Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Moreover, central to engendering trust in our system of law is ensuring appropriate professional conduct among its practitioners. Enclosed, you will find a proposal detailing definitions of conflict of interest as they pertain to criminal investigation and court proceedings (Section 1), recommendations for review committees (Section 2), and suggested safeguards and remediation specifically within the District Prosecutor’s Office (Section 3).

I humbly invite the esteemed members of the Bar Association Review Board and Committee for Prosecutorial Excellence to jointly evaluate this proposal. I will defer to your judgement regarding the implementation and enforcement of the policies outlined herein, and I welcome any corrections you deem warranted. In accordance with this proposed policy, I am compelled to declare a conflict of interest in this matter: 

I, Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, am currently engaged in a personal relationship (of a primarily romantic nature) with defense attorney Mr. Phoenix Wright, who has read and approved of this disclosure. Therefore, I formally recuse myself from further…

(Ah, there I am.) 

After enduring a page and a half of pompous declarations about truth and integrity, Phoenix had finally reached the reason he had been requested at the Chief Prosecutor’s office: the disclosure.

“Burying the lead a bit, don’t you think?” He quirked an eyebrow at the man seated across from him.

Edgeworth’s chin tilted upward sternly, arms folded, eyes sharp—a pose so well practiced and familiar that a nostalgic smile tugged at Phoenix’s mouth. 

However, his partner was in full Chief Prosecutor Mode, seemingly immune to such softened glances. “This is not just about our particular circumstances, Wright. We are laying the groundwork for improved transparency in our entire law system.”  

Phoenix had, of course, heard this lecture about a dozen times already across a variety of backdrops—in this very office, during a casual stroll in the park, over candlelit dinner…not even his own bed was safe. He forestalled another full-blown monologue with a lazy wave of his hand, eyes skimming over the remainder of the dense cover letter. 

Truly Phoenix should be happy about this, relieved even. It had nearly been a year, although he kept finding himself mentally tallying the months, unconvinced. That time frame just felt odd, both too long and too short; how could it all still feel so vulnerable and new, and yet so natural and comfortable? Although his heart still quickened at those small, significant glances and passing touches, he felt such an easy belonging when they were together that he could scarcely imagine ever holding back…and yet how many years had they determinedly kept each other at arm’s length? All it took was one night, one argument that finally sent them over the guardrails and plummeting towards each other. Once released, those feelings could never be caged again, and so they had spent the better part of the last year reconfiguring their private lives to fit one another as true partners. 

In the months since that emotional confession, everything had changed…and yet much remained the same. So far, their relationship was on a need-to-know basis, extended to a small and exclusive circle of people—just family, which meant Franziska for Miles and Trucy for himself, as well as Maya and Pearls of course, seeing as they were as good as family. Even his own parents didn’t know the half of it—how could he begin to explain something like this? It wasn’t as though he was in the habit of sharing every messy detail of his life with them; although his childhood had been a happy one, they had never really had that kind of relationship. Knowing that their son’s new partner was another (much more successful) lawyer as well as a man seemed to be enough information to form a minor talking point to exchange with folks they encountered on their years-long retirement traveling spree, and that suited Phoenix just fine. 

When it came to broader awareness of their romantic ties, the biggest ongoing hurdle had been their work. If not handled delicately, the news of the Chief Prosecutor’s entanglement with an infamously unconventional defense attorney would be a scandal of disastrous proportions. Intellectually, Phoenix understood—and even agreed with—the cautious approach, but that traitorously soppy part of his heart longed to claim Miles Edgeworth as his own to anyone and everyone who would listen. Of course, deep down he also knew there was more to it than potential workplace awkwardness and pearl clutching. Miles guarded his feelings and desires as though his life depended on it, and drawing him out from that icy shell required gentle persistence and an intimate understanding of the subtle ways the brusque and proper prosecutor showed affection. Indeed, the meticulous, borderline obsessive effort he had put into crafting this Conflicts of Interest Policy and declaration—dispassionate as it seemed on the surface—was a testament to his commitment, his willingness to take the next step despite the uncertain footing ahead. It was truly a heart-melting grand gesture coming from Miles Edgeworth.

Phoenix handed back the thick, official-looking  packet with a reassuring grin. “This is great, really. I know they’ll accept, but if not, you’ll convince them. You always find a way.” Without thinking, he brushed a thumb over the badge in his lapel. He was rewarded with the small, tender smile that always made his heart thrum. He reached forward to gently touch his partner’s slender fingers, pale against the dark wood of the desk. When Miles didn’t pull away, Phoenix intertwined their hands—in moments like this, he could sometimes get away with such small breaches of their tacit rules, blurring the lines between Wright and Edgeworth versus Phoenix and Miles.

He traced a gentle line over the peak of one knuckle and said in a low voice, “do you want to come over tonight? Just a little dinner and maybe a movie…?” But his heart was already sinking as his partner’s brows furrowed. 

“Not tonight,” Edgeworth replied tersely, pulling his hand back and casting his eyes down to the stack of paper. 

(Still a few days out and it’s already this bad?)

“So, are we going to talk about it?” He said it quietly but firmly and Edgeworth’s gaze darted up. The dark circles under his eyes—stark against his wan skin and poorly concealed by the rims of his glasses—had not escaped Phoenix’s notice.

“Talk about what, exactly?” Edgeworth’s spine straightened, the warning in his tone somewhat anemic. No one but Phoenix would have heard the difference, but it was there and only served as further evidence that he was right to be concerned. This was breaking another unspoken rule—the separation of personal and work conversations—but it wasn’t as though he’d been afforded many opportunities lately to properly litigate ‘at home’ matters, so…desperate measures. 

(You really want to do this the hard way?)

“Well,” Phoenix started, hand reflexively grasping the nape of his neck, “it’s almost Christmas. Our first Christmas, you know, together.” That is, unless fragments of deadly serious conversation across a thick pane of glass and exchanging strained, furtive looks in court half the day counted as ‘spending Christmas together,’ but Phoenix wasn’t about to bring that up. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Edgeworth crossed his arms stiffly. “I am fine.” Phoenix just stared at him levelly, and after a few beats he finally conceded, “well perhaps ‘fine’ is not the most apt description of my current status, but it will pass. I’ve been weathering this accursed holiday like this for over twenty years now, as you very well know. It is a routine part of my life and there is nothing left to say about it. It is certainly not worth disrupting your night’s rest as well.” 

“I don’t mind,” Phoenix interjected, “and it’s not like we haven’t been through nightmares before.” In fact, they both had plenty of material buried in their psyches to produce the occasional stress-induced terror dream. 

A sharp, pained look rippled across the prosecutor’s expression as he whispered, “it is different.” He cleared his throat, recovering his crisp voice and countenance at practiced speed, “but I have it handled.” 

Phoenix remained unconvinced. Something was wrong—something out of the ordinary even for this time of year—he just knew it.

“Listen, Miles. I know you have your way of dealing with this, and I want to respect that. I just think maybe…isn’t it time to make some better memories?” He drew in a breath, throat threatening to close as emotion briefly welled behind his sternum. “I just hope you’ll do something with us for the holidays. It would mean a lot to Trucy.” 

(And to me.)

He let that implication hang, for it was clear his secret weapon had landed right on target. The lines of Miles’ face softened into an indulgent smile that almost touched his eyes. 

“Ah yes, your daughter already sent a memorandum on her Christmas wishes some weeks ago. I suppose it would be odd not to hand deliver now that we live in the same city.” 

Trucy had never really asked Phoenix for much on these occasions, sticking to practical or inexpensive things—a set of colored pencils, a new backpack, a CD from the band du jour—but she had no such reservations when it came to her doting benefactor. Miles was helpless to deny her anything, a fact Phoenix was counting on as he plowed forward with his own proposal.

“I’ve been thinking…”

The prosecutor’s immediate response was to start tapping his fingers against his upper arm—not a great sign.

Phoenix soldiered on anyway. “I think it would be nice to do a small get together.” Predictably, Edgeworth startled at that, affronted with his signature haughtiness. He drew up, taking in a sharp breath, but Phoenix was ready for him, getting the next words out quickly and forcefully before his partner could construct an objection. “Apollo and Athena don’t have parents—or anyone, really. What kind of mentor would I be if I left them to fend for themselves?” This had already occurred to him a few weeks ago, prompting a chaotic but memorable Thanksgiving meal at Wright Anything Agency. His partner, however, had conveniently been abroad, blaming a complete disregard for the holiday on his German upbringing. He wouldn’t get away so easily this time; Phoenix was determined to see Miles have at least one happy moment to associate with Christmas if it was the last thing he did.

Phoenix wet his lips, steeling his nerves for the next part. The ice was perilously thin here, and one misstep would see him plunge into frozen, churning depths. He suppressed a shiver.

(Speaking of nightmares…maybe not the best thing to imagine right now.)

“And, given that we’re disclosing now…” he gestured at the hefty file between them. “I’d like it if you, me, and Trucy hosted as a…” What was he going to say? Family was surely way too strong a word at this juncture, right? “As a unit,” he finished lamely. 

Edgeworth seemed stunned into silence, his lips pressed in a thin line. Phoenix wasn’t sure if this was favorable not; it wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of the idea, but at least he wasn’t objecting out of hand. Emboldened, Phoenix pressed on with his case. “Look, we don’t need to stage some sort of big awkward announcement or anything, I just think maybe now we could start letting people to see us together in a more…familiar setting. Ease them into it.” 

Edgeworth opened his mouth once more, brows drawing together in a stern expression. He was going to refuse, but regret was etched just under surface of his face. Phoenix could work with that, but he needed to think of a convincing rebuttal fast. Before the prosecutor could speak, however, he was interrupted by the digital tones of the Steel Samurai theme song. Phoenix raised a finger and fished out his phone, a familiar name flashing across the caller ID.

“Apollo? What’s up?” 

“Mr. Wright.” His junior associate’s tone was clipped and serious, but there was a jitter of apprehension underneath pushing his volume up in erratic spikes. “A woman just called with a request—it’s…well…you’d better come. Athena and I are headed to the detention center right now.” 

He’d left them sifting through haphazard stacks of records and evidence files for Athena’s current case. As much as they complained, they were diligent and took the fate of their clients seriously, so this was big if it made both of them drop everything.

“I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and reached for his overcoat, finding Miles’ eyes once more. Cobbling together a beseeching closing argument in his head, he tried to speak, but now it was his turn to be cut off—there was a small rap at the door, and the prosecutor called out a command to enter. It was a freckled, middle-aged woman with red hair drawn in a fluffy bun at the crown of her head; he recognized her as Candice Graham, the Chief Prosecutor’s trusted senior secretary. 

“Mr. Edgeworth? I’ve got the Chief of Police on hold for you. She said it’s urgent.” She pursed her lips as her eyes flashed conspicuously to Phoenix. “And confidential.” 

“I was just leaving,” he hastened to assure her, buttoning his coat the rest of the way. He chanced a look over his shoulder. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, Edgeworth—we’re not done talking about this.” 

“I promise I will give your…suggestion my full consideration, Mr. Wright.” 

Phoenix nodded, suppressing an impatient snort; that was the best he could hope for—for now, at least. 

“Wright?” He’d made it halfway to the door when Edgeworth’s voice made him turn, as if tugged by an invisible cord anchored in his rib cage. Having reasserted his composure, Miles was striking—backlit by the tall windows, shoulders firm and chin angled down, imposing as he was alluring…but no, that line of thought definitely fell outside the realm of approved workplace conduct. 

As if reading his thoughts, one of the Chief Prosecutor’s hands came to rest on the carefully crafted proposal as he regarded Phoenix over the rims of his glasses. “Perhaps it is best that you refrain from doing anything too…” he paused, searching, “attention-grabbing until certain matters are resolved.” 

Phoenix was briefly tempted to play dumb—What? Me? Get caught up in something crazy and controversial? Never!—but he’d pushed his partner enough for one day, so he simply nodded, trying to let just a small glimpse of that swirling mess of worry and longing and love escape through his eyes, then swept out the door. 

——

Phoenix couldn’t decide if holiday decor made the detention center more or less depressing. He was leaning towards more as he went through a security checkpoint adorned with tinsel and baubles. Who needed this reminder of how terribly wrong things had gone that they were stuck in this place when they should be writing cheesy greeting cards and overindulging sweets with friends and family? Maybe it was just him and the memory of rushing down this very same hallway, sweaty and queasy with anxiety, barely noticing that Maya had to jog in his wake to keep up. Back then, he’d never have believed what that incomprehensible hurricane of emotion really meant, what it would lead to.  

“Mr. Wright!” A booming voice snapped him out of reminiscence and into the present. He looked around, eyes landing on two familiar figures scurrying toward him, faces aglow with feverish intensity.

“Apollo, Athena,” he greeted, slipping into his calm-and-collected boss persona, “what’s going on?” 

“It’s some hotshot rich guy…”

“His wife called…”

“The son, he-"

“Haven’t talked to him yet, seems bad-"

“But the money…!”

“Wait, wait.” Phoenix pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache already forming behind his eyes. “I can’t understand when you talk at the same time like that. Apollo, you explain.” 

The young attorney took a steadying breath. “While you were out, we got a call from a woman named Cecelia von Richter. Her husband has been killed and her son, Ludwig, arrested on suspicion of murder. She wants us to defend him.” 

Athena was practically vibrating, the gadget at her neck pulsing green and yellow with anticipation. “That’s not all—the victim, Frederick von Richter, was the owner and CEO of RichterCorp, the parent company of some of the biggest fashion brands in the country! The son was supposed to inherit, but he won’t if he’s found guilty of patricide, obviously. His mother is convinced he’s innocent and our office was her first choice. Mr. Wright, she’s willing to pay triple our usual fees!” 

Phoenix regarded their shining faces, feeling a worried frown tighten his own. Extravagant wealth did not an innocent man make—quite the opposite, in his experience. 

“What did you tell her?” 

“That we needed to confer with the boss,” Apollo answered dutifully. At least they hadn’t made any promises. Just talking to the guy couldn’t hurt—probably. 

“Okay,” Phoenix said, “let’s see what this Ludwig has to say for himself, and then we’ll make a decision. That his mother is willing to pay so much money…well that’s not exactly a good sign. Did she say why she wanted us specifically?” Apollo shook his head. That was another oddity that set off some internal alarms—sure, Phoenix had something of a reputation for courtroom turnabout when it came to complex false accusations, but surely such a powerful family would have a retinue of attorneys on retainer already? 

He regarded the pair before him, coming to a snap decision. “There’s something strange about this, and we haven’t even gotten started. I want both of you on high alert when we talk to this guy—Apollo, you take the lead.” Their heads bobbed in unison, Apollo grasping his bracelet and Athena tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. For his own part, Phoenix gripped the familiar curved shaped of the magatama in his pocket.

Armed with their various preternatural lie-detection methods, they stepped past the guards into the visitor’s room. To his surprise, it was already occupied—a man who looked to be in his late twenties, well dressed in perfectly pleated slacks and an argyle sweater vest. He sat on the edge of the single chair, back rigid. On the other side of the glass there was another young man who, other than seeming to be alike in age, was the exact opposite of his visitor—he slouched in a baggy red hoodie with frayed drawstrings, chestnut hair hanging to his shoulders in tangled ringlets. 

“Excuse us,” Phoenix said, attempting to project some sliver of authority, “we’re here to speak with Mr. Von Richter—we’re attorneys, you see.” Sweater-vest guy stood, staring at Phoenix through thick, circular glasses, though his shoulders were still angled towards the window and the man on the other side—Ludwig, their potential client, presumably. 

“Hello, I am Manuel, Manuel Cantor—I am Mr. von Richter’s interpreter.” A beat after he spoke, the man’s hands flew in precise motions. When Phoenix’s brain finally connected the dots after a few seconds’ delay, his stomach lurched.

(Somehow, this became even more complicated.) 

“I’m Phoenix Wright, of Wright Anything Agency, these are my junior associates Apollo Justice and Athena Cykes.” He pointedly addressed von Richter, though the motion from Manuel to his left was somewhat distracting. 

“We have some questions for you, if you don’t mind,” Apollo added, and Phoenix gestured for him to take point position in the single chair facing the window, drawing back to stand behind the younger man with Athena at his flank. Would Apollo’s eye for dishonesty still work under these circumstances? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

Von Richter remained slumped in his chair, eyes narrowed sullenly, but he raised his hands and signed, Manuel interpreting, “and what’s this…girl here for? She’s your…helper? She seems…too young to be a lawyer…don’t look at him, look at me.” Ludwig suddenly leaned forward, face drawn in a snarl. He turned to Manuel, motions rough and irate. The two shared a brief, silent conversation, and the interpreter’s shoulders drooped in resignation. 

“Where I come from, you’re supposed to look at people when you’re talking to them, uh, jerk.” Manuel’s voice wobbled uncomfortably over the last word. Apollo finally snapped to attention, blinking as if awoken suddenly from a dream, wrenching his eyes away from the interpreter to stare determinedly through the glass, the back of his neck turning as red as his suit. 

(Maybe this was a bad idea.) 

“S-sorry.” Apollo cleared his throat, shoulders stiffening. When he next spoke, however, his voice was level. “Your mother called to request our defense. Before we agree to take the case, we need to understand what happened from your perspective.” 

“My mother sent you? I should have suspected.” As von Richter brought one splayed hand up to touch thumb to chin, Phoenix noted fresh, cracked scabs capping his knuckles.

Tucking that away to mull over later, he cut in, “Mr. von Richter, the choice is ultimately yours whether to…”

“Call me Wolfgang.” Manuel looked apologetic at interrupting, an odd contrast to the disgusted scowl aimed at them from behind the glass. 

“Wolfgang?” Apollo narrowed his eyes. “We were told your name is Ludwig.” Phoenix didn’t think it was possible for a glower to get any darker, but here was the evidence right in front of him. 

“Wolfgang is my middle name.” His signs flashed by quick and hard. “What kind of person names a baby Ludwig? A Deaf baby? I guess it was supposed to be aspirational.” 

“The composer Ludwig van Beethoven went deaf, but he kept making music,” Athena leaned forward to whisper in Apollo’s ear. 

“I knew that!” He snapped back. Surprisingly, this exchange, of all things, finally broke Wolfgang’s hostile expression; although it morphed into more of a smirk than a true smile, at this point Phoenix would welcome anything resembling progress. He decided to take the chance to press, resting a warning hand on Apollo’s shoulder. 

“Wolfgang, before we go any further we need to know: did you kill your father?” He paused, then rushed to add, “or take any action, intentional or unintentional, that a reasonable person would believe directly caused his death?” As much as he preached trust in the client to his junior associates, he’d been here before, and would not allow himself to be fooled again. 

The answer hardly required interpreting, but Manuel did so anyway. “No.” 

Phoenix waited for the chains, but none appeared. He squeezed Apollo’s shoulder and felt an almost imperceptible shrug in response. Even without the supernatural aid, Phoenix found himself inclined to believe Wolfgang, struck by that old gut feeling. 

“Alright, then we can help you,” he said, and heard a small rush of air to his left; Manuel had been holding his breath. 

“Just tell us what happened,” Apollo chimed in. 

Wolfgang regarded them warily for an extended moment, then dropped his head in his hands as though suddenly exhausted. When he started signing, his motions and body language lacked the same harshness. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what happened. I went to see Dad last night at his condo, the penthouse at The Grandi Venti. We argued, and I know what you’re thinking, but we fight all the time so it’s not like this was unusual. I went to calm down in the bathroom, and when I came back, he was…completely messed up. And don’t ask me ‘wouldn’t you have heard something’ because I’ve obviously never heard anything in my life.” 

“We weren’t going to ask that…” Athena muttered, which Phoenix took to mean the thought had at least entered her mind. Clearly, some of their usual instincts wouldn’t apply here; they were going to have to think carefully about this one. 

“What were you arguing about?” Apollo asked, and Phoenix found himself nodding slightly in approval. 

“Personal stuff. Believe me, it’s not relevant.” Phoenix quirked an eyebrow; disagreements mere moments before death were rarely, if ever, ‘not relevant,’ but he decided to let it slide for now, squeezing Apollo’s shoulder again to signal he should do the same. 

“Who called the police?” Athena said.

“A woman at the front desk.” 

Wolfgang was clamming up again, arms crossed when he wasn’t signing. They were going to need more to work with, so it was Phoenix’s turn to interrogate. “And before the murder, you and your father were alone? No one else was there that you could see?” 

A pause. Wolfgang’s eyes shifted, and he exchanged a fleeting but significant look with Manuel. 

Finally, he shook his head and signed something. Even before Manuel could speak, the world went dark, silver chains snaking out of the blackness. 

(So we’ve hit a snag. Interesting.) 

“No, it was just the two of us.” Manuel interpreted, as expected. 

“Well, Mr. Von Richter—Wolfgang—my associates and I need to gather more information.” Phoenix made for the door, gesturing for Apollo and Athena to follow suit. Blessedly, they didn’t protest. He continued, “you have to formally request our services in writing, should you wish to move forward—the guards can provide you with the paperwork.” He paused a moment, considering his next words. “We believe you, but our chances of success will be much better if you’re honest with us. Thank you, Mr. Cantor.” He nodded farewell to the other man, who jumped slightly at being addressed. Phoenix withdrew, his mentees miraculously still trailing behind him without any overt resistance. 

He rounded the corner to a vacated sitting area and turned on them. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Wright.” Apollo crossed his arms. “It was hard to get a read. The interpreter, Mr. Cantor, he was tense about something right off the bat and…it distracted me.” Color rose in his cheeks again at his unintended gaffe. “I tried to keep him in the corner of my eye after that but it was difficult.” 

“Yeah, Mr. Cantor was scared of something,” Athena chimed in, “but I didn’t get anything from Wolfgang—because well, you know—but he sure was rude.” 

Apollo pressed a finger to his forehead. “I wonder if…I wonder if Mr. Cantor is actually saying everything Wolfgang signs or if he’s…editorializing for some reason.” 

“It’s possible,” Phoenix conceded grimly, “but we have no evidence to show that. All we can do is watch him. We could request a court-appointed interpreter, I suppose, but I doubt that would go over well. In any case, I believe Wolfgang when he says he didn’t do it, but he’s hiding something. It’s going to be a tough one, but I think we should take the case.” To his relief, the other two nodded in agreement. 

A high-profile victim, an exorbitant payment offer, a belligerent and secretive defendant, and a language barrier to boot…

Suddenly, the morning’s conversation broke through his swirling thoughts. Refrain from doing anything too attention-grabbing. Didn’t Phoenix just promise not to get too deeply embroiled in this? But what else could he do?

“Apollo,” he spoke before he could change his mind, “you’re going to be lead defense on this one.” 

The young attorney’s jaw dropped comically. “Me? Mr. Wright…are you sure?”

(No.)

“Of course.” He put on a smile that he hoped was reassuring. 

“What about me?” Athena said, the edge of a whine creeping into her voice. 

“You’re on the Zhang case, remember? What seems small and boring to you is life changing to someone else—they deserve your full effort.” 

Athena clenched her fists. “You’re right, boss! I’ll give it my all, get the ‘not guilty,’ and then help Apollo on his case!” 

“That’s what I like to hear.” His smile was genuine this time; for all his worries, he was proud of them both. They were already accomplished attorneys, certainly much more so than he’d been at Apollo’s age. 

Yes, the more he thought about it, the more confident he felt in this decision. Between the three of them, they’d handily unravel this knot. Apollo and Athena would do the legwork, while he’d provide steady guidance behind the scenes. He would prove himself a sensible leader, his professional conduct beyond reproach. 

A worthy partner to the Chief Prosecutor.

Chapter Text

Simon paused half a pace before the broad oaken door, permitting himself a moment to let cold calm wash over him. He took stock of himself—his mind was sharp, his heart still, his blade hand steady. He was prepared for battle.

As if on cue, his opponent sauntered around the corner, posture loose but hard mouth betraying agitation within. 

“Ah, Herr Blackquill. I should have suspected I would have you to compete with.” 

“Prosecutor Gavin.” Simon inclined his head.

“Well, may the best man win, ja?” The other prosecutor flashed white teeth, exuding confidence. Simon knew it was not unearned; attention-hungry peacock though he was, Prosecutor Gavin was quick-witted, assiduous, and honorable—a worthy adversary. 

“Indeed.” He nodded again, then before Gavin could move, Simon raised a fist and knocked on the sturdy doorframe before them, calling out, “Edgeworth-dono?”

“Enter,” a voice commanded from inside, and Simon pushed open the door, which had been slightly ajar. He stood before the Chief Prosecutor’s desk, hands clasped behind his back, with Gavin falling in line to his right. Edgeworth regarded them over the rims of his glasses, arms folded.

“Well, what can I help you two with?” He said, staring intently at each of them in turn. The Chief Prosecutor was a shrewd man; certainly he knew why they had come to him—had almost certainly expected it—so the question suggested that he wanted to hear what they had to say. Perhaps it was a test. 

“Edgeworth-dono, I am here to request the von Richter case.” Simon intoned. The news had broken not thirty minutes ago—Frederick von Richter, fashion magnate and patriarch of RichterCorp, distributor of several of the world’s most influential clothing collections, had died under mysterious circumstances, his only son and ostensible heir to the throne arrested as the sole suspect. It had the makings of a challenging and dramatic case, and the fact that the prosecutors had learned of the situation through news broadcasts and rumor rather than directly from their chief could only mean one thing: he had yet to make up his mind regarding the assignment. However, it would seem Gavin and Simon himself were the only two to possess both the wit to quickly come to that realization and the nerve to attempt to take advantage of it. 

Since his release from prison, Simon had worked diligently to establish a favorable reputation from the ground up. He took the small cases without complaint, putting every ounce of his considerable willpower and intellect toward even the most trifling of disputes. He did not resent Edgeworth for keeping him under the radar; after all, he had the Chief Prosecutor to thank for this opportunity to apply his training and earn a living post-incarceration. The man was among the chosen few to whom he owed undying trust and loyalty, not to mention his very life. Simon also recognized that his low-profile status was equal part public-relations strategy as personal kindness. Wherever he went, be it within the courthouse, the office, or even the supermarket, murmurs and hushed conversations followed him like a shadow. In the court of public opinion, he oscillated from pitiable victim of the system to manipulative criminal and very essence of the ‘dark age of the law,’ so he very much needed the foundation of fair but easy wins to rebuild his prosecutorial career. 

But this was an opportunity to prove himself, too good to let pass. Gavin, it seemed, was of a like mind.

“Before you decide, Herr Chief,” he drawled, “please allow me to humbly remind you of my role in the Ivanov case earlier this year? I believe the word you used was ‘commendable.’”

“I understand the defendant was found not guilty in that case,” Simon pointed out.

“Ah, but the true culprit was discovered thanks to the trust and collaboration between myself and Herr Justice,” the other prosecutor said, eyes glinting, “and is that not what Herr Edgeworth is so wisely trying to teach us? To value absolute truth above pride and personal acclaim?” 

Simon thought the attempted flattery was altogether a bit gratuitous, and predicted Edgeworth would agree.

“I take it you have already heard Wright Anything Agency is considering picking up the case, even though an official request for defense has yet to be issued.” The Chief Prosecutor regarded Gavin, fingers drumming against his bicep. Simon’s smirk turned to a frown; such news had not reached his awareness, but then again, it had not occurred to him to ask. 

“You are not the only one with a direct line of communication to that office, Herr Edgeworth.”  

Simon did not consider himself a cowardly man by any stretch, but even he knew the difference between boldness and idiocy, and taking such a tone with Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth was squarely in the latter category. Indeed, Edgeworth made no perceptible movement except a subtle increase in the pace of his tapping fingers, and yet the air crackled. 

Sensing his misstep, Gavin babbled something out in harsh and choppy German. Leveraging a perceived personal connection, perhaps? Blackquill did not understand a lick of it, as it did not contain any of the smattering of curses and threats he’d picked up by osmosis in the clink. No matter, it was of little consequence; neither the gesture nor the content appeared to make a dent in Edgeworth’s steely demeanor.

“Believe it or not, Prosecutor Gavin,” he said levelly, “as I have an entire department to oversee, your choice of company and leisure activities is hardly at the forefront of my mind. Prosecutor Blackquill—” He shifted primly, picking up a neat stack of files. “You will take the lead on this case. Prosecutor Gavin will assist, should you require it.” He held out the papers, which Simon took immediately. He would consider this a victory, although it was irregular to have two prosecutors assigned to the same case given that they were already spread thin.

Anticipating their questions, the Chief Prosecutor explained, “if Wright and his cohorts have taken interest in the case already, it is all but guaranteed there is much more to it than meets the eye. There will be a lot of attention on this case—we cannot afford mistakes. Prosecutor Gavin is a media darling, both as a prosecutor and in his…other occupation. His involvement will lend a perception of integrity.” Simon did not miss the careful emphasis. “Additionally, you each have unique strengths that may be required. However, as the lead on this case, the course of the proceedings are ultimately up to your discretion, Prosecutor Blackquill. Now, if that is all, you are both dismissed.” 

Simon clutched the case files and gave a short bow from the waist, retreating with Gavin shadowing him. Only once they were out of Edgeworth’s sight did he allow a triumphant grin to crack his face. However, if the other prosecutor was dismayed by this outcome, he did not show it. He merely cocked his head and gave a brisk wave, almost akin to a salute.

“Well, if you need assistance, you know where to find me, Herr Blackquill.” And he was gone, tapping idly on his phone as he strolled back down the hallway. 

——

The warmth of unobstructed sunlight on his face, the distant sounds of happy people, a generous helping of soba—these, Simon knew, were among the greatest pleasures life had to offer, which he would never take for granted again as long as he lived. 

