Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happens too fast.

It starts pretty normal, all things considered:Phoenix is helping Athena pick her scattered papers from the bench as the trial wraps up and court is adjourned, yet another victory for the defense. Athena beams and puffs her chest up with pride, eyes burning with passion and conviction, as she immediately starts chattering about the mandatory party at Eldoon’s place. Phoenix laughs alongside her and starts leading the way out of the courtroom, where their client is waiting for them, for the ritual thanks and possibly the promise of a paycheck. Wouldn’t hurt to actually get one of those from time to time.

Confettis are still fluttering joyfully about when there is an almighty roar, and Phoenix turns just in time to see the bailiff being thrown through the air and crash to the ground like a potato sack by the man Athena has just found guilty in her client’s place, a hulk of a man with the strength - and the brains - of a raging bull. The man’s face is twisted in pure rage, eyes blown wide and blood-shot, handsome tanned skin now flushed an ugly purple as he bares his teeth ferociously at Athena, foaming at the mouth.

A mad man.

A mad man with a gun, to be precise.

“You bitch!!”

The gun trembles violently in the man’s hand as it points straight at Athena’s back, and Phoenix sees her turn around, watches her joyful grin morph into terror as the reality of the situation sinks in, erases the joy of her victory in the face of impending death.

From the corner of his eyes, Phoenix sees Blackquill storm into the room again, looking possibly even more frenzied and out of his mind than the man who is holding Athena at gunpoint, katana unsheathed and ready to slice the armed arm away; he’s bellowing some intimidation and order to surrender Phoenix can’t really register. He only makes out a bunch of garbled screams and noises, and a finger that presses more and more on the trigger.

Only one thought crosses Phoenix’s otherwise worryingly empty mind as he watches, transfixed, Blackquill leap across the prosecution bench, showing an indeed rather impressive physical prowess, and dive at the rebellious criminal, as though in slow-motion.

He’s not going to make it in time.

Phoenix’s body does not need any further input than that to take action. Before he knows it, he’s moving, lunging at Athena.

A shot rings out.

Someone screams.

It doesn’t hurt, per se. At least, not at first, and not nearly as much as Phoenix expects. Sure, it stings bitterly when he feels something small and pointy pierce through his stomach, carve its way through organs and muscles like a hot knife cuts through butter; then, all at once and just as quickly as it got in, the bullet blows a exiting hole on his back, only to hit the wall behind them and ricochet on the concrete, chipping away the pint, and roll on the floor where it lies motionlessly, almost innocently.

It stings and burns, and the sensation of something leaking out of the newly formed hole in his flesh - something sickeningly hot and sticky - is truly uncomfortable, not to say disgusting. He presses a hand to the gaping hole, and grimaces when he feels liquid heat pour out of the wound. With a reckless bravery he does not have, he glances down, and it’s not with little displeasure that he notices his new dress shirt and waistcoat torn apart, a dark red stain soaking the fabric, red swallowing blue more and more extensively with each second, with each heartbeat.

Feeling suddenly quite tired, exhausted even, his knees wobble and fold beneath him. He crumples on himself like a puppet whose strings are suddenly cut off, and he would soon crash face first on the paved floor if small, and yet deceptively strong, hands didn’t grab him painfully tight, fist into his thoroughly ruined clothes, and gently ease him to the ground.

No, the bullet wound doesn’t hurt as much as Phoenix would have thought. Instead, what does hurt like hell is the desperate, high pitched scream that follows suit.

“BOSS!!!”

Phoenix, now resting on his back, blinks blearily at Athena's face hovering above him. She’s pale as a ghost, eyes wide in distress and horror and quickly filling up with tears as they linger on the bleeding wound, on the growing bloody stain.

Athena, who is young and bright and has a whole life ahead of her. Athena, who can’t be more than two years older than Phoenix’s daughter.

Her scream for Help, Simon, help!!!! is what hurts the most.

Everything is a blur after that. There’s more screaming and yelling and crying, but Phoenix is already struggling to keep his eyes open and can’t focus on what is said exactly. He opens his mouth to speak, to somewhat reassure Athena, who has ruthlessly shredded her blazer into strips of cloth and has pressed the makeshift bandages on the wound, but his mouth is dry as a desert, his tongue feels heavy and clumsy, and it stumbles on the words before they can reach his lips. Her hands are bloody, stained all the way to her forearms, and the once canary yellow fabric is now completely soaked red.

His rapidly numbing brain can’t help but think it’s a really nice shade of red.

“Stay with me, boss.” Athena keeps rambling and rambling, her face flushed and tear stricken. Phoenix would like to reach out and wipe those tears away, but his body feels like it’s made of lead, heavy and unresponsive. He can only lie there, trapped in his own body, fighting with all he has just to keep himself awake. “Help is on the way. Everything is gonna be fine. It’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna be alright.”

So she says as fear cracks her voice, as her grasp on him grows tighter, as though she can physically stop him from slipping away and lose himself in death’s embrace. Phoenix would be moved by such display of affection, if only he wasn’t so tired, so, so tired…

“Don’t let him drift off, Athena,” a deep voice says somewhere in the dark - in the end, Phoenix's eyes must have slid closed without his permission at some point. That’s weird - a voice that Phoenix vaguely recognizes as Blackquill’s. It’s low and worried, bearing no trace of the Twisted Samurai for once. “I’m going to call Edgeworth-dono. He needs to know.”

Oh shit, Miles. Somehow, in his impulse to move, to protect a girl that could very well be his own daughter, he has managed to completely forget about what Miles’s reaction to this unexpected conundrum might be. He can already picture him throwing a fit, start blaming himself for no freaking reason - as though it’s his fault Phoenix throws himself into trouble at the first chance he gets. Really, his own husband should know him better than that by now - and shut out everything else while drowning in his grief and guilt…

They had a dinner date scheduled for later that week, it’s been such a long time since they’ve had some time for themselves; as Chief Prosecutor, Miles is always so busy...

