Spring Cleaning, Fill for Puzzle 001
Title: Spring Cleaning
Word Count: 391
Warning: None!
Challenge: Layton feels VERY uncomfortable when Remi wants to read his journal.
Castles of boxes filled the Professor's Gressenheller office, each box serving as graffitied brick; bold, black marker announcing contents such as "tools", "notes", "clothes to take home", "journals", "good china"...
Spring cleaning had a distinctive sound; rustling cardboard, flopping books, tape squealing off the roll, and - Ow, papercut! Ooh, shh... - muffled mutters of words forbidden for proper ladies and gentlemen to say.
"Now then, Emmy, that's hardly necessary,"
"I was going to say shoot, you know," She tried to lie, earning a disbelieving, over-the-shoulder glance from the man sitting crosslegged in front of his own stack of boxes.
She pantomimed an innocent whistle, rolling her eyes up and away from his, and went back about her work. Tiny voice; "Well I was."
There was another long overture of spring cleaning; rustle, flop, squeal-
"...Professor, what's this dusty old moleskin doing in here?"
"Hm?" Rustle, rustle, flop, he didn't look up from his own work to entertain her question properly. "What about moles, then?"
"No, no, a moleskin journal, Professor, it was in the box in the cor-" All of a sudden, the tape squealed like a needle off the record, and the journal vanished from her hands. "-ner..."
She swiveled around in her seated position, just catching the Professor as he sat back in place, pretending to work again; rustle, rustle, rustle - he glanced over his shoulder.
Emmy simply sat, hands planted on her knees, with that face. You know, that face. One of those I'm going to find out what that was all about faces.
Quick turn back to his work, rustle, rustle, flop, squeal; curious, wary glance.
That face.
"E-emmy, dear, it's impolite to stare at someone, especially when that someone is trying to wor-"
"Professor, is it your journal? Can I read it?"
His tone was incredulous; the uncharacteristically indignant, tenor What?! No! that answered her only made her more curious.
"Aw, come on! Why wasn't that one with all your other journals?" She pouted, the two of them going in circles of No! Please? No! Oh, come on, please? Nnn-no!
Finally, he sighed. Just once, long and exasperated. He fidgeted, adjusting his hat absentmindedly. "Emmy, I'd honestly prefer you not read this one, it's... rather special," He gripped it's spine gently.
It would go home with him that night, to keep his hat company.
Word Count: 391
Warning: None!
Challenge: Layton feels VERY uncomfortable when Remi wants to read his journal.
Castles of boxes filled the Professor's Gressenheller office, each box serving as graffitied brick; bold, black marker announcing contents such as "tools", "notes", "clothes to take home", "journals", "good china"...
Spring cleaning had a distinctive sound; rustling cardboard, flopping books, tape squealing off the roll, and - Ow, papercut! Ooh, shh... - muffled mutters of words forbidden for proper ladies and gentlemen to say.
"Now then, Emmy, that's hardly necessary,"
"I was going to say shoot, you know," She tried to lie, earning a disbelieving, over-the-shoulder glance from the man sitting crosslegged in front of his own stack of boxes.
She pantomimed an innocent whistle, rolling her eyes up and away from his, and went back about her work. Tiny voice; "Well I was."
There was another long overture of spring cleaning; rustle, flop, squeal-
"...Professor, what's this dusty old moleskin doing in here?"
"Hm?" Rustle, rustle, flop, he didn't look up from his own work to entertain her question properly. "What about moles, then?"
"No, no, a moleskin journal, Professor, it was in the box in the cor-" All of a sudden, the tape squealed like a needle off the record, and the journal vanished from her hands. "-ner..."
She swiveled around in her seated position, just catching the Professor as he sat back in place, pretending to work again; rustle, rustle, rustle - he glanced over his shoulder.
Emmy simply sat, hands planted on her knees, with that face. You know, that face. One of those I'm going to find out what that was all about faces.
Quick turn back to his work, rustle, rustle, flop, squeal; curious, wary glance.
That face.
"E-emmy, dear, it's impolite to stare at someone, especially when that someone is trying to wor-"
"Professor, is it your journal? Can I read it?"
His tone was incredulous; the uncharacteristically indignant, tenor What?! No! that answered her only made her more curious.
"Aw, come on! Why wasn't that one with all your other journals?" She pouted, the two of them going in circles of No! Please? No! Oh, come on, please? Nnn-no!
Finally, he sighed. Just once, long and exasperated. He fidgeted, adjusting his hat absentmindedly. "Emmy, I'd honestly prefer you not read this one, it's... rather special," He gripped it's spine gently.
It would go home with him that night, to keep his hat company.