Ahem.

So, I know what you're thinking. "Maddie, for the love of crap, should you really be starting another story? Don't you have, like, three other unfinished stories right now? Shouldn't you be focusing on those?"

To which I would reply, "No, yes, yes, and don't call me Maddie, you creep."

Anyway, I just couldn't stand the feels that have been running through me lately. It was either a sappy Claire survives AU or a trove of supremely angsty Claire doesn't survive oneshots amidst a flood of saccharine Cleshel pre-explosion fics, so... yeah. I have both explosion angst and pre-explosion fluff in spades already, both posted and unposted, so I figured I should go for the more radical, less been-done-a-thousand-times thing. Even if Claire-survives!AU is probably very popular on fanfiction. And, if it isn't, I am more than prepared to kill someone, because, by heck, it really should be.

Incidentally, while I was writing the part about the fire, a very loud garbage truck came down my street. I was home from school that day, but I usually would've been in school, so I'd never heard that truck before. It was loud, and it was making those beeping noises, and I swear to Arceus, I was sure for a minute that there was a fire truck coming down my street, toward my house. And I live on the very end of a no-outlet street, so, if you assume it to be a fire truck, that could mean only one thing.

Needless to say, I needed some calming down after that, but the irony of the situation struck me pretty quickly.

With all that out of the way, let's get this show on the road!

Prologue
A Miracle or Two

Everything was going to be perfect.

Despite his anxiety, which could only be described as "crushing", Hershel had long since convinced himself of that. After all, he'd planned every part of the night ahead of him. He'd mapped out everything completely; he'd accounted for every possible scenario. Preparation wasn't his "thing"—for as cool-headed as he was, he still tended to throw himself into situations well before most would dare. But, this time, he had spent days agonizing over every last minute detail.

And everything was going to be perfect.

For the thousandth time, he allowed his hand to stray from the brim of his new top hat, fidgeting nervously with the small velvet-coated box resting gently in his pocket. Subtle though it was, the slight heft of it in his hand felt right. As soon as he'd seen the ring, he'd known it was the one; it just seemed so perfect.

It would look lovely on her, though nothing could look lovelier than her smile when she found him holed up in his new office, falling asleep over essays. "I suppose I'm glad that you're the Professor," she would whisper to him as she shook him gently awake. "You can take away my life, but you can't take away my sleep!" Here, she would laugh. "That's probably our lab's motto. Even Dimitri rarely stays to keep working after hours, and he's pretty proud of his work."

And Layton, brushing the sleep from his eyes, would offer an identical smile to the one on her face and say, "Be that as it may, Claire, I don't know what I'd do if you truly did die. Don't work too hard, okay?"

And Claire would laugh again, this time even louder, and say, "Don't flatter yourself, Professor Layton," with a grin. "You're the one who's obsessed with his work. If anyone's going to die from his job, it's you."

His response would be "Oh? And how would I die, by means of papercut?" and they would both laugh together as he walked Claire home before, by her insistence, he would return to his own flat and go to sleep on an actual bed, because all that sleeping in chairs and on couches can't be good for you, Hershel.

(Later, he would look back at this conversation and think that perhaps they had jinxed themselves. Then he would indulge in his newfound habit of pulling his hat down over his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see the motionless body laying before him. Now, though, he simply smiled nostalgically at the memory of those common exchanges.)

Once again, he checked to assure their reservation still stood. Fancy and expensive dinners would usually have been a dead giveaway, ruining the surprise, but he had made up his mind at just the opportune time. Today, Claire was participating in a supposedly groundbreaking experiment with the new time machine she'd helped develop. Taking her out for a celebratory splurge afterwards was perfectly natural (he hoped).

Personally, he was doubtful that this new machine would amount to anything. None of their countless prototypes had even come close to success, after all. And, as ungentlemanly as it was to think, he was sort of hoping that he was right. After all, if the time machine turned out to be the real deal, then he couldn't in good conscience ask her hand in marriage that same night—so much excitement in one day would likely overwhelm her.

And, for that matter, he was also prepared to call himself off if she seemed particularly upset about the failure of the machine. After all, despite technically being only an assistant, the time machine was still her project, and he wouldn't blame her for being upset if it didn't go well. And, of course, if she didn't seem to like the restaurant, or if she just seemed to be uncomfortable or annoyed by the countless compliments he would probably be dropping—

But that wouldn't happen, he reassured himself firmly. His fingers reluctantly released the box, letting it plop back down into the depths of his pocket. Reminding himself of all the ways this could go wrong wasn't going to help his case. He just had to think positively.