And then there’s Trucy, waiting with Apollo at the office, ready to join Phoenix and Athena at Eldoon’s…

He can’t kick the bucket here, he thinks. If not for himself, then for his family. Miles, Trucy, Maya, Athena… they have lost too much already, to add another item on the list would be going against his own policy, really.

He stirs, tries to sit up, despite Athena's protests and attempts at keeping him down.The pain in his bleeding stomach surges up and a pained groan escapes him as he's forced to quit trying pulling himself up and he falls on his back again. He lets out a shuddering breath, suddenly feeling extremely tired. Athena is saying something, but he can’t hardly make out a word, but she’s stroking his face, pushing back his hair - he’s drenched in sweat, gross, so gross - and her hand is so warm…and when has it gotten so cold in here, again? He feels like he’s freezing, but it’s already June, he was just fine up until a moment ago…

He’s tired. Like, new levels of tired. Trucy and Miles always tease him that he’s more like a zombie than an human being in the morning, and never those words have rung truer like they do now.

He’s dying. With every slow, shallow breath he takes, with every drop of blood pouring out of the wound, he dies a little more, approaches dangerously to the point of no return.

He’s dying and, judging from the panicked inintelligible screaming around him, everyone else in the room knows it.

The doors of the room open with a bang. Several people stomp inside with a sense of great urgency, and it’s not until he feels the ground tremble around him, the imperious voices grow close to where he’s lying on the cold hard floor that he realizes such hurry is for him. He hears Athena sob something in response to the paramedics as they crouch down and shove her away - jerks - to grab a hold on him and hoist him up on a stretcher.

Brisk hands press on the wound, check his faint pulse, tie something around his chest to slow the bleeding. He can tell he’s being carried away with much haste, he feels every little bump on the tiled floor.

He wants to give a shout at Athena, tell her everything is going to be fine, that she must not cry, not yet, not ever, but he just… can’t. Every connection with his body is seemingly severed, and he can only listen to her loud sobs and hysterical screams, fainter and fainter as he’s being led away against his will, he doesn’t want to leave her alone, but what can he do, if he can’t even muster up the strength to console her?

He can only put his trust on Miles, believe he’ll know what to do and be there for her and Trucy, that he will take them under his wing and be their pillar in this time of need.

I’m leaving it into your capable hands, partner…

And then, everything goes dark.

He can’t quite shake off the feeling there is something… strange today, for some inexplicable reason. Foreboding, almost ominous, a most unusual sense of dread, but for what, Miles does not know.

It makes no logical sense whatsoever. Miles has checked his schedule multiple times throughout the whole day, in case he happened to forget an important appointment or missed one of Trucy’s show - that would be an unfortunate mistake Miles has sworn to never make again. Trucy’s sad, resigned face will haunt him forever - but nothing came up. On the other hand, he would be all too willing to forget about the nuisance of a prosecutor currently standing in front of him.

“I swear, there must have been cheating!” Gaspen Payne shrieks with that nerve grating voice of his. “I’d never lose against a rookie like that yellow monkey and her birdbrained partner. They must have forged evidence!”

It takes Miles every ounce of self control he has to refrain from forcibly kick him out of his office. He scowls at the older man, who at least is smart enough to belatedly realize his blunder and gulps, sweating bullets as his focus keeps shifting from Miles’s glowering face and the unassuming ring sitting at Miles’s ring finger.

“Regardless of your defeat at the hands of Athena Cykes and Phoenix Wright, who are undoubtedly more honorable and trustworthy that you’ll ever hope to be,” Miles says quietly, and relishes fully in the start Payne gives at the not so veiled insult. “I can’t help but notice your performance as of late has been rather… lackluster. And make no mistake, I don’t mean your record, about which I care very little indeed.”

Payne recoils sharply, his ridiculous hairdo bouncing up and down with the movement. Miles smirks. Alas, he may not stand the man, but watching him squirm in discomfort compensates at least in part the absolute torture dealing with a Payne is.

Miles grabs a manila folder from his desk, flicking through the contents. “No, what I’m fairly concerned about is your conduct. I have here several reports regarding your superficial investigations, mistreatment of your subordinates and, quite interestingly, pieces of evidence that never turned up in your official investigations. Care to explain?”

Perhaps it’s a play of the light, but Miles is rather sure Payne has just blanched several shades paler. He’ll need to tell Phoenix his revenge on the dreadful prosecutor has been exacted at last, so he will finally stop complaining that Miles never stands up for him.

His phone suddenly rings.

Half annoyed to be so unexpectedly disturbed and half glad to have a distraction from Payne, he picks it up - much to Payne’s displeasure - and glances at the caller ID. Blackquill. Strange indeed, there is hardly any reason for Blackquill to be calling him at this time of the day; the man is supposed to be facing Phoenix and Miss Cykes in court today, picking up from where yesterday’s proceedings were halted…

As the call drops and, barely a second later, another comes in, Miles feels again that most unusual, uncomfortable sense of nausea make his stomach churn. Blackquill is a man who can respect boundaries. He has never been so insistent as to call twice in a row.

Not unless there are very good reason to.

He has a bad feeling about this, to borrow one of Phoenix’s favorite catchphrases.

His hand trembles as he finally picks up. “Edgeworth speaking.”

“Edgeworth-dono,” Blackquill says hurriedly into the phone, skipping all the pleasantries. “There’s been a shooting in the courthouse.”

Miles’s heart skips several beats, his sense of dread quickly swelling up, sending him straight at the edge of panic. He can tell there’s more to this call than mere professional obligation. His hand grips the phone tighter. Even Payne has quieted down, trying to listen on what Blackquill has to say that has the Chief Prosecutor look so distraught all of a sudden.

Miles really doesn’t want to hear what is coming next. He already knows. He’s already been there before.

