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"Jesus pal, what were you thinking!" Gumshoe said, anger in his voice as he kept his grip on Edgeworth's wrist, refusing to let go no matter how hard Edgeworth pulled to get free.
"Unhand me, Detective!!" Edgeworth yelled back — the sound of their struggle echoing in the empty space — though it wasn't any use; Gumshoe held firm, keeping his wrist in such a vice grip he was practically lifting Edgeworth off of the ground with how high he was holding his bloodied hand to keep it out of reach.
"No. Not until you tell me what the hell it is you think you're doing here," Gumshoe growled, and Edgeworth couldn't help but shrink back a little at that.
He couldn't admit his reasoning to Gumshoe, after all — though, in truth, he had a feeling the detective already knew why he'd done what he'd done. The investigation that day had been a bust, after all, and Edgeworth taking his frustration over that fact and turning it into something like this hardly required much of a logical leap. Though, why he'd simply assumed everyone had left for the day and not bothered to check if that was true for Gumshoe as well was anyone's guess; an oversight that had quickly — (or, rather, immediately) — come back to haunt him.
"I don't have to explain myself to you!" Edgeworth snarled in lieu of an answer, still tugging to break free despite his obvious disadvantage. Gumshoe was much larger than he was, after all, and much stronger too, though that wasn’t going to stop Edgeworth from trying to fight him.
"What, you'd rather I report you for tampering with a crime scene?" Gumshoe asked, and Edgeworth winced at that, stilling for a moment.
Gumshoe absolutely could have him reported for that, couldn’t he? In fact, he should — not only had Edgeworth altered the state of the crime scene, he'd bled all over it too! What a farce! Had he really thought just because the crime scene was at some abandoned warehouse nobody would realise there was one broken window too many from one day to the next? Had he really thought the leather gloves he'd been wearing would keep him from cutting his hand? No, he'd been an idiot, and he'd acted like an idiot — all because he’d wanted to punish himself for letting the investigation go so badly, yet only succeeding in making it worse — and though it had been a relief peeling his glove off to find the cuts he'd sustained weren't nearly as bad as they could have been, it didn't change the fact that he'd made a monumental mistake getting caught like this.
And yet….knowing Gumshoe, well, Gumshoe wasn't going to report him, was he? Gumshoe was too good a person to rat out his friends, even if Edgeworth had done precious little to be thought of as such by Gumshoe.
"You wouldn't dare! I'd have you fired!" Edgeworth spat regardless, trying and failing to intimidate Gumshoe.
Still, it did give Gumshoe pause, and the detective loosened his grip a little, letting Edgeworth back down so he could stand more firmly on the ground, even if his expression went from outraged to sour.
"Yeah, I bet you would," he said bitterly, and a tightness spread in Edgeworth’s chest as he found himself suddenly flooded with feelings of regret.
Gumshoe was so rarely bitter with him — would so rarely show those feelings freely — but there was a limit to everyone's patience, wasn't there — even someone as patient as Gumshoe — and Edgeworth always knew how to find it, would push and push until he found it; always trying to find that point at which people would no longer care for him and finally write him off as the lost cause he was.
"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get you outta here," Gumshoe said, not quite as forceful as he'd been before, but still clearly just as upset, "Come on, I've got a first aid kit in the car."
“Oh,” Edgeworth thought to himself, “Oh no. Oh blast it all” — he was not going to just go along with Gumshoe like this without a fight; he was not being dragged out of here to Gumshoe's car like some common criminal! No, the detective was going to let him go and then he was going to go back to his own car. Granted, he didn't have a first aid kit in his own car, but Gumshoe didn't need to know about that. Gumshoe just needed to let go!
"I'm not going with you! Let go! Let go!" Edgeworth shouted, frantic, trying again to pull his hand free even as much as it hurt.
Gumshoe wouldn't have it. "Hey! Stop that! You're not some kid, quit acting like one!" he said, and Edgeworth's eyes went wide.
"I-... I'm not the one acting childish!" he sputtered, feeling mortified.
