time-traveling scientist

{location starters}; accepting!

3. A coffeeshop for @heartlaw!

“I remember coming to this particular shop on one of my earlier trips to America, actually. I had a lovely chat with the Chief Prosecutor.”

Claire hummed as she stood outside the door of the coffee shop, a smile upon her face. Here she was, again in Los Angeles. While they usually came here on holiday, this time, they were to assist Mr. Wright with a particularly troubling and twisting case, which required their expertise for. 

For now, however, while Mr. Wright and her husband were discussing business, her focus right now was Ms. Athena Cykes, whom Claire had offered to take out for lunch. 

{one word drabbles}; accepting!

Peace.

To Claire, peace was more than a mere feeling. 

It was the way Hershel’s smile creased after they twirled and twirled around the room, listening to their favorite songs. The two of them were worn out and tired, but their laughter rang through the house, bringing joy to anyone who heard them. 

It was the aromas and flavors of a dinner spent together around a table, steaming with lively conversation and chatter. It mattered not what was being eaten or where it was, what mattered was that their stomachs and their souls were filled to the brim. 

It was the moment sorrow and pain melted away from a child or husband wracked with fear or anger. In the comforting embrace of a hug, tension and aches could be at ease, and calmness could let itself breathe. 

It was the sound, or lack thereof, of a quiet, worry-free night. No nightmares threatened their dreams, no worries lurking at the door. Their three children were tucked snug in their beds and she and Hershel in theirs, whispering in the darkness until they were lulled to dreamland. 

My dearest Hershel,

I finally met with our son.

It’s been such a long, tiring month, Hershel. I’ve called and I’ve called time and time again and yesterday, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, they allowed us to come and see him.

Physically, he’s doing as well as he can be, for someone who was nearly fatally shot and was in a coma for a month. The doctors have informed me that he’s recovering well, after everything he’s been through.

Mentally, however…?

Hershel, there’s something off about Alfendi. I don’t know how or why I know, but something doesn’t seem quite right about our dear son. He wears the same face and uses the same name, even has all of his memories and yet-

He’s changed. Different. Someone or something has plucked away his passion and wit and left an empty shell of a man who is unrecognizable to me and the girls. My heart aches when he is pain, but it also feels no comfort in his assurances. His words feel as empty and hollow as the man himself and I’m left wondering what to do with the pieces. 

He insists he killed Makepeace. He insists on pleading self-defense. And he insists that things will turn out alright. Time and time again I hear the same narrative over and over, pounding in my ears nonstop- 

I cannot accept this as the truth. I can’t. I refuse to.

Maybe I’m just the delirious mother, too unwilling to accept her child’s faults. Maybe everything I thought about Alfendi was all wrong and I was too blind to see it until it was too late.

Or. Maybe he needs help. Maybe what he desperately needs someone by his side and somehow, he can’t tell us. After all, nobody knows Alfendi quite like the way we do. If one of us isn’t feeling well, the others know. We should know. And we do know. 

...It is times like these where my heart aches to hear the sound of your voice and my fingers yearn for your hand. If you were here, at least I could have someone who understood the way I was feeling, who could ease my worries and listen to my thoughts. Instead, this pen and paper will have to be a substitute. 

Before Alfendi’s trial next month, I have to make sure he has a proper attorney defending him. I have an idea of who to call up: our old family friend from abroad. Surely, if there is one other person who could assist me in solving this mystery, it would be him and his team. Perhaps I’m simply wishing for a miracle, but at the very least, I want our son to have a fighting chance. He has to. It’s the least I can do for him.

I miss you terribly, Hershel. I hope wherever you are, you keep us close to your heart. I love you dearly, forever and always.

Faithfully yours,

Claire

It’s… twitching. His brain. Is. Not quite cooperating. Something moves behind those eyes, darting about, pacing in its cage. Something stirs in those ribs, gripping the bone, trying to push it aside. Something drops like a rock in his gut, heavy and earthen.

Something else… slides a hand over his mouth, another over his eyes, another grasping at his heart. Something else seizes him from all angles, holding fast. And yet… every hand is invisible to all but the one it belongs to.

