Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I think we should talk, Professor.”

“Talk about what?” Layton was in the middle of examining a fossil when Emmy approached him. Setting aside his equipment, he turned to face her. “Is something the matter?”

“I was thinking about those puzzles you were receiving several months ago. You know, the ones where the answers involved you somehow?”

Straightening up in his seat, Layton began listening very intently. He didn’t bother correcting her by saying it had been more than a year since those puzzles had graced him with their presence. He’d already solved the mystery of those puzzles, and fortunately had not received any more since confronting their creator. Well, he hadn’t found any puzzles of that ilk. Instead, he’d started finding hidden messages, bookmarks, and creative places to hide his hat. Clearing his throat, he wondered what reason Emmy had for bringing them up now. “Go on,” he prompted.

She fiddled with her camera as she spoke this time. “Do you think they might have been from Descole?”

He kept a straight face. He knew for a fact they were from Descole, but what had given her reason to suspect him now? The ideas that came to mind concerned Layton. Rubbing his chin, he said, “It’s within the realm of possibility.” Technically, that was not a lie. “Why do you ask? I haven’t received anything for a very long time.” Emmy was quiet, refusing to look at him. “What’s troubling you, Emmy?”

She exhaled, as if trying to dispel nerves. “Sometimes I think he’s following us.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Layton asked, “When?”

“When we’re out and about in London. Especially when we’re helping Inspector Grosky. I always feel something, or someone, sort of watching us.”

“You think it might be Descole?” If it was, Layton had no idea how to get in touch with the man to tell him to cease and desist. It had become clear to him that his rival had long since stopped visiting his home at night.

“I know it is.”

Layton tilted his head. “You’ve seen him then.”

She nodded. “It’s like I catch some piece of him, his mask or his cape, just out of the corner of my eye, but he’s gone as soon as I look.”

He couldn’t deny that sounded like Descole. Had his rival continued stalking him as he’d done prior to the incident at Ambrosia, perhaps Layton might have been able to talk sense into Descole. However, as he’d previously thought, that was no longer the case. Though he didn’t let himself into Layton’s place of residence anymore, it seemed he was not entirely done with his research on the professor. Scratching his chin again, Layton offered, “Maybe we’ll be fortunate enough to escape him as we travel to Monte d’Or.” If nothing else, his rival may be involved in the situation Angela had described to him in the letter. However, he wanted to keep an open mind. The reverse could also be true, and Descole could have nothing to do with the so-called miracles that had been plaguing the city. Either way, Layton would sort this through as soon as possible.

For now, Emmy nodded and seemed to accept the possibility that Descole would leave them be for a time. Before she returned to whatever it was she was doing, however, she asked two more questions. “Why would he be so interested in you? Why would he send you those puzzles?”

“That I cannot answer,” Layton admitted. “I honestly don’t know.” Sadly, he still didn’t. It seemed that he would never know. Of course, the word ‘never’ sometimes seemed as fleeting and indecisive as Descole himself. His answer seemed to placate Emmy, though, because she refrained from inquiring any further.



“Master, I worry for you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.”

“Don’t you think your infatuation with the professor has gone a little too far?”

“Infatuation?” Descole turned on Raymond. His face felt heated as he said, “What makes you think it’s infatuation? I’d hardly refer to it as—.”

Raymond shook his head and interrupted, “Master, the line between disgust and interest is a very thin one. I must say that you seem to detest the man you claim to be your rival less and less.”

Descole turned away, refusing to look at Raymond. There were moments where his own butler was more observant than he was. He didn’t want to admit that the man may be right. Instead, he deflected the confrontation by saying, “No matter the circumstances, I will need him for the next phases in my search for the Azran.”

“Surely you could do this without his involvement.”

He had to mentally stop himself from snapping, but the response still managed to come out biting. “He manages to keep getting involved anyway.” He thought back on previous situations, on how the Triton boy and Janice called to the professor for aid. There was no doubt in Descole’s mind that Angela Ledore would do the very same. “I intend to capitalize on his knowledge this time.” And with the plot he had in mind, there was no doubt Layton would find for him what he was looking for. That is, if he couldn’t make Henry Ledore crack himself. He’d been planning this for a long time, and he intended to see the next set of Azran ruins rise. If not, he wanted to see Monte d’Or fall.

Raymond pressed no further. Instead, he simply bowed and agreed, “Then let us proceed, Master.”

