Wright-a-thon fic written for the prompt: Miles and Manfred get stuck in an elevator, and Manfred comforts Miles as he starts to have a breakdown. Bonus if the lights end up going out.

The prompt was meant as slash, but you could interpret this either way. The only other thing you need to know is that it's set in 2010. That's when Edgeworth is eighteen, so nine years since DL-6, one year until he prosecutes his first case.

It wasn't so bad. It was not. The elevator in this courthouse was large, and clean, and Manfred was the only other person inside it, so Miles knew there was plenty of air. He could breathe just fine, and they only had four floors to travel.

The doors closed with a gentle whoosh and the elevator began to move smoothly upwards. The lights above the door counted their steady, smooth, perfectly fine progress one... two... three...

Miles watched the numbers blinking. He very carefully did not hold his breath, made absolutely sure to stand normally. It had been nine years. He could handle this. The stairs were blocked off because some very ill person had puked all over them. Sure, Miles preferred stairs, but not to the point that he'd rather wade through vomit than ride an elevator for two minutes. That would be ridiculous. He could handle this.

He consciously relaxed his shoulders. Not a second later, the ground lurched.

Miles' vision whited out. His suitcase clattered out of his hand to the floor, his posture clenching in on itself. The world wasn't steady, it was shaking – there were strange, mechanical noises from the walls, the light was not going to four, the elevator shook again and Miles whimpered, the light was not going to four, the elevator stopped still and he could not breathe there was no air the elevator had stopped he could not breathe the light was not going to four he could not breathe his father was dead in the corner –

A warm hand clamped down on his shoulder. Miles jumped, shivering, and spun wildly to see – Manfred Von Karma. His mentor seemed tall and strong, towering over him (when had he hit the floor?) as if to block out the situation.

"Miles," he said calmly. "It's all right. A minor technical problem."

His grip was almost brutally hard, clenching Miles' right shoulder painfully, but somehow that was reassuring. That was real. Miles took a deep breath, hating the way it stuttered in his throat.

"I've already called for assistance," Manfred said. When had he done that? Miles realized he must have blacked out for a moment, and hated himself. "We should be moving again within five minutes."

Miles breathed in, then out. Long, slow, careful breaths. There was plenty of air. There was air enough in a regular elevator for three people to last for hours – hot and thin and dark– so two people in such a large elevator would be fine. It probably took five minutes just to get to the top floor. This was fine. He was fine.

Manfred watched him thoughtfully. After what seemed forever, he spoke: "That's enough. You are my protégé, are you not? This is unseemly."

Miles swallowed hard. Of course his mentor was right. This was unseemly. No, worse – it was pathetic, far too imperfect. Shameful.

He took one last deep breath. Let it out in a rush, then pushed to his feet. Manfred's grip stayed strong on his shoulder, drawing him up, encouraging Miles on as he always had. He swayed a little, but gripped the handrail and held himself up. Straightened his shoulders. Looked straight ahead.

"Better," Manfred said quietly, clearly pleased. It sent a warm flush through Miles when he recognized that tone of approval. He earned it so rarely, and to think it would be given so freely for something as simple as standing still was –

The lights buzzed once, twice, then flicked out.

hot and close and loud and he could not see and they were yelling and he could not think he could not breathe there was no air to breathe he could not see he could not see the gun was heavy and warm in his hands he could not breathe he heard them fighting he had to stop them he couldn't see to aim his throw but.

but he had to save Dad he had to he had to –

Miles slid back into himself, hazily, to the faint sensation of pain. He only half-felt the harsh smack across his face, but the voice accompanying it commanded his attention, and he wrenched himself out of memory as much as he was able.

"Miles," Manfred said, voice deep and solid and alive. "Cease this foolishness."

Dad was in trouble he had to help he threw the gun – and then thatscreambut this was Manfred Von Karma so Miles nodded. He tried to say 'yes' but all that came out was a whimper and a strange clacking sound. He could not fathom where that clacking sound might be coming from. Why would there be a clacking?

...His teeth were chattering.

