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It is despite himself that Miles finds Prosecutor von Karma fascinating.
For the sake of his own well being (and blood pressure), he knows he should leave well enough alone. He’s already made a career out of saving people who ask for his help.
Not everyone can be saved, he tries to remind himself.
Yet, Miles could not have gotten Vasquez without her. If someone had asked him before the trial if von Karma was capable of the stunt she had pulled to lose her own case, he would’ve suggested they were insane.
Perhaps, if logic had ruled her decision, she wouldn’t have. Impulsiveness is not a trait he expects from someone raised as a von Karma.
Judging from the shock on her face, aiding Miles had not been part of the plan.
She saves his client, does Prosecutor von Karma. Takes another hit to her record, chooses the side of truth, and loses , even as terror and hate spark behind the tears.
Tears . He catches only a glimpse as she strides from the courtroom, a study of mortification and rigid control. Even after the hell she’s dragged them through, he can’t suggest she deserves it, that it's a learning experience, because no sane individual would be so afraid of a broken record if there isn’t something to lose. And he has never been one to revel in the distress of others. All he feels is a peculiar sadness before she’s gone.
It is a humbling experience, witnessing vulnerability in someone so renowned and feared.
When she locks eyes with him, afterwards, as she is threatening him, Miles is struck by the memory of a friend, of a boy he’d lost, so long ago, and his mouth is speaking before he can rein it in-
She is shaking as she snarls in his face, “The sight of these will soon speak nothing but despair for you, Worthless , once I crush you like the weak, lying lowlife you are!”
Is the ghost of Phoenix going to haunt him forever? Shouldn’t the wound have long since scarred, after 15 years?
“... they already do,” he murmurs, because she is already gone, and only Maya, amazing, wonderful Maya has to hear.
He can’t even be angry, not really. Those wounds have long since healed. But von Karma carries her anger with her like a shield, her insults a double edged knife already pressed into her own heart.
He wishes he could tell her that her projections weren’t protecting her. That overexposure to her own poison would not make her immune to it.
There is something incorrect about von Karma, he notes. Like broken glass, pieced back together with weak glue and the edges out. Dangerous to both the artist, and the art.
* * *
Von Karma is bitter, is angry, is defensive, is prideful.
But she is not a murderer.
As he looks at her from behind the glass, he sees how alone she is. Has she ever had a genuine connection with another person? Has she ever been allowed?
She holds her tears in like they would wash the glue away, but the restraint does not stop the shaking.
Glass cuts deep when it breaks, and it never shatters clean.
Miles stands across from her father in court, and wonders how Manfred von Karma could not have seen the truth of what he was creating. Or perhaps it was deliberate, the creation of a weapon that could do quite a bit of damage before it’s sudden malfunction.
Maya shares with him what happened during the earthquake. What she had called him, on a whim, after Miles had told her about Phoenix, after the conversation with Larry. How the prosecutor, though concerned for Miles’ wellbeing, had fled at the words. How close the composure had been to shattering.
They wonder, together, what would happen to a child, traumatized and alone, in a body not theirs and a father that grooms them with the kindness of a blade shaping wood. What sort of person they would grow to become.
If that person would grow to be like the eldest von Karma.
She is the opposite of the person Miles imagines Wright would become. But the more of her story he hears, the more it sounds like-
“Phoenix Wright,” he tried, “He went missing fifteen years ago-”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” she bites back. “Why should I care about a child that has been missing for fifteen years?”
He doesn’t mention that she looks green at the statement, that she always seems ill after meeting his gaze for too long. Her hand flexes, as though wishing to grab her side or pluck at her eyebrows, both tics Maya had noticed in court.
If von Karma is Wright, from all those years ago…
He thinks of Detective Gumshoe, and how he avoids using her name or pronouns with ease demonstrating practice and a comfortable relationship. He thinks of patchy brows, of venomous ferocity turned on allies and enemies alike.
He thinks of Manfred von Karma, of Gregory Edgeworth.
Chess involves strategy over luck, anticipating the moves of your opponent and sacrificing the necessary pieces to further your goals. All this time, Miles has thought he’s been playing against Prosecutor von Karma, but she is only the pawn to a much larger, longer game.
A pawn that is being sacrificed to protect the king.
The final day of the trial has von Karma skittish, hands a constant tremor. She holds her side like she’s spilling over, and only her hands are keeping it all in.
“Why take the bullet from the scene of the crime?”
Muttering from the defendant’s chair, and Manfred is grinning, a baring of teeth-
Miles’ brain processes the words even as Maya clings to his arm, her eyes filling with tears at the sight before them, because von Karma ( Wright ) is scrambling uselessly at her ( his ) side, tears and mascara streaming down her ( his ) face in dark grey rivelets, pleading-
“ Get it out of me, get it out get it out getitout-”
And he screams, distraught and lost, and Miles recognizes the sound that has been haunting him for fifteen years-
The fingers digging into his arm loosen, then drag themselves away with a reassuring pat. Metal detector in hand, Maya approaches Phoenix. Her eyes are soft, kind, and his own mismatched pair snaps up to meet them, an animal caught in a trap, gnawing off its own limb for freedom-
Urgent beeping floods the courtroom as she raises the machine.
