Work Text:
2010
Von Karma didn’t say much when Miles officially began studying law.
He did, however, leave him a stack of law books (new and old) by his bedroom door the night before his first class and presented him with a key to his own apartment. Edgeworth had thanked him for each, inwardly rejoicing for the new-found freedom and the hint of approval.
For the first time in nine years, he felt he could breathe. He didn’t have von Karma to tiptoe around nor did he have Franziska hovering over him to remind him every day that she, too, was going to be a prosecutor. There were no fears. No annoyances (and no matter how fond he was of her, Franziska was definitely an annoyance). Just him and his apartment and books.
Miles wasn’t sure if the word “happy” could describe him, but he felt closer to it than he had in years.
There was enjoyment in his daily routine. Wake up. Walk to class. Walk back to his apartment for lunch. Study. Walk to class again. Study. Walk home. Make himself dinner (a skill he was slowly yet surely improving on after having every meal prepared for him at von Karma’s estate). Report to von Karma about his day and work. Study.
And then there was the usual displeasure of his nightly routine. Go to bed. Jolt awake from a nightmare. Lay awake for an hour. Fall back asleep. Maybe.
However, he did find the nightmares were more manageable on his own than in the mansion. There wasn’t a fear that he would wake up von Karma. There was never Franziska hovering over him with expertly hidden concern and a complaint that she could hear him from across the hall. It was him and his privacy. And he was thankful for the smallest things.
Barely a year into his studies—barely 18—von Karma called him.
“There might be a task the police and I have for you,” von Karma said. “It would make the prosecutors’ office look favorably on you.”
And Miles had agreed to meet him at the precinct after his classes without a question but with a hundred possibilities buzzing in his head. Like a child, he imagined himself with an early internship. Something suitable only for a prodigy such as himself. He could see himself in meetings, dazzling his superiors and moving on to co-counsel. He would be the youngest in the courtroom and still be miles ahead of everyone else.
At only 18.
The chief of police’s office was more beautiful and larger than Miles would have expected. The high walls, deep red furniture, and a large, oak desk would have been intimidating if the three men staring at him upon his entrance didn’t steal their thunder.
Von Karma sat on a sofa in the corner, next to the desk, eyeing Miles with the typical scrutiny and a scowl that was a touch deeper than usual. A larger man (even larger than von Karma’s intimidating frame) sat adjacent in a chair that seemed to barely fit him. He peered at Miles with a smile and bright eyes.
“I think he’ll be perfect,” he said. His voice nearly rattled the walls.
“Mr. Gant, please.”
And then there was the man at that large, boulder of a desk. The chief of police. He didn’t have an imposing aura to him which Miles found to be refreshing. If anything, he looked frail compared to his company. Miles would place him as being well into his 60s if his white, thinning hair and wrinkled, shaky hands were anything to go by. Hands always gave away one’s age.
“Miles, is it?” the chief asked.
Miles nodded. The chief smiled at him. It was welcoming. Not like the leer that Gant had.
“Mr. von Karma said that you’re finishing your first year of law school. He told us you’re doing quite well.”
“I am, sir.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Please,” von Karma interrupted. “We’re on a tight schedule. If we could skip the pleasantries?”
The chief sighed. He lost the friendly smile and bit at his lip. Apparently, von Karma could make anyone shrivel up and behave as he wanted. Even police chiefs.
“I’m not sure how much Mr. von Karma has told you about his current case,” he said. “But there is a favor the police would like to ask of you. Please, sit down.”
Miles sat on the other end of the sofa von Karma was at. He glanced at his mentor. Von Karma had his head down on his chest, eyes closed. Gant watched his every move.
“We usually ask a special department to do these jobs for us,” the chief continued. He wrung his hands together in a way Miles appreciated. It looked human. “But unfortunately none of them are quite fit for the job, and that’s when we turn to students. Officers in training. Law students. You see, we need someone to go undercover as a teenager for a current case, but no one looks young enough. And Mr. von Karma informed us that his mentee just so happens to be a teenager.”
There was a little thrill. He was already needed. He was already wanted . Miles nodded, affirming that he was a teenager.
He was a teenager .
