The blackguard sat hard down with no head on him now
Who: Miles Liesworth and Scam Merlotte
When: Monday, November 29, 2010.
Where: The Merlotte and Edgeworth Love Den
Summary: Edgeworth is trying like hell to make amends with Sam. That'll last, oh, roughly two minutes, because Sam, you know, ALMOST GOT KILLED BY YAHA. JESUS GDMF CHRIST.
Warnings: Well, language, for one. Discussion of Yaha, which is warning in and of itself. Maybe some gay later on? Hem hem hem? In any case, it's all SFW.
Water, and even tea, were poor potions by which one might wash crow down one's throat. Edgeworth's stance on alcohol had softened over the past few months - a natural byproduct of living with and having respect and esteem for a bartender - but he still did not particularly like or trust the stuff. Nevertheless, the fact that it was necessary for this encounter was glaring and unavoidable.
It was difficult, after all, for anyone to say I was wrong. More difficult by far to say that one was wrong in attempting to protect and defend another. And most difficult of all when one was Edgeworth himself, whose speeches were capable and whose arguments were sound but whose words to another person, a person whom he esteemed and respected, were inevitably clumsy and foolish and wrong. Alcohol, therefore, would let the words come more easily, would let him speak freely without dwelling on how he sounded; further, offering the same to Sam would perhaps calm his temper long enough for Edgeworth to speak.
I'm sorry, he practiced mentally as he carefully poured a glass of whiskey. It was hard in that moment not to take a step back and examine himself - he, who was supposed to be so proud, so fearsome, the terrifying Demon Prosecutor, forced now to turn to artificial substances so that he could even work up the courage to beg forgiveness. There was a time when he'd have forsaken someone rather than have to utter that I'm sorry. There was a time, indeed, when he'd not have been close enough to anyone to even be in a situation where he would need to ask forgiveness. He'd not have felt Sam's repudiation with keen pain, as he did now, nor the pain of the deaths around him. Unforgiving and unrepentant, he'd strode through life as more than a person, or perhaps less: he had been a tool of justice. Such instruments did not humble themselves.
It was so much harder to be a person.
My intent was, again, not to do you any harm, nor to betray you. I was merely aware that if I told you in advance, and things went wrong, then you could have been named by the law as a co-conspirator; alternatively, Yaha might have controlled me and murdered you, so as to ensure that the crime was not traced back to him. I merely wished to keep you safe. He grimaced both at the taste of alcohol on his lips and at the clumsy condescension of the words. I wished to...
Edgeworth looked up at he heard the keys in the lock. Sam was home comparatively early, by the sound of it. The man - the tool - he once was would have come into this perfectly prepared, as well, with every word memorized and prepared with crisp competence; as it stood, he was left sitting, bracing himself, trying to settle on precisely where to begin.
"Sam," was what he finally decided. His voice already felt heavy in his mouth, either from dread or drink. "Would you sit down?"
When: Monday, November 29, 2010.
Where: The Merlotte and Edgeworth Love Den
Summary: Edgeworth is trying like hell to make amends with Sam. That'll last, oh, roughly two minutes, because Sam, you know, ALMOST GOT KILLED BY YAHA. JESUS GDMF CHRIST.
Warnings: Well, language, for one. Discussion of Yaha, which is warning in and of itself. Maybe some gay later on? Hem hem hem? In any case, it's all SFW.
Water, and even tea, were poor potions by which one might wash crow down one's throat. Edgeworth's stance on alcohol had softened over the past few months - a natural byproduct of living with and having respect and esteem for a bartender - but he still did not particularly like or trust the stuff. Nevertheless, the fact that it was necessary for this encounter was glaring and unavoidable.
It was difficult, after all, for anyone to say I was wrong. More difficult by far to say that one was wrong in attempting to protect and defend another. And most difficult of all when one was Edgeworth himself, whose speeches were capable and whose arguments were sound but whose words to another person, a person whom he esteemed and respected, were inevitably clumsy and foolish and wrong. Alcohol, therefore, would let the words come more easily, would let him speak freely without dwelling on how he sounded; further, offering the same to Sam would perhaps calm his temper long enough for Edgeworth to speak.
I'm sorry, he practiced mentally as he carefully poured a glass of whiskey. It was hard in that moment not to take a step back and examine himself - he, who was supposed to be so proud, so fearsome, the terrifying Demon Prosecutor, forced now to turn to artificial substances so that he could even work up the courage to beg forgiveness. There was a time when he'd have forsaken someone rather than have to utter that I'm sorry. There was a time, indeed, when he'd not have been close enough to anyone to even be in a situation where he would need to ask forgiveness. He'd not have felt Sam's repudiation with keen pain, as he did now, nor the pain of the deaths around him. Unforgiving and unrepentant, he'd strode through life as more than a person, or perhaps less: he had been a tool of justice. Such instruments did not humble themselves.
It was so much harder to be a person.
My intent was, again, not to do you any harm, nor to betray you. I was merely aware that if I told you in advance, and things went wrong, then you could have been named by the law as a co-conspirator; alternatively, Yaha might have controlled me and murdered you, so as to ensure that the crime was not traced back to him. I merely wished to keep you safe. He grimaced both at the taste of alcohol on his lips and at the clumsy condescension of the words. I wished to...
Edgeworth looked up at he heard the keys in the lock. Sam was home comparatively early, by the sound of it. The man - the tool - he once was would have come into this perfectly prepared, as well, with every word memorized and prepared with crisp competence; as it stood, he was left sitting, bracing himself, trying to settle on precisely where to begin.
"Sam," was what he finally decided. His voice already felt heavy in his mouth, either from dread or drink. "Would you sit down?"