To Merlin Missy, my long-lost lil' sis and one of the most talented fanfic
writers out there.
Away from it all (part 4)
By Amy
Daphne was curled up in the armchair near her window, her legs tucked under her, her body kept warm - inside and out - by Dr. Crane's navy blue sweater. She had succumbed.
Dr. Niles Crane. A few months ago she could not have imagined feeling so differently about someone she had known so long. It was as ridiculous as the thought that she might fall in love with Mr. Crane. Or Roz. Or Eddie, for that matter.
Daphne ran her fingers lightly over the sweater. Ridiculous or not, somehow this man had taken possession of her heart. No, not taken, for he had never asked. She had given it to him then, invited him in and placed him somewhere none other had occupied in her entire life.
Dr. Niles Crane. Mr. Crane's thoughtful second son. Dr. Frasier Crane's brother. Donny's client. Mel's husband.
Daphne shuddered from the heart outward. Mel's husband.
Sooner or later Daphne would have to face up to what had happened last night. To what she had almost done.
When had it all gone so horribly wrong? A jigsaw puzzle, for heaven's sake, nothing could be more innocent. The two of them, sitting side by side, as easy with one another as they had been before all this mess started; before Mel, before Donny and way before idiotic doubts got in the way and spoiled everything. Just two friends doing a jigsaw puzzle. It was so ordinary yet felt so ridiculously wonderful that that alone should have set off sirens. That she could feel so much just being near him, watching those slender pianist fingers deftly turn over puzzle pieces, that she was fully content to listen to him as he read the story or whatever it was, his voice both faraway and near, emitting with perfect diction from lips which, like the rest of his features, seemed drawn by a sharpened pencil.
That had been her first impression when they were introduced so many years ago: sketchy lines and smudgy shadows, especially in contrast to his larger, broader, fuller teddy bear of a brother. Although the two Dr. Cranes resembled each other in looks as well as manner, Frasier demanded deference from the space he occupied, while Niles carved through it. Nothing bearish (or overbearish) about Dr. Niles Crane. Nothing soft either, except for his eyes. Except for his voice. His touch.
He had kissed her a few times - once on the mouth -- always in fun or friendship, and his lips had been unexpectedly lovely. She had apparently not noticed a lot of things over the years, but she had noticed that. She also noticed that his arms when he hugged her provided more comfort and strength than seemed possible from someone so slenderly compact.
The sweater had fallen from her shoulder and, only now realizing it, Daphne pulled it back on. She should not be thinking about his arms or his lips or any other part of him. Although she was not superstitious by nature, it was getting harder to believe that these feelings she knew were so wrong did not invite disastrous consequences. Just last night, she had been doing nothing but quietly and secretly thinking how much she loved him when suddenly, swift as a lightning bolt for the wicked, Dr. Crane was fighting for breath. Thou shalt not covet.
To see him struggle for breath, his gaze glassy and terrified, was like ice water under her skin. Even after the scare had passed, Daphne's hand remained on his chest, anxious and needy of his breath. His heartbeat. Perhaps she was being punished but she could not let go.
He was all right, and that was all that mattered. It made it bearable when the first thing he wanted to do was talk about his wife. It stood to reason, of course; when one is in a life-threatening situation, one always thinks of one's loved ones.
"Why don't you like Mel?" he had gasped, piling onto Daphne's Everestian mountain of guilt.
Now, there were admittedly countless reasons to dislike Mel. Ask anyone. Anyone but her new husband. The pre-been-in-love-with-you-for-six-years bombshell Daphne may have reminded him that he had already asked once before and that she (granted, with several bloody marys at the helm) had given him a bluntly honest and utterly unappreciated answer.
Not that she would have repeated her reasons for disliking Mel, even if he had not just taken a stroll by death's door. A dozen good reasons could be negated by one bad one: Daphne loved him and Mel had him. That, Daphne knew, was just not a fair reason. So it served Daphne right to have to sit there, listening to the man she loved list all things wonderful about his wife. The list was typical of a Crane man; qualities one would note on some bloody certificate of pedigree. As he put it, Mel was perfect, the icon of a list of things of which not one had ever been said of Daphne.
