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Chapter 7

Scuttlebutt


"Hey!"

Miles startled awake to find Lang nearly nose to nose with him.

"What are you—?"

"You were shouting in your sleep," Lang was frowning with sincere concern.

Miles swallowed. Damn. It was starting to rear its ugly head again. These last several weeks on the ship he either couldn't sleep for all the noise or he'd been too exhausted to dream. Miles stared nervously at Lang's worried face.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Lang shook his head, "You were shouting!"

Miles pushed up from where he lay and sat up frowning down at Lang where he was standing on his own rack to peer at Miles. He was so embarrassed. Why did he have to have a roommate?

Lang was glaring at him with scrutiny, his brow furrowed and in the dim red lighting he looked mean. Miles put a hand to his pounding heart. He put his head down.

"Do you get night terrors?" Lang said when Miles remained silent.

Miles shook his head but he turned to the wall refusing to look at the other man.

"You'll have to go to sick bay—"

"NO!" Miles met his eye his tone beseeching and desperate, "No... They'll kick me out..."

Lang hopped down from his rack and pulled the chair out from where it was secured under the desk. He sat down.

"But if you need help..."

Miles slid down from his rack and started to pace around the tiny space of their stateroom, "I don't need help. It must've been a bad dream—that's all."

Lang stared at him incredulously, "You were shouting..."

Miles paused in his pacing and looked pleadingly at Lang, "Come on, it's nothing..."

"You were shouting about murder and death and—if I hadn't woken you up you might've woke up the whole berthing!"

"It won't happen again," Miles said.

Lang only frowned up at him and then crossed his arms, "Is it because I made you go to karaoke?"

Miles stared at him for several drawn out moments and then he laughed.

Lang shook his head, "Seriously though, this isn't funny."

"I promise it won't happen again," Miles said glaring now at the other man.

It wasn't fair; Lang was only showing the concern of someone who cared. Someone who obviously felt he was being a good friend. But really, it was nobody's business but his own.

Lang shook his head again and stood. He shoved the chair under the desk roughly, apparently upset about the situation.

Miles frowned, "I'm sorry I woke you up. I certainly didn't mean to."

Lang started pacing on his side of the stateroom, "That isn't the point here. I have an obligation to—a duty to report you!"

Miles felt a surge of panic rise into his chest, "There's been no crime here!"

Lang walked up to him and stuck his face into Mile's face, like a dog spoiling for a fight, "And if this is something more than just bad dreams? If you decide to—I don't know—jump off the ship? Am I just supposed to play ignorant?"

Miles stepped away from him. Lieutenant Lang was taller than him and as intimidating as a wolf when he was serious.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Miles said coolly.

Lang threw his arms up suddenly, "I'm not going to back down until I know the truth!"

Lang's words came out like a growl and he grimaced menacingly, showing all of his teeth. Miles swallowed again.

"There's no reason for you to worry. Not about me and not about reporting this. Nothing happened."

"Says you! You've been in the Navy since breakfast! What do you know about—"

"Because I'm the JAG," Miles' voice was forceful suddenly, but steady and calm.

Lang cooled abruptly and scratched the back of his head, "Fine. I suppose it's your job to know the rules and regulations."

Miles watched him warily; still upset with the other man's outburst.

Lang started to pace around the room again. Rubbing his head emphatically and grunting in annoyance. Miles followed him with his eyes. This was a complicated situation indeed.

Lang went and yanked the chair out from under the desk again and sat down.

"What happened?"

Miles glared at him and then finally, he shook his head, "No. You don't get to ask me that. I barely know you."

Lang shot him his crooked grin and cocked his head, "We've been sleeping together for almost a month!"

Miles startled and then cleared his throat, "Er... Sleeping in the same room—"

"That's what I said."

Miles sighed and then opened his locker. He took off his pajama top and put on a yellow PTU shirt.

"Where are you going? It's two in the morning," Lang leapt to his feet, "Look we should go back to bed. We'll figure this out in the morning."

"There's nothing to figure out," Miles said and slid on his shorts.

