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Chapter Text

His knees wobble and shake as he steps out of the hospital, but Phoenix Wright does not hesitate, does not second-guess himself. He ignores the nurse’s insistence on handing him a prescription, for even with his limited student’s health insurance, he wouldn’t be able to pay for it, anyways. He ignores the immediate ache which besets his bones as he enters the evening breeze, drawing his thin coat around himself in futility. The nearest bus stop should take him close enough to Ivy University, he thinks; from there, the walk to his apartment will not be too terrible. 

It will not be a comfortable journey, however. His stomach groans after being pumped of metal, his esophagus aching after the insertion and removal of the suction tubes. Every bone in his body aches of a weariness he cannot name, his heart pounding painfully in time with pulsing, trembling muscles and a ringing headache that refuses to leave. 

And, of course, no one can deny how awkward it shall be on the bus ride home. Having a medical mask full of snot and tears does not a calm image make. 

He doesn’t have a choice, though. The emergency trip to the hospital to remove the necklace from his stomach has left him empty, both in pocket and in his heart. He feels… hollow, in a way. Violated. His body has been put through the wringer, but more importantly, it is his heart-

But how in the world is he supposed to just go home after all of this?

Still, the bus arrives. The watch upon his wrist continues to tick onwards, and the driver gives him nary a second glance despite his haggard appearance. He shudders and wobbles into the back of the bus, fighting back the urge to sneeze the entire way as he slips into an empty seat; there is a roiling in his gut, now empty save for stomach acid and betrayal, and if he sneezes now, he does not know whether he will be able to bite back the bile which longs to spew forth.

The trip home is uneventful. With his cold, every movement is leaden, heavy. Phoenix feels in a daze as he shuffles home, his footsteps growing slower and slower as the world begins to spin. A part of him longs to call his mother, something which he realizes dimly that he has not done for a few weeks; he longs to hear her voice, to experience comfort, to know that there is still someone out there who still loves him.

He doesn’t call. To call would be to acknowledge what has just happened to him. He doubts he is strong enough to say it all out loud. Besides, he does not want to burden her; she already works hard enough trying to support herself, all on her own.

The final block to his apartment is made through blurry vision, the college student stumbling over his own feet clumsily as he fights back the tears. I thought I’d be out of tears by now. I cried so much during the trial.

Surprisingly enough, the moment the door is shut behind him, Phoenix does not break down in tears. No, the young man is able to slip off loosely-tied shoes and set down his backpack, pulling out messily-folded receipts and health insurance forms to fill out later from his jacket pocket. His medical mask, almost dripping from the accumulation of snot and tears which have almost congealed within the layered material, is abandoned upon the top of the garbage bin; he does not even have the energy to drop it inside. Then, he shuffles over to the bathroom, ready to wash his face and go to bed.

As he steps into the bathroom, he opens up his cell phone out of habit. The movements are automatic, a routine so deeply engrained after doing it daily for eight months; his fingers tap the buttons without even needing a second glance, opening up a message to his girlfriend, ready to let her know that he got home safely and that he hopes she has a good night-

His fingers pause halfway through composing the message. He turns on the bathroom light, coming face to face with his own haggard, broken expression in the mirror, greasy dark hair falling into bloodshot, puffy-lidded eyes that have grown glassy due to sickness and fatigue; he spots the sunken shadows around his eyes, the gaunt hollow of his cheeks, the faint speckle of dried blood under his nose from where they had inserted breathing tubes, a spackle of dried spit and markings upon his cheek all left from the stomach pump. He looks awful. He looks terrifying.

Despite it all, his pink sweater- this handcrafted, brilliant, tacky pink sweater with its giant red heart in the center and his golden initial in the center- still looks untouched, just as garish underneath flickering fluorescent lights as ever.

His chin drops in mute, stunned horror, his eyes landing upon the box upon his countertop. He had been idly thinking about recycling the box for days now, but he kept forgetting to actually do so.

‘Coldkiller X’ is a powerful brand, indeed.

Dolly… Dolly wanted to kill me, he finally admits to himself, feeling his knees wobble, weaken, fall to the floor. Dolly wanted to kill me. I loved her. For eight months, she’s wanted to kill me- she tried to kill me, she killed her ex and then blamed me, she tried to get me arrested-

His hand flies to cover his mouth as the bile he has been fighting down for so, so long finally surges up into his mouth, spilling past broken, chapped lips onto yellowed linoleum tiles. She watched me defend her, and then she kept blaming me.

The world spins. He does not know what is blocking his airway- perhaps it is tears, or snot, or the sneeze which has been lodged halfway through his throat for the entire trip back to his home. Whatever it is, it manages to block his air, leaving him dizzy as he collapses to the floor, pressing the icy tile desperately against his forehead in an attempt to soothe the stifling heat filling his brain as the entire trial replays back through his mind.

His sweetheart, the young angel he had loved for the past eight months since that fateful encounter in the courthouse, had tried to kill him. Dolly- No, Dahlia, he thinks in agonized horror- had given him a poisoned bottle of medicine, and when her plans had gone awry, she had killed her own ex-boyfriend in order to frame Phoenix, all so that she could try and get away with poisoning an attorney the day they had first met. It all feels so unreal, so impossible.

And yet, one look at the empty cardboard box upon his countertop- one look at his broken, fragmented visage, confirms the truth.

A feral, cracking cry tears out from past his lips. It hurts to scream, the sound emerging with every ounce of strength he has left in his sick, ailing body; still, he screams anyway, the sound utterly alien to his own ears as chills begin to consume him from head to toe.

She had been his first love. Now, his first love is in prison, and he is alone.

Rolling over onto his back, the idle thought of whether he could choke on his own vomit flutters into his mind. Somehow, the image elicits a wheezing laugh from his lips; he had survived attempted poisoning and swallowing a poisoned necklace, only to die on his own spew. I deserve it, he thinks bitterly, sobbing. He raises his hand to his mouth, muffling his cries in his sleeve. For eight months, she wanted me dead.

He still remembers the last time he had caught a cold. Dahlia, his sweet, loving girlfriend, had stayed by his side the whole day, changing the cold towels upon his forehead as he rested in bed. She had made him porridge. She had brightened his lonely apartment with her smile.

