Work Text:
7:00AM
DECEMBER 1ST, 2018
GATEWATER HOTEL
For most people, the sight of December on the daily calendar is a cause for celebration. The end of the year is arriving, full of warm drinks, presents, ice skating and time with those dear to them. When Miles Edgeworth sees the calendar date, he gives himself permission to put his phone back onto the bedside dresser, and press his face up against a pillow. He wishes he could scream, but he knows that no such noise will escape his mouth; if he screams, it’ll be letting the date ruin the day before it begins. No, he will just give himself a moment in pillow-created darkness to regroup, and then he will go on with his day like nothing is the matter.
He takes the pillow away from his face, composed, and gets out of bed to start his morning. Brushing teeth, then hair; putting on his clothes: amaranth suit, dress slacks, cravat. He feels immediately better as soon as he has his outfit on; he looks in the mirror and sees the accomplished prosecutor he is, rather than the scared nine year old he can feel stirring in his heart.
He is spending this December in Los Angeles. It seems counterintuitive to him, but being in the city where his life changed forever feels easier than being away in Europe during the holiday season. During those long years spent under Von Karma’s tutelage in Germany, he had felt every mile between himself and his hometown in far off Japanifornia during this time of year. So, even though he has spent the last few months in Europe, he packed a bag and boarded a flight as soon as he heard jingly Christmas songs invade the radio. The nice thing about studies is that they can be brought with you; practicing law is much less mobile. He plans on spending December with his books, in a small hotel room, avoiding everyone he knows. Better they think he's studying in Europe, becoming a better person, rather than coming back here to fuss over old scars.
That is the plan, yes; he'd thought about it as his plane landed, sunrise settling over LA. It was dark enough for the golden lights of the city to shimmer below him, but light enough for him to see the still smoldering hillsides; huge fires had just ripped throughout Southern Japanifornia, after all. He reflects on the plan once again as he grabs a particularly large volume on French civil law, and heads out into the rainy December streets.
~ ~ ~
10:50AM
DECEMBER 8TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Phoenix Wright refuses to buy a Christmas tree. To his chagrin, Maya sees this as a bigger problem than it is.
“Nick!” she says over the phone so loudly that Phoenix has to move the speaker away from his ear, “You’ve always loved Christmas… no tree? Not even the little Charlie Brown type tree we had in your office last year?”
“C’mon Maya, that tree wasn’t that special-”
“But it was a tree! Nick, how could you not put up a tree? Don’t tell me you’ve given up on the Christmas spirit-”
“Maya!” Phoenix snaps, cutting off whatever lighthearted jab Maya planned on throwing next. “For the last time, it’s not a big deal. I just don’t feel like it.” Phoenix hadn’t felt like doing much of anything lately. He feels empty, somehow, but doesn't know how to fill himself back up. He lays back on the couch at Wright and Co; it gives easily, having lost any semblance of firmness after years of use. Why he is sitting on this couch in the agency, he doesn't know. He isn’t waiting for clients, and he isn’t doing anything else of use, either. He itches with the desire to do something, but the energy needed to do things seemed to have left him along with a certain prosecutor.
As if she can sense the darkness swirling in his head, Maya breaks the silence hesitantly. “Do you want me to come visit you, Nick? I’m sure I can ask for a day off for Christmas, if you wanna spend the day together…”
“Don’t worry about me, Maya,” Phoenix forces out more cheerfully than he feels. “You worry about yourself, and your training, okay?”
“Alright….but you’d tell me if you needed me, right, Nick?”
“Of course I would,” Phoenix says, lying through his teeth. Thank god phone magatamas haven’t been invented yet, he thinks, as he hears Maya reply happily, relief evident in her voice. When they say goodbye, Phoenix checks the time: 11AM. He puts his phone down on the floor next to the couch, and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, the sun has long set outside the office windows.
~ ~ ~
3:00PM
DECEMBER 15TH, 2018
THE GROVE MALL
Edgeworth had forgotten how much it rains in December. He’d forgotten the particular sound of LA rain, pounding down on the sunbaked city. It’s desperately needed; he can see people smiling at the sight of it, relief evident in their eyes. Fires finally going out. This year has been hard for LA; hopefully next year is a bit more kind.
Despite the rain, Christmas festivities are in full swing. He strolls around the Grove, which is festooned with bright golden lights. Happy shoppers pass a gigantic Christmas tree with ornaments the size of human heads; children line up at Santa’s Workshop, a faux gingerbread house with lovingly detailed displays of toys arranged in the model windows. Edgeworth stares at small trains circling a small toy town, the whole display lit up with softly twinkling Christmas lights. All he feels is sadness; he remembers a hand holding his as he tried to get a train set working on Christmas morning. He stares up at a flying model of Santa and his reindeer floating above him, presiding over this idyllic Christmas scene. Edgeworth tries to remember if he still believed in Santa when he’d boarded the plane to Berlin for the first time.
Then, a memory comes back: being eight years old, gathering evidence for why there was no way Santa could be real; and presenting a case against the existence of Santa to his father. His father, the defense attorney, didn’t even try to defend his imaginary client. That year there had been gifts, of course, but no half eaten cookies and no presents marked with “From Santa” written in fancy script. He hadn’t minded as a child; he’d felt victorious. As an adult looking back, Edgeworth wishes he’d let himself believe just a year longer.
He doesn’t know why he’s drawn to Christmas decorations, as their appearance only causes him pain. Maybe it’s an act of masochism; maybe nostalgia; maybe longing for some semblance of holiday cheer in his own heart; maybe a combination of all those impulses. Whatever has drawn him to this mall, Edgeworth continues looking at a Christmas scene that feels as far removed from his life as living on the moon.
~ ~ ~
8:00 PM
DECEMBER 22ND, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Phoenix looks at his phone as if it will provide the answer for what he needs to do next. He feels more tired than he can ever remember feeling. There’s a Christmas movie playing on the TV, though he doesn’t care enough to figure out what it is. He is tired. He is tired. He is tired. He has things to do, but he cannot do them. He has people he should call, and wish a happy holiday, but he won’t. Calling people….
His mind drifts to prior holidays. He thinks about this time last year, when he heard from Franziska that she was going head to head against him in an effort to avenge her brother. He remembers the night he finally understood why she had shown up, taking his phone out to try and call said brother. He remembers the inevitable voicemail, still his voice, and the beep of the recording machine. He remembers what he’d said:
“Hi. I, um, met your sister? She’s scary. She reminds me of you. You both clutch your arm when you’re losing… It’d be kinda endearing, if it wasn’t because of Manfred’s DL-6 bullet. I’m rambling…. It’s been eight months since you left that note, and your phone hasn’t been shut off. I know you’re not dead. There’s no way you’re dead. But… you would’ve come back by now if you were alive… right?”
At that point, Phoenix had swallowed hard, trying to keep his sadness at bay. He didn’t know why he needed to do that. It wasn’t like the person he was calling was ever going to hear his voicemails, alive or not. The worst he could do was worry his ghost. Phoenix imagined a small ghost with a poofy cravat, and would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so miserably grief-stricken.
He didn't know what else to say, so he told the truth. "I miss you."
At that, the voicemail ran out of time. Phoenix brings himself back from the memory of the phone call into the present, where the same phone sits in his hand; only a year and a lifetime later. Phoenix knows the truth now: even though he'd been alive, that man hadn't come back.
