Chapter Text
Dear Big Luke
To Clive Dove
Dear Clive
I can't get it right. I don't know what I'm supposed to call you. I've tried so many times to start this letter, and, well… I'm just going to write, and I guess that whatever I write, that's what I'm meant to say to you.
Sincerely, Flora.
Flora stares down at the paper for a long, silent moment. Her eyes move across the page, critiquing every turn of phrase, every word. The letter isn't polished, and it isn't elegant, but she meant every word. But is that good enough?
It has to be.
But it probably isn't.
A quiet groan escapes her before she can stop herself, and she lets her head fall against the kitchen table. She stares into the table desperately, as if the words that she needs to make her message understandable lie hidden somewhere in the wood grain.
She's so tired.
She's been trying to write this letter, to express these thoughts, for so long now, for months, and yet… nothing seems good enough. She's picked up a pen and paper so many times, and yet, she's only been able to stare at the blank page, waiting for the words to come. But she's so tired of this hanging over her head; she can't think about it any longer. And so today, in the quietness of the empty house, she's written like mad, draft after draft, until she's finally come up with something that expresses herself almost well enough.
But she's not even going to have the courage to send it, is she?
Slowly, Flora forces herself to reach out. She grabs an envelope, then folds the letter in thirds, stuffing it inside. Wonderful. That's two steps done: the letter is written, however badly, and the arduous work of actually mailing it has been started. Now that she's done that, she can lick the envelope, and then she can write the address, and stick on the stamp, and then, maybe then, she'll have enough courage to drop it in the postbox, and then the postal worker will deliver it, and then Clive Dove will throw it away without even reading it, or maybe laugh at it in that horrible, unhinged way that she still can't forget, and she'll have made a fool of herself…
She screams quietly in the back of her throat, and writes the address.
If only the professor were here. He'd have a wise word for her; he'd be able to calm her down. They could chat over a cup of tea, and he'd applaud her bravery and assure her that Clive is actually a very nice person, and he's sure that the two of them will become good friends before long, and he'd tell her all other sorts of things that she wants to believe, but can't, but would like to because it's the professor telling them to her, and because she wants to believe in Clive, but…
But he still hasn't apologized.
Maybe it's a silly thing to hold a grudge over, for all these months, especially considering the more serious crimes that he did. Maybe it's self-centered, expecting him to apologize to her personally, when he's locked up for who knows how long, alone with his guilt. Maybe it's foolish, clinging to a far-fetched hope that a person who committed such massive crimes would ever deign to apologize to her. But Flora holds it, nonetheless.
In his defence, Clive hasn't gotten an opportunity to apologize to her directly. She hasn't seen him for months, not since he was locked away. But the professor's visited him faithfully every week, ever since the trial, every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork. And most Sunday nights, when the professor comes home, he'll have a new story to tell about something that Clive did or said. One week, Clive started a journal. Another week, he came up with "such a charming little puzzle," and the professor just had to share it with her. Every week, something changes; he takes one step forward, or two steps back, and Flora learns a little more about Clive Dove.
Flora's glad that the two of them are becoming friends. It's good for the professor, now that Luke has moved away, to have more people in his life; he's such a homebody. Sometimes, Flora thinks that if the professor didn't have to teach or have his weekly visit with Clive, he'd never leave the house, and that worries her.
(Although she worries about everything).
It's good for him to have something to look forward to every week. And, if what the professor says is true, Clive looks forward to those visits as much as he does.
Little by little, Clive Dove is opening up to the professor. Maybe it's the professor's persistence, or maybe it's his kindness, or maybe Clive truly is a gentleman at heart, as the professor says that he is, but the end result is the same: he's trying to become a better person—or, at least, that's what the professor says.
And that's… that's good.
Flora's happy about that. Really, she is. Of course, he deserves every bit of punishment that he's getting, and more, but if the professor can show him that kind of grace, then Flora would like to follow his example. It's what a true lady would do. But even more than that, if Clive Dove is trying to be good, then maybe there's hope that… that maybe it wasn't all fake.
