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The hallway seemed to stretch forever. Suddenly the lights illuminating the room were too bright, yet she was able to block them out completely. She hadn’t moved a muscle since the doctor had left. Since they had all left her standing there, panicked and frozen in shock all at once.
She stood confused for the first few minutes after they arrived. It seemed like their feet weren’t moving fast enough, and the roll of the stretcher that carried his body dragged along lazily. Nothing about it felt real.
They disappeared down the long and winding hall, leaving her with very few words, blood-stained hands, and his sweater that had been taken from his body in the ambulance.
A short while had passed, and now she couldn’t move from the cold plastic seat, no matter how uncomfortable it was. Minute after minute, she compulsively glanced at the flashy watch on her wrist. It was so quiet she could hear its ticking and constant movement, but the seconds felt delayed.
Her fingers curled around the sleeve of his sweater still clutched in her lap. The soft fabric somehow brought her more comfort than the promise of a doctor. She hadn’t remembered she still had it until they were already halfway through the hospital doors and someone tried to pull it from her hands, but she hadn’t let go.
Even now she gripped it too tightly, knuckles pale.
Across the hall a nurse passed quickly, shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Somewhere down the corridor a machine chirped and then fell silent again.
She inhaled for what felt like the hundredth time, deeper this time, but it didn’t help. The air tasted like disinfectant and something metallic. The smell clung to the back of her throat.
For a moment she thought she might be sick.
Instead she pressed her hand flat against her chest, trying to ease the anxiety she was sure wouldn’t leave.
Her mind tried to replay what had just happened, but the memory kept breaking apart before it could settle into something clear. She wanted to suppress it, ignore it even, but the memory pushed through anyway, her mind playing back just how they got here.
He had slumped against her before she fully understood what was happening, his body suddenly heavy in a way that made her stomach drop. Her hands came up instinctively, but not quickly enough to stop him from hitting the floor.
“Niles—”
His name left her breathless, sharper than she meant it to be.
She pulled him closer, one hand sliding behind his head, trying to steady him. His cheek brushed her shoulder, his breath warm but uneven against her neck.
“Hey. Hey—look at me.”
Her voice had dropped immediately, softer now, coaxing.
For a second she thought he might answer. She hoped he would. Hoped that this would just be another one of his sick and tasteless pranks. His eyes flickered faintly, lashes trembling like he was trying to fight his way back.
Then her fingers slipped. Something felt wrong as the slickness grew between her fingers.
She switched hands, still doing her best to keep him close. He was bleeding. Not an alarming amount, but the dark liquid over her fingers did nothing to ease her panic. Her fear. She froze for half a second, staring at the dark smear across her fingers.
“Niles,” she tried again, quieter this time and thankful that none of the Sheffield children were home to witness such a moment. “Stay with me.”
His head lolled slightly in her hand.
Nothing.
Soon a hand pulled gently but firmly at her shoulders after she had managed to briefly leave his side for the telephone.
The room had begun to fill then. Different voices, hurried footsteps, someone shouting for space. The world around her moved too quickly while he stayed terrifyingly still in her arms.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back.”
She hadn’t even realized when they had arrived. Men in uniform rushing to her side, to his body, and scooping him up like he was nothing.
They worked quickly, lowering him onto the stretcher, voices calm in a way that made the situation feel even more unreal.
Questions were being asked, but most of them she couldn’t answer. She’d followed them, and to her surprise she was able to ride along. Perhaps they’d mistaken her for his wife.
The ambulance ride blurred together in flashes of movement and sound. Bright lights above her. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The steady rhythm of equipment she didn’t understand.
The woman tending to him inside the vehicle tugged gently at his sweater.
“We need to remove this.”
The fabric slid from his shoulders, and before she realized what she was doing she had taken it from them, gripping it tightly in both hands.
She sat uselessly on the narrow bench, clutching it like it might somehow keep him anchored, or maybe just her.
Soon she reached for him again. His hand felt heavier than usual when she lifted it. Limp, like she often teased him about. She wrapped her fingers around his anyway.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, a little shocked at her own words.
The words sounded steady, yet she wasn’t sure she believed them.
“That’s good. It helps,” the other woman commented to her as she continued to read the machine.
The ambulance lurched as it slowed.
Then the doors opened, and suddenly everything was moving again.
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, but now she couldn’t help but feel useless. It was in her now to blame herself for the situations she faced, if not daily, often.
Maybe if they weren’t bickering he wouldn’t have gotten all riled up. Maybe if she’d caught him before he fell he would’ve been awake in the ambulance and his hand would have returned an affirming squeeze.
Her throat grew tighter as she sat wearily and waited. She looked over to the phone on the other side of the room. She had tried to call Maxwell, Fran even, but neither of them had answered. She reminded herself to try again soon. Her mind had been racing, not sure how she was going to tell his best friends he had had a heart attack.
