Aftermath and Consequences - It's all Wright's fault, you've got to keep telling yourself that. Edgeworth/Maya.

Warnings: Non-explicit sex

AN: Thanks to JasonHRAC for beta-ing this crazy thing.

It's all Wright's fault.

But then, isn't everything that happens to you nowadays?

Wright was involved in a traffic accident and is now laying not ten feet away in a mess of bandages, tubes, and wires. It's a pitiful sight, and that's why you're sitting in the hallway outside rather than in his room with him. Something burns in the back of your throat when you look at him and you can't bear it.

Wright's assistant is in the chair next to you, sniffling to herself softly. Perhaps she can't stand to look at him either. She'd been crying full-out when you first arrived, but, after going through most of the box of tissues you bought her from the hospital gift shop, she's calmed down enough.

You've read over the report – a medical one, not an autopsy one, and so help the men involved if it turns into an autopsy report – so many times that it's burned in the back of your eyelids. You'll be prosecuting those responsible two days from now, so you need to know all the details. It's important to get it right.

You ignore the niggling voice that tells you that you would have read the report even if you hadn't been involved in the case.

Visiting hours have been over for some time, but you're only just now being asked to leave. Maybe it's because Wright's assistant has stopped sobbing any time a doctor or nurse approaches. She's probably fearing the worse and a small part of you can't help but be grateful that she's expressing what your numb body can't.

You offer her a lift home. It's only when you pull out of the hospital car park that you realise you don't know where she lives. She asks that you drop her off at the office. His office. It feels like a bad idea, but you don't know where else to let her out.

You know the way to his office. The traffic is sparse at this time of night, but still not sparse enough for your liking. How can people be so blasé and be partying when... when...

But then, they don't know him. The world turns on for everyone even when it feels like it should have stopped for one or two.

You're not sure what prompts you to stop the engine running and accompany her up to the office. Maybe it's the desperate eyes she turns on you before she gets out of the car. Maybe it's the way her sniffling has increased threefold since the building came into view. Maybe the masochistic side of you wants to see this place, the place he should be, as much as she does.

Whatever the reason, the car locks with an almost too cheerful bleep bleep and the keys are slid into your pocket as you ascend the stairs.

The girl doesn't break down again and you hate how thankful you are for that. She turns a full circle in the middle of the office, taking in everything. She lingers longest facing his desk, but manages to tear her gaze away from it to come and thank you for the ride.

She says there are enough amenities for her to stay the night here. You make sure to tell her she can call you for whatever she needs – you're fairly certain he has your number somewhere in the clutter on his desk – and wish her goodnight.

You find yourself with an armful of gently shaking assistant. You're never entirely sure how to deal with situations like these, but her face is pressed hard enough into your chest that she can't catch your look of utter panic. You manage to put your arms around her in turn without causing her to flinch away or sob more and count it as a minor victory.

Your cravat's probably ruined with tears and snot, but you can't begrudge her for that.

She relaxes and pulls away enough to see your face. Then you're not sure who moves first. Maybe the fact that you've been too long without female company and a woman in your arms, even one that's crying, is enough to tip your head down. Maybe she's pretending that you're him and that's why she's got her eyes closed as she presses up on tiptoes. Maybe it's both and neither.

Bad reasons or no, your first kiss with Maya Fey is sloppy and bitterly salty with her tears.

You find her medium garb as difficult as she finds your layers and cravat. She gives a wet snort when you finally give up on her and gently slap her hands away to undress yourself. She's naked quicker than you, but then you've got far more layers to deal with.

Your jacket's on the floor somewhere with your shoes, but your shirt and waistcoat are only unbuttoned and you haven't even started on your pants when she's pressing against you again, demanding more kisses with an insistent mouth. She feels delicate under your hands as they roam her back and hips, letting her get used to your touch before moving elsewhere. You stop touching her only to let her push the clothes from your shoulders and let them fall to the floor.

You pick her up by her thighs and press her into the office sofa. The blanket over the back gives the impression that it's been used as a bed several times in the past, though maybe not for this particular use of bed.

