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Layton had felt the slightest twinge at Flora’s phone call. He’d actually feared for her. The sensation had been horrifyingly uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as realizing that it had surprised him that he felt something. Rushing back to their home as quickly as humanly possible, he found her on the steps in the pouring rain waiting for him.
“What are you doing outside?” he asked.
“I wanted to make sure he didn’t leave.”
“You couldn’t have watched from the neighbors’ window?”
“They gave me a weapon,” she said, holding up the largest frying pan he’d ever seen her wield. Honestly, how was such a small woman able to lift that thing?
He didn’t realize he was shaking his head at her until he ordered himself to stop. Moving towards the door, he heard her shuffle behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Going in with you,” she said.
“Flora, it would be much safer if you—”
“Just let me in. I’ll stay behind you. I’ll make good backup, I promise.” Her pleas were so earnest and yet he felt so unsure.
Against his better judgment, he conceded. “Alright. Keep your eyes open.” She nodded, raising the frying pan to a defensive position.
Layton steadied his own breathing, focusing on making as little noise as possible. Swinging the door open, it didn’t creak for once. Layton glanced about in the darkness of the home, electing not to turn on the lights just yet. That would only alert the intruder. Taking in his surroundings, it took him a few moments to notice anything unusual. There were puddles on the floor, which meant the intruder had come in during the rainfall. That meant he’d broken in sometime after Flora was leaving the grocer’s and had already been soaking wet upon arrival. The professor took a moment to mourn the wet groceries Flora had had to abandon, but soon remembered that the two of them had consumed much less since Luke’s departure. The thought only brought on a distracting amount of sadness, which he then shook off. Moving slowly and quietly into the home, he followed the puddles. As he traveled, he began noticing a slight taint in the color of the water that tracked across his floor. It was red. Whoever was here had to be severely injured for the water to even bear a remote amount of color.
Oddly, the knowledge of the blood made him move faster. Why would someone injured come into his home? Who was it? His first thought was honestly one of the policemen, but he doubted Chelmey would actually condone bringing Layton onto a case no matter how useful he’d been in the past. The man simply did not approve of civilian interference, so why would one of his men show up at Layton’s doorstep? Why would they pick the lock?
His second thought was Emmy. He hadn’t seen her in . . . he hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t heard from her. It was as if she’d disappeared. Shaking his head, he thought of others. Anyone but Emmy. Perhaps it was Paul, but Paul would never frighten Flora like this.
The tracks stopped at the bathroom door, which was closed. Easing over the floors, Layton managed to avoid every creaky part of his flooring. Flora wasn’t as successful. She managed to step on the loudest part of his house. She gasped and he turned his head to look at her, half-expecting her to drop the frying pan. He signaled for her to stay put, gesturing at the door to the bathroom. She hesitated, then nodded. She didn’t appear to have noticed just how bloody the puddles were. Good. Perhaps he might be able to spare her that experience. He doubted that, somehow.
By the time he was standing at the door, hand on the knob and prepared to turn it, his heart was hammering. It was actually audible to him. The mere fact that he noticed its speed was almost foreign. He’d almost forgotten it had existed. Taking in a vast breath, he steeled himself for what he might see once he opened the door. Turning the knob and pushing, his other hand flipped on the switch.
He realized within two seconds that nothing could have prepared him for who was waiting behind that door.
Everything inside him came to a grinding halt as internal organs surged upward, clogging up his throat and lungs and forcing him to a standstill. He had not been ready. He simply had not been ready, and even if someone had forewarned him it would not have prepared him.
The lack of oxygen actually forced his brain into overdrive and he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the surroundings before addressing the individual. Jacket missing. Boa ripped off and tossed to the side. It was bloody. In fact, everything was bloody. Cape bundled up and pressing into the man’s soaking side. Hat fallen off. He was dripping wet from the rain and shivering. It took him a few moments to actually look at Layton. That is, Layton thought he was looking at him. It was hard to tell with that mask.