It all settled again after the memory faded, the sterile quiet returning all at once. Her hands were still clenched tightly around the sleeve of Niles’s sweater, the fabric stiff and dark where his blood had dried.
“CC?”
A voice cut through the silence.
Her head lifted slowly, almost reluctantly, like she was surfacing from deep water. For a moment she just stared.
“Noel?”
He stood a few feet away, coat still on, hair slightly wind-tossed like he’d come here in a hurry. Of course he had. He had always been the first one, sometimes the only one, there when she needed someone.
His eyes flicked over her face quickly, taking in the red rims of her eyes, the sweater clenched in her fists, the way she hadn’t moved from that chair.
Then she stood quickly.
The chair scraped loudly against the tile and the sudden movement made her sway. Before she could think better of it she crossed the short distance and folded into him, arms tightening around his coat like she was afraid he might disappear too.
Noel stiffened in surprise for exactly half a second before his arms settled around her shoulders.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just let her breathe and held her for as long as she’d let him.
When she finally pulled back, she wiped quickly at her face, already trying to regain some composure.
“You’ve looked worse,” he remarked mildly, his hands now on her shoulders, taking her in.
She gave him a weak glare.
“You’re supposed to comfort me.”
“I am,” he replied evenly. “That was the gentle version.”
CC exhaled shakily and sank back into the plastic chair. Noel lowered himself into the seat beside her, his gaze drifting briefly to the sweater still clutched in her hands. He took a long moment of silence before he spoke again, overthinking everything before he said it.
“He’s survived worse than your temper,” he said, clutching her arm.
She let out a soft, incredulous breath, shaking her head. “This isn’t funny.”
“I know,” Noel said calmly. “And if anyone can argue their way out of death, it’s him.”
That almost broke her.
Her eyes fell to her hands, fingers tightening in the wool of the sweater.
“He had a heart attack, Noel,” she murmured after a moment, like it was the most unbelievable thing she’d ever witnessed.
Noel didn’t interrupt. This time he just stared down the empty hallway, wondering what would be the outcome of this situation for his sister and the man lying in one of the hospital beds.
“If he doesn’t wake up…” she began, but the words stalled in her throat.
Noel leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Then I suppose he’d better wake up,” he said simply.
CC let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
Her fingers finally loosened from the sweater.
Noel glanced at the fabric in her hands. He saw the dark stain covering it along with the sleeves of her coat.
“He’ll be okay, C,” he said, squeezing her arm in reassurance.
She shifted as the chair she sat in grew painfully uncomfortable. As she was about to stand again for the first time in hours, a door clicked somewhere down the hall. Her eyes shot up quickly.
“You should go in,” he said after a moment.
The doctor stepped forward, measured and quiet. He stood a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral. The kind of expression she recognized immediately. She’d seen it before in boardrooms, in negotiations, in rooms where someone was about to say something that would change everything.
She fisted the sweater in her hands, shaking as the doctor was seconds away from addressing her, but he didn’t say anything terrible.
“He’s stable,” he said gently.
The words landed slowly, like they had to travel a long distance before reaching her. Yet she wasn’t as elated as she thought she would be hearing those words.
Stable, but is he awake? was the question she wanted to ask, but she didn’t trust her body to try and form words at the moment.
Her shoulders loosened just slightly, the first breath she’d taken in what felt like hours leaving her chest in a thin, shaky exhale.
“You can see him now.”
Quickly, she moved, the doctor overlooking her behavior, being used to these kinds of situations.
She looked behind her as she left Noel where he sat. A simple nod and a small smile he gave her as she moved without thinking.
Her legs felt strangely numb as she followed down the hallway and to the door she’d been staring at all afternoon. The fluorescent lights hummed above them, a little less bright than the ones in the hall.
The doctor stopped outside the quiet room and pushed the door open.
The machines were the first thing she noticed. It had all become too much so quickly. A soft rhythm filled the room, the steady, mechanical sound of a monitor keeping time. Then she saw him. So many wires connected to the different machines and attached to him in some way or form.
Niles lay against stark blue sheets that seemed too large for him, the blanket pulled neatly across his chest and tucked at his sides. His face was pale, the usual sharpness of his expression softened by sleep and something far more fragile. He seemed much smaller lying there.
For a while she stayed in the doorway, looking over his body, hoping that the machines kept up their steady rhythm.
The sight of him like this felt wrong in a way she couldn’t quite explain, even if she were to ignore the dark hair that made him look even paler. She was always so used to seeing him moving, talking, gesturing, hovering just behind her shoulder with some perfectly timed remark. But the room remained silent.