After all, they had their differences, but they were clearly meant for each other. Both were polite, kind, and selfless, not to mention intelligent to the point of being hailed as prodigies. Sure, he might be forgetful, disorganized, and a workaholic. Sure, she might be teasing, stubborn, and a bit prideful. But neither of them would have it any other way.

He supposed he almost definitely had nothing to worry about when it came to the fear that she didn't love him. For, as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, Claire was not only the more romantic of the two, but also the one who almost always took the initiative. Mostly because, until very lately, Hershel had been far too cripplingly polite to be lovey-dovey and risk making her uneasy or embarrassed (to be honest, he was the easily-flustered one).

A smile flickered across his face without waiting for his consent. Yes, Claire most definitely took charge when it came to their relationship: unlike Hershel himself, she seemed to know exactly how they both felt and had no qualms with acting on that. Although he had technically asked her out first, that was only after she hinted that she liked him so blatantly that she practically counted as the one who'd taken the lead.

After that, most, if not all, of their dates had been planned by her; in fact, as she often joked, they might never get out if it was up to Hershel. Of course, it wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with her. He was just a fan of much less formal "dates" of simply sitting together, either chatting or enjoying a nice companionable silence. Claire, on the other hand, wanted to get out and see the world—rather than stop to smell the roses, she ran ahead in search of even better scents.

Speaking of floral scents...

Smiling distractedly with only a fraction of his usual charm, Hershel approached the florist from whom he'd ordered the flowers for the event, opening the door with a tinkle from the bell attached to it. Said florist looked up curiously and spotted first his hat, then his face. Familiar with both the young gentleman and the sweetheart he spoke of, she only nodded in greeting with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Esther," he offered absently, trying his best to snap out of his reverie but, frankly, failing. "As I'm sure you've guessed, I've come to pick up those flowers I ordered. Are they in?"

Esther grinned widely. "Aye, Hershel, I've got 'em ready for you." Reaching behind her counter, she shifted through some bouquets in shallow pots of water before pulling out a stunning arrangement of pale blue wildflowers mixed with the standard dozen red roses. "For Claire, still, I hope," she teased with a wink, handing them over.

The dreamy look on Hershel's face as he doled out her payment didn't slip by her. "Yes, most definitely," he agreed.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he smiled slightly. Claire had told him that the experiment was to happen at 2 in the afternoon, right on the dot, so that it would be easier to know when to return to if the trip to the future was successful. It was nearing time right now; 1:50, according to his trusty watch.

"Perhaps I'd better get going." Having practically dismissed himself, he turned, exiting the door with another ding and heading in the general direction of the Institute of Polydimensional Physics. For such an impressive name, Claire often bemoaned how few sponsors they had, leaving them in a small three-room lab above some apartments.

He took in a huge breath, let it out, and allowed himself one last look at the ring before snapping the box shut again and redepositing it in his pocket. He would arrive at 2:30, as he'd promised Claire, and give her the flowers—then give her a few hours to properly record everything. After that, he would take her to the restaurant, where they would arrive at six, and tell her to order anything she wished since it was a special day. They would eat, then get dessert, and then he would suggest a small walk that, as it so happened, would end on a long and beautiful park trail. He would get down on one knee, and the rest would be history.

So busy was he remembering his plan, he didn't notice when a curly-haired man in a long lab coat sprinted by him, heading in the same direction. In fact, he was one of the few that didn't notice the first rrrrrumble of the sidewalk, too absorbed in his own mind.

But there are some things you just can't miss, no matter who you are or what you're thinking about.

An explosion rocked the earth.

The shock he slipped into made everything after that a blur.

Vaguely, he could recall looking toward the building now in smoke and recognizing it. After that, there was only a faint memory of his shoes against asphalt before he found himself in front of the Institute of Polydimensional Physics, staring distantly at the fire pouring out of its windows.

Then, everything started to become more distinct in his memory. He could remember the disjointed screams faintly echoing around him, the pounding of footsteps in every direction, and the sobbing of those who had made it out whose families weren't so lucky, all set over the background noise of roaring flames. The stench of smoke and ash choked him, but he didn't try to escape the smothering smell.

His mental capacity was that of drywall at the moment, and it took him several minutes to piece together the puzzle.