"You sure? 'Cause last I checked you're the one who decided to throw a temper tantrum and punch a goddamned window at a crime scene!"
Edgeworth winced at that, shrinking back again. Gumshoe was right, of course — punching glass in a fit of rage was bad enough; resisting help was probably worse. Still, what was he supposed to do? Apologise? To Gumshoe? No. He wasn’t prepared to do that. Gumshoe was partly to blame for this too, after all — if only Gumshoe had been a better detective, maybe they wouldn’t even be in this mess! Except, no, that wasn’t fair; Edgeworth had been here all day too and he hadn’t been able to turn up any new leads either. If anything, today’s failure had been a joint effort — he couldn’t really put the sole blame on Gumshoe for that.
Edgeworth didn’t answer, he didn’t really know what to say. Though, he did stop actively fighting Gumshoe, which Gumshoe quickly picked up on, eyeing an opening.
“Your hand’s gotta hurt, pal. Please just let me help you,” he said, voice much softer than before, sending shivers down Edgeworth's spine.
That was it. The fight was over. “Fine,” Edgeworth said sullenly, looking anywhere but at Gumshoe as his ears burned red.
Gumshoe nodded, finally releasing Edgeworth’s wrist. “My car’s just over here,” he said, leading the way.
Edgeworth had no choice but to follow, silently trailing behind the larger man as he watched Gumshoe pave a way for them through the snow, lit only by the dim, orange light of streetlights as they made their way to the desolate car park in the dark. Every so often, Gumshoe would glance over his shoulder to make sure Edgeworth was still there (as if Edgeworth was foolish enough to try to run off!) and Edgeworth couldn't help but scoff at the indignity of being escorted to Gumshoe's car like he was nothing more than some common criminal (even if he did feel oddly off-kilter and jittery, almost as if his brain had tricked itself into thinking he was actually in trouble). Not that it helped at all either that he actually had a crush on Gumshoe, and wasn’t that just the most idiotic thing imaginable — to have fallen for Gumshoe, of all people; his own detective? Sweet and innocent Gumshoe who always treated everyone like they were worthy of his time? Impudent, foolhardy Gumshoe who always did his best to help, no matter how dangerous or stupid? Kind and affectionate Gumshoe who welcomed even the sorriest of fools into his heart without even a moment's hesitation? It was certainly not a potential dalliance worthy of a disciple of Von Karma, that was for sure, and yet….
Edgeworth’s attraction to Gumshoe wasn’t one that surprised him — he’d known for some time now, after all, that the men he usually found himself attracted to tended to be men who were broader and taller than himself, men who could make him feel small and vulnerable, much as he was loath to admit it. Gumshoe fit that bill perfectly, of course, not least because, with his somewhat overprotective nature, he seemed to inspire within Edgeworth some dreadful, latent desire to be cared for; some horrible want to give up control to someone who wouldn't abuse it, who could be given such power and not wield it against him. And wasn’t that what he was doing, here, now, giving up his position of power as he obediently followed Gumshoe to his car? Edgeworth paled at the thought, shame spreading through him at the realisation there was a part of him that actually found the idea thrilling. Nothing would happen, of course — Gumshoe would never take advantage; Edgeworth knew this for a fact. The detective had even rebuffed Edgeworth once before, when Edgeworth had made a drunken pass at him on an out-of-town trip, the two of them worn out and buzzing after a long day stuck at the most tedious conference that thankfully served an abundance of wine.
"You're drunk," Gumshoe had said, a fond (if exasperated) chuckle on his lips as Edgeworth sat down in his lap, forcing the detective to hold him so he wouldn’t slide off and simply fall to the floor.
The blame for this development was Gumshoe's, of course — he was the one who'd messed up the booking so they'd ended up having to share a hotel room, and therefore also the only armchair within it. What other reason could there be for Edgeworth to find himself in Gumshoe's lap, after all? No, the prosecutor was just trying to make a point, that was all — the point being that he wanted the armchair, and Gumshoe was just an obstacle simply in his way.
"So what?" Edgeworth had muttered angrily back, aware that he was crossing a line but finding himself too drunk to care.
