Delicate, a Professor Layton Fanfiction
It started slowly, at first.
Luke, where's my pencil? It's behind your ear like it always is, Professor. Oh, thank you, my boy.
Flora, I can't for the life of me find my hat, have you seen it? Yes, Professor, it's still on your head, silly. My word, so it is. Thank you, my dear.
Every incident they'd laughed off, chalking it up to the Professor's usual way of being more engrossed in his life than the trifling details. Besides, how many times has one looked for their keys while driving a car? How many times has someone lost their glasses while they were on their face?
But then, snap. During a class at the University, the Professor walked in, scribbling on the board about a lesson they'd finished three weeks ago. Dozens of students sat for nearly two hours, desprately confused. Finally, at the end of the lesson, once everyone had cleared out, one student piped up, asking him if he were alright.
A laugh, "Of course I'm alright, Rosetta, no need to fret."
"But we'd done that lesson... weeks ago, Professor."
It was a catalyst. Instead of going home that evening, he'd checked into the University's clinic, and left with a referral to the hospital.
He'd checked into the hospital, and left with absolutely nothing he could tell the children in good faith. As much as it was against the Professor's nature, he buried the news.
The passing months didn't sit prettily.
Professor, I've solved it!- Wait, you're not done yet?
Janice dear, could you hand me that ladle? Wha- ...Professor, who's Janice? I'm Flora. Oh, that's right.
The two of them, of course they noticed what was going on. Luke pointedly remarked to Flora one evening, rather ironically, that the Professor had to have been going senile not to have realized we knew. Flora just hung her head sadly, not quite knowing what to do. They'd finally decided, after a few hours of whispered arguments, that they should confront him about it.
A smile, "Ah, Janice, Luke, what do you need?" A confused glance, in response to their faces.
"I'm Flora, Professor," Her hands balled to nervous fists, wishing there was an easier way to ask.
If faces could collapse, his did. "A-ah, that's right, sorry my dea-"
"Professor, are you sick?" Luke blurted out, suddenly. Thank God for children.
"I-I..." He heaved a sigh, looking very unlike himself. He motions them over, and, even though they were both in their late teens, fourteen, seventeen, sat them both on a knee. He explains everything at length.
Hearing him speak so much, all at once, made it more real, more worrying. Fragmented sentences, incomplete thoughts, fractured memories, upset lapses, wrong names, Janice, Luke, I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. Eyes watered, and both children wordlessly curled into the Professor's chest. Only the sad soprano spoke.
"No, Professor, it's alright, I-... we understand." Janice let it slip, that time.
---
Shove.
Thundercrack. The Professor's mind is scrambled, well, more than it was, he thought, in a peculiar flash of clarity. His face is wet; why is his face wet? Pavement is right in front of his face; he's completely horizontal. He was standing just a moment ago, wasn't he? He wiped his face, pulls his sleeve away.
Blood.
His hearing comes back, someone's screaming. High, shrill screams, so peircing, so sharp that he swipes the underside of his sleeve to his ear to check for blood. None, just more pouring from the gash on his head. He scans for his hat, snatching it, righting it, righting himself. His mind fogs over again, he's not sure what he's seeing.
Stuttering screams, Professor, Professor, are you alright, Luke, please, Luke, wake up, Professor, I think he's-... I think Luke is hurt. A car door slams. Move, girl, get away from him, don't move him. What in blazes was that man doing? Please don't blame him, he's very ill, he didn't know where he was. Luke, she shouts, she shakes him, she's pulled away. Sirens. Beds in the road. My, but naps are lovely.
There's a sudden weight on his chest, and he looks down, his sleeve no longer the only thing that's bloody. He doesn't do anything but look. Somewhere in his mind, there's a train, a train far at the end of a tunnel. Just a little light, a little flash of insight.
"Flora, what just happened?"
"...It's Flo-..." A beat, conditioned response. Emotional, choked back words. "Professor, Luke's been injured. You were nearly struck by a car."
Clarity came again, slow, staggered. The bed in the middle of the road didn't seem odd, before. It was a stretcher, wasn't it... faces warped, water acting like a lens; it wasn't raining. The blood dripping down his cheeks started turning pink; arms wrapped in a hug, both grips tightening.
"I-... I just lost my place and I-..."
"Professor, no, please don't." Please, Professor, don't blame yourself.
Don't blame himself? How could there be no one to blame when he was once again, even in this state, finishing even the easiest puzzles before the boy?