As she listened, another death. Then another zombie-like revival, going through the motions of a continued life knowing that many more could come like this one, at any time, just like real death but without the peace of an end. But she loved him, so she asked the question to which there could only be a hurtful answer.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"I am happier than I've ever been; I am in love," was the answer.
"I hope your happiness will last forever," she had said while his unspoken words burned like acid. "I'm happier than I've ever been".without you. "I am in love".with someone else.
Then their hands touched and they make a spark. Simple. Real. Astounding. A bright flash of light that wiped everything clean, bleaching out all the confusion, guilt and pain. Temporarily blind, Daphne blinked back stars and through the stars saw him looking back at her with such tenderness that her body floated into the pull of his gaze, to those morning sky eyes closing slowly as she moved towards them. In the light that surrounded them, it seemed so inevitable, but then.
Lightning. The alarm on her watch shattered that dream like a bullet through crystal, then tore into her chest, pain following the realisation - crueler than ever in its repetitiveness - that this was all an illusion. That she was too late for anything, except another death.
The one small mercy shown her was that the alarm gave her a means of escape. She had a vague memory now of stumbling back to her room, fleeing from what - from whom - she could not run to.
She used water from her faucet to down her pills and to try unsuccessfully to wash off tears faster than she produced them. She got as far as undressing but no further as she made her way onto the bed, holding a pillow to her face to dampen the creaks and wails of her aching heart. Daphne muffled her sobs and allowed grief to run its course, wear her out and, ultimately, sweep her up in its arms and cradle her to sleep. She woke hours later, shivering and with salt burns on her cheeks. She pulled on his sweater -- her dull brain somehow knowing it would bring her comfort -- and sat in the chair to wait for morning.
Daphne pulled the sweater more tightly around her but even then she could barely get her shivering under control. Morning had finally come, creeping over her marvelous view. Black outlines were washed over with grey, then with muted colours. Then the first real splash of light, of glaring yellow gold poured onto the highest treetops, dripping its way down the mountains like lava towards the lake. A soft wimper escaped, hollow and lonely in the dark room. It was morning. And she was so scared.
It was those deaths. She was not afraid of losing him; she had already done that. It was the deaths that she invited upon herself that had her dry-throated and trembling.
Over the years Daphne had actually listened quite a lot to the Dr. Frasier Crane Show and even learned one or two things from it. Piping up among her strident inner voices this morning had been echoes of callers who would understand her situation perfectly: A man afraid of heights because at towering altitudes he felt his body wanting to lean forward into the void below; a woman who would not drive over bridges because every time she did her arms would tense at the steering wheel, as if poised to jerk it suddenly and violently into the railing; another woman who had a phobia of her own baby because she had a recurring image of her fingers relaxing their hold on her child, letting him slip from her grasp.
Like Daphne, they were all terrified of their own unstable impulses, hypnotised by recurring visions of themselves doing things so horrible that it made them doubt their worth as human beings. Daphne did not trust herself anymore than those callers did. She had almost kissed a married man last night.
He trusted her. His eyes had been so deep last night, deep enough to hold her and make her feel loved. He was the better person of the two, most definitely the better friend, and she had almost done something that could have changed that tender look in his eyes forever.
Daphne stared out of the window with tired, blistered eyes. Even in danger of losing her self-worth as a decent human being, here she sat in the blue sweater, permitting herself the intimacy of something he had once worn closer to his skin than she would ever get. She would not try and excuse herself for that. Or for the involuntary burst of anticipation she felt when she heard sounds from the kitchen indicating that Dr. Crane was awake. She let it glow within her for a moment before she doused it out. She could only fight the large battles.
