Author's note: I found this mostly finished in my drafts, and figured I might as well post it. I'm not sure if there will be a third chapter or not (don't hold your breaths), but if ever there is, it'll probably be a Gumshoe POV to wrap things up. Enjoy!
Mentions of suicidal thoughts in this chapter.
Miles Edgeworth wakes to the sight of a water-stained ceiling, the springs of an ancient fold-out couch poking his back, and the sound of running water and a warbling baritone.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh'll"—swish, scrub—"fly away! Oh glory! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh'll fly away! In the morning! Hoo-when I die, hallelujah by an' by—" Clink! "Ahhhhhhhhhh'll fly away!"
Edgeworth groans, pulling a pillow over his head. The singing stops. Dishes rattle; footsteps approach.
"Morning, pal," Detective Gumshoe's voice says softly. "I mean, Mr. Edgeworth, sir. How you feeling?"
I cannot even end my own life properly. What is there to feel?
The edge of the sofa-bed dips. "Made you some toast," Gumshoe says.
He doesn't want toast. He would prefer to sink into the mattress and cease to exist entirely… but, traitorously, his stomach growls. Edgeworth pushes the pillow away and finds himself looking up at a concerned detective sporting bedhead and a fuzzy green bathrobe. Gently, Gumshoe nudges him to a sitting position, propping the pillow behind his back.
"You should eat, sir. You'll feel better."
Edgeworth reaches for the nearest slice of toast, if only to forestall any attempt to spoon-feed him. It smells better than it has a right to. His career is based on falsehoods, his entire life broken by nightmares and mind games. His limbs feel as if filled with lead—and the taste of apricot jam bursts onto his tongue.
Apricot. He's known Detective Gumshoe for almost five years now, and he'd never dreamed the man favored apricot.
He is here, he remembers, because he heard a squeal of tires and a honking horn as he was climbing the rail of the bridge.
Because you were a coward, a voice whispers in his mind. Because you lack the fortitude to see even the most pathetic of tasks through.
No. Because someone shouted, "Mr. Edgeworth! Wait!" and he looked back.
"Detective," Edgeworth rasps, "I am so, so sorry."
To his shock, the burly detective puts an arm around his shoulders. "None of that, pal. You don't have to say sorry for one darn thing, not today."
Edgeworth takes another bite of his toast. It is the least he can do.
He has managed most of the second slice when someone pounds heavily on the door. Then there is a snapping crack that sounds rather like… leather on wood?
"Aufmachen! Let me in this instant!"
"Franziska?" Edgeworth whispers. They haven't spoken since December, a terse and awkward phone call two days after the trial.
He is suddenly aware of the creases in his clothes, the tear where he snagged his shirt on the bridge railing, the knots in his hair, the dark circles under his eyes. But if there is one person he wants to see…
Gumshoe unlocks the door, and has the sense to step aside as the youngest von Karma storms through. She's grown taller since Edgeworth last saw her, and cut her hair short, and gotten a much longer whip, which she points directly at him.
"You, Miles Edgeworth, are nothing less than a f-foolishly foolish fool!"
He braces himself—only for Franziska to toss the whip aside, slap him bare-handed, then hug him and burst into tears.