Layton’s first breath came with an embarrassing gasp, and with his second breath came the not so formal greeting, “I thought you were dead.”
The man couldn’t stop shivering, mouth stuck in a half-open state as his breathing suffered. His breaths were shallow and short, which made them more noticeable. Just how much blood had he lost? A million thoughts raced through Layton’s head, but he couldn’t stop any of them long enough to pinpoint what he was actually feeling. Until he spoke. “No. Not yet at least.”
Suddenly Layton realized that what he was feeling was an overwhelming amount of anguish. Anguish mixed with rage.
Descole had thought if he didn’t look at Layton straightaway it would lessen the blow. It did not. It did nothing, actually. He still felt every bit of him sink to the ground (what little remained off the ground, that is) at the very sight of Layton. The professor’s voice was also quite devastating. He wasn’t sure if he could say any more than he’d already said. He had to try. Not for his sake, but for Raymond’s sake. He seemed to be the only person who’d truly suffer from his loss. “I . . .,” he was choking. He was actually choking on his words. Or was that blood? Was he choking on his blood? No, not yet thankfully. “I . . .,” spit it out, “had nowhere else to go.”
He glanced at Layton, whose expression went . . . cold. From what Descole could remember, Layton had never been capable of showing that level of coldness. It wasn’t until Descole looked down at his fists that he guessed what was up. Layton’s fists were balled, knuckles white and nails digging into palms. Layton wasn’t cold at all. He was angry. To put it flatly, he was pissed. And Descole didn’t have the strength to fight him even if he was capable of doing such a thing.
“Flora,” Layton said, his tone making Descole jump and in turn making the injury in his side ache. Descole wanted to curl up and die, but he was afraid that might actually hurt worse. “Come here and watch him.” Layton left Descole’s line of view. The girl who took his place seemed rather unthreatening save for the frying pan in her hands. She tried, though. She tried to look fierce. She was failing horribly. He might have laughed in another situation. Descole closed his eyes and heard rummaging in the kitchen area. He was growing tired from blood loss, and it had been so long since he’d had a proper night’s rest that he wasn’t sure he could stay awake. When he heard Layton’s footsteps again, he opened his eyes to see what was happening. Under one arm, Layton had a bowl full of . . . something that Descole couldn’t exactly see. “You don’t need that,” he told her, taking the frying pan from her and stepping into the bathroom just enough to set it on the sink. Turning back to Flora, he took a few items from the bowl and pocketed them before handing the rest to her. “Go turn on the lights. Mix this with some warm water. Place these in a cup of alcohol.” When she left to follow Layton’s instructions, the professor moved towards Descole. For a moment, he actually shrunk away from his touch. It was less of a reaction due to wounds and more of a reaction to the fact that Layton was actually going to touch him. Layton didn’t stop advancing, though. He ignored Descole’s flinching, sliding and arm beneath Descole’s shoulders. Descole let out a gasp that turned into a hiss, the strain on his body getting to him. “Can you stand?” Layton asked.
“Not sure.” His throat even hurt.
“Well, we need to get you to a place with my preferred lighting. And you need to remove your clothes.”
“Just the shirt,” Descole argued as Layton began pulling him upright, placing his free hand over the compress Descole had created to hold it in place. Descole’s whole body locked and froze involuntarily as Layton tried to move him. He stopped breathing altogether as pain ripped through him. “Easy!” he let out in an agonized gasp.
“You made it all the way here and into my house. You can make it to the living room.” At the moment, he wasn’t so sure. Every step sent a shockwave of pain through him. He wasn’t quite sure whether or not it was rainwater that covered his skin or sweat. Perhaps both. All he knew was that the pain was awful and he found himself slipping closer to darkness than he dared. It felt like he’d walked a mile by the time he’d gotten to the couch in the living room. He wanted to collapse, but Layton kept him upright.
