Chapter 2

Two weeks exactly.

Well, two weeks, give or take several hours if he was really planning on being exact. Either way, it'd been that long (too long) since anybody had last heard from Miss Babcock.

It was even more jarring for Niles in that regard, having been the last one to hear from her in any capacity. He'd relayed her phone message to Mr Sheffield obediently – perhaps the first time he'd ever truly done just as she'd said, nothing more, nothing less – and their employer had been...a little taken aback by it. That wasn't surprising, considering the Miss Babcock they knew would crawl into work with a broken leg if she had to, but Miss Fine had luckily been there to reassure him by politely suggesting that she might've simply been taking a personal day, for Personal Feminine Reasons.

The longer time had gone on, the less that seemed likely. By the end of the first week with no word as to where the producer was or when she'd be returning, Maxwell was no longer sympathetic. By the middle of the second week, he was angry. At this point he was enraged, and took the liberty to rant whenever anybody mentioned Miss Babcock's name.

"I give her one inch with that day off, and she has to go and take the whole bloody mile! There really is no understanding some people!"

Niles was sure this current rant was still going on as he dusted the living room, the family going about their day behind him, but he'd tuned it out. He didn't feel like hearing any more about Miss Babcock. Especially not when she was in his head constantly, still screaming at him to get the hell out of her life. He heard it constantly, from the moment he woke up to the time he could finally crawl back into bed and sleep. It was like a ghost, ever-present in his mind, haunting and taunting, with no way of him finding out why it was there or how to get rid of it.

He just didn't understand her snapping like that – he'd only been doing the same thing they'd been doing for...well, since forever! What had changed? What had he said? Did it have anything to do with her apparently disappearing off the face of the Earth?

He'd compare it to the greatest unsolvable puzzles and riddles of all time, but he wasn't sure that any of those had caused pain like this. Alexander the Great had cleaved the Gordian Knot in two with a sword when he found no other way of undoing it. He couldn't simply undo his hurt by putting a weapon through Miss Babcock's front door, even if that would probably make her come out so that he could demand some answers.

But he knew he had no right to answers. She'd told him as much, and he knew that he had to back down. Back into the background and shadows, like a good little servant...

His sadness and bitterness didn't stop his eyes from snapping up the minute he heard the doorbell ring. That call – that possibility – was too powerful. Could it be? After two long, hard weeks of nothing but brooding while listening to Maxwell complaining? Could she really have come back?

He practically stumbled all the way to the door, nearly crashing into the small, antique table that Mr Sheffield kept in the foyer. He did knock over the ugly decorative vase Miss Fine insisted on keeping there (a Christmas gift that Maxwell had yet to find a good excuse to toss out the window), but the thing simply refused to break.

Tough luck. He'd have to try harder next time.

He skidded to a halt only seconds before body-slamming the door and wrenched it open without even asking who was on the other side. He was hoping to find Miss Babcock waiting, towering over him in all her glory as she barked orders into her little phone – a prelude to a busy day of work.

He was, however, wrong in his assumption. Where Miss Babcock should have been stood, there only was a stand-offish, balding, middle-aged man: the postman. In all the years Niles had known him, the bloke seemed to be always on edge – nervous without even realising, and probably more than a little paranoid. The butler remembered trying to strike up conversation with him during the first few years he and the Sheffields had lived there, but since his answers were usually non-descript grunts and the occasional monosyllabic word, he'd long since given up.

One of the postman's spindly arms reached into his bag and retrieved a small envelope before handing it over to Niles. Then, not bothering to say anything, he tipped his cap and rushed back to his truck, murmuring to himself about something Niles couldn't quite hear.

Not that the postman's whispered rambling mattered to him – especially not when he could see that the sender of the letter was none other than Miss Babcock.

Now just what was that supposed to mean?! Miss Babcock never sent letters to the mansion – especially not clearly handwritten ones!

She'd usually consider doing that a waste of her time, especially when she could just hand things in to Mr Sheffield, or even speak to him personally about the matter, when she got to work. He had to take this to the British producer right away. It had to be important, if Miss Babcock had sent them this instead of actually turning up in person.

He turned and went back inside, feeling more than a little dejected by the fact that he was holding a little folded piece of paper addressed to their employer and not following behind the blonde, asking her if she was late because somebody had forgotten to unlock her cage that morning. But then he stopped in his tracks, right there between the stairs and the rest of the hallway.

Didn't he want to know what was in the letter? Right away, and not waiting for Maxwell to open it, read it, and then decide if the information was worth repeating aloud? What if Miss Babcock was in some sort of trouble or difficulty? What if Maxwell didn't know what to do or how to help?

He looked down at the envelope, studying every curve and straight line in the producer's neat pen script. It was taunting him. Tempting him. Telling him that he might never know what was in that letter, if he didn't see it for himself. That he might never know why Miss Babcock had suddenly decided to disappear from their lives.

