Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth put his all into everything he did. There was never a form left unfilled, never a dish left unwashed or any centimetre of a crime scene left unexamined. Every recipe was double checked before the cooking began, and his maroon sports car was kept in such perfect care that his “check engine” light had never once turned on. For the most part, this fastidiousness was a source of comfort. He never had to worry about whether he left the iron on, always able to clearly recall the feel of the cord as he wound it tight about his fingers and stored the appliance in the top left laundry cupboard before leaving the house. Sure he didn’t like to see Phoenix and Trucy worry about how little sleep he got, how he stressed about a job left unfinished, but it was a fair enough exchange to see their gratitude when they came home to an immaculate apartment and a perfectly-prepared dinner. Indeed, Edgeworth saw his perfectionism as one of his greatest strengths, at least now that he had started learning to manage it properly and not hate himself for every torn fingernail and crooked photo frame. But even he could not deny that it had its drawbacks. The most pertinent of which being that his dedication extended to even the least appealing of tasks.
A murder trial was hardly an unusual occurrence for a prosecutor, even less so for Miles Edgeworth. No matter how much out-of-court administration the department of justice swamped him with, he would always have time to slide behind the prosecutor’s bench and deliver the truth. Admittedly, it was less fun when the opposing council was some dry-mouthed veteran just here for his paycheque and not Miles’ overly passionate partner, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from pouring his all into this case. But that was just it. Edgeworth did his best to search for the thrill of truth and the rush of justice’s victory in every case he prosecuted, but there would always be those cases that simply didn’t need his all, and wouldn’t offer anything in return. That case, over and done with in a single day in early August, was one such occasion. No matter how hard he poured over the evidence, how late he stayed up the night before, or how many questions he asked the gruff thugs that passed for witnesses, there was nothing new or important to be gleaned from this case.
There had been an altercation between two men, both having long been suspected by the police department to be connected to a mafia syndicate, which ended with both of them being pumped full of bullets. One survived, the other did not. At first Miles was excited. Though the autopsy was gruesome and the crime scene a literal bloodbath, this seemed to him the perfect chance to leap upon the city’s growing problem of organised crime, a chance to get at the heart of the issue and stop it once and for all.
And then, it wasn’t.
There was no secret message from the mob don demanding one hitman take out the other. There weren’t even any clues as to what the duo were doing in the warehouse where the shooting took place. As far as anyone was concerned the event was nothing more than an escalated argument between two civilians who happened to be armed.
Giving up on investigating the victim and defendant’s criminal histories, Miles resigned himself instead to studying the evidence with vicious fastidiousness. In cases like these where both parties were armed – and standing in the middle of an abandoned warehouse that was literally falling to pieces – there was always the possibility that the defendant, while definitely responsible for at least some of the bullets, was not actually guilty of the final blow. Details like that were important. Or, at the very least, they gave Miles a reason to pay an appropriate amount of attention to this case instead of just riding on an easy win the way some people may be tempted to do. But no, there was nothing that exciting in this case. The men had two different guns – one a handgun, the other something unnecessarily large and cruel looking – so the ballistic markings were unmistakable. They had each unloaded four shots into the opposing party, and no stray bullets were found at the scene or in the shooter’s own bodies. The defendant had simply been a better shot.
“Don’t worry, Boss!” Kay had told him the morning of the trial. “At least this is the sorta case we can open and close in a few minutes, tops! We’ll be outta here before you can say “Detective Skye, the forensics laboratory is not for preparing food”. Which reminds me, Ema made us another batch of Crematorium Cookies to wish us good luck in court today!”
Edgeworth gingerly took the offered bag of health-code-violating snacks and, in the absence of a toxic waste disposal facility, decided to stash them in his briefcase. At least Kay had a chipper attitude about the morning’s case. All that was keeping Edgeworth from waving the bullets in the judge’s face, buying the old man lunch and calling it a day was that same unshakeable perfectionism that had kept him up ‘til the wee hours of the morning, and it would be the only thing that kept him going for the rest of the day. For, despite Kay’s prediction, this did not turn out to be a quick and easy over-before-lunch affair.
Oh, not at all.
