Author's Note: Many fanfic writers have speculated as to the reasons Niles chose to remain a butler. Jokes have been made at his expense due to his status, especially by C.C., and most authors just go with the fact that he is, indeed a butler. I am not satisfied with that portrayal, however, so here is my attempt to show you how I see him.
Timeline: within canon events, this is set in the 5th season sometime around the episode 'Homie-Work.' However, I've taken steps to fast-forward the years so that what we saw in the show is actually current, meaning rather than March 1998 it's taking place in March 2010.
Summary: No one has ever bared the real truth behind Niles' presence in the Sheffield home until now. And the adventure is only just beginning.
UNDER THE COVERS
Eerily silent save for the tick of the clock on the other side of the house, he stood and surveyed this place he had known for nineteen years. The beautiful townhouse brought memories flooding back no matter where he looked. Every nook and every cranny held at least one of those golden moments, he thought as his hand rested on the banister. How many times had he come down those stairs, he wondered. How many times had he opened that front door? How many particles of dust, pieces of dirt and odd stray things dropped by people in their everyday lives had he removed as though they'd never touched a single one of these surfaces?
The family photos that lined the piano brought the tug of a smile to the corners of his mouth. His family. Well, the most family he would ever know, at any rate. He knew it was time to leave because he'd become far too soft over the years as the demand for his services here had spiralled from being nearly top priority to barely more than one of those specks of dust he was so fond of removing. Yes, he loved them all, and somewhere in his hardening heart he knew that the entirety of nearly two decades would remain safely tucked away, only to be remembered fondly when at last he took his final breath.
But now the reality of who and what he was demanded an abrupt retirement from the life of a butler. Oh, certainly, he'd been born to serve...just not breakfast. No, he thought as he moved up the steps one last time...he'd been born into the service of Her Majesty the Queen of England. It was only thanks to Maxwell never really having an overly curious mind, to him never questioning what was, always just accepting it, that his 'boss' never caught on.
He had to admit that there were several times Miss Fine had almost caught on. But she was, for all her seeming worldliness, the most beautifully childlike woman he had ever met. He couldn't help but smile as he thought of her. The things she had brought into this household were things even he never knew existed until he had ushered her through the door on a particularly bad day five years ago.
Opening his bedroom door, his practised eye quickly scanned its empty walls, its empty dresser, its neatly made bed and its empty closet. He'd left no trace that he'd ever been there, and that's the way it had to be. Picking up the valise which held his most important possessions, he quietly closed the door behind him and crept down the staircase with all the stealth of a hunting feline.
There was no further thought of the Sheffields. It had all been compartmentalized in his psyche and there it would stay. He'd been called back, and after all this time he had no idea why.
"Well, it's about time you showed your face, Link."
He couldn't help the fond look as he gazed upon her features. Steely eyes and silvery white hair couldn't mask her graceful beauty. Weathered now, from life and from this life they both led, albeit separately, he forced himself to abandon the thought. "M," he said evenly. "Always a pleasure."
She arched an eyebrow. "Now that, I highly doubt."
"Tell me," he said simply, knowing more was neither required nor welcomed. Gracefully he seated himself at one of the two chairs in front of her rich mahogany desk and took a moment to scan her office; a room he hadn't seen in nineteen years, three months and four days.
In contrast to the aged desk before him, other colors made it lighter than memory shared; markedly more feminine with gold-flecked walls in alternating wide stripes of olive and olive drab. They seemed to almost shine under the luminescence of the twenty light crystal chandelier overhead. Moonlight on the Yare, a decidedly beautiful work of early 19th century artist John Crome, hung to his right. Left, Judgement of Paris, a Lorrain piece from the mid 1600s if memory served.
As she lowered herself into the dark olive leather of her chair, his eyes took in the entire contents of the bookcase behind her. Matching the desk, the chairs and the table on the opposite side of the room, its contents were no more telling of her identity than the framed masterpieces adorning the walls.
Top Shelf: fourteen books written in the languages of Latin, Italian and French, authors ranging from Lucretius to Virgil, Petrarch to de Beauvoir.
Second Shelf: Sculptures that lent an ancient air to it and it alone with The David of the Casa Martelli,Giuliano de' Medici and Saint George and the Dragon.
Third Shelf: Completely empty. But if he knew her, hidden in the cupboard beneath was the most sophisticated listening device ever made.
He had seen the oil portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on the far wall behind him upon his entrance and the plush white carpet was the only real luxury he could find. She waited the twenty seconds it took for his silent inventory before proceeding.
"As you know, you were originally assigned to Maxwell Sheffield because of the nature of your families' relationship." Off his nod, she continued. "The time of his being in mortal danger has passed."
His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. "Then Parvaille is no longer a threat."
"He has been neutralized." Nodding once again, he decided he'd been assigned to that particular job long enough to deserve some answers. As if clairvoyant, she said, "You've become almost as impertinent as Bond."
"He's still knocking about then."
"And costing the Crown millions," she muttered, opening a file on her desk. "I know what you want to know and of course on the record, I can tell you nothing."
"Of course. But we never were on the record."
Her eyes raised and glared into his equally cold ones. M quietly cleared her throat. "First, Her Majesty wishes to express Her gratitude for nineteen years of service on this case."
"The case," he repeated. The case he had no idea why he'd been assigned to.
Once again she read him like a book. "You undoubtedly have questions, but all I will tell you is this: Now that Parvaille is gone, the Sheffield family will, barring unrelated disasters, live a long and happy life."
He never had been able to figure out what was so special about Maxwell Sheffield that it warranted the service of just under half his life. Him, a highly trained professional, a Double-Oh at that, pretending to be a butler. The slight shift in his eyes gave his thoughts away.
"You were comfortable there. You had a good life there. You should be grateful it was so easy, Link." She moved a piece of paper from one side of the file folder in front of her to the other. "I'm afraid your next will not be so."
Intrigued, he leaned forward.
"Although it may be slightly risky, of all the field agents we have, you are the most familiar with Manhattan." Her eyes met his. "You must be extremely careful."
He nodded. That was her way of saying he'd better not 'accidentally' run into the Sheffields.