“And,” he forces himself to retain some sort of reason, to keep a leveled head. No jumping to conclusions before he has all the data in his hands. It’s a lesson Phoenix has gone to great lengths to teach him. “What about the victim?”

There’s a long, poignant pause.

“Defense Attorney Phoenix Wright.”

Miles would be lying if he said he hadn’t suspected as much. But even if deep down he knew, such knowledge does nothing to lessen the blow. His eyesight flickers threateningly, dark spots growing wider at the corners of his eyes as his breath quickly spikes up, turns ragged and shallow. All of a sudden he’s not in his office anymore, he’s in a dark elevator with no oxygen left, a gun in his hand as he stares at the two crumpled corpse sitting on the floor in front of him, one of which is wearing a familiar blue suit and very distinctive spiky hair…

“Is… is he…?”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Luckily, Blackquill immediately catches on.

“He’s being carried to the hospital as we speak. He’s still alive.”

Still alive. He’s still alive. Meaning there is only one place Miles truly needs to be right now, and it’s not his office. He stands up so abruptly his swiveling chair glides all the way back until it hits the wall and nearly topples down. He pays it no mind.

“I see,” he says, and he’s relieved to hear his voice comes out steady and firm. Hearing that Phoenix is still alive and about to undergo treatment has given him a new sense of purpose, a new anchor to keep himself grounded to reality and not to drown into despair. “I’m on my way. Have Mr. Justice and Trucy been notified of the situation yet?”

His heart aches deeply at the thought of the young girl, always bright and chipper in the face of the many - too many - adversities she has already faced and overcome despite her young age. She doesn’t deserve another source of grief and abandonment.

“Not yet. I’m going to do so as soon as possible.”

“Good. I take it you’re with Cykes?”

There is a brief pause. “Yes, I’m getting her to the hospital as well. She was not injured in the accident,” he quickly adds, correctly predicting Miles’s next inquiry with ease, “but I want to make sure nonetheless.”

“Of course.” Miles is all too well acquainted with the shock resulting from seeing someone dear being shot to death in front of his eyes. It’s not hard to guess Miss Cykes must be traumatized, possibly in shock and panic. “Stay with her, don’t leave her side. I’m sending Gavin to the scene to take over the investigation in your place.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Miles has just closed the call and is about to exit his office when a rather irking, squeaky voice lets out a cough as fake as his owner’s toupee.

“Er… what about me, Chief Edgeworth? I can take care of the case in the flamboyant brat’s place, if you want. I can be much more effective.” Payne says, looking almost hopeful. Miles is thoroughly disgusted by this little, poor excuse of a man, for whom he truly has no time to spare.

“You have no reason to worry about the case, Payne. As of now, you’re fired.”

And with that, he all but runs out of the office.

Panic threatens to surge up and pull him under when he finally reaches his car and, for the first time since that fateful call, Miles finds himself truly alone. The car feels stuffy, claustrophobic, stifling and hot. He blasts the a/c at full power, tugs at his cravat until it comes undone and flutters to the ground, but nothing seems able to stop him from regressing back to a kid, a kid alone in the dark and scared as the man he loves the most passes away right in front of his eyes.

Breathe.

It’s happening again. He let DL-6 happen again. Nearly three decades later and he has still learned nothing, has still failed to protect what truly matters to him. Von Karma is probably having a heartily laugh at his incompetence from the other side.

Breathe.

He tries to, inhales and exhales following the regular rhythm he and Phoenix have practiced so many times, after every nightmare they shared along with a bed. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his hands clammy and cold around the expensive leather.

No, now it’s not the time to be having a fit. He still has to get to the hospital, ascertain Phoenix’s and Miss Cykes’s condition, inform Trucy. He has no time for panic.

At the thought, light blossoms again in front of his eyes, banishes the dark interior of the elevator he's stuck in. The sliding doors open, and he’s once again in his car, a full grown adult with a family that needs him now more than ever.

Perhaps it’s the thought of his daughter that manages to completely dispel the panic and keep it at bay. His vision fully clears, his breathing evens out. His grip on the wheel tightens as he starts the car up with a soft, purring noise. He doubts he has ever needed every single drop of horse power this engine packs like he does now.

Predictably enough, the ride is quick. Very quick. He can faintly hear Phoenix’s panicked screaming to slow down, please!! in the back of his brain. He’d give anything to be able to hear the real deal again.

In a matter or minutes he’s storming inside, following the receptionist’s indication until he reaches a waiting lounge out of the emergency ward. He’s not surprised in the least to see Miss Cykes and Blackquill are already there; Blackquill is pacing nervously around, looking pale and frazzled and fairly out of his mind. Blood is trickling down an awful-looking gash right over his cheekbone, the result of a well-placed blow on the prosecutor’s face once Blackquill stepped into the fray and tackled the assailant.

But the one who really catches his eye is Athena; she’s sitting on a plastic chair set against the wall, back hunched up protectively, staring vacantly at her own bloody hands - here Miles has to take a deep breath, for that is Phoenix’s blood and it’s so, so much - in her lap. She’s deadly pale, a stark contrast with her bright ginger hair, usually shiny and combed, and now frazzled and caked in blood.

He has already seen that face, that posture of soul-shattering guilt and regret. In a mirror in Von Karma’s manor, twenty-six years ago.

“Edgeworth-dono.”

Blackquill’s greeting startles both Miles and Athena, whose red rimmed and bloodshot eyes fly wide open in horror and recoils violently, curling up on herself even more as she looks at Miles as though she expects an attack at any given moment.

He wonders if this feeling constricting his chest - of protectiveness, fondness, desire to shelter - is what Phoenix went through when he first crossed Trucy’s path and he took the foolish, and yet so appropriate in the long run, decision to take in the newly orphaned little girl.

Miles often berated him for his rashness, back then. Now, he thinks he understands his husband’s motivations a little better.

“Are there any news?” Miles asks Blackquill eventually. Blackquill shakes his head dejectedly.