“It’s a difficult case,” the chief said. “Honestly, I don’t feel right asking this of you. I didn’t feel right suggesting to Mr. von Karma we invite you here. But we’re in a tight spot. The case—well, it involves a man we’re trying to catch in his crimes, which—the man—”
“He’s an offending pedophile, We’re sure of it,” von Karma said. He opened his eyes to look at Miles. “But there’s no proof. We weren’t even aware of accusations against him until yesterday, and the trial starts soon.”
“We need a sting operation to get enough evidence to convict him in time,” the chief said. “That’s what we’re asking of you.”
“To act as bait,” Gant added. “To tease him a little.”
Von Karma’s head whipped in his direction. “I think that he can understand without such a lewd description. And that is certainly not what he’s going to be doing.”
“Mr. Gant, please,” the chief sighed. “Miles, we’re planting you there, but we’re not asking you to make any advances or… behave in a certain way. You’ll just be there as a normal teenager.”
Miles’ chest was tight, and he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He was needed. He was wanted. But for this? To pose as a kid, what, only a year younger than himself? Maybe two?
And von Karma suggested it. Suggested him.
He was freezing. It was cold in the office. A window must have been open.
He realized he had been staring between the men for minutes without a word.
The chief looked at him with upturned eyebrows and a heavy frown. He moved from his desk to the final empty chair closest to Miles and leaned in close. He rested his arms on his knees.
“It’s your decision,” von Karma said. “But before you make up your mind, you should know the details of the case.” He gestured to a case file on the coffee table in front of them. “It’s perfectly understandable if you don’t want to do it.”
Miles would have never predicted the day von Karma would have asked him to do such a job. However, it was, somehow, the nicest von Karma had ever been towards him. Allowing him autonomy for such an important task. To act as though, perhaps, he did truly care about Miles’ well-being. At least cared enough to not throw Miles at a pedophile without consent (yet still having been the one to suggest it in the first place).
Usually, von Karma gave orders. Spat criticisms. Ignored him for days on end when he felt like it. He never gave options.
Miles couldn’t figure out if there was respect buried somewhere in the conversation. What kind of man thought of the man (boy) he mentored when he heard there was a need for pedeophile trap? But Miles was being asked at least, which he supposed was better than being forced into it. Perhaps his resentment would be better off reserved for another time.
“We’d keep eyes on you at all times,” the chief said. “Mr. Gant is in charge of the investigation. He’ll tell you everything they have planned. You’d be wired. There’ll be cameras. You’d never be truly alone, and you can call for help at any time. The chances of you being harmed are low, but as Mr. von Karma said, you should read the case before you decide.”
The file still sat on the coffee table.
Regardless of what was in there, Miles told himself, there was little risk to his person. Nothing in there would change any of the plans that were sitting ready to be executed. They wouldn’t change the promises. He would be safe. The chief said so. And Miles had given all of his trust to the chief in the short amount of time he had been in that office.
He seemed kind and concerned, and it had been so long since Miles had seen that directed towards him.
“I’d be wired?” Miles asked.
“For evidence and your own safety. We’d do everything to keep you safe.”
Safe. That word made Miles’ stomach blossom and almost made him smile.
“I’d like to do it.”
The chief’s shoulders dropped. “Don’t make that promise yet until you know who you’re dealing with.”
“If you can already promise me that I’ll be safe, then there’s no need for me to read the details, is there? Of course, I’ll study it later, but it won’t impact my decision. My reading of the file wouldn’t change the precautions you already have planned.”
“That’s logical,” von Karma said.
“ Very logical,” Gant commented, twisting at a lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “You really are his mentor, aren’t you, Manny?”
“At least let us tell you the details of what you’ll be doing,” the chief said.
“What do you need from me?” Miles asked.
“Our suspect owns his own coffee shop,” the chief said. “He hires teenagers to work for him, and there’s positions he’s looking to fill immediately. A witness told us that almost every high school student in the area is aware of… rumors about him, so they won’t apply. That’s why we need you. We’re certain you’d be the only one to apply, and we’re certain he’d hire you.
“In that case, you might be alone in the shop with him throughout the day. He might act in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but we—what we really need is hard, undeniable evidence that he did what we think he did to the victim or—and hopefully it doesn’t come to this—evidence that he has intentions of—of harming you. Are you still okay with that?”