Daphne's cold, stiff legs whined pitifully as she stood up. She stretched to gather both warmth and courage to behave like a proper guest and make her way down to the kitchen to see if her host needed a hand with breakfast. As for being a danger to herself, well, she could drive off that bridge when she came to it.
Taking a deep breath, Daphne swung the door open and had not gone more than a few steps when she did an about turn and sprinted back into her room. She had just walked out into the hallway wearing Dr. Crane's blue sweater and nothing else. Well done, Daphne thought grimly. Bloody good thing she had not been holding a baby.
Showered and dressed, Daphne came downstairs just as Dr. Crane surfaced from the kitchen with a tray of cream, sugar, jams and jellies. He slowed as he saw her, or perhaps just seemed to.
"Good morning." his voice was slightly out of breath and almost a whisper. Had he had another attack during the night? Oh no, she should have never left him alone.
"Good morning, Dr. Crane," Daphne said, wanting to ask, to apologise, to forget the exact moment last night when her hand on his chest stopped being for his benefit and started being for hers.
"I'll just set this out," he said, disappearing into the breakfast room. Daphne's knees felt a little weak. Glancing around the room for a distraction, she found one as her eyes landed on the coffee table where puzzle pieces had been connected and linked.
"You've been busy," she said as he reappeared.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I had trouble sleeping."
Quite a bit of trouble, by the looks of it. All four sides were completed and creeping inwards. In addition, he had put together three people and most of the dog. He must have been up all night.
Daphne followed him back into the kitchen. He was mixing Swedish pancake batter.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"You're busy, I'll get it."
While he poured the white batter into molds, Daphne prepared two cups of coffee, one with cream, one with milk and sugar for him. She handed him the cup and watched as he took a sip. He swallowed and stared at her over his cup for the longest time. Had she gotten it wrong? Impossible. It was the same way she had prepared it for him for years.
"Perfect," he said quietly. The praise was a caress and she smiled at him.
She had never dated a morning person before, but had always thought about how nice it would be, sharing first light with someone, making love in the morning, preparing breakfast together.
He put the cup down and turned back to the pancakes. A bit of a domestic scene they had, right here. Only if it were a real scene she would have entered the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind and reaching over his shoulder to kiss him good-morning. Their little exchanges would have been stitched together with terms of affection: "Coffee, love?" "Yes, thank you, darling." She would have grumbled playfully about men who get up so early, leaving her alone in bed when two was a much warmer number on a cold winter morning.
"What?" Dr. Crane asked.
"What?" Daphne repeated, lost.
"You just sighed."
"Did I? Oh. It's these pancakes. They're my favorite."
"Oh. Well. Anticipation can be. sigh-worthy."
"Why don't I put these out," Daphne said, reaching for pitchers of milk and orange juice. By the time she returned, the pancakes were ready and Dr. Crane was taking another sip of coffee.
"Here," she took his cup back so that he be able to carry the steaming platter. Their fingers touched, momentarily knocking the breath out of her. Don't drop the baby, Daphne.
She placed the cups at their places and filled their side bowls with strawberries. Dr. Crane served out the small pancakes, fanning them in a neat crescent shape. He was so artistic about everything, always making that special effort for things to look nice.
She paused to admire the effect. White milk, orange juice, red strawberries in sparkling crystal, the scent of golden pancakes and rich coffee. Deeply satisfied, they smiled at each other as they sat down.
"This is lovely," Daphne said, an understatement if ever there was.
"Here you go," he said, nudging the apricot jelly towards her. It was dear of him to remember that she preferred jelly to syrup, and lucky that he happened to have her favorite type and brand on hand. Daphne's insides unclenched enough for her to take a bite and enjoy the warmth of the pancake and the sweetness of the jelly as they spread over her tongue.
"Nice?"
"Delicious."
He looked so handsome in that red button-down shirt. Deep colours suited him. She loved the way he looked in red. Blue. Black. White. Green. Grey. Brown.
"You must really like those pancakes."
