heart of the matter. Stumbling for a response, she said, “Timing could be quite important, um, to the interpretation of the dream. For example, sunset is a vulnerable time – the start of night, of darkness, symbolically a downward spiral or a descent into death and despair – while midnight represents darkness at it's strongest.”
“Yea me.”
Dr. Motherwell stood. “That was a good session.”
“That's it?” Buffy asked.
“Yes, I think that's enough for today.”
“But I've got another forty minutes to go,” Buffy said.
“Take the time to think about your dream and see if you can recall more details. We'll discuss it next time.”
“Oh... kay,” Buffy replied.
The moment the door closed behind Buffy, leaving Dr. Motherwell alone in the room, she pulled a hidden tape recorder off a shelf, hitting rewind and play until she'd found what she was searching for, listening as the recorder played. “That's what they looked like except they were identical, as if they were twin vampires or something.”
Picking up the phone, she dialed an international number. “Quentin Travers please.”
After a pause she added, “Sir? She's having the visions. I'm expecting an attack, here at the asylum, by two vampires, apparently a set of twins, but I have no time frame for when it might occur.” Her expression, vigilant and eager, gave way to disbelief. “Well no, I'm not aware of any twin vampires either, but we certainly can't track every vampire in existence.” Listening again, she dropped her head as the minutes dragged on. “No sir, I didn't mean to call your expertise into question, but...” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the phone tightly. “Sir, I do understand. Once a Slayer has been convinced she's having a delusional breakdown, it is difficult but not impossible to restore...”
As she listened, her lips tightened into a thin line. “Sir,” she said before carefully hanging up the phone. Slouching into her chair, she stared straight ahead, not seeing anything before her. “Cut our losses?”
As if the words had been a call to arms, she sat up, looking as proud, fierce, and defiant as a Valkyrie battlemaid. “Not on my watch.”
Series: Double!Verse
Fandom: BtVS
Characters/Pairing: Willow/Spike, Dru
Rating: R overall but more like PG in this chapter
Concrit: Please, in comments
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, not yet, but the will be once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha.
Warnings/Squicks: None in this section
Summary: Sequel to Conjuring Love from the Ashes of an Old Flame – as the love spell wears off, Willow and Spike remain together, but an unexpected arrival might change things forver.
Notes: I read Marge Piercy's Woman at the Edge of Time to get an idea of what it might be like in a mental institution. Excellent story, BTW.
When she'd first arrived, more than a year earlier, Dr. Petra Motherwell, even though she hadn't expected to stay longer than a few weeks or perhaps a month or two at most, had insisted that her office be redecorated. The carpet had been shabby, the paint a terribly distracting shade of pale orange, and the shelves, well, the less said about them, the better. While the new carpet wasn't quite as fine a weave as she would have preferred, it's neutral gray tones combined with the soothing blue of the walls created an atmosphere that was as close to heaven as she expected to find in this city of the angles.
Rising from her chair at the expected knock, she opened the door herself, as was her habit, to let the patient in. She never invited anyone in. It was, she'd been told, an aggressive approach especially with what her colleagues, and she used the term loosely, euphemistically referred to as the mentally unstable, but Petra saw no reason to forgo the habits of a lifetime.
Her patient, Elizabeth Anne Summers, commonly called Buffy, was a tiny thing, not only in size but in power. Sometimes Dr. Motherwell feared that she'd never make any headway with the girl. While Buffy wasn't a complete cypher, take for example her comment about the lack of color in Petra's wardrobe, as if tan and beige, or brown with just a hint of green, weren't perfectly acceptable... Dr. Motherwell shook her head. The point was that Buffy should have been strong, self-confident, and assertive, but these American witch doctors had, in less than a month of getting their hands on her, turned her into a meek little mouse, afraid of her own shadow.
“Um, hello?”
Dr. Motherwell blinked, brought back by the words to awareness of the room where her most important patient, some would say her only patient, waited. “Please be seated,” she said, gesturing to a leather chair, the quality not quite what she was used to, but fairly comfortable for something bought locally. Her hands folded on her lap, Dr. Motherwell added, “Tell me about the nightmares.”
“I'm fine, thanks, and how are you?” Buffy muttered. When Dr. Motherwell didn't reply, she said, “Dr. Campbell never cared about my dreams.”
Campbell was a quack whom should never have been given a license, but she couldn't share that opinion with a patient, no matter how patently true it was. “Differing methodologies,” Dr. Motherwell said. It didn't mean much, but she'd found that most people would accept almost any answer if it sounded professional enough.
Buffy plastered on a fake smile, one that didn't fool Dr. Motherwell for a second although she'd seen it work on other doctors. “Perhaps we could talk about something else?”
“Tell me about the nightmares,” Dr. Motherwell repeated.
Buffy's gaze darted around the room, as is she were looking to escape, searching for a way out of the asylum or perhaps just out of the conversation. When she did speak, her voice sounded wary, as if she were afraid of giving something away. “I'm in my cell.” Pausing, she raised up a hand as if to stop a comment. “I know, I know, it's not a cell. I'm supposed to think of it as my room.”
