Non autem mons nos vincimus
That groaning in the professor's stomach confirmed his own fears. He slid his hand through the bars—a move that had quickly gained disapproval from the guards—and held the boy's hand. "A Latin quote Andrew told me once," Hershel soothed. "It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves."
I like focusing on the professor's relationships c: The PL series has so much space for headcanons, I'm not even lying. Sometimes, I dream about what to write next for this cast…heh.
Originally was in present tense, but decided against it for unnamed reasons. Although it may prove to be a bit spoiler-ish, but I plan on seven, and seven chapters only. C: (writing all of this as a single one-shot would take too long;;)
dies unus.
"Professor?"
No. Not today. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Not now, not ever.
Hershel Layton, world-renowned archeologist, miraculous puzzle solver, and now, the hero of all of London. It had all happened in the blur of the night, he recalled.
Where she was no longer Celeste.
Where the boy was no longer from the future.
"Clive…" Hershel let the name slither out under his breath so as to hide it from the little girl residing with him. A swift move and his infamous silk hat found its way on his head, and its owner out the door.
The professor had anticipated the sound of a door slamming behind him, and instead, heard Flora calling after him. "Professor!" Her voice was almost shrill as she yelled in between pants. Her brow furrowed with great worry. "Just where in the world are you going so unannounced?"
A pang of guilt struck his heart. Hershel hurried across the cobblestone street once again and knelt down to the girl. The thoughts racing through his mind didn't help him find a legitimate sentence to say. "Flora, I—we…no, there is a pro—ah, a predicament down at the Scotland Yard in which Inspector Chelmey requires my assistance in." He placed his hands on her little shoulders—not to assure Flora of the veracity of his words, but to assure himself. Perhaps not such a wise idea, he quickly told himself. The professor's quivering hands only further agonized Flora.
She placed her hands on top of his and inhaled deeply. Nervous, was she? Why would she even have a reason to be so nervous? "I have tea brewing in the kitchen, Professor. Why don't I pour you a cup?" She squeezed his tightening grip. "I'm sure the inspector wouldn't want you working while in such a…bereft state of mind."
She knew, didn't she? Hershel bit his lip (with acute pressure, one might add) to stop himself from snapping at the girl. "Yes, Flora, Clive has requested my presence there at the prison."
Without knowing it, the professor had put unnecessary emphasis on the fact that it was he who was invited to visit the man.
And without another word, Hershel had dashed off yet again, leaving Flora far behind him.
"Mister Layton, I presume? Right this way please," the security guard led the man down a destitute hallway. Lined in the walls were, just as one would expect in a prison, rooms gated from the outside world.
The professor shuddered, knowing that Clive was being held among murderers, rapists, and thieves. While Clive was yes, no better than the aforementioned, he was relatively young and naïve. The matter of his thin and wiry frame also added another reason for Hershel to worry for the boy. If he had known the way himself, there was no doubt that the professor would have been dashing to Clive's cell.
Hershel's shoe soles echoed as they hit the ground. Inmates were drawn to the sound and eyed the man carefully as he continued on. The only inmate I want to eye me is Cl—
That didn't sound too right.
He walked closer behind the guard, silently urging him to hurry up, he wasn't comfortable here, he wants to get out. Of course, rational man he was, he soon realized telepathy would not work now. A shimmer caught the corner of his eye, and the professor whipped around. His breath was sharp as he scanned the corridor. Nothing. It was his imagination. He was imagining again.
Calm yourself, Hershel…his muse proved no help.
It was really foolish for him to visit the boy on such short notice, Hershel told himself. Exactly what reason did he have to come here? He was being a gentleman and fulfilling Clive's wish? Honestly, even the professor couldn't fool himself with that excuse. There was so much ground he wanted to cover with Clive, from the time of the explosion, to the few weeks he lived with the professor. Moreover, Hershel wanted to know more about this Constance Dove, Clive's time as a journalist, and the entire creation of Future London. And to answer his initial question, it was almost as if this trip was for himself, and not for the boy.
Had there not been so many questions running through his head, Hershel found little to no shreds of hope of him visiting Clive.