There is a long silence, to which Alfendi fills by finishing his soup. The clock ticks. He’s sure she is upset. Why wouldn’t she be? He’s become a killer, a murderer – even in self-defence, he’s taken someone’s life. Even if the person was a serial killer in his own right. Even if the person was waving a gun. Even if…

He’s fallen into expectations. There is a wager won in the backrooms.

Keep Reading

One squeeze. Just one.

Little did she know of the countless nights she would spend alone in her bed, staring up at the ceiling late at night, listening to nothing but the ghosts of her thoughts interpreting what that one act of trust could have possibly meant.

Just one.

Was it out of comfort, out of concern, or out of pain? Or perhaps, did it have some further meaning hidden beneath its surface? For the next four years, that one gesture in a cold, bleak hospital room would be kept close to her heart, revealed to no one except her deepest thoughts.

It was enough. It would be just enough to keep alive an ember of hope of his innocence.

“...It’s alright, my dear. I believe you. Please, don’t stress yourself out even more.”

She looks so troubled, something straining at her seams and at last the question he’d been expecting comes tumbling out. The question ignites a torrent of jumbled feelings. A sensation of something continuing to press at the insides of his throat is joined by the odd, intrusive experience of something pressing at his skull.

Breathe, Alfendi. Breathe. He swallows hard in his second attempt to chase away whatever these rogue feelings are, and stamps out the embers of emotion trying to flicker up and snatch control away from him.

“We arrived at Forebodium to deal with Keelan Makepeace. I seperated from the group and chased him up to the rooftop. He brandished a pistol at me and told me to back off. I fired a shot and wounded him in the side in an attempt to deter him, but he didn’t let go of the gun. Justin tried to discourage me from firing again. I ignored him, and both myself and Keelan pulled the trigger. My gun ended his life – he almost took mine.”

“So, whatever you have heard… that I killed Keelan Makepeace… that is correct. I did. In the name of self-defense, which is why I believe things will go smoothly. So there’s no reason to worry. I just have to tell the court the truth and they will understand.”

Why is he… feeling so awful, after saying this? It’s the truth. It’s what happened. So why is there this screaming in his head, this furious protest in his bones? It sours his stomach, and Alfendi abruptly chokes on soup rising in his throat. Thankfully it goes back down and he takes a swig of water this time to chase out the feeling of acid burning at his insides.

At first, the room was left in an overbearing silence, bringing the conversation to a complete halt. What should she say? What could she even say? All at once time stood at a standstill, save for the monotonous second hand of a nearby wall-clock going by, ringing in her ears with each fleeting moment. 

Tick, tick, tick... the timer’s just begun. My dear Claire, where is your son?

He’s here. He’s here, yet somehow not at all. Though the man in the hospital bed before her bears his name and holds his memory, there are no edges nor points, no passion in his voice nor sparkle in his eyes. Always dullness. Always hollow. Always a blank, far-off stare that insists on staying shut like a closed book, even when talking about his own trauma. 

No assurances of his could truly set her at ease. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Tick, tick, tick... Alfendi’s went and ran. Tell me, Claire, did your son kill a man?

Impossible. Seldom in her life did she ever hold onto a conviction without hard evidence, but despite the voices that tell her “yes, absolutely, yes,” a quiet, still voice in her heart insists on “no, it cannot be.” 

Even with the soul-crushing confession before her, rattling her to her bones, her voice refused to be still. Call her foolish. Call her stupid. Or call her an attentive mother who should know better and who does know better. 

Tick, tick, tick, your time’s about to die. But Claire, why would your son tell a lie?

Why? Why, why, why? It’s the biggest question that has to be answered, if she’s correct. What purpose would telling a lie to her, his own mother even do for him? 

While Claire is thinking, Alfendi sets down his cup of soup and rubs at his eyes. It feels like something is pushing from behind them, and it’s a strange sensation. A few sips of water as he tries to ignore the feeling, tries to get everything back on track, and…

“Just tired,” he assures her. “I’m just tired, is all. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s going to come out okay.” He folds his hands in his lap. “I actually feel better than I used to. My mind is clear and my emotions are calm and collected.”

Something is shouting in him, dragging its nails against the inside of his throat, trying to reach out, trying to get a foothold and say something, say anything… Alfendi coughs and clears his throat, trying to chase away the sensation. 

“Of course, almost dying… is a stressful event, haha.” Cough. “But I’m trying not to let it affect me. And,” cough, cough, “well, I have to deal with the legal ramifications of opening fire…”

“...”

