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Chapter Text

I. Manfred & Iovis von Karma
February 8 2006, Von Karma Manor (Sitting Room), Stuttgart

Despite the unseasonably cold and slushy weather for this time of year, by a rare fit of chance Manfred von Karma is in good spirits: he had finished his trial earlier that day in record time, winning his ‘guilty’ verdict with a flourish and his daemon’s satisfied rumble. He even sends the nanny home early and offers the children the prize of his presence. 

So, von Karma sits next to the fireplace (looking all the part as if it had jumped out of a renaissance painting untouched, but Franziska-Epona had been delighted to show Miles-Mercy how their anbaric fireplaces turn on with the simple flip of a switch), feet on the ground and back straight in his high-backed ornate armchair, as he reads a book on criminal law. His lioness daemon rests at his feet, head on her paws, one silvery eye cracked open as she tracks the movements of Miles-Mercy. 

(Iovis is larger than almost any daemon Miles-Mercy has ever seen. Only one exception comes to mind, when his father had brought him to a parade and he had seen a circus performer doing tricks with her cow daemon. It was one of Miles' better days, and the sights and sounds had dazzled instead of bothered him until until the cow daemon had swerved entirely too close. She would have run over the thorny devil-shaped Mercy if his father’s badger daemon hadn’t shoved her out of the way. After that his father had to take him home early, using his body as a shield from the worst of the spectacle while his badger daemon Grace scooped up Mercy in her jaws, mindful of her spikes, and lumbered along at Gregory’s heels. 

Strong and powerful daemons belong to strong and powerful people, so Miles is grateful to have von Karma as a mentor.)

Occasionally von Karma murmurs something, too quiet to hear and unnoticeable except for the twitch of his lips. Iovis responds with a growl deep in her throat, an exhale of breath that makes the silver fur on her muzzle shudder. 

Opposite the fireside rug, Miles and Franziska sit side-by-side on a couch so ornate and expensive Miles had at first been hesitant to sit down. Their daemons chase each other around the couch and into the corners of the room. Franziska and Miles haven’t yet Settled into themselves, and neither have their daemons, who tumble around in all manner of shapes. One day they, too, would stop changing, and their forms would say something grand and declarative about the adults they had become. But for now, they shift dog-rabbit-beetle-robin-snake as easily as they breathe. 

By this point Miles has mostly gotten over his fear of being shipped off again, but he still isn’t quite certain of his place in this strange house in this strange country. So when Franziska plops a scrabble board down in front of them and demands he play with her, he doesn’t feel he has the option to refuse. At first he had intended to go easy on Franziska, but it quickly becomes clear that she is both very good and highly competitive, and she scolds Miles that he mustn’t soften his blows, so that she can earn her wins fair and square. 

They play without speaking, except sometimes to argue over spelling or point totals. Occasionally Franziska will beckon over her daemon, and Epona will wrap himself around her shoulders like a sapphire scarf, tickling her ear with his snake tongue as the two quietly confer over the best word to play. 

(She once asked why Miles-Mercy never teamed up to play together. Miles had told her that this was a crutch he was willing to lend her, as the younger of the two, because he knew it would make Franziska angry and because it was easier to say than the truth. 

“Talking with your daemon is never cheating, Miles Edgeworth,” she had tutted, finger wagging. “If you want to handicap yourself in such a ridiculous manner, then be my guest.”

Miles had won that round, and Franziska-Epona had thrown a tantrum so fierce the nanny had to take her away. Miles had been worried about what Manfred-Iovis would say, but his lioness had only swiped her tongue across the side of Mercy's head, and von Karma had said, “Good boy.”

For weeks after, thinking about it had made Miles-Mercy's heart flutter.)

Miles may be older but Franziska has better mastery over the German language, so he has to concentrate, brow knitting together as he pores over the board and his letters. In the background, he is hyper-aware of dog-shaped Mercy chasing a tamarin-shaped Epona in circles around the couch, their claws scrabbling against the rug for purchase. Von Karma's lioness presides like a specter, her keen eyes missing nothing. She flexes her claws against the floor; a motion practiced with such predictability over many years as to have worn the thread bare in the plush carpet. 

Iovis is watching Mercy and Mercy is watching Epona and Franziska is watching Miles, her mouth curled into that smirk she makes when she thinks she has him beat. Miles is watching the scrabble board, and yet can’t help but feel all of his awareness in the room, all at once. 

Iovis flicks out her claws.

It’s a casual, practiced movement. Miles wouldn’t have thought anything of it, if it hadn’t knocked the breath out of him. Von Karma’s lioness growls deep in her throat. Her claw, hooked around Mercy’s leg, drags her close, even as she struggles and turns dog-weasel-hawk-badger-salamander. The lioness slams her other paw over the last, holding her in place until even Miles has to gasp for breath.

“Stop fidgeting and be still,” she growls. She speaks to Mercy but her words are directed at Miles. He freezes, unaware that he had been rocking back-and-forth in his seat until the behavior has been called out. 

With another casual flick of her paw, Iovis sends Mercy tumbling; the movement makes Miles’ head swim. Mercy scrambles to her feet and scurries under the couch, shivering behind Miles’ ankle as a rat snake. Epona, bluebird-formed, alights on Franziska’s shoulder to murmur a quiet question; she brushes him off and he retires to the daemon bed at the foot of the couch, settling in as a fluffy fox with delicate, questioning eyes. 

“Miles Edgeworth.” Franziska taps her fingers against the board in a bid for his attention. “It’s your turn.” 

All of Miles-Mercy’s nerves are focused on Iovis, who once again rests with her head on her paws, eyes closed. Her chest thrums with a sound that can’t possibly be a purr. In his ornate, high-backed chair, Von Karma turns to the next page in his book. 

Willing his fingers not to tremble or twitch, Miles puts ‘stille’ on the board. Franziska scoffs because none of his letters give him any bonuses, but his heart is thudding in his ears too much for him to care. 

That night, Franziska-Epona appears like a gray ghost, looming at the entrance to Miles-Mercy’s bedroom. She wears a frilly nightgown and holds her stuffed bear in one hand, the other caressing the doorframe gently for support. Her hair sweeps around her shoulders in a manner not dissimilar to her father’s, but as much as her daemon curls around her feet, cat-formed and cat-proud, he never maintains the same grace in his step. At the end of the day he is still a kitten compared to Iovis’s fluid power. 

Miles, bundled up in his blankets in bed, stares back at Franziska. He cannot see his daemon from this position and wonders if she is doing the same. 

He wishes his affections towards Franziska could be fierce and uncomplicated, the way he thinks siblings should be, but he is constantly reminded that the circumstances that bring them together are anything but. 

He does not think love is fierce and uncomplicated. Maybe nothing is.

Miles extends a mental hand out to his daemon, both pleading for and dreading the sensation of her presence pressed up against his. His nerves feel raw and blurry, and his shoulders still sting with the remembered sensation of Iovis digging her claws against his daemon’s spine. 

In the end, his daemon doesn’t respond to his silent plea for help. She isn’t angry, or sad, or longing. She is— nothing. She is stone. 

Franziska-Epona haunts their bedroom doorway for several minutes. Neither speaks. Eventually they, too, drift away, leaving Miles alone with his thoughts. 

He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

This is the first — but not the last — night that Miles’ daemon sleeps on the floor. 

Chapter Text

II. Dick & Cooper Gumshoe
November 10 2016, Prosecutor’s Office (Office 1202), Los Angeles

Edgeworth is working late, but this is not, in itself, unusual. He normally stays far past the times the others leave. This is a fact that he acknowledges without resentment; they don’t have the von Karma name to uphold.

Dressed down to his waistcoat, he sits at his desk with his legs crossed at the ankle, rehearsing his argument for tomorrow’s trial. His paperwork spills over onto the auxiliary desk next to his own, ostensibly for his daemon but which she has never once touched. She remains on her usual bird perch next to the coffee table, statue still. 

A decade ago, Edgeworth’s daemon had Settled as a black kite, with a beak sharp enough to tear flesh and ashen feathers the same color as his hair. No more would she change shape, turning into a fluffy Pomeranian to chase Epona-Franziska around the study or cuddling into his neck as a salamander when he needed support. Not that she had done much of either in the months leading up to her settling. 

Her stillness had been little matter of concern until his unfortunate reunion with Phoenix-Felicity Wright. Phoenix chases after the truth the same way his kingfisher chases after her prey, plucking it out of the rushing water like pearls. She is a perfect mirror of him, dressed in matching blue feathers and red belt and a spiky crest of feathers. While Phoenix slams desks, points, and smugly grins his way to victory — again — his daemon flits about, and somersaults, and crows in delight. 

He has never seen a daemon as fidgety as Felicity, in or out of court. It is ridiculous, and inefficient, and— 

Edgeworth shouldn’t be thinking about this right now (or ever, for that matter). He has work to do.

He jumps at the sound of knocking on his office door. Edgeworth glances at his daemon, who is already facing the door. For a single tantalizing moment, he imagines asking who it is — she must have an idea, with her keen raptor ears — but squashes the urge just as quickly. He slides his gaze away. 

Besides, it could really only be to one person, and it’s not someone he particularly wants to speak to. Not that he particularly wants to speak to anyone right now. 

