AN: Hello, I apologise in advance for the long AN, but I believe it's necessary. Today is a very important day in my (CCNilesBabcock) country. Today (March 24th), we remember the victims of Argentina's last military dictatorship. The army, while in power, kidnapped and killed thousands of people. The victims are thought to number 30,000. Undoubtedly, it was a dark chapter in our history, and no matter what your political stance may be, state terror can't be condoned or forgiven. They kidnapped people the army believed were dissidents (including PREGNANT women and random people they plucked off the streets), tortured them and, finally, killed them. Many (if not most) of these people's families never knew what happened to them. Still don't know, because the bodies were never found. Furthermore, the children born while their mothers were locked up, were sold off to be "adopted" by other families. Many still don't know the truth of their origins.

The lucky ones went into exile; many died and were never able to come home.

Luckily, we've come a long way since then, and the criminals behind the massacre have been judged and imprisoned, but as my own little gesture of respect to the victims, I have based a character, Marcelo, on them.

"Nunca Más"

Chapter 3

Marcelo had seen and done too many things in his forty years of life. He'd been born, gone to school, then to university and, just when he'd turned twenty-two, he'd escaped the claws of the bloodiest dictatorship in Argentine history. The 70's had been rough for Latin-America – poverty had been rampant, it was guerrilla fighting galore and, eventually, military dictatorships had taken hold of most Latin-American governments.

If you were lucky and kept your head down, you could hope to lead a somewhat peaceful existence. That's what Marcelo's parents had done and repeated incessantly to himself and all his siblings. They were honest people, hardworking – his mom had been a homemaker, while his dad had owned a small business in Marcelo's hometown.

Neither of them had been able to finish primary school, but they'd made it their goal to ensure that all of their children finished their studies and became someone in life. Being the eldest, Marcelo had always felt the pressure to live up to their expectations – he'd been top of his class in primary school, secondary school and, eventually, medical school.

Ever since he could remember, Marcelo had been fascinated by the idea of saving lives. It had been very clear to him that medicine was his calling so, naturally, after having finished secondary school, he'd enrolled in medical school. It was during this time when he'd started to notice the injustice and cruelty that had ran rampant since the military Junta had overthrown the last constitutional government. Soon, he'd begun speaking to others who'd seen the same things as he had, and together they'd voiced their disagreement.

First, it was in a whisper – a hushed secret that everyone knew about but most refused to denounce. But, as time went by, their combined voice grew. It had to – it spoke for those who couldn't, because their young lives had been cruelly "disappeared", just because they didn't agree with the government.

Marcelo had known it was only a matter of time before they came for him. He hadn't been able to stay quiet anymore, but when the horror finally happened, it hadn't been like he'd imagined.

They'd taken her, not him. They'd taken his Marcela.

They'd taken his first love.

Her body had been one of the few that were recovered. It washed up on the coast of Rio de la Plata. She'd been tortured, and thrown off a helicopter towards a sure death.

She'd been yet another victim of the feared "death flights".

He'd had to run away immediately afterwards. His parents, his beloved parents, hadn't wanted him to share in Marcela's fate, and had help smuggle him across the border and sent him to live with a family friend in America. Ultimately, that had cost them their lives – the military came knocking one night, and when they'd refused to give up his whereabouts, they were shot and killed on the spot. So were his siblings.

The years that followed were hard. Incredibly hard. He'd gone from being a future doctor and having a loving family, friends and a girlfriend, to a simple, unqualified immigrant whom people looked down on due to his accent and skin tone. Bitterness had wreathed itself around his soul like a weed, and it had stayed there for longer than he was proud to admit.

That, of course, had changed when he'd met his wife – Ana. She was a Cuban immigrant, also working whatever odd jobs she could get her hands on and struggling to make ends meet. She'd run away from the regime, and had lost her family too.

He wouldn't say it was love at first sight, the memory of his late girlfriend had weighed down on him, but slowly, she'd helped him let go. She'd helped him heal, and together they'd blossomed. They'd gotten married in a small ceremony at the City Hall, surrounded by the many friends they'd made over the years – friends they'd considered their family. Children had come soon after, and so had more stable jobs and their very own home.

