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Layton couldn’t recall the time it was, but he was aware that it was morning when it occurred. He’d pulled a book from one of his shelves and began reading around midnight, keeping an eye on Descole as he slept. The rain still poured outside, and the lamplight aided in creating an almost soothing ambience. He might have even forgotten just who was in his bed . . . again. By the time he reached a page in the triple digits (he couldn’t remember which one and hadn’t had time to bookmark it), he’d become distracted by heavy breathing. Looking up, he saw Descole’s chest heaving. Each breath seemed to grow louder and more pained, his arm muscles growing more strained as his fingers curled and clenched into fists. His wrists seemed almost inverted as they dug holes in the mattress, giving the impression the man was effectively pinned. By the time the gasps had escalated into sobs and sweat poured forth from Descole’s brow, Layton had dropped the book and had grabbed the man’s shoulders in an attempt to wake him.
“Descole!” he shouted over the man’s agonizing cries. Tears managed to emerge past Descole’s tightly shut lids. “Desco—”
“Stop!” the man shouted, making Layton jump. He almost let him go, but then he realized he wasn’t actually awake yet.
“Desco—”
“No!” His body stiffened further, almost resisting the need to awaken.
“Desmond! You need to wake—”
“Please no!” He was shaking. He was shaking in Layton’s hands, and it wasn’t because Layton was shaking him.
“Des! Wake up!”
The moment Descole’s eyes shot open, the stiffness fled his body and his hands left the spots they’d been pinned to on the bed to grip Layton’s upper arms. His grip was bruising and his eyes were wide and wild. He glanced around, almost lost. “I can’t see,” were the first words that he let out. His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been screaming for much longer than he actually had.
“Des—”
“Can’t see—”
“Hang on, let go—”
“I can’t see—”
He continued to say that, the sentence repeating and reordering itself like a broken record. Layton tried to reach for the mask on the nightstand, but each time he moved Descole’s grip tightened. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some blood leaking through the man’s shirt. Could he even feel that? Layton doubted it. Descole was hysterical, barely lucid enough to acknowledge that the professor was trying to help him. He’d lost ideas on how to loosen the man’s grip on his arms when a timid voice reached through the door. “Professor?”
“Come in, Flora,” he said, grateful for her presence once more.
As the door creaked open, she whispered, “I heard shouting. Is everything—oh.”
Layton wasn’t sure how him leaning over a bed and clutching the shoulders of a man who was also clutching his upper arms looked, but it must have looked suspicious. Trying to deflect the situation, he asked, “Can you hand me the mask, please?” Because his former archrival had one hell of a grip on his limbs.
“Is he okay?” she asked as she moved quietly over beside him.
“I think he’s had a nightmare,” Layton explained as she handed the mask to him.
“You think?” she uttered under her breath. She must not have thought he’d hear that.
“Can’t see . . .,” Descole broke through his thoughts, his eyes still wide and lost. Hopefully his mask would make him a little more coherent.
“Hold on, Des,” Layton said, reaching up to wipe the tears on Descole’s face. Placing glasses on someone’s face after they’d been crying would cause the glasses to fog, and since the mask was essentially a pair of glasses the effect would be similar if not worse. Descole flinched when the pads of Layton’s fingers brushed his face. “It’s alright. Just trying to help you see.” Descole stilled then, his grip loosening just the slightest. Layton wiped the streams of water that had been flowing from Descole’s eyes carefully before replacing the mask.
Once the mask was on, Descole let out a long sigh. Lying back, his hands loosened and slid to Layton’s forearms but didn’t quite let the professor go. Layton didn’t pull away immediately even though his head told him to. Instead, he watched for signs of reversion or panic. He watched and waited for any sign of continued anxiety and even anger. None of that came. There was only a relief of being awake and able to see. It occurred to Layton that Descole might be in shock and likely couldn’t function due to the pills Layton had slipped to him. The professor shook his head at himself. That certainly won’t happen again, not after that serious of an abreaction.
When Layton finally pulled away, he adjusted his seat on the bed before tugging back the covers and lifting the nightshirt Descole was wearing. The bandages were red with blood. The nightmare had made him bleed through the sutures. “Get the antiseptic and more bandages. And a towel,” he said to Flora. She nodded, then hurried to the kitchen. When she returned a few moments later, he’d peeled the bandaging off the lower part of the wound. Taking the towel and medicine from her, he thanked her and sent her back to bed. Unbuttoning Descole’s shirt, he tried lifting the man up just a little to remove the shirt. He didn’t fight. He grunted and huffed from pain, but did not argue with Layton. With that removed, he could take off the rest of the bandage on the wound. Pressing the towel under the man to catch the medicine and blood that poured across the injury, he uncapped the antiseptic and spilled it along the sutured gash. Descole hissed and tensed, but made no other motion or sound. As Layton used the drier parts of the towel to dab the skin, he whispered, “Had I known that would be the result, I would not have given you those pills.”
