A/N: I know. He went through the stages of grief very quickly. I didn't have much of a choice in making them short stages. We'll just say the Professor recovers quickly.
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Hershel Layton didn't cry when Claire died, not at first.
His initial reaction was one of disbelief.
He refused to stand frozen at the scene, even though his heart felt like it had stopped. Holding back the young boy who was screaming, crying for his inevitably dead parents, gave Layton a reason to stay calm and keep focused. He wouldn't run into the building rashly; he would wait for the police. They'll bring Claire out. Of course, she'll be hurt. No one who was in the room could have gotten away unscathed. But she'll be okay. She's strong. But even as he thought this, his veins pumped ice cold blood, and his hand trembled on the still screaming boy's shoulder.
After going home that night, forced to leave before the buildings were cleared, his feelings didn't change. If anything, they only grew.
He went to sleep secure in his denial.
Waking up alone knocked him into reality.
The police brought the news he had been dreading since waking up; Claire was dead. They questioned Layton, trying to improve their understanding of what happened the previous day. He sat impassive for the majority of the questioning, but as he closed the door behind them, anger finally set in. He picked up the top hat from the wooden table and threw it with all his strength against the wall as a frenzy of thoughts nearly strong enough to give him whiplash filled his head.
If the police had arrived sooner she would still be alive!
If they hadn't messed with time travel in the first place she would still be alive!
If she hadn't gone she would still be alive!
If I hadn't let her go she would still be alive…
All of the anger rushed out of him in a wave, replaced by a self-loathing he had never felt before. He picked the hat up slowly and brushed it off, holding it away from him as if it were a poisonous snake, as he sat. I'd take Claire over a million hats. I'd take Claire over my own life. He set it down on his lap and stared blindly at it. If I could only have another day with her. I would give up ten, twenty, thirty even, years of my life to do so. I just…
He didn't realize he was crying until he saw water hit the hat, darkening the fabric.
…want to see her again.
And then he couldn't stop. Hands pressed into fists, fists pressed into his eyes, he curled in on himself, hot tears seeming to only burn his cheeks. Sobs racked his body, and he stayed in a ball until late afternoon when all of the light had faded from the sky.
Sleep. If I dream, I can be with her, at least for awhile. Layton dropped onto the floor with heavy limbs. His shoulder drooped, weighed down by the impossibly heavy weight of his hands, and his feet dragged as he made his way back to his room and dropped into bed.
He was overall unsuccessful at falling asleep. He was too warm; he was too cold. The texture of the sheets was too bristly, and the mattress was too hard. The lights of London outside his window and the sound of cars leaking through his walls kept him awake. And Claire was at the center of his mind no matter which way he turned and where he tried to redirect his thoughts. His dreams, when he finally slept, were filled with vague horrors, and he was grateful that they vanished from his memory with each waking. Around five in the morning, he finally fell into a deep—and blessedly dreamless—sleep.
Layton awoke close to noon to find his pillow wet with tears he again didn't realize he shed. He forced himself up and made himself a cup of tea, occasionally pausing to wipe his eyes.
She's dead.
And I cannot bring her back.
It was a relief of sorts when the disillusionment finally hit. He again picked up the top hat, examining the brown and orange fabric. He placed it experimentally on his head, smiling in spite of everything when he caught a glimpse of his refection in the window. I should find an outfit to compliment the hat. It would… be a pity to waste Claire's final gift.
He positioned himself comfortably in the chair to look out the window at the bustling street below. Everybody went about their daily business as if the world hadn't ended a few days ago. And, Layton finally admitted, it hadn't. A part of his had, and Claire's had been destroyed completely. But she would have wished him to move on with his life, painful as it would be to go on without her.
And sitting in the kitchen, top hat perched on his head, he vowed to become the picture of a true gentlemen she had told him he could be.