Professor, Professor

An Inward Breath

The weight of the ring on his finger never felt so heavy.

If anything, it always felt like it was something he had purposefully been missing. 

But not this time.

When he finally had the time, he once asked her why she had made the ring as it was. Apparently, she had insisted that his ring would be specially made and had been saving up secretly for months. Half gold, half silver, split between the middle to indicate her love for both of them. A single ring to indicate she loved Alfendi Layton and the two that resided within him—whether anyone liked it or not.

Five years, she had lived with her own similar one on her finger to represent the same love. Sapphire and ruby together, with a single garnet in the middle. She never took it off, much like he never did. It remained missing from her finger.

"Why aren't you in there?" Hilda murmurs quietly and Alfendi remembers where he is, snapping out of his reverie. Hospital corridor. Outside of Lucy's room. Lucy's room.

"It would make no difference, would it?" Al says back, Fendi still reeling with the news. It became common for them to live in some sort of discordant harmony—something that should be contradictory, but no. It never was, not in Lucy's eyes at least. A testament to how much she truly loved him.

"It would. She needs you." Hilda flicks her wrist, allowing her chin to rest on the ball of her hand. Her other arm keeps it up. "It would make a very big difference."

Alfendi doesn't speak. He can see Florence speaking idly with Sniffer, who had come in support for him after they had discovered Lucy had woken up. He focuses on the IV drip that Florence always brings rather than the abysmal emptiness of the fluorescent lights and dreary walls. Florence, despite her lab coat attire that was similar to his own, hardly looked like she belonged here. None of them should be here, period.

"Alfendi." His full first name is oddly foreign on Hilda's lips, her intonation as soft as she can allow it. He forces himself to look at her, the damned woman that seemed to care for him by any degree despite their break-up. Her normally well brushed hair was in a mess, makeup that clearly needed to be touched up was smudged here and there. Her clothes are rumpled, wrinkles indicating long periods of sitting in the plastic chairs of the hospital. She had stayed with him throughout the whole ordeal, much to his dismay but slight relief. He didn't want to go through this by himself, no matter how much he bit harsh remarks into her mercilessly. "She wouldn't want you out here digging your fingernails into your palms looking like a lunatic in the hallway. She would want you in there."

"She's asleep." Fendi says the words as fact, rather than the other thing he would have said if he lacked a filter: 'She doesn't remember me.' If he said them, he worries that their factual nature would cloud him more. Hilda places a manicured hand on his shoulder. He jerks away; she doesn't try it again, instead opting to keep her hands to her sides. The only person he'd ever allow to do that to him was his wife.

His wife who was an idiot, but his idiot nevertheless. His wife, who rose to ranks to be a Detective Chief Inspector, just like him in a short amount of time.

His wife, who had gotten used to going to crime scenes by herself, using the Reconstruction Machine solely when she needed to examine the crime scene again.

His wife, who had reassured him that she still knew her way with a weapon and would be fine in investigating by herself, without backup.

His wife who had kissed him on the lips that day, refusing to hear his objections of safety and expressed that it would be an easy job.