Work Text:
1989
The first time they call a truce is just after Sara’s funeral. He finds her in the office, surrounded by contracts and scripts and everything else Maxwell abandoned in his grief.
Except the children. Picking up the pieces of their broken hearts has been left to him. Explaining to them as best he can why their mother isn’t coming home, and why their father has locked himself away in his bedroom. Maggie and Brighton are devastated, but at least they understand what’s happening. It’s Grace who’s still too young to comprehend; who cries for her mother every night while he holds her, rocking the toddler to sleep. He loves her like she was his own daughter, and his heart breaks that he cannot make this right for her.
He’s angry at the world for taking away his dear friend, a mother from her children, and even more so at Maxwell for making them feel like they’ve lost the only parent they have left.
She doesn’t immediately notice when he enters, so he stands there for a minute and just watches. There’s nothing of her usual fiery spirit about her right now. He knows she’s doing everything she can to keep the company afloat. If it was simply a matter of money there would be no issue - she could fix that overnight. But theatre is an industry that runs on reputation. She’s making sure that agreements are upheld and that, when Maxwell emerges from his self-imposed isolation, there are projects ready and waiting. That Sheffield Productions is not a name lost to time. He gains an immense amount of respect for her for that. She’s Maxwell's secretary; she’s not paid enough for this. She’s also the daughter of one of the richest and most powerful families in the country. It’s not like she even needs this job.
But she’s here.
She looks up at him after a minute or two, looking as tired as he feels. They know that they are the only thing holding this place together. Family and Business. Neither of them have the strength for their usual head-to-heads.
He gives her a questioning look, and asks quietly “Truce?”.
She nods sadly, “Truce.” and goes back to her papers.
When she looks up again hours later, there is a sandwich on a tray beside her, along with two aspirin, a bottle of water, and a note letting her know that the guest room has been made up if she requires it.
She keeps that note tucked away for years after that day, and never lets him know how much the silent gesture meant to her.
1992
Neither of them are quite sure how or why her mother came to be at this Broadway Investor event. She’s made her disdain for her daughter's chosen field quite clear for as long as he’s known her. He used to find it funny - this is how the rich rebel. They get a job in the entertainment industry.
He’s been looking forward to their usual game of one-upmanship. It was always more fun when they had parameters. She has to remain the professional producer, and he the steadfast butler. It didn’t matter that they weren’t in the house and he was here as a guest - he was still seen as a representative of Sheffield Productions, and Maxwell would not take kindly to him showing them up in front of potential backers and industry contacts. He eventually sees her across the room and makes his way over, however before he has a chance to say a word to her, he realises she is already in conversation with her mother.
“Really dear, haven’t you made your point by now? Isn’t it about time you gave up this charade? You’re not getting any younger, and what little looks you do have won’t last forever.”
He’s never actually heard her mother speak before. What little he knows he learned from the one side of phone conversations he’s overheard. He’s struck by the venom in her voice, as though it isn’t a request but a threat. Until that moment, he hadn’t realised how much he could loath a person - truly, deeply, instinctively hate someone. Despite every insult he’s ever thrown her way, he’s always been struck by how gorgeous she is. Even back when she sported her brown hair and a little extra weight (which feels like a lifetime ago now), she was still quite possibly the most stunning woman he’d ever seen. He has also seen how hard she works; he was the one who put the idea in Maxwell’s head to promote her in the first place. He knows he doesn’t mean a damn word he says.
These insults thrown at her now? They are real.
“Your opinion is noted, mother.” she replies and stalks off, brushing past him at such speed she doesn’t even register that he’s there. He watches as BB narrows her eyes at her daughter, clicks her tongue against her teeth, and leaves. He tries not to pay attention to the chill that goes down his spine as he turns and chases after CC.
She’s curled up on the steps of the hotel stairway, away from prying eyes. She lifts her head as he approaches, and he sees that she’s doing everything in her power not to cry. He opens his mouth to say something, but she holds up her hand.
