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storypaint) wrote2009-01-07 02:47 pm
storypaint) wrote2009-01-07 02:47 pm
Nature Abhors a Category (Layton gen)
Title: Nature Abhors a Category
Length: 961 words
Prompt: Professor Layton (Anon) Fan Meme: I'd like to see a story with Layton...being a female. As in female on the inside.
Pairing: Layton gen
Other: transgenderism
Excerpt: The professor stroked the girl's hair thoughtfully for a moment, running his finger across a long white crack in the glass that hid her eyes.
The professor was always quiet about his childhood. He had only one photo, which he showed to Luke the day the boy became his apprentice.
"I started solving puzzles at your age," he said. "It was my father's favorite hobby." He ran his fingers thoughtfully and gently over the daguerreotype glass. The picture had two people in it-- a tall, gangly boy in a newsboy cap, his knobbly knees bare; and a young girl in a lacy formal dress. They looked alike, but Luke asked anyway.
"Is that your sister, Professor?"
The professor stroked the girl's hair thoughtfully for a moment, running his finger across a long white crack in the glass that hid her eyes.
"Um, yes," he said, setting the picture aside carefully, and no more was said of it. Layton tended to keep his thoughts about growing up to himself. It wouldn't do for anything to know about his past.
*
The professor had an unusual upbringing-- well, not that unusual, perhaps, for the son of a wealthy family-- but he saw his parents only on special occasions, perhaps twice a year. Their faces were a blur to him-- he knew only a bearded man in a top hair, a smiling, distracted woman with golden curls.
Layton was raised by a succession of maids, governesses, and tutors. Since he was older than his sibling, and the next master of the house, they were indulgent of him. He so rarely saw his parents, after all.
But after the daguerreotype was taken, everything changed. His father had stormed into the nursery after receiving the picture. Layton was astonished. He hadn't known his father was home-- or, in fact, that he knew where the nursery was. They'd always met in the parlor, stiff-legged, in formal dress. He'd never seen his father angry-- just with a mustache-bristling smile and a small candy.
Luckily, his father's anger seemed focused on the maid. He waved the carefully-framed portrait in the girl's face.
"What is this?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Layton sir!" she squeaked.
"This! This abomination! Why is he wearing--"
The maid cowered. "You didn't say they had to wear best clothes, sir, so I let them pick their own... I never realized... I thought you knew..."
"That my son was a pansy?" the man roared. He threw the picture to the ground and Hershel heard the preserving glass break. He winced and hunched over behind the dollhouse, trying not to be seen, even as his training played in his head-- "Stand straight for your father, Hershel." It was a stiff crouch and didn't hide him well enough when his father spun around and found him. His eyes popped in anger.
"You--!" he managed. "Here. Now!"
Hershel's sibling rose when Hershel did, and fled into the next room. The child had never liked loud noises. But Hershel stood, trembling, before his father. The man who'd never bothered to hug him picked him up by the collar. The maid squealed and Hershel choked for a breathless moment before his father released him with a ripping of fabric.
"Who gave you these things?" Layton Senior growled.
"Ah, I asked... asked the maids for old..."
"Why in God's name, Hershel? You might be puny and pale, but that does not mean you're a girl, you hear me!"
The man breathed heavily for a second before Hershel realized that his father wanted a response.
He didn't have one. He had just looked ath the women in their simple dresses and wanted one of his own. He wanted his hair to tumble past his shoulders, like it did now, instead of being tucked into a cap or shorn short. He felt better in a dress. He felt right. His brother, though already taller, was two years younger and indulgent of Hershel's whims.
Of Hendel's whims. It was a better name.
But Hershel was ten years old and scared senseless by his father's anger. He had no words to express his feelings. It was just something he knew about himself.
"Yes, sir?" he squeaked, sounding so much like the frightened maid that his father growled in displeasure.
"Take that off, right now," he said. Turning back to the maid, he narrowed his eyes and said, "Burn them, all of them that he has. Cut his hair, for God's sake. And he's to come to me once a week in boy's clothes to learn how to be a proper gentleman."
"Yes, sir," the maid replied, clearly relieved as his anger died.
"You, and anyone who gave him these things, are fired. Right now, without recommendation. These aren't the morals I want to see in any of my employees."
The maid buried her head in her hands and fled the room, sobbing. Layton sighed and deflated a little more. He turned back to his wayward son, putting his hand on the boy's head.
"I'll teach you how to be a man," he said firmly. "Your mother wasn't thinking, surrounding you with all these women. We won't speak of this again, all right?"
"All right?" Hershel said obediently, feeling his world crumble. Layton Senior smiled in relief. He reached for his hat and deposited it on Hershel's head, though it fell down his forehead and nearly covered his eyes.
"First thing tomorrow morning in my office," he said. "And no more dresses."
When the man was gone, Layton rescued the picture. It was hardly damaged, just a crack across his face. He ran his finger across it, wincing as it drew blood, which he carefully wiped on his handkerchief.
