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 unthreads Wright's belt from the loops of the bloodstained jeans and hands it back to him, putting the jeans and sweatshirt on the floor next to the fire afterwards. Then he makes a more careful inspection of the open cuts, frowning up at the light.

His gazes settles on the medical bracelet briefly, then meets Wright's eyes immediately after, but he doesn't ask, instead looking around the room for the best lit area.

Abruptly, he crosses to the window, putting the first aid kit down on the folding stool that often acts as a makesift table, then extracting a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of cotton wool from the small green box.

He gestures to Wright to follow him, pointing at the cushioned window seat firmly.*

Sit.

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*It takes some effort to get the belt on without dropping the turtle, and he frowns slightly when Edgeworth gestures to the window seat, but he shrugs it off and sits down, looking warily at the antiseptic. That's...going to hurt, isn't it...?*

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He waits until Wright is seated, then stoops slightly, pushing his glasses up into his hair and catching the look that Wright gives to the bottle in his hand as he uncaps it. The smell of the liquid is strong - reminding him too keenly of hospitals - and he has to swallow down the instinct to gag, returning the look with no small amount of sympathy as he pours a small amount onto the cotton wool.*

I'm afraid that I can't make it painless, Wright. But this will reduce the chances of your needing to visit the infirmary.

*Replacing the bottle on the table, he looks at Wright with a slight frown.*

You never did tell me if we had met before.

*And there's the briefest hesitation before he places a hand under Wright's elbow, supporting his arm and examining the cuts in the light from the window. His fingers tense slightly in anticipation of the reaction as he brings the cotton wool into contact with the broken skin.*

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*He keeps his eyes on the bottle, then on the cotton, bracing himself for the inevitable. Edgeworth does have a point about the infirmary, and he'd really rather not take the chance of needing to go to one again.

The second remark catches him off guard. He'd forgotten about that...and was kind of expecting Edgeworth to also. Well, since he apparently hasn't, he probably ought to tell him... Except it wasn't really a yes or no question and... right, his PDA is over on the table. So how is he supposed to answer?

So he is, unfortunately, not looking when Edgeworth applies the antiseptic. When it touches his wound he gasps and hisses, nearly jerking away before he remembers not to, and frowns, biting his lip. Okay, sure, it hurts, but jumping through that thorn bush hurt worse...probably. This isn't exactly done yet...*

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He grips Wright's arm reflexively and perhaps a little harder than he intended to for a few moments when it almost jerks out of his grip. He looks up from the cut to meet the other man's eyes, a slight quirk of the eyebrow at the vocalisation of pain, although he does not comment on it. His voice is firm but his expression is not harsh.*

I'm sorry, Wright. But do try to keep still.

*And then he glances over at the PDA and frowns, as he applies the cotton wool to another cut.*

Have we met more than once before today?

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*He stays tense as Edgeworth continues, and isn't calmed at all by his thoughts as he tries to figure out how to answer that. Sure, they have met before, but things have changed since then... Changed a lot, actually. He's not sure how to express that with just his expression, but he tries anyway, and maybe it'll be obvious enough on it's own too, so he nods reluctantly.*

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

The frown deepens a little as he scans Wright's face, entirely unsure of what the sudden cascade of emotions that run through his eyes is intended to mean.

He watches Wright a little more as he discards the cotton wool, rips off a new piece and soaks it in antiseptic.*

I wish that I could say I remember, but this place...

*He shrugs as he applies the cotton wool to another cut, this time on Wright's neck.*

... unfortunately none of us are as unique here as we like to believe we are on our own worlds.

*And there's a smile at that although he doesn't look up. Then something occurs to him and he adopts a casual tone.*

Have you always been acquainted with Mr Anderson?

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*"Unique"..."our worlds"...

He hasn't heard of anyone else who's gone through what he has, and for their sake, is glad of that. On the other hand, he knew from the start didn't he? About alternates... It was one who told him who he - was. And that was...here. In his world.

...But those things he'd seen, behind those locks, even if they were twisted, they were still real, right? And they'd come from that world...the one where you're not even allowed to believe in this one...

He's wrapped up in his thoughts and barely registers the sting this time, even as his body flinches on its own. He almost misses the question too, but when he does realize it, he stares at Edgeworth in surprise and confusion. "Always"? How could he have "always" been...? It's true that he's known him pretty much as far back as he can remember... Does that count? Is that what he meant...? Unsure how else to answer, he shrugs and half-nods, looking away.

...Although, now that he thinks about it, Nick is the one who'd be most likely to be 'the same' as him, but they're not really alike at all, are they...?*

((Sorry these keep taking so long ._.;;))

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He registers the nod and the shrug and doesn't comment for a while, cleaning a few more of the most obvious cuts silently as he considers the information that he has.

Then he stands back, running a critical eye over Wright as he screws the cap of the antiseptic bottle tightly back in place, then a slight nod as he places it back into the first aid kit.

A step across to the sofa and back again and he holds out the long-sleeved grey t-shirt to Wright, watching him specualtively as he speaks.*

I only know one Wright who was close friends with Mr Anderson.

[lost-turnabout.livejournal.com]

*Phoenix notices after a while that Edgeworth is done with the antiseptic, and watches lowly as he puts it away and brings back the t-shirt. He carefully takes it, then freezes for a moment at Edgeworth's next statement.

He does? Then he knows? Did he tell him too much...?

...Well, it's too late now. He bites his lip and hastily pulls the shirt over his head and waits for whatever might come next, keeping his turtle clutched tightly.*