regret; al coda

18+  priv && selective jean descole of professor layton.

written by knight ( 23 && she/her )

dossier.

rules below the cut

Not getting a proper response had the archeologist scowl, but he opted not to ask again, not pressure the broad question he felt was ridiculous in the first place. Of course he wasn’t fine.

“I’ve already contacted Emmy. She’s somewhere in Canada now, I believe, and won’t be returning until this is sorted out one way or another; her decision.”

Reaching out to her again would be dangerous, but possible if necessary. The elites came to mind and he sighed, looked back to the gun, then down at the covers.

“I don’t trust sending anything to Finch, seeing as she’s likely on the move as well. And she does have a bit more to lose than us.”

“Just the pair of us against the organization you’ve built into a super-power? This seems familiar.” Jean offers a wry grin, with the barest hint of teeth. Perhaps the having a partner wasn’t the most familiar, but it does bring back memories. How long, had he fought against targent? Thieving and sabotage, the murder he knew was coming wasn’t entirely new, just not the primary goal of his work before. 

     He rolled his shoulders, cracks permeating the silence between them. Yes, this would be.. Entertaining, perhaps. Something to fixate on, as if a re-enactment, to keep from losing his cool. The mattress creaked as he stood, finally pulling back the sheet and comforter that the motel had paired. Jean threw the comforter over to Bronev’s side of the bed, more settling under the light sheet, feet hanging over the side of the bed. 

He wasted no time in changing from his outer clothes, damp from the drizzle outside. He knew he should hang them up to dry, but after the day they’d had, he didn’t care much if nothing was done.

“Well, Kodh was a good idea, if the ruins there still have a habit of blocking airwaves, but we might run into trouble of our own with communications if we choose to follow through with that.”

Settling back on the bed, he looked toward the other curiously, eyeing the bullet hole in his shirt and the scars that trailed down his exposed arms.

Blink. Hesitation. A soft sigh.

“How are you?” he asked finally.

“Do we have anyone we trust to send comms to?” 

     He sounds... Tired. Tired is a word Jean will allow to be used to describe himself. The week had begun with himself torching everything of value, shooing Elizabeth into the thick forests of Ambrosia in hopes that she’d not be found by any more investigative Targent usurpers. Forced into hiding with his father, scrambling for purchase in an otherwise uncaring world. 

     His vision is blurry, the removal of his glasses revealing the room to be a soft blur of shapes and colors. Bronev’s voice is clear, by contrast. He trusts that the man is looking at him when he speaks, though Jean has his back to him. He sighs. It’s fine. 

     He forces himself to stand.

     The island’s bitter memories keep him awake- and the stars mock him. A reminder of the last time he was here- his limbs ache. A phantom memory. 

    Jean traces the walls of his temporary shelter, the ridges of his fingertips catching on the time-worn edges of the wood. He wants to jump out of his skin. Cicadas chatter. He could rip his nails bloody trying to escape this hell. A wolf howls. How is this too much and not enough? Waves crash onto the surf. He grips the door frame tight enough that his knuckles whiten. Inhale. Exhale. One, two, three, four. His composure isn’t completely lost.

     The scenery is blurry. He can identify trees, white sand, and several large rocks. It’s probably for the better, according to what remains of his rational mind. Jean has made a habit of ignoring that part of his mind, and he isn’t about to abandon it. Tired hands reach back, knuckles knocking against furniture and the other items scattered on the side table next to the bed before retrieving his corrective lenses. Clarity offers the same items as before, albeit the hazards of the shore are more visible. 

    The sand is soft between his toes. He continues forward. 

    The night air is cool against his face. He continues forward. 

     Sand goes flying as he all but kicks off. He needs fatigue- the scenery to go by faster than he can process. The ache of his lungs- having not kept up with any activity in the better part of two years. The sound of blood rushing in his ears- he needs to NOT BE HERE - !    

“Oh, I see.” Well, at least he sounded relieved to know that the younger hadn’t been injured, but now he was curious who he’d procured the garment from.

Luckily for Jean, it seemed he was going to respect his privacy, at least for now.

He shed his coat and hung it on the bedpost, stretched his arms, and leaned down to untie his shoes.

“I don’t think we should stay here for more than a couple nights, just to be safe.”

Jean ran fingers through his hair, teasing out knots and mussing up where it had begun to fall limp. His glasses were moved to the night stand, sitting adjacent to the pitiful phone that was always commonplace in such motels. 

“Do you have any place in mind, for after this?” He had his own ideas, mind jumping between points and references faster than it should, given the hour. 

The flushed look is noted. He looked back to the gun, then sat it on the bedside table beside where he’d be sleeping.

“They are pretty comfortable, though I admit I’m curious about the bullet hole. Were you shot recently?”

It’s innocent, he has simply no way of knowing, and it’s tinged with concern in the question.

“It isn’t. Ah-      Mine. At least, originally.” 

     This was designed to be an exercise in patience. How long could Jean stand it before he threw himself to the wolves, and left himself exposed to the mercies of a Targent under the influence of a dictator. 

The older man’s gaze was thoroughly trained on a pistol he’d removed from the bottom of the bag, eyeing the sight and examining the magazine before reloading it and finally glancing up

Judging by the way an eyebrow raised, he definitely noticed the company shirt the other wore.

“Didn’t know you had one of those.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” The reply is rushed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Part of the reason he was hoping to avoid sharing a room. At least the bullet hole in the shoulder was less noticeable on his frame, than the original owner’s. 

“It’s fairly comfortable, I should probably get a few more.” 

