In repair

by Missile.x

As the dust settles, Lana begins to realise the price she'll have to pay in order to get back what she's lost. The question is, what will it cost her?

AUTHORS NOTES: This is a little story I'm working on at the moment about Lana and the aftermath of DL-9. Not completely sure where I'm going with it and don't anticipate it being hugely popular anyway. All the same, it's a little different from my usual stuff as it's not really a romance for once and even more shockingly, not a Phoenix/Maya one! Hopefully it's not a huge pile of suck- enjoy! :)

SUMMARY: As the dust settles, Lana begins to realise the price she'll have to pay in order to get back what she's lost. The question being, what will it cost her?

In repair – Part I

My hands brush the soft red velvet of the box before I run them across my chin, my fingers lingering there and running back and forth. I stare down at the old jewellery box, my face cold and expressionless as my eyes flicker between it and my reflection. My face aches as I try to smile, but can't. Perhaps a ghost of one lingered there for a second, but sat here, alone I'm unable to.

Eyes dropping back down to the aged box I close it and then open it again. I repeat the process as few times, but then pull out a piece of tarnished gold necklace. The chain in question snapped ages ago; it had belonged to my mother just as the container had. I grasp it tightly and once again stare at myself, now unable to look away. The same hard stare that's met me every day for as long as I could remember.

What's happened to me? is all I seem to be able to ask myself, lately. I can still see the woman I pretended to be for Ema. The woman that she'd needed; that I'd needed to be stay sane...but the dull, almond shaped, brown eyes that belong to me aren't needed any more. Ema longs for the happy older sister she once knew, but I couldn't remember how to be her.

You spent too long pretending, Lana... a voice tells me. My own voice; possibly my conscience who is all to eager to chip in with insight these days. We are who we pretend to be...

For almost a second I feel the beginnings of tears, but none come. Deep down, I know the kind of sadness I'm experiencing- it's not the kind of problem fixed with tear-shed. Scowling, I anxiously play with my hands, picking bits of peeling skin off from around my nails; a disgusting habit I'd gained which doesn't help at all. It's something to focus on though, in my worse moments.

But then something else takes my attention, a noise in the hall, the thudding of the stairs- Ema's home. She'd merely nipped out to the library and so I'd seen an opportunity for some serious self-pitying. My heart swells at the sight of her; I even smile for her as she enters the room, her brown leather bag swaying behind her as she walks. Ema meets the smile eagerly and slumps down on the bed, sighing loudly and splaying her legs out.

"I'm exhausted!" she says, practically breathing the words as she stares up at the ceiling. "The buses were late, the library was shut for lunch. What kind of library closes at lunch, seriously? - Exhausted." is what she repeats, reiterating her original point.

I chuckle half-heartedly in response, feeling ill-at-ease. My dressing table, quite bizarrely, had become the haven where I came to sulk and stare. There was something unsettling about her finding me here, just sitting. Ema seemed to realise this herself.

She props herself up to get a better look at me, her eyes focusing on me. The view in the mirror shows me this, but I decide it's best to face here, even if it is probably easier to act into a mirror. As I swivel around on my stool she says, "So what are you doing sat up here alone, anyway?"

I shrug, trying yo keep things vague and light, "Not a lot.". I'm about to try and steer the conversation back to her, but Ema isn't stupid. Her blue eyes narrow and glance down at the velvet box I had been playing with.

"Isn't that Mum's?" her words are oddly breezy, but not convincingly so. We don't talk about Mum a lot; it upsets her. Guiltily, a part of me has always found this surprising as she was far younger when our parents died. I remember more, knew them better. It's sick, but a part of me feels more entitled to miss them.

My nod's brief, as I stand, dropping the chain carelessly back into the crevice inside and shutting it clumsily. "Yep. It's broken."

"Maybe we should fix it for her then?" Ema asks, giving me a suspicious look as she rises to sit up, finally getting a proper look. The mahogany of the table shines in the mid-afternoon streaks, light shining in through the windows making it look like a picture from a princess book. I suddenly realise how cliché my dressing table is. All my modern toiletries are in the bathroom; all that's sat here is a brush, the jewellery box and few music boxes I collected in my childhood.

"It's probably okay. I don't mind that it's broken; things get broken sometimes...everything's the way it is for a reason. No point un-doing that." I add, somewhat brusquely, making a move to get away from the table and head towards the door. Ema intercepts me and stands there in front of me, her face all determination and worry.