“Not yet. We only know he's already undergoing surgery. Justice-dono and Wright-kun are on their way here as well.”

Miles figured as much. He glances up to the white double pushing doors, behind which a long, aseptic corridor unfurls for several feet. Only authorized personnel is allowed to walk past this door. To think Phoenix is somewhere behind this barrier, and might never get out again…

His breath hitches in his throat, the corners of his eyes sting suspiciously. He’d do better not dwell on it.

He hurriedly averts his gaze from the accursed doors, unable to stand the mere sight of them. Instead, his attention drifts back to the one other occupant of the room, one who has been exceptionally silent the whole time. She notices him as well, and hugs herself tightly, leaving blood stains all over the sleeves of her dress shirt.

“Are you injured, Miss Cykes?”

He makes it a point not to ask whether she’s feeling fine or not. It’s painfully clear she’s not fine at all.

Miss Cykes - Athena, he tells himself, there is no place for formalities at a time like this, and he knows Phoenix would approve the use of the first name - shakes her head jerkily. Then a strangled sob tears through her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers weakly as more tears start streaming down her usually jovial eyes, stain her reddened cheeks. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. The bullet was intended for me, I should be the one being operated on!”

Miles sees her point, understands the logic, as twisted and flawed as it is, behind her reasoning. It would be easy, so terribly easy, to pin the blame on her, to say 'if only you hadn’t been there, this would have never happened’. It's probably what Athena has been telling herself relentlessly for the past hour.

Instead, he reaches out to his breast pocket, pulls out a handkerchief - he has taken to always carry one on himself ever since he first met Kay - and offers it to the crying young woman. Athena blinks at him, looking thoroughly bemused by the unexpected gesture.

“Miss Cykes, by now you should be more than well aware of Phoenix Wright’s tendency to attract trouble, not to mention to save every person in his range he feels might need his help, without caring whether they do ask for it or not. Quite the contrary, I don’t deny I would have been sorely disappointed if he let that deranged man shoot you to save his own life. It would not be like him, or like the teachings he so dutifully follows, to allow such a barbaric crime to take place without lifting a finger to prevent it. I’m sure you know of what I’m talking about.”

Timidly, almost fearfully, Athena finally takes the proffered handkerchief. She twists it nervously in her shaking hands.

“‘A lawyer can’t cry until it’s over’.”

Miles nods solemnly. “Correct. You shall do well to always keep it in mind.”

Athena actually lets out a wet chuckle at that, although it does sound awfully like a pained whimper. Miles reasons it’s the best he can hope to get out of her as of now. She does, however, smile and dab the handkerchief over her tear stained face. It doesn’t fully halt the stream now that the dam's been broken, but it’s at least some progress.

“Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth,” she whispers, wiping furiously her eyes. “I kinda forgot all about that.”

“Quite understandable. Just make sure you never do so in front of Phoenix. He’s surprisingly uptight about it.”

Athena chuckles again, with a little more conviction this time around. She still sounds like she has come down with a rather vicious cold, and her nose is red and runny, but the smile she offers him is hopeful.

Miles does not, and will likely never will, have Phoenix Wright’s parental sense and tendency to adopt stray children like they’re his own, but as he's confronted with this young woman’s smile, holding strong despite the obstacles, Miles is forced to admit it’s a rather rewarding feeling.

As he carefully, stoically avoids eye contact with both Cykes and Blackquill and starts fidgeting awkwardly on the spot, he’s suddenly saved by an all too well known voice.

“Thena! Papa!”

Trucy, looking pale and scared like Miles never wishes to see her again, charges in the lounge with a loud scuffling noise; Apollo Justice, who looks just as tense as Trucy is, is hot on her trails, and lastly Klavier Gavin brings up the rear of the party.

Trucy immediately shoots herself at Miles, wrapping her slender arms around him and burying her face in his chest. Miles holds her close to him without even thinking, with a rather Phoenix-ish nonchalance he has never know he had. All self consciousness - there are two of his closest subordinates in the room, after all - is pushed to the side when he feels her tremble like a leaf in his arms.

They bask in each other’s presence, father and daughter clinging to each other, their only anchor in the middle of the storm raging around them. Trucy shakes and sobs, her tears staining through the fabric of Miles’s waistcoat, and Miles holds her a little tighter, hides away every tear she can’t rein in.

Mr. Justice mumbles an awkward greeting, but all insecurity fades away the instant he lays eyes on his exhausted and distressed junior partner. Miles sees his features set in fiery determination that reminds him too much of his husband, whose fate is still unknown, not to be painful. Justice instantly runs over to Cykes, puts a comforting arm around her shoulders and brings her close to him.

Miles glances down to Trucy. “She needs you.”

She nods. “Yeah, I know.”

She steps back, disentangles from his embrace. Her eyes are puffy and glistening with tears, but - just like her father in the direst of moments - she smiles brightly and runs over to where Cykes and Justice are sitting side by side; she wastes no time to kneel at Cykes side and joins her brother in whispering comforting words to the youngest addition of their Agency, to push down her own pain in order to support her friend.

In the midst of the ravaging sense of loss, something akin to pride blossoms in his chest.

Gavin, who has watched the entire little scene from a respectful distance, finally walks straight to Miles, face stretched and grim. “The culprit has been apprehended and secured. The trial has been scheduled for tomorrow with high priority. To be fair, there’s not much to prove, as we have several dozens of eyewitness and a camera recording. It’s just a formality at this point.”

It takes Miles a ridiculously long second to realize Gavin has shifted into his prosecutor mode. After such an emotionally distressing hour, he all but welcomes the change of topic. He might have improved with handling and expressing his emotions over the years, but he’s quickly reaching his limit of emotional talks he can sustain within a day. Work is an objective, impersonal topic, a safe haven for his frayed nerves.

Or it would be, if the case at hand didn’t involve his own husband.