He ignores the knocking and goes back to his case review. 

The door knocks again. He winces and forces himself to keep reading, tapping with his fingers against the wood of his desk, beating out a pattern. 

Knock-knock-knock. “Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon, sir! I know you’re in there — I can see the light through the bottom of the door.”

Ceding victory to one of the only people he knows whose stubbornness could match his own, Edgeworth puts down his quill and crosses his arms. “What is it, Detective.”

The door opens, just a crack, and the scruffy face of Detective Dick Gumshoe pokes through. Underneath him, his furry bloodhound daemon mirrors his pose, and her tongue lolls out of her mouth in a friendly greeting. Before Edgeworth can protest, she lumbers towards his daemon; her drooping jowls and burnished brown fur clash horribly with the soft reds and tans of the office, and Edgeworth is suddenly glad, not for the first time, that daemons cannot shed. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the mud she tracks in with her.

They say that daemons are not supposed to look like their human counterparts, but anyone who says so has clearly not met Dick-Cooper Gumshoe. Cooper carries the same broad shoulders, the same scruffy muzzle, the same annoyingly pleading eyes. She also has the distinct misfortune to have the same lack of critical thinking, and a nose better trained for sniffing out weenies than a single clue despite her years on the force. Edgeworth sniffs disapprovingly at her shouldering her way into his office, but doesn’t scold her — yet. 

“Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon,” Gumshoe says again. “I just wanted to check in, sir. Everyone else has already left.”

“And you’re telling me this, why?”

By this point Gumworth's bloodhound daemon had pranced up to Edgeworth's, making a knocking sound echo throughout the room, no doubt as she wags her tail against one of the legs of the coffee table. “Good evening, sir,” she woofs.

If Edgeworth's daemon had so much as twitched her head — a claw — a single feather — in response to that, he couldn’t tell. Her perch is about even with the coffee table, putting the two daemons at eye level, though you’d never be able to tell from his daemon’s thousand-yard-stare. Unfortunately, Gumshoe’s bloodhound seems undeterred, her tail steadily drumming out a beat against the coffee table and her tongue leaving a trail so thick even a layperson would be able to track her movements. He prays Gumshoe never gets it in his head to murder anyone; his daemon’s trail would be damning. 

Gumshoe scratches his head and makes an expression that indicates he is either concerned or constipated. “I thought it might be time for you to head home, too!”

Edgeworth tilts his head in Gumshoe’s direction, arms still stiffly crossed. “I will head home soon. I don’t need to be coddled.”

“If you say so, sir…” Gumshoe rakes his gaze over them, no doubt noticing the baggy circles under Edgeworth’s gaze, his sleep-rumbled waistcoat, or the way his daemon’s feathers were starting to fray. It is not a particularly new image, especially for so late at night, so Edgeworth doesn’t understand what makes him stiffen in surprise. “Sir...?”

“What is it now, Detective?”

“Your daemon, she—!”

His daemon clings to her perch, same as usual. Gumshoe’s daemon presses her nose forward in a clumsy attempt at a friendly greeting-slash-farewell. The bloodhound’s square jaw and rich brown furs makes an almost aesthetic contrast to the sleek lines and ashy grays of Edgeworth’s daemon. Cooper is at just the right height to press into the bird’s fluffy down feathers-

The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her tail dies off as the bloodhound’s muzzle clips right into the black kite’s midsection. For one terrifying moment, Edgeworth can even see through her, the plush red of the couch leaching through like blood. And then he blinks and his vision rearranges itself: his daemon, solid, and Gumshoe’s, snuffling before succumbing to the urge to sneeze after breathing in a mouthful of feathers. 

(Under any other circumstance, Edgeworth would be glad for once that she chose to mark up the floor, rather than the alternative.)

Edgeworth’s brain kicks into overdrive, rifling through memories of textbooks and lectures about daemonology, but none of them had ever mentioned anything about daemons fading. Not unless he is dying — and if the blood rushing in his ears is any indication, he certainly isn’t.

So in steps the other part of his brain, the one that helps when he struggles to follow a conversation or understand the implications of what someone is saying (which is more often than he’d like to admit): the one that acts as if nothing is happening at all. 

He curls his lip as he looks pointedly at the snot and mud that the bloodhound is nervously kneading into the carpet. “What about her, Detective?”

This seems to wake up Dick-Cooper Gumshoe, and the bloodhound daemon backs up, shaking her head (and sending spittle flying) as she retreats. She casts a reproachful look over her shoulder at Edgeworth’s daemon, who is standing much the same as ever. “Could’ve sworn for a moment she was just— gone.”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should take your own advice and head home, Detective. You must be tired if you’re seeing things.”

If Gumshoe is taken aback by Edgeworth’s nonchalance, he doesn’t show it.“Yes, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon, sir!”

Both man and daemon disappear with a farewell salute. Edgeworth watches the door swing shut behind them, impassive. He gets the feeling that Gumshoe cares about him — about them, Edgeworth-and-his-daemon both. He certainly doesn’t check in on any of the other prosecutors, though perhaps that’s because they all go home at the end of the business day. 

(It doesn’t occur to him until much, much later, to wonder what the detective was doing at the precinct at this hour, let alone prowling along the prosecutor’s floor.)

After what could have been hours or minutes later, Edgeworth finally stands up. His back aches from sitting in his chair without reprieve. He gathers his files, stacks them neatly, and puts them away. He puts on his jacket and picks up his briefcase. 

His daemon watches this all without comment. She rarely has anything to say, these days.

Edgeworth reaches out his elbow for her to hop on. 

She reaches out with a hooked talon.

Her claw grasps, snags—

Fades through. 

They both stare at Edgeworth’s elbow where it stretches out towards his daemon and his daemon’s claws where they stretch out towards him. At her talons which had faded and flickered right through his arm as if she wasn't here at all. 

They stare at each other for what could have been hours or minutes. His daemon eventually shuffles her wings, jumps from her perch, and soars forward towards the door, flight path wobbling. 

He follows. 

He doesn’t often know what his daemon is thinking — if she is thinking at all. The space where their thoughts used to tumble about and bleed together have been blocked off by a wall of their own making. But he feels her emotions and thoughts tonight. They are so strong that they press over the wall and come flooding down the other side, knocking Edgeworth back with their force and bone-chilling realization: 

It’s terror, pure and simple. 

They don’t talk about what happened. Not while taking twelve flights of stairs to the parking lot, or during the drive back to their apartment, or while they shower and get ready for bed. 

They do not touch, skin against feathers.

The emotions may be new, but the silence, the distance: this, at least, they know how to manage. 

Chapter Text

III. Franziska & Epona von Karma
March 21 2018, Hotti Clinic (Room 202), Los Angeles

It's strange, seeing Franziska asleep in a hospital gown and an IV drip in her arm. The off-white paint on the walls only serves to make her pale skin look more washed-out. She seems to drown in the hospital cot. He resists the urge to shield his gaze as if she was naked. In a way, that might have been less vulnerable.

He forces himself to focus on Franziska, and the conversation he is about to have, instead of the conversation he has stumbled through just hours ago. The confrontation with Phoenix-Felicity Wright rings in his ears. 

(Edgeworth aches to tell them everything — the truth — but instead it all gets thrown back in his face, with a spitting furious kingfisher daemon and a Phoenix so enraged Edgeworth wonders briefly if he had somehow reconnected with the wrong person. 

It’s no matter, he tells himself, and tells his daemon even more forcefully. The good thing about the truth is that it does not depend on whether they are in Phoenix-Felicity’s good graces. The truth simply is. 

Phoenix-Felicity will realize that, eventually. In their own time.)

Franziska's eyes are closed — he imagines she must still be under the effect of the drugs. He turns his gaze away, meeting that of her daemon’s.

The horse daemon looms over the side of the bed: despite his delicate neck and slender legs, he looks too big for this cramped space. He holds his graceful neck arched and dish-faced head low, towards the foot of the mattress. He rests one leg, hip dipping low, and he looks haggard around the edges, his normally shining silver fur now dull and gray. He and Franziska have the same gray eyes, some detached part of Edgeworth latches onto the observation with force. He’s not sure how he never noticed before. It seems so obvious now.  

Edgeworth’s daemon silently lifts off and glides forward, claws clacking quietly as she lands on the smooth metal footboard at the foot of the bed. She shuffles her wings as she tries and fails to find a comfortable position. The black kite has to tip her head back to look into the eyes of the much larger horse daemon, but her ashen feathers match the dark fur on his nose.

They hover, the three of them, in a quiet stalemate, the only sound the quiet beeping of machines and the occasional clack of heels or claws as someone passes by in the hallway outside. 

The air hums with a quiet competition: who will speak first? Before long, Edgeworth is the first to break; he thinks he owes it to Franziska and her daemon, after everything. "Epona. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." 

"Do not presume you did any such thing, Miles Edgeworth." His voice is low, but no less threatening for it. 

It is strange for a human and a daemon to talk, but Edgeworth swallows his discomfort and tries again. "I have missed you," he starts. 

Epona cuts him off with a derisive snort. "You don't deserve her affection." 

"I don’t mean Franziska." That isn't quite right. "Not just Franziska. You, plural." He swallows. "I don't remember the last time we heard you speak." 