"If some thing's broken, it ought to be fixed." I'm not sure I like her tone. We're not really discussing the chain, either. Are things so bad that she'd adopted this chain as a metaphor for me?

Rolling my eyes I shrug, "If it means that much to you-"

"I'm not talking about the necklace." She replies, forcedly, riling me. An absurd part of me feels indignant that she can't seem to find it within herself to leave me to it, but I love that she cares really, don't I? It just makes things so...difficult.

I run my hand through one side of my hair, pushing it away from my face momentarily, before it flops back into place, "Ema, you're being ridiculous. That doesn't even make sense-"

"Doesn't it?" she asks me, fiercely, not budging an inch.

"No." is my even reply.

Making my way around her and heading out of the room, as I'm in the door-way her own reply reaches me, her words a little like knives, "I thought you were going to be happy now." Ema sounds wounded, her voice on the edge of tears, fragile as though about to shatter.

I turn, biting my upper lip, "I am...happier than I was." it's the best I can do and it's pathetic.

"Well that's not saying much, is it?" she spits back at me, looking hurt. I'm not sure exactly what she wants from me. Actually, that's a lie. I know she wants me to enjoy life, because if I'm not, she can't either. Ema's too beautifully caring for her own good.

Sadly, the corners of my mouth peak a little. "Ema..." I begin, kindly. I take her hand and squeeze it a little, desperate to reassure her. "I'm...I'm getting there. I really am trying my best and I'm sorry if-"

When she cuts across me her voice is shrill and fast, "Don't apologise; you've done everything for me, Lana." tears leak down her face and her eyes divert to the floor. "I just want you to...to..." she'd unable to finish the sentence, her words sticking in her throat as she tries to verbalise what I'm already aware she wants from me.

"I know." I'm truly fighting back tears now, but I can't- I won't cry now. I'm strong, because I'm Lana Skye and I always am. I pull her towards me and hug her, stroking her thick, dark hair as it runs down her grubby lab-coat and make soothing "shh"-ing noises. "Don't worry about me, Ema. I'll be fine."

"B-but I'm- I'm..." she sobs into my shoulder and I can feel her shake against me. This is becoming a never ending circle of guilt. My lack of true happiness upsets her and I hate it, and yet when she cries like this she puts further pressure onto me to change. Only I can't seem to and so I act as though everything's fine. It's unhealthy.

Ema has another go at verbalising and is more successful this time, "I'm- I'm going away in one- one week, Lana. Who's going to l-look after you when I'm n-not here?"

I weekly attempt a chuckle, "Ema, it's not your job to look after me, okay? You must never, ever find yourself thinking you owe me like that." The chuckle was fake, but really, it's ironic that she should feel she's the one who looks after me. I look after myself, don't I? "I'll be fine and going to Europe's what's best for you."

She ducks away from my shoulder, her eyes red and bleary; "I know and I'm looking forward to it, I don't want to leave you alone."

I muster another smile, "I won't be alone. I have people here..." I struggled to conjure any names though, "I thrive by myself anyway, Ema." Even to myself I don't sound hugely convincingly, but I know for a fact, Ema staying wouldn't help. Love barely covers what I feel for her, but I don't want her to stay. Time on my own seems so appealing right now.

The look on her face tells me she doesn't believe me, but she nods anyway. Under the carpet the issue goes...for now.

"As long as you're sure." she says, a tear in her eye, faking the smile that graces her lips.

"I am." It's on a half lie, though. There's no time for all this angst and there's a lot to be said for sweeping your troubles under the rug.

I'll be fine.

I have to be.

When I wake up the next morning I realise with a dull ache that today's the day I'm forced to return to the Prosecutor's office. Running my hands through my tangled hair, I groan. I've been dreading this.

They put me on probation after the trial and being the person who used to put others on probation I know what this roughly translates into; I've as good as lost my job.

Showering doesn't take long, nor does the splash of make-up I roughly throw onto my face in an effort to look like a professional who had enough sleep last night. As I chomp on corn-flakes I ponder how I even feel about work. Originally, the prospect of losing my job hadn't been such an unthinkable one, but the job I loved in the first place was so very different to the job Gant made it into. What more is there in my life if I'm not a prosecutor? It's part of who I am and I loved it...I honestly did. And there's a part of me that feels I could love it again with time.

