Archive of Our Own

Lucid dreams have never happened to Miles before. And believe him, he tried.

When his father still tucked him into his bed and peppered sweet kisses on his forehead, little Miles would toss and turn until his bed became wrinkled for a sign that he was falling into deep sleep. 

But the time between actually falling asleep and having a dream appear before his very eyes is a large gap. One moment, he would be staring at the dim lights between the creaks of his door leading to the living room, and the next he would wake up.

He tried even harder after fourth grade, trying desperately to remember that the scene that replayed for fifteen years every night was just a nightmare. So he could do something. Fix something. Anything to stop the perpetual cycle of the nightmare that rattled his caged bones.

Those nightmares have subsided now. Some nights there were violent shakes and the scene would unfold again , and little Miles would pick up the gun and throw it at the fighting men, hear that dreadful scream and only find that he is not a little boy anymore, but a grown man trembling in his sheets when he wakes.

There are other nights where he dreams of chapped lips brushing over his cheek, the scent of a well-made breakfast enveloping the room. He would brush the empty bedside and stumble into the kitchen, where he would hear a beautiful, bright sound of a laugh and a voice telling him to go back to bed.

It is only when he rouses to blinding lights does he remember that that dream is that- a dream.

Tonight, however, even as his peripheral vision is blurred and the world is draped in a cloak of pure black, Miles realizes .

This is a dream.

Miles steps forth, and in the distance there is a man in baggy clothes and a beanie.

Why now, of all times? How does he know that this is a dream?

The man glances at him, and though he seemed beyond unrecognizable at first, the faint glint in his eyes screams who he is.

Miles gaps incredulously. “ Wright? ” 

It’s true that he never saw Phoenix outside of his suit, but this attire is－ uncalled for. Baggy clothes with what seems to be food stains, uneven stumble that he miraculously grew (Miles just assumed Phoenix naturally had unblemished skin) and drooping eyelids, this is the complete opposite image that Phoenix displays in court.

It seems the only thing that is kept clean is the beanie on his head, with bright bold words of ‘Papa’ knitted onto it.

Phoenix doesn’t react. He doesn’t jump in surprise and scream ‘Edgeworth?!’ or pale. The only reaction that he has is a nod and a hum. His eyes are sharp. Calculating. Its youthful warmth eroded by-

“Edgeworth.” Phoenix mutters, voice and face blank.

Miles is quite confused, because dreams are constructed based on things he knows and assumes. He never assumed Phoenix to dress up as a… a hobo , so why is he dressed as such?

“… Are you alright?”

Phoenix blinks. It is slow and wiped clean of emotion, and something in Miles’ heart sinks.

Then, Phoenix chuckles. “I can see why you would ask that. This is my attire outside of work. Don’t tell me you’re judging my fashion as well?”

“What matters most is your attitude in court. I couldn’t care less about your fashion sense.” Miles shoots back almost immediately, his ears flaring in embarrassment.

This… isn’t Phoenix.

Well, at least, not the Phoenix he knows. The Phoenix that stands before him has dreadful eye bags and subtle wrinkles that remind him of middle-aged men. Bright eyes, eroded by time.

Yet, there are similarities. From his voice to his jawline, Miles can confirm that the one before him is Phoenix. Just… not his Phoenix.

(It has a lovely ring to it.)

“Say, how has your case with Nocent been going?” Phoenix drawls, and there it is, yet another contradiction; his Phoenix speaks with a certain attitude of a high-schooler; sometimes bright and chippy, other times low and sassy. This Phoenix seems to have some sort of default to his voice. A slight drawl that is cautious, guarded.

Miles feels like he should hold his cards close to his chest if he wants to find out what the hell is going on.

Also, Nocent? Miles has never taken a client under such a name before.

Phoenix takes his silence as a no. “What about Ilharted then?”

Hm? Now that rings a bell. “Miss Eve? I declared her guilty a few months ago.”

Phoenix breaks into a larger, more earnest grin. Miles has seen that look in court whenever he realizes his bluffing may actually be onto something. “A few months ago?"