Months of this. Come now, my boy, stop throwing that tantrum. Come now, Professor, please don't. Don't let him see you cry, he'll only start crying himself.
"But Flora, it's my fault," - the accident was the only thing that invoked her name.
There were good days for the Professor. His mind was clear, he could think; here, Luke, let's do this one: you remember this one, press the panel with the timepeice, you've done it so expertly before.
There were bad days for Luke. He smiled, relishing in the noise the panels made and delighting that they lit up. Sigh, let it be, let him play. Wipe his mouth. It's okay.
She watches, hours pass and they're both playing with the same deck of fifty. Wipe their mouths. Wipe her eyes.
Janice, don't leak.
I won't, Luke, It's okay.
---
She laid out his favorite, that crossword that he didn't so much read, rather, he looked at it, looked through it. Past it; he smiles, she smiles, the boy says something nonsensical.
He removes himself, stands up, walks. She realizes, hours too late, that his gait is limp and his eyes weren't eyes anymore. The door closes with a click and she doesn't think anything of it until Luke thinks the study's door is the best toy he's ever seen.
The Professor had taken to tantrums himself when his time in the study was interrupted. She drops everything and grabs him, after jangling doorknobs and a kick hard enough it should have splintered wood. Bricks the weight of realization hit square on, black.
Somehow, she used the phone.
They convince her she's not a hatter, they put away the extra bed for Flora.
Wave bye-bye to the man, Janice!, he coos. Snap.
Sarcastic, biting comments in her mind defended her from herself. She wasn't aware that there were so many kinds of black clothing in existance; black dresses, black suits, black ties, black hats-...
Hats; one hat was missing.
She was so close, she was so close to getting away from the thought, why did they let that insufferable Clive in here, why was he wearing that black hat, she would have been fine had she not have cycled to hats. That horrible Chelmey, why was he allowing thi-
A thick sob, she choked.
Attention was drawn to her, Clive's attention. She drew his attention to his hat. The careful, guarded not-smile on his face slid off, and he slides off his hat. He mouths awkward, rushed apologies, but the situation couldn't be remedied any more than a ruptured artery could be fixed with an adhesive bandage.
She wouldn't go into the room again, all she could do was watch the people come and go, so many people. He'd helped so many. So many that the Yard had allowed a select few to attend, providing them something other than a festive striped jumpsuit to wear.
There were a few fairly famous people, tabloid celebrities, authors, an opera singer. More analogies to save herself from herself, it's a sea of black. Black dresses and black suits and black ties and a blue hat, dancing on the waves.
A little speck of blue in the waves of black, getting tossed back and forth, spouting childish nonsense, utterly childish. Don't be bitter, don't blame yourself, don't do it, she hears her own advice echo through her head.
Have you heard this puzzle, lady? He smiles, and the opera singer smiles pointedly, forcedly back. Flora hears the puzzle. It's not even a puzzle. The lady answers, quote unquote, and he giggles, runs off; says he's gotta go find Janice! and she stares after him, absolutely baffled.
Oh, Luke.
Fires give her nightmares.
Meetings with lawyers, speaking gently, trying to spare her feelings. They didn't realize that the feelings they were trying to avoid were quickly becoming buried as deeply as she could manage. A broken vase with layers and layers of glue and tape had to be secure, right? It couldn't possibly fall apart.
A suit handed her a well worn peice of paper, fine scrawls across it. Fracture. Dated sections, crossed out words, scrawls in loving, finely detailed fountain scratches. Luke gets the puzzles, Flora gets the house, and everything else is split fifty-fifty between ward and apprentice. It makes sense, she notes, but the suit says keep reading.
Later dates, looser scrawls, sloppy curves. Luke gets the puzzles - she wasn't worried about the puzzles - Luke gets the puzzles, Flora gets Luke. Luke, and the house, and the money, and the responsibility.
Crack.
Sarcastic mask, so does that mean she gets the puzzles, too? The suit laughs, confusing the cry for help with humor in light of events. There's a window, she watches out. Idle conversation with stray cats, wild gestures as if he were communicating some grand adventure he probably didn't remember.
Oh, Professor.
---
Two years of this, was it now? Luke, get down from the table. Luke, stay away from the study, you know better. Luke, please, please don't touch that urn - he knows that when her voice cracks, it's time to stop. He's still not there, he's far from there, but he smiles, he listens, he's about on par with a toddler.
