Place: Some Golden Space

[professeurdeloi]

When he'd found the set of rooms, he hadn't been thinking of anything in particular, that he was aware of. But the resemblance of them to his college rooms in the year he had spent at Cambridge was striking enough that he had occupied them almost at a whim.

The main door is heavy and slightly too low for modern comfort. It opens onto a room that is high-ceilinged and grand; large, but not too large to lose its cosiness. The walls are panelled, the wooden floor varnished and mostly bare, the ceiling painted plain white. On the wall, opposite the door, there's a tall, arched window that reaches almost to the ceiling, heavy burgundy tapestry drapes pulled back, to reveal a snowy scene. There's a cushioned window seat at its base, and it always seems to be winter outside.

The wall to the left of the window houses the centrepiece of the room - a large, tall stone fireplace with a small fire in the grate that is lit most of the time - a pile of small logs stacked on the hearth beside it. There is a large mirror over the mantlepiece and  a small wooden carving of a green man propped up against a few leatherbound books of poetry. In front is a deep rug, an armchair, a small low table and a large leather sofa. The latter has a grey wool blanket thrown over it and a few cushions piled up against one arm.

Either side of the fireplace are heavy oak doors. One leads to a surprisingly modern bathroom and the other to a small study, lined with bookshelves and with an antique oak desk under the small, deep window - which also looks out on the same scene as its larger counterpart. On the desk are papers, a fountain pen, and a small laptop.

To the right of the window in the main room is a large wooden bedstead - the bed itself neatly made with a feather comforter and white sheets, a cover matching the burgundy of the curtains folded partly back over those. On one side is a nightstand, on the other, a rug and the doors of a small walk-in closet. On the nightstand is a small  vase containing three dark pink, heavily scented roses.

On the same wall as the door is a bookcase and a long, low cupboard that houses some crockery and a small, built in refrigerator. On the counter top is an electric kettle and yesterday's copy of Le Monde. It is always there, and always the most recent copy. He has given up trying to understand how it happens.

The bookcase is filled with a mixture of law, history, philosophy and poetry books - some were here when he arrived, and some he has borrowed from the libraries he has found here. There is also a small stereo and a selection of CDs.

There are no personal belongings, save for the books and CDs, and a few things he has been given since he arrived. Woodsmoke, floor polish, coffee and tobacco mingle with the scent of the roses and the air in here is always slightly cool, as if winter is encroaching from the view outside.

"Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them..."  - Rupert Brooke

Comments

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head, sitting up and leaning against the window.

I'm joking.

Content to stay where he is for a moment, letting the alcohol warm him, though he watches Edgeworth carefully, frowning at his last comment. It wasn't like Edgeworth and that's enough for him to drop the facade, tucking the blanket around his shoulders a bit more.

You don't have to do that.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

I am quite aware of that.

*He takes another drag on the cigarette, not looking round. His fingers brush the top of the bottle, almost hooking it for a moment, but he hesitates and lets it be, the fuzziness in his head already pronounced enough. He sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.*

I suppose that you saw the Kristoph Gavin that was caged. I gather most people did.

The Kristoph that I know... that you met. That was his doing.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He remembers that so easily that he half starts, not surprised really. Clutching his head suddenly, he nods, sighing. Adding that imagine to the one of Klavier only makes him want another drink to drown it out, but he keeps still, the cold glass against his back soothing.

I suspected, but...

Unable to bring himself to speak more, he falls quiet, turning slightly to look outside, features blank as he tries to think clearly.

You don't have to tell me this, Edgeworth.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He can hear the strain in Wright's voice even without looking around.*

I helped him. Myself and Klavier.

*And he's silent for a while then, running a hand through his hair and staring across at the fire, although all he can see is Klavier - the pain in his eyes as he bandaged broken fingers - and the nausea returns.*

Ever since I realised the true nature of this place I have been afraid, Wright. Of someone... of something. Of a version of myself who had never been saved. Who survived, somehow - who never went to trial; never learned the truth - never had a Wright to make him face it.

*He pauses for a moment as he smokes, eyes still closed and the after taste of the Scotch bitter in his throat.*

I don't know what I would do if such a person ever came here. I don't know how I would feel.

Kristoph does.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He listens silently to all this, taking it in with as little bias as he can manage. It's easier than he thought, but he sighs. He'd thought about it himself. How would be respond to such people. Some version of Phoenix Wright, twisted enough to do things that he couldn't ever bring himself to think on. Edgeworth's trial; failing to save the man from one death so he could have another. Engarde. Dahlia. Gavin.

In the face of an Edgeworth that was unsaved, it's nothing, but he can understand that fear and at least partially understand Kristoph's nightmare turned reality. But he can't think of anything to say, pulling his legs up onto the seat and crossing his arms over them, absorbing everything that Edgeworth says.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

At my request, Kristoph spoke to Klavier, when he was first attacked by that... devil. I wanted Klavier to know that his own brother had the chance to become something else, something... better.

Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps it would have been better if he had not been shown how depraved his alternate had become.

*And this time he does pick up the Scotch, taking a drink and holding it in his hand for a time, remembering. Kristoph in the bar, his reaction to the information about Klavier; Kristoph talking to Klavier in the study; Kristoph, again, responding to his request for assistance when der Leibhaftige had attacked his own brother.*

I did not entirely approve what Kristoph did, but I understood his reasons, and I agreed to help.