She searched his clear blue eyes until at last, satisfied that she'd obtained the answers she sought there, she finally got to the point. "Prince Harry is visiting the World Trade Center Memorial exactly one month from today," she began. "There are three sleeper cells somewhere on that island whose sole purpose is assassination."
"Of the prince."
"Of anyone," she corrected.
"I don't recall hearing of any assassinations in my tenure there," he replied quizzically.
"Of course not. These people are good, Link. Very good. They won't leave a trace and very often don't even leave the body."
"Then how-? "
"Do we know someone's been killed?" He nodded and she cocked her head slightly. "Well, you've successfully taken a few out in the last two decades...they are no different."
It was true. The man known to MI-6 as Link was exceptional at what he did. They'd kept him doing it off and on during his time on 75th Avenue, just to test that he hadn't lost his edge. Vacations with the Sheffield family to various ports of call afforded him plenty of opportunities to clean up international messes for the service. And the one time he'd been bested...what had put him in the hospital that one and only time? "When I was poisoned and passed it off as cardiac arrest. Was that one of the sleeper cells?" he asked.
She nodded.
It had been easy to make everyone think it was a simple heart attack. The doctors that attended to him, the nurses, all of them were agents. The only one, he suddenly thought, who may have become suspicious had he not recovered as quickly as he did thanks to Q's antidote, was...her.
M raised an eyebrow. "Thoughts, Double-Oh-Four?"
"None," he lied. "Please continue."
"The cells knew you hadn't died from that incident, but strangely never came after you again. We later learned it was because Parvaille had moved on to other things besides vengeance against the Sheffield family. This no longer has anything to do with him," she said gravely, "but everything to do with you."
"In what way?"
"It would seem a member of that household has made a deal with the devil," she replied cryptically. "One of the cells has been activated, but we don't know which, and it was a direct result of something she did."
"She?"
"Yes. You know her quite well, actually. But Link, I cannot stress this enough: you must not allow her to see you as she knows you."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "As Niles."
M nodded. "We believe she is the head of one of the sleeper cells, Link." She looked pointedly at him. "Your target this time is Chastity Claire Babcock."
He sat quietly in the silver Aston Martin DBS. In any other part of town it might be considered ostentatious; here, however, it fit right in. On the one hand, he thought as he saw the light in her apartment go out, he admired the fact that she'd been so able to deceive him as long as she had. On the other hand, he thought more darkly, this was not a mission he was prepared for.
Only two days prior he'd been Niles, the efficient, hard-working and long-suffering butler of the Sheffield family. Only two days prior she'd been C.C. Babcock, partner in Sheffield-Babcock Productions and the woman he had purposely kept at bay for all the years he'd known her. Self-examination was not one of his strong suits, and he consciously blocked out the 'why' of it all.
Niles, of course, not having been his real name, he wondered if C.C. Babcock was hers. He reasoned that one could go either way. After all, sleepers always led completely normal lives until they were activated; she could very well be who her brother, sister, father and mother all verified she was: a wealthy socialite. If they were indeed all Babcocks.
He sucked his breath in as she appeared at the front door of her building. Her doorman was off for the evening. He checked his watch. 2 a.m., just as predicted by the agent who'd previously been tailing her. Brow knitted, he waited until she'd hailed a cab before starting his car to follow. He wondered why she hadn't just used her BMW, and then remembered just as quickly that it was in the shop because she'd been rear-ended on his very last day at the Sheffields'.
It stirred something in him, this fact. He recalled how she'd arrived late that morning, furious at the "freak with the afro" who'd hit her at the intersection of 77th and Park. Her car had been towed to the dealership for repairs. She was frazzled and he'd been extra nice to her that day, not realizing it would be his last day with her, or with those three beautiful children he'd sent to bed with a smile, or with his employer who'd gone for dinner with Fran.
He had to physically shake himself out of his reverie. Nineteen years with those people had been too long, he declared silently...clinically. You can't spend that amount of time with people and not feel, dammit, no matter what the rules! Any more than you can work with a beautiful young up-and-coming agent and, when she confessed her soul to you on a moonless night of training, not fall in love. He sighed. M looked like her road at MI-6 had been harder than his.
And of course, it would have. She'd gone active field agent all the way, bouncing all over the world while he, for the most part, had lived a posh, easy life. Not that anyone in those nineteen years had known exactly what he did when he was away from the mansion. He couldn't suppress the smile that found its way to his face. All those times they thought he was out playing poker or hanging out with other butlers. The ribbing he took for having no dates, no life. Only he knew the truth.
Now, as C.C.'s cab came to a stop, he broke from his thoughts, instinctively shutting them down while silently cursing himself for having let that door open to begin with. Steeling his resolve – after all, he had a job to do – he slid between two parked cars and took in his surroundings as she disappeared into a 7- 11. Thomson Avenue. He didn't think someone like Miss Babcock would be caught dead at a 7-11, especially not here. Queens.
Ironic, he snorted, as he watched her exit the convenience store. What wasn't ironic was the identity of the person who followed her out.
"What the—it can't be," he whispered, incredulous.
Even five car lengths back, however, her voice was unmistakable.
It took mere seconds for him to get over the shock as his mind kicked into high gear. How could he have been living under the same roof with both of them and not know? Perhaps he wasn't as good as he thought he was. That thought incensed him. Impossible. It was completely and totally impossible that they'd been operating anything in that house without him knowing.
The two women strode one block down before a black town car pulled up beside them. C.C. glanced around as if checking to see that they were unmonitored as she entered the back seat, followed by none other than Fran Fine.
Making a mental note of the license plate number, he waited a few seconds before revving up the Aston Martin and pulling away from the curb. The car turned left onto NY25A and then surprisingly made another left onto Pearson. He frowned. There wasn't much down here, and the road ended at the railroad tracks.
Then he saw the sign shining in the night sky even as the town car pulled over and its two passengers exited. "Citiwide Self Storage," he read, nodding. The street was empty at this time of night, but he ignored the possibility of being seen by the town car as his quarry entered the old brick building using an access card.
He pulled into one of the parking spaces at the end of the street, activated the car's silent alarm and made his way to the same door. Raising his right hand, he used the first two fingers of his left to press against the left side of the large sapphire on his ring finger. The sapphire slid right and a triangular red laser emanated from it. Within moments he heard a beep and the front door unlocked. The sapphire slid back into place. He was in.
