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Phoenix Wright was dealing with many feelings that day. It had taken him seeing Maya after the trial for things to really sink in; the adrenaline that had carried him throughout those dreadful days up until now left his system in a rush. Relief, anger and exhaustedness washed over him in a swirling wave of emotions he had no intention, nor energy, to counter at that moment.
Dinner at the Gatewater Hotel was a loud affair, and Phoenix wouldn't have had it any other way; the anxious knot that had been ever-present inside him in the last few days finally untangled upon hearing Maya laugh and joke, here with them, safe. Phoenix couldn't stop looking at her, even as she ate a frankly staggering amount of food for her body size (and for once, he could not blame her). A part of him was still afraid that if he were to turn his gaze even for just a second, she would disappear. It seemed to him that Pearls felt much the same: she hadn't left the mystic's side the whole evening, her small hands clutching Maya's robes in tight fists. When the third (Maya's, at least) course was served, Pearl's grasp started to slacken, and by dessert her fingers were relaxed around the purple fabric, her small figure fast asleep against Maya's side.
After that, it was only a matter of scooping Pearls up in his arms and heading home, rest finally awaiting the three of them.
He hovered in the bedroom doorway for a moment, his gaze lingering over the two sleeping figures. Maya and Pearl were curled up on his bed, sleeping soundly. He had feared that he would never see them again like this, not so peaceful, not—
He took a breath and closed the door. No need to think like that anymore, it was over. They could rest.
His couch had never seemed more alluring to him.
Phoenix kicked off his shoes, tie and suit jacket, not caring where they landed, and lay down with a sigh, finally ready to welcome sleep after nights of troubled dreams.
Sleep didn't come.
In fact, sleep didn't even send word that it was terribly sorry, but it couldn't visit that night, and maybe they could catch up next time?
Phoenix watched the sudden change in the pattern of shadows on his ceiling, a car passing on the street below.
From the kitchen sink he could hear the 'plink, plink' of the leaking faucet, in a mockery of passing time.
The adrenaline and the cocktail of anxiety-relief-exhaustion inside of him were finally starting to dwindle, and with that the only barrier his mind had fathomed against the other looming presence in his thoughts.
Edgeworth is back. One simple, terrible thought now demanded to be known, not content to be sitting at the back of his mind.
Edgeworth had been there at the police precinct, and Phoenix had been shocked; Edgeworth had been on the other side of the courtroom, and Phoenix had been tentatively hopeful, and under the worry permeating him a sense of rightness had started to bloom; Edgeworth had been there after the trial, and Phoenix, within him, wanted to forgive him for everything, and wanted to never see him again, but said none of those things, and instead watched him go away once again.
Now, Edgeworth was in his every thought.
He had cautiously suppressed every Edgeworth-related thought—he didn't have the time to have a crisis about his rival-maybe-ally with Maya missing, after all—until now that his mind could finally wander and make sense of all that had been obsessing him.
He had been angry when he had first seen him, he had been furious. How dare he come back like nothing had happened? (How dare he leave?) Did he think he could just waltz back in his life and save the day? (He saved Maya). Did he really believe that saying Phoenix had "saved him" would make up for it? (He had saved Phoenix, too. He had once again shown him the truth).
A year ago, after DL-6 and the Gant trial, Phoenix had thought he had finally got his friend back, that after fifteen years they could be in each others' lives again. But 'prosecutor Miles Edgeworth had chosen death', and now Phoenix didn't know what to expect anymore.
Will he stay?
Phoenix turned on his side, facing the back of the couch, and closed his eyes. Nothing good would come from this. Better try to get some rest.
"Geez, Nick, you look horrible!"
"Good morning to you too, Maya. A guy goes all that trouble to save his friend from a world-famous assassin and this is what he gets in return? Tell me, how was my bed?" grumbled Phoenix, blindly reaching for the pot of coffee with one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other. At least the girls had slept well.
"It was very comfortable, thank you Mr. Nick!" said Pearls, dangling her feet back and forth.
They ate breakfast in comfortable silence, their knees knocking together under the small kitchen table. For once even Maya was quiet, having lost the boisterous energy of the previous night now that it was only the three of them. It would take them all more than a good night's sleep to completely shake off the recent events.