On this particular afternoon, he was especially content. Athena was seated beside him at the park bench chattering on about something, as she so often did during these meetings. Determined as she was to insinuate herself into his new life as a free man, they had agreed to have lunch together twice weekly and had thus far kept to that agreement, rain or shine, though today they were graced with weak winter sunlight and a pleasant coolness. 

He quickly learned that Athena was evidently allergic to silence, as she always talked his ear off about whatever came to mind: her friends, coworkers, a book she read. Yet despite the mundanity, he found he enjoyed her perspective, her voice, not that he would ever intentionally show it; he had a reputation to uphold after all. 

It was still odd, seeing her after all this time. For seven years, all he’d had of her was that vulnerable, blood-soaked scrap of a girl he’d gathered up in his arms. To him, she had been frozen in that moment, the shape of her pressed into him like a scar, but of course the world had kept turning outside his cell walls. Gradually, he was deconstructing that image to make room for the fierce young woman she had become, and yet there were times she still seemed a child to him. 

“Simon, are you even listening to me?” 

“Hmm?” He kept his face cast up, catching a glimpse of Taka through the tree branches as she circled lazily overhead. In his peripheral vision, Athena bristled indignantly, that little gadget at her neck flashing red. He grinned to himself. 

(She makes it entirely too easy.)

“I said, Apollo and I had to go over those phone records for my case and I swear my eyes are permanently crossed.” Her grumble turned to a pitiful sigh. “Did the music director really need to call every single member of the chorus every day?” She slumped back on the bench. “Couldn’t Mr. Wright have postponed his date to give us a hand?” 

“A date you say?” Simon tried to maintain a nonchalant tone, though gossip was a particular vice of his. 

Never missing anything, Athena grinned, “oh so that gets your attention? Well, you may be interested to know that Mr. Wright left this morning, claiming to have an ‘appointment,’ but I could tell by his voice that he was…thinking of someone really special.” Twin pink patches bloomed in her cheeks at the memory. 

Losing all pretense of haughty disinterest, he asked, “you think they are getting pretty serious, then?” 

“Eh, who’s to say? If they planned to move in together or get married or something anytime soon, surely they’d have to actually tell people?”

This was among the first matters of great import she had informed him of upon his release; first came the recounting of her experiences since they had last seen each other—a tearful but cathartic affair for the both of them—then a surface-level introduction to the strange cast of characters in her life at present, which was quickly followed by all the baffling intimate details she had inadvertently overheard in their voices. 

Simon could still clearly recall that particular conversation. Athena had blushed deeply as she muttered, “there’s something else, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to know about it, but I have to talk to someone—promise not to tell?”

“Of course.” Simon did not point out that he hardly had anyone else to tell; seven years removed from society had left his social circle on the outside abysmally small. 

“Well…” she combed both hands through her ponytail nervously, “a while back, we had a little party to celebrate Mr. Wright getting his badge back, and I accidentally overheard something between him and…Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth—a real conversation, not just hints in their voices. They were very…uh…familiar with each other, and I think they…they kissed…”

She had said the last word as though it caused her physical pain, dropping her face in her hands as her necklace squealed something about, “things you wish you could un-hear.” 

It had indeed been surprising, but perhaps re-contextualized the odd tension between them during that ‘trial’ on Simon’s behalf. However, Wright, it appeared, kept his cards closer to his chest than he let on, while the Chief Prosecutor was even more buttoned up. As salacious as this tidbit had initially seemed, they soon realized there was very little material for speculation. The bond between the two men clearly extended beyond that of mere trusted colleagues—that much was plain to anyone who bothered to pay any attention to human behavior—but they maintained a high degree of opacity between their intimate and professional lives. Simon often forgot about it entirely, but then thinking on it now called to mind an interesting comment from that morning’s discussion.

I’m not the only one with a direct line of communication to that office.

“Perhaps they are just waiting for us all to figure it out,” he mused, “Gavin-dono suspects, I believe.”

“Really?” Athena’s eyes widened with interest, “then Apollo probably knows too…he’s been hanging out with Prosecutor Gavin a lot lately.” Curiously, her face reddened again, and he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, didn’t I tell you about that? I hardly see Prosecutor Gavin, so I guess I forgot about it with…everything…” she trailed off, leaving his unsatisfied curiosity to simmer. Unconsciously, he leaned forward expectantly, and she smiled again. 

“Alright, alright.” She shifted towards him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, comical given the obvious lack of potential eavesdroppers within their immediate radius. “Don’t tell anyone about this—Apollo is way more sensitive than he seems, and he’s easily embarrassed. There’s something going on between him and Gavin and I think it’s…a bit messy.” Simon gestured for her to elaborate, and her face turned the color of a ripe tomato as she continued. “Well, in court they act totally cool and professional, but sometimes I get hints of…certain emotions underneath that. You know, adult-relationship type feelings.” Somehow, she managed to blush even harder, and rushed to explain, “I try really hard not to listen for that kind of thing, but Prosecutor Gavin lays it on thick sometimes.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. Where Simon saw a significant foothold in his arduous climb back to respectability, for Gavin, this case was just another excuse to make eyes at his favorite defense attorney. It was just too rich; Simon threw back his head as laughter burst out of him.

“Of course he’s fucking his precious ‘Herr Forehead,’ why didn’t I see it before?” He pounded the back of the park bench, making the rickety wooden slats creak in protest. 

“Simon!” Athena hissed, punching him in the arm. It was more painful than he would ever dare admit, but he did quiet his mirth.

He held a hand to his chest in apology. “On my honor, I will not say anything to upset our delicate flower Justice-dono…at least not about this.” 

“Good,” Athena harrumphed. After a pause, she leaned back into the bench and fiddled with her earring thoughtfully. “Although, it’s possible nothing is even happening at the moment. I get a sort of on-again-off-again vibe, and Apollo has been more irritable than usual which is a symptom of ‘off.’ But then again, maybe it’s just…with everything…he’s so hopeless with emotional stuff, just keeping it all bottled up all the time. Although, he’s going to have to figure out for himself that Prosecutor Gavin is, like, completely in love with him, cause I’m sure as heck not going to explain it.”

Simon had no response to that. He was woefully inexperienced in the realm of romantic relationships, both in theory and practice. He would keep his word to Athena and remain mum with her hot-blooded coworker, but if this knowledge could gain him leverage over Gavin somehow…well that was another matter. 

As if summoned by the thought, Simon’s phone pinged with a perfunctory message from his co-prosecutor—they had access to the crime scene at last. 

“As enlightening as this has been, duty calls.” Simon stood, but he was stalled a moment by a gentle hand on his forearm. He glanced down at Athena, and the warmth of her broad grin was enough to crack the shell around his cold and desiccated heart. 

“Bye, Simon. Good luck with the trial!” Her smile turned sly. “You’ll need it!” 

“Hmph.”

*****

Frederick von Richter, 65, time of death 5:30 pm. Sustained several blows to the head. Cause of death asphyxiation, suspected strangulation.

Apollo frowned over the preliminary autopsy report and gruesome photos—the victim’s puffy, blood-soaked face was hardly recognizable. With an uncomfortable jolt, the image of Wolfgang’s freshly scabbed knuckles streaked across his mind.

Ema regarded him, face hard, evidently thinking the same thing. “I don’t know Apollo, it looks pretty cut and dry.” 

“We’ll see.” His gaze roved the crime scene once more. Aside from the foreboding white outline on the armchair, the penthouse apartment was pristine—sterile, even, with its sparse, desaturated decor. It looked like a scene straight out of an interior design catalog, exuding a certain luxurious masculinity in a calculated sort of way—all angular surfaces, leather armchairs, a glass cabinet lined with expensive whiskeys—lavish and lifeless. 

(At least Klavier’s place has some character…being ungodly rich is no excuse for being boring.)

The moment the thought flitted through his mind he shoved it away with cold ferocity. It was almost getting easier, like a well-trained reflex. 

Crossing his arms, Apollo leaned over to Ema. “This place sure is spotless…he must have had people cleaning for him.” 

“He did,” Ema confirmed, though she was shaking her head, “but we already looked into that—the maids come Mondays, Wednesdays, and every other Friday, so no service yesterday. Plus there were dishes in the sink, so the maids couldn’t have been here when it happened.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.” Apollo didn’t really believe that; a crime of passion witnessed by a maid unnoticed by anyone? Well, wouldn’t that just be too simple for the never-ending migraine that was his cursed career?

Grasping for any lead, he asked, “what kind of dishes?” 

“What?”

“What sort of dishes are in the sink?” 

“How should I know? I was more concerned about the literal dead body than a little clutter in the kitchen.” Ema rolled her eyes, but evidently sensed that he was serious, as she gave a lazy gesture toward a square archway across the room. Leaving the grumpy detective behind, Apollo stepped into a kitchen that could very nearly fit his entire apartment. It was outfitted with gleaming marble counters and stark wooden cabinets, no doubt stocked with all manner of cooking gadgets and fine tableware. The promised dirty dishes turned out to be three tall glasses, colored a ruby red, left in an unsteady jumble in the sink. Apollo carefully extracted one with a faint clink and held it up to the light, then took a cautious sniff. There was no residue he could detect, only droplets of water clinging to the inner surface.

(Three glasses put in the sink but not washed…what could that mean?) 

Something snagged at the corner of his eye; a discreet blue bin in the corner, with nothing in it but an empty plastic jug. Upon close inspection, he realized the bottle too had been rinsed, and while the label was ripped off, it had been done hastily, leaving shreds of yellow plastic clinging to the patch of adhesive. A peek in the trash—which was concealed in its own compartment under the counter—provided no further clues, the bottle’s removed label nowhere to be found.

Before he could settle into a proper think, a deep voice drifted in from the living room.

“I take it you are presiding over this crime scene.” 

“Yes. Detective Skye.”

“A pleasure, Skye-dono, I am…”

“I know who you are. The prim and proper act doesn’t really suit your reputation, Prosecutor Blackquill. Neither does tardiness, for that matter—it’s about time you got here.” 

Apollo felt himself deflate. He supposed having the crime scene blessedly to himself was too good to last for long. 

“We would have been here sooner, Frau Detective, had we taken the motorcycle like I had so humbly suggested.” 

At the second familiar voice, irritation turned to freezing panic in Apollo’s veins. The dozens of ignored texts and calls on his phone suddenly felt like a brand burning a hole straight through his pocket and into his thigh. A distant part of him cringed with shame, but his abject fear of the messy knot of feelings that was Klavier Gavin was far louder. 

It had started out so simple—casual and fun and physical, a one-time exploration of curiosity between friends, which turned to a second time, and a third…though decidedly nothing serious. Yet over time, Klavier slowly invaded Apollo’s thoughts; he found himself thinking idly about the prosecutor throughout the day, fantasizing about him at night—mundane yet oddly personal things like whether he’d like the new seasonal latte at the courthouse coffee stand, or the wild way he laughed when his camera-ready facade was down, or how soft his hair felt rippling through Apollo’s fingers. As much as he tried to deny it to himself, the simple fact was he liked Klavier; they were friends. That should have been enough, more than someone like Apollo could ever dream of, but an unkillable little part of him kept asking, what else?

It all got messier somehow when Trucy, while browsing a Gaviners fan forum, stumbled across a blurry photo of him and Klavier standing much too close in what they had thought was a secluded area of the park behind the courthouse. The picture was captioned with a single, provocative question: Is Klavy bisexual??? This had inspired an endless font of speculative comments, arguing more passionately than any lawyer he’d ever seen. Apollo himself was afforded little attention, and he couldn’t tell if he was relieved or bitter to be so unremarkable. The invasion made his skill crawl, but it was the wake-up call he needed; Klavier thought of him as a fun diversion, but whatever they had wasn’t something he would ever declare openly. No, Apollo certainly was not boyfriend material to a literal rockstar—did he even want to be? Some distance was clearly in order…he’d meant to back off gently and re-establish the boundaries of a normal workplace friendship…but then Clay…no, it was all too much at once.

Of course, he couldn’t dodge the prosecutor forever as they were bound to meet in court sometime, but he had naively expected that professionalism would be barrier enough. Clearly he had been mistaken—his racing heart and clammy hands were testament enough to that—but in fairness, he’d had no warning, no chance to brace himself.

(Unless…)

He dug out his phone and lo and behold:

Klavier Gavin

11:42 AM

 

Been assigned to “assist” on the Von Richter case. Are you defending? 

 

Maybe I’ll see you there and perhaps you could come over after, just to talk?

Silently berating himself, Apollo managed to pointedly ignore everything before that recent message, but it was near thing. Coming from Klavier, the straightforward tone, devoid of flirtatious quips, spoke to a desperation Apollo had rarely heard from him. Despite himself, his gut twisted with a pang of…what? Guilt? Loneliness? Longing?

While Apollo wrestled with the nauseating emotional turmoil, the conversation marched on in the other room.

“…trust my life to your forethought and impulse control, then you truly are as air-headed as you look,” came Blackquill’s rumbling voice.

“You wound me, Herr Jailbird. Are we not meant to be trusted partners in this case?” 

“What are you talking about, fop?” As usual, Ema’s mood had taken a dangerous nosedive at Klavier’s appearance. Apollo used to think that the weird obsessive antagonism between them could only resolve one of two ways: with Ema on trial for murder and Apollo saddled with her defense, or, more likely, Ema and Klavier sleeping together. Nowadays, the thought bothered him more than he cared to admit. 

“The Chief Prosecutor has assigned me as co-counsel on this case, Frau Detective. If you are so easily flustered by my presence, perhaps you can take it up with him.” 

Even from the other room, Apollo could hear Ema’s sharp intake of breath as she readied a retort, but she got cut off.

“Silence!” Blackquill growled, “a man is dead and we do not have time for your inane sniping. We need to get this over with, and quickly. Need I remind you, co-counselor, there is a witness waiting for us at the office?” 

“What!?” Apollo slapped a hand to his mouth, realizing too late he’d exclaimed out loud. 

(Oh Holy Mother, just banish my soul to hell now, please.)

There was nothing else for it. He emerged sheepishly into the main room as three pairs of eyes trained on him. He wanted to fall into a deep hole, or walk into the ocean, or set himself on fire…anything but stand there in the searing triple spotlight of their stares.

Apollo finally wrenched his chin up to address Blackquill’s looming form.

(Being that tall should be illegal.)

“There was a witness?” He said, finding the firmness of his voice more-or-less satisfactory. “Who? How? Where?”

“Apologies, Justice-dono, but you will find that I am not in the habit of casually discussing vital case details with the opposition.” Blackquill’s condescending gaze never strayed from Apollo, but the implication was clear.

Unfazed by the indirect accusation, Gavin stepped forward, forcing Apollo to finally look at him. He was one of those people who was somehow more stunning in reality than pictures or even imagination; his clothes, his hair, his smile…everything was immaculate, save for the smattering of intentional imperfections that gave his ensemble an effortless, rakish look. Apollo bitterly cursed the swoop in his stomach. 

“I will see Herr Justice out.” The prosecutor’s grin was innocent enough, but Apollo didn’t miss Blackquill’s eyebrow twitch, nor Ema’s more obvious scowl of disgust.

“Hold it,” Apollo said, his good sense suddenly crashing back into him like a brick to the head, “I-I’m not finished here!”

“Then hurry up so the grown-ups can talk.” Blackquill turned his back dismissively.

“Uh…” Apollo glanced around wildly. Admittedly, he had turned up very little in the past half hour and had only objected on principle—and to stall, if he was honest with himself—but then an idea struck him. “Ema, there’s some glasses in the sink and a bottle in the little recycling bin. Think you can figure out what might have been in them?” 

“Oh…uh sure.” She looked incredulous but thankfully didn’t question him in front of the prosecutors. 

Apollo nodded, then, fighting the urge to scramble about like a cornered animal, he strode to the front door as Klavier followed, cool and un-self-conscious as ever. Although it was a relief to be out of range of Blackquill’s blistering glares and Ema’s eye rolls, being alone with Klavier was still worse somehow. 

“Strange thing,” Klavier said conversationally as they reached the front door, “Herr Chief wanted both me and that thundercloud of a man to work this case…seems he really wants it done properly.” He paused thoughtfully. “Herr Wright is certainly putting a lot of trust in you.” 

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Apollo said. They were at the entryway and Klavier had turned to face him, stepping just close enough to block the doorknob, but not so close as to be intimate. 

Klavier’s hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach out but thought better of it; to cover the motion, he tucked a stray golden lock behind one ear, then fidgeted with a chain around his neck, uncharacteristically awkward. 

“Apollo, please…I…I am worried about you.” It was the use of his real name, instead of that playful moniker, that struck hardest. It came on the edge of a wave of sincere emotion that Apollo couldn’t—or didn’t want to—decipher, and all at once he was drowning. He scrabbled for his only lifeline and yanked it hard. 

“You don’t need to be—I’m fine.” With that key phrase, his lips stretched into his practiced fake-it-til-you-make-it smile. Klavier’s eyes darkened, and Apollo had to look away, anywhere else. There was a small bathroom behind the prosecutor; a textured painting of a generic seascape was just visible over his shoulder, which Apollo studied intently. The longer he looked, however, the more something itched in his brain; it was off somehow. 

“What’s that?” He muttered, pushing past Klavier to take a closer look. The painting was small, maybe one square foot, and hung askew on its hook at approximately Klavier’s chest height. 

“Apollo…” the prosecutor was hovering at his shoulder. 

“Don’t you think this is an odd place to hang a painting?” 

“Ja, now that you point it out, but…”

“And look, the nail is all bent.” Apollo widened his search, taking in the details of the room, and quickly confirmed his suspicion. “Aha, there, above the toilet. There’s an empty nail hole, and doesn’t this square of paint look a little off color from the rest?” 

(Someone moved the painting, but why?)

He lifted the simple frame off its hook, to reveal an odd pattern; several dents, each a few inches wide, dotted the wall behind, cracked paint spiderwebbing from the craters. 

“What is this?” Klavier asked, frowning thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” Apollo admitted, “but, it’s got to mean something right?” 

“Gavin-dono! Hurry up with your…ah…we have work to do!” The shout from the other room was made no less intimidating by the inexplicable stumble, but Klavier just smiled good-naturedly. 

“I’d better go,” Apollo said. The brief reprieve of focusing on the crime scene had lapsed, letting awkward strain rush back in. “Nice to see you, Prosecutor Gavin.” He winced internally at the foreign brusqueness of his own voice. 

Klavier’s eyes sparkled with pain, but for only half a heartbeat; he, too, was well accustomed to donning a mask. 

“You too, Herr Forehead.” He turned away, posture confident and untroubled, and Apollo watched him until he turned a corner out of sight.

——

(Okay. He was bludgeoned and strangled, no weapon discovered. Three glasses in the sink, and the maids hadn’t been in to clean up…holes in the bathroom wall…)

Apollo had a finger pressed to his forehead, eyes screwed shut. He was back at the office, and it was late—Mr. Wright and Athena had stopped by after the latter’s successful trial, but they had each gone home hours ago. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” the boss had warned, “a good night’s sleep is often the best trial preparation you can do.” 

He’d grunted his assent, but going home and relaxing meant wretched feelings could slip into his unguarded mind, so here he was, still trying to get blood from a stone with this case. He wasn’t the only night owl, though, because his phone rang. 

“Apollo? It’s Ema. Ran some tests on those glasses and bottle down at the lab.” 

“And?” He sat up straighter—could this be the linchpin?

“And…orange juice.” 

“What?”

“Orange juice,” she repeated, “that’s all we could get from them, glasses and bottles both.” A brief pause. “Well, one of them was mostly grapefruit juice actually, but same difference.” 

“Oh.” He slumped back down, annoyed. “Are you sure there weren’t any traces of, I don’t know, antroquinine or something?” 

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, “we ran a full panel for the most common poisons and more than a few uncommon ones—nothing.” There was a long silence on the line, which Ema broke, “y’know, that Blackquill guy isn’t as bad as his reputation would have you believe—I kinda like him.” 

“Okay?” Apollo said.

(What a non sequitur—why is she telling me this? Doesn’t she know I had work to do?)

“Yeah,” she went on, coolly nonchalant, “I’d probably sleep with him, if he asked nicely.” 

“What?” Apollo spluttered, his overtaxed brain short-circuiting. This was nowhere close to what he expected when he picked up the phone. “That’s…what…him? Seriously?” 

“Sure,” she said, “he’s clever and knows it, is more than a little conceited about it in fact, but with a brooding, tortured-soul thing about him—teen Ema’s exact type. Adult Ema’s type, too, if I’m being brutally honest with myself.” She paused, and Apollo could almost see her tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if he likes women? If he does…well, let’s be honest, the man’s been in prison for seven years and I’m hot by normal standards so…”

“But he’s a prosecutor,” Apollo protested weakly. 

“So?”

“And you’re a detective!”

“So?” 

“So, doesn’t that make him kind of your boss?” 

“Eh, sometimes, sometimes not.” Ema sounded entirely unbothered with such details. “I’ve finally got all my credentials in order to formally transfer to forensics anyway, as soon as there’s an opening that is, and then I won’t have to worry so much about prosecutors breathing down my neck all the time. Even so, I’ll have you know that I’m a paragon of professionalism—I would never let a little sex between valued colleagues affect my job performance.” 

(That can get out of hand before you know it, believe me.)

But Apollo didn’t say that. Instead, he grumbled, “why are you telling me this during work hours?” 

“First of all, it is in fact not work hours for most sane people,” she chided, then went on more hesitantly, “second…well, we used to hang out and shoot the shit like this all the time but we haven’t in a while, so I thought…I guess I was trying to…” She trailed off. 

So that’s what this was about. Apollo felt pricks of sadness and annoyance in equal measure, but both feelings were muted by exhaustion.

“Apollo.” Ema’s voice took on that low and gentle tone that people always got with him lately, like he was a skittish, feral animal. “I heard about what happened and…I’m so sorry.” 

“I have to go.” 

“What?”

“See you tomorrow.” He hung up, self-loathing crawling up his throat. Perhaps they were right to treat him that way. He hated this person he’d become, closed off to everyone, but it was what he had to do—what he’d always done to get through. Mr. Wright, Trucy, Athena, Ema…Klavier. None of them could understand.

Chapter Text

On nights he was alone, Edgeworth’s typical evening routine was a simple one. He started with the careful removal of his work attire, folding or hanging each item as appropriate, then perhaps he would cook dinner or revitalize some leftovers in quiet solitude, and then unwind with The Steel Samurai and a glass of pinot noir. 

Tonight, however, it was all he could do to remove his glasses before falling prone onto the bed. 

It had been a draining day in an exhausting week with no relief in sight. The von Richter case was as sensational as expected; he’d spent much of the day fielding calls from criminal affairs and the press in turns as he attempted to carve a path forward for his prosecutors. That was layered on top of the nontrivial daily efforts it took just to keep the cogs turning in the great lurching machine that was the prosecutor’s office, plus he’d had to make the final revisions and send his Conflicts of Interest Policy proposal, if only to stave off the temptation to postpone the personal admission buried within it…again. And he had to cope with all this on scant, disrupted sleep. 

He could certainly handle nightmares. For most of the year they were far and few between, and if he occasionally awoke with a start—mind ablaze with the image of cold metal glinting with malice in his too-small hands—the terror receded quickly enough. It was only a dream, after all, a memory of a memory. However, lately the dream had changed. The perspective was wrong, askew. Around him, a viscous liquid crept across the tiled floor, shimmering in the dim, red emergency lights. How could this happen? Everything he had worked for…ended. Just like that, in an unintentional act of random violence. Meaningless. His eyes found a small form curled on the floor, all slender limbs and knobby joints, face obscured by a limp curtain of light hair, normally kept so neat—he was so fastidious for a child. What would happen to him now?

And it was to this swell of fear and despair and unbearable cold that Edgeworth always awoke, thrashing in his bedsheets, face wet with tears he was helpless to stem. This new dream disturbed him to his very core in a way that lingered oppressively. Well into his waking hours, he was uncomfortably aware of his every heartbeat, the thuds marking some inexorable countdown. 

He almost longed to close his eyes and feel the heft of the gun in his child’s hands—at least that was familiar. 

So, are we going to talk about it?

Edgeworth grimaced and heaved himself onto his back, rubbing his aching eyes. Phoenix had noticed him struggling, which stirred up a horrid concoction of irritation, panic, and longing. How could he talk about this? The right words did not seem to exist. 

But of course, an admission of his unbalanced state couldn’t be enough to satisfy—that man wanted to host a holiday party with him? Him? Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth? Even if he had any desire to do such a thing, his unspoken moratorium on anything Christmas had made him into something of a Dickensian villain among his subordinates, at least in the eyes of those who didn’t know—or didn’t care to remember—his particular history with this time of year. If he gave in to such nonsense now he may never live it down. 

But those eyes, imbued with such tender concern, such genuine hope…

(Damn him. How could he do this to me?)

A low sound reverberated through the bed, beating a slow but persistent rhythm—his phone. A glance at the screen and he instantly threw it back down, mouth twisting. Two more vibrations and his frown deepened. It could be an emergency—he had to answer.

Still not bothering to sit up, he swiped the phone open. “Hello?”

“Edgeworth? It’s Maya!” 

“If this is about Steel Samurai Origins, no, I haven’t watched it yet. Some people have real jobs, I hope you realize.” 

“Okay first of all, training to be the spiritual leader of my people is a ‘real job.’ I’d like to see you stand under a freezing waterfall for four hours.” He could almost imagine her, fists balled and cheeks inflated in righteous indignation, and it nearly made him grin. “Second of all, if you’re not ready to discuss Origins then you may as well send me the next few volumes of that Signal Samurai manga of yours. I guess the library out here doesn’t see the point of getting anything so ancient and obscure, no matter how many times I ask.” 

“As you wish.” He was far too tired to rise to her playful jabs nor to point out, again, that postage to the Kingdom of Khura’in was not cheap—for the moment, it was easier to just give in. 

“But that’s not why I called, stop changing the subject! I want to know why you won’t go to Nick’s holiday party.” She said it conversationally, but he sat bolt upright as if slapped. 

“He told you about that?” Edgeworth demanded.

“Sorta,” Maya said, “he mentioned he was thinking about doing something like that, and when I talked to him today he seemed a little pouty—not hard to guess the cause.” 

“And so he sent you to wear me down, I take it.” 

“No,” she huffed, “believe it or not, I called because of you. I’m worried—Nick said you look like you got hit by a truck.” After a moment of incredulous silence, she said, “okay, so maybe those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of it once I ran it through the trusty ol’ Nick-and-Edgeworth-verbal-homoeroticism filter. Anyway, I realized I know what’s wrong with you—it’s him, your dad.”

The sheer emotional whiplash between those statements ripped a harsh, humorless laugh past Edgeworth’s lips. Through gritted teeth he said, “yes, seeing as the anniversary of his violent murder is imminent, he has been on my mind. How astute of you to notice.” 

“Sheesh, Nick wasn’t kidding, you are more prickly and sensitive than usual. I guess I’m going to have to spell it out for you: this year is different because you’re the same age he was when he died.” 

Edgeworth’s lungs froze. After a few seconds distorted to an eternity, he managed one sharp, brittle breath. “How do you know that?”

“Simple math. I do pay attention to the important stuff, you know. Also, I know how it feels.” Her voice was suddenly sober. “We keep changing, and they’ll always stay the same. It’s like, you’ve been grieving the person they were but there’s also the person they might have been, had things gone differently.” 

There was a heavy silence between them, Maya serenely patient, and Edgeworth reeling at how she had, with surgical precision, exposed the snarled root of the matter. 

At last, he managed to respond, “I-I’m sorry. I should not have spoken to you that way.” It was a truth he forgot too often, that she also knew the weight of significant grief. What’s more, by virtue of her station, she had an intimate relationship with death and the dead; for her, there was no hiding from its cold reality. Edgeworth had never once been tempted to request that she channel his father and she had never offered. What would he even ask? What would he say? And at the end, would it be like losing him all over again? No, he would find no closure on that path; in fact, Edgeworth was fairly certain the shock of looking his father in the eyes again after all this time, after everything, would drag him so far back into that suffocating darkness he may succumb entirely. He couldn’t fathom how she withstood it. 

“Look,” Maya said, firmly but not unkindly, “I’m not going to tell you ‘go live your life, it’s what he would have wanted’ because I hate it when people say that stuff to me, as if I don’t already know…but it doesn’t change anything to punish yourself. You don’t have to love Christmas, but you do have to love Nick no matter what, because if you two regress back to angrily pining at each then I think I will actually commit murder.” 

“Alright, alright, point taken.” Oddly, her words had fortified him somehow; he even felt a small grin fluttering at the corner of his mouth. “I had no idea such wisdom could coincide with intentionally exposing oneself to frigid torrents of water on a regular basis.” 

“Maybe you should try it sometime.” The customary teasing lilt had returned to her voice. “Anyway, gotta go. Promise you’ll call Nick and help with his holiday thing?” 

“I-I promise.” 

“And send your old-man manga?” 

“Yes, very well.” 

“Then my work here is done.” And without fanfare, she hung up. 

In one last indulgent moment of self pity, Edgeworth pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and groaned. Then he straightened his cravat to steel himself and dialed Phoenix’s number.  

——

While it was rare for the Chief Prosecutor to personally observe a trial, it was not unheard of. This was an unusual case in many regards, so it was reasonable for him to wish to keep abreast of new developments firsthand. 

And if he should happen to sit beside a respected colleague—the superior to the opposing counsel, no less—with whom he was known to have strong collaborative ties…well, surely that was not so remarkable. It was unlikely anyone privy to the Conflicts of Interest Policy proposal would be in attendance, and even if they were, it wasn’t as though he and Wright were doing anything untoward. 