That decided it.

Lifting it up in his hands and turning it over, he gently began to feel one finger along the seam-

"Is that the post finally getting here?"

Maxwell's sour tone coming from behind him immediately ripped his hand away from where he would have started to open it.

He was (shamefully) automatically back into servant mode, and he held out the letter to the producer. As much as he wanted to say it was for him, scurry away and take it to his room, he knew it probably wouldn't be believed – he hardly ever got mail.

He had to give it up.

"Yes sir; this came for you..."

He obediently let the envelope be snatched out of his hand, the part of him that had said he'd never find out what the letter contained screaming at him for his idiocy. But, much to his surprise, Maxwell tore it open to read the contents right then and there. He must have recognised the handwriting on the front as belonging to Miss Babcock (though it would be the first time in his life that he'd ever been so observant), because he practically pulled the envelope apart, digging into it like it was holding the answers to every secret he would ever demand to know. He probably would demand to know, given his annoyance at her absence for so long without a word now.

Niles held his breath as his employer started to scan the page. What could it possibly be, that had kept her away from the mansion? Did she say? Did she give an indication of when she was coming back?

Was it to do with––

"What?!"

The shout from Maxwell would have resounded through the house, but it almost blasted the butler backwards, sending him straight back to the present moment and jumping out of his skin as he did.

What on Earth was the matter?! What the hell was in that letter that had prompted that reaction?! Why were Maxwell's eyes tearing furiously across the letter again, almost as though he were re-reading in disbelief, all while one of his hands ran through his hair in agitation...?!

That held breath was starting to make Niles' mouth dry, so he swallowed before he spoke.

Not that it did anything to relieve the tension gripping at his heart.

"Sir...?"

"She's only gone and bloody resigned!" Maxwell bellowed, storming to the table and slamming the letter down while continuing to read. "She's resigned! And she hasn't even had the fucking gall to say why! Why the hell would she turn her back on our partnership like this?! Everything was just fucking fine before and she's given it all up to go traipsing off to God knows where, and she hasn't even had the decency to tell me why!"

Even though the producer's ranting continued into more colourful language and declarations that he should've known an absolute Judas when he saw one right from the start, Niles stopped listening. He hadn't really and truly heard anything since he'd been hit by that first sentence.

Hit, like a car had struck him going full speed.

Miss Babcock had resigned?! But...but why?! She'd given her life and soul to the company, and to coming in to work every day to help set up shows; it made no sense for her to suddenly just throw it all away! She'd adored her work, like nothing else in her world, so why would she just give it up so easily, without any explanation? Like it meant nothing to her whatsoever, so she could just leave whenever she wanted?

It...it didn't seem like her. It didn't have reason to it, and it was starting to make him panic at the thought of what could really be going on. Unless...unless she was so put off by the idea of seeing him again that she would simply rather up sticks and go somewhere else...?! Keep her pride by not telling Maxwell that Niles had "won" their little war after all these years to find a better job offer, that didn't come with the butler as part of the package?

Deep down, he knew that hurt to think. But his mind was racing too quickly to stop it, and it was the only possible explanation that had any lick of logic to it!

Not that it satisfied him completely. How could it, when Miss Babcock disappearing into the city like a ghost vanished into thin air really and truly did seem like the last way she'd go? Especially without telling him that he was the reason why! He'd always imagined that she'd want to get the last word in, if she had ever planned on going anywhere!

And those last words would obviously be something witty and cutting, not a short goodbye over the phone.

He fell back into the apparent conversation as Maxwell snatched up the phone from the table, scrambling for it so hard that it fell over before he could fully get a grasp on it.

"I'm calling her right now – she can walk out on me all she wants, but I at least deserve an explanation!" he snarled, fingers visibly shaking with adrenaline as he dialled the number. He put the phone to his ear, listening intently and grinding his teeth. "Pick up…pick up…!"

Niles held his breath. Even if he hadn't been able to get answers out of Miss Babcock, surely their…rather irate employer would be able to? It was hard to imagine her not giving up answers when Maxwell himself was asking the questions. And it was obvious that Maxwell had more than a few questions. It sounded like he was ready to carry out an interrogation that would make the CIA flinch.

Not that he was getting anywhere. A little tone sounded and something buzzed on the other end of the line, and the producer groaned.

"Fucking answering machine...!" he then turned his attention to leaving a message. "C.C., I know you're there – pick up the phone, right now! We need to have a little talk about this letter that came this morning!"

But, for whatever reason, Miss Babcock didn't answer. Just like she didn't answer the next time, or the next. Maxwell was on his fourth dial – and potential fourth message – when Niles finally spoke up.

