Work Text:
Emmy’s most recent mission hadn’t gone quite according to plan. In addition to not actually finishing the task that they set out for, Emmy returned quite a bit worse for wear.
‘Worse for wear’ was an understatement, but considering that she never explicitly told the professor or Luke that she was injured in the first place, she just had to play the whole thing as some lingering fatigue from staying up too late. Her explanation that she’d gone on a family trip didn’t exactly line up with returning concussed and flinchy, but Emmy sure as hell wasn’t going to let some minor injuries get in the way of her larger mission. Keeping Targent secret was the goal above all.
The professor surely knew that something was off. Nothing ever seemed to get past him, and Emmy had long since resigned herself to a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy rather than outright trying to hide everything about her life outside of work. Layton didn’t share what conclusions he drew from her mumbled excuses about the split knuckles and rolled ankles and the times where she was nearly too exhausted to see straight, and Emmy didn’t tell where she’d been and the things she’d done.
The week after her mission is spent trying to stay afloat. The worst of her symptoms passed after the first few days, but there were still some lingering effects like a change in her balance and some increased sensitivity to light and sound. Her headache had dulled to a low, achy sort of pressure. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was far better than it had been.
More than anything, Emmy was annoyed with her reaction to the whole affair. For lack of a better description, she’d been acting like a stray animal. She hadn’t felt so unsafe since before she’d moved out of the Nest.
Maybe it was for the best that she was falling back into old habits, but they weren’t all pleasant. Emmy found that she couldn’t relax with people behind her, that she was mapping easy escape routes, and tensing when people moved too quickly. Nights are consumed with fitful sleep, and all she can see are water-filled caves and blood.
Her recent neuroticism was driving her especially crazy because it wasn’t the first time she’d killed a person and it probably wouldn’t be the last. There was no reason to be reacting so harshly to the most recent mission. People live and die and part of being in Targent is accepting that your life is tied to your performance.
Logically, Emmy is safe. She’s safe, alive, and back in London.
Commander Bronev had officially documented that Agent Finch would be exempt from extraneous missions until her main one was finished. The exception being that if Emmy had a particularly necessary skill set, they’d ask her to tag along, but Uncle Leon would probably let her take it easy for a bit. She’d probably proved her worth enough that her fuck-up with Ambrosia would be swept under the rug.
At the very least, the fruit of the rounds of questioning Emmy endured after the fact was that her murder of a fellow agent would have no consequences.
“Emmy…”
It takes only until the end of the week for the professor to finally stop beating around the bush.
“Yes, professor?”
“Have a seat, please."
So Emmy takes off her raincoat and hangs it up before sitting stiffly on the couch in his office. The woman had just arrived for the day, so there would be an hour or two before Luke’s father dropped him off.
She’s not late, nor is she particularly unkempt. Was her work performance suffering?
“Have I done something wrong?” Emmy resists letting her knee bounce.
The professor shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave the woman. She can’t get a good read on him like this. “No, it’s nothing like that. Would you like some tea?”
“Sure.” He stops her from getting up, insisting on making the tea for the both of them.
Hm. Emmy adjusts herself to still be facing him as he moves to the sink.
It’s a stupid thing to do. Professor Layton is one of the people she feels safest around, funnily enough, but she still bristles when he’s out of sight. It’s not like he’ll lunge at her the second she’s not facing him. She won’t be caught unawares in an attack.
The assistant tears her gaze away from him to look at her nails, choosing to busy herself with picking at them. She’s been trying to curb her biting habit for years, but her last mission seemed to finally kick the habit.
Uncle Leon didn’t like it when she bit her nails, finding it unsanitary and bothersome. For the most part, the agent did manage to avoid doing it around him, just like she did her best to not fidget in other ways, but when she was alone or outside of his presence it was an absentminded habit.
Now, biting her nails just reminded her of how badly she wished her nails could do more damage when she was fighting for her life.
Emmy shakes her head to clear the thought.
“Are you alright?” She nearly jumps at the professor’s voice, but quickly collects herself.
“Yep!”
He hums and gives her a look that she can’t particularly decipher. He probably doesn’t believe her.
He’s always too concerned for her. Emmy is fine, just as she’s always been. The headaches were waning, her sleep was getting better, and everything would go back to normal in a few more days.