She wraps her legs around you eagerly and moans when you grind against her. She's smaller than you, so it's easy to reach her mouth with yours, even though it's a shame to quiet the noises she's making.

You can't wait any longer and sit back up on your knees to finally push your trousers and boxers down. There might have been a flash of uncertainty on her face, but she's quick enough to pull you back down on top of her. You ignore the part of your mind that screaming about precautions, she's a girl so there's pregnancy to consider – you find it difficult to imagine her on any kind of birth control – or STDs – even though you can't picture her with any, which is a stupid, stupid thought to have, since that's how they're spread so easily – as you push into her.

What you don't ignore is her wince and the flash of pain that passes over her face.

You pull out and sit back on your heels. She's up beside you almost instantly, asking – begging – you not to stop. You don't want to stop either, but you rearrange your legs and her until she's in your lap and can set the pace herself.

She pushes through the pain and you distract both of you by taking her face in your hands and kissing every tear stained inch of it, murmuring softly about how beautiful and brave she is. She shakes her head, but doesn't offer a rebuttal as she moves slowly up and down.

You don't want to think about this being her first time with a man. You don't want to remember how old she is, because she can't even be twenty yet and you've always been old for your years. She's Wright's assistant and deserves far better than a battered couch and you.

You keep kissing her, because you have the horrible feeling you'll lose your nerve if you look at her, but you let your hands explore. Her breasts fit easily in your large hands and she makes encouraging noises when you rub them lightly. It's easier to focus on her noises and you find yourself trying to make her moan more.

You only let your hands drop her her hips once she's moving more comfortably. Your first active thrust up makes her gasp and bite your lip. Her tongue flickers over the cut in apology. She's more prepared for the next one and only kisses you harder when you pull her down to meet your thrust. There's a rough scrape of teeth with the next one and you find yourself glad you've pulled your tongue back into your own mouth.

She breaks off the kiss with a soft cry and the beginnings of a shiver in her legs. She buries her face in your shoulder and neck instead, biting soft flesh as the shiver morphs into quake. You don't let up and she lets out a loud keening noise, muffled only by your shoulder, as the quake turns into a shudder that racks her whole body.

You bury your own face in her thin shoulder as her body clenches around you. It's been too long for you to just shrug it off and by the time her shudders have turned back into intermittent shivers you've pulled her down hard and finished.

You both stay like that, just breathing, until she pulls her head up enough to kiss the side of your jaw. You let your own head fall back and this time you realise that the kisses are salty from more tears than just hers.

You whisper an apology when she winces as you pull her off you. She kept the box of tissues you bought her and you thankfully find them nearby. The last thing you wanted was to have to stumble through an unfamiliar office for something to clean up with.

She looks vulnerable, sitting on the couch with her arms tightly wrapped around legs pressed against her chest. Her gaze is pleading and instead of getting dressed and returning to your own home to worry in piece, you find yourself kicking off the tangle of pants around your ankles and finally removing your socks before sitting next to her and pulling the blanket off the back of the sofa and around both of you.

She curls up against you instead, her arms wrapping around your chest and her legs across your lap. She's warm and shaking. You can feel a wet patch of her tears against your skin and you pray that it's for Wright, because you don't want to think about what else it could be.

Your own tears have already dried up. You hold her tight and let her cry for both of you.

You both eventually fall asleep, though you start awake several times in the night when she shifts in her sleep. Morning comes too early in the form of sunlight peering in through half-open blinds. You wish that you'd had the foresight to close them yesterday, there's no telling who could have pointed a camera at the pair of you last night.

She wakes up when you get up to close the blinds. She rubs her eyes and yawns widely, until she catches sight of you, where upon she chokes and blushes a bright red. She starts to stammer, stopping only when you kneel in front of where she's sitting and press a soft kiss to the side of her mouth.

You murmur that it will be okay and tell her you're taking a shower. Thankfully you spotted it earlier when you used the toilet and you gather up your discarded and wrinkled clothes before heading for the bathroom.