"Perhaps she isn't home, sir?" he suggested, hoping in his gut that that was all it was, even as the zinger fell from his lips. "It is a nice day out. Her walker might have come to take her to do a lap of the park...?"

Maxwell glared at his joke, but left it apart from that. He rarely got involved in whatever was going on between the two of them – everyone knew that – and Niles already felt bad enough, just having said it. He supposed it was an automatic reaction, helping him to feel better – like everything was normal. Even when it wasn't.

"It'll be easy enough to find out if she isn't in," Maxwell held the phone back up to his ear. "Go to her penthouse now and check. If she's there, tell her to get her sorry arse over here right this instant!"

Niles blinked, unsure of what to say. He knew he couldn't really refuse – part of him really didn't want to, if he was honest. It didn't want to leave things as they were between himself and Miss Babcock. It needed answers, and a goodbye that was worthy of their...well, Shakespeare had used the phrase "merry war", and that seemed as good a term as any.

But why would she open up, if she knew it was him at the door? As much as he was yearning to bolt for the nearest taxi heading in the direction of her penthouse, the thought of him going also seemed like a terrible idea. A sure fire way of making sure she never spoke to any of them, ever again. And then none of them would ever get any answers...

"But what if she doesn't answer, sir? Or agree to come back with me?"

Maxwell snapped back, "Tell her anything you fucking want! I don't care what you say, just get her to come here with you!"

Niles winced at the words, but relented. The part that wanted him to take off without another word and head straight to Miss Babcock's penthouse cheered. It was getting exactly what it wanted, without having to fight – internally or externally – to get it.

And Niles couldn't see any more reason to delay. This was an excuse for him to go, wasn't it? Even if she never spoke to them again, he could simply reassure himself with the knowledge that Maxwell had asked…told…screamed at him to go in the first place. He hated to call it "passing the blame", but that was what it was...

"Very well, sir," he eventually said, nodding. "I will be on my way there now."

"Good," Maxwell replied, voice low again and not looking up as he tried dialling another time. "I'm going to keep trying this end. She'll have to answer one of us, eventually."

The butler doubted it, but didn't say so out loud. Instead, he made a quick detour to the closet to grab his coat (with keys) and then headed straight for the garage.

He just had to get the car, and then he'd be on his way.

New Eden Clinic.

The name had a nice ring to it, and the implication that the next few months of her miserable life would be spent getting better at some hidden, paradisiac corner in Chicago, had sealed the deal for C.C.. It was just the reason behind her having to go there that sucked.

She had cancer. Stage 4B Hodgkin's Lymphoma, to be more precise.

It hadn't taken long for her doctors at Lenox Hill to come up with a diagnosis. They'd prodded and pricked and cut C.C. open several times over, but in just a few days, the producer (or should she say former producer now?) had been handed her fate in the shape of a neat pile of big, white envelopes with the results of her many medical tests inside. Envelopes she was carrying with her right that moment as her brother's car neared the treatment centre she'd be staying in until she… well… she supposed she had to be positive and say until she was better, but at that point in time positivity was AWOL.

Upon receiving her diagnosis, the only person C.C. had wanted to talk to had been her brother. She'd practically blurted out the news without so much as a hello to Noel, but to his credit, he'd taken it exactly as C.C. had wanted him to – with humour.

Black humour, yes, but humour nonetheless.

Had it been anyone else, C.C. was certain there would have been tears and heartbreak – two things she'd had more than enough of – but Noel had simply been quiet for a second before saying:

"Do you want me to get the hors d'œuvres for your funeral?"

C.C.'s reply had been laughter. She'd needed just that – a son of a bitch that could be strong and cynical when she herself couldn't. She hated to admit it, but she felt vulnerable – weak, even. She felt lost, like there was no clear way to go. She felt scared. She felt death creeping around every corner – biding its time, until it was ready to drag her into the abyss she knew there was no return from. She'd always known she'd have to go at some point, but she'd never imagined it would be this soon.

Well, she supposed the game wasn't over yet – Noel had said so when she'd arrived in Chicago, and had been repeating it ever since. It had been his idea for her to come over, and he'd also been the one who'd found out about the clinic from some professor friend of his. The idea behind the centre was "residential treatment with all the luxuries of home for high-end clients". Discretion came first, naturally, provided that the would-be patients relinquished astronomical amounts of big American bucks to them. It fit C.C.'s bill perfectly, and she had more than enough cash at her disposal to spend several months (if not years) at the treatment centre.

