Chapter 29
The room should have been silent but for the soft sounds of sleep coming from its only occupant. It was, after all, 4:30 in the morning after a more than exhausting day. But, as had been the norm since her kidnapping, C.C. didn't go by the rulebook.
She was wide awake – had been wide awake and curled up in her bed for close to an hour now. She had a pillow pressed to her face in an attempt to drown the desperate sobs that, try as she might, she couldn't stop. It wasn't her first rodeo, though: ever since her escape nightmares and night terrors had been a saddle only potent sleeping drugs could assuage. At the hospital she'd been granted the mercy of drug-induced, dream-free nights, but now that she was home (and just as she'd feared would happen) it looked like her peaceful nights were over.
She'd dreamed of Him, of course. More specifically, of him finding her and dragging her back into her personal hell – one she knew she'd never leave or get reprieve of. She'd only woken up with a gasped scream the moment the monster had been about to invade her body again. She could only thank her mind for not having had to endure even a ghost of the physical abuse she'd been subjected to, but the damage was still there.
The fear, guilt and pain were wide awake and back with a vengeance. C.C. knew there was no escaping those, not even in the waking world.
The only thing she could at least be thankful for, was that Niles hadn't been awoken by her pathetic little outburst. She didn't think she'd have been able to stand the humiliation. Knowing him, he'd have probably rushed to her bedside in an instant, and where would have that left her?
Between a rock and a hard place, that's where! She'd have had to explain that nothing was wrong. That she was just a stupid little cunt who couldn't even handle her own damn dreams, like a five year old child!
The only problem posed by not being able (or willing) to reach out to the butler, was the fact that only he knew where her meds were.
Damaged messes like herself were usually sent home with an inordinate amount of drugs, including sleeping pills, and she hadn't been the exception. The doctor had suggested someone else apart from herself should be in charge of them, considering her…delicate…state of mind (which had been her polite way of saying she was too screwed up in the head to be trusted with even a butter knife, let alone a bagful of hospital-approved drugs). That task had naturally befallen on the poor butler, who had become her unofficial nanny for as long as she was a fucked up mess (or until he came to his senses and walked away from this shitshow, which C.C. was sure would happen sooner rather than later).
As with everything else concerning her stupid health, he'd followed the medical advice to a tee, and consequently she had not even the faintest idea of where those damn pills could be. She had a feeling they were probably in his room, but she couldn't rule out him having found them an artfully sneaky hiding spot somewhere else around the apartment.
That had left her with no other option than to stay up the rest of the night. She'd hoped she'd be able to calm down enough to maybe sneak to the kitchen and get herself something to eat or drink, but her inability to stop crying was putting a spanner in the works, to say the least.
It was almost incomprehensible how wretched and pitiful she was being! How could she possibly be this weak? This…this contemptible?! The old her wouldn't have crossed the street to roll her eyes at the huddled little ball she was rapidly turning herself into!
Knowing that, and knowing that the "old her" she was so nostalgic for was never coming back, put a pain in her chest unlike any she'd ever felt. It put a tight, sharp strain on her heart, and much to her humiliation she began to cry even harder.
Slipping down so far into her horrified sorrow meant she didn't notice she wasn't alone until she felt a tiny weight plop down on the bed near to where she lay, like someone had dumped a bag of sugar there. But this bag of sugar moved, scrambling lightly over her covers and snuffling all the way until it found her underneath her pillow.
Chester. Her baby had come to find her…
Find her, and give her the kind of love only a beloved pet could give. She felt him settle on the bed next to her, and a little wet tongue flicked out and brushed her chin and her cheek seconds later.
She near-instantly wiped at the spot Chester had licked, her crying starting to die away and deep, unsteady breathing taking over. Tears still came, but not as thick and not as fast, and even as she lay there wondering what she'd done to deserve such a wonderfully loving little mutt in her life, she could already feel this latest round of hurt easing.
It seemed awful to even think it, but if Chester had been with her during…during the worst of her experiences…she might've felt just that little bit better…
The Pomeranian licked at her cheek again and C.C. suddenly felt guiltier than ever sniffing and blinking away more tears. She shouldn't have thought that! Chester didn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as any of…That. She'd been better off alone, and going through it all alone.
Well, not completely alone. She'd had the voice; her one godsend…
"Your butler away from the butler."
…What? That sounded like…
Was…was that the voice she was hearing, there and then?!
"You can bet your satin sheets it is, Babs," the voice sounded as pleased as it was amused. "It seemed as though you needed a quick chat from yours truly."
C.C. couldn't deny that she did, more than a little bit. But it was still weird. She hadn't heard it once since she'd come back…!
"You haven't needed to," the voice said. "What with my physical self being so close."
That was true. The real Niles was only a couple of doors away; telling him something was wrong was easy. Most of the time. To most people.
It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the real Niles; the voice was just easier to talk to, about…a larger range of things. And it was a relief to talk to about them to something familiar. So…well, even if it was weird that the voice was there, maybe it was for the best? Just for things like this. To spare the actual Niles from things he didn't have to hear about, or from having to care for her when she should've been doing it herself.
She sniffed once more, the tears finally starting to dry up. The voice was good at helping her with that, and it felt right to say that that was all that really mattered right now.
"That's what I thought you might say," the voice said gently. "And I'll always be here to talk or give a nudge in the right direction if you're not quite ready for the real me, yet. You'll have to imagine it, but right now I'm nudging you in the direction of the kitchen to fix yourself something to eat, and then the living room after that for some calming television."
Yeah. Yeah, she thought she could do that right now…a cooling drink was on the cards, anyway. The crying had started to give her a headache. And maybe something to eat in front of a show would take her mind off…other things…
Sliding the pillow down and off her face, she slowly lifted herself up to get out of bed. Chester followed, not wanting to be apart from his mistress. Especially not if she was going to need him curled up as close to her nose as he could possibly manage. He even trailed after her as she went into her en-suite bathroom to retrieve her fluffy robe, which she quickly donned and fastened around her skinny frame. The night was freezing, and even if the apartment was warm and properly heated, her low weight still made it hard to maintain her body temperature.
