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He fell for her instantly. Swept away entirely—it took less than a second. You’re Daphne? he’d said. As if he’d been expecting her. Searching without knowing. Perhaps the Fates had whispered her name to him in his sleep, and he’d been waiting for her ever since. You’re Daphne? he’d said. Oh, it’s you. There you are.
Why, yes I am, she’d smiled. He’d stared, unwilling—and unable—to look away. Why, yes I am, were her exact words.
It’s me, he’d heard her say. Here I am. What took you so long?
He’d felt like a fool for not having met her sooner. For a moment, he’d forgotten who he’d been before turning around, before meeting her eyes, before hearing her voice. He’d stumbled on his words, trying to explain himself; apologetic, a little dazed. You’re Daphne?
Again, she’d smiled, and surely in that moment there had been no one in the world but the two of them, because Niles couldn’t remember another face, couldn’t recall another presence, only her, her, her...
He’d lived in that moment for as long as possible. He’d picked something up off the table and started folding; whatever she was doing, he wanted to help. Oh how he’d stretched that moment, that first dazzling, dreamy, delicious moment. He’d taken it home with him, and to work, and he’d visited it throughout the day, every time he’d closed his eyes. He hadn’t been aware of it, but he’d carried that moment with him for hours; even tried to make it last through the evening.
And then Frasier had handed him a glass of sherry, eyebrows raised in reproach, and had said, what are you doing?
The moment had shattered. Niles had blinked frantically in the wake of it.
What are you doing?
He’d felt his heart sink. It was unthinkable, what Frasier had implied, and yet… Niles had looked away, only for a second, then back up again. He’d set his jaw. No, no. He hadn’t really done anything, after all. And what could he possibly do that was worth doing? His hands were tied. He was a happily married man, for goodness’ sake.
And she—well… she was Daphne.
~
She hadn’t realised just how much he meant to her. It took her so long, in fact, that it was almost comical when she finally did. Hers wasn’t the scorching love that rushed through body and soul and left nothing unscathed. But if she examined it close enough, she could say it was—in its own strange way—love at first sight.
That first meeting wasn’t burned into her memory. She remembered him of course, the way he’d looked that night, his dark blue eyes and easy smile. She remembered shaking his hand. But that was all. The rest was lost to the years and years she’d known him; years of opening doors and ‘hello Daphne’s and folding laundry together. However, she did recall how comfortable being around him had felt, from the very start.
The second time he’d seen her, he’d asked her to call him ‘Niles’. Please, no more of this ‘Dr.’ and ‘Mrs. Crane’ formality. To you, it's Niles. Anyone else would’ve nodded politely, or said “Okay, Niles.” But not her. She’d smiled, sat down to dinner and never once called him Niles. Not that night, not ever. She could count the exceptions on one hand; all of them during the Snow Ball. Before and after that, she’d always stuck to formalities, no matter how many times he’d asked her to give them up.
This was the part that made her wonder if Cupid’s bow hadn’t struck earlier, much earlier than she’d initially thought. Why else would she have shied away from his simple, reasonable request? Maybe she hadn’t been aware of the fear pushing her away from him at the time. Her obstinate refusal to call him by his given name had created a sort of chasm between them; of this, on the other hand, she had always been perfectly aware. They were friends; close friends; best friends, even. But as long as he was Dr. Crane, the distance separating them remained the same.
It took her years to admit to herself that she found him attractive. Even then, she’d rationalised the attraction; sex was one thing, emotional entanglements quite another. All right, so she’d entertained the idea of sharing his bed on a hot summer evening; it didn’t mean anything.
She’d convinced herself of some variation on this theme far too many times. Anything to keep her thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. And it had worked, for a while. She’d managed to keep those drifting thoughts on a short leash.
Her excuses, at times, had been reasonable. First he was married, and she wouldn’t seek the heart of a married man. Then he was separated, but hoped to get back together with his wife. Recently-divorced was never a good time to start a relationship. She’d lied to herself so well and for so long that she’d believed it. Completely. She had never pined for him before now: she hadn’t even been aware she had feelings for him.
And she’d never imagined, not in a million years, that he could have feelings for her.
