Chapter Text
It was Hershel Layton's idea to bring the infamous "Clive Dove" back to his London Flat. The young man was the self-proclaimed enemy of London, and Hershel Layton himself, and he had even tried to destroy it and him both. Hershel knew some of Clive's past, the explosion that killed his birth parents, the subsequent fire that killed more innocent, and the death of his adopted family, of Constance Dove when he was only 20 years old. ... ...
He had built that "future London" underneath the real one, and pretended to be Luke Triton from "the future" in order to trick both him and Hershel Layton into believing his lies. He built a giant machine, intending to send the real London crashing down, killing all of London, including himself, to send a message— to "deliver the justice that London's people needed."
However, at the climax of his plan, Clive hestiated— he actually... enjoyed? working with Layton? Enjoyed being his faux-apprentice, pretending to be Luke? going around the fake future London.
That hesitation momentary lead to his ultimate failure, the plan failed, and Clive was irreversibly damaged.
Clive suffered a major head injury from the crash, the backside of his cranium cracked from the rubble piling on top of him, but Hershel couldn't trust any doctors not to tattle about Clive's whereabouts, so he had to resort to asking one of his friends at the university— one who had previously failed med school, to do a procedure to fix his skull damage.
It was, "successful," but the sheer amount of damage done on his brain from the incident left him... Incurable, the boy was... Dying, and Hershel couldn't just turn him in now.
Turning in a dying man who can't follow the most basic orders, who cannot even speak properly, into the most harshest of authorities to be executed? Clive would likely be beaten by the guards for his incapablity of performing simple tasks due to his brain injuries! That wasn't justice, that wasn't fair or just punishment! He would be proving Clive right if he did that, proving that London really is full of no-good people, who don't care about the things going on around them, who would rather sit and pretending nothing is wrong...
Hershel just, for some reason, couldn't bear to wonder what Bill Hawks and rest of parliament would do to Clive while he was in such a frail and vulnerable state, even if he had done so much wrong— including tricking Hershel, and trying to destroy all of London with a giant machine...
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Hershel opened the door of his hidden spare room, looking towards where Clive Dove was laying down on the red loveseat, exactly were he had left the young man that morning— he didn't move spots on his own often, it was a small thing but it concerned Hershel greatly... He had been doing some "charting" as of late, a "progress log" of the young man's condition, although, the word "progress" was beginning to seem like a total stretch.
After a moment of quiet pondering and a short internal monologue, he gently closed the door behind him and made his way over to the seat, which was facing the open window, and leaned over the back of it slightly.
"Clive...? My boy?" He spoke quietly, kindly to his own enemy.
Clive did not react to Hershel's presence, his head facing sideways against the loveseat's armrest with his head facing the window, staring at the people as they walked along the street below. He gazed upon the great city of London, a London that he had such a deep hatred for, at the same nobodys he blamed for so much, the reason for all his violent crimes... he could no longer remember any of that as he stared. A city that he couldn't even see well, because of his poor, blurred vision.
" ... " Clive slowly shifted his eyes to the sound, his head too weak and his neck too stiff to turn towards the sound, which was muffled by his still-busted eardrums. He looked a little paler then usual, more sickly then what Hershel was used to seeing from the boy.
Layton let out a soft breath, slowly walking around from the back to the front, watching as Clive's eyes followed, before crouching down to be more eye level with him. He placed two gentle fingers on Clive's neck to check his pulse— weak, but about the same from that morning. He noted his breathing, quiet, but stable. He also noted the boy was shivering despite having warm, clammy skin.
"You're feverish..." Layton began, moving a hand to push back Clive's bangs, resting the palm of his hand on Clive's forehead. "Have you gotten yourself up today?"
" ... " Clive stared the black and orange blob, his sunken, heavy eyes lacking his old contempt. " ... mn-ah~ " He opened his mouth, and blood came spilling out, spilling down his chin, and onto his own clothes, which Layton had just gotten washed the other day.
"Good heavens!" Hershel panicked momentarily, but he knew he shouldn't be surprised, it was quite the common occurrence, he reached towards the low coffee table in front of the loveseat, which sat upon it a medkit, an unfortunate necessity now-a-days. "You have to stop doing that, my boy," Layton spoke warmly as he grabbed some gauze, gently dabbing at the blood dripping from Clive's lips. "you're going to give me a heart attack..." He took a breath. "Just, breath, alright? Just stay still, stay calm..." He muttered towards the end, speaking to himself more then he was speaking to Clive.
Clive simply stared at Layton, that's all he would do, that's all he could do. " ... " Clive then shifted slowly, weakly reaching out his arm to lay a hand on Layton's own arm, and Layton's face contorted into a sad, knowing frown. He kept a warm demeanour towards the boy, but internally he felt himself struggling to stay composed, his manners warring with emotions, something dangerously close to real pity.