"I won't say anything for now. Just promise me that you're all right," Lang seemed desperate suddenly and Miles paused to glare at him and then he went back to putting on his socks and shoes.

"Where are you going?"

Miles left the stateroom and started walking briskly toward the nearest ladder well. Lang was right behind him.

"Why are you—?" Lang called after him.

Miles dogged the ladder well hatch and stood there holding the bar down so that Lang couldn't open it. He'd been doing well the last month. He thought maybe it was over, but apparently...

Lang banged on the hatch with increasing fury. He was kind of a scary guy in that state. Miles let go of the bar and stepped back. He wouldn't be able to lose him. He may as well get this over with.

Lang swung the hatch open so hard it slammed into the bulkhead with a crash. Lang was livid. Miles crossed his arms and glared at him. Lang glared back at him with his chin tucked and his shoulder's squared. Miles had the distinct feeling that he was about to get slammed into the bulkhead too. The stare down lasted for what felt like ten minutes.

Miles broke their standoff and turned to the ladder. He sat on the top step and put his head in his hands. This was bad. How do you hide this?

Curse this ship. There was no privacy.

Miles felt Lang's presence as the other man joined him on the ladder.

"So, I understand lawyer-boy," Lang said, "I'm not a professional. You don't have to talk to me, but if there's a problem, you need to talk to some—"

"What makes you think there's a problem?"

Lang hesitated for a moment, "This isn't my first deployment."

Miles rolled his eyes. How was that relevant?

"This job... Being in the Navy isn't like having a job. Everything about your life is managed by the organization—out of necessity. Then everyone has their actual job. Families that we don't get to see..."

What's he blabbing about now?

"I've seen bad things happen to good sailors," Lang's voice grew quiet, contemplative. They were sitting near enough to each other that Miles heard him swallow.

"Two deployments ago..." Lang hesitated, "One of my sailors killed himself. I was a brand new Ensign—"

"You make too many assumptions," Miles said. Make it stop!

"I've seen the signs," Lang muttered almost inaudibly.

"It was nothing, a bad dream," Miles replied—how do I get him to quit?

They sat silently in the dim red glow of the ladder.

"What happened to you?" Lang asked, his voice low almost a whisper.

Miles sighed. There was no way he'd be able to avoid his roommate for the whole deployment. This was going to be inevitable.

"My father was murdered in front of me," he glanced sidelong at his companion, "I was nine."

Lang was silent but Miles could feel his eyes boring into him. They sat in the suffocating silence for a minute or twenty—it was hard to tell.

"I'm sorry," Lang whispered in a mix of awkward sympathy. People normally had a hard time responding to that. Miles smiled at the thought and felt a chuckle rise in his throat. He sobbed instead.

He felt Lang's arm fall over his shoulders. He wasn't sure what was worse, losing his composure in front of this man or falling subject to his inept attempt at comfort.

Miles managed to rein it in before he fell into a blubbering mess. He steeled himself against this ridiculous display of emotion and forced himself to stand. He stared down into the dark empty ladder well. Not sure if he should keep going or turn around and go back to bed.

"Miles," Lang was still sitting on the step, "Let's go back to bed."

Their little fiasco the night before left both of them weary and irritable that morning. They both decided to skip PT and breakfast in order to catch a few extra winks.

Miles arrived at his workspace harried and a little disheveled.

"Morning El Tee!" LN1 greeted him with her vapid smile.

"Good morning," he said, "Sorry I'm late."

"You're not late, sir!" She poked her tongue out and tapped her head, "You're just not as early as usual!"

Miles glared sidelong at her before pulling his notebook out of the shared drawer they used in the small space.

"LN3 took the "What kind of sexy are you?' quiz," LN1 said, "He's Bombshell sexy!"

Miles made a face at her. She didn't seem to notice but LN3 was blushing full and red.

"He's also secretly a bitch," LN1 added.

"Do either of you have anything work related?" Miles put his hands on his hips and glared at each of them in turn.

LN3 was nearly trembling, "I'm not really a bitch, sir!"

