Channeling Devotion
Title: Channeling Devotion
Rating: G
Characters: Gregory Edgeworth, Miles Edgeworth and a very brief appearance from Gant (who refuses to get out of my fanfic, no matter how little I want him there.)
Time Period: Just after DL-6
Words: 1500 or so
Notes: This fic was inspired by this drabble by Pyrasaur, who has my love and devotion. I promised to bring her love at some point in the future, and this is not it, but it comes with love. It’s a DL-6 anniversary fic. Special thanks to chewy_kinzoku for beta reading and edit help.
Stars exploded in front of his eyelids and he felt like he was falling. He slowly woke up. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the earthquake, being stuck in the elevator, and a fight with a court bailiff as they ran out of air… They must have been rescued, he must be in the hospital. But the light that glowed faint in front of his closed eyes was not the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the smell that wafted in front of his nose was not the antiseptic hospital smell. It was a warm, cinnamony incense, a pleasant and yet foreign smell.
For that matter, he wasn’t lying in a bed, he was crouching on the floor, draped with a thick fabric. It was then that he realized that something was wrong - a bitter feeling surged down through his neck and chest. He leapt to his feet, thick hand-woven fabric coursing over his shoulders like water. He stumbled a little, as if he was just getting used to his body.
He opened his eyes, looking through a dim circle of candlelight, surrounded by familiar yet blurry faces. He groped for his glasses, finding them next to a favorite pen on a folded towel in front of where he had been kneeling. They… they were all detectives. Men he’d known for many years, though they were never close friends with him, looking at him with white faces as if they’d seen…
It hit him suddenly: the memory of darkness, and his son’s shouting voice.
“Mister Edgeworth…?” came a very fearful voice from his left.
He looked over at the rugged face of a detective he had known, the lines made unfamiliar by strain. He ignored the expression. “What…” his voice was hoarse and odd, “Where…”
“Mister Edgeworth.” to his right, another, more confident voice - a different man. Steel-sharp green eyes met his, and silence followed his statement. The silence answered all of Gregory Edgeworth’s questions. He had heard in his years as a defense attorney about spirit mediums: the vague rumors; his swirling, fevered memories; and the heat of the stone at his chest resolved themselves into a single, awful truth. He was now a victim himself.
Everything fell away before his only concern, “Miles.” His eyes met the steely detective’s face - it had resolved into a Cheshire smile. “Where is my son?” he said, his voice resounding, furious at the lackadaisical expression on the detective’s face.
“He’s all right.” The smiling man said. He’d met this man before, what was his name? “He’s come out of the hospital, he’s staying with a neighbor.”
“I need him here.”
“First we want to ask you a few questions-“ the man’s gloved hands laced together with a slight squeaking noise.
“No.” His voice was overpowering, “Bring him to me.”
“Are you sure you want him to see you like this?” the man said with a smirk.
For the first time, Gregory Edgeworth realized that the odd feeling at the back of his neck was hair, not his own but different, darker hair in a woman’s style. He looked down at the clothes he was wearing - a Japanese-style woman’s robe and wooden sandals. He ignored the man, “I want to see my son,” he said.
For a long time, the man said nothing, his expression unreadable as he stared at Gregory.
Then he turned, “Find the Edgeworth boy,” he said to the other detectives. They rushed off, out of the darkened room.
Long moments passed before anyone spoke to him again. He paced around the circle drawn on the floor with candles and chalk. He could not pass the borders of it. His hand stopped in mid-air, his legs refused to move forward.
Ignoring a tiny voice that warned him that he must leave the body as he found it, reminding him of the warnings of innumerable scoutmasters on camping trips as a boy, he ran his hands through the stranger’s hair, attempting to get it into a more familiar pattern. He had been an Eagle Scout, he remembered… when he was alive. His heart clenched, beating, lying to him. It wasn’t his heart, he supposed.
The steely-eyed detective still stood outside the circle, alone now, staring at him as he paced. He half-expected the man to strike up conversation, but his searching gaze saw nothing but utilitarianism in the detective’s manner. He understood that Gregory would not speak until he saw his son, so he would not ask questions until Miles arrived.