Gant was right. He would be bait.
“I am.”
The chief looked like he had wanted Miles to say no, but he nodded. “Alright. There’ll be police around to intervene if you need help. We’ll tell you a code word before you go in. Mr. Gant will teach you how to perform undercover as well.”
“I understand.”
He imagined himself cornered by the faceless owner and giving the signal just in time. But he pushed it out of his head. He’d collect evidence about the girl and get out on his own. He’d have the owner confess when he thought it was just the two of them, turn everything over to the chief, and then he’d go back to his apartment and study. It would be easy. Miles had watched von Karma weasel confessions out of people in trials all the time. Getting a man to admit to his intentions outside of court, with no knowledge that he would be prosecuted on it, would be nothing compared to the interrogations on witness stands.
“We’ll fill out the application for you,” the chief said. “And you’ll hand it in in-person in a couple of days. After that, if everything works out like we hope, we’ll get you ready. We’ll show you how the wire is worn, where the cameras will be in the shop, and we’ll let you know where we’ll be staked out. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
“Is there anything I’d need to know that isn’t in the file?”
“Not right now. Not until Mr. Gant takes you through his procedures.”
“Then, no.”
The chief looked disappointed. As if he was hoping for a chance to convince Miles to change his mind.
But Miles could still picture himself walking out of that coffee shop with all the evidence needed to win the trial. And he could picture himself smiling at the chief with confidence and accepting his praise and catching a glimmer of approval in von Karma’s eyes.
He replayed the whole thing in his head over and over again on his way home, adding little details here and there. The chief would pat his shoulder when he was done. Von Karma would verbally congratulate him. The chief would smile. His face would light up with pride.
Miles couldn’t push down his excitement when he sat down to read the case file.
But then
His stomach churned. His heart pounded in his ears.
Before going to bed, he triple-checked that all of his windows and doors were locked. He left the light in his hallway on. He turned on his radio and curled up under his sheets.
As he fell asleep, he heard an elevator ring.
Miles examined himself in the mirror in the criminal affairs bathroom. Despite the near-constant dark circles underneath them, his eyes were quite doe-ish when compared to the undercover agents’ eyes. His face was round. His jaw was soft still. An officer had called it “baby fat,” and he had gritted his teeth to bite back a sharp response.
“But he’s the perfect honeypot for the job,” Gant had said in an attempt to defend him.
The other officers laughed and shrugged and then grimaced. Miles, not knowing what else to do, plastered a smug smile on his face.
“What’s a honeypot?” he asked von Karma later that evening.
“Something you’re not,” was the response. Followed by, “I’ll be having a word with Mr. Gant later.”
And now Miles could see it in his reflection. He never thought of himself as particularly attractive. But he looked young . And he normally hated it when his classmates looked far more mature and always cast confused looks at him.
He was, as older women who pinched his cheeks called him, cute. And perhaps, for a little bit, he could live with that.
Miles wore his favorite sweater to his first day of work. Franziska had helped him pick it out months before (meaning, she was fond of it and insulted him for even considering anything else). It was thick and comfortable, and he liked the high collar. More importantly, he thought it fit his role.
It looked like something a teenager who frequented coffee shops would wear. And it made him look less serious. Like he was naive and unsuspecting rather than a law prodigy.
Shiveri complimented him on it when he walked behind the counter and donned an apron. Miles had smiled at him. He decided he was going to smile often during the operation. Gant had told him that he should act upbeat and less von Karma-ish. At least on the outside. And Miles had put together his persona and practiced with officers until they were sure that he would be able to hold it together.
He would brag to Franziska about his acting skills when it was all done. The chief had been very impressed, after all, with how quickly Miles could brighten up for a performance.
Miles began working at 4 pm. He learned (truthfully, half-heartedly, as he was certain he would never need to know it again) how to work the coffee machines, admitting with a laugh that he was only experienced with an electric kettle.
“Don’t worry about it,” Shiveri said, cleaning up a little mess of spilled coffee grounds. “I can tell you’re smart. You’re going to catch on quickly.”
“I hope so.”