"You don't have to shout," Miles eyes narrowed to slits, "I'm standing right here."

He left the frustrating and uneventful work-center and met Lang at the mess for lunch. Lang looked worn out. Sleep was such a commodity.

"Hey," Lang said with very little enthusiasm.

Miles nodded at him and they joined the queue waiting for food. It was strange. He didn't like that he'd shared his secret with Lang. Well, he'd never admit to the worst of it out loud. No one had to suffer that but him alone.

"I told Cali that I wasn't going to have lunch," he stifled a yawn, "So we should get this to go and we can eat up in the Phalanx."

Miles only gave a slight nod in response.

They didn't talk after that except to ask for to-go boxes and answer questions from the CSs serving them. There were apples today that didn't look too old and Miles grabbed an extra one. He followed Lang down to the hangar bay and they walked through the wide-open space directly aft. Miles was surprised to see sunlight and water and the churning white swell of the ship's wake. It was easy to forget sometimes that they were on a ship and not trapped in the most poorly designed office building known to man.

"Hey," Lang called down to him from a platform above. Miles hadn't realized he'd been staring. It was hard climbing the vertical ladder with his food box in his hand. Eventually Lang reached down and offered to take it from him to ease his climb.

"I sent my men for chow," Lang said while Miles followed behind him on the narrow walking areas on the deck. Miles startled a few times when the catapult fired. It was so loud the sound seemed to echo in his chest.

Lang opened a hatch and they re-entered the quiet dimness of the ship. There was another trunk to climb before they reached Lang's work-center.

Miles looked around with a frown. The space was cramped and cluttered with various bits of electronic equipment and tools. Cables and wires stretched across the deck. In one corner an abandoned game of Call of Duty was frozen on a television held in place by bungee cords.

"Sit," Lang said and plopped himself on the deck cross-legged. Miles hesitated before joining him. They ate in silence in the tiny space, both of them famished from having missed breakfast.

"I only got a few maintenance tasks to finish up," Lang said in a casual tone, "I might call it an early day."

Miles nodded.

"I guess I could go to the gym," Lang added, "PRT is coming up."

Miles was rolling an apple in his hands.

"You don't have to be weird," Lang said, "I'm still your shipmate."

Miles only shot him a sidelong look in reply.

"You know, scuttlebutt says we'll have a port call in a couple weeks."

Lang grinned at the puzzled look on Miles' face, "Scuttlebutt, you know, the rumor mill."

"Ah," Miles said.

"I think the break will be good," Lang pulled a water bottle out of his cargo pocket and took a drought from it, "Most of us have been underway for more than two months now."

"Lang—"

"Shi or Shi-long," Lang corrected without skipping a beat.

"Yes well," Miles paused to recollect, "You won't say anything about last night?"

Lang frowned and turned the water bottle in his hand. He eventually answered with a solemn headshake, "It's none of my business—unless it happens again."

Miles stared at the apple in his hands like it had insulted him.

Lang chuckled to himself, startling Miles.

"I guess it makes sense," Lang smirked at him, "I knew you had some baggage hidden away somewhere."

Miles made a face at him.

"You were just a little too perfect," Lang continued, "There had to be something."

Miles could feel the prickling heat of embarrassment spread to his ears, "I'd rather you stopped talking about it."

Lang looked directly at him and frowned. He turned away and took a drought from his water bottle. Miles watched as he slid a personal laptop out from under one of the workstations and opened it.

"So where's your pilot?"

"He said he'd be flying today," Miles went back to frowning at the apple, "I guess I'll see him in a few days... Maybe."

"Maybe you can help," Lang's tone perked up, "Cali is obsessed with one of the Growler pilots. His name is Phoenix Wright."

Miles smiled, "I think my friend knows him."

Lang didn't look up from his computer, "Maybe you can help me with a little matchmaking."

"Wait, you mean Lieutenant Wright and Lieutenant Yew?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you and Yew..."

"Please," Lang said, "She's my hag... You know what I mean."