Gregory had never been a fan of silence, however, “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten your name, Detective.”
“Damon Gant,” the man said simply.
“I see. I’m not sure we’ve ever worked together.”
“We never have,” the man said, one salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised, “You’re a defense attorney.”
Gregory nodded distractedly, “Ah,” He said simply. Many of the detectives had that attitude about defense attorneys. He didn’t blame them. It was usually his job to explain how they’d failed to do their jobs.
The door creaked open after about ten minutes, and a detective leaned in, “He’s on his way, sir.”
Gant nodded, “Come back when he’s here.”
Gregory let the silence return, taking a deep breath. As each moment passed, he felt his strength ebb slightly, like a grain of sand through an hourglass. He knew his time was limited, but he was nowhere near that limit. He would not budge an inch until he saw his son.
Long moments later, his boy burst through the door, running pell-mell into the room, his face drawn and grey.
He halted at the edge of the circle, “Father…” he mumbled, his eyes wide.
“Miles.” His voice was like that of a man tormented by thirst.
His son traversed the circle easily, burying himself in his father’s arms. He seemed to be aware of the strangeness of the situation, but he had more important things to do right now. Gregory held him, tears falling readily from his eyes, a stranger’s eyes.
“Father, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ his son’s voice was a panicked babble, too quiet for the detectives to hear.
“What, what is it, Miles?” Gregory whispered into his ear.
“I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t tell them.” Miles’ teeth chattered anxiously, “I’m sorry. It was my fault! I’m sorry!”
Suddenly, his last moments came clear to Gregory Edgeworth… Losing consciousness, wrestling weakly with the court bailiff, he had heard his son’s panicked cry. Something landed heavily at his feet and he was deafened by a gunshot. The last thing he heard was a strangled scream as he fell unconscious. That scream must have been his.
“Son, it’s all right.” He brought his boy to arm’s length, willing strength into his voice, “It’s going to be all right.” Tears pricked his eyes, cruelly, “I won’t be able to see you after this…”
“No! No, Father, please.” Miles buried his head in Gregory’s neck.
“Shh…” he pushed the boy gently away, “You’ll have to be a big boy, Miles. Just like when your mother passed away.”
Miles’ eyes were wet and dark, but someone had clearly explained this to him in some way. “So you can’t come back,” he said, his lower lip quivering.
“No, son. I’m sorry.” He felt his son’s fists clutch painfully onto his arms, “It’s not your fault, Miles. Everything’s gonna be all right. I love you, son.”
“Daddy…” Miles had stopped calling him that after his mother’s death, deciding on his own that it was too childish. Gregory wished he hadn’t.
“Miles.” He met the boy’s eyes, “I have to talk to these people, but I promise you, everything will be all right. I’m going to make sure everything is all right. It’s not your fault.” Doubt shadowed his son’s eyes, “It’s not your fault,” he repeated.
“Daddy… don’t go.” His tiny fists were powerfully strong, “I’m sorry.” The boy’s voice cracked and faded to a whisper, desperately. Nothing had hurt Gregory Edgeworth more than the last thing his son ever said to him, and knowing he would not be there to ease his boy’s pain.
But there was something he could do. “It’ll be all right,” he promised. His voice was more serene now, more resigned. He knew what he had to do. He gently pried his son’s hands off the stranger’s clothing.
He caressed his boy’s head, kissed him, dried his tears. He let one of the detectives take his son away, knowing it would be the last time they would see each other.
He turned his face back towards the green-eyed detective, “I’ll talk now. I’ll tell you who killed me.”
The lesser detectives around him stood with pens at the ready, and Gregory knew what he had to do.
His favorite Scout Leader at Boy Scouts camp when he was Miles’ age had told him and the other boys never to go near a baby bear. Bear mothers, he’d said, would not worry about whether their baby was actually in danger, they would just barrel in and attack the perceived threat to their child. That memory never consciously returned to him as he threw the court bailiff to the wolves to protect his son, but he did notice that what he was doing felt powerfully nostalgic in a strange way.