Phoenix lays back again on the couch, and realizes that the holiday special playing on TV is from the Steel Samurai. The last thing he wants to hear at the moment is that particular theme song. He is in danger of becoming so sad that he just becomes one with the couch, his body melding into the worn cushions. He is so tired. He is so tired. He is so tired.
You could just call him, a voice in Phoenix’s head whispers. You could call him. Give him a piece of your mind . He considers the possibility, and rejects it: the person he is thinking of is in Europe right now, doing whatever he does in Europe. Probably sitting in some library older than Japanifornia’s entire existence, with books that would probably disintegrate into dust if handled by Phoenix’s rough hands. Besides, right now in Europe it would be the middle of the night. It wouldn’t be satisfying for him to yell at the person who messed with his heart if the other half of the equation was half asleep. No, Phoenix will save it for when he is back in LA. And besides… he isn't sure he'd have the heart to yell at him anyways.
With that train of thought thoroughly derailed, Phoenix feels his mind slipping into an unknowing fuzz. He lets it happen, slowly falling asleep. He listens to the Steel Samurai special play on the TV as he passes out:
- How can you forgive the Evil Magistrate so easily?
- I don’t know, but I have to try. All people deserve another chance.
~ ~ ~
6:00 AM
DECEMBER 25TH, 2018
GATEWATER HOTEL
Edgeworth wakes up with a start, heart pounding. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down, with no luck. His mind repeats something he’d glimpsed once online. In his early prosecuting years, his nightmares preventing him from utilizing the little time he had to sleep, he’d tried to find a solution to the problem. He’d turned on the incognito function in his phone’s search browser and looked up everything he could about how to make bad dreams go away. Most of the advice is lost to the passage of time, but one line remains in his mind: it’s not the nightmares themselves that are important, but how they make you feel. He sighs, and tries to understand why the way his nightmares make him feel would be important. When that internal investigation brings up nothing but the dregs of animalistic fear, he deals with it the old fashioned way. He gets out of bed, goes into the small hotel bathroom, and splashes cold water on his face until he stops shaking.
He sees the pinkish-reddish light of sunrise peeking out from behind the hotel’s blackout curtains. He knows then that there is no way for him to get back to sleep. Then, he remembers: today is Christmas. Three days until the 17th anniversary of his father’s death. The days leading up to the anniversary always feel momentous in retrospect. Seventeen years ago today, he’d been gifted the last Christmas toys he would ever receive. Seventeen years ago, he’d drank hot chocolate and eaten Christmas cookies. Seventeen years ago, seventeen years ago, where had the time gone? Where had the warmth gone, the love? Edgeworth remembers his father smiling so wide when he told his son that he would let him come to court with him. He remembers thinking it the best Christmas gift in the world. The memory makes Edgeworth want to cry, but he doesn't. He hasn't cried in a very, very long time.
He wants to get out of bed, get dressed, and head out into the brisk, early morning air. But for some reason he cannot decipher, the moment he lays back down in bed, he feels like he cannot move. He feels his cheeks flush, and his hands clutch at the hotel room sheets. He cannot let this day go to seed. How he feels at the moment is not unfamiliar or untraversable. Nor is it necessary. He finds it in himself to go to the hotel lobby, get a truly terrible cup of tea, and start his day's studies. He doesn't look up from his book until it is finished; at that point, the lobby is lit up with colorful Christmas lights to stave off the late December darkness. He finishes his tea, which has long ago gone cold.
~~~
6:00 PM
DECEMBER 25th, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Phoenix makes the obligatory Christmas Day call to Maya. He can hear the sounds of a small party in the background, including the laughter of one Pearl Fey. It ever so slightly eases the ache in his chest, knowing Pearl is having a good holiday. Maya details the plan she put together for the Christmas party.
"Yeah! This is the first time I'm hosting, but y'know how it is with training, taking on responsibility bit by bit. So this is my year to host! It's not much, but I got some festive goodies to snack on, and Pearl seems to be in love with her jingly reindeer headband, so I guess it's something, right?"
Phoenix tries to smile, for her sake. "I bet it's wonderful, Maya."
She scoffs. "What, no jokes about how you would expect any party I throw to be overrun with fast food burgers?"
Silence on both ends of the line.
"Nick… I wish you were here. Like, really wish. I know you'd talk to me if there was something really wrong, but… you sound so sad, and I don't know why, and I wish there was something I could do."
He can't do this. He loves Maya like a sister, but he cannot ask her to hold his sadness. He cannot ask that of anyone he can think of.
"Merry Christmas, Maya."
Phoenix presses the end call button. The last thing he hears before the call hangs up is,"Nick, wait!-"
~~~
6:00 PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
GATEWATER HOTEL
Edgeworth thought that he had everything under control. He thought that he could be as unflappable, untouchable, undefeatable in daily life as he was in the courtroom. He couldn't have been more wrong. When he wakes there is a heavy feeling weighing him down, anchoring him to the hotel bed. Its sheets are still crisp and white, too clean; he feels as if he is sullying them with his presence. He wishes he could be swallowed by blank linen, and he wishes he could just get up already. He wishes he could pull himself out of this rut of self pity. He wishes he was a lot of things, his mind constantly running through a laundry list of regrets; but right now, he mainly wishes for one thing.
He wishes he were brave.
He thinks of his father, forever optimistic and resilient, and chokes down a wet laugh. What would he think of his wayward son, sitting alone in a hotel room, feeling so hurt even after ruining the lives of countless people? His son, who'd turned into the epitome of everything he fought against? Edgeworth wonders if his father would hate the man he's become, and almost sobs at the very thought of his disappointed face. The whole day progresses like this, some deep evil inside of him having been released. He thinks of his father, then himself. His father, good and kind and trustworthy. Someone who believed in always doing the right thing. Someone who believed in leading by example. His father, his father, his father. Then Edgeworth turns the magnifying glass back on himself. He takes inventory of who he is, and doesn't like what he finds. He finds himself pathetic, selfish, a coward. Someone who doesn't deserve the life he has built, the people he knows, the mercy he has been shown. He has pushed people away and insulted those who’ve tried to help him. He has scared those who might've loved him on a fundamental level he isn't sure he can come back from. His father treated those around him with nothing but respect; how could someone who treated those around him with such needless contempt be his son?
Memories flit in front of Edgeworth's eyes without warning; snippets, pieces of a puzzle he'd so desperately wished to remain unsolved. The sensation of brand new dress shoes hitting the marble of the courthouse stairs, holding his father's hand even as he tried to take the steps two at a time. How he sat in the crowd of the courtroom, the firm wooden bench beneath him. The way he'd seen the glint in his father's eye harden as he defended his client. The way he'd felt proud, so proud, so exhilarated and honored that he got to be this man's son. His father's warm, firm hand holding his as they waited for the elevator to arrive. The sterile cold of the hospital room when it'd all been over. The elevator ride (earthquake, no air, gunshot).
It is too much, it is all too, too much. He tries to sleep it off, casting the day into the trash heap and closing the blackout curtains. But he cannot escape himself, not even in his sleep.
