Archive of Our Own

May 5 , 7:52 PM
Prosecutor's Building
High Prosecutor's Office

4 Months, 11 Days

You glance down at your phone for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, sigh for what felt like the hundredth, before proceeding to once again stuff it into your pocket as you slouched further down the door frame.

"Are you almost done?"

".."

"Come on, Miles- I'm starving."

Silence.

Exasperated, you look over at the prosecutor who was currently sitting undisturbed at his desk, silently filling out papers. They weren't relevant however as you couldn't have cared less about them (though, as a Detective, you probably should) and you instead focused on the fact he was obviously ignoring you which was totally more important and completely unacceptable.

Huffing, you ask annoyedly, "Are you even listening to me right now?"

There was a slight pause before an irritatingly unfazed voice responded with, ".. Unfortunately so, yes."

You scowl, groaning an indecipherable curse. If able, you would have slouched even more just to prove that you were upset, but your feet were cramped enough as they were.

"So you're just not understanding the words that are coming out of my mouth, is that it?"

"No," Miles corrects without looking up, tone absolutely infuriating, "I completely understand the words that are coming out of your mouth."

You scoff.

"Yeah? What am I saying?"

He sets his fountain pen aside and places the document into his already opened briefcase, standing up as he closes it. The latches shut with two satisfying clicks as he finally, finally, looks at you.

"That you're incredibly impatient."

Oh how you wished you could slap him.

It was an incredibly enticing idea, but you had a feeling that while you most certainly were friends with Miles Edgeworth, you didn't think you were quite at that stage in your relationship were you could just slap him up side the head and leave unscathed.

Yeah, that didn't sound likely.

Which was unfortunate because sometimes there was nothing more satisfying than ruffing your friend up a bit when they were acting like a total dick. It was like a reality check, only someone gets tackled. Not that it's any less effective- You would know.

But, because a vibe check was out of the question, you did the next best thing which was glare your meanest glare at the prosecutor as he walked over. Truthfully, he never paid much mind to your scowl when it so often appeared and this time was no different but you did it anyway- For yourself more than anything.

Miles steps over your legs, unfazed by your scowling expression as he leaves you in the doorway.

"It is unbecoming of a Detective to whine over such trivial matters."

You scoff, "Yeah, well, it's unbecoming of a High Prosecutor to leave someone waiting in their doorway for half an hour."

He looks at you over his shoulder and you give him your best 'two can play at that game' look, sticking your tongue out for good measure. The prosecutor stifles a chuckle, not the reaction you wanted, but one you expected.

"Do you wish for an apology, Detective L/N?"

Oh, so that was how it was gonna be.

"Yes," You mock as you finally stand, stepping out of the way so he can lock his door, "In fact, I do, Prosecutor Edgeworth."

Miles glances at you, slight exasperation on his face as he pulls the key from its lock, but doesn't seem to take your words literally and actually starts to walk away.

He only goes a few paces however before noticing the lack of footsteps behind him and sighs, turning back. The look he gives you is reluctant but you raise your eyebrows expectantly at him. No way was he getting out of this one.

"I am sorry," The prosecutor practically grits through his teeth, "For prolonging the time you spent waiting."

You stared at him for a moment, feigning indifference for a just a little payback before dropping the facade and smiling.

You catch up him up down the hallway, prepared to say a thank you for his troubles,  when he adds, "Though, you really are impatient."

"... You just had to ruin it, didn't you."

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he held the stairwell door open for you.

"I have no idea what you're referring to, Y/N."

Of course.

You glare at him and then, after remembering that had no affect, brush past Miles and instead start jumping down the stairs; attempting to put some distance between the two of you before he could say something else.

He ended up only being a few steps behind you but you considered it good enough for now, shifting your focus to your feet as not trip over them during your twelve flight descent. You usually just took the elevator as it was much faster (and less painful), and still do whenever you're traveling by yourself or with anyone else.

Well, almost anyone else. As of recently, you've been taking the stairs whenever you left with the High Prosecutor (even, clearly, when he was being an ass).

A couple of months back, after going over some files in his office, Miles stopped you as you were grabbing your raincoat and asked if he could have a word with you about something important.

After sitting you down (and scaring you shitless) he explained, after a lot of struggling, that he was really averse to elevators and asked if you instead would consider taking the stairs next time you had dinner together.

He also said, the fool, that he would understand if it was too 'inconvenient' for you. Now, looking back on it, you could see why he said that, he was just trying to be thoughtful- But at the time, you couldn't have been more annoyed by it. Like, what kind of person would say no to that?

You didn't think there had ever been a time where you had been genuinely upset with the prosecutor, but that was probably the closest you ever got. You just couldn't believe he had waited so long to tell you- Especially since the two of you had been going out to dinner for three months at the very least.

Not to mention all those time he had walked you out after a long night of case analysis, or you were simply going to the same place and left together.

Hearing him tell you that he never took the elevator besides with you was simultaneously the most baffling but also most infuriating thing you had ever heard- And boy oh boy did you chew him out for not telling you sooner.

You were 99% sure you were the only police officer in the entire history of ever, to berate Miles Edgeworth for something he had done and not the other way around.

Too bad no one would believe you if you told them.