He rolls back over onto his side, bumping into the sink’s cabinet. The movement shakes the empty Coldkiller X medicine box onto the floor and into his line of sight. It is too white, too pristine.

It reflects the pink of his sweater far too much.

Trembling, he drags himself to sit upright and scrabbles at knitted wool until the sweater is discarded into the pool of vomit by the door. It soaks up his bile, the pink turning into clotted magenta. Then, he shakily pulls himself back up to his feet, rinses out his mouth, washes his face, and totters back to his bed. He’ll deal with the sweater later, he thinks; now, it’s all too much. Maybe when this cold goes away.

Fresh tears roll down his sagging cheeks. He feels too old to be only twenty-one. He feels too old to have gone through so much so quickly. It doesn’t make sense- he doesn’t know anything anymore.

The only thing he is certain of is that this cold shall take a long, long time to dissipate. After all, he’ll never be able to take any medicine again. It’ll never be safe again, and there will be no one to take care of him. Of that, he is sure.

Chapter Text

The office is dark.

While he knows that moving into the emptied apartment above the newly-minted Wright & Co. Law Offices is indubitably the correct decision for his wallet, his heart still cannot accept it. This threadbare room does not feel anything like a ‘home’, after all; Mia had used this room as storage previously, so the wobbly bedframe and basic desk are all second-hand and falling apart at the seams. If he had had any electricity, he would have turned on the small lamp by his bedside to dispel at least some of the shadow which haunts this place, but with the generator having blown on his side of the street, the only light which can illuminate his new apartment space is what shines from the gaudy Gatewater Hotel, peering down upon him in all its luster.

Although he hates the Gatewater- despises it, even, after its role to play in all of the harrowing proceedings of the weeks prior- he is grateful for this light which it gives.

The dark is terrifying, after all.

Three years seem simultaneously far too long and never long enough to still have nightmares about Dahlia Hawthorne. Her smile, sweet and innocent and pure, twists, morphs into garish visions of hatred, whenever he tries to fall asleep. On one hand, that vision (which, in itself, had hardly been a nightmare in comparison to her horrifying expression after being convicted) has been an excellent motivator for the past years; with her image haunting his memories, he has been able to put his all into entering the world of law, if only to make sure that nothing like his suffering ever happens again.

Just the thought of her makes his head spin, his throat burning at the memories of violation and heartbreak which are now irrevocably tied to her form. No one deserves to go through what he has suffered.

And now, he is here. A fully-fledged lawyer with two victories under his belt, and an even bigger name thanks to the high profile of his most recent defense case. Red White of Bluecorp has admitted guilt to not only murder, but to extortion, coercion, blackmail, assault- the list goes on and on, sparing the dozens of others who are now stepping forward to point a finger at the awful man.

It is all thanks to Phoenix, the media says.

He blinks blearily, rolling over onto his side. The garish light streaming in is bright, but he feels resigned to his suffering. It isn’t like I’m waking up early for a case, he thinks glumly. That assessment is accurate, sadly enough. Although he has indeed been put in the spotlight for winning his case, not a single new case has strolled into his office since. The only other figure who ever enters this place is Maya, the girl far too chipper and sweet for someone who has recently lost so much.

With no cases, however, means no income. The generator has blown, but he has no money to even think of paying for repairs. It is taking all he has in his scant savings to keep up with his student loans and the payments on the office space; all he can really do is pray that he’ll stumble into a case.

I just hope it isn’t like last time.

His lip quivers at the thought, and for a moment, he buries his face into his pillow. The case against Red White had been overwhelming for so, so many reasons.

It aches to think of them now. If he sleeps, they will reappear. So, he shall stay awake.

He squints against the light, but makes no move to turn away. The front window is wide open, as he has yet to buy blinds for this second floor room; he could still sleep in the lounge if he wanted to, but he dares not step foot into that first floor office once the night falls. It is easier to suffer the light which bores yellow drills into his skull. Maybe I should go file some paperwork, he thinks wearily. It’s bright enough, and I’m not going to sleep-

“You should sleep, Phoenix.”

Phoenix stiffens, the voice kind and gentle as it reverberates in his memory. It is knowing, the wry quirk of perfectly-painted lips which appear in the back of Phoenix’s mind. This voice has scolded him again and again over the past few years, ever since it had defended him against Dahlia’s scheme; it has laughed with him and cried with him, teasing him and supporting him throughout all of his studies.

“You seem tired. I know you’re stressed out- you’ve been working hard. Just get some rest, kid.”

“Stop it,” he whispers through gritted teeth.

The soft, feminine voice lets out a light titter. “You say that, but you could use a hand right now, right?”

Fists grab onto thin, scratchy sheets, the material soaking with sweat from damp palms as he clings to his bed to anchor himself. “Stop talking,” he hisses, voice cracking.

The sound of her heels echoes brilliantly in his mind, her silhouette illuminated by the light of the Gatewater. “I know you’re stressed,” the figure breathes. “You’ve been through so much- and I even promised you that I’d help you when you reunited with your friend.”

Phoenix flinches, the other visage which he has been trying to block out for the past few weeks rushing into his mind once more. He does not know how to cope with the fact that he had met Miles Edgeworth. Miles is the reason why, after facing Dahlia’s crimes, Phoenix had decided to become a lawyer, after all; the young boy had always dreamt of being a defense attorney like his father. Back on the playground, the light-haired boy had shined in Phoenix’s eyes, telling of how defense attorneys were able to protect the innocent with such pride in his eyes.

And now, Miles Edgeworth is a prosecutor- the complete antitheses of everything he had dreamt of becoming.  

He had planned to meet Miles one day- when Phoenix was stronger and more well-equipped to face off against the other man, when Phoenix wouldn’t taste blood and bile and longing for his childhood best friend standing in the prosecution’s bench- but to see such callousness in his eyes, to watch the other man attack Phoenix as if their childhood hadn’t ever existed- to meet him so soon in the face of such tragedy-

The laugh which filters through the office is sorrowful above all else. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to do that. I know you two need to just sit down and reconnect. He’s your friend, Phoenix. I believe in you two. You’ll figure out a way-“

“You’re dead, Mia,” is the only phrase which Phoenix can properly choke out through trembling lips.