With every hollow assurance that came out of his mouth, every second that passed of his unreadable olive-eyed stare, and every moment where all of his infamous wit and attitude was nowhere to be heard, her shoulders continued to tense up, her body growing ever smaller in the chair. 

For the past month, a Pandora’s Box of a question had lingered in the back of her mind, daring itself to be asked. A small part of her hoped the answer could be coaxed out on its own, but she was out of luck, out of options. 

“Alfendi,

Her heart tightened. Her concerned visage remained the same. For the first time in a long, long time, there was a flicker of mistrust for her darling son.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

Please, let all the news reports be wrong. Let all the doubters and the gossipers eat their own words. Let the whole world see that you are more than your thoughts, more than your insults and sharp tongue, and more than Professor Layton’s “troubled” son. 

Please,

“-What exactly happened at Forebodium Castle, dear?”

“I imagined that was the case.” He sips at the soup in the cup. He looks so frail… a month of inactivity has stripped so much life from him. He’s been acting as if he’s doing his damndest to hold himself together, as if he’s afraid something will shake him to pieces. “I’m sorry for worrying all of you.”

He smiles faintly at the mention of his sisters. “I look forward to seeing them, too. I’m sure there’s quite a bit for me to catch up on from everyone.” Though at Claire’s admission, the smile fades. “Please take care of yourself. I’m going to be okay now.”

Alfendi waits patiently for her to complete her thoughts, taking another sip of his soup. His yellowed eyes linger on her, soft and tired, dark circles under them. “That’s right, you have. And I’ve been so grateful to you.” But… something’s wrong.

“Yes. I know I can trust you, mother. What is it? Did you have something you wanted to say?”

No vaguely sarcastic but affectionate response. No scoffing ‘of course, mom, did you ever think I didn’t?’ None of Alfendi’s usual attitude. None of it.

There it was again. “Mother.” The word almost felt... foreign, coming from Alfendi’s voice, as if he were talking to someone else, not her. Or, as if all his sharp edges were worn down with sandpaper and replaced with...

“Thank you for always being by my side, Claire. I am, and always will be, eternally grateful to you.”

...Hershel. 

It wasn’t just the earl gray tea that was making her feel like he was by her side. 

It was the way Alfendi’s voice was light as a feather, held aloft with not an ounce of argument. It was the way he held himself, or rather, the lack thereof, of any stress or stiffness, no weariness in his bones. It was the way he was so poised and delicate, choosing his words ever so carefully and is, in nearly every way, not himself, not Alfendi Layton.  

It was off. It was wrong. It should be a given that her husband was a major influence on their son, but not like this. Never like this. 

“It’s just that... I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. Alfendi, are you sure you’re feeling well?” Maybe it’s just the stress of the hospital visit. Maybe it’s just the medications they’ve been giving him. Or maybe it’s something else, like-

He’s done it for now. He…  Another lapse of time. Alfendi shakes his head, tries to find the strength in him to worry but everything’s still the same as it was. Nothing bad happened. He… didn’t lose himself. He just has to keep a grip on things, that should be easy enough.

“You doing alright?” Oh, he forgot he had a visitor - he… completely forgot that he had a visitor? Alfendi blinks, shakes off the cobwebs trying to gather in his head. There’s a heaviness in his chest. How strange. “Um, yes. I think so. But please… come speak with me another time. I already have company here. My mother.” “Fine. Just keep resting up, but remember: you’re in court next month.” “I know. I know what I did.”

He watches them leave and it’s as if all of his coherent thoughts have taken off like a flock of startled birds. It’s only when Claire returns to the room that Alfendi composes himself again, his blank expression blooming into a soft smile.

“Thank you. I, um… Someone stopped by to chat for a bit and I forgot to.” He blows a little on his soup after taking a drink of water. “How has everyone been? How have you been?”

Claire returned to her seat next to his hospital bed, poised and proper as always, her hands in her lap and her thermos of earl gray tea on hand. Looking at him now, it’s… almost pitiful to see him in such a state. His hair was unkempt and frazzled, and she could still see the bandages wrapped around his chest. 

...As if her poor son hasn’t been through enough already. When will the world give him a break?