"Yes, Janice," he always responds in sing song, after being scolded. Janice, it was the only thing she was ever really called after Luke was injured. The doctors explained to her why he had latched onto that name; Well, he probably doesn't know what your name actually is, didn't Hersh-
She'd stopped listening after that. The rattle of the cart eased her mind, at the very least, the noise flooding her head and making it hard to think of anything else but what to fill it with. She wasn't home, there wasn't anybody to stop him this time, not even that nanny Janice hired when she was going to be away. The best adventure ever! Meanie old Janice never let him slide down the adventure stairs.
Rice, chicken, cream of mushroom, it was hard to find what he could eat, he was hard to handle, a seventeen year old on par with a toddler, developmentally.
A toddler, sliding, balance lost. A toddler might have taken the tumble easier, what with soft limbs and a lighter weight - the weight of a seventeen year old boy, flailing, gangly limbs caused a headfirst blackout into the hardwood. The door creaks open later, it could have been minutes or hours, she wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping on the floor; how many times has she said that was a very ungentlemanly thi--
A beat, she sees the pool. The glue's flaky, the tape starts to peel. She stands, her feet frozen as she cycles; he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, she's alone, what is she going to do, oh God, she's alone, she's alo- ...his eyes flutter. Oh, dear God. Everything she was carrying crashes around her.
He finally comes to, in the crux of her arm, gauze wrapped around the top of his head. His vision's fuzzy, his body feels strange, his face is wet, why was his face wet? He brings his arm up, wiping his face.
He looks, his sleeve is covered in... milk? He scans, multiple bags from the market are littered by the door. After the first few, hazy seconds, he looks up, dazed voice.
"Flora, what happened? Did you fall or something?"
Flora. Fracture. The vase's base started to crumble.
"No, no Luke, you did. I think you fell from the stairs."
"Oh... I... I don't remember it." She's quiet, he doesn't understand. His body feels strange, too long. They're both quiet, for a long time as he tries to peice himself together.
"...Flora?"
"Hm?" Her tone is actually pleasant, as if in the silence, she'd slipped on a mask.
"..." A beat, again. "Where's... where's the Professor?"
The tape gives way. The world shatters.
Luke, where's my pencil? It's behind your ear like it always is, Professor. Oh, thank you, my boy.
Flora, I can't for the life of me find my hat, have you seen it? Yes, Professor, it's still on your head, silly. My word, so it is. Thank you, my dear.
Every incident they'd laughed off, chalking it up to the Professor's usual way of being more engrossed in his life than the trifling details. Besides, how many times has one looked for their keys while driving a car? How many times has someone lost their glasses while they were on their face?
But then, snap. During a class at the University, the Professor walked in, scribbling on the board about a lesson they'd finished three weeks ago. Dozens of students sat for nearly two hours, desprately confused. Finally, at the end of the lesson, once everyone had cleared out, one student piped up, asking him if he were alright.
A laugh, "Of course I'm alright, Rosetta, no need to fret."
"But we'd done that lesson... weeks ago, Professor."
It was a catalyst. Instead of going home that evening, he'd checked into the University's clinic, and left with a referral to the hospital.
He'd checked into the hospital, and left with absolutely nothing he could tell the children in good faith. As much as it was against the Professor's nature, he buried the news.
The passing months didn't sit prettily.
Professor, I've solved it!- Wait, you're not done yet?
Janice dear, could you hand me that ladle? Wha- ...Professor, who's Janice? I'm Flora. Oh, that's right.
The two of them, of course they noticed what was going on. Luke pointedly remarked to Flora one evening, rather ironically, that the Professor had to have been going senile not to have realized we knew. Flora just hung her head sadly, not quite knowing what to do. They'd finally decided, after a few hours of whispered arguments, that they should confront him about it.
A smile, "Ah, Janice, Luke, what do you need?" A confused glance, in response to their faces.
"I'm Flora, Professor," Her hands balled to nervous fists, wishing there was an easier way to ask.
If faces could collapse, his did. "A-ah, that's right, sorry my dea-"
"Professor, are you sick?" Luke blurted out, suddenly. Thank God for children.
"I-I..." He heaved a sigh, looking very unlike himself. He motions them over, and, even though they were both in their late teens, fourteen, seventeen, sat them both on a knee. He explains everything at length.