So what if he'd had too much to drink? So what if he wanted Gumshoe to hold him? They were alone here, and this wasn't home. This was some other place, some other time, and they were different people living different lives, existing outside of time and space, in this cheap, tacky hotel room with two narrow beds and only one chair. Von Karma wasn't here, he didn't need to know. Nobody needed to know, and Gumshoe wouldn't tell. He was good at keeping secrets, much better than he let on. It was one of those things people always got wrong about the detective; Gumshoe was only ever loose-lipped about things that didn't matter — if he needed to keep something secret, he would take it with him to the grave.
And yet…..even now, even here — in this pocket dimension with Edgeworth drunk and in his lap, wine on both their breaths and faces inches from the other's — Gumshoe still refused to play ball, wouldn't give in to any base desires.
"So I think you should go to bed," he had said instead, and made sure Edgeworth knew he did not intend to join him there.
Edgeworth had growled in response. "I could easily make you sleep in the lobby if I wanted to, Detective," he'd threatened, but Gumshoe had just laughed like he’d said something funny, the easy adoration with which Gumshoe always treated him giving Edgeworth butterflies even as he bristled at being made fun of.
"Yeah, I bet you would,” was Gumshoe's reply, said with a smile and affection in his voice….
Back in the present, Gumshoe was ushering Edgeworth into the backseat of his car. He didn’t speak, just turned on the ceiling light and the heating in an effort to make the frigid car feel more comfortable, then reached over the back of the seats to fish out a first aid kit hidden beneath the mess of things he kept in his trunk. Edgeworth didn’t say anything either, keeping silent as he watched Gumshoe ready the things they needed to treat Edgeworth’s hand. The first aid kit was clean and neatly organised, though Gumshoe was clearly running low on several oft-used items. A pang of guilt hit Edgeworth then, at the thought of Gumshoe having to share his already scarce resources with someone as loathsome and disgusting as himself; someone who, even after all this time, still hadn’t learnt to control his own horrible impulses. It didn’t seem fair. In fact, it was distinctly unfair. Though Edgeworth hadn’t asked Gumshoe to do this either — Gumshoe had demanded they do this, and that was on him. Edgeworth wouldn’t be here if he’d been given the choice. No, if he'd been given the choice he'd-
“Come on. Give me your hand,” Gumshoe said, breaking Edgeworth out of his thoughts. He’d reached his hand out, palm up, for Edgeworth to place his own hand into.
Edgeworth hesitated. There was no reason for Gumshoe to be the one to treat his wounds, not when he was perfectly capable of taking care of his own injuries. His uninjured hand was fine, after all, he didn’t need Gumshoe to help him.
“I can do this myself,” he said, and it was true — how many times hadn't he had to patch himself up like this before? This wasn't anything new; sustaining damage in this way, then having to deal with the outcome. He'd always been perfectly capable; had always done perfectly well on his own. Not since his father had still been alive had anyone offered to help clean his wounds — (Von Karma didn't care, after all, whenever Edgeworth showed up well after curfew bruised and bloodied after a fight; would only scoff and send him to his room with a dismissive wave of his hand, not even speaking a word).
"Sure you can," Gumshoe said matter-of-factly, acknowledging the fact he wasn't offering to do this because he believed Edgeworth incapable of doing it himself, "but I'm doing it for you."
"Why?"
"So you won't ever do this again."
Gumshoe’s voice was firm and Edgeworth knew at once what he meant, the thought of it making him shiver even as he acquiesced, giving Gumshoe his hand like he'd been told to.
"This is a punishment," Edgeworth said, not really sure why he’d felt the need to state it out loud, heat rising in his cheeks as Gumshoe took his hand, carefully examining it to properly assess the damage.