Descole didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him. His cheeks colored as he let out a series of coughs. Layton started bandaging the injury over again, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer out of the man at this moment. He actually genuinely felt guilty. Descole had made him angry, had upset him, but he didn’t deserve that. From what the professor could gather, he probably had had those nightmares for long enough that he actually avoided sleep. Hence why he’d argued. Layton sighed at not having noticed the signs earlier.
When he finished redressing the wound, he found himself staring at the man for a moment. His eyes wandered to a particular spot on his torso, which the lamplight highlighted just well enough that Layton could make out the off-whiteness of scar tissue. The professor’s brow furrowed for a moment, the scar seeming familiar to him. It looked like a burn mark, the area where the man had been blasted bursting across his waist like a star. Then Layton remembered where it was from, and his brow smoothed over again. Layton had been present when Descole had received that blast. And he’d born witness to Descole’s willingness to defend someone other than himself. That someone had been Luke.
Luke had had nightmares. In fact, if Layton didn’t know better, they’d looked almost exactly like the one Descole had been having. Luke dealt with the nightmares either by crawling into bed with Layton or having Layton wake him up and reassure him. Luke had eventually stopped having them, though. As Layton reached out to touch the scar, he caught himself wondering who would have been there for Descole when he fell into the clutches of his memories.
His finger had only just barely traced the mark when Descole’s hand flew to his wrist at lightning speed. Layton jumped and looked up to see Descole glaring up at him. The glare lasted for about a minute before Descole shoved his hand away and turned his head again.
At that point, Layton sighed and moved back to his chair. Descole coughed again as Layton picked up the book he had been reading and furiously hunted for the page he’d been on. After a few beats of page-turning, he felt Descole’s eyes on him. He ignored them as best he could, not wanting to be distracted and certainly wanting to avoid another argument. It was too early and he’d already drained himself from the fighting and anger that had come over him earlier. He blamed the guilt of accidentally forcing Descole into a nightmarish situation. Crossing his legs, Layton found the page he’d been searching for and continued reading.
Layton heard Descole toss the towel aside before pulling the covers up to his chin. He coughed a third time, then declared, “That had better be the latest edition of that series.”
Layton successfully fought back a smile before answering, “Yes.” While the question had brought back rather pleasant memories, it also reminded him of everything Descole had left behind when he’d faked his death three years before.
Though neither of them said anything else, that seemed confirmation enough that they weren’t going to delve into the event that had just transpired any further.
“You are ill.”
Descole coughed several times in a row before croaking out, “Am not.”
“You are,” Layton snapped back. Inhaling through the nose and out the mouth, he turned to Flora. “Make sure he takes medication. Make sure he doesn’t leave the house—”
“Yes, that’s very likely to happen. Do keep your eyes peeled,” Descole interjected sarcastically.
At this rate, Layton looked like he might have an aneurism. “Try not to take his quips too seriously.”
“I can handle him, professor,” Flora answered confidently. “What about the groceries?”
“How likely is it that you can convince Paul to take care of that? Provided I cover the expense, that is?”
“No doubt in my mind he’d be happy to do that for me. What should I tell him if he asks why I can’t do it, though?”
“That you’re the one who’s sick, clearly. Who is this Paul?” Descole interrupted again. There was a hint of suspicion in his voice upon mentioning the name, but Flora and the professor let it drop anyhow.
Layton sighed. “Good luck with the toddler.” And with that, Layton was out the door.
Flora turned to Descole, who’d argued his way into the living room that morning. Flora had never seen Layton so happy to go back to work at university. Though she’d wanted an explanation for the other man’s presence, the professor had never given her one. Perhaps she’d try her luck with the ‘toddler.’
First she had to gain the courage to speak to him. Though the mask was a simple white one, it intimidated her for some reason. Even the automatons she’d grown up around had had more facial expressions than that mask. It didn’t help that he was staring directly at her. It felt like a standoff.
It was Descole who spoke first. “So.”
Not much of a beginning, but she’d take it. “So. How did—?”
“How did you and—?” They both stopped, realizing they were both going to ask the same question.
She sighed, then conceded, “You ask first.”
“How did you and the professor meet?”
Picking up the clothes and sewing kit she’d set on the kitchen table, she moved into the living room to set them on Layton’s chair. As she moved, she explained, “To put it simply, I grew up in a village full of robots. The professor and his apprentice at the time were asked to investigate it as per my deceased father’s request.”
Descole frowned. “What an . . . interesting existence that must have been.”
“I’m not certain interesting is the word I would use,” she said sadly before returning to the kitchen. “Want some tea?”
Descole coughed. “Sure. You had a question as well?”
Flora nodded as she put the kettle on. “How do you know the professor?”
She could tell by the way his visible features pinched that that was a difficult question for him. He sighed, the breath forcing a few more coughs out of him, before answering. “We were . . . rivals. Competitors. Then, for a short time, we were friends. Mostly, though, we were rivals who had formed begrudging alliances at certain points in our history.”