He sees himself in the elevator again, but this time it is in freefall. He watches his whole life flash by through the elevator window, every bad decision, every wrong move, every harsh word, all the mistakes that make up the life of Miles Edgeworth. He sees himself leaving a note on his desk; he sees himself bringing only a single bag to the airport; he sees himself looking out the airplane windows at the scene of LA at midnight; he sees the forlorn smile on his face, knowing he'll never have to see the place outside the window again.
The memory of that smile is what breaks him.
Any semblance of control, dignity, or anything that would keep him from falling apart has been left behind at the elevator door. He can't think, he can barely breathe. He needs to get out. He bangs on the walls, screaming. He is crying like a child, and the words that come out of his mouth are an incomprehensible howl. Right before the elevator hits the ground, he wakes up.
Edgeworth feels too big for his skin the moment he’s awake. He needs to get out and go somewhere else, anywhere else but this accursed hotel room. He picks up his phone, and tries to think of someone, anyone, he can call. But he can't think of anyone. He wishes Wright had never found him innocent. He knows the verdict passed on him, but his heart refuses to accept reality. It's pounding as harshly as a judge's gavel with cries of guilty, guilty, guilty!
Wright. He'll call Wright. He cannot humiliate himself any more in front of him than he already has. Wright has already seen him at his lowest moments. He owes that man more than he can ever repay; what's adding one more thing to infinity?
~~~
7:00 PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Phoenix watches Christmas come and go, doing nothing to commemorate the holiday. The only thing he does even remotely in the holiday spirit is make himself some eggnog and whiskey. It's deliciously sweet and bitter, a perfect balm for his aching body and heart. He watches the TV aimlessly, until suddenly, he feels his phone buzz. Without checking the number, he presses accept on the call, and holds his dying Nokia up to his ear.
"Maya, look, it's all good here, stop worrying about-"
"Hello, Wright"
Phoenix sucks in a breath. That isn't Maya. Only one person calls him Wright. It also happens to be the last person he wants to talk to at the moment.
"Oh, it's you."
Silence. Phoenix doesn't know what to say. He has a few options: what do you want , or who got killed this time, or maybe even hello . But nothing comes out, because no response can encapsulate what he wants to say right now. Fuck you might come the closest. He realizes he's gripping the phone so hard that it's about to crack. He loosens his grip when the man on the line begins to speak.
"Are you doing anything for the holidays?"
Silence. Phoenix could tell him that it's none of his business, but he assumes that the man on the phone won't get the message. He should know that asking that man to take a hint was like asking a fish to get out of the water; predictably, his next sentence carries on like a runaway train, almost defiant in the face of the silence preceding it.
"I'll take that as a no. As such, I can bring a bottle of wine over to your place in thirty minutes."
Phoenix wants to say no. He wants to tell the man on the phone that if he wanted to enjoy a cozy December evening over a nice bottle of wine, then he shouldn't have gone on a year long sabbatical from life itself without telling anyone. But then he cross-examines that thought like a witness account. December. And what day is it? The 27th. This evening is the night before the anniversary of DL-6.
"Wright?"
And now, with the date on his mind, Phoenix can hear something in the way his name is said; a quaver in the voice on the phone. Phoenix is sure that if he had his magatama on him, he would hear the telltale sign of chains slamming into locks.
Phoenix wants to do many things. He wants to cuss wildly and freely, he wants to turn off the phone and fling it out the window, he wants to call Maya and drag her onto his couch so he doesn't have to do all of this alone. He cannot be alone right now. But he knows he's not the only one at the moment who needs company. Despite everything, Phoenix Wright isn't heartless.
"Bring the wine and a pillow-"
A bewildered ngh is followed by, "Pillow-?"
Phoenix sighs. "If we're getting drunk off a bottle of wine tonight, there is zero scenario I'm letting you drive home. The last thing I need right now is to see you go on trial for a DUI."
"I could travel home by bus."
Phoenix tries not to laugh. "As if. Don't fool yourself"
"You're beginning to sound like Franziska"
"Wine and a pillow," Phoenix says, cutting the conversation off before it spirals out of control. "No arguing. Save it for court."
Before the call ends, he hears, "See you in 30 minutes."
~~
7:30 PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Thirty minutes on the dot, Phoenix hears a sharp knock on the door. He opens it to a sight that would be side-achingly funny in any other context. The thick winter showers of December have not let up yet, and he sees the man in front of him drenched to the bone.
“Edgeworth, you’re soaked” Phoenix says, trying to sound colder than he feels at the moment. Soaked is putting it lightly; his guest looks like a cat that got tossed into an ocean sized bathtub. The scowl he wears on his face mirrors his appearance.
“That’s the first thing you say in person to me in ten months?“ Edgeworth scoffs.
“Come inside before you get wetter,” Phoenix replies, his cool tone genuine this time around. The man at the door seems to pick up on the fact that said door will not stay open forever, and sweeps inside Phoenix’s office. Phoenix shuts the door behind him, and clicks the deadbolt into place.
Edgeworth sits down on the couch, and seems to underestimate how much give it has; he nearly knocks himself flat on his back. Phoenix heads over to the office’s small kitchenette, and reaches for two wine glasses that sit on the top shelf. He leaves them there so they won’t get smashed in his usual hustle for an emergency pre-courthouse cup of coffee. Tonight, though, the glasses will be cleaned of their dust and be used to drink wine. A special occasion indeed; Phoenix rarely drinks wine, as he hates the cheap stuff and can’t afford the good stuff. He makes a mental note to toast the Prosecutor’s Office for their huge paychecks, because he can tell the wine Edgeworth brought is very, very good before he’s even opened the bottle. They pour wine into the glasses and sit together in silence. They do nothing but listen to the rain pounding the streets and the staticky chatter of the TV.
There’s yet another Steel Samurai special playing on the TV; this time it's New Year’s themed. He can see Edgeworth working very hard to not seem interested; his eyes are suspiciously darting around the room at almost every spot besides the lit up screen. Phoenix sighs; he wonders if Edgeworth will ever stop pretending to be invincible. He then decides that tonight, he has zero patience for it.
“Oh, you don’t mind if I turn the TV off, right? I kinda left it on before, but I know that you’re probably not a big fan of TV these days,” Phoenix says as he twirls the remote languidly in his hand.
“What makes you think that?” Edgeworth replies; Phoenix can sense the uncertainty in his voice. Good. His court instincts start to present themselves, and he knows where to press next.
“Well, I figure with Von Karma and all, you guys didn’t watch cartoons or anything like that around the holidays,” Phoenix says, though a bit of genuine curiosity leaks into his next question. “What did you guys do around the holidays, anyways?”
“Well, Von Karma was not a fan of the holidays as a concept. He thought that they presented an excuse for people to undeservedly let their guard down. He always made sure to remind Franziska and I that the vast majority of people are killed by those they know, and that the holidays offer a perfect opportunity for families to both come together, and kill each other.” Edgeworth rattles off this slightly horrific speech as if he has heard it many times before. Phoenix admits to himself darkly that he probably has.
“And yet…” Edgeworth continues, interrupting Phoenix’s thoughts, “Every Christmas Eve, we would go see A Christmas Carol. They always put it on during the holidays at a playhouse near the Von Karma estate. Manfred, of course, hated the entire story; it went against everything he taught me and Franziska. And yet, we went to see it every year.”
“Maybe he secretly empathized with Scrooge,” Phoenix said, cracking a smile.