The rumbling of von Karma's lioness hangs in their memories, in the space between them, in their ribs: daemons should be seen and not heard. 

Epona flicks his tail. "A lot has changed since you left." 

Edgeworth’s gaze slides from the horse to his own daemon, bird-shaped, at the foot of the bed. "Yes," he says. "I suppose it has." 

A disappearing act, told in 5 parts:

.

His hands do not shake as he stands up from his desk. He does not give the note a second glance. He won’t let himself. 

His lease has ended, his finances wrapped up. Nothing ties him here anymore. Not even— he cuts that thought off before he can finish it.

His daemon might be happy about this. Or she might not. He doesn’t ask. 

He does know that she follows after him, like a gray ghost, and when her claws settle onto his overcoat, the one specially reinforced to withstand her claws, she takes her usual position: facing backwards, into the office, as he steps out. She leans on the edge of his shoulder, as far away from his exposed face and neck as possible. 

His own steps feel light. It feels good to have a plan: 

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death. 

.

Originally, he had planned to throw himself into some river, or off some building, or even, once in a fit of mania, into a fire, like his daemon’s real-life counterparts. It would have been fitting to go out in a crackling blaze of glory. 

A black kite spreads fires to flush out the truth, but he is not sure his life is better off with his truth exposed. 

So, for a year, he gives in to his baser black kite urge to migrate, and wanders listlessly across Europe. 

.

It never happens. Choosing death, that is. He is not sure when exactly his plan changes. 

Instead, he and his daemon find themselves in line at a bakery in Stockholm, after an afternoon walk up and down the Söderström. He is used to being an early riser but the country of Svealand puts him to shame; even he struggles to wake up with the 3:30am dawn when the sun hadn’t set until 10pm the night before. 

He reads the menu as he waits in line, having been caught up in the fika rush; this place has favorable reviews for its kanelbulle. He muses over which combination of pastries he would order when he comes back the next day. He’s in the mood for cardamom buns today, but he’d be remiss not to try kladdkaka before he leaves the city…

And he realizes: Not ‘ if’ , but ‘ when’ . He is surprised to realize that he no longer wants to die. But neither does he want to keep living as he had. 

On his shoulder, his daemon stiffens. He glances at her with a disconnected feeling of interest, and is struck with the thought of When was the last time I did that? , because her feathers are unkempt and dusty, and he can’t say when that happened. 

There’s a spark of something in the depths of her dull eyes. Something like fire. 

.

It’s not easy, clawing their way out of their own grave. Even admitting to himself his newfound desire to live takes monumental effort. 

He fights fire with fire, fear with beak and claw. He hunts down the truth with keen eyes and ears and when it tries to hide even then, he does what black kites do best and flushes it out with fire and brimstone. He grips the truth by the throat and says, I want to live.

.

Not once in his year abroad does he touch his daemon. No one does. Sometimes, when he watches out of the corner of his eye, she disappears altogether. 

In the present day, Edgeworth’s gaze slides between the two daemons in the room. Epona’s silvery fur may be dull, but the body underneath it is solid and real and alive. And for once, his own daemon’s feathers look the same. 

I have changed, too, he wants to say. We have changed. The old Edgeworth-and-his-daemon are no more. 

Epona looks away, and, feeling bold, Edgeworth takes this opportunity to step closer, sinking into one of the chairs for visitors. He is so, so close. Closer to his sister than he has been in years. He could reach out and take her hand. It looks so small and naked, without her gloves or whip. 

“Miles-Mercy Edgeworth.”

Until that moment, Edgeworth hadn’t realized how afraid he had been that he would never hear that name in her mouth again. No one has said it in so long, least of all her. 

His gaze slides up her arm to her face. He forces himself to meet her eyes, which hold the same steely eyed glare of her daemon. “Franziska.”

“Back from the dead?” Her voice sounds raw, syllables slurring together, and despite the intensity of her gaze he couldn’t miss the bleary, slow blinks that only result from anesthesia and opioids. “They turned you back at the pearly gates, I suppose.”

He smiles wanly. “You know as well as I do that’s not where I’d end up.”

She snorts, sounding much like her daemon. Her hand clenches and she pulls it close to her chest. “You were dead.”

He swallows. In the corner of his eye, he can see his daemon ruffle her wings. Neither Edgeworth nor his daemon make a move to interrupt her. 

“There was a funeral.”

Edgeworth resists the urge to wince. He has no rebuttal. This is what he is here for, isn’t it? He is here for— for penance? For punishment? 

His daemon tamps down the jagged line of his thoughts with a tender sweep of her wing. For hope, she suggests mildly. For love. 

Franziska takes a breath, no doubt filling her lungs to fire more ammunition, and as she does her daemon presses his nose into his daemon's feathers, huffing a warm and inviting breath and making her shiver. 

Both Edgeworth and his daemon jump. The end of the horse’s nose is larger than the black kite’s entire head, and he could have easily hurt her if he wanted. He could bite or kick or stomp and in an instant his daemon would be Dust, scattered around the sterile floors of the hospital, Edgeworth alongside her. 

(With sudden clarity, he remembers when von Karma's lioness once made a similar gesture, fangs the size of his daemon’s head pressing against her chest, rumbling out a dry purr that made both of their chests rattle. He remembers how his daemon always froze at her touch. At any daemon’s touch. At his own touch.) 

There is none of that here. Here is Epona, and Edgeworth's daemon, and Franziska, and Edgeworth. 

He places a hand next to her leg, pressing softly into the scratchy cotton hospital blanket. "Franziska." 

"Miles Edgeworth." Whatever biting retort she might have intended doesn’t follow.

He wants to say more. He needs to say more. 

They sit in silence for a long time. 

Eventually, Epona's breathing evens out, and his comforting presence turns into a heavy lean against Edgeworth’s daemon, and Franziska relaxes into her pillows, eyes fluttering shut. 

Edgeworth stands up and turns to go. Something squawks, and he turns to see his daemon, making a sound unlike any he’d ever heard before, trapped underneath Epona’s large muzzle. His nose pushes through her, and the black kite wriggles free just as his nose presses against the sterile hospital sheets. 

His daemon gives Epona a tentative caress with the edge of her beak before joining him on her shoulder. She lands awkwardly, and despite her clinging claws he can’t feel her at all through the thick reinforced padding in his jacket, inserted specially to withstand his raptor daemon’s sharp claws. 

This time, she doesn’t fade through, but it doesn’t stop Edgeworth from shuddering all the same.

He can worry about that later. Right now, he has a trial to prepare for, and a truth to flush out. 

Chapter Text

IV. Trucy & Alakazam Wright
April 17 2021, Edgeworth’s rental, Paris

Almost two years to the day after Phoenix-Felicity Wright’s disbarment, Edgeworth meets Phoenix and Trucy at the airport.

It’s the first day of Trucy’s April vacation; Easter had been early this month, so the airport isn’t as crowded as it might have been otherwise. daemon takes up her usual perch at the very edge of his shoulder, watching his back so no one can brush up against them by accident. Inside his pocket, he taps each finger to his thumb in succession while he scans the crowd, filtering out the noise and pressure in order to focus on his prize. A familiar flash of blue makes his eyes light up, and he raises his arm with a wave. 

Phoenix’s baggy old hoodie has seen better days, as has his face — seriously, when was the last time he shaved? Even his customary spiky hairdo is gone, smushed down by a (admittedly lovingly crafted) beanie. For a moment Edgeworth can’t make out his daemon, but he squashes down the panic flashing in his chest as he spots Felicity Wright poking up out of the hood of his sweater, beak resting casually on his shoulder. And if her feathers seem a bit less blue and her feathery crest a bit more droopy than they have in the past… Well, at least she’s here. 

The child walking hand-in-hand with him, though, that’s another story. Edgeworth has seen the photos from Phoenix and Maya, of course, but nothing could prepare him for the bouncing, pink ball of light. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, exposing her large eyes as she stared unabashedly with delight around her. She wears a pink frilly dress and a puffy jacket (a few tears have been patched up with duct tape, Edgeworth notes, but that might be normal for a rambunctious young girl and her hyperactive daemon who hasn’t quite figured out that climbing up his human with spiky claws isn't the best idea), and her daemon zips around like an electric spark — he is the blue streak Edgeworth saw earlier, he realizes, a species of kingfisher similar to but not identical to their father’s. 

They approach, and Phoenix greets him with a lazy smile and a wave. Edgeworth finds himself unexpectedly shy as Phoenix holds the small child in front of him, hand steadying on her shoulder, and says, “Trucy-Alakazam, meet Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon. He is… a dear friend of mine, and we’ll be staying with him for the week.” 

Edgeworth crouches slightly and gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wright.” 

Trucy looks him up and down. Apparently he passes the inspection, because she grins and bows, throwing a hand out to the side in a flourish. “Hello, Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon! Daddy told me that you wouldn’t want to shake my hand, or tell me your daemon’s name.”

At least no one can fault her for being oblique. He knows he should shake her hand, he must, but the cloying dread of skin-on-skin contact holds him back. “That’s right, and I thank you for respecting that.” 