And just like that, after having mailed her medical history to the clinic and having spoken with a number of admin people, Noel had gotten her a spot at the clinic. They'd then briefly flown back to New York to get C.C.'s stuff, Chester (who'd be living with Noel and his partner for the time being) and then lock her now empty apartment. The idea of saying goodbye to the Sheffields and Niles had briefly crossed her mind while en route to JFK, but it had gone out the window the second she'd realised who she'd have to face if she did that. Not to mention that, if Nanny Fine had found out about this crap, she'd have crumbled like a rag doll and burst into loud nasal sobs, all while claiming how terrible and unfair it all was. And suddenly, it would all have circled around consoling her rather than C.C – you know, the actual sick person.

No, it was better this way – no messy goodbyes, no uncomfortable explanations, no butler-shaped loose ends to tie…

She had her brother, and that was all she needed. Not her parents (who, by C.C.'s express request, were ignorant of her condition), not her friends, not Niles. They didn't need to know – at least not for now. If things got ugly, then she'd call them and give them the opportunity to say goodbye, if they wanted to, but unless that was the case, they were better off not knowing. They probably wouldn't want to be there anyway – she knew the treatment was going to be long and that it was going to wreck her body. They didn't love her enough to see her at her worst, which was just as well.

She didn't want them to see her like that either, anyway…

She tried holding onto that thought as her brother's car pulled up the clinic's driveway, but her mind was soon distracted by the sheer magnificence of the place. It honestly looked more like a fancy hotel than any kind of medical facility – a gorgeous white brick building with a slate roof and big, beautiful Georgian windows. It was basically the size of a small palace, and was easily visible even from the long driveway.

They drove slowly up said driveway towards it, heading for a parking lot outside the doors, decorated by what looked like a small fountain. As they went, they were met by sculpted gardens and hedges, perfectly kept trees lined the way to provide privacy and well-tended lawns offered a soft place to walk...she thought she could even spy a swimming pool, over the back!

That must've been for patients who really were getting better. She tried not to wonder if she would be one of those patients – what was the point? She'd only be setting herself up for disappointment if she was wrong. Well, "disappointment" there really meant "heartbreak", but of course she didn't want to think about that. There'd be plenty of time to be sad later – she was there now, and they had to get this show on the road.

And they had to do that in spectacular Babcock style. Which, obviously, meant putting away anything touchy-feely or overly emotional until the time came when there wasn't much else left to be.

She gave a low, impressed whistle as she looked up at the place through Noel's windshield.

"Is this place for curing cancer, or hosting wedding receptions?"

Noel chuckled appreciatively, "Well, all the brochures say the former. I don't know how much extra the doctors would charge for parties – that isn't covered in the quoted price."

C.C.'s eyebrow raised, "Practically a crime that it isn't, considering how much this place cost on its own...!"

The two siblings shared a laugh.

"Well, I might surprise you and throw a remembrance party for your now defunct career," teased Noel, nudging his sister on the side. "That should do for a nice get together, eh?"

"Hm, you should know – didn't you go through the same thing when you were denied tenure for, what was it, the third time?" C.C. shot back.

"Joke's on you, dear sister, I am a tenured professor now," Noel said, grinning in that infuriatingly smug way of his.

"Professor Ginsburg dying and you getting your dirty paws on his spot was just a stroke of luck," the former producer said. "But we should get a move on – we are burning daylight here and we can't have that!"

"Funny, I thought it was daylight burning you and not the other way round."

C.C.'s response was a swat on the back of her smirking brother's head – her secret weapon for when he got too much of a smart mouth and needed to be shut up. It was a tactic she'd been using since childhood and, so far, it had never failed her. Verbal sparring was part of the Babcock nature, but she was in no mood to indulge. Not today.

Together, the two siblings got out of the car and fetched most of C.C.'s numerous suitcases from the trunk. Noel knew better than to tell his sister to take it easy – as long as she was able-bodied, she wouldn't tolerate being treated like an invalid. He had to let her be, and wait for her to ask for help if she needed it. Still, he discretely got the heaviest cases out so she wouldn't have to carry them.

Because, just as he knew to let her be, he also knew that she could be infuriatingly bullheaded when she wanted to.

"Let's get going," Noel said as they finished unloading four out of the seven suitcases C.C. had brought with her. "We'll come back for the other three once you're settled."

By "we" Noel meant himself, but there was no sense in bringing that up now. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it. He didn't want to have any reason to argue, or to delay going inside, either. Even if there was something more than incredibly daunting about that fact. But he had to shrug it off – or at least hold it in (as their parents had been so fond of doing with a lot of feelings). The sooner his little sister – as she would ever remain, no matter what – got started on her treatment, the sooner they'd see...well, just how "back to normal" they could ever expect life to get.

C.C., meanwhile, detected that her brother was trying to hurry things along. She wasn't exactly turning somersaults at the thought of walking through the doors, but she knew he was right. Whether he said it out loud or not, she knew what he meant by it.

It was time to go in, and get started with whatever God or fate or the universe had in store.

She nodded at her brother's suggestion, grabbing the cases he hadn't taken, "Alright, then. Let's get in there..."