“He needed to keep the appearance of a normal, well to do family. Outings to the theater were part of the maintenance of his image,” Edgeworth replied, bringing the conversation back to reality.
It reminds Phoenix why he’s having this conversation in the first place.
“Understandable. I guess you have to be hard inside, if you want to be a prosecutor,” Phoenix says, trying to stave off the bitterness in his voice. If he lets it in too soon, then he will give up the gambit. He puts on his poker face; he finds it exceptionally well formed. “And from what I understand, hard prosecutors probably hate kid’s cartoons. So I’ll just turn off the TV, so you aren’t bothered, because I’ve forgotten how to change the channel.”
That last bit is the truth; Maya changed the channel to the one the Steel Samurai aired on the last time she visited Phoenix. However, she neglected to switch it back to the news he prefers, and he has no idea how to do it himself. The only thing he knows how to do is switch the TV on and off. As Phoenix goes to turn off the TV, he hears a noise come from the prosecutor sitting on the couch.
“No!”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Phoenix asks, trying so hard to keep excitement from leaking into his voice.
“I mean… I do not mind the Steel Samurai being on, if it’s all the same to you,” Edgeworth mumbles, a small blush crossing his cheeks as he clutches his arm. Phoenix wants to smile in the way he does when he catches a witness in the act; he has the prosecutor in front of him exactly where he wants him.
“Okay, I won’t turn off the TV, if you admit you like it.”
Phoenix hears a “mrrp!” from the man on the couch before he responds, “Like what?”
“The Steel Samurai.”
Now, Phoenix lets the poker face drop, and his shark-like smile shines out. He turns around to see Edgeworth looking as aggrieved as he does in the courtroom, watching his arguments fall apart before his eyes. It’s more satisfying than he cares to admit.
Edgeworth lets out an assortment of incredibly entertaining sounds, before sighing and replying, “The prosecution concedes. Yes, I like the Steel Samurai.”
Phoenix returns to the couch, and sits down with a victorious spring in his step.
Edgeworth buries his face in his hands. “Please keep the TV on, if I have nothing to do but watch your gloating face, I really will take the bus."
~~
9:00 PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
If someone had told Edgeworth a week ago he would be spending the evening before the 28th watching The Steel Samurai: New Year In Neo Olde Tokyo over wine with Wright at his office, he would’ve eaten his shoes. And yet, this is where he is. For someone who has made his disdain for the Steel Samurai so obvious, Phoenix seems to be enjoying himself. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s this specific special. As if reading his mind, Edgeworth hears the man next to him say, “Don’t go thinking that I like the Steel Samurai. This is only good because they aren’t so serious here-”
“And what’s wrong with seriousness?” Edgeworth replies, his question a bit too blunt; wine always takes away his sharper edges.
“The Signal Samurai was goofy!” Phoenix flings his hands into the air in frustration. “The Steel Samurai always takes itself so seriously-”
Edgeworth can feel both of them shifting to their courtroom personas; it feels like home. He gets in the next jab: “Objection! What you’re talking about is that the writing became more substantial and less childlike-”
“Objection! Come on, it’s a kid’s show , would it kill them to include some jokes?”
“Objection, there are plenty of jokes!”
Phoenix smirks, and Edgeworth knows he’s in trouble: he only makes that face when he knows he’s won an argument. “Alright then, show me the evidence. Evidence is everything, as you say. Tell me one joke from the Steel Samurai, and I’ll shut up.”
Edgeworth scrambles to remember a joke, but while he can recall funny moments, he cannot think of a single joke. Shit. He decides to do what he always does when he’s cornered: change the subject. “At least I can appreciate seriousness-”
“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth.”
“It is not! The Steel Samurai is simple on a surface level, but if you look for the deeper meanings-”
Edgeworth watches as Phoenix’s eyes narrow, and his body tenses up; he's staring at him like a fire that refuses to burn out.
"Sometimes, I just can't take your whole 'holier than thou' thing. You can just like things, you don't need an excuse!"
Edgeworth takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to suppress the anger he feels brewing inside himself. He does not win that internal fight; he feels like an uncorked champagne bottle. Words are flowing out of his mouth unchecked: "Just because you can afford to be overly sentimental, doesn't mean I can!"
Phoenix stutters indignantly for a moment, before Edgeworth sees a mental barrier collapse in him. He can feel the whole room go cold before Phoenix even begins to speak.
"Maybe you need to be more sentimental! You, and your stupid ice king act. Shutting everyone out, because of your precious reputation!"
"My reputation is important, Wright!"
"Yeah, I know! You were willing to die for it, apparently!"
Distantly, Edgeworth thinks to himself, ah, there it is. The elephant in the room has made itself apparent, and now it's beginning to stampede.
“Wright, let me explain-”
Phoenix looks like he’s about to punch him. “I’m pretty sure the letter you left is all the explanation you ever needed to give.”
Edgeworth wants to scream, but fights against the instinct. Instead he says, “No, just listen to me-”
“No!" Phoenix shouts, hands balled into fists by his sides. “Shut up for once, and just let me talk!”
Edgeworth knows he is defeated. “Fine,” he says softly, and leans back on the couch.
“You. You made me think you were dead for a year, Edgeworth! A whole year! You just left, and didn’t think about the people you were leaving behind. You didn’t think about me, or Franziska, did you? Your own sister, you sick bastard! You made your own sister think you were dead! And you did it all just to save face, because you couldn’t bear to be seen as anything less than a fucking perfect robot!”
Even though it seems like things can’t get any worse, Phoenix begins to cry. He swipes away at his tears with one hand, his other fist clenched against his heart. It shatters something in Edgeworth to see Phoenix, eternally hopeful Phoenix, look like this; and to know that he’s the cause of it.
“You decided that how I saw you, and how Gumshoe, Maya, and Franziska saw you, didn’t matter! You hopped on a plane and you ran away, and you probably planned on leaving forever because why would you leave that note otherwise!”
As Phoenix starts to cry harder, his voice turns hard as steel. "You left because you didn't want to admit you're human," he spits out, "You and your perfect reputation and flawless image."
No, Edgeworth wants to say. No! But how could he explain how he felt when the judge yelled out "Not Guilty"? The feeling of unraveling, like someone had picked at the seams of who he was and pulled. How after the case, he'd gone into his office day after day, trying to keep up appearances. How every day afterwards someone asked if he was alright, and he said yes. But he didn't mean it, his heart not there, having fled the moment that the guilt that propelled him fizzled out.
He feels like a cold case missing the key piece of evidence. He feels like a book with the middle pages ripped out. He knows his beginning, the elevator, and the ending, that defendant stand, but everything in between had somehow fallen away, leaving behind a man with no history, and no future.
How can he explain all this to Wright, who looks like he’s about to cry on Edgeworth's leather shoes? How could he explain that even though he’s here now, the letter hadn't been bluffing?
He can’t. There is no way to convey this without completely breaking Phoenix’s heart.
So, Edgeworth gets up off the couch. He grabs his coat, and prepares to walk back out into the rain. He is about to open the door when he feels a hand firmly grip his shoulder.
“I meant it when I said that you should stay here tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I don’t go back on my promises.”
Edgeworth swallows a lump in his throat, but turns around. Somehow, the Steel Samurai special is still playing. He strides over to the TV, and turns it off. The show disappears from the screen with a “whirr”, and a final “click”. Phoenix seems to get the hint.