Rating: G
Characters: Gregory Edgeworth, Miles Edgeworth and a very brief appearance from Gant (who refuses to get out of my fanfic, no matter how little I want him there.)
Time Period: Just after DL-6
Words: 1500 or so
Notes: This fic was inspired by this drabble by Pyrasaur, who has my love and devotion. I promised to bring her love at some point in the future, and this is not it, but it comes with love. It’s a DL-6 anniversary fic. Special thanks to chewy_kinzoku for beta reading and edit help.
Stars exploded in front of his eyelids and he felt like he was falling. He slowly woke up. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the earthquake, being stuck in the elevator, and a fight with a court bailiff as they ran out of air… They must have been rescued, he must be in the hospital. But the light that glowed faint in front of his closed eyes was not the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the smell that wafted in front of his nose was not the antiseptic hospital smell. It was a warm, cinnamony incense, a pleasant and yet foreign smell.
For that matter, he wasn’t lying in a bed, he was crouching on the floor, draped with a thick fabric. It was then that he realized that something was wrong - a bitter feeling surged down through his neck and chest. He leapt to his feet, thick hand-woven fabric coursing over his shoulders like water. He stumbled a little, as if he was just getting used to his body.
He opened his eyes, looking through a dim circle of candlelight, surrounded by familiar yet blurry faces. He groped for his glasses, finding them next to a favorite pen on a folded towel in front of where he had been kneeling. They… they were all detectives. Men he’d known for many years, though they were never close friends with him, looking at him with white faces as if they’d seen…
It hit him suddenly: the memory of darkness, and his son’s shouting voice.
“Mister Edgeworth…?” came a very fearful voice from his left.
He looked over at the rugged face of a detective he had known, the lines made unfamiliar by strain. He ignored the expression. “What…” his voice was hoarse and odd, “Where…”
“Mister Edgeworth.” to his right, another, more confident voice - a different man. Steel-sharp green eyes met his, and silence followed his statement. The silence answered all of Gregory Edgeworth’s questions. He had heard in his years as a defense attorney about spirit mediums: the vague rumors; his swirling, fevered memories; and the heat of the stone at his chest resolved themselves into a single, awful truth. He was now a victim himself.
Everything fell away before his only concern, “Miles.” His eyes met the steely detective’s face - it had resolved into a Cheshire smile. “Where is my son?” he said, his voice resounding, furious at the lackadaisical expression on the detective’s face.
“He’s all right.” The smiling man said. He’d met this man before, what was his name? “He’s come out of the hospital, he’s staying with a neighbor.”
“I need him here.”
“First we want to ask you a few questions-“ the man’s gloved hands laced together with a slight squeaking noise.
“No.” His voice was overpowering, “Bring him to me.”
“Are you sure you want him to see you like this?” the man said with a smirk.
For the first time, Gregory Edgeworth realized that the odd feeling at the back of his neck was hair, not his own but different, darker hair in a woman’s style. He looked down at the clothes he was wearing - a Japanese-style woman’s robe and wooden sandals. He ignored the man, “I want to see my son,” he said.
For a long time, the man said nothing, his expression unreadable as he stared at Gregory.
Then he turned, “Find the Edgeworth boy,” he said to the other detectives. They rushed off, out of the darkened room.
Long moments passed before anyone spoke to him again. He paced around the circle drawn on the floor with candles and chalk. He could not pass the borders of it. His hand stopped in mid-air, his legs refused to move forward.
Ignoring a tiny voice that warned him that he must leave the body as he found it, reminding him of the warnings of innumerable scoutmasters on camping trips as a boy, he ran his hands through the stranger’s hair, attempting to get it into a more familiar pattern. He had been an Eagle Scout, he remembered… when he was alive. His heart clenched, beating, lying to him. It wasn’t his heart, he supposed.
The steely-eyed detective still stood outside the circle, alone now, staring at him as he paced. He half-expected the man to strike up conversation, but his searching gaze saw nothing but utilitarianism in the detective’s manner. He understood that Gregory would not speak until he saw his son, so he would not ask questions until Miles arrived.
