Emotional Support Agent
Miles does not consider himself a coward. If nothing else, he knows how to face even the direst situations head on, even when he longs to do nothing more than hide away. There is nothing to be gained in running, Manfred von Karma would always say; running implies a fear of defeat, implies the mere possibility of being wrong.
Miles does not fear defeat nor error, per se. He knows how to handle both with grace- in small part thanks to Phoenix Wright, of all people. The unknown, however, is still infinitely terrifying to Miles, and what awaits him outside of the bathroom is a situation which he has utterly no idea how to navigate.
He can hear Agent Lang puttering about outside, however, so he cannot hide away for too long. Wincing, Miles drags his body into the shower, shying away from scalding heat before allowing it to sink into his bones, the ache in his waist and hips finally easing. It is a slow process, and he knows that the provided shampoo will ruin his delicate hair, but eventually Miles is clean and dressed in a bathrobe once more.
Stepping outside, Miles freezes as he takes a look at the lavish room service spread laid out across the desk. Lang stands over it, the robe tied loosely around his waist leaving nothing to the imagination now that the light has been turned on; defined muscles lightly traced by scars stand proud in the warm light, dog tags now clearly visible around his neck. His thick brow is hidden for once, his sandy blond hair falling into his eyes. Even through his messy look, Miles can distinctly spot the focus and care in dark, almond-shaped eyes; his hands move with a delicacy that honestly surprises the prosecutor, watching Lang set up two plates full of food with a neatness that pleases Miles innately.
A quick glance around nets him nothing but a small card from the hotel's laundry service, explaining the disappearance of both his and Agent Lang's clothing. Clearing his throat, Miles steps forward. "You… truly did not need to."
Instantly, Lang shoots him a dark glower. "Quiet, pup," he scolds, handing over a plate. Miles accepts it with a sigh, taking a seat at the small coffee table by the window as Lang hurries over to the other side of the desk, pouring out a cup of coffee and a cup of tea.
Raising a brow, Miles comments, "You… know how I take my tea?"
To his surprise, Lang's cheeks flush slightly as he adds precisely one cube of sugar, a small dollop of cream, and mixes it up, his thick fingers too large holding that delicate teaspoon. "I've seen you drink tea, Miles Edgeworth. I don't forget."
There is something strangely unsettling about the certainty with which Lang says those words, but Miles does not know how to even begin the conversation. How is he supposed to react? Amidst his silence, the Interpol agent merely grabs his own plate, settles down across from Miles, then brings his coffee up to his lips; before he sips, however, his eyes flick up, a flash of concern lancing across his face.
Miles does not know how to respond when Agent Lang strides into the bathroom, bringing out a small towel from the rack. Ignoring Miles' spluttered complaints, the taller man wraps the towel around Miles' neck. "Don't get sick," he chides softly. Then, he takes a seat, digging into his food with surprising restraint.
Miles pokes at his food, the strangeness of the situation numbing his appetite. He wants to speak, but no words appear on his tongue. Lang had acted earlier as if they were going to talk about how to move forward from this situation as professional colleagues, but the other man now solely focuses upon his food, only glancing up occasionally to ensure that Miles' teacup is full and that he is eating properly; a few times, he reaches out without any semblance of hesitation, wiping food off of Miles' lips with a gentleness that simultaneously makes Miles want to squawk in protest and gawk dazedly at his boldness.
After he has made a sizeable dent in his meal, Miles finally dredges up the courage to speak. "You… I thought you wanted to speak about-" and he gestures about himself, unable to find the words to define the mess in which they find themselves.
Lang sighs, sitting back in his chair and tilting his chin up to think. "Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth," he says, voice uncharacteristically hoarse. Miles almost comments on it before he feels himself flush from head to toe, snippets of sounds from the night before filtering into his mind.
Clearing his throat, he manages to hum in response. After a moment, Lang continues, "You know, I've worked with many men around the world. Do you know the best way to get information out of a criminal, Edgeworth?"
Miles frowns, calming down slightly as he crosses his arms, reflecting on this. Impatient fingers tap along his arm, a deep breath filling his lungs. "Present evidence to showcase contradictions in their testimony. You press them until they talk themselves into a corner, providing irrefutable evidence along the way. Why?"