“Very well. What about the bailiff responsible of the loss of the weapon?”

“Identified.” Gavin replies without missing a beat. He’s apparently not impressed with the careless bailiff whose abysmal incompetence has caused this accident either.

“Good, I want him fired within the next ten minutes.”

Gavin’s left eyebrow arches ever so slightly. “As much as I share the sentiment, Herr Chief, do we actually have the authority to do that?”

With as much dignity he can muster up under these circumstances, Miles pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m fairly sure Chief Gumshoe won’t have any objections, once you explain the situation to him.”

Gavin actually smiles at that. “Ach, I see.”

Silence falls, as companionable as it can be whilst waiting with bated breath for someone to relay some information. Both men stare at the two attorneys plus magician huddled together, supporting each other protectively in the darkest hour.

“He made a good job raising them.” Gavin speaks after a few moments, eyes firmly trained on Justice’s back. “You both did.”

“I hardly did anything. That-” Miles tilts his head to point at the latest three stray kids Phoenix has adopted throughout his life. “Is all Phoenix’s doing.”

Gavin makes a non-committal sound. “A family, huh? It’s nice to see a decent one, for a change. Our line of work only makes us see the worst side of families and such, really.”

Miles instantly knows Gavin is not really talking about work anymore. Another Gavin floats at the forefront of his mind, and a wave of bile surges up in his throat.

“Trucy was planning to host a party for the fourth of July. Feel free to participate. I’m sure Mr. Justice would have no qualms.”

Gavin blinks, apparently just as taken aback as Miles feels. Apparently, Phoenix’s rashness and impulsiveness has rubbed off on him more than he first assumed.

“Thanks for the offer,” Gavin says, “but I don’t think Herr Wright would be thrilled to have me around.”

“If there is one thing I’ve long learned of Phoenix Wright, it’s that he never turns his back on those who have nobody to turn to.” Miles counters easily, confident of the truth of his words. “Our door is always open.”

He expects Gavin to laugh. Instead, the young man stays silent for a most uncomfortable moment.

“Thank you, Herr Chief. I’ll consider it.”

Silence falls again. Nobody talks for what might be minutes or centuries, each too lost in their thoughts and grief, or varying kind and nature, to speak. The clock ticks, unperturbed, cruel; seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours.

Several times Miles feels himself teetering on the slippery edge of panic and despair, but one look to the Wright Anything Agency trio always manages to give him the strength to pull himself up before he falls.

Is this what you mean by having faith, Phoenix? To gain your strength from the ones who count on you?

I have taken care of them, as you would have wanted me to.

But what about me, Phoenix?

And suddenly, after what had to be several hours, the double doors swing open with a loud bang. The noise shatters his dark thoughts and the rapidly growing exhaustion, and in a second he’s already fully alert, tense and taut. Glancing around the room, he sees he’s not the only one.

A tired looking woman walks out the door, pulling down the mask covering the lower half of her face. “I take it you all are here for Mr. Phoenix Wright? Are you family?”

Six “Yes” bounce over the white walls. The woman grins tiredly.

“Whoa, talk about a dedicated bunch… anyway, I’m doctor Heather Carey and…” she pauses, and then breaks out in a proper, if not exhausted, smile. “He’s stable and out of danger. He has yet to regain consciousness, but that’s a tough guy if I’ve ever seen one, we’re pretty confident he’s gonna recover just fine.”

The wave of relief that crashes down on Miles is so strong that he feels himself grow faint, and his vision flickers dangerously. He’s barely aware he loud shouts of joy coming from Trucy and Justice, the relieved sobs of Cykes, the muttered thanks to all heavens of Gavin and Blackquill.

He says nothing, just closes his eyes and keeps telling himself to breathe in and out, in and out, don’t let go.

“He’s being transferred to the intensive therapy ward,” Dr. Carey continues over the booming cheers and cries. “You’ll be able to pay a visit in a little while.”

“Sweet! I wanna be there when he wakes up!” Trucy perks up, but Miles rounds on her instantly.

“No. You’re leaving.”

There is a moment of general bewilderment.

“No way! He’s my dad! I want to stay here!” She protests vehemently as she stands up abruptly, drawing herself to her full height and clenching her fists at her sides; her eyes fill with more tears but this time, Miles feels safe to assume, they’re born out of anger and outrage than grief.

It takes more effort than he cares to admit to keep his composure and level a stern glare at his now thoroughly peeved daughter.

She has quite an intense scowl for a sixteen years old girl, he has to acknowledge as much. Unfortunately, not enough to make him budge in the slightest.

“We’ve been here for hours.” He replies evenly. “There is no point in all of us staying now that we know he’s stable. All of you go back to our apartment and get some rest. I’ll keep you updated.”

He looks pointedly at Cykes, who appears exhausted beyond belief and on the verge of collapsing at any given time, and Blackquill, who should really treat his own wound.

Trucy catches on quickly. Her righteous anger subsides, and Miles can easily see she’s torn between the need to stay at her father’s bedside and the necessity to bring her friend somewhere for her to unwind and rest.

“But…” she whispers weakly, but Justice places a hand on her shoulder, cutting off her protests.

“He’s right, Trucy. There’s nothing we can do here now. Better use this time to rest properly, so we can visit when Mr. Wright wakes up. I’m never gonna hear the end of it if he catches you with bags under your eyes.”

That’s actually a fair point. Trucy pouts, though the corners of her lips twitch rather conspicuously, but then relents.

“Fine, two on one, you win.” She says with a clearly exaggerated sigh. “You’re going to tell me straight away when he wakes up, right?”

Miles nods. “But of course.”

“Even if it’s in the middle of the night?” She raises an eyebrow in cheeky challenge, in the same irritating and yet endearing way her father does.

“Yes.”

“Pinky promise?”

And just like he’d do with her father, Miles rolls his eyes. “Yes, pinky promise.”