Gregory had never been a fan of silence, however, “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten your name, Detective.”
“Damon Gant,” the man said simply.
“I see. I’m not sure we’ve ever worked together.”
“We never have,” the man said, one salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised, “You’re a defense attorney.”
Gregory nodded distractedly, “Ah,” He said simply. Many of the detectives had that attitude about defense attorneys. He didn’t blame them. It was usually his job to explain how they’d failed to do their jobs.
The door creaked open after about ten minutes, and a detective leaned in, “He’s on his way, sir.”
Gant nodded, “Come back when he’s here.”
Gregory let the silence return, taking a deep breath. As each moment passed, he felt his strength ebb slightly, like a grain of sand through an hourglass. He knew his time was limited, but he was nowhere near that limit. He would not budge an inch until he saw his son.
Long moments later, his boy burst through the door, running pell-mell into the room, his face drawn and grey.
He halted at the edge of the circle, “Father…” he mumbled, his eyes wide.
“Miles.” His voice was like that of a man tormented by thirst.
His son traversed the circle easily, burying himself in his father’s arms. He seemed to be aware of the strangeness of the situation, but he had more important things to do right now. Gregory held him, tears falling readily from his eyes, a stranger’s eyes.
“Father, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ his son’s voice was a panicked babble, too quiet for the detectives to hear.
“What, what is it, Miles?” Gregory whispered into his ear.
“I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t tell them.” Miles’ teeth chattered anxiously, “I’m sorry. It was my fault! I’m sorry!”
Suddenly, his last moments came clear to Gregory Edgeworth… Losing consciousness, wrestling weakly with the court bailiff, he had heard his son’s panicked cry. Something landed heavily at his feet and he was deafened by a gunshot. The last thing he heard was a strangled scream as he fell unconscious. That scream must have been his.
“Son, it’s all right.” He brought his boy to arm’s length, willing strength into his voice, “It’s going to be all right.” Tears pricked his eyes, cruelly, “I won’t be able to see you after this…”
“No! No, Father, please.” Miles buried his head in Gregory’s neck.
“Shh…” he pushed the boy gently away, “You’ll have to be a big boy, Miles. Just like when your mother passed away.”
Miles’ eyes were wet and dark, but someone had clearly explained this to him in some way. “So you can’t come back,” he said, his lower lip quivering.
“No, son. I’m sorry.” He felt his son’s fists clutch painfully onto his arms, “It’s not your fault, Miles. Everything’s gonna be all right. I love you, son.”
“Daddy…” Miles had stopped calling him that after his mother’s death, deciding on his own that it was too childish. Gregory wished he hadn’t.
“Miles.” He met the boy’s eyes, “I have to talk to these people, but I promise you, everything will be all right. I’m going to make sure everything is all right. It’s not your fault.” Doubt shadowed his son’s eyes, “It’s not your fault,” he repeated.
“Daddy… don’t go.” His tiny fists were powerfully strong, “I’m sorry.” The boy’s voice cracked and faded to a whisper, desperately. Nothing had hurt Gregory Edgeworth more than the last thing his son ever said to him, and knowing he would not be there to ease his boy’s pain.
But there was something he could do. “It’ll be all right,” he promised. His voice was more serene now, more resigned. He knew what he had to do. He gently pried his son’s hands off the stranger’s clothing.
He caressed his boy’s head, kissed him, dried his tears. He let one of the detectives take his son away, knowing it would be the last time they would see each other.
He turned his face back towards the green-eyed detective, “I’ll talk now. I’ll tell you who killed me.”
The lesser detectives around him stood with pens at the ready, and Gregory knew what he had to do.
His favorite Scout Leader at Boy Scouts camp when he was Miles’ age had told him and the other boys never to go near a baby bear. Bear mothers, he’d said, would not worry about whether their baby was actually in danger, they would just barrel in and attack the perceived threat to their child. That memory never consciously returned to him as he threw the court bailiff to the wolves to protect his son, but he did notice that what he was doing felt powerfully nostalgic in a strange way.