“Do let’s.” The miracles Descole had created and set into action with the Masked Gentleman at the forefront had already terrified the people of Monte d’Or. At the same time, it had drawn a larger audience. There was only one member of the audience who was capable of seeing through the façade, however. That was what these miracles were: facades. Nothing more. Surely that one individual would see through that and figure out how to save the city. Not that Descole cared about it. It was a city built on secrets and lies, and while he dealt in those things he was simultaneously disgusted by them. This was especially true of the secrets upon which the city was built. The only one with a bigger grudge against Monte d’Or, however, was the Masked Gentleman. Even he did not know Descole’s true intentions for the City of Miracles. For all he knew, he was going to bury the city in sand. Unfortunately, that was exactly what was going to happen should Descole fail to pull certain information from Henry Ledore. Layton was Descole’s backup plan, and judging from past experience he was a reliable one.

It didn’t matter who joined and utilized the Masks of Chaos and Order so long as they were found and used in time. Burying all of Monte d’Or would only make Descole’s work harder if those artifacts were never discovered. While the City of Miracles was built on deception, it was also built on top of one of the most important discoveries in archaeological history: a series of chambers and ruins left behind by the Azran civilization. That’s what Descole truly wanted, and Layton would get it for him whether he realized it or not.

He thought back on what he’d discovered about Layton’s involvement in this whole situation. While it did not surprise him that the professor had history with the people whose money kept the city alive, it had taken him aback to learn the nature of that history. This was not going to be an easy case for the great Professor Layton. Descole, for the life of him, could not fathom why he was concerned about the way Layton would handle his ministrations. He had manipulated Layton and individuals close to him before, but this felt different. This felt more personal than previous encounters. It would fascinate him to see how Layton does handle it. Perhaps Raymond was right about his growing interest in the professor. Perhaps it had gone too far.

Raymond interrupted his thoughts then. “Master, if you will allow me one last remark,” Raymond paused, as if expecting Descole to interrupt him. He did not. “There will come a time where you may need to harm him to protect yourself. Before Ambrosia, I would have guessed your answer and been sure of it. Would it still be the same now?”

Descole nodded without hesitation, and the subject dropped. Though Descole had managed to temporarily silence that conflict, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to walk away from this completely unscathed.



“Luke, it’s time for bed,” Emmy said to the boy. He was staring out the window at the lights of the city, which were still on and bright giving the impression that it was still daytime even at night.

“But there’s so much to see,” he murmured, mesmerized by the activities of the City of Miracles.

“A future gentleman needs his rest now, Luke,” Layton said as he finished up a cup of tea.

“Alright,” Luke said, stepping away from the window sullenly and sliding into bed.

Emmy giggled at the boy before moving to close the curtains. Taking the fabric in each of her hands, she got ready to close them when she stopped suddenly. Her back stiffened, her gaze focused on something outside. “Professor, I—?”

Layton had moved to see what she was looking at, and before she could finish speaking he’d run out the door of their room. Before he was too far out of earshot, he called back, “Stay with Luke.”

“What is it?” Luke asked Emmy.

She turned toward him, closing the curtains completely. She didn’t really know how to address the child without frightening him. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d most assuredly seen Jean Descole outside among the crowds of tourists, but she had to give the boy some explanation as to why the professor had gone barreling out of the room at the sight of something outside. Without pause, she said, “Maybe he saw a puzzle.”

Luke stared at her for a moment, and she almost thought he was going to contest it. Then the boy shook his head and said, “Can I stay up until he gets back?”

Raising an eyebrow and folding her arms, she asked, “And what do you intend to do until then?”

“See if the professor needs help with the puzzle, of course,” he said.

“Well I assume if he returns, then he’s solved it.”

“Or he’ll need help from his apprentice,” Luke disputed.

With a smile, Emmy added, “His apprentice number one.” Words couldn’t express how much the little brat had grown on her. “Now I think he’d be more pleased if you went ahead and went to sleep.” Before Luke could argue back, however, she said, “Do it or I’ll tell him you named one of your teddy bears Hershel.”



After jogging through the crowds and down an alley, Layton was out of breath. Stopping, he looked back the way he came, then at the dead end he’d just run into. He could have sworn he’d seen that familiar gray cape turn down into this walkway. He must have been wrong.