Well, that was vague. So vague that it almost sounded like one of the professor’s answers. They just might be related. Instead of prying further, however, she waited for the kettle to boil and picked up a bottle of medicine. Taking it over to Descole, she noticed how he visibly cringed at the medication. “I won’t make you take it. I’m just going to hand it to you. You’re an adult, so I would hope you wouldn’t need to be force-fed something that’s good for you.”
Descole tilted his head, staring at her as she held the bottle out to him. After a few seconds of watching her, he slowly and gingerly took the bottle from her hand. Reading the bottle, she just barely saw a smirk come over his lips. “A minute ago I was a toddler.”
“The professor’s not much better himself, if you ask me.” Flora went back to the kitchen just as the kettle started steaming. “He hasn’t been the same since Luke left.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” He fell into a fit of coughs, then. She poured the tea, trying almost spilling it when he let out a cry of pain and clutched his side. She set the kettle down to go to him, but he quickly reassured her, “I’m alright.”
He didn’t look it, but she proceeded apace anyhow. She’d give him his space. Lord knew Layton wasn’t going to. She was afraid the professor would continue to watch him like a hawk and forget what sleep was. She wasn’t quite sure why Layton watched him so fiercely. Perhaps it was something particular to their relationship that she had no knowledge of. Bringing the cups of tea to the coffee table in the living room, she continued the conversation with, “I didn’t expect Luke’s departure to change him this much. I expected sadness, not . . . whatever this is that he’s experiencing.” Handing one cup to Descole, who thanked her for it, she placed the set the other down. Picking up the clothing and sewing kit she’d set in Layton’s chair earlier, she sat and arranged the items in her lap. Before she could shut up, she said, “I used to get so jealous of Luke.”
She didn’t realize it as she opened the sewing kit and prepared to work on the tears in the clothing she’d washed, but Descole was actually listening intently to her. “Why would you be jealous of that brat? From what I remember, he was slightly annoying.”
The words didn’t bear the bite of someone who meant the insult. She answered, “He got to go on all the adventures with the professor. Somehow . . . they always managed to forget me.”
Descole coughed, looking down as she threaded the needle. “That’s terrible.”
“They didn’t want to endanger me, they said. I’d hoped that . . . I’d hoped maybe with Luke out of the picture he’d notice I was here. But he’s more reclusive than he’s ever been.” She set to sewing the white shirt before adding, “Paul has made it easier. I’m sure if he had any big adventures of late, he’d kidnap me in an instant. Not that the professor would notice.” She stopped and looked at Descole, shaking her head at herself. “Listen to me, blabbering away to a complete stranger. Perhaps this is why I never got to go anywhere with the professor and Luke.”
“No. Layton’s always had that blasted gentleman code of his. There’s only been one woman that I know of who managed to push his limits when it came to ensuring the safety of the female individuals around him.” Descole looked down at the thought, as if remembering something unpleasant. Sipping his tea, he asked, “Who is Paul?”
Resuming her sewing once again, she said, “Also a bit of a rival and begrudging ally of the professor’s. Much like yourself.”
Descole shook his head and coughed. “I very much hope he’s not like me.” Flora couldn’t tell if she heard sadness or irritation in his tone.
Descole was not supposed to be gathering information. He was supposed to be healing and hiding out until things cooled down. He wasn’t supposed to be catching up or renewing old bonds or forming new ones for that matter. He was supposed to get in, get out, and disappear completely again. But he could spend all day talking to Flora. She was honest. She was sweet. She wasn’t a talented cook in the slightest, but she tried. Her willingness to let him keep his secrets was refreshing. And he could learn a lot about Layton from Flora, and spent almost all day doing just that.
Of course, hearing about the professor and his shortcomings was difficult. It wasn’t as difficult as hearing about his achievements. Scratch that. Hearing just about anything about Hershel Layton was difficult and drove a series of pins into Descole’s chest. If he didn’t watch himself, he might start to feel something deeper than these surface emotions he’d been living on these past few years. Fortunately, those pins were little more than pricks in his toughened skin.
Sometime in the afternoon he’d picked himself, his tea, and the bottle of pills up and decided to head back to bed. Standing up on his own was tough. Too tough, in fact. Flora hadn’t taken no for an answer that time. Taking the items from his hands, she took them to the bedroom first. Then she’d returned for him. “Just take my hand.”
He found it harder to argue with her than it was to argue with Layton. He supposed it was because he’d had more practice arguing with Layton in the past, no matter how long ago that had been. Allowing her to assist him, his gaze landed on a particular window as they headed to the bedroom. Squinting, he suddenly asked, “How long has that been open?”
“Hm?”
They stopped moving so she could figure out what he was talking about. “That window. It isn’t locked.”
“Oh, that one,” she said. They continued forward to the bedroom. It took her a few moments to answer. In those moments, Descole managed to remember every single time he’d climbed through that infernal window. When she responded, he honestly wasn’t expecting her reply, “I don’t think that window’s ever been locked. Not since I’ve been here, anyway.”
Descole’s footsteps became heavier than he’d anticipated. Everything he’d been thinking about previously froze as the first pin in his chest turned into a two-inch nail.