"Are you alright, Raymond?" Desmond watched as Raymond wobbled a bit on his feet. The old butler nodded after a long moment, leaning heavily on the doorframe. "You're normally asleep by now." Raymond's age had finally started to catch up with him; he required more sleep, which Desmond was slightly grateful for. Raymond had never slept very well while Desmond was under his care, his constant worry keeping him up. Desmond had taken to much more mellow things, knowing that Raymond couldn't possibly keep up with him now.

"I'm… fine." The tone that Raymond had taken made Desmond stand up and start to move towards his old friend.

"You sound exhausted." Raymond gave a weak smile, eyes flashing with an emotion Desmond hadn't seen from him in a long time. It was fear.

"Couldn't sleep." Desmond stepped closer to his friend. "It's been going on for about a week now. Figured that I might as well do something productive."

"Raymond. You should go back to bed, alright?" Raymond frowned and shook his head. "Why not? Do you want to talk about it?" Raymond pursed his lips.

"Something feels… wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"I thought I had just caught something, which is why I didn't think much of it at first." Raymond grit his teeth, as if holding back a wince. "But it's been going on for a month now."

"Raymond, this isn't like you --"

"I think I've caught something serious." Desmond frowned, eyebrows furrowing. "And I'm…."

"It's alright, Raymond." The butler let out a long breath. "Let's just get you to bed, now. I'll stay with you."

"Des, I…."

"Can you tell me what you've been feeling?"

"I can't explain it, but… my head feels… wrong, somehow." Desmond placed a gentle hand on Raymond's shoulder.

"I'm sure you'll be better in no time." He led his old friend from the room and began to walk back to his. He noticed the way Raymond stumbled every once in a while -- he had chalked it up to exhaustion, then -- as he sat on the edge of the bed after he had helped Raymond lie down. Raymond moved restlessly every once in a while, giving soft protests ('Desmond, honestly…') whenever Desmond would tell him to just relax, then he finally fell asleep.

Desmond stayed a bit longer, then moved to phone Nate. He'd obviously been worried over the phone, but Desmond assured him he'd be fine.

Three months.

Three months since Raymond had told him that something was wrong. Despite Desmond telling him he would get better, the old man only seemed to be getting worse. It was getting to the point where Raymond needed a wheelchair because his legs simply refused to hold his weight anymore -- or, they still could, but it was too difficult for Raymond to stay on his feet, Desmond realized when, one day, they had gone out for a walk. Raymond had grown more distant in that time, seeming anxious and scared -- for what, Desmond wasn't certain. He didn't know what was happening to his friend, but he was scared and Des didn't know how to fix it at all.

It was when Raymond woke up a few weeks later, crying and panicking because he didn't know where he was, that Desmond finally realized that whatever Raymond had caught was far more worrisome than he had anticipated.

Luckily enough, he remembered Desmond. "Where are we, Master? Have they got us yet?" Desmond bit his lip, trying to remain as calm as possible after hearing that slurred, strained sentence. He knew what Raymond was referring to -- Targent had been gone for almost six years now, but Des decided to play along.

"No. We're alright, Raymond."

"Does Master Layton and the others need anything?"

"No, Raymond. We're all alright. Just rest." Raymond relaxed, breathing labored and arms twitching slightly. "Are you feeling hungry? Thirsty?"

How long had it been since Raymond had had a decent meal? Raymond looked at Desmond for a long moment. "You cook?"

"Yes… yes, Raymond, I do." He'd learned how to cook years ago when he had married Olivia. "I can make you something. What would you like? Or would you rather just have some tea?"

"Tea sounds lovely, Master."

"You can call me Desmond now, Raymond. Would you like to come to the kitchen? You don't have to do anything; you can just rest while I do the work." Raymond didn't respond for a long time, just staring at Desmond with glazed eyes. Desmond's eyebrows furrowed. "Raymond?" The older man flinched. Des bit his lip again, hard enough to draw blood, this time. "I'm sorry, Raymond --"

"Did you ask me something?" Raymond asked. Desmond fought tears.