Miles looked at him, not sure if he was more offended or embarrassed.

"But she's boy crazy," he glanced up from the laptop, "I just want a little break from her."

"I don't blame you," Miles stood in the cramped space, "I should go back to work."

"Hang on," Lang was still focused on the laptop screen, "Let me finish this and I'll take you back—"

Miles smirked at him, "I can find it."

Lang looked up at him and grinned his cocky grin, "Well, shipmate, we'll make a regular sailor out of you yet!"

"I'll let you know how it goes with that pilot," Miles stifled a laugh before exiting the small space and climbing back into the trunk.

He made it back to the hangar bay just fine but got turned around on the main deck. It was just as well; the walk helped him think. The crowds were sparse as the galleys secured from lunch, which made the going a little easier. Miles kept an eye out for landmarks, anything he recognized. But there were so many things that looked the same.

He smiled to himself thinking about Phoenix the previous night dancing up in the mess like an idiot. A charming idiot. It was no wonder he seemed to do so well in the Navy.

Miles wondered about Lang. Their proximity to each other would make life difficult. Miles wondered how long it would take before the other man did something to give him away. Could he trust Lang? Could he afford not to?

Four days went by in a monotonous drag and he heard or saw nothing of Phoenix Wright. It was discomfiting to say the least. Was he upset that Miles walked out of the karaoke performance? Was he upset that Miles had refused his advance?

"He does have an important job," Lang pointed out one night over dinner, "Pilots are at the mercy of the flight schedules. It seems like they get special treatment and they spend a lot of time lounging around, but their job is not only very physically demanding but their missions also soak up hours out of a day. A four hour flight might mean that your pilot is occupied for eight or ten hours."

Miles contemplated this trying to find comfort in the thought that perhaps Phoenix had been busy lately. That was acceptable for the first week. But nearly two weeks and no contact? One couldn't help but take that personally.

"You worry too much," Lang was holding his feet while he did his sit ups, "One minute, you need to speed up."

"I just worry that perhaps our meeting wasn't nearly so successful as I'd thought."

"What could you have possibly done to piss him off?" Lang rolled his eyes at him, "Thirty seconds left. He's just busy."

"I hope you're right," Miles said.

"Fifteen seconds. Come on pick up the pace, you can knock out ten more," Miles found him more frightening than motivating.

"Five," Lang was glaring hard at him now, "four—come on don't stop."

"Oh it's fine," Miles said, "How many was that."

Lang made a face at him, "Eighty-six..."

Miles stood and stretched, "That's passing."

"Don't settle for passing! You need to be outstanding! Now, shake it out, you have two minutes to knock out a hundred push-ups."

Miles glared at him, "I'm not doing a hundred push ups..."

"Grrrrr..." Lang waved his hands in the air, "You're such a—uh..."

"Lawyer?"

On top of his private dilemmas, his department was now required to provide printed transcripts of the last three separation boards held on the ship. Miles wasn't even on board when they'd happened.

And the stupid printer was being as uncooperative and vindictive as any contraption could be short of actually being sentient. Miles had to walk carefully while balancing eight reams of paper and four toner cartridges. He had to step sideways through the hatches so he could step over the knee knockers without tripping. The last thing he needed was to drop his precious cargo and scatter it all over the blue tile area. What if the scary XO saw him? Miles was sure he still hadn't lived down the missing ribbon incident.

YN1 May was kind enough to open the hatch for him and lead him toward legal. He could hear LN1's grating voice as he entered the spaces.

"Okay," Miles said, "Let's see if we can get the damn thing to cooperate!"

He dropped his cargo onto the desk and looked up to find he was standing face to face with Phoenix Wright.


A/N: Thanks for Reading! Oh no! Perception is 9/10 of the truth on a ship...

Yeah, so here I go tying the story from the AA games to this Alternate Universe. 'Cause I'm a nerd!

Disclaimer: Ace Attorney and all characters are copyright by CAPCOM; I'm just a fan imitating. The stories presented are influenced by the multiple games as well as the comic (Manga written by Kenji Kuroda).