The weasel-faced pile of ashes that posed for the defence may have taken no joy in his duties, but he wasn’t holding back either. Clearly experienced with defending guilty clients he threw every trick in the book at Miles, objecting to every single statement the prosecution made. Miles had to admit, if nothing else, this was the first time he’d had someone yell “Objection!” at the words “the prosecution is ready, Your Honour”. And then, when they were finally through discussing what should have been decisive evidence, the damn fool went and summoned an entire herd of surprise witnesses. None of whom actually witnessed anything, either, they were there for obstruction purposes only. Well, that and dramatically swearing their revenge, the way the victim’s fiancé did.
Miles had seen more than his fair share of comically incompetent witnesses in his time, but this group was just… horrible. Swapping strange quirks and outlandish clothes for the dead stares of deliberately-numbed souls, all Miles could see in them was genuine hatred. These were the kind of people who not only killed to live, but lived to kill. Their lives were nothing more than a wash of blood and poisonous glory, buying guns and drugs to use to exploit the weak and needy for money to buy more guns and drugs to exploit even more people. Crime was not new to Miles. Neither were men with cold hearts and frozen eyes, for that matter. But never before had he found himself in a room full of people with no desires but greed, no feelings for others than a dulled and distant hate that pulsed its way through every word they spoke.
Miles got his victory. Of course he did, the defendant was guilty. But it took more from him than he cared to think about.
He’d sent Kay home shortly after the trial started, when it became obvious that her evidence expertise would be of little help, and in the last light of the afternoon he was glad he did. Not just to spare her the grotesque attitudes the court had been faced with, but because the moment he had stepped out of the courtroom, he had been gripped with an inescapable need to be alone. He was weary in a way he hadn’t been for years, more tired than he could comprehend, feeling practically scrubbed raw and empty. Worst of all, he didn’t have the energy to decipher what was causing it. Something to do with the trial, of course, but was his mind trying to tell him that he’d forgotten something? That he’d somehow failed, despite his guilty verdict? Whatever it was, there was one thing for certain.
There was no way he was going to let Wright see him like this.
The man worried enough about him as is. Miles would go so far as to say Phoenix worried too much, but that would just cause even more worry, so he kept that to himself. And, indeed, he had to admit, sometimes it was actually… nice, to have someone so concerned about his wellbeing. There was a gentle, almost passive, safety in his life now, to know that there was always someone who would care about what happened to him, what he said and what he did. Really, most of the time Miles appreciated Phoenix’s care. It made him feel connected. Grounded. Always, in the back of his mind, it served as a reminder that things were different now. That gone were the days when he could slip off to Europe and easily convince a whole continent he’d gone and killed himself. He fitted in, now. Not that he would ever seem like an average or normal person – the cravat alone was enough to ensure that – but rather, he had a definite place in the world. His life was no longer his own. It nestled in alongside others’ lives, lives that mattered more to him than he ever thought possible.
But that evening in August, he couldn’t help but resent that connectivity.
He sent a quick text to Phoenix explaining that he’d be home late, citing some stack of paperwork or another, then locked his phone in his drawer, and himself in his office. It wasn’t as if he had lied. He certainly did have a lot of forms to fill out – the most pertinent of which was a search warrant for the victim’s fiancé’s house. All that talk of revenge and “finishing the job” wasn’t about to slip past Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, no matter how shit of a mood he was in. That fiancé… what a monster of a man. His betrothed was barely even cold in the ground and there wasn’t a single shred of sadness or compassion in his body. Of course, Miles shouldn’t judge. Everyone had their own way of grieving. He knew that very well indeed. But… it hadn’t even seemed like the kind if distraught anger he’d seen in the bereaved before. In his voice and his eyes, all Miles had seen was bloodthirst – the man had been practically greedy for hate and suffering. Then again, after so many years in the mafia, would it really be so surprising that all he knew was death and destruction?
A man’s profession had a way of changing him.
Miles turned to the next page in the form. It had been a long time since he’d let his job get to him. He was better than that, now. A dedicated public servant, finding the truth no matter how well it hid from him, he was a good man now. A good man. Good men did not give up after coming face to face with a single criminal. And they did not hate criminals just for being so. They sought to understand them, to work with them, to not merely punish them, but to help rehabilitate them and assist them in improving their lives.
Good men did not take one look at a courtroom full of Mafiosi and demand they all be locked up immediately.