Ana had opened her very own business (a small Cuban diner that New Yorkers, Immigrants and Cuban Americans absolutely adored) and he'd gotten a job as a doorman at a fancy Park Avenue building. It wasn't his dream job, but he actually grew to like it. Not only did it provide a more than stable income for his family, but it also made Marcelo feel like he was helping people – maybe not in the way he'd always wanted, but it was good enough. He carried the elderly tenants' groceries upstairs, kept the entrance nice and clean, collected and delivered his tenants' mail, fed their pets when they were away…

Of course, he couldn't say that he didn't have his favourite tenants – some people he liked helping slightly more than others. People he'd gotten to know better than their neighbours, for one reason or another.

Miss Babcock in the penthouse, for instance. Something about her had always caught his attention, even from the start; maybe it was the fact that she clearly worked hard to earn what she had, or the fact that she was fighting for her place in a man's world and absolutely "killing it", as a lot of Americans were fond of saying. He didn't fully know, all he could say was that something about her was admirable.

It was often a struggle against the tide for her, though. Marcelo could tell that much from the late nights he'd see her come staggering into the building, smelling of bourbon and slurring her words. He hadn't judged her for it, even as he'd helped her into the elevator and made sure that she'd safely gotten into her apartment – he knew better than most that some things were simply too much to deal with, without some sort of comfort. It was obvious she was hurting deeply, for one reason or another, and she clung to what she could in response. That had happened to be her drink.

But that didn't mean Marcelo had simply left her to it. That wouldn't have been right. Instead, he'd kept a closer eye on her where possible, looking out for her and making sure she was alright.

He'd really been put to the rest one day, when she'd come rushing in, barking at someone down her phone and not paying attention to the steps or her own high heels. The inevitable accident had resulted in her falling, twisting her ankle and crying out in pain.

That was when he'd had to spring into action; when it had become clear she couldn't walk on her ankle, he'd insisted on taking her up to the penthouse himself. He'd told her that he'd treat her when they got there, and had asked if she had ice available, as well as bandages.

That, of course, had led to the inevitable question of how he knew what to do. And, being the truthful soul that he was, Marcelo had told Miss Babcock everything on the way up in the elevator. He'd poured out everything about his life before. His hopes for medical school. The regime. What had happened to his family and the people he'd loved...

He hadn't dwelled too much on each detail – it was easy enough to get lost in despair. Too easy, given the circumstances. But Miss Babcock had been sorry, for everything he'd faced, and apparently deeply touched.

Once she'd gotten settled on her couch, he had fetched her some ice and performed a basic check-up on the area she'd said hurt. It had turned out to be a bad sprain, so the ice and a roll of bandages he'd found in the bathroom had come in handy.

She'd thanked him profusely for helping her with her ankle, before he'd left. He had thought that that would be the end to it, but it wasn't. From that moment on, he'd seen more generous tips coming from her. She'd managed a smile of a greeting, even on days when she was clearly upset. She'd even sent his family food, presents and cards at Christmas, and even more food at Thanksgiving for the last few years.

She hadn't drunk so much since then, either. Whether knowing that someone was watching and looking out for her was making her feel better, or whether something else had happened that had made her stop, he didn't know. All that mattered was that she was clearly looking after herself a little more.

It had shocked him to his core to find out that she was having to go away to receive treatment for cancer.

He'd tried to express his sympathies, but she wasn't having too many of them. She wasn't the sort to enjoy pity (even if that word had so many negative connotations he didn't feel). So much so, she'd actually made him swear to keep it a secret from anybody who asked!

Marcelo had obvious agreed, because she'd asked, but it didn't feel entirely right. Surely she had more loved ones around her that deserved to know, but that she hadn't told? He knew from experience that trying times were meant to be overcome together, not apart.

It wasn't his place to say, though. Miss Babcock called the shots in her fight against cancer, and if his silence would make it easier on her, then he'd keep quiet. After all, she was well-known around the city. It was more than likely that some underhanded tabloid would send reporters snooping. Tabloids were always keen on getting their next dirty little secret to publish.

Luckily for him (and, by extension, Miss Babcock) no reporters had come to the building. No one had even mentioned her sudden disappearance! It might have been too soon for them to have raised the alarm, but Marcelo appreciated the quiet.

It didn't last too long on this particular occasion, however. He was sat looking over the security monitors again when a very familiar frame caught the corner of his eye as it walked through the front doors, into the lobby.