The kettle begins to whistle, so the professor takes it off the heat and begins to pour the water into two cups.
“Is chamomile alright? I find it best for nerves.”
Emmy tries for the obvious joke. “No more Earl Grey?”
“I’m afraid we’re all out.” He smiles a bit, and Emmy looks away for a second before the paranoia creeps back in and she faces him again.
“Chamomile is fine, I don’t mind.”
He sits on the other end of the couch, setting their teacups down and making small talk with her.
The downpour outside, recent gossip amongst students, grading, and the like until Emmy can’t stand all the nothingness and addresses the elephant in the room. “Professor, not that I don’t like talking with you, but is there a reason for this?”
Her boss stalls by taking a sip of his tea, and Emmy’s knee begins to bounce. Then, with a very careful calm, he answers, “Does every conversation have to have a purpose?” Which isn’t really an answer at all, and agitation begins to outweigh whatever nervousness comes at the prospect of a serious conversation.
“Well you seem like you have something to say, so I’d rather you just spit it out.” Once the words are out of her mouth she regrets them. Her tone was too harsh, the words were barbed, and for whatever reason Emmy almost expects some kind of retaliation from the professor.
Her uncle wouldn’t tolerate such insolence. On a better day, he’d ask her to repeat herself and Emmy would have to stumble through various apologies to avoid incurring wrath. She doesn’t like to think about what would ensue if Uncle Leon was feeling less than generous with her.
Except her boss just lets out an amused sort of sigh. “Very well. If you’d like me to state it so plainly, I’m a bit concerned for you.”
Oh. In that case, Emmy would like to go back to small talk. Her stomach turns. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed that this week seems to have been very difficult for you.”
Emmy shifts uncomfortably, then crosses her arms. Despite how direct he was being, she’d rather see if she can push the conversation off. “What makes you think that?”
Professor Layton sets his teacup down and begins to count on his fingers. “You’ve been walking to work, indicating that something has prevented you from driving. Your knuckles are bruised. It seems that your clothing isn’t ironed as usual, and on more than one occasion you’ve forgotten your camera or bag when leaving and had to come back to retrieve it. Your appetite seems to have decreased, and your behavior and mood have also noticeably shifted.” He pauses for a moment, then folds his hands in his lap. “Have I missed anything?”
The answer isn’t smug, because that’s not something that the professor exudes particularly often, but he seems to think that he’s trapped her.
“I don’t see how any of that is cause for concern. I haven’t been late at all, and it’s not impacting my work performance.”
“You agree that there’s something going on, then?”
Shit. Fuck.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Silence stretches between them, and the only noise filling the room is the harsh pelting of rain against the office windows.
“I’m afraid that I’ve come off too strongly. All I mean to say is that I’m worried for you, and I want to know if there’s anything that I can do for you?”
Emmy tersely reiterates that it’s fine. “I’ll fix my clothes and attitude. I didn't realize you noticed.” She really should have, but the woman honestly didn’t realize that she was so easy to read.
“This conversation isn’t for ‘fixing’ anything, Emmy. I don’t want you to think that you’re being reprimanded, nor that you need to divulge any private information to me.” The professor slows, then visibly chooses his words, “I just hope that you know I’m always available if you need anything.”
She’s about to respond when thunder rumbles in the background. “Uh, right.” Emmy’s gaze shifts to the window.
It hasn’t been raining all that much since the mission, or at least it hasn’t stormed.
She always used to love storms. Maybe not so much while she still lived in the Nest, but when in London it reminded her of home.
It rained more often than it didn’t back at the Nest, and if it wasn’t raining then it was overcast. Emmy liked that London let her see the sun more, but the rain made her feel nostalgic. It made her think of tracing the skyline from Uncle Leon’s office through the window, of timing the difference between claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. It made her think of little yellow raincoats and splashing in puddles.
A more recent memory takes precedence in her mind now. The rumbling of the cave, and the realization that she would soon be in danger. The rumble indicated to the agents far too late that they’d be meeting a watery grave for staying.
“Emmy?” The assistant’s attention snaps back to the professor, and he motions to her untouched tea. Embarrassed, she grabs the cup and starts sipping.
Chamomile wasn’t her tea of choice. She preferred more tangy, fruitier teas. Nonetheless, the tea is warm and mild and drinking it means that she doesn’t have to speak.