It is only then that Miles’ gears in his brain start turning. Phoenix was trying to understand something. He was trying to connect cases. For what?

“Wright, I know you have a tendency to forget things, but even this is beneath you.” Miles scoffs.

Phoenix doesn’t break into a sweat like he does when he gets caught, nor does he play with his cuffs whenever he is flustered; the Phoenix before him merely shrugs with his poker face on, the blank smile stretching wider on his face. “My bad.”

His Phoenix never had a poker face. He was open and bashful in all the right ways. He almost seems wiser in a way. More mature. 

It sinks in. Is it because he’s older?

“I demand an explanation on why you are here, Wright.”

Phoenix laughs again, his slumped shoulders shaking and his laughs coming out in low rumbles. “I’m afraid I don’t know either, Prosecutor.”

Miles crosses his arms. There is no use sugarcoating it. He was never good at lying to Phoenix Wright, and he doubts he can now- in front of a version that is wiser, more placid, more experienced. “How old are you?”

“Always blunt in or out of court, eh?” Phoenix scratches the back of his head, and there’s a habit that Miles is finally familiar with. The tension in his shoulder bleeds out a little, and he looks more relaxed. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

It occurs to Miles that this all might have been a facade, but that poker face has clearly been worn for many years. Assuming Phoenix is also in a dream, he would do well to take it off. Plus, with the little wrinkles below his eyes, he would estimate Phoenix’s age to be around his late twenties or early thirties.

“… You are not Phoenix.” Miles states plainly. “You’ve changed. Who are you, exactly?”

Phoenix’s ignorant and dazed look morphs into something sharper. “I am Phoenix Wright.”

Miles snorts. “No, you’re not.”

Phoenix’s back straightens, drawing to his full height. He seems to have grown taller in the future. “I think I would know if I changed my name, Edgeworth.”

“We both know I am not simply asking for your name.” Miles gestures to Phoenix, as if to ask him to give him something. “Who are you?”

Something in Phoenix is gone, and Miles needs to pinpoint what exactly it is. He is a prosecutor who wants the truth, rather than a guilty verdict; now is no less different.

Phoenix has almost always bested him in the courtroom. He has always uncovered the web of lies the guilty spin to pin their crimes on someone else. 

And if Phoenix himself is trapped in this web of lies－

In an instant, chains of black reveal themselves and shoot in all different directions. Red locks appear in a flash of white, and in the center of it all, a black lock remains firmly locked in front of unknowing Phoenix.

－ Then it is Miles’ turn to unravel it.

Phoenix has lent him the magatama once in order to defend Iris Hawthorne, so he is aware of how this works. Break the locks with evidence, and pry into their secrets.

But the Phoenix that stands before him is one from the future. How could he possibly know what happened?

Think, Edgeworth, think!

Perhaps someone close to him died?

“How is Maya doing these days?” Miles asks, trying to sound casual.

Phoenix smiles, somewhat like a proud sibling. While his gaze seems to hold a sense of fragile nostalgia, it isn’t as dreading as mourning. “A few years away from becoming head of the Fey clan.”

Aside from Maya, Miles can’t tell who else is close with Phoenix. In fact, it seems that nobody but Maya is close with him. Everyone else he’s interacted with are either culprits or defendants.

So, he is not in mourning.

He lost something important to him, that’s for sure. Miles has never seen Phoenix so unkempt and composed.

Perhaps a traumatic event? No, Phoenix isn’t the type to quit because of a case. In fact, he never quits at all.

… Was he forced to quit law?

Miles is never one to be delicate (he’s trying, really). He extends a hand. “Show me your attorney’s badge.”

And then, he found it. A small, tiny flash of panic behind blank eyes, before it was wiped clean.

A small sense of dread pools into his gut. Phoenix would never quit becoming an attorney this early into the game. He had to be disbarred.

The black lock creaks on its own, and it shatters, rather than unlocking. 

“No…” Miles whispers, bewildered. Phoenix Wright, the Turnabout Legend, disbarred? What for?

Something in Phoenix seems to snap. “Enough, Edgeworth.” he demands, though his voice shakes for the first time.