"Y/N," Miles says, pulling you from your thoughts, "You have yet to tell me where we will be dining tonight."

"I know, it's a surprise."

"I.. don't get to know?"

"That's usually how surprises work, yes." You could practically feel his eyes roll.

"Is it safe to assume we won't be having French again?'

You hit the landing and immediately spin on your heel, sending a withering look to the prosecutor. He seemed pleased with himself.

"You were just waiting to bring that up, weren't you?"

"Once again, I haven't the faintest-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," You groan, cutting him off as you begin taking two steps at a time down the stairs, the distance no longer suitable after what he just said, "You haven't the faintest idea what I'm talking about."

Not a single soul on Earth but Phoenix Wright would believe you if you told them, but Miles Edgeworth was a real tease when he wanted to be.

"You haven't answered my question, Y/N."

See?

"Of course it's not French," You snap behind you, "You think I've forgotten last week?"

"It is no one's fault but your own that you weren't paying attention to what you were putting in your mouth." Miles states wryly, obviously enjoying this conversation, "If you had, you would have noticed it was escargot."

"Snails, Miles- I ate, a snail."

He laughs.

You weren't exactly sure when these Friday night dinners with the High Prosecutor became as routine as brushing your teeth, but dates weren't really important when you still remembered how they first began.

It had been early January and you were in the middle of a particularly convoluted case of serial killings that had rendered the police department speechless. As the lead detective and prosecutor, you and Miles had been pulling an all-nighter in attempt to piece it all together.

Usually, that kind of work was left solely to the detectives, but the prosecutor had become particularly invested in that case because of the cryptic notes that were being left at each crime scenes. They contained riddles and taunting messages, all of which spurred his determination to find the culprit.

Unfortunately, despite your best efforts, all the two of you could find were dead ends and stray pieces of the puzzle that didn't seemed to fit in anywhere.

It was nearing midnight and your search had yet to dig up any leads, but you still refused when Miles told you to take a break, insisting you were fine. At time, you didn't plan on leaving his office until you had some sort of break through, regardless of how insignificant.

Of course, just after you dismissed the notion of taking a break so fervently, your stomach let out a growl for food that was so incredibly loud and inconvenient, it could have only been done out of spite.

There was a particularly long silence after that, which consisted of the two of you neither speaking nor looking at each other before the prosecutor awkwardly suggested you both take a break and find something to eat: Which you accepted (just as awkwardly you might add), because it wasn't like you could say no after your stomach just openly declared war on itself.

At that time of night all that was open was a salty noodle stand, which wasn't particularly ideal for either of you, but that didn't change the fact you and Miles had a nice time together; something you both agreed on the next day.

It was you who proposed you should do it again sometime, under different circumstances obviously, but you didn't actually think he would say yes- But he did, thus marking the first of many dinners you would share with the prosecutor.

Though, for the next occasion, which was two weeks later, Miles made sure your plans consisted of a 'more substantial meal than last time'- His words, not yours.

As you said, you weren't exactly sure when those two weeks apart started to become the occasional back-to-back dinner, then more occasional then not, until it was a week's difference in time. But, it didn't really matter when that all happened: You were just happy it did.

Happy that you got to spend time with Miles without being surrounded by dead bodies, pending cases, and lying witnesses.

Not to say you couldn't talk without being hounded by the depressing hustle and bustle of crime scenes, because you could; but even in those instances it didn't change the fact that you were still at work, whether it be during your lunch break or a visit to the Prosecutor's Office.

There were always still things that had to be done or had to be taken care of, calls you had to respond to that cut your already short conversations even shorter.

But on Friday nights, things were different.

On Friday nights, there were no duties, no calls. There was no Detective L/N and Prosecutor Edgeworth. There was just people: Two friends, enjoying dinner together, finding some sort of escape from their stressful lives in the company of each other.

Or at least, that's how you saw it. For you, Miles always made things easier, more bearable.

His presence, even when you weren't out to eat, relaxed you. You didn't know why but everything about him was soothing to you: The way he talked, the way he smiled when the two of you were alone; the occasional laugh that always surprised you in the most delightful way. 

And when Friday came, those moments became a little less rare and reserved, his smiles a bit bigger and his chuckles a bit louder. It was your dinners that helped the days pass by a little faster, giving you something to look forward to.

You just hoped Miles did too.

As your evening's spent with the prosecutor became more frequent, there came the innate issue of who was going to choose where you would be dining; and, like most people would, you agreed on the simple solution of taking turns.

Unsurprisingly, it was a well oiled compromise as you both had some favorite places to dine at (Miles the Gatewater and you a family owned establishment that totally had nothing to do with where you decided to live), but also liked to try new restaurants and different types of food. It had it's way of balancing out so you never got bored of one place or cuisine.

Honestly, for you at least, the dinners had become sort of an excuse to go to places you normally wouldn't if dining alone, but became more enticing at the prospect of sharing the experience with someone else.

It was fun, trying out new places with the prosecutor; hearing his critiques (mostly of the tea), and occasionally stealing some of his food when he wasn't looking.

After a while you began to catch yourself scrolling through forums on your phone, usually during your lunch break, in search of less known but still delicious places to try out; restaurants you would have normally overlooked if not for your weekly dinners- Which was what you were doing last Wednesday.

