Chapter Text
-Los Angeles, December 20, 2027-
"Morning, Edgeworth. Got $500?"
The voice at the other end of the line had been muffled, indistinct, the consonants slightly slurred. Miles had reached for the alarm clock, the red LED display sliding into focus as he moved it closer to his face.
It had taken a few more seconds before he'd replied; a few more seconds until he'd remembered where he was - a faceless apartment in downtown Los Angeles, an out-of-season vacation rental which had been cheaper than a hotel suite. And a few more seconds after that until he’d recognised the voice.
"Wright? Fuck. It's three o'clock in the morning… is this some kind of joke?"
He had swung his legs out of bed, pushing the comforter to one side as he'd blinked, reaching blindly for his reading glasses - the sudden sense of déjà vu taking his breath and pushing aside the remnants of sleep.
He'd shivered a little in the chill of the room, abruptly reminded of a hotel room in Zurich - of Phoenix's voice, distant and blurred by alcohol.
"I'm in a bit of trouble. Apollo's out of town."
"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"
It had taken Miles less than twenty minutes to shower, shave and dress in the grey suit that he’d worn earlier that day at the university. Another twenty to drive the short distance between his apartment and the Detention Center, cursing loudly and at length in French at the traffic signals and at the December rain which seemingly made every other motorist still on the roads at this time of night drive like an idiot.
Now, he sat stiffly on the steel bench, his briefcase resting awkwardly on his knees and the dull pain of a headache threatening in response to the relentless noise of raised voices. The metal seat was too low - the back angled such that it was impossible to sit comfortably - and he wondered for the hundredth time if that was deliberate.
The man to his left was handcuffed to one of the metal struts which bolted the bench to the floor. He reeked of cheap wine and urine; murmuring to himself in a drunken stupor as his head lolled to one side. Miles edged to his right, putting as much space between the two of them as was physically possible, then glanced at his watch, before directing another measured glare at the desk sergeant.
Nothing much had changed at the Detention Center since he had last been here, a decade ago. The walls were still painted a dull grey, the electric light still harsh where it reflected off the concrete floors. The acrid stench of disinfectant and stale human bodies still pervaded the air, enough that it threatened to make him gag if he breathed too deeply.
There were too many memories, bad jumbled in with good - innumerable interrogations and his own incarceration. Phoenix sitting opposite him, handcuffed, at the other end of a long, metal table, alternately protesting his innocence and pleading with Miles to remember a childhood that he had done everything consciously possible to forget. He'd ignored it then, asking his questions and slowly, deliberately writing the answers on the sheet of paper in front of him, convinced of Phoenix's guilt in the absence of any other suspect.
A few weeks later and he had been the one under interrogation, although he had said nothing - Von Karma's eyes locked on his across that same table, his mentor taking no trouble to hide the searing revulsion as he sat there coldly, writing measured notes in his file.
Matt Engarde, with his nauseatingly fake claims of innocence - the urgency underpinned by Phoenix's obvious pain at Maya's fate, Adrian Andrews’ silence, and the near-loss of his sister by an assassin's bullet.
And then Iris Hawthorne. It was still a half painful memory - of only the second time that he had sat on this same bench, the one reserved for defence attorneys and suspects.
As a prosecutor, there had been no waiting - no need for patience or tact - the guards instructed to obey and the defendants made available at a whim. More than once he had arrived in the early hours, the better to catch the guilty off-guard and obtain a confession. But in those cases he had never passed the front desk. He had never sat here in the noise and the stink among those waiting to be processed and either put into solitary or into a holding cell, dependant on the seriousness of their alleged crimes.
But he had waited for Iris, at Phoenix's request, despite the whispers and the confused scrutiny of the staff who had recognised him, even in his travelling clothes. And despite the fact that he had not been convinced of her innocence.
“Prosecutor Edgeworth?”
The voice cut through the noise of the waiting area and into his thoughts, and he got to his feet automatically, looking in the direction of the speaker. The tone of address was slightly sardonic; the emphasis slightly too much on the title.