~
He told everyone—himself included—that he’d given up hope. That he was ready to move on. It was over; for good, this time. No more half-hearted attempts at indifference; no more stuttering failed love confessions. She was getting married to someone else. Only a fool would still hold out hope.
Oh, but he’d always been a fool for Daphne.
The tenacity of his love for her was baffling. The incident in the kitchen was perhaps the most damning evidence of it. The way she’d held his hand in hers, the way her fingers had lingered on his palm, the slight intake of breath when he’d leaned into her touch… yes, yes he’d hoped against hope that it meant something.
The once-convincing illusion came apart, and he was left a hopeful fool, a love-sick idiot, the same gauche, bewildered man he’d been for the past seven years.
And although things were supposed to be different now—she was engaged, he had a partner—something in him knew he would love her forever. He stopped fighting it. Could one fight a hurricane, or a thunderstorm? It was pointless, it always had been. She was a force of nature; he was a mere mortal. She was the sun, and he poor Icarus.
~
She looked down at her bandaged hand, resting next to his on the mattress. For a moment she thought about touching her fingers to his. But he moved, bringing his hand up to turn the page, and she chided herself for even thinking it.
“It isn't possible to love and part,” he read, his voice gentle as the evening breeze. “You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.”
She watched his perfect profile, outlined against the wall, the light from the lamp falling upon his face. There was a wistful sort of smile caught in the corners of his lips, and she wished she could lean in and press her mouth there. His eyes, like the ocean in depth and color, were fixed on the book.
“Lovely,” she sighed, instantly mortified that she’d said it out loud.
He turned the book to look at its cover, nodding in agreement. “It is, isn’t it? ‘A Room with a View’ was one of my favourite books back in high school. I had a beautiful copy, leather-bound with gold edges… Then Anthony Mason shoved it down the toilet.”
“I’m so sorry Dr. Crane, that’s terrible…”
“At the time I was grateful it wasn’t my head he’d dunked in there,” Niles tried to laugh it off, shrugging as if it didn’t matter.
But it did, she knew it did. Not only to him, but to her as well. She couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering in any way. If she could erase the past, take away the hurt and humiliation… Before she could stop herself she was reaching out, placing her injured hand on top of his.
“You deserve so much better,” she whispered.
For a second, his eyes darted to where her hand covered his own. Then he swallowed, looking away. “Thank you, Daphne.”
Maybe she lingered a moment too long, like the other day in the kitchen. Maybe she should have wished him a good night and left it there. But she didn’t, and she hated herself for it. No matter how inappropriate or insensitive it was, she didn’t want him to go yet. And how selfish, how horribly selfish that she searched his face for remnants of a feeling; for something, anything that resembled longing… Did he still feel it?
“Well,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, gesturing towards the door, “I guess I better, um—”
“Wait,” she stopped him.
He looked at her, waiting. Ever the patient, kind, gentle friend he’d been all these years. She blinked back at him. The question occupied her every thought, but when she tried to speak it got stuck in her throat. “I—I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Please, Daphne, don’t thank me,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “It’s the least I can do.”
She wanted to tell him it was worth the sprained wrist, having him close to her like this. She wanted to tell him so many things.
“Goodnight,” he got up to leave, placing the book on her bedside table. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in the kitchen, cleaning up.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
~
You have beautiful eyes too.
The words danced around in his mind, lighting sparks under his skin. He was giddy from the compliment, repeating it to himself, like a schoolboy; she thinks my eyes are beautiful! And what could she have meant? And why did she leave? And oh, she called him beautiful—
Then his eyes fell to the table, to the words ‘Mrs. Donny Douglas’ written in bold letters on the cardboard box.
Enough. Enough, now.
~
She really thought he was going to tell her. And instead of being relieved when he didn’t, she felt empty, bitterly disappointed. Her eyes wouldn’t leave him, even as he leaned in to kiss Mel.
You had me completely fooled.
~
He found it on the table, just before going to bed. A present, wrapped in burgundy paper.
It was a book. ‘A Room with a View’. A beautiful edition; leather-bound, with gold edges… and a note inside, saying, ‘For Dr. Crane, my dearest friend.’