On the edge of his shoulder, his black kite daemon turns around in a practiced motion, careful to slide by but not quite brush his cheek with her feathers. She nods stiffly, and Trucy’s daemon — Alakazam, is it? What a strange name, but he has to admit it suits him — lands on Trucy’s outstretched fist and turns into a peregrine falcon, nodding back with significantly less restraint. 

“No, he’s Wright.” Trucy starts to say something else — about his daemon’s lack of a name or his staunch refusal to shake hands, he’s not sure — but Phoenix squeezes her shoulder and she seamlessly reroutes, saying instead, “Daddy and Feffy told me all about you, and about Paris! He said we can go to the museums and climb the Eiffel Tower and eat lots of bread.”

Edgeworth finds himself laughing. “Yes, I’m sure we can find time for all of that. But for now, why don’t I bring you back to where we will be staying?”

Both Trucy and her daemon brighten considerably at that. “Okay!” She happily allows Edgeworth to take her battered pink suitcase, and together the three of them make their way back to the rental. 

Despite Phoenix’s loud assumptions to the contrary, Edgeworth is not renting out a car for his duration in the city. As much as he misses his car, Europe is (for better or for worse) not particularly car-friendly. So they take the Métro down the line, Phoenix and Edgeworth holding their luggage with Trucy in between them on one side of the car while their daemons sit on the bird perches on the other. 

This is the economic way to split things, in order to minimize chances of accidental human-daemon touching, but Edgeworth still tenses up any time the wood duck daemon on the perch next to his daemon jostles up against her feathers. Trucy is lucky enough to be unsettled, and her daemon turns into a hamster and curls up inside her pocket. 

People press in from all angles, and the screeching of the train wheels against the tracks hurt his ears, let alone his daemon with her keen hawk hearing. He feels a migraine coming on. 

Phoenix has to snap his fingers in front of his face several times to get his attention. “Edgeworth! When are we getting off?” 

The conductor announces the next stop and Edgeworth sheepishly realizes that in his haze they have overshot by several stops. “This next one is us,” he says curtly.

He never thought having his daemon back on his shoulder would feel like such a mercy (hah!) but such are the miracles of public transit. After that debacle, he’s not going to suggest they take the train back the other way, so he pretends this is a purposeful detour and takes them through a small green space that probably qualifies as a park, by a generous definition. 

They pass a small food stand, and Trucy badgers Phoenix into getting her something to eat, because she hasn’t eaten anything since the snacks on the airplane, and Plane pretzels aren’t a real meal, Daddy!, and then Trucy runs ahead, her and her white dove daemon scattering pigeons and then luring them back in with her croissant crumbs. 

Phoenix's kingfisher soars overhead as a steely blue blur, and he takes a deep breath. Edgeworth is fairly certain that’s tension leaching out of his shoulders, or maybe he just enjoys slouching like that.

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow at the display. "If you keep that up, you're going to get scoliosis."

Overhead, Phoenix's daemon makes a snorting sound. Phoenix ignores her, saying, "I least I can. If you even tried to bend over you'd snap in half." 

A smug satisfaction warms in his gut. These days Phoenix hid behind bluffs and misdirects; this breezy side of him is increasingly rare, and it feels like winning a prize each time Edgeworth lures it out. "It's called posture, Wright. Maybe if you tried it sometime you wouldn't complain quite so much about your back."

Trucy, who had been squatting down among a growing flock of pigeons, looks over her shoulder at the pair of them. "It's no use. He'd just find something else to complain about," she tells Edgeworth, in a no-nonsense tone that indicates she doesn't notice the scathing remark hidden in her words.

Phoenix groans. "Are we really going to gang up on me? Now? C'mon, I thought we were on vacation. We should focusing on having fun, not pointing out my many faults."

"This is fun for me," both Edgeworth and Trucy say at the same time. He raises an eyebrow again and she giggles, and then shrieks and runs away as Phoenix's kingfisher dive bombs her, flushing out her own white dove daemon and tussling him into the ground with threats to tickle him to death.

Edgeworth presses his lips together, barely able to suppress a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Phoenix scratches at his nose, pretending to ogle a nearby tree to hide his fond expression. From her spot on his shoulder, Edgeworth's daemon makes a movement so subtle it barely implies the suggestion of a laugh.

The affairs of Edgeworth’s rental are quiet, all things considered. He had chosen it primarily because it came pre-furnished: the place had been done up, all austere edges and minimalist paintings of a single circle on a white canvas. It suits his needs nicely, but he is suddenly struck with worry that it’s less than ideal for an energetic ten-year-old. 

Well-suited or not, Trucy-Alakazam are intent on overturning every last corner of the place, and spend a concerning amount of time pouring over the bookshelves and flipping through the pages of books in languages she can’t read (mostly trashy romance novels; Edgeworth is afraid to say that while he does appreciate the landlord’s sense of interior design, to say he finds their reading taste lacking would be an understatement). 

Over dinner of ravioli (it isn’t his first meal choice, but it’s the only thing that offers meal pickup nearby that he could be reasonably certain a child would eat), he makes the mistake of telling Trucy-Alakazam about a creperie down the block. Alakazam turns into a cicada and screams in excitement for several moments, and Edgeworth does an impressive job of not flinching at the noise before Phoenix calms her down with promises to go tomorrow. 

“She gets like this when she’s tired,” he says, throwing Edgeworth an apologetic look. 

“I’m not tired!” Trucy loudly protests. As if to demonstrate just how not-tired she is, her daemon turns into a dragonfly and zips around overhead. 

Felicity throws herself off of Phoenix’s shoulder and chases Alakazam in circles around the kitchen, until she snatches him up in her claws and tumbles all over him in the bird equivalent of a sweeping bear hug. Alakazam bursts out in a buzzy sound that Edgeworth suspects is laughter. His daemon watches this all from her perch near the kitchen table, masquerading as a statue. 

“It’s quite alright.” It isn’t. His ears will be ringing for hours. “I understand.” He doesn’t. 

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Phoenix starts. “We can try again in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” Edgeworth ventures. “I had thought maybe we could… talk. I’ve set aside some of my research notes that I thought you might find particularly interesting.”

Phoenix gives him that lazy, lopsided smile that he seems to brandish like a shield ever since he lost his badge. For a burning moment, Edgeworth wishes they were still in the park, where for a brief moment they were able to make fun of each other and laugh the way they used to. Phoenix says in a low voice, “I’d love to. Really. But it’s been a long day of travel, and our internal clocks are all screwed up. Going to bed early will help us overcome our jet lag.”

“We are not jet lagged!” protests Alakazam, voice still muffled from where Felicity has bundled him up in her wings.

Mentally cursing Phoenix-Felicity for being sensible for once, Edgeworth accepts his defeat. “There are towels on your beds if you want to shower. Let me know if there is anything else you need.”

“Thanks, Edgeworth.” Phoenix reaches out, redirecting at the last moment to pat the back of Edgeworth’s chair. He stands up, and Felicity pulls a buzzing Alakazam towards the guest room, Trucy following even as she complains loudly. “We’ll try to keep out of your hair.”

“Nonsense. You are my guests; it’s a privilege to be bothered. Good night.” Still, it’s nice to have a moment of quiet. He cleans up the kitchen and putters around his work email for a while, listening to the sounds of the shower and Trucy’s occasional peal of laughter, followed by her daemon’s lilting commentary. Phoenix’s kingfisher’s raspy voice cuts through as she hums a song that Edgeworth doesn’t recognize, but Trucy’s daemon certainly does, if his call-and-response is any indication. 

Only after his guests settle down does he feel calm enough to get ready for bed himself. He showers, scrubbing off the exhaustion that comes with nerves and joy with practiced precision. He’s sure that Phoenix and Trucy bathe with their daemons, but for many years Edgeworth-and-his-daemon have preferred to clean separately. His daemon preens by her perch on the bathroom sink. He runs the sink for her if she needs it, which only happens rarely. 

After he towels off, Edgeworth starts his skincare routine. As he scrutinizes his pores and the bags under his eyes in his reflection, he wonders, not for the first time, if he should have offered to let Phoenix-Felicity stay in his bedroom. It seems like the natural progression of their relationship. Whatever their relationship is. 

Sensing his line of thought, his daemon snorts. “Do you want to sleep with him?”

He hums thoughtfully; he’s not used to her chiming in on his inner monologue, but their therapist recommends they make more of an effort in the matter, so he doesn’t protest. “He is one of our dearest friends. I owe him quite a lot.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Edgeworth sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, truthfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to sleep with someone.” I don’t know if it’s because I can’t or if it’s because I won’t let myself, he doesn’t say, but he knows his daemon understands.

After a certain point, neither of them are sure that it makes much difference.

“Do you think he wishes we’d let him into our room?” she asks at last.

He stops mid-lotion and stares at his daemon through the mirror’s reflection. She busies herself preening at her feathers, but he can feel the way she flushes at the thought. They both suspect the answer to that, but she doesn’t protest when he insists, “It’s pointless to wonder, because we won’t.” Not this time, at least.

He towels off his face and holds out his arm for his daemon to hop onto, but she ignores his offering to soar out of the bathroom and onto her bedroom perch next to the bed stand. Her feathers had appeared solid enough, but he doesn’t blame her for not wanting to push things. The sensation of being crowded on all sides on the Métro lingers: he still feels phantom sensations of feathers and claws pressing against wings that he doesn’t have. 

