A/N: First time writing Professor Layton, guys. Let me know how poorly this is done. :D Also, the professor is quite wordy; I can't exactly apologize. This is just something I've been dying to ask him. Spoilers for games Unwound/Lost Future, Last Specter/Spectre's Call, and Miracle Mask. (So games 3, 4, and 5; I abhor spoilers of all kinds so I thought I'd just make that clear.) Occurs a week following the events in Unwound Future.

One Last Question

A rather ordinary Saturday afternoon unfolded in the Layton residence—uneventful as much as the preceding Saturday had been eventful, with the professor enjoying his cup of tea and novel in his armchair; Luke on the floor nearby toying with the latest puzzle he had discovered. But it didn't seem to be holding his attention, not that the professor would ever admit to keeping a careful eye on the lad. Ever since last weekend, Luke had been uncharacteristically quiet and not quite as giddy as before. The professor had attributed this lack of excitable energy on Luke's rather untimely leave. Layton could not blame him; it weighed heavily on his mind as well. He didn't know what he was going to do with another spare room.

Several moments passed, the professor attempting to better make the book's acquaintance, and Luke now toying with the pencil in his hand. The professor frowned, trying to think of something appropriate to say, something to fill the glare of looming departure in the room, when Luke spoke up.

"Can I ask you something, Professor?"

Hershel abandoned his pursuit with the book and smiled at his young ward. "I daresay you have already."

"No, I meant—" Luke broke off groaning and the professor's smile vanished. A remark like that usually would have brought at least a little smirk to his apprentice's face. His eyebrows knitted in concern.

"What is it Luke?"

Luke kept his eyes averted—most curious—before he blurted, "Whyartchewbitter?"

"I beg your pardon?" The professor spluttered.

Luke met his eyes then and with a flash, Layton recalled the last time he had seen that look; when he had first met the boy, right before he would make a prediction about the specter. It was a calculating, haunted look, but it also seemed to have a dash of determination to it. The professor mulled over the implications of Luke's body language before Luke repeated in a slight monotone, "Why aren't you bitter?"

The professor bit his tongue to refrain from posing the same question. Instead, he settled with a curious, "Do I have any reason to be?"

But this seemed to entirely be the wrong thing to say. "Yes, you do!" the boy cried angrily. "I just would like to know…why you aren't. You have every reason—every right—to be. I know I would be."

"I apologize, Luke. I haven't the faintest idea to what you're referring."

"You…" the boy broke off again, and bowed his head to the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, not unlike what it had become ever since the preceding week had transpired. "You've lost so many people…and you have every reason to be bitter. And you're not. How come you're not?"

"Luke."

The boy looked up in surprise as Layton placed his tea on the small table adjacent to his chair before kneeling before him. The professor laid his hands on Luke's shoulders and repeated, but with more seriousness this time, "Do I have any reason to be?"

"Well of course you do!" Luke spluttered indignantly, frowning as the words started shooting out of his mouth almost of their own accord. "First there was your best friend and then your girlfriend…and now me! I'm not coming back any time soon! I might as well be gone too! How is any of that fair to you at all?!"

"Luke." The professor called his name again, and Luke looked up to meet his eyes. There were definitely tears the boy was holding back.

"Luke," the professor repeated, and though quite reluctant at first, Layton managed to persuade Luke into an embrace. When he was settled there, Layton could feel Luke's tears wetting his jacket.

"I have no doubt you will return to London."

But Luke only seemed to cry more. When the attack had subsided some, the professor let him go and Luke retreated, his face a mess. Without saying anything or even looking at him, the professor extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to Luke.

"Thank you," Luke said, wiping his face. When his face was supposedly more or less to rights, he returned the handkerchief and Layton was able to meet his eyes once more. "Not a problem, my boy."

Luke looked away again and back to the pad of paper he had discarded. Layton followed his gaze; usually he would zip through twenty or more by this time, but today he was stuck on this single puzzle. The professor should have just created one for him rather than allow him to search for one—a cruel reminder; this one was about boats.

"Y—You didn't answer my question," Luke accused weakly, his gaze far from the professor's face.

It was a few moments before the professor answered. "I had hoped you would be a bit older before teaching you this," he admitted.

Luke opened his mouth to say something, but the professor ruefully added, "But it appears you are far older than I last remember."

"Professor?"

"I mean in spirit, Luke. I have thus far taught you all I know, about how to become something more than you already are, to become someone people can look up to and admire, someone who is true to himself at all times. Alas, these were the easy parts. I have not divulged in full of why I maintain these pretenses."

"Um, Professor?" The wheels were turning in his young ward's head again; he sounded far more like his regular self. Layton had to suppress a smile. "Why do you then?"

"Every…loss I have sustained…has taught me something. And I believe that is worth far more than remaining bitter. I cannot claim that I have not felt that way at some time or another, but it is like chasing a fool's dream, Luke, for to remain bitter forever would eventually leave a man with nothing. Do you see?"

Luke was voluntarily meeting his eyes again. "Erm…I don't think so, Professor."

Layton smiled. "Allow me to paint a scenario for you, a very familiar scenario…Imagine you have lost your family and for ten years have done nothing more than brood over your loss, growing more incensed, more desperate to solve the perceived injustices with the most dramatic solution every year." Even voicing it aloud, Layton had to suppress a shudder. What Clive really needed…was a professor.

"Oh!" Luke's shock is splattered all over his face. "Do you really mean—?"

"Yes Luke. It is unfortunate, but Clive has made his choice in dealing with his pain—in anger. Do you see how it ultimately led to his downfall?"

Luke suddenly frowned, looking almost as though he were about to cry again. The professor has to restrain himself from reaching into his pocket to offer the handkerchief to him. There was no need…yet. "But…it's so hard to see what could happen if you hold on to those feelings, Professor. I just—"

"—I'm really sorry for everything that has happened to you. I just didn't want—"

"Luke." The professor said his name the same way as before, and this time, the boy didn't need the final prod to bring him into the professor's arms; he came of his own accord. "You are very kind, Luke. I understand your worry and concern, but allow me to assure you when I say it is not needed. Our goodbye is not quite the same."

Almost as expected, Luke extracted himself from the embrace again and turned on his professor in red-hot indignation. "What do you mean it isn't needed?!"

The professor simply can't hold back a smile this time. "I said 'not needed'. I did not say 'not wanted'."

"…Oh."

Layton carded his fingers through the boy's hair and stood, saying, "Now if my nose is to make any judgments, I'd say Flora has finished with her baking. Let's see how far the damage…extends."

Luke sniffed the air; it did have a sort of burnt smell to it. He grinned and took the professor's hand to help him stand when it was offered. "Right-o, Professor!"