Work Text:
Godot thought he was prepared.
He had read the case file, noting with bitter irony the parallels with his own ‘murder’. He’d been wryly amused that Phoenix Wright had taken the case, snowed yet again by a little girl with big watery eyes. He’d even examined the photographs.
Then he’d set foot on the actual crime scene. Stared at the coffee-stained table cloth in the booth where Glen Elg had screamed and kicked and retched his last. And everything started to go black.
He found himself sitting on the pavement outside the restaurant, head between his knees, while Detective Gumshoe blathered nonsense somewhere above him. Deep breaths. Deep breaths to stop his heart racing and make the pinpricks of light swarming his vision go away. Gingerly he straightened up – no dizziness. Good. In a few minutes the strength would come back into his legs and he could get on with the investigation. He would be fine. He was fine.
“Here, sir, you should drink this.”
A glass of water was thrust under his nose, and Godot wasn’t fine anymore.
“Nnghn…!”
He pushed it away as his stomach roiled (“fortunately you vomited most of the poison, Mr. Armando”) and leaned over again, spreading his legs apart just in case, but his morning coffee stayed put. His heart banged against his ribcage as he strove for breath.
“Whoa, hey, take it easy, sir!”
Gumshoe’s large hand landed between his shoulder blades, warm and rubbing him just slightly too roughly. “Try to control your breathing, okay? In… hold… out… hold…”
He found himself obeying the detective’s instructions, and slowly his breathing returned to normal. But his legs were weak again, cold shocks running up through them, and he was starting to shiver under his winter coat.
“Will coffee make it better, sir? I’ll get you a coffee –”
“No!”
Gumshoe’s hand stilled, and Godot felt his face start to heat up. There were a couple of patrolmen around, not to mention the owner of the poor excuse for a French restaurant he was supposed to be investigating. Too many people were seeing this, and the longer it went on…
“…I meant from across the street, sir,” Gumshoe mumbled lamely, and Godot offered a silent prayer of thanks for the detective’s obtuseness. “You really should drink something.”
Caffeine would probably help. He wet his lips and did his best to keep his voice from shaking. “…Soda. A bottle.”
“…Okay,” Gumshoe replied, a note of hesitation in his voice. “Any particular flavour, or…”
“I don’t care,” Godot answered roughly. He’d had enough of this, whatever this was. The sooner he got some caffeine and sugar, the sooner he could get on with his job. “Just soda in a bottle.”
“Yes sir.” Gumshoe took his hand off his back and began to rise. “Lemme just get someone to sit with you –”
“I don’t need someone to sit with me, just do as you’re told!”
He didn’t need to look up to picture Gumshoe’s hangdog expression, and he hated himself for it.
“Sir.”
There was a rustle of cloth, followed by the sound of Gumshoe’s heavy footsteps retreating. Godot huffed out a breath and pressed his hands to his – mask. He dropped them and barked out a bitter laugh. He was supposed to be past this. That glass of water had come from the tap, Gumshoe had filled it himself. Coffee shops were not in the habit of poisoning random customers. Was he really back to only trusting sealed containers or drinks he’d prepared personally? He’d always despised feeling weak, and his body was weak now, in ways that would never mend, but he’d thought his mind…
He closed his eyes and took some more deep, steadying breaths. He could control this. He could master this.
“Here you go, sir.” Godot opened his eyes as Gumshoe sat beside him, offering a bottle of cola. Thankfully the detective hadn’t opened it for him. Godot twisted the cap off and drained half of it in one long, painful swallow. It was too sweet but it was better than nothing.
“I’m… sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the asphalt beneath his feet.
Gumshoe’s hand landed on his back again, and he tried very hard not to think about how warm it was.
“Aw, that’s okay, sir,” the detective replied, misunderstanding again, “Sometimes if there’s a lot of blood I get woozy myself.”
Godot slowly looked up at him, frowning at the absurdity of that statement. “You’re a homicide detective.”
“Heh, yeah,” Gumshoe chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. He blushed and looked away. “Well…”
Silence descended as Godot sipped the rest of his drink and Gumshoe rubbed his back. He was calmer now, and his legs felt as though they would bear his weight. He got up, Gumshoe rising with him, grunting at the ache in his muscles from sitting for so long. He turned and faced the front door of the establishment.
“You don’t have to go back in, sir,” Gumshoe murmured quietly. “I can examine the crime scene and report back.”
It was a tempting proposal, and to his shame Godot actually considered it for a few seconds.
“Sorry, amigo,” he replied, squaring his shoulders. He tossed a smirk in the detective’s direction. “You’re sweet on the little kitten who was already convicted. I can’t trust you to be impartial.”
He told himself he was just being honest, and not deliberately nasty to someone who had witnessed and aided him in a vulnerable moment. Turning his back on Gumshoe and his shocked, hurt expression, he stepped across the threshold of Tres Bien.
Every man had to face his demons eventually. That was a rule.