Even at a slight glance, he would always recognise Niles, the Sheffield family's butler. He was practically a staple feature of Miss Babcock's day-to-day life; the producer brought him up in conversation whenever she had time to stop and chat, which struck Marcelo as "odd", considering she was supposed to have found him the most irritating man on the planet...

When she wasn't talking about the butler, he was often to be found driving her home, too. He'd come in for a while whenever that happened, and Marcelo would get the privilege of witnessing their verbal sparring matches. It was a special kind of dance – much like a catch-and-release game a cat would play with a mouse. A mixture of wanting and being so close to having, but enjoying the game so much, they would always let go.

It was hard to tell who was the cat and who was the mouse, sometimes. Marcelo wasn't convinced they knew, either, it swapped so often.

All he really knew was that the butler longed for it to end, in one very particular way. He could tell, when he saw the man look at her, when the producer wasn't watching. It reminded him of the way he'd looked at his own Ana, before they had been miraculously brought together; it was a longing, or an adoration, and it was held back from being acted on by fear.

Most likely of what would happen if he tried to end the game.

It was typical that he would be the first of the Sheffield household to come looking for her. None of them knew where she had gone or why – she'd told him so herself – and that would obviously be too much for the butler to handle.

Marcelo smiled up at him as he approached the desk, noting the butler's agitated look as he came further in.

"Hello, Niles. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Hello, Marcelo – I'm here to see Miss Babcock. Can you let her know I'm on my way up?" Niles said as he rushed past Marcelo and towards the lifts. "Tell her I won't take a no–"

"Niles, you can't go up!" Marcelo cut him off, making an effort to catch up with the butler. "Miss Babcock is not home."

"I'll wait until she comes back then," Niles insisted – it wasn't the first time he'd had to wait for someone, and he'd gladly do it if it meant seein- zinging Babcock at the end of it. "I have all the time in the world."

"No, Niles, you don't understand! Miss Babcock isn't home and won't be coming home any time soon. She's left, and hasn't said where to or when she'll be back!"

Niles' face fell, and so did everything inside him (not that he would openly admit that). Miss Babcock was...gone?

She was gone. Disappeared into the aether without so much as a word on the matter?!

Even the very thought was leaving his head reeling. Every piece of information he had was trying to fit together, but they were all like differently sized pieces of unfinished, unmatching jigsaw puzzles. He couldn't understand it! Why had she just upped and left like that? How did nobody know about it?! What had happened that meant she'd purposefully left them all in the dark?

"She...she hasn't?" he asked quietly, trying to hold himself together.

Marcelo gave him an apologetic look, "It could be any length of time at all."

Niles stumbled backwards, catching himself just before he went too far.

No matter what was going on in his head, it was silenced by the thought he had next. That was that, wasn't it? Miss Babcock truly wasn't home. Not just "not at home to visitors or soliciting salesmen", but truly off and away somewhere else. And nobody knew where that was – not himself, not Mr Sheffield...

Had she told anybody at all where she'd gone? It was almost as though she had planned to disappear off the face of the Earth, leaving only minor clues as to when she would do it.

But he supposed that didn't much matter, if she didn't want him – anybody she hadn't told – to know. She would have made it known herself if she did, and wouldn't have left the grownup equivalent of a sad, dead-end Easter egg hunt as a method of communicating her whereabouts.

He'd just have to tell Mr Sheffield what Marcelo had told him.

Thanking the doorman, he started to make his exit. He'd left the car in the parking garage and would be...wait a moment...

How could he have forgotten about it?! How could he be such a bloody fool?! He had a magnetic key for the residents' section of the parking lot. It was there, in his pocket, alongside the spare key to her apartment that Miss Babcock had given him, in case he needed to get into the building whenever he drove her home. He'd lost count of the times he'd had to help her carry stuff up to her penthouse, from groceries to stacks of important documents!

He could actually access the parking lot, and the private elevator to the apartments from there as well!

He could...well, not break into the penthouse, but he could always go up and take a look around, couldn't he? There might be something that would help him determine where Miss Babcock was...

And having that would be better than going back to the mansion with nothing.

In barely five minutes, Niles had made his way back to the parking lot, slipped into the resident's section and then into the elevator. He practically punched in her floor's button, heart hammering away in his chest and beads of sweat forming in his hairline.