As the professor loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, he remembered the man had said something. He grumbled, “I was moving on adrenaline. I’m a bit fresh out of that at the moment.”
“Hmph,” Layton uttered as he began unbuttoning the bloody shirt. As the cool air hit his bare skin, Descole’s shivering worsened. As Layton removed the bloody shirt, it shifted over Descole’s wound. He might have doubled over if he didn’t already know that would cause him more grief. The shirt dangled off one shoulder by the time Layton turned his attention to the wad of cloth Descole was holding to his side. “Let go of it.” It took Descole a moment to loosen his iron grip of the compress, allowing Layton to remove both that and the shirt. The cloth peeled from his injury, the pain enough to bring a whimper out of Descole. By then, Descole might have actually been convulsing from the cold. It was the professor talking to him that kept him upright now. “Now would be a good time to tell me just what sort of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Descole wasn’t up for a quarrel, no matter how much Layton’s tone soured each time he spoke. But he was going to have to admit to a few things. This, however, was not one of those things. “It’s best you don’t know,” he responded as Layton examined his injuries. His arms were bruised, as were parts of his chest and stomach. Part of his face had been cut, and the most gruesome injury was a long gash in his left side that began at his shoulder blade and curved all the way to his hip bone.
Layton inhaled long and deep, as if Descole were trying his patience. “What do they know about you?”
He knew what Layton was really asking: how likely was it that they’d find him here. He answered with some semblance of confidence, “My identity is secure. My safe houses and modes of travel, however?”
“Where is your butler?”
Descole’s stomach turned as he was seated on the couch, which had been covered by a series of towels. “Hidden. Were we to stick together, they would be able to find and capture us easily.” Lying down hurt like hell, but he was grateful to be off his feet. He was also relieved when Layton ceased touching him.
“How large is this organization?” Layton asked. Descole shook his head, both unwilling to tell and unsure of his numbers. In light of having no answer, Layton changed the subject to, “You’ve endured worse than this.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“But you are going to be in pain for a long while.” Descole was aware of that.
“Professor?” Flora asked. He turned to look at her as she placed the bowl he’d handed her earlier and a cup of some other liquid beside him. “Should I start cleaning up?”
“That might be best,” he said, picking up and ringing out the rag that had been floating in the bowl of water.
The rag hit Descole’s wound and his first desired reaction was to punch Layton. He didn’t. That wouldn’t have been the wisest of decisions. Instead, he let out a few shallow breaths and gripped the couch cushions. He tried to focus on something other than the pain the rag and most likely salted water were causing. He watched Flora clean up the remains of his trail to and from the bathroom. He suddenly felt obligated to apologize for the tracks he’d left on the floor. He sighed. Apologies were things he had a very hard time with. He supposed Layton deserved one for this, though. “I’m . . .,” he struggled with the words. He wasn’t sure whether he was actually struggling with the words or with the fact that it felt like the rag was digging into an internal organ. “Sorry for the mess,” he managed. Not as genuine as he would have liked, but given the circumstances he thought he sounded good.
“Which one?”
Descole was taken aback by Layton’s response. The man didn’t even look up, remaining focused on cleaning the blood from Descole’s skin and injury. “Excuse me?”
“Which mess are you sorry for?” He dug the rag into a particular section of the wound, making Descole grind his teeth.
Great. It was one of these types of arguments. Honestly, he hadn’t thought Layton capable of passive aggression, but he’d been wrong about Layton’s temper before. “Well, just how many messes do you attribute to me?”
Layton paused as he dipped the rag into the bowl, the water growing redder with Descole’s blood. Usually the sight wouldn’t have made him sick, but now was a different story. “It would have been nice to know you were alive. How was I supposed to guess that? You walked straight into a crumbling building like a madman—”
“Have you met me before? I’m not all that stable, you know.”
“—and it took you three years to show up again. Did you really think it was a good idea to just leave after everything that had happened? Without any explanation?”
“I thought my explanation of things was quite clear.”