That day in Future London had been one of the best days in Flora's life, until the end of it. It was her first real adventure. She'd barely gotten a taste of adventure on the Molentary Express; riding a train was fun, but being locked in a barn was horrible, and Luke's excited tales of all of the mysteries of Folsense had only rubbed salt in the wound. But Future London was different. There was an evil genius to defeat, and a dark, twisted London to explore, and interesting people to talk to, and, of course, there was Big Luke, the smiling young gentleman who acted like he liked having her as a part of the group.
Of course, it had only been one day, but… but Flora isn't used to being included. But she was included, and it was such a nice feeling. It had been such a wonderful adventure.
But then, the lies that held the adventure together fell apart, one by one. There was no Future Layton, or Future London, or Future Luke. It had all been a lie, and Big Luke was a madman.
But had he been all along?
So many of the things he'd said had truth in them. Of course, Flora's naive; she knows that better than anybody. But he'd been so nice to her, and she could tell that he was hurting, and… and she wanted to do something.
If he's trying to be good, as the professor claims he is, then… then she'd like to meet him, to get reacquainted with him, and see if Clive Dove is anything at all like Big Luke, and maybe… maybe they could be friends again. If it wasn't all a lie, then… then...
But… she can't.
Not until he's sorry.
If he's trying so hard to be a good person, then would an apology be so difficult? Compared to the other things he's done, this would be easy for him to try to fix.
Couldn't he send a letter? Give her a call? Something, anything?
Just a simple 'sorry' would do. Even just the one word. Anything to acknowledge that he regrets what he's done, that he's sorry for… for everything.
Doesn't he know how much he hurt her?
Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's forgotten all about her. With the gravity of his crimes, it's unlikely that he'd remember one of the 'little people' that he'd seemed to think so highly of, back in that awful fortress. Fooling her into thinking that he was a friend, kidnapping her… that's nothing, really, compared to levelling London.
But it still hurts.
And that's why she isn't going to see him; not until he says he's sorry. She's going to be stubborn about this. She has to be.
(Even if she doesn't want to be).
And so, Flora stays home alone on Sundays.
And today is just another lonely Sunday, without the professor. But this week is different; the professor isn't simply visiting the countryside. He's in America, and she's all alone.
She wishes the professor had taken her with him.
The worst thing is, he would have taken her, if Flora had just been honest enough to say that she wanted to come. Flora would have loved to go to America, to see Luke again after so long. But she lost her chance.
Flora remembers the moment clearly. The professor coming back from a busy day at the university, coming into the kitchen where she'd been experimenting (at least the cake wasn't on fire that day, even if it turned out rock hard), and with a smile, told her of his plans. "I've been invited to a week-long archeology conference," he'd said, his calm expression barely hiding the excitement evident in his voice. "It's in the city where Clark works. I thought you'd like to come along; I'm sure Luke would be thrilled to see you."
And at first, she'd been thrilled at the idea! An adventure with the professor, a trip to America, and seeing Luke again! Would he have an American accent now—oh, and what kind would he have? Flora could hardly wait to find out.
But then… but then the thrill faded, because Luke wouldn't actually want to see her, would he? He'd want to see the professor; he'd want to spend every minute with him, and Flora would only get in the way. And being gone for a whole week… all sorts of horrible things could happen at home during that time. What if something happened to Rosa while they were gone? Or Dr. Schrader? Or the professor's parents? Or Cl—
Anyway. The professor had responsibilities here; there are people who depend on him, and if he was gone, somebody would have to watch out for them. After all, Luke will be able to take care of the professor, even if she isn't with them. But Rosa is old, and so is Dr. Schrader, and so is Dean Delmona, and who knows if one of them might need some help while the professor is gone? And… and she's a little worried about Clive, too.
The professor hasn't said much, but she's seen and heard little snippets here and there. How after the first month of optimism, there was a downward spiral. How Clive never stops writing. How the professor comes home looking tired, only to brighten when he sees her, assuring her that everything is alright.
What if there's some sort of emergency, and the professor isn't there to help?
She needs to be responsible.