A gentleman goes to visit his girlfriend. On the way, he hears a loud explosion and runs to the building where she works, only to find it up in flames. There's no reason for her to have not been in the building, and she is not in the surrounding crowds of people. She also isn't safely on the roof of the building; even if she was, it wouldn't help, since the entire roof is aflame. How many girlfriends does he have now?

And Hershel's mind was very stubbornly answering "One".

In the end, he owed his life to the boy whose life he saved. In truth, he had been centimeters away from barreling through the people throwing buckets of water onto the flame and running right into the building in some futile hope that he could save Claire, not that she needed saving in the first place, because she wasn't still in there; there was no way she could be.

But then the crying noise grew louder and louder until it was wailing in his ears like sirens and a little boy rushed past him, heading for the burning doorway.

In an instant, his vision cleared from a single blur of color to the sharpest he'd ever seen. Acting on instinct, Hershel lurched forward, arms wrapping around the boy's torso to hold him back. The reaction was immediate: the brown-haired boy began to thrash desperately in his hold, crying even louder. "No! No!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face so fast that Hershel was almost scared they'd erode away his skin. "Let go! I-I have to get in there!" His fists and feet hit at his savior's stomach and shins, but to no avail. "M-Mom and Dad are still—!"

Right then, with a terrible groan of wood and the shouts of water-carriers as they scattered, the top floor of the building collapsed, entirely demolishing the apartments below.

With a wail of anguish, the boy stopped fighting, instead burying his face into his hands as his knees gave way. He would've fallen to the ground abruptly like a puppet with its strings cut if it hadn't been for Hershel's strong hold. As it was, he sobbed loudly and brokenly as he watched his life crumble away before his very eyes.

It hadn't been a conscious decision to comfort the boy. Without even really thinking of it, Hershel had brushed aside his own sorrow like the true gentleman he was and turned the child around before pulling him into a hug. "They're not gone! They can't be gone!" he was insisting at this point. At first, he continued to strike at Hershel's chest, but he quickly wore himself out and simply sagged into the man, taking the only consolation he could get.

"Would your parents want you to harm yourself in an attempt to help them?" At that, the boy seemed to calm a little, although he still wept into Hershel's shirt. "I believe that they would be overjoyed that you were not caught in the fire, my boy."

"They c-can't be happy ab-bout anything if they're dead!" Clive shouted, and Hershel flinched at the word. Another burst of compulsion exploded within him, demanding that he go dig through the smoldering rubble (as if she wasn't already dead), and he looked down, the brim of his hat casting a long shadow over his eyes. Resignation quickly crushed that impulse. 'Practice what you preach, Hershel.'

He tightened the embrace and, this time, the boy willingly wrapped his arms around him. "On the contrary, my boy, I know for a fact that they're watching over you even now." A sad smile made it onto his lips as he felt the boy tremble in his arms. "And I think they must be very happy indeed that you're safe." He wasn't lying in the slightest when he added in a whisper, "And so proud that they raised such a brave little boy."

After that, the boy quieted, only crying as Hershel patted his back. Behind them, the flames had finally been quelled, but not before the building was left a smoking pile of debris. There had been only one miraculous survivor—Claire's partner, Bill something. When his eyes met Hershel's he hastily and guiltily looked down, and it was all he could do not to break down just like the child in his arms.

Only when the police began sifting through the wreckage to find the bodies and give them proper burials did he break their embrace. "Come on," he muttered to the boy, guiding him away from the ruins before he could spot any charred corpses. "This is no place for a child."

Hesitantly, the boy released his grip on the Professor's coat, instead taking the hand of a nurse and allowing her to escort him out, along with all the others who were nearby during the explosion. As she led him away, he turned and looked over his shoulder just in time to witness the beginning of Hershel Layton's lowest point.

For the first time in recent memory, he cried.

And this wasn't just shedding a single tear to adorn his cheek because he looked directly at the sun or twisted his ankle. Nor was it even just a few short streams because he heard some especially bad news. These were two blue banners unfurling down his face, drenching his collar and seeping down to drench the rest of his shirt as well. Silent sobs racked his body, and he quickly reached up to tilt his hat down and hide his eyes from the outside world.

Not that it really helped. By this point, his entire face was overflowing with rivulets of salt water. 'A gentleman must never make a scene,' he told himself, but it was no use; the floodgates were open, and there was no stopping now.

Besides, these were special circumstances if there ever were special circumstances.

