Regret
Summary: When Fran doesn't come down to breakfast after spraining her ankle, the whole house is concerned for her—especially Niles and Mr. Sheffield. Set after "An Affair to Dismember."
A/N: Okay, so I've binge re-watched nearly four seasons of The Nanny in four days, and had to get at least one fic out of my system, lmao.
Fran Drescher's acting in "An Affair to Dismember" when she suddenly broke while talking to Maxwell made me sensitive. ;-;
AO3 Link
—
Breakfast is a remarkably boring affair without Miss Fine bursting through the door, raising her arms in a floral robe, and proclaiming, with signature adenoidal stylings, “Good moooorning, everyone!”
The clink of silverware, the scraping of ceramic plates, the ruffling sound of Mr. Sheffield anxiously attacking the New York Times like a new Andrew Lloyd Webber play has just dropped—all of it is so terribly drab that Niles spends the first fifteen minutes of her pronounced absence coughing loudly in the hopes that his employer will pick up the hint to do something about it.
“Oh, do go get a bloody cough drop, old man,” he finally snaps, smacking his newspaper down on the table. “You’re driving me mad.”
“Sorry, sir,” Niles arches a brow as he refills Mr. Sheffield’s coffee mug. “I have asthma.”
He turns away to replace the coffee pot on the side table.
“And half a mind to kick your tetchy derrière,” he mutters under his breath.
“What was that, Niles?”
“Nothing, sir! Just saying thank you for your attentive care.”
“Dad,” Master Brighton thankfully interrupts, “where’s Fran, and what have you done to make her mad this time?”
Niles immediately turns around again in time to see his boss’s shoulders straighten in that way they often do when he’s indignant.
Or guilty.
Or some mixture of them both.
“I beg your pardon, Brighton,” he replies stiffly. “Why do you immediately assume I’m the problem here?”
“Process of elimination,” Brighton shrugs. “Fran’s not mad at me, Maggie, or Grace, and Niles is one of her closest friends.”
“You’re so astute, Master Brighton,” Niles smiles wryly as he moves to the left to get a better view of Mr. Sheffield’s face. The vein in his temple is beginning to throb, which is always a good time.
“She hasn’t dated anyone recently,” Miss Margaret pipes up.
“And she’s always fighting with her ma,” Miss Grace adds, “but that's never kept her from Belgian waffles before.”
“So, Dad,” Brighton grins, patting his father once on the back, “unless our math is wrong, that leaves you.”
“Goodness me,” Mr. Sheffield mutters, angrily stabbing a piece of link sausage with his fork. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of the lost Hardy Boy.”
“So you did do something!” Margaret exclaims.
“No! I bloody well did not, Nancy Drew. For your information, Miss Fine accidentally hurt her ankle clubbing last night with Val. I don’t think it’s broken, but I’ve called a doctor to come by just to check.”
“Tsk, tsk. And you didn’t offer to pick her up Cinderella-style and swoop her downstairs so she wouldn’t miss breakfast?” Niles asks chidingly, only to be greeted with a nasty glare.
“Yes, I did offer to bring her down to breakfast as a matter of fact... but Miss Fine seemed strangely subdued when I spoke to her through the door... I didn’t know what to make of it to tell you the truth...”
Mr. Sheffield’s brow contracts as he searches Niles’s face for an answer, and Niles stares back just as studiously, observing the profound concern in his employer’s dark eyes.
The gentleness.
The romance.
The stunningly oblivious care.
Niles sighs fondly.
Unlike Miss Babcock, he’s never had the heart to kick poor puppies when they’re down.
“I’ll bring her Advil and a fresh ice pack,” he promises. “Perhaps some pain relief will help her to regain her spirit.”
“I hope so,” Mr. Sheffield replies, self-consciously turning to his plate again, the tips of his ears rather pink. “I hate when Miss Fine isn’t feeling well.”
“Here, here,” the whole table concurs.
