...creators...

He continued to watch as she struggled for any words aside from ‘shit.’ On the exterior, Noah was trying his best to remain calm despite Layla’s frantic behaviour and well, the fact that someone brought a gun into his house. He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him- maybe she’d just come to swear a few times and then leave. But more importantly, he wasn’t sure he had anything to offer her. Helping others was high on his priority list, but he was still trying to decide whether that was the case in this kind of situation. Although to be fair, at the moment, he didn’t exactly know what kind of situation it was, just that it was worthy of repetitive curse words and a weapon. Noah let out a sigh, already being able to predict that not much good would come out of this for the either of them. He’d come by his house to pick up a few things- closure for the next, hopefully perfect chapter in his life. Layla, however, was ruining that entire vision. The vision didn’t involve homeless people abruptly showing up at his door with a gun in hand, and it definitely didn’t involve constant swearing. Nonetheless, he ignored the always persistent bitter part of him and tried to remind himself that she wasn’t the type to go to someone for just about anything, meaning she was desperate (and it showed) at this point. “Okay, what about the alley? Words, Layla, use them.” What was she wanting him to remember exactly? A lot of conversations had taken place that night. Pixar-Disney films being the obvious highlight. Her next panicked response to his over the top sarcastic comments took him by surprise. She was constantly surprising him. He raised a brow, his mind sorting through all the questions suitable to ask. He knew it was important to be wary of the things he said, since the girl was already on edge as it was. Blinking, Noah shook his head out of confusion before furrowing his brows. Of course she didn’t know, it’d been intended as a rhetorical question. From what he last heard, it’d been years since Layla’s last encounter with her mother. “You don’t know because you haven’t seen her since you left, I know that already.” He spoke slowly, locking eyes with her to try and give her something to focus on. His gaze flickered down to the gun held tightly in her hand, before looking back up. The lack of gun control really was a huge problem in the country, this being a perfect example. “Why do you have that? Forget about the alley- tell me what’s going on now.” Noah demanded, not regretting his sudden forceful tone. He wasn’t just going to wait around for another terrible thing to happen while she stood here spitting out one curse word after the other. In order to take action - assuming this wasn’t all part of some sick joke - and do whatever Layla had come here wanting him to do, she needed to explain properly. 

She’d figured explaining herself after showing up at Noah’s door (with a gun) would be much easier before the time actually came. At the time, she wasn’t exactly thinking about what she was going to say – she just knew she needed to get help from someone she trusted, and, subconsciously, she knew that meant explaining, as well. However, her explanation was coming on slow, perhaps a sentence or two every minute. It wasn’t exactly progressive. Unfortunately, she was well aware of what a poor job she was doing at explaining her current situation. Was she unable to explain it because she still hadn’t fully processed it (or whatever it was that therapists said)? Was it because her vocabulary didn’t reach beyond swears at that point? Was it because she was over-thinking why she couldn’t explain, thus causing a placebo effect and rendering her unable to explain? Whatever it was, she knew she’d have to work through it or turn tail and leave, and she was already too in over her head for the latter. Her chance for an opening – a real opening – spawned off of Noah’s reply to her ever-persistent sentence. “No,” she cut in as he continued speaking. It was a simple response, only one word, but with it was brought a chance to actually say something that had meaning in the context of the situation. “That – that wasn’t the last time I saw her, not since – not since we last talked,” she began, finally on the road to an explanation that didn’t pander in single sentences. However, that point hadn’t quite been reached yet, as she was still hoping he could work with his minimal resources and put two-and-two together before she had to dive in. She’d managed to tell him plenty about herself the night in the alley, but what she was talking about then had been years ago. Although it’d obviously all stuck with her (after all, she still didn’t have a house), she was in a much better state of being then than she was now, standing with her fist clenched tight around the metal of a gun while her knuckles whitened. She was telling, not reliving. Everything that’d happened, everything Layla would have to explain, had all gone down within the past month and a half – the memories were all still as bright as a summer’s day. She could recall every event in vivid detail, could remember her mother’s exact words (they always stuck), could still feel the phantom pain, could still realize where everything was in relation to herself on both a physical and metaphorical plateau if she chose to recall. She knew she’d have to eventually, but she’d damn well gauge how much she needed to say before going in.

The amount of trouble that Layla was having in trying to muster up any words to describe what she was going on about scared Noah (though the gun was already doing most of that). She obviously was never much of a talker, but from the short while that she actually had miraculously opened up to him, he gathered that she had a way with words- hence being put off by her frustration with them. His mind was racing with guesses as to where she found the gun and why she decided to pick it up in the first place, but he tried his best to refrain from getting ahead of himself. There had to be some sort of reasonable, fair explanation behind all of this and she wouldn’t have shown up if what she’d done was obviously guilty. Layla was choosing to trust him with all of this - although he figured she didn’t have much room to pick whose house she would show up at - and Noah had to believe she wasn’t the guilty party. Maybe there was no guilty/ innocent. Maybe she’d simply found an unbelievably realistic looking toy gun on the street and thought it’d be fun to show him. Any and all of his suspicions were immediately shot down when she managed to get a hold of herself and talk with coherent sentences. Just as usual, he had no idea where she was planning on going with any of this. She was probably going to speak in a series of religious metaphors and Bible quotes at any given second now. Looking back at her wide eyed, Noah nodded. “Yeah, yeah, of course. The alley with that building.” How could he forget that alley? It held dear memories for him, like that time Layla attempted to be a tour guide and figure out how old the building ahead of them was. Oh, and he couldn’t leave out when she was telling him stories of her mom and precious dad, Jesus. Her mother was especially unforgettable. Unfortunately. “I wish I didn’t, but yes, your psychotic mom who tried to prevent you from being left-handed. How is she doing, by the way? Still a mess, I’m assuming.” He could sense that this wasn’t any time for humor, but it felt strange acknowledging someone as crazy as Layla’s mother without having some lighthearted context. It still didn’t sink in for Noah that this woman was a living, breathing human who was still capable of all the things she’d done to her daughter. 