“Before I forget to ask, whatever happened to your water bottle?”
“Ah, hm?”
“Your water bottle.”
The water bottle that she usually kept in her bag. The water bottle that she took on missions. The water bottle that Emmy had taken into that cave. The water bottle that she’d grabbed with both hands, lifted above her head, and-
“Emmy?”
She jolts back to herself, nearly spilling her tea. “I lost it.” It’s not a lie. She doesn’t know what happened to it, and even if it were recovered it would probably be too dented to use.
The teacup clatters slightly, and that’s when the assistant notices that her hands are shaking.
“Emmy, dear, are you feeling quite alright?”
There’s a flash outside the window. “Yes. Yes, I’m just fine.” Emmy sets the cup down, and thunder clamors as she does.
The storm must be nearly overhead.
“I’m…” Emmeline gets to her feet, eyes darting about the room and landing on the older man as he stands as well. “I think I need to go for a second. I forgot my… I forgot something. Yeah.”
Why was it getting harder to breathe? The office seemed almost oppressive, getting smaller by the second. The blood rushing in her ears sounds like water climbing up the cave walls.
The professor is saying something. She ought to listen to her superior, but it’s getting harder to think and hear and pay attention. It’s getting harder to breathe and there’s another clap of thunder to signal the incoming rush of water and it’s not going to be long before it’ll all drag her under. And Emmeline might be choking or maybe there’s someone wrapping their hands around her throat to steal the air from her lungs. Her eyes dart, trying to find the best way out so she can run and get away and feel safe like she hasn’t in a week.
She takes a step for a door before her knees start feeling rather weak and Emmeline stumbles before righting herself as her vision starts to swim. Not enough air. Not enough air, and there won’t be any more because water will fill her lungs instead.
Beyond the rush of her heart in her ears, there’s the sound of something behind her. Someone, rather, and the part of herself that feels rather like a stray animal rears its head.
Danger, it screams, you’re in danger!
Emmeline learned to fight at a young age, learned to lean into that primitive instinct to claw and thrash and fight for her life. To listen to the call of her baser instinct is to survive, and to survive is to be ruthless and unhesitating. No time for thought nor indecision, only to act upon impulse quickly enough to beat the threat back.
And Emmeline listens, whipping around and biting back in the form of attempting to deliver a powerful kick to the head to whoever’s behind her.
It barely misses, knocking against the brim of his hat barely as he leans back. A second too late, as Emmy stumbles back into a fighting stance and raises her fists, her brain recognizes the professor and everything slows to a stop.
Recalibrate. Reassess.
Her posture loosens and she blinks at him. Layton looks back at her, one hand poised on his hat.
Her throat kindly loosens up so she can breathe, and the assistant sucks in a breath.
Then, everything crashes down again.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
Emmeline just tried to roundhouse kick the professor in the face. Even if she didn’t hurt him, the fact remained that she tried to do it in the first place. Not only that, she didn’t actually miss. She’d scuffed against the brim of his precious hat with her boot.
“Emmy-”
“I’m so sorry, professor. I- Argh, I don’t know what came over me!” She runs a hand through her hair, then grips desperately at the strands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
This would surely have consequences. What if he stopped allowing her to be his assistant? What if he was upset? Emmy had been making plenty of mistakes in this week alone, and this could only be the final straw.
Professor Layton wasn’t quick to anger. He never screamed, never yelled, but Emmy had crossed the line.
“Emmy, please.”
She feels crazed, the fear bubbling into some mix of mania and paralysis. What was she thinking?
“What do you-” What do you want from me, she wants to ask. How can I make it up to you? What can I do to avoid being punished? “What do I even-?” She can’t manage to speak properly beyond the lump in her throat. Uncle Leon’s reminders about babbling and articulation ring in her ears, and she shuts her mouth tightly. If you can’t speak properly, don’t speak at all.
“Do you mind if I get closer?” She shakes her head. The professor takes a step closer. “Is it alright if I touch your shoulder?” Emmy nods.
The warm hand on her shoulder makes her realize just how hard she’d been shaking, and she takes a trembling breath.
“Let’s sit you back down.”
Emmy keeps her eyes on the floorboards as he leads her back to the couch, unable to look at him. Technically, she should. She should look at people when they talk to her, as Bronev likes to remind her.