"What?" she asked again, certainly giving witty Mel a run for her money.
"You just sighed again."
"Oh, yes. I do. Pancakes. Lovely." Nice save, Daph, was what Mr. Crane would have said, his voice spread as thickly with sarcasm as her pancakes were with jelly. Surprisingly, Dr. Crane did not look fooled.
"Daphne." He started stirring his half-empty cup of coffee. "Would you say we are friends?"
"I. I guess so," she said, nervous because he was. She tried to make light: "I don't imagine most of your friends call you Dr. Crane."
"My thoughts exactly. Daphne, it would mean a lot to me if you would call me Niles."
Oh dear.
"Oh, I don't know."
"You've done it before."
"Did I?" But those were times they had been pretending to be something different. Dating. Married.
"Well, I wish you would think about it. So much is changing in both our lives; I don't see why this should not change as well. I have always considered you a friend and would like you to treat me as such."
The jelly seemed to have cemented her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She shook her head.
"Dr. Crane."
"I guess there I have my answer," he said with a sad smile.
"I'm sorry. It's just not a good time for me to change habits."
"Of course," he said. "I understand." No, she could see that he did not.
"But that does not mean we are not friends. Why would you think differently?"
"I guess I. you don't seem yourself lately. I don't want to pry but I'm worried about you. I thought perhaps if you were more comfortable with me you would be able to talk about whatever it is. I want to help."
"Oh." She wanted to hug him. And kiss him. And. and that was the trouble right there, wasn't it? That was what was what she could not say to anyone. Least of all to him. It did break her heart, though, to see him looking so sad. Over her.
"Perhaps we can work our way up to that name change," she conceded. "I just need a little time."
He brightened almost at once, making Daphne ache with love.
"I would really like that. You know, we met right after you started working at Frasier's, so maybe all we need is to get to know each other in a different light."
"You mean, start over as friends?"
"Yes."
"That sounds lovely. Slowly."
"Slowly," he agreed, with a smile that made her insides quiver.
After breakfast he refused to let her help with the washing up.
"You go start pulling your weight with that puzzle," he said sternly.
"You've gone and done all the easy bits," Daphne complained.
"I left the corpse for you," he said. Daphne laughed and obediently went to work. She took advantage of her time alone in the living room to get caught up on the instruction booklet he had started reading yesterday. It was the background to the murder mystery complete with description of characters and possible motives. Her powers of concentration were not at their top shape and she had just finished absorbing it all when Dr. Crane came back out. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Daphne stopped herself from sighing again.
"All done," he announced. "Um, do you mind if I get something from your room?"
"No, of course not." Thank god she had returned its sweater to its drawer. "Go ahead."
She studied the remaining puzzle pieces and slowly started fitting them together. As instructed, she started in on the corpse. That would have been Mr. Crane's advice anyway, to get on with the body and work her way outwards, looking for any clues nearby.
Years of working with the elderly paid off, not to mention Dr. Crane's neat piles of loose puzzle pieces coordinated by colour and texture, placed loosely where he thought they should go. Daphne had closed quite a few gaps and had most of the body done by the time she heard him come back down the stairs.
"There was a broken vase next to the body as well as a broken picture frame with a large piece of glass unaccounted for. Of course, they could be red herrings or." Daphne's voice dried as she looked up.
Dr. Crane was wearing the sweater. The sweater.
"Or. or not," she finished.
"Could be," he said. Again, his voice sounded quieter than usual.
"I hope we can get this done before we leave tonight."
"Yes." He leaned from where he stood instead of coming closer. "Actually, I was thinking we could leave tomorrow morning."
"Oh. Well, that would give us more time. to finish the puzzle, I mean."
"Are you in any hurry to get back?"
"Me? No. None."
"Yes. Um. Great. I need to go down check something by the lake. I won't be long."
"All right."
He left as if in a hurry. Daphne might have felt relieved but the truth was that she had no idea what she should feel.