Noel offered her as much of a smile as either of them could manage, and together, they made their way in through the front doors of the facility. The lobby was just as grand as any part of the outside, and as pristine as anybody would expect any place called a "hospital". Cream-coloured marble floors met their feet, shining with recent cleaning and sending out echoes as they walked, while oil paintings hung tastefully on the columned walls, extending far down corridors with signs hanging overhead, pointing out endless room numbers and facilities. Upholstered furniture you'd normally expect in an antique store sat waiting, looking almost as though it had never once seen a person on it, whether said person was waiting for news or an appointment. Fake plants and flowers, unable to wilt and no need for watering, decorated tables that kept small stacks of the latest glossy magazines, and the buzz of voices and machines and far away telephones kept the place from seeming completely still.

It was huge, and must have been bustling somewhere, whether that was in a patient's room, an operating theatre, or even a recreation area, but not in the one part where the Babcock siblings were.

They only had a little company. A gentle clicking bounced and echoed off the walls behind the reception desk, as two receptionists typed up forms and worked from their computers.

They would be the ones to check in with.

"Ready?" Noel asked her, giving her the softest smile he could muster.

"Never been readier," she replied.

It was a lie of course – she wasn't ready to put her whole life on hold for who knew how long, but what other option did she have? It wasn't like she could go away on her own to "live her best life" until the disease killed her. She knew she had little going on for her, but she wasn't quite ready to check out of life. The possibility was there, yes, but she didn't feel like taking it just yet. If the treatment proved ineffective and the cancer spread, then she'd take it. She wouldn't spend her last months hooked up to IV lines and countless thingamabobs just to buy herself a little extra time. No, if that was the case, she'd say goodbye to everybody and then go off to globetrot for however long she'd have left.

She had it all planned. As best she could, anyway.

All that was left to do was get on with the whole thing. So, she took in what she hoped was a quiet breath and approached the desk. The nearest receptionist – a brunette with a thin, pale face and glasses – looked up from her work at the new arrivals and welcomed them with a smile.

"Hello; welcome to New Eden Clinic! How can I help you?"

C.C. nearly felt herself falter and her legs give out as the moment of truth came at last. She looked over at Noel for one last, reassuring look, before facing the future as it was set.

"Hello, I...I'm C.C. Babcock...I'm supposed to check in today."

The receptionist murmured her name, echoing it to herself as she typed something into the computer. She clicked the mouse and smiled brightly at something which appeared on the screen.

"Ah, here you are, Miss Babcock! Your room is already set up and waiting," she pulled a form out from somewhere under the desk. "If you could just fill these out really quickly, I'll call some orderlies to take those cases up and then I'll show you the way there."

Orderlies to take the luggage. This really was a high-end place!

C.C. took the form as the receptionist slid it across the desk. Grabbing a pen, she started to fill it out. She hovered over a lot of it at first, everything feeling extremely real. Too real, in parts. Some of it was generic enough to scribble in the answer without feeling too bad, but putting down her insurance, in particular, was an awful reminder that something bad needed to happen before that came into play.

And something bad was happening, that could so easily get worse. That was why she was there.

It was both nerve-racking and relieving to hand the form back, and the orderlies arrived soon after to escort her to the room.

"Alright, let me just put these away…" the receptionist said.

C.C. watched in silence as the young woman stored her newly completed forms. She supposed they'd later be attached to her medical records, as would every test, bill and study she'd get in the course of the following months. The thought was more than a little depressing, but she supposed there was nothing else to be done but grin and bear it.

"That's better!" the receptionist said cheerfully (perhaps a little too cheerfully…). "Now, let me get you your key."

Then, she reached inside her drawer for a small plastic card (similar to the ones hotels gave out) with the number 505 on it, and swiped it in some sort of card reader before handing it over to C.C..

"It's activated now. Your room is on the fifth floor, facing the Eastern Gardens. Dr Wilson will see you there very soon, Miss Babcock," explained the young woman as she got to her feet and rounded the reception desk. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to it."

Obediently (and after having handed over C.C.'s cases to the two hulk-sized orderlies), both Noel and C.C. walked behind the girl towards the nearby elevators. They were just as luxurious as the rest of the clinic, and C.C. couldn't help but wonder if her room would be just as impressive. She'd seen pictures in the many brochures she and Noel had perused before deciding on hiring New Eden's services, and her accommodations had certainly looked (and sounded) amazing, but reading about it wasn't the same thing as actually seeing everything.

Still, even if reality didn't quite live up to her expectations, how bad could it be? Her room was more like a small apartment after all! It had a living room, a sitting room, a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a walk in closet, another room for whenever C.C. had visitors (aka, Noel) and a sizable balcony. More than enough space for her to spend the next months in as much comfort as was possible, given her condition.