Miles could have corrected the man, but he chose not to. It suited him to be remembered, and for once he did not care that the memory was obviously unpleasant. He had no desire to be here longer than necessary, and the hour that he had spent already, demanding to know why his client had been arrested, much less thrown into a holding cell without any medical attention, was already an hour too long.
He met the eyes of the desk sergeant with another withering look as the man gestured too-casually towards the steel door that led to the cells.
“I trust my client will have no reason to complain of his treatment here, sergeant. Wrongful arrest and being denied the right to see a doctor are already quite sufficient grounds for a lawsuit.”
His fingers tightened on the handle of the steel briefcase as he swept past the man without acknowledging him any further. There was the sharp click of a lock being released when he pushed the door open, another uniformed guard - a woman, this time - waiting on the other side to walk him to the holding cells.
“You have five minutes to release my client, officer. And my watch is extremely accurate.”
Phoenix sighed. It was just supposed to be another easy game. Trucy had been sleeping when he left, and he was only planning to be out for a couple of hours. He’d gotten the challenge from one of the regulars at the club, and it was supposed to be an easy couple of bucks.
Maybe he’d forgotten how much people hate losing, and how much more they hate it after they've been drinking. The bar owner had called the cops when the fight started, and the cops had ended up half-dragging him, bleeding, into the car. Lucky for them, they had plastic seats in place of what would have been a cloth interior in any regular car.
He hadn't professed his innocence on the way to the Detention Center - too busy trying to keep his head back and ending the run of blood from his nose that had already stained his shirt.
It had taken a good hour for him to finally get his phone call, and he almost surprised himself with knowing the number from memory. He was half-sure that Edgeworth would be asleep, and even more sure that he'd just tell him to fuck off and deal with his own problems. Maybe he'd underestimated him.
He paused after hanging up the phone, trying to keep the memories from coming back - another phone call, years ago, still obscured by a haze of alcohol and loss. He didn't have to think twice to be sure that Edgeworth had remembered it, too. It was all just too familiar for him not to have. Only this time… this time was different. Today Phoenix was asking for him, not pushing him away.
Someone behind him shouted to move it along, and he nodded, rolling his sore shoulders slightly as he pulled the hat down on his head. The movement brought a sharp pain in his side. He could only figure it was from having been kicked while he was down, quite literally.
“Yeah, I got it.”
The guard walked him back to the holding cell, locking him in. He stood there for a few minutes, remembering how many times his clients had been locked back here, how he had been here once before, the memory of facing down someone who had once been his friend surfacing as he wrapped his hands around the cold bars.
How many times had Maya been here? Iris? Edgeworth, too.
But that was a lifetime ago, and as he had told Gavin on multiple occasions - he was a different person now. He had wondered about getting his badge back, but years of denial and bitterness hadn't made it easy for him to give that up and go back to being an attorney.
He was different now, and Apollo had taken his place. All he could do was work in the background, helping to reform what he could to make the legal system something to be proud of again. He never pretended it would be perfect… but it was a start.
Phoenix moved back to the cot, laying back and trying his best the ignore the dull pain that was trying to remind him that he was alive. The fight hadn't lasted for too long before the cops had broken it up, but it still left its marks. He was figuring at least bruised ribs from the pain that shot through him every time he moved. He was hoping nothing was broken, but he couldn't really be sure. He hadn't been this badly banged up before, and he almost dreaded the prospect of going home to Trucy in this state.
He lay there for a while, minutes blurring together until he finally heard a door opening and footsteps approaching. He didn't have to look up to know who was standing there when they stopped.
“Took you long enough.”
He smirked, not moving from the cot.
It was a longer walk than Miles remembered to the cells, the faceless grey and concrete corridors punctuated by locked, handle-less doors and blind, mirrored glass. The smell of disinfectant was stronger here, and somehow made worse by the chemical scent of pine that attempted to cover it up.
He made no effort to respond to the hesitant pleasantries of the guard, his face set and his expression grim as he glanced up at the security cameras which monitored their progress. One of them swivelled to follow him and he glared at it, reminded too keenly of that sense of constantly being watched that had driven him half out of his mind when he had been detained here.