Another 24 hours with Dr. Crane. Good lord.
To be continued.
Away from it all (part 4)
By Amy
Daphne was curled up in the armchair near her window, her legs tucked under her, her body kept warm - inside and out - by Dr. Crane's navy blue sweater. She had succumbed.
Dr. Niles Crane. A few months ago she could not have imagined feeling so differently about someone she had known so long. It was as ridiculous as the thought that she might fall in love with Mr. Crane. Or Roz. Or Eddie, for that matter.
Daphne ran her fingers lightly over the sweater. Ridiculous or not, somehow this man had taken possession of her heart. No, not taken, for he had never asked. She had given it to him then, invited him in and placed him somewhere none other had occupied in her entire life.
Dr. Niles Crane. Mr. Crane's thoughtful second son. Dr. Frasier Crane's brother. Donny's client. Mel's husband.
Daphne shuddered from the heart outward. Mel's husband.
Sooner or later Daphne would have to face up to what had happened last night. To what she had almost done.
When had it all gone so horribly wrong? A jigsaw puzzle, for heaven's sake, nothing could be more innocent. The two of them, sitting side by side, as easy with one another as they had been before all this mess started; before Mel, before Donny and way before idiotic doubts got in the way and spoiled everything. Just two friends doing a jigsaw puzzle. It was so ordinary yet felt so ridiculously wonderful that that alone should have set off sirens. That she could feel so much just being near him, watching those slender pianist fingers deftly turn over puzzle pieces, that she was fully content to listen to him as he read the story or whatever it was, his voice both faraway and near, emitting with perfect diction from lips which, like the rest of his features, seemed drawn by a sharpened pencil.
That had been her first impression when they were introduced so many years ago: sketchy lines and smudgy shadows, especially in contrast to his larger, broader, fuller teddy bear of a brother. Although the two Dr. Cranes resembled each other in looks as well as manner, Frasier demanded deference from the space he occupied, while Niles carved through it. Nothing bearish (or overbearish) about Dr. Niles Crane. Nothing soft either, except for his eyes. Except for his voice. His touch.
He had kissed her a few times - once on the mouth -- always in fun or friendship, and his lips had been unexpectedly lovely. She had apparently not noticed a lot of things over the years, but she had noticed that. She also noticed that his arms when he hugged her provided more comfort and strength than seemed possible from someone so slenderly compact.
The sweater had fallen from her shoulder and, only now realizing it, Daphne pulled it back on. She should not be thinking about his arms or his lips or any other part of him. Although she was not superstitious by nature, it was getting harder to believe that these feelings she knew were so wrong did not invite disastrous consequences. Just last night, she had been doing nothing but quietly and secretly thinking how much she loved him when suddenly, swift as a lightning bolt for the wicked, Dr. Crane was fighting for breath. Thou shalt not covet.
To see him struggle for breath, his gaze glassy and terrified, was like ice water under her skin. Even after the scare had passed, Daphne's hand remained on his chest, anxious and needy of his breath. His heartbeat. Perhaps she was being punished but she could not let go.
He was all right, and that was all that mattered. It made it bearable when the first thing he wanted to do was talk about his wife. It stood to reason, of course; when one is in a life-threatening situation, one always thinks of one's loved ones.
"Why don't you like Mel?" he had gasped, piling onto Daphne's Everestian mountain of guilt.
Now, there were admittedly countless reasons to dislike Mel. Ask anyone. Anyone but her new husband. The pre-been-in-love-with-you-for-six-years bombshell Daphne may have reminded him that he had already asked once before and that she (granted, with several bloody marys at the helm) had given him a bluntly honest and utterly unappreciated answer.
Not that she would have repeated her reasons for disliking Mel, even if he had not just taken a stroll by death's door. A dozen good reasons could be negated by one bad one: Daphne loved him and Mel had him. That, Daphne knew, was just not a fair reason. So it served Daphne right to have to sit there, listening to the man she loved list all things wonderful about his wife. The list was typical of a Crane man; qualities one would note on some bloody certificate of pedigree. As he put it, Mel was perfect, the icon of a list of things of which not one had ever been said of Daphne.