My breathing is deep as I attempt to calm myself. As time goes on I'm closer and closer to the place it happened. Something's different. I spent every day at this office working obsessively without wavering slightly. Returning now things are over feels far different to how I'd imagined it would be. I'm like half of myself – the old Lana who allowed herself vulnerability once in a while...and the cold, detached Lana.

Vulnerable Lana doesn't like it here at all.

All the same, as my heals click on the polished floors I'm conflicted. I know I'll miss it here and there's no point denying it. These are teething problems most likely; hurt can fade, but the memory and regret of doing nothing when I might have...that wouldn't.

My job is as good as lost, though. There's nothing I can do, but accept it. I'm here to take my things – nothing says "you're fired" like collecting clearing out your desk.

Utterly absorbed in my thoughts I let out of uncharacteristically girlish scream as I turn a corner and Miles Edgeworth is there, causing me to almost bump into him. His eyes tell me he's surprising my sudden appearance too, but he composes himself hastily and nods, "Miss Skye." he greats me, formally.

"Mr. Edgeworth." I acknowledge him back, not sure what to say and awkwardly remembering the fact that to him, I'll most likely always be the woman that stabbed a body in his shiny, expensive car.

I think our exchange will end here as we both simultaneously move to continue going our separate ways, but just as he's moved out of my eye-line he speaks up again. "You're here for- that is – you're here to clean-out your desk?" I face him and try to figure out his tone. Is he asking me, or telling me? A little embarrassment shows on his face, as though he's asked something dreadfully personal. I suppose it it personal in a way; my job is part of who I am; he'd understand that better than most.

"I am." I reply, "I was told I must until they come to a decision about my future...whether it be here or more likely, not."

He nods evenly, and gives me an enquiring look, "You don't believe your chances are good then?"

This is one of those moments when drollness is really the only thing you can opt for. I grimace, "Probably not what with the fact I covered for a murderer and stabbed a dead body...in the back of your car."

He looks amused and smirks a little, "Well, I don't presume you'll be becoming the office's poster girl any-time soon." his face turns to a more serious expression. "I have a say though. I know where my votes going." I'm taken a-back. Why would he vote for me to keep my job...and while it's a lovely gesture, the public would be in uproar, surely?

"Thank you." I say, sounding considerably more stoic that I mean to. I'm grateful; it's nice to know someone's in my corner. "But I am losing my job. There's nothing that can be done. Think of the media storm if they re-instated me...I can't do that to this place, even if they'll let me; I've done enough."

Edgeworth merely shrugs, "You did what you could and what anyone would do for their family." looking a little abashed he continues, "DL-6 wasn't wonderful publicity either. I'm still here."

This does little to comfort me, "A different case and therefore a different case." I like this phrase; the way if communicates the importance of details which are everything in law. I don't believe I should be pardoned and yet this does nothing to quell the side of me which still desperately wants this job.

In reply he just twitches his head to side a little and says "Detail, details..." as though reading my mind, "We're not so different Miss. Skye."

"I doubt the board will see it that way." my words are dull. My integrity encourages me to not seem so defeated and yet I can't help but feel that way when I so clear am.

"We'll see." replies Miles Edgeworth, managing to inexplicably get my hopes up in a way that I really don't need.

We'll see indeed...

Gentlemanly as ever, he offers to help me clean my things out. I get the feeling it's out of courtesy more than anything. We aren't friends exactly, but there's a mutual respect that may not have died due to SL-9. No moral outrage is thrown my way; he simply accompanies me to my former office, keeping a little behind me in the comfortable silence.

When we sight my desk he quirks one of his eyebrows up, "Should I clear my morning schedule?" he quips, most likely making reference to the mess. I don't have a great number of personal possessions out – a picture of Ema, a few pens; not much. The majority of clutter is made up through files, documents and folders.

Half of my mouth rises in amusement, "I know where everything goes; shouldn't take too long."

He just nods and picks a few up, scanning the shelves for the letters. I gather the few items I have together into a pile and push them to a clear part of the desk for later. After that I mimic him in collecting and ordering the files.

We work in silence for a while. It's not uncomfortable, but it's not exactly restful either. Grateful as I am, I can't help but feel this may have been easier on my own. I feel obliged to make conversation, but he beats me to it.