It wasn't so much your lunch break as it was you laying on your couch when you stumbled upon a local Italian restaurant called Antonio's within a reasonable distance. Its ratings were extremely high and almost all the reviews had only good things to say about both the family that owned the place and the food.

As the proud sucker for noodles you were, you didn't need much more convincing to decide on where you were going next week. You could only hope that Miles didn't make Italian his food of choice that Friday- Not that that would change your mind or anything: He would just have to deal with it.

He didn't however, having chosen French instead (for better or for worse, you still weren't completely sure), so your plan was in full swing.

You were actually pretty excited, having read through more reviews and even looked at some pictures when you searched the place up for a second time in order to find the directions for later.

Admittedly, you ended up getting distracted by them, thus forgetting to actually find the directions; only remembering to do so three hours later in the middle of the night, kind of like the mom in Home Alone when she realizes she's forgotten her own son, only less traumatic (seriously though, who does that?), but that's besides the point.

The actual point was you had been looking forward to going to this Italian restaurant for well over a week (not really) and, after waiting so long (it really wasn't that bad), you were finally gonna get to try it.

After you made your way down to the underground parking lot, you and Miles went to your respective blocks and got in your cars. Because it was your week you were the first to pull out of the lot and waited in front of the building until you saw the prosecutor's red sports car pulled up behind you; then, you made your way to the restaurant.

It was about a twenty minute drive from the Prosecutor's Office (your agreed upon limit was thirty) and appeared fairly busy when you turned into the parking lot. Not incredibly so as you found two adjacent spaces pretty quickly, but enough to leave an impression on you- Not that you were complaining.

You kind of liked the white noise of distant conversation in restaurants, the mix words becoming a low hum behind your own evening chatter.

"Surprise," You say dryly to Miles as you both get out of your cars, "We're having Italian."

In a moment like this, you fully expected some sort of quip from the prosecutor about how predictable your food choices were, or how he couldn't bare to watch you eat another plate of noodles, but nothing of the sort came out.

Actually, nothing came out.

You look over at Miles to see if he heard you, or was pretending he didn't, but discovered he wasn't even remotely paying attention to you or the words you said; only to the red lettered sign that read 'Antonio's' at the edge of the parking lot. You frown and walk over to him.

"Is something wrong?"

The prosecutor looked at you, blinked, then shook his head.

"No, no, I'm alright, I just..." He glanced at the sign again, "I used to come here with my father when I was a child."

... Hold up.

"Wait, really?"

This was a dumb question, and you knew that, but you asked it anyways.

"Yes." Miles says, either not noticing the stupidity of what just came out your mouth or just not acknowledging it. He lets out a quiet puff of air, still looking at the red letters, "It was sort of a tradition, between the two of us."

You didn't quite understand how the universe worked or why, out of all the other places you could have chosen, it had you chose the single one that was related to the prosecutor's past. Like, what kind of probability did that have?

Though, if you were being perfectly honest, you were almost just as surprised at that fact he was talking about his past in the first place.

In the duration of your entire relationship, Miles had never once brought up his childhood or even early adult life with you, except to say he had been friends with Phoenix Wright since he was nine; though, they had a falling out after he moved away and didn't reconnect until 15 years later.

But besides that, the only other things you really knew about him was that his father passed away when he was young, how you weren't sure, and that he was later adopted by former prosecutor Manfred von Karma.

Of course, none of this he told you personally, all of it pieced together by your own accord, compiled via overhearing conversations about the prosecutor and Gumshoe's big mouth.

Thinking about, it wasn't that surprising how curious you had become about Miles's childhood (besides the obvious fact that you had been friends for far too long to not know a single thing besides random gossip) considering what kind of person he was.

I mean, what would a future, cutthroat prosecutor with a soft spot for a children's TV show find fun as a kid anyway?

You never asked him though, despite your overwhelming interest, as you figured the reason you were still curious was because he wanted you to be. If there was one thing you had learned about Miles, it was that everything he did was done for a reason. And, with that logic, you assumed that if he had wanted to tell you about his past, than he would have already.

But, whether it be because he was just unaccustomed to sharing and wasn't sure how, or because the memories were too painful for him to recall, he hadn't.

At least, not till now anyways.

Your first instinct was to have him tell you more, maybe unearth some hidden mysteries about the prosecutor, but you figured you should probably get inside first. You weren't too disappointed though, it would be easy enough to bring up again.

"Well," You sniff as you start walking to the entrance, "I guess I'm the only one who's gonna be surprised this time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've eaten here before." You pull the door open for Miles, "I haven't."

"Well, yes, but- Thank you- I haven't eaten here in..." He quiets as he does the math, opening the second door for you as he thinks, "... 17 years."

"Your point?"

The prosecutor shoot you a sideways look for obviously feigning ignorance, but explains nonetheless, "I don't remember much about the food, so I'll be just as surprised as you."

You give an exaggerated hum of understanding in response as someone gathers silverware and menus, earning yourself another, harsher look, that you return with a smile.

Hey, who said he was the only tease in this relationship?

You look away, leaving Miles to sulk, and glance briefly around the restaurant. It was as busy as you thought it'd be.

"This way please."

