AN: I do love this game. I love it so…anyway, hope you enjoy! I do not own Professor Layton or any of the characters I'm borrowing to play with for the sake of this story.
When Flora announced one day that she was going to prepare dinner for the three of them that night, Luke had fought to keep his expression neutral. Did Flora even know how to cook?
Layton, however, seemed unfazed by the sudden proclamation. He chuckled and granted her full access to the kitchen. She clapped her hands in delight and hurried to the aforementioned kitchen, completely set on beginning her self-appointed task.
"Professor?" Luke asked hesitantly as the sound of cupboards opening and closing reached their ears—which meant that she was out of earshot. "Does she know how to cook?"
"I don't know," Layton replied easily, wincing slightly at a loud metallic crash from the kitchen. "But surely there's no harm in letting her try."
Somehow, Luke was not appeased. He didn't think Flora's upbringing as the daughter of a wealthy baron would have afforded her much experience in a kitchen—they would have probably had cooks to prepare the meals. Now, he was nowhere near the professor's level of reasoning, but to his mind this all added up to a recipe for disaster.
Then again, maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad…
SEVERAL HOURS LATER…
…then again, it WAS that bad.
Three and a half hours, several false alarms, two ruined pans, and no less than two visits from the fire department after Flora's announcement, they sat down to dinner. None of them really wanted to think about the mess in the kitchen. Luke had glanced in as he passed, and wondered if even his teacher could reason out exactly how the pasta had gotten stuck to the light fixture.
The three of them stared at their dinner.
Luke privately thought that his dinner was staring back.
And he really hoped that it was his imagination that it was moving.
He glanced at his mentor nervously, and found that even Layton's smile seemed a tiny bit strained, an unusual expression for one who prided himself on being a gentleman. But he was smiling nonetheless, and said, "This looks very nice, Flora."
The girl had looked nervous, but his words seemed to reassure her.
But now came the moment of truth. They actually had to…eat it. Sitting and staring at it, and talking about the so-called meal in front of them was one thing. Taking a bite of it was a whole 'nother enchilada. Pun intended.
Mentor and student both steeled themselves mentally, lifted their forks, and took that fateful bite. Flora watched expectantly.
Luke turned fluorescent green.
Layton's top-hat exploded off his head.
And both went completely rigid and toppled over sideways.
When Luke opened his eyes, he was in a hospital room. Flora was in a chair next to his bed, weeping. Her expression brightened marginally when she saw that his eyes were open. "Oh! You're awake!" she said, rising. "I'll get the doctor."
A few minutes later, a smiling man in a white coat appeared at Luke's bedside. "Good morning," he said pleasantly. "How are you feeling, son?"
It was then that Luke realized that he felt awful, and said as much.
The doctor nodded. "Not too surprising, son. They brought you in with acute food poisoning." In the background, Flora sobbed. "You're going to be quite miserable for a few days, but you'll get better. And you're far better off than your respected teacher." Obviously, the doctor was aware of Layton's well-earned reputation.
That got Luke's attention. "What happened to the professor?" he croaked.
"He had an adverse reaction to something in that meal," the doctor repiled. "At the moment, he's convinced he's a pencil."
As if on cue, an ear-piercing shriek echoed through the hospital. Luke's eyes widened. "What that…?"
"One of the monitors in his room makes a whirring noise."
"It sounds like a pencil sharpener."
PS. Written as a gift for my darling rabu-rabu, Mata, who asked for a fic about Flora's cooking skills or lack thereof. I WUB YOU! Thanks for reading, all! Much love!