The first floor was silent. He scanned the front desk and saw the door to its left. Quietly he opened it and started ascending the staircase. Somewhere in his mind he registered that the very walls of this building gave away its age: the paint was peeling, the concrete stairs were breaking slowly apart piece by piece, and the hand rail wobbled. This would be the place for a Babcock to go if she didn't want anyone to know what she was up to, he reasoned.
Opening to the door to the second floor, he heard nothing. As he approached the third floor door, however, the nasal sounds of the nanny were unmistakable. He cracked it open just enough to allow him to hear clearly.
"According to Headquarters, he's been recalled to MI-6, but they haven't been able to get a line on why," came C.C.'s voice, sounding controlled.
"Well, they better find out soon, C.C.," Fran said, "I don't know how long I can keep this 'Boo-hoo Niles is gone' act up for Mr. Sheffield!"
His eyebrows skyrocketed to his hairline. They knew. They both knew. How on Earth was that possible? He continued listening in and heard something click.
"Well, Fran, that's the best I can do for now. They'll keep me informed, but in the meantime I need to do some investigating on my own. Just keep up the act with Sheffield; it'll pay off for you in the end."
"Only if we get through this without a hitch," she replied.
C.C. laughed. Link felt his chest tighten and took a deep breath. He hadn't thought to hear that sound again. "Oh, there'll be a hitch," she said as he heard the sounds of the storage door being closed and locked. "And you'll be the one getting it!"
He closed the door on the sounds of their laughter and raced back down two flights of stairs. He was back in the Aston Martin and speeding down Pearson before the women had even hit the stairwell door. His mind raced as he pounded the steering wheel each time a new thought confounded him.
C.C. Babcock working for someone with a headquarters. CIA? FBI? Sleeper cells didn't have HQs, he thought. So who was she with and why had she been with Maxwell all that time? Not to mention Fran Fine. He harrumphed as he replayed the first time she'd appeared at the townhouse in his mind. Innocent, cute, with that unbelievably nasal voice and a makeup kit in her hand.
Just when they'd needed a nanny, she'd shown up. No matter how unlikely a nanny she was, she'd gotten the job. And immediately C.C. had hated her...or so he'd thought. So who was she? Fran, the simple middle-class working girl from Queens who wanted nothing more than to shag the boss and get a ring on her well-manicured finger, he thought coldly.
Evidently there had been much, much more to the Sheffield home than any of them had ever known. Babcock had been aware of his status with MI-6 for who-knew-how-long, as she'd not seemed surprised tonight when she'd relayed the message from her HQ. But how did Fran fit in? What did it all mean?
He wanted answers, and he wanted them before dawn.
It had been easy getting into her apartment. The doorman recognized him as a frequent visitor to the Park Avenue suites and he still had the key he'd made a copy of years ago from Maxwell's key ring. Upon entering, he was greeted first with a low growl and then a small fur ball yapped happily upon realizing it was someone he knew.
"Shh, Chester," he admonished, giving little thought to the Pomeranian that began following him across the floor. He had been in her living room and kitchen before, but never her bedroom, so that was the place to start. And if she came straight back here, he would have precious little time.
Quick looks through each dresser drawer revealed nothing. He opened her walk-in closet and shone his flashlight around, ignoring the designer clothing hanging neatly along one side, but quickly checking the shelves located on the other. That's when the dog he'd all but forgotten gave a loud growl. He quickly switched off the flashlight and almost completely closed the door as Chester skittered to the living room.
The sounds of her voice greeting the dog wafted to him and he silently cursed himself for taking such a risk. Shutting the door, he backed into the furthest corner of the closet, hunkering down behind the neatly pressed row of slacks hanging on the lower rack. It was a good hour before he finally saw her bedroom light come on through the crack under the closet door.
Her soft footfalls drew closer and he held his breath as the door opened. She seemed to pause for a moment before grabbing a short red silk negligee from the hooks on the back of the door, and then she closed it again. He listened intently and could hear the swishing of her clothes as she removed them. He forced his heartbeat to remain slow, closing his eyes against what was going on...willing himself not to picture her clothing falling at her feet, leaving nothing between his eyes and her body.
The sounds of water running brought him back to reality and he silently thanked the Fates for his good fortune. Now he could slip out of her apartment while she was in the shower. He waited a full two minutes before creeping to the closet door and opening it just a crack. Satisfied that she wasn't anywhere in the bedroom proper, he glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor only a millisecond before exiting the closet and stealing toward the bedroom door.
"Not so fast, Mister," came the threatening voice from behind him. He froze and turned to face her. She stood in the bathroom doorway wearing the negligee he'd seen her retrieve. "Don't look so surprised. I knew you were there, you reek of-"
"Tilex?" he finished, his face grim.
She grinned slowly. Hardly. More like secrets."
He raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same of you." He began backing slowly out the door.
"I said not so fast!" she hissed, pulling a gun out from behind her back and pointing it squarely at his chest.
He nodded once approvingly. "I see our taste in firearms is similar," he said, quickly whipping his own Glock G21 from its spot at the small of his back.
"Isn't this a sight?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "Maxwell always thought we'd kill each other; I doubt he thought it would happen this way."
"What are you playing at, Babcock? Who do you work for?"
"Why the hell would I tell you that?"
His eyes narrowed. "Well, you already know who I work for. Play the game fairly, Chastity."
Her blue eyes grew cold. "Don't call me that."
He took a step forward. "I'm not in character anymore, C.C.," he emphasized her name. "You can't get away with treating me like a lowly servant."
"And you won't get out of this city alive if you don't toss that gun my way."
His fingers twitched. She was his target, but not to kill...not yet anyway. First he needed answers; he needed to know about the sleeper cell, about the threat to Prince Harry. And he needed to know where Fran Fine fit into things. He'd always been good at reading people. Maybe if he played his cards right with Miss Babcock...
He lowered his gun and tossed it to the floor. It hit the carpet near her feet with a soft thud. Suddenly she threw her head back and laughed, lowering her gun as she did so. "See? I can still order you around!"
It took only a second for him to rush forward and tackle her. She landed on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor with an audible "OOF!" as her gun slid across its smoothness and hit the wall behind the toilet. "Get off me!" she screamed.