You and the prosecutor follow an Italian woman through the restaurant before being seated at a four person booth that had a view of the main street. She hands you menus and utensils wrapped in cloth napkins before leaving you to your own devices with the promise that someone will be with you shortly.

Opening your menu you immediately begin looking for the drink section- Also known as, for some sadistic reason, the hardest thing to find on a menu despite it being the first thing they ask for. It didn't matter that you were a grown ass, badge wearing adult: You still got anxious every time you you couldn't find the drinks and the waiter came to ask what you wanted.

Today wasn't going to be one of those occasions though, as you found the drinks quickly enough and, after considering how lacking in energy you were this Friday evening, decided on black coffee.

Stressful part out of the way you began to actually look over your menu, skimming descriptions and skipping the salads because who needed lettuce when you could have carbs?

Speaking of carbs, you were pretty sure the only thing you ever needed in life was to consume the stuffed rigatoni described on the menu directly in front of you.

"Hi," You look up from your carb fantasy to see a waitress flipping open a small notepad in front of you, "My name is Sofia and I'll be taking care of you today."

"Can I start you off with something to drink?"

Ah- The fabled words.

You look over at Miles who was already closing his menu, "Hot tea, if you have it."

Sofia nodded approvingly, scribbling on her pad before looking at you.

"Coffee, please. No cream or sugar."

She took a moment and then glanced down at the prosecutor's menu on the table.

"Are you guys already ready to order?"

"I am, but I do not know if... " Miles glanced at you with a questioning gaze.

"Yeah," You nod, closing your menu as well, "Stuffed rigatoni, please."

"And a caprese chicken for me." She writes quickly on the notepad before taking our menus and flashing a smile.

"I'll have your tea and coffee out soon."

You smile back, out of politeness more than anything, before turning back to Miles as she bustled away to another table, who was looking off somewhere behind you. Your thoughts went back to the parking lot. No time like the present.

"So," You begin, as all people did when they tried to introduce a subject, "You said coming here with your Dad was a tradition?"

The prosecutor's eyes came back to you at the sound of your voice, though he seemed to take a moment before completely registering your question.

"Oh, " He clears his throat, "Yes, after every trial. Father would bring me here as sort of a.. celebratory dinner."

Aww, how cute. You could almost picture a young Miles (now that was a sight) sitting in a booth across from his Dad, excited to spend time with him after a successful...

... Wait.

"Your ..?" You stare baffled at the prosecutor, voice faltering as you finally comprehended the one detail you missed, "Your Dad was a prosecutor?!"

Miles seemed surprised, confusion taking over his features, but still managed to shake his head and answer your outburst.

"No, a defense attorney actually." He furrowed his brow at you.

"You... You weren't aware?"

"Uh... no." You say before adding, "I, uh, really don't know much about your past if I'm being honest." Not for a lack of trying.

For some reason this seemed even more confusing to the prosecutor who now looked even more perplexed; until he remembered that not everyone he encountered was already aware of his life story (unlike some bluffing defense attorneys). Miles was just so used to the idea of people already being informed about his personal history, or at least partially so, that he forgot that that wasn't usually the case- You actually had to tell people about your past for them to know about it.

"... Of course not, how foolish of me." He says eventually, "There would have been no way for you to know, after all: I don't often talk about it."

If you were being totally, completely honest (which you were because this was an inner monologue), you found the prosecutor's behavior a little strange, like he was thinking of something else as he was speaking; like, there was something you were missing.

You know that feeling you get when you're talking to someone and then they say something and you can't help but get the impression that there's something more to it, but you're not supposed to be picking up on it?

Yeah, that's how you felt.

But, then again, you were currently revisiting what seemed to be a hallmark place from Miles's childhood, so maybe it was just because you were here- I mean, even the fearsome Demon Prosecutor can get nostalgic, right? Yeah, that's probably all it was.

"It's alright," You smile at Miles, concern diminished, "Just means I've got more of you to learn about, right?"

You laugh as his expression instantly becomes one of shock, taken-aback even, like he was genuinely surprised at your interest in him. It was cute.

He, was cute.

... Platonically. He was platonically cute. Not any other kind of cute that could mean something else, just regular cute; as in, when you see a puppy or a baby and they do something stupid and the first thing that comes to your mind is 'cute' and you just want to pick them up and hug them. That kind of cute: Miles was that kind of cute.

Not, that you wanted to pick up Miles and hug him, that would be inappropriate- Though, his shoulders looked quite broad and you could imagine he gave good hugs, if he even gave hugs in the first place-

"So," You try to distract yourself from the dangerous territory your mind just ventured into, "What made you want to be a prosecutor if your Dad was a defense attorney?"

You didn't know this at the time, and probably wouldn't realize until very late into the night, but the question you just asked carried more weight than you could have possibly known.

There had been a chance for you to realize it sooner, but the waitress came at that very moment with your beverages and announced her presence, causing you to turn away and therefore miss the sudden alarm displayed across the prosecutor's face.

He felt a moment of dread, a cold, sickly feeling seep into his chest. Miles did not know how to answer that question, the truth too long and too complicated: There was no simple answer.

But, of course, you did not know that. Just as you did not know who Manfred von Karma really was, what hid behind that perfect record he was so famed for. You did not know how strong his influence was and, with it, what he had turned Miles into.

