Work Text:
“Okay, that’s it. Get out.”
Manfred waited for a deliberate couple of seconds before looking up at the detective in front of him. In spite of his reputation, he thought of himself as an easy-going and forgiving man who believed in second chances. Thus he graciously feigned a little difficulty of hearing or perhaps an unfocused mind and said: “Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I said: ‘Okay, that’s it. Get out.’ As in you ought to pick up your bony and prickly posterior and haul it out of this office, Freedo.”
Some people, certain police detectives for example, when offered to stop digging their own grave pull out a bigger shovel. It never ceased to irritate Manfred. “Officer, you are forgetting your place, stepping over our professional boundaries and disgracing your uniform, all at once. You cannot throw me out of my office. If that’s all, you may leave now. Expect your paycheck to be lowered proportionally to this violation.”
The policeman didn’t budge from his spot, he merely fixed the position of the pink-glassed pince-nez on his nose. When he was certain that he had the prosecutor’s undivided attention, he stated with casual disinterest: “Literally speaking, I am more than capable of physically removing you from the premises... sir. It’s not that I can’t throw you out as much as I jolly shouldn’t. Which brings me to the second point: Why you should do that yourself.”
He nodded towards the desk and added: “You’ve been pouring over the almost-empty evidence form the entire time I’ve been here. That is half an hour for a paper that barely deserves twenty seconds. You are stuck, Freedo. Fidgeting, moping, irritated, trying to go with your head against a wall much thicker than your cranial bones. So, I reiterate: Get out. Have a walk in the park or go see the movies – maybe an opera, you look more of the opera type – or swim for a bit or whatever it is you do when you are off work. Just get out of the office. Right now you are as helpful as a pair of ponies waltzing.”
Manfred von Karma locked eyes with the detective. The gall! The insolence!
The man repaid him with a smile that had never left his face in the first place, and a calm look of a someone who knew he was one hundred per cent correct. Which, infuriatingly, he was.
The entire morning Manfred had been as good as useless. All the work he could had done was taunting him from the in-tray on his table. His thoughts refused to settle, and his sole desire of today was to crawl back to bed, throw a blanket over his head, and pretend this day did not exist.
“You know,” detective began out of the blue, still refusing to back down from the staring semi-competition they had going on, “the other day chief told me that we have two kind of detectives at the precinct.”
“Bah! The useful ones and you?”
“Jolly good,” he broke out into laughter and a sardonically slow applause. He wiped a non-existend tear of mirth out of the corner of his eye and continued: “No, no. He said the we have detectives for crime-solving and then for damage control.”
How in damnation was that related to anything? “Damage control as in... negotiating hostage situations, consoling grieving families, such things?”
“Ah no, more like the ‘stepping in when it looks like the tactless prosecutor is going to have his face bashed against a wall’ stuff. Let’s be honest, you prosecutors are a quirky bunch. Point in case, since I’ve figured out you don’t really think me all that useful on the crime scenes...”
“Get out of my office, detective.”
“Come on, Freedo, you-”
“And drop the insolent nicknaming habit at the door on the way out!”
The policeman reconsidered his chances against the amount of potential projectiles on Manfred’s desk, and saw himself out. Manfred waited precisely seven minutes before setting out on his lunch-break three hours earlier, which had nothing to do with the man’s suggestions at all.
#
The splendid out of doors of the city did virtually nothing to alleviate Manfred’s condition, a state of mind which his wife used to describe as ‘half of brain stuck in mud and the other on fire’. She had never specified which half was which. In spite of not clearing up the issue at all, the description was rather apt, Manfred had to admit.
The only notable difference was that now he was halfway in mud and halfway on fire while exposed to the elements, as opposed to hidden away under the roof of the Prosecutors’ Office. The elements were currently and overcast sky and a light breeze.
Over the course of two hours Manfred had walked down to the Gourd Park (one of the few parks that were actually worth a visit and which gave a reprieve from the suffocating urban area) and it cleared his head somewhat. With the weather being dry, the walkable part of the woods did not wreak havoc on his dress shoes and the path was for once just that – a path, not a mud track.