He wondered again what it had been like for Wright, knowing for four years that he was being observed, watched, stalked - but not knowing by whom. What it had been like when he realised that his friend was not his friend, but had been responsible for ruining his life and his career. And he remembered the night he had spent here after his own trial - after Phoenix had proved his innocence and in the process shown him that his life for fifteen years had been little more than a lie.
Another door, this one barred, and another guard waiting to slide it open and allow them through before closing it with a clang that almost made him wince as it echoed in the silence. And another grey corridor, this one lined with cells - some occupied, some empty - a disembodied voice that muttered obscenities at the guard as they passed. A few more steps and she stopped beside one of the smaller cells, lit only by the steel-caged light above his head. It was bare save for the toilet and small hand-basin in one corner, and two fold-down bunks that ran the length of the left-hand wall.
It took Miles a moment to make out the indistinct form laid on the bottom one, arm across his face. But if there had been any doubt about his identity, the smart remark which greeted him banished it in a moment.
“Wright, it is five o'clock in the morning. Unless you want to stay here for what remains of the night, I suggest you get the hell up.”
He glanced at his watch again. It was already past the hour, and he frowned at the guard as she stood there, indecisively looking between himself and Phoenix, the keys dangling in her hand.
“You have two minutes. Or perhaps you would like your name to join your superior's on the complaint I will be issuing later this morning?”
Phoenix was still half-surprised that Edgeworth had made it at all. Some small, hopeful part of himself was sure that he would, but the rest of him, hardened by years alone and in the company of Gavin… well, he didn't keep much hope up for his friends anymore.
He lay back for a few more seconds before kicking his legs over the cot, a movement that was too quick and brought forth a slight groan as his side protested the sudden movement. He stood then, hanging back a few feet from the bars as the guard seemed to suddenly remember that the keys were in her hand.
Phoenix wiped at his face again, his nose aching when he brushed it. He hadn't really gotten the chance to clean himself up aside from splashing himself a couple of times in the basin, and he was sure he looked like hell.
The door opened and he stepped out, giving a smile and a nod to the guard and turning to Edgeworth with a smirk.
“So, you posted my bail? That was nice of you.”
He didn't meet Edgeworth’s eyes when he spoke, and he tucked his hands into his pockets, holding up the jeans that were just a size too large. He was wearing sneakers that the tongues were lolling out of; nothing to hold them in place when he walked.
“Can we go get my shoelaces now?”
Miles’ fingers tightened reflexively on the briefcase in response to the groan, and he had to force down a curse as Phoenix stepped into the light, instead directing another scowl at the guard when she fumbled with the lock.
Even in the bleaching glare of the overhead light he could make out the purpling bruises around Phoenix's left eye, swollen until it was only half-open; the swelling around his nose and the dried blood from both which covered his clothes. There was more bruising on his left cheek, bottom lip split and an open cut across his brow... so his attacker was right-handed and wore a ring, Miles' mind offered automatically, before he frowned.
It was an effort to tear his eyes away as Phoenix shuffled through the open door, and a further effort not to put out a hand to help him, but the comment about bail cut through his indecision. Had he not known Phoenix better, and considering that Phoenix looked as though he had just lost several rounds to a prizefighter, Miles might have mistaken the smirk for a grimace. But as it was, he stiffened, shooting a biting look in Phoenix's direction.
“Shut up, Wright.”
The words were clipped, half-angry, although Miles was unsure who his anger was directed at. Phoenix, for whatever glaring stupidity had led to this; the police, for failing to arrest the real culprit and bring a doctor; or himself, for caring so damned much.
He ignored Phoenix's question, turning back to the guard, both voice and expression icy cold.
“That was not an admission of culpability. My client is in need of medical attention, and I will be calling into question any statements he may have made while in police custody. I expect his belongings to be waiting by the time we reach the exit, and I suggest that you refrain from using handcuffs, unless you propose to hold up his pants yourself.”
Miles turned, ignoring Phoenix and stalking back down the corridor without waiting for either of them.