“Well, it wasn’t good enough for me,” Layton snapped. Descole was trying desperately to figure out how he was able to snap while keeping his voice so soft. He was also trying to figure out what specific event Layton was upset about: his disappearance or the things he’d said or the things that had happened. He wasn’t up for discussing the things that had happened, that was for sure. After a sigh, Layton continued cleaning Descole’s wound. By the time he had the injury clean enough to meet his needs, Descole’s skin felt raw. Dipping his hands into the second cup, he began rubbing the clear liquid over his fingers and palms. Then he uttered, “Why did you leave?”
Descole grit his teeth as he realized Layton was sterilizing his hands in alcohol. While Layton began working with the sutures, he became unsure of whether the professor really should be handling a needle at the moment. Descole sighed, not entirely sure he should be answering the man’s question. “Did you really want to face me after the things you’d learned?”
“Why did you tell me those things, then?”
“I thought I was going to die.” Descole felt his anger actually spark at that. “I thought I wouldn’t get the opportunity again—”
“Well, guess what—?”
He’d had enough then. His temper flaring, he interrupted with, “I don’t know about you, but I really don’t like being reminded of that day. All right? It was neither my best work nor my happiest memory. There was nothing remotely good about what happened save for the majority of Targent was disbanded and the one thing I’d sought to accomplish had finally come to fruiti—,” he stopped, crying out and gasping as Layton started the first suture. Descole’s grip on the couch cushion tightened and he ground his teeth together to keep from screaming as Layton proceeded without mercy.
Layton didn’t stop talking, though. “Aurora died. I thought you had died. Emmy left. Bronev was arrested, Grosky was promoted, and the only person who stayed with me after that was Luke. You think that day was hard on us, that boy was devastated afterwards. The nightmares he had . . . they were difficult for him.” Layton stopped momentarily, lost in his train of thought and practically stabbing Descole with the needle as he tightened one thread, tied it off, then moved on to another. Leave it to the professor to turn medicine into torture. Jaw locked, Descole had little choice but to listen. God knew he didn’t want to though. At some point, he’d closed his eyes against the memories only to find that it made the imagery more vivid. He couldn’t figure out whether it was harder to look at Layton or relive those memories with closed eyes. With Flora cleaning out of sight, it wasn’t like he had anything else to stare at or distract himself with. “He kept me straight. Made sure I didn’t slip back into old habits.”
“Like falling asleep in your office,” Descole found himself pointing out. At that moment, he realized his filter was gone.
Layton glared down at him until Flora shouted from the bathroom, “No, he still does that.” For a moment, Descole saw a smirk on Layton’s face. It left as quickly as it had arrived.
That’s when Descole noticed it: the complete absence of the boy. “Where is he now?” he asked, though he probably shouldn’t have.
Layton’s hands slowed, ceasing his attack on the wound but continuing mending it all the same. “He moved away. With his family.”
Layton seemed to completely shut down briefly after that point. He continued suturing while Flora came back into view to pick up the clothes, rag, and bowl that lay abandoned on the floor. She was surprisingly calm. Descole wondered what sort of relationship she had with the professor. She was young. He doubted she was his partner in any way. He asked, “Who’s your friend?”
“Ward,” he said.
“Assistant,” she declared.
“It’s complicated,” they both agreed.
That was a story Descole was interested in hearing. However, the longer he’d been here, the more he’d wanted to leave. The professor had changed over the past three years, and Descole couldn’t wait till he was physically well enough to get going. Then he could get back to his objective. For now, he had to stay put. For Raymond’s sake.
Because Raymond was now the only reason he had for living. Otherwise, he would have left the job that had almost killed him to someone else.
After suturing and bandaging, Layton had fought with Descole to get him out of the rest of his soaking wet clothing and into some more comfortable pajamas. Then there had been a struggle to get him into bed. The next argument had been about how Descole wasn’t arguing but being reasonable. Of course he was being reasonable. He tended to think everything he did was within the realm of reason.
