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“So are you Desmond, now?” Flora asked.
He didn't know what he was smiling at anymore. Was it Flora's questions? Was it having woken up next to Layton? Was it what had happened in the early morning? He knew it wasn't the sound of someone saying his true name. No matter what he was smiling at, he was going to burn breakfast if he didn't stop. “I suppose I am,” he answered Flora. He argued with the frying pan for a moment.
Flora watched as he struggled with the eggs. “Need help?”
“No,” he said. Not from Flora. No, he'd seen her disasters, and he was quite horrified to witness another one. “It's just been a while. You know?”
“Did you not cook for yourself before you came here?”
He shook his head. “No, a friend of mine kept me well fed. Otherwise, I probably would have accidentally starved myself to death.”
“Where is your friend now?”
Desmond felt a pang of worry at the thought. “Hiding. I hope.” His mind lingered on the subject. Wherever Raymond was, he hoped he was at the very least enjoying the time away from him. He imagined the old man had grown quite sick of him after some time. He imagined, but he had no proof to back it up. His butler had been loyal to him for so long, despite how many times he seemed to snap for no good reason. A giggle brought his attention back to Flora. “What's so funny?” he asked.
“When you scowl at the pan like that, you look even more like a nerd,” she answered honestly. He resisted the urge to sigh. Looking over at her, she covered her mouth hastily to hide her smile. Then she uttered through her fingers, “Sorry.”
“No, don't be. It's not an unpopular opinion,” he said. “I've been called a nerd or some variant of the word all my life.”
“I hope that's not a bad thing.”
He raised both eyebrows in thought. “Can't be, really. Being a nerd earned me my wealth.”
“I wish I were as intelligent. As capable,” she murmured to herself.
Turning off the burners before finishing up breakfast, he gave her a look askance. “You seem pretty capable. Would an unintelligent person really have come up with the schemes you have?”
She was still for a moment. Then she shrugged. “I guess not.”
“What makes you think you're unintelligent?” She gave him no answer. She just stared at the table, her gaze almost boring a hole into the top. Letting the subject drop, he prepared a plate and set it in her line of sight. “Eat up. And don't be afraid of saying it's awful.”
A small smile appeared on her lips as she picked up a fork.
:)
The history of the house was being rewritten in Layton's mind as Desmond remained under his roof. Most of the sutures had been removed at this point save for the ones on the back of his shoulder. Flora took over caring for those, as Layton still felt guilty about the part he'd played in reopening them.
It occurred to Layton that Desmond was lingering here longer than he'd anticipated. He asked one day if his injuries were keeping him (which he knew they weren't, as Desmond was now more mobile than he'd ever been). Desmond's face had reddened while he declared he was waiting for a sign from Raymond. Layton wasn't sure if he believed that. Upon questioning what Desmond had gotten himself into again, the other still replied, “I'd rather you not know.” Layton had understood his reasoning the first time, but now he had more reason to be concerned.
Because whether he liked it or not, he cared. It was a weight that had grown gradually at first, then rapidly. The weight had grown so much that he wondered how he wasn't staggering under it.
It was becoming more and more difficult to look at the furnishings in his home. At first, he couldn't think of why. Then he realized just how many memories he associated with Descole were written into every nook and stray thread. To think that that same man, now known as Desmond, was hiding out with him, sleeping beside him, living with him, just with him in every sense . . . it was overwhelming. It was like living with a ghost, only said ghost was much more tangible than one would believe a spirit to be.
Layton supposed he wouldn't think of Desmond as a ghost if it weren't for the creeping notion that he still very well could disappear. In a way, that made staring at the spots where his memories of Descole were strongest more difficult. There was the window, now latched and ignored more than any other part of his home. Ignoring helped him settle his nerves when he became too frustrated with the temporariness of his relationships. Letters from Luke provided some distraction. They were some of the few things that kept him from going completely, and Desmond even commented on how Layton seemed to light up when he came inside with them. He'd offered Desmond the opportunity to read them, but the man turned his offer down each time. Oddly receiving the letters made Luke's absence less of a gaping hole and more of a hollow, the difference being that at least he wasn't see through. He wished Luke were here now. Perhaps the boy would have a little insight. For a child, he'd always been incredibly bright, full of hope in people. He wondered what Luke would think of Layton now. What would Luke say of him and his relationship with their former ally/enemy? That's what this was with Desmond: a relationship. It was easier to ignore all of the random spots where Layton had once found his hat hiding. He was grateful Desmond was not inclined to start that game again, but he feared mentioning said game would initiate it. Desmond was still Descole, no matter how he tended to disassociate or deviate between the two. Perhaps the hardest place to ignore was his bedroom, where almost all of their encounters had occurred. Their most notable ones had transpired there, at least.
