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So, the funny thing about being accused of murder—even if you manage to get yourself acquitted—is that it’s extremely bad for publicity. And the funny thing about running a restaurant— any business, really—is that publicity is kind of really, really important. And the funny thing about the Borscht Bowl is that business was already doing not great before the man calling himself Shadi Smith went and got himself murdered.
So, of course, when it came to keeping on their mediocre piano player slash undefeated poker champion for seven years, or Olga Orly?
They picked Olga Orly.
Phoenix figures he has himself to blame for that one. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest decision on his part to call his old manager stupid for not knowing the name Olga Orly when they hired her. But hey, he can still play poker extremely well, and he can play piano… somewhat, and while Trucy probably could make ends meet all by herself, she’s fifteen and as her father Phoenix is making the executive decision not to let her do that unless they have no other options, because… no. Just no. Absolutely not.
Alden Tae’s was definitely one of his last options short of relying entirely on Trucy (absolutely the fuck not) or accepting more help from Edgeworth than he’s at all comfortable with (not great but Trucy is more important than his pride.) And for a couple of months so far, Alden Tae’s has worked out.
It happens quickly. It always does, when something goes horribly wrong. One moment, he looks both ways and starts to cross the deserted road. The next, there’s a horrible screeching of tires, and he’s in someone’s headlights.
The car tries to swerve, to their credit. Phoenix barely has time to raise his arm to see better before— wham!
Weightlessness, an impact—and then nothing.
He wakes up somewhere between a few seconds and a few minutes later to someone saying, to no one in particular, “Is that man dead?”
“Uuuuurgh,” Phoenix says, blinking up and then squinting as someone shines a flashlight beam into his face.
“Guess not,” comes another voice, a deep, husky one. “I would’ve sworn I saw that man hit that pole headfirst… hey, you! How many fingers am I holding up?”
Phoenix squints further. “Uh… Four or five depending on if you count the thumb.”
“What the fuck. How are you alive? You flew thirty feet.”
A hand is offered up, and Phoenix takes it gratefully, stumbling a little as he does. One of his feet hurts to stand on, but that’s probably not going to be an issue, he can’t let it be an issue. He’ll walk it off. It’ll be fine.
He realizes, a little late, that there are two people staring at him. And he’s covered in paint. Oh well, he needed to wash this hoodie anyway. Phoenix shrugs helplessly and offers, “I… well, I fell forty feet from a bridge once.”
“How are you alive?”
“Uh… well… I was in the hospital for a couple days. That was mostly unrelated though.”
“Never mind that,” the other says to his wife’s incredulous look, “you need a ride to the hospital or something?”
Phoenix stiffens. “Nah. I’m fine. Nothing I can’t walk off.”
He’s well aware of the even more dubious looks he’s getting now, but he is fine, really. Like that Apollo kid insisted at least ten times during his own trial, except unlike one Mr. Apollo Justice he is actually fine simply because he has to be.
“Do you… at least want a ride home or something?”
“It’s not far. Thanks though.” Phoenix tries to smile, though it comes out kind of wrong. His ankle is what’s hurting, not his foot, but it’s not so bad if he doesn’t put too much weight on it. It occurs to him, suddenly, why his hoodie feels weird (and why there’s paint on the ground all around where he’d woken up.) “Uhm… you want help with that? Cleaning… that up?”
“No, no, go home.”
Some battles just aren’t worth fighting, and Phoenix is starting to realize this is one of them. He probably shouldn’t go to work after literally being a victim of a hit and run. And while he knows better than to think the vast majority of people wouldn’t happily drop him if he gave them any reason to, he’d like to think he’s earned at least a little slack from Alden Tae’s by now.
He calls his manager on the way back. As he explains the situation, he can imagine the look on her face going from confusion, to concern, to more confusion, before at last she says, “Well, damn. Uh… are you going to need tomorrow off too?”
“Probably not,” Phoenix says as the old familiar building comes into sight. “I’m not hurt, really. Just a little shaken up.”
“Wright, you got hit by a car and you walked away from it . Take as long as you need.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” Door’s open, he goes for the stairs on instinct. “But really, I’m fine. See you tomorrow.” And with that, he hangs up.
Over the past seven years, the past seven long years, Phoenix Wright has been forced to get much better at lying. Mostly to others—but a fair bit to himself, too. That’s why he’s convinced that he’ll still be able to walk this off right up until he stumbles through the doorway to home and his ankle gives out completely beneath him. He crumples, hissing in pain. But it’s—it’s fine. It is fine.
(It isn’t, but he can’t afford—in multiple senses of the word—for it to not be fine.)
He drags himself up on the covered piano, carefully avoiding putting weight on his ankle. It’ll be fine if he just can… rest for a bit. He makes it to the couch eventually, painstakingly, carefully. He just needs some time to rest up. He needs to rest up, and figure out how to explain why he’s home early to Trucy once she gets home—
And then the lights are on and he’s got a empty bottle of grape juice pointed at his face, and someone’s yelling, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but if you leave now I’ll pretend I never saw you, and if you try to attack me I’m on the phone with my daddy and I’ll make sure I tell him all about what I saw you…”
Trucy trails off, and lowers the bottle sheepishly. Her phone is in her other hand, though, and somehow Phoenix doesn’t think she was bluffing about being on the phone with somebody. “Oh. Hi, Daddy. You’re home early!”