After they finished eating Pearls excused herself to go get dressed, and Phoenix started washing the dishes. Maya lingered in the kitchen for a moment. At some point last night she had changed into an oversized Steel Samurai shirt she had "gifted" him, even though it had been clear that it was intended as a spare pajama for her from the start.
"I was really scared, y'know," she said quietly, after a while, "but I knew you wouldn't give up, Nick."
"I was scared, too." He turned towards her and saw that her eyes were misty. He opened his arms, plates forgotten, and Maya hugged him tightly, tucking her head under his chin.
"You're ruining my shirt," he complained. He hadn't changed out of yesterday's clothes.
"Shut up," she sniffled, still against his shirt, "you're ruining the moment!"
Maya took a step back. "It wasn't pretty, but I'm fine now!" Phoenix didn't have his magatama on him at the moment, but he could tell she was being sincere. "But are you okay, Nick? You still look… tense."
He flashed her a grin. "Yup, never been peachier! I'm just sad my times of peace and quiet are over, now that you're back. What makes you think I'm not?"
Maya leveled him with a look. Ouch. Was he really that bad at hiding it?
"It's just, I thought Edgeworth was gone, Nick. But now he's back, and I don't know how it happened, but I can't help but wonder how you're dealing with all of this, and—" Maya got a good look at his face, the rumpled clothes and the bags under his eyes "—you're not dealing with this, are you?" She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.
"Nngh—!"
"Don't worry, Nick, take your time!"
"It's just— he— he can't! And then—"
"In your own words!"
"…I suppose I'm not," he concluded, somewhat lamely.
"You should talk to him. In fact, he said he wants to talk to you as well!" She exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
"What? When?"
"He texted me yesterday after dinner. He wanted to know how I was feeling, and you and Pearls too, and now you're having tea together later today!"
"What?!?"
"In his office!"
"WHAT?!?"
This is how, a few hours later, Phoenix found himself knocking on the door to Edgeworth's old office, a weird uneasiness settling somewhere behind his ribs. He waited for a moment, willing the door to answer. In the past year, it had never happened, no matter how many times Phoenix had imagined himself in that very spot.
Then, unlike the recent past, a deep voice answered from the other side of the wood.
"Come in," said Edgeworth, and Phoenix did.
The prosecutor's office was almost identical to the last time Phoenix had been here, lavish and magenta in all its glory, the only difference being the many case files and papers strewn around in an ordered sort of clutter, like someone's meticulous version of a messy desk.
The "someone" in question was standing in front of the large window and looking out, his back turned to Phoenix. The light from outside cast his figure in shadow.
He really can't help but be dramatic, huh. (The Steel Samurai figurine kind of ruins the picture, though…)
Edgeworth turned and motioned towards the couch. "Wright, please have a seat."
He, unlike his office, looked different from how Phoenix remembered him. The Demon Prosecutor wore a mask and a mirror at the same time, his internal conflict buried deep, but all the same seeping through the edges of his facade for those who knew where to look. The man in front of him now carried almost none of that heaviness. He seemed lighter, more at peace with himself that he had ever been before, although the shadows of unease and uncertainty hadn't fully left his gaze.
"Tea?" offered Edgeworth.
"Uh, yeah, thanks," answered Phoenix. Edgeworth got up and approached the tea tray on his windowsill. He brought a cup to Phoenix, a delicate china piece with blue motifs of flowers and birds, and then took one for himself before sitting down on the other end of the sofa.
Phoenix took a couple of sips from his cup, stalling for time. He had never felt so at loss for words while facing Edgeworth in court, but now he had no witty remark or sudden burst of inspiration. He was just about to open his mouth, not knowing what would be coming out of it, when thankfully the prosecutor spoke first.
"How are the Miss Feys?" he asked.
"Maya's good, although I'm sure she's going to use this as leverage to get free food for months to come." Phoenix would have sworn he saw a corner of Edgeworth's mouth lift in that moment. Was he smiling? Nah, impossible. "And Pearls won't leave her side, but Maya assured me she just needs some time, too."
"I'm glad to hear that they are both doing better now." Edgeworth seemed to hesitate, before speaking again. "I also wanted to inquire about your own, ah, well-being as well."
Why do people keep asking me that? Why is he asking me that?
"Why did you come back?" Phoenix blurted, instead of answering. He had hopes the two of them could have a nice chat without dredging up sentiment he himself had not fully processed, but apparently that was not an option for him; not that day, not ever.