* * *
Calling Phoenix “he” for the first time is rather like stepping in front of a train and hoping it doesn’t hurt too bad when it inevitably hits you.
There’s a strange look in his eyes, however, as he just grumps, “Disgusting.”
But he pauses, eyes narrowed as he turns to Miles and growls, “Do it again.”
* * *
As much as he loathes to admit it, Larry is correct.
But, although Prosecutor von Karma is undeniably Nick, he’s also a tightly wrapped bundle of repressed memories and trauma enough for multiple people.
Von Karma inquires about Nick like the asking is dangerous. He can’t be exasperated with him, because he can hardly imagine what being raised a von Karma is like.
They are careful, in this dance of theirs. Phoenix still has one foot in the closet, chased by the mold of his “father” and tied to an office that feeds on his success, no matter the tactics. Yet, Phoenix flourishes under the proper honorifics like a flower finally given water after a long drought. He’s trying to heal, Miles is certain, even if they must keep quiet until his confidence in himself grows.
Nevertheless, no one is surprised when they find Phoenix in the courtroom bathroom, standing in a pile of hair from a ponytail freshly shorn.
Well, that is a bit of a lie. Miles had forgotten the sheer impulsiveness Phoenix was capable of when he put his mind to something, a trait he hasn’t grown out of in adulthood.
But he sees Phoenix looking at himself in the mirror, sees the tears in his eyes, and he can’t even tease him for the decision.
Relief is so palatable he can taste it. Manfred may have made orphans out of the both of them, but they would heal. They survived.
* * *
Some things about Phoenix, of course, haven’t changed at all.
They visit, he and Maya, to discuss the case of Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye, and they catch him at his desk, idly chewing on a pen. His gaze is wary, as if he expects them to laugh or be disgusted, but they can only grin helplessly at him for not stopping when they came in.
They chat, and it's so surreal to be talking to Wright again that giddiness swells in his chest. He doesn’t catch his own flapping hands until Wright gives them a curious but understanding look.
Phoenix smiles at him, hesitant, unsure, and there’s a touch of memory in his eyes, because he and Miles have been this vulnerable with each other before, relaxed and content.
Maya laughs at him, later, when he orders Phoenix the chewable necklace, because his heart is not subtle. He chooses the phoenix design to send to the Prosecutor’s office, because he’d let his tea grow cold and drink before he'd let Phoenix forget his affection for puns and irony.
Phoenix is wearing it the next time they see each other, and his heart is fit to burst.
* * *
The case of Lana Skye comes to a close, and Miles can’t stop watching Phoenix.
Without the anger he’s worn to keep the hurt at bay, he has nothing to protect him from the cruelties and injustices of his colleagues being heaped upon him, one after another.
Together, they bring down Gant, but it is with his heart in his throat that he watches Phoenix go, resignation dragging his shoulders down.
“Prosecutor Sascha von Karma chooses death” reads the note they find on his desk.
And Edgeworth falls to pieces.
* * *
Miles Edgeworth cannot save everyone. Uncle Ray has told him, Maya has told him, Larry has told him.
But Phoenix’s death settles into his heart like a disease, because he had lost him once and was given a second chance to save him.
And he failed.
He doubts there is a third chance in store for him.
The grief eats at his heart like a living thing, hungry and insatiable, but there are others that need his help and people he can protect.
They are distracting, his cases, and without Maya’s company, they are the best chance he has at keeping away from dwelling.
That is how, one year later, he meets Franziska von Karma.
He doesn’t hate her, angry little thing that she is, but her expression and lack of control of her emotions is distasteful. He is only grateful that she does not blame him for Phoenix, though she shares his defensive anger, his drive for perfection. They argue bitterly when she loses to him for the first time, but she loved her brother even if she didn’t understand, didn’t know.
He wants to help her understand. Phoenix deserves to be remembered properly, especially by one who loves him as fiercely as Franziska does.
* * *
Oh God. There’s no way. That’s-
Phoenix .
“Is this a bad time?”
Mouth hanging open, all he can do for a time is stare. Thank goodness Franziska is in the same boat, her jaw plastered somewhere on the floor.
Because the Phoenix he’d last seen? That Phoenix was stiff, miserably sharp, and held his arms around himself to keep himself from bursting at the seams. His face had been twisted in a perpetual scowl, and he had dressed with something to prove, power and seething anger oozing from him at all times.
This Phoenix stands relaxed in a new suit (dear God, is that a transgender colored tie? Maybe he can snag himself one), his eyes warm and kind and soft. Stubble is creeping along his jaw, planning to make an appearance soon, and his brows have long since healed into the thick lines they were supposed to be all along. His hair, once pulled into a rigid ponytail in a desperate attempt to keep the wild under control, has grown into untamed spikes. He smiles with his whole heart, his Phoenix , and that smile is present now as he watches them.
The incorrectness is gone. This is the man Phoenix was meant to become.
He doesn’t know what sound he makes, but Phoenix is in his arms and he’s spinning him around. Laughter erupts from his chest, and Phoenix is laughing with him, his feet off the ground.
He’s alive, he’s alive!
He thinks, perhaps, this may be the happiest he’s ever been. And, with Phoenix in his arms, he knows down in his bones that he’ll experience happiness like this again.