She then got some slippers on and, out of habit, her hand twitched in the direction of her hairbrush. She stopped herself short of grabbing it, fingers closing around thin air. Back when she'd still been at Thomas' little house of horrors, he'd often complain about and beat her for her "unruly and unkempt hair". Naturally, that had prompted long sessions of hair brushing in front of her makeshift mirror, down in her cell. And all in an attempt to please a deranged bastard so that he'd maybe consider not beating her black and blue.
The habit had clearly stuck – she might have been physically free, but by the look of things that monster was still pulling the strings of her miserable life. The thought made her frown and a few angry tears to roll down her sunken cheeks. What on Earth was wrong with her?! She was in her own home, Thomas was nowhere near (hopefully, at any rate) and yet she still followed his fucking rules?! How pathetic was tha––"
"You aren't pathetic, Babs," the voice said, cutting off her self-deprecating trail of thought. "Just like Rome wasn't built in a day, your recovery will take time. Don't beat yourself up over things that you can't control yet."
C.C. sighed. The voice was right. It always was. Still, she couldn't help feeling like a failure.
"I know you can't, and I don't expect you to suddenly feel okay. I'm just reminding you that what you feel isn't necessarily true," it insisted. "Now, come on, let's go get you something to eat."
The former producer gave yet another sigh and looked between her hairbrush and her reflection in the mirror. Her sight lingered on the latter, in spite of herself. She couldn't help feeling mildly disgusted by it – she couldn't help thinking about all the flaws she could easily see and Thomas would have most definitely pointed out. Her hair was probably the most noticeable one, and while she knew she shouldn't be bothered by it, she couldn't help herself.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled before finally getting the brush and carefully tugging it through her messy hair.
Just as the voice had said, Rome wasn't built in a day. She'd try to resist the urge some other time, when she wasn't feeling quite so upset.
"No need to be sorry. It's your recovery – it will go at your own pace," the voice replied.
C.C. hardly felt this was alright in any shape or form, but well…she had to choose her battles. And tonight that meant getting out of bed and finding herself something to eat and drink.
Her shuffling through to the kitchen got quieter with every step, every footfall measured and every breath monitored for its loudness. Night-time in Thomas' house had meant staying as soundless as the void of space, and even now in the comfort of her own home she still felt the grip of abject terror whenever she stood on a floorboard that creaked, or knocked into an ornament, or bumped a table by accident…
So, she took the risk out of all her late night journeys wherever she could. Creeping around in the dark was easier to deal with and far less painful than a flashback, after all.
It got her to the kitchen and dining room without any trouble, at least. As soon as her feet hit the floor of the next room, she set to work; laying the table and getting it just right had been a major part of her…role…in Thomas' nightmare fantasies that revolved around mealtimes. That was what she'd always have to do first, so that she could then serve the food she'd made directly onto the plate. It was a habit she still hadn't kicked.
She got going on the food itself once the plates and all the right cutlery and the napkins and the glasses were all out, gleaming faintly from the more distant light of the kitchen. She'd also glanced at the clock to check on the time. That had helped her to decide what kind of food she should've been making herself – a really late and big second dinner, or a really early big breakfast.
The morning had won, so she'd gotten started on whipping up the pancake mix as soon as the scrambled eggs and bacon were sizzling in the pan. The noise relaxed her, as much as that was surprising, and the familiar pattern of movements meant she didn't have to focus on anything at all while she did it.
It was about the only good thing she could take from slaving away in that kitchen of horrors. The actions and repetitions had always been the same, so they'd become muscle memory. That left her mind open and free to just Be, as much as that was a possibility.
The autopilot sensation had taken her in so much, she didn't even realise that she wasn't alone in the room anymore (apart from Chester, who was eagerly awaiting scraps to one side). Not wanting to startle her because of it was exactly why Niles had kept his distance so far and had only watched.
He almost hadn't been able to just stand there and do nothing – he'd very nearly exclaimed aloud about how she was up early and making herself breakfast, but he'd managed to shut himself up before the talking had even begun.
It hasn't been his fault. It had all come on unexpected reflex; he'd never once seen Miss Babcock slaving away over a hot stove, several things cooking perfectly in front of her while she looked anxiously about with tear-stained eyes and cheeks…! She was even putting utensils in the sink as she went, and behind her, the dining room table was impeccably set for a lone dinner.
He hadn't been there to see her set the table, but he knew she must've been the one to do it, too. It was just right – just as "just right" as she was clearly fighting to keep her meal, which she was probably checking over for too-burnt or blackened parts, from the way she was turning the eggs over with a spatula.
He hadn't even meant to be there, staring to the strange and awful sight before him. He'd been pulled from his dream by the smell of bacon cooking, and when he'd woken up and realised that it hadn't just been a very realistic dream diner he'd been eating in with the President, he'd gone to investigate in the real world
He'd almost imagined he was still dreaming, when he'd first set eyes on her. But the hurt that had then quickly spread in his chest like wildfire told him it had to be real.
Far too real.
He had no idea, still, of what had gone on in that…place that she'd been, but it had to have been the stuff of true nightmares. To turn C.C. Babcock, the all-powerful and towering Bitch of Broadway, into a frightened woman who'd run away if touched and who made a desperately perfect breakfast before the crack of dawn, it had to have been Hell.
It made him sick to think of it.
Something must have happened to make her think of it again. He couldn't say what and it upset him even more to try and think about what it could've been, but it was definitely something.
And what was he doing, exactly? He was just stood there watching her like she was some sort of zoo animal, and not offering any help or support! What was the matter with him?! He should've been over there already – she shouldn't have been up and about and making breakfast at three in the morning! She'd just gotten out of the hospital, for Pete's sake! She should've been resting, like the doctors had told her to, and nowhere had their advice mentioned getting up to set the table or making enough food to feed two or more people in one go!