“There have been… better days, admittedly.” She shows a weary smile, before taking a sip of tea. “I don’t think any of us could sleep well after everything that's happened.”

“But I’m sure your sisters will feel much better once they’ve come to visit you.” Much better than she feels right now, she hopes. “Flora is currently out of town on business, but she’ll be back tomorrow, and Katrielle will come by later, after class.” 

“The two of us still had so many plans for the future. If you’re out there, I hope you still remember them, Hershel.”

“...I miss you and our unwound future everyday.”

“Sorry, mother…” He looks a little sheepish, and there’s red in his face from the heat. “You did, my mistake. Ahah.” Alfendi is just… not very emotional today, it seems. Maybe he’s been medicated? Maybe pain medication is making him a little slow, who knows?

“Water, please. Thank you.” As Claire leaves the room to fetch some, Alfendi lets his head sink into his hands. Something… pushes furiously up from his chest, manifesting as a terrible grimace, as wide eyes, as fingers clutching at his skull!

His thoughts, once neatly gathered, explode into flutters of paper and ink. Fragments of sentences stream through his head – go away, get out, intruder, not yours, imposter, you don’t belong you don’t belong you don’t belong you don’t

… He blinks, and it feels like time has passed. Ah, he’s losing time again… just like the detective told him he would as he figured things out. He would get better, the detective had said. He would control this and keep it from happening in the future.

Does he hear footsteps? Are they coming or going from his room? It sounds like both at once.

Mother.

While Claire walked down the hospital corridor towards the waiting room, messenger bag in tow, that single word repeated itself over and over in her head, as if it were a broken record that wouldn’t stop. How could she be so blind? Her, the one’s who’s looked out for him for over twenty years? 

“This drawing’s for you, Mom... I tried my best.” “Oh...! How sweet! It looks wonderful, Alfendi! How about we put it up on the fridge for everyone to see?” 

It was never “Mother.” From the day he opened his heart to her to his last surprise home visit, it was always “Mom.” 

...While she stood in front of the vending machine, waiting for her water to fall to the bottom, her ears picked up on the nearby television, whose words she had been tuning out until-

Her apology strikes something raw in his core and Alfendi grips the blanket as she puts away his journal. “Oh, it’s quite alright,” he says, with his fingers digging deep into threads. “Please don’t blame yourself, you only wanted to help. I appreciate it. I really do.”

Breathe. He breathes deeply, in and out, and slowly relaxes. Fear and hurt are folded up neatly like laundry, tied up in twine and self-control, and set aside. Alfendi’s gotten good at that, just setting things aside. “Some food that isn’t hospital food sounds marvelous… it really isn’t palatable here at all.”

He’s legendary for being picky about food preparation, so this falls in line, but it’s not quite enough, is it?

The man opens his thermos and sets the lid down, before carefully pouring some of the soup in. He looks up at the mention of tea. “Ah, I’m not sure I’ll mind too much.” He brings the cup to his mouth and drinks a little greedily from it. 

“Oh, ah, this is… definitely still hot…!”

...Palatable? Doesn’t mind too much?

As the familiar aroma of the earl gray tea enveloped itself around Claire, reminding her of a time long ago when her home was still whole and her heart was still full, a revelation clicks in her mind, like two pieces of a puzzle snapping together. It’s almost as if he was there right beside her as a guiding hand, confirming her suspicions and encouraging her to think about it just a little bit longer. 

Alfendi, he’s definitely-

“Oh!” Just like that, Claire’s thoughts were popped like a bubble, as her mind snapped back into the real world. “Alfendi, didn’t I warn you to be careful?” It’s a light chastise, of course, as she shakes her head and sighs. What is she going to do with him?

“This isn’t right. None of this is right,” he mumbles, staring at the pages, flipping through them more and more frantically before taking a deep breath and swallowing his emotions. At last he looks up to Claire’s gaze and even if there’s traces of anxiety in his expression, overall his face has smoothed out.

“I’m feeling fine, just a bit uneasy,” he reassures her. Inside him, something rattles its chains frantically in an attempt to get out, screaming to come forward, to say something, anything–!

“I had a lot of negative, violent thoughts. Maybe more than the average person. That must be why…” Alfendi’s hand finds its way to his chest, pressing over the scar. His other hand shuts the journal decisively. “It’s uncomfortable, looking at how I was before this happened.”