The constant clang and shhhh of rubble being shifted out of the way was a welcome change to the roaring of the fire and the screams of the people, but, at that moment, he heard nothing but his own quiet gasps. Soaking up the tears with his sleeve, he squeezed his eyes shut in some half-baked attempt to make those drops stop welling up. He failed, of course, and only cried harder.

No.

She wasn't gone.

He absolutely refused to believe that. How could she be gone? No, he was mistaken—this was the wrong building. Obviously. He had just seen her this morning, arriving at her doorway to see her off for her very first scientific breakthrough. This was far too sudden to have—

It was the time machine, wasn't it? The time machine must have exploded. His heart pounded in his ears. For there to have been that volatile of a reaction, it had to have worked, right? Claire had to be safely tucked away in the future, ready to return—'But, if that's the case, why did this happen at all? We're talking about time travel; if she knew that this would happen, she would've come back to stop the experiment,' his mind whispered traitorously.

A sudden burst of rage shivered through his body, and he felt a strong urge to rip off his hat and fling it onto the ground before stomping on it until it was a dejected mass of dark fabric. Instead, he hurled down his bouquet and kicked it, ripping several flower heads clean off their stems. Red and blue petals scattered, crumpling against the pavement, and an uncontrollable image branded itself into his brain—

Claire, in her usual pale blue jacket, her skin cold and pale, her eyes staring blankly into the distance, blood pooling around her as fire ate away at her delicate skin, not giving her the chance to rest in peace

—quickly breaking away his rage. "No," he whispered tremulously, knees wobbling, "please, no... she can't be g-gone..." Even if there was anyone there who could do anything about it, they wouldn't have been able to hear him: his voice was far too quiet right now. That didn't stop him. "Please, I'll do anything... I'll be better; I can be the best husb—"

And there it was.

His breaking point.

Because he really couldn't be the best husband. In fact, he couldn't be a husband at all, now, could he? Because he had never gotten the chance to even ask her. Claire was... Claire was d-dead. Claire was dead, and she would never have the chance to even see the ring. The ring that would have suited her perfectly.

Without warning, his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the ground, knees colliding roughly before his palms joined them. Miraculously, his hat remained firmly on his head. A single choked sob escaped him before his hand clasped tight to his mouth and he broke down, body curling in on itself. Suddenly, his skin was too tight, too heavy, and too searingly hot, holding his jangling bones tight. All he could think of was that damn it, the ring would've suited her perfectly.

"Layton!"

He didn't know who was calling him; he didn't much care. Right now, he needed a minute to be ungentlemanly; to put his own selfish grief first. The person calling him wasn't Claire, so they could make time later. Claire would never be able to make time again.

"Layton!" the voice cried again—closer, this time, and louder. Hands gripped his shoulders and began to shake, as if honestly thinking they could get his attention that way. Ha. 'I'm sure it's imperative that I help you with that puzzle, or—wait, let me guess—give you advice on whether that pebble from the street is an ancient arrowhead?' he thought bitterly. The minute he'd had so far wasn't enough time to wallow before he could put his gentleman's mask back on.

Slap!

His chin was gripped and jerked upward before he was harshly backhanded right across the cheek, sending his unprepared body sprawling. Barely comprehending the blow, he simply allowed himself to slump to the ground, staring up at the sky. It was jarringly bright and sunny out today. Not a cloud in sight. It really should've been raining.

Another backhand, this one only slightly weaker. "Get a hold of yourself, Layton!" a voice snarled, and he allowed his eyes to wander over to the speaker's face. He almost didn't recognize Dr. Dimitri Allen, Claire's coworker. The man had obviously been crying quite a bit as well, and his face was smeared with soot, as was his usually pristine white lab coat. A bit of sympathy flickered across his face when he saw Hershel's eyes, but he nonetheless shook the Professor again. "Listen!"

Honestly, Hershel wasn't up to this at the moment. He was so out of it that he almost looked right back away without bothering to listen. That was around the time that he noticed Claire's pale pink scarf, singed around the edges and specked with blood but relatively whole.

He snapped to attention.

Realizing that he'd finally gotten the man out of his stupor, Dimitri snapped once, redirecting Hershel's gaze. "She still has a pulse," he explained breathlessly, pointing to the wreckage. "But I need help to get the rubble off of—"

He didn't need to finish. Hershel was on his feet faster than a bullet, hope dawning across his face and quickly being followed by grim determination. His eyes sifted through the destruction frantically until he saw a flash of pale blue and white amidst the devastation.

Not dead.

Claire isn't dead.

