miserable little Christmas story
February 15th, 2008, 5:30 pm
Um, yeah. I started writing this LONG before Christmas, stopped, and finally realized that I’m NEVER going to finish it, so here’s a cruddy fanfic fragment.
I really should stick to the original stuff. I can wrap my brain around MY people no problem. Good ol’ Edgey is too fic-ified for me to be messing around with him. Expectations are high. OMG PRESSURE.
Anyway. Ignore this.
***
Miles Edgeworth straightened up abruptly at the sound of footsteps outside the waiting room door, smoothing his hair and brushing imagined dust from the front of the unflattering hospital gown he’d been pressured into wearing. A moment later, the door swung smoothly inward, revealing the serious-looking doctor who had examined his paperwork earlier. She was a petite blonde woman, relatively young - mid-30s, he would have guessed - and quite attractive, but her manner was that of a seasoned veteran with no time for adolescent flirting.
No nonsense. She’s a perfect fit for this office.
“Mr. Edgeworth, thank you for waiting.” The doctor’s tone was gentle, sincere; a far cry from the harsh disapproval he had heard from her while overseeing a technician earlier. She smiled warmly, but her eyes remained flat, cautious; she was not the bearer of good news.
Good news, I’m sure, is a rare thing here.
Miles was pleased by the steadiness of his voice as he responded. “No, Dr. Grey, thank you for taking the time to look over my records and provide a second opinion. I was surprised that you were able to do it while I waited.”
Dr. Grey shook her head. “In cases such as yours, Mr. Edgeworth, time is of the utmost importance.”
Miles’ heart quickened, fingers unconsciously twisting in the fabric at his knees. “Yes. So I’ve heard.”
The doctor hesitated for a moment, lips pressed together and eyes closed as she searched for an appropriate response, but finally she shook her head once more and held out the pair of folders she was carrying. “I’m sorry. If you compare the two MRIs, you’ll see that they’re identical.” She paused as Miles reached out to take the folders, then continued, “I agree with Dr. Emerson’s opinion, including his note that the diagnosis should be confirmed with a biopsy.”
“No.” Miles didn’t look up from the second chart, the one that Dr. Grey had assembled. He was finding it increasingly difficult to read the doctor’s notes; his eyes kept wandering, drawn back to the abnormally light-colored shape in the black and white image. “I refuse. The symptoms are evidence enough.” His eyes roamed down the list: headaches, fatigue, mild seizures (no prior history), poor mental focus.
Poor mental focus indeed, he thought, eyes once again on the grainy image of his death sentence.
“Textbook case or not, Mr. Edgeworth, we must be absolutely certain before beginning treatment.”
A bitter smile curled Miles’ lips; he had spent the hours between clinic visits curled up in bed with his laptop, reading every bit of information he could find regarding his condition. Treatment options were limited and dangerous, each little more than a poor attempt to stave off the inevitable, adding only weeks or months to a life doomed to end before reaching its prime. To risk the health he still possessed for a mere chance at a few more months of illness seemed impossibly foolish.
Still, his hands were trembling as he spoke. “I’m not interested in treatment.”
He lifted his eyes to Dr. Grey’s face, watching her unconscious reaction. Her frown deepened, eyebrows drawing together, leaving her looking worn and tired. “Mr. Edgeworth, I urge you to take more time with this decision. Talk to your loved ones, your spiritual counselor, your friends. You don’t have to decide this alone.”
Hot, unreasonable anger flared in Miles’ chest. He forced it back easily, almost out of habit; if he could remain cool in court, cool when his reputation and morals were under fire, then he would remain cool in the waiting room of the cancer clinic. “I will decide this alone, Dr. Grey. If I have a change of heart, it will come from within.”
The doctor smiled faintly at that. “Yes, I understand. But you don’t have to bear the burden of that decision alone.” She held up her hand, her no-nonsense expression back in place. “At least one other person should know. Your decisions affect more than just yourself. And if you truly intend to refuse treatment, you will need someone to assist you in getting your estate in order.”