You did not know who Miles used to be.

And the mere thought of having to explain that, all of that, made his blood run cold for reasons he could not explain nor understand.

But the alarm was fleeting- Physically, that is; covered quickly by years of hiding his emotions, a habit that had been taught to him daily.

If he was being honest, it felt.. wrong, to rely on that mask after so long, after undergoing so much change; but some lessons were nearly impossible to shake and the prosecutor couldn't deny that when he saw you look back over, when he could tell that you had not seen, that you did not know...

He felt relieved.

"Thank you," You glance back at the waitress and smile, once again out of politeness more than anything; she probably returned it for the same reason.

As she left you officially returned your attention back to Miles, who was currently inspecting the steaming cup of tea in front of him with a critical eye.

You knew that look, all too well in fact. That was his 'you call this tea?' look, which you were pretty sure he adorned at least once every single time you went out, the only exception being the Gatewater and even then he told you it was steeped a little too long.

"Not up to your standards?" You ask jokingly, a small chuckle in your voice as you watched his expression change as he tasted it.

The prosecutor set the cup (that was clearly made for coffee) down before saying matter-of-factly, "Y/N, my standards are only met when I travel to Britain. Considering this," He lifts the cheap looking bag from the water, voice disdainful, "Was not only made in America but also in an Italian restaurant, I'm not even going to comment on it."

You snort, half at Miles's response and half at how completely serious he was about it, before looking down at your own drink as he attempted to salvage his tea with the lemon slice it came with.

It was a small saucer but that hadn't seemed to have stopped whoever made your drink from cramming two biscotti cookies onto one side, stacking them on top of each other just to leave space for your coffee- Not that you were complaining. You've always been one to say said: A cookie is a cookie, no matter how precariously balanced

Still, seeing as they were practically falling off already, you figured it wouldn't be that much of a loss on your part to offer one to the still contemptuous man across from you.

"Want one?" You hold the top cookie out to Miles.

He looks up from his cup, first to you with a quizzical expression, then down to your hand where he then blanches at the sight of it.

".. What?" You were confused, if not slightly concerned.

After a delayed moment the prosecutor's eyes snapped away from the offering, a startled look in them before he cleared his throat and chased it away. Still, his voice was strained as he spoke.

"N-Nothing. I'm fine, I'm alright." He looked away again, back down to your hand, and took the biscotti, "... Thank you."

He was obviously lying, there was no possible way he wasn't with the way he was acting, it was just too bizarre- Not like the reason he was acting bizarre wasn't already bizarre because why would anyone react like that to a literally fucking cookie.

And of course, your first reaction was to press him about it because it's not like you could just sit there and pretend that didn't just happen, but the whole thing was just so... bizarre, that you didn't know how to address any of it besides with the generic 'Are you sure you're alright?'; and, knowing Miles, you were positive you would just get the same answer as before.

Despite knowing this, despite the logically sound part of your brain telling you it was useless because you knew exactly what he would say, you couldn't shake the nagging part of you that still wanted to ask because it just felt wrong not to- Morally, emotionally, physically wrong, in every possible sense of the word.

And you almost did it, almost said the words that it felt like you needed to say. You even opened your mouth to speak, when a familiar feeling settled on your shoulders; one you often got when the prosecutor was being vague, especially when you didn't want him to be.

It reminded you how you didn't want to pry into his life, how Miles was a private and precise person. It told you that if he was telling you he was fine, it was because he wanted to believe so, even if he wasn't pulling it off very well; and that you should respect that.

It felt wrong to ask and wrong to ignore but in the end you chose to listen to the weighted feeling, as you always did, and left the prosecutor be.

It didn't make you any less worried or diminish your want to ask him in the slightest, but you couldn't deny the fact that he was a covert person in nature and would most likely prefer if you left him alone. Of course, that knowledge didn't help you emotionally.

Still, even though you said you couldn't just sit there and pretend nothing happened, you did. Or, you tried. It wasn't going too well so, in attempt to distract yourself from your concerns, you busied yourself with your coffee.

Miles was busy too, in a sense. Just with... different things.

Non-physical things.

Things that came with the sudden rush of deja vu, with memories nearly forgotten, memories he could not believe escaped his mind. Could not believe had returned so vividly with a simple glance.

Father.

-

"You were amazing today in court, Father!" Miles exclaims, kicking his legs enthusiastically under the table.

Gregory Edgeworth smiles at his barely six year old son, taking his hat off as a menu is slid in front of him.

"Thank you, Miles, but you helped me out your fair share."

His expression becomes confused.

"I did?"

"You didn't know?" The defense attorney smiles as his son shakes his head earnestly before explaining, "Seeing you in the stands always makes it easier to find contradictions."

Miles instantly beams at him, leaning against the edge of the table excitedly.

"Really, Father? Do you mean it?"

"Of course I do!" Gregory's smile grows at the look of pride upon his son's face, grin remaining as he looked over the menu.

When the waitress came he ordered a black coffee and a glass of milk, as he always did when he took Miles out to eat.

And, as he always did, he handed his son the extra biscotti that came with his coffee.