What scares her the most is that she’s not sure what she’ll find if she were to meet his gaze.
Anger? He didn’t sound particularly upset, but the professor wasn’t particularly expressive to begin with. Turmoil? Emmy’s most afraid that she’ll find concern if she looks at him now. That in his eyes she’ll find pity and worry and some sentimentality that’s spared for an undeserving person. He cares too much.
The professor is too invested in her wellbeing. Emmy feels nauseous.
She sinks into the couch and tries to make herself as small as possible. Her hands thread through her hair and she just sits for a minute. At least the volume of her curls blocks out anything but her own lap. It provides a small reprieve from her everpresent headache as well.
This time, when thunder booms through the room, Emmeline can’t suppress a flinch.
“Are you afraid of storms, by any chance?”
The professor’s hand returns to her shoulder in what’s probably meant to be a gesture of comfort. It burns against her flesh until he removes it.
“No.” Not before now. Not before the mission and the water and staring down the barrel of another agent’s gun. “I actually grew up in-” Her voice is getting garbled with unshed tears, so she tries again. Stronger. “The place where I grew up was even wetter than London. We got a lot of thunderstorms.”
How was Emmeline meant to go back to the Nest when everything was said and done? She’d flee her life here once the mission is over, and then what? There wasn't such a thing as a Targent agent that couldn’t handle a bit of rain.
Whatever her fellow agents said about her now, there wouldn’t be an end to the mockery if anyone even thought she was afraid of something. It would either be better or worse than the time her fellow fledgelings had found out that little Emmeline was afraid of spiders.
Emmy doubts it would be better.
In the best case scenario, she’d be written off as a scared little girl who didn’t deserve her position as an agent. She shudders to think of what the worst-case scenario would be.
“Pardon my assumption, then.”
“It’s fine.”
Emmy sucks in a breath and holds it, willing away the tears starting to bead in her eyes.
Nothing is wrong. Emmy is safe. There’s no reason to react emotionally. Layton wouldn’t hit her, probably wouldn’t say harsh things either. He wasn’t prone to rants or berating, and he’d never been harsh with her. He’d been all too gentle, even when his assistant toed the line.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite alright. There was no harm done.”
“I tried to hurt you.”
“Perhaps, but you didn’t.”
Why was she arguing? “I hit your hat.”
“It was due for some TLC either way, and you merely knocked the brim. No harm done.”
In response, the professor’s assistant lets out some pitiful, miserable noise and falls quiet again.
She grits her teeth at the next rumble of thunder, grabbing harder at her hair.
If she were to lose her job because of this, she’d be terminated as an agent.
Some part of her hopes that if that were to happen, Uncle Leon would try to organize some way of helping her escape. That he’d fake records of her execution and send her on her way.
Most of her knows that it wouldn’t happen. Emmeline would be naive to think that Bronev would let himself give preferential treatment. They were on a thin line as it was, considering Emmy’s recent stint with Ambrosia that hadn’t faced any real consequences. Most of her fellow agents already considered her position in Targent to have come from favoritism, as the commander is her mentor, and Bronev is reluctant to feed into those rumors.
They could ruin him. That was always the explanation for it. If he acted too kindly towards her, they’d both be in danger. His attachment to Emmeline, if he showed it in any capacity, meant that she could be endangered in an attempt to get to him. Becoming Targent’s leader didn’t come without his fair share of enemies, and this was one of his many ways of staying on top. Agent Finch couldn’t be used as leverage if he didn’t care for her.
Emmy doesn’t mind. It was nice when she was young and he’d been kinder to her, but those days were gone. She was an adult, entirely self-sufficient, and it was just silly to yearn for simpler times. She shouldn’t miss the nights when he’d braid her hair or comfort her after nightmares.
She should be glad that he treats her as kindly as he does at the moment. If Emmy were anyone else, she’d have been long-since terminated.
Going AWOL when she was meant to be shadowing Dr. Shrader would have been grounds for punishment or termination of her position, and her only saving grace was that she’d found Ambrosia in the process. The island was being secured by Targent slowly thanks to her description of its position.
Then there was the matter of her having killed another agent. Infighting was highly frowned upon, despite how common it was, and considering that no one else could verify what happened between her and the other agent down in that cave, the information could be spinned in a very different manner.