“This is far from my standards, trust me.” He chuckled at the reaction he received, the way Descole stood there in annoyance, like he was waiting for Bronev to make the first move.

He did, it was just to sit on the edge of the bed and drag the duffel bag over, rifling through it for a spare shirt.

“Do you need something to wear to bed?”

“I’ve got something.” 

     His voice trailed, following him as he slid into the bathroom. The light turning on, and the rattling vent fan destroyed any chance for conversation has he sorted through his own clothing, settling on a worn Targent t-shirt, and a pair of sweat pants.

“You’re asking too much of one of these cheap motels. I told them to give me what they had available.”

The archeologist watched the other inspect the mattress, then double-checked the locks on the door, making a face when he found the throw latch a bit loose.

“The bed is big enough for both of us, unless you’re so inclined. I don’t intend to sleep on-,” he looked down at the floor, at the ratty carpeting that looked like it needed a deep clean, “-that.”

“I’m not expecting too much. Your standards are just abysmal.”

    Sharing a bed. Eugh. His face showed his disinterest in the concept, a lopsided frown as the thought set in. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in well.. Excluding a few impromptu naps at the nest, ever. 

He settled his bag on the floor and went over to pull the curtains shut, blocking out the light from the streetlamp.

"I think you're being a bit dramatic."

There was a slight hint of amusement to his voice, though he obviously wasn't very content with the sleeping arrangements either. However, there was only so much that could be done at this hour.

"It wouldn't be as safe to take separate rooms anyway."

“You could’ve gotten a room with two separate beds. Or a bed and a sofa. Something that wasn’t this. “ 

     It did well to show how comfortable Jean was, that he was fussing like this. His own bag had been placed on the tile floor of the bathroom, and long strides took him to the corner of the mattress, checking for debris in the seam of the piping. Lucky then, that there weren’t bed bugs.

    He let out an exhale, shoulders slumping. 

The looks of disgust were noted, Bronev wasn’t exactly surprised by any of this, being that he was entirely expecting to have his so-called offer thrown back in his face after everything that had happened between the two and he couldn’t really blame him for it if he did. Such were the repercussions of his actions and he had to live with them.

The question is almost startling when it isn’t a direct no or an insult flung at him and his eyebrows raised briefly before he nodded, releasing the breath he’d been holding in wait for a response.

          “Yes,” he confirmed steadily. “If you have someone expecting you or simply a ride to a motel. Whatever you’d like.”

It’s open, a strange attempt to be friendly, and it definitely sounds weird to himself and no less Descole, but he’s trying, for some reason. Why, isn’t very obvious now, yet it seems he feels kind of bad and that’s understandable, if not pathetic, that he would hope for some semblance of acceptance.

The front of hostility had been dropped, instead pulled to the back right burner to simmer. He had time, to stew over his own emotions. His feelings on the matter. His sense of increasing wrongness about the situation. Currently, there was more a need to take advantage of whatever kindness Bronev was willing to give. 

     Jean had nothing, at the moment. Accounts, assets, accoutrements and research had all been seized months ago by the Scotland Yard. His release had been a surprise to everyone, and so the Yard had fought tooth and nail to keep the items that they had decided ‘enabled’ his acts of terrorism. Jean Descole may be allowed to leave prison, and live whatever semblance of a life was available to him, but he must start over. Bitterness crept over his tongue. He was to be dependent on whatever kindness he was allowed. Working with Bronev was necessary, even if his skin crawled.

     “I don’t have anyone expecting me, at the moment. Only an address.”

    The Commander. Fallen so low as to look small. Like a concerned father, the far reaches of his hindbrain supply. The ache in his wrist that won’t leave argues against this. Jean can hear Bronev’s voice, taunting and deriding. It too, argues against this conclusion. He breathes, a slow blink as he funnels this nervous energy- this internal argument into fidgeting with a loose thread at his right cuff. 

And instead of humorless pity staring back at him, Bronev only looked concerned, a little unnerved because of the situation, but far from taunting or glad to see Descole in such a state. Rail-thin and sickly with long tangled hair and bags under his eyes, the scientist looked as if he’d been tortured rather than in a federal prison.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly and motioned toward the double doors leading to freedom. “Just let me do this for you.”

The sad reality was, even if he could persuade Descole to accept his offer here, he likely still would never see him again. The wall was too tall, the discomfort too great, for there ever to be anything else between them and he knew that, yet every fiber of his being kept disobeying his rationality.

“I have a car outside waiting for us.”

HIS lip curled back in disgust, a sneer at the weakness from the other man. How the mighty had fallen. Gone was Samson, a legend, a  t h r e a t. What had been left before him was a shell. Shorn, and with the cut was every bit of deadliness. Simple wire frames do little to shield his thoughts, emotion flickering across his eyes. Disdain. Longing. Disgust. Agony. 

     Jean was better than this. But he wasn’t. The other man was a threat. But he wanted to help. He’s faking it. Jean isn’t. A near constant back and forth, contradictory thoughts fighting for footholds within the nooks and crannies of his psyche. He was left, only able to stare at Bronev, as time went by. The clock ticked, and yet he couldn’t decide. The seconds stretched, a slight twitch in his right hand, clenching his fist tighter. It was becoming increasingly more common, to lose himself in this exchange. 

     The breaths of the other man were what pulled him back to the present, something tangible to force himself to respond to. He wasn’t alone. This Bronev was real. And he wanted to help. For some reason. ( It doesn’t make sense. )

“Anywhere I want to go?” His voice is pitched higher towards the end of the phrase, the question obvious. Jean’s shoulders are slightly hitched, just enough for him to feel it, and his sweater to begin to bunch.