The voice in his mind dies for a moment, the silhouette vanishing in the blink of an eye. Mia Fey, his mentor, is dead, killed in this very office. Miles Edgeworth had prosecuted Maya, Mia’s little sister, as her murderer without a shred of remorse. Phoenix had saved Maya and indicted her real killer, but it is not enough.

Mia’s ghost still haunts this place. In the light of the Gatewater Hotel, Phoenix does not know which he fears the most: the darkness which forms his memories, the light shining through the window just as it did when she was killed, or the fact that this office is so quiet without her.

Her voice will not fade in his mind. Perhaps one day, he’ll appreciate that fact- that he’ll always have a staunch ally in the wondrous Mia Fey. Now, however, all it does is incite fresh waves of grief every time he closes his eyes.

He picks up his cell phone, then sighs, placing it back down. I can’t bother Mom, he thinks bitterly, tears stinging his weary, bloodshot eyes. He knows his mother will still be just coming home at this time of night, her custodial jobs ending late in the early morn. He dares not bother her, though. All she needs to know is that her little boy is doing well, and begging to hear her voice is not a reassuring action.

“I wish I was doing okay, though,” he whimpers softly before swiping away the tears which well up into his eyes. I need to suck it up. Mia’s visage flutters. I- I just need to hear someone’s voice. Then I’ll be fine on my own. I always am.

Maya is not an option. She is too young to have borne the burnings which she already has. He has to be strong for her to lean on, in place of her deceased sister.

With this thought in mind, Phoenix sighs, sitting up and turning on the built-in flashlight in his cellphone. He’ll gather his things, wash his face, and head to a nearby café. At least then, he’ll have some light by which he can work. At least then, he won’t be alone.

At least then, Mia Fey’s voice, face, smile, care, won’t haunt him every time he blinks. Her ghost is irreparably tied to this office, the photo of her which sits on his desk downstairs coming to life in the darkness.

He misses her. Mia never judged him when he cried, after all. Now, there is no one left who will treat him like the kid he still feels he is, facing off against a world too dark to fight against alone.

Chapter Text

The note is a mockery. Of what exactly, he does not know, but the mere sight of it is enough to make his blood boil, his heart leaping into his throat, clogging his tears and drying his eyes, giving way to nothing but pure betrayal.

To ignore this scathing hatred, Phoenix puts himself to work. Every inch of the apartment and his office below is cleaned with a vacuum, mop, duster; he wipes down surfaces he hadn’t even known could get dirty. A dollar pipe drain later, and his meager bathroom has been completely unclogged and scrubbed to blinding perfection. His kitchen is spick and span, with every single morsel organized to the nth degree. His cabinets are refiled and his documents and records are transferred to fresh folders, giving the entire space the air of a freshly-renovated space.

It does nothing to save him from the note which still sits upon his desk.

Grimacing, he sits on the lumpy, uneven white coach which sits in the office’s front lounge. Leaning his elbows upon weary knees, he leans forward, gingerly wiping sweat from his brow after all of his work. It feels like it has been years since he has moved liked this, although he knows this not to be true; ferrying Maya around whenever she visits is always a gargantuan task, for the younger girl constantly wants to visit every shop, every mall and restaurant, every park and play, whenever she comes down from her mountain home in the rural Kurain Village.

His eyes sting as he notes this. Maya’s training now, he reminds himself for the nth time that day. She’s not going to be visiting again any time soon.

…has this office always felt so big without her?

Sighing, Phoenix stands, stretching out his exhausted limbs to the ceiling. Maya’s decision to stay in Kurain and train is not a surprise to anyone; the girl has always wanted to move on from being merely an acolyte to becoming someone worthy of carrying on her family’s legacy of spirit channeling. He has known that she would make the decision to stay in her village ever since they had first met.

He hadn’t expected it to feel so hollow, the space by his side where this girl- more of a younger sister than a friend, he realizes dimly- used to stand so naturally.

Phoenix wanders over to the window, leaning upon the freshly-dusted sill. The view on the street is as busy as ever; the Gatewater Hotel is packed with guests, as per usual. Cars loop in and out of the front roundabout, taxis parked in a line showcasing a garish myriad of reds and yellows, awaiting passengers to come. A part of his heart longs to rush out, to flag a taxi to take him to the village just so he can assure that the young woman is safe. She always ends up getting into some mess or the other, after all.

I can’t, he scolds himself silently. God knows I just paid off the heating repairs. I need to save up if I’m gonna be able to put in some air conditioning by the summertime.

Now, however, he has little to do. How does one even get clientele? For the past few cases, it has been mere chance that he has stumbled into receiving defense contracts. Now, it is up to him.

“Why is this bothering me so much?” he mumbles, groaning as he slumps over, shambling to the kitchen. A cup of coffee may help settle his unsteady nerves, but it will not ease the fact that he knows the answer implicitly- that it is not Maya’s departure that is truly stinging. It is not the fact that his money situation is just as tight as ever, or that he is clueless when it comes to finding more work. Maya shall return, and everything shall work out. He just needs to believe.

It is the note which haunts him so.

He uses a little too much force when putting cheap grounds into the coffee maker. Wincing, he cleans up the mess and sets the rumbling machine to work, leaning his forehead against a cool, wooden cabinet. It is the note. It is everything the note signifies, everything that it implies- everything that Phoenix knows he will never get.

Is closure so much to ask?

He groans, gritting his teeth against the headache which is creeping into his skull. He knows better than anyone to stop asking for such things. People just leave. There’s nothing beautiful or- or fulfilling about it. They just go.

After all, that’s how Miles Edgeworth had disappeared back when they were children. Now, Phoenix knows the story- that Miles’ father had been killed, and his adoptive father had moved him to Germany- but back then, it had broken his heart.

That’s how Phoenix’s own father had left, too. Unceremonious, without meaning. Divorce lawyers can be cruel, efficient beasts, unlike the messy world of criminal law. Mom is still here, though, he thinks, sucking in a deep breath and steeling himself. I have to keep going. For her, at least.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Retrieving it tiredly, he flips it open, the corners of his mouth dragging further downwards as he realizes who the sender of the most recent message is. The woman with whom he had gone on a date with two weeks ago had been nice enough, but this new message makes it clear that it will not be happening again.

