Fanfiction: Phoenix Wright/Gyakuten Saiban: Even if You Never Understand Why. Part 2
Title: Even if You Never Understand Why.
Rating: PG/FROC for a few bad words, and an eventual, completely *non*sexual bath scene.
Genre: Slash.
Pairing/Characters: Narumitsu (P/E), the rest of the main cast.
Length: Long. As in, insanely so. Posted-in-chunks long. *sweatdrop*
Squicks: Miles is sick, but he'll get better.
Spoilers: Post GS4. Set a few months after "Forward into the Past."
Author's Notes: Written for the kink meme, and grown beyond all possible reasoning. For anyone's reference, it's filling this here: http://teagueful.livejournal.com/31002.html?thread=8391962#t8391962. I took a liberty in picking a birthdate for Miles, after extensive research at Court-Records. He seems like he would be older than Nick, but the calculation system for Edgey is borked.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't be where I am now, I'd be writing GS5, Turnabout Commitment Ceremonies, and raking in cash hand over fist.
"You sure you can handle it, right, pal?" Gumshoe leaned out the window, eyebrows drawn up in obvious worry.
"I'll be fine. If not, you know who to throw in jail because he killed me in a fit of delusional rage." They both laughed, and Nick gave him a wave as he headed up the walkway. "Treat her good, now!"
On the way over to the house that could only really be called a manor, he and Phoenix had discussed the apparent relationship between the secretary and the detective. He couldn't help but smile at the memory of Gumshoe's sustained blush as he stammered through his confusion about dating, and what was and wasn't appropriate for her to call him. Wright knocked on the door with the large, thudding brass ornament, still chuckling, but his smile gradually faded at the lack of response. He tried the bell, and was rewarded with a frenzy of barking, but no more.
Guess I'll just have to do this myself. He pulled out his key ring and undid the bolt, then the knob. He could feel the whoosh of heat hit him, and wondered how Miles was going to afford the bill. He no sooner stepped in than Pess was at his ankles, hopping, barking and panting. He reached down for a pat, but barely got a brush against the fur before the creature took off, barrelling toward one of the corridors. He tipped his head, automatically following. "Are you pulling a Lassie, and going to show me where Miles is, or are we going to the kitchen so I can feed you?"
He recognised the corridor, and shook his head when the dog made a beeline for its bowls, one empty, one filled with vegetables, he chuckled to himself. "Kitchen, of course. Why would I expect anything different?" He knew well enough where the dog food was, and nabbed up the bowls on the way to the counter. He dumped and rinsed the one, hearing a howl from what he assumed was the bathroom, and filled it with tepid liquid. "Switching 'em around, boy, since your water bowl's dry." It didn't take him long to get the dog sorted out, and loosened his tie to puff out his shirt collar.
On his way to the bathroom he knew Edgeworth would be using, he passed the thermostat, and frowned at the controls. "Set to heat on ninety? Oh, hell no. Miles, you are sick, and if I have to knock you out and drag you to the doctor, we are going," he muttered. He set the system to a more reasonable level and locked it before continuing on. He could see the steam trickling out of the bedroom; the man had to have been in there a long time for it to have gotten that far. He waded through the mist and made it to the bathroom, taking a breath before he opened the door. As he expected, the steam hit his face and whooshed past him in a white cloud, and he blew out, waving it away so he could see.
"Don't open the goddamned door!" At least, Phoenix thought that's what the man said; it could have been a curse in German, for all he could tell.
"Too late," he coughed back, as he walked over toward the shower. "This is an intervention. Miles Edgeworth, I accuse you of being sick as hell, and I order you to come with me to the doctor."
A dripping, flushed face glared out at him as he twitched back the curtain. "Not. Going."
"Listen, Miles, you're sick. I can tell from here. If we can find out what it is, maybe get you some medicine, you'll feel better. I've already lined up someone to take your hit-and-run."
The frown deepened, and Phoenix stepped closer, trying to gauge the location of the taps. "The hell did you find out about that?" His voice low and hoarse, Miles choked out his words through a swollen throat. Phoenix was happy he'd learned to understand the peculiar nature of his friend's reaction to illness, and could understand him despite the odd way his words came out.
"Your secretary was worried about you and accosted me after my trial today." He saw two pale eyebrows draw up in confusion, and flicked his eyes down to look for silver. He located the gleam of chrome, and stepped closer to the curtain. A few motions shrugged off his jacket, and he began to roll up his sleeves.
"Trial? No, your trial's on Monday. It's Saturday." Hm, that explained the lack of communication. "Why are you dressed up on a Saturday?"