Miles decided, also at Gant’s recommendation, that he would be a little nervous. Lacking a little confidence. It would make him appear vulnerable and combined with his perky, eager-to-please attitude, his role would be perfected.
Hardly anyone came into the shop. Shiveri had warned him that business had been slow, but Miles hadn’t expected long hours of him and Shiveri alone behind the counter. He tried asking more about why business was slow—knowing full well that it was because of the rumors surrounding him—but Shiveri dodged every question. He always had something else on the espresso machine to show Miles or a note about tea bags or a caution for when the grind coffee beans to keep the grounds as fresh as possible.
And he would instruct Miles with his hand resting on his back.
Not enough to be incriminating. Still enough to be suspicious. Definitely made Miles feel sick.
He made Miles tea halfway through his shift and offered him a pastry when their only customer packed his bag and left his table.
Miles nibbled at the bun he was handed only for the sake of the role. He would never eat something so sticky or sweet on his own. It settled hard in his stomach as Shiveri watched him eat. The tea was, he had to admit, the best he had in a while. It was sweet but not sugary. The honey and milk Shiveri had added to it were local and fresh. And usually, Miles didn’t take his tea with so many sweeteners, but it was pleasant.
“You know what they say,” Shiveri said when Miles complimented him on it, “everything tastes better when it’s made with love.”
And Miles let it grow cold on the counter and poured it down the sink when Shiveri wasn’t looking.
By nightfall, the last hour of his shift, Miles was eager to leave. But there was still evidence to collect. He still hadn’t gotten a good confession. There was nothing, he believed, that the police nor von Karma could work with.
He had to get somewhere where they would be alone. He was bait. He had to lure Shiveri in.
Miles carried a tray of mugs to the kitchen. The shop was eerily quiet. He could hear the electricity crackle above him in the old ceiling lights and the pipes knocking against each other in the walls as he turned on the tap. He dipped his hands into the dishwater.
“You did great today,” Shiveri said.
Miles looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Thank you.”
And a hand rested on his lower back. Miles held his breath. Even though it had happened a dozen times that day and even though he wore a thick sweater, he couldn’t get used to the feeling of Shiveri’s fingers on him.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Shiveri said. “I think you have a talent for this.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Shiveri took his elbow and pulled his arms out of the water. Another touch that Miles hated. “Don’t mind all of that. It’s dirty work. I’ll do it.”
“I don’t mind,” Miles said, but he reached for a towel to dry his hands with. “There’s not much to do.”
“I know. I know. But you probably want to get home, don’t you? It’s late. You must have plans with friends tonight.”
Miles looked to the floor in feign shyness. He recited what he had practiced. “I don’t actually.”
“What?” Shiveri leaned against the sink and reached out again to lay his hand on Miles’ arm. Right on his bicep. “It’s Friday night.”
“I know, but I don’t.” Miles closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Perhaps he was overdoing it. What would the chief tell him? Don’t look too desperate, or Shiveri would see through it. “I don’t usually have plans on Fridays. Or, any day.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what, Miles?”
“I don’t have friends.”
Two hands. One on each arm. Both squeezing and then rubbing. Miles was so close. He hoped that the planted cameras were catching every second.
“I don’t believe that,” Shiveri tutted.
“It’s true. No one likes me all that much.”
It wasn’t lost on Miles that he truly didn’t have friends and that his peers truly didn’t like him. No one ever wanted to befriend the 17-year-old in law school who was obnoxious and cocky and was being mentored by a horrifyingly intimidating yet highly-esteemed man. But Miles didn’t mind. He didn’t need approval from classmates.
Or so he told himself.
The last time he had friends was before von Karma took him in. When he was nine. When he stood up in that classroom trial to defend—someone not important. Someone who had surely forgotten about him.
Miles didn’t care.
Shiveri squeezed his arms tighter. “ I like you quite a bit. I think you’re a great kid.”
There wasn’t much room between them. Miles could feel Shiveri’s breath on his cheeks.
“Do you?”
He was so close. He just needed a confession. Evidence. And then he could walk out with a dramatic flourish, just as he had imagined.
“I do. I really do.”
Shiveri leaned in. Miles took a step back, breaking free from his hold. He just needed to get away from Shiveri. If he had some space to think, he could get a confession.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Shiveri closed the space again. Miles’ chest ached. Shiveri was so close to him now. His hands were on him.