(I am losing my mind.) 

Edgeworth attempted, again, to center himself and focus on the scene at hand, but his over-exhausted brain was prone to drifting into such irrelevant matters. He retrieved his organizer and favorite fountain pen, poised to take notes, but the motion caught the eye of the man beside him. Wright darted a glance at him, flashing a brief disarming grin. Edgeworth scowled back.

(Not helping.)

Blackquill, as expected, delivered the opening statement with aplomb; Edgeworth had finally managed to disabuse him of the silent intimidation gambit—mostly. Also at the bench, Gavin held a relaxed posture, a bit too casual for Edgeworth’s liking—he would again have to remind the prosecutor to acquire an appropriate belt and tie, or at the very least to tuck in his God-forsaken shirt before appearing in court—but insufferable lack of decorum notwithstanding, Gavin’s legal acumen and firm stance against corruption placed him among the most trustworthy of Edgeworth’s prosecutors. 

They called their first witness, the lead Detective Ema Skye. Edgeworth had requested her specifically; intelligent and levelheaded, if any detective could hold their own against the combined force of Blackquill and Gavin, it was her. She testified to the state of the crime scene and body, which had sustained severe bludgeoning with the ultimate cause of death ruled to be asphyxiation. It was at this juncture Blackquill prompted the detective to call attention to the defendant’s injured knuckles, the implication clear. 

Wright made a small noise in his throat, barely audible. He learned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the defense’s bench. 

“Come on,” he whispered, “don’t let that slide…”

After a moment’s delay, the room rang with an explosive, “Objection!” The tight lines of Wright’s face softened slightly, but he did not relax back into his seat. 

Edgeworth studied the young attorney below. He pointed dramatically across the room, a  sharp but natural gesture from obvious practice, and yet there was a tenseness about him, a bruised look around his eyes. His partner in this case, Ms. Cykes, seemed brighter, if solemn. 

“He looks…tired,” Edgeworth murmured, “how have the two of them been faring, since…ah…”

He was surprised to feel a nauseating twist of unease just under his ribs. Since the tumultuous events surrounding the space center earlier that fall, he had felt this occasional spike of concern for Wright’s two young charges. He’d often thought that perhaps he should extend some small offering of support or advice…but how could he? He was certainly experienced with managing grief and trauma, but in truth he still felt like a novice at doing so in anything approximating a healthy manner. What’s more, Mr. Justice and Ms. Cykes may very well hate him, and perhaps rightly so, for the role he had played in that trial, for the things he had said in pursuit of truth. His frayed nerves crackled once again at the thought of Wright’s ill-conceived holiday party, in which his presence would be unduly forced upon them. 

“Not now,” Wright said in reply to Edgeworth’s question, though not reprimanding, “I need to listen.” 

“O-of course.” What was he doing, thinking this way, now, of all times? He shoved all distracting emotion and the pain of his persistent headache to the margins of his awareness, redoubling his focus. He tried to imagine he was the one down there, where he became his purest self—the best and worst versions—and nothing else existed but the web of threads among the people and objects before him, nothing else mattered but the truth. 

As the room’s chatter died down, Mr. Justice cleared his throat. “Ms. Skye, a moment ago, you testified to the court that Mr. von Richter Sr. was beaten before his death, quite severely. Do you stand by that statement?” 

“Yes,” she answered warily, “that’s what the autopsy report says.” 

“And such extensive damage would require several, repeated strikes—do you agree?” 

“Um, yeah, now that you mention it.” 

“Well, look at my client’s hands. He’s got some scrapes on the first two knuckles, sure, but they’re quite small and localized. Furthermore, look at this photo of him as he was discovered at the scene of the crime. Judging by the extent of the victim’s injuries, his hands should be covered in blood—front and back, seeing as the victim was ultimately strangled—but that’s not what we see.” 

“Objection!” Blackquill spoke up at last. “There is a simple explanation for this—that you did not think of it gives me concern for your hygiene practices, Justice-dono. Couldn’t Wolfgang von Richter have simply…washed his hands? There was a bathroom not ten steps away. It would have taken less than a minute to erase that evidence to avoid being caught, quite literally, red-handed.” 

“He has a point,” Edgeworth mused, quietly, “it is plausible, although he is quite overdoing it with the smugness.” 

“And you would know, seeing as you invented ‘overdoing it with smugness,’” Wright huffed out a small chuckle, “but just wait. Your man’s point is not as solid as he thinks.” 

On cue, Justice interjected below, “Objection! But he did have plenty of blood on his hands, just around his split knuckles, and judging by the photos it had been drying there for a while. Why would he rush off to the bathroom to scrub his hands only to do such a shoddy job? Wait…the bathroom…” the defense attorney abruptly turned to his co-counsel, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. 

The Judge cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is the defense requesting a recess…?”

“No, Your Honor.” Justice turned back toward the center of the room, aglow with new confidence. “I think I can change our interpretation of this whole situation.”

“Here comes Justice.” Wright nudged Edgeworth lightly with his shoulder, and he looked to see his companion smirking.

“Ugh, please tell me that’s not something you all actually say in your little circus of a law firm.” 

“Well, Apollo does, to hype himself up when he thinks people aren’t listening. Although, is it really that much more cringeworthy than Gavin starting every trial with ‘let’s rock?’”

“Touché.”

“In the victim’s hall bathroom,” Justice was explaining below, “we found something quite odd—a small painting that had been moved.” 

“Ah.” Gavin snapped his fingers, which earned him a withering look from Blackquill. 

“It was covering some dents in the wall.” A small smile played across Justice’s face. “About fist-sized, wouldn’t you say, Prosecutor Gavin?” Blackquill was openly staring daggers at his co-prosecutor now, but Justice didn’t wait for a reply. “My client’s battered knuckles are only evidence of one thing, that he took out his frustration on the drywall and tried to cover it up. While I’m not denying that destruction of property is still a crime, it is a far cry from murder.” 

The room buzzed once again as Justice folded his arms triumphantly. Edgeworth merely frowned. Didn’t the young attorney see the logical implications? He was about to comment as such to Wright when Blackquill’s harsh command sliced through the din.

“Silence!” He leaned back, tapping his temple with one blunt finger. “So, if Wolfgang von Richter did not beat his father with his bare hands, there must be some as-yet undiscovered weapon involved, is that what you are insinuating?”

“Ah…” Justice smoothed down his hair, spikes springing back into upright position in defiance of all known laws of physics. Suddenly uncertain, the attorney said, “yeah, I guess I am.”

“Good, I agree.” Blackquill grinned. “Because that is the extent of what you have proven. This does not absolve your client at all—it merely establishes that he was in a heightened emotional state, so much so that he was indeed moved to a violent outburst. Is it not then probable that, unsatisfied by striking an inanimate wall, he obtained a weapon and vented his ire on his father instead?” 

“Oh, come on!” Ms. Cykes slammed both hands on the table, teeth bared, the pendant at her neck pulsing red.

“Order! Order!” The Judge called over the renewed noise, “this court asks that the defense control themselves! Detective Skye?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Was there any sign of such a weapon at the crime scene?”

“No, Your Honor,” she answered slowly, “but I suppose we can look again?” 

“Then do so.”

“Frau Detective?” Gavin added, “Perhaps you could order another autopsy? If the victim was indeed hit with a hard object, perhaps there would be signs that could help us determine what to look for?” 

“Fine.” 

As the detective strode out of the room, Wright leaned sideways to mutter in Edgeworth’s ear, “do you think they’ll find anything?”

“Perhaps. Updates to the autopsy report are not unprecedented.” At that, Wright snorted and gave him a wry look, to which Edgeworth found his fingers tapping an annoyed rhythm. “I don’t suppose you are ever going to let that go?” 

“Not a chance.” 

“While we await further information regarding a potential murder weapon,” the Judge declared, pulling the courtroom back to attention, “I believe the prosecution has two witnesses for us today.” 

“What!?” Justice squawked as Cykes whined, “two?” 

“Mr. Justice…please…try to remain calm,” the Judge admonished weakly, wincing at the volume and pitch.

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Blackquill said as if there had been no interruption, “one is a witness to the crime in a traditional sense, the other you could consider a character witness—we will start with the latter.” With an expression not unlike that of a lion eyeing a baby gazelle, the prosecutor gestured in the direction of the defendant’s chair. “Manuel Cantor, if you please.” 

He indicated the unassuming interpreter who instantly blanched, but his mouth drew to a thin, determined line—perhaps he had seen this coming? His employer’s attorneys evidently had not been afforded any warning.

“I knew it, I knew he was hiding something!” Mr. Justice hissed, loud even above the surprised gasps and whispers. 

“Mr. Justice, I will not warn you again. Control your outbursts or I will hold you in contempt of court.” The wrinkles across the Judge’s forehead deepened—he was in quite a grim mood, it seemed, which did not bode well for the brash courtroom style Wright had impressed upon his junior associates. 

“Come on, pull yourself together…” the man mumbled beside him, concern writ plainly across his face. As unprofessional as it was to be so emotionally invested in one’s underlings, Edgeworth found it oddly touching. 

“Objection!” Ms. Cykes interjected, perhaps in an attempt to buy Justice some time to rally. “Your Honor, our client is Deaf, and Mr. Cantor is his interpreter. It would be wrong—discriminatory, even—to prevent Mr. von Richter from understanding his own trial, and you can hardly expect Mr. Cantor to testify and interpret at the same time!”

“Objection!” Gavin parried, “What do you take us for, fräulein? We are not so callous as you presume. Of course we have arranged for a temporary, alternative interpreter.” 

“First of all, in here, it’s Ms. Cykes to you,” the young woman said heatedly, “second, why were we not informed of this!?” 

“We have an obligation to protect a witness from coercion or retribution, which includes shielding their identity outside of court,” Blackquill recited, “but Mr. Cantor was, of course, free to tell you himself. That he declined to do so has nothing to do with us.” 

Even as the defense ran out of objections, it took several minutes to coax their client back into his seat; clearly, he had not anticipated this turn of events, either. In the kerfuffle, something passed between von Richter and Cantor—more than simply relaying the Judge’s threat to have the defendant restrained—and the young man relented. Mr. Cantor approached the witness stand, while a dowdy, elderly woman took up the interpreter’s position. 

“Please give your name and occupation to the court,” Blackquill commanded.

The young man straightened his starched white shirt and plucked at the hem of his sweater vest. When he finally spoke, his hands hovered awkwardly in front of him, as if unsure what to do with them. “Manuel Cantor. I’m a American Sign Language interpreter and valet to Wolfgang von Richter.” 

“And how long have you been in this position?” 

“Nearly seventeen years.” 

“Correct me if I am mistaken,” Gavin stepped in, “but that would mean you have been tending to Mr. Von Richter since you were children?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Please tell us then,” Gavin pressed, “how does a fifth-grader come to be employed in such a fashion?” 

“We went to school together and…I don’t know we were both misfits in our own way so we sort of ended up together,” Cantor said, eyes downcast. “I was the only kid who knew sign language and no one else ever wanted to hang out with me so it was a natural fit I guess…anyway, next thing I knew, I went with Wolfgang everywhere. Fancy events, expensive summer camps, family vacations…we had identical class schedules all through high school and college. As we got older, we realized the von Richters had some sort of arrangement with my parents, and when I turned eighteen, I started getting my own stipend.” 

“And would you say Mr. von Richter here has many other friends?” Blackquill asked, “does he seem well liked, in your experience?” 

“Objection!” Justice called out, “we’re trying to solve a murder here, how is this relevant?” 

“I agree, Mr. Blackquill,” the Judge said, “I do not see the point of ridiculing the defendant for being friendless.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t, Your Ba- Your Honor.” The rapid flicker of Blackquill’s eyes towards the gallery and mid-sentence correction did not escape Edgeworth’s notice. Belligerence towards the Judge was yet another bad habit he was trying to stamp out in his prosecutors.

(He only stopped himself because he knows I’m here…something to note on his annual performance review…)

“But no matter.” Blackquill waved a thick hand dismissively. “Consider it retracted.” Of course, that line of questioning had already served its purpose; Cantor’s hesitation and visible discomfort spoke volumes. It was manipulative, which Edgeworth wasn’t sure he could fully endorse, but undeniably clever. “Let us get to the meat of the matter. Mr. Cantor—please testify to the court about the defendant’s relationship with his father. And before you damage the poor Judge’s ears any further, Justice-dono, this is relevant to establishing motive.” 

“It’s more than that,” Wright whispered, frowning, “he’s up to something.”

“It would appear so, yes,” Edgeworth replied quietly, deciding against offering his suspicions regarding Blackquill’s long game.

“Fine, we accept the witness’s testimony,” Justice said through clenched teeth.

“How gracious of you,” Blackquill sneered back, “now, Mr. Cantor, if you please.” 

The witness’s gaze darted between the prosecutor and the defendant several times, before settling firmly on the polished wood in front of him. 

“Wolfgang’s relationship with his father is—was—complicated. They just…didn’t talk much, that’s all.” Cantor’s head suddenly snapped up, his eyes bright with desperation. “But Wolfgang would never kill anyone, I swear it!” 

The room rang with uncomfortable silence. Wright angled his head toward Edgeworth’s ear once more and privately voiced what they were surely all thinking, “well, that was a big nothing of a testimony if I ever heard one.” 

“Well, ah, Mr. Justice,” the Judge said at last, “your cross examination?”

The young attorney in question had one finger pressed to his forehead, fixing the witness with an unblinking stare.

“Hold it, Mr. Cantor,” he said, surprisingly level, “you said Wolfgang ‘doesn’t talk much’ with his father—can you explain what exactly you mean by that?” 

“Objection!” It was Gavin this time. “Herr Forehead, you cannot possibly be about to claim the phrasing as a contradiction? Of course Wolfgang and his father did not audibly talk, it is a figure of speech.” 

Curiously, Blackquill did not seem to mind his co-prosecutor interrupting to state the obvious; in fact, the corner of his mouth quirked, as though amused.

“Just answer the question please, witness.” Justice, for all his earlier scrambling, seemed unfazed. Edgeworth knew that look—it was the same one Wright got when he’d discovered a loose thread in the tapestry of the case and was working on just the right way to unravel it. 

“W-well,” Cantor stammered, “they just don’t see eye-to-eye on most things…they don’t communicate well.” 

“Ah, a shame,” Blackquill shook his head somberly, “but I’m sure Mr. Von Richter did his best by his son, in his own way. You gave testimony to that effect earlier—he ensured his son would never want for a companion and interpreter, no matter where he went.” 

“He didn’t do that for Wolfgang, he did it for himself.” Cantor’s tremulous voice suddenly turned sharp and his posture stiffened. Blackquill leaned forward slightly, betraying his eagerness. He was clearly trying to strike a nerve, goad Cantor into revealing something—something Blackquill hoped the defense would latch onto. Indeed, the witness obliged without further prodding. “He didn’t even bother to try to learn ASL, I mean what kind of father…” 

“Objection!” Justice aimed his outstretched arm straight at the witness. “Mr. Cantor, am I correct in understanding that Mr. von Richter Sr. did not understand any sign language?” 

“Uh…not really, no.” Cantor shrank back in on himself again. “I mean…you’re right. He didn’t know ASL at all, never seemed interested in learning.”

“That’s awful,” Ms. Cykes said, frowning, but her fellow attorney had clearly grabbed hold of the loose thread, and he was doggedly pursuing it to its end, apparently oblivious to the jaws of Blackquill’s trap closing around him. 

“Hold it,” he said again, “Frederick von Richter had an appointment to meet with his son, Wolfgang. How were they supposed to communicate if Mr. von Richter didn’t know any ASL, as you say?” Justice drew up, his chest inflating, hands balled into fists on the table. “I’ll tell you how—they had an interpreter, and there’s no one else it could have been but you, Manuel Cantor! You were there when the murder occurred!” 

“Order! Order!” The clack of the gavel rose above the shocked murmured of the crowd. 

“Silence!” Blackquill shouted impatiently. “Is this true, Mr. Cantor?”

“N-no!” The witness leaned forward over the stand again, eyes wide. “I was not there, I swear it!” 

Justice faltered. “But then…how did they talk?” 

“I…uh…” Cantor stammered, “Wolfgang can lip read quite well—it’s not ideal, but…” 

“Objection! But would Mr. von Richter Sr. understand him?” Justice pointed out, to more incoherent sputtering from the witness. The young attorney’s brows knit. “Mr. Cantor, may I remind you that perjury is a serious crime. If you know something, you must tell us honestly.” 

“I-I wasn’t there, but there’s someone else…”

An unfamiliar voice, nasally and feminine, cut him off. “Objection.” 

Edgeworth joined the rest of the room in searching wildly for the source—it was the new interpreter, hands folded neatly over her floor-length wool skirt, her drooping eyes fixed on the man before her, who had exploded out of his seat. 

She continued in the same monotone voice, “this is bullshit. Don’t do it you traitor, you fucking bastard.” 

“Mrs. Dodd!” The judge exclaimed, blinking in surprise, then he seemed to remember himself. “I mean, Mr. von Richter! I ask that you please refrain from using such language in my courtroom!” 

The old woman passed on the message with sharp, efficient motions and facial expressions, but the defendant paid her no mind. She watched him carefully, speaking aloud his exchange with Mr. Cantor, her voice incongruously calm beside the heated body language of the two men. “Wolfgang, it would be best to tell the truth…no you promised…I think it will be okay…leave that person out of it…Wolfgang, see the interpreter, everyone can understand you…” 

The defendant dropped his hands immediately. Mrs. Dodd signed something to him, and her expression seemed to imply a question, but he did not respond. 

“That’s enough, Mr. Cantor,” Blackquill said, “I will not ask you to betray your companion’s trust, for I already know who was present—she is waiting to give testimony, as I alluded to at the outset.”

Wolfgang’s head snapped toward the prosecutor, face livid. 

Blackquill ignored him. “So, what have we established here? That there was a third person in the apartment when Wolfgang von Richter killed his father, vital information which both he and his loyal employee attempted to conceal. Curious don’t you think, Justice-dono?” The defense attorneys did not respond; they were both slumped over the desk as though winded. Blackquill did not wait for them to recover. “Your Honor, the prosecution will take a brief recess to prepare our witness.” 

“Ah…y-yes, ten minute recess.” The Judge, similarly dumbstruck, slammed his gavel down with a sharp finality. 

“This is not good,” Wright said grimly, “I’d better go rally the troops.” 

“Alright.” Edgeworth acknowledged, and Wright took off down the steps. He considered for a moment whether he too should reconvene with his subordinates…but no, he knew any praise or bolstering would seem hollow coming from him. He simply did not know how to be the kind of mentor Wright clearly was…

It was no matter. Blackquill and Gavin got on well enough without any sentimental coddling. Instead, Edgeworth turned his attention to his trial notes and predicting the next move.

Chapter Text

(Well. This is going terribly.)

Apollo valiantly attempted to keep his posture calm and confident, to prevent his body from betraying his inner thoughts, but it was not an easy task given the rancid atmosphere in the defense lobby. Wolfgang and Manuel were conversing curtly, but neither seemed to want the defense attorneys privy to their exchange, so he and Athena stood shuffling their feet in awkward silence. At least they had dismissed Mrs. Dodd.

After a few strained minutes the door clicked open to reveal Mr. Wright, his face grim. With his boss watching, suddenly Apollo couldn’t take it anymore—he was supposed to be in charge here, right?

“Alright, there is no use in hiding this any longer.” He addressed the two arguing men in the most authoritative way he could muster. “Who exactly are they about to put on the stand?” 

Wolfgang and Manuel eyed each other shiftily. After signing Apollo’s meaning, the interpreter came forward a half step. 

“Mr. Justice,” he said in an uncertain, wobbling voice, “I speak for myself now…I apologize for causing you trouble like this. I…I thought I could clear Wolfgang’s name, make them see he’s not a bad person like they want to make him out to be…” he dutifully signed each sentence to Wolfgang after he spoke it, though it was on what seemed a longer delay than usual, as if he had to gather his thoughts and feelings before turning on his interpreter’s brain. “And…and I must confess…I have tried to conceal Wolfgang’s words I…I don’t know when it started, but sometimes I will tweak his, shall we say, ‘tone’ to come off a bit less…abrasive. Although, I’ve never done it as egregiously as in the last few days…but I wanted you to want to represent him—I wanted him to seem innocent, which he is! However, that is no excuse for betraying my responsibilities…I suppose that makes me a horrible interpreter.” He hung his head, dejected. Wolfgang merely stared at him, eyes wide.

Athena had one hand over her chest, forehead wrinkled in distress. “Maybe, but perhaps it makes you a good friend? Clearly, you were just trying to protect him.” Manuel signed her statement for Wolfgang, chin trembling and shoulders slumped with contrition, but the other man just clasped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“That’s all very well,” Apollo said, not too reproving, he thought, though it took effort, “but if you really want to help Wolfgang, we need you to be completely honest.” 

“Apollo’s right,” Mr. Wright cut in, “starting with what we’re about to see in there.” Wolfgang and Manuel exchanged another meaningful look. Finally, their client heaved a defeated sigh and raised his hands, the interpreter poised to speak.

“I think they’re going to bring my fiancée, Sylvia,” Wolfgang signed, “she was there when it happened.”  

Apollo folded his arms. “And why didn’t you tell us this before?” 

Wolfgang fixed them with a hard look. He pointed a blunt finger straight at Mr. Wright, who startled back slightly. “You think I don’t know what you do? You and your freaky little cronies? My mother insisted on calling you, so I had Manuel look you up. Every time, you deflect blame from your client onto whoever happens to be on the witness stand in front of you.” He paused to glare at all of them, a muscle working in his jaw. “Sylvia didn’t do anything wrong, so I didn’t want her dragged into it where she could become your target.” 

“‘Freaky little cronies…?’” Athena muttered weakly, wilting slightly. 

Manuel shrugged. “I’ve decided to be more true to Wolfgang’s words and intentions—any proper interpreter would tell you it’s wrong to do otherwise, especially in a life-or-death situation like this.” Apollo hadn’t realized someone could look so chagrined and so determined at the same time.

However, he ignored the exchange, mind whirring. “Well, someone did kill your father. Sylvia could very well have seen something important to the case.” 

“Maybe.” Wolfgang conceded. “I haven’t talked to her. I thought she didn’t want to see me. I thought she believed I really did it, but now I know that samurai-cosplaying bastard and his glittery boyfriend had her locked away.” 

Apollo’s face heated horribly, a conspicuous reaction judging by the twitch of Wolfgang’s eyebrows. Rushing to recover, Apollo said, “we’re just going to have to find out what she saw the old-fashioned way.” 

“Swear to me you won’t put the blame on her.” Wolfgang’s teeth were once again bared in his signature snarl as his eyes met Apollo’s in an unblinking stare.

“I…” Apollo hesitated.

(Believe in the client, I guess?) 

“Okay. I swear.” He gave a solemn nod, which Wolfgang returned gruffly, though he didn’t drop his gaze. Chancing a sidelong look, Apollo caught Mr. Wright frowning. 

“Thank you, Mr. von Richter, Mr. Cantor,” the older attorney said, “now if you’ll excuse us, we need to discuss strategy.” 

The three of them stepped to one side of the room, heads together, conferring quietly. 

“What do we do now, Mr. Wright?” Athena asked. 

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing,” the boss replied, “believe in your client’s innocence above all else, and try to keep your chins up. You know what I always say.” He gave a weak smile, which Apollo supposed was meant to be encouraging. 

“You think I was wrong to make that promise to Wolfgang—you think the fiancée had something to do with it?” He challenged.

Mr. Wright sighed. “I don’t know, Apollo. We don’t know anything about her yet or what she saw. Just stay on your toes and be prepared for anything…and don’t lose your nerve if you have to make a tough call.” He put a bracing hand on each of their shoulders in that paternal way of his, a gesture that never failed to stir up the parent-shaped vortex of resentment in Apollo. For emphasis, Mr. Wright added, “you can do this.” Apollo searched the other man for tells—he couldn’t help it—but his boss was as unreadable as ever. 

Reinforcing that conclusion, as if he had some secret quota for enigmatic behavior, Mr. Wright abruptly changed the subject. “So, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “So I was thinking we could have another office get-together, like we did for Thanksgiving—eggnog, cookies, games, the whole deal. We’ll do it at our place instead of the agency this time, seeing as we could all do with some homeyness this time of year. Maybe it’ll double as a victory party, but win lose or draw, it’s something to look forward to—something else to help motivate you through the trial, if you need.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Wright! We’d love to!” Athena gave a little skip and clasped her hands together eagerly. After a pause, she elbowed Apollo hard in the ribs.

“Ow…oh yeah, I’ll go too, I guess.” 

“Great!” Mr. Wright’s grin suddenly faltered. “Ah, there’s one tiny thing you should know…it’s a good thing, I promise, you might just need to, uh, mentally prepare yourselves…”

“Mr. Justice? We’re reconvening.” A bailiff's gruff voice interrupted whatever convoluted announcement Mr. Wright was stuttering through. Mind eagerly snapping back into Court Mode, Apollo made for the hallway, motioning Athena to follow.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wright,” he shot over his shoulder, “I’m sure it’ll be fine, whatever it is.” 

(I bet Trucy has some new crazy trick she’s going to rope me into…oh well, she hasn’t killed me yet, so how bad can it be?) 

Stuffing down the last twinges of nerves, Apollo resumed his place at the bench. 

“Order.” The Judge quieted the room with a single rap of the gavel. “We have established that a third person was present when Mr. Frederick von Richter was murdered, a fact the defendant tried to keep hidden. Prosecution, Your witness?” 

Blackquill inclined his head and stepped aside to reveal the most beautiful woman Apollo had ever seen. He immediately recognized this not out of subjective attraction, but as a simple matter of fact; every feature—high full cheeks, straight nose, rounded chin—seemed like it had been lovingly carved from marble in perfect, microscopic detail. The effect should have been intimidating, but her deep brown eyes were warm and inviting, which only served to enhance her magnetism. Not a single gaze wavered from her as she stepped delicately up to the witness stand, so poised she almost seemed to float, but for the tapping of her wedge heels. 

“Wow,” Athena breathed beside him.

“Stay focused,” Apollo ordered out of the side of his mouth, still without taking his eyes off the witness. 

“Uh…hmm…would the witness care to…uh…name and occupation, if you don’t mind?” It seemed the Judge too was captivated. 

“Sylvia Sterling,” the woman said in a high, breathy voice, sweeping a waterfall of waist-length red-blonde hair over one shoulder. “I’m a fashion model—I mostly work with Ack.” 

“Ack..?” Apollo muttered.

“It’s a pretty well-known fashion brand,” Athena replied, “under the RichterCorp umbrella.” 

“Sounds…gross. Does that stand for something or…?” But the trial went on before Apollo could get an answer. 

“And could you please explain for the court your relationship to the defendant?” Even Blackquill wasn’t entirely immune to her charms; his deep voice could almost be called gentle, although the fingers resting on his sword—how that was even allowed in a court of law was still beyond Apollo—betrayed his impatience at the Judge, who seemed to have entirely forgotten what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Oh, Wolfie is my boyfriend, or fiancé rather—sorry, still not used to that yet.”

“Hm, no ring,” Athena noted, and Apollo nodded to signal he too had noticed. 

Ms. Sterling continued, “we met on a photo shoot oh, seven, nearly eight months ago. His father wanted him to take a more active interest in the business, familiarize himself with day-to-day goings on, you see. Good thing he did, because one of my heels snapped and Wolfie happened to be standing by so he caught me and well, that was that.” She blushed demurely. 

“Well, he is a lucky young man,” the Judge said, still entranced. 

“Hmph.” Blackquill crossed his arms sourly. “We’ll see about that—your silent knight is on trial for murder, let's not forget.” 

“Fräulein, why don’t you tell us about the day of the crime, if you would?” Gavin’s intervention was timely, as the witness’s eyes brimmed with tears at Blackquill’s callous words. 

“O-okay.” She gave a dainty sniff. “Wolfie and I went to visit his father at 5 pm. Things were alright at first, we were just talking, but then Wolfie and Mr. Von Richter started arguing. I stepped away for a moment, but then I heard something back in the living room. When I looked…” she paused to gulp nervously. “T-there he was…dead! I think I screamed, and ran to call the police. It must have been an intruder, that’s the only thing that makes any sense!” 

“You are very brave to share that,” the Judge said when it was clear she would say no more. “The defense will want to ask you some questions now, but they will be nice about it.” He glowered straight at Apollo.

(Where do I even start?)

“Ah, Ms. Sterling?” He said carefully, keeping his volume under tight control. “There’s something I’d like to clear up. Was Mr. Cantor with you on this visit?” 

“No.” The witness shook her head, glossy hair shimmering in the light. “You see, when I first started dating Wolfie, I wanted to be able to understand him and make him understand me…so I got an online course to learn ASL. I practiced all the time, any chance I got, so after a while we didn’t need Manuel with us all the time. I mean, we still do hang out with him plenty—we’re all friends. On this visit though, it was just the two of us.” 

“So, I take that to mean you interpreted for Wolfgang and Mr. von Richter Sr.?” 

“…Yes.” 

“And what did you talk about?” Apollo pressed a finger to his forehead, watching and listening carefully.