Phoenix brings him a blanket from what is probably a spare bed; Edgeworth can smell the scent of his 3-1 shampoo. He then takes the wine bottle and places it in the fridge, and places the wine glasses in the sink. He does all this as if Edgeworth isn’t even there. The room is silent, and neither Edgeworth nor Phoenix try to fill it. Phoenix begins to head down the hallway to what is probably a spare bedroom, before he turns around to look at Edgeworth. The sadness in his eyes knocks the air out of Edgeworth’s chest. He says goodnight like he’s saying goodbye. Edgeworth says goodnight the same way. As he falls asleep on the couch, he figures that he probably is saying goodbye; why would Phoenix try to see him after tonight?
~~
9:30PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Phoenix feels like he’s about to tear his hair out. He wants to pace by his bed until he wears out the matted, carpeted floor. He wants to destroy a pillow with his bare hands. This was his one chance to connect with Edgeworth, and he’d blown it. He hadn’t meant to yell like that. He hadn’t meant to. All he’d wanted was to watch a stupid cartoon with his friend. A friend he hadn’t seen in a year. But even though the brain could push hurt away, the heart always remembered; and Phoenix’s heart had always been too strong for his liking. He hates his heart at that moment, beating too loudly in his chest. He hates his hands, shaking for some reason. Why are his hands shaking? Phoenix feels too tired to be able to deal with the unnameable emotions weighing on his chest. He hastily brushes his teeth, tosses his clothes on the floor (he'll get them in the morning), and collapses into bed. Luckily, the wine hasn't worn off yet, so his body feels pleasantly heavy. As he's falling asleep, he faintly wonders if Edgeworth is alright.
~~
???
??? ???, ???
COURTHOUSE ELEVATOR
You're nine, and stuck in an elevator. It's dark. It's so dark. Why is it so dark? Why had the shaking turned out the lights? You want to ask your father, someone, anyone, what's happening, but the room is darker than any night you've ever experienced. You can't see your hand in front of your face. You can't see anything. You try to stay calm, the way your father taught you, but you can't, you just can't, you're starting to breathe hard, and tears are spilling down your face, and you hear people screaming. You hear your father yelling, and someone else yelling at him, and there's a gun in your hands. There's a gun and your father is yelling, and you can't move. You can't move, and there is a gun in front of you, and you feel yourself pick up the gun. You pick up the gun and feel it in your hands. The gun is warm. It's so hot, it's furiously burning your hands, you can't hold onto it for long. You have to do something. You hear your father yelling, and you want it to stop, you need it to stop, you need your father to be quiet, you need your father to be okay. You throw the gun. You throw it, and it flies out of your hands into the darkness, you throw the gun towards the yelling, you throw the gun towards your father. There is a gunshot. There is a scream. There is a scream that hits you and you feel yourself choking, suffocating, the air is steaming, you're going to run out of air. Except you don't. You don't, and another gunshot follows the first. The gunshot turns into a laugh. A man walks into the elevator, a gun smoking in his hands. His shoulder is weeping tears of red; blood. His laugh is high and cruel, and he looks at you greedily, and he looks at you the way a lion looks at a stray gazelle. Your hands are red. Your hands are red, and it's your father's blood on your hands. You can't see your father, but you know he's dead. He's dead. The man whose shoulder is bleeding laughs again, and all goes dark for a moment, before you're in a hospital with adults looking at you with infinite pity. You tear out all the hooks and lines inserted inside your skin, and you run. You run, and you're nine and running through a hospital trying to find your father because he can't be dead, and you're twenty four and running because you picked up yet another gun, muscle memory over good sense, and you're twenty four and running because it wasn't you, you didn't kill your father, but you now know you have condemned innocents, and you're twenty four and running to catch a midnight flight out of LAX because you have left a note which means there's no going back, no more cowardice, until you turn twenty five and realize that you're a coward who's made the biggest mistake of his life. You're twenty five, watching your best friend's heart break in his eyes as you try to run out the door with your wet coat in your arms. You open the door to the rain, an ocean, you let yourself sink-
~~
11:40PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. AGENCY
Miles lets out a strangled scream as he wakes up.
~ ~
11:40 PM
DECEMBER 27TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO AGENCY
Phoenix wakes up to the sound of a crash in the living room. He’s still half asleep, and a nighttime intruder wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened to him. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt; the last thing he’s doing is facing a potentially dangerous situation half naked. On instinct, he reaches into his dresser drawer and pulls out Maya’s magatama. It glows a soft green in the nighttime darkness. He wonders what he could even do with a magatama- throw it at the person’s face? It’s better than the alternative, which is nothing.
Phoenix runs out into the living room, clutching the magatama, his body already bracing for impact as soon as he emerges from the hallway. The fight leaves him as soon as he stops to look around. The deadbolt is still bolted shut, and his windows don’t look like they’ve even been opened, let alone broken into. He sees something that strikes his heart. The lamp that stands on a small table next to the couch has been knocked over, and is now shattered on the floor. Edgeworth is sitting on the ground in front of the couch, and it looks like he’s been…crying. Phoenix is initially stunned that Edgeworth even has the capability to cry, and then pushes the thought out of his mind; even if he pretends to be an emotionless robot, that’s not who he actually is. Phoenix wracks his brain; why is Edgeworth crying? Then, once again, his mind remembers the piece of evidence so obvious that he hasn't considered it, the reason he's invited Edgeworth over in the first place: it’s the anniversary of DL-6.
Phoenix is many things, but he’s not heartless.
He walks over and sits down next to Edgeworth, who seems to barely register he is there. He’s staring ahead into the darkness of the living room, though Phoenix can guess that what he is seeing isn’t the inky blackness of the TV screen. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if should touch Edgeworth, or shake him, or wave his hand in front of his face. He would usually pipe up with some snarky question, but he’s already messed up tonight. Edgeworth looks so small. He looks small and so, so fragile, like he’s made of glass. Phoenix can’t bear to see him look this upset.
He calls out into the darkness, “Edgeworth? Can you hear me?” He turns, and sees Edgeworth slowly nod his head. Something in Phoenix’s chest lightens; this is progress. He sits in front of Edgeworth, trying to think of something, anything to say. Then, Phoenix becomes aware of the magatama in his pocket. He fishes it out and holds it in the flat of his palm; it glows with anticipation. At that moment, Phoenix understands the way to go forward. He screws up his courage, and finally speaks.
“Edgeworth. I…hate seeing you like this. I hate seeing you look so defeated. That’s not the person I know. I want to help you. Can I help you?”
Phoenix knows this is serious, because Edgeworth doesn’t put up a fight. He nods, and then speaks out, “The truth… I want to tell you the truth.” His voice sounds as shattered as the lamp on the floor, and it hurts Phoenix’s heart. He nods, and holds up the magatama in front of Edgeworth’s face. Immediately, chains slam home into six psyche locks. Phoenix gulps. Six? Six psychelocks? What the fuck is Edgeworth hiding? Phoenix is going to get to the bottom of it. He shifts into questioning mode. What should he ask first? It's not a lack of questions that’s the problem, but too many to count. Phoenix chooses one line of questioning to start with first.
"The lamp is broken. From where you would've been sleeping, it could've only gotten knocked over if you'd sat up quickly, and swung your hands to your sides. And you normally aren't careless. There's only one scenario you wouldn't be thinking about where your arms are going. Edgeworth, you had a nightmare, didn't you?"