Layla was still looking for the right words – hell, or for any words at all. Just as most people do when they speak, she hadn’t thought of what she’d say afterwards; she hadn’t thought of how she’d eventually segue into why she had a gun, why she needed his help. She hadn’t thought past that one sentence. As much of a mistake as that’d been, there wasn’t time to go back or to start over again – no time to perhaps start with a, ‘Hey, Noah.’ Instead, she had to go on with whatever words would come next. Words just didn’t seem to be her forte at the moment. “Shit,” she, for lack of better word, reiterated. At least she still had her vocabulary ((I hope you read that in the burnt fish from Spongebob’s voice)). “Yeah – yeah that alley,” she nodded vehemently, glad that, if nothing else, she had someone else’s dialogue to bounce off of. Layla really should’ve focused on Pixar movies that night. When Noah asked how her mother was doing, no matter how sarcastic his tone was, her first instinct was to say she was doing well... only a split-second later, in an almost humorous turn of events, she recalled why she was there in the first place, having such a hard time getting words of the end of her tongue. “I have no fucking clue,” she replied, much more feeling in her voice than there would’ve been had she been asked the same question about a month and a half ago. “I have no fucking clue, Noah. I have no fucking clue.” It was strange, her reaction. She’d been panicked plenty of times in her life, sure, but never to this point. Between the combination of having shot the person who breathed life into her, not knowing what’d happened in the end, and not being sure she wanted to find out, it was the widest array of emotion she’d felt in what’d possibly been her entire lifespan. There was nothing she hated more than her own human emotions. She’d been taught long ago that emotions were weaknesses, and it’d only been reiterated time and time again throughout her years. However, she was undeniably subservient towards Jane, no matter what she knew was logical... so having just shot the woman threw quite a jolt in her system. She’d both uprose and descended a level, but she certainly wasn’t still in the place she’d been before. At least before she could do more than repeat the same few phrases.

This was a completely different Layla he was seeing. The one Noah knew always seemed to remain collected even in the worst possible scenarios (such as being homeless and having a psychopath as a mother) and this new act was scaring him. He tried to understand what she was trying to explain, though it was difficult with the few words she was using to sum everything up. ‘Something’ could mean a lot of things. ‘Something’ could mean she’d finally listened to his suggestions and had a marathon of Disney-Pixar films. After waiting still for another moment for what would hopefully be a better explanation, Noah opened his mouth to interrupt but was quickly distracted by the gun she suddenly pulled out. His first instinct was to step back, which he did, holding his hands up defensively. Realizing she wasn’t planning on using the thing on him, the male dropped his hands back to his sides but remained a few steps away from her, still wide eyed. Normally, he would have closed the door on the person at first sight of a weapon but something told him that there was no need to be afraid- for the time being, anyway. He was slowly connecting the dots now, figuring out that the gun probably had a lot to do with the ‘something.’ “Jesus, Layla, put that thing away.” He chastised her while glancing around to see if there might have been anyone else watching the scene she was stirring up. Confirming that she was the only one outside, Noah nodded towards the inside, motioning for her to join him. In all honesty, the male wasn’t entirely sure why she was here or what she wanted from him. He wanted to help, yes, but dealing with crimes wasn’t exactly his strong suit. And while staying loyal to a friend was a high priority on his list, so was following the law- which he already knew Layla didn’t agree with. “What the fuck is going on?” He wasn’t one to swear, in fact, he hated it. But there had to be a rule somewhere that stated when someone showed up at your door with a gun, curse words were to be called for. 

Layla had been waiting for the invitation to enter his house – moreover, simply to get out of the public eye. As soon as he gestured towards the inside of the house, Layla practically sprang at the chance. She wasn’t sure how to begin her explanation. Perhaps, ‘I did the one thing I’ve been trying not to do willingly and it ended in some bad shit’ would suffice. Better yet, ‘Sinned.’ However, neither of those were real explanations, what she was expected to provide as Layla. One word answers were fine to the few who knew her as Mary, but one of those people was... in some sort of state of being, and the other was bringing gasoline to the prior for some “unknown” reason. What a twisted Hannah Montana AU. She had to give a response to Noah that Layla would give. We can’t all be Julia Roberts. However, as she continued trying to think of replies, her thoughts involving words were interrupted and she had to, instead, improvise. Running her free hand (she wasn’t planning on letting that gun touch whatever of his he didn’t pack up) through her hair, she began what was bound to be a floundering attempt at an explanation. “I – fuck, you remember the alley?” she asked, trying to begin somewhere as she grasped at straws. She figured it was her best starting point, after all. He didn’t learn about her past from their conversations about lemonade or whatever the hell it was they’d talked about beforehand – sure, he’d learned her views on optimism and pessimism, but even people with the brightest pasts can have the dimmest of expectations. No, she told him her story the night he found her trying to pinpoint the age of a building – a riveting activity, really. “You, uh – you... you remember my mother?” she continued, for a second wondering whether to call her Jane or the title she preferred. She was no longer sure where she stood and that was more threatening to her than anything in the moment. If nothing else, she’d always had a very clear sense of self; never before had she realized that her “sense of self” was reliant on the one person she... thought?... she'd never want it to be on.