"It's alright," she'd said brightly. "I… I want to stay home. I have some… some projects I wanted to work on."
She didn't have any projects, and the professor knew that. She doesn't go to school. She doesn't have a job. All she would be doing would be writing, or baking a thousand batches of cookies in hopes of just one batch coming out decently, or else something unimportant that she could do anywhere, or perhaps taking the bus or driving to Gressenheller University, helping Rosa or chatting with Dean Delmona, if she's feeling particularly bold that day. And that's why every day, the professor would gently suggest that she reconsider, or question why she might want to stay home. "I'm sure Dean Delmona will be able to hold onto his granddaughter's puzzles for one week," he said one day lightheartedly, and another day, "Luke has a puppy, you know. I'm sure you'd have so much fun with it."
But she still hadn't wanted to go, because… because she didn't want to get in the way. Even if the professor said she wouldn't get in the way, she knew she would, because she's caused so much trouble before, always slowing down the investigations, getting kidnapped—
It would be better if she stayed behind.
So she did. She drove the professor to the airport this morning, waved him goodbye, and drove home. And now, here she is, alone, and wishing she wasn't, trying to write a letter that will never be completed, and even if she does complete it, it will never be good enough—
The phone rings.
Flora drops the letter, her heart pounding in her ears.
The professor.
Something must have happened to him. The plane must've crashed, and, if she'd gone with him, none of this would have—
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. No, that's ridiculous. There are so many other possible explanations for someone to be calling; she shouldn't immediately jump to the worst-case scenario. It's probably just… just Rosa, or… or somebody… Or maybe it's the professor. He promised he'd call, after he arrived safely.
But she still doesn't want to answer the phone.
The phone rings again.
Slowly, Flora forces herself to stand, making her way across the room. It's fine. It's fine. The professor is okay. The phone nearly slips out of her sweaty hand, and she fumbles frantically until it's safely wedged between her ear and her shoulder. "H…" Her voice cracks, and she starts again. "Hello? Flora Reinhold speaking."
Dead silence.
"Hello? This… this is Flora," she says again, struggling to keep her voice's pitch from rising. What if… what if…? "Is someone—"
"I'm sorry."
That voice. It's barely a whisper, but it's a voice that Flora hasn't heard in ages.
Flora freezes. "Big Lu… I… I mean… Clive?"
All she hears is the crackling of the telephone's static, and occasionally, a shuddering breath. Then, he speaks. "Ah. Flora. Hello." His voice is measured, but none of Big Luke's smooth tone is left in it, nor any of "Not Luke's" harshness. It's careful, hesitant, almost robotic. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you. I'll… I'll… please forgive me." His voice shakes unexpectedly. "I'm… I'm hanging up now. Good—"
"No, wait!" Flora grips the phone, holding it to his ear. He can't hang up now. Not after this long. She has to know why he's calling. "Why did you call? Please… please tell me."
Is he going to apologize?
Or, did he already? Was that what those first words were?
"I was…" His voice is shaking again, and she hears him clear his throat. "I was hoping to speak to the professor. He… he's an hour late, and I..." He trails away, as if uncertain of what to say next.
Didn't the professor tell him he wouldn't be coming today?
"He's gone." Flora tries to keep the loneliness out of her own voice as she says the words. "He's in America. For the archeology conference. He just left today. I drove him, and then I've been here all day by myself…" She's rambling again, like she always does, and just like she did in Future London, to Big Luke… She clears her throat. "He's not going to be back for a week. Didn't he tell you?"
Silence. Then slowly, he speaks. "...He did. I… I must have forgotten."
He sounds so lost.
In one way, it's almost satisfying, hearing the stark difference between the manic bravado of Not-Luke's voice, and this quiet trembling voice. But Flora can't find it in herself to find any enjoyment in it. That difference is what makes her so concerned. Something's wrong. Did the professor's absence upset him that badly?
(Somehow, that makes her feel a little less lonely).
"Are you okay?" she asks hesitantly, not sure if she should be asking, or if that's the right thing to ask, but it's all that she can think to say.