It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Everyone leaves him, after all. He’ll make it through.

The machine beeps, indicating that the brew is ready. Phoenix pours himself a cup, not bothering to retrieve any milk, for he is too tired to even walk the few steps it would take to get to the refrigerator. It’ll all work out.

The coffee burns his throat, but drink it down, he does. His mouth smarts and his eyes sting, stomach aching at the sudden heat searing his esophagus, but he does not relent until his cup is drained. The action leaves him slightly dizzy and nauseous, but focusing on that pain is better than the alternative; it is better than acknowledging the fact that his heart is irrevocably shattered, and that he does not know how to fix it. It is better than recognizing that Phoenix longs for answers when there are none to be found.

It is better than remembering how warm Miles’ hand had been in his the day he had gotten his childhood friend acquitted, the shape of the other man’s palm pressing against his fitting in perfectly with Phoenix’s own hold. It is better than admitting just how his heart had leapt into his throat, skin heating up, body aching to move closer as Miles had truly smiled at him, the other man’s handsome, icy, stricken visage melting with so much warmth that Phoenix’s own heart had finally begun to beat for another person for the first time since-

Since Dolly.

It hadn’t been intentional, but after examining the evidence, there is no other way to interpret his heartache.

But Miles is gone. After suffering multiple defeats in the courtroom at Phoenix’s hand, the man has disappeared into the abyss, it seems. No one knows where he has gone. What haunts Phoenix even more, however, is how no one seems to care. It is just Phoenix, left by himself to scour the news, praying to not find tell of a body washed up on the Californian shore, or a death in some fancy high-rise somewhere.

The note which Miles had left in the Prosecutor’s Office now sits upon Phoenix’s desk; Miles’ right-hand man, Detective Dick Gumshoe, had made sure to leave the note with Phoenix. “It just feels right, leavin’ it with you, pal,” the detective had murmured, forlorn.

Phoenix wishes he hadn’t ever seen it. Learning that ‘Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death’ is something he could have gone to his grave not knowing. I guess losing your winning record was something sad enough to kill yourself over, huh? he thinks, his lip curling in spiteful heartbreak, eyes stinging as he slams the empty cup onto the counter with so much force it is a miracle it does not shatter.

No one seems to care that Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is dead. No one except for Phoenix, it seems. You couldn’t bear being beaten in court, is that it? Or maybe it’s because of von Karma. Were you that upset that your mentor tried to frame you? Guess it was worth abandoning me in order to save face-

The coffee is bitter, but he pours himself another cup. It is better than searching for an alternative. He knows there is tea in the cupboard, but that box is still unopened. He never was a fan of Earl Grey, after all, but he knows that Miles loves- loved- it.

The prosecutor never got the chance to drink it in Phoenix’s office. So, in his cupboard it shall stay, alongside all of Phoenix’s trite hopes which had slowly been accumulating over the course of his final case working with Miles Edgeworth- hopes that one day, perhaps the other man might look at him as a friend once again. That one day, perhaps they would be close once more. That one day, he would be able to help Miles find his own peace after all of that trauma, just like Miles had helped Phoenix to his feet back when they were children.

Salt does not aid the bitterness of his coffee, but tears flow regardless. He hopes Maya comes to visit soon. Perhaps she will have more courage than he does- enough to throw that Earl Grey out, once and for all.

Chapter Text

“You’re a lawyer,” they had all begged. “You can do something about it, can’t you? You can help me, can’t you?”

Phoenix shudders at the thought of the desperation of every single defendant he has ever worked for, but his smile remains fixed in place, his hand warm and protective over eight-year-old Pearl Fey’s anxious fist. He is grateful to be able to hold onto her; after receiving the most recent update upon the garish walkie-talkie which has not left his side in days, he does not know how else he would have remained upright if her presence was not rooting him so firmly to the ground. The little girl looks up at him, tears in her large, innocent eyes which are quickly growing darker and more soulless by the day. “Mr. Nick,” she whimpers, voice pitched and cracking, “We’ll save Mystic Maya, right?”

He hesitates to respond for a moment. How can he? He is a defense attorney, not a member of the military or law enforcement. He cannot administer judgement- all he can do is hunt for the truth.

And the truth of the matter is, Phoenix Wright is powerless, and Maya Fey is missing.

Bile is swallowed down, replaced with a softer tone as he murmurs, “We’ll find her, Pearl. Don’t you worry. Everyone’s on the case.”

“But that means we have to win in court tomorrow, but- but Mr. Engarde’s a bad man, isn’t he?” the little girl cries, tugging on the leg of his slacks, the hem of his blazer, the ache in his heart. “We can’t say he’s innocent, right? Isn’t he guilty?”

“Pearls, shush,” he replies, glancing furtively about himself. The Criminal Affairs office is no place to begin indicting his own client, regardless of the man’s true guilt.

“But-“

A hard look silences her, but soon enough she leans her forehead against his side, a silent admission of understanding. “Okie. I won’t talk about Mr. Engarde anymore, Mr. Nick.”

Phoenix’s stomach twists at her despondent mention of Matt Engarde. How in the world is he supposed to move forward now? Everything he has ever fought for, since the days of watching Mia in the courtroom as his eternally-reliable role model, has been focused on the one, singular truth which she had engrained into his very soul: ‘believe in your client’.

That belief was never meant to turn to belief in their guilt, but here they are. He has no doubts that Matt Engarde is the man who had hired an assassin to kill Juan Corrida, and Phoenix must go out there and pretend that Engarde is innocent in all of this. Sweaty, cold palms tremble as he balls them up into fists, hiding them behind his back to avoid showing his true heartache to Pearl. The little girl needs him to be strong.

He needs to find a way to escape this mess, once and for all.