"Miles, today is Wednesday," he explained in a gentle tone. "And, I'm dressed up because I finished a trial today. The first one since I regained my license."
"Why're you rolling up your sleeves?"
"It's hot in here." Faster than he knew Miles could react, he reached into the shower and nabbed the lever. Slamming it down to shut off the flow, he then rocked back to get his fingers into the large towel he'd spotted on the counter and hold it out. "How long have you been in the shower?"
"Jesus Christ, it's freezing in here? Why did you do that? I can't warm up!"
"You are sick, Miles. And, we are going to go to the doctor so we can help you get better."
Edgeworth shook his head, splattering Phoenix with water. He was almost grateful that the prosecutor had turned the room into a sauna; a few drops weren't much compared to the humidity of an entire summer's day crammed into his clothes and hair.
"Yes, we are," he insisted. "Now, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to help you dry off, and we'll pick out some clothes for you. While you get dressed, I'm going to call the doctor. If he can't get you in, then we're going to the ER."
"No..."
Phoenix ignored him and began to pat him dry. The normally pale skin was livid with red, not to mention pruny; he had to have been in that shower for a long time. "I knew you'd see it my way."
"But, I did--"
"Shh."
"Bu-"
"Shh." More patting, lifting each arm in turn.
"Ph--"
"Sh." He cut the sound off with his tongue, remembering some movie or other where someone had done that repeatedly. "Don't talk. It hurts, remember?"
An uncertain nod, and Phoenix beamed. "That's right. Talking hurts. And you want it to stop hurting, yes?"
Another nod.
"Perfect."
"You can't drive."
Phoenix closed his eyes in aggravation; couldn't he stop being stubborn just for once? Pliable patients were much more easy to deal with. "I don't have a car, Miles. I can drive just fine. We'll take yours."
"No."
"Exactly." He knew he was taking advantage of the stupor the illness and heat had put his friend into, but confusing him seemed to work. With Miles finally dry, they moved to the bedroom, and Phoenix pulled out a set of his own clothes rather than anything Miles himself had. They were lucky enough to wear nearly the same size, and the jeans and sweatshirt would keep the poor man warmer than any of his own few polo shirts and slacks. With the location and laying-out of underwear and socks, he left the prosecutor to dress himself, and moved to his office to find his address book.
The number was listed under P rather than D, which made Nick chuckle--even for himself, Edgeworth was always so formal. He picked up the phone and punched in the number, counting the rings.
"Crestwood Medical Offices, how may I direct your call?" The woman's voice was crisp and efficient, and Phoenix hoped the rest of the endeavour would be so easy.
"Scheduling please."
"One moment."
A pause, and he leaned back to gaze through the bedroom door, making sure Miles hadn't sneaked off into the shower again. "Scheduling, how may I help you?"
"Hi, I'd like to make an appointment today, if I can, please?"
"Name?"
"The appointment is for Miles Edgeworth."
"Birthdate?"
"January seventeenth, 1992."
"Doctor Howe is out of the office until Monday. Would you like to see a different doctor?"
Phoenix switched ears, and shifted to look through the doorway again. "I really don't care who he sees there, as long as he can see someone soon; he's got it bad. Disoriented, swollen throat, shivering and he says he can't get warm. He has the heat cranked up to ninety, and I'm guessing he was in the shower for at least half an hour before I pulled him out. Fever's probably up pretty high, but since I just got him out of the water, I can't even try to get an accurate temp on him now."
"That does sound pretty bad." She paused, and the sound of clicking keys rang clearly through the line. "We have one at two o'clock with Doctor Dewey, or a one-fifteen with Doctor Hilam, if you can make it over in time."
He glanced at the clock, which read five to one. "We'll do the one-fifteen," he decided. Crestwood Drive wasn't that far away, and he wondered if Edgeworth had picked the clinic because it was between his home and the office. "What's the cross-street?"
"Eighty-sixth Avenue West."
"Got it," he replied, fixing it in his mind. "I know how to get there. We'll be right in, thank you." He headed back into the bedroom, and nabbed the man's wallet and keys. To his relief, Miles was dressed, and had only just begin to pull the covers back to burrow into them.
"Nuh-uh-uh," he chided, taking Miles's arm. "We're going out."
"Tired..." Grey eyes slid down to gaze longingly at the bed, and Phoenix felt the tug at his heart at the truly pathetic state his normally composed and stiff friend was in.
"You can nap in the car. It's really hot out, but I promise, I'll blast the heat in it, so you can warm up." He couldn't help a chuckle at the look of sleepy elation on Miles's face at the word 'warm,' and guided them out to the garage.