But wouldn’t that be so easy? Wouldn’t the world be so much better if he just got rid of all those cruel faces and hidden knives, if he kept those people far away from society? But that wasn’t his call to make. That was never his call to make. He simply sought out the facts and presented them before an impartial body – whether judge or jury – and let the truth do the talking. Each and every one of those people deserved a fair trial. They all deserved the dignity of being innocent until proven guilty. And if, outside such a trial, they showed Miles only scorn and disgust and bloodthirst, well, that was their prerogative. Miles would have to be the better man and afford them the same respect he did for every single member of society.
No matter how it exhausted him.
It would always be worth it, though, he told himself. No matter how insulted or abused or attacked he may be, it was always better to be Miles Edgeworth, stick in the mud, than be the Demon Prosecutor again.
How did it always come back to this? Every time he found himself alone and dreary, regardless of the subject of his thoughts, he would always turn back to that chapter of his life. Don’t snap, Miles, you don’t want to be that man again, he’d tell himself in every stressful situation. Don’t assume, don’t demand, don’t lash out, don’t beat yourself up, don’t hate, don’t scream, don’t be such a child. It was as if that part of him was just waiting for him around every corner, ready to set itself upon him and consume him, turn him back into that horrible brat who had ruined so many people’s lives without a second thought. A ten-year-old’s maturity and understanding of the world with the power of a state level prosecuting attorney. In hindsight, it was little wonder Von Karma had done that to him. Made him that kind of person. He’d been the perfect puppet, so eager for approval and success, so desperate for any kind of stability and growth that he’d done anything he’d been asked.
Disgusting.
And now, here he was again, ignoring the nuances of life on Earth in favour of the perceived simplicity of making assumptions. He didn’t know anything about the victim’s fiancé. Oh sure, he’d said enough while on the witness stand to warrant a thorough search of his home, but who knew if that rage and hatred was real? For all Miles knew, he could have been acting in front of the other mafia witnesses in attempt to save his own hide, make sure they didn’t suspect him of turning traitor just because his husband-to-be had been shot. Maybe he was a true unfeeling murderer, full of nothing but spite and greed. They existed. Miles had seen them before. Spoken to them. Prosecuted them. Rescued Maya Fey from the grip of one of them and damn if that didn’t still haunt his nightmares to this day. She was fine, she was fine, he didn’t touch her. But what a case that had been. If the years had taught Miles Edgeworth that scepticism and disdain couldn’t always be trusted, Phoenix Wright had learnt in the space of only two days that blind trust in a client could be just as disastrous.
It all came back to the truth, didn’t it? No matter your approach, your initial attitude, all that mattered in the end was the facts.
Evidence is everything in a court of law.
Miles wasn’t even going to think about that man. Not at all. Not in the slightest.
He returned his eyes to the form in front of him. Same page he’d been looking at before his thoughts had wandered, with not a single word written yet. Miles sighed. What was the point in trying to grow and change if it involved so much thinking and moaning and drifting off? Surely it’d be better to be a ruthless asshole if it meant he could actually get his job done, right? Okay, now that was just ridiculous.
Fuck, he was tired.
He picked up his pen. Wrote down the fiancé’s name. Wrote down the day’s date, and the details of the case in which the man had testified. So far, so good. Made sure to note that the witness was under oath while yelling all those violent things and claiming to have the manpower to take down everyone in the room. That’s important, make sure to spell that right. Now, turn to the copy of the court record and find the areas of his testimony that fall under the category of criminal intimidation. Personally targeting the defendant, yes write that down… The bit where he mentions his gun collection could probably be called threatening with a firearm? Perhaps? Better write it down anyway. What he said about vengeance… There was a specific clause of legal code that could apply here, wasn’t there? What was it again..?
“Miles?”
Edgeworth damn near jumped out of his skin at the sound of Phoenix’s voice. His partner had somehow managed to enter and then make his way halfway across the room without Miles noticing, satchel in hand and concern across his face.
“Wright? What are you doing here?” Miles asked, tightening his grip on his pen. “I thought I said-”
“I know what you said,” said Phoenix. He stepped around Miles’ desk to stand beside his partner, leaning against the mahogany and looking out at the smog of the city. “But I thought you might need some company.”
Miles twiddled his pen, letting it bounce on the desk in a rapid staccato. “I seem to recall that being the last thing I asked for.”