Trucy beams at that. “Alrighty then. Come on, Thena, let’s go.”

As Justice and Trucy help Cykes stand up and together shuffle their way out of the lounge, Blackquill addresses Miles again.

“You have my deepest gratitude, Edgeworth-dono.”

“Don’t mention it. Miss Cykes should not be left alone for the time being. You two keep an eye on them and make sure they stay put. Trucy can be quite a handful when she sets on doing something.”

“Mainly mischief, ja?” Gavin chuckles heartily. “Like father, like daughter.”

“Indeed.”

And with that, even Gavin and Blackquill are soon gone. For the first time since that dreadful call - has it really been no more than a few hours? Miles feels like it’s been a lifetime ago since he has last been in his office - he finds himself alone.

The world shakes violently around him, all of a sudden. Earthquake? At this time?

Ah, no, it’s just him. Uncontrollable shivers wrecks through him, his knees tremble; he makes it just in time to the chair Cykes has just vacated before his legs give out, and he slumps bonelessly on the seat, the back of his head resting against the wall as he stares at the pristine white ceiling above without really seeing it.

And when he finally breaks down, silent tears streaming down without shame or remorse, he can only be glad there is nobody else to witness them.

Chapter Text

Save for the constant beeping and whirring coming from several machines and monitors displaying graphics and numbers Miles doesn’t have the required knowledge to understand, the room is otherwise quiet.

Miles can hear the faint noise of steps and stretchers glide along the corridors outside the door, occasionally followed by comments or instructions coming from the tired nurses and doctors on their shift, but he pays little mind to anything happening on the other side of these four walls; his attention is solely focused on Phoenix, on the regular rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of Miles sitting at his side. His limp hand is uncharacteristically cold in Miles’s own.

Once the others had left, Dr. Carey explained to Miles the actual extension of Phoenix’s injury, and told him very openly that, had the bullet strayed a couple of inches off path, it would have pierced right through the heart, or severed the aorta. As it is now, according to her, it is just pure luck Phoenix escaped with his life at all, and got away with merely having a good portion of his stomach blown off. Of course, a truly complete recovery from such an injury is impossible, even for Phoenix. There will be lingering consequences, and the road to rehabilitation will probably be quite long and arduous.

He threads his fingers with Phoenix’s and holds tight, so tight he can feel his ring dig painfully into his flesh. He relishes in the pain, it keeps him awake, sane, helps pushing away the exhaustion creeping on him and the terrors lying ahead, just a blink away, ready to spring up on him the moment he closes his eyes, more vivid and vicious than ever.

Suddenly, his phone pings softly right in the moment his wristwatch strikes five in the morning. He doesn’t need to check to know the sender is the same of the other twenty of its twins he has received over the past two hours.

Miles’s parental side would like to berate Trucy for ignoring his orders and staying awake all night regardless, but he figures that would be rather hypocritical coming from him. He can’t blame her for being unable to rest and wanting to be updated of any development.

He just wishes he could give her a more satisfactory answer than the one he has been texting back to her each and every time.

”Still nothing new. Go to sleep.”

The words he types ring empty even to himself, leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He erases the last sentence and hits send.

Time trickles by, punctuated by every drop of whatever fluid the IV bag attached to Phoenix's forearm drips directly in Phoenix’s system, and the occasional check up visit of a nurse. Miles is quickly growing tired, his eyelids grow heavier with every silent minute flying past. He finds himself fighting with all his might to stay awake, to stifle a yawn, to never let go of Phoenix’s hand. Even without a mirroring surface at hand he can easily tell he must be looking haggard, his hair unkempt and limp, eyes heavy and bloodshot, outfit stifling and irremediably wrinkled after spending nearly a whole day in it. He longs acutely for the chance to finally have a shower and wash the grime of this accursed day off his skin, to melt away the fear and distress currently clinging to him like an oily, second skin in warm rivulets of water, to rinse it all away with the sound of Phoenix’s warm, bubbling laughter as he joins Miles in the shower, his gentle hands rubbing the knots in Miles’s stiff back away…

He aches for moments he should have showed more appreciation for. Once again, he has taken the peace of his life for granted.

So, as some sort of self-imposed repentance, he sits still, waiting with bated breath the moment Phoenix’s eyes flutter open again, gingerly and heavy with sleep. His whole body seemingly shuts down, every need outside the energy to keep awake is being pushed down, postponed for later. He doesn’t move from Phoenix’s bedside, only surrendering to the most basic of biological needs once for the whole duration of the night, and even then it barely takes him three minutes to be back to the room. A nurse with a gentle, round face and warm smile enters while Miles is standing ramrod straight at Phoenix’s side, and jokingly tells him he won’t be able glare the slumbering man awake just like that.

He makes a mental note to keep his glare under control from now on.

Hour after hour, he waits and waits and will wait until the end of time and beyond if he needs to.

And then, after an eternity, a sudden rustling noise breaks the monotonous beeping and pinging, followed by a low, hoarse groan. The beeping grows in intensity and pace, and he finds himself rooted on the spot, heart beating frantically against his ribcage, uncertain whether to stay or notify a nurse.

Phoenix makes that decision on his behalf.

“Miles?”

Miles’s hold on Phoenix’s hand tightens. “Phoenix.”

Phoenix feels like he’s floating, lying suspended on a bed of fluffy clouds, weightless and without a care in the world. His body feels funny all over the place, like it is there, but also is not, like he’s constantly flicking in and out of it. It feels foreign and stiff, oddly unsensitive. Even thinking of moving a single finger feels like an insurmountable feat, as he’s so tired already. No, scratch that, just stringing up a coherent line of thought seems downright impossible right now.

He isn’t really sure why Miles’s name is the first thing that comes to his lips, as naturally as breathing; perhaps it’s because Miles is the one he inwardly wishes to see again the most - who would have guessed it, really, it’s been that way only for the last, what, twenty six years? Day more, day less - or perhaps it’s his gut feeling sensing there is someone close by, and that someone is Miles waiting for him to wake up already and reach him, like always.