Sometimes he could see Desmond recognizing what Layton was thinking about. There were times when it seemed he encouraged these instances of remembrance. One time he'd caught Layton staring off into space while sitting on his bed. Instead of speaking to him to pull him from the memories that were replaying in his head, Desmond had slid a hand around Layton's torso to cup the area where the professor's heart would be and pulled him flush against the other's chest. The movement was reminiscent of when Descole and he had first confronted one another in this very room. The memory that used to be rather unpleasant was now . . . strangely exciting and a reminder of times when Layton's feelings weren't quite so muted. They were still muted by the standards of many, but he hadn't been on the cusp of losing everything then. No, back then he believed he'd lost all he could lose and was just regaining some semblance of a social life. Now he was secluded. Now, all he had was Flora and Desmond. Soon he wouldn't even have Desmond.
How soon, he did not yet know.
:)
Whenever Layton returned to work at university, Desmond found himself full of nervous energy. While he could tell Layton was glad to get to work and focus his own tension on something other than taking care of him, he was finding it difficult not to claw the walls. He paced often. When his mind allowed him, he slept. Otherwise, he was left combing through Layton's book collection and cleaning where Flora couldn't reach.
“You need a hobby,” she said.
“I have hobbies,” he responded defensively.
“You need one while you're here.”
“I . . .,” he could not argue. He couldn't even say he wouldn't be there for long. He wasn't sure when Raymond was going to reemerge, only that one of the terms upon which they'd agreed was that Raymond would seek him out and not the other way around. He floundered at the lack of leeway and control that provided him. He'd always had control before, but Raymond had felt it necessary to relieve him of that control. He understood, but now that he was stir crazy perhaps he shouldn't have agreed to those terms so readily. And since he had no clue when Raymond would find him, “I do need a hobby. Perhaps you are right.”
“I'll help you find one,” Flora declared cheerfully. She probably needed a project about as much as he did, so he couldn't say that wasn't necessary.
One of said projects came to them unexpectedly when Desmond caught Flora headed towards the door with an ugly scarf wrapped around her head and sunglasses. Squinting, he asked, “What are you doing?”
She looked astonished that he'd noticed her. Removing the glasses, she said, “I'm going out.”
“I can see that, but what on earth are you dressed as?”
She huffed and pulled the scarf down. “It's a disguise.”
He . . . had no idea how to address that. Truly, he did not. Other than to laugh and cover his eyes and forehead, apparently. “Oh honey,” he began. Then he asked, “Why are you disguising yourself?”
She looked incredibly guilty as she said, “I'm going to see Clive.”
He took a mental trip through his memory bank, looking for the Clive file. Blinking, he asked, “Is that the one who kidnapped you?” just to confirm that was indeed who she was speaking of. She nodded. “You're visiting him while he's still in prison?”
“He's getting out sooner than we thought. For good behavior, and the like. He'll never be off probation though.”
That seemed justified, he thought. He worried about someone like him being on the loose again, and of Flora going to see him. During one of his reading sprees, he'd researched in depth the fellow known as Clive Dove. Turns out Desmond knew him better than he'd anticipated; he'd read many of the articles the man had written while young.
Looking back at Flora, he asked, “And you visit him dressed like that? How does Layton not figure you out.”
She looked a little downtrodden. “He just . . . doesn't.”
Layton really let himself go with this girl. Standing, Desmond said, “Show me your wardrobe. Let me show you a few tricks.”
One could not teach someone to be a master of disguise in one day, but one could start someone off with the basics in less than an hour. She wasn't too far off from the idea of disguises, really. Blending in was key, and hiding in plain sight was the goal. However, she chose to wear things that were very distinctly Flora and just wasn't proper for disguises. She also rarely adopted a new set of mannerisms and persona when in disguise, which was actually more likely to give away her position than poorly chosen outfits. By the time he was done, though, she was unrecognizable and had devoured the knowledge he'd provided eagerly. As she headed for the door, she asked, “Do you want to come?” His brow furrowed. “No one will recognize you as Desmond, you know.”
He thought about it, knowing she was right. However, he declined. There were individuals at the prison he preferred to forget were alive, and the very idea of the place actually disturbed what little peace he'd gained over the years.