He took advantage of the differences in build and used his sheer size to trap her entire body beneath him. Grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the floor, he grinned, eyes shining fiercely bright, matching the fire he found in hers.
Before he could think about what he was doing, he lowered his lips to hers. She tried jerking her head away, but he kept his hold. Slowly her body lost its rigidity. Her lips turned soft and pliant and he took the opportunity to plunge his tongue into the depths of her mouth.
They moaned in unison as he released her moments later, lips fully swollen and skin slightly red from his five o'clock shadow. "If I let go," he growled, "you will not attack."
She didn't respond and he moved to get up. Just as he was on his feet and turning away, she bounced up and screeched like a feral cat as she made to jump him. He pivoted and caught her around her chest, crushing her breasts as he whirled and threw her down onto her bed. For a moment she didn't move, just stared up at his heaving chest beneath the black tee shirt he wore as he tore the jacket from his arms and dropped it.
Then she scrambled to sit upright, not noticing her negligee had ridden so high on her thighs it left nothing to the imagination. "Naughty Babcock," he said, licking his lips. "You shouldn't tease the man who was sent here to kill you."
Something flashed across her face for only a moment. "You had so many opportunities to do that while we were in the same house together," she said in the deep voice that was uniquely hers. "Why wait until now?"
"You were never my target," he shrugged.
"Well, you were always mine," she said, pushing herself forward and crawling to where he stood at the end of her bed. "I know you want me," she purred, raising herself to her knees as her hands worked up from his waist, along his muscled chest and rested on his shoulders.
"Your feminine wiles, dear, as good as they may be, won't sway me."
She made to slap his face but he caught her wrist. She used the other hand to try and do the same but he caught that one, too. "I shall, however, take what I want," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "But not tonight."
He released her and was satisfied to hear an almost imperceptible sound deep in her throat as he hurried for the front door. "Hey," she called softly as he put his hand on the knob. "Aren't you forgetting something?" He'd barely turned to acknowledge her when something came flying at him. He caught his Glock one-handed and gave her a surprised look. "When I said target, I didn't mean as in, shoot," she said easily, moving to the living room couch.
"I did," he replied threateningly.
She curled her legs beneath her body. "Now I know what you did to kill a day before I came along. And, apparently," she added, "well after." Baffled, he couldn't tear his eyes from her as he re-holstered his gun. "I'm not the enemy," he heard her saying.
"Bullshit," he spat, desperately rebuilding the walls inside his mind. "You activated a sleeper cell."
"The only cell I was involved in activating was myself," she replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "But our objective is the same as yours."
"That being?"
She levelled her eyes at him. "Saving lives, of course."
"That is not my only objective."
"Oh, that's right," she taunted casually. "You're licensed to kill."
"And I have."
She nodded.
The air fairly crackled with intensity. He sensed he could get more out of her tonight and as such locked the front door and moved to stand on the other side of her coffee table, directly facing her. "I think you owe me an explanation."
"Oh, do I? I suppose that means you don't think after packing up and leaving Maxwell's like that," she snapped her fingers for emphasis, "that you owe me one."
"Possibly," he said, seating himself next to her on the couch. His eyes roamed from her fingers up the milk white skin of her arm to her shoulder, where a silk spaghetti strap rested. He felt his jeans tighten painfully as his gaze moved up the length of her neck, traced her jaw line and rested on her lips. Those lips smiled.
"There always was something between us," she stated.
"Yes, but now there's something between us," he replied, and saw that she caught his meaning.
"All right, Niles, I'll start." He flinched a little, thinking to himself he'd rather hear his real name fall from her lips, but knowing there was no way in hell he'd give it to her. He was startled when she said, "That is your real name, isn't it?"
He was even more startled when he heard himself reply, "In a way."
"Well, if I'm going to tell you my secrets, then you have to tell me yours."
"Give me something first to prove you're trustworthy," he challenged.
"Ditto," she retorted, eyes flashing.
"All right, then," he said, relaxing himself against the back cushions of the plush sofa. "Niles is a roundabout conglomeration of my real first and middle name." She was listening intently and he continued. "Lincoln Selden Williamson the Third," he revealed.
She puzzled over that for only a few moments before smiling. "I get it," she said. "The N-I-L is L-I-N backwards." He nodded. "And the E-S is S-E backwards. Clever, who thought that one up?"
"My parents," he replied.
"They were in service."
"Yes," he said, nodding.
"Then them being butler and maid to the Sheffields was an assignment, and—"
"I was an accident," he finished for her. "One thing led to another and it was clear that in order to keep Maxwell protected, I had to carry on with him the same as my parents had for his father."
"The one thing we could never understand," C.C. said thoughtfully, "was why Maxwell Sheffield. Now you tell me that his parents were tasked with protecting his father as well. Why, Ni-I mean...Linc—I mean..."
He gave a small smile. "Call me Link."
"As long as you don't ever call me Chastity again."
"Is that your real name?" he asked in all sincerity.
"Unfortunately," she snorted. "I wasn't born into this like you were. I was recruited."
"Tell me," he stated, though it was more a request than an order.
"Not just yet," she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "I need to understand what is so important about the Sheffields."
Link blew a puff of air through his lips.
"You don't even know, do you?" she queried, amused. "You spent all that time cleaning up after that man and his children and don't even know why!"
"I do!" he protested. "There was a man named Parvaille, a wealthy Frenchman whose parents as well as himself in later years were well-known to MI-6."
"I know that name," she nodded. "They were the most difficult to catch assassins in all of Europe."
"And they were killed by their own son." Had he seen her eyeing him? "He took over where his parents left off, much like I did, in fact."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And what connection did he have to Maxwell?" she finished, exasperated.
"That I don't know," he admitted. "But what I want to know is how you kept your involvement in all this a secret from me."
"Oh-ho-ho!" she crowed. "So you didn't know everything that went on in that house."
"Evidently not!" he spat, embarrassed.
"Don't take it too hard, Butler," she grinned. "Remember when I went to The Place?"
He nodded.
"There was a reason I just called it The Place."
"You mean...it wasn't a psychiatric hospital?"
"No!"
"Okay, it's your turn, Babcock. Spill."
