Chapter 4
It'd taken a few days to acclimatise to her new surroundings, but C.C. thought she'd managed it fairly well. The facilities had almost been a godsend and a blessing, in her mind. Considering where she was and why she was there, obviously, and no offence to anybody. She hadn't gotten too settled into anything at first, much like a guest in a hotel might not unpack their bags, but the longer she remained where she was, the more she had to let go of whatever was holding her back.
That was when she'd taken the leap to visit as much of the place as she was allowed to see. And what she'd seen had been amazing; the clinic had everything she'd ever imagined a retreat – whether for health or recreation – could. She'd explored the library, the music room, a dining hall, seen the tennis courts and outdoor pool from the window, seen the indoor pool from its own door, and seen the one-room movie theatre the place had! It even had a small spa attached!
And all around, patients were making the most of it all, their various levels of sickness showing through paler skin, or more sunken eyes, or shaved heads covered by clean, fresh bandanas and headscarves...
C.C. didn't need to look at them too carefully to know she'd soon be joining them more fully. She knew it was too real to hold on to the idea of leaving for now, even if it hurt; she had to let go and just embrace it all at some point. It was only a matter of time – Wilson had already decided on her treatment plan and there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that she was going anywhere any time soon. Not when she'd have to go through eight cycles of chemotherapy, which meant spending at least eight months at the clinic.
That could easily turn into more if a bone marrow transplant was required...
She'd only need that if the tumour didn't shrink, Wilson had said.
Part of her had wanted to pipe up and ask what would happen if the transfer didn't work either, but she'd ungracefully chickened out before the question could find its way to her mouth.
Her way to recovery had started almost two weeks ago, with one minor procedure – well, Wilson had said "minor", but having a doctor cut her open (even a little bit) hardly came across as "minor" in her mind. Still, it had been necessary. Given that her treatment was going to be a long one, Wilson had decided that the best course of action was for her to get a central line through which the chemo would be administered. Hence the operation. The thing, he'd explained, avoided the need for her to get a new IV every time she had her treatment (that is to say, every two weeks). The operation hadn't been painful, but since the central line – or port, as Wilson usually called it – had been placed near a large vein in the upper chest, there was now a more than noticeable bump just beneath her right clavicle.
Not that it had stopped there. Afterwards, there had been the x-rays and other, post-op things to think about. And that was just to get her started, which was its own, glorious thought.
In truth, it made her feel sick just thinking about it. Sick to have to pump chemicals through her body for over half a year, in order to flush out a deadly disease growing inside her. Sick to know that it would make her sicker first, to the point where she'd be in so much pain...
Sick to know that there was a chance that it was all useless anyway.
Wilson never seemed to think it was useless, though. At least, he never acted like he did. He had been visiting her daily ever since she'd arrived, apparently in order to be his usual asshole of a self, and to engage in some zinger-based wordplay. He always claimed to have won all the rounds, too, even when it was obvious that his comebacks were lame or strained!
If she was being perfectly honest, that one thing – the wordplay – was the one sense of normalcy she was clinging to, while everything else was put on pause (as strange as that all felt). It was a moment from her old life, brought into a new chapter that she was hastily trying to write as she went along and praying it wasn't the ending.
Granted, it didn't feel or sound as good or right as the banter she usually threw at...some other people...but she was happy for the company. It might not have been what she was used to or expected, but it was far better than sitting in that room alone with only her thoughts for friends.
With friends like those, a woman didn't need enemies, that much she could tell anybody.
Not that she could tell anything to anyone else anyway. That rule of hers still stood; she kept her guard up where possible. But she only tended to use it when somebody wanted to know something specific, and specifically personal. And there was nobody who needed to know anything specific about her, personal or much otherwise.
That's why she'd mostly kept away from the other patients – the last thing she needed was bonding over their shared sucky health. Thankfully, most people seemed to keep themselves to themselves, but there still were opportunities for socialisation that a fair amount of patients took up to help pass the time – from art, cooking or music classes, to a book club. C.C. had actually been invited to join the latter by one of the other patients on one occasion when she'd been reding in the clinic's library, but she'd declined.
She wasn't there to make friends. She was there to get better and that was it. Not to mention, everybody in there belonged to her same social class – that was to say, the American elite, which in turn meant that there was a possibility of someone in there also frequenting the same social circles that she did. Who knew what could happen if she got overly chummy with her fellow patients? If anyone found out about what had happened to her, C.C. knew her rotten luck would be the talk of all the New York harpies ; her so-called "friends", who were nothing but vipers cloaked in ridiculously expensive clothing. If she knew them (and she did), C.C. was certain they would feast on her misery and create all kinds of outrageous rumours about her disease, her appearance and chances of survival.
Thanks, but no thanks…
She was better off on her own – she only needed to hang in there for maybe a year, and then she'd be able to go back to her usual life. She'd simply tell everybody that she'd taken a year off to live the jet-set lifestyle and relax, and dodge any uncomfortable or prying questions that came her way. She didn't need to be pitied or talked about, so this was the perfect way out.
As for her future work prospects, she supposed she'd have to take up her father's offer of stepping in as the new CEO of the family business. Stewart wanted to retire, and since she doubted Maxwell would give her back her job after the way she'd run off, it seemed like the best option. Not to mention that she'd make a lot more money than she currently did. Well… she'd make a lot more money than she used to, back when she was still working.
But, for any of that to happen, she had to get through this mess. Her first challenge would come in…about fifteen minutes, judging by the time displayed on the digital clock sitting on her nightstand – her first chemo dose. She'd say she wasn't looking forward to it, if that wasn't a given to literally everybody. Who the hell looked forward to those kinds of things, unless they were a complete and utter sadist?
