Chapter Text
UNDER CONSTRUCTION FROM HERE FORWARD
READ AT YOUR OWN RISK (warning: cringe)
***
Where would the perfect place be to end it all, he wonders?
Would it be on the highway? He could swerve into the median. An impact at that speed surely would kill him instantly. But what if it didn't? What if he survived somehow?
Could it be at the office? He's up on the twelfth story, and the window behind him doesn't have bars on it. Ema Skye said it best: were you to jump out of this window... But there's the same conundrum - what if he somehow survived? Plus that would be such a show. He hates public attention in life, and he would never escape it in death, if he did the deed like that.
Could it be here, at home, in the comfort of his own walls? That would be ideal, if only he didn't have Pess. She's the only thing he's ever really loved and felt loved by. He couldn't do that to her - leave a corpse for her to stumble upon. He could probably drop her off with Gumshoe, have him take care of her, but... that doesn't feel right.
Nothing, nothing, nothing feels right. Edgeworth knows he needs to get out of here, at the very least, or else he's going to lose whatever's left of his sanity.
***
He's not quite wright of mind when he writes his resignation. It probably reads exactly as it was written: by a man at the end of his rope, bitter and defeated and manic, but Edgeworth can't find it in himself to care.
He leaves it on his desk along with his key and ID card, books a flight out of the country as soon as he can manage, drives home to pack, and gets out of dodge.
He boards a plane for the Netherlands sometime around two am. Germany would be too predictable - he lived there for eleven years, and Franziska still lives at the estate, having taken over after her father was...dispatched - as would the UK, where he spent some time studying.
Between von Karma’s true colors, Damon Gant and Lana Skye, his unknowing hand in the evidence fabrication, and the way Phoenix Wright makes his entire world seem a little less dark and miserable, Miles is overwhelmed.
His mental health is in ruins; he has more panic attacks, more outbursts, less and less energy to handle it all. At work, he dwells over what Lana’s younger sister said: 'Were you to jump out this window…’
He’s not quite wright of mind when he books the flight and leaves the note.
To his own chagrin, he thinks about Wright the entire flight to France. Once he touches down, he perishes those ocean blue eyes from his mind and hopes that he succeeds in his next endeavor.
*
He doesn’t succeed.
He doesn’t succeed the next time either, or the third time.
He can’t stop thinking about Wright, that blasted smile, those eyes, a constant stream of letters Miles wasn't allowed to read and unwavering trust and 'I believe in you, Edgeworth…’
He gives in, and gets help.
(“Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”)
*
His sister gets wind of the stunt he pulled, two weeks after he did it. Franziska leaves him three voicemails – the first two filled with yelling about how much he’s disappointed her and how she knows he isn’t actually dead, and the last one nothing but vowing to crush Wright beneath her heel – and then travels to the U.S. to seek revenge.
In a way, it’s sweet of her, to try avenging his honor, even if she does disguise her efforts as trying to best him 'posthumously.’
Edgeworth wishes Wright best of luck from his apartment in Paris.
*
Turns out, Wright hates him when he returns to the States to help him out. Despises him; doesn’t want to see his face, doesn’t want to hear his voice, doesn't even want his help with rescuing Maya at first. Probably has to count to ten each time Miles comes within a mile radius of him; has to clench his teeth and dig his nails into his palm so he doesn't lash out.
Miles can’t blame him, honestly, but that doesn’t mean Wright’s honest-to-God scowl of fury doesn't wound him a little.
*
It did sting a little when Wright hissed that he wished that Miles really was dead.
But when they sat down later in the privacy of Wright’s office while the Fey cousins slumbered, dead to the world, in the Gatewater Hotel next door, the way Wright hoarsely said that he didn’t mean it at all soothed the wound.
*
Even though Miles gave Wright his numbers, cellular and office, they didn’t really keep in touch once Miles departed for Europe again, despite their murmured apologies to each other in the dim quiet of Wright’s office. The numbers were for emergencies, so why use them for splendor when Miles had business to attend to? That seemed to be Wright’s logic, and Miles didn’t question the decision to not call. He was too proud to send the first text, call the first time, anyways.
Proper goodbyes were all Wright ever wanted the first time, so Miles indulges him as much as he can. Wright accompanies him to the airport, and they shake hands and smile before Miles boards his flight. He makes himself ignore the warm feeling Wright’s hand in his leaves behind, long after they split. Then, the vastness of the Atlantic – 3500 miles, from Babahl to L.A. – lets them drift apart with a quiet ease. It’s almost gratifying, how amicable the separation was, but Wright’s bright charm and warm smile are too far away to light up his world anymore, and Miles finds himself missing it on occasion. He perishes the thought, because Wright is in the past and Miles needs to focus on his future, and resumes working.