A familiar face greets them, a smile alighting in Detective Gumshoe’s eyes for just a brief moment before a somber grimace takes over his expression; his weary sigh rattles Phoenix’s bones in a hollow ribcage, already expecting the answer to come. “I dunno, pal,” Gumshoe murmurs ruefully, “but I’ve double-checked all the evidence. It’s looking like that Engarde guy really was the culprit with every new piece of evidence. Or, maybe you’re right… maybe it was that Andrews chick? Just… we’ll save Maya, pal.”

“My client will be found innocent,” Phoenix replies staunchly through gritted teeth, his unspoken desperation ringing loud and clear. At his side, Pearl lifts her gaze woefully at him, clutching onto his arm with a look that grows more furtive and concerned by the second. He does not respond to her. Instead, he murmurs to the sympathetic detective to watch Pearl for a moment while gently prying her hand away from his. Then, he straightens his back, marches to the men’s bathroom, and promptly vomits into the toilet.

The transceiver screeches to life, and the noose around his neck tightens.

“Pal? Are you alright?”

Phoenix slowly lifts his eyes from his shoes and up towards Detective Gumshoe’s thick, unruly furrowed brow. The older man steps forward, scratching his neck in discomfort as he gives Phoenix a one-over, trying to spot the reason for his sudden silence. In return, the attorney exhales, soft and long and slow; suddenly back in the present, he realizes just how tense his body has grown. Every hair upon his skin stands upright, gooseflesh so taut it hurts- hands clammy, the straps of his backpack surely growing damp by the extent of his cold sweat- knots line his back and shoulders like anthills, each one digging so deep and twisting through his very core that he doubts he shall ever be able to dig them out. He had completely frozen up, turning inward, standing in this same office in a completely different time period. “…hm?” he finally manages to garble in response.

“Go home, Wright,” a stern voice commands at his back. “You… don’t look well.”

Instinctively, Phoenix curls inwards once more, rooted back in place. The Criminal Affairs Department is just as busy as ever a month after the Engarde trial, and Maya Fey is safe in Kurain-

And the man who was veritably her saviour is very much alive, moving to stand in front of him.

Phoenix longs to spit at Miles Edgeworth. He does not, however, biting back on his words if for no other reason but the pretend that he is the better man. Phoenix had not abandoned anyone, causing year-long misunderstandings about his own survival. He had stayed, he had picked up the pieces, and he had pushed onwards. Miles had simply swooped back into their lives to play the part of the hero when the time was convenient.

He tells himself this more and more often these days. He knows that Maya wants them to make up- how, Phoenix does not know. The closure he had sought had involved a visit to a cemetery in his mind, not a living, breathing man.

Seeing the prosecutor’s handsome visage still causes his traitor of a body to go weak in the knees, though. He hates it.

“Wright,” Miles murmurs softly, stepping closer, “what is-“

And then, the radio clipped to Detective Gumshoe’s belt begins to buzz with static once more, another officer reporting an incident happening across town. Instantly, the detective is heading towards the door; he waves the attorneys a quick goodbye before racing towards his old jalopy in the front parking lot, leaving Phoenix to shiver in the wake of that tinny radio static still ringing in his ears.

“Wright?” There is no reproach in Miles’ voice. Perhaps that is what hurts the most- that Miles is wealthy, and that wealth allowed him to run away when he needed to ‘find himself’, allowing the man to return to LA looking more composed and mature than ever with a new outlook on life. No longer does Miles seem angry or upset or broken, even when he faces a loss in the courtroom. He’s found peace.

Wonder what that’s like.

Phoenix’s hands ball up into fists. While he is grateful beyond measure that Maya Fey is safe and sound, he almost wishes he was back with Pearl, all those weeks earlier. Now, it is just him and Miles Edgeworth standing in a busy office, surrounded by reminders of how inadequate Phoenix had been when Maya had needed him the most. At least during Engarde’s case, he could pretend to be stronger when he had that little girl to protect, her tiny hand in his.

He walks out of the Criminal Affairs Department alone. Miles does not follow him. Phoenix laughs as he realizes this, hunched over on a city bus with scarred knuckles shoved into his mouth to prevent this laughter from transforming into something else. Miles had not followed him. Miles never does.

Chapter Text

It is easy to play off his green-tinged hue as merely seasickness as the boat sways along the water. His knuckles, gripped tight and white and leaving the imprints of anxiously-chewed, blunt nails and the rubber grip on the oars in the palms of his hands, tremble with every motion. It is just seasickness. It is just exertion. After a string of rigorous court sessions, he is merely exhausted, having no more energy left in his ailing body to row this boat across the lake, even if the two girls in the both with him are determined to share their joy.

“Mr. Nick,” Pearl asks, shifting closer gingerly in that tepid, clumsy way of hers, “are you okay?”

He glances at his reflection in the lake’s water. Perhaps it is not just the depths which grants his visage that horrifying, blue-green hue. “I’m fine,” he murmurs hoarsely, cracking a crooked smile. In order to alleviate her concerns, he puts a little extra vigor into his next paddle, the splash from the movement eliciting a giggle out of the girl and her older cousin.

Maya’s laugh, soaring over the water, sets his heart at ease- even if for only a little while. “Don’t worry, Pearly,” she responds airily, splashing water-soaked fingers at Phoenix with an impish grin. “Nick is pretty much always a mess.”

“Well that’s no good!” the child replies, her pout growing. “Mr. Nick, you’ve gotta be responsible if you’re going to be Mystic Maya’s-“ and she moves her hands to cup her cheeks in that sly, bashful way which Phoenix simultaneously loathes and adores, “-special someone.”

“I’m no one’s special anything,” he replies groggily. A quick glance at his watch tells him the sorrowful news that just one glance up at the midday sun could have shared- that their rental of this boat still has thirty minutes left. “Come on, where do you want to go?”

As the duo across from him titters about where they should row to next, their chauffeur shudders, closing his eyes. When Maya had first suggested this trip, there had been no mention of going out onto any body of water. He should have expected that he would be put to work some way or the other- it is Maya, after all- but to think-

A splash lands upon his wrist and he shudders, but the motions are tamped down by the girls’ presence. It’s not as bad as the train, he tells himself silently. It could be worse. It could be the train all over again.