Targent was heavily made of men. If word were to come out that Agent Finch had murdered someone on a mission, most of them would probably ignore that there was an attempt on her life to prompt it. They’d ignore the bruises on Emmeline’s windpipe and write off the whole instance as hysteria, as a woman overreacting to what were simple advances.
At least Commander Bronev and Swift were both kind enough to see her side. They’d be in control of the release of information. Ideally, no one would know. Kingfisher was an asshole, and considering his demeanor towards her, he probably didn’t have a significant other. Besides, no one really asked for whom the bell tolled. It was best to not make connections in the Nest, because missions were like playing Russian roulette with three bullets. If someone didn’t come back, you know what happened.
Emmy sits, hunched, until the simmering anxiety about her fate rolls to a boil and bubbles out her mouth. “Am I going to be fired?”
She straightens, unfurling to properly look at her employer. Emmy ought to face the repercussions head-on.
He’s got that same look on his face that he’s had all week. Pity, concern, and care that’s too warm. “No. Did you think you would be?”
Emmy should be fired. She wasn’t being fired? “Yes…? Professor, I just tried to knock you out.”
“Ah, but you didn’t. I don’t see why this incident doesn’t have to stay between the two of us.” Layton smiles just a bit, and Emmy’s heart begins to race anew.
What was he playing at? “What do you want, then?” If her attempt at hurting him wasn’t going to be managed with administration, it would be dealt with privately. Or, maybe worse, the professor would hold it above her head.
With the gentlemanly persona he sets out, one would think that the professor would be above such things.
Emmy knows better. Altruism is a concept for the naive. The real world doesn’t operate with kindness in mind, and Emmy has been taught time and again that ‘nice’ people aren’t what they seem.
It’s been a few months of her taking the position as Professor Layton’s assistant, and she still hasn’t found his angle. She doesn’t know what makes the professor tick, so to speak.
He’s not above using secret information for gain in an investigation, as his assistant had seen in the Golden Garden case. While not so explicit with it, the professor had implied that he’d expose the market children if Crow didn’t give up his information on the Specter’s flute.
“I don’t know what you mean?” He tilts his head in a dog-like manner, and Emmy’s eyes narrow.
“If you’re not going to report me or anything, what do you want instead?” Her stomach has started to tie itself in knots as her boss plays dumb. Does he think she’s stupid enough to not consider his ulterior motives?
She already did her best to be the perfect assistant, and he never asked her for more than menial work in keeping things straight. Did he want her to work overtime? To handle more tasks? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t just do it if he asked regularly.
Emmy often thought that he asked less of her than was necessary. Working as his assistant was far more interesting when they were outside on adventures, but even then it seemed that the professor tried to do most things on his own. Her position as an assistant was auxiliary.
“I don’t want anything from you, Emmy.”
She bites her tongue to avoid calling bullshit to his face.
“Everyone wants something.”
He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. Emmy gets the distinct impression that the professor thinks he’s figured something out.
“If you insist, here’s my demands.” The smile starts creeping up on his face, and Emmy’s heart drops in anticipation. “I want you to take a day off.”
What?
“What?”
“I want you to take a day off next week.”
The assistant squints at him harder. He can’t be serious. “That’s not- you can’t ask that.”
“Can’t I? You asked what I wanted of you, and that’s my request.”
“That’s not a real request.” Was he joking? “Be serious. Do you want money? Labor? What’s your price?”
His eyebrows raise, disappearing under the brim of his hat. “Do you think I want to extort you?”
She makes a vague gesture. “I guess.” He sounds appalled, as if it’s not a normal thing to do.
“I will not be doing that.” His tone is firm. “In all sincerity, I don’t want anything from you. I don’t consider the events of this morning to be indicative of you being a threat to myself or others, and you didn’t harm me. Because you haven't presented yourself before now to be dangerous, and I believe this to be an isolated incident that arose from environmental circumstances, I won’t be discussing this with anyone, and you won’t face any consequences.” A lot of words to say that Emmy wasn’t in trouble. “Does that make sense?”
“... I suppose?”
“Good. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, may I ask a question?”
“Sure. Shoot.” Emmy forces her posture to look loose. She’s prepared for some kind of interrogation about her freak out, but she’s also prepared to evade the conversation at all costs. Not only was her reaction blown out of proportion, she also wouldn’t be able to explain what caused it.