And then, March arrives.
*
When Larry Butz, that fool, calls him in the middle of the night to tell him about what happened, Miles doesn’t listen to the rest of the babbling. He’s booking a flight before he can even completely wake up; he terrorizes two taxi drivers, a receptionist, a pilot, some hostesses, another taxi driver, and several hospital employees on his quest to find Phoenix Wright, and only feels slightly guilty about it.
The guilt totally vanishes when he lays eyes on Phoenix in his hospital bed.
The man is bruised and battered, a little green around the gills, in layman terms. There’s a small laceration on his cheek, an IV in his arm, and a cool rag on his forehead, but otherwise appears miraculously well for someone who fell off of a flaming bridge and into freezing cold rapids of death.
Miles desperately wants to shout at him for doing such a dangerous thing, but if Phoenix wakes up without any major damage, then he just might kiss the damn fool instead.
Phoenix comes to around six, four hours after Miles arrives, and when he spots Miles sitting, slightly ruffled and sneering at the watery coffee he was provided, perched in one of those notoriously uncomfortable chairs, his face lights up.
Screw the Atlantic; Phoenix’s eyes are bluer than all 3000 miles of it.
Sadly, Phoenix is only conscious for a little while. He mumbles about nonsense, possibly explaining his situation, then presses that glinting, sunny badge into Miles’ palm and asks him to defend a nun named Iris. He slides back into mildly feverish sleep with a sigh and a smile, his fingers brushing down Miles’ arm as his own goes limp with sleep.
Miles realizes, not for the first time, that he’s doomed.
*
Iris throws a spanner in the works.
She’s not what Miles was expecting when Phoenix said 'nun'. Her button nose and round brown doe eyes seem familiar to Miles, but he's never met this girl in his life, so he passes it off as dejá vù and nothing more. Iris is petite and prettily pale, except the flush of her cheeks. An air of jittery shyness radiates from her; she's softspoken and gentle, and kind. When Miles questions her, she reveals a sort of cleverness that's unexpected of her naïve-looking self.
All he can think about is that she would be perfect for Phoenix.
They engage in a brief discussion about the defense attorney. It’s obvious even to Miles that she’s worried about Phoenix in a less than platonic way, the way she blushes and smiles when Miles informs her of the man’s condition.
And it’s just as obvious that Phoenix feels the same way about her, considering her name was one of his first waking thoughts, back in the hospital room.
Miles wants to hate Iris. He really does; his heart aches when he thinks about their potential.
All he can do is sympathize with her, and help her.
After all, they both fell in love with the same beautiful, brilliant fool, didn’t they?
*
Edgeworth regrets ever going to law school, and he regrets ever flying out to visit Wright, after serving a disastrous Day One behind the defense bench.
He’s never going to say yes to Wright’s outrageous schemes ever again, no matter how that pleading smile makes him want to melt.
*
Long story -- very long story -- short: the trial is something straight out of a nightmare. Steven King wishes he could invent this brand of horror. State v. Iris is filled with unorthodox murder methods -- really? Using the rope bridges to swing a body across a chasm? -- and witnesses like Larry Butz and Sister Bikini, who thought it was appropriate to flirt with him; the mythical Kurain Channeling Technique being used to carry out a freakish plot twist, and even a goddamn exorcism.
Miles is exhausted once it’s all said and done, feeling cold and tired right down to his bones. And he wasn't even the one who went through emotional trauma this time.
The Trés Bien's obnoxious décor, nauseating cuisine, and potent perfumes are all giving him a massive headache. But seeing Maya healthy – tired, but alive and well – is worth it.
Phoenix’s smile -- tired, but present -- is worth it.
*
Phoenix asks if they can talk alone, while Maya is busy trying to convince Gumshoe to let her and Franziska have a glass of the bubbly champagne they'd purchased. They slip away, seated on the outside patio in the surprisingly comfortable chairs, facing a dazzling orange sunset.
They talk, hushed voices and private topics – about Iris, Dahlia, Phoenix, Miles, that thrilling subject of 'us.’ Miles feels like the pounding of the blood in his ears will betray their secluded location to the group indoors, cause them to rush outside and crowd around them and disturb what could possibly be the most important conversation Miles has ever had.
Their little fingers brush on the surface of the small table between their chairs, bumping shyly for a moment, then Miles slides his hand over and slips his fingers into the slots between Phoenix's.
Neither of them lets go.
Phoenix smiles, and it’s like sunshine.