Miles clamped them shut so tight his jaw ached in protest. Manfred's hand was still on his shoulder – how could he have forgotten this bruising pressure? The hurt brought him back to the edge of sanity.

"S-sir," Miles managed, feeling like he might pass out or vomit or die alone in this metal box – but he spoke, and that was what mattered.

Manfred sighed. He let go of Miles' shoulder for a single, terrifying second, only to wrap his arm around Miles' neck instead. He pulled, and Miles went freely, until his head was pressed into his mentor's chest. His arms came up without his permission, clinging around the man who'd raised him to be perfect, to be above flaw, to be above anything resembling this...

The man who had not shown an ounce of tolerance for even a single failure throughout the past nine years sighed again, and began to card his fingers through Miles' hair.

He smelled of expense and victory and safety, and Miles breathed deep, closing his eyes against the dark, hating his body's uncontrollable trembling. Manfred just continued running his fingers through his protégé's hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp.

"So broken," he murmured, deep voice almost amused, not quite mocking. His heartbeat was steady, though his torso shook slightly with some indecipherable emotion as he continued, "even after all this time."

Miles did not answer. Reality was wavering in and out; he was eighteen or perhaps nine and he was clinging to his mentor or maybe his father and all he heard was his own harsh breathing except for that scream...

Lips touched his forehead in a gentle kiss. They were curved up in smirk against his skin.

Miles couldn't tell whether that was real or imagined. Had his father...? No, no, that was impossible, he couldn't – he gave up and just buried his head further into his mentor's chest, focused only on the warmth of Manfred's touch, the pure physical proof that this was nine years later and no one was fighting, no one was dying, there was no pistol, everything would be fine.

Everything else spiraled slowly away. Manfred was there. Manfred was holding him close, protecting him as he'd been doing for the past nine years. Manfred would not allow them to die – such an imperfect ending would never be permitted. They would be fine. They would be fine. They would be fine.

...And they were, eventually. The lights flickered back on and the elevator clunked to life again. It only took a moment before it arrived at the fourth floor, doors sliding open smoothly as if nothing had ever happened.

Manfred had let go of Miles as soon as the lights returned. He'd pushed his protégé to a standing position, straightened his hair and cravat, and set the suitcase back in Miles' numb hand. By the time the doors opened, both the renowned prosecutor and his student looked as perfect as they ever had. They strode out of the elevator and off towards the courtroom down the hall where Manfred would be conducting today's trial.

Miles walked numbly, mind blank except for faint, horrific echoes of memory and nightmare. His calm outer appearance was nothing more than a perfect shell. He could only follow his mentor blindly wherever he might go – and he wondered, had he changed at all, in these long nine years? Was he really still so weak and helpless? So pathetic, so worthless, so imperfect?

Of course he was.

They were in the courtroom, sitting at the prosecutor's bench. Miles did not know when they had arrived. The room swam around him.

A hand pressed hard into the small of his back, painfully solid, and comfortingly warm.

"Focus," Manfred commanded lowly, expecting nothing less than complete, perfect obedience. "You are my protégé. I expect you to observe everything I do with total concentration. In one year you will be the one wearing this badge."

Two stiff fingers tapped the breast pocket in which Manfred kept his prosecutor's badge. Miles nodded, unable to disappoint the expectations of this man. The soft, fuzzy feeling in his head began to fade, the courtroom gaining clarity around him. He only had one year left before he was expected to show results. He could not afford to slack off at any point. He could have nightmares all night tonight (and he would) but for now, he had to focus. Manfred expected it. Manfred had saved him nine years ago and again today – Miles could never let him down.

"Yes, sir," he said firmly, and removed the notebook from his briefcase, preparing to take copious notes.

Manfred watched, a slow, dark smirk curving his lips. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth – as smooth as the elevator doors had been, sliding open to release Miles from his cage.

"Good," he said. And his smirk stretched wider and for a single moment it seemed his words weren't the doors sliding open to freedom, but shut to darkness and death, such was the finality in his tone. "Good."