A psyche lock shatters as Edgeworth nods mutely. Phoenix feels a grim sense of satisfaction: one down, five to go. "Alright. Alright. And it's the evening before the 17th anniversary of the DL-6 incident." Phoenix tries to suppress the shocked sadness he feels from reaching his voice, and fails. "Edgeworth… you're still having nightmares about DL-6."
Another lock shattered, and another mute nod from Edgeworth. This time, Phoenix cannot help but interrupt himself. "But, I found you innocent! You didn't kill your father, and you know that! So, why?"
Edgeworth softly laughs, but proceeds to speak with more honesty than Phoenix would've expected, even with the freeing influence of the magatama. "You really haven't changed, have you, Wright? As much as I would have liked my brain to simply accept the reality of my present freedom, that’s not how it works. You saved me now, but… no one was there to rescue me when I was a child. And my mind has held onto that memory, and cIings to it as tightly as it is able. Even though my situation is, in reality, very different than it was before, my brain refuses to acknowledge that fact. All it cares about is that DL-6 happened, for that is the only certain piece of information my brain has had to go on."
Phoenix chews the scar on his lip as he thinks, then asks another question: "Do you still see yourself killing your dad in your dream?"
Edgeworth shakes his head, and Phoenix exhales; at least he has helped a little. "Then… what do you see now?"
Edgeworth gulps, but then speaks. "It's very similar to what I described to you. Except, instead of me killing my father, it's Von Karma."
At that moment, Phoenix is glad that Von Karma is dead, because if he wasn't, he would've gone off and killed him himself; he feels coldly furious that the memory of that murderer is still haunting his friend. He then pushes the thought aside: his anger is not the focus right now. He continues his questioning.
"So you had a nightmare tonight. And the way you just talked about it, it seems like this isn't happening out of the blue. That implies that you're probably having nightmares a lot. And, knowing you, you wouldn't ask for help unless there was no other choice. You call me randomly on the night before the anniversary of DL-6, sounding mildly disturbed, which in terms of your emotional expression means you're about to cry. You came over because you needed help with your nightmares, didn't you?"
Another lock shatters. Before Phoenix can say a word, Edgeworth blurts out, "If I had thought of anyone else, I would've gone to them. But I didn't. You were all I could think of." He clutches his arm before saying,"I wish I had thought of someone else. I regret that you are involved with this.”
"Yeah, well, I don't,” Phoenix replies. “Because you finally have to explain to me what's going on. No more running."
"No more running…” Edgeworth whispers in reply.
Phoenix sighs. "I missed you so much, y'know? You just left, and I knew you couldn't be dead, because your phone was still connected." He could hear Edgeworth's breath catch before he continued. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk. I just don't understand. Why did you leave?"
At that question, the three remaining psyche locks shake in warning; Edgeworth remains quiet. Phoenix feels a pit in his stomach; at least he knows where to go next.
"So, you're here because of nightmares. And if they're bad now, then…" Phoenix remembers the way Edgeworth had looked at the detention center back in 2016: clutching his arm, a haunted look in his eyes. Then, after the trial, shaking his hand. Phoenix had congratulated him, but Edgeworth had simply looked like a prey animal being hunted. At the time, he’d attributed it to a lack of restful sleep down at the detention center. Now, Phoenix realizes that a hard bed in a jail cell would’ve been the least of Edgeworth’s problems. One more memory: seeing Edgeworth at his office during Lana Skye’s case, and noticing that he looked more tired than Phoenix could ever remember seeing him look. All of the puzzle pieces have been in front of him at the time, and he foolishly hadn’t looked further. “You were having these nightmares after the resolution of the DL-6 case too, weren’t you? Really bad ones?”
Another lock shatters, and another nod from Edgeworth. “Yes, I was. I didn’t know how to deal with these, they were new…as you can imagine, I was exhausted as a result.”
Phoenix wants to do so many things. He wants to say sorry, or give Edgeworth a hug, or engineer a way to worm into his brain and kill whatever demons are torturing him so badly. He tries to choose another line of questioning; Edgeworth wants to tell the truth, and Phoenix wants to help him. But he can’t think of anything. So, he gestures for Edgeworth to keep talking. “Oh, alright,” Edgeworth says, a bit startled. “Well, I was very tired. And… and the aftermath of the case was…difficult. People either didn’t trust me, or they pitied me. I’m not sure which was worse.” Phoenix didn’t know which was worse for Edgeworth, either: both would affect his reputation deeply.
“Okay, I think I got it. You were exhausted, your reputation had taken a hit, and you didn’t want to deal with it. So you left the letter, and ran away from it all. You didn’t want to deal with the professional fallout.” Phoenix’s sounds bitter as he states his claim.
He expects the shattering of yet another lock, but he has no luck this time around. One of the psyche locks shakes threateningly again. Phoenix wants to tear out his hair; if Edgeworth hadn’t left for professional reasons, then why did he leave? Then, a horrible idea hits Phoenix like a truck on the highway, and he knows what question to ask next.
“Edgeworth… where did you go after you were released from the detention center?”
Edgeworth seems bemused by this question, but answers anyway. “I…went home.”
“Did you call anyone, or talk to anyone, about what had happened?”
“I called Franziska, about Manfred being convicted. She deserved to hear it from me, first.”
Phoenix lets out a soft laugh. “I can’t imagine that went well.”
“No, it didn’t. But that is besides the point. There was no scenario in which it went well, but she needed to be told. It wasn’t about me.”
If they had been in court, Phoenix would’ve screamed “Objection!”
“But Edgeworth… it should’ve been about you. Honestly, it should’ve been about you for a straight month, at least. You were on trial for murder, and then on top of that you found out that the man who mentored you killed your Dad. That’s a lot to handle.”
Edgeworth stares at Phoenix like a kicked puppy, and says, “Funny that you’re worried about this now, Wright. I don’t recall you calling me after the trial.”
Phoenix wants to argue, but Edgeworth is unequivocally right. He didn’t. He didn’t call, or swing by and visit his office, or invite him out for a burger, or even leave him a call. He hadn’t done anything. He’d just assumed Edgeworth, untouchable Edgeworth, would be okay. Phoenix, like everyone else in Edgeworth’s life, had fallen for the act he put on. And on top of that, on the first night they’d spent together as friends since childhood, Phoenix yelled at him. He’d gotten to yell at Edgeworth for leaving, but it hadn’t been a fair fight. The memory makes Phoenix feel like he deserves to be led away in chains. “You’re right, Edgeworth. I didn’t. And I’m so, so sorry. For that, and for last night-" Memories of angry shouting in a police station return to him as well. "And for all the rest of it. You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.”
Edgeworth says, “I...apologize for last night as well. I know that I didn't deserve to be hurt, Wright. At least, more than I did in years past. But I didn’t after the trial ended. I felt enormously guilty, exhausted, and lost." Phoenix watches as Edgeworth begins to nervously ramble, spiraling the slightest bit. "I felt so lost. And I didn’t know how to handle it, so I thought there was only one thing I could do-”
Edgeworth covers his mouth with one of his hands, shutting himself up before he can say another word. But Phoenix thinks he knows how he was going to end the sentence; he has a good idea of how to break the shaking psyche lock. His eyes go wide with shock; Phoenix has never hoped to be wrong so badly before.