The locks fade by itself, the red ones yet to be unlocked.

Miles takes a step forward. Phoenix doesn’t flinch like he usually does when Miles steps too close.

“You can tell me.” Miles says, though not exactly reassuring, it holds a sense of truth. “What’s the point of hiding it?”

“The timeline.” Phoenix replies, eyebrows furrowed and gaze disturbed. “I have a feeling this isn’t a dream at all.”

So this was a random time-travel shenanigan. Miles doesn’t really want to realize the implications this could mean for their development of science.

“You’re right.” (Phoenix says nothing; his Phoenix would have puffed up his chest and smirked, ‘I always am.’) “So, you really are Phoenix from the future?”

“Yes. And judging from the way you still refuse to check in with an ophthalmologist, you are Miles from ten years ago.”

Miles shakes off the sassy comment. Is that the tongue that Phoenix had been holding back in court for the sake of peace? “… Would it really be so bad if I helped you?”

Phoenix pauses, and seems to contemplate. He shakes his head. “Don’t tempt fate.”

Miles harrumphs. “Since when have you ever cared about fate? We are lawyers, Phoenix. We seek the truth.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “ You may seek truth, and the me in your time may have also done so. But I am not an attorney anymore. All I want is a peaceful life with my daughter.”

“ Daughter? ”

Had Phoenix gone and impregnated a woman during his disbarment? An unfamiliar feeling, dark and ugly, flares in his stomach.

Phoenix returns a stare, but relents after looking at whatever expression Miles was wearing. “Adopted.”

The dark feeling rests, and Miles internally screams to get a hold of himself. 

“But you don’t.” Miles persists, deciding that the daughter shouldn’t be involved in this. “You want to continue being an attorney. Why not retake the bar exam?”

“Retake th－” Phoenix lets out an incredulous wheeze, his hand flying to his beanie and pulling it so he is hiding his gaze. Miles feels his own heart shatter into a million pieces. 

Moments after, Phoenix chuckles, hollow and bare. “I don’t think I can anymore.”

Sure, Phoenix’s buffing can take a little too far, but it’s certainly nothing to fret over. It’s certainly nothing to get disbarred over. Though it’s not shown, the judge favors them.

“Tell me, Phoenix. Just- tell me who did this to you.” Miles nearly pleads. “I can warn you in time, I can get you an appeal, I can erase everything that’s ever happened to you.”

Miles had, selfishly, expected Phoenix’s eyes to shine with bright hope; the hope that little Phoenix gave when he gave him that keychain, the hope that came in forms of thousands of letters that were ripped and thrown into the fire, the hope that seeped into his caged self when Phoenix showed the first signs of a turnabout case when defending him .

But what greeted him was anger. Pure, raw anger stemming from protectiveness and impulsiveness. 

“ You don’t get to decide my future, Edgeworth.” Phoenix spits. “Not after you－”

Then, he trailed into shock, as if he couldn’t believe he had let whatever he was going to say slip. His jaw clicks shut.

If Miles’ heart had shattered, then the pieces are now being crumbled to near dust. Was- was he the reason why Phoenix was this way? 

“After I what , Phoenix?” Miles persists, “What did I do when you were in a time of need?”

“It wasn’t during the disbarment period, you d- you prick.” Phoenix replies. He takes a deep breath, and the anger seems to leave him with an exhale. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s fine, I- I shouldn’t have let it out on you.”

“I’m a pathetic man.” Phoenix says, staring at the hollow above. It was still pure black. “But he’s worse. If I just erased everything－ my misery, my pain, my memories－ I would forget my little Trucy.”

So her name is Trucy.

When Phoenix finally, finally looks at him, his eyes are brimming with conviction of steel. It’s haunting and mature, and it only now dawns on Miles that the man before him has lived more than he has. “Foster care is horrible. I- I can’t leave her there, Miles.”

Miles has never had any attachment to children, and he doubts Phoenix had either. But this man, who wears ragged clothes and seems ignorant to the world, also wears the beanie that Miles assumes was made by his daughter.

His chest sinks. He knew Phoenix would never abandon another, to save another, if he could help it.