As she listened, another death. Then another zombie-like revival, going through the motions of a continued life knowing that many more could come like this one, at any time, just like real death but without the peace of an end. But she loved him, so she asked the question to which there could only be a hurtful answer.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"I am happier than I've ever been; I am in love," was the answer.
"I hope your happiness will last forever," she had said while his unspoken words burned like acid. "I'm happier than I've ever been".without you. "I am in love".with someone else.
Then their hands touched and they make a spark. Simple. Real. Astounding. A bright flash of light that wiped everything clean, bleaching out all the confusion, guilt and pain. Temporarily blind, Daphne blinked back stars and through the stars saw him looking back at her with such tenderness that her body floated into the pull of his gaze, to those morning sky eyes closing slowly as she moved towards them. In the light that surrounded them, it seemed so inevitable, but then.
Lightning. The alarm on her watch shattered that dream like a bullet through crystal, then tore into her chest, pain following the realisation - crueler than ever in its repetitiveness - that this was all an illusion. That she was too late for anything, except another death.
The one small mercy shown her was that the alarm gave her a means of escape. She had a vague memory now of stumbling back to her room, fleeing from what - from whom - she could not run to.
She used water from her faucet to down her pills and to try unsuccessfully to wash off tears faster than she produced them. She got as far as undressing but no further as she made her way onto the bed, holding a pillow to her face to dampen the creaks and wails of her aching heart. Daphne muffled her sobs and allowed grief to run its course, wear her out and, ultimately, sweep her up in its arms and cradle her to sleep. She woke hours later, shivering and with salt burns on her cheeks. She pulled on his sweater -- her dull brain somehow knowing it would bring her comfort -- and sat in the chair to wait for morning.
Daphne pulled the sweater more tightly around her but even then she could barely get her shivering under control. Morning had finally come, creeping over her marvelous view. Black outlines were washed over with grey, then with muted colours. Then the first real splash of light, of glaring yellow gold poured onto the highest treetops, dripping its way down the mountains like lava towards the lake. A soft wimper escaped, hollow and lonely in the dark room. It was morning. And she was so scared.
It was those deaths. She was not afraid of losing him; she had already done that. It was the deaths that she invited upon herself that had her dry-throated and trembling.
Over the years Daphne had actually listened quite a lot to the Dr. Frasier Crane Show and even learned one or two things from it. Piping up among her strident inner voices this morning had been echoes of callers who would understand her situation perfectly: A man afraid of heights because at towering altitudes he felt his body wanting to lean forward into the void below; a woman who would not drive over bridges because every time she did her arms would tense at the steering wheel, as if poised to jerk it suddenly and violently into the railing; another woman who had a phobia of her own baby because she had a recurring image of her fingers relaxing their hold on her child, letting him slip from her grasp.
Like Daphne, they were all terrified of their own unstable impulses, hypnotised by recurring visions of themselves doing things so horrible that it made them doubt their worth as human beings. Daphne did not trust herself anymore than those callers did. She had almost kissed a married man last night.
He trusted her. His eyes had been so deep last night, deep enough to hold her and make her feel loved. He was the better person of the two, most definitely the better friend, and she had almost done something that could have changed that tender look in his eyes forever.
Daphne stared out of the window with tired, blistered eyes. Even in danger of losing her self-worth as a decent human being, here she sat in the blue sweater, permitting herself the intimacy of something he had once worn closer to his skin than she would ever get. She would not try and excuse herself for that. Or for the involuntary burst of anticipation she felt when she heard sounds from the kitchen indicating that Dr. Crane was awake. She let it glow within her for a moment before she doused it out. She could only fight the large battles.