The sense of anticipation continued to build all the way up, reaching its zenith when they finally got to her room's door.

"Well, this is it," the receptionist was still too peppy for C.C.'s liking, but that must've been some sort of pre-treatment euphoria, designed to put patients at ease as they went into what could be the worst part of their lives. "If you need anything else from us, just call using the phone in your room. The numbers are printed out on the laminated paper next to it. There's also a call button for you to request help from your nurses. It's on your nightstand, next to the phone."

She bid them a quick farewell after that, heading back to the front desk and allowing C.C. a moment to breathe and gather herself before she opened the door.

When she did , it was almost worth asking if she hadn't died and gone to Heaven; mostly in order to ask if the ginormous, dream-come-true room that had endlessly stretched in front of her, was really and truly hers. She tried setting her eyes on everything – from the warm, welcoming lighting, to the plush rugs that were settled beneath the equally-comfortable furniture, all matched in the smooth ivory of the walls, which were decorated with a number of delicate paintings; they occupied the gaps between the alcoves where empty shelves stood, all ready and waiting for her to fill them with books or assorted mementos.

Alongside the pristine whiteness of the room, there were touches of colour here and there, like the turquoise pillows on the three couches (probably an attempt to give the room a modern vibe), or the gorgeous bouquets inside the room's many vases. Unlike in the reception area, all the coffee tables and end tables were bare of magazines, leaving plenty of room for a patient to bring in what they wanted, at a time which suited them. A large TV took some space by the wall opposite to the sitting area, transforming the room from "hospital space" to "almost a home" in one appliance-based move.

C.C.'s eyes then jumped to a small doorway connected the living room to a smaller sitting room. Inside, the former producer soon discovered, were a comfortable-looking loveseat and two armchairs, all facing an ornate fireplace. To the side, there was a small desk too. Not that she'd be using it very much – it wasn't like she had a job to do or worry about.

Regardless, this place was definitely better than many others C.C. had stayed in throughout her life! So much for the American healthcare system – it was easy enough to see where all the money went...

Seeing as her accommodations had more than lived up to her expectations, she actually insisted on going straight through to see the room she'd be sleeping in. She tried not to think about what "sleeping" in this hospital bed could also entail. She just wanted to see – was curious to see. Would have to see, eventually.

The room was ready and waiting in the same soft shades of ivory, cream and dove grey that the living area had been, only of course, it was much smaller. A more private, intimate space for her – a place to sleep, and if the safety rails on her large (yet still clearly a hospital) bed were anything to go by, a place to recover. The end tables had been made from fancier wood and painted to match the rest of the place, up to and including the walk-in closet, as it seemed. Those tables included the rolling hospital table, which was stretched out over the bed as though it was ready to serve a non-existent occupant an invisible meal. Another TV faced the bed, and an armchair with a built-in footrest sat nearby, in case someone needed to stretch out. Light drifted in from a doorway which led to a suitably sized balcony (which could also be accessed through the living room), and there were also two more cushioned chairs in a corner by the bed, apparently for guests to sit and talk with her...

C.C. nearly scoffed at the idea of entertaining while she was in there, but left it before she could make a single remark. She'd seen that Noel – who'd followed her in behind the orderlies – staring forlornly at the rails on the bed. He was probably wondering how long it would take, before she'd need anything like that...

And the question was only brought forcibly back to the forefront of her mind when she went into the en-suite. It had clearly been cleaned until it was sparkling, in preparation for her arrival. The freestanding bath was all set up with a row of shampoos, bubble baths and bath salts for her use, and the radiator had thick, fluffy towels hanging neatly on it, so they'd be warm for drying, as well as comfortable. But what stopped C.C. in her tracks was the shower, large enough to fit at least three people at once, equipped with countless faucets and shower heads at all heights and two seats ready for someone who didn't have the strength to stand, as well as a number of strategically placed safety rails for said someone to hold onto, if need be.

It would be the first time she'd ever needed to use safety rails, in order to get in and out of a shower…

She didn't really know how to feel about that. Or, if she did know, deep down (as she sometimes did with...certain things), she wondered if maybe her mind was blocking it out because it hurt too much.

"Shall we leave your cases in your bedroom or walk-in closet, ma'am?" asked one of the orderlies, bringing C.C. out of her thoughts.

"On my bed, please," she said. "That will make it easier for me to unpack. Oh, and there are three more cases inside the car that need to be brought up."

"I'll deal with that, sister," Noel said, jumping into action. "You stay here and get settled."

Secretly, he wanted a few moments alone to pull himself together – tears were close by, and the last thing he wanted was for C.C. to see him upset. It wouldn't be fair. He'd known it'd be hard, but the realness of it all was…overwhelming. More than he'd thought it would be.