Regardless of the reason why, he does so, and in his dream-like state, he thinks he hears Miles call back, somewhere far, far away.

Over the years, he has had Miles call his name in all possible ways and declinations: stern reproach, playful mockery, tender affection, heated passion.

He’s never heard it so broken.

He feels tired, teetering dangerous on the edge of blissful oblivion, but with an enormous effort he finally manages to prise his eyes open. The bright neon lights all but assault his retinas at once, their searing white glare leaving blue dancing spots in his vision, making his eyes water. He blinks rapidly, staring on the burgundy red blur with all his might until his eyesight settles and a very exhausted-looking Miles Edgeworth comes into focus.

“Hey there,” he croaks weakly. He assumes the pressure he feels on his left hand is due to Miles holding it like his own life is depending on it, but Phoenix can hardly move a finger to respond in kind. He tries to smile, but his face feels clammy and stiff, and he can’t get his sluggish muscles to pull his lips into something wider than a grimace. “Why do you look more dead than me?”

It’s meant as a joke - given, a bad one - but as Phoenix’s morphin-laden brain slowly kicks into motion and his attention span widens he realizes he’s more spot on than he intended to. For the first time since forever, Miles positively looks like shit, face pale and taut and with dark shadows under his eyes, and the first hints of a five-o’clock shade along his jaw. It has to be the first time Phoenix gets to witness a less than perfectly groomed Miles.

It’s… not a good look on him. Not at all.

He half expects Miles to ignore him altogether, but Miles takes a deep, shuddering sigh that sounds awfully like a subtle so, and then smiles tiredly.

“For some unfathomable reason, I admit I’ve been unable to go through my usual evening routine. Any idea of who might be the culprit?”

Phoenix laughs, or rather, coughs out weakly something vaguely resembling a laugh. “No clue. What an ass though.”

“Indeed. They’d better take responsibility.”

Phoenix grins, more genuinely this time, and Miles instinctively feels himself relaxing, the stress and terror that have been keeping him so wound up slowly coming undone. The domesticity, the familiarity of their banter, even in the middle of this wreckage of a day, is a soothing balm for his nerves.

Eventually, Phoenix’s cheeky, tired grin fades, replaced by a light, pained frown. “I’m sorry.”

Phoenix fully expects Miles to puff out his chest in that pompous way of his and launch in a long tirade, to explain in painstaking detail the several ways Phoenix is the worst idiot who ever walked on Earth. Instead, he’s caught entirely by surprise when Miles smiles weakly, mirthlessly.

“You are not.”

“Wha-”

“Phoenix, I’ve known you for a fairly considerable amount of time by now.” Miles dutifully explains, “I am more than fully aware of your overbearing protective side. Given the circumstances, I would have expected nothing less from you.”

His tone is even, pragmatic, but as Miles folds his arms across his chest Phoenix sees how his fingers clench tightly over his elbows, painfully, how his eyes keep flitting around, never making eye contact with Phoenix for longer than a split second. Fine tremors make his shoulders quake, the first cracks in the flawless facade he has probably been wearing for everybody else’s sake.

Phoenix sees right through him, and the pain in his heart, swelling with affection and pride the entity of which his mind cannot fully understand, is much more intense than any bullet can ever cause. He reaches out again, and again Miles takes his hand in his own.

“She’s so young, Miles,” he feels the impelling need to explain himself, to justify his actions, to let his husband know he hadn’t meant to leave him, “She’s just a couple of years older than Trucy-”

“And your deep seated fatherly instincts kicked in, the desire to protect drowning off anything else. I know, Phoenix. You’ve been following the same modus operandi for a while. When did that start? With you going to confront Von Karma and getting tazed in the process? Or perhaps with White?”

The shaking has visibly increased and Miles’s voice cracks at the end, grows in pitch, just an inch away from a full blown hysteric fit.

Phoenix, still awfully tired and dismayingly bedridden, does the first thing his heart tells him to do; he delicately lifts their joined hands up to his face and presses his lips to Miles’s knuckles, kissing them one by one.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time he actually means it. Miles apparently knows it as well, for he scoffs playfully - they both pointedly pretend they don’t notice the one tear that manages to slip past the vice-like grip of Miles’s self control and slowly trickles down Miles’s sunken face - and cups Phoenix’s face, cradles it delicately, adoringly. Phoenix lets his heavy lids flutter close, his whole body seemingly melting under the soft caress.

Unsaid, the 'I love you’ in the touch is loud and clear.

“You’d better be. I swear you’re going to be the death of me. You’ve given me quite a number of heart attacks by now.”

Phoenix grins again, “Aw, and here I thought I was the heartthrob of your life.”

Even without looking, he’s one hundred percent positive Miles has just rolled his eyes, and he laughs in response.

After a while, Miles shifts and retreats his hand. Phoenix hears him stand up slowly, a little uncertain. He wonders briefly how long has Miles been sitting in that back-murdering chair to keep watch on Phoenix as he slumbered peacefully in his nearly comatose state. Probably the whole night.

“I need to warn the nurse and notify Trucy and the others, I promised I would do so as soon as you woke up to both parties.” he announces tiredly, making his way to the door. Phoenix wishes he would stay some more, for he’s the only medication Phoenix really needs, but that is way too mushy and cheesy to say out loud, even for him. Besides, he wants to know how Athena and Trucy and the whole gang is faring. He has no doubt Miles has already taken care of them and offered them a place to stay for the night.

And Phoenix is the sappy dad, according to Miles. Oh, the irony.

Still, he lets Miles go, the door clicking shut softly behind him, though it opens again barely a minute later. Dr. Carey, he soon finds out, is a rather charming young woman who has intention to beat around the bush.