C.C. wasn't sure. She didn't know much about it, really, apart from what Wilson had told her and the horror stories she'd heard from friends of friends from their own acquaintances. She didn't know how true those last ones were, but they'd sounded real enough and that, in turn, had been enough to leave her nearly sleepless the night before.
It was bad enough getting up to breakfast, let alone after a night like that. She hadn't been hungry at all, but she'd forced herself to take one slice of toast and a black coffee. Wilson had insisted that she try to have something, in order to keep her strength, but he had also found out through a series of tests that she was allergic to the nausea meds they would've usually put her on right after. That meant post-chemo puking, and probably lots of it. As such, she'd tried to limit the ammo her stomach would have.
She had almost been afraid that she would lose it the moment she got back to her room, the way it had churned around in there on her walk down the corridor from the dining hall...
Somehow, she had kept it. She'd made it back to her bed, where she now was, and had been trying to lie comfortably and read a book to pass the time. And maybe relax by distracting herself a little bit.
Not that she could. When the worry was the size of a whale, you weren't going to catch it on a fishhook.
She'd barely gotten started on whatever she'd picked up from the bookshelf when a knock on the door told her that Wilson had arrived.
"C.C...! Your nine o'clock is here. Are you ready to kick this cancer's ass like a jerk who tried to start a fistfight in a bar?" he announced loudly – because of course he did – before clearing his throat. "Not that that ever happened to me..."
C.C. thought she heard a small, slight scuffle outside the door and wondered if Nurse Cameron had elbowed him in the ribs.
It wouldn't have been the first time she'd done something to show her colleague that she was less than impressed by his laissez-faire attitude towards the words that fell out of his own mouth. Ever since Wilson had introduced C.C. and Cameron, who was to be her personal nurse for the duration of her stay at the clinic, the former producer had noticed that the doctor's antics were never completely ignored when they were aimed at the pretty, quick and clever brunette.
And it was never just a one-off remark every now and again, either. The two colleagues went back and forth between each other practically all the time, whether they were in front of patients, or – as the case was at the moment – just out in the corridor and presumably alone.
It was like they had some sort of game going on between them – just the two of them, and every round always seemed to end on an eye-roll or a retorted remark from the nurse. Yet, much to both C.C.'s confusion and her amusement, it never seemed to get to Wilson in the slightest.
It was a different type of game to the one Wilson had with her, and some of his other patients (the ones he'd told her about). It reminded her very much of...of times she thought she'd rather not think about, if she was going to do this. There wasn't much point in going backwards, when the only way to get better (and to hurt less, as much as possible) was to focus on going forwards.
"I'm in the bedroom," she called out, putting down her useless attempt at passing the time, also known as Pride and Prejudice. "Just come straight through, you can't miss me."
She heard two sets of shoes – and a few sets of wheels, as though someone was pushing a couple of small tables around – make their way across the floor, and Wilson poked his head around the door as Cameron edged her way past him into the room, greeting C.C. with a quick smile as she went. As much as C.C. knew she'd need her strength, and therefore didn't want to throw up what little breakfast she'd had, it was impossible to ignore the assorted set of instruments, needles and bottles of medication on the table that Cameron pushed in with her, setting it up by C.C.'s bedside table.
She thought she'd felt bad the day before, when they'd given her a blood test to make sure her cells were at a safe level before they tried the treatment. But that memory might as well have been a picnic in the park now. It was starting, and it was starting properly. That was only emphasised when Cameron brought in an infusion pump, wheeling it across the room to bring it over to the non-crowded bedside.
It loomed there over C.C., somehow a terror and, as she knew, her saviour at the same time. But she held that thought in; this was better than the alternative, no matter what was coming.
"Well, now that's done. Good morning, C.C.," the nurse turned away from her handiwork and smiled at the former producer brightly, taking the chart from its holder on the wall as she went past. "How are you feeling today?"
The more cynical part of C.C. often wondered how people could even ask that question in times like this. But, she also knew that Cameron was just trying to be friendly, really, and would never mean anything by it.
"Mostly fine," the former producer replied, getting herself sat more upright. If they were getting this show on the road, she was going to play her part in it. "Just...the usual nervousness, I guess..."
"Completely natural and understandable," Wilson piped up, finally coming in now that all the equipment was in the room and out of the way. "But there is nothing to worry about, I can tell you that much. Nurse Cameron is nothing if not a consummate professional; I'd let her stick those needles in me, if I needed them."
C.C. huffed out a breath through her nose. It was about as much amusement as she could muster up, given what was about to happen.
Wilson would've had to have been blind to not notice he wouldn't be getting anything else out of her right at that moment, so he just nodded, offered as much of a smile as he ever wore and took the notes from Nurse Cameron, who had offered them after finishing checking them herself.
"You'd have plenty of people volunteering to stick you with needles, Dr Wilson; you wouldn't need to be sick," she teased, before gesturing towards C.C. and her position on the bed. "Don't worry yourself about sitting up – lie back, open your shirt so we can see where the port is and make yourself comfortable while I just go wash my hands."
C.C. did as she was told, her hands feeling oddly numb as she pushed herself back against her pillows and the rest of her bed, and not letting up as she fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. By the time she'd managed to prepare herself and get as comfortable a position as she'd ever find on one of these occasions, Cameron had come back and had pulled the table set out with medical equipment closer.
She quickly inspected the obvious bump in C.C.'s skin, peering at it carefully and talking to Dr Wilson as she went.
"No obvious redness, swelling or drainage," she said quietly, looking quickly over her shoulder as Wilson noted it down. "Looks like we're good to go."
C.C. took in a deep breath. She didn't feel "good to go", but it wasn't as if there was any going back. And Cameron was clearly trying her best to be as gentle about it as she could be.
"I'm going to have to feel the area around the central line now," she said, circling the air near the bump with her finger. "You just tell me if it hurts, or if you feel any discomfort."