He leans forward. “What can I do to avoid this in the future? Can you pinpoint anything that provoked your reaction?”
Apparently, Emmy was wrong to think that she was prepared for any question. “Uh.” She opens her mouth, then shuts it. “You were behind me.”
The professor’s eyes are still trained on her, and the assistant can feel that her face is flushing. It sounds entirely stupid when she says it out loud. Emmy Altava had tried to kick her boss’ teeth in because he walked behind her.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll take more care to avoid doing it in the future.” And Professor Layton says casually. As if Emmy had any real reason to be upset. As if it weren’t some nonsensical thing she’d done while freaking out over nothing.
“It’s fine.”
“Would you like me to let Luke know to avoid standing behind you as well?”
“No.” Even if she was baffled by his consideration, there’d be no way in hell that Luke should know about this. He probably wouldn’t tease her about it, but she doesn’t want to cause him concern.
If he did notice that Emmy had been off all week, the little boy gave no indication. He’d probably been too caught up in trying to plan a surprise party behind her back. Luke hadn’t let the idea of throwing a party go since he learned about her birthday a month ago, and the sentiment was rather sweet, even if he wasn’t that great at hiding his intentions.
Either way, the chances that the agent would attack Luke are low. She’s not planning on letting herself lose control over her panic again.
“Very well. Let me know if your decision changes. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable and have nothing done to remedy it.”
A lump forms in her throat at the sentimentality of it all.
Emmy shouldn’t be coddled. Even if he was far more reluctant to discipline her than the superiors she’s had before, Emmeline shouldn’t be treated so softly. He acts like she’s one of his students. He treats her like a friend, like a person.
It’s uncomfortable.
The professor is only so kind because he doesn’t know who she is. He doesn’t have a clue that Emmy Altava, star assistant, is rotting his work from the inside out. Each of his discoveries, each of his observations, all of his papers and work is copied and passed along to Targent. They’ve secured the Golden Garden, they’re working on the City of Harmony, and once they track down the Infinite Vault, Agent Finch’s facade will come to an end.
She’ll be gone in the light of the morning, before Professor Layton even knows what hit him. If he digs, he’ll be smart enough to figure out that most of her documents are forged.
Emmy Altava wasn’t a person. She was more of a concept, a mask to wear and pretend that she was just as alive as the other two in her company.
“Professor, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
She can only meet his gaze for a second before her eyes wander around the office. Emmy can’t stand to look at him when she asks, “Why are you… being like this?” It’s the best description she has for his behavior.
He hums. “I’ve found that a bit of kindness goes a long way in helping someone feel safe after being in danger.”
“I wasn’t-” She trips over herself to get the idea out of his mind, “I’m not in danger. Wasn’t ever. I’m- professor, it’s-” Breathe. She bites her tongue sharply to stop babbling. Speak properly or don’t speak at all. “I feel safe.”
“I suppose that means I’ve succeeded in my task, then.” Layton is speaking tongue in cheek now, and she huffs.
“I wasn’t in danger ever.” Then, he gives her silence. She looks back up to see his face, which was entirely devoid of belief, then looks away. “I wasn’t. Really.” It comes out weaker than she’d like. Childish.
“I believe you,” Professor Layton says like a liar. “Nonetheless, I believe that kindness is a modus vivendi. Regardless of a person’s circumstance, respect and compassion should be a baseline. Don’t you agree?”
It doesn’t make sense. “Yeah. Mhm.” Respect is a privilege, as is leniency. To give it as a baseline would be to find all people as equal to oneself, which simply isn’t true.
If the man really believed all that he’s saying, he must be not quite as intelligent as everyone thought. He was clearly hiding something, because no one that wasn’t hiding something acted like Hershel Layton did. He was also very bright, and seemed to stick to his proposed values. Whether or not he truly believed all that he preached was another thing entirely.
It didn’t particularly matter at the moment, because whether or not he was exceedingly naive or just a liar, he was treating her all the same.
Conflicted, she decided to change the subject. An attempt at humor might diffuse the sincerity that’s making Emmy sick to her stomach. “Did you mean it when you said you want me to take a day off? Is that even allowed?” She tacks on a laugh at the end for good measure, though it sounds pitchy even to herself.