Soon, everyone but the former producer had left the room. She stood still for a few moments, unsure of what she wanted to do. What was she supposed to do, anyway? Unpack, just as if she were on vacation? It didn't feel right. Nothing did anymore.

That's because things aren't right, you dumbass, she thought to herself, frowning.

This was it – her life had come to an indefinite halt. The dreaded moment – the moment she'd pushed back for as long as she could – was there, and it had punched her square in the face with unexpected strength. There were no more schedules to follow, no more meetings to hold, no more paperwork to go over, no entertaining bickering to look up to…

There was nothing to look forward to, except recovery – which was still a huge if, and would most likely come at the price of endless pain for a few good months.

It was miserable. All of it. No matter how pretty her room was or how luxurious the centre she'd be treated in was, the hard reality was that her very existence was hanging by a thin thread, and there were no guarantees she'd come out the other side still standing. It was a matter of chance now.

Suddenly feeling unsteady on her feet, C.C. sat herself down on the floor and curled into a little ball next to her bed. She wanted out – she wanted this to be a bad dream from which she could wake up. She wished she was back home, slaving away at the office, instead of–

"Feeling miserable already? Well, thank whatever higher power you believe in that you can be blue in here instead of at some underfunded shithole hospital."

The sudden interruption from the unknown voice made C.C. start, her legs sliding back out from underneath her chin as her eyes snapped up to the doorway. She immediately scrambled to her feet at what she saw.

There, in the frame, was a tall, thin man with an angular face and long nose, his dark hair messy and a stubble nearing a full beard covering his chin. He wore a white coat over the top of what appeared to be faded black jeans and a maroon coloured, loose dress shirt. His shoes were smart, but they looked old and worn. It was almost as though a hobo had dressed up in his Sunday best and taken a shot at pretending to work at a hospital for a day.

She must've been staring a while because he then looked over his shoulder, as though exaggeratedly checking if there was someone or something behind him. He then turned his attention back to C.C..

"You must be Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock. I'm Dr Gregory Wilson, your oncologist," he introduced himself with a slight nod of his head. "Is there any part of your first name you'd prefer I called you, or are we more likely to bond over cursing our parents for their sucky name-picking skills?"

C.C. was nearly stunned into silence. This was the man that was going to be her doctor while she was in here...? He already seemed rather...unorthodox, to say the least. She'd never once had a doctor before that had implied a patient had a terrible name (even if it was true) or that had called other hospitals shitholes...

But she had to answer him, if this was her doctor. She'd said to herself before about getting started straight away and this couldn't be any more immediate than if she'd sought her doctor out on her own!

This place – staff and all – could be exactly what she needed, couldn't it?

"I, uh...I prefer "C.C.", actually," she replied.

"Huh, C.C. – nicer ring to it, I agree. Although, if we spoke Spanish, your name would sound a lot like YesYes, which is rather funny if you ask me," he said as he marched over to her armchair and collapsed into it. "Anyway, that's enough chit-chat for today. Stage 4B Hodgkin's Lymphoma – that's your diagnosis, right?"

C.C. nodded, finding herself unable to articulate a coherent sentence at that moment in time. She'd met strange characters before, but she was on the fence as to whether or not this was some sort of twisted joke.

"Goodie – you have the I'm-not-completely-fucked kinda cancer. A pain in the ass, yes, but curable," he explained, reaching into his pocket for a lollipop. "Looks like you are in luck!"

"Excuse me? Luck?!" C.C. finally snapped. "I hardly think being sick with cancer qualifies as–"

"You know how many people drop dead every day?" Wilson cut her off as he unwrapped his candy. "150,000 on average. That totals 6,250 dead people every hour. Or 104 dead people every minute. Or almost two people every second. Many were elderly and sick, some others were in their prime when they had a freak accident, or were murdered or flung themselves off the top of a building–"

"And your point is…? I fail to see how other people dying makes my situation better," C.C. barked, arms folding over her chest.

"I'll let that one slide because it's your first day and you don't know the rules yet, but for future reference, never interrupt me," Wilson replied, giving the producer a pointed look. "Anyway, my point is, death is more common than you think. It's lurking around every corner, waiting for the next sucker to drag into eternal darkness, and it doesn't discriminate. Death is greedy and always hungry – that's why dying is easier than living, Babcock, but the odds suggest you probably won't be joining the ranks of the dearly departed anytime soon."

Wilson gave his orange lollipop a satisfying lick, always keeping his eyes on the gaping producer. He often got that reaction out of new patients – he didn't have the best bedside manner, but he was damn good at what he did. That was why they hadn't kicked him to the curb already – he'd single-handedly saved more patients than all of the other doctors combined, and that bought him some freedom to do and say whatever he wanted.

What could he say? Prestige had its perks, didn't it?