"I'm… I'm not…" Clive starts, then trails away into nervous laughter. "I'm sorry. This is… this is very uncomfortable for you, I'm sure. I'm sorry. I simply…" He pauses, then takes a deep breath. "I've been writing something, a-and I need the professor to look at it right now and… and tell me what to say, because nothing is good enough, and I've been trying and trying for so long, but it's not good enough…" He laughs again, panic in his voice. "I really should go—"
"Don't go, yet!" Flora speaks without thinking; she has to keep him on the line, both for himself, and for her. She has to know why he called, why he sounds so different now, from how he sounded then. She searches her mind desperately for topics to ask him about. The professor… no, they both miss him too much. The question of what it's like to live locked up in a mental hospital is near the front of her mind too, but that's a little insensitive, maybe. But writing… they've both been writing. "T-tell me about what you're writing. Is it a story?"
"Not exactly. It's more of a… well, I suppose you could call it a story." Clive pauses. "But, well… It's a pretty sorry attempt at one. And I just keep writing and writing and writing, but it devolves into madness every time, no matter how well I start. And I… I just want to get it done, to… to check it off of my gargantuan list, but… I shouldn't be bothering you with this." His voice grows sharper. "I shouldn't even be talking to you, not until I finish… until I finish it…" He grows silent again.
Flora waits, holding her breath, in case he's whispering again, but she can't hear anything. He's dead silent again. A minute passes, and he still hasn't spoken, and yet, he hasn't hung up the phone.
The silence is horribly heavy. Flora glances nervously back toward the table, toward her letter, in its envelope, addressed, but still unsent. She remembers the anxious hours she spent poring over it, trying to express her thoughts just perfectly, and failing every time.
Writing… she's always writing, now. And he is too. But about what?
An idea dawns in her mind. A stupid one, maybe, but she has to ask. "Are you writing a letter?"
He's still quiet, but the silence has changed; she can almost hear the conflict in his mind. Finally, he replies, in almost a whisper, "Yes. But it's not finished yet."
She doesn't know if it's for her. But it might be.
She has to know.
"What's not finished about it?" She leans against the wall, her eyes locked on her own letter. "I mean, it's okay if it isn't perfect. Most people are really happy to get a letter, even if it has a few mistakes, 'cause then they know someone is thinking about them. I'm sure whoever it's for would be happy to get it."
Clive laughs quietly, and for the first time today, he sounds a little like Not-Luke, from the fortress, but with none of the manic energy that he had then. "Oh, if only it were that simple. But it isn't. Nothing is simple, Flora. Everything needs to be perfect. Everything. And it never will be, because I'm not." His words start to pick up speed, his voice climbing higher and higher. "It's an awful spiral I'm trapped in—trying to write something perfect, and knowing it never will be. It's the way it always will be, forever and ever. But I shouldn't even be talking to you about this. But I never will be able to, because I'm never going to finish this, and I'll be caught in this endless—"
"Clive, you're not making sense."
Clive stops dead, and Flora feels awful for stopping him, when he sounds so distressed, but she's not emotionally prepared for that kind of tirade. But it's a lie to say that he isn't making sense, because he is, in a way, if she's interpreting this correctly. The letter's got to be for her. It has to be.
But if it's an apology, then why doesn't he scrap the letter and just say sorry to her now? Wouldn't that be so much easier?
(It'd make things easier on her.)
She needs to try to see things from his point of view.
"Well, you're making a bit of sense," she says slowly, considering her words carefully. "I mean, I know that I like getting things exactly right, so that people don't misunderstand me, so I understand why you're taking so long to write your letter. But, um… why did you need the professor to look at it? Couldn't anyone help?"
"He's the only one who could possibly help me." There's a stubbornness in Clive's voice now that would be amusing, if he didn't sound so serious. "And the only one that would bother. He's the only person left in the world that made me feel like there was still… still a point to anything. And… and I should have shown it to him ages ago, and he even tried to help me with it, so many times, but I was too proud and, and, well… I feel like it's too late now."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he's gone now, isn't he?" He's quiet again. "I… I'm not sure if it'll ever be finished now."