"... But did you? Did you get up today?" He reached out a gentle hand to cup the side of Clive's face like he was some fragile, porcelain doll, so he didn't have to fight himself not to slump over. "For a drink? For the bathroom...?" A moment passed, and after receiving silence, he sighed gently.
"You don't have to say anything, just rest, alright? I'll get you something.”
Layton then stood up, turning his back to Clive as he stepped away from the glorified-couch-seat with the dirty gauze in hand. He strode over to the kitchen, throwing the bloody hazard in the garbage can, but when he heard the loud thump behind him he immediately spun around, faster than a man his age should be capable of. Clive fell into the floor after having tried to push himself up to follow Layton on instinct, like it was out of strange habit.
“Whoa! My boy!” Layton quickly pivoted back toward the seating area, crouching down beside Clive. Layton’s hands reached out, but remained caught mid-air. His mind was stuck, a rare moment of hesitation in the professor’s thoughts. Then, he finally, gently, turned Clive, who was rather calm despite his painful looking face-plant, onto his back, and carefully slipped an arm underneath his head to sit up up.
“Are you alright?” He asked in that practiced “professor” tone of voice, the one he would most often use during rough situations like this, the one most associated with him.
“...Are you hurt, my boy…?” He asked with a gentle frown, his voice lowering instinctively as he stared into Clive’s absent eyes, who stared back with his head resting against his arm. Layton’s calm and professional act was slipping quickly as he began to feel something dangerously close to worry for the once-villainous man in his arms, his act wasn’t even convincing himself anymore. Although a part of him hoped that his fading facade was working on Clive, that Clive felt any sense of relief… any sort of cognitive awareness, anything, a sign...
“Here, let me help you—”
“mnnn~aaaa…” Clive muttered as Layton began to shift and lift him to his feet, muttering unintelligible sounds that felt more like whining.
Layton quickly eased him back down, hands gently gripping Clive ever so slightly tighter. "Shh, I’m just putting you down… and after, I’ll get you that glass of water.”
“Mmnn~aaa….” Clive only groaned louder, not eased so easily by Layton’s words. He began to shift around uneasily, on edge, the young man wanted something, but he couldn’t say it. It was a constant routine, the same old story and it broke Hershel's heart a little every time.
“Easy, easy… just rela—” Layton attempted to soothe Clive, but it didn’t work as Clive only continued to fuss, even seemingly attempting to push away Layton’s hand as it came up to gently the back of his head, where his injury was the most tender.
"Mmn~aaa, aa…” Clive fussed more and more despite Layton’s attempts, which prompted then Layton to lay him back on the loveseat himself by picking up his weak form.
"Relax, my boy," the professor replied as he then straightened up, walking to the kitchen again. "Please, whatever is wrong, you'll only be make it worse by fussing like this..."
Layton returned shortly with the glass of water in hand, frowning as he saw Clive shifting so uncomfortably, albeit less then before, but that's probably because he's tiring himself out now. "... I know you can't talk..." Layton began slowly as he sat the glass down beside the medkit on the table. He took the young man's hand, the only sensation that he seemed to respond too. "And that's alright that you can't— But, what's bothering you? Are you hungry, thirsty? Is it the bandage on your head, is it making you uncomfortable again?" Layton asked politely, the hint of desperation in his tone, like a parent trying their best to understand their child's need. "Can you give me a sign, or show me...? Anything, anything my dear boy, anything will do..."
" ... ... Nnaa~mmmnn... N-nnnh... " Clive groaned slightly, struggling against his own body, his own muscles. His hand weakly squeezed Layton's hand in return, the only part of him that he felt wasn't working against him. "Ppehrr~aaa..." Clive struggled on each sound, a rather embarrassing display if Clive was still his old self. "Pyurro~f-fe-feh—aamnn..."
Hershel sighed quietly to himself as he watched the boy fumble and slur, it felt doomed. All he could feel while looking over the young man was a sense of helplessness, nothing but a young boy trapped inside his own blood and flesh as it seemed to slowly give up on him like an cruel iron maiden. "Take your time..." Hershel replied in a low tone which lacked it's usual conviction.
" ... I'll get you some painkillers, alright? And you can take them with the glass of water." Layton mentioned, patting the boy's arm before standing up. He stopped when he felt Clive's weak hand gripping his clothes, he turned his head down to meet the young man's gaze and was met with a teary eye'd expression.
" ... D-Dou-hn't ... " Clive opened his mouth, lips trembling with some wound-up emotion. " ... guuoh... D-Don't g~oo.... "