"Okay," C.C. bit down on the inside of her lip and waited for Cameron to begin her work.
The nurse carefully started to feel around the area the port had been inserted – the little bump that C.C. couldn't help being aware of constantly, no matter what she was doing. This part, at least, didn't feel as bad as she was expecting – Cameron's fingers were gentle and didn't poke, stab or prod like so many doctors C.C. had been to in her life. Had she not been so hyperaware of her location and situation, she might've even considered chatting.
Eventually, after confirming with her patient that she hadn't been hurt or made uncomfortable by the inspection at all, Cameron found what she was looking for – the point where the non-coring needle would be inserted. That was where the chemicals would be pumped into C.C.'s body. And then the treatment part that everybody had once heard about, or knew about, or felt worried about would begin.
"That's what we were looking for," Cameron said, apparently to herself more than anybody else, and she took her hand away to put on a pair of latex gloves pulled from a small box on the table. "Now it's time for the alcohol."
"Hey, no getting my patient drunk just yet," Wilson called out, feigning a warning as he looked up from the chart again. "The first round is specially on me. It'll be a gift, C.C., after you've beaten this thing."
Cameron rolled her eyes, turning from him to the producer.
"Meanwhile, in the world where the rest of us know I was talking about rubbing alcohol, I will get that ready now," she smiled, probably aching to fire some sort of harder zinger back at her colleague. "I'll be opening the central line kit soon, C.C. – did you want a mask for that?"
The producer agreed to the mask, which was given to her once Cameron had opened a pack and put on her own. The nurse then swabbed the general area around C.C.'s central line with cool, clear alcohol that filled the small air space with the sharp, penetrating smell of disinfectant.
The smell of a place where people were cured, the producer hoped.
When the cleaning had finished and all the swabs had been thrown in the trash, Cameron washed her hands and changed her gloves again. Had she been feeling less nervous and in more of a commentary mood, C.C. might've felt compelled to talk about (and say she was impressed by) the obvious take-no-chances attitude of the place. Ironically, that description was almost the complete opposite of the words she'd use to openly talk about Wilson.
Even the thought of banter she knew she'd make a note of for the future wasn't enough to make her relax, though. Not when Cameron then opened the container that C.C. just knew had the needle inside it, letting the little piece of equipment fall out onto a prepared sterile towel.
"Time to get this filled; then we'll get you on your pump," the nurse said, giving a comforting smile as she picked the needle up. "Are you feeling okay so far?"
The answer C.C. wanted to give was so different to the one she knew she had to (like she had a choice, either way!), she was almost surprised that the nurse had asked. After all, how many people came through the doors, to this moment, were asked that question and said "Totally fine" while meaning it?
That being said, she nodded again and just let Cameron get on with her task. She wasn't going to watch all of it, of course – just the parts she was curious about. And that meant watching while the nurse gingerly filled the syringe with saline, quickly priming it and cleaning it out again to get it ready for its next task. It couldn't have any air in there whatsoever, if they were hoping to help anybody at all.
The next task for the nurse was to use said needle to inject a local anaesthetic. C.C. flinched a little while it was done, but the nurse patiently explained that it would take less time to take effect, than gel anaesthetics swabbed on. It made it more efficient, and would be just as powerful against pain. It would need it, too, for what was coming next.
The former producer couldn't bear to do anything but turn away when Cameron's fingers then put pressure down on the port.
C.C. didn't want to see it go in. She had never once been anything less than put off by needles, and the one for her anaesthetic had been bad, but the thought of this one was even worse. It was bad enough having what she could feel of the large, dulled needle pushing its way through her skin, into her veins, its odd, numb ache and the cool of the metal making her want to squirm and groan, but staying as still as she could manage nevertheless.
She didn't dare look back until she felt a slight tug on her body, and turned to see Cameron pulling back the syringe, confirming it was correctly inserted. It might have bothered the former producer less, if that hadn't meant making sure the pull back drew blood into the syringe. And she couldn't tell if the whole thing was made better or worse by Cameron taking yet another alcohol swab to the area, before covering the whole thing with a large bandage made of what looked like clear plastic.
If C.C. had thought it was difficult to ignore the area before...
Nurse Cameron, however, seemed satisfied. She was busy sticking the bandage down and preparing to write a date and time on it.
"Perfect! Now, let's get you connected to the pump..."
C.C. was only just about listening at that point. She was almost entirely preoccupied with staring at the point where the port was connected to the needle. She had been connected to IVs before in her life, but even looking at this new drip she was attached to felt different to any other. This was the beginning of a treatment she'd never thought she'd ever experience in her life – it was far removed from the usual fluids and other routine things that doctors normally insisted on. It was going to do things to her body that she absolutely dreaded, but that she knew she had no choice but to accept.
That thought made her feel as small as knowing she had the cancer in the first place…
Nurse Cameron didn't make any comment about the lack of reply. She just smiled in understanding, and left the former producer's side to go to the delivery device. She began pressing buttons that C.C. couldn't quite see, but she looked over at her patient every once in a while. She tried offering her the most reassuring looks she could, too. The kind that were meant to say everything was going to be okay, even if it would take a long time.
"We're going to get you started on the first of your fluids now, okay?"
C.C. thought she might've never felt less like saying "okay" in her life, but she nodded anyway. Then, deciding it might be best not to watch as the whole thing started, she turned her head back towards the room and closed her eyes. She heard the machine start to hum as the pump got working, before Cameron's voice cut in over it.
"Just think; this'll only get easier the longer it goes on. It'll be part of the routine in no time at all."
Wilson chimed in at that point as well, "Yeah, it'll be just as easy as listening to my dulcet tones, just like you are right now. You feeling anything there, C.C.? Any aches or pains we should know about before we let it go on?"