He needed to get over there. He needed her to go back to bed as much as she medically needed to go back to bed! He didn't know what had happened and part of him was rather afraid at the thought of finding out, but that didn't matter right now. He'd go over there and get as much information as he could. With any (large) amount of hope, he'd find out enough about what had happened to help talk her through it, so that she could rest easy by the end of it.
If she was still hungry after that, rather than tired, he'd take care of that, too. He was a butler. He was used to food requests at strange hours, and cleaning things up exceedingly late at night or early in the morning. But that didn't mean that she had to be.
He'd do it all for her. But he needed to start it all off gently – that meant no touching or surprises. Even the slightest one by accident could terrify, and the last thing Niles wanted to do was see Miss Babcock run away again…
They'd all been beside themselves when she'd gone. He didn't think he could live with himself if it was him that made her run away again, especially at this time of night…!
Taking in a deep breath to quash the pain and guilt that came with the very thought, he focused his attention on how he'd actually go in. Doing it from a distance was best, so the doorway he was stood in had to be a safe option. It gave her plenty of room so she wouldn't feel ambushed or overwhelmed, for one thing.
Raising a hand up, he softly rapped his knuckles on the wood of the doorframe and called out as lightly and as pleasantly as he could.
"Miss Babcock, what're you—"
The rest of the question was lost in a gasp that left C.C.'s mouth like the screech of a tyre on the road. She spun wildly away from her cooking, the clean plate that was in her hands slipping out of them and hurtling rapidly to the floor with a crash that made Niles' ears ring.
Once it had faded away into silence, the butler had expected Miss Babcock to groan in frustration, and…and perhaps fetch a pan of some sort to clean it up. But she didn't. She just…stood there, looking at it, and even in the harsh light of the kitchen Niles could see that she was rapidly turning pale as a sheet.
But why? What could be wrong? It was only a little bit of broken china – it could easily be cleared away! He'd done it himself hundreds of times, no great panic. But he could hear in the quiet of the kitchen as her breath started to hitch, turning ragged and raspy, forcing its way up her throat in horror.
Niles moved forward a step, ready to reach out and reassure. They could get this sorted out; it didn't matter so much…! A quick brush up off the floor, no harm do—
Miss Babcock dropped like a stone to the tiles, kneeling in the broken plate pieces and frantically scooping them up into her hands.
Alarm bells exploded into a cacophony in Niles' head. What the hell was she doing?! That was broken china she was kneeling in and scraping against her skin!
"Miss Babcock!" he cried out, rushing forward without a second thought. "Miss Babcock, stop! Stop! You're going to hurt yourself doing that!"
Whether she couldn't hear him, or was too panic-stricken to do anything but carry on, he couldn't tell. Tears were starting to pour down her cheeks now, and beads of blood were bubbling up where the porcelain shards were slicing through her hands.
The sight turned the butler's stomach over, and he hurried the rest of the way to her side.
He started to try and kneel by her, "Miss Babcock, please—"
But as soon as she saw a flash of his hand in front of her, or maybe it was his voice or his footsteps so close by, C.C. cut him off with a harrowing scream. She threw her bloodied and china-stuck hands over her head in a shower of plate pieces, curling up tightly on the floor and bursting into loud, awful sobs that tore into the butler and reverberated around the room.
Backing away, Niles felt himself sinking heavily. Or drowning. What did he do now? What could he do?! How could he possibly make this better?! He didn't even know what it was that had made it all happen in the first place, so he didn't have a hope of making it all go away again!
He was useless. He'd never been useless in his life and now when it really counted, he truly was the most hopeless, pathetic person to have around! All he wanted to do was help Miss Babcock feel like herself again, and it killed him inside to think that right from the very start all he'd done was help to make her feel worse!
Still, he had to do something – she was unwell and in the middle of some sort of trauma-induced panic attack. He'd known it could happen, and thankfully for everyone involved, he'd actually spoken to some of the mental health nurses at the hospital about the possible challenges that caring for C.C. would most definitely bring.
The nurses had been wonderful about it, and even if he was no mental health professional and even if he most definitely would need help from an actual therapist to aid Miss Babcock throughout her long recovery, he did remember going over how to recognise and what to do in the event of a panic attack.
It looked like it was time to put what he'd learnt to good use.
Gently (and after taking a deep breath) Niles crouched in front of C.C., always keeping a respectable distance between the two of them. He didn't want to get too close lest he make matters worse, but he did want her to know he was there for her.
"Miss Babcock, it's Niles," he said in a soft, soothing voice – the nurses had said familiar voices could help. "I know you are afraid; I know you are having a panic attack, but please, just listen to me. I'm here to help you – okay…?"
C.C. didn't appear to be listening to him at first, but after a few moments of hesitation, she gave a short nod. She was sobbing still and her breathing was as ragged as before, but at least she was listening. She had taken the first step.
"Good. Now, do you think you can try and tell me how I can help you?"
The producer shook her head no.
"That's okay. You just listen to me and I'll try my best," he said, coming just a bit closer to her. He was happy when he saw her nod at his words. "Now, let's try this, okay? I want you to take a deep breath for five seconds, okay?"
He waited for her nod (which came far sooner than Niles feared it would take) and then calmly counted to five. He could hear her taking a deep, gasped breath.
"That's good. Now, I will count to five again and I want you to hold your breath until I'm done…"
Little by little and with all the patience in the world, Niles gently guided the producer through the different grounding techniques the nurses had suggested. They started with steadying her breathing, then moved on to the 5-4-3-2-1 method and finished up with an anchoring phrase of her choosing (to Niles, getting her to say her name, age, the date, where she lived, and her current whereabouts felt like a bigger victory than getting a gold medal in the Olympics).
Eventually, C.C.'s breathing started to slow down, smoothing out to a relieving fluidity that took Niles off the edge. Her tears had dried up, too; they were no longer pouring down her cheeks or dripping onto the floor when she moved.