The current argument was whether he was actually going to go to sleep. “I don’t need sleep.”
“Your immune system will function better if you get some rest, meaning you’ll heal a lot quicker. So rest is imperative for you at this point.” Layton folded his arms after setting the tea Flora had made for all of them on the nightstand. Taking a seat in the chair she’d also brought into the room for him, he readied himself for another round of bickering.
“Are you certain I should be going to sleep after losing that much blood?”
“Would you like to go to the hospital?” Even with the mask on, he knew Descole was pinning him with a gimlet stare. They’d already been over how the hospital was not an option. He certainly didn’t want to hear it again, so he changed the subject. “How about some vitamin B12?”
“You just happen to have that lying around?”
“Yes. Along with suturing supplies, Epsom salt, and rubbing alcohol.” Must he insist on being so irritating?
“Well, rubbing alcohol is not a surprise.” Descole was quiet for a moment, forehead creasing as thoughts seemed to fly through his head and across his face. Then he said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
Layton nodded, standing up to go to the kitchen. When he found himself standing before the medicine cabinet and reaching in, his hand froze between two bottles. A thought crossed his mind, and without taking a moment to reconsider he grabbed both bottles. Weighing out his options, he went with the possible terrible idea.
He returned to the room with one bottle and a glass of water. Descole stared at the bottle of vitamin B12 as Layton poured its contents into one palm and handed him two. The man hesitated to take the pills from the professor, looking up at him as if he suspected foul play. After a moment of shifting the pills around between his fingers, Descole finally took them and downed the glass of water. Layton lifted an eyebrow. “Now was that so bad?”
“You twisted my arm. What can I say?”
“Have you ever taken B12 before?” Layton asked as he returned to his seat and took up his cup of tea.
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Descole grumbled. Layton sipped his tea and watched the man carefully. After a few moments, Descole yawned. The man looked surprised. “That’s unusual,” he uttered, likely thinking his statement inaudible.
“Well,” Layton said, seeing the opportunity to make his confession, “I’m afraid you still have not taken vitamin B12.”
Descole turned his head, looking like he was moving through fog. He sounded like it, too, when he said, “What are you talking about?”
“Those were sleeping pills.” Descole froze. “And they’re rather fast-acting.”
Were he fully himself, he would have panicked and succeeded in throwing his glass at Layton. As it stood, the most he managed was to slide his hand, pull the wrong muscle, and knock the glass onto the floor. Whimpering and lying back down, he gasped for air in a tired fright. “You bastard,” he slurred before effectively passing out.
Layton didn’t mean to smile at his success. When he realized he was smiling, he immediately dropped the expression. Though Descole had drugged him plenty of times, he shouldn’t take pleasure in such underhanded methods of payback. As his old rival drifted off, he had to block out how many times he’d caught Descole in his room. He especially had to ignore the last instance where Descole had been lying in his bed. The thought made him feel . . . odd. He wasn’t sure how else to describe it. Odd and angry. It truly seemed like the most epic of timings, having him slide back into his life after everything that had happened to him. Layton did not need this. Flora had been remarkably helpful in this situation. She hadn’t questioned, only followed directions and offered her assistance. Without her presence, Layton wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done.
Leaning forward, the professor slipped his fingers under the mask and lifted it off. Setting it on the nightstand, he couldn’t help staring at the face of Desmond Sycamore. Sighing, he couldn’t believe his foolishness three years before. How could he not have seen the resemblance? To his knowledge, though, no one had. Desmond’s reveal had been surprising to almost everyone.
Layton shook his head and drank his tea. He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t be able to keep a clear head if he reflected on what happened too often. For all he knew, Descole would be gone as quickly as he’d appeared. He needed to prepare for that. He should also be prepared to meet whoever it was who had injured the man. Well, as much as he could without having much information.
He wasn’t getting any sleep that night, but he also probably should have expected there to be a reason why the man in his bed also refused to sleep.