Gathering his wits and evening out his breaths, Layton leaned his back against the wall. It occurred to him that he hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say to Descole upon catching him. What would he have done? Asked more questions? The man hadn’t answered the ones Layton had posed for him. What made him think he was going to answer him now?

Now that he was alone, the encounters he’d already had with Angela and the people of the City of Miracles started to weigh on him. Recounting his past to Emmy and Luke especially got to him. Covering his face, he felt completely overwhelmed. He’d lost touch with everyone he’d known from that period in his life and honestly had never expected to be in their presence again. Everything that was happening seemed to be happening a little too fast. He thought he’d go numb from the experience, but instead he felt old wounds reopening. A pain in his chest that wasn’t at all related to the exercise he’d just put his body through struck him hard enough to make him gasp. With one hand clutching the spot, he felt his eyes grow wet. A gentleman doesn’t cry, he heard his own voice in his head. But there was no one to posture before. There was no one there to see him like this.

The habit was too hard to break, however. Stiffening, he refused to let the emotion show. Gritting his teeth and allowing his expression to harden, he clenched his fists and stood up straight. Blinking away the wetness in his eyes, he had an odd thought. The thought was so strange to him that he almost scoffed. Instead, he adhered to it. Though he’d think himself simple for it later, at the moment he didn’t particularly care. Clearing his throat, he managed to maintain some semblance of composure as he said aloud, “If you’re listening and you have anything to do with these miracles . . . please. Don’t further endanger Luke or Emmy. I’ll see that they are involved as little as possible. I won’t say anything to them about this. About you.” Layton could handle anything that was thrown at him. He was more concerned about protecting his assistant and his apprentice. Silently, he wondered how they always managed to convince him that going with him or aiding him on these ventures was ever a good idea. They always wound up more dangerous than he’d anticipated, and this particular mystery bled danger. He could feel the threats like daggers, and yet he was only afraid for the two he thought of as being in his care. Mentally berating himself for pleading with someone he wasn’t even sure was listening, he sighed. A bitterness set in his tone as he bit back on the string of reasons as to why disregarding him would be a very terrible idea for the individual he hoped—no, wished—was listening to him now. Instead of saying any of those things, he finished his one-sided conversation with, “I hope your extensive research paid off,” before leaving the alley and returning to the hotel.



Layton very well could have looked up and discovered the man he’d been pursuing had been listening to him from above. Descole found little entertainment in this thought as he climbed back down into the alley, staring after the professor. He had to admit that when he’d see Layton coming after him that he may have actually shouted an expletive before finding the best method of disappearing. If Layton had actually seen or caught him, his whole plan might have been foiled. It very well could be foiled now, but somehow Descole thought not.

A hint of guilt manifested in him and he couldn’t get rid of it. He knew what was to happen to the city. He knew what was to come, and yet Layton expected him to leave the Triton child and the Altava woman out of it. For a moment, Descole couldn’t believe the audacity. Then . . . he understood. Seeing how the events at Ambrosia had unfolded, it was entirely likely the two might get caught in the crossfire again. The Masked Gentleman was beginning to act more and more like a loose cannon. Descole wasn’t positive he could reel the man back in enough to keep Luke and Emmy out of harm’s way. If anything, he just might inadvertently tip the man off with the knowledge of how best to further damage the professor. The thought made him clench his fists in discomfort.

Too personal. Everything here felt too personal. He’d wanted to descend and speak to Layton toe-to-toe the moment he’d sensed the man start to break. What he would have said, though, Descole had no idea. He had just wanted to do something. The comment Layton had left him with, the one about having done enough research, had felt less like a bite and more like a bear trap on Descole. If only he knew. If only Layton knew just how long he’d been at this, how much he knew about the professor. If only he remembered . . . .

Descole set his jaw. It was best he didn’t remember. It was best he forget. There were certain things about the past that simply should not be recalled, and that was one of them. Before Misthallery, before Ambrosia, Layton was to remain ignorant of Descole’s and his connection. This was to be no more than a game. He was supposed to remain uninvolved, disconnected, out of the loop.

Safe.

The more Descole proceeded with his operations, the less safe Layton was becoming. The more likely the ghosts of Descole’s own fragmented past would reach out for the unsuspecting man. Layton would be totally unprepared and unequipped to deal with the organization Descole was certain was due to arrive in the picture any time now. Descole had to run interference somehow. He’d worked too hard to keep Layton removed for them to threaten everything he’d worked hard to achieve.