“You’re a lucky guy, Mr. Wright,” she says as she and the nurse check on his vitals with practiced ease. “As I told your husband, just a few inches off course and you were a goner. You’ve got some strong connections up there, someone really loves you.”

And by utter chance, his eyes fall upon the bedside table right in that moment, lingering on the stone lying among the possession they found in his blazer. The Magatama glints playfully, almost cheekily, in the neon light, and if Phoenix squints hard enough he’s almost sure he can make out a familiar outline, with long chestnut hair and a golden scarf flowing down her back.

“I just have one hell of a defense attorney to watch my back.”

The following days turn out to be rather frantic.

There are endless tears and scoldings and apologies he pointedly refuses coming from Athena and Trucy and Apollo - though Trucy does not apologize, she takes the Miles route and rants and rants about how he’s the worst idiot that ever walked on Earth, all the while bawling her eyes out and holding onto him for dear life - and then there’s Blackquill who keeps bowing so deeply to Phoenix that Phoenix feels his back start acting up again. To his massive surprise, even Gavin pays him a few visits, always following Apollo and Trucy, armed with a kind, perhaps a little awkward smile and personally signed get-well cards that everybody knows will end up in Trucy’s beloved collection of Gavinner’s gadgets and trinkets.

Phoenix would have thought she’d eventually grow out of that obsession, given how the man is permanently glued to Apollo’s side and keeps throwing him bedroom eyes nobody misses but Apollo, but apparently he’s wrong.

They make sure Phoenix is never left alone, at any hour of day and night. Phoenix is honored to be held in such high consideration and love - “You’re gonna cry yourself to sleep if someone’s not here to comfort you.” Trucy comments matter-of-factly - but he can’t help but feel antsy under such attention. He tries his best not to fall asleep whenever in company, but it’s hard to stay awake after he's given his regular dose of morphine, and he always feels guilty when he wakes up at the weirdest hours of the night to find either Apollo or Miles dozing off, slumped on that damned chair. He wishes they would go home and rest properly for once.

Then, a few days later, Miles comes by at around dinner time - or rather, what would be dinner time if Phoenix’s meals weren’t reduced to weird liquids injected directly into his veins, that is. Four days later, and he’s still hates to see his right arm being used like a pincushion.

“Hey,” Phoenix greets him as Miles crosses the room in a few, long strides and presses the softest of kisses against Phoenix’s lips. Phoenix is already able to sit up, but he has yet to receive permission to leave his bed, much to his chagrin. A man of action down to his marrow, he can’t stand being forced to sit still for so long. “Thought you were home with the kids.”

“Gavin and Justice are keeping watch on the girls for the night.”

Phoenix grins and hums in acknowledgement. “Do you think they’re actually going to keep an eye on them, or will they be too busy making out on the couch? Or over the kitchen counter, where we-”

“We agreed we wouldn’t speak about that incident ever again.” Miles abruptly cuts him off, suddenly flushed and throwing surreptitious looks at the door, as though concerned someone overheard. Phoenix flashes him a toothy grin.

“Relax, I was just pulling your leg. I wouldn’t mind having a second go of that incident though, you know.” He wiggles his eyebrows, earning himself a quick glare he dismisses with an easy grin. “So, what brings you here? You must be busy, with all that has happened recently.” He gestures off-handedly at himself and the several tubes attached to his arm.

Miles raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “The office can run itself for a night. I have a prior engagement I deemed too important to miss for this evening.”

Judging from Phoenix’s puzzled face, Miles guesses he has all but forgotten. He can’t blame him, as getting shot and being hospitalized are quite distracting situations. He heaves a sigh.

“We have a dinner date scheduled for tonight, don’t you remember?”

Phoenix blinks, still confused, and then it clicks. His face falls, and he glances dejectedly at the IV bag hanging on its support at the side of the bed.

“Oh yeah,” he says, looking like a kicked puppy as he lifts his free hand to the nape of his neck, scratching awkwardly the back of his head. “Sorry, I believe I’m quite… indisposed.”

He looks down, head hanging low in shame and guilt. The two of them had been anticipating today for quite a long time, difficult as it is for Miles to get a night off with that insanely tight schedule of his. Although he knows it’s an illogical line of thought, he still hates their date had to be called off because of him.

“It matters not.” Miles says with a shrug and a suspiciously shrewd smirk. “I took the liberty to cancel our reservation and relocate to a more appropriate location you can easily access to.”

“Relocate?”

Miles rolls his eyes, pretending to get frustrated that Phoenix is taking so long to realize. With a sweeping movement of his arm, he indicates the room they’re in.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, we’re already there.”

And finally Phoenix gets it. The absurdity of it all is so out of character for Miles - who has very high standards in terms of restoration or anything, really - and yet so endearing that he can’t help but laugh.

“Here? In this dingy, stinking hospital room?” He barely manages to breathe out in-between laughing fits, ignoring the pain in his ribs and abdomen. Miles chuckles as well, apparently unfazed.

“Yes, quite. There is a vending machine at the end of the hallway that looks rather promising indeed.”

That only makes Phoenix laugh harder. “Are you serious?”

“That I am.”

And to make his point across, he leaves the room, only to be back a few minutes later carrying a package of crackers that look and will probably taste like cardboard and a water bottle.

“Holy shit, you’re actually doing it.” Phoenix wheezes as Miles drops his oh so classy dinner on the nightstand and picks the water bottle, unscrewing it open with a loud plastic noise.

“I thought you knew better than to doubt me, Wright. ” Miles says smugly, wearing a triumphant smirk the likes of which Phoenix has only seen it when Miles is a step away from winning a case. “I always have a contingency plan at the ready. Now, shall we have a toast?”

He tips his water bottle to Phoenix, and Phoenix, still laughing maniacally to the point his eyes are watering and tears are streaming down his face (those are definitely tears out of hilarity, it’s not like he’s moved or anything. Really.), grabs hold of the bar holding his drip-feed in place and reclines it slightly towards Miles.

“To us.”