Nevertheless, it still had been a walk through a light terrain and Manfred found himself bitterly regretting leaving his cane in the office. His hip and thigh were not happy about the situation. They were getting more and more upset by the minute.
The sky was darkening and the air abruptly cooled. Taken with account together with the sudden case of jitters (and, in a hindsight, his earlier uneasiness and energised state that got him through this little jaunt), and the mild light-headed feeling he had whenever the air pressure suddenly dropped, there was only one possible explanation: A storm was approaching. And quickly at that.
By the time he got to the park gate, streaks of lighting were marring the sky, the rain could be barely heard over the thunders rolling one over another in such a quick sucession that it was impossible to say where one began and the other ended. Needless to say that Manfred was soaked to the bone and a bit further.
The picnic are, mere two hours ago bustling with activity, was now devoid of any traces of human life save for crushed plastic cups and burger wrappers carried by an impromptu stream of rainwater. And one man sitting on the bench, arms thrown over the backrest and face tilted towards the sky.
Manfred couldn’t imagine anyone spending time outside in this weather willingly, so he approached to see whether the man was alive and in need of assistance (for example to call an ambulance) or if the work had caught up to him and brought a corpse under his nose again. It would be the second time this month.
“Are you alright?”
“Absolutely. Just enjoying the weather, don’t mind me,” was the cheerful reply.
It was the thrice-damned attorney Edgeworth. Edgeworth, who now looked at him and moved to the side of a bench to make some space for Manfred to sit down.
He hated himself, but he took the seat. His trousers couldn’t get any more wet, but his leg could and would hurt more if he continued to strain it as he did.
“You look rather distraught, prosecutor,” the man noted. He had a function pair of eyes on him, Manfred have to give him that, although he needed glasses in order to actually see.
The prosecutor in question gave him a weary look. Come to think of it, it was not that strange he didn’t recognise the attorney right away: He had seen him more than dozen times in the courtroom now (sixteen times to be precise since Edgeworth began practising law on his own two years ago, and two times alongside Grossberg Junior as an intern in three months before that), and the man had always been always in a two-piece suit, always a polished professionalism.
The picture of Gregory Edgeworth in jeans and a rexine jacket with the top buttons of his shirt undone was unimaginable. Even when sitting next to him, it didn’t seem real. It made the man seem... boyish. For the first time Manfred allowed the fact that Edgeworth was in his early twenties sink in. Most people at that age were... not constantly the shining picture of professionalism. They... visited rock concerts and bars, they were sexually promiscuous, imbibed in alcohol with little boundaries, experimented with drugs, and many other things they could never do with the external structure of having parents in their lives.
“Mr. von Karma?” Edgeworth’s face was turned towards him, and even the rainwater tricking down his cheeks couldn’t hide the obvious concern.
Manfred sighed. “One of the detectives implied he was not paid enough for babysitting me and threw me out of my office, and now I’ve gotten caught in this weather and my leg hurts. ‘Rather distraught’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Do you want a ride back?”
This time Manfred wasn’t generous and genuinely believed he heard incorrectly: “What?”
“Do you want a ride back? To the office, or home, or, or wherever else you want to go,” Edgeworth offered. He meant it. Over the two years Manfred had picked up the subtle tells when the man was uncertain or outright lying. Or uncomfortable. He always grabbed his left elbow then, squeezing as if he wanted to draw blood and shatter bone until his knuckles went white. Usually he looked to side, too. He did neither of that now: his posture was open, one arm still thrown over the backrest of the bench, legs stretched forwards, relaxed.
Manfred had pride, though.
He also had a badly healed stab-wound, a reminder from his very first case that nobody liked the prosecutors, and therefore a leg that in angry weather was less cooperative than a cat that knows it has to visit the veterinarian’s clinic.
“I would appreciate that, yes,” he concluded carefully. The smile Edgeworth gave him was so radiant that for a moment he scanned the sky in search of the rainbow. There was none, of course.