Hearing him speak so much, all at once, made it more real, more worrying. Fragmented sentences, incomplete thoughts, fractured memories, upset lapses, wrong names, Janice, Luke, I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. Eyes watered, and both children wordlessly curled into the Professor's chest. Only the sad soprano spoke.
"No, Professor, it's alright, I-... we understand." Janice let it slip, that time.
---
Shove.
Thundercrack. The Professor's mind is scrambled, well, more than it was, he thought, in a peculiar flash of clarity. His face is wet; why is his face wet? Pavement is right in front of his face; he's completely horizontal. He was standing just a moment ago, wasn't he? He wiped his face, pulls his sleeve away.
Blood.
His hearing comes back, someone's screaming. High, shrill screams, so peircing, so sharp that he swipes the underside of his sleeve to his ear to check for blood. None, just more pouring from the gash on his head. He scans for his hat, snatching it, righting it, righting himself. His mind fogs over again, he's not sure what he's seeing.
Stuttering screams, Professor, Professor, are you alright, Luke, please, Luke, wake up, Professor, I think he's-... I think Luke is hurt. A car door slams. Move, girl, get away from him, don't move him. What in blazes was that man doing? Please don't blame him, he's very ill, he didn't know where he was. Luke, she shouts, she shakes him, she's pulled away. Sirens. Beds in the road. My, but naps are lovely.
There's a sudden weight on his chest, and he looks down, his sleeve no longer the only thing that's bloody. He doesn't do anything but look. Somewhere in his mind, there's a train, a train far at the end of a tunnel. Just a little light, a little flash of insight.
"Flora, what just happened?"
"...It's Flo-..." A beat, conditioned response. Emotional, choked back words. "Professor, Luke's been injured. You were nearly struck by a car."
Clarity came again, slow, staggered. The bed in the middle of the road didn't seem odd, before. It was a stretcher, wasn't it... faces warped, water acting like a lens; it wasn't raining. The blood dripping down his cheeks started turning pink; arms wrapped in a hug, both grips tightening.
"I-... I just lost my place and I-..."
"Professor, no, please don't." Please, Professor, don't blame yourself.
Don't blame himself? How could there be no one to blame when he was once again, even in this state, finishing even the easiest puzzles before the boy?
Months of this. Come now, my boy, stop throwing that tantrum. Come now, Professor, please don't. Don't let him see you cry, he'll only start crying himself.
"But Flora, it's my fault," - the accident was the only thing that invoked her name.
There were good days for the Professor. His mind was clear, he could think; here, Luke, let's do this one: you remember this one, press the panel with the timepeice, you've done it so expertly before.
There were bad days for Luke. He smiled, relishing in the noise the panels made and delighting that they lit up. Sigh, let it be, let him play. Wipe his mouth. It's okay.
She watches, hours pass and they're both playing with the same deck of fifty. Wipe their mouths. Wipe her eyes.
Janice, don't leak.
I won't, Luke, It's okay.
---
She laid out his favorite, that crossword that he didn't so much read, rather, he looked at it, looked through it. Past it; he smiles, she smiles, the boy says something nonsensical.
He removes himself, stands up, walks. She realizes, hours too late, that his gait is limp and his eyes weren't eyes anymore. The door closes with a click and she doesn't think anything of it until Luke thinks the study's door is the best toy he's ever seen.
The Professor had taken to tantrums himself when his time in the study was interrupted. She drops everything and grabs him, after jangling doorknobs and a kick hard enough it should have splintered wood. Bricks the weight of realization hit square on, black.
Somehow, she used the phone.
They convince her she's not a hatter, they put away the extra bed for Flora.
Wave bye-bye to the man, Janice!, he coos. Snap.
Sarcastic, biting comments in her mind defended her from herself. She wasn't aware that there were so many kinds of black clothing in existance; black dresses, black suits, black ties, black hats-...
Hats; one hat was missing.
She was so close, she was so close to getting away from the thought, why did they let that insufferable Clive in here, why was he wearing that black hat, she would have been fine had she not have cycled to hats. That horrible Chelmey, why was he allowing thi-
A thick sob, she choked.
Attention was drawn to her, Clive's attention. She drew his attention to his hat. The careful, guarded not-smile on his face slid off, and he slides off his hat. He mouths awkward, rushed apologies, but the situation couldn't be remedied any more than a ruptured artery could be fixed with an adhesive bandage.
