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Disappointing.
That was all Manfred von Karma had said; it was all he needed to say. There would be more to come - hours and hours reviewing every turn of that fiasco of a trial - but today, there was only one word before he turned away from his failed protégée.
Miles stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was the only place he could think to hide - not hide, he wasn’t hiding, he was gathering his composure. Because if he had a goddamn panic attack on the courthouse steps it would only bring more shame on his mentor (if he even was that, anymore, if he hadn’t abandoned him, if Miles didn’t return home to find the locks changed and his meager belongings in garbage bags on the curb, if he even had belongings, if he wasn’t left completely destitute with nothing but the hideous gaudy clothes on his back - )
He splashed water on his face, trying to shock himself out of the spiral, but all he achieved was getting his hair wet so it hung bedraggled around his face. Now he looked like a stray dog who’d been caught in a thunderstorm. Pathetic. Utterly, utterly pathetic.
And he was pathetic, wasn’t he? A miserable wretch who couldn’t keep a witness from drinking poison on the stand. It was his responsibility as the prosecutor to ensure the defendant remained secure. Instead, he’d watched helplessly as Fawles collapsed, curled in on himself, screaming crying clawing at his throat struggling to breathe -
The bathroom door swung open and Miles froze. From the corner of his eye he saw a man walk in, carrying a small box. Dark hair, a tacky waistcoat, his hand held oddly by his side - of all people to find him here, it was that goddamn attorney’s supervisor.
Miles forced himself to breathe. Slowly, he smoothed his bangs back, tucking them behind his ears (they wouldn’t stay for long, but it was a better look than tragic stray mutt). He stood, and counted, and refused to look at the man. His flimsy refuge was useless now, and the longer he stayed the more obvious it would be that he was gathering his composure.
“Hell of a first trial.”
The man didn’t look at Miles as he spoke. His attention seemed focused on his own hand instead, as he ran it under the tap and washed away blood.
Blood everywhere, dark, crying, gasping for air, begging -
He must have cut his hand with that stunt with the coffee mug at the end of the trial. Foolish thing to do.
“Most folks don’t take on a homicide for their first trial,” the man continued, as if he was having a conversation with Miles. “And even when they do, most homicide trials don’t end like that.”
Miles hadn’t bothered to remember the man’s name, and now he was trying to engage with him? Miles wouldn’t take the bait. This man, this… attorney, speaking to him like an equal. Speaking to Manfred von Karma’s protégée!
Manfred von Karma’s failure.
The man pressed a wad of gauze against his wound and began to tape it down. “You ever seen someone die before?”
Miles swallowed. It was a direct question, not easily dodged. “Yes.”
“Not just someone who’s dead,” the man continued, as if Miles was an idiot who needed that clarified. “I mean the moment when it happens. It can be a lot.”
-screaming crying begging gasping-
“Yes, I’ve seen it before.” Miles hoped his glower would disguise the redness in his eyes. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”
The man chuckled. “Alright, claws away, kid. Just checking on you. You looked kind of shaken, and I don’t see Mr. von Karma around.”
Miles scoffed. “Of course he’s not here. I failed. What, is he supposed to take me out for ice cream and tell me ‘you’ll get ‘em next time, champ?’”
“You can’t win ‘em all, kid. Sooner you learn that - “
“I can.” Miles wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d started gripping the edge of the sink so hard. “I will. I must.”
The man reached out a hand. “Kid - “
“My name,” he snarled, whirling around, “is Miles Edgeworth, and I am not a kid.”
The man stepped back, raising his hands. “Woah, alright. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“Well I don’t know what makes you think I need your pity, but I can assure you, I do not.”
The man paused for a second, and tilted his head, like he just glimpsed something. “It’s not your fault.”
Miles deflated. “What?”
“What happened. That’s not on you.”
Miles crossed his arms. “As the prosecutor in the case, I am responsible for - “
“Nah,” the man interrupted, “see, a detainee is the responsibility of the warden, and the guards down to him, all the way down to the bailiff on duty. There’s a whole chain of command responsible for making sure something like that can’t happen, and you’re not on it.”
Miles shook his head. “I was careless. I should have had the bailiff search him more closely. I should have noticed that he was acting strange. I should have - “
The man laid a hand on his shoulder. Miles would have been infuriated, except it was at that moment he realized he was shaking. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated.
He didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that. This man had no idea what Miles was responsible for - what Miles had done -
- clawing at his throat for air, screaming, falling, the gunshot -
and he was hugging him. Strong arms and the warm smell of coffee, reminding him that he could breathe, had all the air he needed.
(Months later, Miles would read the report about the defense attorney murdered in the courthouse. Poison in his coffee. A brief description of how he’d fallen to the floor, clawing at his throat for air. No pictures.)
“You’re alright,” the man muttered, holding Miles firmly. “This wasn’t your fault.”
Manfred von Karma thought it was. Manfred von Karma would spend the next several days, even weeks, explaining to Miles exactly how it was his fault, and how he could have prevented it, the thousand different moments when he could have prevented a tragedy and ensured justice would be served.
For a few brief moments, Miles allowed himself to believe this man instead.
Then it passed, and he squirmed out of his grip.
“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever need the opinion of a defense attorney,” he said.
The man shook his head gently. “Alright, kid. Listen - “ He pressed a business card into Miles’s palm. “You ever need that opinion, feel free to give me a call.”
Miles scoffed and brushed past him, leaving the bathroom at last. He held his head high as he walked the halls of the courthouse. No one would see him be weak again. Never.
That defense attorney’s card stayed in his pocket.
(Months later, he would read a report. He still wouldn’t throw the card away.)