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

[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.*