Even the mere thought of the sightseeing mountainside train which had brought them to this idyllic local sends Phoenix’s body reeling internally, his organs seeming to shift as his visions blur. Every fiber of his being wants to flee from even the recollection. After all, the vistas viewable from the train’s carriage had indeed to breathtaking, but-

He has no desire to ever step foot near a canyon, near a river, near a lake or anything which could remotely drag him under and wrench the air from his lungs, ever again.

Gooseflesh prickles along his skin underneath his button-down. The hair upon his nape rises, every muscle tensed and ready for an impact that shall not appear. There is no flaming bridge to cross here, he tells himself. Maya is safe, two feet away from him. Pearl is safe by her side, and this boat is sound, and the water is still, with no storm clouds reflected in its glassy mirror surface. He is no longer on Eagle Mountain, there are no murders to be found here, and the two girls he thinks of as family are perfectly secure.

But Phoenix’s heart is not safe. The cool breeze which dances gently along the water like an invisible sprite sends chills down his spine, shoulders tensing in response painfully. Even if we do capsize, he tries to think logically, the lifeguard is still visible on the shoreline. We’ll be fished out. His hand moves to tug the lifejacket clipped around his torso. I can easily grab them both and we can swim back to shore. We’ll be fine.

When his pallor worsens further, leading him to eventually wretch overboard when they are a scant few yards away from the dock, Maya and Pearl do not understand what has seized his body. They do not comprehend the swirl of river rapids dragging him to their depths in the midst of his desperation; they cannot visualize the same shadows which threaten to yank the air from his lungs, the stones which tear into his flesh, the hope which trickles out of his parted lips with every heartbeat. They do not understand. He does not want them to. They are safe, and it has been months since the incident on Eagle Mountain which had traumatized them all.

Maybe they’re stronger than him. Maybe that’s why they can smile so vivaciously whilst he lingers here, still unable to move on until his feet are back on terra firma and his eyes are shielding from the cliffs of stone all around, fingers still tracing the scars left from jagged rock and broken wood. Maybe he’s just weak after all.

“Should we call Mr. Ejiworth?” Pearl murmurs to her older cousin. “He has that cool car, so he can take us home, right-”

“It’s fine,” Phoenix interjects, each word bitter and acrid upon his tongue. “I’ll be fine.”

Pearl accepts this answer, uneasy but eventually convinced. Her cousin, however, does not. Although Maya does not prod, when he looks into her eyes- large, warm, tender even in their concern- he knows that while she does not understand, she can recognize the shadows of his demons lingering under his eyes. The one moment she seems to want to ask, he merely places a hand on her head, calm and silently pleading.

So, she doesn’t speak. Yet, they do not go onto the water again for the rest of their stay, and the trip home is taken by bus rather than by train. Phoenix’s feet never truly feel like they’ve reached solid ground until he is back in his office, though. The ghosts do not give him vertigo, and the darkness of his sparse bedroom is dry. That is enough.

Chapter Text

The world spins, but Phoenix does not attempt to correct himself as he teeters along. The hand pressed to his forehead dimly informs him of just how hot of a fever he has, the thermometer in the other showcasing a number that would have alarmed him had he been in the right frame of mind. As it is, he does not know what to do, his blurred thoughts providing him no answers no matter how much he searches.

He deserves this. Maya had warned him numerous times as of late that he has been pushing himself too hard, but what else does Phoenix have aside from working cases? Of course he is going to put in extra work. Anything is better than having nothing to do in this office, after all- he would rather overwork himself than have nothing but the shadows to keep him company.

And now I’m sick for it.

He shivers. Stumbles. Dimly, he realizes that his feet ache after he clumsily stubs his toe on his dresser, but the searing pain is dulled by his growing panic; with every step, the teetering sensation swells further and further until he cannot breathe.

He is falling. He is constantly, eternally falling, his brain spiraling right off Dusky Bridge and into the river below winding over Eagle Mountain. The cool hardwood of his floor is firm under his feet, but his knees are too weak to hold himself up, leaving him to falter and tumble down the stairs as he descends into his office. His bed is too damp with sweat and terror to linger in it now; the couch shall have to do.

So, lay down, he does. He chucks off his drenched t-shirt and presses his chest flat against the soft, dry surface. There are no lights on, the only glimmer filtering through closed blinds coming from the Gatewater Hotel across the street. Momentarily, he wonders how long it would take for someone to bring him some food if he asked; Maya would run down from Kurain in a heartbeat, but the journey would be far too long, and he doesn’t like the idea of her going anywhere without treading carefully. Her track record of finding herself in scrapes is not one to be trifled with, after all.

As he curls up, shivering and shaking upon his creaky old couch, his fog-addled brain begins to wander. If not Maya, who else could he possibly call? He has no desire to invite Larry and all his shenanigans into his office; Detective Gumshoe has no loyalty to Phoenix, and it would be strange to ask the man to help-

Mom’s working the night shift, he thinks distantly, eyes filling with tears. Besides, I told her I could take care of myself. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself. She doesn’t need to worry.

His entire body aches. He doesn’t want to worry her. Even more so than her son, she must be tired, and he does not want to add anything to that burden she already carries-

The echo of his ringtone begins to filter through the office space. There is not an ounce of concern left in his bones, so he ignores it, desperately seeking a cool touch from the old, faded fabric of the throw pillows Maya has collected upon his couch over the past few years. Pressing his face against the cushions is the best he can do, allowing the chill to ease the heat burning his temples, the sound of his phone ringing over and over again fading into the static filling his ears. They can leave a message, he thinks distantly- he isn’t working a case currently, so there’s no need to worry.

After what feels like an eternity, he notices the lack of the ringtone. No longer does the Steel Samurai theme play; it merely echoes around in his brain, taunting him as he attempts to regulate his breathing. Why he still keeps that song as his ringtone, he does not know. After all, he hasn’t been a fan of the entire franchise since his childhood, having gotten into the series thanks to-

Tears prick against the back of his eyes once more. I’ll just sleep it off, he repeats again and again, the phrase growing repetitive and drawn-out in his heart. Exhaustion begins to tug his eyelids downwards. I’ll be better by the morning. Maybe I’ll change that ringtone then.

It’s not like Miles will enjoy hearing it, anyways.