"How are you managing?" he asks as she pushes a file in-between two already tightly packed ones. This office really is running out of room. I'm certain about fifty percent of these have been dealt with.

"Yeah, there's not a lot of room because of all the back-log I've caused. A lot of these really ought to be moved elsewhere."

He turns to me as though I've gone mad, his face quizzical and confused, "Not this. I meant how are you managing after the trial? I shouldn't imagine something like that is particularly easy to recover from."

I instantly tense; I'm not eager to discuss this. Why is he asking anyway? I stare fixedly at the shelves pretending to search for Q-R. I've worked here for too long for this to be convincing and he once again raises his eyebrows. It appears to be quite the habit of his.

"Sorry, Miss. Skye..." he amends, "If that was too personal or prying I withdraw my question." it's a formal apology, highlighting our relationship. All the same, we aren't in court and a simply yes/no and thank you will suffice for politeness' sake. After all, it was thoughtful of him to ask.

I attempt a smile, "It's fine. It's nice of you to ask. I'm doing fine."

"Well that in no way sounded rehearsed." I can tell from his voice his eyebrows are raised. "I assure you that response will entirely set peoples worries to rest." His sarcasm puts my back up against the wall. A flash of anger ignites within me.

I'm highly affronted at his reply; a reply from the man who just apologized for being intrusive. How dare he pass judgement on my response? "I'm sorry, is my response not satisfactory, Mr. Edgeworth? I assure you I'll try harder to sound convincing next time."

"Try harder? No Miss. Skye, I don't want you to do that. Forgive me, my sarcasm wasn't appropriate in that case. Honesty was what I hoped for, that's all."

"What have you done to deserve my honesty?" I ask, my anger lessening a little after his apology. He looks hurt at this; I think he actually cares. I allow some respite after a pause, "It's fine...wait, has Ema been speaking to you? Did she set this up so we'd bump into each other?" I'm about to face-palm. That girl can be impossible. But luckily he's shaking his head.

"Nothing of the sort. If your actions at home are anything similar to how they are here, though...she most likely is." his tone reasonable, one of his hands nearly tucked into his pocket; the remainder of the files laying forgotten on the table. Forgotten by him at least – I'm still putting them back and keeping busy, wanting to avoid eye-contact. Quite frankly he's over-stepping the mark.

I shrug, "Of course she is; she worries, but I'm fine." I see his expression, "I am." I repeat, as he so clearly doesn't believe a word I say."What do I have to be upset about? Everything's sorted out thanks to Mr. Wright."

At this point Edgeworth somehow manages to resist quirking an eyebrow up and simply nods. "If you're sure. I just know people often expect reformation of character...after my father's case was solved many people expected me to...change and couldn't understand when I did not."

I'm surprised by his words; that case was deeply personal to him and was far less his own fault that mine. "You have changed; it's often said you're fair less...unethical these days." I tell him, looking over at his stoic face, which brakes into a smirk at my response.

"I meant my demeanour. I'm seen by some as cold...they thought this was down to my past. They were deeply shocked when a breezier, laid-back Miles did not appear the moment my foster-father was brought to justice. These things they're...complicated; they can consume and not just while they're taking place. I still think about it...it's hard not to."

The nail has just been hit square on the head; he understands. He doesn't expect me to be pleased; grateful yes, but happy? How am I supposed to bounce back after the most awful two years of my life. There's no use living in the past, but I can't help it. The look I give him hopefully conveys my thanks. It's nice to know somebody gets it.

Swiftly, he grabs a file and we finish the rest off in silence, but a comfortable one at that.

As I slot the final one in place he looks at his watch, "I have a meeting." he begins, "Fittingly enough it's with the board...about you, so I'd better-"

"That's fine, thank you for your help, Mr. Edgeworth. It was very much appreciated." I say, pleasantly, hoping to make up for the last five minutes of silence and my former snappiness.

"It was a pleasure Miss. Skye. I only hope I can do some good for you in this meeting, as well." Edgeworth's a persuasive man. Having him on my side can't do any harm, surely?

I grace him with another smile, "That's very kind of you."

He nods as a final goodbye and leaves me in the office. Certain this may be the last time I belong in here, I gather my spare things and go, leaving behind the place that was my second home far before it became my own personal hell.