#
As luck would have (or rather would not) have it, Edgeworth was not here by car. Manfred had seen the car before and it had trained within him (and the rest of the Prosecutors’ Office and most of the precinct) a Pavlovian response of getting a headache on sight. The thing predated the fall of the Iron Curtain and was probably made on the wrong side of it too. How it got here, though, was nowere near as mysterious as to how it still managed to operate or why it was faster than going on foot.
Manfred didn’t think Edgeworth would manage to provide a worse method of transport. As per usual with Edgeworth, he was shown contrary.
“You have a motorcycle.”
“My wife has a motorcycle which I have borrowed,” Edgeworth corrects him. “Don’t give her that look, she’s done nothing to you.”
“Yet.”
Edgeworth handed him a helmet, black with an abstract zig-zag pattern in neon yellow and equally loud shade of blue. It matched the spray-painting on metal casing as well as the decals on the sides of the rear-view mirrors. Everything Manfred knew about motorcycles was against his will, but he recognised a custom work of love when he saw it. He could swear this one was scowling bat at him with murderous intent.
“Alright, what’s the problem?”
The problem was this: Manfred von Karma had been on a motorised bicycle precisely once, and the experience was equally law-breaking as it was traumatising, even though no bodily harm came to him. He blamed his prematurely greying hair on it, though.
He searched for a way to tell Edgeworth. He settled on: “I believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting the Chief Prosecutor, am I correct?”
Edgeworth put his own helmet on and nodded curtly. “Mr. von Karma, this is not something I say often: I am not Blaise Debeste. And, I’d like to point out, I can’t kill you on this thing without killing myself too.”
Not reassured at all, Manfred mounted the hellish device and when the engine roared to life (which he didn’t hear over the continuous thunder, but he felt it), he took hold of the sides of Edgeworth’s jacket. The faux leather was wet and therefore slippery, so before they even joined the freeway he found himself glued to the man’s back, arms wrapped around his waist, internally cursing bold police detectives, unfairness of life, the weather, everyone and everything else and their mothers.
“Von Karma,” he heard over the storm and wind whistling by his ears, “I am going to need you to navigate me! To your house!”
Which meant that he had to open his eyes, pay attention to the road, and shout directions at the top of his lungs, which robbed him of the rest of his dignity. Not that he had much left at that point.
Edgewroth didn’t lie, though, his driving was nothing near Debeste’s antics. He kept fairly below the speed limit, the engine below them the purring lightly instead of screaming at a deafening volume. Edgeworth also didn’t carve the turns sharply, so Manfred felt fairly safe that his knees were not going to be scrapped off on the asphalt.
Within fifteen minutes he had gotten used to it. Within five more he found himself even enjoying it, the little adrenaline rush and physical proximity making him break into a smile as he watch out the road ahead over Edgeworth’s shoulder.
His disappointment upon exiting the freeway was large, because it meant that the ride was over. The von Karma estate was laying in the middle of the suburbs in the south part of the city, though saying it that gave most people the wrong impression. More accurate was to say that the suburbs were laying all around the the estate. The distinction was in the order of succession.
Edgeworth stopped in front of the gate, the motor still running. Manfred slid off of the seat. He wanted to say his thanks, but was left staring at the man: His cheeks and nose were red, the front of his shirt clung to him, the thin wet cotton practically transparent. Such things were the fiction of magazine covers.
The second thing Manfred noticed – and he really hated himself for not seeing that right away – was that Edgeworth was shaking and his lips were purple, like those of a child that had been in the pool for too long.
“I’ll open up the garage. You’re staying for tea until this, “ he made a vague gesture towards the sky, “passes over.”
For a split-second it looked like Edgeworth was going to argue, but in the end he breathed out: “Thank you.”
#
Of course, it took a bit more to defrost Edgeworth than just a tea. To be precise, it took throwing a towel at him followed by one of Manfred’s casual shirts followed by ignoring his protests followed by stating matter of factly that he was not going to strut around in absolutely soaked trousers followed by more ignored protests followed by having a shred of mercy and throwing a second towel.