Well, that was one thing that she hadn't had to experience yet. Not even as the fluids started making their way in – she'd expected some kind of burning, or stinging, or whatever else an unfamiliar liquid could possibly do when entering a person's body. Not any of it, even if she thought about it as hard as possible.
"Only pain around here right now is the one who's talking to me," she muttered to him jokingly. "You're nearly on par with Niles..."
She heard the doctor's shoes scuff against the floor as he came to a quick halt, and C.C.'s stomach tightened in a way which had nothing to do with the chemotherapy.
Her eyes shot open to Wilson's curious, quizzical look.
"Who's Niles?" the doctor asked with more than a mild interest, coming to rest his hands on the board at the end of her bed. "I don't think I've ever heard you mention that name before...no, in fact, I'm pretty much certain that you've never mentioned it. So, who is he?"
C.C. swallowed lightly. The part about the butler had just slipped out; she hadn't meant to bring him up at all! She had no reason to, either – if she was doing this, the life she'd had before was over. She'd already made it over by quitting her job and leaving her apartment!
So...so maybe that meant it was okay to tell Wilson just a little of what had happened before? It wasn't as though he was going to let up about it if she said nothing. And if it was all over, there was no chance of any of it coming back to bite her where it hurt.
"He...he was the butler, from where I worked before coming here," she said, forcing herself to let it out. "And he used to take enormous delight in being a complete pain in my ass..."
"I'm liking this guy already," Wilson said, smirking. "Sounds like he and I would get along just swimmingly."
"He could give you a run for your money, you know? I thought I was a smartass until I met him – the man might be a useless lump of a servant, but he sure knows how to banter." C.C. said, chuckling in spite of herself.
She hadn't been thinking about Niles much – she was making a conscious effort not to. She'd been somewhat surprised that bantering with him was probably one of the things she missed the most about her old life. She'd enjoyed their little games. It was only now that she realised just how much…
Still, no matter how much fun bantering with Niles had been, it was over. There was no place for that in her current situation, especially when the thought of him finding out about her illness was so… anxiety-inducing. It could go two ways – one, he could be unaffected by it, and make some sharp comment about her uneventful life coming to an end. Or two, he could be upset.
Honestly, she didn't know which option she dreaded the most. Bastard Niles she could handle – she'd been doing that for over a decade – but worried Niles? She was out of her depth there.
Even the thought of it made her feel like she was drowning, so she quickly put it out of her head before she started to panic. No, everything to do with her life from before – including the butler – was best left in the past. As much as it killed her to admit that she was inept at something, she knew she couldn't handle...whatever it was that would happen if she tried to tell.
Not that Wilson knew anything about any of this. His curiosity and interest had only seemed to deepen as she'd spoken.
"So you're friends with this guy?"
C.C. quirked an eyebrow at the doctor. No one had ever...no one had ever actually asked her that before, and the question kind of threw her a little bit. But only for a moment. It didn't take her long to come back to her senses and let the logical path take over. Of course she and Niles weren't friends; how could they be? What with all the hurtful insults and pranks that had passed between them...
Granted, they'd had their moments over the years and the zingers could be fun sometimes, but at the end of the day, they both knew what they were. Enemies. Rivals. That was why everything always went back to the way it was. It must have been – hence the usual presence of bastard Niles...
"No," she replied to Wilson, the word coming out harsher (more defensive?) than planned. "We...we might've had some fun, yeah – but it was bantering fun! And of course, that kind of fun had some...some real moments. But it was all based on pranks, and zingers! Tossed insults – not unlike what you do, might I add – only these came fresh every day! It was like we'd based our entire lives around it; or, at least one of us had. But it was only a little bit of daily wordplay, or maybe hiding personal objects around the house It...didn't mean being friends..."
"What did it mean then?" Wilson asked, quirking an eyebrow.
C.C. opened her mouth to give an answer, but immediately closed it. She had realised it wasn't really so much of an answer as more a defence mechanism; she had been about to say that it wasn't any of Wilson's business anyway, and that it was all in the past so it didn't matter. None of it did matter, obviously (she had to live in the here and now, and the butler was neither of those), but she could tell that her doctor wasn't the kind of guy who'd just let it go.
He'd keep on pushing, until she had a lack of better judgement and told him everything. Besides, it wasn't as though there was anything left to tell, was there? She'd practically run Wilson through hers and Niles' entire personal history, at this stage! All she'd missed out on, was what she'd call him...
And she had to say that out loud, before Wilson got too comfortable in that smug-but-curious expression he was wearing.
"It meant that we had our moments, but we were not friends," she insisted. Not too hard, she thought. "And now, it's all come to an end, and I'm here."
She figured she might as well throw that last point in as a hint that she was done talking about it. Unfortunately, Wilson immediately plucked it out, like it was a piece of trash he'd just seen somebody toss on the ground. Or a gauntlet signalling the start of a challenge.
"Yes, you are here...talking rather fondly, even as you hammer in the points about the pranks and insulting, about a man you won't even refer to as a friend..."
C.C. clamped down on the frustrated scowl that was threatening to form on her face. She should've known better than to think Wilson would leave it just because she had no more to say on the matter. But he wasn't going to get any more of an answer than he'd already gotten. Whatever he thought, he didn't know better than her about her and Niles. Not that she would ever refer to them as a pair like that, even if she were inclined to talk more.
She'd said it was over, and it was. She was there now, and Niles was in the past. It wasn't like she missed him, either, and she was damn sure he wouldn't be missing her twice as hard. He'd probably thrown some kind of party, the day when it had sunk in that she really wasn't coming back...
But even that didn't matter, she told herself. Why should it? It was all in the past, after all. She didn't have to feel anything for it or about it.
Now, if she could only convince Wilson to leave it alone, she could get on with the rest of what was going to be a difficult enough day as it was.