Perhaps it was a question….or perhaps he simply needed it affirmed. There was a part of him that wanted it, after all, a part of him that desperately needed it — to be punished, to suffer, to be put in his place — wasn't that why he'd punched that window in the first place? To teach himself a lesson; to force himself to suffer the consequences of his own actions in a way he wouldn’t soon forget? How would he ever improve, after all, if nobody held him accountable? How would he ever achieve perfection? How would he ever learn? How could he ever be redeemed? How could he live with himself, after all, knowing he'd done what he'd done? How could he justify the hypocrisy of making it his life's mission to send others to their deaths for a crime he himself had committed? How could he continue, knowing he himself was guilty and a criminal? And therein lied the crux, the very heart of Edgeworth's cowardly struggle; scared to death as he was of being caught and tried for the crime he'd committed — (the crime that haunted his nightmares; the crime that had ruined his life) — yet desperately needing deep down to atone for his sin; to be forgiven, absolved of his guilt, released from it.
“The weak-willed incertitudes of a fool,” a voice — his mentor’s voice — rang out in the back of his head, “One cannot escape one’s true nature, one cannot escape who one is at one’s core. The perfect will always be perfect, and the weak will always be weak. Tell me, Edgeworth, do you have what it takes to be perfect? Do you have what it takes to not fall back on base instincts — your lurid thoughts, your deviant desires — to not be a slave to your unchecked emotions?”
Did he? Did he have what it took? Or was he weak? …..Weak….. Yes. That’s what he was. It was true. He was weak. He’d tried so hard to make up for it — to be strong, to be unwavering, to be perfect — but it wasn’t who he was at his core. At his core he was tired and lonely. At his core he was riddled with doubts. At his core he knew full well the truth — (the truth he so desperately needed to escape, cowardly pretending to have the moral high ground when he knew full well he was no better than the lowest of the low) — even if he didn’t have the guts to admit it. The compromise, then, was to suffer — it was the least he could do to attempt to balance the scales of cosmic justice; to somehow make up for what he’d done; the innocent life that he'd taken — and it was only fair that he suffered, after all, it was only fair that he hurt himself, starved himself, worked himself to death. He welcomed it. He wanted it. He wanted Gumshoe to punish him. He wanted Gumshoe to be angry with him; to yell at him and hurt him — to validate his anger, his grief, his pain, through pain. To make him feel the full extent of his mistake. To make him feel as wretched as he was .
"Yeah," Gumshoe said, confirming Edgeworth's suspicion he was indeed being disciplined by the detective despite the obvious breach of established rank; the blatant disregard for protocol. Gumshoe's voice was soft and he looked tired — worn out after a long day, brows furrowed in concentration as he focussed on his task. He didn't look at Edgeworth, only at Edgeworth's hand, gently cleaning it as best he could with what limited resources they had available, probably thankful that Edgeworth's injuries were minor enough that he was able to treat them here in the car instead of having to rush him elsewhere (even if Edgeworth couldn't imagine this was how the detective had hoped to spend his evening, stuck in his car disciplining his partner). "You think you don't deserve it?"
Edgeworth's eyes pricked with tears even though he knew he couldn’t allow himself to cry. Did he deserve it? To have his wounds cleaned by gentle hands careful not to hurt him further? Did he deserve it? To have his self-inflicted injuries looked after by someone so patient and caring they were willing to put up with him despite his arrogance; despite his haughty self-importance? Did he deserve it? To feel the warmth of Gumshoe's touch against his skin as he was being tended to by him, his hand held gingerly in Gumshoe’s own as the detective dabbed at it with paper towels, his movements delicate yet deliberate as he prepared to wrap his wounded hand in bandages to stop the bleeding; crisp and white and clean and soft?
It wasn't even a question. The answer, of course, was ‘no’.
"Look, pal, I get it,” Gumshoe said with a sigh when Edgeworth didn’t respond, “We're all frustrated that the investigation today didn't turn up the leads we needed to get going with the case, but you gotta keep your head on, okay? You gotta keep it cool, because this, what you're doing here, this ain't helping anybody, this ain't good for anything. You’re already working so hard, and, well….I don’t want to see you punishing yourself any more than you already are. You're a good kid, Miles, and an even better prosecutor. I believe in you, we all do. But you gotta keep that temper of yours in check, okay? It’s bad enough you were snappy with everyone here today — this is just taking things a step too far.”