She wouldn't go into the room again, all she could do was watch the people come and go, so many people. He'd helped so many. So many that the Yard had allowed a select few to attend, providing them something other than a festive striped jumpsuit to wear.
There were a few fairly famous people, tabloid celebrities, authors, an opera singer. More analogies to save herself from herself, it's a sea of black. Black dresses and black suits and black ties and a blue hat, dancing on the waves.
A little speck of blue in the waves of black, getting tossed back and forth, spouting childish nonsense, utterly childish. Don't be bitter, don't blame yourself, don't do it, she hears her own advice echo through her head.
Have you heard this puzzle, lady? He smiles, and the opera singer smiles pointedly, forcedly back. Flora hears the puzzle. It's not even a puzzle. The lady answers, quote unquote, and he giggles, runs off; says he's gotta go find Janice! and she stares after him, absolutely baffled.
Oh, Luke.
Fires give her nightmares.
Meetings with lawyers, speaking gently, trying to spare her feelings. They didn't realize that the feelings they were trying to avoid were quickly becoming buried as deeply as she could manage. A broken vase with layers and layers of glue and tape had to be secure, right? It couldn't possibly fall apart.
A suit handed her a well worn peice of paper, fine scrawls across it. Fracture. Dated sections, crossed out words, scrawls in loving, finely detailed fountain scratches. Luke gets the puzzles, Flora gets the house, and everything else is split fifty-fifty between ward and apprentice. It makes sense, she notes, but the suit says keep reading.
Later dates, looser scrawls, sloppy curves. Luke gets the puzzles - she wasn't worried about the puzzles - Luke gets the puzzles, Flora gets Luke. Luke, and the house, and the money, and the responsibility.
Crack.
Sarcastic mask, so does that mean she gets the puzzles, too? The suit laughs, confusing the cry for help with humor in light of events. There's a window, she watches out. Idle conversation with stray cats, wild gestures as if he were communicating some grand adventure he probably didn't remember.
Oh, Professor.
---
Two years of this, was it now? Luke, get down from the table. Luke, stay away from the study, you know better. Luke, please, please don't touch that urn - he knows that when her voice cracks, it's time to stop. He's still not there, he's far from there, but he smiles, he listens, he's about on par with a toddler.
"Yes, Janice," he always responds in sing song, after being scolded. Janice, it was the only thing she was ever really called after Luke was injured. The doctors explained to her why he had latched onto that name; Well, he probably doesn't know what your name actually is, didn't Hersh-
She'd stopped listening after that. The rattle of the cart eased her mind, at the very least, the noise flooding her head and making it hard to think of anything else but what to fill it with. She wasn't home, there wasn't anybody to stop him this time, not even that nanny Janice hired when she was going to be away. The best adventure ever! Meanie old Janice never let him slide down the adventure stairs.
Rice, chicken, cream of mushroom, it was hard to find what he could eat, he was hard to handle, a seventeen year old on par with a toddler, developmentally.
A toddler, sliding, balance lost. A toddler might have taken the tumble easier, what with soft limbs and a lighter weight - the weight of a seventeen year old boy, flailing, gangly limbs caused a headfirst blackout into the hardwood. The door creaks open later, it could have been minutes or hours, she wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping on the floor; how many times has she said that was a very ungentlemanly thi--
A beat, she sees the pool. The glue's flaky, the tape starts to peel. She stands, her feet frozen as she cycles; he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, she's alone, what is she going to do, oh God, she's alone, she's alo- ...his eyes flutter. Oh, dear God. Everything she was carrying crashes around her.
He finally comes to, in the crux of her arm, gauze wrapped around the top of his head. His vision's fuzzy, his body feels strange, his face is wet, why was his face wet? He brings his arm up, wiping his face.
He looks, his sleeve is covered in... milk? He scans, multiple bags from the market are littered by the door. After the first few, hazy seconds, he looks up, dazed voice.
"Flora, what happened? Did you fall or something?"
Flora. Fracture. The vase's base started to crumble.
"No, no Luke, you did. I think you fell from the stairs."
"Oh... I... I don't remember it." She's quiet, he doesn't understand. His body feels strange, too long. They're both quiet, for a long time as he tries to peice himself together.
"...Flora?"
"Hm?" Her tone is actually pleasant, as if in the silence, she'd slipped on a mask.
"..." A beat, again. "Where's... where's the Professor?"
The tape gives way. The world shatters.