He relents to the call of sleep, fully expecting to wake up in the morning and leave this horrible fever behind like a nightmare. However, when his eyes crack open once more through crusted lashes, there is no sunlight streaming through his blinds- it is still as pitch-black as ever, save for the foyer light which has been switched on by the man standing worriedly in the entryway. His thick suede trench coat and plaid scarf hang open and loose around his frame, halfway through being removed before the man’s eyes had found their way to Phoenix upon the couch.

Phoenix’s eyes open wide. He gulps. “Thought I locked it,” he rasps, gesturing weakly to the front door of his office. He makes no move to stand.

Miles Edgeworth looks over him, long and slow, eyes growing wider by the second as he takes in the attorney’s limp, broken, sweat-streaked form sprawled pathetically upon the sofa. “It was open,” he finally replies.

Phoenix shivers. Whether it is from the fever or from hearing the sound of Miles’ voice for the first time in weeks, he does not know; either way, the shame it brings makes his stomach twist, nausea pushing bile up into his throat.

Before he can even sit up, however, Miles merely sighs and turns on his heel, readjusting his coat. “Sleep, Wright,” he says. Then, the light is turned off, the door is opened and closed, and the click of a lock sliding into place tells Phoenix that the prosecutor had taken the key off the shoe rack by the door before leaving Phoenix alone in the darkness.

He always leaves.

The taste of vomit is quickly overridden by the familiar tang of copper upon his tongue, his teeth biting into his lip so viciously he wonders whether it shall scar. The pain is enough to stop the tears from overflowing, however, so he welcomes it- welcomes that darkness, that familiar glint of the Gatewater’s eternal glow shining through the blinds, that constant gloom hanging over his head, threatening to choke him until his tears dry at last. He is alone.

This makes him smile. Not even Mia’s ghost has deigned him worthy enough to haunt this night, it seems.

Still, sleep does not return. In the half-lucidity that his awakening has granted him, all he can do is stare up at the uneven plaster upon the ceiling, the faint light casting shadows of pimples upon drywall skin. The tears do not blur his vision, do not prevent him from counting each bump, losing track, and starting up once again. Instead, the sorrow merely settles back into its familiar nook in the back of his throat- a friend to accompany him in his delirium, tried and true and faithful.

He shall lie here till morning, he thinks. Then, he’ll be better. He’ll have to be, as he always is. He’ll scrape himself together, put on a pot of coffee or three and chug it down no matter how bitter it tastes, no matter how much the acid in his feverish stomach burns; he’ll heat up some canned soup once he has enough energy to think, too. He’ll go upstairs and pick up his phone and move on from this sudden bout of illness, the smile on his face ready for any client who deems his lowly office worthy enough to enter.

It’ll be okay in the morning.

Before then, however, it seems the night does not wish to end. Perhaps it is merely twenty minutes, or perhaps, seven hours; either way, when the door lock clicks open and the foyer light flickers on once again, Phoenix finds his bleary gaze locking with the same prosecutor. This time, however, he notes the red in the other man’s cheeks, the breaths moving the man’s chest seeming more ragged than usual. Miles makes little work of his coat and scarf, hanging it neatly upon the spare hook by the door before brandishing a small plastic bag for the sick, prone man to see.

Why did you come back? He does not ask this question aloud, though. There is too much hidden within that statement to risk putting into words.

“Whaddya want?” is what Phoenix eventually mumbles, keeping his eyes trained upon the bag rather than the hand holding it. “I’m trying to sleep-“

“You’re sick, Wright,” Miles retorts bluntly.

“So?”

There is an awkward, interminable pause, broken only by a sigh and a weary shuffle as the prosecutor moves to kneel beside Phoenix’s shivering figure. Under his breath, the prosecutor grumbles, “You’re lucky I was at the office still when Miss Fey called. She mentioned you didn’t pick up the phone.”

“I’ll call her back in the morning,” Phoenix croaks. Now that the other man is closer, Phoenix can see clear bags of exhaustion underneath the prosecutor’s eyes. “Go home-“

With a groan that is clearly meant to be derisive, the well-groomed man rolls his eyes and begins unpacking the plastic bag left upon the coffee table. “Do shut up, Wright,” is the tart reply.

Wincing, Phoenix rolls his aching body to a half-sit, propping his heavy head up on one hand to watch Miles’ next actions. Seeing that he is not going to be kicked out, Miles moves to reveal what he had clearly gone to purchase after his initial arrival.

There is tea. Phoenix grimaces. There are cold compresses, which he knows might actually be useful; a heating pack looks inviting amidst this full-body chill, and the box of crackers looks painfully enticing to his empty stomach. The sight of it all sends tremors straight to Phoenix’s heart, alongside a thousand questions; why had Miles come back? Why would he have gone out of his way to check on Phoenix at all? What is the point of grabbing things to care for the other man if all he is going to do in the end is leave, is let Phoenix take care of himself, is ignore Phoenix the moment he is better just like he did the moment the Dusky Bridge case and Phoenix’s pneumonia came to an end-

There is one more item. The mere sight of it causes Phoenix’s world to spin, the man violently backing up on the couch to put as much space between him and the box as possible. The intensity of his actions startles Miles, the prosecutor dropping the bottle with a sharp inhale; it clatters upon the table, the label still visible, eternally seared into Phoenix’s brain.

“Throw it out,” he whispers, burying his swimming head into one of the throw pillows. “Get rid of it. Not here.”

Miles scoffs. “Wright, are you a child? It’s medicine. Why wouldn’t you-“

“Throw it out, and get out of my house.”

Miles’ bluster falters, dims, drains away. “Your house?” Nervously, he glances about himself. “Wright, you live in your office-“

Phoenix staggers to his feet, completely off-kilter as he grabs the box off the table. It feels to burn his skin, the mocking logo of the Coldkiller X box imprinting into his palm. How long has it been since he has held a bottle of this? Six years?

He could have gone a lifetime without seeing it ever again.

Shuddering, he thrusts the box into Miles’ chest, not caring about the force. “Get out,” he whispers through tightly-clenched teeth, his jaw aching so much he fears it shall crack. “Take this and get out.”

