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Damon leans heavily against the witness stand, fists clenched so tightly his leather gloves creak, and he honestly isn’t sure how much longer he can stay on his feet. His stomach bubbles and rolls inside his painfully bloated abdomen, whilst heat radiates from his skin. He feels totally awkward. But he can last.
After all, he’ll only have to be o the stand for a few more minutes, and then he can leave the courtroom. Manfred always wants to finish the case in a single day, so he won’t have to do this tomorrow too. Plus, with the… slight modifications Damon made to the prosecutor’s evidence, he really doesn’t want another detective to take over on his behalf.
But… ugh, he feels like shit. It’s hard to act cocky like he always does, or to even stand up under his own power. If Edgeworth will just finish the fucking cross examination, he can do and sit down or throw up or do anything to make this nausea cease.
Finally, it ends, and Damon stumbles out of the courtroom. He slumps on a bench in the lobby, breathing heavily. He wants his stomach to settle, but it seems to be getting worse. And then his mouth fills with saliva – and his stomach lurches and he makes a frantic dash for the bathroom.
Damon locates the men’s bathrooms and crashes into a stall. Without even thinking to lock the door, he collapses to his knees and vomits into the toilet. Stomach acid burns his throat and his muscles spasm, waves of agonising nausea crashing over him as he empties his stomach, groaning in pain.
A sharp rap of knuckles on the stall door makes him jump, and he coughs up more vomit.
“Damon.”
Wait… that’s Manfred’s voice, as prim as always.
“Manny?” he mumbles, not turning around.
“I insisted on a recess the moment you left. Damon, if you feel ill, why the fuck did you come to court?”
Damon gasps for breath, the sound echoing in the toilet bowl. “The e-evidence—”
“I know that,” Manfred snaps, but he steps closer and a hand presses against his back. “Damon, you fail to understand my point,” he says, starting to rub circular patterns in his back. Damon hacks up more vomit, unused to Manfred even looking in his direction in public. “I detest missing court or having to work with another detective. But do you really think things would have been better if you collapsed or vomited in court?”
Damon gags, sweat running down his face. His muscles ache, his throat burning. He groans, another wave of nausea building up. “Manny, I – ugh – I… I know you care, really.”
“Hmph,” Manfred huffs. “Shut up, you fool. After the things we have done, do you honestly think I don’t have a sliver of affection for you?”
He heaves again, more vomit splattering into the toilet bowl. “W-Well, to be fair, Manny, it’s pretty hard to tell with you.”
Manfred growls. Despite how shit he feels, Damon lets out a hoarse laugh.
“Fool. Look, Damon, you have finished testifying. Take a taxi and go home. When I get our guilty verdict, I will telephone you. Understand?”
Damon nods, smirking. “Yes sir.”
Manfred stays with him until the end of recess, at which point he stands up and says, “I must be back in court. Recover swiftly, Damon. I would hate to work with another detective on my next case. So you must recover, do you understand me?”
And Damon knows that, despite his pretentious phrasing, it’s at moments like this when Manfred truly lets his guard down – and shows that, in his own way, he cares about Damon.