After that lesson, his hobby became helping Flora with whatever she needed. He taught her how to cook, disguise, look for clues in puzzles (though she really needed no help there as she was already astute when it came to solving puzzles), and one day when Layton said he'd be particularly late Desmond had decided to teach her how to fence. This had started off when they found old fencing gear in a hall closet while cleaning. There wasn't enough protective gear to do anything serious, but Desmond elected to at least find some ways to get Flora started on learning the art. Putting thicker guards on the swords (he was surprisingly inventive when it came to dulling the blades without actually harming the metal), he had to practically hold her down she was jumping with so much excitement. Pushing the furniture out of the way with the promise to put it back exactly as it had been before Layton arrived, he started off by showing her proper stances.
When they got to defensive versus offensive movements, she asked, “Are we going to tell the professor about any of this?”
He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “Absolutely not.” Grunting, he wanted to rotate his arm but was stopped by the remaining sutures. “Ugh,” he groaned. He hated that there was still a part of his injuries keeping him from doing this.
“Do I need to check it?” Flora asked, referring to the wound he was bemoaning.
“No. No, I'm fine.” Lifting his sword, he soon realized he was not fine. He wasn't going to be able to wield anything without tearing his sutures out again. That was terribly inconvenient.
Then there was a knock at the door. “Coming!” Flora cried, slipping the mask and parts of her gear off and setting the sword down before running for the door. Desmond slid his mask off also, adjusting his glasses as she answered.
When the individual at the door stepped in, Desmond was slightly taken aback to see Don Paolo. The man looked at him warily, eyeing the sword still in Desmond's hand. “I came at the wrong time,” the man uttered. He was inclined to agree. Instead, Desmond rested the sword alongside Flora's and tried not to think of the number of ways he could still use it without having to take the time to remove the guards he'd created. He was not pleased to see the other man at all, but the other looked about as uncomfortable as he felt. Scratching his head, Don Paolo looked to Flora for a moment. As if sharing a secret conversation with her, they both looked down before he addressed Desmond, “I came here to apologize.”
Desmond's head tilted. That was . . . awkward. “Really?”
Don Paolo's face reddened and he could tell the man would rather argue than do just that. “Yes.” The word came out like a hiss. Desmond considered the man for a moment, concluding that Flora was the only reason he was doing this. “And,” he grumbled out, interrupting Desmond's thoughts, “it looks like you are the only one here to apologize to.”
It occurred to Desmond how strange the man was all over again. Now that he had a clearer picture of what Don Paolo looked like, he appeared less like a dinosaur and more like an anthropomorphic giant cat of sort but a little clunkier in shape. That felt right, seeing as Desmond was not the biggest fan of cats. He preferred canines, really. Straightening up, he found his mouth running without his permission, “It must be frustrating.”
“What?” The man sounded offended already.
“Living in a shadow too big to get out from under.” The two exchanged glances, and for a moment it seemed they understood one another.
Don Paolo was quick to hide it, though. The only answer Desmond received from the statement was, “When will Layton be back?”
“Not sure. He'll be late. But I'll be honest,” Desmond stepped forward, “he's already forgiven you. He's kinder than I am.”
“Clearly,” Don Paolo said, rubbing the parts of his body Desmond had punched that day as if they still hurt. Pointing to the swords that had been set aside, Don Paolo changed the subject with, “Fencing, eh?”
“Desmond's teaching me,” Flora said.
Don Paolo squinted. “That's your real name, right?”
With a sigh, Desmond nodded. “Unfortunately yes.”
Don Paolo snorted. “Better than Paul. I've heard of you before.” He placed a hand on Flora's shoulder, asking her, “Could you use another teacher? I can't imagine Layton condoned these activities.”
He seemed thrilled to be doing something under Layton's nose. The notion made Desmond smirk to himself. Flora said, “His shoulder's hurt. Perhaps you could take over while he coaches?”
That was not a bad idea. Desmond was not about to protest until Don Paolo said, “You took him out already? Whataya need me for?”
Flora snickered, and Desmond indulged her. Removing the gear and handing it over to Don Paolo, he let the other think Flora had in fact caused him pain. Both a good cover for the real reason he was in pain and a boost to Flora's confidence. He saw no wrong in this plan.
By the time they'd finished practicing (the two men surprisingly cohesive teachers to Flora), Don Paolo had gone and Layton returned to the two passed out on the couch, which looked like it had never moved.