Chapter Text
“Prosecutor Edgeworth,” a man nods. He then flashes an Interpol badge as his colleague does the same beside him.
Miles gives a curt nod, already thinking the worst - another international case of great importance he isn’t being paid nearly enough for. Not that it’s about the money, but given the recurring stress in his life, and the DL-6 debacle, Miles thinks he’s overdue some sort of compensation at the very least.
“There’s something we need to…discuss,” the agent continues. “The chief has kept a room empty. If you’ll come with us?”
Miles suddenly has a very bad feeling about this. Has something happened to Franziska..? He chides himself - his therapist had reiterated how pointless catastrophising was.
Time spent worrying is time wasted—
“You too, Detective,” the agent adds pointedly.
There’s an expression on Dick’s face that gives him pause, and Miles reaches out before he can stop himself.
Dick startles at the hand that settles on his forearm. Miles looks equally as surprised, snatching his hand away and folding his arms before asking, “is everything alright, Detective..? You seem…elsewhere,” he settles on.
“Uhh,” and Dick’s face is strangely blank as he says, “see if you still wanna ask me that later.”
Awfully cryptic, Miles thinks, telling himself not to worry.
*
A myriad of expressions cross the detective’s face in the span of a few seconds. And then his posture shifts, and Miles has to force himself not to shrink away, his head craning back instead — that slouch is all of a sudden gone, and Dick (‘that’s not Dick,’ Miles reels) stands nigh-on a foot taller.
And it’s… imposing. Frightening. Like some alien, malicious…thing is now wearing Dick’s skin. Once warm, kindly eyes now glimmer with a dark brand of intelligence, and Miles swallows, his throat impossibly tight and his pulse thundering in his ears.
It’s not Dick.
It never was.
The words ‘undercover’ and ‘nothing personal’ catch Edgeworth’s attention, but everything else is white noise. He vaguely recalls having his hand shook, and the sound of the door closing before finding himself alone with…
What had they said his name was again..?
*
‘It suited me if you went on thinking I was an idiot; meant you didn’t look too close.’
After that bombshell, Miles had opted to take refuge for the rest of the day in his office. Except as soon as the door shut behind him, the walls seemed to close in.
He feels powerless. Out of control—
‘Sir, remember what your therapist said. Don’t focus on what you can’t control - focus on what you can—’
Miles kicks the waste paper basket and watches it skitter across the room, and then rips off his jabot and struggles to breathe, hunched over his desk.
He’s then scrambling again for the waste paper basket on his knees as the contents of his all of a sudden lurching stomach burn the back of his throat.
Control. The one thing he thought he’d clawed back after everything - snatched from him again.
Et tu, Dick? he thinks bitterly.
*
“Mister Edgeworth!”
Miles jerks in surprise, opening his eyes.
Where am I?
The floor.
What am I doing down here?
The door is then bursting open. Miles’ knee-jerk feeling is shame and guilt for making the detective worry; and then a fleeting sense of relief that the man is now here. Clarity washes over him and he quickly forces that feeling down - reminds himself that the stranger rushing over and kneeling beside him isn't Dick.
“Hey, buddy,” that voice whispers. The intonation is wrong. The speed, the cadence. The only warning Miles gets is when his mouth starts to water before his stomach empties itself again.
A coffee-stained tissue dabs away the spittle and flecks of vomit dangling from his lips. And, as Miles shifts in a bid to pull away from the contact, he realises that the universe—in its infinite capacity for cruelty—has conspired against him once again.
Because of course when he had already been in the throes of a panic attack, the ground had chosen that particular moment to judder and groan. And, after the day he’d had, there had been no fighting the dark pull as his body had slumped out of consciousness.
At some point after the earthquake started, between passing out and Dick sprinting through the door, he’d pissed himself. Miles Edgeworth wonders if there are any further indignities he can endure in a single day.
An almighty sob surfaces in his throat, and as a pair of arms pull him close, Miles finds that question answered swiftly.
I hate you. I hate you.
Dick’s arms hold him tight. And after everything, it’s just one thing too many. Miles pulls away. He struggles and kicks and claws at the other man. He bucks and screams and tries to push him off, but that hold just grows tighter.
He registers the taste of blood - and wonders for a moment if, in his frenzied state, he’d bitten his own tongue. A glance down at Dick’s forearm instead reveals a red circle of teeth marks bleeding through his grubby work shirt.
“Easy,” the other man whispers, and Miles barely registers the thick, stubby fingers carding through his hair, or the hypocrisy of his own body as it leans into Dick seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? For it all to have been just a dream?
“…get…out,” he slurs, trying one last time to pull away. But his muscles are uncooperative and his ears have started to ring again.
“Not going anywhere, sir.”
“Get. Out.”
Miles had secretly been glad in the end as he left the building with ‘Gumshoe’ that the other man hadn’t obeyed. As he pulled that grubby overcoat tighter around himself to hide the evidence of his shame. As he both appreciated and cursed the strong arm that steadied him.
He all but fell into the passenger side seat of his car before he let ‘Dick’ drive him home; and ignored every glance he felt resting on him, heavy as lead.
When he heard footsteps follow him to the front door, Miles forced himself to breathe steadily as he took his keys to the lock, desperate not to fumble - show any further weakness.
“So, uh, are you gonna be alright on your own..?” a voice murmurs in his periphery.
Miles doesn’t say a word as he opens the door and steps through it. Nor when he closes it just as hurriedly behind him and makes a point of locking it. Standing in his foyer, Miles feels strangely numb. He stares at the clock on the wall, counts the minutes until finally he hears the man outside depart.
Then, and only then, does Miles Edgeworth allow himself to break down.