But there still wasn’t enough evidence. He was so close to getting a confession.
Shiveri tucked Miles’ fringe behind his ear and let his fingers linger. His thumb stroked Miles’ cheek. It was cold. His fingers were freezing. Despite working with coffee and tea all day, his fingers were freezing. They felt like ice.
What was the code word Gant had told him?
“What do you want to do?” Miles asked.
Shiveri cupped his face. He ignored the question. “What about the girls at school? You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“No. I said I don’t have friends.”
“Oh, no need to snap at me, poor thing. I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?”
What was the code word? What was the code word?
Miles’s stomach was in one, awful knot. It was heavy. His head was light. He was sweating. He couldn’t think straight. What had agreed to? What was going to happen to him? He didn’t have the energy to fight.
He thought about Gant standing over him at the precinct, looming over him. Miles was barely half the size of him. And he thought about von Karma staring at both of them, daring Gant to move any closer to his charge and daring Miles to make a single mistake. To show any sign he wasn’t on the path to perfection.
“What do you want to do?” Miles repeated.
“I think I’d like to help you make friends. Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?”
“No.”
Shiveri laughed. “Well, I am. Now. You’re very beautiful, Miles.”
How was Miles supposed to react to that? He didn’t think he’d ever be there. In that situation. He didn’t think they’d be so close. He didn’t expect Shiveri to be holding him. Should he have reached out to scratch him across the face? Should he have swung with his fist?
He thought it would be a confession. An admittance to what he had done in the past. He thought there would be some shame. Some caution that prevented Shiveri from going so far with someone else while the police buzzed around the case.
“What do you want to do?”
It was a whisper now. He couldn’t be any louder. He was going to be sick.
“You’re persistent,” Shiveri said. “I think I’d like to kiss that beautiful face.”
There.
Evidence.
That was enough. If only he remembered what Gant told him to do next.
“And?” Miles asked before he could stop himself.
“And we can discuss the rest later. You know if you’d like, since you don’t have plans tonight, we can discuss it tonight.”
What was the code word?
Shiveri leaned in.
What was the code word? What was the code word? What was the code word? What was the code word? What was the code word? What was the code word? What was the code word?
Miles pushed Shiveri away with shaking arms. Shiveri fell to the floor.
Fuck it.
“Chief?” he whimpered, pawing at the wire under his sweater. “I need out.”
Shiveri stared. “Who?” His face paled. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? Because of that dead girl.”
Miles looked past him and to the door. Why did he expect the chief to immediately run in? To apprehend Shiveri? To pull Miles away and to safety.
He tried to run.
It was like his nightmares. Every movement was sluggish. It was as if he was wading through an ocean.
His arms were weak as he threw the gun.
His legs were shaking as he made his way to the exit.
He crashed to the tiled floor. Shiveri had his arms wrapped around his ankles.
Miles kicked and thrashed and eventually landed a blow to Shiveri’s jaw that sent him rolling to his side in pain. Miles stumbled back up to his feet and out the kitchen door. Cops rushed past him.
He fell to his knees in front of the counter. There was shouting and the startling sound of mugs shattering across the floors.
And a gun clattering to the ground.
His ears rung. The carpet swirled under him.
“Miles? Miles, keep breathing.”
There was a strong hand on his shoulder. Welcoming this time. Warm.
His father had knelt in front of him and settled him on the floor of the elevator and told him to breathe.
“You’re safe now.”
The walls of the coffee shop—that terrible, back room he had to take orders in, where Shiveri had stolen touches—were right against his shoulders. There was no air.
His lungs burned.
That bailiff shouted at his father.
“You’re okay. Breathe with me, Miles.”
Miles tried. He listened for the deep intake of breath from the chief. He tried copying.
It felt like he was being strangled. He choked.
The walls of the elevator. They felt so close. There was yelling. Fighting. Miles picked up the gun.
“It’s okay. Try again. Breathe in.”
He breathed in.
“And out.”
He let it out with a rush.
“Good job, Miles. That was better. Everything’s over now. Just focus on your breathing. That’s all I need you to do. Breathe in again.”
He breathed in with the chief. And then out.