She took a deep breath. "It wasn't long after I began working with Maxwell," she began, refusing to meet his eyes. "I trained long and hard, only able to do it on a part-time basis. It wasn't until much, much later that I found out why I had been recruited in the first place. Late one night after attending the premier of our revival of Wrong Mountain, I was alone backstage when I was approached by a man dressed in a black suit and sporting black glasses."
"A man in black?" he cut in.
"Pretty much," she nodded. "He took me back to one of the dressing rooms and explained that my country needed my full assistance. And I found myself suddenly activated."
"CIA?" he queried.
"No, The Agency."
"The Agency?" he repeated. "I thought they were just a rumour."
"Not so much, Bell Boy," she replied, lapsing into their former relationship without a thought. "He said that Maxwell's life was in grave danger, and that I had to keep my eyes and ears open because they thought a sleeper cell was about to be awakened right under his nose." She finally looked into his eyes. "For a time, I thought it was you."
He smiled.
"I required updated training, and so I feigned losing my marbles to go get it."
"And when you came back you were ready to shoot whoever got in your way."
She shook her head. "Not really, but I learned enough to snoop even better than Niles the Butler. I'm actually pretty good."
"Oh," he whispered, his face coming dangerously close to hers, "I've little doubt of that."
Was that a slight blush colouring her cheeks? She averted her eyes. "Eventually we found out who you really were, more or less...at least the MI-6 connection."
Suddenly it all became clear to him. The Agency was on to a sleeper cell, they'd ruled him out...there was no way it could be Maxwell, and tonight he'd seen her with-
"Miss Fine," he completed the thought aloud. Off her nod, he shook his head. "Unbelievable. How?"
"It's complicated."
"With her, it would have to be."
"Nanny Fine...Fran," C.C. corrected herself, "in fact her entire family, it turns out, are sleepers."
"And how was it exactly that she gravitated into Sheffield's life?"
"All by design from what she's told me, though she didn't know why until two weeks ago," C.C. shrugged. "Ultimately it was his ties to the Old Country and his status as a widower that made him such an easy target."
"And here I thought she just wanted to shag him."
C.C. laughed. "Oh, she does, trust me. And she will; he's just about given in two or three times."
"I know," he replied, wondering if Fran's cell was the one who was going to take down Prince Harry. "Has she told you why they were activated?"
She gave him a lopsided smile. "Are we suddenly working together?" she asked with feigned incredulity.
"Well, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't. Provided you can prove you are who you say you are."
"Check with your HQ," she tossed over her shoulder, rising slowly enough from the couch to tantalize his senses with her long legs. "When you're convinced that I'm with who I say I'm with, I'll be waiting to continue our," she lowered her voice, "conversation."
He smirked at her as she retreated into her room and closed the door. Pulling a micro-Bluetooth device from his front jeans pocket, he stuffed it into his left ear as he hit a button on his watch. Moving to the other side of the living room, as far from her bedroom as he could, he spoke. "Get me M."
There was only a three-second lapse before her voice wafted into his mind. "What is it, Link, what have you found?"
"That we're not the only ones who've had Sheffield in their sights," he replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Babcock's with The Agency."
"I thought they were only a rumour."
"Verify it, M. Oh, and you may want to check out Fran Fine."
"What, the nanny?"
"I don't think she's just a nanny," he said quickly before hitting the same button on his watch and taking the Bluetooth from his ear.
Wondering at this strange turn of events, he couldn't help but smile at the thought of C.C. Babcock in that red negligee. He crossed the room and reached out to open her door. If he'd thought the red negligee was something, he certainly wasn't prepared for her in absolutely nothing.
She lay comfortably on satin sheets, pillows beneath her head and nothing keeping his eyes from raking over every inch of her flesh. In response, C.C. rolled to her side and smiled, eyes only half open.
"That was fast," she said in that sultry way that only she could pull off without sounding overly dramatic. "Tell me, if you were able to verify what I told you that fast, how come you didn't know when I was recruited?"
"I refuse to dignify that with a response." He rubbed a hand along his stubbled chin and made his decision without as much as a second thought. "I'd say I'm a little overdressed for this occasion, wouldn't you agree, Miss Babcock?"
She raised her eyebrows suggestively as he removed his holster and weapon and tore his shirt off over his head. His shoes, socks and jeans soon followed until he was left with just his briefs.
"I thought you wore boxers," she said.
"Only when I dance alone," he replied huskily, swooping in to cover her body with his own. "Now let's see what makes a shrewd businesswoman squirm."
She gasped as he began with her ear and in a fierce whisper that made him go goose bumps from head to toe, she said, "You, Niles. What else?"
And he ravaged her.
"Link."
The voice seemed far away. Too far away to care about.
"Link, dammit!"
He knew that voice from somewhere. Suddenly he was out of bed and on his feet. At least, that's what he tried to do. Silently at first, then more loudly until it was nearly a bellow, he cursed in three different languages as, rather than landing upright, he rolled of the bed, slamming his right arm and head into the floor which, quite luckily, was carpeted.
He was bound at the ankles, wrists tied tight behind his back. He looked down at himself. At least he had his undershorts on. Looking around, he recognized that he was still in C.C.'s bedroom, and that his clothes were still where he'd strewn them the night before.
"She must have slipped me something," he rankled, working his legs as a single appendage and his shoulders and head as another. When he had finally worked his way to his jeans, it was then a matter of getting to the Bluetooth. He could feel his watch at his wrist and worked simultaneously to press the necessary button on it.
Sticking his head inside the top of his jeans, he worked the right pocket from the inside, pushing it with his lips and tongue until the edge of the Bluetooth stuck out of the front. Sighing in relief, he managed to press the right button on the watch and could hear her clear as day.
"Link, what the hell are you playing at?"
He assessed his situation. "It would rather seem I'm into bondage at the moment, Mum."
She harrumphed, her tone icy. "We have a problem."
"Bet mine's bigger than yours," he muttered, going for his belt buckle with his teeth.
"I highly doubt that, seeing that the prince arrived in Manhattan three-and-a-half weeks early and our auxiliary tails have lost your Miss Babcock!"
Just the thought of her and the way they'd made love over and over and over again until at last exhausted made him start to sweat. Then they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Well, after she'd brought them each a bottle of water. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head at his stupidity. Whatever she'd slipped him had to be in that bottle of water, which was...he looked up at the end table...gone.