Part 3
Part 1
Rating: PG/FROC for a few bad words, and an eventual, completely *non*sexual bath scene.
Genre: Slash.
Pairing/Characters: Narumitsu (P/E), the rest of the main cast.
Length: Long. As in, insanely so. Posted-in-chunks long. *sweatdrop*
Squicks: Miles is sick, but he'll get better.
Spoilers: Post GS4. Set a few months after "Forward into the Past."
Author's Notes: Written for the kink meme, and grown beyond all possible reasoning. For anyone's reference, it's filling this here: http://teagueful.livejournal.com/31002.html?thread=8391962#t8391962. I took a liberty in picking a birthdate for Miles, after extensive research at Court-Records. He seems like he would be older than Nick, but the calculation system for Edgey is borked.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't be where I am now, I'd be writing GS5, Turnabout Commitment Ceremonies, and raking in cash hand over fist.
"You sure you can handle it, right, pal?" Gumshoe leaned out the window, eyebrows drawn up in obvious worry.
"I'll be fine. If not, you know who to throw in jail because he killed me in a fit of delusional rage." They both laughed, and Nick gave him a wave as he headed up the walkway. "Treat her good, now!"
On the way over to the house that could only really be called a manor, he and Phoenix had discussed the apparent relationship between the secretary and the detective. He couldn't help but smile at the memory of Gumshoe's sustained blush as he stammered through his confusion about dating, and what was and wasn't appropriate for her to call him. Wright knocked on the door with the large, thudding brass ornament, still chuckling, but his smile gradually faded at the lack of response. He tried the bell, and was rewarded with a frenzy of barking, but no more.
Guess I'll just have to do this myself. He pulled out his key ring and undid the bolt, then the knob. He could feel the whoosh of heat hit him, and wondered how Miles was going to afford the bill. He no sooner stepped in than Pess was at his ankles, hopping, barking and panting. He reached down for a pat, but barely got a brush against the fur before the creature took off, barrelling toward one of the corridors. He tipped his head, automatically following. "Are you pulling a Lassie, and going to show me where Miles is, or are we going to the kitchen so I can feed you?"
He recognised the corridor, and shook his head when the dog made a beeline for its bowls, one empty, one filled with vegetables, he chuckled to himself. "Kitchen, of course. Why would I expect anything different?" He knew well enough where the dog food was, and nabbed up the bowls on the way to the counter. He dumped and rinsed the one, hearing a howl from what he assumed was the bathroom, and filled it with tepid liquid. "Switching 'em around, boy, since your water bowl's dry." It didn't take him long to get the dog sorted out, and loosened his tie to puff out his shirt collar.
On his way to the bathroom he knew Edgeworth would be using, he passed the thermostat, and frowned at the controls. "Set to heat on ninety? Oh, hell no. Miles, you are sick, and if I have to knock you out and drag you to the doctor, we are going," he muttered. He set the system to a more reasonable level and locked it before continuing on. He could see the steam trickling out of the bedroom; the man had to have been in there a long time for it to have gotten that far. He waded through the mist and made it to the bathroom, taking a breath before he opened the door. As he expected, the steam hit his face and whooshed past him in a white cloud, and he blew out, waving it away so he could see.
"Don't open the goddamned door!" At least, Phoenix thought that's what the man said; it could have been a curse in German, for all he could tell.
"Too late," he coughed back, as he walked over toward the shower. "This is an intervention. Miles Edgeworth, I accuse you of being sick as hell, and I order you to come with me to the doctor."
A dripping, flushed face glared out at him as he twitched back the curtain. "Not. Going."
"Listen, Miles, you're sick. I can tell from here. If we can find out what it is, maybe get you some medicine, you'll feel better. I've already lined up someone to take your hit-and-run."
The frown deepened, and Phoenix stepped closer, trying to gauge the location of the taps. "The hell did you find out about that?" His voice low and hoarse, Miles choked out his words through a swollen throat. Phoenix was happy he'd learned to understand the peculiar nature of his friend's reaction to illness, and could understand him despite the odd way his words came out.
"Your secretary was worried about you and accosted me after my trial today." He saw two pale eyebrows draw up in confusion, and flicked his eyes down to look for silver. He located the gleam of chrome, and stepped closer to the curtain. A few motions shrugged off his jacket, and he began to roll up his sleeves.
"Trial? No, your trial's on Monday. It's Saturday." Hm, that explained the lack of communication. "Why are you dressed up on a Saturday?"