There it was again, that uneasy feeling that kept inching its way around her, growing ever larger and larger the more she listened to him. It... did make sense though, right? Surely, Alfendi wouldn’t want to hear about his more negative thoughts after being attacked himself, right?

...So then, what was putting her on edge? It’s just her son.  

Claire took a breath, steadying her thoughts once more. Focus. This is one of the lowest moments of his life, and for now, he needs you to be alright. There’s probably a lot on his mind already, he doesn’t need more stress. 

“Perhaps... it was unwise of me to bring a lot of this stuff after you’ve been so severely injured. I’m sorry if I distressed you, Alfendi.” She took the journal from his hand and placed it back into the box with care.  

“How about... we have a little chat over some food, hm? Just like the old times.” Claire brought her hands together and put on a smile, before pulling the overbed table beside her to hover over Alfendi’s lap. She then brought out two thermoses from her messenger bag, placing one on the table in front of him. 

“I know hospital food can be so bland and tasteless sometimes, so I made some soup for you, just how you like it. Be careful, now. It still might be hot.” A moment later, she reached into her bag again and placed a tea bag in her own thermos. 

“I… no, I think you’re right, sorry. I just don’t think I want to read this right now. Sorry, mother.” Not ‘mom’. Just ‘mother’. But it makes sense – he’s just begun to recover from being shot by a textbook villain from one of those novels.

Alfendi reaches into the box again and pulls out something more familiar. One of his journals, filled with his thoughts and vents and some of his old poetry. He opens it up and thumbs through, his confused expression turning to… concern.

“Is this what I was like?” he suddenly asks, looking up from his pages. “… I had these thoughts? I felt this way? Why did I write these things?”

“…What was wrong with me?”

Her eyes lit up with recognition at one of the worn, leather-bound journals her son had carried around with him. 

She also often kept a similar journal with her, filling its pages with her hopes and her worries of the day- and knowing her son found similar solace in the hobby brought ease to her mind. On days where the mental ache seemed too much for him, sharing the musing or poem aloud to her listening ears helped ease his nerves, even for just the day. 

...What was wrong with me?

“What..? No, nothing was wrong with you.” A gentle hand was placed on Alfendi’s arm, eyes looking right into his, a classic mother’s look of assurance. 

“They were simply your thoughts. A negative thought by itself doesn’t make you a bad person- this was simply how you acknowledged your thoughts and let them go.”

“Are you feeling alright, Alfendi?” An uneasy feeling began to creep its way up her spine, but any discomfort was skillfully masked with her motherly concern. “I know that you’ve been shot and that must be exhausting on your body, but...”

“I was recovering… I didn’t wake up for… about a month, actually.” He shuts his eyes, feels them throb under eyelids and breathes quietly as he gathers himself. Thinking… reaching for memories. They weren’t gone. It was better than what happened to her. Thank goodness – he can’t imagine putting his mother through that ordeal.

“I had some company, but I missed everyone else dearly. Only orderlies and detectives were in here during my recovery.” Alfendi opens his eyes again and the room feels a little dimmer. Maybe it’s just his mind. “I’m so sorry for worrying everyone. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He watches Claire pull up a seat before setting the cardboard box in her lap, and cautiously, curiously, he reaches in and pulls out… a book. A true crime novel on a particularly nasty serial killer. Instead of being relieved or thankful, Alfendi seems confused.

“I… read these?” he asks. “Ah…”

“A month...” 

Claire softly shook her head, but otherwise held her tongue at the mentioning of his coma. Back when Hershel, (Hershel. Why does his memory feel so close, yet so far?) had been put into a coma, she distinctly remembered his parents were allowed to visit, if only to tell stories and give comfort to the hurting family. Why weren’t they allowed the same for Alfendi?

...But perhaps the detective had good reasoning to keep Alfendi alone for a while. That must be why. 

At the sight of his confusion, however, Claire turned her head, a look of hesitant skepticism upon her face. 

“Yes... at least, I think you do. Isn’t this that one book series you really like?” She turned the book to show the spine, where a “3″ was clearly indicated at the top. “You’ve been eagerly looking forward to the finale of the trilogy. Since the second book left off on a literal cliffhanger?”

Claire tapped her foot against the hospital tile, looking at the book once more.