—
Twenty minutes later, Niles is at Miss Fine’s door with a silver tray laden with all the essentials: painkillers, an ice pack, a mug of coffee (milk instead of cream and extra sugar), and a copy of the new edition of Gloss. He lightly taps on her door with the side of his loafer.
“Miss Fine, can I come in?”
“No,” comes an immediate and sharp reply. “I’m not dressed!”
“How discouraging,” Niles sighs smilingly. “What ever shall I do?”
“Suff’a, and at least give me a minute to find a brassiere.”
“Oh, we’ll be here all day then.”
He hears a strange thud, a collection of evaluations (“dirty, dirty, slutty, Maggie’s, dirty”), and an assortment of Yiddish curse words he now vaguely recognizes from being friends with Miss Fine for nearly four years now. And then finally—
“Come in, Jeeves, but shut the door behind ya ‘cuz I haven’t applied a morning layer of lipstick yet.”
Niles elbows the knob and pushes with his shoulder until the door lights open to a peculiar sight. Far from being neat, Miss Fine’s room looks like Macy’s after its annual Black Friday sale with clothes strewn everywhere—from the dressers to the wardrobes to the floor. An empty suitcase is lying on the bed next to Miss Fine, who is sitting in bed wearing an oversized t-shirt, her injured ankle propped up on a pillow. Niles can tell, even from the doorway, that it’s red and swollen, but to his satisfaction and relief, it doesn’t appear to be broken.
“Welcome to the jungle,” Miss Fine mutters when she notices his incredulous gaze. “We got all the animals out t’day.”
“I can see that,” Niles replies, placing his tray on her bedside table and shutting the door. With his usual efficiency, he then walks back over, retrieves the ice pack, and gently places it on the affected area, frowning when she flinches.
“Mr. Sheffield said that the doctor was coming at ten,” he says as he gently lowers himself onto the bed, clasping his hands primly on top of his lap.
“Mm,” Fran grunts noncommittally, grabbing the two Advil pills and knocking them back with a swig of coffee.
“What? You’re not curious as to whether or not said doctor in question is single, Jewish, and living in a Manhattan penthouse? Miss Fine”—Niles reaches over and places the back of his hand on Fran’s head—“do you have a fever?”
“Oh, Niles,” she swats his hand away, “I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard that one.”
“Niles!”
“Sorry, Miss Fine,” he withdraws his hand with a laugh. “You know I have to warm up before Miss Babcock arrives.”
“Glad to assist,” Fran quips, taking another sip of coffee, and it’s only as she closes her eyes to savor the taste, that he notices there are lines beneath her eyes from what seems to have been a sleepless night.
The smile sinks from his face.
“You know,” he says quietly, “in all of our acquaintance, I’ve never known of you to injure yourself while dancing.”
Fran opens her eyes only to immediately glance away, tapping her long nails against her mug.
“Val tripped me up when she thought she saw Elton John,” she shrugs dully. “Turns out it was just a really lifelike poster of him behind the bar...”
“I see,” Niles returns, raising a brow. “It was nice of Miss Toriello to forgo her weekend trip with her parents to come back and… boogie woogie oogie with you.”
“Dammit,” she pouts, scrunching her nose. “I didn’t think I’d told you that.”
“You didn’t. I overheard you and Miss Toriello gabbing on the phone about it yesterday morning.”
Fran can’t seem to help herself; she smiles crookedly, even as she shakes her head.
“I dunno who’s more absorbent sometimes—you or the dish sponge.”
He smiles back at her, patting her uninjured leg gently.
“Me, naturally."
"I can believe it, Chatty Cathy," she sighs.
"Now tell me, Miss Fine"—he regains his solemnity quickly, unwilling to let her deflect with jokes—"why does your room look like a tornado went through Loehmann’s?”
Her dark eyes immediately glance around the messy room, as though looking for an excuse and failing to find one.
It’s only now that Niles is sitting down, taking everything in, that he notices that most of the articles strewn about are her favorite clothing items, from her holographic Versace dress to the black tube top that Mr. Sheffield can’t pry his eyes away from every time she wears it.