She stepped closer slowly, like she was approaching something that would implode at any given second. When she finally reached the bedside, her hand lifted instinctively, but she hesitated, noticing how pale his skin was, the faint blue lines beneath it suddenly so prominent that he looked almost thin-skinned.
But before she could think better of it, her fingers settled lightly over his. It was enough to ease the anxiousness when she felt fingers that were so close to being cold now feeling warm and alive.
Her throat tightened and she swallowed harshly.
“You really had to make a scene,” she murmured quietly. She didn’t sound too much like her usual self. Her voice sounded heavier than normal. Surely if he’d heard her in that moment he would’ve joked about the testosterone levels in her voice.
The joke landed in the empty air between them.
The chair that was already placed beside his bed she felt the need to pull closer and sit down in. For a few moments she did nothing.
She simply sat there, hands folded over his, listening to the steady rhythm of the machines beside him. The room felt too quiet, too still, as though even the air was careful not to disturb him. She focused on the continuous rise and fall of his chest, wondering if that alone was him or if it was also aided by one of the many machines surrounding them both.
Slowly her eyes began to wander down his body. Over the cheap, stiff hospital blanket tucked neatly across his chest. Over the thin tubing and wires she didn’t quite understand. Every new detail felt intrusive somehow, like she shouldn’t be seeing him this way. As if this were something private C.C. Babcock was never meant to catch a glimpse of.
Her gaze landed on the bracelet around his wrist. The small white band looked insipid against his skin. It made her stomach twist and her head suddenly feel light.
It was nothing more than plastic and ink. His name printed neatly beside a string of numbers like he was just something that belonged in this place. However, the sight of it felt unfair in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Too clinical. Too impersonal for someone who normally filled every room with commentary and opinions.
For a second her fingers tightened slightly around his hand. Once again forcing herself to breathe slowly until the feeling passed. Again attempting to ignore the constricting in her throat and burning in her eyes.
When she finally looked up again, her eyes settled on his face.
He didn’t look like the Niles she knew. Or at least the one she was used to.
Without the constant movement of his expressive face, without the sharp little smiles and knowing glances, here he seemed older somehow. The lines around his eyes were more noticeable, his face softer in sleep, stripped of the quick wit that usually sharpened it.
She studied him for a moment longer than she meant to. Suddenly her fingers left his and stroked along his jawline. Then her gaze drifted upward.
His hair.
The ridiculous dark color she knew he’d only done to match Maxwell’s “image” for whatever reason. The sight of it sparked a momentary flash of irritation.
“Honestly,” she muttered under her breath. “You nearly die and still manage to look like you’re auditioning for the role of ‘brooding manservant.’”
But the annoyance faded almost as quickly as it came.
Up close she noticed the faint stain of dye along the edge of his hairline, the telltale evidence of his hack-job attempt to maintain the illusion.
She sighed quietly and reached into her bag. A moment later she pulled out a small packet of makeup wipes.
“Hopeless,” she murmured.
Carefully, she brushed one gently along his temple, wiping away the faint traces of dye. She folded the wipe slowly, more to give her hands something to do than out of any real care for neatness.
For a while, she just watched him again, wondering what could be going on in his head, if anything were happening at all.
“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, almost absent, “this is exactly the sort of sick thing you would do.”
Her thumb brushed faintly against his wrist.
“Collapse dramatically in the middle of the day, cause a scene to freak me out…”
She exhaled softly, but there was no real humor in it.
“…very on brand.”
In the moment she knew she wouldn’t be given a response, but even a harsh one from his lips would be better than the silence she was drowning in.
Her gaze dropped briefly, settling somewhere between his hand and the edge of the bed.
“Always so irritating,” she added, more quietly. “That’s sort of your whole thing.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around his.
“With you I just don’t understand, Niles,” she muttered, though the words lacked any real bite.
This time she stared at what just might be a lifeless body. The biting, grueling thought that maybe if it weren’t for the machines he’d already be gone. That he would leave her here to endure her mostly miserable life he’d become such a great part of.
Then her voice shifted almost imperceptibly.
“And Maxwell—” she let out a breath that was closer to a quiet scoff. “Maxwell would be completely useless without you. You know that.”
Her jaw tightened slightly, slowly getting irritated by her vision growing more blurred as she spoke.
“He would finally notice half the things you do. He wouldn’t—” she stopped herself, choking on her words. The sob that escaped her was the loudest she’d been since entering the room.
“And I…” Her words faltered even more. The uncontrollable trembling in her body made it all the more difficult, along with thoughts she was unable to piece together for the sake of words. For a moment, she said nothing at all and fidgeted with the soiled wipe in her hands.
Her eyes fell to her lap. Even in his unconscious state she still found herself trying to hide from him.
“I can’t—” she started, then stopped again, swallowing.