She'd calmed down. That put the butler back on firmer ground, where he felt a little more confident. The producer might still have been bleeding from her hands, and she hadn't left the spot on the floor where she'd first curled up against enemies her mind couldn't yet help anticipating, but it was a start. A very good start, considering everything.
And Niles knew just what to do next. The cuts on her hands needed taking care of before long, and he could make an educated guess that she wouldn't be ready to move yet. If that were the case, then they'd have to do something about the bleeding right there.
But he didn't want to alarm her any more than he already had.
"Are you aware that your hands are bleeding, from the china shards?" he asked quietly.
Waiting for her reply took even less time than it had before. The producer's golden head shifted again as she nodded – more quickly this time, and with less hesitation.
"Yes…"
The word was barely breathed, but to Niles it could have been shouted out loud. He nearly felt his mouth twitch up into a smile; she was soothed enough to speak to him…! He could relax a little more while moving into the next step.
"Alright," he said with a slow nod. "Would you…like us to take care of that, before we do anything else?"
The producer nodded again, "Yes…"
Niles mirrored her nod almost exactly. Yes. Cleaning up her hands they could definitely do. He'd done it plenty of times before, over the course of his years as a servant. Granted, those cuts had usually been scrapes from the Sheffield children falling over, or a slight, accidental cut from a smashed plate or glass on those very rare occasions when they'd been in the kitchen and something had slipped out of his grasp. But he still knew what needed to be done. That wouldn't change, even if…circumstances…did.
"Alright, then. I'm going to fetch the First Aid kit. You stay here and take things easy, and I'll be back in a moment."
Keeping his movements simple and steady, he retreated from the kitchen and went to the bathroom. The First Aid kit was kept in one of the cabinets there, and had everything he needed to take care of the cuts, including a roll of bandages that would be ideal for keeping them protected. He found it in no time at all (he always kept its location in the back of his mind, just in case), before turning and wasting no time in heading back.
Chester greeted him at the doorway, having been startled out of the room by the dropped plate and apparently wanting to return straight to his mistress as soon as possible. He flopped to the floor in a little orange pile, whining faintly, as Niles stepped past him and went in.
He didn't go too far, though, retrieving his foot before taking so much as another step. Visions of a second attack had started to flash in front of his eyes the moment he'd tried to take it, and he'd wobbled backwards in his hesitation.
He couldn't just approach. He had to be careful about it – just as gentle and non-threatening as he had tried to be when approaching her the very first time. Only this time, he had to make sure it worked.
She wasn't looking at him, so he knocked on the door and called out to her again.
"I'm back with the First Aid kit, Miss Babcock. Am I alright to come over…?"
The producer twitched slightly with the knock, but the fact that she was expecting him had to have been running through her mind because she didn't scream, or cry, or even give much more than a little indication that she'd been startled by his arrival. She let out a deep breath, and nodded.
"Okay," Niles swallowed, starting a moderate pace across the tiles. "We're going to need to clean your hands off with some disinfectant, and I have some bandages here to wrap them up in and keep them protected. Is that alright?"
Before, he might've expected the producer to roll her eyes at him and snap that of course it was okay, you stupid, pathetic excuse for a butler. Or something of that nature. The awful, gut wrenching feeling inside him grew, thinking of how those days had been ripped away and that the C.C. Babcock he'd known was…
No. He refused to say that she wasn't there anymore. Terrible things might've happened – things that he could hardly stand to think about – but that didn't mean that the producer had gone anywhere. She was there, with them. She might not have been the same, for now, but that didn't mean she couldn't be the way she was before.
She just needed the care it took to get there again. He had to keep remembering that.
With every step he took, he reassured her of what was going to happen next, and he felt the hard lumps of scattered china on the tiles underneath his slippers as he moved. He'd get those cleaned up as soon as he'd made sure Miss Babcock was alright…
Going into a very measured and deliberate crouch, he settled the First Aid kit on the floor.
"I'm going to kneel on the floor next to you, now. I'll open the kit and we can get started, if you're ready?"
He waited for her nod and another breathed "Yes" before he knelt and flicked at the latches on the kit, opening it up and laying it flat on the floor.
"May I have one of your hands please, Miss Babcock? I'll be taking out any leftover china before I put the disinfectant on, so it might sting a little…"
He waited, imagining she might become afraid and say no at the last moment, but curbing the expected disappointment when she eventually extended one trembling hand towards him. He took it as tenderly as he could in his own, starting to pick out the shards that had stuck to her skin and punctured it. Thankfully none of the pieces looked too small for him to deal with, and he dabbed at the cuts with disinfectant-soaked cotton buds before wrapping her hand securely in a long strip of the bandages.
In all that time, the producer didn't give more than hints that it hurt. The occasional wince, or slight flinch, but nothing more. The butler's mind started to wander towards what that could mean, but took a detour at the last moment. He didn't want to bog himself down with horrors that he couldn't change or make better. Not when he had a job to do and things that he could help to make better…
He finished bandaging her first hand, watching her lower it back to her side awkwardly, "May I have your other hand, Miss Babcock? I understand if you'd prefer to take a break before we—"
Her other hand was already moving towards him before he'd finished what he was saying. It nearly made Niles smile again, seeing her commitment to her own treatment.
"Alright. You know the drill, now; it might sting a bit."
He repeated the same process with her other hand, working just as meticulously to take out every piece of porcelain and to cover every cut with cleaning disinfectant. And again, Miss Babcock did nothing to show it bothered her too much.
Perhaps it just bothered her less than whatever had happened before…
Niles frowned hard at that, and doubled down on his efforts to get everything cleaned out and her hand wrapped up. She'd tell him, in time, if she wanted to. His imagination just wasn't helping for the time being.
It was a hindrance, if anything.
So, he shut it out to finish what he was doing, and he was almost as relieved to pack up the kit again as he was to have seen her agree to everything he'd asked. It was done. But he doubted very much that he'd be able to convince the producer to go back to bed just yet, and to leave him to clean everything up.
Not that that changed much. The kitchen would still need cleaning and she still needed a quiet, comfortable space to help her feel better. She couldn't wait this out on the kitchen floor…!
