It had been nearly twelve years. In fact, it was only a few hours from being exactly twelve years. He remembered every little detail about it. He had always prided himself on having an excellent memory, but for once he wished he could just begin to forget some things. And, like every year before it, he sat down by himself at the small round table in his small square kitchen to a meal of foie gras, asparagus, and a glass of red wine. It was almost like a "last meal" every year, except that he hated foie gras, was not partial towards asparagus, and sooner preferred coffee to red wine.
It was the last meal he had with her, before she left.
When a knock came to the door, he lowered his fork, gave the asparagus an accusing glare, and waited in silence. He allowed several seconds to pass before retuning his attention to his meal.
The knock came again just as the form was picked up, and he couldn't help but sigh in distress. Eleven years of the same routine, of wanting something different to happen, and here it was: a distraction. Although he always told his colleagues at the university not to disturb him, he found himself always secretly hoping one would ignore the request. And now that something had happened, he was very honestly annoyed.
"Of all the times," he muttered, rising to his feet. He wanted to fling the napkin onto his plate out of frustration, but couldn't bring himself around to do it. Instead, he politely wiped his mouth and folded it into a neat rectangle beside his plate.
The knocking rang out a third time, more frantic than before.
"I'm coming!" he told it, weaving through the house to reach the door. Taking a moment, he straightened his perfectly-ironed shirt, passed a hand over his flat hair, and pulled open the door.
If he was any less of a gentleman, he would have slammed the door shut, dumped the rest of his dinner into the trash, and retreated to his study without even doing the dishes.
But he didn't, because he was… Well, being a gentleman had nothing to do with this.
"Hello, Hershel," she said, her face showing immense relief that the door had opened. She gave him the pure smile she always had from over the shoulder of a slumbering boy she was struggling to hold.
"Hello, Claire," he returned politely. "It's been awhile. Nearly twelve years."
"Two hours until twelve years," she corrected and he realized that he couldn't be angry with her.
He stepped aside and held open the door. "Would you like to come in? Have some tea?" And then his brain caught up with the situation and he asked, "Who is the boy?"
She looked surprised, as if forgetting the burden in her arms. "This is my son. Luke."
"Named after his father, I presume?"
Her shoulders dropped and the smile turned exhausted. "Professor, please—"
Ashamed, he ducked his head for a moment, passing his hand across his brow out of habit of always wearing his top-hat. "My apologies, Claire. That wasn't very gentlemanly of me." He coughed to clear his throat. "What brings you here at this hour? Even carrying your son like that."
Claire lowered her head as well, her face disappearing behind the slumbering boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Hershel, to ask this of you suddenly, but I need a favor."
"About your son?"
"About my son."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You know I'm not fond of children. I don't know how I would begin to take care of him."
"You're the only one I can come to," she said quickly, taking a step forward, hesitating in the doorway.
The man stood back again. "Please, come in."
Her eyes were worried behind the thick round frames. "I can't. I don't have much time—there's a car waiting for me."
He looked around her, peering down the street a few houses to spot the wavering tail lights of a cab. "What will you have me do?"
She stepped closer again, until the body of the sleeping boy was pressed between them. Unconsciously, he reached out and caught the boy in his arms just as Claire pulled back.
"Please take care of him, Hershel," she said in a subdued voice, then turned away. She darted swiftly down the steps, her details being swallowed in the darkness.
"Claire—!" he called after her, stopping a moment to adjust the boy's weight in his arms. But he knew better than to chase after her. Fine then, he told himself. It will just be a repeat of all those years ago. With a heavy sigh, he slowly turned back into his house and used his foot to shut the door behind him.
The slumbering boy stirred and gave a sleepy groan, his warm breath tickling a spot just below the professor's ear.
"What am I doing?" he scolded himself, setting Luke down on the overly-stuffed couch., He was in no state to be taking care of a child—most certainly not the one which belonged to the woman…. Well… Former student of sorts? Assistant? He found that he could not properly figure out his feelings or his relationship for and with her. Not twelve years ago, and certainly not now.
As he stood in his living room, pondering just where he had gone wrong in his life of solitude, the boy stirred again and opened his sleepy eyes.
"Are you the professor?" he asked, staring around the room. "Where is my mother?"
He didn't look at the boy. "She had to leave, apparently. She didn't tell me anything."
"Mister—"
"Professor Layton, my boy," he corrected. He was feeling irritable, but too tired to do anything about it.
The boy huffed. "Professor Layton. Might I have a glass of warm milk, sir?"
After a long pause, he turned to face the boy on the couch. "Did no one teach you any manners, my boy? I was under the impression that your father was a gentleman."
"I suppose he could have been," he yawned, snuggling back into the cushions on the couch. "He was never around, and Mother wasn't much of a gentleman herself."
He glared down at the boy, but Luke's eyes were closed. "You're awfully cheeky when you're sleepy, aren't you?"
"And you sure aren't anything like Mother said you were," Luke retorted, opening one eye and staring up at the professor from under the brim of his cap.
The man sighed, dropping down onto a wooden chair—and immediately standing right back up again when he sat on a small puzzle box.
"Can you teach me?" the boy asked.
"Teach you what?" he carefully picked up the box and sat back down on the chair.
"How to be a gentleman." Luke rubbed his eyes and sat up straight. "Mother said you also loved puzzles. Can I learn about puzzles from you, too?" A pleased look crossed his face. "I can be your apprentice"
The professor frowned down at the puzzle box—angry at it for being too easy as he deftly solved it for the tenth time that month, angry at Claire for suddenly showing up when she knew he couldn't refuse her, and angry at himself for being unable to stop her from disappearing a second time.
"Mister…?"
"Professor Layton, my boy. And I don't take on apprentices. Puzzles and manners don't require apprenticeships." He placed the box down on the table, and the boy leaned forward to snatch it up eagerly. "It's late. I will prepare the spare room for you after I clean the kitchen."
Leaving the boy to the puzzle box, he rose to his feet and left the living room. And in his square kitchen, on the round table, sat the abandoned meal. As he started to clear the plates and deposit everything into the sink, he paused long enough to set a kettle of milk onto one of the burners.
Professor Hershel Layton, thirty-four years old: Archeologist by profession, and puzzle-expert by passion. Now also a long-term baby-sitter.