"Yes, I did." Raymond motioned weakly for Desmond to continue. His skin was pale, he was so, so skinny. Desmond didn't know what to do. "I asked if you wanted to come to the kitchen with me."

"Are -- are you crying, Desmond?" Des sniffed, wiping his eyes. Raymond's voice spiraled into horrified worry. "What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing… I just…." Desmond stilled for a moment, then bolted from the room, dialing Nate's number with a shaky hand. He told him Raymond was getting worse. Nate asked if he should come over. Desmond hesitated for a long moment, still trying to calm his breathing, before he said yes.

Nate held him close that night; Des sobbed into his shoulder. He had been assured that everything would be okay, just like he told Raymond all those months ago. Desmond wasn't sure if he should believe that phrase anymore.

Desmond flinched when Raymond let out a shuddering breath.

Six months, now. Almost seven. Raymond's sixty-fifth birthday was in a week. The old man was completely bedridden, his skin burning with a fever and his body shivering violently. Raymond had lost his voice a little bit after the fifth month, his body refusing to respond to him.

"Raymond, would you like me to put on some music for you?" The old man had always loved classical music; they kept a few records to listen to. Desmond found one and placed it carefully into the player. He turned it on, turning the volume down. He glanced back at Raymond.

He had relaxed, the ghost of a smile barely there as he gazed at Desmond. The unspoken phrase hung in the air.

"It was no problem, Raymond." The butler's lips twitched even more, his body still shaking, but beginning to cease. His eyes grew half-lidded, and a single tear trailed down his cheek. "Hey -- it's alright. You're -- you're tired, right? Just relax. You're gonna be alright. I'll be here for you." The old man seemed to struggle for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing, soft wheezes leaving him as he struggled to remember how to speak.

"I --" Raymond finally managed to get out.

"It's alright, Raymond. I understand." His friend's expression morphed into sorrow, then. "Just rest. Can you still click the button I gave you to wake me up?"

In response, the alarm went off. Desmond gave a weak smile. "Alright. Just push that if you need anything, alright?" Raymond started crying again, wheezing and coughing weakly. "You're -- you're going to be okay." He moved to Raymond's side, pressing a soft kiss onto his forehead. "Just rest, okay? I'll be back in the morning."

Raymond looked like he wanted to say something as Desmond left, but he wasn't sure what. He fell into a deep sleep that night, exhausted and scared out of his mind.

When Desmond finally woke up the next day, everything was silent. Desmond felt a sharp pang of worry. He threw off the covers to his bed, and made his way to Raymond's room.

The music had long since stopped, and the room was eerily silent. He couldn't even hear the rattling breaths Raymond had been making for the past week. He made his way over to the bed slowly. The covers weren't moving, either. Everything was too still. He placed a hand on Raymond's head, then pulled away sharply.

He was cold. His skin was starting to turn blue, he wasn't moving. Desmond couldn't accept that, at first. He couldn't accept that he was gone. He'd been alive yesterday. He couldn't --

Desmond stepped away from Raymond and moved, jerkily, to the phone, where he dialed for an ambulance and explained, in a monotonous voice, that Raymond was dead.

"Cause of death, sir?"

"I don't know, but -- I think it was pneumonia."

"Alright. Just hang in there until an ambulance arrives." The operator hung up. It wasn't long after that Des finally sank to his knees, and screamed. He should have listened, he should have listened --

Raymond knew that he was going to -- and Desmond -- he -- he just brushed it away.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to forgive himself.

He called Nate after a long moment of just sitting there. Nate arrived around the same time the paramedics did, and he led Des away to the living room while they carried Raymond's body out. He held Des close, like always. Stroked his hair and tried so hard to calm him down, like always. He didn't even say anything this time; just rocked him back and forth on the couch, stroking Des's hair silently until he fell into an exhausted slumber.

He would forget about Raymond's death when he woke up next. He would try to wriggle out of Nate's grasp to check on him, like he had for the past several months. He would be heartbroken when he realized he was gone. Nate would be there for him, try to calm him down again.

And this time, Nate would stay with him in his home, making sure that Desmond was eating, sleeping. He would make sure that all the ways Des could feasibly harm himself were noted and watched.

After all, that's what Raymond would have done.