This Newcomer Has Brought Herself and a Fic
Hello everyone, it's nice to meet you. : ) I'm Alliot, with a silent "t." I have a good friend to thank for introducing me to Professor Layton over spring break (forget Mexico or Miami, this was the most exciting thing that happened to me on my week off, LOL), so I'm still quite new to this whole shindig but I'm totally in love with it. It's a good thing I won't be owning a DS until summer, because I'd be bombing this semester of college, all locked up in some remote corner of the library solving puzzles.
They say it's always nice to bring a gift when dropping in someplace, so I've brought a short fic. It's my first fanfiction in a year to the day and the first I've written for the Layton series. I really needed a break from all these college essays I'm writing. Ugh, so not into it.
Title: Postcards from London
Author: west-to-alliot
Wordcount: 947
Rating: G
Characters: Luke, Layton; fluffy platonic mentor/apprentice -ness
Genre: General
Warning(s): I think I may have laid it on a little thick...?
Status: First in a series of loosely connected scenes (I hope).
Summary: Of course it was impossible to pretend that Luke hadn't been absent from London for seven years, but the ease with which he settled in, still Layton's apprentice and now a university student besides, made time seem like a simple flight of fancy.
The Professor always worked deep into the night. Luke remembered this clearly from when he was younger, at the age when, after a certain time, hours stopped existing and it simply became Very Late--long after the Professor had tucked him into bed. On any of the many nights when he could not sleep because of bad dreams, or just when he felt lonely, he would brave the inky blackness of the hallway until he turned the corner and saw the candle the Professor always kept lit on the kitchen table. From there he would push open the door of the flat and make his way down the steep staircase, gripping the banister tightly, his heart jumpy and loud in his chest. But with the glow of the candle coming from upstairs and the Professor in his study downstairs made Luke a little less afraid, just enough so that he could complete his journey.
He always hesitated at the door of the study, not wanting to disturb the Professor while he worked, even though he never seemed to mind Luke coming in. He never let Luke stay, of course, but took his hand and led him back upstairs for a glass of warm milk. The Professor knew the solution for everything, it seemed: Luke would start feeling drowsy after a few sips, and at the first yawn the Professor would smile, gently take the empty glass and put it in the sink, then steer Luke back to his bedroom and tuck him in again. The Professor's presence banished all the shadowy creatures lurking in the darkness of his room, and then the small candle he would light and leave at Luke's bedside would make sure they stayed away.
At the time, Luke thought that the circles under the Professor's eyes were just from the shadows thrown by the candlelight. Now, sitting at that same kitchen table as a university student, the clock above the mantlepiece gloomily chiming one o'clock in the morning, and a dismaying number of pages left to read in his textbook, Luke didn't know how the Professor did it without looking ghastly every morning. About a half hour ago he had splashed some cold water on his face to wake up and taken a good look in the mirror, and knew the next morning he would probably have to answer on account of how he looked.
Luke folded his arms on top of his book and rested his head against them. His eyes were strained and the passage in front of him had stopped making sense. All he wanted to do was drag himself to bed, yet he knew that if he checked downstairs, he would find Professor Layton awake in his study as always, his eyes alert as he studied an archeological finding, responded to some letters, or documented his latest puzzle findings. That thought was what kept Luke up so late himself to finish his work--if the Professor could do it, surely he could. He just needed a minute to rest his eyes.
He drifted off. Some time later he was aware of, and only vaguely, someone's fingers brushing his hair, just over his ear. Luke opened his eyes blearily and lifted his head a little.
"Still up, Professor?" he managed to say, his words partly muffled in the crook of his own arm.
Layton's hand migrated to his shoulder as he sat down in the other chair. "That was the exact question I meant to ask you, my boy. It is nearly two, and a growing young man such as you needs his rest. Preferably," he added, "in his own bed, rather than on a book at the kitchen table."
Luke smiled, feeling exhausted. The Professor's old endearment of "my boy" hadn't yet been completely replaced by the "young man" Luke had been receiving since his return to London. The Professor was catching himself more often as the weeks passed, but Luke found he didn't mind if they just kept on as they had been.
"A gentleman needs his rest too, Professor," he countered shrewdly, which made Layton smile in turn.
"Indeed he does, Luke. And for that reason I will turn in shortly, as well." He removed his tophat and stood. Luke nodded and closed his heavy book with a sigh, tucking it under his arm and standing with him. He was ready when Layton switched off the light; "It took a few years," he had admitted to Layton his first week back, when the Professor had hesitated by the light switch. Now he didn't even keep a candle by his bedside; just a lamp, for the nights when he stayed up to read.
Layton's silhouette came towards him, and together they walked (Luke trudged, rather) through the darkness into the adjacent hallway. Luke felt an unusual - an old but not unfamiliar - urge to take his mentor's hand for a moment, and with the drowsy affection that his childhood self once had in endless supply, he did. It was only a brief squeeze around the fingers, but Luke was glad he did it just this once, because for all his gentlemanly propriety, sometimes affection rolled off Layton in waves.