“Okay.” Miles says, “I will make sure Trucy lives in a stable home.”

“With me. ” Phoenix says, desperation clawing at his throat.

“Yes, she’s going to be with you.” Miles nods, trying to state everything like it was a fact. “She’s not going to be with her biological parents, nor is she going to get thrown into foster care. All you have to do is tell me what happened. ”

Phoenix opens his mouth, but closes it again.

“Please.”

Phoenix’s lip quivers, and Miles steps forward. A hand gently pats on his shoulder, hopefully soft and tender, and－

“You’re going to be okay.”

－ Phoenix explodes. He explodes in tears and sobs, and he throws himself into Miles’ arms that welcome him to a brighter future.

-

When Phoenix wakes up, he finds himself in a dimly-lit room. The only light that seeps in are from the curtains that are heavily filtered in maroon.

His head feels quite groggy, and a small, lonely sigh escapes him－

－ Before a loud pop echoes through what seems to be the entire house, and Phoenix practically falls out of bed from the noise.

“Papa, look! I fucking did it!”

“Trucy! Where in the world did you learn that from?!”

“What? You guys say it all the time when you’re playing games!”

“I- oh… yes, sure. But it’s a disrespectful word, Trucy. Control yourself and use substitutes, okay?”

“… Fine.”

“Thank you, darling. Now, we don’t want to wake Daddy, do we? Let’s get this cleaned up and move on with the cake.”

A calloused hand finds its way to the hickeys and bite marks that littered all over his neck, and Phoenix turns bright red. They should probably install sound-proof walls.

He can’t believe that he, an attorney with (seven years of masking, pretending, knowing－) ten years of defense under his belt, didn’t think of it for so long.

He forces himself up (dirty, tired, miserable, but Trucy needs to go to school－) and looks at the light filtered from heavy blankets. Miles knew he was a heavy sleeper, and he always made sure to close them before heading off to bed.

A warm feeling stirs in his heart (sinking, clawing at the empty space on his suit, what was stolen from him－), and he stares at how the light shines onto his smiling (empty, hollow eyes and sunken cheeks－) face, with Trucy and Miles wrapped around him.

He feels the band on his finger dig deeper into his hand and heart. (pulled out, stomped on and abandoned－) 

He’s never felt more dead alive.

The thoughts－ they’re coming back again. They come in sharp, painful stabs, a reminder of what never happened. Phoenix is going delusional again.

Hm. He should ask Miles. He always knows what to do. Take the medication he laid off recently. Miles always foresees what’s going to happen.

Phoenix climbs out of bed and follows the sweet scent of a messy baking session at eight in the morning. Miles, unsurprisingly, is wearing the apron Trucy painstakingly sewed for him, stirring the pale batter with bits of flour powdered on his face. Trucy sings a tune unbeknownst to the both of them, but they’re slowly catching on the more she sings it.

He wraps his arms around an unsuspecting Trucy and lifts her up, feigning a monstrous roar. 

Trucy squeals in surprise which trails into a groan, (“Daddy, please get up. I even made you breakfast, see? Please.”) “Ew, Daddy, your morning breath stinks!” 

Miles, looking highly amused, aims the whisk at Phoenix’s face with batter splattering all over the kitchen. (“You didn’t do that, did you?” Desperation leaks into his accusation, a finger pointed at him. He feels rage curling up in his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t.”) “Let her go, you foul beast!”

Phoenix cackles, and carries the bundle of joy in his arms to scurry away from the Baking Prince of Honor. (“That’s all you do, isn’t it? Run away and come back to be the hero like everyone fucking needs. Get the hell out of my apartment.”) “Neverrrr!”

Another start to a beautiful morning, reality serving as an escapism of the nightmares that didn’t make sense. Nightmares of being disbarred, of threatening his friends, of poker and an attorney whose lies are as cool as the chilling breeze.

Such scenarios are trapped in the back of his mind. 

Such is the beauty of a picture-perfect reality, found nowhere else.

You made a mistake, Miles Edgeworth.

Years cannot be undone, and smiles that were never meant to be there are kept.

The price of your meddling will be paid in full.