Phoenix smiled, and turned his head to meet Edgeworth’s eyes. “You know me, though. I worry about you.”
Miles sighed and pulled off his glasses, before realising he had nothing in particular to do with them and put them back on with a firm push up the bridge of his nose. “That’s quite unnecessary.” He went back to fiddling with his pen. “I’ve made it quite clear that I’m not going to… do anything, nothing’s going to happen. There’s no need to waste energy on pointless concerns.”
“I worry about how you feel, too, y’know,” said Phoenix. “I know you’re okay nowadays – well, in broader sense, at least – but I want you to be happy as well.”
“There is no need for me to be happy all the time,” replied Miles, snapping the form in an attempt to shoo Wright off his desk. “There’s nothing unhealthy about a negative reaction to negative stimuli. Emotionally I’m functioning exactly as I should be.”
“You know what I mean,” said Phoenix.
He put a hand over Miles’, still gripping the form, but his partner was not giving in to that touch any time soon. All the same, Phoenix began to run his thumb along the edge of Miles’ ever-tensing hand as Edgeworth’s scowl grew deeper with every stroke.
“Tell me about it,” said Phoenix, softly.
With a sharp “Ugh!” Miles threw the form off to the side of the desk and slammed the heels of his palms against his temples. The sudden movement should have surprised Phoenix Wright, and a few years ago perhaps it would have, but he knew his partner far too well for that these days. He didn’t need to say a word, just sat and watch while Miles started to rant.
“It was horrid!” he cried. “Everyone in that courtroom was either a murderer or seems to have plans to become one this very weekend! All the insults and stalling and… and hatred – oh, Phoenix, you should have seen it. I’ve never seen so little empathy in so many people. And of course they just had to drag it on and on until the end of the damn world so I could sit there and marinate in their foetid attitudes…” Miles let out a sigh that was more of a hiss or a growl than anything else. “It didn’t even feel like justice at all…”
At this, Phoenix slipped off the desk and moved to crouch by his partner’s face instead.
“Miles?” he asked. “What do you mean? Do you think there might have been some problem with the verdict?”
“No, no, not that,” said Miles, flapping a hand.
“Then what?” Miles hated hearing him sound that concerned. “Did they threaten the judge? Did they threaten you-?”
“No.”
Phoenix drew back ever so slightly at Edgeworth’s snap, but kept his gaze and composure as steady as ever. Miles felt a swell of almost-guilt at the thought of just how much Phoenix had been through to earn such a level of poise. It was enough to soften his voice when he finally responded.
“I am happy with the conclusion of the case,” he said. “And I believe it was achieved through a constitutionally fair – if rather unpleasant – trial. It’s just…” He trailed off and plucked his glasses off his nose once again. “Usually putting a remorseless murderer behind bars feels like an accomplishment.”
He turned to face Phoenix head on, but his partner had nothing to say. He simply waited for Miles to continue.
“It’s just… Well, I know I’ve done society a service by removing him from it, he definitely was a danger, but… Oh, Phoenix, there’s just so many of them.” Miles looked away again, to fix his eyes to the embroidered jacket that hung on his wall. “This cartel of theirs, it’s a veritable hydra of hitmen. You put one in prison and two more pop up to take his place. Just convicting one of them isn’t going to change anything, not really, not the way the city needs. It’ll take them – what, a day? – to replace both victim and murderer, and then they’ll be right back at it. Not to mention that I’ve gone and pissed them all off. Now there’s a bloodthirsty fiancé out for revenge, a mob don with a reason to actively antagonise police and a herd of trigger-happy junior hitmen all racing to prove themselves by gunning down whoever happens to walk in front of their scope!”
Miles stopped to catch his breath, spitting out hit exhale as if it were poison.
“I can’t help but think that this whole trial was pointless.” He folded his arms on the desk before him, and watched his fingers squeeze at his sleeves. “I almost think it would have been better if we’d never found out about the shooting.”
“Miles…”
Phoenix too his partner’s face in hand, turning him by the cheek so that the two met eye to eye.
“I’m proud of you,” he said as his fingers began to comb through Miles’ hair. As loathe as he was to admit it, Miles truly did love the feeling of his partner playing with his hair – so soft and gentle, almost reverent, it never failed to calm him down.