You're halfway through the door where there's a rush of footsteps and she pulls at your shoulder so she can turn you around and kiss you again. And if last night felt like it was for him, this morning is for just the pair of you. You're seeing her clearly now.

You mutter that this is a bad idea, she just smiles and says it will be fun anyway. Your clothes end up discarded outside the bathroom as she pushes you as much as you pull her into the tiny bathroom and even tinier shower. You thank goodness that she's small, certainly not the size of her sister, as you have only just enough room to press her against the wall of the tiny cubicle and even then you keep knocking your elbow off the soap shelf.

She's stretched up on tiptoe with one leg hooked over your hip. The water's warmth is nothing compared to hers and this time there are words with the noises. Sometimes praise, sometimes a plea for something just a little different. It feels better, more relaxed, more like it's meant to than whatever pity had driven both of you last night.

Neither of you last much longer than you did last time, which is probably for the best, since the hot water runs out as you're finishing up. She doesn't seem bothered by the change in temperature, but then you can vaguely recall something about meditating under a freezing waterfall.

You wash up quickly and let her spend longer under the cold spray as you use the only towel to dry off. She dries herself as you get dressed, trying to press the wrinkles out of your clothes with your hands and failing. You give up and tell yourself they would have gotten like this anyway, since, sex or no, you would have been there for her and likely not gotten home anyway.

The night's rest and the shower have washed away the tear marks from her face and if you weren't looking for it you wouldn't have noticed the uncertainty under the bright smile she gives to you. You don't know what to say, so you end up offering breakfast. The uncertainty vanishes in an instant and you fear for your eardrums at the cheerful yell she gives.

It's still early, but you find a decent-enough looking café that's open and let her pick whatever she wants from the menu.

You're not sure where someone of her size can fit all that food.

You excuse yourself while she's still eating and head into the pharmacy just down the road that's only opening up now. Thankfully you find what you're looking for easily enough and return to your tea and danish before she finishes her own food and starts eyeing them up.

You pass the bottle over, then feel extremely awkward explaining exactly what morning-after pills actually do. By the end of your explanation she's a red as you are, but dutifully takes one and you breathe a sigh of relief. You're not sure what Wright would have to say if you impregnated his assistant.

You leave her at the hospital, with some money so that she can buy herself food, and head into work. Your rumpled clothing gets you fewer glances than you thought it would, but then it's early and you've slept in your clothes while researching an important case before. You're just glad that you could tie your cravat in a way that doesn't show her tear stains.

The day passes almost unrealistically normally. Wright's case feels like any other; his name in the wrong field on the report is the only thing that makes it different. It's open and shut, the suspect has already confessed. You spend some of the day out with the police on the crime scene, calculating if there was any ambiguity that could lessen the suspect's sentence. You want the maximum possible and when you catch yourself thinking this you consider handing the case over to another prosecutor, one that doesn't have a vested interest in it.

You push on anyway and spend the rest of the afternoon going over similar cases to find a precedent.

You finally stop reading for the day when your stomach's arguments for food – real food, not just the biscuits the secretary leaves with your tea – become too much. You're confident you've got everything you need for the trial tomorrow and take only the case report out with you.

You get a surprise when you reach the underground parking lot and find her waiting by your car. She's sitting on one of the oil drums, swinging her feet as she hums a tune you recognise.

Her face lights up when she sees you. That hasn't happened since you were a child. It suddenly feels like a really bad idea to let her hug you and start telling you how much better the doctors think Wright's doing, however she does all that before you can even begin to form a protest.

You find yourself offering dinner and her smile widens even further. She skips – oh god she's so young – over to the passenger side door of your car and you wonder outloud how she even knew which car was yours. She laughs and you notice that everyone else has left the offices already and the only other vehicle in the lot is a maintenance van in the visitors section.

She talks about everything and nothing through the drive to the restaurant and through the meal. You've never been good at small talk and the unease sitting in the pit of your stomach isn't helping. You choke on your half-glass of wine when she pulls a face at a sip of hers and you remember that she's not actually old enough to drink.