It was, for some reason, his favorite cookie (which really said a lot because it wasn't even a cookie). Gregory had never heard of a six year old enjoying hard, Italian biscuits before, but then again, he hadn't heard of a six year old who enjoyed reading textbooks instead of picture books and actually understood the newscasters when they watched television either.

Not that he was complaining of course, not in the slightest. He was extremely proud of Miles and felt touched that he looked up to him so much. And, concerning the biscuits, he found it particularly pleasing that he liked them so much..

"What is it, Father?"

Gregory blinks and sees his son staring expectantly at him. He must have been staring.

"Nothing, Miles." He smiles reassuringly.

"You just remind me of your Mother."

-

Miles looked up sharply at the sensation of something closing over his wrist, only to discover it was you attempting to regain his attention. He looked up and while your expression was one of obvious concern, he was still too distracted by the sudden recollection to notice it.

"W-What? What did you say?" He assumed he missed something.

Your lips pursed into a small frown.

"I asked," You repeat, voice quiet and serious enough that it alerted the prosecutor and he seemed to recognize the hints of worry in your brow and pensive eyes, "If you were alright."

"You've been staring at that biscotti for like five minutes."

Oh.

He hadn't realized but, thinking about it, it wasn't all that surprising to hear- He must have spaced out while he was remembering. It really hadn't seemed that long, the whole thing felt like it transpired in seconds, but Miles assumed it had to have been or else you wouldn't have seemed so worried.

"Miles, seriously," Had you always sounded that anxious? He hadn't realized just how concerned you were about him, "Are you alright? You've been acting off since we got here."

Your lips purse into that small, little frown again before you add in a quieter voice, "Is it because of this place?"

The prosecutor thought about it, then supposed it was.

He supposed it was because he was here, in this place he had spent so many evenings with his Father. His Father whom he idolized. His father whom he loved.

His Father who was gone.

But, he felt like it was more than that, more than just simply reminiscing in the place he had spent so much time; more than just the prosecutor missing his father, remembering his past.

More like how you knew nothing about it.

You knew nothing about what Miles's life used to be like, who he used to be and what he used to do. You didn't know he was a totally different person than before, that the Miles Edgeworth from a few years ago was nothing like the one you knew today.

But you should, Miles thought, you should know about it. All the people he considered important in his life knew.

All of them, except for you.

And there was no reason why you shouldn't.

Telling the story wasn't the problem, he had recounted it dozens of times, relived it hundreds. Not to say it was a pleasant experience, not in the slightest, but, at this point in his life, it wasn't as difficult as it used to be. And trust wasn't the issue either, the prosecutor was sure of that.

No, the real reason why Miles hadn't told you about his past was because he was afraid of what you'd think of him. That things would change and you wouldn't be in his life anymore, not in the same way at least. He was afraid because you had become important to him.

Too important to him.

He... felt things for you- Had, been feeling things for you, around you, for a long time now, since the Christmas party at the Prosecutor's Office, maybe even longer. Maybe it just took him until that night to realize you made him feel completely different than anyone else ever had; feelings that were new to him, emotions he had never experienced before. They were intense and confusing and made his chest tight sometimes but...

He liked the way you made him feel.

He liked your companionship and your Friday night dinners and how you reacted when you he teased you, which was yet another thing your presence drew from him because Miles had never teased someone before, not the way he did with you but; seeing the way you pouted and stuck out your tongue made him want to do it all day- And he didn't understand why he felt that way but it didn't matter because he felt happy.

And the thought of losing all that; all the friendship and dinners and teasing and happiness that he shared with you, was terrifying.

Terrifying like that evening from a few months ago, the one where he had been forced to ask you to take the stairs

Obviously then the stakes hadn't felt so high, but he still had been uncharacteristically nervous over your possible reaction when he stopped you from leaving that night; something he wasn't used to dealing with even in unpleasant situations as he was usually very good at coping with such things.

Still, he found the whole ordeal quite embarrassing and therefore quite difficult to tell you, as he never really planned on telling you in the first place. But with your dinners starting to become more and more frequent, he just couldn't keep up with the constant in and outs of that horrid steel contraption.

Though it was only once a week, Miles had probably ventured inside an elevator more times in those three months than he had any other year of his life since he was nine. And while he knew logically it was for the best, he just couldn't quell his anxiety about your future opinion of him.

He should have known your response would have been nothing but compassionate, it was a trait he so often admired in you; and, thinking back on it, there probably had been a part of him that knew you wouldn't be harsh, but the idea had just been so difficult to imagine that he pushed it aside.

You scolded him for it, for not telling you sooner, going so far as to call him a fool- Not for his fear, but because he had waited so long to tell of all things.

The prosecutor had never once smiled while being berated by someone, but he did that day.

Just as he smiled the following Friday when you walked down the stairs with him for the first time. You hadn't seen it of course, he had made sure of that.

If you had, he wasn't certain he would have been able to explain, to describe the incredible sense of happiness that had filled him, along with all the other feelings that came whenever you were near or in his thoughts.

Miles looked down at the biscotti still in his hand, and realized that you were a very giving person.

You gave him kindness and warmth and understanding, good morning's at crimes and good night's when you went separate ways to your cars. You gave him bright smiles over restaurant tables and treasured memories that made him smile long after you were gone.