Perhaps…perhaps he should ask her about that, too? Maybe she'd have a preference of where she wanted to be?
"Now that's all done, would you like to be somewhere a bit more comfortable?" he asked her. "If you're feeling alright to get up…?"
The producer nodded almost right away, "Yes…I'd like that…"
Niles' mouth pulled up at the corners, his voice encouraging.
"Where would you like to go? To your bed? To the living room…?"
"Living room," came the instant reply. "To…to the sofa…"
The living room sofa. Alright; he could manage that far. If that was where she wanted to be, then he'd help her get there if needed. It nagged at him a little how quickly she'd answered in favour of the living room, like she was terrified of going back to bed, but he wouldn't press further or ask her if she was sure. Not yet, anyway.
"Alright. We can do that. I'm going to get up now, so we can get going," he pulled himself to his feet, avoiding the shards on the floor where possible and thanking the Lord he'd decided to wear long pyjamas that protected his knees. "Do you need any help standing up? It might be difficult with your bandages…"
Miss Babcock slowly uncurled herself, shaking her head at him in silent reply as she examined the floor and began the slightly laboured process of getting herself to her feet. Niles waited, not moving a muscle. He couldn't help feeling a little bit proud of the fact that she was determined to do it all, even if it did also worry him at the same time.
He was just thankful that he could be there to do the things she absolutely couldn't do, and that this time it had – so far – worked out.
"Good," he actually managed a small smile when she got upright on her feet. "Alright, then. Let's go to the living room – you go on and I'll follow."
"But…but what about the broken china?" she asked, briefly glancing between him and the ceramic-covered mess the kitchen floor had become. "If I could just––"
"Don't worry about it, Miss Babcock," Niles quickly replied (he didn't like having to cut her off, but he also didn't want her to go down a path that would further worsen her distress. She wasn't a servant anymore – if anything, he was! "I will deal with it as well as with your early breakfast once you are settled."
The producer wasn't convinced.
"I've made the mess. I should be the one to clean it up," she said.
"I'd normally agree with that statement, but given that you are still supposed to keep bedrest and have just sustained an injury, I hardly think it's fair for you to do anything but relax," replied the butler with a gentle smile. "Besides, I'm the domestic here, am I not?"
"That's what you'd fucking think…" she snapped back, frowning.
Niles' smile melted away from his face at the words, stunned by what she'd just said. He then watched as the producer's own snarl dropped from her lips, as though she'd just caught herself doing something awful – something she'd never do. Something she was never supposed to do.
She hadn't meant to say it, had she? Or, at least, not in the way it had come out. They'd had a long history of saying Things to each other, but none of it had ever sounded quite so…so poisonous. So bitter…!
C.C.'s bandaged hands flew over her mouth, covering it like she feared what else could come flying out.
"Oh, God…! Oh, I'm so sorry!" the pained cries were muffled. "I'm sorry! I really didn't mean—"
"Miss Babcock, please," Niles tried to interject. "It really is quite—"
Only to be ignored as Miss Babcock's hands swept to either side of her lips, eyes still open in devastated shock.
"I'm such a stupid excuse for a human being! How could I have been such…such a bitch?!" her lip quivered and her eyes flickered a little, like they were threatening to get watery again. "You were only trying to help me…!"
That hit Niles like a firm punch in the stomach from a stone fist.
She knew what he was doing for her. But whatever had happened to her back…back there, it meant that she couldn't help herself anymore. It was pressing on her mind and on her heart too much to simply squash it down now. She needed an outlet for the anger, and the hurt, and he'd just happened to be the wrong target at the right time.
He would be lying through his teeth and even doing that poorly if he said none of it bothered him, or that it wasn't causing him the worst pain he'd ever felt. But it was better for her if she did get some of it out when she needed – he didn't want to discourage her from sharing her feelings. She was entitled to them. More than entitled to them; so much had happened that he couldn't even fathom and wouldn't wish on his worst enemy!
He wouldn't say anything on it anymore, beyond letting her know it was truly okay.
It was a small price to pay. What was the occasional bark or snap, compared to making sure she felt safe enough to open up to people again?
"And that isn't going to change," he began. "You did nothing wrong here, Miss Babcock, I promise. It really is alright…"
He'd used that word a lot this hour. Part of him wondered if he really meant it, or if he was hoping to will the notion into existence by constant out-loud repetition.
It didn't matter. It wasn't going to change what he was doing to help.
"You can always take a quick jab at me if you feel the need. I'm like a straw bundle for sword practise – I'm a soft, easy target," he tried to joke instead, something lifting hopefully from his shoulders when the producer started to lower her hands and didn't look quite so upset anymore. "Come on, let's finish heading to the…"
Trailing off hadn't been in his plans, but an idea had suddenly occurred to him. If Miss Babcock wanted something to eat, and (as they perhaps both knew) wouldn't feel better until the kitchen floor had been cleaned, then perhaps the suggestion of the sofa should be put on the back burner? Until after his own proposal had been put forward?
"Actually," he said instead. "Why don't we finish up cooking breakfast together? We can eat, then get this floor cleaned up if it would make you feel better…"
Watching and waiting as the producer's hands slipped downwards to rest over her heart while she thought, Niles again half expected her to say no. That she'd rather do it herself, or eat by herself – anything right then that meant she didn't have to spend time with the man she'd just lost it a little bit at…
But she didn't say any of that.
"Okay," her voice was as soft as her nodding. "I think I'd like that."
"I'm happy to hear that," he replied, smiling brightly – they were making progress! Real, actual progress! "So what do you say if I go get a broom while you continue making breakfast?"
C.C. looked between the mess on the floor and the now completely ruined breakfast. Her outburst had resulted in the eggs and pancakes becoming cold, not to mention the last pancake she'd been cooking was now but a blot of charred dough stuck to the fancy Teflon pan her father had gotten for the house. Had she still been at…That Horrible Place…she was sure she'd have been beaten up for such a subpar performance. Just like what had happened when Thomas had first ordered her to cook for him. She'd lost count of the times he'd beaten her black and blue for not being able to prepare a meal. He hadn't cared she'd never been a good cook to begin with; he'd just wanted his meal.
