IV.
They're developing a pattern. Since it only seems to happen once every three to six years, Niles doesn't immediately recognize it until after it happens yet again.
This time, it starts with a prank, his best one yet in his not so humble opinion. Posing as Mr. Sheffield, he tricks Miss Babcock into believing their boss has a kink for certain barnyard noises.
She actually performs on his command and it's hysterical to him for about five minutes.
Then he finds himself becoming angry at her.
Contrary to what Miss Babcock may believe, the reason he finds her pathetic has little to do with whatever cosmetic adjustments she's had done, her alcoholic tendencies, or her lackluster love life.
No, it's the fact she reduces herself to a marionette at the slightest suggestion that a rich man (especially one in particular) might be interested in her. She shows up in a dress that appears to be spray-painted on and with a plan for seduction. Of course, all Mr. Sheffield's ever planned for her in return is a long night of paperwork, candlelight not included. And even though it's obvious she found the request bizarre and uncomfortable when Niles misled her, there she went, clucking and even flapping her arms like wings, a puppet dancing on the strings he pulled.
She's an intelligent woman and quite attractive, though he'll never admit the latter outside the privacy of his fevered imagination. Overlooking how unsuitable she and Mr. Sheffield would be together anyway, she should be able to find someone without resorting to such ridiculous antics just to please a man. They never work after all.
Analyzing the inner workings of C.C. Babcock's decidedly screwed up mental process is depressing. He needs a drink.
He settles on the couch with a glass of Scotch and listens to the slamming and banging that insolent shrew makes in the office. She's throwing quite a hissy fit over her little scheme gone awry. Again he wonders, just how dense can the old bat be?
With only the stomp of her heels upon the marble floor as warning, Miss Babcock storms into the living room.
She pays him no heed as goes straight for the liquor cart and swipes the decanter of Scotch and a glass from it. As she apparently cannot be bothered to take the few extra steps around to the other side of the sofa, she kicks at his propped up legs, knocking them off the coffee table.
Niles grunts at her in annoyance. She dares to call him the lazy one?
He can't help but think that, for a woman of her pedigree who doubtlessly had her share of cotillion classes, she lacks a certain grace as she flops down on the sofa and pours herself a drink. She may believe he's the classless one, but she'd be so very wrong.
"You," she growls once she's taken her first sip. "are a bastard."
He almost laughs at that. "Well, you're no great prize either."
He expects her either to start groaning about her plans all shot to hell once again by "Nanny Fine" or to rip him a new one for his latest trick. Thar she blows in three...two...one...
Nope. This time she mellows.
Huh.
Her first glass is finished swiftly and she pours another, even tops off his own glass before settling back against the cushions.
"Niles, I don't make it a habit of drinking with the help."
Like she's doing him some favor by deigning to grace him with her unwanted presence. Please.
"I've never been any help to you."
"Exactly."
They clink their glasses together and take generous swigs of their drinks. She gasps a little bit at the burn of the liquor going down her throat.
"So tell me, Rochester, what'd you do to kill a day before I came along?"
"Truth be told my life was a little empty...but now I have a hobby." He says the last bit with a slightly singsong tone, hoping it gets under her skin.
It does. She slams her glass on the coffee table, stands up ready for battle, and snarls at him. "I loathe you."
Perfect. This is the version of Babcock he prefers. This one he knows just how to handle. He responds with a sneer. "I despise you."
"Servant."
God, she's repugnant.
"Trollop."
She's loathsome.
"Bell. Boy."
She's exasperating.
"Brunette."
She's really turning him on.
Wait. What?
It's bizarre. He's not entirely sure either of them can take full blame for it this time. The fury in her eyes morphs into something he doesn't have time to try and define before they find themselves moving in sync toward one another. Her arms fling around his neck. He snakes one arm around her waist. The other ends up caressing the soft skin of her bare back, and then they are making out in earnest.
The combination of her skilled lips upon his with her hands moving into his hair and the heated sensation her skin against his is too much, though, and yet he can't bring himself to disengage. Instead, he can only manage to curl his hand away and into a fist, an external manifestation of his inner struggle to fight his baser instinct of doing far more than just kiss. All he can think of is how far it is to his bedroom, whether the sofa will make a suitable alternative, and if she's actually thinking what he's thinking.
She tugs even him closer.
He thinks she is. It's the last coherent thought he has for the next few moments.
The slam of the front door doesn't register with either of them right away.
Somehow it does permeate through their lustful trance, though. They pull away from each other to find Mr. Sheffield and Miss Fine gaping at them from the foyer. It's the first time he can recall Miss Fine ever being speechless. He'd probably appreciate that fact a little more, but he's not yet capable of forming a complete sentence himself either.
He follows his partner-in-shame to the door.
"Goodnight, Maxwell. Fanny Nine."
Miss Babcock's slip is not lost on him. A perverse thrill shoots through him to realize she's not as unaffected as she appears. Before she walks out the door, she turns back to him one last time.
"Swine."
Oh, like he's going to let her have the last word. No way.
"Chicken."
For added effect, he blows her a little kiss as well. Just a teensy one.
She shivers.
Miss Fine and Mr. Sheffield continue to stare at him as he pulls a handkerchief from his suit jacket and wipes away the lipstick he's sure is there. He's not looking forward to the interrogation his best friend will try to give him in the morning.
"Goodnight, people." With as much dignity as he can muster for someone just caught making out with an ogress, he makes a hasty exit before they manage to snap out of it.
The disturbing thing that he doesn't quite want to acknowledge is that he's not nearly as drunk as he was the last three times this happened. He's barely even tipsy.
What perhaps might be even more unsettling is the fact that he's almost certain he can say the same for Miss Babcock as well.