Professor, Professor

the fulmination of chance [1/3]

hello everybody!

it's been awhile, hasn't it?

I've been so busy, it's insane. it's my third year of uni and between a double major and a job, it's been rough. I decided to try to push through a story, so I hope it's alright. I dunno how it'll end or whatever, but I want to try. I did just discover the LBMR manga that Level-5 published so it has reinvigorated me, even for just a short short while.

===

The moment Lucy takes a step out of the small flat she has been renting since last Tuesday, she knows it's a possible mistake. There's no reason for her to come downstairs; she won't start working at the Met for another three days and she has nothing that requires her to be out late at night. It had been two years since she had been in London and a month since she had been working in Bakewell as their resident Detective Constable. She loved walking down the streets of Bakewell for fun; it hadn't been the most interesting but the cold air and silence beyond the nature had been wonderful. It calmed the silence of her mind and working in there had been fun; patrol with the occasional investigations for smaller crimes like theft had been nice.

London isn't like that.

London is lively but still eerily silent to her ears. It's nearing an ungodly hour for and the cold air still hits her just like in Bakewell, but the silence seems daunting and the air seems suffocating. It wouldn't be different than her current flat, which felt impersonal and barely lived in—not that it wasn't, but she hated it. The streets seemed to continue and continue on until she's by Big Ben. It's freezing, she wishes she brought a thicker coat, but there's nothing to be done by it now. There's the occasional individual passing her by and she knows she should go home; despite knowing how to defend herself, the streets aren't a place to be around by one's lonesome. She has her badge with her; from habit or something else, she isn't sure, but it feels like a heady weight in her pocket.

The clock shines with the time, almost nearing 2 am in the morning. Her hair sweeps with the wind as she looks up and takes a glance to the North and she can see the pathway to the Scotland Yard in her head. It's relatively close to walk to and before she knows it, she's enveloped by warmth within the station. The familiar scent of stale coffee emanates even now and the quiet murmur of an officer here and there with a civilian, but overall relatively calm for a late evening.

She passes by reception quickly, the glint of her badge that she moved on her hip prior to entering the Yard shining under the gaudy lights and she traverses through the familiar hallways. A part of her almost doesn't want to be here, but the reasoning is lost on her. The anticipation of seeing someone familiar who could be working at night is terrifyingly possible and she feels the need to flee, but let nobody say Lucy Baker never backed down from a challenge.

A turn here and a turn there and she finds herself near the back of the Yard, somewhere familiar.

The Mystery Room is a light at the end of the tunnel, yet that tunnel is a far off concept that she isn't sure she wants to go to because the dark felt safer—ignorance was bliss after all. There's a dim light behind the glass pane of the door, most likely the lamp on the desk at the near back. She wonders if the place is still the kind of messy-clean where you know where items are if you worked there but not the kind where a stranger would find the right things. A two am job, it most likely meant that the Prof—Alfendi—was still working on a truly cracking case.

Was this even worth it?

Without fault, her hand outstretches itself from her side and she grabs ahold of the brass handle and turns it, slowly pushing the door open.

Alfendi Layton was and always has been such a study, a person that Lucy knew was more than what he just interpreted himself to be. Even two years later, even when he looked small and wasn't completely the same, it was still amazing to study him every time. She took in his appearance, the wine red scruff and ponytail that had grown longer than he usually let it go, the way his sweater hung on his loose frame sans lab coat, and most importantly, his olive eyes holding a tiredness that she didn't quite know how to explain.