jurisprudence | IC Inbox

Better still, why don't you take me on as your assistant? I'm sure I'm not so incompetent that I can't perform a task I'm set to.

[So he says, as he takes the invitation to come over and goes one step further, sidling up next to Caesar on the pretense of watching, but really just standing a little too close in his personal space to really be called innocent.

It's a small kitchen. It's probably nothing. OR IS IT.]

Just show me how.

[He says, soft, and just a little breathy.]

We're not blood-related. Her father took me in as his ward when she was two and I was nine. She's never really known a life without me, so I suppose it's to be expected that we treat each other that way.

What happened to your family?

[This is what he appreciates-the hands on training versus simply accepting the free meal and going back to his sad pantry life. At least he's acknowledging, to some degree, he can't continue to live that way.

And he can't deny the way his chest flutters yet again when the man moves close-too close. The words 'Show me how' makes Caesar wish he was providing a different kind of instruction in a different part of the apartment.

The onion is only half diced-a task he pushes towards the man beside him to finish, as he pulls apart the bag of pasta. Tragic. Camelot can't make pasta, is what he's learning in this moment. He'll have to salvage it through any other means necessary.

And he not so subtly moves until the sides of their feet are touching. He can play this particular game.]

Finish cutting that up and then the tomatoes.

...I suppose some would call it a tragedy.

[He says, quietly, but doesn't elaborate further. As it turns out, there's no amount of enchanted chapstick that can compel Edgeworth to delve into those particular details so relatively quickly.

Fortunately, he's got vegetables to distract him, and so he takes the cutting board and knife from Caesar, seeming to collect himself and get his bearings on the task before methodically beginning to dice the rest of the onion. His movements are slow; it's apparent that he's not practiced at this, so there's no muscle memory to rely on, but he's at least managing a fair level of precision at it, and avoiding mangling the vegetable as he slices it.]

She's a prodigy. Her name is Franziska, and like you, she tends to always think she knows what's best for me.

Edited 2020-11-27 05:53 (UTC)

[He's not going to prod at this supposed tragedy further. Sore subjects aren't off-limits by any means-he pokes at them with all the intent of riling up assholes who think there's a untouchable line he can't cross over. But when it involves family, an orphan, well-

It's not as easy to touch.

He glides a hand across Edgeworth's back when he turns his focus to the now boiling water behind them.]

Sisters usually do, no matter what age they are, and they're typically right you know. You should heed her advice.

[And even when they weren't, he didn't say shit, because her eyes would light up with every smug 'I told you so' that came out of her mouth.]

Tomorrow we'll go out and fill your pantry.

[He, personally, cannot let this offense rest.]

...Tomorrow...?

[That's the first, however offhand, suggestion from either of them that this encounter — whatever it is and however it's defined — might have longer-lasting ramifications than just a casual one-night affair. Now, all of a sudden, there's a tomorrow involved, and since it wouldn't make much sense to have a full pantry without the know-how to do something with it, it's possible that Caesar Zeppeli is suggesting...

...is suggesting...

Edgeworth licks his lips, tasting the chapstick as he focuses his attention back on dicing the tomatoes beneath his knife.]

...What about your siblings. You have more than one — older, or younger?

Tomorrow.

[He repeats it, lacking the unsure tone of his companion has-lets that tomorrow rest on the man's lips for him to think about. It's more of an invitation to continue whatever this is because Caesar can't deny that, so far, it's been pleasant. The way his heart pound, pound, pounds when he gets too close is nice. The way he talks about his family-his sister-is better.

He's not a bad guy and Caesar can understand now why his eyes settled on him in that street center.]

Four-two girls and two boys. All younger, but they don't act it.

[He starts rummaging through the cabinets to find some kind of useable saucepan to mash up those tomatoes he's cutting. The hell, Miles. This is the saddest kitchen.]

All of them would be in their teens now and I can only imagine what that did to their already big egos.

[There's a fondness in his voice-it's not the insult it sounds like. He is, in fact, proud of that Zeppeli confidence.]

They were good kids. Smart and strong just like every other Zeppeli.

And humble like them too, I expect.

[Smart and strong like every other Zeppeli, huh. Yeah, he sees that ego, all right. As a matter of fact, it's kind of funny, really.]

Pasta, tomatoes, and diced vegetables...

[He considers a minute, then ventures a little curiously.]

Is this a puttanesca?

[If the shoe fits, Miles. He didn't say it-this guy did. All the Zeppelis eat slices of humble pie on the daily.

But whatever comment he was going to say dies pretty fast at the weirdly accurate answer to the 'what's for dinner' game. Most people would assume spaghetti and they wouldn't be entirely wrong to do so.]

I'm impressed you know that. It's close to it, but not quite.

[Not the same because nothing will be when not made with wholly Italian ingredients in Italy itself.