“Oh…well…” she flushed prettily again, long lashes fluttering. “We—me and Wolfie that is—have decided we want to get married. He even got me a beautiful ring…but he asked me not to wear it out of the house yet, not until we broke the news to his father…so that’s what we went over there to do. I wish I could show it to you now but I haven’t been home since before…before the incident. These guys put me up in a hotel with police guarding me.” She nodded to the prosecutors. “They said it’s for my safety, seeing as it’s such a publicized case…but I’ve had to wear the same outfit two days in a row!” With a smoldering pout, she shoved her hands in the pockets of her pale-pink jacket. Apollo watched as the impression of a fist formed through the puffy material, and Ms. Sterling’s doleful expression instantly morphed into one of shock. A second later, though, she had dropped both hands to her sides, face blank once more. The whole motion was over so fast Apollo might have missed it had he not been intently watching for some twitch or tell. 

(What was that about?) 

Apollo decided to press on, filing that odd reaction away for later.

“And how did Mr. von Richter take the news?” He asked, already suspecting the answer.

“Not well…” Ms. Sterling hung her head, “he said…well he said some mean things…something like, ‘when I told you to man up and make a real investment in the future of our family, to prove to me that you’re worthy of inheriting this company, I didn’t mean go propose to the first airhead with a pretty face you came across.’ Then he said that I was just a nobody and a gold digger and that Wolfie should have higher standards…stuff like that.”

“And he made her be the one to relay all this? Brutal.” Athena muttered. 

“And Wolfie didn’t like that so it got a bit heated,” Ms. Sterling continued.

“Did it come to blows?” Blackquill suddenly prompted.

“Not that I saw…”

“Hold it!” Apollo called out, but at a stern glare from the Judge, he gentled his tone. “How could you have not seen any of what happened?” 

“Well, it all got to be too much, so I stepped away,” Ms. Sterling explained, “I-I though if we all had a little break and a drink things would calm down so that’s what I was doing, getting us something to drink.” 

(Hmm. That explains the glasses in the sink, I suppose.)

But something was off. Ms. Sterling had started playing with her hoop earring, eyes darting around frantically. 

“Was this before or after Wolfgang went into the bathroom?” Apollo asked, absently resting a hand on his bracelet.

“What?” She seemed genuinely confused. “I-I didn’t know about that.” 

“According to the prosecution,” Apollo said, “Wolfgang expressed his anger by punching the wall in the bathroom and then allegedly sought a weapon to beat his father to death, which I suppose they are claiming all happened while you were in the kitchen without your knowledge…” He trailed off. Something was definitely not adding up…but what?

“No!” Ms. Sterling cried with surprising force, “Wolfie would never do something like that! Things were calming down when I brought the drinks…” 

That was it. Judging by Blackquill’s disgusted grimace and Gavin’s rueful smirk, the prosecution saw it too.

“Objection!” Apollo shouted triumphantly, ignoring the witness’s startled blinks and the Judge’s disapproving expression. “Ms. Sterling. By your own testimony just a few minutes ago, you implied the victim was already dead when you returned with the drinks, after you heard a noise that startled you—I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘things calming down.’” 

“Ahh!” The witness recoiled, wobbling precariously on her high heels for just a moment. 

“This suggests that the victim was still very much alive when you came back with the drinks,” Apollo barreled on, picking up momentum, “plus, you don’t recall seeing Wolfgang leave for the restroom, which means he must have left and returned while you were gone, which casts doubt on the theory that he punched the wall then immediately sought a weapon to beat his father to death. However, all this directly contradicts your statement that you ran away to call the police shortly after returning from the kitchen…it’s almost as if…”

“Objection!” Gavin pointed over the desk, eyes alight. “Recall where we found the glasses, Herr Justice. They were in the sink. Ms. Sterling must have politely taken them back to the kitchen for washing afterward. This is when the murder could have occurred.” 

“Objection!” Apollo volleyed back. “But how long does it take to rinse a few glasses? And wouldn’t she have heard a struggle?”

“Silence!” Blackquill growled, “the victim was strangled, perhaps he could not cry out…”

“Objection!” Athena cut him off. “But that must have happened after all the punching—why beat up a guy who’s already dead? Besides, I have a different question…” 

“Silence!” Blackquill shouted again, just as Gavin added his own objection to the cacophony.

“Objection!” Apollo yelled back, fully leveraging his Chords of Steel, “Let her finish!” He was distantly aware of the Judge’s gavel clacking insistently, but the prosecutors were both opening their mouths to retort and Apollo damn well wasn’t about to be the first to back down.

"Hold it!” A new voice rose above the din, and every head in the courtroom turned to the source—Ema had re-entered, looking ragged and out of breath, a crisp Manila envelope clutched in one hand.

“Detective Skye!” The Judge regarded her in surprise. 

“Autopsy…new…information…” she huffed, clutching a stitch in her side. With obvious effort she composed herself and addressed the room. “They re-examined the body and you were right—there are signs the victim was struck with something that has a sharp edge. My people are searching the crime scene as we speak.” 

Apollo swallowed dryly. “So…there was a murder weapon?” 

“It would seem so, yes.” A grim shadow fell over Ema’s face. “But there’s more. They found something else…a hole from a needle on his thigh.” 

The room erupted into shocked chatter. On pure instinct, Apollo managed to wrench his gaze away from Ema to the woman on the witness stand, just in time to see her blanch and lay a hand over her coat pocket. A blink later, though, she schooled her expression into something vague and opaque that seemed to belong in moody grayscale on a magazine cover. 

“How could they not have noticed that on the first autopsy?” Athena whispered. 

Apollo didn’t answer, still laser-focused on Ms. Sterling.

(Why did she react like that?)

“Well Detective, this changes the case significantly,” the Judge said with a solemn shake of his head, “I for one cannot make heads or tails of it, and I do not believe we will make much more concrete progress today. We will reconvene tomorrow, at which time the defense and the prosecution will present their explanations for this new development.”

With one final clack, everyone began to move at once, as if released from a binding spell. Apollo glanced around the shifting crowd to find Mr. Wright, whose head was bent in low conversation with the Chief Prosecutor. Athena, head turned in the same direction, shot Apollo a knowing look, her ginger eyebrows waggling. He turned away quickly with a grimace.

(Not you too.)

Klavier loved to gossip and speculate, but Apollo didn’t want any part in imagining what his boss got up to during off hours—in fact, he was quite sure he’d rather pour bleach in his eyes. 

Shaking himself, Apollo filed out of the courtroom with the rest of the crowd, making certain to get ahead of Klavier and Blackquill without looking at them directly. Once they were safely sequestered in the defense lobby, he turned expectantly towards their client. 

“Wolfgang,” Athena approached carefully, “was all that true? If it is, then your father was still alive when you came back from the bathroom so…” 

“So you had to have seen something,” Apollo finished firmly as she trailed off. 

Wolfgang set his jaw and nodded to himself, resolute, or perhaps just resigned. 

“I don’t remember,” he signed slowly. 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Apollo’s every nerve was suddenly standing at attention.

“It’s a bit…fuzzy,” Wolfgang continued, motions hesitant. For his part, Manuel’s voice was steady, but there was a troubled look on his face. “After you left yesterday, I thought about it and realized I can only remember small parts. Riding up in the elevator with Sylvia…being so mad I hit the wall…then I was being arrested. Everything else is blank. That used to happened to me sometimes…I’d go out and overdo it, let’s say…but I haven’t done anything like that since I started dating Sylvia. I haven’t wanted to.” 

A suppressed scream of frustration rattled in Apollo’s lungs, but the genuine panic and desperation coming from both men was plain, holding fast to the last shreds of Apollo’s sympathy.

So instead, he merely pinched the bridge of his nose and gritted out, “is there anything else, anything at all, that you’re hiding from me?”

“No!” Manuel choked out as Wolfgang made a short sign with one hand and shook his head emphatically. 

(They don’t seem to be lying.) 

He looked to Athena for any kind of confirmation. Her eyes were round with concern but her fists were closed tightly in front of her, and Apollo felt a new wave of determination—she was right, they would see this through. 

“Alright,” Apollo said, “they’ll be wanting to take you back to the dentition center now. Just…if you do remember anything tell me immediately, got it? No more holding back.”

Wolfgang nodded, face sullen once more at the prospect of returning to a cell. As expected, guards descended on them as they emerged from the lobby, ushering their charge away with Manuel scurrying after. A moment later, Mr. Wright materialized from the thinning crowd. 

“That was…a lot.” He flashed a brief commiserating grimace, but he was stroking his chin, deep in thought. “We need to establish an exact timeline. Wolfgang and Ms. Sterling both left the room at some point…was there really a window of time in which an intruder could have run in, done the deed, and left without a trace?” He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment. “And what was your question, Athena?” 

“What?” She twitched, as if startled from her own contemplation. 

“In there, you said you had another question and it got drowned out.” 

“Oh, it was nothing, really.” She fidgeted with her earring. “I was just wondering why Ms. Sterling left to call the police from the front desk. She seems the type to keep a cellphone within arm’s reach.” 

“That’s a good point. What do you think, Apollo. Apollo?” 

But Apollo was only half listening. Down the hall, Blackquill and Gavin were posted up outside the women’s bathroom, the former surly, the latter casual in every way except his unwavering stare aimed straight at Apollo. When their gazes locked the other man didn’t look away. Despite the curl of a well-practiced roguish smile, there was something expectant and urgent about him. Apollo just stood there—transfixed in spite of himself—as Ms. Sterling emerged and Blackquill pushed off the wall, motioning brusquely for the witness and his co-prosecutor to fall in behind him. At last, Klavier broke eye contact, and they shared a brief exchange Apollo couldn’t make out from that distance. The outcome was an eye roll from Blackquill as he led Ms. Sterling away on his own. Klavier turned right back to Apollo, this time with a small upward jerk of his chin, beckoning.

“One moment,” Apollo muttered to his companions, his body already moving three steps ahead of his brain. Allowing himself to be summoned like this was a bit too familiar for comfort, and yet some instinct within him was reacting to the sharpness in those blue eyes—it was the look of the clever prosecutor, the part of Klavier he conveniently let people forget about when it suited him. Apollo never forgot. 

Klavier pulled him to one side, adroitly positioning them in just the right way as to close off passersby to their conversation without being suspicious enough to inspire eavesdropping. 

With a demeanor that suggested nothing more than his usual playful taunts, he said, “Ms. Sterling had something in her pocket—I know you saw it Herr Forehead, you see everything, don’t you? I believe she slipped away from us just now to dispose of it. Perhaps you should investigate.” 

“What, in the women’s restroom…?” Apollo said, knocked off balance by this seemingly random revelation. 

“Ja, if only you had a collaborator who could move freely through such a space.” 

“Oh, right.” They both paused a moment, and the air between them thickened. “Why…?”

“Because I seek the truth, Herr Forehead, nothing more, nothing less.” Klavier put his hands in his pockets, shrugging as though this were no more remarkable than commenting on the weather. 

“Klav…”

The cool facade cracked for just an instant, letting a flicker of something ardent and painful leak out. “What do you want from me, Apollo?” 

Apollo’s throat constricted, choking him, paralyzing him. Why was this so hard? 

Smooth and collected again in the bat of an eye, Klavier took a step back. “When you know, I will be waiting. Until then, I have a job to do.” He turned on his heel and sauntered after Blackquill without a backward glance. 

For the barest instant, Apollo almost called Klavier back, but he strangled that impulse with cold ferocity—he too had a duty to attend to.

He returned to Athena and Mr. Wright and explained what Gavin had said—leaving out their private conflict, as he'd rather perish than discuss that—in a curt and factual manner. Still, Athena eyed him with worried suspicion, though thankfully she didn’t press. With only moderate griping, she agreed to dig through the trash in the ladies’ room and returned with a crumpled up wad of paper-thin plastic. Apollo snatched it from her hand, revealing a cartoon sun, broad grin and sunglasses taking up most of the face, noodle-like arms pointing to bright yellow and orange letters. 

“Balmy C, low-pulp orange juice, not from concentrate,” Athena read aloud. 

Apollo regarded her and Mr. Wright, mirroring each other’s furrowed brows, which only deepened at his simple explanation. “The missing juice label.” 

Chapter Text

“What do you think, red or white?” Phoenix weighed two garlands, identical except for the lights embedded among the artificial foliage. A sharp, plastic smell evidenced their cheapness, but it would have do on short notice and a modest budget. His companion in this pre-Christmas shopping endeavor stood with arms crossed, cheek twitching as he ground his teeth. 

“Miles?” Phoenix prompted. 

“Pardon?” The prosecutor grumbled after a large family bustled past them in the narrow aisle and none too gently. Dusting himself irritably, he caught up to the question at last. “I suppose the white is marginally less garish.” 

Phoenix plopped the less offensive decoration into the cart and forged onward. By some Christmas miracle (or perhaps the sheer force of Miles’ contemptuous glares parting the crowd) they managed to acquire two whole cartons of eggnog. As Phoenix set them in the cart, they knocked against the various bottles of juice he intended for some sort of punch concoction. That reminded him briefly of the juice conundrum in their case—it seemed so mundane, and yet why would Ms. Sterling go to such lengths to conceal that label? Neither Apollo nor Athena had any clue, but hopefully they would unearth more before trial resumed. Phoenix sensed that would see the conclusion of the case—and Miles agreed—but you never knew when a sudden zag would push the proceedings to a third day.

The battle out of the parking lot stretched Miles’ thinning patience to its limits. As in all things, he usually took an icily calm and methodical approach to driving; Phoenix had never before witnessed him so much as honk the horn, but all poise was lost in the glut of cars swarming the supermarket. 

“Objection! Allow me to draw your attention to the signage, which indicates a four-way stop, perhaps you are familiar with the concept, you—” Miles caught sight of Phoenix’s grin, dropping his free hand back to the wheel, which had been pointing and gesticulating a moment before. 

“Easy counselor, you don’t want be held in contempt for your conduct.” 

“I’ll thank you to forget you ever saw that.” Miles’ dignified expression was undercut by the slight color in his cheeks. Phoenix just chuckled softly and patted his partner’s knee comfortingly as they finally escaped the throng.

Back home, they were greeted by the sweet, warm smell of baking cookies. Trucy padded on slippered feet from the kitchen, wearing a baggy apron that had only partially protected her clothes from an explosion of flour and sugar. She made to throw her arms around Miles’ neck, but one look at the mess on her personage and he took a hasty step back, a small sound escaping his throat that was half disgust, half pleading. Phoenix intercepted his daughter by reaching for her cheek, wiping away a smear of icing with his thumb. They exchanged a look that silently communicated a particular warning,  well known to both of them by this point: go easy on him right now. 

“Come have a look!” She said with a cheery smile, and they obediently followed deeper into the apartment. If Trucy’s clothes were a casualty of the mess, the kitchen was nothing short of a saccharine massacre…at least, that’s what one would think, judging by Miles’ agonized expression; Phoenix half expected him to bolt right then and there. Blissfully oblivious, Trucy plucked a sugar cookie from a plate on the table and waved it excitedly in front of their faces. 

They both examined the lumpy shape adorned with an uneven blob of blue icing, and Phoenix was the first to venture a comment. “Oh, uh, nice…Christmas tree?” 

“It’s not a tree!” Trucy huffed, putting her free hand on her hip, “it’s the Scales of Justice! We didn’t have a cutter that shape so I had to improvise…and I probably should have given them more time to cool before putting the icing on…oh well, lessons were learned. They still taste good!” She gave the cookie another little waggle, eyes shining expectantly. 

With a sideways glance at Phoenix, Miles pinched an icing-free edge between his thumb and forefinger on each hand, then delicately broke it into two more-or-less equal pieces. He handed one to Phoenix and eased the other fastidiously into his own mouth. 

Miles smiled at Trucy, the strained creases in his face relaxing into something tender and sincere. “Yes, a well-executed cookie in matters of taste and consistency, even if the appearance is a bit…avant-garde.” 

Phoenix’s heart swelled as he crunched his own half of the scales. Even caught in his stormiest moods, Miles reserved a special softness for Trucy, and when it shone through in little moments like this, Phoenix couldn’t help but feel like maybe they really were growing into something like a family, the three of them together. Maybe they had been all along.

(Hah, I guess you could say life truly is sweet.)

Trucy beamed at the praise and hurriedly resumed enclosing the platters of finished sweets in noisy aluminum foil, which she had evidently halfway completed when they walked in.

“I need to go do a few more checks and run-throughs for the Christmas Day show,” she explained in a rush, her eyes roaming around the room guiltily, as if noticing the mess for the first time, “so…”

“You go clean yourself up,” Phoenix said, “I’ll take care of this.” 

“Thanks, Daddy!” She swept out of the room, leaving a vaguely Trucy-shaped puff of flour in her place. 

Shaking his head as a warm tingle settled in his chest that had nothing to do with the sugar, Phoenix set himself to unpacking the groceries. Somehow, he found places for the eggnog, juice, and a few other necessities within the increasingly precarious Jenga tower that was their fridge’s interior. Meanwhile, Miles pushed the cookie platters to the center of the table, reluctantly reaching the conclusion that there was nowhere better for them to go in the cluttered kitchen. 

“Quite the creative endeavor,” he mused, gesturing over the results of Trucy’s baking frenzy, “at least she did not ask me to eat baked goods out of unmentionables.” 

Phoenix laughed. “Yeah, she knows by now that you hate that one, probably because you call panties ‘unmentionables’ like some kind of repressed Victorian. At least that’s one thing you have in common with Apollo: a mutual dislike for the P-word. Hey—keep that in your back pocket for the party!”

Miles sniffed primly. “If I have to resort to discussing such a thin connection as that, my abilities as a conversational partner have truly deteriorated beyond saving.” He turned to unloading the other bag, grimacing as he withdrew the garland and the packets of red and green streamers. “Is all this truly necessary?” 

“It’s for the festive atmosphere; it is a Christmas party after all,” Phoenix answered lightly. When Miles’ face refused to un-pinch, he went on, “tell you what—whenever we put on some big, important to-do like our wedding or something, you can be in charge of decor.” 

As soon as it left his mouth, Phoenix knew that had been the wrong thing to say. The fuzzy feelings instantly congealed into embarrassment and dread, plummeting painfully into his stomach. 

“Ah,” Miles said stiffly, in that careful way that signaled he was deliberately veiling some emotion he didn’t want exposed, “I did not realize that you expected…” 

“Not expected,” Phoenix said hastily, “obviously, we can figure that out later, when we’re ready. I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise.” 

“Ah,” Miles said again, pitched up slightly with strain, and the pit in Phoenix’s stomach turned to lead. “You see, I had never envisioned myself…I just think that in a relationship that is already stable and mutually beneficial…why involve the law and introduce unnecessary complication?” 

“Oh.” It was all Phoenix could say. He turned away, terrified of what his face might betray. Desperately seeking some outlet, he began throwing bowls and utensils into the sink at random, breathing shallow. All at once, a thousand small, nebulous fantasies rose from where they had been incubating in the depths of his mind, only to pop like so many bubbles in champagne left to go flat. Somewhere inside him, that teary-eyed, pink-clad idiot was tugging at the leash, tamed but never completely subdued, even after all these years. 

“Phoenix…” 

No, he couldn’t take pity—anything but that. 

“You know, I actually don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He shoved that whimpering wretch down and reached for the poker-faced mask instead, voice finding a neutral cadence like a rut in a well-traveled path. “So just forget I said anything, please.” 

There was a long pause, but eventually Miles retreated with a curt, “alright.”

(Running away again, just like that.) 

As he scrubbed bowls and whisks and icing tips, the other man somewhere behind him diligently wiping every surface clean of sticky residue like his life depended on it, Phoenix’s embarrassment only grew hotter. Why had he said that, as if he had been expecting something? Miles was right—of course he was—the development of their relationship had already been somewhat unconventional, there was no reason to assume they would ever be bound by antiquated timelines and milestones. Besides, Phoenix truly liked where they were, so what did a little piece of paper matter, ultimately?

(Well, joint tax filing for one, and Trucy could have a ready-made legal guardian should anything happen to me, not to mention that sweet, sweet prosecutor’s health insurance plan for the both of us…) 

Put that way, it was all very tidy and rational, but in truth, these were weak reasons; they didn’t really need any of it, not any more than they needed a public declaration of love and commitment to legitimize their relationship. However, needing and wanting were different matters…

And what if this was all there was? What if Miles had walked as far as he was willing to go down this joined path? Could Phoenix be happy holding steady here when he wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted.

Guilt pricked unpleasantly at Phoenix’s gut. What he really wanted just then was to apologize, to put things back the way they were, but his throat was frozen. When Trucy came flying out of her room, hair still damp from the shower, they put on a decent show of normalcy, but Phoenix caught a small stutter in his daughter’s goodbye wave—perceptive as always.

Miles coughed into the ensuing silence. “I have a few things to follow up on at work.” 

“Right.” Phoenix made himself turn around to face his partner, look him in the face. His anxiety was eased slightly at the naked concern there, longing even, no traces of anger or disappointment. “See you tomorrow?” Phoenix asked gently. He quickly wiped his pruned hands on a well-worn dish towel and held one out entreatingly. 

He saw his own relief reflected in those gray eyes as Miles stepped in without hesitation, letting Phoenix’s arm slide over the curve of his waist. Their lips met for a moment, stiff but not cold; it was enough to soothe some of the little ache in Phoenix’s chest, and he knew there was peace between them, albeit a delicate one. 

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

With that Miles departed, but Phoenix only had a few minutes alone with the dishes, mired in his own thoughts, before disruption came in the form of a grating ringtone—one of these days he was going to figure out how to change it. Scrubbing the water and suds off his hands a second time, Phoenix picked his phone up off the counter. 

He barely managed to get out a greeting before Apollo’s urgent voice cut him off, “Mr. Wright? Something’s happened.” 

——

Why involve the law and introduce unnecessary complication?

The knee-jerk response had slunk from that dark, poisonous corner of Edgeworth’s mind, the part of him he thought diminished by time and distance, strictly quarantined so as not to trouble him further. And yet, like a lightning strike from an unexpected storm, the words of Manfred von Karma had come so easily to his lips. 

Still shaken and nauseated as he stepped into his office, he did the only thing he could think to do: make a cup of tea. Lately, stress and poor sleep had driven him to take up coffee during working hours, but the irregular jolts of caffeine weren’t doing his anxieties any favors. Only once he was settled at his desk, blessedly alone with aromatic drink in hand, did he dare examine his own thoughts. Although the sentiment had come from years of von Karma’s influence, the words themselves had a distinct root in a particularly unpleasant memory. 

——

He had been eighteen, taking what he had considered at the time his final steps over the threshold of manhood, shedding the last vestiges of childishness by insisting—often impertinently—he be known as Edgeworth rather than Miles, even to himself. He had been on holiday from university; by then, Mr. von Karma regularly had him sent off for select law courses taught by his like-minded colleagues. Determined to impress, Edgeworth worked diligently—obsessively—to not only earn perfect marks, but to be recognized for them. This time, his mentor and adoptive guardian had allowed him an entire day back at the estate before summoning him to review his academic performance. Normally, he would face such an inquisition with an odd sort of nervous anticipation, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to it, but on that particular day it was pure anxiety he had to compress and parcel away as he readied himself. 

He waited, polished black shoes sinking into an ornate royal-purple carpet, hands clasped behind his back lest he trembled with nerves. Several minutes had passed and Mr. von Karma had yet to acknowledge him, seemingly preoccupied with paperwork and in no particular hurry. This was, of course, part of the test, to see if he would fidget or flinch.

With a vicious flourish, the prosecutor applied his signature to the final page of the stack, and lifted his piercing gaze. Mr. von Karma would not invite him to sit and Edgeworth would not shift his weight nor look at the empty chair; this too was part of the test. However, he very nearly quailed, but caught himself just in time, when that stony face split into a smirk. 

“I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, man to man.” 

That was certainly unexpected. Thinking quickly, he decided the best course was to simply not respond, to wait until a more secure position revealed itself. 

“I’m told,” Mr. von Karma continued, long fingers lacing atop the meticulously organized desk, “you had a visitor last night.” 

This time, Edgeworth could not control a small reaction; his stomach dropped as he felt a warmth rise in his face. He needn’t wonder long at how Mr. von Karma came by this knowledge, as a short, slender figure shifted just enough against the thick window drapes to catch his eye. It all became painfully obvious then; of course Franziska had spied on him, and now here she was to gloat over the admonition he was undoubtedly about to receive. His mouth went dry at the thought of what she might have overheard. 

“He is a colleague from school,” Edgeworth explained, forcing himself, with great effort, to speak flatly, “his family is vacationing nearby, and he wanted to see the estate—he is studying history and has an interest in architecture. I should have asked your permission, I apologize.” 

This was a lie, of course, and a bad one.

 Although Edgeworth’s studies had left little time for socializing, at university he found himself surrounded by peers his own age for the first time since childhood. He could not help but silently observe them: how they dressed, how they held themselves, how they spoke to one another. He felt so apart, it was as though they were a different species entirely. This was as it should be, he insisted repeatedly; he was different from them. Smarter. Better. 

But then a young man, bespectacled and sandy haired with a jaunty grin plastered on his freckled face, asked to share Edgeworth’s customary corner table in the library. There was no good reason to refuse him, and he was respectful enough—quiet and still, apparently as absorbed in his work as Edgeworth was in his. But then he returned the next evening, and the one after that, which was a Saturday night and as such there were plenty of other open tables. The stranger began to ask questions, sparse at first then growing in frequency: 

“What’s your name?” 

“Miles Edgeworth.”

“What are you studying?”

“Criminal law. I am to be a prosecutor.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“I live on an estate south of here.” He gave a brief, factual description of the nearest town and how one might travel there. It was clipped and awkward, but it was the longest he’d spoken to anyone but a professor since he’d arrived.

The stranger introduced himself as Bernard Weber, history major. Evidently, he had chosen this area of scholarly pursuit more-or-less at random when his parents decreed his days as a layabout were over and that he would go to university and make something of himself. By happy accident, after a rough semester or two of adjustment, Bernard discovered he quite enjoyed history—with a particular passion for Medieval European textiles—and had indeed turned his entire outlook around. He revealed all this with no prompting and in the face of considerable aloofness from Edgeworth. However, in spite of the disdainful reception, Bernard came back, night after night. 

Although it took Edgeworth some weeks to recognize the angle, even he was not so blind to such matters. However, he could not begin to fathom why he had been selected among the dozen more receptive prospects Bernard undoubtedly had—the challenge perhaps? Whatever the reason, Edgeworth was discomfited to be the recipient of such attentions, and yet he was also strangely pleased, a certain new curiosity piqued from deep within him. Of course, he understood such things on a theoretical level; some years prior, the estate’s kindly and wizened steward—at Mr. von Karma’s directive or on his own initiative, Edgeworth never knew—had explained the basic processes of courtship among related topics of relevance to a pubescent boy. Since then, Edgeworth had always imagined relations with another to be messy and off-putting, not to mention an enormous waste of time when it was so much more efficient to vent one’s ardor alone. Yet, when Bernard, affable and quick-witted with complex layers of genuine intellect and passion buried beneath, made his overtures and whispered seductive suggestions—gradual and gently coaxing but never rushed or demanding—Edgeworth found it not insurmountably difficult to acquiesce and the experience itself altogether tolerable; with practice and strengthened trust, it became rather enjoyable, a pleasant diversion when he had time enough to spare, though still not something he would seek without prompting. 

Despite their growing closeness, Bernard remained ever an enigma to him. The young historian offered so freely his emotions, his laughter, his touch, as if it cost him nothing, not even a second thought. He was entirely alien, like a mercurial fae creature with Edgeworth playing the part of ensorcelled mortal, growing more captivated, more hopelessly besotted, with each passing day. 

But evidently Edgeworth had grown entirely too bold in his indiscretion. In his own feeble defense, he had not actually invited Bernard to visit, had subtly warned him off in fact, but the fool had shown up regardless. Through a stroke of luck, Edgeworth had been the first to see him—stepping out of a hired car in the drive seemingly without a care in the world—and rushed out to meet him before the steward took notice. He had every intention to turn Bernard away, but the man was, as ever, damnably persuasive; somehow, Edgeworth found himself enveloped by the scents of leather and hay as they crept among tackle and brushes and the like in the dark storage shed abutting the stable. They were just there to talk privately, but as often occurred, his companion somehow found a way to organically transition ‘just talk’ into roaming hands and rumpled shirts and hastily unzipped trousers. Now, Edgeworth’s complicity in such acts was made all the more mortifying by the knowledge that Franziska had been lurking nearby. 

Later, standing before his mentor, the perfect mold to which he tried so hard to shape himself, shame and dread boiled up inside Edgeworth, cementing his airways, scattering his thoughts to the wind. To his utter bewilderment, Mr. von Karma merely laughed; it was a loud, sharp sound that made Edgeworth’s ears ring. 

“Come now, you know you cannot lie to me. I have to say I am disappointed. I thought I taught you to be cleverer than this.” Edgeworth had no response to that, so the older man went on, tone suspended between indulgent amusement and irritation at needing to explain something obvious. “You assume I disapprove of your pursuit of a young man instead of a woman. To the contrary, I care little for such distinctions—why would I? Indeed, women can be more trouble than they are worth, and clearly there are other pathways to establish legacy.”

Edgeworth didn’t glance at Franziska—he didn’t dare—but he thought he caught her stiffen slightly in his peripheral. In truth, he knew very little about his mentor’s relationship history. He had two biological children: Franziska, who was his valued protégé, and her older half sister, who by contrast was never mentioned. Presumably, Mr. von Karma was still married to Franziska’s mother, but Edgeworth had never met the woman; she had taken up residence in a Spanish villa and never visited the colder German climes, instead opting to send for her young daughter at seemingly random intervals. 