“Absolutely.” And Layton ruins it with genuity. “How about on your birthday? It’s next Wednesday, is it not?”
The brunette grimaces. “Yeah, but… ehhhh, Luke’s been planning the surprise party for almost a month now, and I don’t want to have him change plans at the last second. It seems unfair.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. How about the day after?”
“I don’t need a day off work.” It wasn’t deserved. She wasn’t incapacitated nor had she done anything that deserved a reward like rest.
Rest would be more of a punishment than anything, Emmy thinks. She might just go crazy with enough free time.
Especially as of recently, having time to think was very bad.
“Consider it another gift for your birthday.” The professor was really pushing the envelope. He usually backed off with enough pushback, but he seemed more insistent this time. She picks at her nails and huffs.
“What would you and Luke gonna do without me, anyways? I don’t suppose you’re planning on replacing me with the pipsqueak anytime soon.”
“I’m sure that the two of us can manage my workload for a day. I’ll remind you that I did have tenure for quite a few years and completed my work alone.”
Talking like this is easier. Easy quips without any unnecessary sentimentality or interpersonality. “Yeah, and Dean Delmona told me that you weren’t going to any of your meetings and things were barely getting graded on time.”
For a moment, she gets a bit nervous. Emmy likes banter, likes the back-and-forth, but she has to remember not to get too comfortable. The professor is still her superior and her livelihood does depend on her ability to please him and remain in line with his standards.
Then, Layton laughs. Well, he doesn’t laugh, but he lets out a little amused huff, which is basically the same thing for him. “I suppose. Now, about that day off…”
The doorknob turns and the door swings open, cutting off whatever the professor was going to say. Entirely happy to be saved by the bell, Emmy hops to her feet and grabs their teacups as Luke and his father enter the office.
The other three greet each other as Emmy washes their cups out. It seems Luke and his father left earlier than normal in an attempt to get to Gressenheller before the storm got worse, and that was Emmy’s saving grace.
“What were you and the professor talking about?” Luke inquires as he hangs up his coat, and Emmy answers for the both of them when she says that it was nothing.
Hopefully, the professor would take her hint and drop the subject entirely. He might not, but generally if she pushed something enough he’d back off. It was nice to not have to deal with someone bullheaded like herself.
She can feel Layton’s eyes on her back, but Emmy just starts humming loudly as she sets the cups down to dry.
She’s fine. She’ll get over whatever has changed since her mission or fail miserably trying. It can’t be too hard, all things considered, but it ought to be easier now that she’s not constantly aching and miserable.
Her efforts in acting normal would have to be doubled over, if the professor was concerned enough to actually confront her. It wouldn’t be good for anyone if he continued to worry.
The rain still pelts at the windows, slamming against the glass with reckless abandon, but the thunder had settled.
The storm was probably far from over, but the worst has passed.
What was it that he mentioned as indications of her slip in demeanor? His comment on her lack of pressed clothing comes to mind, and that could certainly be fixed. The bruises on her knuckles would disappear if she stopped working out for a bit, and she could definitely fix her attitude. Emmeline had recognized her own agitation and figured it came from a place of fatigue, but she didn’t know that Layton could pick up on the irritation that buzzed under her skin.
Emmy just had to be better. She had to commit to the persona again, and work backwards into being Emmy Altava again. Emmy Altava, overeager assistant.
Even if she didn’t feel particularly like acting gung-ho, it was all part of the job. This aspect of her mission was removed from the rest of her work, and the two shouldn’t coincide.
She should work on compartmentalizing the other mission. It wasn’t worth ruminating on the murder, and the blood on her hands had already run off with justification on her actions. It would be easier without the persistent headache as a reminder of the whole event, but that would be gone soon enough and Emmy could really go back to being as normal as possible.
Whatever was happening with Targent, the agent can’t allow it to interfere with her greater mission. If she was too suspicious, as she has been over the last week, there’s more of a chance that people will ask around.
That can’t happen. This week would have to be a fluke.
Uncle Leon would be disappointed if he saw just how far she was falling. A proper agent wouldn’t have such a reaction to the event.
Emmy shakes her head to clear all the thoughts.
That was another thing. No more getting lost in thought.
The storm would pass, Emmy just had to wait it out.