“Miles… that letter wasn’t bluffing…?” The statement comes out more like a question.
The lock shatters. Phoenix looks over at his friend, his oldest friend, and sees him nod his head. Phoenix’s heart stops for a moment.
“How… I didn’t… I thought you were bluffing, Miles. I thought you were being metaphorical, or overdramatic, or…”
“I don’t bluff, Phoenix Wright,” Edgeworth replies, steel in his voice. “I do not mince my words, or say things I do not mean. I meant what I said in that letter.”
Phoenix feels the room spinning; there’s one more psychelock. How could there be one more psychelock? What could be hiding behind what Miles intended to do to himself? He has to keep asking questions, or he’s going to cave in on himself. He remembers a sign from his college cafeteria: in order to keep your balance, you have to keep walking forward. “You weren’t bluffing, but why? Why would you…why would you do that to yourself? I know I didn’t reach out, and I wish I had, but you had Gumshoe, and Franziska. You had people in your corner. You knew that, right?”
Edgeworth looks away, his face scrunched up miserably. He looks like he can’t even speak, which means Phoenix is going to have to figure this out himself. He lays out all the evidence before him. Edgeworth had just dealt with the revelation that his father hadn’t been killed by him by accident, but his mentor on purpose; and that he’d been mentored to stomp over the elder Edgeworth’s memory in the most fundamental way possible. As a result, Edgeworth had been reeling. And not only had he been reeling, but no one had reached out. So he’d decided to leave, permanently. And he’d decided to make that move because… Phoenix whispers, ”Bingo”, to himself, feeling like the biggest idiot that’s ever walked the earth. He draws himself up into his full strength. “Edgeworth, I keep telling you that you didn’t care that me, and Gumshoe, and Franziska, and Maya all cared about you when you left. But…you didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t know that other people cared about you. That’s why you left. You didn’t think anyone would care if you were gone, did you?”
The final psyche locks shatters and falls to pieces before Phoenix’s eyes; his vision starts to blur with heartbroken tears. Edgeworth whispers, “I’d failed in every aspect of my life. I’d put innocent people away in jail, so clouded by my belief that all people who ended up in the defendant’s chair were guilty, and deserved to be punished. And I felt that way because…because I felt like I deserved to be punished. I felt like I deserved to be punished for throwing that gun instead of doing something, anything, to help. That feeling did not go away after the trial. In fact, I felt guiltier than ever. I’d ruined so many lives. Gumshoe would not miss me; he’d find another prosecutor to take under his wing. Franziska would certainly not miss me; I’d just sent her father to prison. And you…you would have your real friends, and your dedication to helping people… even if I wasn’t there. I knew you wouldn't miss me.”
Phoenix has come a long way from college; he isn’t even close to the crybaby he used to be. But this, this is all too much for him to not cry about. He wants to tell him how wrong he is, but knows Edgeworth won’t believe a word he says. He hears how choked up his voice is when he asks his next question, but he can’t do anything about it. “Can I please give you a hug?”
Edgeworth looks a bit shocked, as if the idea of anyone wanting to hug him is a foreign one. But he nods. Phoenix doesn’t hesitate, and pulls Edgeworth into his tight embrace. Edgeworth keeps his hands at his sides, initially. Phoenix feels tears running down his face, but doesn’t stop them. They sit in silence for a moment. And then, the unthinkable happens: Edgeworth hugs Phoenix back. He clings to him, tightly, as if he is the sole lifejacket in a swirling ocean storm. And then, something that Phoenix would’ve thought was literally impossible in this situation happens: Miles starts to cry in front of him. A little, and then a lot. And then, noise: small hiccups, quiet, but still there. These are the tears of someone who’s practiced crying silently. This thought only makes Phoenix cry harder. They’re crying together; but underneath the overwhelming sadness, Phoenix is shocked and glad that right now, they are here together. Right now, they have each other.
~~
Miles Edgeworth cried a lot as a kid. In fact, he’d cried enough that it had been concerning to his father. He’d cried when he skinned his knee on the playground, or when he missed a Steel Samurai episode, or when he got less than 100% on a test, or when his father was harsher than he’d meant to be. In short, he’d cried a lot, and had been seen as a very sensitive child. He remembered his father kneeling down to his level, and asking him what happened in a kind, gentle voice. Then, after Miles had explained himself, he usually felt better. Even at that age, putting the pieces of incidents together in their correct places calmed him. And if he hadn’t been calmed, his father would scoop him up into a hug, and let him cry until he’d gotten it out of his system.
His sensitivity had been one of the very first things stamped out of him by Von Karma; he’d been told very early on that no crying would be tolerated in his household. Besides, the things that Edgeworth had cried over had disappeared; there were no more playgrounds to skin his knee on, no more Steel Samurai episodes to miss, no scenario that less than perfection would be tolerated, and no accidental harshness from his father. Von Karma was always harsh; crying over that would be a fool’s errand. And his father would never be harsh towards him again; dead fathers cannot scold their wayward sons. So, Edgeworth had stopped crying, except for those rare instances that a nightmare haunted him more deeply than usual. In those moments, only, he cried, but silently; he hadn’t wanted to know how Von Karma would react if he was awoken by tears.
Miles hasn't cried in front of anyone in seventeen years, but now his record is broken. He cries into Phoenix’s thin t-shirt, and lets his tears stain the scratchy gray fabric. He lets himself cry shamelessly; it’s the least he can do for Phoenix, who has once again helped him beyond any way that he can repay him. Phoenix has helped him put together the whole truth; explain it all, just like his father used to let him do. And now, Edgeworth realizes he has been wrong, so incredibly wrong. He’d realized, while traveling around Europe, that he’d made a mistake. But his conclusion had been that he was wrong because he had been a coward, and taken the coward's way out. But now, he realizes, his breath hitching, that he had been wrong about one fundamental fact: that people didn’t care about him. If that was true, then Phoenix wouldn’t be holding him, letting him cry on his shoulder; Phoenix would not be crying over him.
Edgeworth says, “I’m sorry,” because that is the only thing he can think of saying.
Phoenix looks at him like he’s shot someone. “Don’t you dare apologize right now. Unless it’s for you leaving because yeah, that was a dick move. But also, I’m just happy that you’re still here. Otherwise, don’t you dare.”
“I am sorry for leaving. But I’m also… I’m also sorry for putting you in this position. I’m…” He wants to say, I’m sorry for making you cry .
Phoenix asks Edgeworth the worst possible question, the one he’d been praying he wouldn’t ask. “Is there anything I can do to help? With all the anniversary stuff?”
Edgeworth has never been asked that question before. As a child, Franziska had vaguely known how Miles had joined the family, and noticed that he became sadder around the holiday season. However, being a child, she hadn’t looked into it further; she’d always known her brother to be the way he was, and Miles wasn’t in a hurry to change her perception of him. She was a neutral party. On the other hand, Von Karma actively poured salt on the wound during the holiday season, with extra lessons on the protocol used for murder investigations that involved child witnesses; the last thing he would ask is how he could help. And before the trial in December 2016, they were the only two people actively aware of the DL-6 case. Only Phoenix Wright, right now, sitting on the floor of his living room with Edgeworth in his arms, would ask how he could help. As if he hadn’t already done more than Edgeworth could’ve ever asked for. And yet, he gave the question some thought.