They both arrived at their respective rooms and wished each other a good night. When Luke finally climbed into bed and lay in the dark, he knew that the Professor would probably be awake awhile longer, and it was this thought - the Professor was just down the hallway, perhaps sitting in a chair with a book in hand, reading by lamplight - that made Luke sleep more peacefully than he had ever been able to in America.
They say it's always nice to bring a gift when dropping in someplace, so I've brought a short fic. It's my first fanfiction in a year to the day and the first I've written for the Layton series. I really needed a break from all these college essays I'm writing. Ugh, so not into it.
Title: Postcards from London
Author: west-to-alliot
Wordcount: 947
Rating: G
Characters: Luke, Layton; fluffy platonic mentor/apprentice -ness
Genre: General
Warning(s): I think I may have laid it on a little thick...?
Status: First in a series of loosely connected scenes (I hope).
Summary: Of course it was impossible to pretend that Luke hadn't been absent from London for seven years, but the ease with which he settled in, still Layton's apprentice and now a university student besides, made time seem like a simple flight of fancy.
The Professor always worked deep into the night. Luke remembered this clearly from when he was younger, at the age when, after a certain time, hours stopped existing and it simply became Very Late--long after the Professor had tucked him into bed. On any of the many nights when he could not sleep because of bad dreams, or just when he felt lonely, he would brave the inky blackness of the hallway until he turned the corner and saw the candle the Professor always kept lit on the kitchen table. From there he would push open the door of the flat and make his way down the steep staircase, gripping the banister tightly, his heart jumpy and loud in his chest. But with the glow of the candle coming from upstairs and the Professor in his study downstairs made Luke a little less afraid, just enough so that he could complete his journey.
He always hesitated at the door of the study, not wanting to disturb the Professor while he worked, even though he never seemed to mind Luke coming in. He never let Luke stay, of course, but took his hand and led him back upstairs for a glass of warm milk. The Professor knew the solution for everything, it seemed: Luke would start feeling drowsy after a few sips, and at the first yawn the Professor would smile, gently take the empty glass and put it in the sink, then steer Luke back to his bedroom and tuck him in again. The Professor's presence banished all the shadowy creatures lurking in the darkness of his room, and then the small candle he would light and leave at Luke's bedside would make sure they stayed away.
At the time, Luke thought that the circles under the Professor's eyes were just from the shadows thrown by the candlelight. Now, sitting at that same kitchen table as a university student, the clock above the mantlepiece gloomily chiming one o'clock in the morning, and a dismaying number of pages left to read in his textbook, Luke didn't know how the Professor did it without looking ghastly every morning. About a half hour ago he had splashed some cold water on his face to wake up and taken a good look in the mirror, and knew the next morning he would probably have to answer on account of how he looked.
Luke folded his arms on top of his book and rested his head against them. His eyes were strained and the passage in front of him had stopped making sense. All he wanted to do was drag himself to bed, yet he knew that if he checked downstairs, he would find Professor Layton awake in his study as always, his eyes alert as he studied an archeological finding, responded to some letters, or documented his latest puzzle findings. That thought was what kept Luke up so late himself to finish his work--if the Professor could do it, surely he could. He just needed a minute to rest his eyes.
He drifted off. Some time later he was aware of, and only vaguely, someone's fingers brushing his hair, just over his ear. Luke opened his eyes blearily and lifted his head a little.
"Still up, Professor?" he managed to say, his words partly muffled in the crook of his own arm.
Layton's hand migrated to his shoulder as he sat down in the other chair. "That was the exact question I meant to ask you, my boy. It is nearly two, and a growing young man such as you needs his rest. Preferably," he added, "in his own bed, rather than on a book at the kitchen table."
Luke smiled, feeling exhausted. The Professor's old endearment of "my boy" hadn't yet been completely replaced by the "young man" Luke had been receiving since his return to London. The Professor was catching himself more often as the weeks passed, but Luke found he didn't mind if they just kept on as they had been.
"A gentleman needs his rest too, Professor," he countered shrewdly, which made Layton smile in turn.
"Indeed he does, Luke. And for that reason I will turn in shortly, as well." He removed his tophat and stood. Luke nodded and closed his heavy book with a sigh, tucking it under his arm and standing with him. He was ready when Layton switched off the light; "It took a few years," he had admitted to Layton his first week back, when the Professor had hesitated by the light switch. Now he didn't even keep a candle by his bedside; just a lamp, for the nights when he stayed up to read.
Layton's silhouette came towards him, and together they walked (Luke trudged, rather) through the darkness into the adjacent hallway. Luke felt an unusual - an old but not unfamiliar - urge to take his mentor's hand for a moment, and with the drowsy affection that his childhood self once had in endless supply, he did. It was only a brief squeeze around the fingers, but Luke was glad he did it just this once, because for all his gentlemanly propriety, sometimes affection rolled off Layton in waves.
They both arrived at their respective rooms and wished each other a good night. When Luke finally climbed into bed and lay in the dark, he knew that the Professor would probably be awake awhile longer, and it was this thought - the Professor was just down the hallway, perhaps sitting in a chair with a book in hand, reading by lamplight - that made Luke sleep more peacefully than he had ever been able to in America.