"So is she who she says she is?" he called out toward the Bluetooth as his teeth successfully popped the top of his belt buckle off. Beneath was an intricate and tiny set of tools. He pressed on one piece of it with his tongue and a micro-mini blade saw rose and began spinning with a high-pitched whine.
A whine. That reminded him. "Miss Fine, what about her?"
"It turns out," M seemed almost disappointed, "that Babcock is indeed who she says she is. In fact, she's been an agent only slightly less long than you have."
He grunted in acknowledgement as he turned his body and backed slowly toward the tiny whirring saw, inching carefully, hoping his aim right now was as good as it had been last night...each and every time...
"As for your Miss Fine, it appears that we have..." It was an uncharacteristic hesitation.
"Don't tell me: you hadn't any more idea than I that she was part of a sleeper."
"It's why they're called sleepers, Link." And with that, he knew she wouldn't hold it over his head anymore than she expected him to hold it over hers.
At last the little saw did its job and cut through the nylon zip ties. He yanked the belt out of the jeans and went after the zip ties binding his ankles. In short order he was freed and re-clothed, having placed the micro-Bluetooth in his ear as well.
"What do you propose we do about Miss Fine's cell?" he asked as though nothing had happened. As he waited for her answer, he found, much to his surprise, that Babcock had left his holster and gun atop her dresser. When he checked the gun, however, he found she'd emptied the cartridge. "Shit."
"I propose, first of all, that you find Babcock and make sure she's working with you," came M's voice loud and clear. "And then I suggest the two of you get your asses into gear protecting the Royal Family!"
"I work alone, M. You know that."
"Not as of one hour ago, Double-Oh-Four."
He pulled a face. "Oh, not one of those temporary pacts of cooperation again."
"You're damn right. Word has it that somehow Fran Fine's ex-fiancé is involved too, so be on the lookout, Link."
"Danny?" he asked, brow furrowed. "I thought he was dead!"
"Apparently not," she replied, and filled him in. "Now find your new partner and make sure nothing happens to Prince Harry. You have exactly two hours and forty-three minutes."
Sighing, he ran a hand through his unkempt hair and opened the bedroom door. The apartment was empty. He thought he knew where to find her, though, and was out the door and into the elevator like a shot.
"Nobody ties me up unless it's kinky," he groused, waiting for the elevator to descend. He stopped and thought for a moment...no, no, they hadn't done anything like that. But what they had done...he wiped his brow, stood up straight and began working at the brick and mortar to lock that up. He had a job to do, never mind that he'd just had the best sex of his life with the woman he'd wanted since—"Knock it off, Link!" he chastised himself.
The doors opened with a soft hiss and a bing. The doorman waved as he approached. "Good to see you again, Niles," he greeted, bowing just a little.
"Good day, Thomas," he replied, offering his friendliest smile. "By any chance, would you know where Miss Babcock might be?"
"I do know she was off to pick her car up from the dealership, sir," Thomas offered. "I called a cab for her."
"Thank you, Thomas," he said, putting up one hand as a wave. "Be seeing you."
"Oh, I do hope so, sir."
Link turned and gave him a mystified smile as he exited onto Park Avenue. Turning left, he made his way down to where he'd left the Aston Martin, shut off the alarm and slid into the driver's seat. It wasn't too long before he was sailing across the Queensboro Bridge, light on traffic even for a Tuesday at lunchtime.
He quickly manoeuvred into the same parking lot at the end of Pearson Street and made his way through the front door of Citiwide Self Storage. He waved at the young girl seated behind the front desk looking far too bored and opened the door to the stairwell. Long strides had him to the third floor in no time.
Cautiously he cracked the door open but heard not a sound. He hadn't seen exactly where the storage unit was that held C.C's communication equipment, but thought if she was there, he'd find it; if by no other way than her scent.
He crept down the hall, cursing the fact that he was out of bullets, sure it was thanks to his nemesis. When he came to the first hall on his right, he peeked around it. The dimly lit corridor appeared empty, all doors closed.
The second hall's lights were completely out, and the dirty windows where he was did nothing to shed any light on it. It was into those dark shadows he crept, Glock drawn even though it was useless. He just felt better with it in his hand.
With his eyes nearly useless to him now, his hearing and sense of smell leapt into overdrive. There...was that what he thought it was? Step by step he inched along until he caught the whiff again. Yes. It was Imperial Majesty by Clive Christian. She'd switched to it only two months prior. He recalled the morning she'd appeared at the door and his senses had reeled. He'd been after her for two weeks trying to find out the name of this new Eau de Toilette, and in spite of the fact he had Fran and Brighton convinced it actually had come from a toilet, eventually she caved and told him. His eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she'd told him it was $215,000 a bottle.
Then again, money really was no object to him, no matter the act he'd had to put on as a butler. He had his own substantial Williamson inheritance, not to mention the fact that MI-6 covered nearly every expense. Oh, the joys of government employ, he thought as the scent wafted to his nose again. It was stronger...she was close.
As if to confirm that his nose was working properly, a soft and unmistakable moan came from ahead and to the left. He crept faster, moving to the opposite side of the hall into a graceful running crouch, his left hand on the floor ahead. When it bumped something soft, he stopped immediately.
"C.C.," he whispered. There was no response. Slowly he moved his hand onto the object he'd run into, up what his fingertips told him was her pair of satin Prada Sport slacks. Sometimes it paid to be a butler and notice these things, he thought ruefully. "C.C.," he said again, just a little louder as he holstered his useless gun.
His hand found its way to her waist and soon he was straddling her leg, lifting her torso towards him with his right arm. With his left he whipped out his small flashlight and shone it in her face, then scanned around them. There seemed to be no immediate threat, unless you counted that faint steady beep coming from inside her storage unit. Where she was laying half in, half out. Quickly he replaced the flashlight in his back pocket and shook her by her upper arms.
"Chastity, please!" he nearly yelled, pulling her into his body and rising to his feet with her cradled in his arms. He hurried as fast as he could back down the hall, the insistent beeping seeming to echo around the walls as he made it back to the stairwell. Throwing the door open with the hand that was supporting the underside of her knees, he raced down the steps praying his cat-like reputation stayed intact now when he needed it the most.