"Of course I won't call him that, because he wasn't," she replied, the sharpness honed in her tone. "He was just...another fixture of that house. But it doesn't matter anymore. It's not like I'll be seeing the place again, anyway..."
With that said, she turned away from the doctor, towards where Nurse Cameron was checking on the fluid line and the machine attached. That had to be enough to at least put off his conversation, didn't it?
"You could always go back after all of this is over," Wilson (annoyingly) said. "You won't be sick forever."
"We don't know that yet," C.C. replied, still making an effort not to look in Wilson's direction. "And, as I said before, it's over – whatever weird thing we had going on, it's gone now, and he probably did a backflip when he realised he wouldn't be seeing my face again."
"Wouldn't count on that, Babs – you do have quite a riveting face, if I may say so myself – but have it your way," said the doctor in an I-know-better-than-you kind of way. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. You have a good four hours to go – I'll come to check on you every hour or so. If you need anything, holler. You know the drill."
C.C. rolled her eyes at the doctor, but said nothing as he left, smiling in an infuriatingly familiar way that did nothing to help her push a certain blue-eyed pest out of her mind.
She immediately snapped out of it, but it disturbed her to no end that she simply could not bring herself to lock him out of her mind completely. The fact that thinking of him upset her more than thinking about her old job or even Maxwell was also worrying, but C.C. knew better than to open that can of worms. She couldn't afford to question herself or think too deeply about her emotional state. That's why she'd refused the psychological assistance the hospital had offered her.
And she wasn't about to go back on her own word or feelings on the matter. Whatever she thought about any of it, that crap all stayed inside. It wasn't anybody else's business and it wasn't a problem if she didn't make it one. There was really only one way to do that: think about literally anything else. Which, luckily right now, she thought she could do.
Especially as Cameron had just come over to ask her something.
"I've set you up with your medication, that will all work automatically. As Dr Wilson said, you have about four hours now – would you prefer I stayed or left for a while?"
C.C. was already more than certain that she wanted to be alone right then. So, her answer was clear.
"I'll be alright by myself, thank you."
The nurse nodded, "Okay, then. Is there anything you need before I go?"
The former producer thought for a moment. She had four hours to kill right now, but it wasn't as though she could move. So, entertainment was limited to a couple of choices. But she decided on the one she could sit back and read to.
"Could you turn the radio on as you go, please?"
Cameron smiled in return, "Of course."
She went over to the little machine and fiddled around with the dial, switching it to a station playing a song.
It wasn't a song C.C. knew, but it was as good as any other to sit and try not to think too deeply about...anybody, to as she grabbed her nearest book and saw the door get pulled to as Cameron left the room.
"She told me she was hollow,
That's far from what I see -
She's more than just the daughter of a broken mind to me..."
"She told me she was shallow;
Her rivers run so deep -
If I could only be the boat that leads her to the sea..."
Every surface in the Sheffields' kitchen was gleaming by this stage, as Niles finished up the last of his cleaning there. The radio had made for...well, at least some company, while he'd been doing his work. He'd had it on all morning, to keep the kitchen from feeling completely silent.
It wasn't a good substitute, but it was what he had. And he wasn't going to put it away, either.
"But lonely is her favourite place to be;
When she feels the hurt, she lets it bleed..."
He wrung out the cloth he'd just been using to wipe down the counter, tossing it in the sink so that it could be washed. Thinking only in terms of what he had to do was helping, he thought – it kept all the questions he still had at the back of his mind.
Usually, anyway. Well, some of the time. Thoughts about Miss Babcock had always been difficult to just put away whenever he wanted. They always found their own way to come back, whether he liked it or not.
"Sometimes she's lost, sometimes she's broken
Sometimes she's closed, sometimes she's open
But lonely is her favourite place to be..."
Niles shook his head – he couldn't afford to open that can of worms. Not when his sanity depended on it. He moodily reached out for the radio and switched it to another station; the last song hadn't been helping him in his determination to keep thoughts about her at bay. He needed the reprieve, otherwise all his days would be spent going over Babcock-related questions in a loop.
He'd already found himself getting stuck in one such loop, and he didn't think he could quite pull himself free from it. Not when it was the only thing he had left to tell himself that maybe this wasn't all permanent. That Miss Babcock would come back and everything would be normal again, in the house and in…in their day-to-day routine, obviously. It was throwing him off, not being able to go through a few rounds with his nemesis before breakfast had even been cleared away.
So, he'd sort of…taken matters into his own hands to feel like she was, at least, still around. He wasn't proud of it by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd been going to the producer's penthouse in order to clean. It hadn't started off that way, of course – that would truly have been a sign that he should've checked himself in with a therapist. But as the days had gone past and Miss Babcock hadn't returned, he'd found himself walking past her building more and more often. It had calmed him a bit, seeing the place. Part of him had even wondered if he'd run into her by accident, while she was coming out one day. That hadn't happened, obviously, but it hadn't stopped his walks. If anything, they'd simply become more frequent. He'd found excuses to take that route while he was out running errands, changing slight directions and taking turns he might not have otherwise to get a glimpse into the lobby.
And those had been his days for some time. Things might not have escalated from there, had some of Miss Babcock's mail not been sent to the mansion by accident. Mr Sheffield had taken one look at it, declared it "junk", and had been about to throw it away when Niles had jumped at the opportunity to take care of it. After all, it had only been right to deliver it to the proper address, hadn't it? For all they knew Miss Babcock could have been expecting information on a subscription to In Touch Weekly, or wanted to browse through those coupons or the pre-approved credit card form. They had no evidence to the contrary, so he'd decided to just quickly pop them over to her apartment in order to be safe.