He closes the curtains, muffling the lights and sounds from the street below, before he changes into his pajamas and settles into bed. 

No one has been in his room since Franziska-Epona had stood in the doorway, all those years ago. 

His daemon wakes up first, but Edgeworth follows not long after, heart racing as he scouts the room for the source of that strange noise. Early morning light filters through the cracks in the curtain, casting the room in a fuzzy glow. 

His heart settles after his daemon grabs his attention and yanks it towards the bedroom door, and he pinpoints the source: someone knocking erratically, at about waist height. 

He props himself up with one hand and rubs at his temple with one hand. “Yes?” Has the help arrived? They’re early; his alarm hadn't even gone off yet. 

The door creaks open and the small face of a young girl pops in, her rich brown hair tangled around her shoulders in a frizzy ponytail, her daemon fluttering around like an azure butterfly halo. “Mr. Edgeworth?” She squints as a brand of sunlight peaks through the curtains at just the right height to sear into her eyes. 

“Miss Wright.” His face slackens, glad that at least she isn’t a home invader. “What are you doing up at this hour? You just arrived less than twelve hours ago; by your internal clock it's the middle of the night.”

She braces her hands against the door frame and leans in. Her daemon drops across her shoulders and turns into a ferret, snuggling into the crook of her neck. “I'm hungry. “

“There's food in the kitchen. Would you like me to show you where it is?”

She shakes her head. “I want crepes. You promised we would go today!” 

He looks towards his daemon, as if she might offer guidance. If Franziska had bothered the help at this age, she would have gotten her way, but Edgeworth is no nanny. “Your father can take you when he wakes up. I have some meetings I have to take later this morning, so I will be busy, but—” 

“Daddy doesn't have the right currency,” Trucy says. Before Edgeworth can protest, Obviously I will give your father money, she says, “Can't you take me?” Her daemon climbs on top of her head and rests his chin on her crown, turning into a small brown-furred lemur-like creature — Edgeworth thinks it’s a bushbaby — with huge, pleading eyes. 

Edgeworth can tell without looking at his daemon that she is watching with an air of amusement. 

Trucy hits the final nail on the coffin: “Wouldn't it be nice to surprise Daddy with breakfast when he wakes up?”

Well, Edgeworth supposes that if Franziska had asked him when they were younger, he would have given in then, too. And at least Alakazam hadn’t turned into a porcupine and threatened to quill all of his clothes if he didn't comply.

They meet by the front door several minutes later, dressed for the short but brisk walk to the cafe down the street. His daemon clings to his shoulder like a lifeline, watching his back as always, but Alakazam skips ahead, skimming over puddles as a swallow before spiraling up as a bee-like mantidfly and dropping back down into Trucy’s arms with a thump as an armadillo. Some of the tension eases as he watches them, moving as easily as if they have lived here their entire life. 

He’s so charmed by the performance that he’s only a little bit put off when a bike whizzes by, bell whizzing and its owner yelling something curt, and Trucy makes to grab Edgeworth’s arm. He yanks out of her grasp by instinct.

At the cafe, Edgeworth sits next to Trucy and tries to translate the different menu items. His efforts are swindled equally by his middling grasp on the French language and by the way her daemon keeps sidling up to his, who in turn edges further away. 

He’s stumbling through a middling explanation of blini (and why by all rights it shouldn’t be on this menu at all; blini are a Russian cuisine) when Trucy says, “Mr. Edgeworth, why don’t you want to hold my hand?”

At least Alakazam has stopped trying to inch his way towards Edgeworth’s daemon, and the two of them maintain an awkward standoff, with the black kite perching on the back of one of the free chairs while Alakazam sprawls out in the seat as some kind of mammal, a little smaller than a cat with wiry brown fur and a body a bit like a marten’s, but with sharper paws and face. 

It takes far too long to remember how his throat and tongue works. “You are old enough that you don’t need to hold my hand when we walk down the street,” he says at last.

“I know,” says Trucy. “But sometimes I want to. Sometimes it’s fun.”

“I see.” He swallows thickly. “I’m sorry, Miss Wright. I am not very good at physical contact.”

She nods again. “Daddy told me. But he didn’t say why.”

“I’m not sure he knows,” Edgeworth tells her. “I’ve never told him.” He’s not sure he could explain it himself, even if he wanted to. 

“Is it the same reason we can’t call your daemon by her name?”

“It is not unrelated, no,” Edgeworth responds, surprised she has put that together. “But perhaps… I could make a compromise. Do you know what a compromise is?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Daddy says the mark of a good compromise is that nobody’s happy.”

Edgeworth laughs. “Yes, he would say that. A compromise is when two parties want different things, so they agree on something halfway between what each of them want.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t seem convinced.

Still, Edgworth decides to hedge his bets and continue. “So how about this: you want to hold my hand, but I can’t let you, because it…” makes me want to peel my skin off, “...feels uncomfortable. But if you ever want to hold my hand, your daemon can ask mine — and yes, you do have to ask first, because if we don’t like being touched we especially dislike when it happens without warning — and maybe you’ll be able to hold her, instead.”

Edgeworth tries to gauge her reaction, but she’s looking at her daemon who is in turn looking at his. The black kite hesitates, but nods, halfway opening up one wing in invitation. Alakazam makes a happy chattering noise before standing up on his hind legs, forepaws braced onto the back of the chair and face buried in her dark downy feathers. 

Edgeworth forces himself to stop clenching the menu hard enough to crease the plastic lamination. His daemon hasn’t exploded and neither has he. In fact, through the thick walls they are still trying to dismantle brick-by-brick, he rather gets the distinct impression she is enjoying herself. 

“Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon,” Alakazam murmurs, sighing happily, and Edgeworth is hardly used to speaking to his own daemon, let alone someone else's, and his brain shortly circuits as he scrambles for the etiquette required when one does so. It's not a taboo, not unless you are as wound up as Edgeworth, but he finds himself lost in his mental index as he searches desperately for the correct pronouns and declensions to use when a human addresses a daemon, never mind that English doesn't have daemon-specific pronouns, or declensions at all, and Trucy's daemon has to repeat himself again, “Are you still there, Mr. Edgeworth-and-his-daemon?” before he remembers that he still needs to respond. 

He refuses to admit a child is making him flush with embarrassment. It’s beneath him. “Thank you, Alakazam.” And then, he hesitates, taking in that strange, not-quite-weasel appearance, “If I may ask — what are you?”

Al bares his sharp teeth and wiggles his whole body in delight. “I’m a mongoose!”

Now it’s Edgeworth’s turn to say, “Hmm.” He remembers with sudden clarity a bedtime story his father must have read to him when he was a child, about a brave mongoose that stood up against a tyrannical cobra when no one else could due to his immunity to snake venom. He thinks of the elder Gavin brother’s flashing yellow pit viper, curling around Gavin's neck in a perverse mirror of his flaxen over-the-shoulder braid.

I hope she isn’t putting me in the same box as Gavin, he wonders sadly, and then shakes off the thought before he starts to internalize even more of Wright-Felicity and their foolish daemonologist intuition. Surely Kristoph Gavin would never let Alakazam snuggle with his daemon. 

The rest of breakfast passes well enough. Trucy orders a crepe with an apple-cinnamon spread and Edgeworth gets lemon and sugar. Both of them are much too sweet for breakfast in his opinion, but he does have to admit it’s quite well done, and he finds himself finishing off his plate regardless. Before they leave, Trucy decides to order a crepe to bring back for Phoenix; after much deliberation, she gets one with banana and chocolatl hazelnut spread. 

Wright hates that flavor, Edgeworth thinks with amusement.

As if on cue, Trucy blinks her large eyes at him innocently. “Do you want to get another one too, Mr. Edgeworth? Maybe for those people you’re meeting later?”

Despite himself, Edgeworth finds himself smiling coyly as he orders another to-go, this one with salmon and cream filling. 

As they walk back to the rental, he still won’t let Trucy hold his hand. But after some discussion Alakazam is given permission to sit atop Edgeworth’s daemon as an iridescent hummingbird, and he vibrates with satisfaction the whole way.

Back at the rental, he sits at the table with some tea and his laptop, catching up on emails and preparing for his meetings later in the day. Trucy sits next to him, running through card tricks until Edgeworth asks pointedly if she has schoolwork she is supposed to be completing over break, and then she somewhat guilty takes out a folder full of worksheets and starts to multiply out fractions. Her daemon perches between her arms, rabbit nose wrinkling as they occasionally talk through the math in quiet voices. 

Some time later, Phoenix trudges out of the room, still in his PJs and half asleep. Trucy announces that they got breakfast and brought some back for him, motioning to the takeout container on the counter. 

“Thanks Truce.” Phoenix kisses the top of her head. Felicity flutters down to the takeout container, bracing herself with one claw and using her beak to pry open the packaging. She doesn't so much as twitch a feather in Phoenix's direction, but she must have communicated what was inside, because he continues without missing a beat, “I'm not hungry yet. Do you want it? It won't taste good once it's cold, so I'll get myself something later.”

As Phoenix slides into an empty seat, nursing a coffee, Edgeworth hands him the second box. He peaks inside, brow furrowing when he sees its contents. “What’s this?”