He'd barely made it to the first floor when he heard the first explosion. Throwing the door open, he hollered for the young, bored lady behind the desk to "Run!" They made their way into the glare of the day but he didn't stop until he'd reached the Aston Martin. By now, C.C. had begun to stir, so he set her down on unsteady feet, in his embrace to keep her from falling.
He looked back toward the building as a second explosion shredded the two top floors of the storage facility to bits, the desk lady booking it along the railroad tracks screaming her fool head off. He had to get them out of there, and shifted to grab his keys from his pocket, disabling the alarm in the process.
Her voice startled him. "I told you never to call me that, Niles."
"And I told you my name isn't Niles!"
"Well that's how I know you and so that's what I'm calling you!" she retorted.
"Fine."
"Fine!" There was a beat of silence and then, "What the hell did you do to me, anyway?"
"What did I do to you? This from the woman who left me zip-tied in her bed with only my briefs on?" He shoved her around the back of the car to the passenger door, which she swung open with a vengeance.
"I thought you liked it rough, Butler Boy!" she spat, slipping into the seat and slamming the door behind her.
"Only when you're in the bed too, you knot head!" he argued, sliding in and closing his own door. The engine revved and the Aston Martin was soon speeding away. It careened from Pearson onto Jackson, and then took the corner to Pulaski Bridge at 120mph.
"What the hell were you doing tying me up and taking my damn bullets?" he ground out, shifting into a lower gear for the toll road.
"I had to make sure you wouldn't go off without me!"
"But it's okay for you to go off without me?"
"I didn't know for sure that I could trust you! How do I know you weren't sent to kill me?"
"As you so rightfully pointed out yourself, Miss Babcock, I could easily have killed you many times over the years. Why should I start now."
It wasn't a question. She cocked her head haughtily, wincing slightly at the pain it caused on her temple. "Well at least now I know how to bring the great Double-Oh-Four to his knees. All he wants is the business partner's body."
"And they expect me to partner with you. As if."
"Well, you did fine last night!" she screamed before leaning back in the seat and letting go a big sigh. "Look, I'm not happy about it either, but it was the last message I got before a can of hairspray practically put me into a coma," she shot back, rubbing the left side of her head.
They made it fairly quickly through the toll booth onto the Long Island Expressway heading due east before he spoke again. "A can of hairspray? As in—"
"Fran Fine," she finished for him. "I'd know that cheap drug store toilet water smell of hers a mile away." As if only just realizing where they were, she looked at him oddly. "Why are we heading out to the Island when the prince is in Manhattan?
"I have a hunch," he replied. "And we're not going all the way out; just trust me on this."
"Trust you," she deadpanned. "Sayeth the trained assassin who masqueraded as a lowly butler and verbally abused me for more years than I care to count."
"You gave as good as you got, Babcock."
She laughed long and low. "Well, I sure did last night."
He allowed himself to smirk at that comment, speeding along faster than anyone should have been able to go on the L.I.E.
"Come on, Niles, spill it. Where are we going?"
"Remember that story Fran gave us about Danny's Bridal Shop?"
She nodded.
"Well, that's where we're going...only it's the new store he opened two years back called Creations by Danny out in Lynnbrook."
"Wait, I thought he died last year?"
"Turns out he faked the whole thing to get out of marrying Heather Biblow."
"What? Where the hell was I when this went down?"
"Somewhere between 'why doesn't he like me?'" he mimicked, "and 'Is that you, grandmamma?'"
She just glared at him. "Well, why on Earth are we going to his store all the way out in Lynnbrook?"
"That's where the hub of the activity will be," he stated confidently, "or my name isn't Link." She made a funny face. "What?" he asked.
"As far as I'm concerned, your name isn't Link," she said quietly. "No matter what, you'll always be Niles to me." Then she turned and eyed him appreciatively. "Just...a different Niles. That's all."
He smiled as they continued on their way.
It was only fifteen minutes until Prince Harry was scheduled to take the podium at the World Trade Center Memorial. The Aston Martin screeched to a halt on Hempstead Avenue, right in front of a small, nondescript row of brick buildings. A sign above 192-A proclaimed EVENT PLANNING in large black letters, with Creations by Danny scripted smaller above. While the ride had been spent in companionable and even relaxed silence between the former enemies-turned-partners, their actions now showed how tense they really were.
Yet like two people who'd worked and trained together their whole lives, Niles and C.C. moved as one, their every body movement mimicry up to and including the moment each moved their hands to the grips of their Glocks – hers, the right and his, the left. The mirror image stood on either side of the store's front door. Each peered in past the white letters in the glass of it but saw nothing, so they backed up one step.
"I'm going around back," she mouthed, jerking her thumb behind her, then flashed all ten of her fingers at him.
He nodded, watching until she'd disappeared onto Alexander Avenue before slowly counting from ten to one. As soon as he hit the last number, he tried the front door. Locked. Using his elbow, he jabbed into the plate glass. A crack appeared. With the second jab, it shattered and he was in. Listening intently, the fact that he heard nothing concerned him since C.C. was meant to come in the back. Well, it wasn't a plate glass door, probably harder to get through, he reasoned.
His feet propelled him through the large room, past the counter and cash register and he was soon at the wooden door that separated front from back. That's when he heard it, the unmistakable sounds of Fran's laughter.
It was cut short, however, and he heard another sound that he knew was C.C. breaking in. He burst through the door and was knocked on the head just as a gunshot rang out.
Slowly blinking his eyes open, he groaned at the first thing that filled his vision.
"Well, well, well," came the oh-so-familiar voice. "If it isn't Double-Oh-Four back to the land of the living."
He detected something other than sarcasm and smiled. "Glad to see you too, M."
"I don't know how you did it, but somehow you managed to keep the bomb from triggering."
He sat bolt upright in the bed, nearly knocking his IV stand over in the process. "C.C.," he gasped, holding his head in pain. "Where's C.C.?"
"Lay back down in that bed this instant!" M said, forcefully pushing him into the mattress.
His head hurt so badly he could hardly resist, but whispered, "Please...what happened to C.C.?"
"She's hanging on for dear life, Link. And if you don't rest, you will be, too."
He didn't see the nurse injecting something into his IV line until it was too late. "Tell her..." he ground out through the pain as the meds started taking over.