For a long moment, it seems the other man shall not comply; then, to Phoenix’s surprise, Miles snatches the box and strides right out of the office, not bothering with his coat or scarf. Then, thirty seconds later, the man is back, hands free of the accursed medicine and raw from the chill of the early morn. “Lie down, Wright,” he says stiffly.

Although Phoenix wants to protest with all his heart, wants to push Miles out and close the door forever to the prosecutor, there is no energy left in his body after that little outburst. So, he complies with a heavy grunt, head lolling to the side as his clouding brain begs for release from this illness. To his surprise, however, he receives just that. Within a few moments, the damp hair plastered stiffly over his forehead has been pushed back by a cool hand, a cold compress instantly providing relief. Phoenix closes his eyes and almost moans at the sensation, only faintly recognizing the squeaking of his staircase as the prosecutor climbs up to his bedroom. Once he returns, a thin, dry blanket is spread over Phoenix’s body, and by the time Phoenix bothers to crack open an eyelid again, there is a steaming cup of steeping tea upon the coffee table.

Phoenix takes it all in numbly, an outsider watching the events transpire at a distance. “Didn’t think you’d know how to take care of anyone but yourself,” he mumbles, his bitterness seeping into his tone without restraint thanks to the haze over his mind.

Shockingly enough to Phoenix, Miles actually visibly winces. “I… took care of Franziska often enough when she was a child,” is the curt, but clearly wounded reply. “Her father was often out, and she was sicklier than you’d expect.”

If he had been more lucid, he would understand the genuine truth behind those words, the recollections of a little Miles Edgeworth visiting a sick Phoenix Wright after school coming to mind after years of being repressed. Phoenix barely recognizes what Miles says, though; with the sudden soothing comfort of the compress upon his forehead, true exhaustion begins to pull at Phoenix’s bones, dragging him back down into the couch. He denies that urge for a moment, pulling himself back to a sit so he can take the tea left out for him. He can barely taste it, but the warmth lights something in him that travels deep into his gut, soothing the twisting of his innards for the first time in what feels like a millennia.

“Sleep, Wright,” Miles Edgeworth commands softly when he is finished with it.

Phoenix’s mouth falls open to reply, but no words appear. There is only one question his fever-addled brain wants to ask, but even that is too scared to put it to voice. Perhaps if he says it out loud, then the other man will do the opposite- he’s always acted as if to spite Phoenix, so why would he take this request into consideration- he’s always left Phoenix behind, just like everyone else- Phoenix will wake up and he’ll be alone, and that’ll be alright, because that is his hand in life and he is good at picking up the pieces and tomorrow he’ll find a new client somewhere and life will go on as if this delirious dream had never taken place-

He sets the cup on the table. Miles’ hands rise to readjust the compress before pulling the thin blanket around Phoenix’s shoulders. Then, the attorney sleeps.

When he next opens his eyes, Phoenix finds a slightly-disheveled, clearly-weary Miles Edgeworth seated upon the couch by his side. In one hand sits the morning paper which Phoenix tends to recycle unread each day; the other hand clutches the worn handle of a coffee mug, filled with something steeping with notes of bergamot that sends Phoenix’s stomach twisting in on itself in unease. I never threw out that tea, he thinks numbly. He found it.

Yet, as Miles’ gaze lands upon Phoenix, the other man’s expression seems to soften with a kind of tenderness that strikes him to the core. Heat rises into Phoenix’s cheeks as that gaze travels downwards, and suddenly, the attorney is acutely aware of his bare chest, his vulnerability- scrutinizing eyes asking for more answers than Phoenix has ever needed to give anyone.

“You… have more scars than I expected.”

“I’ve been through a lot,” is Phoenix’s soft reply.

Miles’ voice continues to probe, low and neutral in his ear even as he helps Phoenix sit up, handing the man another cup of that same soothing honey-lemon tea. “You don’t like medicine.”

“…Dahlia Hawthorne was my ex-girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

Of course Miles had read the case files from Dahlia’s conviction, Phoenix realizes numbly. “She… tried to poison me with that brand when we were dating.”

There is no response, only the white-knuckling of a hand gripping onto a coffee mug and a crinkling of newspaper acting as any indication that his confession had been heard at all.

It is heard, however. When they check Phoenix’s temperature, it is almost back to normal. His fever is almost gone. “Next time you’re ill,” Miles mutters softly, “just give me a call, Wright.”

Give me a call.

The attorney’s heart stops.

Give me a call.

“Why?”

Miles’ eyes fall downwards, and Phoenix’s heart stops still in his chest. The moment lasts a lifetime, the very air around them freezing, dust particles hanging suspended in motionless air- and then, it is gone. “I can’t promise I’ll do a good job,” he murmurs, “but at the very least, I can make a decent cup of tea.”

Four words. Give me a call. They carry far too much meaning, far too much promise, to ever truly be parsed by either man- Phoenix doubts that even if he were more awake and able, he would be able to put his trembling voice to proper use. ‘Give me a call’ means ‘I’ll be here’ means ‘I won’t leave’ means ‘I’ll come when you need me’ means-

There are ghosts in this office still, but he isn’t dead yet, even though he should be by all accounts. He isn’t dead yet.

And, somehow, neither is Miles. They’re here, in his office.

Miles’ hand reaches out, slipping over the attorney’s trembling fist. His fingertips are smoother than Phoenix’s. It suits Miles, the other man thinks.

Just like that, it finally hits the attorney. Just like that, his dizziness seems to break, even if for but a moment. Miles’ hand is cold. It’s real.

“…okay.”

Miles’ eyes rise to meet Phoenix’s gaze. The prosecutor smiles, and Phoenix finds himself, despite it all, smiling back- and when Miles leaves, Phoenix lays down to sleep, and the honey soothes his throat, and the office is quiet. The trickle of sunlight filtering through the drawn blinds is all he needs to know that it is dawn at last. A glance at the door tells him that the prosecutor had taken his front door key again to lock it from the outside. The action is a silent promise.

And when the phone rings again, he has enough energy to pick it up and soothe Maya’s worries. He does not change the ringtone before he goes to sleep once more, throwing away his plans to go hunting for clients. He needs to stay here until his key is returned.

He smiles. He cannot wait.

-fin-