Fast forward to the kitchen where Edgeworth sat barefoot, one towel around his hips, other towel now drying on the bar stool next to him, the borrowed shirt unbuttoned because while the shoulders could manage (barely), his chest refused to be contained. His clothes were upstairs on the drier, without a doubt pool of water on the floor underneath. Manfred’s clothes were doing exactly the same, but he had changed into dry ones with going back to work later in the afternoon on his mind. For now he did not take the jacket, though.
Between them the teapot was steaming on the counter, and they both were holding their tea as if it was the Holy Grail, or rather as if it could warm their hands. Which it could and which it did. The numbness which Manfred hadn’t noticed to creep into his fingers earlier was slowly disappearing.
“So,” he prompted as the host and also to give himself a reason to do something else than stare at Edgeworth’s chest, “your wife has a motorcycle.”
“I thought that by now we’ve had this covered. Yes, she has.”
“I am asking merely because this is the first time I am hearing of you having a wife. I am finding that hard to believe.”
Edgeworth threw him a look. It was a very... ‘looky’ look. Not that kind which would kill if looks could do that, it was a look that said: ‘I know what you are thinking and I hope you choke on those thoughts.’ Manfred would have liked to consult that look about what he had been thinking, because he had no idea. Was he thinking at all?
“Well, von Karma, yes. In this world exists at least one person who despite of all my failings and short-comings did decide to spend her life with me. Even said so with a lot of enthusiasm.”
The acerbic tone hit Manfred in the face. That people thought the worst of him, that he had gotten used to. Now he had to contemplate a new finding: That people presumed him thinking the worst of them. He pretended he was ignorant of Edgeworth’s assumption and replied with a kind smile: “A true blessing. I still find myself disbelieving that I’ve learned of the vehicle sooner than of the fact that you are married, Edgeworth.”
The face Edgeworth made when he nearly drowned himself on the sip of tea was absolutely delightful. He recovered quickly, though: “Well unlike with your marriage, mine is hardly relevant to work whatsoever, and I failed to find a reason why to bring up my private life in the courtroom.”
They both knew that the other knew Manfred’s wife and her broad expertise in many things were hardly relevant to homicide cases as well, but he still liked to bring her up, because she was his wife and everyone should be aware that she was absolutely amazing.
“We aren’t in a courtroom right now,” he shrugged. “How is she?”
“Terribly moody as of late. I was told that it comes with pregnancy.”
“Edgeworth?”
“Um, yes?”
“Is there any other surprise in your home life that I should know about?”
A pause, after which Edgeworth said with such disbelief that Manfred almost forgot that the man was there in a borrowed shirt and no pants on: “Why should you know anything about my home life? We don’t even qualify as co-workers.”
“Point taken,” Manfred retreated his elbows from the counter to put an appropriate distance between them. “Though the way a certain detectiv sometimes talks about you, one wouldn’t say that.”
“Your detective,” Edgeworth sighed, “could learn better than to gossip.”
Manfred could pin-point a lot of faults with the officer, but gossiping was not one of them. If anyone was going to criticise his subordinates, they should have the decency to do it correctly. “If he gossiped, I would know about your wife. Or the pregnancy. Congratulations, by the way.” He took a sip of tea and finally concluded: “I merely meant that the detective keeps referring to you as my ‘pretty defence attorney’.”
The warmth of the house and tea had chased the redness in Edgeworth’s face away some time ago, so now it was safe to assume he was blushing at the comment. Whether he felt embarrassed, flattered, or something between was hard to call.
“Be relieved that he didn’t nickname you something idiotic. Us prosecutors are not so lucky.” Was he trying to reassure the man with that inane comment? Manfred himself wasn’t sure.
Edgeworth clicked his tongue and after a moment he put his tea down. “He calls me ‘Gory’.”
“What?”
“He’s nicknamed me ‘Gory’. Probably the worst thing he could do with my name.”
Manfed tried to think of something worse one could call Gregory Edgeworth based on his name. Name-calling had never been a discipline he thought of pursuing, as he found that school of insults unimaginative. Why make up a derisive nickname when cold hard truth was more often than enough to execute a person’s ego? “Edgy? ‘Edgy’ would be worse.”
Because it was the very early 1990’s, Edgeworth replied: “No. No it wouldn’t.”