She's young and she's his assistant and you shouldn't –

She turns serious for a moment when she asks you if she can be your legal aide in the trial tomorrow. You're not sure if it's a good idea, she's used to Wright and being on the side of the defendant. However, she wears you down and you finally agree, though only after you've extracted a promise from her that if you have reason to tell her to leave the courtroom, she'll leave.

She's oddly shy when you leave the restaurant – and you're not entirely sure she isn't part squirrel and has secretly stored all that food for later – and you realise what she wants. You shouldn't be encouraging this, from either side, but you can't bring yourself to tell her no.

There isn't sex this time. However, even though you're in your own bed this time, you find it harder to fall asleep than you did last night. She falls asleep quickly, one arm stretched across your chest and her head pillowed on your shoulder. You've got your own arm looped around her waist and it should be a loving position that those involved are comfortable with.

It is and you are, and that's the problem.

Dawn comes too slowly and you're jolted awake by the much more familiar sound of your alarm. She groans when you stretch out to turn it off and sits up, her hair messy from where she's been laying on it.

She brightens the instant she sets her eyes on you properly and you find yourself muttering about a shower and trying to escape from her as quickly as possible. She nods, still sleepy, and stretches as she lays back down in the nest of covers. You watch her, then feel dirty for doing so.

You leave the water temperature low and go over today's case in your head. By the time you're dressed you're feeling much more like yourself. You hear the shower start up again as you put the kettle on and forcibly ignore the images that spring to mind.

Thankfully when she comes down for breakfast, she's dressed and has sorted her hair for the day. It's easy to make small talk when the topic in question is today's trail. You've almost convinced yourself that things are back to normal, then she pulls you down for a 'good luck' kiss just before you leave.

You're doomed.

You're grateful that it's a very simple case and the defence attorney's an idiot. You keep getting distracted by her standing next to you behind the prosecutor's bench and any reasonable defence attorney would have pressed through the hole's in the witness' testimonies with far too little resistance from you.

The trial's over within an hour and instead of taking the paperwork back to your office and starting on a new case, you find yourself giving into her wishes to go and visit Wright first. No one looks twice at you for it, but then everyone thinks you're best friends with him – and it's not that far off the truth, to be honest, but that's mostly for lack of any other relationships in your life than to a particular bond shared with him – and they seem to think it's natural for you to be visiting him.

According the to nursing staff, he woke up a few times in the night, but was barely conscious even then, though he's apparently getting more and more aware each time. She looks dismayed that she wasn't here for it and thankfully the nurse points out that she wouldn't have been here because of the visiting hours anyway and you don't get blamed.

Wright opens his eyes not five minutes after you both enter the room. He's looking a lot better than the last time you saw him, but that could just be because sunlight is coming in through the windows rather than him being lit by the ghastly fluorescent lights the hospital has. He manages to recognise you both and croak out your names.

Then he blinks in surprise and stretches his mouth into as wide a grin as his bruised face can manage.

"...So..." he rasps out, looking directly at you, "...Maya..."

You clutch your arm and look away defensively. Stupid Wright and his stupidly amazing ability to see exactly what you want to hide from him, in the courtroom or out of it. He laughs and it quickly turns into a cough. She's there with a cup of water with a straw before you can even think of it and you feel a stab of pain that isn't your heart breaking. It isn't.

"...Hey..." he catches your attention again, "...Good f-" he coughs, "...good for you..." he pauses and this time his smile's friendly rather than teasing, "...My blessings..."

She's looking confused, but he's looking as serious as you've ever seen him. She starts to explain to him everything he's missed. You mutter your thanks and make an excuse about paperwork to leave. She stays, but this time the pain is less.

You really do have paperwork to do and busy yourself in your office until long after everyone else has left. You've got court again tomorrow for a double-homicide and find plenty to occupy yourself with.

You're surprised and far more than simply pleased when you find her waiting by your car again. It's almost worse now that you've been given permission to feel this at all. Still, you invite her out for dinner again and the smile she gives you makes you feel... happy.

Damn Wright, it's all his fault anyway.