Chapter Text
Edgeworth does not do sick.
He doesn’t get sick. He doesn’t ever have anything more than a headache after a particularly stressful trial day. Sick and Edgeworth do not fit in the same sentence; ask any of his colleagues and they’ll say the same thing. They are complete and utter opposites, so much so that if the two were to ever collide, it just might be the end of the world as they know it. And no one would want that, would they, so clearly every illness got wind of this potential catastrophe and avoids Edgeworth at all costs. Which suits him just fine. He’s just fine.
The document in front of him blurs for the second time that minute. Not that he’s keeping track. Edgeworth screws his eyes shut and blinks them open again. His current case is also just fine. Going swimmingly, even. Although Wright and him are both quite sure the defendant in question is not guilty, that doesn’t mean he’ll go easy on them. And knowing Wright, there will no doubt be conclusions pulled out of thin air and bare-faced bluffing abound. Just imagining the trial tomorrow morning is making his head throb. He sighs and flicks to the next page of the autopsy report, not having read a single word.
He probably didn’t get quality sleep last night, yes, that’s it. His sleep was blessedly free from nightmares but something must have been off. The sharp glare of the sun barely beginning to set through his office window reflecting off polished wood, the usually soothing scent of tea now clinging uncomfortably to his sinuses, the sandpaper-like texture of the papers beneath his hands – they all fade when he closes his eyes. Therefore, it must be his body’s way of telling him he needs more sleep. Unfortunately, he still has…
Edgeworth opens his eyes again and squints at the clock until it comes into focus. 4:52pm. What the fuck? He must need to replace the clock’s battery, it can’t possibly not even be 5pm yet. In fact, he should go ahead and replace the entire clock itself. There is absolutely no reason for any sort of clock to be ticking so obscenely loud that it could very well be twisting blunt screws into his cranium. Its hands move even slower, taunting him. He has half a mind to rip the infernal thing off the wall and take it apart with his own hands when there’s a series of familiar booms.
“Oh, that’s it,” he mutters, pushing himself up with decidedly not shaky arms, thank you very much, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatens to send him sprawling on the floor, thank you very much, and striding over to the offending door. He yanks it open to reveal one shame-faced Detective Gumshoe. What did it say about the state of the police force that Edgeworth can recognise what it means immediately?
He lets out a sigh. “And what crucial, verdict-changing piece of evidence did you miss this time, Detective?"
The man clamps his mouth shut from where it was about to stumble its way through an undoubtedly weak and long-winded explanation. Dear god, his eyebrows were doing quite the impressive floundering caterpillar impression.
“Blood stains on the defendant’s clothes,” Gumshoe practically whimpers, “hidden at the bottom of her laundry hamper.”
Fuck Edgeworth’s life. He takes the photograph from Gumshoe’s outstretched hand. And why is it so blurry?
“Why is it so blurry?” Edgeworth stares down at the misshapen blob of white and red that is supposed to be a professionally taken photo that will most likely be submitted to the court of law, for fuck’s sake.
“Er, it’s… not?” The detective attempts to twist his head 180 degrees to look at it from the same point of view. Unsurprisingly, he is not successful. Edgeworth tamps down on the frustration bubbling in him and reaches up to take off his glasses and polish them when. Ah. No glasses, and he had taken his contacts out earlier when his eyes started getting irritated. That would explain why the autopsy report seemed to be written in a completely foreign language. He redirects to brush a stray piece of hair out of his eyes, praying Gumshoe is more focused on bending his neck into a pretzel than Edgeworth’s hands fumbling around on his face.
“Yes, I see,” he says, not seeing at all. “If that’s everything, I must get back to restructuring my entire argument with this in mind within one night.”
“Sorry sir,” Gumshoe hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “It won’t happen again, I promise, really.”
“I would certainly hope so, for your salary’s sake.” The responding gulp is so comical Edgeworth would laugh if his mind wasn’t spinning. Or was that the room?
“Um, Phoenix also said he–”
“Do not talk to me about that man right now,” Edgeworth hisses. His Wright-sensitive headache had just started to settle.
“But he wanted me to ask–”
“Good evening, Detective.”
He slams the door shut. Only the faint sound of Gumshoe’s feet shuffling away a few seconds later breaks the beautiful silence that fills his ears. He sits (flops) in his chair and adds the photograph to the case file (throws it somewhere in the vicinity of the pile) and tears down the metaphorical red strings he’s painstakingly drawn between pieces of evidence over the last few days.
Another look at the clock reveals some of the worst news he’s ever received in his life: it’s only been another 20 minutes since he last checked the time. Yes, his shift has technically ended but his mentor had long since ingrained the standard of work ethic expected of him into his bones. It would no doubt raise questions if he was seen leaving the office an hour earlier than usual. Besides, he may not trust his legs to support him at the moment.
No matter. He’s cut through some of the most fearsome defences with shit for evidence while half-asleep before. He is Miles Edgeworth, the demon prosecutor. He can do this.
He can’t do this.