“However, remember that to achieve true perfection is to be without equal,” Mr. von Karma warned, all traces of levity evaporating. “If you are not careful, you will find yourself overburdened with demands from one who will not, cannot, truly understand your purpose in this life. That is all to say, sow your wild oats if you must, but do not introduce unnecessary complications that interfere with your work. If I find you driven to such distraction again, I will not be so lenient. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir.” Edgeworth responded with a calm deference that was only skin deep, but it seemed convincing enough to satisfy his mentor, as he promptly moved the conversation on to other business.

“I am arranging a return to Japanifornia,” Mr. von Karma announced, “you will complete your exams and accompany me. It will be a fitting arena in which to test your mettle.” 

Japanifornia, the halcyon home of Edgeworth’s youth. He hadn’t thought about it in some time, at least not in his waking hours. 

Somewhere on the edge of the room, Franziska let slip a gasp, laden with shock and fury. They had both expected a move like this on the horizon, and the girl had been working furiously to attain her legal credentials in the vain hope she would be the one to aid her father. She stalked from the room in outraged defeat, but Edgeworth couldn’t muster any sense of triumph, still chastened as he was. 

When it was clear he was dismissed from his mentor’s presence, Edgeworth too left the office. In the hall, he was startled to find his thoughts interrupted by the sound of quiet sniveling; he looked around to find Franziska glaring forlornly out a nearby window, a tear glittering on her cheek. 

He coughed awkwardly and she spun toward him with a furious snarl, but he held up a hand to forestall her tirade. “He is closing up in there. He could emerge at any moment, so you’d better take…that…somewhere else.” Recently, Mr. von Karma had taken to pitting them against one another with increasing frequently, but there were still these odd moments that reinforced their uneasy alliance. Perhaps they were remnants of the early years when she’d borne him glowing adoration as only a very young child can express toward their older sibling, which had inspired his gentle protectiveness in kind; that is, until they had learned to resent one another. To punctuate that sentiment, she stalked away without looking at him. It was just as well; truly, he had precious little sympathy to spare for her jealous feelings at that moment, given his own problems. 

Had he been distracted as Mr. von Karma believed? Ashamedly, he recalled occasions when Bernard’s entrancing presence—or worse, mere idle thoughts of him—had perhaps drawn Edgeworth’s attention away from his studies. He had still managed academic success on par with his usual performance, but he didn’t want to simply stay the course; he needed to improve, to hone and perfect his skill until no detail escaped his notice. Perhaps this incident was a sign he had allowed himself to become too entangled. Yes, the more he mulled it over, the more he realized it was past time to prune away such diversions and refocus on what truly mattered. The unpleasant pain of longing in his chest did little to dissuade him; in fact, it was the final nail in the coffin. Too entangled indeed.

Ever the pragmatist, Edgeworth settled on writing Bernard a letter to be delivered to his room in town—this was far and away the cleanest strategy, leaving the smallest possible margin for missteps or miscommunication. He explained in precise and succinct terms that he would be leaving the country and thus it was for their mutual best interests to completely terminate their relationship. He wished Bernard success in his studies and career beyond, and that was that. His former companion did not send a response, and Edgeworth subsequently mastered his feelings of loss and regret in short order, rededicating himself to the art of the perfect prosecution. 

——

Seventeen years later, Edgeworth had come a long way from the young man who could excise emotions and connections so ruthlessly. He hadn’t seen nor heard from Bernard since and had never felt any temptation to look him up. At the time, he had convinced himself he had experienced all he cared to in the realm of romantic relationships. For years, he’d had neither the time nor desire to pursue another, earnestly believing von Karma had the right of it—what partner could possibly understand, could ever be satisfied as secondary to his career? He was simply not equipped for long-term partnerships—certainly not marriage—and he had made his peace with it…or so he’d thought. 

Phoenix—confounding, charming, good-hearted Phoenix—had thrown Edgeworth’s self image, what he thought he wanted from his life, into absolute disarray. Unwrapping the briars layered around his heart had been excruciating, but he knew now he was a better person for it. In fact, he had gradually come to appreciate—even like—the man he’d become, which made it all more difficult to discover this remaining thorn, one he had internalized so long ago that it had lain forgotten until it pricked the unsuspecting hand of someone who deserved to be able to trust him.

(And now, of all times…I’m not certain how much more I can take.)

Pressing his knuckles into his eyes until blotches of color bloomed in the blackness, Edgeworth attempted to organize his thoughts. The personal nature of this problem did not make it inherently illogical or unsolvable. Thus, the first step was to assess: what did he know to be true? He loved Phoenix Wright, without reservation or stipulation. He could also be reasonably certain Phoenix loved him in return; that man’s mind and heart were his own but given the evidence, Edgeworth felt confident accepting this premise as truth. Moreover, he foresaw no end to their relationship, was in fact quite motivated to maintain it indefinitely, and had no reason to believe Phoenix felt otherwise. The logical conclusion, then, was that they would endeavor to be together for the remainder of one or both of their lives. To Edgeworth’s mind, whether or not they were ever legally bound in marriage affected little in the pursuit of this outcome. So if Edgeworth was truly indifferent to marriage but Phoenix actively desired it—as seemed to be the case, regardless of what he said to protect his feelings—then the obvious net sum of those opinions was that they should indeed expect to tie the knot at some point…perhaps not immediately, but someday.

It was only logical, so then why this hesitance?

Edgeworth opened his eyes with a groan, blinking blearily at his cooling tea, as if to divine some answer from its depths. After a few fruitless moments, his gaze was drawn to his desk where a single sheet of crisp paper still sat in the open: a brief missive stating only that his Conflicts of Interest Policy proposal had been received and would come under review in the new year. For months, this had been a looming hurdle, but he had thought—perhaps foolishly—that once he finally did it, finally allowed his relationship with Phoenix to be known in their professional network, that would be it. The hardest part would be over, and they could move forward unburdened by Edgeworth’s unintelligible reservations. However, this hadn’t solved the problem; if anything, his anxieties were only deepened.

(And is this the root of it? Even now do I still see such feelings as nothing more than a shameful weakness?)

At least one thing was patently clear: he was not making any progress on his own. He would need to discuss this with Phoenix, which meant first repairing the disconnect between them. Relieved to have at least some plan of action, he applied himself to devising an appropriate gesture of apology, but was soon interrupted by a phone call—directly to his personal cell phone, as it was after hours.

“Edgeworth speaking.”

“Edgeworth-dono,” came the gruff voice of Prosecutor Blackquill. Forgoing pleasantries, he cut straight to the chase. “We have a problem. The murder weapon was discovered…by the defense.” 

Chapter Text

Once again, Athena trudged after Apollo back to the crime scene. Sure, it was nice to see him applying himself so whole-heartedly again, but  couldn’t they have gotten something to eat first?

At least the tangle of tension between them had finally started to relax, though it was through no small effort on her part. It had taken persistent reassuring—it’s okay, Apollo, we’re okay, I promise—each and every time she heard even a hint of guilt edge its way into his voice. Truthfully, she had never really been angry with him, only sad; the raw agony in his every word during that trial had nearly shattered her, but in a strange way it had been comforting, made her feel like she wasn’t going through it alone. In the end, all that mattered was that they stood together, faced the specter of her past, accepted it. Simon, the Phantom, her mother…she couldn’t say she was over it all—maybe she never would be, and that was alright—but she was certainly stronger, more comfortable with herself, for knowing the truth. As for her friendship with Apollo…how can you know if your trust in someone is really unshakable if it’s never been, well, shaken? That’s how Athena saw it anyway, and it seemed he was finally coming around, too. She only wished she could unravel the rest of what was going on with him these days. 

They made their way through the lobby of the victim’s building, the Grandi Venti, breezing over the marble like pair of scraggly tumbleweeds, just as hasty and out of place amidst all the opulence. It was a long elevator ride up, which was definitely too good an opportunity to pass up; it was time to probe.

“So…” Athena said, leaning casually against the handrail. “Prosecu…”

Apollo cut her off without even looking up from his phone, “don’t start.” 

“How do you know what I was going to say?” She turned toward him, hands on hips.

“Because you get this evil grin on your face whenever you’re about to torment me.”

“I do not!” But he’d clammed up, may as well have become a brick wall—a short but unyielding brick wall.

(Well, it was worth a try I guess. I wonder if Trucy has any updates…)

As they crawled upward past the next few floors, the only sound was some pretentious classical music—though what made some stuff good and iconic and other stuff merely pretentious she couldn’t have said—drifting through the speakers. Athena eyed their reflections in the spotless mirror-wall on one side of the elevator. More out restlessness than vanity, she tucked away a stray lock of hair, resettled her tie, straightened her cuffs.

“Why do fancy places always have mirrors in the elevators?” She asked idly. 

“I don’t know? To make the space seem bigger maybe? I never even noticed that before.” Apollo responded in his why-are-we-even-talking-about-this voice, so she went silent again, though she smirked when she caught him fussing with his own hair. 

At the victim’s condo, they ducked under the police tape to see the back of a familiar white coat. Ema spun around at their approaching footsteps, Snackoo halfway to her mouth. 

“Oh, it’s you two.” She said, giving them a once over.

“Is that food?” Athena nearly melted at the sight of the bag full of puffy crackers, each with a generous dusting of ‘cool ranch’ flavor particles. 

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t get anything after the trial?” Ema, with admirably little visible reluctance, tilted the mouth of the bag toward Athena, and it was all she could do not to devour the whole thing in greedy goblin handfuls.

“We came straight here.” Apollo folded his arms. “Also, this is still an active crime scene. I don’t think you’re supposed to be eating in here.” 

“Never stopped me before,” Ema said through a crunchy mouthful, “besides, you gotta keep your strength up at a time like this.” She proffered the bag to Apollo, bouncing it invitingly and waggling her eyebrows. 

Apollo looked like he was about to turn up his nose on principle, until a conspicuous gurgling forced him to surrender to temptation.

“So, any new case-shattering developments you care to share?” Apollo asked wryly while he reached into the bag.

Ema’s expression darkened. “This whole thing has been a mess—missing evidence, bungled autopsy…the forensics team is blaming the new guy.” Her fingers tightened, causing a loud crinkling. “Sure, there’s an open position for this idiot, but oh no Ms. Skye, we just don’t have room in the department for you right now, you’re better off sticking to regular detective work…you know, so you can take the heat for our mistakes and look like a prat in front of the lawyers and about a million other people…”

Athena winced internally at the jagged waves of bitterness and embarrassment in Ema’s voice—she couldn’t let this stand. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re a great detective and even better scientist! Mr. Wright knows your work, and he’s well connected…sorta…so maybe there’s something he can do to help when all this is over.” 

Ema smiled weakly. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Sorry, Ema.” Apollo rested a hand on her shoulder consolingly, and for a moment Athena thought she heard something else pass between the two, like he had more than just his friend’s career woes on his mind. Whatever it was, Ema accepted the apology with a gentle pat on his hand. 

“Okay.” Apollo was all business now, standing up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “Speaking of missing information, Ema—if I ask you about something, will you swear not to bring it up with Blackquill and Gavin?” 

The detective regarded him warily. “I make no guarantees…but I won’t go out of my way to betray your case to the opposition, if that’s what you mean.” 

“Good enough,” Apollo grunted. “When Wolfgang was arrested, did he go through any drug and alcohol screening?”

“That’s the purview of the detention center guards,” Ema explained slowly, clearly trying to work out why he was asking. “Although, they usually let us know about anything…noteworthy.” She looked away, lip slightly pouted, one hand twisting her hair absently. “I did hear that he made a big ruckus about some antidepressant medication. He said he takes it everyday at 4:30, and that going without it cold turkey would make him ill. They ended up sending his little assistant-interpreter guy back to his apartment to get it.” 

“Interesting.” Apollo nodded. “Thanks, Ema. Don’t let us keep you from…whatever you were doing.” The detective shot him a suspicious glare but took the hint, backing up a few paces away to continue her notes, munching all the while.

“Athena?” Her fellow attorney muttered. “Could antidepressant medication have made Wolfgang forget everything that happened on the night of the murder?” 

“Well, first of all, that’s psychiatry, which as you might guess is more on the medical side of things, so it’s sorta out of my wheelhouse.” She considered it seriously though, gently flicking her earring to help her concentrate. Perhaps it was possible—indeed, they’d dealt with a similar situation before—but something about it didn’t fit. Thinking aloud, she said, “memory loss like that would be a concerning reaction, certainly reason enough to adjust the dose if not switch medications altogether. So, unless he took way too much…which could be really dangerous…well, from what I can gather about his psychological profile, that just doesn’t seem very likely.”  

“Alright.” Apollo pressed a finger to his forehead, as if he could manifest answers if he simply put enough pressure on his frontal lobe. “Let’s keep thinking about it. In the meantime…look around for anything hefty with a sharp edge. We’ve got Ema, so we can test for blood stains.” Athena gave a nod and Apollo turned on his heels to peer into the glass whiskey case. 

She stood in the center of the room a moment longer, absorbed in thought. There were so many unanswered questions, so many disconnected dots, and every new revelation only made it all more convoluted…

Suddenly, the charm on her earring broke free, tumbling through her fingers to clatter across the floor. The links holding it to the stud had been a little loose lately, ever since the space center trial, but she’d put off getting it fixed, resolving to just be careful…well, this is what she got.

Falling to her hands and knees, Athena clambered after the charm, which had ricocheted wildly thanks to its odd shape. She reached under the sofa, twisting her shoulder awkwardly and pressing her face into the smoky leather. With a sigh of relief, she located a familiar crescent moon, but as her palm swept over it, her fingers brushed something else, something hard and blocky. Frowning, she tucked her broken earring safely into a pocket, then dove back in. As she exposed the mysterious object—clumsily, as it was longer and denser than she expected—several things happened in quick succession. 

First, she became vaguely aware that it was a trophy of some sort, the type with a rectangular base supporting a little golden person frozen in some feat of athleticism, though she couldn’t discern exactly what at first, since some of the details were obscured by a dark, matte coating. In fact, whatever it was covered most of the trophy, including underneath her hand; it was crumbly and slightly sticky in places. She examined it, puzzled, until all at once understanding jolted through her like an electric shock. That caused the second thing: she screamed and dropped the blood-encrusted trophy—for it was undoubtedly old blood—to the floor with a loud thunk. Half a beat later, Apollo screamed too, something that sounded like it could have been her name, but she couldn’t be sure as she was busy frantically scrambling back, an animalistic fear overriding her brain as if the dropped weapon could rise up and bite her. 

Ema whipped around at the noise, narrowly avoiding sending a shower of Snackoos onto the floor. Her eyes found the murder weapon like a compass needle to north, and her jaw went slack. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

The detective swept over while Apollo hauled Athena to her feet by her clean hand. She may have still been babbling incoherently, because Ema gripped her bracingly by the shoulder and produced an alcohol wipe from somewhere, which Athena took with a whimper of gratitude. The three of them just stared, dumbstruck, down at the ominous object on the floor. The inscription was facing up, and through the flaky rivulets of blood, Athena thought it said:

LUDWIG VON RICHTER

MOST IMPROVED

JAPANIFORNIA DISTRICT 8 OCELOTS 2009

The little figurine on top seemed to be a gender-nonspecific, apple-cheeked child winding up to swing a baseball bat. 

“How…how…?” Ema spent nearly a full minute just murmuring dazedly, but eventually she gave herself a little shake and turned towards Apollo, mouth at a grim slant. “Unfortunately I do have to call Blackquill and the fop about this one.” 

*****

On the morning of the second day of the trial, Apollo woke two full hours before his alarm. He tossed and turned for a while in the pre-sunrise dark, evidence flashing through his mind on loop like an endless carousel.

(Unwashed glasses, juice label, injection wound in the body, antidepressants, memory loss, little league trophy…)

He quickly gave up his quest for one more hour in the oblivion of sleep and pushed himself out of bed. His mind still spun all the while as he did some half-assed push-ups and crunches—pointedly ignoring the pull-up bar wedged in his doorframe that he’d bought secondhand last year, swearing up and down that he was finally going to get serious about his upper-body strength—then showered, gave himself a perfunctory shave—if he didn’t have court, he probably would have let it go another day—styled his hair, did his vocal warmups, dressed, and polished off a bowl of generic cereal. After all that, he still had no idea what the hell he was going to do when he got to the trial. 

He desperately wished he could have spoken to Wolfgang—about the murder weapon, the medication, all of it—but scouring the crime scene and updating Mr. Wright on their discovery had put them well past visiting hours at the detention center; not that they hadn’t tried to get in anyway, to be all but beaten back with batons. That meant he’d have to work everything out on the fly during the trial, in true Wright Anything Agency style. 

“I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine,” he recited mechanically as he shrugged on his overcoat, and surprisingly, the old affirmation did suffuse him with a sort of bittersweet strength.

The steps of the courthouse were crowded with journalists. As he approached, their eyes all turned on him at once like a pack of half-starved wild dogs, but before he could deploy his practiced 'no comment,' which was the full extent of the media training offered at WAA, the grinding roar of a motorcycle captured their attention instead. For once, Apollo was actually grateful for Klavier’s penchant for flashy, dramatic entrances as he slipped into the courthouse unmolested.  

Wolfgang, Manuel, and Athena were already waiting in the defense lobby. His co-counsel turned to him, wringing her hands, while the two men paced in unsynchronized loops. A miasma of nervous tension filled the air, and Apollo had to fight to keep a stiff upper lip. 

“Where’s Mr. Wright?” He asked. As much as he hated to admit it, they were all sorely in need of a pep talk.

“I don’t know,” Athena said, face creased with worry. 

(Guess it’s up to me, then.)

“Well…we only have a few minutes,” Apollo said, addressing all three. At least he had gotten used to Manuel’s ASL interpreting, as he hardly noticed it now. “So let’s just remember that we trust each other…and good lawyers keep smiling…and to turn our thinking around…” Judging by Athena’s pained grimace, his Mr. Wright impression could use some work.

Fortunately, the man himself chose that moment to burst in. He looked oddly flustered; a blush, fading but still visible, colored his cheeks. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffed, slightly out of breath, waving his hands. 

Widget beeped at Athena’s throat, but before it could utter more than two syllables, she muffled it with a hand, drowning out the digital voice with her stilted one. “Mr. Wright, your shirt collar is flipped up, just there.” 

The older attorney fumbled at his neck, folding down the offending fabric. “So it is…thanks, Athena.” He cleared his throat, donning a cool solemnity with obvious effort. “We don’t have much time, but know that I believe in you two. Trust in your client and each other, and don’t forget to smile…you know what we always say.” He demonstrated with a broad grin. 

(Oh brother…predictable much?)

Apollo rolled his eyes as Athena stifled a snort of laughter. 

Inside, the gallery was packed to the gills but surprisingly subdued. The Judge only needed to tap the gavel once as a matter of course, and a complete, anticipatory silence fell over the room.

“I hereby reconvene the trial of Ludwig Wolfgang von Ricther,” he said, gazing down at each of the assembled lawyers in turn. “Yesterday, we established that, in addition to the victim, two people were present at the time of the murder: the defendant, Mr. Wolfgang von Richter, and his fiancée, Ms. Sylvia Sterling. Both Mr. von Richter and Ms. Sterling left the room at different points, potentially leaving an opening for a third party to arrive at the scene unbeknownst to either of them. Furthermore, new evidence came to light about the body, suggesting the victim was beaten with a blunt object and perhaps suffered some sort of injection. Today, we determine whether there was a window of time in which an intruder could have entered and murdered the victim without leaving a witness, and how exactly the murder was perpetrated.” 

“Your Honor. We can definitively answer both of those questions right now.” Blackquill wasted no time in launching his attack. Apollo’s fingers curled into fists under the desk.

(Well, let’s hear it then—give us something to work with.)

“We gained access to security footage from the building, the Grandi Venti,” Blackquill intoned, “which proves that the only two people to approach the victim’s condo around the time of the murder were Ms. Sterling and the defendant.” He motioned roughly to his right, where a bailiff hurriedly pushed a squeaky cart bearing a truly ancient CRT television into the center of the room. 

“Past time to upgrade, don’t you think?” Athena griped quietly.

After some fumbling with the wiring that had Apollo drumming his fingers, the TV hummed to life, displaying a black-and-white view of the lobby at the Grandi Venti. An overlay of blocky digits in the lower left corner read 5:01 PM. 

“Here we see the couple arrive,” Blackquill narrated, and indeed Wolfgang and Ms. Sterling entered through the rotating glass doors, paused briefly at the desk, and carried on to the elevator. The prosecutor clicked a button on the remote and the display blinked to a familiar hallway. “Here, they enter the victim’s residence.” Blackquill tapped another command and the footage sped up, although the only indicator was the rapidly changing timestamp; not a soul passed by until footage slowed to normal speed at 5:27 PM, when the victim’s door burst open and Ms. Sterling staggered out, quaking so violently she has to slide a hand along the wall to stay upright as she hurried to the elevator. A minute later she returned, and within a few minutes more, a small army of police officers and paramedics swarmed in. 

Blackquill paused the playback, tapping his temple smugly. “So you see, there is no evidence of a third party entering the condo. Furthermore, we have a recording of Ms. Sterling’s 911 call.” 

After another aggravating but thankfully brief intermission, they had speakers hooked up, ready to play the conversation for the whole courtroom. 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“H-hello, we’re at the Grandi Venti…” It was without a doubt Ms. Sterling’s tremulous, breathy voice. “Something’s happened…please come…m-my fiancé’s father, his life is in danger!” 

With a nod from Blackquill, Gavin pressed the stop button. He caught Apollo’s eye for the barest moment and gave a blithe little shrug as if to say, sorry, them’s the breaks, Herr Forehead, because they all knew what was coming next, and Apollo was helpless to stop it. 

“‘His life is in danger,’” Blackquill quoted, folding his arms in smug triumph, “not, ‘he’s dead.’ We can take this to mean Frederick von Richter was still alive when his would-be daughter-in-law fled to call for help. The only rational explanation, then, is that the victim was dealt the killing blow during that window of time, which leaves only one possible murderer: the defendant, Wolfgang von Richter.” A ripple of shocked whispers swept across the room, but Blackquill wasn’t finished; he held up a familiar photo for the Judge to see. “As to the method, he beat his father to death with this, a little league trophy Mr. von Richter Sr. had kept for eighteen years out of sentimental pride for his son—a cruel irony indeed.” 

The Judge blinked down at the bloody murder weapon. “Well Prosecutor Blackquill, as you say, this is quite definitive. Perhaps we will get out early for the holiday after all.” 

“Apollo, do something!” Athena hissed, her shoulders jerking like she’d just been woken from a stupor. 

Realizing he’d been standing there slack-jawed himself, Apollo drew up, feeling hot adrenaline shoot through his veins. The Judge was about to hand down a verdict, before they had even gotten a word in edgewise!

“Objection!” He called, and all eyes turned to him.

(Okay Justice, you have their attention—now you have to actually say something!)

He slammed his fists on the table, producing that satisfying bang he secretly never tired of hearing. “That is far from an airtight explanation! What about the puncture wound in the victim’s leg!?”

Blackquill closed his eyes, scowling, and Gavin took up the charge. “Herr Justice is correct, Your Honor, we do not have an explanation for this at present.” He paused, head bobbing subtly as if to a beat only he could hear. “However, that does not change the facts of the case. The victim was clearly bludgeoned and strangled, and this is the tool with which the damage was wrought. No others entered the condo during the time of the murder. The evidence points in a singular, clear direction. Thus, we find the puncture wound to be…irrelevant.” 

“Irrelevant my foot,” Athena snorted quietly, “he means it’s just inconvenient for them!” 

Apollo nodded his agreement and spoke up again, “I disagree, Prosecutor Gavin—this is no trivial detail! Your Honor, how can you possibly pass judgement now? We can leave no stone unturned!”

“Well, Mr. Justice,” the Judge replied, blinking rapidly as though shocked by his insistence, “by all means—unturn it for us. What does this puncture wound mean?” 

“Uh…do we know what it means?” The deflated look on Athena’s face suggested she knew the answer to her own question already, which was of course that they didn’t; they’d barely made any headway at all in this whole accursed case. They needed more information, and within these walls, there was only one way to obtain it. 

“Prosecutor Blackquill has given us his version of events, but I’d like to hear it directly from Ms. Sterling. Have the witness testify about what happened just before she left to call the police!”

“Silence!” Blackquill’s hand twitched to his side as he opened his mouth, no doubt readying himself to deliver a verbally and/or physically cutting rejoinder, but he was interrupted by Gavin’s hand on his shoulder.

“We will agree to this,” the other prosecutor said firmly, “I admit…Herr Justice is right once again. If there is more truth to be found, it is our solemn duty to exhaust every possible avenue.” Radiant blue eyes locked onto Apollo once more. The look was fleeting, but instantly his footing felt more solid, even as it set his stomach to fluttering. This was it, the interplay of rivalry and trust, of opposition and attraction, this thing between them that came alive here, on their shared stage where they stood as equals. For just one harmonizing heart beat, they were alone, all else fading away, but only for that instant. 

“Hmph. Very well. Bring her in.” Blackquill unceremoniously broke their bubble and without waiting for the Judge’s assent, gestured to a bailiff. A moment later, Sylvia Sterling followed him in, just as arrestingly beautiful as she had been the previous day, and gracefully settled herself at the stand. 

“Witness,” the Judge addressed her, dreamy look washing over his face, “would you…ah, that is…if you would be so kind…”

“Please testify about what happened before you called the police,” Blackquill gritted out, splintering the shaft of the feather held between his teeth. 

“Oh, okay…” the witness lowered her long eyelashes, “Mr. von Richter and Wolfie did fight…but it wasn’t that bad I just…I just got scared and the real killer must have come in while I was gone. That’s all.” 

“Objection! But we have already proven no such intruder existed,” Blackquill said without too much asperity, though judging by how his arms flexed in their tight knot, it took effort. 

(And whose cross examination is this, exactly?)

Apollo jumped in, before the prosecutors could establish total control. “And we’d like to know if you saw anything, anything at all, that could explain a small puncture wound in the victim’s thigh?” 

Ms. Sterling’s expression turned glassy, like a model in one of those perfume commercials with phantasmal imagery of gems and people kissing and the moon for some reason that did nothing to clarify what smell it was all supposed to invoke. Dismissing that hyper-specific association, Apollo put a hand to his bracelet, finding the soft metal a few degrees warmer than his skin, as it always seemed to be.

“No, I don’t know anything about that.” 

(Gotcha!)

At the witness’s words, Apollo felt a familiar tightness at his wrist. His field of view shrunk, the world cast in eerie red light, except Ms. Sterling’s fist bunching up the pocket of her jacket. It all came over him and subsided in an instant, leaving him a little unbalanced and nauseated. 

Gripping the corner of the desk until his fingers ached, Apollo swallowed hard as the vertigo still held him a few seconds longer, forcing his voice to be steady. “Ms. Sterling. Yesterday, your hand went to your pocket like that when you were hiding something from us. I think you do know about that puncture wound.” 

“I…” she gasped, breathing fast like a frightened rabbit, “y-yes…”

“H-hold it!” Manuel cried out, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to stay in Wolfgang’s line of sight; the defendant had extricated himself from the his seat and surged forward, hands flying. “Put me on the stand. I want to testify.” Wolfgang glowered savagely around the room as if braced for a fight, but no one spoke, no one moved. Before anyone could even think to stop him, he turned to his fiancée and, with tender reverence, led her by the hand away from the witness stand, taking her place. 

“Mr. von Richter, what is the meaning of this?” Lagging a few beats behind like the rest of them, the Judge belatedly tried to intervene, but neither Manuel nor Wolfgang were paying him any attention. Instead, the two of them, along with Ms. Sterling, were engaged in a silent but passionate argument, which Wolfgang seemed to win, at least for the time being; the interpreter nodded jerkily and turned away from the woman’s protests. 

“I did it,” Manuel spoke aloud as Wolfgang signed, voice cracking, “I killed him. I must have.” 

(Well. There it is. We’re absolutely cooked.)

“This…this is a confession?” The Judge’s eyebrows stretched high on his bald head. 

“No!” At Apollo’s flank, Athena had risen to her full height, hands splayed against the oaken bench, but she wasn’t looking at the defendant, or even the Judge. “He’s lying, he’s lying to protect her—that’s the only thing he’s been after all along! Simon! Are you listening to me!?” 

Athena and Blackquill stared each other down, and for a flash, even Apollo could see him, the hollow-eyed, honor-bound prisoner tucked away behind the menacing glare. Blackquill broke eye contact first. 

“Prove it.” His voice was low, but Apollo didn’t have to strain to hear in the dead quiet. “If it really was you, tell us what happened. Convince us.” 

“Ah yes…testimony…” the Judge mumbled, weakly trying to regain authority.

Without preamble, Wolfgang launched into his story. “Sylvia and I went to visit my father at his condo, to tell him we’re getting married. I want to be clear we were telling, not asking. I remember arriving, arguing…then at some point I started to feel a little weird, though I didn’t tell Sylvia. That’s all I remember but…I guess I must have blacked out and killed my father.” 

“Do we need a cross examination or…?” The Judge asked, still visibly reeling. 

“Yes!” Athena insisted, then looked at Apollo expectantly. 

“Alright…well…” he said, trying to think of something, anything, that would gain them purchase on footing that had abruptly gone slippery and sheer beneath them, some unassailable proof of Wolfgang’s innocence that would convince even the accused himself. “When you say you ‘felt weird,’ could you elaborate?”