What would he find when he made it up? An empty apartment with nothing in it? Stuff she hadn't wanted to take with her in boxes? A clue as to where she'd run off to, without even saying goodbye…?

That was what bothered him the most – her having upped and gone just like that, without saying so much as a peep his- their way. She'd been in their lives for well over a decade! She'd helped build Mr Sheffield's success, she'd become an ever-present presence at the mansion. She'd become his favourite pastime…

And yet she'd left.

He didn't understand. It didn't make any sense – it went against everything he knew about her. He would have never imagined that she'd concede defeat to him, because disappearing overnight was just that: surrender. He'd often joked about her going away; it was a part of their game, and she'd always come back for more after each verbal battle. What had changed now? What had pushed her to go away…? What had happened between the last time he'd see her and their last phone call?

She'd been upset, that was for certain, but what could it be? He'd zinged her as he always did – business as usual. Had he, perhaps, overstepped a line? It seemed implausible…

Cruel pranks and knife-sharp zingers were their normal, so why would she have been bothered by it?

He didn't know. He couldn't tell – and that bothered him, too. He'd always been able to tell before now; they had an unspoken language that ran between the two of them.

Or, at least, he'd thought that they'd had that. Now he wasn't so sure. And even if he often openly admitted that he was wrong, declaring that he was wrong in any capacity which involved Miss Babcock felt like he was giving in.

He supposed it still wasn't over, in his mind. It wouldn't be, until he got up there and found out what her apartment looked like. He could still see the boxes in his mind's eye – packed and ready to go, overflowing with things he'd seen around the place. Things he'd seen her using. Maybe a few things he'd seen her wearing, too...

He disliked the entire thought immensely, even as it creeped up on him, while he made his way along the corridor to the front door of the penthouse.

Her spare key still fit when he got there, luckily. No one had been around to fit new locks just yet, or change the place in any way his fears hadn't yet imagined...

And when he opened the door, he opened it to a familiar sight. The producer's penthouse was unchanged and untouched. The cushions on the seats in the living area were crumpled in from where they'd last been sat on. Dust covered all the surfaces in a fine layer. The rug by the door was slightly folded over at the corner, from where someone had kicked it while leaving in a hurry...

Chester hadn't come running to bark at whomever was at the door, either. That probably meant she had taken him with her, wherever she'd gone, instead of just getting someone to feed and walk him while she was away...

Marcelo had said he didn't know when she was coming back. But the dog being gone didn't bode well for it being any time soon.

The place felt more empty and more desolate the more he looked around it, even though technically nothing had changed. He still couldn't wrap his head around it – what had happened to make her go? To leave everything just as it was, take her dog and apparently flee into the night without telling...most people...where she was going?

Was she in some kind of trouble? He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had popped up. That didn't seem like Miss Babcock at all – not any kind of trouble that she couldn't talk, bribe or fight her way out of, anyway. The woman was made of steel even on her worst days, and that ruled out running away from something (or someone) he knew she could handle.

What could possibly be so bad, that she hadn't been able to stand and face it? Was that even what the problem was?

Niles wished he knew. The guessing was starting to make his head hurt.

It wasn't all that was starting to hurt, either. Deep in his chest, it felt like it was caving in. With every breath he took – no matter how fast or shallow it was, and both were increasing at a rapid pace – part of it crumbled away a little more, until he had to sit down just so he didn't collapse in tears.

But what would it matter, if he did? It wasn't like anybody would find him.

Especially not Miss Babcock. She was gone, really gone, and he was left there alone. She'd walked out of his life without so much as a "See you later, Butler Boy" and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He let his head fall into his hands, his entire body weighed down by invisible bricks and his mind racing even more than it had been mere seconds ago.

What was he going to do now? What could he do? He didn't even know where to start, if his mind was even entertaining the idea of looking for her!

It was like being at a dark crossroads, signs pointing in all different directions, but none of them told him the way he wanted to go. They all gave him mocking clues, at best, or were just blank, at worst. And he had to go in some direction, but he didn't even know the direction he'd come from, anymore!

All he knew was that Miss Babcock was out there somewhere, and he had to pick a bloody direction before long.

She could move out of reach forever, if he didn't do something - anything - soon.