“I almost did a very stupid thing, Niles,” she half-whispers, looking down into her coffee cup, her fingers tensed and shivering around the handle. “And the thing is, maybe it wasn’t really all that stupid? Maybe it was the smartest thing I could of done in a lifetime of doin’ so many stupid things.”
She pauses briefly before sardonically adding, “People included.”
Though Niles doesn’t have enough dots to connect the full picture, he has what he needs in the way of evidence to get the basic gist: Nigel being in town, the two of them going out, Nigel leaving town, the suitcase, the swollen ankle, and Miss Fine's uncharacteristic melancholy, smeared across her face so sharply that it may as well be lipstick.
He swallows thickly, suddenly grasping how close that they had all been to losing Fran forever.
“Well,” he says, making an effort to hitch an oblivious smile on his face, “isn’t it your mother who says that everything happens for a reason? It seems as though you’re right where you belong.”
“Yeah,” she snorts indelicately. “Twenty-nine multiple times over, single, and livin’ in a mansion with a man who won’t even commit to his meal orders at restaurants, much less his very available and desperate nanny.”
“Beautiful, young, and living in a mansion with three children who love you, a butler who’d be lost without you, and a man who won’t commit to his tie choices either but still cares for you deeply all the same,” Niles corrects her softly. “He was very worried for you when you didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. He didn’t even do the crossword on the Times.”
“Gee,” she rolls her eyes playfully, “how romantic.”
“Very,” Niles grins, “a modern day Romeo—emotional hangups and all.”
With that, he pats Fran again and stands up; he has no doubt that Mr. Sheffield will be calling for him soon to interrogate him as to Miss Fine’s wellbeing.
Maybe he can even get C.C. on speaker phone to rub it in her face.
“Y’know, Niles,” Fran smiles at him fondly, “if this whole Mr. Sheffield thing doesn’t work out, we should elope in Vegas in ten yea's.”
“Only if you wear this little number,” he says, bending down and picking up a black cocktail dress from the floor, folding it neatly over his arm.
“You wish you could be so lucky.”
“If we’re going to be in Vegas, anything can happen, I suppose.”
After he retrieves the silver tray from the bedside table, he bends down and kisses Miss Fine lightly on the head, his heart hurting when he notices the way that she closes her eyes beneath the gentle touch—young and vulnerable and terribly hurt by something he can’t quite fix with a well-timed witticism.
“Get some rest, Miss Fine," her murmurs against her head. "I'll check on you a bit."
“Thanks, hubby."
—
Scarcely ten minutes later, he’s down in Mr. Sheffield’s office as per usual, offering the producer a fresh cup of tea even though he had already drunk his traditional two cups at breakfast.
He insisted, though, on a third, for some excuse he couldn’t quite come up with.
And instead of coming up with an excuse, he immediately asked for all the particulars of Miss Fine’s health.
Predictable chump.
“Thanks, old boy,” Mr. Sheffield frowns, returning to his crossword, tapping the end of his pen arrhythmically against the paper. “Let me know when the doctor for Miss Fine arrives. I want to be there when he checks her over.”
“Ooh la-la-la,” Niles hums, dropping a sugar cube into the tea with a zesty plop.
Mr. Sheffield places his pen down on the desk angrily.
“Not like that… I just want to ensure she’s going to be well… you know, for the children’s sake.”
“Yes,” he sighs theatrically. “How will the children ever be able to bear their nanny having a twisted ankle?”
“Oh, shut up,” Mr. Sheffield snaps. “I don’t pay you to be sarcastic.”
“No, sir, you pay me to help you with the crossword when you’re missing three-across,” Niles smirks knowingly when he glances down at the incomplete puzzle. “What’s the hint?”
Mr. Sheffield adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose before looking down again.
“A word that means feeling bad for not doing something that you should have done all along. Disappointment. A sense of shame.”
Niles straightens up with a long-suffering shake of his head.
“Oh, sir, do I really have to spell it out for you?”
59 notes
·
View notes