It hadn't been his plan to start cleaning the place once he'd gotten there, but everywhere had been so filthy and covered in dust from the moment he'd let himself in through the door that he just hadn't been able to help himself. He'd grabbed the cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink and he'd set to work on making both the living room and the kitchen spotless. He'd thought about doing the main bathroom as well, but it had been getting late at that point and he'd started to feel tired, so he'd decided to come back the next day and finish the job. That second trip had led to him noticing that her home office had looked a bit messy, too, and the recycling had needed sorting out, and suddenly little jobs were adding up in his head that he had felt could take quite some time, on top of everything else that he normally had to do in a day.
He hadn't run out of things to do so far. It made him cringe more than a little, too, knowing what she'd think, say, and possibly do if she ever found out he was doing it, but he couldn't help himself. It had become something of a fixation and it seemed impossible to stop now. He even went at night so that he wouldn't be missed around the mansion, and used the residential parking garage at Miss Babcock's building to get in so that he could avoid Marcello, the doorman. It was stupid, really, and more than a little wrong of him, but it seemed to be all he had. He'd dust and polish the surfaces and ornaments, mop the floors in the kitchen and the bathrooms, plump up the pillows and vacuum the carpets – anything and everything that he could do to keep most of the place looking pristine. He hadn't dared to venture into her bedroom to clean in there, though. That had seemed out of bounds in a way he couldn't quite describe. He wasn't even sure why it did; it was a room like any other in the penthouse. And it had to have been as dusty as anywhere else in the place by this point. But still, he hadn't touched it. The mere idea of going in felt…sacrilegious.
They'd been waging an endless war for years on end; he'd done awful things to her in his time, but violating her most private space was something he simply couldn't bring himself to do. There were boundaries they had never crossed, and this was one of them. They'd both had their safe spaces that the other wasn't meant to pry into, and even without her there he still felt he had to honour their tacit agreement.
Otherwise it would feel like he'd be dealing her a low blow – playing dirty – and given the circumstances that was the last thing he wanted to do. So he'd just left it, with the door shut and with a near-constant reminder in his head to keep it that way. Ready for her to click those heels right back through the door and find it just as she'd left it. If she ever did, of course.
It was bad enough, with everyone else in the house dealing with the fallout. To Mr Sheffield right at that moment, his former associate's name might as well have been mud; he sneered and snarled and would eventually fly into rages when someone so much as touched on the subject, working himself up with accusations of "how could C.C. do this to me?", or "didn't she know how many people were counting on us?" and "who did she think she was, just waltzing off by herself without so much as stopping by to say so much as a hint of a farewell?!".
He thought his wrath at any given time was justified, too. He hadn't been left by himself to run the business since the days before any infamous spat with famous English composers-slash-impresarios. Niles was reluctant to point out that even then, back in the early days, Miss Babcock had carried Atlas' share of the work from the moment she'd been hired. He knew it would've earned him a glare, or even a verbal warning, had he found the courage to say anything.
If Maxwell would have ever even noticed in the first place, he was so busy. It was getting to the point where the remaining producer was burying himself in paperwork every hour of the day and night just to keep up with the demand, as well as dashing out of the house every couple of hours to attend to matters at the theatre, cursing "that Judas in high heels" as he went.
Niles wasn't convinced his closest friend held the same kind of...presence – command, if you will – as the firebrand blonde he used to send to do his bidding. He doubted that he instilled the fear of God into choreographers, stage hands or actors much like...
Oh God, there he went again! He just couldn't help himself, could he? Even with that infernal song off and the kitchen now quiet apart from his own sullen footsteps and the too-cheerful chatter of the new station's radio show host and his guests, his mind automatically went back to the producer.
He had to try harder, if he hoped to get anywhere without slipping backwards. And that meant continuing with something else – probably bringing Mr Sheffield a cup of coffee, to make sure the man made it through the morning without falling into a fitful sleep in his office. Again.
That's why he always made sure to add a few extra caffeine shots to Mr Sheffield's cup, and this time would be no different.
The producer hadn't eaten much at breakfast, either. Fran had made the mistake of suggesting that, maybe, he should forgive Miss Babcock for going away, because who really knew what was going on? Maxwell had immediately let the knife and fork clatter down into his plate of barely-touched scrambled eggs on toast, and had proceeded to recite an entire Encyclopaedia Britannica of reasons why he wouldn't do that. The food had gone cold in the meantime, but he hadn't tried to eat it – he'd instead made a point of saying how much work he had to get on with and had stormed out of the dining room.
That had certainly made for an interesting atmosphere, while everybody else had tried to finish their own breakfasts. But, slowly and surely, they had cleared their plates, so Mr Sheffield had been the only one to go without. Part of Niles wanted to be bitter – to tell his employer how much of a martyr he was being and to suck it up and stop holding a grudge. That Fran was right and, even with all the questions still keeping him awake at night, he had to let it go. Another part was quite happy to sit and sulk as much as the producer did. Miss Babcock had just walked out on them all, without so much as a word of explanation, and had treated it like it wouldn't be a problem. But how could it not be? She had a career there, a place she belonged with friends, she...she had...
Niles frowned to himself, unhappy deep in his gut. It was time to clear out his head again. And nothing did that better than remembering where he was and switching on the coffee pot, before topping a couple of scones he'd recently baked with sweet strawberry jam and a fresh helping of fine Devonshire cream (Mr Sheffield insisted on importing a few things every now and again).
It didn't take long – he was practically an expert by now. But the coffee pot taking its time to heat up to the perfect temperature left him waiting, and the swinging door soon parted from its closed place in the wall to reveal a still-worried looking Fran.
"Oh, Niles...! What are we gonna do?" her heels clicked and clacked on the floor as she hurried in. "I can't live with him like this anymore! How are we gonna get 'im ta snap out of it? Preferably before he throws a hissy fit at lunch, too!"
"What did he do now?" asked the butler, not looking up from his handiwork as he neatly settled the two scones on a plate, which he then placed on a tray, right next to two small dishes with some extra jam and cream, should Mr Sheffield want more of either on his snack.