That is to say, his body seems to be holding up, poring over evidence and signing off on documents that are unreadable on autopilot. Everything else, however. Hah. No.
It doesn’t help that despite the golden glow of the sun being long gone, the room has simultaneously heated up and set a deep chill in Edgeworth. He has taken off his coat but his vest still sticks to his back with sweat that leaves him shivering somehow. The darkness is only broken by the cityscape outside and the cold light of his desk lamp. He’s not sure if it’s humanly possible for his eyes to get itchier. It turns out that in order to look for his glasses he first needs to have his glasses. He has been staring at a photograph of what he thinks is a close-up shot of the inside of the victim’s fridge for what feels like hours. He wonders who he needs to fire to ensure he never needs to see this much mayonnaise in one place again. Who even thought the contents of a fridge were important enough to be proposed as evidence? The murder didn’t even occur in the victim’s house.
Never mind that, he’s not even sure if he’s managed to complete any coherent work at all. The space in his brain where arguments and connections in the current case are supposed to reside has been besieged and thoroughly ransacked by… something. Where was he going with this?
He never gets to find out as at that very moment his door flies open so hard it bounces off the door stop. Phoenix fucking Wright stands there panting in the doorway illuminated by the hallway lights like heaven’s most out of breath and incompetent angel. Edgeworth does not leap out of his clammy skin and is instead very calm and composed. The very picture of serenity, in fact.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls. Not a knock or even a message ahead to let him know he was coming, what the hell was he doing? Wright looks like he had run the entire way here, though that’s not too improbable considering his lack of a licence. Said man is now bent over, one hand on a knee and the other holding an index finger up, chest heaving. Edgeworth entertains the possibility of a condiment-induced breakdown creating a hallucination of the defence attorney when he finally speaks.
“Need… to look… service record… car…”
Edgeworth blinks. “What?”
“The victim’s car!” Wright finally straightens up, warily approaching the desk. “I-I told Gumshoe to talk to you about letting me take a look at the service record.”
“He did no such thing,” Edgeworth retorts, crossing his arms and leaning back into his chair.
“No, no no no, he promised me. It was a pinky promise and everything and he takes those seriously.” He pauses, looking up in thought. “You… did let him talk, right?”
Edgeworth’s lungs choose that moment to betray him and spasm, sending him into a coughing fit.
“Oh my god, you didn’t even let him talk.” Wright runs his hands through his hair, tugging on the ridiculous spikes. “He gave you an update on the case and you slammed the door in his face before he could get a word in.”
“We talked!” Edgeworth splutters, suddenly paranoid that there was a camera hidden somewhere in his office. “Gumshoe talked, I talked, it was a mutual conversation! I was just too busy to indulge him in his ramblings so I sent him on his way.”
“Whatever, just– come on, please,” Wright is close enough to plant both hands on the desk now and he leans close, tie hanging distractingly close to Edgeworth’s nose. He holds back a sneeze. “I just need to see this one thing. One thing! Is that so much to ask?” Scratch that, his entire suit is distracting with how rumpled and creased it is. Has he been running around all day? qs
“Find the records for yourself,” Edgeworth huffs.
Wright groans long and low. “Seriously? I thought we were past this whole ‘I’m a big bad prosecutor and I can’t let the opposition know a single clue’ thing.”
“I do not sound like that,” he scowls.
“Edgeworth, it’s past eight o’clock, the repair shop is long closed. You know I can’t get this record before the trial starts.”
It’s past eight o’clock?
Wright is now looking at him strangely. Eyes narrowed, head tilted to the side, mouth gaping open and closed. Oh, that must be him speaking.
“...Edgeworth?”
“Yes,” Edgeworth manages. That would be a safe answer, no?
“Are you alright?” It was not a safe answer. Fuck. “You look a little…”
“Yes,” he says again, trying for confident. He is hyper aware of his undershirt practically plastered to his skin. He needs to get out of here, and preferably right into a shower.
“Okay, so looking half-dead sitting in the darkness like a creepy vampire while destroying evidence is definitely a thing that normal, healthy people do.”
He looks down and sees his favourite fountain pen resting on a photograph with a blotched trail of ink scribbled across the entire thing. Honestly, that damn mayo fridge got what it deserved.
“This evidence was useless anyways,” Edgeworth says, pushing his chair back. “Fine, I’m going home. Help yourself if that’s what you wish. Just lock the door behind you.”
Standing is an ordeal that nearly makes his legs buckle and is less of his body supporting his weight than dragging himself to a suitable altitude via desk. Nonetheless, he is standing and now begins the task of walking. The case file and his briefcase and his coat and his everything is still in the room but he doesn’t know if he is physically capable of turning around without toppling the careful balance he’s obtained. Tomorrow’s Edgeworth can deal with this shit. He’s almost made it halfway to the door only stumbling once when there’s a rush of movement–
“Edgeworth, wait!”
And then Wright grabs his shoulder and turns him round with what feels like the strength of a season 4 Steel Samurai at full power and suddenly everything goes grey and floaty and Edgeworth crumples.