Work Text:
Dear Gregory…
Raymond wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d started writing these letters. It felt natural, that’s all. The doctor had encouraged it, saying it was a good sign (once Kate had confirmed that he did, in fact, know a Gregory, and it wasn’t a fabrication of a traumatized mind). Something from his past, coming back on its own.
It’s so funny, what I remember on my own. Like, all this Christmas stuff. It’s familiar, but I don’t know specifics. Couldn’t remember what you put on the top of the tree. But Kate started humming Jingle Bell Rock and bam, I knew every word! It was fantastic, honestly. Had no idea about the one she started after that but hey, not gonna let that get me down.
Neither of them would tell him anything concrete until he remembered it himself. It was frustrating, but it seemed right. They had tried, apparently, and he’d forgotten it anyway, only actually retained the memory if his brain reconnected the neural pathways on its own. (He’d had the doctor write that down, because even if it wasn’t for the accident he was pretty sure he never would’ve remembered it.)
She decorated my room here, which was nice. It’s a lot more lively. They don’t stop me from putting stuff up or anything but it’s still an institution, and it’s still a little stark. I don’t know why they can’t let me stay home. I’m sure they’ve told me, but I don’t remember it.
He drew a little frowny face next to the last word, then crossed it out and wrote Argh! instead. The doctor insisted that words were better than pictures because they forced him to codify his thoughts instead of letting them stay vague. He remembered that, because the word “codify” was so weird and he wasn’t sure the doctor used it right.
Kate’s gonna be stopping by again today, which I’m looking forward to. I don’t know why, exactly, but I’m feeling weird.
Ray tapped his pen against the paper. “Weird” wouldn’t cut it. Could he name this feeling? A sort of heaviness in his gut? Like he was tired, but couldn’t sleep? Like he was…
I think I’m afraid? I don’t know I have to be scared of, though. Maybe I was one of those kids who cried on Santa’s lap in the mall.
And suddenly, a memory. Not of himself, but of Gregory’s son hiding behind his father’s legs at an event where someone was playing Santa. The boy acted too old for his age sometimes. It was hilarious to see him shy and cute. Ray grinned and wrote it down.
This writing stuff really does help! I knew you had a son, but now I know what he looks like. Looked. He’s gotta be all grown up now, huh?
His smile faded. What was the kid’s name? He had no idea. He couldn’t even think of what letter it started with. Total blank. And the problem with writing these entries as letters was that he was faced with either telling Gregory he couldn’t remember his son’s name, or skipping it and hiding it from the doctor. And himself. He sighed deeply.
I’m sorry, Gregory. I don’t remember his name. I know he looked like you but smaller, and he adored you and wanted to be an attorney too, and wore an adorable little suit, but I can’t think of his name.
Ugh. Maybe he just wouldn’t have Kate send this letter. The doctor made a copy first for his records, put it in a big binder along with all the others, but then Kate mailed the original off to Gregory for him. At least, she said she did; he never got a response. But he trusted Kate. That was one of the first things he’d remembered, when he’d told Gregory about her. He’d written her down and suddenly, clear as day, he knew Kate was a friend.
Some of the letters got a little weird, though, so he didn’t have her send those.
I wish I could remember why you can’t visit. Kate won’t tell me, and neither will the doct
Doctor Ribot! He almost ripped the paper as he scribbled it down. This felt huge! In the grand scheme of things one name wasn’t much, but he could remember his doctor’s name! Ahaha, he couldn’t wait to see the look on Doctor Ribot’s face when he said it. “Good morning, Doctor Ribot.” He wrote it again a couple times, not even caring that it was making his letter look like a mess. He’d already decided he wasn’t sending this one anyway. And, since he’d decided that…
I’d really like to see you. I don’t remember why you can’t visit, like if it was Doctor Ribot’s idea or something else, but I miss you. I feel like I haven’t seen you forever. And there’s that fear. I think it’s connected to Christmas. Which sucks, to be afraid of Christmas! Maybe it’s not fear? Maybe I’m just lonely. Maybe I just wish I could be with you and the kid, instead of stuck here.
There was a noise from outside his door. Sounded like crying? He stood and walked over to it, then pressed his ear against it. (It wasn’t locked, and he wasn’t a prisoner, but some of the nurses got a little pushy about not wanting him to “wander off on his own” and frankly he wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.)
“ - can’t allow it. You know that, and you know why.” That was Doctor Ribot.
“I know, it’s just - “ That was Kate. Her voice sounded thick. Was she the one crying? “This time of year, it’s - it’s hard to keep doing this. He’s in there right now writing another of those dreadful letters… he needs to know the truth, Doctor.”
Dreadful letters? Raymond frowned. What was wrong with the letters? What truth?
“You can’t tell him,” Doctor Ribot responded. “He needs to remember it himself. For his own good.”
“Yes, Doctor. If… if you say so.”
“Do you want to take a few minutes to compose yourself before going in?”
“Of course. I… I don’t want to upset him. Thank you.”
Kate’s heels clicked on the linoleum, signaling her departure. Ray stuck his hands in his pockets and started to pace. That whole conversation was concerning, to say the least. And he was already having trouble putting it together, so he returned to his desk and started on a fresh page.
Overheard Kate and Doctor Ribot talking. Kate wanted to tell me “the truth” and Doctor Ribot said not to. Kate sounded really upset. She said something about the time of year (Christmas?) and the letters (dreadful). And I’ve been feeling nervous and apprehensive about Christmas too. What happened at Christmas? What does it have to do with you?”
He stared at the letter. Already, he couldn’t remember exactly what they’d said. Christmas? What was wrong with Christmas?
I don’t understand, Gregory. I don’t remember. And that’s always frustrating but now it feels like something really important, more important than a name or a stupid song. What is it? What happened? Where are you? Why won’t you come see me? What did I do? Gregory Edgeworth, it’s almost Christmas, and
He froze.
Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his hand finish writing the sentence he didn’t want to read.
and you’re dead.
He dropped his pen.
There was no reason for him to write that. No reason for him to think that. No reason to know that a few days shy of fifteen years ago, Gregory Edgeworth was shot and killed by a security guard while trapped in an elevator with his young son on the way home from a trial. But he knew it. And it was a pain that was fifteen years old, but it was still red hot in his chest.
These were letters to a dead man. They had been all along.
Ray felt like he was going to puke.
He didn’t, but he did almost collapse before he could stumble from his desk to his bed. There he curled up on his side, hugging a pillow, wishing desperately to stop remembering. The news, the funeral, the boy’s black suit and silent tears, the pointlessness of it all, the hat - his hat! - that he’d kept and the trench coat that had to be thrown away because the blood wouldn’t come out.
And the letters, the countless letters, all the things he’d never said coming out on the page. How much he admired Gregory, his confidence and courage and unyielding ideals. How he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be like him or if he wanted him. How he couldn’t stop thinking about him, illicit little fantasies, sometimes lurid, and sometimes as wholesome as making breakfast for the kid after spending the night. How he was going to go to college as his awkward teenage intern and come back a proper full grown man, finally good enough for Gregory to notice and brave enough himself to admit it all.
And how absolutely hopeless he felt, knowing he’d never do any of it. Never.
Because Gregory Edgeworth was dead.
Ray didn’t bother trying to hold back tears. If Kate came in to find him crying like a kid, so be it. He’d lost so many years of his life, and it had been so much work to get back so little, but he’d kept going. Because there was one thing he wanted more than anything else, and it was worth all the pain and frustration.
And it had been gone before he’d ever even started.
He closed his eyes and wished to forget.