“I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of… adjusting.” She worded it the best way she knew how. Her fingers tightened just a fraction more around his.
“…so whatever this is,” she said, almost over it now, “you can stop.” C.C. sniffled and wiped the tears that were now falling from her eyes. Briefly she hung her head down, ashamed of what she’d just said. Angry at herself for provoking a man barely held together by machines.
Her gaze drifted back to his hand. Still nothing. No reflex, no quiet shift of his fingers beneath hers. Just stillness where she wished there were something more.
Slowly, she let go of his hand, her fingers trailing up along his arm instead, light and careful. Over the thin hospital gown, over the unfamiliar feel of him.
Her touch moved upward, hesitant at first, then steadier as her hand reached his shoulder. Then his hair.
Her fingers slipped into it gently, smoothing it back the way she’d seen him do a hundred times before, trying to restore some sense of normalcy to something that felt entirely false.
She stilled when there was resistance beneath her fingertips. A small bandage placed over the wound that had caused the bleeding.
Her hand paused there, hovering for just a second before settling more carefully around it, as if even the slightest pressure might hurt him.
Her breath caught again.
“I hope this isn’t my fault,” she whispered, the words barely audible, more thought than voice.
Time passed and she knew it was getting too late. Soon a nurse or doctor would need to check on him and they’d insist she go home for a couple hours. She needed to rest and to rid herself of the slightly blood-stained top.
CC still sat as close to him as ever. One foot resting beneath her thigh and his sweater draped over the front of her body to combat the hospital’s brutal cold.
She had left, but only briefly, to check if Fran or Maxwell had tried to return her calls. Still nothing. There was no need to go far to use the restroom since there was one in his room, and she didn’t have an appetite for anything at all, so she remained in the room with him.
The longer she stayed the smaller the room felt. Something about it pressed in on her now, like the air had thickened, like there was less of it to breathe. She’d been shifting slightly in the chair, but the feeling didn’t relieve the tension.
CC had always loved the quiet, but not this kind.
This was different. No muttered remarks under his breath. No quiet commentary meant only for her.
Just the machines and the waiting that seemed to pledge her deeper into an abyss.
Her eyes drifted again, not really seeing the room anymore.
Instead, her mind filled in what was missing. Drifting to what it was like when they were at the mansion.
The way he would stand just slightly behind her during meetings, close enough to intervene if needed. The way he’d anticipate things before she said them. The way he always seemed to know exactly when she was bluffing and when she wasn’t.
She yawned, her eyes growing heavier by the second, and the exhaustion only frustrated her further. It felt like a betrayal somehow, her body growing tired when he still needed her here.
Then she wondered what the mansion would sound like without him. When he wasn’t mumbling under his breath and singing through the corridors. How much longer the days would feel without him near. How boring everything would be. What she would be like without having him around.
Someone else standing where he usually did. Someone else answering the door, arranging Maxwell’s schedule, quietly correcting the chaos that seemed to follow that household everywhere.
Someone else could probably do it.
The thought landed heavily because she knew it wouldn’t be the same.
No one else would understand the difference between her sharper remarks and the ones she actually meant.
Everyone would continue to assume she was cruel and difficult. She would be exactly the sort of woman people liked to whisper about when she left a room.
Her thumb moved slowly against his hand again. He wasn’t one to mistake her for something she wasn’t.
He’d always understood the joke before she finished it. The implication behind a look. The difference between her irritation and her worry. The things she had no need to explain to anyone else.
Her throat tightened at that thought, so she stopped herself there before she followed it all the way through.
She studied his face again, like she’d already done for hours, but slower this time, as if trying to memorize it without meaning to. The lines, the shape of his mouth, the way his hair fell when it wasn’t perfectly arranged.
As if she might need to remember, just in case.
Minutes later, a nurse passed by and the hallway had gotten darker, though the bright lights still penetrated through the halls.
The moment lingered just long enough to remind her she wouldn’t be allowed to stay forever. The reality of it rose again, slow and suffocating.
Her hand found his once more, less careful in the reaching, though she still avoided the IV with quiet precision. Her fingers curled around his, holding on a little tighter than before. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against their joined hands as if she were about to say a prayer, and as desperate as she felt in this moment she just might.
Her thumb stroked slowly over his skin, grounding herself in the warmth still there.
She turned her face slightly, her cheek now resting against their interlocked hands. A tear slipped free, tracing down and catching against their fingers.
“You have to wake up, Niles.”
Her voice broke the silence in the room, louder than anything she’d said all night. The sound of it seemed to startle even her. The sob that followed was quieter, uneven, something she tried to contain but didn’t quite manage.
“…you will,” she repeated, weaker now. Her fingers tightened around his.
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead more firmly against their hands.
As if saying it softly might make it true.