“I don’t know…I used to have a bit of a problem with drinking…and other stuff.” Manuel’s face softened with sympathetic concern as he interpreted, but he didn’t break stride as Wolfgang continued. “Could have been that, maybe, but I just don’t remember it? I haven’t touched the stuff since I met Sylvia.” A small smile dawned on his face, the first of such kind Apollo had ever seen; he looked like an entirely different person, younger, more at peace. “On our first date, she made ‘virgin screwdrivers,’ and still says it’s the only ‘mixed drink’ she knows how to make.” 

“‘Virgin screwdrivers?’ Wouldn’t that basically just be plain orange juice?” Athena said, eyebrows arched in disbelief. 

“Wait…did you say orange juice?” Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence. Finally, finally, something was connecting; to what Apollo didn’t yet know, but he could have wept with relief all the same. Instead, he called the testimony to a halt once more. “Hold it! So Ms. Sterling makes ‘virgin screwdrivers.’ Is that what she would have made for you and your father, then? We heard in her testimony that she served drinks.” 

Wolfgang cocked his head, puzzled. “No…no, I don’t think so.” 

“Why not?” Apollo pressed. 

“My father was allergic to oranges. His throat could close up at even just a small sip. Had to keep an…epinephrine injector, for emergencies.” There was a small pause partway through the statement as Wolfgang seemed to spell out the word ‘epinephrine’ letter by letter, but Apollo was grateful for the split second to gather himself; as it was, he took the words like a blow to the face, nearly seeing stars. 

(The glasses…the label…it couldn’t be…)

But Wolfgang wasn’t done. “Sylvia knew about it, and she’s very thoughtful with that kind of thing. Grapefruit juice was his preferred alternative, and Sylvia would have known that too, I’m sure of it.” 

Athena’s fingers spread deep wrinkles across Apollo’s shirtsleeve as she gripped his upper arm like a vice.

“Apollo!” She whispered urgently. “Grapefruit reacts badly with a lot of medications, messes with how it gets absorbed into the body. It can cause all kinds of problems like extreme drowsiness or worse…if Wolfgang took his antidepressant medication at 4:30, then drank grapefruit juice by mistake less than an hour later…” 

(One glass had grapefruit…isn’t that what Ema said? I’d almost forgotten…)

“Athena, that’s…that’s it…!” Apollo looked up, his eyes met Wolfgang’s, alight with a wild desperation. Apollo had promised…yet there was nothing else he could do; he had to save his client, expose the truth. Those promises had to come before all others.

(I’m sorry.)

“Objection!” His call was no weaker for the uncertainty in his heart, and he had that to be grateful for, at least. “Wolfgang, you did not kill your father. While I cannot claim to know her motivation, Sylvia gave you the grapefruit juice, which caused you to fall asleep and forget what happened. Your father got the orange juice, triggering an allergic reaction, which would prove fatal. Sylvia hit him with the emergency epinephrine injector, but when that failed, she tried to make it look as though an intruder had killed him instead; the extent of his injuries would have covered the swelling. It’s as simple as that.” 

There came a chorus of sharp inhales as a room full of people prepared to speak all at once: Athena, Blackquill, Gavin, the Judge, Manuel, even Wolfgang rose his hands…but one voice beat them all out of the gate.

“It was an accident!” Sylvia Sterling stood rigid in the center of the room, every inch the regal supermodel but for her misty eyes and the nearly imperceptible tremor of her chin. Wolfgang started to sign something to her, gasping for breath like a man nearly drowning, but she shook her head and gave a short response that Manuel couldn’t, or wouldn’t, relay. She took a shuddering breath, and spoke aloud directly to the Judge. “What he says…it’s true. I just wanted the fighting to stop—I’m not worth all that trouble. I didn’t know what to do…they barely noticed me and just gulped down half their drinks and kept arguing. I thought I was careful when I put the glasses down…but Mr. von Richter, h-he started to choke and Wolfie was totally out of it. I knew about the epinephrine b-but it was too late, h-he…please forgive me.” She pressed the back of her delicate hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. 

The Judge stared down at her from his high seat, looking shrunken as if he’d aged ten years. He shook his head grimly, and finally spoke, “this was nothing short of a tragedy, but we have arrived at a conclusion nonetheless. What will become of you, Ms. Sterling, is a matter for another day. In the meantime, I am prepared to state my verdict, unless there are any objections?” He scanned the prosecution and defense benches, but no one moved; Blackquill had his back turned entirely. “Then in the matter of the murder of Frederick von Richter, I declare the defendant, Ludwig Wolfgang von Richter, not guilty.” He banged the gavel with a resounding finality. Whoever did the confetti thing seemed to think better of it, so they emptied the room to nothing more than the flutter of a few coats as they were thrown over shoulders. 

Mr. Wright found them in the hall, mirroring their somber mood. Athena looked at him searchingly, almost hopeful. “Don’t the culprits usually, I don’t know…?”

“Have a big, flashy breakdown? Show their true colors?” Mr. Wright supplied. “Maybe not always, but I know what you mean. I feel it too— there’s still something we’re missing.” He shook his head, let a small smile touch the corners of his mouth. “But you two did good in there. Discovering the truth is the best way to help everyone involved, and this was a significant step forward—you did the right thing.” Despite himself, Apollo’s heart felt a little lighter at the praise, if only because it was true; he knew, beyond all reasonable doubt, he wouldn’t have done anything differently, and the boss was right: it wasn’t quite over yet.

“Don’t get in your heads about this too much,” Mr. Wright continued, “I want to see cheerful, smiling facing at the Christmas party tonight, okay?”

But Apollo was only half listening, as the crowd had parted to reveal Wolfgang—no one seemed to want to stray too close just then. He’d still have to return to the detention center for processing, but as he was officially an innocent man, even his cadre of guards gave him a wide berth. 

“I’d like to start building Sylvia’s case as soon as possible,” Apollo said, or started to say, as Wolfgang stalked toward him with squared shoulders, barely pausing as his weight shifted forward. 

This time, it was a literal blow to the face—right in his left cheekbone—and Apollo did see stars for a split second. He reeled back from the momentum; he’d had one foot raised in a half-step, but in the confusion his legs tangled and he crashed down right on his ass, arms shooting up reflexively to shield his throbbing face. 

Over the sound of his own heartbeat clamoring against his ear drums, Apollo heard a stern, “hey, now!” from Mr. Wright, though it was edged with trepidation, like one trying to face down an aggressive dog by feigning dominance. Wolfgang was still coming, however, and all Apollo could do was cringe back…until a towering, black figure eclipsed his attacker from view. 

In a voice Apollo felt more than heard, the intervening party spoke only a single word, “reconsider.” 

Although unheard, the single word must have been understood. Apollo thought he saw Wolfgang retreat, but his half-blurry perspective was mostly taken up by the backs of calf-high leather boots emerging from under the white-trimmed hem of a Samurai-style surcoat. 

(Jinbaori? Whatever. Why is that what I’m concerned about right now?) 

All at once, two broad hands buried into his vest—one at the shoulder the other at the back of his neck—and hoisted him up as if he weighed no more than a toddler. He wavered a bit but managed to get his feet under him, dizziness already receding. Thankfully, the pain was only eye-watering and not debilitating. It would bruise, but nothing broken; Apollo had certainly gotten in worse scraps, and despite Wolfgang’s rough demeanor, it didn’t seem like he was much accustomed to punching people effectively. 

That didn’t stop Athena from buzzing around him like an anxious gnat, though admittedly it was kind of sweet. “Apollo, talk to me! Are you okay?”

“M’fine.” 

Apollo’s savior—Blackquill of all people!—had already wandered away, completely unruffled by the whole exchange, as if he broke up fistfights on the regular…which, Apollo supposed, he may very well have until recently. 

Manuel, on the other hand, still hovered nearby. “S-sorry about that,” he said, watching Wolfgang depart under the now-vigilant gaze of several guards. “You…probably don’t want to know what he said.”

“Message came through pretty clear, thanks.” Apollo touched his cheek gingerly. “But I meant what I said, Manuel. I will represent her, get her a light sentence. I do believe it was an accident.” 

“I’ll talk to them…but better to let things simmer down.” Still averting his gaze, Manuel went on quietly. “But you should know, back there, Sylvia said something to him before her confession. She said, ‘Wolfie, let me protect you now.’” Manuel heaved the heavy sigh of a man trying to hold his shattered world together with bandaids. “When they first got together, I had the feeling people expected me to be, I don’t know, resentful or jealous that he spent so much time with her…but how could I be? They made each other better, inspired each other…and we were friends, the best friends an awkward little nerd could ever hope for. Just goes to show, you don’t know what you have until…well. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you have anyone like that…don’t let your time go to waste. Merry Christmas, Mr. Justice.” And with that, the interpreter strode off after his companion. Unbalanced, Apollo was hardly afforded a moment to digest that statement. 

“Oh you poor dear. Sorry about my Ludwig—always so wild and volatile, ever since he was a little boy.” The new voice was deep and a little raspy, but decidedly feminine. Apollo turned to see a dark-haired, middle-aged woman, adorned in a long coat with a snow-white fur stole, winged glasses, and what looked to be several pounds of gold and silver jewelry. She tucked one gloved hand into the crook of Mr. Wright’s elbow, the other gripping a gilded cane. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Wright. You and your team do live up to your reputation and then some. I am only sorry I couldn’t attend the proceedings myself—I only just now arrived in Japanifornia, you see. Now, how shall we go about settling your fees…?” 

“Y-you must be Mrs. Cecilia von Richter, then,” Mr. Wright said, recovering from his confusion. At the name, Apollo recognized her voice from that initial phone call that had started all this. Being the widow of a billionaire would explain her almost comically luxurious getup, as well as the two men—presumably body guards—in jet-black suits looming a few feet away; one was as tall and thick as could be expected, though the other was oddly plain, so average in height, build, and hair color as to be nearly invisible in the crowd. 

Apollo was perfectly content to let Mr. Wright handle this strange woman; he’d had enough for one day. 

“See you later,” he muttered his farewell to Athena and she let him go without fuss. 

Apollo passed through the thinning crowd like a fish swimming upstream, pretending to himself, unconvincingly, that he wasn’t looking for someone. He slipped inside the now-empty defense lobby and, finally alone, slumped against the wall. 

They made each other better, inspired each other…if you have anyone like that, don’t let your time go to waste. 

Manuel’s words were a burr in Apollo’s mind. Almost unconsciously, he took out his phone and stared for a long minute at an unanswered conversation. In a sudden rush of courage, fear, or something in between, he typed out a one-word reply.

Klavier Gavin

 

Wed 11:42 AM

 

Been assigned to “assist” on the Von Richter case. Are you defending? 

 

Maybe I’ll see you there and perhaps you could come over after, just to talk?

 

Today 10:02 AM

 

Okay.

Read 10:02 AM

Chapter Text

On the journey to Klavier’s house that evening, Apollo changed his mind about every five minutes. 

As the first bus rolled to a stop with a hiss of air, he questioned what there was to even talk about, but he conceded, as he took a seat near the back.

(There’s a lot.)

During a transfer at the metro station, he worried over whether Klavier even wanted to see him anymore, but as he wrapped an arm around a pole near the doors another thought demanded to be acknowledged, as much as it made his stomach clench.

(I want to see him.)

As he punched in Klavier’s code at the gate to the swanky neighborhood, he fretted over the lack of response to his confirmation text…but the other man had offered and that little check mark was there, declaring that he’d read Apollo’s short reply…

That brought him to the front door of a sleek, modern home on a hillside, a smattering of perfectly manicured bushes providing privacy from the street. With a final surge of decisiveness, Apollo rang the bell.

He waited a long, painful minute that felt like hours. Now there was no turning back, he had momentum, so he rang the bell again. Several more minutes dripped past. Apollo slung his bag forward so it hung from one shoulder as he rifled through the pockets, hand closing determinedly on a small, sharp object—a key, dangling from a Gavinners keychain. Klavier had pressed this upon him so offhandedly yet so insistently, and Apollo had neatly sidestepped any discussion or examination of what the gesture implied. He wasn’t certain what possessed him to use it now, but he let himself in. 

“Klavier?” Apollo’s voice, though soft, felt jarring in the stillness. He closed the front door silently, ears straining for the telltale sounds of movement in another room, water running in the shower, anything, but he knew it was no use. Klavier was the kind of person who could fill a room, a whole house even, with his presence; if he were there, it would have been immediately obvious. 

After a quick debate on whether it was weirder to linger on the threshold or lie in wait somewhere inside, Apollo walked in through the hallway, fighting the instinct to creep along like some sort of burglar. In the fading light of dusk, he followed the familiar lineup of framed album artwork and tour posters to the kitchen. The room was classy but intimate with big, rounded windows and off-white countertops, the cozy style somewhat at odds with the rock star aesthetic that permeated the rest of the house, but Apollo had always liked it; it felt more authentic, somehow, whatever that meant.

Apollo sat himself at the breakfast nook to wait, mind flooded with memories of frivolous banter over scrambled eggs and French toast; Klavier was a surprisingly competent cook, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy it, or perhaps he just relished the excuse to be a little messy, uncombed hair in a sloppy bun or perhaps just draped haphazardly over a rumpled t-shirt—if he bothered to put one on at all—whistling a tune as bits of yolk splattered from his whisk, letting those unflattering little snorts and hiccups free when he laughed…Apollo wondered how many people ever saw Klavier like that. Was he uniquely afforded this glimpse of the flawed person beneath the glamour, or was it just another carefully crafted facade Klavier presented to all his lovers, a calculated move to put them at ease and make them feel special? That was certainly something Klavier would do. 

Fortunately, Apollo didn’t have to marinate in those particular thoughts for too long. At the click of the front door, every muscle seized up, utterly paralyzed except his heart, which was attempting to jackhammer its way out of his ribcage. He knew he should announce himself somehow, but for once his voice wasn’t working. He had an animalistic urge to flee, to throw himself out the window and escape into the night never to be seen again…but all that was shaken loose from his mind as the front door slammed, sending shock waves through the house. Stomping footsteps, then Klavier appeared in the entryway to the kitchen. 

He looked…disheveled, unintentionally so. His shirt collar was wrinkled, his jacket hung awkwardly, like it suddenly didn’t fit him quite right anymore. Locks of golden hair escaped his braid as he worried it roughly with long fingers. He threw on the lights and stalked to the kitchen island, not even glancing at Apollo.

(He hasn’t noticed me…something’s wrong.)

Was Klavier always so…distraught after losing a trial? No, no this was something else entirely, a foreign roughness on a man who was normally so smooth, so perfectly composed. Apollo watched helplessly as Klavier rummaged about the kitchen and knocked a bottle of whiskey onto the island counter. With trembling hands, he poured a generous glass and gripped it tightly, knuckles turning pale. As he raised it toward his lips, he finally noticed Apollo and startled; he managed to keep ahold of the glass, but a good half of the alcohol sloshed onto the countertop. 

“A-Apollo…” Klavier stammered, and Apollo watched as the man slowly, laboriously, ironed out his face, though his shoulders remained rigid. “I forgot you were coming over—thousand apologies. Can I, um…can I get you anything?” 

“Klavier.” Apollo stood, taking one cautious step forward. “What’s the matter?” 

Klavier attempted to toss his head in that carefree way he did when he wanted to divert attention from something unpleasant, but he only succeeded in performing an unnatural jerk. With a jolt of horror, Apollo realized those blue eyes were shining with unshed tears.

They stood there, suspended in a fragile silence. Apollo just watched, feeling like a helpless bystander witnessing a disaster in slow motion, like an interloper trespassing on something confidential. Inevitably, Klavier lost the war against the pressure, and a wretched gasp ripped out of him. He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, leaning on the counter for support with his head clutched in his hands. 

“It’s him,” he said, voice cracking. Apollo knew there was only one ‘him’ this could be, but Klavier’s next words left no room for doubt. “He won’t see me! He’s my brother and it’s fucking Christmas and he won’t see me!” Suddenly, he raised the untouched whiskey as though to throw it, but before Apollo could so much as flinch, he put it back down, indecisive. It almost seemed that even in this state, Klavier was trying to behave as expected, to have a picture-perfect and marketable breakdown without crossing a line into genuine ugliness. All he seemed to achieve from this effort was collapsing onto the counter again, trembling and silent but for a few pained sobs that exploded free. 

(What do I do?)

Apollo knew this emotion all too well—the anger and anguish of abandonment. He remembered being a confused and lonely boy who, try as he might, couldn’t seem to hold the stopper on that roaring storm of feelings for very long. ‘Troubled,’ they had called him, ‘a challenging case.’ Yes, he could recognize this for what it was, but he had never been on the outside looking in before, not like this. 

Apollo racked his brain. At the group home of his teenage years, there had been one caregiver—an older woman, Mrs. Rivera he wanted to say—who had always been able to talk him down somehow. What had she done?

Tentatively, Apollo grabbed the glass and tossed its contents into the sink with a light splash, then gave it a rinse for good measure. The alcohol was probably expensive, but Klavier didn’t object, although he didn’t seem to even notice. He was shuddering and flinching with ragged gasps now, as though he was trying and failing to quiet himself by holding his breath. Apollo took his own slow, steadying inhale, then gripped the other man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his face.

“Come on.” Apollo said, applying a gentle but assertive pressure. Miraculously, Klavier did not resist. Still gasping, he stood, wobbling precariously. He stumbled along without comment or complaint as Apollo, keeping a firm hold, led the way to the nearest bathroom. It was small and simple by Klavier’s standards—meant for guests but seldom used—but still huge and extravagant to Apollo, every surface gleaming and unmarred by stains or chips. 

“Um…sit.” Apollo maneuvered the taller man onto the lidded toilet, where he sank down obediently, his choking breaths bouncing discordantly off the tile. Then, Apollo filled the glass at the sink and wrapped Klavier’s hand around it. “Drink.” He didn’t pause to see if that order was followed as he started opening cabinets at random. 

He quickly found what he was looking for: a small, plum-colored washcloth so plush it made Apollo’s towels seem like tissue paper by comparison. He held it under the faucet, and when it was soaked through and as cold as he could make it, he wrung it out and turned back to Klavier, who huddled helplessly where Apollo had left him. 

“Here, lean your head forward a bit,” Apollo whispered, pressing the back of Klavier’s head encouragingly, which was met with no resistance. He brushed the snarled mass of golden hair over the man’s shoulder and draped the damp cloth onto his flushed neck. A shiver rippled over Klavier’s shoulders and he rested his forehead against Apollo’s stomach. As sobs quieted to whimpers, Apollo eased himself into a crouch and pressed his hands, still cool from the water, to Klavier’s blotchy cheeks. 

“There…does that feel good?” He murmured, and the other man’s gaze flitted up—even watery and rimmed with red, his eyes were captivating, gorgeous, perhaps especially so with raw emotion spilling out in an uncurated torrent. Klavier seemed to focus on him at last, pupils dilating subtly. Apollo felt calloused fingertips brush his chin, followed by a soft palm cupping his jawline. Klavier’s mouth opened ever so slightly, drawing Apollo’s gaze to the stray teardrops clinging to his lips. 

(He’s going to try to kiss me.) 

That alarming realization churned the confusing vat of feelings in Apollo’s stomach. Did he want Klavier to kiss him? Should he? It didn’t seem right, not like this. 

But the hand at his face retracted, to relief and disappointment.

“Sorry,” Klavier croaked, “that’s a…bad coping mechanism. K-Kristoph used to say I shouldn’t let Daryan throw people at me whenever he wanted to avoid an argument, and now that they…well.” Klavier gave a great stuttering breath, closing his eyes. 

Apollo tipped the other man’s chin up and transferred the washcloth to cover his eyelids, applying the coolness with the weight of one hand.

“What happened?” He asked softly. 

“Oh…it’s nothing, truly.” Klavier gave a defeated shrug. “I still try to visit my brother when I can…and today he wouldn’t come when I asked for him…and I waited for a long time. Perhaps he knows already that we lost the trial, or perhaps he tires of me.” There was a long, heavy pause, which Apollo didn’t dare interrupt. “I should hate him for what he did, what he made me do, but I don’t. Inside, I still feel like just a little boy who loves his big brother. Is that wrong?” 

“No,” Apollo replied, “and, for what it’s worth, I still think about him sometimes, the things he taught me. I used to feel guilty about that, but lately I’ve decided that it doesn’t really do much good.” 

“Hmm.” 

It wasn’t even close to the same, Apollo knew. Brotherhood was not something he could honestly claim to understand, yet something within him seemed to tremble, reacting to the pitch of Klavier’s emotion, not identical to his own but similar enough to induce a sort of resonance. 

“Look, it does make sense…how you feel.” Apollo’s stomach lurched like he was a tightrope walker taking the first shaky step over empty space, and a cold sweat pricked his hairline. Gathering himself, he forced the next words out. “Maybe he knew things about you, about your life, that are hard to talk about, hard to make other people understand. You just had a bond that was always there, even when you were both busy and focused on other things. Now he’s suddenly…he’s gone…but he’s also the person you would want to talk about it with, so what are you even supposed to do?” 

Klavier peeled the wet cloth from his face, holding Apollo captive in his soft gaze. Apollo’s heart pounded, his hands tingled numbly where they rested on Klavier’s knees. He felt like the entire world could rip apart at any moment, simply dissolve into the void of space, and maybe that wouldn’t be so terrible.

“Sorry,” he finally managed to whisper through dry lips, “I didn’t mean to make it about…sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Klavier’s voice had calmed, settling into a low and soothing register, though something vulnerable remained exposed in his tone. “I am glad that you shared this with me…I’m glad you were here.” 

Whether it was reality or not, lately it seemed to Apollo that people were always watching him, waiting for some singular, explosive act of catharsis they could support him through so everyone could finally get closure and move on. Not Klavier, though. He didn’t press or allow the silence to hang over them. Apollo was so relieved he had to suppress a small shiver, and yet, in an ironic twist, this lack of expectation almost made him want unburden himself more…almost. 

Klavier merely brought his hand to Apollo’s cheek again, skimming lightly over the purpling bruise there, thin eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I heard what happened…he really did a number on you, schatz.” 

Apollo shrugged. “It doesn’t really hurt much.” In truth, after that fall his tailbone felt worse, but he wasn’t about to draw attention to that area—he still had some dignity left.

“Stoic as ever, Herr Forehead.” Klavier smirked, looking more like his usual self. He let his fingers trail languidly over Apollo’s chin—the gesture itself and the sudden heat left in its wake were wholly too intimate for the ‘just friends’ status Apollo was allegedly trying to re-establish, but that observation felt muted and distant, like it was coming from someone else—then he made to stand up. Apollo extended up out of his crouch as well to make room, and Klavier gazed down at him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“So, what do we do now?” The other man asked, stretching casually in a way that was only slightly performative. “I can order some food? Surely there must be still some delivery people working on Christmas Eve.” 

The memory of a prior obligation collided with Apollo’s hazy thoughts like an asteroid. He groaned and screwed his eyes shut. “I forgot, I uh…I have something else tonight—a holiday party at Mr. Wright’s place. Trucy would be disappointed if I didn’t go and Athena would kick my ass…so…”

“Well, as I am not in the habit of letting down charming young ladies, allow me to give you a ride.” Klavier flashed a perfect smile, all white teeth, but Apollo only felt his own frown deepen. With a nearly convincing roll of his shoulders, Klavier added, “I will be alright.” 

But Apollo couldn’t shake the image of him alone in this big empty house, unwanted by his brother or anyone, and before he even realized what he was about to do, he’d opened his mouth. “Come with me. Mr. Wright won’t mind if you hang out for a little while.” 

Klavier’s eyes widened in surprise. “A-are you sure?” Apollo, though decidedly unsure, simply nodded. Klavier didn’t require any more convincing; brightening considerably, he turned toward the mirror over the sink. He ran one hand across his frizzed hair, the other pressing a fingertip to the puffy, red skin under one eye. “Scheiße…please let me freshen myself up a bit, and then we will go. Should I do you as well?” He gestured to Apollo’s abused left side.

“Oh, nah. I mean…there won’t be anyone there who doesn’t already know about this, so what’s the point?” 

Klavier didn’t insist, but as he made for his arsenal of cosmetics in the master bathroom, Apollo heard him muttering to himself with a sort of incredulous fondness, “what’s the point, he says. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless.” 

——

The ride back into town was certainly shorter, but Apollo couldn’t quite decide if it was more comfortable. He had the pain in his poor face and spine to contend with, and a chill wind whistled past the opening in his helmet—“safety first,” Klavier had said in a sing-song voice as Apollo begrudgingly tried to lay his hair down neatly—while he clung tightly to the firm waist of the man in front of him. More troublesome than the physical discomfort were the memories of other rides that had ended at secluded overlooks, no one else around to see or hear…and when those images refused to be erased, he could only pray his traitorous heart wouldn’t give him away as it pounded against Klavier’s back like it wanted to go live inside him instead. 

At the Wrights’ apartment, Trucy answered the door with an excited squeal that trailed off into barely masked confusion. “Polly! …And Prosecutor Gavin…what a nice surprise!” Her voice and grin wavered uncertainly as she cast Apollo a questioning look. 

“Frohe Weihnachten, fräulein.” Klavier stepped forward, gracefully flipping his bangs out of his eyes—now crisp and bright thanks to the subtle application of concealer and eyeliner—while reaching into his pocket. “Sorry it is not wrapped.” 

Trucy received the small object, cupping it reverently in her palm, eyes sparkling with recognition. “A lenticular pin from the Guilty As Charged tour, in limited-edition blue and red! They only made like, a hundred of these…thanks Prosecutor Gavin, you’re the best! Come on in, you two!” 

Door guard successfully appeased, Apollo and Klavier stepped over the threshold, following her through to the living room. When he saw who was waiting there already, Apollo stopped dead, a strangled choking sound bursting unbidden from his throat. 

Simon Blackquill was perched stiffly on the arm of the battered couch, arms folded, his looming, predatory-bird-esque presence making the small room feel downright cramped. Someone—probably Athena, as it surely couldn’t have been the prosecutor himself—had tucked a small, blood-red poinsettia flower into the band holding his mane of hair. 

“Ha! Fancy meeting you here, Herr Jailbird!” Klavier seemed positively tickled at this turn of events, though he was clearly the only one. Blackquill merely scowled while Athena’s sharp eyes found Apollo.

“Oh good, you’re here Apollo—Mr. Wright needs our help in the kitchen.” She smiled sweetly, but there was an edge to her voice that brooked no argument. Apollo grimaced back but followed dutifully, avoiding all the other gazes in the room. 

(Could she be more obvious? May as well announce to the room, ‘Apollo, may I speak with you in the kitchen alone? It’s time for a lecture, you see.’)

Their boss was nowhere in sight as Athena, predictably, rounded on him amidst the haphazardly placed trays of cookies and charcuterie. 

“Apollo! Since when were you bringing Prosecutor Gavin? Does Mr. Wright know about this?” 

“Ah…well…” Apollo stammered, “I was going to pull him aside when we got here…”

“Apollo!” Athena raised a fist as if to punch him in the arm, but he juked out of her range; he had endured enough battery for one day. 

“Well, does he know you brought Blackquill?” Apollo countered, pivoting to the offensive. 

“Of course! I don’t just show up at someone’s house with an unannounced plus-one, unlike some people!”

“Oh yeah? And when exactly did you get permission?” Evidently he called his mark correctly, because she flushed.

“I texted him a little after the trial,” she muttered, but sharpened her voice again almost immediately, “but at least that’s some advance warning. Plus, Simon would have been alone otherwise—things are complicated with his parents since everything with Aura…anyway, I was just doing the decent thing!”

“And you think I’m not?” Apollo fumed.

To his surprise, Athena just sighed; she sounded almost…exasperated. “So, does this mean you’re, you know, ‘back together’ with him or…?”

Apollo started, blindsided by her sheer gall. Worse, when he tried to reach for a firm answer, he came up empty handed. There was nothing else for it but to deflect. “W-what? T-that—that’s none of your business!”

She covered one ear with her hand. “You make it my business every time you talk about him, it’s like you’re practically screaming about it…”

“Stop toying with him, it’s not fair!” The electronic voice squeaked out from Athena’s necklace, glowing red. 

“Me toying with him?” Apollo hissed, feeling his own hot pulse of anger, which failed to completely overpower a small blip of guilt. “Last I checked, he was the one with all the money and fame and charm and I’m just the poor sap who…”

(Who what?) 

Apollo clamped his mouth shut on that train of thought before it could run off the rails. Luckily—or perhaps unluckily, depending on how you looked at it—they were interrupted by Mr. Wright. He wore a slightly oversized sweater with a festive pattern of little reindeer and snowflakes in red and white; it was a far more relaxed ensemble than Apollo had seen in a while, but still a significant step up from the threadbare sweatshirt and sandals, for which he was grateful. 

“Does anyone want to explain why yet another prosecutor is sitting in my living room?” The older man’s face was placid, but his voice was undoubtedly nervous…but surely he couldn’t be that intimidated by Blackquill and Gavin?

(I’m going to be stuck cleaning the office bathroom until next Christmas at this rate.) 

“I’m sorry Mr. Wright, I should have given more warning. It’s just…he was alone and things are bad with…you know, his brother…at the moment. So I thought you’d understand, in the spirit of the season…?”

Mr. Wright’s expression darkened, as it usually did at even the ghost of a mention of Kristoph Gavin; however, the storm clouds cleared as quickly as they had arrived, replaced with a tender and contemplative look. “That’s very kind of you, Apollo. Of course he can stay.” 

Apollo felt a gentle shove in the shoulder from Athena, affectionate and apologetic. He nodded at her, mouth quirking in a half smile. If anything good came from all that insanity a couple months ago, it was that making it through as friends—after the black despair and doubt that had nearly torn Apollo apart—now meant trivial disagreements could never get between them for very long. 