The prosecutor didn't falter at Phoenix's sudden question. This was what they really came to discuss, after all.
"I was told you could use some help." As bad as Gumshoe was at keeping his mouth shut in most circumstances, this time the detective had kept his word and hadn't told anyone that Edgeworth had gotten in touch with him.
"Are you going to leave again?"
"Not immediately, but yes. I still have matters to attend to in Europe." Edgeworth's tone was perfectly clear of any particular inflection.
Phoenix decided at that moment that he was having none of it; all the hurt of that past year came back to him at once. "I thought—we all did—that you had killed yourself. I decided that the Miles Edgeworth I knew was dead, even though I couldn't believe you were really gone for good." You're too much of a coward for that, he thought. "Do you know how messed up it was, what you did?"
How devastated it left me?
Edgeworth put down his cup of tea and averted his gaze.
"I… had not considered how my absence would affect others, not to this extent. However, I couldn't stay anymore. There was no more hope for me here. I needed to leave," Edgeworth continued, carried by the words he was saying, "and you're not entirely wrong in saying that the friend you knew from so long ago is gone. I haven't been that boy in a long time."
"I thought you'd left because of what I did. I thought I had— that I had killed you." Phoenix's breath was ragged now. His hands were holding the cup harder than necessary, but he couldn't care less now.
Edgeworth had the decency to look shocked at that. His eyes widened, and he grabbed his arm in a familiar gesture.
"You did. The me I was, the Demon Prosecutor, is dead because of you. By killing me—killing him—you showed me what the true purpose of justice is, the pursuit of truth. You saved me."
"Miles, that's fucked up." Phoenix couldn't help but say. It came out with more venom that he had intended. They stared at each other for a moment.
"That's one way to put it, I suppose," he said, a smirk now really playing on his lips. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "A succinct, but effective way to describe me."
Edgeworth took a sip of his tea, punctuating the silence between them.
"Do you trust me, Wright?" he asked, and wasn't that a loaded question.
Of course, a part of Phoenix immediately answered, but that wouldn't have been the full truth. Another part of him whispered I don't know, anymore.
Phoenix had trusted Edgeworth, he had believed in him when no one else did; they had proven to each other time and time again that the trust between the defense and the prosecution could bring the real criminals to justice and make things right.
Then Edgeworth had disappeared, and Phoenix had lost the reason he became a lawyer in the first place, the reason he believed in what he did. How could he trust him again after that? He believed it couldn't have been possible, but when he had found himself across from Edgeworth once again, in that same courtroom, it had suddenly appeared obvious, how easily he still put faith in him, working together to expose Engarde.
He knew their song and dance, and he knew that as long as he would keep fighting to uncover the truth, Edgeworth would respond in tandem, and that if he were to fall, Edgeworth would catch him.
Outside of the courtroom, however, was a whole other story. His last frame of reference for what a friendship between him and Edgeworth might look like was fifteen years out of date. Not to mention the fact that he still hadn't fully processed the equal amounts of relief and terror that having the man here in the flesh and bone caused in him.
He was grateful, and angry, and still exhausted. However, this was the moment to make a choice, and Phoenix had never been one to ponder for too long.
"I want to," he finally answered, and that was all that mattered. The porcelain between his hands had now turned warm from how tightly he was holding the cup.
"Me too." said Edgeworth, quietly. "That is, I want to trust myself. And I always trust you, of course." Of course, like it was that easy for him, and for once it probably was.
"Did you really mean it? What you said to us after the trial, about, uh… me?" Edgeworth had all but confirmed it with what he had just said, but Phoenix needed to make sure.
"Of course." Still easy.
"I feel like I'm fucked up, too, lately," he murmured, a confession he could finally allow himself to make. The weight of it all felt lessened, somehow, with that simple admission.
"It seems I'm in good company then." Edgeworth raised his cup, "May I propose a toast, before you break that excellent cup of Meissen porcelain you're currently trying to strangle?"
The tension from before had now eased into a more familiar banter. Sheepishly, Phoenix copied his gesture, grateful that Edgeworth hadn't needed him to elaborate; he simply understood. "Sure. To what?" he asked.
"To… us, unless you have anything better in mind."
"To us." The two cups clinked together. The tea was now lukewarm; Phoenix didn't care, but Edgeworth made a face like the drink had personally offended him. Phoenix laughed, heartily.
Still easy.