Daphne's cold, stiff legs whined pitifully as she stood up. She stretched to gather both warmth and courage to behave like a proper guest and make her way down to the kitchen to see if her host needed a hand with breakfast. As for being a danger to herself, well, she could drive off that bridge when she came to it.
Taking a deep breath, Daphne swung the door open and had not gone more than a few steps when she did an about turn and sprinted back into her room. She had just walked out into the hallway wearing Dr. Crane's blue sweater and nothing else. Well done, Daphne thought grimly. Bloody good thing she had not been holding a baby.
Showered and dressed, Daphne came downstairs just as Dr. Crane surfaced from the kitchen with a tray of cream, sugar, jams and jellies. He slowed as he saw her, or perhaps just seemed to.
"Good morning." his voice was slightly out of breath and almost a whisper. Had he had another attack during the night? Oh no, she should have never left him alone.
"Good morning, Dr. Crane," Daphne said, wanting to ask, to apologise, to forget the exact moment last night when her hand on his chest stopped being for his benefit and started being for hers.
"I'll just set this out," he said, disappearing into the breakfast room. Daphne's knees felt a little weak. Glancing around the room for a distraction, she found one as her eyes landed on the coffee table where puzzle pieces had been connected and linked.
"You've been busy," she said as he reappeared.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I had trouble sleeping."
Quite a bit of trouble, by the looks of it. All four sides were completed and creeping inwards. In addition, he had put together three people and most of the dog. He must have been up all night.
Daphne followed him back into the kitchen. He was mixing Swedish pancake batter.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"You're busy, I'll get it."
While he poured the white batter into molds, Daphne prepared two cups of coffee, one with cream, one with milk and sugar for him. She handed him the cup and watched as he took a sip. He swallowed and stared at her over his cup for the longest time. Had she gotten it wrong? Impossible. It was the same way she had prepared it for him for years.
"Perfect," he said quietly. The praise was a caress and she smiled at him.
She had never dated a morning person before, but had always thought about how nice it would be, sharing first light with someone, making love in the morning, preparing breakfast together.
He put the cup down and turned back to the pancakes. A bit of a domestic scene they had, right here. Only if it were a real scene she would have entered the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind and reaching over his shoulder to kiss him good-morning. Their little exchanges would have been stitched together with terms of affection: "Coffee, love?" "Yes, thank you, darling." She would have grumbled playfully about men who get up so early, leaving her alone in bed when two was a much warmer number on a cold winter morning.
"What?" Dr. Crane asked.
"What?" Daphne repeated, lost.
"You just sighed."
"Did I? Oh. It's these pancakes. They're my favorite."
"Oh. Well. Anticipation can be. sigh-worthy."
"Why don't I put these out," Daphne said, reaching for pitchers of milk and orange juice. By the time she returned, the pancakes were ready and Dr. Crane was taking another sip of coffee.
"Here," she took his cup back so that he be able to carry the steaming platter. Their fingers touched, momentarily knocking the breath out of her. Don't drop the baby, Daphne.
She placed the cups at their places and filled their side bowls with strawberries. Dr. Crane served out the small pancakes, fanning them in a neat crescent shape. He was so artistic about everything, always making that special effort for things to look nice.
She paused to admire the effect. White milk, orange juice, red strawberries in sparkling crystal, the scent of golden pancakes and rich coffee. Deeply satisfied, they smiled at each other as they sat down.
"This is lovely," Daphne said, an understatement if ever there was.
"Here you go," he said, nudging the apricot jelly towards her. It was dear of him to remember that she preferred jelly to syrup, and lucky that he happened to have her favorite type and brand on hand. Daphne's insides unclenched enough for her to take a bite and enjoy the warmth of the pancake and the sweetness of the jelly as they spread over her tongue.
"Nice?"
"Delicious."
He looked so handsome in that red button-down shirt. Deep colours suited him. She loved the way he looked in red. Blue. Black. White. Green. Grey. Brown.
"You must really like those pancakes."
"What?" she asked again, certainly giving witty Mel a run for her money.