Slowly, he realized the line between achieving his goals and protecting his rival (Layton really wasn’t a rival in his mind any longer) was becoming so blurred that Descole didn’t know how to deal with it. He didn’t know how to react. If Raymond heard what he was thinking right at this moment, his butler would likely shake his head and say he’d been right about Descole. Descole was losing control of his feelings. This was getting out of hand. It was too late, though. It was far too late to ignore the threat Descole may have introduced into Layton’s life, a threat that could also end his chances of meeting his goals. Growling, he started to leave the alley and find a different path back to his hideout. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of these feelings were supposed to exist. He was supposed to have buried them, and yet here they were frustrating him with no chance of recompense.

He stopped his mental rant. That wasn’t crucial right then, however. For now he had to find a better way to traverse through Monte d’Or, a way that wouldn’t catch the eye of Layton and his team. It was looking like he was going to have to disguise himself. That he could do, and he had just the individual in mind. He hadn’t wanted to act on this phase so soon, but with Layton’s wariness of his presence he needed to. The disguise he had in mind would put him closer to Henry and to Layton not so he could keep track of the men themselves, but of their knowledge. Keeping track of how much they knew was the most imperative task on his agenda. Time to act now.



There was a brief interval after Randall’s reunion with his beloved and his faithful companion and before Descole’s departure for the newly risen Azran ruins. In that interval, Layton found him lurking in the alleys of Monte d’Or again. This time, Descole didn’t have time to hide.

“I set forth one condition!” Layton shouted. He swung a sword (fancy that, a sword and not a pipe this time) that narrowly missed Descole.

Taking a couple of steps back, Descole pulled his own weapon to parry Layton’s next assault. “You think I told that redheaded, gullible brat to do that?!”

“Luke is a child! Leave him out of your damnable plans!” Layton said, moving a hell of a lot faster than he had the last time they had sparred.

And was that an expletive Descole had just heard? “Leave him at home if you don’t want him to get hurt!”

Descole ducked, dodging another of Layton’s swings. Before he could set his stance again, Layton lunged at him and pinned him to the wall of a building, the blade of the sword pressed firmly to his throat despite the boa’s interference. Descole felt his whole being freeze as he locked eyes with Layton, the other man invading his personal space in a way he hadn’t dared to before then. He had never seen him quite this furious, and it was a completely new experience for him. Layton snarled, “I chose merely to warn you on Ambrosia after you almost killed him not once, but twice.”

Descole paused before it registered with him what Layton was saying. Swallowing hard, he managed to ask without disturbing the blade, “Twice?”

“The wolves and the robot,” Layton clarified, his eyes narrowed and his voice much lower than was typical. Oh, Descole thought. Layton didn’t realize the wolves had merely been a means for intimidation. He had never intended to have them hurt the little brat. The robot, however . . . it was certainly not one of his proudest moments. Layton continued before Descole could interject, “I can name several things I would like to say to you, but it all boils down to this: stay away from me. Stay away from Luke and Emmy, stay away from those who were once closest to me. They’re aware of your presence now, and you’ve crossed the line this time.”

Descole felt something ignite within him. Gritting his teeth, his fury overwhelmed him and he began picking apart the vulnerability of Layton’s closeness to him. Latching onto one of the weaknesses in his posture, Descole made an uppercut to Layton’s chin before kicking him in the stomach, sending him to the ground while the sword clattered out of reach. Stepping forward to stand over him, Descole snarled, “You don’t give me orders.” He kneeled over him as he added, “I told Ascot what to do. I also told him what not to do. You should know, the man doesn’t listen.” One of his hands flew forward and seized Layton’s neck, the professor’s anger still present even while a glimmer of panic shone in his gaze. “I told him to avoid such a confrontation, but he didn’t. He leapt on the opportunity—.”

“You manipulated him—,” Layton stopped as Descole squeezed his throat tighter.

