Work Text:
Objectively speaking, there was no logical reason Edgeworth should see Wright everywhere he went.
Phoenix Wright was dead. Phoenix Wright had died months ago, or at least that was what the papers had said; he might not even have noticed the article, except that it had happened in the courthouse. (Not so different from the Fawles case — but then, he didn't like to think about the Fawles case.)
Ghosts weren't real. Ghosts weren't real, and any so-called spirit medium who claimed to be able to talk to them was a liar. Ghosts weren't real, and the fact that he could see Wright peering over his shoulder at the prosecutor's bench or sitting in the passenger seat in his car or offering his hand as he walked down the street or, now, perching at the edge of his bed was stress, or nerves, or something, and nothing more.
"Edgeworth," said Wright — or rather, the figment of his imagination that looked like him.
Edgeworth looked up from his desk. "I don't suppose the fact that you don't exist will be sufficient to persuade you to leave me alone," he said dryly.
"Edgeworth, your defendant is innocent," said Wright.
Edgeworth supposed it wasn't entirely surprising that a figment of his imagination would say something like that. If this was some sort of subconscious manifestation of his stresses and doubts, there was an obvious reason that manifestation would take the form of Phoenix Wright. But there was nothing to it, really; no reason to think any of the men he'd put behind bars were anything but completely guilty.
He raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, for a figment of my imagination, your argumentative skills are disturbingly lackluster," he said. "I don't suppose you have evidence to present?"
Wright scratched the back of his head. "It's kind of difficult to carry evidence as a ghost," he said.
It wouldn't be an entirely unreasonable thing to say if ghosts were real, which of course they weren't. The problem was that it was completely useless. A figment of Edgeworth's imagination could claim whatever it wanted, if it didn't have to provide proof. It was just like how mediums on TV only ever told people things they already knew — none of them ever said "incidentally, your mom has the password to her old computer, you'll finally be able to access that old photo album," or even "your sister says she lost her favorite necklace behind the dresser in the attic, you can check for yourself." And the "spirit medium" who'd pointed to Yanni Yogi had just accused the one person everyone had thought was guilty — but he wasn't going to think about that right now.
"Wright, evidence is everything in court," he said. "Even if you were real, I couldn't very well just turn up and say that a ghost told me the defendant was innocent."
Wright gave him a puppy-dog-eyed sort of look. His innocence would have been almost endearing, if ghosts were real, and against all reason Edgeworth felt a nervous sort of feeling in his stomach. Having romantic feelings for a dead man was even more ridiculous than imagining him talking to him, but apparently that wasn't enough to stop him.
"If 'evidence is everything,'" Wright said, "then the man you're prosecuting is innocent."
Edgeworth rubbed his forehead, shoving his feelings firmly down inside of him. "Don't be ridiculous. We have fingerprints, we have a paper trail establishing location, we have a motive—"
"I can't argue with the motive," said Wright. "But if you're resorting to forged evidence, that rather proves my point."
As ideas to be generated by his subconscious mind went, this wasn't exactly a surprising one. Edgeworth hadn't forged evidence, wouldn't forge evidence, but that didn't stop the rumors. It certainly didn't mean he didn't sometimes spend sleepless nights poring over completed case files, reassuring himself that his case really had been as solid as it seemed.
"Just how are you claiming you knew that?" said Edgeworth, not quite managing to keep the bite out of his voice. It was absurd, really, to be angry with a figment of his imagination. More absurd, to be angry with an imagined version of one of the two people he desperately wanted to see alive again. If his first trial had just — but it was no use thinking about that now.
"I'm a ghost," said Wright. "Do you think the police station can keep me out, any more than you can?" He hesitated for a moment, and when he next spoke up his voice was softer. "...I assumed you knew."
"Can you, in fact, prove what you're saying?" asked Edgeworth. It felt absurd to even entertain the premise, but he supposed there was no harm in it. "Surely it ought to be easy for you."
"The receipt they're using to establish his location is going to contradict the store's own records," said Wright immediately. "The store is only a few minutes out of your way. You can check yourself."
"And if I look into this and it turns out to be consistent with the police's explanation, you'll leave me alone?" said Edgeworth.
Wright hesitated, just for an instant, and frowned. "Yes," he said.
There was something bizarrely upsetting about that, as though Edgeworth wanted to be haunted by a figment of his imagination trying to call into question every decision he'd ever made. Wright was dead; there was no point in denying it. Even if this were real — even if this were real, he'd still be just as dead.
"Well?" asked Wright.
It would have been beneath Edgeworth's dignity to show even half the emotions he was feeling, even alone. "You were right. The Chief Prosecutor has decided to drop all charges."
And they'd never brought it to trial, so his perfect record was still intact. There was something that felt a little perverse about caring. It would've been just as intact if he'd never gotten the visit from Wright, too, but that suddenly felt much less important than the fact he'd have been consigning an unambiguously innocent man to death.
"Do you still think I'm a figment of your imagination?" asked Wright.
"I don't know," said Edgeworth.
The truth was that he didn't. On one hand, it was absurd to think he could be anything but. Wright hadn't, actually, given Edgeworth any verifiable details of the case; the issue with the receipts could easily have come from his own mind, the natural result of his own doubts seizing onto a minor inconsistency.