He tucked the picture inside the hat and went to change clothes.
Length: 961 words
Prompt: Professor Layton (Anon) Fan Meme: I'd like to see a story with Layton...being a female. As in female on the inside.
Pairing: Layton gen
Other: transgenderism
Excerpt: The professor stroked the girl's hair thoughtfully for a moment, running his finger across a long white crack in the glass that hid her eyes.
The professor was always quiet about his childhood. He had only one photo, which he showed to Luke the day the boy became his apprentice.
"I started solving puzzles at your age," he said. "It was my father's favorite hobby." He ran his fingers thoughtfully and gently over the daguerreotype glass. The picture had two people in it-- a tall, gangly boy in a newsboy cap, his knobbly knees bare; and a young girl in a lacy formal dress. They looked alike, but Luke asked anyway.
"Is that your sister, Professor?"
The professor stroked the girl's hair thoughtfully for a moment, running his finger across a long white crack in the glass that hid her eyes.
"Um, yes," he said, setting the picture aside carefully, and no more was said of it. Layton tended to keep his thoughts about growing up to himself. It wouldn't do for anything to know about his past.
*
The professor had an unusual upbringing-- well, not that unusual, perhaps, for the son of a wealthy family-- but he saw his parents only on special occasions, perhaps twice a year. Their faces were a blur to him-- he knew only a bearded man in a top hair, a smiling, distracted woman with golden curls.
Layton was raised by a succession of maids, governesses, and tutors. Since he was older than his sibling, and the next master of the house, they were indulgent of him. He so rarely saw his parents, after all.
But after the daguerreotype was taken, everything changed. His father had stormed into the nursery after receiving the picture. Layton was astonished. He hadn't known his father was home-- or, in fact, that he knew where the nursery was. They'd always met in the parlor, stiff-legged, in formal dress. He'd never seen his father angry-- just with a mustache-bristling smile and a small candy.
Luckily, his father's anger seemed focused on the maid. He waved the carefully-framed portrait in the girl's face.
"What is this?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Layton sir!" she squeaked.
"This! This abomination! Why is he wearing--"
The maid cowered. "You didn't say they had to wear best clothes, sir, so I let them pick their own... I never realized... I thought you knew..."
"That my son was a pansy?" the man roared. He threw the picture to the ground and Hershel heard the preserving glass break. He winced and hunched over behind the dollhouse, trying not to be seen, even as his training played in his head-- "Stand straight for your father, Hershel." It was a stiff crouch and didn't hide him well enough when his father spun around and found him. His eyes popped in anger.
"You--!" he managed. "Here. Now!"
Hershel's sibling rose when Hershel did, and fled into the next room. The child had never liked loud noises. But Hershel stood, trembling, before his father. The man who'd never bothered to hug him picked him up by the collar. The maid squealed and Hershel choked for a breathless moment before his father released him with a ripping of fabric.
"Who gave you these things?" Layton Senior growled.
"Ah, I asked... asked the maids for old..."
"Why in God's name, Hershel? You might be puny and pale, but that does not mean you're a girl, you hear me!"
The man breathed heavily for a second before Hershel realized that his father wanted a response.
He didn't have one. He had just looked ath the women in their simple dresses and wanted one of his own. He wanted his hair to tumble past his shoulders, like it did now, instead of being tucked into a cap or shorn short. He felt better in a dress. He felt right. His brother, though already taller, was two years younger and indulgent of Hershel's whims.
Of Hendel's whims. It was a better name.
But Hershel was ten years old and scared senseless by his father's anger. He had no words to express his feelings. It was just something he knew about himself.
"Yes, sir?" he squeaked, sounding so much like the frightened maid that his father growled in displeasure.
"Take that off, right now," he said. Turning back to the maid, he narrowed his eyes and said, "Burn them, all of them that he has. Cut his hair, for God's sake. And he's to come to me once a week in boy's clothes to learn how to be a proper gentleman."
"Yes, sir," the maid replied, clearly relieved as his anger died.
"You, and anyone who gave him these things, are fired. Right now, without recommendation. These aren't the morals I want to see in any of my employees."
The maid buried her head in her hands and fled the room, sobbing. Layton sighed and deflated a little more. He turned back to his wayward son, putting his hand on the boy's head.
"I'll teach you how to be a man," he said firmly. "Your mother wasn't thinking, surrounding you with all these women. We won't speak of this again, all right?"
"All right?" Hershel said obediently, feeling his world crumble. Layton Senior smiled in relief. He reached for his hat and deposited it on Hershel's head, though it fell down his forehead and nearly covered his eyes.
"First thing tomorrow morning in my office," he said. "And no more dresses."
When the man was gone, Layton rescued the picture. It was hardly damaged, just a crack across his face. He ran his finger across it, wincing as it drew blood, which he carefully wiped on his handkerchief.
He tucked the picture inside the hat and went to change clothes.