Miss Fine complaining about Mr Sheffield's behaviour wasn't a rare occurrence these days, either. While Miss Babcock's upping and leaving had affected almost all areas of life at the Sheffield mansion, nothing had sustained as big a blow as Miss Fine and Mr Sheffield's budding relationship. They'd been getting closer since their somewhat…knotty trip to London – Niles remembered that, upon their return (and after his heart attack), he'd had some hope that the British producer would finally grow a pair and make a move – but most (if not all) progress in that department had flown out the metaphorical window when Miss Babcock had left.
Mr Sheffield had no time to think about anything but work, let alone worry about his love life. And while Fran was just as worried about Miss Babcock as the rest of them (minus Maxwell, of course), she resented being put on the backburner. Niles didn't blame her – she and Mr Sheffield getting together was long overdue, but given the current circumstances he doubted it would get any better than this. For any of them.
"He got mad at me just 'cause I told him he should take a break – he's workin' himself ta the bone!"
"And he didn't take it well, did he?" Niles said.
"Ya'd think I'd insulted his Ma by the look he gave me," Fran grumbled as she opened the freezer and reached for her "emergency" tub of Ben & Jerry's. "All I did was suggest we go fer a walk or somethin'. Kinda like what you do every day aftah dinnah."
Almost the entirety of Niles' body froze, apart from his hand, which twitched and smacked into the tray, sending the tea in the cup swaying like an Atlantic wave. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit. She'd seen him leaving – Fran had seen him leaving! He thought he'd been so clever, and so stealthy, slipping out just after he'd finished cleaning the kitchen when no one was around the place but him! How could he have been so oblivious that he'd let himself get caught?! Had he been far more obvious than he'd imagined? Had she been watching him the whole time? Did she know that he'd always be gone for hours? She must've done – she'd hardly mention it if she'd thought he was only going down to the convenience store to get a fresh carton of milk!
Did…did she know where he went? Did she suspect it, even if she didn't know? Her face wasn't giving anything away. He didn't want to give anything away either – he knew it was weird and he felt terrible even thinking about it. But he couldn't stop. And things were fine just the way they were, with him carrying on his little routine in secret peace and quiet, without anyone asking any awkward questions. He just needed this whole conversation to go away, or change to something else!
Trying hard to keep everything appearing "normal", but really looking like an alien learning how to move limbs and partake in social acts like simple conversation, he reached for the coffee pot, only remembering once he'd set it down that he hadn't gotten a cup out for it yet.
"Oh, yes. Right. Well, it is, uh...nice, and healthy...to go for a little walk, now and again..." he swore he could feel a little sweat forming on his back, and attempted to move the chat forward as he opened the cupboard for a cup. "Have you seen Mr Sheffield's favourite coffee mug? The one Miss Grace painted for him when she was younger? It might cheer him up a little..."
Fran didn't appear to be having any of his attempts, however. Even with his back turned, Niles could already see the suspicious look in her eyes and her arms folded over her chest. She was probably leaning against the counter, too, ice cream tub all but forgotten atop the kitchen table.
"Where do you go every night, Niles? Yer always gone fer an hour or more, an' I know it's not to the all-night grocery store just down the street, because yer always takin' the car."
The butler felt his stomach give a churn. He really didn't want to be having this conversation with anybody. He didn't want to have to explain that he went to Miss Babcock's apartment every night, whether that was to clean it, or simply just to sit and feel like everything was how it was before. That the producer was just in another room, and there were no questions to be answered.
He really wished there were no questions to be answered...
Granted, he could've brushed off these new ones from Fran with a zinger about excavating old ruins, or about how dogs needed their cages hosing down every once in a while, but he knew that would simply open up questions about why he was even there in the first place!
He didn't want to tell her why he was going there. Or anybody else, for that matter. Hell, he wasn't even completely sure or comfortable enough to even breach the subject with himself!
But that was something he definitely wasn't bringing up, with anybody. Perhaps ever.
And he'd spent long enough at the cupboard – his act of looking for that one specific cup was getting less and less convincing. So, he grabbed the first one his hand reached and went to bring it back to the counter.
Sure enough, just as he'd imagined, Fran was leaning against it when he turned, her dark eyes staring curious holes in him. It made him want bolt, either for outside, or for his own room – whichever his feet headed for first. Either one would have been perfect; certainly a lot better than what he ended up doing, which was to freeze right where he was.
"Somethin's the matter," Fran concluded, just from that act. "What is it?"
Niles nearly choked out his reply, willing his feet to move all the way to where he wanted to be, "Nothing! Nothing's the matter – why does anything have to be the matter?"
He set the cup down, setting – slamming – it down hard without meaning to.
Fran blinked at it, before turning her eyes up to him.
"Nothing has ta be the matter – you could always tell me, an' take the load off ya shoulders before we wind up with nothin' ta eat off or drink from!"
Niles looked down at the now-cracked mug – the fissure had formed at the base, and would most likely extend sooner or later. Way to pretend he had nothing to hide…! Breaking mugs and whatnot…
He really didn't want Fran to find out. He loved the woman dearly, but she wasn't exactly the best keeper of secrets out there. And if Mr Sheffield found out what he'd been doing, there was a fairly high chance that he'd either kick him to the curb, or that he'd never let Niles hear the end of it.
Quite honestly, after weeks of hearing him moan, Niles wasn't sure which option he dreaded the most.
Still, he doubted he'd get Fran off his back now that she was onto something – the woman could be somewhat oblivious, but she wasn't one to back off when she realised something was going on. She was almost like a bloodhound, but instead of picking up the scent of would-be quarry, she picked up the scent of good ol' gossip.