"I will, Niles," M whispered, realizing she'd seen that look in his eyes back when it had been meant for her. "I will."
The next time he opened his eyes there was considerably less pain coming from the region of his temporal lobe. There was also no one around. Groggily he wiped a hand down his cheeks and felt the decent beginnings of a beard. A beard? How long exactly had he been out?
"Ah, Mr. Niles, I see you're awake!" a Middle Eastern voice said. "My name is Dr. Farzan. Pardon me while I check you out, mm?"
He nodded, lying back and allowing the doctor to flash his eyes with a penlight, to feel around his neck and shoulders, to pop a thermometer under his tongue, to listen to his heart through a stethoscope and, finally, check the stitches buried in his hair. When at last Farzan pronounced him "Much, much better," Niles finally asked what had been on his mind since waking.
"Doctor, please, is there a woman here who came in same time I did, her name is C.C. Babcock?"
The doctor looked at him knowingly. "One moment please, I shall check for you."
Nodding and deciding however long he'd been in bed was long enough, he swung his legs over the edge and was pleased to find no dizziness or headache. He found fresh clothes hung in the nearby closet and got them on; re-seating himself on the bed to slip on his shoes and socks. A sound at his door made him turn and look as he placed his feet on the floor and rose to his full height.
He smiled as a nurse wheeled her into the room, locked the brakes on the wheelchair and turned on heel, leaving them alone. "Miss Babcock," he said cordially.
She smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and looked steadily back at him. "Niles."
"How long have I been out?" he asked, feeling the growing beard on his face again.
"Five days," she replied. "You got clobbered by Danny."
"That would explain the stitches."
"Yes, apparently dress store dummies pack a wallop."
He looked sharply back at her, and noticed the smirk on her face. "Well, what about you? Here I am on my feet and you're lollygagging as usual."
Why was it so easy to lapse back into the way they'd been a week ago? C.C. Babcock the wealthy Broadway producer and Niles the British butler to Maxwell Sheffield were personas they played better than the New York Philharmonic belted out John Williams.
"I was shot," she said, pointing toward her right leg – he hadn't noticed until now that it was encased in a white cast.
"Where was Chester? Come to think of it, I didn't see him when I woke up."
"I left him with Nanny Fine. He always liked her better anyway," she finished with a frown.
"Fran. How is she?"
"She's fine, Niles. Turns out she was actually the innocent in the entire thing. It was Danny who was the sleeper cell, Fran was just going along with what I was saying because...and I can't believe I'm actually saying this...she figured it out before any of us."
"What?" he asked as she wheeled herself closer to his bed and he sat back down.
"Yep," she nodded. "Apparently Danny had called her up and asked a favour of her. When she went to do the favour, she got suspicious and you know how Nanny Fine is when she gets an idea into her head."
"So none of the Fines were involved at all?"
"Not directly, no. Danny was about to send the signal through his cell phone that would have activated a bomb planted in one of the construction trucks nearby when we showed up."
"And how exactly did Danny get stopped?"
"Courtesy of Nanny Fine," C.C. replied. "Who made me swear on my life that neither of us would ever tell Maxwell about her involvement in any of it."
Niles nodded. "That sounds like Miss Fine. Too afraid to screw up her chances with Mr. Sheffield to—" Suddenly he began to laugh heartily. It wasn't long before C.C. joined in.
"So what do we do now?" he asked when at last he was able to catch his breath.
She shrugged. "Keep doing what we do, I guess."
"Not at the Sheffields'."
"No," she shook her head. "Our governments managed to concoct a cover story for our disappearance to keep Maxwell off our trail. As far as he's concerned, you and I ran off together for parts unknown."
His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline as his watch beeped. He raised it to his face and saw M. "Link, how are you feeling?" she asked.
"Nearly one hundred percent," he replied truthfully, casting a sidelong glance at C.C.
"Is your partner there?"
"My...what?"
"Your partner. You and Lily impressed both Her Majesty and the President of the United States so much, and Her Majesty is so grateful that her grandson is still alive, that our governments have agreed to a...longer-term arrangement."
C.C. could hear every word she spoke and smiled at him. He mouthed 'you knew?' to her and she nodded, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the larger grin that had found its way to her face.
"Your next assignment begins now. As you exit the hospital you will find an envelope taped to the top inside of the first rubbish container to your right. Instructions are inside."
He nodded but before he could say anything, she'd cut off contact.
Niles got a strange look on his face as he watched C.C. "Lily?"
A slight blush crept to her cheeks. "My code name. Rather than numeric designations, we're given code names."
"Why did you get that one?"
"Maybe I'll tell you some time, Butler. Like when we're undercover posing as husband and wife or something?"
A slow grin spread across his face. "I might not mind having a partner so much after all," he mused. He reached down and took her hand. "I'm glad you're all right."
"So am I," she replied, standing up and pressing a button on the top of her cast. To his surprise it split in two and clattered to the floor. Her leg looked perfectly fine.
"I thought you said you'd been shot?"
"I had," she replied defensively, showing the large bandage on the side of her thigh. "Went in and out right here, no big deal."
"Well, I suppose I'd better get used to calling you by your code name, for both our sakes."
"And I guess I'll have to forget Niles," she said almost sadly.
He stepped forward and looked her in the eye. "Only in public," he said quietly. "Other times, you can Niles me all you want."
She laughed out loud and held her hand out to him. "Shall we, Link?"
"It would be my pleasure, Lily," he replied, taking her hand in his.
They walked along the hall to the elevator. It carried them to the main floor where they strolled like a normal couple you might see anywhere.
"I'm going to miss the Sheffields," Niles said quietly as they moved past the Information Booth.
She squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. We can always check in on them. In our own way."
He smiled and nodded. Through the front doors they went to continue the lives they'd begun so long ago and, he thought as he eyed the trash can to their right, to start with each other all over again.
The End
**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from 'The Nanny,' nor the 'James Bond' franchise. This story was concocted for entertainment purposes only from my rather warped imagination after getting tired of not seeing Niles written the way I see him in my mind's eye. :-) Some locations and all streets utilized are real, no harm meant to any of them. Oh, and I used 'The Agency' because my very first favourite show was 'Scarecrow and Mrs. King' and I thought it was a fun way to work that in here. I think that should cover my hiney!