Miles swallowed hard, the tightness in his chest almost too much for him to ask, “How long?”
“At this stage,” Dr. Grey gestured toward the manila folders Miles was gripping, “the average is three months without treatment, and about a year if treated aggressively.”
Three months? A mere ninety days? Miles stared down at the MRI image, his mind surprisingly blank, emotions dulled by the sheer unreality of it. Impossible, for a splotch in a photograph to hold such power, such significance. He was in perfect health, always had been; even as a child, it had been rare for him to catch the colds and flus the other children shared as freely as crayons. He couldn’t remember the last time he had missed a day of work because of something as mundane as illness.
Miles started as a cool hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Edgeworth?” The doctor was leaning over him, her expression concerned; she was clearly more comfortable with patients who dissolved into hysterics when faced with their own fragility. “Remember, we have several counselors on staff. You’re welcome to schedule an appointment at any time.”
“That won’t be necessary, doctor.” Miles shook off the doctor’s hand, suddenly gripped by fierce and unreasonable irritation; another symptom? He forced a smile, tilting his head slightly as he met her eyes. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. Thank you for your concern.”
The doctor returned his smile, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “Very well, Mr. Edgeworth, I trust you will seek assistance as it suits you.” She reached into the breast pocket of her starched lab coat and pulled out a small slip of paper, which she handed to Miles. He took it with one hand, a quick glance confirming that it was indeed a prescription. Though the handwriting was unusually neat, he found it impossible to make sense of the drug’s name - were words even allowed to have that many letters?
“It’s not prescribed often,” Dr. Grey murmured. “It’s too strong for general use.”
“You mean it’s addictive.”
The doctor shrugged, spreading her hands. Miles smiled bitterly.
Indeed, what does it matter at this point?
“Thank you, Dr. Grey.” Miles slid down from the exam table, paper crinkling as he moved. “I appreciate you giving me a copy of the file. It makes things… easier to explain.” He scooped up the two folders and swept from the room without waiting for a response.
***
“I need to speak to Franziska.”
The man on the other end of the line made a small choking noise. “M-Miss von Karma, you mean?”
Miles scowled; apparently Franziska had managed to whip everyone into shape at her current office in a matter of days. Judging from the young man’s fearful whisper, it had been a literal whipping. “Yes, Franziska. I know she’s there, she never misses work.”
“No, sir, of course not, but she’s very busy right now, she specifically said not to interrupt her today–”
“She says that every day. Get her on the line.”
Miles could almost see the sweat beading up on the young intern’s forehead. “And, and who should I say is calling?”
“Her little brother. Tell her it’s urgent.”
“Oh! Right away, Mr. von Karma, excuse me!”
Miles snorted as he was placed on hold, the spirited classical music a welcome change from the grating elevator music that invaded the hospital waiting areas. Von Karma, eh? It’s been years since I’ve been mistaken as a blood relative. He drummed his fingers absently on his desk, knowing that Franziska would keep him waiting, a petty show of spite for having been interrupted during work by something as trivial as a personal phone call.
He was humming along to Vivaldi when she finally picked up, her voice thunderous in his ears. “Miles Edgeworth, how dare you interrupt me while I’m working! I thought even a foolish fool such as yourself would remember how busy I am! What is it?”
Miles’ chest tightened unexpectedly at the sound of her voice, a familiar comfort despite the harshness of her words, and all the words he had carefully prepared fled his mind. He blinked, struggling to pull them back, but it was too late; the calm explanation had vanished. His eyes darted down, staring at the notes he had scribbled, but they were too sparse, too vague for him to reassemble his thoughts.
“Well?” Franziska huffed.
“Franziska, I’m dying.”
Silence. Then suddenly, the familiar sharp crack of a whip, followed by several angry shouts; Franziska’s subordinates, no doubt, scrambling to get out of range.
“What foolishness is this, Miles Edgeworth?! You call me away from my work to spout some ridiculous nonsense, why? To see my reaction? Not. Funny.” The last two words were punctuated by more whip cracks. “Too bad I can’t reach your foolish smiling face from here!”