Both men were over in an instant, Dimitri not beating Hershel despite knowing just where to be. Nothing could beat Hershel right now. His sights were set on his goal—save Claire, save Claire, save Claire—and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was nothing compared to the sheer ecstasy he felt. Both emotions were impacting his strength at the moment.

It wasn't exactly a walk in the park. The metal of the time machine had been pressed in around her, tightening around her body like a clenched fist, and bending it away from her took the strength of a bear or two. It didn't help that, after the fire and under the sun, the scrap metal was burning hot—literally. But it took only one glance at the pale hand bent at an odd angle and sticking through a gap in the pieces for Hershel to overlook both of those facts.

He planted a foot along one bent edge of the opening, hooked both hands around the other edge, and pulled. Dimitri joined him; the onlookers only gave them sad looks, clearly not believing that the woman inside could truly be alive, but none of them attempted to stop the two love-driven men.

Finally, with a metallic groan followed by a high-pitched skreee, the two scraps parted, exposing the limp form of Claire Foley within. On some unspoken agreement, Hershel kept hold of the metal to assure it didn't snap back into place as Dimitri scampered inside, cradling the ginger in his arms and gently pulling her to safety. As soon as they were both in the clear, Hershel let go and knelt beside them, desperately surveying her body for any sign of life.

She looked a right mess, with her hair burned and blackened along the ends. Her clothing wasn't faring much better, although her scarf wasn't too charred. Somehow, though—somehow—she'd escaped major harm for the most part, with only a few minor burns, what appeared to be a broken wrist, and a mottling of bruises all along her visible skin, plus some lacerations along her face, arms, and legs.

He sucked in a breath.

"She's breathing."

It was barely a whisper; barely a noise at all. But Dimitri heard nonetheless and quickly placed an ear against her chest. It took only a second for him to hear it as well: a soft, ragged wheeze as Claire's torso seemed to expand ever-so-slightly.

"Claire," Hershel croaked, his voice cracking as his previous crying session caught up with him. He shifted closer as Dimitri pulled away, looking like he was about to cry very different types of tears. "Claire, can you hear me?"

Hesitantly, but without a shred of the usual jealous animosity he held for the man, Dimitri offered her unconscious (not dead; not dead!) form to the brunette. Eagerly taking her into his arms, Hershel held her close and brushed his knuckles gently across her cheek. "Claire, wake up." Truly, it was a wonder how he managed to sound tender and urgent at the same time. "Claire?"

Honestly, he hadn't really expected her to come to. It had just been a token request that he knew full well wouldn't come true. But—because apparently luck hadn't done enough favors for him in the past five minutes—she suddenly jolted in his grasp, a dry cough tearing itself up from her throat, as her face twisted into a picture of pain. "Claire!" he gasped, his grip on her only tightening.

She moaned, head lolling to the side, and he cupped her cheek. "Claire, can you hear me?" he asked, fully aware that all the bystanders' eyes were now on them and not particularly caring. "It's Hershel." And then, without even really thinking about it, he added, "Hershel and Dimitri," not noticing the shocked look Dr. Allen shot him. "We've got you, my dear," he assured when she began to squirm weakly in his grasp, and she quickly relaxed, losing her battle with slumber and sliding back into the safe realm of unconsciousness. This time, her breathing was much steadier.

Dimitri stood, turning to the onlookers. "Doctor!" he shouted, his heart swelling within his chest even as the uneasiness refused to leave the pit of his stomach. "We need a doctor! She needs a hospital!"

Behind him, Layton hoisted Claire's slack form into his arms bridal style, then stood, lifting her off the ground easily. He turned to Dimitri and the two, once strangers separated by Dimtiri's envy, locked eyes and nodded in sync.

Right now, nothing mattered but Claire.

Because neither man was ready to lose her, now or ever.

...

...owch.

Really. Owch. That is one of the most painful things I've ever written. And this isn't the first fic I've written about Claire's death, so it's not like I don't work with some serious angst very often. In fact, angst is the most common thing I write, with diabetes-inducing fluff at a close second. When it comes to what you can expect from this fic... well, there will be some angst, such as in this chapter, but fear not: it will be 95% teeth-rotting fluff.

In any case, next time! We get to see Claire's perspective with the whole time machine incident and what she saw in this changed future where she didn't perish in that accident! How will she react to seeing her future self and Hershel? How will she react to finding herself a part of a massive explosion? Find out next time on the Lake of Rage Writes Clershel Angst, Fluff, and Fluffy Angst Show! Or whatever I'm gonna call this.