Blast his rotten luck…
"Fine," Niles said with a sigh as he discarded the broken mug in the trashcan. "But you must promise me you won't breath a word of this to anyone else – especially your mother or Val."
"My lips are sealed, Scarecrow," replied the nanny, beginning to smile in a way that reminded Niles of a cat who'd just caught a big, fat mouse. "Now talk!"
Niles winced – she'd poked him in the side as she said that.
Discreetly trying to rub it – her fingers were surprisingly hard against his ribs – he gave another sigh. Even with Fran's promise, he still didn't feel good about this. But, he'd said he would tell; he wasn't going to take any kind of coward's way out and refuse at the last second.
Here went nothing, he supposed.
"Every night, when I leave, I...I go to Miss Babcock's penthouse."
Fran's smile immediately dropped into a concerned look, and Niles could've sworn that she'd taken a step away in order to look him up and down. It was almost as though she were trying to size him up and figure out what was wrong with him. And, in some ways, perhaps that was what she was doing.
In her own mind, Fran wasn't exactly surprised by the revelation; Niles had been acting different – sad, or maybe even a little depressed, despite trying to hide it – since Miss Babcock had gone away. But why go to her penthouse? What difference did it make? And just how bad was he feeling about it all that he felt he needed to go to the apartment of a woman who'd quit without giving any of them a real goodbye?
"I see," she began carefully, not wanting to accidentally make him feel worse. It was clear this meant a lot to the butler – he wouldn't have kept it to himself otherwise. "Why do ya go there? What do you do?"
The natural reaction for Niles was to start up on those zingers he'd thought about earlier, but he suppressed the urge. Now was definitely not the time; Fran wouldn't appreciate it. Not when he'd told her that he'd tell.
But even that wasn't as easy as he'd hoped it would be.
"I clean up. Mostly. I-I had to – I didn't mean to, to start off with, you see. I only really meant to go give back some of her mail that ended up here that time! But…well, I went in and everything was covered in dust and you know me. I couldn't just leave it looking like that, s-so I just, um…started. And haven't really stopped since. I put fresh flowers in the vases before I leave, too. Brighten the place up a bit…"
That wasn't the complete truth, he thought to himself. It was a shortened, abridged version. But he didn't know if he could bring himself to think about the full answer as to why he did it (especially not the flowers part), let alone share it out loud. He tried not to think much about why he did it, and his internal turmoil was easy to tune out when he was working around her home, but he couldn't always escape it. Still, voicing his concerns and feelings wasn't something he wanted to do, least of all with Fran.
He didn't want to analyse the whys behind what he was doing, and if he and Fran got talking about it, he was sure that was where their conversation would lead, sooner or later. No, as the old saying goes, ignorance is bliss. Intentional ignorance, in his case, but it was ignorance nonetheless.
"I just…keep her lair nice and clean for when she comes back," he continued, forcing a small smile at his (obviously) lame zinger.
Fran nearly jumped back, the realisation of what was actually going on hitting her like a car. Niles wasn't just feeling a little put out by Miss Babcock not being there anymore – he'd been taken over by it! It wasn't a little depression he'd been feeling, it was a great big double helping with extra misery on the side!
That would have to explain why he felt he had to go over to Miss Babcock's place every night, when it wasn't as though an apartment that wasn't being used had to be cleaned every day. The poor man – the flowers were probably a permanent excuse to keep going, simply so he could keep on replacing them!
She tried to muster a smile back, but bringing herself to do it was difficult. Too difficult, in fact; it was pretty obvious that he was suffering too much for any small amount of humour to take it away.
She felt her heart break for her friend. It must've hurt so badly, and he hadn't even told anybody. He'd been going over there, night after night in secret, to keep the place clean for a woman he couldn't be sure would ever be back. She couldn't say exactly what he felt or thought about the former producer - all the evidence seemed to contradict itself - but she was getting the sense that he really didn't see her as any kind of nemesis.
He really was taking this harder than she'd realised, and he'd been keeping it bottled up in there like it wasn't just a shaken-up soda waiting to be opened. It was one of the most British things about him, keeping it all in like that. It often made her wonder how far it went, but she knew he'd probably never tell. Heck, she'd been calling him her joint best friend for years now and she still didn't even know his last name!
But she wasn't gonna make him open the bottle, either. Not before he'd decided was ready. She didn't know if he ever would be (and she sure as heck didn't know what would pour out if he did decide to), but that wasn't her call to make.
"I see. So yer gonna keep on goin' back to the apartment ta clean?"
She could've guessed the answer, but it wasn't as though she ever got it from the butler's own mouth. As soon as she'd asked, his eyes had gone worriedly to the swinging door, before looking back at her in a panic.
"I see. So yer gonna keep on goin' back to the apartment ta clean?"
She could've guessed the answer, considering how she'd left it open for him.
"Well, obviously. I'd be a pretty poor zookeeper if I didn't clean out the cage every day, wouldn't I?"
The butler started almost as soon as the words were out, like he'd remembered something that had otherwise slipped his mind. His eyes darted back and forth between Fran and the swinging door.
"But, um…perhaps we should keep that little fact to ourselves for now," he continued. "Including away from Mr Sheffield?"
Fran looked behind her, in the direction he'd been panicking. The door stayed still and unopened, and there was no tell-tale shadow underneath to say that anybody was there to catch them red-handed at anything.
Turning back to the butler, she kept most of her frown to herself. She knew that Maxwell would be mad at the both of them for discussing "that Brutus in red lipstick", but she suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with Niles not wanting to talk about it anymore.
Still, it wasn't like she could force him.
"Alright, Scarecrow. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
But that didn't stop her gut feelings from telling her that something was wrong. He might've been relieved that they'd stopped, but Fran was more worried than ever.
Worried about her friend. Worried about what would happen if Miss Babcock never came back...
She wasn't sure she wanted to find out what Niles would do if she didn't.