Flora stops, anxiety pooling in her stomach. She doesn't like the way he said that.
It's only a letter, isn't it? It's not that important. Or is it? Why is it so important?
If only the professor were here. He'd know what to do. Flora could ask him for help, and try to find out what this is all about, how long Clive has been trying to write this, and the professor could tell her exactly what to say, and then he'd drive away, as he does every Sunday, and play messenger for them both.
But he isn't here. And… and maybe that's a good thing, because now she has to do this on her own. It might be now or never.
"Well, the professor's gone, but I'm not." She speaks without thinking, but the words come out so naturally. "And the Laytonmobile isn't gone, and neither is the professor's time slot for visiting you, even if there's only a couple hours left." More determination fills her with every word she speaks. "I want to see what you wrote, and maybe I could help you finish it."
"You can't." Clive sounds panicked, but it's a welcome sound compared to the darkness that it held before. "It's… it's too personal. And… and besides, the professor said that you didn't want to see me, not until I—"
"I feel like you're trying, though, aren't you?" Flora cuts him off; she's got to get all of her thoughts out before she loses her courage. "That's the most important part. If you let me see it then I'll know you're sorry. It is for me, isn't it? Can't I see it?"
Clive's quiet again. Then, he speaks slowly. "It is. But… but it's not perfect yet."
It doesn't have to be.
Flora lets out a heavy sigh, looking around the room again, trying to find something to focus on that isn't her frustration. Her eye falls upon her own letter again, sealed up in its envelope despite its own imperfections.
If she can send her letter, then so can Clive.
"I'm still coming," she says, reaching out toward the table. She takes the letter in her hands, fiddling with it as she talks. "But I'll bring my letter too. And then if you give me yours, I'll give you mine. Deal?"
"You wrote one?" There's a tired shock in Clive's voice. "But you didn't need to… you don't have to do that."
"Well, I'm going to anyway." Flora looks out the window, at the damp wind blowing through the trees, the sky growing dark already, even though it's only mid-afternoon. "I'll be there soon. Or, I'll try to be. I… actually don't know the way that well, because I've never gone to where you're staying myself, so I might get a bit lost." Stretching the phone cord out as long as it'll go, she reaches for the car keys, snatching them off the hook on the wall. "But it shouldn't take horribly long. So get ready, alright? You can just give me whatever you've got, and that's good enough for now."
"You don't have to do this." Clive repeats himself, helpless. "My plan was… I was supposed to—"
"You can't stop me."
Clive stops dead, and so does Flora, blinking in shock. She didn't know her voice could sound that harsh. "Sorry," she says hesitantly, even though she knows she doesn't have to apologize. "I…"
"You're right." Clive speaks again, voice weak, but level. "I can't. And that's… that's probably for the best. I…" He pauses, and Flora vaguely hears someone else talking on the other end. "I have to go," he says after a moment. "I'm almost out of time. I'm sorry. Are you… are you going to come?" Flora can't tell if that's hope or apprehension in his voice.
Is she going to? Will coming make everything worse?
She has to.
If everything goes badly, she doesn't have to go back.
"I am." It's so hard to keep her voice from shaking. "I'll be there in… in probably thirty minutes."
"Thank you," Clive says quietly, and then he hangs up.
Flora holds the phone to her ear for thirty seconds until she remembers to hang up.
She moves through the house in a daze, gathering the things she might need: an umbrella (it looks like rain), the car keys (they were already in her hand), half a dozen half-decent chocolate chip cookies from her hours of baking (Clive likes these, right?). Finally, after what seems like an age, she feels semi-ready. She steps outside, struggling against the wind as she locks the door and climbs into the Laytonmobile, triple-checking the address before starting the car. The sound of the engine's vibration breaks her out of her trance.
This is really happening.
Finally, after months of dreading and wondering, she's going to find out if he's sorry, if she should forget everything. The uncertainty will be over.
But what if he isn't sorry?
Or what if he is, but her coming here makes him unable to say so?
Are things going to get better or, is… is everything only going to get worse?