Now they are all in danger. And I can do nothing.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He leans forward slightly, taking the cigarette carefully from Edgeworth, closer than he normally would be, their shoulders nearly touching, the blanket falling off his left arm as he takes a drag, holding it in longer than he means to while he tries to think of something to say. Coughing, he pulls back, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He lets Wright take the cigarette, barely even noticing the cough, his attention fixed on the bottle of Scotch that he has placed carefully on the floor between his feet. He turns the ring on his finger absently as he speaks.*

I helped Kristoph lock his alternate away and make a public exibition of him. I couldn't prove it, but I knew he was guilty. I knew he was dangerous.

...But you knew that too, when you used that bloody ace in court to ensure a conviction.

*And he rests his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.*

I will never believe you made the correct choice - there is always a better way. But I had no right to judge you for it. No right at all.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

Then, I guess we're the same.

It's spoken quietly in the silence following Edgeworth's words as he smokes, eyes closed, his fingers through his hair as he thinks.

Sometimes, there isn't a better way without risking other people. If you and Kristoph had let him stay free, he could have hurt more people than he already has. Maybe what we did wasn't right, but wallowing in guilt doesn't help anyone. It just makes it worst.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He shakes his head slightly, but without looking up.*

There is always a better way, Wright - and we both know it. If not, then Manfred was right, and the last decade of my life has been ill-spent. Expediency is never an excuse for perjury.

*And then he laughs a little, although it's somewhat hollow.*

I've lived with my guilt, in one form or another, for more than three decades, Wright. Sometimes, I think it's what has kept me alive.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

At the mention of von Karma, he stiffens, handing back Edgeworth's cigarette, and looking at the floor, his eyes narrowed.

Did you really think I had become something like von Karma when I told you about the forgery?

The last bit makes him sighs.

For what little it's worth: I don't blame you.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He takes the cigarette and he's silent for a while, smoking it and thinking, the memory of their last conversation still painful to recall.*

It reminded me of the last day of my trial. When I found out that someone I had believed in so completely was...

*He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, aware that the drink and a headache that he can feel building in the back of his head is blurring the ability to choose his words.*

When I found out that I had been a fool, for all of those years.

*And then he glances round at Phoenix, his expression weary.*

You never did, Phoenix.

Perhaps you should. I went with him willingly, and I followed him gladly.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

It's painful to hear the confirmation, but he nods, running his fingers through his hair and to the back of his neck, trying to piece his thoughts together.

I was put into a corner when I was arrested and I took the first option that I had. And I was bitter. Angry. I was disbarred for forging evidence in court. That night it was like all of the pieces finally started clicking together about what had happened. And catching him on the same trick...

He can't bring himself to look at anything but the floor.

I can't regret the outcome, but I regret the steps that I took to reach it.

He shakes his head.

I can't.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

At least you know that the right man was found guilty - unlike many of the trials I prosecuted in the time that Manfred was my mentor.

But to risk Justice's career without his knowledge...

*He shakes his head.*

...that is truly something to regret.

*And then he sits up, shifting a little to look at Wright directly.*

I am not blameless, Wright. I never was - much as you may wish it so.

*He takes a drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke linger at the back of his throat before he exhales.*

I doubt that any of us are.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He looks at Edgeworth as he speaks, simply holding his own cigarette, not willing to bring it to his mouth, and trying to ignore the dull ache of an oncoming headache as he listens to him talk.

We're rehashing to come to the same conclusion. We've both made mistakes, Edgeworth, and we'll both have to live with them. For a little while longer at least.

Motioning to the other man, he sighs, shaking his head and continuing to hold his gaze, eyes narrowed.

Make amends or peace or whatever you want to call it. Just don't make me feel like more of an idiot than I do....than I have for years.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

No-one can make us feel like idiots except ourselves, Wright. And no-one else can make our peace for us, either.

*He reaches past Wright to crack open the window, flicking the cigarette butt out into the snow, and then pushes himself to his feet, the few paces to the sofa seeming further then they should. He laughs a little as he sits down, resting his head back and closing his eyes.*

If you intend to stay, Wright, I hope you do not plan to sleep there. I can't say that I recommend it, even after a drink.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

I don't think I'll make it out of the room. Sleep in your damn bed, Edgeworth, before I take it.

It's half joking, his voice tired as his cigarette follows Edgeworth's out the window and he closes it a bit harder than he intended, wincing at the loud noise. He doesn't move quite yet, leaning his forehead against the cold glass, eyes closing as he tries to think about the hypothermia he'll probably get if he passes out here, shivering beneath the blanket.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*There's a soft chuckle at that, and he unbuttons his vest, eyes still closed, only glancing round at the sound of the window closing.*

Careful Wright, that's an antique.

*It's an effort, but he stands up again and crosses back to the window, reclaiming the blanket from Wright without any ceremony before returning to the sofa.*

Then take it, Wright - you're a guest. I can assure you that the sheets are clean, if that concerns you.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He laughs as Edgeworth takes the blanket, shivering with the cold and mirth for a few minutes before finally getting to his feet, keeping his hand on the wall to steady himself before he moves.

I'm not worried about your dirty sheets.

He pauses briefly before moving across to the bed, sitting down on the edge and putting effort into untying the laces of his boots. There's little more effort than that to get comfortable, laying down his left side and managing through some trick to actually get some bit of the comforter on him before he closes his eyes.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*It's at the back of his mind that there is something humorous to be said about dirty laundry and Wright's knack for washing it in public, but he's too tired to formulate it and the alcohol is already encroaching on his ability to judge whether it would be appropriate in any form.

He settles for a muttered* It seems that some things, at least, never change, *before removing his shoes and vest and sitting back on the sofa, his eyes closing with a sigh. He doesn't expect to sleep after what he saw earlier, but at least if he does, he's drunk enough to avoid the worst excesses of his unconscious.*