On the other hand—
On the other hand, he missed Wright.
That really wasn't an argument at all.
"If there's anything that would help convince you, I'm happy to go along with it," said Wright.
The problem was that most of the obvious tests required a second person — a second living person — and anyone Edgeworth tried to explain this to would think he'd gone mad.
"Roll a die, and don't look at it," says Wright. "I'll tell you the result, and then you can check against the die. If you repeat it enough times, you should be able to confirm it for yourself."
That was suspicious. It was the sort of idea Edgeworth would come up with, not the sort of idea Wright would. Not that he was giving the idea that this could be real serious consideration, of course, but even so, it seemed improbable for Wright to think of it. But Edgeworth didn't, actually, have an argument against the plan, not if he was relying on his observations of the world for anything at all.
"Very well," he said.
He retrieved a die and rolled it atop his desk, keeping his eyes tightly closed.
"Six," said Wright.
Edgeworth opened his eyes. Staring up at him were six black dots.
He closed his eyes and rolled it once again.
"Two," said Wright.
When he opened his eyes, the die showed a two.
Once again, he closed his eyes and rolled the die.
"Five, but it's slightly cocked on your notes from last week's trial."
Edgeworth opened his eyes. Sure enough, it was.
Wright was looking at him expectantly. Edgeworth looked away, gripping his arm.
"Even if I did accept this was real, no one would believe me," he said.
"So what?" said Wright. "You don't have to tell them."
Edgeworth's stomach twisted. He hated the idea of lying to ... everyone he knew, it would have to be, his colleagues and his sister and Mr. von Karma. But at the same time, it wasn't as if he could just tell them the truth. He scarcely even believed the truth.
"I don't know what you want," he settled on.
Wright looked away. "I was going to become a lawyer," he said. "I saw the articles talking about you — calling you the Demon Prosecutor — and I wanted to help you. But... well, you can see how well that turned out."
He gestured at his ghostly, translucent form. He was wearing an oversized sweater with a garish P in the middle of a large heart, Edgeworth noticed absently. Had he been wearing that the day he died?
"I don't need your help," Edgeworth protested.
Wright gave him a look. He wasn't even saying anything. It was unfair that it was working.
"Prosecutors serve an important role in our legal system, Wright," he said instead. "Would you want murderers to walk free on the streets?"
"No," said Wright, "but I'd rather innocent people could. Do you think this case was the only—"
"Of course not!" snapped Edgeworth. He put a hand to his forehead as his words caught up to him. "I mean — I don't know. I can't prove there were any irregularities in any of the others. Do you really think I would knowingly put an innocent person behind bars?"
"I don't," said Wright. "That's not what the boy I know would have done, and it's not what you would have done either. But you've done it by accident a dozen times, probably, and if you keep pretending it was just this once you won't be able to stop."
Edgeworth turned away. On his shoulder, he felt a cool sensation, rather as if someone were placing a wet hand atop his suit.
"Edgeworth, I want to help you," said Wright. "Will you let me?"
"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do," said Edgeworth. He'd sat down on his bed across from Wright, and was half-staring at the ceiling. At least the ceiling couldn't look disappointed in him. "Even if I could somehow figure out which convictions were in error..."
"None of them are dead yet," said Wright. "It's not too late. But it will be, if you don't hurry."
Wright slid over next to Edgeworth and squeezed his hand. It felt rather like dipping his hand into a bowl of cold water, but there was something comforting about it regardless.
"You don't have to do it alone," said Wright. "I'll be with you."
Edgeworth looked down. "I keep thinking — in my very first trial, if I'd just been more willing to see the truth — the woman who killed you was one of the witnesses, and the attorney for the defense kept trying to accuse her, but I didn't want to lose."
"Edgeworth, I ate a bottle of poison because I didn't want to believe she was guilty," said Wright. "Maybe you could have prevented it from happening, or maybe you couldn't have, but don't blame yourself."
That was confusing. Eating a bottle of poison was — Edgeworth had seen the coverage, of course, but he'd assumed the journalists were exaggerating, or distorting the truth, or something. That Wright hadn't really had a choice about it, or that the bottle — some of the articles called it a necklace — had been disguised as something edible.
"I don't want to blame you for it," said Edgeworth.
"I'm not going to try to make you blame me," said Wright with a smile. "But if you're not willing to blame me, you certainly shouldn't be willing to blame yourself."
Wright leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Edgeworth's forehead. It was cool, and it sort of tickled, but it sent a burst of electric sparks through the top of his head.
"Besides, it's not like I didn't stick around," said Wright. "As ways to become a ghost go, it really could have been worse."
Edgeworth frowned. It still felt unfair that a single mistake — even as confusing as eating a bottle of poison, Edgeworth was sure he had misunderstood something, even Wright wouldn't do something that reckless — should mean that Wright didn't get to have a future at all.
"There's no use thinking about that now," said Wright. He let his hand fall back on top of Edgeworth's. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "We have all the time in the world."
Edgeworth leaned sideways a bit, placing his shoulder next to the image of Wright's. It wasn't the same as Wright being alive. It wasn't enough to bring Wright back. It wasn't enough to erase every mistake he'd made since he became a prosecutor, and it wouldn't be even if he got every false conviction overturned and the true killer convicted in their place.
But maybe it could be close enough.