“I remembered you liked this flavor, when we went to that creperie in LA.” 

Phoenix’s lazy smile doesn’t shift, but he murmurs, “That was ages ago. I can’t believe you remember. Besides, you have to be careful, or you’ll hurt Trucy's feelings.” 

“I daresay I won't.” he jerks his chin to the other side of the counter, where Trucy is digging into her father's crepe with abandon, having gotten what she wanted all along. 

Felicity's gaze moves behind Edgeworth — looking to thank his daemon, no doubt — but when she doesn't find her sitting on the back of Edgeworth's chair, her gaze slides across the rest of the room. When she finally finds his daemon, she freezes. 

After a heartbeat, Phoenix leans over in his chair, following her gaze. 

Really, Edgeworth thinks with smug satisfaction, should the sight of his daemon snuggled up against Trucy's, tenderly preening his blush-pink cardinal feathers, be that surprising? Trucy-Alakazam are a delightful young woman, after all. 

Chapter Text

V. Phoenix & Felicity Wright
August 20 2027, outside Phoenix’s Apartment, Los Angeles

The summer heat has brought summer humidity, but dusk brings a blessedly cool breeze with it. Phoenix’s kingfisher daemon flutters overhead, making circles and loops around them. Phoenix has finally gotten his badge back, and even though the weather has encouraged him to dress down, Edgeworth still thinks this look fits him infinitely more than the hoodie and sweats ever did. At least now his daemon matches the blue floral print of his button down T-shirt. 

His own daemon watches Felicity make loop-de-loops with more reservation, glued to her usual spot on Edgeworth’s shoulder. The last vestiges of the setting sun turn her normally ashy feathers a dusky pink. She faces backwards, guarding his back while he watches their front, and occasionally Felicity darts close enough that his daemon can feel the wind eddying out from her wingbeats. 

They dine together regularly these days, or as regularly as their busy schedules allow. Edgeworth is accustomed to fine dining, has had all of its merits and etiquette drilled into him by his tutors, but secretly he prefers the quietude of the post-dinner ambles, where he doesn’t have to worry about eye contact or not bouncing his leg in his seat. 

Altogether, it’s a pleasant scene. They stroll up and down the boardwalk, bickering all the while. Phoenix makes a beeline for an ice cream parlor and bullies Edgeworth into trying a scoop, too, and when Phoenix’s cone predictably melts all over his shirt, Felicity makes a kek-kek-kek of amusement that lasts long after Edgeworth hands him several napkins and a lecture about the importance of keeping neat. 

(A part of him wants to scrub out the stain himself, especially after witnessing Phoenix’s half-assed attempts, but the thought of bringing himself into Phoenix’s range of touch makes his body seize like… well, like his daemon’s. So he settles on watching, and silently curses himself.)

At last they arrive back at Edgeworth’s car (one of the many, many benefits about moving back was the return of his beloved car, LA traffic be damned). Edgeworth opens the back door first, and his daemon automatically settles into the bird perch situated behind the passenger seat. He never bothered to put one in the front. It’s for safety, nominally, and for their own comfort, in actuality. Felicity settles down next to her without question, preening down the feathers that had been tousled by her acrobatics, leaving plenty of polite distance between them. 

The drive home is quiet but comfortable. As Edgeworth pulls up in front of Phoenix’s apartment, he turns off the engine, but doesn’t speak just yet. The boardwalk sunset and raspberry ice cream and pleasant conversation all sit on his tongue instead of a goodbye. 

In the end it’s Phoenix who breaks the silence. "Would you like to come in? I can make coffee." He poses the question casually. "Trucy-Al and Apollo-Vee should still be at the movies."

It's not the first time he's offered, and it wouldn't be the first time Edgeworth accepts.

In the backseat, he feels his daemon stiffen on her perch, feathers pulling tight against her body, putting just that more space in between her and Phoenix's daemon.

"Wright," Edgeworth says. He keeps his hands on the steering wheel, grounding himself with the touch of smooth leather.

Phoenix looks at him. Once upon a time, his expression would have been happy, or concerned, or something. Edgeworth has never been great with expressions. But he knows Phoenix well enough to recognize this one: carefully neutral.

“Uh oh,” says Phoenix. Edgeworth is fairly certain he isn’t actually scared, but only fairly. “Should I be worried?”

He’s not sure how to answer, if Phoenix wants the truth or a comforting platitude. He also knows that hesitation does not engender confidence in a situation like this. “I suppose that depends.”

Felicity bristles, and Edgeworth can feel the sensation of feathers brushing up against his daemon through their bond. “Depends on what?” she asks, her chirping voice swelling inside the silence of the car until it threatens to burst. When no one answers, she turns to Edgeworth’s daemon. “Mercy, depends on what? ”

His daemon looks out the window and doesn’t respond.

This is a conversation Edgeworth had been planning for weeks and bracing himself for for just as long. "You know I value our relationship."

(Phoenix’s expression doesn’t change, but Edgeworth doesn’t miss Felicity’s muttered, “Oh, god.”) 

"You are one of... You are my closest friend. I value our relationship immensely. I would consider myself exceedingly grateful to keep even just your presence in my life.“ He takes a deep breath. His knuckles grip the steering wheel so hard his skin turns white. He looks straight outside the window, never great at eye contact at the best of times and certainly not now. 

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says softly.

Edgeworth shoulders him off. This entire conversation is a mistake, but sometimes it’s best to rip the bandaid off all in one go. “But I do not feel... that way, towards you. I cannot feel that way towards anyone.” No, that isn't quite right. “That is to say, I haven't felt that way before, and do not know if or when I ever will," he corrects. “And... I can barely touch my own daemon most days, let alone someone else. I worry that perhaps I have led you astray, and for that I want to apologize."

Neither Phoenix nor his daemon respond immediately. His daemon’s heart thuds so loudly he can feel it like a shadow underneath his own. He has the sneaking suspicion Phoenix and Felicity are having some heated internal conversation, but he can’t bear to look. “I’m sorry,” he says at last, when Phoenix still doesn't speak, mostly to fill the silence. 

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix starts. “Miles.”

“Mercy,” suggests Felicity.

“Miles-Mercy Edgeworth,” Phoenix amends. Then his expression hardens as he says — oh, brace yourself, Edgeworth — “Don't you ever scare me like that again.”

He had prepared for many outcomes to this scenario (namely, for varying declarations of betrayal) and isn’t quite sure how to interpret this. “I’m sorry?”

Phoenix actually laughs. “You have said some truly terrible things, but this has to be the worst.” His laughter grows, until he’s doubled over in the seat, wheezing and clutching at his stomach. 

Edgeworth works his jaw. “I see.”

Phoenix is still laughing too hard to speak, so it’s Felicity that speaks up next. "We care about you, Edgeworth, Mercy. And that isn't dependent on reciprocation." Felicity makes a beaky grin and pokes at herwith her talon. "You're stuck with us. I hope you realize that."

He presses his lips together, unsure how to process that and less sure how to respond. 

Phoenix finally recovers himself, somewhat, his face red and splotchy and his eyes wet. Edgeworth realizes with some horror that he had been crying — but no, he had been laughing too. 

“You are an idiot,” he says, voice dripping with affection. “Both of you.”

“Objection,” Edgeworth's black kite shuffles her wings. “I take offense to that. You can’t make a claim like that without evidence.”

“Objection,” Phoenix presses, twisting around in the car seat to point at Edgeworth’s daemon with an accusing index finger, though even in his alarmed state Edgeworth has to admit the effect is somewhat dampened with his arm bent at an awkward angle and voice muted in the cramped space of the car. “Isn’t this entire conversation proof enough? You are one of the most important people in my life. We’ve saved each others’ lives more times than I can count. Do you really think I’d throw that all away just because you won’t have sex? And to be clear, you have no evidence I wanted that.”

Edgeworth still grips the steering wheel with both hands, though his knuckles are no longer so white. That’s fine, because he can feel his face flushing, and even his daemon seems to be warming under her feathers. "But then, the offer for coffee...?" Even he knows what that innuendo means. 

Felicity lets out a kek-kek-kek of amusement. Phoenix sighs and sinks back into his seat, though Edgeworth thinks he may be amused more than frustrated. "Maybe we were enjoying ourselves and scrambling to think of a way to prolong the evening. But we weren't trying to imply it had to be prolonged like that ."

"I see.” Yes, definitely blushing now. “I apologize for putting you through this awkward conversation for no reason."

“Stop apologizing,” says Phoenix. He rests his hand on the car door, rubbing his finger along the door handle. “It’s probably for the best to get it all out into the open. To be honest, Maya has been harassing me to have this conversation for a while.”

“Right,” he says, somehow flushing even more at Phoenix’s admission.

Phoenix tilts his head, the ghost of a smile flickering in his eyes. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“Oh, shut it,” Edgeworth snaps, but there’s no heat to his voice.

It could have signified the end of that conversation. Edgeworth could have thanked Phoenix for his honesty, wished him and Felicity a good night, and gone home. That could have, should have, been the end of it. 