But thinking twice, maybe the professor really wasn't as cold hearted as he seemed. Exactly what would he gain from this knowledge? A better understanding of Clive, yes, but nothing tangible beyond that. It was on this logic Hershel told himself he was here to see the inmate on his own will.
"P-Professor?"
A single voice caught the attention of Hershel out of the plethora of clamor in the area. He snapped his eyes off of the ground and focused on the one he'd been looking for.
An unusually weary smile played its way across Clive's face. As he leaned against the iron bars, the professor couldn't help but notice the bandage on his forearm. His eyes still held their familiar air of condescending attitude, and his stance gave Hershel a warming welcome.
"Clive, it's certainly been…" Hershel started, tipping his hat in acknowledgement. He desperately searched for the word that, put simply, was stuck in his throat.
"A while, yes," the boy finished for him. As the guard unlocked the gate to let the professor enter, Clive's expression lightened. He stepped to the side, offering the professor the lone chair in the middle of the room. "To be honest, I really didn't expect you to come, Professor."
Hershel rested his chin in the palm of his hand. What in the world was he supposed to say? 'I missed you, Clive, I would never leave you.' No, Hershel, you're losing sight of why you're really here again. He then spent a good moment or two staring into Clive's eyes, still searching for something to say.
The boy doesn't protest; instead, he basked in the silence. It certainly had been a while since Clive to just sit in his cell without any disturbance. More often than not, his neighboring jail mates attempted to banter with him, and when they failed, they all started an incessant ruckus. Here, however, in Hershel's presence, was different. He knew he wasn't intellectually better than the professor. He didn't have the sharpest wit. He didn't have the lightest feet. He didn't have the most golden heart of them all? To hell with it, compared to the professor, Clive was the dirt Hershel walked on.
At least, so he thought. In the letters they had been exchanging the past few weeks (it was through these letters Clive had asked the professor to visit), Hershel seemed tense. He was a different man with a different view. Was it something he'd done himself? An indirect effect of his so-called 'Future London,' Clive surmised. Stealing another glance at the professor's now blank expression, he had to think twice. No, this had nothing to do with Future London. And then it hit him.
"Professor…" Clive quietly said. "What is it you want to ask?"
The professor's breath was caught in his throat, just like the countless words crammed in there. Clive was darting around his attitude now—one misstep and he could lose the upper hand here. Pacing his heart, the boy continued. "I know you're not here completely because I asked you t—"
"I'm not too sure about that, Clive," Hershel interjected. The arched brow the professor received told him to continue. "I…I think I would have visited sooner or later."
Clive drops himself on his mattress. The springs squeaked uncomfortably under him, but he needed to rest for a second. This man just wouldn't stop being so cryptic. "Are…are you mad at me, Professor?"
Hershel meets his gaze once again before laughing it off. "No, I suppose not. It's like you had said, Clive, you lead me to the heart of your operations for me to stop you." The professor gets up from his chair and walks over to Clive. He extends a hand, and leaves it open for the boy to take. "If anything, I want to be there for you."
It's quiet for another moment. Quiet, but not awkward. It was in this instant they finally understood that they were never meant to understand. To Clive, the professor was a pillar of light, someone to lean on, a model for him to strive after. To Hershel, Clive was lost, and alone, and still calculatingly smart. If they were to ever come to terms about what had happened, then it should have been made clear it was fake, forced.
To each other, they needed to talk more often.
Clive smiles. He's slow and unusual about it at first as the raw emotion takes over him. The tears blur his vision while a pair of arms wrap around him.
And he wants to kick himself for wanting to stay like this for so long.
She grabbed another tissue and held it to her face. "N-no, I already told you he's with Clive…Yes, I understand that, Inspector, s-sir, but why?"
Flora held the phone firm against her ear. The inspector's words were loud and clear, but they simply didn't make any sense. "Seven days…" she calmly repeated. "Seven days is nowhere near enough, I must insist…"
Her eyes dart to the front door, which remain static. If the professor were to walk in now…
"I…I can't make any promises, Inspector, but I'm trying my best."