“I planted the seed and gave him direction! He didn’t need much more than that! So if you want someone to blame, take it up with him!” It occurred to Descole midsentence that what he was witnessing was the darkness he had sensed in Layton. It was mild. He had expected so much more. Descole felt a noise form in his throat as his finger dug into the skin of Layton’s throat, and he couldn’t describe quite what it felt like to have the man so enraged and yet so powerless beneath him. “Despite how useful your intelligence is, if I’d thought to hold that kid hostage to keep you from interfering before now you can bet I would have done it. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Layton managed past the hand before jabbing a fist into Descole’s ribs. Descole didn’t let go, but his grip did weaken enough for Layton to wrestle his way out of the hold his rival had on him. Before Descole knew what was happening, he was the one on his back and being pinned down, sword discarded in the process. The other man grabbed Descole’s hands and held him down, succeeding in making Descole roar rather than bark out insults. Layton’s nose was a mere few centimeters from his when the professor declared, “You’re to go nowhere near him or Emmy.”

“You think they won’t be out of your sight long enough for me to grab them? You’re mistaken,” Descole threatened. As he said it, he regretted it. He was taking things a step farther than he really should. That tended to happen when he lost control of his temper. That tended to happen when he lost control altogether, and right now he felt out of control. Squirming and bucking and trying to get Layton off of him, the sensation of being trapped was enough to drive him mad. Snarling again, he braced himself for the impact as he butted Layton’s forehead with his own. Layton released him almost immediately, and though he was dizzy from the impact he was able to shove his rival off of him. Sitting atop Layton once again, Descole grabbed up his sword and planted the tip in the center of the professor’s chest. The professor gasped, and suddenly all rage drained from his face as he realized the predicament he was in.

Both men froze, Layton stiffening beneath Descole as Descole readied to plunge the sword into the man’s chest. He felt the tip of the blade dig into his rival’s skin, the man shivering and hissing beneath him as red liquid bloomed on the professor’s orange shirt. Up until that moment, Descole’s jaw had been set and rigid. Upon seeing the blood, it went slack and something within him snapped again. This time instead of perpetuating his rage, the sight snuffed it out. Layton was bleeding. He was bleeding, and it was Descole’s fault.

Descole stared dumbly at Layton, suddenly feeling like he had no idea how they’d gotten in this position. The professor looked up at him, waiting for Descole’s next move. The level of fear and expectation on his face almost made Descole . . . was he? Was he . . . crying? His mask felt uncomfortably wet, and the lenses were fogging up. Had he not been so focused on the damage he’d caused Layton physically, he might have written it off as sweat. But it wasn’t. He knew that much.

His limbs were locked in position, neither man moving as Descole’s gaze remained fixed on the wound he’d caused. Raymond’s words rang in his ear: could Descole still protect himself if he needed to? He’d been so sure that he could. He’d been wrong. His insides collapsed as he dropped the sword, still focused on the injury. His chest heaved as he realized he couldn’t do it. He could never hurt Layton. If Layton ever posed a serious threat to him, he would not be able to keep his word to Raymond. He couldn’t even stand the sight of Layton’s blood.

How had he begun to care whether or not his rival was bleeding? How had he come to this point? He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. This was destroying him. This was destroying his ability to continue onward without deterrence. He was slowly starting to reimagine what his acts looked like as someone on the outside looking in. Layton did more than just get in his way: he put Descole’s actions into perspective.

And Descole couldn’t afford to see that right now.

He didn’t bother taking the sword with him. He got up and ran, leaving Layton on the ground with no explanation.



Layton didn’t get up at first. He was too busy staring up at the blank space where Descole used to be. It occurred to him too late that perhaps he should not have provoked someone who had gained access to his home without struggle before. It also occurred to him that what he’d just witnessed was very much nonlinear with his understanding of Jean Descole.

Sitting up at last, he hissed at the cut in the center of his chest. Staring at the blood on his shirt after inspecting the wound, it looked a great deal worse than it actually was. Looking out in the direction Descole had fled, he felt the rage that had led him to find and confront his rival bleed out of him. Taking in his appearance, the events that had just transpired, and the abandoned blades around him, the feeling of having lost something returned once more.

He realized on the drive away from Monte d’Or that he couldn’t shake it quite as well as he’d done previously. He had a feeling this notion was going to linger until next he met Descole. There was no telling when that would be. Somehow, the thought that his injury had caused the other man to run crept in and imbedded itself within his mind and nullified every other thought in his mind telling him that Descole was an enemy. There had been logic in Descole’s argument, though Layton hadn’t been able to see it at the time. That one exclamation wasn’t enough to tell him why it mattered to Descole whether Layton was physically harmed or not, though.

If he wasn’t an enemy, what was he? Just as before, Layton didn’t know the answer and had no idea if he ever would. That was the only certainty he had when it came to Jean Descole.