But suddenly Edgeworth can’t bear the thought of not knowing. His daemon jerks her head around in alarm, but that’s all the warning anyone gets before the words tumble out of his mouth: “Did you?” he asks. He can’t bear to look at Phoenix. “Want to take me to bed?”

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, and all the brevity and light is sucked out of him once again. 

“Not tonight. But in general. Hypothetically. If I had offered, would you have said yes?”

Phoenix doesn’t respond, which is all the answer in the world. 

“I’m s-”

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says again. “Stop apologizing.” He reaches a hand out, but lets it fall when Edgeworth doesn’t reach back. 

It’s not a failing on your part, Edgeworth wants to tell him. He has always been too cold, too averse to touch, too disinterested. 

(He had kissed a boy once, when he was young. He still remembers how it felt, skin against skin, their fingers tangling as they pressed together, and how Mercy, then unsettled and salamander-formed, had wrapped herself into the other’s numbat daemon, until she had practically drowned in stripy fur. That experience had been pleasant enough, and he would have happily done it again.

But then he and Mercy had learned about the rest of it, and felt so viscerally repulsed both of them had sworn off the whole thing altogether. 

A part of him still assumes they'll someday outgrow their childish ways — at least, that’s what everyone tells him will happen — but it seems that the older they get the more stuck they become.)

Phoenix rubs his thumb along the handle of the car door. “Just because it would have been nice if it had happened doesn’t mean I’m mad that it won’t,” he says at last. “But the offer still stands.”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “For sex.”

“For coffee.”

“Ah.” Edgeworth swallows thickly. He finally, finally, pries his hands off, trying not to wince at the ache — they had cramped from how tightly he had gripped the wheel. “I would like that, yes.”

Phoenix smiles, and just like that the tension in the car fades away.

He leads the way up the steps to his apartment and Edgeworth follows, chiding himself for making a mountain out of molehills. Phoenix’s home is small and filled to bursting with Trucy’s half-finished magic tricks and Phoenix’s half-finished chores, and even though Edgeworth hates the clutter he has to admit that at least this is a familiar mess, which is both less and more tolerable in its own ways. 

In the kitchen, Phoenix busies himself with the coffee while Edgeworth leans against the counter. There’s only a single bird perch in the kitchen, for the usually-single bird daemon, and though his black kite tries to find a clean spot on the table, Phoenix’s kingfisher cajoles her into joining her on the perch. Just like in the car, she leaves plenty of polite distance, so Edgeworth’s daemon settles in, and though she is not quite as fluffed up as the kingfisher, it’s about as close as she gets.

Phoenix places Edgeworth’s coffee on the counter. He picks it up and holds it like a lifeline. He wonders if he’s supposed to say something, or if this is what’s considered a comfortable silence. Across the room, Edgeworth's daemon leans down, her beak a hair’s breadth away from Felicity’s as she murmurs something for their keen bird ears alone. 

Phoenix’s kingfisher lets out a satisfied chirp and shuffles across the bird perch towards the black kite, dipping her beak forwards. She tries to preen the daemon’s dark feathers, but instead of slotting in between them, her beak pierces through. She makes an awkward squawk and jerks backwards, slimming feather-tight in alarm. 

Beside him, Phoenix stiffens, looking at Edgeworth with wide eyes. “Edgeworth…”

“What was that?” Felicity croaks, her crest of feathers wobbling as she whips her head back and forth from Edgeworth to his daemon and back again.

Edgeworth’s daemon shakes out her feathers, fluffing them up in an over-acted display of nonchalance. “It’s a minor obstacle. Try again; I should hold this time.”

Phoenix’s kingfisher makes an indignant chirp. "Fading away like a zombi is not a ‘minor obstacle’!"

"I'm not dying," Edgeworth says firmly. Of this, at least, he is confident. He maintains a proper diet, he brushes and flosses his teeth at least twice a day, and the twelve flights of stairs he takes to get to his office does wonders for his cardiovascular health. "She's been flickering for years and I haven't died yet."

That must have been the wrong thing to say because Phoenix's face twists into a convoluted shape, all furrowed brows and creased lines. "That long? And you’ve never told anyone?"

Edgeworth wills his hands to stop trembling, thankful that it isn’t too noticeable with his iron grip on his mug. He runs through a dozen potential responses, weighing each one by how likely it is to increase or reduce alarm. He slides his gaze in Phoenix’s direction, because his body won’t seem to obey his instructions to turn his head, noting the tension in Phoenix’s shoulders and face.  

However, his daemon is the one to respond, her soft voice barely audible as she leans in to whisper to Phoenix's kingfisher. "No one." 

"Well," says Edgeworth, considering. "Gumshoe and Cooper once saw. But I convinced them they were seeing things, and any time he tried to bring it up, I pretended I couldn't hear him until he changed the subject."

It’s funny. Edgeworth had been so prepared for Phoenix to shun him for not reciprocating his feelings. How fitting that instead his daemon’s predisposition to fading, as much a part of him as his daemon herself, would be the final straw. 

Phoenix’s kingfisher twitters, and Phoenix himself watches carefully with guarded eyes, full of pity and some other, more complicated emotion Edgeworth doesn’t even want to guess at. He fears it might be regret.

His daemon inches forward internally, tapping at the boundary where their thoughts merge. Cautiously, he reaches out, pressing against his consciousness until he almost — but not quite — brushes up against her. It’s close enough to feel the thoughts that she hands off: 

She knows, and she knows that he knows. They’ve lived in denial for so long, but it’s time to face their truth. Neither of them want to admit it, let alone out loud, but here in the sanctuary of their thoughts it can simply — exist. Under her ashen feathers, resignation bubbles and pops like embers, and then settles into something calm and steady. 

Like water on a still, sunny day. Like trust.

He closes his eyes and suppresses a humorless laugh. "It's better, these days. It happens less often." His body finally seems willing to respond, and he turns his head to look at his daemon. She looks small, even compared to the tiny kingfisher at her side, and she’s lost her feather-sleek shine in a matter of minutes, as if someone had thrown her into the middle of a dust bowl, or an emotionally charged conversation in the privacy of Phoenix’s kitchen. 

She nods, and he adds, haltingly, "I think... We think we're getting better. I’m in a better place now.” You help, he thinks, but can’t make his lips form the words. Franziska-Epona, Trucy-Alakazam, even Gumshoe-Cooper. They all help, in their own way. 

He takes a deep breath. He may not be able to say that, but surely he can say this: “And… and I don’t think ‘friends’ is the most accurate term for our relationship.” Not when Phoenix-Felicity has seen Edgeworth at his lowest, not when he’s seen through his daemon. 

“No. Once we wrote each other into our wills and my daughter’s finances, that became pretty obvious,” Phoenix says drily. “We’re friends, but we’re other things, too. We’re family, for better or for worse.”

Edgeworth’s vision turns hot and blurry, but in a rare stroke of competence, Phoenix-Felicity are too polite to comment. 

Instead, Felicity side steps along the perch, easing herself towards Edgeworth’s daemon. The black kite hesitates before easing open a wing. This time, when the kingfisher touches her dark feathers, nobody flickers. Felicity presses into her warmth, burrowing up under her wing and pressing her face into her belly feathers.

Both Phoenix and Edgeworth pretend not to have jumped at the intimacy of their daemons’ movements. Edgeworth’s heart skips a beat, and then a few more for good measure. 

Eventually, Phoenix clears his throat. “If you’d like, we could move to — the couch, maybe? To talk about this, or watch a movie. Anything you want.”

“Yes,” Edgeworth allows. “I would like that, I think.”

This time it’s Felicity who protests. “Hold it,” she mumbles, voice muffled by Mercy’s down feathers. “Give us a moment. Okay?” 

“Of course,” Edgeworth says. And he means it. He looks at Phoenix, and Phoenix smiles, and it makes Edgeworth’s stomach flip-flop not unpleasantly. “Take all the time in the world.”

Chapter Text

VI. Miles & Mercy Edgeworth
May 17 2029, Housewarming Party (Wright-Edgeworth Household), Los Angeles

I gathered you here to hide from some vast unnameable fear

But the loneliness never left me

I always took it with me

But I can put it down in the pleasure of your company

 

And there will be no grand choirs to sing

No chorus will come in

No ballad will be written

It will be entirely forgotten

 

And if tomorrow it's all over

At least we had it for a moment

Oh, darling, things seem so unstable

But for a moment we were able to be still

- No Choir, Florence + The Machine

It’s a good thing Edgeworth and Mercy are early risers. If they hadn’t already been awake by the time Maya and her daemon practically kick down the door to drag Phoenix-Felicity out for some last-minute shopping, they definitely would have been when Trucy-Alakazam starts her pre-party warmup, running around the apartment with Pearl and her daemon to set up streamers and balloons. As the only sensible adult left in the house, Edgeworth is left to supervise, although this mainly takes the form of looking up from his baking in the kitchen every now and then to let the girls know that their decorations are still crooked. 

They live in a comfortable three-bedroom apartment, with room for both Trucy-Alakazam and an at-home office. It’s a far cry from the von Karma manor, and lacks the austere sterility of the rentals Edgeworth hopped between during his years in Europe. Several weeks have passed since Edgeworth and Phoenix brought over the last of their boxes from their separate old apartments into their shared new one, but Edgeworth and Mercy had insisted that they hold off on any housewarming parties until the last of the boxes had been unpacked, and until Trucy-Alakazam had finished her semester at college so she could celebrate with them. Still, it already feels more lived-in than any space Edgeworth and Mercy have ever called their own.

