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It’s been a horribly unproductive day, Miles admits. So many people have been popping in and out of his office, delivering files and such, that he’s coiled up tight like a spring. Even when he’s alone he doesn’t get much done, only managing to send a few emails and reread the same page of paperwork until it feels like his eyes are going to bleed.
So when the end of the day draws near, and he can hear the steady trickle of people leaving the building, something in his gut sours. The guilt only grows as he runs through all that he’s done today and comes up with an embarrassingly short list. Miles is tempted to stay, chain himself to his desk and force himself to work until thinking straight isn’t even an option. A few years ago he would’ve one just that with nary a second thought. But now, he finishes off his cup of tea and packs up his things, leaving his office before he can stop himself.
He walks with purpose, reaching his car before long. Opening the trunk for a brief moment— just to double check a body didn’t find its way in there again— he heads to the front and leaves the parking garage. As expected, traffic is horrible, so Miles turns on the radio and hums along with it softly.
Instead of heading for home, he turns into a nearby plaza and parks. It’s one of the artsier ones, with murals on the side of every building and a farmers market that comes by every weekend. Miles heads for the shop sandwiched between a coffee shop and a bakery, the saccharine scent of flowers filling the air as he enters.
“Back again, Mr. Edgeworth?” the woman behind the counter teases, spritzing the leaves of a gardenia sitting on the counter.
“Would you rather I not?”
Violet scoffs and shakes her head. “And you say you can’t make jokes.” She sets down her spray bottle. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Something… bright,” he says. “Do whatever you think would be best.”
“Damn, and here I was gonna give you something dead.” Violet busies herself, stepping out from behind the counter and picking her way across the shop in search of the perfect flowers.
Miles chuckles under his breath as she ties a ribbon around the stems, setting it gently on the counter.
“Will that be all?”
He’s about to say yes but pauses, an idea striking him. “Do you deliver, by chance?”
“That we do.”
“Perfect. Can I have something sent out tomorrow at… noon?”
“Sure thing.” Miles parrots off the address and writes a note on the card she gives him before opting against it, tucking the little thing into his pocket.
“Going the secret admirer route, eh?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I respect it.”
“It’s not much of a secret,” he says, looking down at the ring on his finger. “Well… I wouldn’t be surprised if he still didn’t figure it out.”
Violet snorts at that. “I mean you’ve gotta expect it though, yeah? You married them.”
Miles is far too old to be describing the feeling in his stomach as butterflies, but he can’t think of anything better to call them right now. “Indeed I did.”
“Any special requests for this one? Or do you just want me to work my magic?”
“Could you add sunflowers?” he asks. Their meaning shouldn’t be lost on Phoenix, at least. “Oh, and no dahlias, if you would.”
“Too many petals for your liking?”
“Just… some bad memories.” The last thing he needs while trying to be sweet is to remind Phoenix of his murderous ex-girlfriend.
“Alrighty then.” Violet finishes writing the order slip and sets her pen down. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“No, that will be all.”
She rattles off the total and as Mies pulls his wallet from his pocket, Violet juts her chin towards the bouquet sitting on the counter. “These for your husband too?”
“Hm? Er, no.”
A beat of silence passes. “Do you mind me asking who they’re for, then?”
“They’re for my daughter. She’s got a show tonight— that’s where I’m heading after this, actually.”
“Aww, that’s real sweet of you. I hope her show goes well.”
“Me too. Last time she set her brother on fire and got a standing ovation.”
Violet snorts. “Sounds like an interesting kid.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Miles picks up the bouquet and tucks it gently under his arm. “Have a nice night.”
Violet fires off a pair of finger guns. “Right back at you.”
Miles doesn’t try to hide his smile as he steps out of the flower shop and makes his way back to the car, setting the bouquet down in the passenger seat. He’s tempted to buckle it in but that’s a bit much, even for him. Pulling out his phone, Miles sends a text to Trucy that he’s on his way, and peels out of the parking lot, heading for the Wonder Bar.
Then, like if a switch was flipped, emotion starts to swell up in his chest and the beginnings of tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes.
He’s so lucky— so goddamn lucky to have all of this.
There was a time in his life that he never even thought he would make it this far, that he should make it this far. And all of this? A doting husband, a lovely daughter? Sisters he doesn’t want to compete with, employees he can rely on? Miles swipes at his eyes.
How long ago was it that he thought he didn’t deserve happiness like this? That he was so lost and confused that he didn’t even know happiness was possible? God. He never would’ve thought he could be here. Buying flowers for his daughter just so he could watch her face light up with delight when he hands them off. Warmth blooms in his chest at the mere thought of it, and Miles wonders if this is what his father felt. Watching him babble on about law as he played chess against Raymond during slow days at the office.
He used to think so little was left behind when someone died. There’s a corpse, of course; their possessions; their family and friends. But those things don’t tend to last in the way we want them to. Bodies begin the process of decay mere minutes after death, fortunes are squandered in a fraction of the time they were amassed, friends and family move on. Now he knows better. How many people has he seen kill for a lost loved one? How many years did Raymond keep his father’s hat? How many people would spit in the face of Phoenix Wright for putting an end to Manfred von Karma?
Morbidly, he wonders what would be written on his gravestone— if he even has one. He knows Phoenix doesn’t want one. He’s already made plans for his ashes to be scattered near the beach where his mothers live. Miles isn’t really sure what he wants. He thinks about his death a lot less than he did when he was younger.
But at the very least, he wonders what would be left behind. What would people think of when they remembered Miles Edgeworth?
He shakes his head. Worrying about that does nothing to help anyone, least of all himself. He needs to get to Trucy’s show.
Now is what matters. It’s not like he’ll be around to see how the world remembers him once he’s dead.