“I know it can be hard when you don’t see the results of your work straight away,” continued Phoenix, Miles leaning into his hand as he spoke. “But I know you’ve done something great for this city. And you do great things every day. At the very least you’ve shown the cops that it is actually possible to put those assholes behind bars, even if you did only get one.”
Edgeworth was practically nuzzling into his hand now, eyes closed and breathing softly. Later he would be embarrassed to think of himself being so absorbed in Phoenix at his workplace, remind his partner for the thousandth time that any display of affection in the office would only serve to distract Miles at a later date, but for now he was happy just to revel in Phoenix’s presence. As Phoenix played with the silky fall of his hair, Miles slipped off the edge of his office chair to join his partner in kneeling on the floor, and was rewarded with a chaste kiss to the forehead for it. As Phoenix moved to pull away, however, Miles grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him into a hug and settling his face deep into the crook of Wright’s neck.
“This is silly,” muttered Miles into a mouthful of blue fabric.
Phoenix snorted. “What, spending time with your boyfriend?”
For that, Miles gave him a poke in the side. “Don’t use that word,” he said, almost automatically, before continuing. “I meant how I’m reacting. I’m the Chief Prosecutor, for goodness’ sake, I think I should be able to handle a case like an adult – even if it is a bit emotionally taxing.”
“Y’know,” said Phoenix, “it’d probably be easier to deal with if maybe you didn’t immediately lock yourself in your office and refuse to speak to anyone?” Miles could feel his partner tensing even as he spoke. “Just a suggestion?”
“I know,” said Miles, finally pulling out of the hug. He could feel those big, dopey mismatched eyes watching him with concern, even if his own gaze was now turned to the side. “It’s just…”
“It’s hard, I know,” said Phoenix. “And it’s okay, really. I know you’ve got a long way to go and I don’t… I don’t care how long it takes.” He lifted a hand to stroke Miles’ cheek, turning his partner’s gaze back towards his own in doing so. “I just want you to be okay.”
“Hmph…” There was nothing cruel in Miles’ voice, no hint of dismissal or hiding. Just a tired resignation, followed by silence as he sat and let himself focus on the steadying weight of Phoenix’s hand, and then the slow passage of time.
Sunset had completely faded now; the office dark but for the soft glow of Miles’ antique lamp illuminating his desk. Somewhere outside a siren sounded, while elsewhere a crow was calling, its voice distant and muted through the glass. Kay would be home by now, hopefully settling in for a quiet evening at home, enjoying those terrifying cookies of Ema’s in front of the TV before their big day tomorrow. Another day, another crime, another investigation. And then, eventually, another verdict. He’d put the guilty behind bars, and the innocent back on their feet, and so on until winter came and covered the city, and after that into the new year when new faces would spring from the shadows, and after that, and after that, and until the end of time. Justice would ebb and flow, and with its movements, so too would Miles Edgeworth grow and change. Maybe even, he let himself think, for the better.
“Come on,” said Phoenix, giving Miles’ cheek a pat. “Let me help you with whatever it was you were working on so we can head home. Trucy’s found a new recipe for risotto she thinks you’ll like.”
Miles accepted his partner’s hand as the two got to their feet, not even trying to hide his smirk as Phoenix’s hip creaked rather dramatically.
“Don’t give me that look,” laughed Phoenix. “You know just as well as I do that any and all “old man” jokes are liable to be returned in kind.”
“Such vocabulary,” said Miles in mock praise. “Have you finally decided to actually read some of those legal tomes I see on your shelves?” he asked, reaching for the form.
“Had to happen someday,” said Phoenix with a wink. “Now, what do you have there?”
Miles shrugged. “Nothing I can’t do on my own. The victim’s fiancé said some pretty violent things on the stand, and I think we have enough threats on record to warrant a search of his house. I was just writing out my reasons for the warrant to the police department. Hardly something I need help with.”
“Miles.” Phoenix was staring at him as if he had just done something utterly ridiculous. “You put a murderer behind bars and then go through a witness’ testimony with a fine enough comb to reveal enough info to fill out a search warrant and still think you haven’t done enough as a prosecutor?”
“Well…!” said Miles. Not knowing what to do, he crossed his arms with a huff. “When you say it like that it sounds a little childish…”
“Oh, Miles.” Phoenix had one of those big sweetheart grins on his face again. “Never change."