Mercy remains, as always, a dark shadow on her familiar perch at the edges of the room, but it is no longer her cage. Before, where she might have turned to face the wall, demurely shutting down any attempt at conversation before it starts, now she comfortably fluffs up her feathers and watches the goings-on with a careful eye. 

Alongside Edgeworth, she greets her guests as they arrive: 

Dick-Cooper Gumshoe is the first to arrive, which would be surprising except for his loud declaration that the police are always the first to arrive at the crime scene, sir! Trucy, in the middle of a hug that involves an awful lot of getting picked up and swung around, reminds him that this isn’t a crime scene, but he seems undeterred. 

Mercy isn’t planning to comment on this, but then Gumshoe’s bloodhound trots over and woofs a greeting. 

“Thank you for coming, Cooper,” she manages, hoping her wings and words don’t look as stiff as she feels. “Though I do hope you understand that this really is a party, and not a crime scene.”

“What’s the difference?” Cooper’s tongue lolls and her tail wags, and Mercy really will need to have Phoenix deep clean the rug after this, she thinks, watching a line of drool puddle on the floor. “I’m always happy to support my friends, Mr. Edgeworth’s-daemon, sir!” 

Outwardly, she is sure her expression is just as severe as ever; raptors are not well known for their polite expression. But internally she smiles, fond that after all this time, Dick-Cooper Gumshoe still insists on calling her by that nameless formality. 

Later, Edgworth hands his sister a glass of champagne and listens to her rant about those fools at Interpol. Mercy always finds it amusing to watch the two of them talk shop while off-the-clock; the sight of them dressed down in socks and casual slacks while discussing the gruesome double homicide that happened downtown is enough to make her want to giggle. The matching sweater vests certainly don’t help. She suspects Maya and Phoenix are behind that one, and makes a mental note to thank them later. 

Mercy preens through the dark silky forelock of Franziska’s horse daemon, tugging out a snag that had formed when Gumshoe’s bloodhound had been a bit too enthusiastic with his hello. 

“That fool is lucky his performance tonight does not reflect on his annual salary review,” Epona snorts so forcefully that Mercy stumbles back on her perch. 

“If his pay gets cut anymore, he’d owe us,” she tells him. 

“As far as I’m concerned, he already does,” he mutters darkly. 

As he ambles away, the crowd parts to make room for him, and Franziska struts after in his wake. Mercy watches with amusement, counting down until, like clockwork, Maya ambushes Franziska with questions about her latest trip to Europe. Her white crow dive bombs Franziska’s gray horse daemon and buries himself in his mane, undoing all of the hard work Mercy had just put into lying it straight. Franziska’s hand barely even twitches in the direction of her whip holster, and Mercy is so proud of them both. 

Trucy’s daemon hops up onto the stool for the less bird-footed guests. Mercy takes a moment to appreciate her daughter, Trucy and Alakazam both: they had settled not long after the trip to Paris, into a gorgeous white lop-eared rabbit. Mercy runs her beak along his ear and wonders at how such a delightful young woman has found her way into Mercy’s life — into her family. 

Alakazam headbumps Mercy and twitches his nose in the direction of their human counterparts. Trucy, wearing a new blue skirt and diamond-patterned cardigan (both gifts from Aunt Franziska), regales Edgeworth on her past semester at college. Mid-anecdote about her professor’s terrible late policy (“I got knocked down a whole letter grade for submitting my essay ten minutes after midnight!” “This is why I warned you not to put things off until the last minute.”), she presses a plate of cheese and crackers into his hand. So enraptured in her story, he takes it without so much as a glance. 

Several minutes later, Trucy flounces away, the only hint of her trickery a wink she throws in Mercy’s direction as she passes, and Edgeworth’s befuddled noise as he looks down and realizes he is, to his dismay, holding something he never picked up. 

“That’s my favorite trick of yours,” she tells Alakazam. 

“The only reason it isn’t our favorite is because it’s so easy, it’s not even challenging,” Alakazam informs her as he hops down to follow his human, and her heart warms to be known. 

The room is full of people and conversations, and daemons tussling on the floor (except where they're cavorting overhead):

Phoenix listens to rapt attention as Pearl catches him up on her schooling, and at some point Athena inserts herself to eagerly tout the psychology program at Pearl’s university, which Athena has never been to but has apparently read up on. Her leopard gecko daemon can’t join Phoenix and Pearl's daemons fluttering overhead, but he dances up on top of Athena’s hair, bobbing to the swaying in the birds’ dance.

Dick-Cooper Gumshoe wanders into the conversation with Franziska-Epona and Maya and her daemon, and Gumshoe watches with poorly-disguised dismay as Franziska shows off her new whip, pointing out the custom detailing on the handle; Franziska’s horse daemon casually uses his bony knee to push Gumshoe’s bloodhound out of licking range. 

(Nearby, Kay bothers Eustace and his songbird daemon, even as Kay’s ferret daemon hops up behind Cooper to pluck hairs out of her tail whenever she isn’t looking. When the bloodhound whirls around, woofing and bristling, Kay’s ferret puts on an innocent face. He somehow gets away with it, even after multiple offenses.)

Even Apollo, who had up till now been watching the proceedings with crossed arms and a scowl on the couch, can’t help but laugh when Trucy dramatically ‘falls’ on top of him. Alakazam bonks Apollo’s scruffy hare daemon and binkies with delight when he bonks back. 

It's messy and loud and perfect. Mercy has never felt so at home. 

Edgeworth jumps up in surprise at his daemon’s sentiment, looking at her with wide eyes. But Mercy doesn't retract it. It's true.  

He wades over to stand next to Mercy, reluctantly chewing on some of Trucy’s crackers. "Aren't black kites supposed to be wanderers that never put down roots?"

"Aren't black kites supposed to spit fire whenever they speak and burn bridges wherever they go?" she asks right back.

He overlooks the party, and both of them acknowledge that they wouldn't want to do either of those things. "Maybe we're not very good at being a black kite."

"Maybe," Mercy says, as she watches Trucy grab Phoenix as he passes, motioning emphatically at Apollo before the both of them burst into laughter. (Apollo's face turns so bright it matches his vest, but even his daemon seems to be in on the joke, so he can't be that upset.) "Or maybe we're becoming a new kind of black kite. One that wanders home. One that burns a hearth."

"Hmm," says Edgeworth, and eats another cheese cube.

Phoenix extracts himself from Trucy and Apollo to come over, two champagne glasses in hand, and passes one to Edgeworth. Mercy appreciates how even in this, Phoenix is careful to hand it off in such a way that their fingers don't so much as graze each other. “Thank you,” Edgeworth murmurs into his glass, and Phoenix smiles in a way that makes Mercy’s stomach flip. 

“Trucy is going to give a speech soon,” he says quietly. “She's going to thank you specifically for, you know, everything, so consider yourself warned.” 

“Thank you,” Edgeworth says again. 

Phoenix lapses into a comfortable silence for a moment. His kingfisher daemon takes advantage of the moment to hop from his head to Mercy's perch, fluffing up her steely blue feathers and closing her eyes comfortably. Phoenix watches this with a quiet satisfaction, before continuing, "It's called a queer platonic relationship.”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. "Go on."

Phoenix swallows thickly. "Us. It’s a term for a relationship that doesn’t fit neatly into any traditional structure. We’d be each other’s queer platonic partners.” He hesitates. “Or friends-and-courthouse-rivals, or boyfriends, but I thought this this might be more, well, you.”

Edgeworth smiles. Really, truly smiles, not that twisted smirk he’s carried for so many years. In truth, Miles-Mercy know the term already, but knowing that Pheonix-Felicity had thought to research it on their own warms their collective heart like a flame. “I like the sound of that. Partners.”

Mercy nuzzles Felicity one last time before soaring overhead and landing on Edgeworth's shoulder. She ruffles her wings as she settles in, squeezing him through his sweater with her claws and allowing her feathers to brush his cheek. It's gentle, and if it had never been anyone else they wouldn't have thought twice about it. But Edgeworth knows. 

Edgeworth reaches out to brush his knuckle over Phoenix's. Mercy reaches through their bond, reveling in the sensation of skin-on-skin, and Edgeworth’s quiet joy at the contact. 

“Is this okay?” Phoenix asks, voice hushed. 

“This is more than okay,” Edgeworth assures him, twining their pinkies together. Phoenix’s hand is warm, and he squeezes his finger in quiet reassurance. 

Trucy appears at his side out of nowhere, as a magician is wont to do, and so of course he rests his fingers gently on her shoulder too, making her beam so brightly she glows. Mercy leans in to press her beak against Edgeworth steadily, preening his hair until it lays just-so, and they have Phoenix on one side and Trucy on the other and rest of his family all around. 

This is all I ever wanted. 

All we ever wanted, Mercy reminds him, and she is real and solid and here, and he knows with utmost certainty he could reach out and touch her and his fingers would never fade through her, so he does. She closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

And Miles-Mercy feels a thrill at that, remembering that they are not an I but a we.