The mere thought of it was enough to bring fresh tears on, which she quickly tried to brush away. Still, it was too late – Niles had seen them, and once again worry felt like a noose tied fast around his neck.
"Or I can deal with the cooking!" Niles quickly suggested. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to upset you. I should have asked before making decisions. We'll do whatever you wa––"
"It's fine, Niles," she cut him off. "It's…it's not your fault. You haven't upset me. I…I just have too many bad memories in my head…"
She looked away from him, casting her eyes down, towards the floor.
She couldn't have looked more ashamed if she'd tried, and that alone was enough to break the butler's heart.
"He'd always make me cook and he beat me up whenever things weren't up to standard…" she mumbled.
That noose around Niles' neck got tighter, cutting off his air so he couldn't breathe. He wanted to claw at it, limbs flailing and hands grasping at something – anything – that could release him from the anguish of hearing the words coming from Miss Babcock's own mouth. But he couldn't. There was nothing to pull on, or to rip away. His hand was itching to pull at his collar, but he knew in his forlorn and breaking heart that it wouldn't do anything. There was no getting away from this, no matter how hard he tried.
He'd at least felt…a step or two away, when it had been Lane telling him about the waking nightmare that had been Miss Babcock's life in the confines of that monster's house. Now he felt like the very words from the producer's mouth were gripping him so tightly he couldn't run; hearing it from her voice, in her own words, was like being up close to the horrors. Pressed up, unwilling to look but unable to look away as…as that bastard screamed at Miss Babcock over a broken plate, or burnt and inedible food, and laying hands on her for the crime of merely breathing without his say-so.
The laying his hands on her got worse, and Niles closed his mind's eye to the dreadful sight of slaps and punches, kicks and slams against walls. He'd never heard Miss Babcock scream in utter terror, but for some reason his brain was very good at imagining it.
It wasn't as though he'd been there…
Things would've been very different, if he'd known and had been there…
He should've done something, shouldn't he? From the moment they'd known on more than gut instinct that it had been Thomas, he should have done something! He would've figured it out; breaking in, spying, watching Thomas' house himself – he could've done any of it! It might've stopped everything – Miss Babcock might've been saved far earlier, the bastard caught and brought to justice! She might have been spared so much pain, so many sleepless nights, and been surrounded far sooner by the love and care she deserved!
He hadn't done any of that, though. He'd just sat by the phone and he'd waited to be told what to do like the good little butler he was.
Now he knew why the tightness felt like a noose. It had once been a common execution for the guilty.
Not that Miss Babcock could ever know about how he felt. That wasn't her burden to bear, and she'd probably insist on making it as such if he ever dared to let it slip. But he knew how to keep his trap shut. It wouldn't be fair on her to do anything else, and after so many unfair things that had happened over the course of mere months, it was practically the least he could do!
He needed to help even things out, and that started by showing her the kindness she'd lacked in that place. It wouldn't begin by touching her, either, even if a reassuring rub of the arm or pat on the shoulder might've been a go-to response for most.
"I am sorry for that," he said, almost whispering. "But it will never happen here. Nor ever again; you're safe, you're free, and you always will be. No one will ever try and..."
He trailed off when he realised the words were starting to get a little bit out of his control. He hadn't meant to start off down the path of talking about people hurting her – the last part had just…sort of…well, slipped out. It had to have been noticeable, and he thought he saw Miss Babcock's face starting to crumble again, so he needed to do something and he needed to do it fast.
Redirecting it took some work. Like turning a cargo ship on a dime.
"No one will ever make you cook for them again. You won't ever have to cook again, unless you want to," he steered it hard. "That's what I'm here for. Partially. I'm here to help you with everything, really – the cooking, the cleaning…watching over and taking care however I can."
Something about her expression and the silence left behind his words made him want to fill up the gap.
"That's my job here, and I'm more than happy to do it to see you feel better. Your job is simply to rest and get better. So I really mean it when I say please don't feel bad, Miss Babcock. It's all part of helping you to feel more like yourself again, and I'm not going anywhere until I've done that."
Time seemed to stop then, as Miss Babcock stared back at him in…in some sort of…touched awe. Her breathing had calmed completely, and her eyes watched his in a gaze that he might have almost said was tender. The corners of her mouth were even starting to turn upwards…
Niles wanted to hope – to say – that she was smiling.
But before he could look at it anymore carefully, she'd launched herself in his direction to briefly squeeze him in a thankful hug.
Niles' insides burst with a radiant happiness that he never thought he'd felt before. Or would ever again, if he'd ever felt it before. It warmed him from the inside, like stepping into a comfortable family kitchen after being out on a cold winter's night. It made him want to beam back broadly, like seeing a friend for the first time after years of being apart.
It lingered in him after the hug had ended, which wasn't too difficult seeing as it had only lasted a few seconds at most.
"I'll get started on the pancakes," C.C. replied, quickly moving on from the tender moment they'd just shared.
She clearly wasn't comfortable with big shows of emotion yet, but Niles didn't mind. As he'd said before, he was determined to respect her pace, and if she wanted to put something to rest for a little while, then that was that. He'd just stick to his promise of being there for her no matter what and, currently, that meant getting on with cleaning up the floor.
So, while the producer was busy with the new batch of pancakes and their scrambled eggs, Niles got down to work.
Grabbing the broom from its dedicated spot in the closet, he got started on clearing up the broken china. Sweeping the floor took the utmost care at the best of times, but today Niles felt like he was taking that little bit of extra care to do it perfectly. All the floor was checked in case any pieces had scattered, and every gap in the tiles was checked for shards that might've gotten wedged.
He didn't want anyone – least of all Miss Babcock, as things currently stood – cutting their feet open on anything left behind.