No one talks about the loneliness. Other people have lost fathers. Other people have been hurt. These are certainties. But no one has lost his father. No one else almost died in an elevator on December 28th, 2001. He is unique in this fact, and uniquely alone. There are no support groups for people who’ve lost their fathers in elevators; one night, during his year abroad, he’d looked. After the trial, he’d felt even more lonely. All the little micro-interactions that had sustained him throughout the day at the prosecutor’s office had evaporated away into awkward silence and awkward hellos in the hallways. It was just him, alone; and being alone at that juncture had been more than even he could bear.
He feels upset right now, and emotionally run ragged. But he doesn't feel lonely; he finally knows what to ask for. Miles begs Phoenix: “Stay. Just stay with me. Please.”
Phoenix nods, and holds Miles even tighter. He holds him, and they cry, and for the first time in a long, long time, things between the two of them are okay. The whole world waits for them, with all its imperfections and injustices; but in this moment, things between them are finally put to rights.
After a bit, Edgeworth hears Phoenix start to quiet down a bit, and softly yawn. He loosens his grip on him, and drags both of them up onto the battered gray couch. The blanket that Phoenix gave Edgeworth is crumpled up at the far end of the couch cushions. Edgeworth reaches for it, and drapes it over the two of them. They fall asleep on the couch together. Miles holds onto Phoenix as if he will turn into thin air if he lets go.
~~
7:00AM
DECEMBER 28TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. LAW AGENCY
Phoenix wakes up to the feeling of someone clinging to his arm. He feels surprise stir in the back of his sleep soft mind; who could be holding his arm so tightly? He opens his eyes, and slowly turns to see who's next to him. Phoenix then wakes up all the way; it's Edgeworth, his face scrunched up even in his sleep. Memories of last night filter back into Phoenix's consciousness, and he remembers seeing Edgeworth's face making a similar expression; except now, his face doesn't project misery, but unconscious concentration. Phoenix smiles fondly. Only Miles could turn sleeping into a task that requires focus.
Phoenix wants to call Maya. She's been worried, and he doesn't want to be a hypocrite; if he's going to ask Edgeworth to stop running, then he needs to stop as well. Fixing the broken links in his life starts with calling his de facto little sister.
He tries to get up off the couch, but extricating himself soon seems impossible. Every time Phoenix tries to pry away his arm from Edgeworth's surprisingly strong grip, his sleeping friend makes sad little whimpers. It is adorable, and Phoenix will take the knowledge to his grave; he has a feeling that if Edgeworth knew that he knows this about him, he'd run away to somewhere much more remote than Europe. Besides, Phoenix has already pushed Edgeworth way out of his comfort zone over the last twenty four hours; providing some comfort, even unconsciously, is the least he can do. Luckily, Phoenix had left his Nokia next to the couch last night from sheer force of habit, so he's able to pick up his phone and to dial Maya's number without disturbing Edgeworth; he'll have to be quiet on the phone so he can keep letting him sleep. This is immediately difficult as soon as the call picks up.
"NIIIIICK!!!" Maya is so loud Phoenix is afraid it'll blow out the speaker on his phone. She fires questions at a rapid pace. "How are you? Are you doing okay? I'm sorry I didn't call you back on Christmas, I got caught up with the party and then it was too late and then training kicked my butt so I lost track of time-"
Phoenix gently shushes her. "Maya, it's totally fine. I should be the one saying sorry, I was the one who hung up on you . And I love you, but-"
"Aw, ya love me?" Maya interjects. She says it like a joke, but Phoenix can sense she's touched.
"Yes, and I don't say it enough. But please, please be quiet. Edgeworth is sleeping on the couch next to me, and if he wakes up right now I will literally never forgive myself-"
Phoenix can hear Maya's shocked breath in, and he preemptively covers his phone speaker to block out her scream; it's loud enough that the speaker vibrates against his palm.
"WHAAAAAT?!"
He can imagine the crows that roost on top of Maya's roof flying away, cawing indignantly, in the aftermath of the scream. If she hasn't woken up half of Kurain Village, it'll be a miracle.
"So that's why you called me so early! I'm up because training starts soon, but you're never up until nine at least! Tell me everything !"
Phoenix tells her about Edgworth calling him, then showing up at his door soaked from the rain with a bottle of wine, then their evening together. He leaves out the exact details of their fight, and their conversation after Edgeworth's nightmare; it doesn't feel right to fully reveal something so intimate. Luckily, Maya seems to sense this, and mercifully doesn't press for details.
"It is literally illegal that you don't have a cell phone, because you can't send me a picture of Edgeworth on the couch! Most people look sweet when they're asleep, but if he doesn't I won't be surprised!"
As Maya laughs to herself, Phoenix stares at the man on the couch. He's sleeping soundly, which feels like a major miracle; deep eye bags betray what must be a lack of sleep going back a month, at the very least. He's still stiff, even asleep, as if he is physically incapable of relaxing his shoulders. But his face has gone slack since Phoenix started talking to Maya. His mouth is open the slightest bit, and Phoenix hears a slight whooshing of breath, in and out. He would recognize that noise anywhere; it's older, and somehow sadder, but still the same noise Phoenix woke up to at night when sleeping over at Miles' house. That glimpse of a long lost nine year old boy warms something inside Phoenix's heart. It is not too late, for either of them.
Phoenix talks quietly with Maya on the phone until she has to leave for training. When she hangs up, he places his phone back on the ground by the couch. It's still early in the morning, so Phoenix lets himself lean on Edgeworth's shoulder, and fall asleep again. Listening to the tide of Miles' breathing, he can almost believe they're both nine again. He falls asleep, happy that they both get a second chance.
~~
9:00 AM
DECEMBER 28TH, 2018
WRIGHT AND CO. LAW AGENCY
Edgeworth wakes from a deep sleep to the sound of snores. This is unexpected; he hasn’t slept next to someone since he was a child, attending sleepovers with Phoenix and Larry. Then, he realizes he recognizes this snore; it is older and deeper than his memories suggest, but just as loud and rhythmic. He opens his eyes fully to the sight of Phoenix Wright snoring away against his shoulder. He smiles, and lets himself be sentimental; as much as Phoenix may think he is incapable of feeling any emotion even close to sappiness, he is incorrect.
He knows what day it is, to the very marrow of his bones. Today is the day his life changed forever. Part of him wonders, each year, what his life would be like if it hadn’t happened. And every year, it gets harder and harder to picture. As much DL-6 had been horrific, there were many parts of his life that would’ve never happened in a world where he had never been in that elevator. He would have never known Franziska, let alone had her as a sister. He would’ve never become a prosecutor; for all the wrongs he has committed, he is proud of chosen career, and doesn’t intend to give it up. And most importantly, he would not be here, in Phoenix Wright’s living room, the early morning sunshine softly illuminating his best friend’s face. For all that has happened, has happened; he cannot change this. And for once, this thought doesn’t bring on a wave of grief or self loathing. He lets the thought sit with him on the couch.
Miles lets himself enjoy the warm light on his face, and his eyes slip closed, back into sleep. He lets himself lean into Phoenix’s warm weight shamelessly, and half sighs, half yawns. Today is the anniversary, and tomorrow he will be free for another year. But right now, he has time, and someone next to him that cares. He can handle that.