“Niles, please just… truce?” She sounds so vulnerable. He’s never heard her sound like that before.
He wants to kill her mother in that moment.
“Sure Babcock,” he says softly, sitting next to her and putting his arm around her, “Truce”. She buries her face into his neck and cries.
1996
He doesn’t take the bait for the first insult. Maybe he’s losing his touch. She tries again. “Don’t make me get ugly.” She smiles to herself. It's the equivalent of turning their game on easy mode. He’s never, in all the years she’s known him, passed up that line.
Nothing.
She turns and sees him staring at her, wide eyed with panic and clutching his chest, before his eyes roll back and he crumples to the floor like a rag doll. She screams. She knows this isn’t a joke. They have an unspoken rule that this is an off limits subject. Sara’s death affected them both too deeply to consider joking about this kind of thing. No, this is real.
Brighton comes bolting down the stairs followed by Maggie and Grace, and she orders them to phone an ambulance. She forgets that she’s supposed to pretend she doesn’t know their names, and they’re too terrified to question it.
She rides with him in the back of the ambulance - the EMTs are not given a say in the matter. They know when to argue and when not to, and the look on her face tells them that if they try to tell her ‘no’, then they will not reach the hospital with all their limbs still attached. He’s pale and clammy, but they have him hooked up to a monitor and she can hear the beeping of the little machine, irregular but there, telling her he’s still alive. She realises in that moment that she would pay anything - give anything - to have him back. He won’t get out of it that easily, she tells herself - if he’s leaving this earth, it’ll be by her hands and her hands alone.
It takes Maxwell and Nanny Fine almost a day to get back Stateside. She hasn’t left his bedside in the interim, and when the nurses pull the covered body out of the room while she’s catching them both up on the situation, something inside of her breaks. Her embarrassment at throwing herself on top of a random woman’s dead husband is only outweighed by her relief.
When she visits the next day, she’s well aware of the couple behind the curtain, even before he asks her to get him an extra pillow. She lets them make a swift exit, wishing Niles well and not making eye contact, before shutting the door behind them and pressing her forehead to the cool wood.
“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?” She wants to be angry at him, but honestly she’s never been so glad to be a victim of his pranks in her entire life.
She turns around and sees him smiling so warmly at her. Shaking her head exasperatedly at him, she walks over and sits on the bed. One of her hands holding his, the other pushing a stray lock of his stupidly dyed hair back into place.
Neither needs to say it.
1997
Noel is not surprised when Niles walks through the hospital doors. He’s well aware that he visits every day and he is truly grateful for it. His job doesn’t allow him the opportunity to make the cross country trip as often as he’d like, and he knows his father is in a much tougher position, given that he’s currently in Hong Kong on business. Neither of them have told his mother or youngest sister about what happened. CC is suffering enough as it is.
He watches as the hospital staff greet Niles like an old friend, updating him on her progress and current mood. It’s not a good one today. She’s refusing visitors of any kind, screaming at the staff to get out the second she sees them. He nods sagely, then takes the pills they hand him, puts them in his pocket, and walks down the corridor toward him. Noel can see the dark bags under his eyes, even at a distance, and he looks paler since they last saw each other.
“Good to see you Niles” he greets him with a solid handshake. “Appears I picked the wrong day to visit - the vase she threw at me missed by an inch. I’m just glad it’s plastic!” Noel laughs nervously.
“Sorry Sir. I know it’s hard enough for you to get the time off to come all this way. And I know she misses you when…”
“…when she’s not in a loony bin.” He finishes sadly. The butler flinches at the term ‘loony bin’. He places a hand on Niles shoulder. “You know it’s no-one's fault right? You’ve met most of the family. I’m surprised it didn’t happen years ago.”
He nods but still looks unconvinced. Noel adds quietly, “I’m glad she’s got you here.”