And he rests an arm against his shoulder, eyeing the progress on the vegetables-pretty good.]

Seems like I should give you a reward for your knowledge.

Not knowing how to prepare it myself isn't the same thing as not being able to identify it. My palate is fine, I simply don't...

[He waves at the cutting board and pans, a little vaguely.]

...do this. With any regularity.

[But he gravitates a little into the hand on his shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to another in a way that doesn't disrupt his cutting, but brings him a little closer still. The chapstick is still clinging, he muses idly; he can feel it every time he purses his lips in quiet concentration.]

[Look, if he wasn't so enamored with this guy, he would make a comment about that fine palate when there's a small package of instant noodles in his cabinet. God knows what else he eats that simply isn't in the kitchen right now. Press (x) to doubt that comment.]

You seem like a quick study, Miles. In time these meals will come easily to you.

[He presses his lips against the man's cheek, if he doesn't move away-soft, chaste and quick.

Then he's back to the stove-olive oil heating against whatever pan this guy has. ]

Put the tomatoes and vegetables in here when you're done.

[He sucks a short, sharp breath — just a little startled at the abrupt familiarity — but to his credit his knife doesn't falter and he doesn't go rigid, just tenses and releases for a second in his surprise.

Kisses...are warm. The rational part of himself chides him immediately for the patently stupid observation, because of course there's warmth in human contact, living beings produce heat, it's plain science — but it isn't strictly scientific, the way that even fleeting contact shivers down his spine, reminding him ceaselessly that he isn't made of stone.]

And what things come easily to you, I wonder?

[He focuses on his chopping a minute, before collecting a small pile of diced vegetables and balancing them on the flat of his knife to deposit them into the pan.]

You seemed to think I'd be rather easy. I'd like to hope I wasn't.

Far from it. Earning your name was a trial in itself.

[That's the thing about this man-Miles. Every word is precisely chosen and used like a weapon to his own advantage. It keeps Caesar on his toes because his answers need to be as accurate, as precise and as sharp as knives in turn. It's a battle-a thrilling sensation he doesn't normally get on dates.

But that what things come easily to you?

Maybe it's time for some firsthand experience.

The vegetables are in the pan close to his hand, the pasta boiling behind him, and he makes a mental note of how long he can screw around before he runs the risk of ruining their meal.

One minute, maybe, is all he has and Caesar-

Raises a hand to rest against the base of the man's neck, the other pressing against his hip. It's a loose grip-Miles can pull free if he wants.]

What comes easily to me though-care to make a guess?

I thought I told you, I don't waste time on sweet-talkers and charlatans...

[Except that here he is, setting the knife aside so he doesn't do something stupid with it by mistake while Caesar Zeppeli reaches for him again and —

It's not that he relaxes, exactly, but he's slightly pacified by the choice of hold that Caesar chooses. He adds pressure without gripping, making it impossible to ignore his hands while at the same time never seeking to control, only hold.

Like gentling a skittish horse, he thinks idly, and then has to scowl inwardly at himself. It's an unattractive comparison when it makes him the horse.]

I can think of a few things to guess. The implications — aren't that flattering, however...

[This man doesn't stop thinking-he's whispering about implications like that matters when he's the one that could be-

That is the focus of all of Caesar's interest and affections for reasons he still doesn't understand. He's waiting with bated breath for every word to cross this man's lips, to hear those slick remarks and that sassy tone.

There's a laugh-quiet, under his breath, and he tilts his head to ghost his lips across his throat.]

Then you're thinking too hard. Accept the moment for what it is.

I'd be a terrible prosecutor if I were willing to accept things "as-is".

[It's a sort of rueful admission — he was, after all, precisely that variety of prosecutor once — but then Caesar kisses his throat and all thoughts of anything other than that immediately go right out the window.]

I...

[He draws a breath, shaky, and admits in a fainter tone: ]

I don't understand. I'm not...worth this effort. Why bother...?

[This intimate confession is unexpected and that honesty throws him off more than any bizarre riddle he could concoct. All that confidence is melting away with every kiss, every touch, and Caesar-

Is oddly proud of that. Oddly okay with it.

His feelings aren't rooted in the desire for a one night stand and he's reminded, once again, of the desperation he felt when the man gave him a chance to learn more-how he wanted to.]

You don't get to decide what's worth my time. A Zeppeli doesn't make errors in judgement.

[He presses his lips against his Adam's apple-soft, quick and meant to offer something like a comfort, even if Caesar isn't sure why he's bothering with all this effort for someone he has yet to learn about. It's strange. Unnerving.

And prosecutor reminds him of someone over the network all those days ago-could it be the same person? Unlikely. That rando was insufferable.]

I find everything I learn about you to be worthwhile, Miles.

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