And again. And again.
There was no gunshot.
The coffee shop felt a bit bigger.
They continued breathing together as Shiveri was dragged past them. Breath after breath, Miles began to feel the carpet under his fingers and the chill of the breeze coming in from the open door. Most of his body slowly came back to him. His head still floated a mile above him, and his stomach was nowhere to be found.
The chief pulled him against his chest and though Miles already felt like he was boiling, the warmth from the chief’s body grounded him further. Under his jacket and suit, he could hear the chief’s heartbeat hammering away.
Was the chief nervous? Scared? For him? Was it concern that made his heart pound or was it adrenaline from his job?
Miles blinked. The shop was nearly empty, but he could see the commotion on the streets from the window.
“Are you okay?” the chief asked. “Can we get you out of here?”
Miles nodded. He got to his feet and leaned against the chief as they walked towards the front door. His feet barely stayed under him. His shoes scuffed against the sidewalk. He would buy new ones with von Karma’s credit card.
He would, perhaps, buy an entirely new outfit. He wanted to burn his sweater. He wanted to burn everything Shiveri had touched.
And he had no reservations about making von Karma pay for all of it.
It was the least he could do.
He was settled into the front seat of a patrol car, legs dangling over the edge and hanging out the door. The chief told him to stay put for just a moment and draped his jacket—a dark, heavy, nylon thing—around his shoulders before walking off.
Everyone ignored him, thankfully.
He rested against the seat, his cheek pressing into the leather headrest. There wasn’t an ounce of energy in him. He wanted to go to bed. But he didn’t want to be alone.
Maybe he could offer to return to the precinct to help with the investigation—to give a statement. Surely, they would need a statement from him.
But he couldn’t get the words out when the chief got into the car and drove him to von Karma’s mansion and escorted him in. He couldn’t get the words out when von Karma sat them down in his office to ask Miles a series of questions he didn’t want to answer. He couldn’t get the words out when the chief explained what had happened, how Miles had performed wonderfully.
He couldn’t get the words out as the office started to spin around him. As he couldn’t answer any more questions. As he didn’t respond to von Karma calling out his name as if he were a disobedient dog.
And he certainly couldn’t get the words out when he was sick in his own lap. On his former favorite sweater. With the chief gasping and fretting and von Karma’s eyes boring into him.
The taste of milk and honey and bile stuck in his throat.
It was night by the time Miles stepped off the witness stand, ending the trial with his final testimony. The bailiff led him through the commotion of the courtroom.
He avoided Shiveri’s eyes.
The chief squeezed his shoulder.
Gant watched and made to take a step forward before von Karma’s cane stretched out across his chest. Von Karma himself didn’t look in Miles’ direction. He just stood there, holding his files and evidence. Waiting.
“Thank you, Miles,” the chief said. “I have to say I’m proud.”
Miles hadn’t heard that in years. It would have felt better if he wasn’t so tired and sick, but still he clung to it. He would hold onto those words for when he felt better. When he could savor them. When he could replay them over and over in his head.
“Thank you, sir.”
“If you ever need anything, let me know. I’d be more than happy to put in a good word for you when you’re finishing school.”
Miles nodded. The offer didn’t sink in. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The chief smiled. It was kind. Sympathetic. “Go home. Get rest. You’ve had a long week.”
He wouldn’t be able to sleep, but he told the chief he would go straight to bed when got home. If anything, it made the chief happy. And that, in turn, made Miles breathe a little easier.
He walked out with von Karma. Which meant pausing at the top of the steps to the courthouse as reporters swarmed the area and took pictures. He imagined the headlines above the photographs of him staring forward, glassy-eyed. Something about von Karma winning yet another case. Something startling about the guilty party to get people to read the article.
And below would be a mention of Miles.
They would praise him for helping the prosecution to win the case. And that would be enough for him. The first recording of his first semi-win. It would be a flashing moment of praise from the newspapers before the words demon prosecutor took its place.
Von Karma ushered him forward. He fell into the backseat of a car. A car he had been driven in time and time again.
“You did well,” von Karma finally said.
“Thank you, sir.”
The words hung stale in the air. Hollow. Meaningless. Miles closed his eyes.
The elevator doors shut.