Edgeworth winced again at that, not quite believing he was actually being scolded by Gumshoe like some child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. And yet, wasn’t this also part of his fantasy? Hadn’t he dreamt of someone taking charge of him; of someone intervening, forcing him to stop? Hadn’t he dreamt of Gumshoe being that person? Wasn't there a part of him that wanted this — for someone to care enough to stop him? For someone else to decide the point at which he’d gone too far — taking that control away from him; forcing him into submission, (forcing him once and for all to accept the kindness he was being offered, welcomed into the soft embrace of Gumshoe's open arms.) And wasn’t this its own kind of punishment? Wasn’t this its own kind of pain — the kind of pain that stemmed from wanting something which should not be wanted, something so shameful it made his head spin? Was this not suffering, then? Being humiliated in this way? Wanting it? Welcoming it? Allowing himself to be seen like this? Wounded and vulnerable. Childish. Dependent. Despicable.
“Now, I know what you're thinkin’,” Gumshoe continued, unaware of Edgeworth’s struggle, (or perhaps he knew? No, he couldn’t, he couldn’t ), “you're my boss, so how come I'm giving you orders? Well, as the leading detective, crime scenes are my responsibility, technically, so I've got the authority to send people away if I have to. And I will do that if I have to. I can't have you running around making a mess of crime scenes just because you're feeling frustrated. If you can't behave, I got no choice but to send you home. Understood?"
Edgeworth could hardly breathe. "Understood," he muttered in reply, unable to look Gumshoe in the eyes. Gumshoe was right, after all — Edgeworth’s behaviour had been completely unacceptable, and he deserved to be called out for that.
"Then say it back to me," Gumshoe said, gently but firmly, adding to Edgeworth’s humiliation, making it complete.
"If I can't behave, you'll send me home," Edgeworth repeated meekly, every fibre of his being aching with how ashamed he felt, not only for allowing himself to be treated in this way, but for allowing himself to have acted in a way that made this situation possible in the first place. He was supposed to be perfect, after all, and perfect people didn't give in to violent urges, perfect people didn't allow themselves to be chastised by their own subordinates. It was undignified. Perverse.
"Good. All right,” Gumshoe said, apparently satisfied that Edgeworth had been thoroughly put in his place, “That's it, all done,” finally letting go of his hand, setting him free, “Now to what I actually wanted to talk to you about,” fishing out what looked to be an evidence bag from one of the pockets of his coat, holding it out to Edgeworth with a grin on his face, “I found this tucked away beneath some floorboards."
Edgeworth accepted the offered bag, careful not to let their fingers brush. "The missing cell phone," he said to himself, voice barely above a whisper.
So that’s why Gumshoe had been so close by when it happened: he’d been on his way to see him, to tell him he’d found this, probably happy and relieved and excited to tell him the good news that this as-of-yet-unfound vital piece of evidence that had been cropping up in several witness testimonies had finally been recovered. And instead…. instead he’d found Edgeworth…. bleeding from the hand…. from punching a window.
"Yeah. It may not be anything, but for now at least it's something,” Gumshoe said, looking tentatively pleased, “If we're lucky it hasn't been wiped, but considering it was still hidden, and hidden pretty well, I think our chances are good it's got something on it; maybe even the lead we need to break this case. I'm taking it to the lab straight away to have them crack it open, then I'm going home. You should do the same."
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. How could he go home? How could he go home now, when he’d done so little to earn it? When all he’d managed to do today was make a complete and utter fool of himself, not finding a single piece of useful evidence, then forcing Gumshoe to stay and take care of him; forcing Gumshoe to look after him, when surely that was the last thing Gumshoe wanted to do? No, he couldn’t go home; he had to stay. He had to stay and look for more evidence. He had to prove he could be useful. He had to-
"There's nothing more to be done here, pal. Not today at least,” Gumshoe said, as if reading his thoughts, “Go home. Get some rest. Or do you need me to drag you all the way back to your house?"
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. “Yes!” Edgeworth wanted to say, “ Do that! Drag me all the way back home! Come with me, please . And stay. Please stay. Don’t send me away. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me alone!” But he couldn’t, he couldn’t, it was wrong, it was all so very wrong, and he shouldn’t want this, he shouldn’t want this, he shouldn’t even be thinking such thoughts!