Niles takes a deep breath and straightens up. “Well, no time like the present I suppose.” He tries to sound strong, but Noel can hear the strain in his voice. He watches through the glass window as the butler goes up to his sister and smiles when she reaches out for him. The nurses had told him that even on her worst days, she has yet to throw Niles out. There was something about him that she instinctively trusted.
He couldn’t hear any of their conversation, but when Niles pulls the pills out of his pocket and gently places them in her hand he expects her to yell. To throw something at him. Instead she looks up sadly, nods, and takes them without a fuss.
Noel suddenly feels like he’s intruding on a very private moment. It was strange to see the two of them not at each other's throats, but he’s not upset at the intimacy they now seem to share here in this ghastly place.
Whatever truce the two of them have called for the moment, he is truly grateful.
1998
It’s been eight hours since Fran had told him that the car had gone off the road while she was on the phone to Maxwell. Five hours since the State Police had advised that the blizzard was so bad the tracks would be covered. Three hours since he’d started to wonder how much it would cost to hire a helicopter to find them.
One hour since he punched the wall in the library so hard he wasn't sure if he’d broken his hand or not. At least the pain was better than the empty feeling of helplessness that had taken over his entire body.
He’s tried his best to keep the worry off of his face throughout this whole ordeal. He has to believe they are fine. He refuses to acknowledge the possibility that he might have to spend the rest of his life without having told the damnible woman that she was everything to him.
He hears Fran yelling outside, followed by the sound of Maxwell’s voice, and his heart flips. Grace runs in through the door and, as much as he loves her, he can’t help the slight disappointment he feels that it’s not CC. Grace runs straight up to him, wrapping him in a hug. “She’s parking the car out back” she whispers.
He pulls back and goes to ask what on Earth she’s talking about, but the girl just raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue. Too smart for her own good, that one. He chuckles softly, giving her one last squeeze and whispers back, “You were always my favourite, Miss Grace.”
She shrugs as if to say ‘I know’ and gives him a gentle shove in the direction of the kitchen, out to the back door.
He didn’t know he could run this fast. In hindsight, it was a stupid thing to do. He’s fallen victim to black ice enough times to know better, but right now he couldn’t care less. He sees the car parked up ahead and skids quite literally to a halt. Watching as she gets out of the car, collecting herself, he wills her to look up. She does, and his breath catches in his throat. He moves towards her slowly at first, then gaining speed, never taking his eyes off of her. Just as he’s about to reach her, he catches himself, suddenly unsure. Out of breath and panting, he asks “Truce?”
She swallows hard and nods. Before she’s aware of him moving, she’s wrapped in his arms. He’s so warm, and she’s been cold for so very long. Her arms wrap tightly around his neck and she buries her chilled face against his thick woollen coat. One of his hands is on the back of her head, and she’s never felt so safe in her entire life.
She feels him smile against her neck and whisper, “Welcome home, Babs.”
1999
“Truce?” She asks.
He looks at her over the top of his reading glasses. She’s been sitting up in bed staring into nothing for the past 10 minutes now. Curious, he closes his book and turns fully to look at her. “Do we need one?”
It’s been 10 years since he called their first truce, and historically it’s been a sign of severe distress on the part of one or both of them. For a split second he panics, but she doesn’t appear to be in pain or upset, just thoughtful and unsure of herself.
“I don’t know. It’s just…” She doesn’t really know what she wants to say, but still feels she needs to ask. “That’s when we’re usually nice to each other.”
He can’t help but laugh. Not at her, never at her, but at the nervous way she’s still navigating their relationship. “We seem to be getting on just fine without one, Love.” He wiggles the finger with his wedding ring on it at her and motions to her not-quite-as-flat-as-it-once-was abdomen.
She whacks him with a pillow, and he laughs harder.
Of the two of them, he has always been the more confident one in the relationship. The one who trusts that their jibes at each other are always said with love and affection; the one who knows that even if they have a cross word, even if they go to bed angry, they will work it out. He’s not going anywhere, and neither is she.
“I hate you.” Her tone says otherwise.
“Hate you more” he grins, before leaning over and stealing a kiss.