“At any rate, we kind of overprepared, so I think we should have enough food for seven,” Mr. Wright went on, stroking his chin. Apollo frowned and glanced back toward Athena, who was counting silently on her fingers. 

“Seven, boss?” She said. “Who are we missing, then?” 

“Come on, Athena, you can’t have already forgotten about…” but Mr. Wright’s amused look melted into one of horror so quickly Apollo craned his neck around, half expecting a crazed murderer to have popped into existence over his shoulder. Mr. Wright didn’t react, just muttered to himself, “but I definitely told you…at the trial…didn’t I?” 

Just then, there was a rap at the front door. 

“Finally!” Trucy exclaimed from the other room. “I’ll get it!

“Wait, Trucy!” Mr. Wright blanched and stumbled toward the living room, Apollo and Athena scurrying in his wake. They arrived just in time to see Trucy throwing the door open wide. 

The newcomer took one step inside and halted to take in the room, infamous icy stare landing like a blow on each person one after the other. Apollo saw his own reaction—bewilderment with a healthy dose of terror—reflected in the faces of Athena, Klavier, and Blackquill upon making eye contact with each of them in turn, as they all glanced around wildly to gauge the others’ reactions, as though this were an unexpected Objection! in court. Only Trucy seemed unbothered, happy even, that Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, with all his steely gravitas, was standing in the doorway, discordantly framed by cheap green streamers declaring Merry Christmas! over and over in faint white lettering. 

Although the existence of Mr. Edgeworth’s relationship with Mr. Wright was an open secret—if still a bit cryptic in its exact nature—among the people in this room, Apollo had encountered him at very few social events; the most notable occasion had been the party they’d hosted at the agency to celebrate Mr. Wright getting his badge back, but the Chief Prosecutor had still held himself at a professional distance. To see him now, at a pseudo-familial Christmas party—a holiday he notoriously loathes—well, it wasn’t exactly the craziest thing that had happened that year, but it was pretty damn close. 

There was an extended moment of prickly silence, in which Mr. Edgeworth’s attention lingered on his two prosecutors where they sat on the couch, straight-backed with surprise, both at a total loss for words; clearly this was a tension that could not be cut by a sarcastic quip, and apparently neither were stupid enough to try. 

Finally, Mr. Edgeworth spoke, deep voice calm but deadly serious, “Wright, may I speak with you in the kitchen? Alone.”

Chapter Text

For all its strangeness, Edgeworth would have called it a good day. 

That morning, he shook away the last clinging vestiges of dreams with relative ease; from what he recalled, it had all been the usual fare, like water off the duck’s back compared to the newer nightmares.

(Perhaps Maya’s words helped after all. I should add a reminder in my organizer to mail those books—it would be a poor show of my appreciation to forget.) 

He set out for the courthouse early, debated stopping at the florist in the strip mall en route, but took one glance at the already near-full parking lot and thought better of it. He arrived at his customary space at the courthouse with little fuss, pausing only to send a brief text message. 

He would never become entirely comfortable with the mob of reporters that flocked to these high-profile cases, but he retained a mastery of icy aloofness, perfected early in his career, which he employed with force now. He managed to ward off most microphone-bearing hangers-on as he moved through the crowd. Past the security check, he made a beeline for his goal: the prosecution lobby outside the farthest courtroom in the hall, which he knew would be unused all morning. No one questioned why he was making his way toward an empty courtroom with such determination; Edgeworth had happily discovered that once you became an important person able to affect the look of being about important business, you could get away with a great deal of odd behavior before attracting even so much as a doubtful look. 

He waited, finding himself with nothing to do but take in the decor of the lobby, everything as bland an inoffensive as humanly possible, from the furniture to the artwork to the vaguely floral air freshener; in fact, it was all so unremarkable that he had no distinct recollection of any it, despite having been in this very room dozens of times…but then, he was noting it now, so did that mean it its extreme mundanity it had circled back around to remarkable? Fortunately, Phoenix soon slipped in, saving him from these vapid thoughts. The defense attorney closed the door, and pressed his back to it.

“Uh, you summoned?” He said, one hand wandering up to his neck, as was his usual telltale sign of uncertainty, the other tucking a battered cellphone back into his pocket.

“Yes, I wanted to speak privately a moment, and it could not wait.” Edgeworth had learned to take care with this sort of statement—the we need to talk and its ilk—as Phoenix’s imagination tended to turn rather maudlin and run away with his rational sense; the best tack, which he had found after a frankly embarrassing number of fumbles, was to nip that in the bud and cut straight to the heart of the matter. “I-I wish to apologize. For yesterday, that is. I should have considered my words more carefully.” 

“Oh.” Phoenix pushed away from the door, closing the distance between them, standing just inside Edgeworth’s bubble of space. He smelled like coffee and shaving cream and the moisturizer Edgeworth had given him that he swore he didn’t need but used religiously anyway.

“I was too quick to dismiss the idea, and I do not believe that is a good representation of my feelings on the matter.” His heart gave a squirm in anticipation of the next part, so he changed course to buy time to gather himself. “I had intended to get roses as a token of apology, but given the timing I very much doubt there is a great deal to choose from that isn’t near wilted or in some gaudy Christmas-themed arrangement, or both. Plus, it occurred to me that holding a dozen roses in your lap during a murder trial might seem…out of place.” 

Through his babbling explanation, Phoenix’s mouth had lifted into a fond grin that was skirting the edge of a self-satisfied smirk. “You were going to buy me flowers?”

“Well, yes, I considered it.” 

“You’re such a sap.” Phoenix reached forward and interlaced their fingers. It was a small motion, but it pulled loose some of that knot in Edgeworth’s heart. 

He squeezed back. “It’s catching, apparently.” 

Phoenix gave a little chuckle. “Well, that may be true because you’re already forgiven, if you forgive me that is.” 

“Forgive you for what, exactly?” 

Jagged eyebrows knit together, and for a moment Phoenix’s mouth dropped open to say something, but he seemed to reconsider. Instead, he only shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Hmph. Then I’m afraid you are not forgiven. I do not give my forgiveness for nothing—it diminishes the value.” He felt his own mouth quirking as Phoenix’s face twisted with mock umbrage. Then, Edgeworth remembered what else he needed to say, the air between them suddenly heavy with it, the meeting of their eyes more intent. Dropping his voice near to a whisper, he said, “I want to discuss it properly, our…our future together. And we will.” 

“Just not yet,” Phoenix finished for him, just as softly. “Hey, it’s okay. Look at me. It’s okay.” 

Edgeworth dragged his gaze back up, as he had indeed looked down and away—old habits and such. Phoenix’s own eyes—deep brown with a sheen of blue around the edges when they caught the light just so—held nothing but boundless faith, that and the love Edgeworth had only allowed himself to recognize and name less than a year ago. Not for the first time, he felt he was still catching up, still striving to be the person who truly deserved that trust and devotion.

His partner shook their joined hands bracingly, then began to retreat, but it wasn’t enough. 

“Phoenix.” Edgeworth held the man in place, bringing his other hand up, sliding somewhat clumsily over shoulder to neck to cheek, then quickly brought their mouths together. Phoenix made a startled noise in his throat that finished as a pleased hum. After a beat that marked the impending boundary between affectionate and intimate—a timing they knew by instinct after much practice in private greeting and farewell—again Phoenix tried to shift his weight back and again Edgeworth did not let him go. Resolute, he pressed in more firmly, stroked Phoenix’s smooth cheek with his thumb, parted his lips. His partner’s confusion lasted only a second longer, then he responded with enthusiastic abandon, imbuing the kiss with heated energy. Phoenix had always been able to completely give himself over to the moment; it was not so with Edgeworth. Just then, his mind was split in twain, one part hungrily seeking to be as close to Phoenix as the many vexing layers of clothing would allow, while the other tutted in distant disapproval at this overemotional display and strained his ears for the sound of voices or a doorknob turning. However, both were somehow in agreement that he needed this, needed to prove something, prove that he could bend, that he could perform this small act of rebellion against himself.

Just as the tempo of their embrace noticeably increased—breath hitching as Phoenix shifted and slotted against him more securely, hand finding its way under Edgeworth’s waistcoat to clutch possessively at the thin silk fabric at his lower back—the latter part of him finally won out; there were still limits. He broke away gently and Phoenix got the message, though a charming little flush still painted his cheeks. 

“The trial, Wright,” he reminded.

“Ah, right.” Phoenix stepped backwards to a distance more befitting friendly but professional colleagues. Although, his eyes were still slightly clouded when he said, “hey, uh…maybe later…?”

“Hmm, perhaps.” Evidently, the audacious part of him was still asserting itself, thrilling in being a little coy and the unmistakable spark in Phoenix’s lingering gaze as he departed. 

Like a mug of hot water, Edgeworth was filled with warmth to his fingertips, which he held to gratefully through the trial’s unfortunate end. Here they witnessed a painful truth, but a wound must be cleaned for a better healing process. Privately, he took Ms. Sterling at her word that Mr. von Richter’s death was unintended; he was already contemplating steps he could take to help her situation. After, he made a point of seeking out Blackquill and Gavin, to both commend them and remind them that unveiling the truth was never a loss; each trial was ultimately a matter of logic, and the prosecutor’s role was not just to champion a particular set of premises, but to winnow and hone proposed solutions until only the strongest remained. It required flexibility, strength of will, and more compassion than outsider observers may realize…and at that point, the attentions of the two younger men had clearly fled, so he released them.

The rest of the day was spent tending to logistical matters—reviewing case reports, approving leave and vacation time, et cetera—interspersed with requests for his statement on the von Richter trial. He was selective about his responses, denying disreputable tabloids with increasing impatience, but even so the entire affair became rather grating:

Yes, he was surprised by the outcome of the trial.

(But of course, I had predicted we would all be surprised, so I was not far off, really.)

No, his prosecutors would not suffer demerits for ‘losing.’

(How many times will I have to explain my philosophy on this matter before the people start believing it?)

Yes, they would bring a case against Ms. Sterling. He could not offer comment at this time to preserve confidentiality, but it was being handled.

(I suppose that means I should actually assign someone to take up the investigation.)

No, he did not know whether Klavier Gavin was planning a solo tour anytime soon and was only concerned with such a thing insofar as disruptions to the prosecutor’s legal work.

(For God’s sake, I am the Chief Prosecutor, not a publicity manager!)

Even getting out fifteen minutes later than anticipated, he’d managed to reserve a small well of energy for the Wrights’ holiday party. In truth, his pre-trial rendezvous with Phoenix had left him emboldened; surely, this would not be so difficult as he’d initially thought? He loved Phoenix and, importantly, believed his partner deserved meaningful demonstrations of those feelings. It would be a simple thing, all told, entirely manageable if broken down into phases and small goals. He would smile and compliment Trucy’s odd baking creations, improve his standing with each of Phoenix’s young associates through lighthearted but sincere conversation, and perhaps as the night wore on and they all settled into a companionable atmosphere, he would sit beside Phoenix and place an unobtrusive hand on his knee and spare no thought for what Mr. Justice or Ms. Cykes might think. Then, with the younger folk encouraged to their own beds, the leftovers put away, the lights turned out, he and Phoenix would be alone at last…

It was the perfect plan…until he walked into the Wrights’ apartment to discover unexpected complications—two of them, named Klavier Gavin and Simon Blackquill. 

“This is not what we agreed on,” he hissed in the kitchen, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I didn’t invite them,” Phoenix defended, voice insistent but low so as not to carry to the other room. “Apollo and Athena just picked them up off the street or something and what was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, this is an exclusive event so go spend Christmas with your siblings who I put in prison?’” 

(You mean whom.)

But pedantry was obviously not what was required for this situation. Edgeworth could have also made some disdainful comment about bleeding hearts, but he couldn’t put any conviction into it, for it wasn’t as though he could honestly claim he would have denied them in Phoenix’s position.

So, he said, “I understand. However, you could have at least warned me. The presence of my subordinates is quite the change to the, ah, social landscape of this party.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Phoenix scrubbed the nape of his neck sheepishly. “I mean, I’m happy to follow your lead…but you do know they all talk to each other? So they would have known you were here regardless.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Edgeworth sighed, conceding the point reluctantly. Perhaps this was preferable, as surely there would be less cause for gossip among them if they were all first-hand witnesses to…whatever this was now supposed to be.

“I’m always Wright.” Phoenix smiled impishly, then plucked up a tray generously laden with cheese, crackers, and various accompaniments—all at least of middling quality, thanks to Edgeworth’s oversight—and placed it in his arms. Taking up a platter of cookies himself, his partner said briskly, “come on, we’re being bad hosts.” 

Back in the main room, the younger folk had their heads together in hushed conversation, but as Phoenix and Edgeworth reappeared, they jumped and scattered like so many field mice sensing the flap of a hawk’s wing. 

(Now really, am I truly so menacing? I should introduce them all to Franziska sometime—next to her, I may as well be Father Christmas himself.)

Amusing himself with that image, he set his burden on the strangely clean coffee table; it was usually home to a combination of open case files and Trucy’s schoolwork with troublingly little separation between the two, amidst a sprinkling of junk mail, DVD cases with the wrong discs inside, spent pens, the occasional takeout box, and other such detritus. He wondered idly whether he could use this to convince the Wrights that tidiness was surely preferable, well worth the small daily effort. 

With some mild badgering from Phoenix, everyone began to indulge in the treats. Still entirely at ease, Trucy skipped to a small portable speaker on the end table, and a moment later light music permeated the room: tasteful, piano-forward covers of Christmas songs by a small jazz ensemble. Edgeworth nodded to her in approval and she tipped her hat, adorned with a red-and-white ribbon for the occasion. The background noise broke the ice just enough to allow threads of conversation to emerge as they all shuffled about for a place to sit or stand. Edgeworth claimed one of the kitchen chairs against the wall that had been dragged in earlier, resting one ankle atop the opposite knee in what he hoped was a laid-back posture. In the milling about, Ms. Cykes ended up in the seat to his right, looking none too pleased about it as she nibbled her water crackers and white cheddar. 

(Say something.)

“Ah, Ms. Cykes, I trust you are well?” It was a solid start. 

“Oh, Mr. Edgeworth, yeah I’m fine…more than fine—I’m good! Way better than when you last saw me anyway…” She laughed nervously and combed fingers through her bright hair. 

After much deliberation, Edgeworth had elected to avoid this topic altogether; however, now he wavered in that decision, instinct pushing him to take advantage of the opening, to clear the air. “Ms. Cykes, you do not need to be so…nervous with me. I hope you understand—during that trial, I was fulfilling the role that was expected of me. I was compelled…that is, Trucy was in danger…” Indeed, the freedom and well-being of multiple innocent people, the state of the law, and the truth had all rested on intersecting axes of a knife’s edge, and there he’d stood, wretched heart sinking as he realized too late his assigned part in the farce: the Demon Prosecutor, resurrected to accuse a child of killing their parent. He had done it with a cold-blooded precision, for inside he’d had a vital lifeline: the steadfast belief that Phoenix would see them all through to absolution. Only after, in the shelter of darkness with Trucy safe in the next room, only then had they allowed themselves to lean against one another, shivering and boneless, Phoenix murmuring half-formed reassurances into his hair. 

His thoughts had turned too far inward it seemed, because Ms. Cykes was fixing him with a concerned expression, a small crease forming between her brows. 

He swallowed and continued carefully, “I followed the course I felt had the best chance to lead us to truth and peaceable resolution, but please know that, whatever happened, I would not have allowed you to come to any significant harm either.” 

“I know, Mr. Edgeworth.” He wasn’t sure what sort of reaction he had been expecting, but this sudden surety had not been it. Something must have shown in his face, because she gave a small grin and tapped her ear. “I could hear it in your voice. Even with how horrible it all was, I knew you were only trying to help in every way that you could.” 

It was a curious thing, her emotional sensitivity, on a level with spirit channeling and psycho-locks as far as Edgeworth was concerned, which was to say he filed it under phenomena he did not—and likely would never—comprehend in the slightest, that he acknowledged as reality when the situation called for it but otherwise did not dwell on overlong. Consequently, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information that she could, by her own estimation, read his true intentions so easily; it was more than a little unsettling.

“That is…very well, but even so, I regret putting you through that. I…you see, I can perhaps understand something of what you may have felt…” but his voice petered out again at the sight of an embarrassed twist of her mouth.

“Uh…if you’re about to say what I think you are…well I know about that already too, Mr. Edgeworth.” 

(Surely she can’t have deduced that much…just from my voice!?)

“It’s just…when I was studying to be a lawyer, I knew I wanted to work with Mr. Wright if I could, so I researched all his old cases, which included…well, you know.” She toyed with her hair again, self-conscious.

Of course, this was only to be expected when one’s dark night of the soul was a matter of public record. He could applaud her diligence, at least.

“I see…in that case, I hope you can come to view me as an ally, perhaps a kindred spirit in some small regard, if you wish to think of it that way.” He thought he did an admirable job at expressing his genuine feelings on the matter through words and tone, but her listening acuity had him nervously self-aware. 

Evidently he passed muster, because she smiled—a true smile, he thought. “Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth. I can see why Mr. Wright trusts you so much.” At those words, the round gadget at her neck suddenly flared to life with an electronic trill and the young attorney stood abruptly. “Uh, Apollo’s signaling me so…good talk!” She all but ran to the other side of the room, where indeed her colleague was looking besieged as Gavin and Blackquill volleyed quips over his head. 

Edgeworth released some of the tension in his upper back, slumping in his chair by a half inch. That had been…not disastrous, but still more taxing than he’d been ready for. 

“You’re doing great!” Trucy appeared beside him, seemingly from nowhere as was her wont, to press a glass of wine into his hand. 

“Ah…thank you, my dear.” He gripped the delicate stem, relieved he was not expected to partake of that alchemical brew Phoenix called punch. As he brought the glass toward his lips, he couldn’t help but notice a thin droplet of deep red liquid clinging to the rim, that and a suspicious scrunching about Trucy’s nose and mouth—almost as if she’d had a taste of something she found dissatisfying and unpleasant. 

Catching his scrutiny, she said, “oh, I think Polly wants me over there.” And with a bracing pat to his shoulder she sidled off. Edgeworth let this pass without comment, as those boundaries were surely best left up to her father’s discretion, but he resolved to keep an eye on her for the evening and mentally pinned her apparent curiosity to bring up with Phoenix later.

(I suppose it is natural at her age. Sixteen already…swiftly fly the years.)

For a time, he occupied himself with silently observing the rest of the party, following Trucy with his eyes as she bounced over to the quartet of younger lawyers clustered around the Wrights’ eclectically decorated Christmas tree. 

“Very charming, fräulein.” Gavin flashed her a dashing grin. “But I wonder…what is this?” He indicated a segment near the bottom of the tree facing the wall, which held a number of rejected ornaments, those that were too tacky even for Phoenix and Trucy—Edgeworth shuddered to think what the threshold of unattractiveness must be to make them refuse to display at item on the tree at all—or otherwise so badly broken as to be a greater part glue than original material. 

“Oh, that’s just the Shame Corner,” the girl supplied, as if this were already self evident and the prosecutor just needed a kindly reminder. 

“I see.” Gavin nodded, then deftly plucked something off a branch tip and held it up. “And this?” Even from afar, Edgeworth knew what it was; he had noticed the baffling object himself the previous day. It was a circular plastic plate with a portrait of the Gavinners printed on, arms about each other’s shoulders in fraternal warmth, all cheeky winks and toothy smiles. Above their heads it read Merry Christmas in gold lettering, but someone had crossed that out with red marker and wrote you’re fired! instead. If he recalled correctly, there were also little devil horns added atop the then-short golden hair of Gavin’s likeness. 

“Oh uh…hah…that’s just a little inside joke between Daddy and me from a long time ago…a long time ago.” Trucy swiped the defaced ornament, tucking it inside her cape, uncharacteristically sheepish. “Let me just…put that away.” If Gavin was offended he gave no sign of it, just chuckled and shook his head. 

The conversation resumed easily, and soon thereafter Ms. Cykes suggested a game. It was something to do with pretending to be members of the mafia and ‘killing’ one another until either everyone was ‘dead’ or the evildoers were rooted out; however, Phoenix vetoed any game that included arguing over murder accusations as its central premise, which Edgeworth thought wise. Instead, they landed on twenty questions, which went over smoothly enough for several rounds, but Ms. Cykes’ turn sparked a heated debate on whether ‘Gourdy’ (that derivative myth of a lake creature that people still refused to let fade into obscurity where it belonged) should be considered a fish or a reptile. 

“First of all, this thing is not real so the point is moot to begin with, but if it were…it lives totally in water so that makes it a fish!” Mr. Justice shrugged, as if trying to seem unconcerned in afterthought, contradicted by the finger pressed to his forehead. Gavin had eagerly taken his side and they faced off against Ms. Cykes and Trucy. The girls had drafted Blackquill to their team, but his role thus far seemed only to offer the occasional surly glare or arrogant head tilt for emphasis. 

“Objection, Polly!” Trucy pointed dramatically; she seemed to be rather enjoying herself—in fact, they all did, though some were better at pretending otherwise. “What about turtles? And crocodiles? And those iguanas in the Galapagos? And…”

“Fair point, fräulein, but don’t all of these creatures surface for air or come onto land at least some of the time?”

“And who’s to say Gourdy doesn’t?” Ms. Cykes shot back.

“Wouldn’t people see?” Mr. Justice exclaimed, “there would be signs, at least, big flipper marks in the sand or something…that is, if Gourdy actually existed in the first place, obviously…”

“So, Gourdy is modeled after the Loch Ness Monster, which is a lot like a plesiosaurus,” Phoenix mused, weighing in for the first time, “and plesiosaurus was some kind of dinosaur, so it stands to reason that makes it a reptile.” 

“Hold it, Wright. Plesiosaurus was not a dinosaur.” Every head in the room swiveled toward Edgeworth, and too late he realized he’d spoken aloud; well, now he was committed. “Plesiosaurs were a group of marine reptiles that were contemporary with dinosaurs but not particularly closely related evolutionarily speaking—they occupied a different branch of the family tree, as it were.” 

“Did you hear that? Marine. Reptiles. Mr. Edgeworth agrees with us—Gourdy is a reptile, confirmed!” Ms. Cykes did a little caper of triumph.

(Well, that is not exactly what I meant…)

He caught Phoenix’s eye, who managed to look fond and cross at the same time. “Only you would find a way to agree while still correcting me. How do you even know that?”

Edgeworth thought it must have come from a documentary he’d put on during a bumpy transatlantic flight in the desperate hope it would lull him to sleep. It had been partially successful; he’d drifted fitfully in and out of interviews with paleontologists and animated recreations of sundry prehistoric creatures, absorbing little but this factoid that had somehow glued itself to his mind. There was no need to confess to all that, though.

“I simply read, listen, and pay attention to new information outside my immediate area of expertise, which you would do well to emulate, Wright.” He made a show of spreading his arms and shaking his head, just to needle Phoenix that much more. He stared boldly into those rounded eyes for several heartbeats, if for no other reason than to prove that he could, but Phoenix gazed back with such disarming, unadulterated tenderness that Edgeworth was forced to look away first, the memory of a kiss—or perhaps an unspoken promise of sometime to come—tingling across his lips. 

(Entirely unfair.) 

They tired of the game before it got to Edgeworth’s turn—mercifully so, as the part of his mind not stubbornly fixated on Phoenix only seemed able to suggest Steel Samurai references, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to reveal that facet of himself to this particular crowd—when they correctly guessed Phoenix’s ‘piano’ after thirteen questions. This sparked a lively conversation about the man’s former occupation, which it seemed Ms. Cykes had heard very little about, so this naturally devolved into a demand for evidence. Surprisingly, the Wrights did still have an electric keyboard tucked into the back of a closet behind boxes of Trucy’s old toys.

“We found it at a garage sale, and we thought it would be perfect for Daddy to practice on at home,” Trucy explained with a grunt as she levered out the keyboard’s stiff legs, “then, I was going to use it for sound effects at my shows, but we couldn’t figure that part out.” She settled a stool before the instrument, dusting it off with a flourish.

Phoenix, who had only agreed after much cajoling—no doubt softened by his second glass of wine—was already blushing as he approached. “Listen, I haven’t tried this in a while, and I was never that good to begin with…”

“Come on, Mr. Wright, give yourself some credit! You were a professional,  after all—how bad could it be?” Ms. Cykes clasped her hands together in childlike eagerness as she settled on the floor to listen.

“Bad,” Mr. Justice murmured above her on the sofa as she leaned back against his legs, though Edgeworth seemed to be the only one to hear; he was now practically rubbing elbows with the younger man, having moved his chair closer at Trucy’s insistence that they gather up like a proper audience. 

Unfortunately, Justice was correct in his estimations of his superior’s abilities. They suffered through a half dozen false starts and ill-timed notes before Gavin got to his feet; evidently there was only so much insult to music that he would tolerate.

Moving behind the piano and reaching down for the keys with surprisingly elegant fingers, he said, not unkindly, “here, Herr Wright, like this.” After a moment of instruction, he had Phoenix playing the background to Heart and Soul—had that been what he was attempting?—with reasonable precision. Nodding with satisfaction, Gavin effortlessly took up the melody, complete with lyrics delivered in a smooth and pleasant tenor, “…I fell in love with you, heart and soul, just like a fool would do…”

Gavin, it turned out, was a talented performer in the absence of all that other migraine-inducing racket, but in that moment his efforts were entirely secondary, almost nonexistent; Edgeworth’s senses were filled with nothing but Phoenix, all else relegated to a two-dimensional backdrop. His brow was slightly tightened in concentration as he played along, but he bore a knowing and contented smile. There was a certain inner confidence there, and he practically glowed with it, a softened version of the radiant light he cast when he fought so recklessly and ardently for justice. That very light had seared an impression into Edgeworth’s eyes that had not left him in all the time since, eleven years very nearly to the day. It had been much like this back then, a storm of relieved laughter and colorful scraps of paper with Edgeworth at its eye, unable to feel any of it with the light of that man filling him so completely.

When the song came to a close, Edgeworth let out a breath and allowed that burning swell of emotion to ebb with it, clapping politely with the others. Trucy and Ms. Cykes immediately called for an encore even as Phoenix edged away from the keys, which was just as well, with a corner of Edgeworth’s mind already working on how to organically get the temporary pianist alone, just for the briefest moment.  

Then again, he realized this interlude was the perfect opportunity for rapport-building with Mr. Justice; as stunning as his partner was, he could not lose sight of his goals for the evening.

“You did well today,” he said, leaning over slightly, which seemed a friendly enough opening, but the young man did not react right away. He was sitting back in the sofa cushions, arms folded under a glazed and vaguely pained expression which sparked an uncomfortable flicker of familiarity in Edgeworth—perhaps he had not been the only one so moved by the performance. Indeed, Gavin made no secret of his affections for his frequent courtroom counterpart, as much as Edgeworth wished he would. Though he was loathe to acknowledge it, he was beginning to suspect that relations between the two were more complex than Gavin’s glibness might let on. Not that he meant to do anything about it. Setting aside the fact that he was spectacularly unqualified to give anyone relationship advice, let alone his and his own partner’s direct underlings, this was what the Conflicts of Interest Policy was supposed to address; if he was forced to intervene, better to do so with firm rules and regulations in place. For now, they would simply have to work it out on their own. 

The negotiations at the keyboard resolved with Phoenix ceding his place graciously. Without any further ado, Gavin settled himself on the stool and started up a jaunty rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which was met with exclamations of delight from the young women and a tut of over-exaggerated disgust from Blackquill. This sudden tonal change seemed to shake Justice from his reverie as well, his head snapping towards Edgeworth as if the man had only just realized he was there. 

“Oh, uh, th-thanks, Mr. Edgeworth.” He absently touched the livid spot on his cheekbone. “It…it was a tough one.” 

“Indeed.” For a moment, Edgeworth considered offering some encouraging statement about truth and their solemn duty to bring it forth no matter the obstacles, as he had told the prosecutors earlier that day, but he held back. Ragged as he seemed, the young lawyer possessed an aura of grim contemplation. He already knew, as surely as they all did, this wasn’t over yet.

So, they lapsed into silence, listening along as Gavin delivered on every new song request with unending charm and verve, while Trucy, Ms. Cykes, and occasionally even Phoenix sang along with equal enthusiasm. Edgeworth kept expecting the neighbors to come indict them for crimes against peace on Earth, but it seemed either no one was home or they were inclined to extend a great deal of good will in the name of the holiday. However, the song choices soon moved away from Christmas carols; Gavin was delivering a passable impression of Billy Joel—with Trucy and Ms. Cykes raucously joining the chorus and stumbling along to the verses while Justice and even Blackquill tapped their feet—when Edgeworth excused himself to return an empty cookie platter to the kitchen. Phoenix followed him, ferrying used cups and glasses to the sink.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” the other man said with a wry smile, “he’s a better ‘piano man’ than me.” 

“Did you truly expect differently?”

“I mean, I thought he was a guitar guy.” Phoenix shrugged as the soft sounds of clinking and running water contrasted the exuberant chords and voices from the other room. 

“With a name like that, it would be strange if he didn’t play the piano, don’t you think?” By wordless agreement, Edgeworth took the rinsed items and began loading the dishwasher.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Edgeworth smirked to himself. He would have to remember to tell Franziska about this—he could almost hear her response, Herr Piano playing the piano while singing about playing the piano, how droll. Although she had never met the prosecutor in person, she had an odd fascination with him, though not in the way Gavin clearly hoped women thought of him; rather, she saw him as the epitome of foolishness and derived a sort of schadenfreude from it. 