Once the pieces had all been swept up and away into the garbage, he got started on their serving trays. Two new plates were taken down from the cupboard, two glasses of orange juice prepared, and two cups set out ready for tea or coffee as asked for.
He'd ask Miss Babcock in a moment which she wanted. He'd been watching the producer while he'd worked, and it had quickly become apparent that she was fully engrossed in what she was doing. It was…surprising, in a way that was both jarring and impressive, how skilled she now was in the kitchen. The smells that had filled the air as she'd cooked had been marvellous, and when she'd watched her flip the pancakes, they'd looked thick, soft, and golden brown. The scrambled eggs looked light and fluffy, too, like tiny clouds.
It was more than enough to get Chester back in the room, and he sat a few feet away, eagerly awaiting petting and snacks from their plates.
It never would've been like this before, Niles thought to himself sadly. It had never had to be. And no one should ever have to go through Hell in order to make that kind of change in their life…
But she had. That couldn't be changed now, no matter how much he wanted to be able to. It wasn't within his power; the only thing that was, as things stood, was being there now and helping her to feel better in any way he could.
"We need some plates," she eventually said. "The eggs are almost ready and I don't want the pancakes getting cold again…"
"On it!" he replied and was soon on his way to get the requested china.
He was just as impressed with the ease she served the meal as with the speed and ability with which she'd prepared it. It reminded him somewhat of seeing a professional chef working – quick, efficient and clean. There were hardly any spills on the counter and the stove, and that was saying something considering she'd used oil and butter in her cooking. Those bastards were a pain and seemed to get everywhere when cooking. He should know – he'd been in charge of making breakfast for the Sheffields for well over two decades!
He almost despaired over the reason behind the near-perfect state of the kitchen, but he stopped himself short. He absolutely could not and should not go down that rabbit hole. It would not be fair for her and would absolutely ruin all the good progress they'd made that morning.
Instead, he busied himself with getting different toppings and spreads for their pancakes. Mr Babcock had made sure to stock their kitchen with everything that could be found in a supermarket before their arrival, so Niles wasn't surprised to find what could only be described as a stockpile of any and every kind of spread in the market. He selected the ones he knew she liked the most (a perk of having worked around her and serving her breakfast for fifteen years): Nutella, maple syrup and caramel sauce. They were soon neatly lined up on his tray and were joined by a plate of C.C.'s freshly-made eggs and pancakes.
"Order up!" she said, a small smile peeking from the corners of her mouth.
It didn't stay there for long, but to Niles it meant the world. He'd missed her smile more than he'd ever dare admit (or say).
"It certainly is," he agreed, letting himself smile back. "Now, what do you say to us taking this all through to the living room to enjoy?"
The producer seemed to like that idea, and the butler insisted on her still going first as they carried their trays through. Setting his tray down briefly on an end table, Niles switched a lamp on and looked around, blinking, at the seats they had available when they got there.
"Where would you like to sit, Miss Babcock?"
"The sofa, please," she replied, glancing between it and him. "I think it'll be more comfy…"
The way she was looking between him and the seat she clearly wanted made Niles think that she felt she had to ask permission. It was the kind of thought that let the air out of him, but he didn't let her know in any way.
She didn't have to ask, but while she got used to being comfortable and confident in that fact again, he'd let her be.
"The sofa it is, then."
Picking up his tray from underneath the warm light of the table lamp, he waited for Miss Babcock to choose her spot before deciding on one himself. When she settled on a corner of the sofa, he chose the other. It seemed a safe option – he wasn't far away if she needed anything, but he wasn't too close, either.
They might be able to talk, if she wanted to. If she relaxed a little, she might even think to tell him what was wrong…
But he didn't want to just blurt out the question; he wanted it to come naturally, so that she wouldn't feel so pressured into answering.
He ended up looking down at his breakfast first, moving it around with his cutlery and making the first few incisions that would prepare it to be turned into bite-sized pieces.
"So, now we're here," he eventually began, when a few bites of egg were ready to go. "What would you like to do? Or talk about, if you'd rather?"
C.C., who'd been fussing around with her own food with her fork, didn't apparently need time to think.
"I'd like to watch some TV."
Television. That they could also do. It had probably been a bit much of him to think that she might want to open up that far about what was bothering her before, anyway. Especially considering how they'd already made so much progress just now…
He had to give her time. Time, and the remote control, which was on the table next to his end of the sofa.
Handing it over, he returned to his breakfast, and he listened and half-watched as C.C. flicked through the channels. Most of them weren't showing much at all, given the time, but her usual cartoon channel was up and running for those who happened to be up and about at this hour. Parents almost certainly had to be.
It was still…very odd, to see her so taken in by the cartoons. The C.C. Babcock he'd known before probably wouldn't have suffered any poor fool who'd watched cartoons in her presence, or had admitted to watching them…
The C.C. Babcock he kept a discreet watchful eye on while having breakfast, however, seemed perfectly content to stay right where she was, smiling slightly at the antics on the screen. She even let out a quiet chuckle or two, under her breath…!
Hearing her laugh, when he'd once feared she might never laugh again, almost gave him permission to relax himself. She was happy. It might've been a difficult start to the morning, for whatever reason, but the cartoons had given her something to smile about and a distraction to help her forget about it for now. He doubted it would last forever, but that didn't matter; when it happened again, he'd just be there with more pancakes and the TV remote.
Their plates cleared over the sound of the television and the clinking and scraping of cutlery. There wasn't any talking, or at least not much; there didn't need to be. Even after their plates had long been emptied and the first rays of the February sun were peeking through the windows, they didn't talk or do much more than sit and watch as the shows cycled through.
Niles only thought about moving when he noticed that C.C. was comfortably dozing, but he made sure to ask if she wanted a blanket before he attempted to go and get her one. She nodded, which was enough confirmation for him, and he thought he'd save some time by taking the empty trays to the kitchen before bringing her a soft, woolly blanket from the airing cupboard in the hall.
He spread the blanket out for her, too, but refrained from his usual instinct to tuck her in. He didn't think she'd feel comfortable with that, and he left her to tuck herself up as she wanted while he returned to his seat.