Maybe... maybe choosing Antonio's and ordering black coffee and sharing your biscotti with the prosecutor had been no coincidence. Maybe this entire evening, or whatever had happened to make you choose this place, had been a sign that he should trust the relationship he had built with you; trust the logic that you'll accept his past like you had everything else about him.

Maybe, he was just nostalgic and missed his Father.

Miles knew it was latter, that the former wasn't possible; but the belief in the impossible gave him courage. It gave him the courage he needed in order to tell you what he not only wanted to say, but what you deserved to know.

So, just for a little while, the prosecutor chose to believe this night was meant to be.

"You.." Miles begins slowly, setting the biscotti down and looking at you, "You wanted to know why I became a prosecutor instead of a defense attorney, correct?"

You blinked, confused at the sudden shift of topic.

"Uh, yeah.. Yeah, I did."

So he told you.

He told you how much he idolized his Father and about the trials he would bring him to and how one earthquake shattered his life into a million pieces. He told you about DL-6 and how he was crushed when no guilty party was found. He told you how he was adopted by von Karma and left his old life behind; how he gained a sister despite being pitted against her as soon as he entered his new home, gained a mentor instead of a father.

He told you about his nightmares, and how he was afraid of what they might mean.

He told you how he turned his anguish over his Father into a hate for defense attorneys, and how that combined with von Karma's teachings to make him aspire to be something completely different. He told you, how he blindly followed his mentor's example at the beginning of his career, how he did not understand what it meant to be a prosecutor; how a perfect win record was all he cared about, just as he was taught. Reluctantly, disdainfully, he told you.

Your food came around that time but he didn't stop and you didn't tell him to.

He told you how he was framed for a murder and how Phoenix Wright was the only person willing to defend him, how he claimed he would save him.

And he did.

He not only discovered who set the plot to frame him, but who truly killed his Father in the span of three days, all of which lead back to the same person: Manfred von Karma himself.

He told you how it was Phoenix Wright who opened his eyes to what it meant to be an attorney, prosecuting or defending. He told you how ever since then he's been reforming himself, changing his habits, learning, becoming a better person: The person you knew him to be.

And then he was done.

And your food was cold.

And you looked at each other.

And there was such sadness in your expression, in your eyes that, for a moment, Miles feared you might cry.

"Is that why you don't like elevators?"

The prosecutor blinked, and then he laughed.

He wasn't sure why, there really was nothing humorous about any of this. And he guessed he really wasn't laughing because anything was humorous per say- Maybe it was just because of all the things you could have asked him, all the reasons to be angry or upset with him, the first thing that comes out your mouth is even more concern for him; as if you hadn't expressed enough already.

You looked confused (which he supposed was subjectively better than sad) at his reaction but he didn't bother addressing it, not wanting to explain, not sure how.

"Yes, that is when I began to feel uncomfortable in them."

This seemed to upset you, which didn't really make sense to Miles, until he remembered how upset you had been with him about that matter originally. You didn't mention it however, not even letting it enter your voice when you continued talking.

"Is that everything?" He thought about it, trying to remember anything he might have left out, deemed unimportant.

He had decided not to tell you about his year of absence after... that, case. This was already a lot and that was, well... a story for another time. He would tell you one day, of that he was certain; he'd just have to hope you'd forgive again for waiting so long. But, besides that, there was very little he could think he left out.

"Well," The prosecutor clears his throat. There was one thing he hadn't mentioned, "I also developed a severe phobia of earthquakes."

Your brow furrowed a bit.

"Like, panic attacks."

Miles hesitated slightly before partially agreeing, "Well, yes, but half the time I faint before they really set in."

This earned an entirely different reaction, a sincere look of sympathy crossing your face. For a moment, a split second even, he resented that look. Of all the people to feel bad for him, he didn't want it to be you.

But then, the prosecutor remembered who had taught him to reject sympathy- That people were only sympathetic to those they thought were pathetic- and he reminded himself that that was not true. That sympathy was a human emotion, something that came when you shared the pain of others. It was an act of kindness, neither weak to give, or to accept.

"Miles," You breathe out his name like your lungs couldn't get enough air, yet your voice still easily drew him from his thoughts, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

This, was what he had been waiting for and yet, he still didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure what could be taken the wrong way, what was appropriate to tell you, and what wasn't. He didn't know what anything he was feeling, what held him back really meant besides the fact you were important to him. Not in the same way Wright or Ms. Fey was, but it important nonetheless.

"I was... afraid." Miles found himself saying even though it was difficult to swallow. He had to turn his head away just to get the rest of the words out.

"Afraid.. of what you might think if you knew."

There was a silence, a pause, before you spoke again.

"Miles..." Your voice was soft as you reached across the table and held his hand. It startled him, his head whipping around as his eyes fell and watched your fingers curl around his palm and squeeze. They were warm.

"Miles, I could never think less of you."

He looked up at that, breath caught in his throat, and found your gaze- Your incredibly sincere eyes, looking back into his. They made him warm as well, all of him this time- Like a wave of something he couldn't describe washing over him; something he could never explain but would never forget.

Gently, he placed his hand over yours, and could breathe again.

And before he could think, could weigh the consequences of his action, he squeezed your hand tenderly.