"The kind of cancer you have isn't particularly lethal, but it will require an aggressive treatment regime," he explained. "Twelve cycles of chemo for a start, and if that itty-bitty tumour doesn't shrink fast enough, we'll have to consider surgery. All in all, the route is clear. Now, as you may have noticed, I'm a grade A sarcastic asshole – I'm cynical, infuriating, snappy and, in all honesty and with no regrets whatsoever, I joke about stuff I shouldn't. But I can promise you one thing: I'm going to do my best to get you out of this."

C.C. felt her shoulders falling, relaxing, before she could really stop it. Before she felt the rest of her relax, too.

Well, it seemed like Wilson knew what he was doing and talking about...maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all? He wouldn't have been hired by the hospital if he couldn't do his job, anyway, so they at least had some confidence in him. Besides, she could probably request to switch doctors at any time she wanted – which she already knew she would do, the moment she wasn't happy with her treatment.

But, for now, she thought she could safely give Dr Rides-the-Rails a chance.

She nodded at what he had said, "Thank you. I appreciate it, a lot."

Wilson waved a hand dismissively, grabbing a chart out of a holder on the wall, just next to the door.

"Save the sentimental stuff for your relatives. There's only so much love in a room I can stand before I have to break out the Lysol," he said, flicking through the notes quickly, before replacing them back where he had found them. "Now, let's get down to the business of kicking your cancer's ass. How does that sound? A lot more of an "action-hero", "gets results" type?"

C.C. nearly let out a huff of a shocked laugh. This was definitely not what she'd expected in a place like this, but he was right when he'd asked if she was ready to beat this thing.

She was ready to do whatever it took to get her life back to normal. As much as it could, anyway.

"I can see you smiling; I'm going to take that as a yes," Wilson interrupted before she could give a real, verbal answer. "Let's get started, then! But before we do, would you prefer for your brother to stay or leave? Either way is fine by me; I just need to know if I'll be expecting the "tearful farewells between loved ones" scene now, or when he does actually choose to go."

That time, C.C. actually scoffed. Noel was something – someone – she could definitely talk about, with or without being taken by surprise. And it might actually give her an opportunity to look a bit sharper than she'd just come across.

She affected a dismissive wave, much like Wilson's own, "Oh, don't worry about it being tearful – we aren't that type of family. Besides, if we had known the doctor might melt at contact with water, we'd have taken extra precautions anyway."

It was Wilson's turn to be taken aback by what had just been said. He didn't laugh – even if he might have wanted to, a little – but he did let his eyebrows shoot up and he placed his hand over his heart in a show of mock offence, like a scandalised Victorian socialite. He wasn't much used to being spoken to like that, even if he expected it for the way he was to most, if not all, people!

This new patient of his was certainly more used to verbal tennis matches than most of the others he'd treated, he could tell that much for certain! And, as a result, he was also certain that they would get along swimmingly, right from the start.

A lot of his patients were actually put off by his mannerisms at first, which might not have made treatment harder, but it did sometimes make it feel like a more laborious process to begin with. They didn't know how to shoot dialogue back and forth, or to turn something on its head. It made the words seem slower, in his opinion. Most, if not all, of those patients usually wound up considering him a close friend by the end, though. Somehow, he understood that even less than why they hadn't gotten his sense of humour or his way of behaving in the first place.

"If you being here didn't translate into me getting a big, fat check at the end of the month, I'd have kicked you out for that!" Wilson said, smirking.

"Boo-hoo, cry me a fucking river, doc," C.C. shot back, with a smirk that was just as devious as Wilson's. "Let's get this shit show started, shall we? The sooner we do that, the sooner I can get the hell outta here!"

"That's exactly the attitude I like to hear," Wilson said, finishing crunching on the last bit of his lollipop. "You get unpacking, decide if you want your brother in or out and then we can get talking. No sense in killing only one bird with that great big stone we have, is there?"

C.C. pretended to think, before she replied, "I suppose not. And I'd like my brother to stay just a little longer before he has to go."

Wilson shrugged, "Well, don't tell me that – tell him! Is he better at unpacking than you are at making decisions?"

C.C. almost barked out a laugh as she went out of the room, "He's better at unpacking than you are at talking to people!"

Feeling much more relaxed already, in a situation which might not have called for any kind of relaxation at all, the former producer went to find Noel. This might not have been what she'd expected at the start, but she thought she could definitely get used to it. Wilson was the kind of character she was familiar with, it seemed – a smartass, who probably infuriated many even if he was right, and that knew he was right even when other people thought he was wrong.

As long as he was right about her diagnosis and treatment, it didn't really matter to C.C. if other people thought he was wrong. He was there to help her get her life back, not make friends.

Even if she thought she might be able to consider him a friend at the end of all this.