Agent Lang grins, sharp canines bared in a way that makes Miles distinctly uncomfortable, more so than he ever has been before in the agent's presence. "I'd say you're pretending to be too soft, Mr. Prosecutor," Lang teases. "If you want info from a criminal? You break them down. You and I both know that you know exactly how to do that."
Flushing, Miles looks away. "I don't do it unjustly," he mutters, shifting in his seat.
Lang carries on. "So, do you know how to get information out of an innocent man?"
That question is decidedly uncommon, catching Miles' attention. "Out of an innocent man? Well…"
The other man impersonates a buzzer going off, snapping his fingers. "Too slow, prosecutor." Then, strangely enough, Agent Lang's expression softens, the man leaning his chin on his hands with the kind of smile that Miles does not know how to accurately identify.
After a minute of silently waiting, the unease growing thicker by the second, Miles finally splutters out, "What do you do then, exactly?"
Seemingly satisfied, the agent leans back in his seat again. "You wait," he says with a glib snicker. "You give them space to breathe."
Deadpan, Miles sighs, running his hands back through his hair. It has noticeably dried, the towel on his neck too damp now to hold there any longer; hanging it on the back of the chair, he mutters, "And what if an innocent man gives you nothing?"
"We'll have to wait and see," is the immediate response.
Suddenly, a wave of shame crashes into Miles once more. It is choking, cloying, filling up his lungs and stealing the very air from his blood as he tries to spit out a response. "I'm… not innocent in all this," he says bitterly, the image of Phoenix's gullible smile only augmenting his own self-hatred. His fingers curl up into tight fists upon his knees. "Please, can we not just forget this whole thing-"
"I don't like prosecutors, Miles Edgeworth," Lang cuts in bluntly, "but you've proven yourself to be more than just a regular prosecutor this week. You're nobler than the rest. I'll stand by that assessment, so have some confidence." The sheer understanding in his eyes both makes Miles feel weak and want to vomit all at once. "You can take your time in talking, but I think I know more than you'd like to admit. Why not just tell it all?" He hesitates, then adds, "You can't just bottle up whatever you feel for that Phoenix guy forever-"
Before Miles is forced to respond, there is a knock on the door. Rushing over in a flurry of movement, Miles opens it up, finding a hotel staff member holding two dry-cleaned outfits in his hands; Miles accepts them gratefully, closing the door and hanging up Lang's clothes in the entranceway closet. Then, without another word, he ducks into the bathroom with his own clothes.
He needs to get out of here.
When he finally musters up the strength to step out of the bathroom, he finds a decidedly-tidy, empty suite awaiting him. A single note sits upon the neat bedspread, the writing bold in entirely capital letters, oddly vivacious- nothing like the neat, elegant cursive which Miles favours. 'Here's my number. If you need to talk about it, let me know. Take care, Mr. Prosecutor.' Below is Agent Lang's phone number, the digits resembling the same pattern as Franziska's operative number. Mutely, Miles inputs the digits into his cell phone out of sheer habit, gathers his courage, then crumples the note up into his pocket, storming out of the hotel as fast as his feet can carry him.
The room and service and laundry bill has already been paid in full, he finds out as he stops at the counter; and, much to his horror, there is another booking made under the same name in three weeks.
Miles gulps. Why did Agent Lang try to go this far? What is he doing?
All Miles wants to do is pretend nothing had happened the night before. Halfway down the block, however, the unmistakable twinge in his hips and the heaviness of a lavish breakfast in his gut makes themselves known, leaving him dizzy and flushed.
Miles does not need to be taken care of, nor is he here to accept charity. This is just a one-off thing, he tells himself; the next time Agent Shi-Long Lang comes to LA, it shall not be to see Miles. After all, if Miles returns to that hotel in three weeks' time, what face is he supposed to wear in Lang's presence? How much is he supposed to share? Why should he even bother?
His chest aches the entire way home. There is something within him- something indelible, carved deep, even though he knows the marks on his skin shall heal soon enough. He tells himself it is nothing. There is no reason for him to note anything out of the ordinary, even if these sensations feel like remnants of fingertips tracing over his skin, gripping hard, holding him close. It is nothing, and Miles needs to just let go.
His bed is much colder that night than the previous. He shivers himself into slumber, and that is that.