"Hey," Gumshoe said when he noticed Edgeworth's hesitation, reaching his hand out and placing it comfortingly on Edgeworth's shoulder. For a moment Edgeworth's eyes fluttered shut as he once again averted his gaze, and in that moment — with his eyes shut and his breath hitching — he could feel Gumshoe's hand travelling feather light from his shoulder to his neck, coming to a rest in such a way that the contact against his skin was not hindered by the presence of his cravat. He could have kept his eyes shut then, and leant into Gumshoe’s touch instead, but his eyes flew open from the shock, and he was met with Gumshoe’s — soft and full of kindness, his expression warm and free of judgement — as Edgeworth’s own watered once again, his body aching with the pain of want and grief.
And was this not what he'd wanted, then, was this not what he'd yearned for? Was this not punishment? To be shown such tender affection and love when he knew full well he did not deserve it? Was this not punishment? To feel the rough skin of Gumshoe’s palm against his neck as he gently caressed it with his thumb? Was this not punishment? To know that he could so easily lean forward and kiss him; put his own palm against Gumshoe’s face and feel the stubble on his chin; trace the curve of Gumshoe’s cheekbone with his fingers; taste the sweetness of Gumshoe's lips as Gumshoe kissed him tenderly back, soft and warm and loving?
Was this not punishment? To want something so badly that could not be his? To yearn so desperately for a happiness so easily within his reach, so vividly within his grasp, yet knowing — with unfaltering certainty — he was not allowed to claim it for himself?
"You're okay now," Gumshoe said softly, his hand moving up to cup Edgeworth's face, his fingers warm against Edgeworth’s jaw, "I said we're all done — no need to keep beating yourself up over it, if that's what you're doing."
It just wasn’t fair!!
“I’m doing no such thing!” Edgeworth spat, ripping Gumshoe’s hand from his face and pushing it away from himself with a terrifying force he didn't even know he had in him, the sudden movement knocking over the first aid kit between them so it flew to the floor, spilling its contents.
Edgeworth didn't care, or rather, he could not afford to care. “Do not take my compliance tonight as an invitation to treat me so casually. I am still your superior, and whilst I may have suffered a temporary lapse of judgement today, I will not have you undermine my authority in this way ever again. Do you understand!?" he snarled, pointing his finger at Gumshoe who looked, at first, shocked at the sudden development, then utterly forlorn as he came to terms with the mistake that he'd made.
Edgeworth's heart, for its part, was beating so fast he feared it might decide to simply give out, but this was what he had to do; it could not be any other way. He had to do this, even if it killed him; he couldn't afford to want, to feel, to care. He had an objective. He had a goal and he had to reach it; he had to reach perfection. Through perfection he would become redeemed. Through perfection he would be absolved. Through perfection his guilt would be forgiven. If he could become a beacon of justice, if he could become the blinding light that put criminals to death and rid the world of evil, then perhaps the universe would look more favourably upon him when the day of reckoning came and he would be set free of this guilt that was eating him up inside, devouring him from the inside out, piece by piece until there was nothing left of him.
“I said ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’!!”
"I understand," Gumshoe said, an infinite sort of sadness to his voice, and Edgeworth's breath hitched again as he realised Gumshoe wasn't going to fight him, wasn't going to stand up for himself.
"Then…..then say it back to me!!" Edgeworth yelled for good measure, desperate, close to sobbing.
He had to turn this around, after all, had to make sure Gumshoe knew who was truly in charge.
“You won’t have me undermine your authority like this ever again.”
There was no embarrassment in Gumshoe’s voice as he said it; no hint of humiliation, only quiet resignation. Edgeworth had won, and yet he had lost, just as fate dictated that he was always destined to do.
“Good. Good. Then we’re done here,” Edgeworth said, unable to keep his voice from cracking as he scrambled out of the car, the tears he'd been fighting so hard to hold back now spilling from his eyes as he ran, leaving Gumshoe behind.