Dr. Motherwell gestured for her to continue.
“In my dream I've been awake long past lights out, for hours and hours. They're coming for me. I don't know how I know that, but I'm sure. My room is empty, I mean there's nothing there I can defend myself with. I think about warning someone. God, I want to scream, to tell them to run, but I know I'd just get Thorazined up, and then they'd have me for sure, so I keep my mouth shut.”
“How do you know they're coming?” Dr. Motherwell asked.
Buffy shrugged. “It's mostly a feeling, like ants crawling under my skin.” Turning her head away, not looking at the doctor, she added, “When Charlie comes in, the attendant?” She glanced over as if to see if Dr. Motherwell knew whom she meant. “That night he spills coffee on his uniform and has to change it. That's when I know for sure.”
Her head jerking up, Dr. Motherwell asked, “Really? Why would he stick out so?”
“It's not him so much as that spillage happens on the night the vampires attack; it's sort of like a final confirmation.”
“I see,” Dr. Motherwell replied. “When the attacks occur, do you know how late it is, what time it is?”
“Well, no,” Buffy said. “Not like there's a good sense of time in dreams.”
Dr. Motherwell nodded. “Go on.”
“I hear screaming in the hallway, and I know they've come for me, but they're killing others, anyone who gets in their way, anyone they can kill really, and I wish I'd screamed earlier, warned everyone to get to safety, even though it wouldn't have made a difference. I don't remember getting out of bed, but I'm standing in the middle of the room, in a fighting stance, as if I could fight off...” Buffy broke off for a moment, and when she continued, she'd picked up another track. “The door to my cell flies into the room, smashing against the wall, but I keep my eyes on the doorway, where the monsters are. They...” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts, and when she spoke again, Dr. Motherwell understood why. Buffy never liked to speak of vampires, to describe the demons that had gotten her committed in the first place. “You know the vampire faces I've described, the ridges and yellow eyes?” When Dr. Motherwell nodded, she continued. “That's what they looked like except they were identical, as if they were twin vampires or something.”
“Twins?” Dr. Motherwell asked. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah,” Buffy said. “They drop the vamp-face to talk to me. They're identical. So that means I'm crazy, right? Looney tooney Buffy.”
“Describe them, their human features.”
Buffy spoke immediately, as if the features were ingrained in her memory. “About my age, pale skin of course, dark red hair, and they're way into leather.”
“You've had this dream at least twice, right?” Dr. Motherwell asked.
“Uh huh,” Buffy said cautiously. That wariness confirmed Dr. Motherwell's hypothesis. This wasn't a new nightmare. Buffy had probably been dreaming it for weeks, which meant determining when it would happen was of the utmost importance. “Think Buffy, is there anything hinting at a date or time of year?”
“Nope, still a dream. No calendars conveniently popping up.”
“Can you tell how late it is? Can you see anything: shadows, a clock, light from a window?”
“It's not like I get much in the way of outdoor lighting.” Leaning forward, Buffy blurted out, “That's important because?”
Dr. Motherwell jerked in response, surprised that Buffy had asked a question that went to the heart of the matter. Stumbling for a response, she said, “Timing could be quite important, um, to the interpretation of the dream. For example, sunset is a vulnerable time – the start of night, of darkness, symbolically a downward spiral or a descent into death and despair – while midnight represents darkness at it's strongest.”
“Yea me.”
Dr. Motherwell stood. “That was a good session.”
“That's it?” Buffy asked.
“Yes, I think that's enough for today.”
“But I've got another forty minutes to go,” Buffy said.
“Take the time to think about your dream and see if you can recall more details. We'll discuss it next time.”
“Oh... kay,” Buffy replied.
The moment the door closed behind Buffy, leaving Dr. Motherwell alone in the room, she pulled a hidden tape recorder off a shelf, hitting rewind and play until she'd found what she was searching for, listening as the recorder played. “That's what they looked like except they were identical, as if they were twin vampires or something.”
Picking up the phone, she dialed an international number. “Quentin Travers please.”
After a pause she added, “Sir? She's having the visions. I'm expecting an attack, here at the asylum, by two vampires, apparently a set of twins, but I have no time frame for when it might occur.” Her expression, vigilant and eager, gave way to disbelief. “Well no, I'm not aware of any twin vampires either, but we certainly can't track every vampire in existence.” Listening again, she dropped her head as the minutes dragged on. “No sir, I didn't mean to call your expertise into question, but...” Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the phone tightly. “Sir, I do understand. Once a Slayer has been convinced she's having a delusional breakdown, it is difficult but not impossible to restore...”
As she listened, her lips tightened into a thin line. “Sir,” she said before carefully hanging up the phone. Slouching into her chair, she stared straight ahead, not seeing anything before her. “Cut our losses?”
As if the words had been a call to arms, she sat up, looking as proud, fierce, and defiant as a Valkyrie battlemaid. “Not on my watch.”
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 07:22 pm (UTC)I'm glad Motherwell is around to help her though.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 08:30 pm (UTC)