"Miles, today is Wednesday," he explained in a gentle tone. "And, I'm dressed up because I finished a trial today. The first one since I regained my license."
"Why're you rolling up your sleeves?"
"It's hot in here." Faster than he knew Miles could react, he reached into the shower and nabbed the lever. Slamming it down to shut off the flow, he then rocked back to get his fingers into the large towel he'd spotted on the counter and hold it out. "How long have you been in the shower?"
"Jesus Christ, it's freezing in here? Why did you do that? I can't warm up!"
"You are sick, Miles. And, we are going to go to the doctor so we can help you get better."
Edgeworth shook his head, splattering Phoenix with water. He was almost grateful that the prosecutor had turned the room into a sauna; a few drops weren't much compared to the humidity of an entire summer's day crammed into his clothes and hair.
"Yes, we are," he insisted. "Now, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to help you dry off, and we'll pick out some clothes for you. While you get dressed, I'm going to call the doctor. If he can't get you in, then we're going to the ER."
"No..."
Phoenix ignored him and began to pat him dry. The normally pale skin was livid with red, not to mention pruny; he had to have been in that shower for a long time. "I knew you'd see it my way."
"But, I did--"
"Shh."
"Bu-"
"Shh." More patting, lifting each arm in turn.
"Ph--"
"Sh." He cut the sound off with his tongue, remembering some movie or other where someone had done that repeatedly. "Don't talk. It hurts, remember?"
An uncertain nod, and Phoenix beamed. "That's right. Talking hurts. And you want it to stop hurting, yes?"
Another nod.
"Perfect."
"You can't drive."
Phoenix closed his eyes in aggravation; couldn't he stop being stubborn just for once? Pliable patients were much more easy to deal with. "I don't have a car, Miles. I can drive just fine. We'll take yours."
"No."
"Exactly." He knew he was taking advantage of the stupor the illness and heat had put his friend into, but confusing him seemed to work. With Miles finally dry, they moved to the bedroom, and Phoenix pulled out a set of his own clothes rather than anything Miles himself had. They were lucky enough to wear nearly the same size, and the jeans and sweatshirt would keep the poor man warmer than any of his own few polo shirts and slacks. With the location and laying-out of underwear and socks, he left the prosecutor to dress himself, and moved to his office to find his address book.
The number was listed under P rather than D, which made Nick chuckle--even for himself, Edgeworth was always so formal. He picked up the phone and punched in the number, counting the rings.
"Crestwood Medical Offices, how may I direct your call?" The woman's voice was crisp and efficient, and Phoenix hoped the rest of the endeavour would be so easy.
"Scheduling please."
"One moment."
A pause, and he leaned back to gaze through the bedroom door, making sure Miles hadn't sneaked off into the shower again. "Scheduling, how may I help you?"
"Hi, I'd like to make an appointment today, if I can, please?"
"Name?"
"The appointment is for Miles Edgeworth."
"Birthdate?"
"January seventeenth, 1992."
"Doctor Howe is out of the office until Monday. Would you like to see a different doctor?"
Phoenix switched ears, and shifted to look through the doorway again. "I really don't care who he sees there, as long as he can see someone soon; he's got it bad. Disoriented, swollen throat, shivering and he says he can't get warm. He has the heat cranked up to ninety, and I'm guessing he was in the shower for at least half an hour before I pulled him out. Fever's probably up pretty high, but since I just got him out of the water, I can't even try to get an accurate temp on him now."
"That does sound pretty bad." She paused, and the sound of clicking keys rang clearly through the line. "We have one at two o'clock with Doctor Dewey, or a one-fifteen with Doctor Hilam, if you can make it over in time."
He glanced at the clock, which read five to one. "We'll do the one-fifteen," he decided. Crestwood Drive wasn't that far away, and he wondered if Edgeworth had picked the clinic because it was between his home and the office. "What's the cross-street?"
"Eighty-sixth Avenue West."
"Got it," he replied, fixing it in his mind. "I know how to get there. We'll be right in, thank you." He headed back into the bedroom, and nabbed the man's wallet and keys. To his relief, Miles was dressed, and had only just begin to pull the covers back to burrow into them.
"Nuh-uh-uh," he chided, taking Miles's arm. "We're going out."
"Tired..." Grey eyes slid down to gaze longingly at the bed, and Phoenix felt the tug at his heart at the truly pathetic state his normally composed and stiff friend was in.
"You can nap in the car. It's really hot out, but I promise, I'll blast the heat in it, so you can warm up." He couldn't help a chuckle at the look of sleepy elation on Miles's face at the word 'warm,' and guided them out to the garage.
Part 3
Part 1