". . . um." He closed his eyes tightly, rubbing at the back of his neck and hoping to regain even a tenth of his usual composure.

He wanted to ask what he'd said, but he wasn't sure that mattered. Whatever he'd said were someone else's words by now, effectively. He was going to have to make his own way from here on.

And when -- if -- he said what he might have said, he didn't want to even suspect that he might just be trying to fill an expectation.

He released a breath, letting himself steady a bit before looking up again. He still felt strange, head tingling warm and faintly spinning, stomach completely uninterested in the prospect of food. But he'd be fine. He had to be fine. The truth couldn't kill him.

"Edgeworth -- you're right. You're not the person I go to if I want a careful, filtered version of what happened. You're the person I go to when I want the whole truth as you see it, regardless of whether it's going to leave a bruise." He smiled, a little shaky but unmistakably sincere, leaning his elbows on the table. "So thanks for that. I think I'm more or less caught up."