Before he could so much as bend over to retake it, though, they were both startled out of the peace and quiet by the phone suddenly ringing.
Niles held himself back from groaning under his breath. Who on Earth could that be, calling at this hour? It'd only just gone seven thirty in the morning…!
He wished it was possible to ignore it. To continue on with the early morning calm that he and Miss Babcock had created together out of something that had been rather upsetting and chaotic. But he couldn't. He had to answer, in case it was important.
And not answering it was clearly already making C.C. agitated. She was starting to fiddle with her blanket, like she thought she should get up and do something, even if she didn't quite know what that something was.
He shook his head gently at her – a sign that she shouldn't worry or trouble herself with getting up.
"I'll get it."
Leaving the producer to the opening of Wacky Races, he turned and shuffled off past the warm spot he'd made for himself (and been glad to get back to) on the sofa, heading straight for the side table where the phone was busy screeching away.
He picked it up, silencing the shrill noise.
"Hello?"
He still had to force himself quite hard to not open with "The Babcock residence?" or something of that nature. Lane had insisted on it, and on him practising to make sure he got it right, in case Thomas tried and track C.C. down.
Knowing why he was doing it made him try harder. The last thing he wanted was for an errant word that slipped from his mouth to put her in danger again.
"Niles, it's Lane," came the swift reply.
Niles felt a shot of adrenaline coursing through his now wide-awake body. There were few things in this world that could put him on edge this quickly, and Lane calling him in the wee hours of the morning when Jones was still at large was certainly top of the list.
Still, his own anxiety and what would surely be an important call, considering the time, absolutely shouldn't show. Not when Miss Babcock was around. He still remembered the horrific and traumatic afternoon when she'd been informed Thomas Jones was at large – he absolutely didn't want a repeat performance. Not after the already difficult morning they'd had.
"Detective Lane!" he said, sounding remarkably sanguine. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this early call?"
"She's there, isn't she?" Lane said.
Niles discreetly glanced in C.C.'s direction – worry and fear had already made themselves at home in her tired face. Niles of course wasn't surprised; Miss Babcock might have been traumatised, but she wasn't stupid. She most definitely suspected something was up, and now it was up to him to assuage her fears. Currently, that meant delaying any important talks for whenever she wasn't in the vicinity.
Still, he couldn't just openly tell Lane Miss Babcock wasn't in the mental space to deal with any added stress. He'd have to be tactful. Discreet.
Luckily, after years in the service industry, he was an expert at conveying any message in the most inconspicuous ways.
"We were just having breakfast, yes," he said, hoping Lane would catch on. "So, if it isn't urgent could we maybe speak at another time?"
"Meet me in my office in two hours. Shit's hit the fan," said the detective before the line went dead.
Niles all but froze, blinking, the immediate neutral buzz of the phone hitting him like a small shockwave. Well, there was certainly something to be said about Lane's efficiency, even if it was rather abrupt!
At least she took his hint at the same time. No one needed C.C. to panic over a phone call, and the butler was more than sure that the producer was listening from where she was.
Crap, that meant she'd know if he just put the phone down, too – she'd know something was up if he did that…! He'd have to do something, and he'd need to do it quickly.
"Uh…yes! Yes, everything is fine here," he said to the dead line. "Okay. Alright. We'll speak soon – I'll tell her you said hello. Goodbye, Detective Lane."
He then put the phone down, inwardly relieved that his ad-libbing was over.
C.C. peered at him from the sofa, "Is everything alright?"
Okay, so his ad-libbing was not over. Shit, what was he going to tell her?! He couldn't worry her with talk about having to go and meet Lane; she'd never get any rest if she thought that something was up!
And something was most definitely up…
"Um…yes," he answered the question as cheerfully as he could. "Yes, everything is fine! Lane was just…checking in, after…after what happened yesterday…"
He didn't know where that had come from. He was just glad it had come out coherently, and as a reasonable-sounding excuse!
Not that Miss Babcock seemed to fully buy it.
"At seven thirty in the morning?"
Niles tried not to laugh in a panicked fashion but failed, "Well, she knows I'm an early bird…! She probably just figured I'd be up and about already…"
The producer eyed him for a moment, and in that moment Niles wondered if she was going to ask him what was really going on. But then her curious expression faded and she shrugged a little.
"I suppose you normally are."
"Yes – up and about and getting people things," the butler said, a lightbulb going on in his mind as he figured out a way to change the subject. He brought his hands together. "Speaking of, is there anything you'd like that I can get for you…?"
C.C. seemed to think about that. Good; it meant she wouldn't dwell on the "conversation" with Lane.
"Um…I don't know…maybe some water…?"
Niles sprang into action then, happy to have a reason to go out and to think things through.
"Water! I can get you some water – I'll do that for you now…"
He turned, intending to leave the room but not actually doing more than hovering in the doorway until he saw that she'd gone back to the television.
That was a relief – if she'd thought he was behaving oddly, she had either decided to gloss over it or had come to the conclusion that it wasn't that odd so things must have been as alright as he'd said.
He didn't think things could be that alright, though. Lane's call had been urgent, and that started to gnaw at him as he made his way along back to the kitchen. It had to be important; she wouldn't have insisted he come if it wasn't.
He had to go and find out everything. But how was he going to leave without Miss Babcock becoming upset at the prospect of what it could mean…?
It bothered him that he wasn't sure of what to do, or of what Lane wanted from him. That didn't mean anything if it came down to C.C.'s safety, though. He just had to find a way to get down to the station – come up with an excuse, or something…
Years of practise had made him good at that. Even on the spot, as it turned out.
Entering the kitchen at least gave him some time to think about it. He'd have to have a solid idea and plan in place by the time he went back into the living room, too, if he didn't want Miss Babcock to get suspicious.
Leaving had to look completely natural, if he didn't want to worry her. Then, he'd go and find out exactly what it was that had made Lane sound so troubled down the other end of the line.