Had things been a little different, for example had Chief Prosecutor Debeste smashed his head open against a truck upon running a red light the very moment this conversation was taking the place, Edgeworth would one day re-think what he had just said and agree with Manfred that yes, being Called ‘Edgy’ was much worse than being called ‘Gory’. As things stood, the truck driver has incredible reflexes and hit the brakes before breaking into a litany of curses and cusses at the gall and nerve of the bikers these days.
“At least he sticks with one. I’ve worked with him for years and he’s gone through... twenty, I think, at this point? At this point I actually regret I told him not to call me ‘Freddie’.”
“What’s worse than ‘Freddie’?”
“I am not giving you ammunition, Edgeworth.”
Edgworth broke into a giggling fit. It took him some time to gain his composure back. When he finally did – the corners of his mouth twitching upwards were politely ignored – he said: “Speaking of wives, where is yours? Do we have a back-up story for why there is a half-naked stranger in her kitchen?”
Manfred’s good mood disappeared just like the good weather some time ago: “She is with our daughters in Germany.”
The attorney across him managed only a quiet ‘oh’ of not quite understanding and also not knowing what to say to that. He risked a: “That must be quite difficult for you. I’ve come to understand you care about her deeply.
“It works,” Manfred replied curtly. He needed no one’s pity, Edgewroth’s least of all.
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
That... that was true, though Manfred was not going to admit that out loud. There were many things that worked but hurt in his life. Being separated from his wife. Getting up early in the morning and working in late. His leg.
Right, his leg. His cane was still in the office. He was planning on dropping there later, but although it was no longer storming outside, the downpour did not cease, and now Manfred was dry and warm and the option of that state of existence being changed again did not appeal to him at all. He had to be getting old. Old, soft and lazy.
He reached to pour himself more tea only to find the teapot empty. When had they finished it?
Edgeworth noticed as well and rose up: “I’ll put the kettle on and-”
“You,” Manfred ordered, “stay put and don’t get under my feet.” When he saw all the colour draining from the man’s face, he attempted to reassure him with a pat on his shoulder and an addendum: “You are a guest here. I shall take care of things.”
#
Manfred had a very precise memory, so had anyone asked him to testify, which nobody did, he could confirm seeing the exact motorcycle a year later, down to the date. The weather was much nicer and the time of day somewhat earlier. And instead of the Gourd Park it was parked in front of the Prosecutors’ Office.
He recognised it by the zig-zag pattern of neon-blue and yellow, and it was the first thing he had noticed about it. The second thing he noticed was that it was Debeste getting off it.
Manfred didn’t know he could be this angry. What he felt could be described as fury. Yes, and wildfires could be described as very dangerous.
He swallowed the first choice of words, and instead forced on a smile of someone who was desperately trying to be a morning and friendly person and certainly nobody here wants to find out what would happen if this act dropped, right? “Blaise, good morning! New ride?”
“What, this?” Debeste looked at it with a pout. “Yeah, you could say that. Got it from the bazaar. Figured I’d take it for a spin before taking it down for parts, but honestly it’s just a disappointment.”
He looked at Manfred who looked right back. Debeste grinned like a man who knew a secret, and then turned around to enter the building.
Manfred thought about fixing Debeste’s face for him for a while, but after a while he discarded the idea. It wouldn’t be a fight he could win, and not only because Debeste was his superior.
Not to mention he had paperwork to collect and a fresh crime scene to investigate.
A crime scene which gave him a headache the instant the best detective available at the moment lifted the tape for him and started his briefing with the following words: “And your pretty defence attorney has already made it. He’s brought help with him this time. So far they’re lingering on the side-lines, but the boys can kick them out at your word.”
He recalled Debeste’s smile. A lot of teeth. He wanted to knock some out, he really did.
“Let Edgeworth at the crime scene,” he sighed, and began signing off the accepted evidence.
“Are you sure? Even the...”
“Detective, you’ll let the attorney to inspect the scene of crime and if necessary, you’ll look after the baby yourself while he snoops around. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, I- How did you know about the baby? Freedo, how did you- Wait for me!”