“Uh… so are you,” Phoenix tries helplessly.
“No, I’m not. Daddy, you know my Sunday show ended an hour ago. Are you…” Trucy squints at him for a moment. “Why is your hoodie covered in paint?”
“No reason… hey, who did you call before you came in here?”
Trucy looks him in the eyes and hits the speakerphone button.
“Wright,” comes the voice of Miles Edgeworth from wherever in Europe he is at the moment, “what did you do this time?”
“Oh. Hi, Edgeworth. I… why are you assuming it’s something I did?”
“Because you’re responsible for more than half of the situations you find yourself in, directly or otherwise.” Edgeworth pauses. “Trucy, tell your father not to give me that look.”
“Mr. Edgeworth says not to give him that look,” Trucy relays dutifully, bouncing a little on her feet.
“One, I’m right here,” Phoenix protests. “Two, how do you even know—?”
“Actually though, Daddy, what did you do?” Trucy bites her lip as he looks at her, already turning on the puppy eyes.
“I… may have called out of work because someone hit me on the way there.”
Trucy drops the bottle of grape juice. Her hand flies up to her mouth as her eyes widen in horror. “D-Daddy?”
“Wright, what the f—” Edgeworth cuts himself off and clears his throat, remembering present company. Trucy might be fifteen and therefore is likely well aware of what the f-word is but still, Phoenix is grateful. “How bad is it?”
“Mostly just my pride hurt, honestly, and I don’t think there was much of that left already.” Phoenix laughs. Nobody laughs with him. “Uh… well, apparently I flew like thirty feet and hit a pole? I’m fine though.”
“You hit the pole headfirst, didn’t you.”
“No—”
“He’s lying,” Trucy says immediately. “Oh my god, are—how did you get home?”
“I… walked? I told you, I’m fine.”
Trucy’s eyes narrow in skepticism. “That’s a lie too.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Trucy,” Edgeworth says. “Wright, listen to me. Your daughter cares about you. I care about you. I… understand the need to stay strong, but please. Let us help you.”
Somehow, Phoenix gets the feeling he isn’t just talking about this particular situation. He sighs, and leans back on the couch, closing his eyes for a moment.
Trucy plops down besides him, pulling her legs up to hug them. “Daddy?”
“Just need a second.” Phoenix takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Barring the fact that my ankle might be broken, I am physically okay.”
“Trucy?”
“Not a lie,” his daughter reports. “You—walked home? With a broken ankle?”
“It was only a couple blocks,” Phoenix says, which only gets him another horrified gasp from Trucy. “I thought I could walk it off. Didn’t think it was broken until I was most of the way home.”
“Of course you did,” Edgeworth mutters, and if Phoenix didn’t know better he’d think the prosecutor sounds almost fond. “Wright, there is something I need you to do for me. Trucy, make sure he does.”
“Aye aye, Mr. Edgeworth.” Trucy salutes the phone with her free hand.
“Traitor,” Phoenix says with a smile. “Fine. What is it?”
“Get your ankle checked out. There is a… fairly reputable clinic not far from your current residence. I believe it’s called the Hickfield Clinic?”
The smile fades. “Edgeworth, you know I can’t—”
“I’ll pay.”
“I don’t need that either.”
“This is not the time to be stubborn, Wright! You could have been killed, and if you won’t go for yourself, then go for Trucy. Maybe you did get lucky enough that your only injury was a broken ankle, but if it isn’t—do you really want to take that chance where she’s concerned? Your daughter matters far more than your own foolish pride.”
“I…”
Some battles are not worth fighting. This is one of them. And… maybe he can use this, somehow. Being landed in the hospital might be the excuse he needs to reach out to Apollo, and one that might actually get him to come.
“Daddy,” Trucy says cautiously, putting a gloved hand on his arm. “I care about you. Mr. Edgeworth cares about you.”
“Yes,” Edgeworth agrees, “I do. I would be… distressed, in the event of your death.”
“Okay.” Phoenix buries his head in his hands, screams into them for a few seconds, then sits back on the couch like nothing happened. “Okay. If you’re paying, Miles—”
“Of course I am, Phoenix. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oooh, first-naming,” Trucy points out with a giggle. “Fancy.”
“Ah. Yes… on that note, I have my own trial to attend to soon. Trucy, I leave your father in your capable hands.”
“You got it!”
Edgeworth hangs up. Trucy stands up, hands on her hips, and looks him over. Eventually, she says, “The Hickfield Clinic isn’t too too far from here. You can lean on me in the morning.”
Phoenix sighs, and nods. Still, for the sake of argument, he says, “What if it’s better in the morning?”
“Then you are calling Mr. Edgeworth and explaining that to him.”
“Fair.” Phoenix laughs, and elbows Trucy. “Whatever did I do to deserve the two of you?”
Trucy shrugs. “Do you want a serious answer, lighthearted answer, or no answer at all?”
Phoenix just hugs her in response. He really doesn’t deserve either of them.