"You just sighed again."
"Oh, yes. I do. Pancakes. Lovely." Nice save, Daph, was what Mr. Crane would have said, his voice spread as thickly with sarcasm as her pancakes were with jelly. Surprisingly, Dr. Crane did not look fooled.
"Daphne." He started stirring his half-empty cup of coffee. "Would you say we are friends?"
"I. I guess so," she said, nervous because he was. She tried to make light: "I don't imagine most of your friends call you Dr. Crane."
"My thoughts exactly. Daphne, it would mean a lot to me if you would call me Niles."
Oh dear.
"Oh, I don't know."
"You've done it before."
"Did I?" But those were times they had been pretending to be something different. Dating. Married.
"Well, I wish you would think about it. So much is changing in both our lives; I don't see why this should not change as well. I have always considered you a friend and would like you to treat me as such."
The jelly seemed to have cemented her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She shook her head.
"Dr. Crane."
"I guess there I have my answer," he said with a sad smile.
"I'm sorry. It's just not a good time for me to change habits."
"Of course," he said. "I understand." No, she could see that he did not.
"But that does not mean we are not friends. Why would you think differently?"
"I guess I. you don't seem yourself lately. I don't want to pry but I'm worried about you. I thought perhaps if you were more comfortable with me you would be able to talk about whatever it is. I want to help."
"Oh." She wanted to hug him. And kiss him. And. and that was the trouble right there, wasn't it? That was what was what she could not say to anyone. Least of all to him. It did break her heart, though, to see him looking so sad. Over her.
"Perhaps we can work our way up to that name change," she conceded. "I just need a little time."
He brightened almost at once, making Daphne ache with love.
"I would really like that. You know, we met right after you started working at Frasier's, so maybe all we need is to get to know each other in a different light."
"You mean, start over as friends?"
"Yes."
"That sounds lovely. Slowly."
"Slowly," he agreed, with a smile that made her insides quiver.
After breakfast he refused to let her help with the washing up.
"You go start pulling your weight with that puzzle," he said sternly.
"You've gone and done all the easy bits," Daphne complained.
"I left the corpse for you," he said. Daphne laughed and obediently went to work. She took advantage of her time alone in the living room to get caught up on the instruction booklet he had started reading yesterday. It was the background to the murder mystery complete with description of characters and possible motives. Her powers of concentration were not at their top shape and she had just finished absorbing it all when Dr. Crane came back out. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Daphne stopped herself from sighing again.
"All done," he announced. "Um, do you mind if I get something from your room?"
"No, of course not." Thank god she had returned its sweater to its drawer. "Go ahead."
She studied the remaining puzzle pieces and slowly started fitting them together. As instructed, she started in on the corpse. That would have been Mr. Crane's advice anyway, to get on with the body and work her way outwards, looking for any clues nearby.
Years of working with the elderly paid off, not to mention Dr. Crane's neat piles of loose puzzle pieces coordinated by colour and texture, placed loosely where he thought they should go. Daphne had closed quite a few gaps and had most of the body done by the time she heard him come back down the stairs.
"There was a broken vase next to the body as well as a broken picture frame with a large piece of glass unaccounted for. Of course, they could be red herrings or." Daphne's voice dried as she looked up.
Dr. Crane was wearing the sweater. The sweater.
"Or. or not," she finished.
"Could be," he said. Again, his voice sounded quieter than usual.
"I hope we can get this done before we leave tonight."
"Yes." He leaned from where he stood instead of coming closer. "Actually, I was thinking we could leave tomorrow morning."
"Oh. Well, that would give us more time. to finish the puzzle, I mean."
"Are you in any hurry to get back?"
"Me? No. None."
"Yes. Um. Great. I need to go down check something by the lake. I won't be long."
"All right."
He left as if in a hurry. Daphne might have felt relieved but the truth was that she had no idea what she should feel.
Another 24 hours with Dr. Crane. Good lord.
To be continued.