"I know."

-

Your plates remained untouched the rest of the evening, appetites lost along with your desire to carbo load your body. You would regret this later in the night when you woke up at 3 AM due to the pain of your stomach trying to digest itself; but, as of right now, as you stood in the parking lot with Miles between your two cars, food was the farthest thing from your mind.

"I'm..." You shake your head as you try to find the words, "I am so sorry for bringing you here."

This was not how you expected this evening to go when you discovered this was a childhood landmark for the prosecutor. You didn't expect to learn that he had been hiding such a painful experience from you; something so sad and awful you couldn't believe he had been through it.

Or, at least, you couldn't believe that the Miles you knew had been through it. Maybe, if you had known the other one, you wouldn't have felt so shocked- Though, the guilt would have probably been just as unbearable, so what difference did it make.

You had been so curious, so foolishly curious about the prosecutor's past, never once suspecting that the real reason he had kept it under wraps was because it had been so emotionally wounding, so astronomically traumatic that he was worried about how he might be viewed in the eyes of others.

You did not know that you were a special case and that, with anyone else, this would not have been such a struggle. You did not know that while the scars were still there, they did not hurt like they once did; and so you felt guilty for making him recount the story, unaware that that wasn't what kept him from telling you.

"Please, don't apologize, Y/N." You look up from the ground to Miles. He seemed placid- Content even of all things, something you just couldn't understand, "Honestly, I am quite glad we came here."

You nearly laugh out of sheer bafflement.

"Why?!"

"I do not believe.. I would have been able to tell you if we hadn't."

You can't help but look bewilderedly at the prosecutor, unable to even fathom how he was saying all the things he was saying, how he seemed okay despite the fact he had just dropped a bombshell on you less then 10 minutes ago about how horrendous his life had been- How, he had experienced more pain and suffering in 17 years, than anyone should have to experience in their entire life.

Did he not understand the effect his life had on those around him? On the people who cared for him?

No... no, of course not. He couldn't know how it broke your heart to listen, how it was so incredibly painful to hear the things he had told you. He had dealt with it for so long, he couldn't possibly realize...

"Plus," Miles adds, like he needed to say more, "I got to relieve some memories of my Father."

He gives you the faintest of smiles and yet it sends you reeling, heart leaping out of your chest and into your throat, making it hard to swallow and impossible to breathe.

"I should be thanking you, Y/N."

You stare at each other, your confusion only growing, but not as fast as that damned smile of his was making your heart beat. You didn't know what to say, how to respond to something like that; something so baffling and breathtaking that you couldn't think, but were still so aware of your feet touching the ground and the sound of your breath being drawn in and out. There was nothing to express how you felt, how he was making you feel- How he always made you feel.

So you didn't say a word, because there were no words to say. Nothing, that could ever be enough.

Instead you stepped closer and brought your arms around Miles; embraced him tightly and closed your eyes so you could block out the dusky light.

"I'm sorry."

The prosecutor had frozen the moment he had felt your arms surround him, drew in a breath and held it because he couldn't remember the last time he had been hugged; the last time he had been held close and shared the warmth of another human being.

It was a shock to his system, feeling the tangled secureness at his back and the familiar pressure against his chest. His heart felt warmed in your embrace, heat traveling through his clothing and spreading through his sternum. Still, he was frozen.

"I-I.." He fumbled with his tongue, stuttering as he struggled to speak, "I told you not to-"

"Not for that."

He didn't understand.

You squeeze Miles gently, splaying your fingers against his back, spreading more warmth through him.

"For everything."

Oh.

... Oh.

Franziska.

Franziska had been the last person to hug him.

He had woken up from a nightmare, one about his Father, but hadn't been able to stop crying right away- Not that that was unusual. But Franziska had heard him from her room, and came in to check on him. Once she saw him and realized what was happening, she climbed on to his bed and tried her best to comfort him despite being so young (not to mention the daughter of the 'God of Prosecution').

She didn't say much besides to stop his blubbering and that he really was her Kleiner Bruder since he was such a crybaby, but Miles knew it was well intentioned; the way she hugged him and patted his head was proof of that. And even though that was really the extent of comforting a von Karma child could give, it had been enough.

She would do that often- Try to ease his crying. She came into his room whenever she heard him but, after awhile, his mentor learned of her habits and forbade her to come into his room again. He told her to put a pillow over her ears if she could not sleep: And that was the end of that.

He had still been so young when that happened, such a long time passing between then and now. But, despite time and its effects, he could still recognize the sensation of being comforted; the unforgettable feeling of relief he used to get when he heard his bedroom door creak open. Though just as overwhelming, it wasn't the same as he remembered.

Maybe because this time, it wasn't tainted by anguish and tears he could not stop no matter how hard he tried. This time, he was able to fully enjoy the warmth of an embrace, enjoy sharing his personal space with someone else- Something he normally couldn't stand.

Enjoy the physicality of being cared for without prompt or obligation- Hugged, not because he had nightmares and not because he was crying over his Father: But because you wanted to.

Miles took his time winding his arms around you, allowing himself to pull you closer and hold you tightly as you had done to him. He closed his eyes and, for the first time since he was a child, hugged someone dear to him.

Thank you.