They continued to tidy up in quiet comfort, brushing shoulders and hands together in a lingering, not-quite-accidental way. It called to mind many similar moments over the years, when they’d sought out excuses to be alone together but always with a thin shield of plausible deniability with regard to their true motives. That they no longer had to play at such restraint was one of the greatest gifts of Edgeworth’s life, and he pondered, as he often did, how he had come to enjoy such good fortune.  

They were nearly finished with the dishes when Gavin wound down his performance at last to a final round of applause. The young lawyers trickled out soon thereafter, Phoenix and Trucy standing at the door, jovially hugging and shaking hands and clasping shoulders as they bid their guests goodnight. Edgeworth hovered nearby, offering respectful nods, continually reminding himself that he was meant to not care if they wondered at why he wasn’t taking his leave as well. Trucy locked the front door behind them with a metallic click, yawning and stretching. Claiming need of a full night’s rest to give her best performance on the morrow, she shuffled off to her room, but not before pulling each of them down in turn to plant wet kisses on their cheeks. 

With the mess in the apartment at an acceptable level of containment, Phoenix and Edgeworth turned in as well, but not yet to sleep. Their hands were gentle but firm as they finally wrapped around one another; there was no trial to attend to now, they could take their time, savor every touch. After, as he lay staring into darkness with the comforting weight of Phoenix’s arm draped across his chest and the steady rhythm of slumbering breath against his ear, he thought that, all told, it has been a strange day—strange, but good.

Chapter Text

Phoenix woke with a jolt, blinking sticky eyelids in the dimness just starting to lighten with the first touches of the approaching sun. Something was amiss, but what? He felt another shift in the mattress—the initial movement was what had woken him—and became aware of an airy rasping sound somewhere nearby. Slowly, his brain processed the data from his senses, and he noticed a broad figure on the edge of the bed, silhouetted by the pre-dawn purple of the window. Finally, comprehension came over him, like a trickle of cold water down his spine.

“Miles…” he croaked, and that sound—his partner’s wheezing breath, it turned out—stuttered slightly. Phoenix squirmed closer and stretched out a hand, let it rest nonthreatening on the bedsheets, just to the side of Miles’ thigh. Phoenix himself sought immediate physical reassurance after his own occasional nightmares—in fact, he was known to cling like a limpet to an old jetty—but Miles didn’t like to be touched right away.

“Miles.” He tried again to disrupt whatever loop of panicked thoughts had the other man in its grip.

“N-not that…not them…I don’t—I can’t…”

“I know,” Phoenix assured. Of course he didn’t really, though that hardly mattered in the moment. “You’re safe, they’re safe, nothing’s happening. Come on, lie back down. You don’t have to go back to sleep—just rest a moment.“

Miles allowed himself to be coaxed onto his side, head easing into the pillow while Phoenix made meaningless little soothing sounds. After a few minutes, once breathing slowed, Miles rolled onto his back and Phoenix could just make out the shape of his arm as he lifted a hand to press against his face.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was nearly normal again, steady but layered with something like tired resignation, a hint of accusation—in a I told you this would happen sort of way—and, worst of all, shame.

“S’okay.” Phoenix didn’t say anything else, the long pause implying the obvious question, do you want to talk about it? The resulting silence transmitted the answer just as clearly: No. Well, that wasn’t entirely unexpected. In lieu of talking, then, Phoenix inched a hand forward under the covers, offering but not pressing, and when it was seized in a cold grip he squeezed back, trying to impart unconditional love and solidity in the entwining of their fingers. He didn’t know if that would keep the shadows at bay, but it would have to be enough—it was all he could do. 

——

They arose sometime later, still rather early but with light enough for their dark-adjusted eyes to see the shapes of the room as they sat up and stretched. They took turns in the small en suite bathroom; they were both deeply set in their ways when it came to morning rituals, so trying to maneuver around each other only meant potential time savings were lost to the bickering—and not the fun kind of bickering—which set an irritable tone for the entire day.

(We’ll need a double vanity if we ever live together full time.)

Phoenix stilled, mouth full of foamy toothpaste, and forced that thought to drift away on a stiff breeze before it could germinate into a full-blown domestic fantasy. He was being patient, enjoying the present, and letting the future come as it would. Truly it was an easy mindset to hold himself to, so long as he kept the rabid insecurity clawing at his insides in check, that is. Finding success for the time being, he proceeded to spit, wipe his face, and smooth over his hair once more—scanning for the impending first grays, a new habit he hated but couldn’t seem to control—then went back to the bedroom.

Miles was nearly dressed, nimble fingers doing up the buttons of his black waistcoat. Phoenix loved this brief halfway state—it was like watching a chivalric knight don his armor, closing up the slivers of naked vulnerability one by one. It was a visual representation of the two versions of Miles superimposed, impenetrably hard and heartrendingly soft, each equally real, equally true.

“What?” Miles met his stare, wary. The nightmare still showed in the slight hollowness of his face. Phoenix burned to asked about it—he had suspected before but was now certain something was different—though he knew it was no use. He resolved to find a way to broach it later, when it wasn’t so fresh. 

“Just enjoying the view.” He smiled roguishly and Miles scoffed. He approached to stand before his partner, readjusted how the vest sat on one shoulder, even though it had been perfect already, naturally. He cupped that long, exquisitely cravat-less neck, thumb just reaching the edge of his smooth jaw. Phoenix thought he could spend the rest of his life mapping every contour of this man’s body and never get bored.

Miles, for all his haughtiness moments before, leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed indulgently. Phoenix kissed that stern mouth, felt it soften under his. He briefly entertained the idea of an encore to the previous night’s activities, overwriting all memory of later nightmares, but he thought that might be pushing it; not to mention, Trucy would be up and about any minute. So, he pulled away, knowing he was grinning like a fool but not particularly caring. Miles responded with one of his shy, secretive smiles, setting off a throb of affection in Phoenix’s heart that bordered on painful. 

After they were fully dressed, the rest of their morning was a chaotic affair. Phoenix threw together a pancake breakfast—he tried to make some festive shapes and instantly regretted it, wishing he had given Trucy’s lumpy cookies a little more grace—and they held a brief gift exchange while they ate in the living room. As always, Trucy was enthusiastically grateful for every little thing Phoenix gave her: a new hair band, some earrings, a video game she’d been asking for that he didn’t really understand, and enough candy to surely last her until Valentine’s. Miles’ gift for her turned out to be some programmable special-effects gadget, which was apparently exactly what she needed, for the force of her hug nearly sent him ass over teakettle across the arm of the couch. He surfaced from her embrace ruffled and pink, but Phoenix could tell by the cadence of his grumbling that he was actually pleased. Phoenix thought he saw the other man hesitate a moment while he cleaned his glasses with over-exaggerated scorn, pale eyes darting to Trucy as if he had more to say, but the moment passed and Phoenix’s attention was diverted to his daughter presenting them each with a pair of hand-knitted mittens, Phoenix’s in light blue, Miles’ in classy black. 

She had embroidered small hearts into the center of each palm; at his inquiring look, she winked playfully, and said in a stage whisper, “Pearl’s suggestion.” That was certainly on brand; he imagined the young spirit medium, fingers caging her cheeks as she gushed over the idea of him holding hands with his ‘special someone,’ secret hearts pressed between them.

(Some things never change.)

Miles next handed Phoenix a simple envelope without any particular ado. It contained a receipt for two tickets to Hamlet at Ivy U, reserving the best seats in the house if Phoenix recalled the theatre layout correctly, along with a generous donation to the Performing Arts Department. It was so arrestingly perfect, Phoenix found himself a little flustered. It certainly made his own offering seem superficial and trivial: a new stack of crisp paper and dividers for Miles’ pocket organizer, the bottom edge of each sheet adorned with a tasteful and subtle motif that called to mind a certain defender of Neo Olde Tokyo, although it shouldn’t be too obvious to those not in the know, at least according to Maya’s expert opinion.

Miles smiled warmly, again with that bashful little expression that always sent Phoenix’s heart pattering. “I was nearly out of pages—how did you know?”

“Maybe I’m more observant than you give me credit for.” He meant it to be nonchalant, suave, but his hand gripped the back of his neck of its own accord, betraying him.

“Excuse me, if you two are done being mushy and gross,” Trucy interjected, “it’s time to go!” 

(‘Mushy and gross…?’ Didn’t you just give us matching mittens designed for handholding, Miss ‘when are you going to get me a second parent?’)

But she was right about the time; whatever his daughter had cooked up for her Christmas Magic Extravaganza required extensive same-day preparations. So, they cleaned up breakfast in a rush and bundled into Miles’ car. After dropping Trucy off at the Wonder Bar, they seated themselves at a table outside a cafe around the corner, though the place wasn’t open yet so early on a holiday.

Without any overt signal, the atmosphere between them turned solemn and businesslike. Phoenix realized he’d been waiting for this exact opportunity, though not impatiently; their conversation always turned to work sooner or later—it was baked into the very foundation of their relationship. 

“The victim’s widow, Cecilia von Richter, finally turned up after the trial yesterday,” he explained, not bothering with any transition or preamble, and Miles, not needing any, just nodded for him to continue; Phoenix could almost see the logic machinery already firing up behind those stormy eyes. “She only seemed concerned about paying the fees. When I assured her we’d build a defense for Sylvia, that we could get her a lighter sentence by pushing involuntary manslaughter, she seemed completely uninterested. In fact, she told me our services would no longer be required in this matter.” Although he had been severely off balance during that entire encounter with Mrs. von Richter—reeling from watching his junior associate get decked by their client and a prosecutor interposing himself when Phoenix’s own attempts at deescalation proved completely ineffectual—the woman’s curt dismissal of her would-be daughter-in-law’s plight stuck with him like a splinter.

“That’s…odd.” Miles’ frown deepened. “It is not as though Ms. Sterling’s defense is up to her to begin with.” 

“I know,” Phoenix agreed, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. “Something’s not right.” 

“My Ludwig, he is emotional and impulsive, but he is an innocent boy. Frederick—may he rest in peace—he and I worried that it was only a matter of time…all it would take was some enterprising young trollop to take advantage of his impressionable nature, thinking she could seduce her way to fortune…well I am of course heartbroken that it turned out this way, but I am at least grateful to your people for unmasking that girl for what she is…yes, I think you have done more than enough.” 

Mrs. von Richter had said all this in a smooth purr; she was hard to read, but Phoenix caught a whiff of savage delight that he didn’t like one bit. He relayed these impressions to Miles, to which his partner folded his arms. 

“So you suspect her of…something?” 

“Well, yeah.” Phoenix shrugged, leaning back against the coolness of the chair’s intricate, wrought-iron back. “I don’t know what yet exactly…but it can’t hurt to just look into her alibi, right?”

“Phoenix…”

“I know I know.” He raised his hands, placating. “I don’t want to attract trouble if I can help it, which is why I think we should keep it on the down low.” 

“We?” Miles’ brow transitioned seamlessly from disapproving furrow to challenging arch, but he pulled out his organizer nonetheless. With an impatient tut, he peeled off his new mittens, which weren’t really necessary in the Japanifornian winter sun anyway. However, once he’d removed the dexterity-dampening coverings, he did fold them reverently before tucking the woolen bundle securely into a pocket, making the corners of Phoenix’s mouth lift. Ignoring his amusement or else not noticing, Miles flipped to the back of his notepad with his newly freed fingertips, reading over his own tight, slanted handwriting.

“She claims to have been on a week-long trip overseas, returning only yesterday,” he said, “I suppose we can subpoena the airline records…I have some contacts who can be discreet.”

“Thanks.” Phoenix dipped his own be-mittened hand under the table to squeeze Miles’ knee. 

“Hmph. I am not doing this as a favor to you—it is for Ms. Sterling’s sake.”

Phoenix nodded with mock severity. “Of course not, Chief Prosecutor, I wouldn’t dream of accusing you of all people of refusing to leave well enough alone, and certainly not of colluding with a lowly but devilishly handsome defense attorney like myself.” As might be expected, all that earned him was a long-suffering sigh. 

——

The next day, they resumed work with renewed vigor—no rest for the wicked or defense attorneys, it turns out. At least the Judge had paused proceedings for the holiday, citing the less-serious charges against Ms. Sterling and the progress they’d already made in the investigation, though Phoenix strongly suspected the real reason was that he didn’t want to be in court on Christmas Day any more than the rest of them. Regardless, Phoenix wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Trucy’s show had been nothing short of spectacular, the prestidigitation flawless, the storyline compelling, her stage presence entrancing. Watching her set Phoenix’s chest aflame with pride, but underneath the warm glow his heart twinged with a small but increasingly familiar flavor of melancholy. Seeing her perched on the edge of the nest, a confident and talented young woman eager to fly on her own…well, how could he not get a little misty eyed? But of course, he couldn’t dwell on that now—there would be time enough to have a nice self-indulgent cry about his little girl growing up too fast once this trial was well and truly over. 

The three of them shared a lazy afternoon—or as lazy as two lawyers could be at a pivot point in a high-publicity case, which was to say, Miles was tied to his email by a short tether, and Phoenix kept finding himself reorganizing his notes in idle contemplation. Still they managed to eat plenty of cookies, trade well wishes with friends and family—though Miles only deigned to do so over text—and enjoy other such Christmasy things. Miles declined to stay another night, and Phoenix actively resisted feeling too worried or rejected over it.

So, after that brief reprieve, Boxing Day saw him back to work bright and early, only to find Apollo and Athena already waiting for him. Together, they rolled up their sleeves and spent a few hours at the white board, Phoenix drawing and redrawing lines, exploring potential connections and maneuvers, feeling like a football coach obsessively reviewing the footage from the last game. He started to doubt how much good it was actually doing, as again and again they kept circling back to the same thrust: they wanted Ms. Sterling to be innocent. This was, of course, next to impossible to prove given her confession and the evidence they had access to. However, hope could still hide in the many unaddressed gaps in the narrative. Why did Ms. Sterling leave the condo to call the police? How did they miss the ‘murder weapon’ turned instrument of post-mortem assault during the initial investigation? 

“If he was deathly allergic, why did Mr. von Richter even have orange juice at his place to begin with?” Athena offered from somewhere under her desk; she was draped upside down in her chair, knees hooked over the low, creaky backrest. 

“Excellent point,” Phoenix agreed, pointing at her—though she couldn’t see—other hand going to his chin. These kids were getting good.

Just as they broke for lunch, the office phone rang, a familiar number lighting up the caller ID. Waving for his juniors to start in on their freshly delivered noodles without him, he picked up the receiver.

“I have the airline records.” Edgeworth was never one for pleasantries during business hours.

“That was fast,” Phoenix said, begrudgingly impressed, “and?”

“Mrs. Cecilia von Richer was on the passenger list for a direct flight from Rome, which was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean during the time of the murder,” Edgeworth explained in a clipped monotone, “a flight attendant confirmed that every seat was occupied, including first class, and she is willing to testify to that point. I will fax you the flight information and her statement.”

“Damn…well, thanks anyway.”

“Certainly.” 

So Cecilia did have an alibi. Still, like a dog with a bone, Phoenix couldn’t put his suspicions down entirely, though he reluctantly pushed them to the side for the time being.

“How about we try the detention center again?” Phoenix suggested, breaking the focused silence that had descended over their brief mealtime. “Sylvia might be able to tell us something more to help her case.”

Apollo, who had been staring into the dark broth in his to-go bowl like it was giving false testimony, looked up with a deepening frown. The swelling in his cheek seemed to have subsided, though blood had pooled at the point of impact, painting it a wince-inducing purple.

“You don’t have to go, Apollo,” Phoenix told him, but the younger man shook his head.

“No, I want to,” he insisted, “and if Wolfgang is there…I guess I’ll just have to dodge faster.”

The weather had taken a turn toward chilly, but the sky was still clear, so they opted for the frugal option of biking rather than taking a cab. Phoenix was grateful for his new mittens, which offered some protection from the chill breeze, pointedly ignoring his subordinates’ sidelong glances; they were clearly jealous, or so he chose to believe.

When they arrived, the detention center was nearly abandoned. On their way to the visiting room, they only saw a single guard at the security check, and the hall beyond was empty of all life except for an officer with a forensics armband sitting reading a magazine, apparently on his break. Phoenix had once tried to learn the names of the folks on the homicide investigations team, but he saw them so infrequently and some of them were, frankly, so wholly lacking in distinguishing features that he couldn’t get any of them to stick in his memory. 

 Just as they approached the visiting room, a slender, bespectacled figure slipped out the door. Manual Cantor jumped like a startled cat when he saw them, eyes almost comically wide.

“Mr. Cantor, hello. We’ve come to speak with Ms. Sterling about her defense, if she agrees to accept our help.” Phoenix nodded respectfully, trying for a calm and approachable energy. He was distinctly aware that this whole situation was a pile of dry tinder and one misstep could turn incendiary fast.

“H-hello,” the interpreter stammered back, “uh, Wolfgang is in there…”

Through the corner of his eye, Phoenix saw a muscle twitch nervously in Apollo’s good cheek, despite his earlier bravado. On his other side, Athena muttered irritably, “that guard could have at least warned us.” 

“That’s alright,” Phoenix said, forcing a reassuring smile—for everyone’s benefit. “We can wait.”

“Well…” Manuel twisted his fingers together nervously, “I-I don’t think he’s planning to leave anytime soon.“

“Okay.” Phoenix bit back his rising frustration. Just once he’d like a client who knew what was good for them. “Then perhaps you can help us. Would you mind answering more questions?”

“I’ve already said everything I know, but I’ll do what I can to help.” Manuel darted an anxious look over his shoulder, but he seemed sincere.

“What can you tell us about Wolfgang’s mother?” Apollo launched without warning.

(That was…direct. Oh well, I guess the time for subtle probing is long past anyway.)

Manuel blinked rapidly. “Oh, ah, not much to tell you the truth.” Glancing away, he raked his fingers through his hair, and not for the first time that day judging by the sorry state of his curls. Phoenix silently begged Apollo to keep quiet, to not be quite so quick to press. Fortunately, the young attorney too seemed to sense the edge Manuel was delicately teetering on, so he held back. 

True enough, after a beat of silence, the witness appeared to decide on something and leaned in, voice lowered furtively. “The thing is, I rarely see her anymore. She’s better with ASL than Mr. von Richter ever was, and she’s made it clear that my services are not needed when she chooses to visit with Wolfgang.” Phoenix thought he could sense the tiniest drop of bitterness in Manuel’s otherwise perfect performance of servility. “And she travels a lot. Even when she’s here, well, I can’t imagine they’d approve of me sharing this…but she and her husband lived completely separately—had been for years—so it’s not as if there were a lot of family get-togethers.” 

“So there wasn’t much contact between the victim and his wife that you’re aware of?” Apollo asked, arms crossed. 

“It didn’t seem that way to me, no.” Manuel answered cautiously. “Although…I could have sworn there was something…” He patted down his pockets, fumbling for what turned out to be a slim planner. He riffled through the pages with his thumb, stopping on a week with just a few short sentences. “Here, Mr. von Richter called a family meeting. It’ll be—well, it was going to be—next Friday. I was supposed to make sure Wolfgang was punctual and presentable, and then pick him up an hour later.” 

“Any idea what the meeting was supposed to be about?” Phoenix asked.

“No…but it was at a lawyer’s office…a Ms. Trayre, I have here.”

Athena and Apollo cast questioning glances toward Phoenix, to which he merely shrugged. The name didn’t ring familiar, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself. 

“Maybe they were finally getting divorced, and decided to break the news to Wolfgang and sign the paperwork in one fell swoop?” Athena said, frowning.

“Maybe…but something tells me this family wouldn’t settle such a thing so…neatly.” At Phoenix’s words, Manuel let out a derisive snort, but he stopped himself abruptly, turning it into something more like a stemmed sneeze. It was as if he had to resist the urge to speak poorly of his employers even through wordless agreement. Phoenix suspected they wouldn’t get much more on this line of questioning.

(It sounds like the meeting was only between Wolfgang and his parents, so can we prove this has anything to do with Sylvia? And to what end? Are we just grasping at straws here?)

Suddenly, Phoenix had to suppress a sly grin.

(Well, Miles would say ‘grasping at straws’ is a key component of my modus operandi, so I should be pretty damn good at it by now.)

Filled with a sort of rebellious confidence, Phoenix said, “thank you, Manuel. We’ll see what we can find out.” 

Apollo stepped forward, once again eager and impatient. “But is there anything you can tell us that might be, you know, relevant? Like anything about the crime itself or…?” 

“Or maybe the scene?” Athena picked up right where Apollo trailed off. “Like maybe some way evidence could’ve been tampered with or hidden…?” Apollo waved a hand toward her emphatically, as if to second her question. Phoenix supposed they were thinking about the sudden appearance of the blood-stained trophy, which puzzled him as well, but he wasn’t sure how they’d manage to rule out a simple oversight in the initial investigation.

As expected, Manuel winced regretfully. “No, I mean…there’s no hiding spots or anything that I could point out that the police wouldn’t already know about. Like, they probably already searched the bathrooms, the closets, the panic room, the…” Phoenix nearly choked.

“Panic room!?” Apollo exclaimed in an ear-splitting shout, making Manuel jump again.

At the same time, Athena rushed forward, inadvertently backing the scrawny interpreter up against the wall with her sudden intensity. “Where?!”

“Uh…yeah…i-if I remember correctly, t-there’s a hidden compartment in the back of the master bedroom closet…if you peel up the carpet…Wolfgang and I used to play in there, though we weren’t really supposed to…” Manuel tugged at his well-starched shirt collar, a sheen of nervous sweat forming along his hairline. “B-but surely they already checked…?” 

“Not that we’re aware of,” Phoenix said breathlessly.

(If someone had hidden in the panic room and escaped long after the murder…!)

One look into Apollo and Athena’s feverish faces and Phoenix knew they had arrived at the same conclusion. It was a thin chance—even if there had been another person present in hiding, could they really have killed via anaphylaxis-inducing orange juice without anyone noticing? And if that were true, why would Sylvia lie and say she did it? Still, they had to explore every possibility, and although the existence of the panic room could prove to be the break they needed, something about that meeting Manuel mentioned gave Phoenix pause as well. 

“Alright, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” he said quickly, seizing the reigns of their collective excitement before it got out of hand, “so let’s split up. Apollo, head back to the office, look up this Ms. Trayre in the database, see if you can find what types of cases she’s been on recently—that should give us a clue. Athena, you stay here and see if you can get anything out of Wolfgang and Sylvia—they might agree to talk if it’s just you. I’ll head straight the crime scene, so you both meet me there when you can.” The younger attorneys were clearly disappointed at being assigned less dramatic tasks, but they took it stoically enough, perhaps internalizing the gravity of the situation. Given the choice, Phoenix figured arguing their way back into crime-scene access was probably best left to someone with at least the illusion of authority. 

Marching orders issued, Phoenix left his junior associates to their own devices as he paused to check an incoming text on his phone. 

Wright Anything Agency, CEO

 

Daddy I need the set of magic goblets, the green ones with the daisies NOT the blue ones with the clouds. Bring them to me pretty please?

He really needed to figure out how to edit the contact names in his phone like a real adult instead of letting Maya and Trucy put them all in for him, but that would have to wait. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but explaining it to Apollo—specifically, which box of which shelf of which closet they were stashed in at the Agency—would waste precious time. Coming to a split-second decision, he pulled up a different contact. 

Polly (Apollo) >(:0

 

Hey, change of plans, you head to the crime scene, I’ll head to the office, gotta pick something up for Trucy. 

 

Message failed to send.

(This damn thing, it never works right in the detention center. How can it receive texts but not send them? It makes so sense!) 

Grinding his teeth, Phoenix resolved to just rush and get back to the office before Apollo—he knew some less-than-legal shortcuts involving one-way streets and skirting the edges of private property—find Trucy’s cups, start the search for Ms. Trayre, and then they’d head to the crime scene together. It would have to do.

His dashing about, which was only slightly reckless by his standards, did pay off; the lights were still out when he turned the key in the office door, so he’d beaten Apollo there. Letting his elevated heart rate come down, he entered at a deliberately sedate pace. He booted up the computer, instantly stymied by an unskippable update he’d apparently postponed one too many times, so after a moment’s indecision, he shrugged and started a fresh pot of coffee. As the aged machine started gurgling and puffing, he made for the closet to search for Trucy’s requested props.

But as he crossed the room, something strange happened. There was a discordant, unidentifiable sound, and he stumbled as if shoved from behind. The motion seemed to take an especially long time; he teetered for what felt like several minutes before one knee hit the floor. He couldn’t seem to stand back up, and trying took several more impossibly long minutes as if the air around him had turned to a thick gelatin he was too weak to push through. Maybe that would explain why his chest felt oddly tight. Still kneeling awkwardly, he became aware of a dampness creeping along his shirt collar. He reached for it—across his body with his right hand, as his left wasn’t responding properly for some reason—and his fingertips came away scarlet. As if triggered by the sight, a pulse of sharp pain wracked through him, but it seemed…far away. As if it was happening to someone else, and he was observing with a detached, purely scientific interest. 

(Huh. I’ve been shot.)

After more uncounted minutes still, in which the pain didn’t abate but also seemed unable to attract the full, urgent attention of the core of his consciousness, he wobbled again, and his good arm went down to the floor. There was more, different pain, and he became vaguely aware of the glint of glass shards around him, interspersed with round little speckles and splatters of blood that grew and reproduced before his eyes. Vacantly, he thought he should definitely be more concerned about that.

(Better tell someone.)

He tried to reach for his phone, but his fingers were too thick to grip it. Worse, the effort left him face down on the floor, and a curtain of black velvet approached ominously from the wings of his field of view. The pain intensified as a prick of fear finally penetrated that bubble of dissociation.

He thought of Trucy.

Chapter Text

(Shall I keep Gavin on Ms. Sterling’s case? He does possess a certain charm and sensitivity that could go a long way in guiding the proceedings to a good outcome.)

“Mr. Edgeworth?”

(That would free up Blackquill to take the Brooks case…but then there’s the incident at the community pool that appears rather complex…)

“Mr. Edgeworth…?”

(Several of the rookie prosecutors show promise—should I hand it off to one of them? Perhaps I can convince Eustace to visit as a special favor, just to help process this case load.)

“Um…sir…?”

(Yes…recruiting across districts could help…for that matter, maybe I should look into fostering more international collaborations. That would relieve some of the pressure on the prosecutor’s office while injecting fresh perspective into our strategies…)

He turned away from the window, where he had been staring out at the winter-desaturated view of the city, though not really seeing anything in particular. He had been so lost in thought that he started slightly at the sight of his secretary hovering in the doorway, strangely anxious and exasperated—it seemed she looked that way often lately, for whatever reason.

“Yes, Mrs. Graham? What is it?”

“I’ve got a Mr. Apollo Justice on line one for you,” she said, absently thumbing the blunted point of one of her long, cherry-red nails. 

“Hmph. Take a message—I am busy.” What was Justice playing at calling him unprompted like this? Just because they had been introduced in a personal setting did not give him leave to go over the heads of the prosecutors. Edgeworth found himself a touch annoyed at the interruption, dismissal coming readily on instinct.

But Mrs. Graham did not do as he asked. She stood in the doorway, still toying meekly with her acrylics. “Sir, he…he sounds rather upset. If you don’t mind me saying, I really think you should take this now.” 

That gave him pause. He could think of no reason why Mr. Justice would call him in a state of distress, well, except maybe…but no, best not to jump to conclusions.

“Alright, close the door and put him through…please.” The gap had already shrunk to a sliver by the time he thought to add the last. Embarrassed, he resolved to do something nice for the woman, a small gift perhaps; he had already authorized a generous Christmas bonus for her, but something personal was clearly in order to show his appreciation for her continued grace and tolerance.

Seating himself at the desk, he picked up the phone with a click and settled it against his ear. “Edgeworth speaking.” 

What came next, Edgeworth could only seem to parse in fragments, as if the whole of it were too great a force to withstand. His mind was like a sieve, most of Mr. Justice’s tremulous words slipping through, only leaving a jumble of disjointed phrases that clattered against one another in a confusing mass: Mr. Wright…at the office…blood…hospital…

This was an earthquake, one that pressed the air from his lungs with its chaotic roiling. His every muscle was rendered feeble and useless by the might of this titanic violence. His only solace was the knowledge that it would either kill him or it wouldn’t; either way, he need only wait, and surely it would pass—he could only wait. 

“Mr. Edgeworth…I-I didn’t know who else to call…please…tell me what to do. Trucy…”

That freed him from paralysis, his thoughts crystallizing into icy clarity. He gasped in a breath as if half-drowned, heat chasing the numbness from his extremities as he sprang to his feet.

“Trucy, she is with you?” He demanded, his voice jarring and foreign on his own ears. 

“Y-yes,” Mr. Justice audibly gulped, “she—she came in a little after me, to the office…to get something…saw the ambulance, but she didn’t see the worst of it, I don’t think…”

“Do not leave her side for even a moment until I get there, do you understand me?” There was silence on the other end of the line and Edgeworth’s temper spiked dangerously. “I said do you understand me?” 

“Y-yes, sir.” 

Later, he would sorely regret treating young Justice so unkindly, but he was hardly in his right mind then. Every sensation was bright and electric; his heart threatened to tear itself asunder with the force of its beating as he burst through his office door, ignoring Mrs. Graham’s startled questions as he swept past. Without recalling exactly how he got there, he was white-knuckling the leather of the steering wheel. He drove more recklessly than he ever had in his life, and yet it was an agonizingly slow journey to the emergency room. 

When he finally stood in the hospital waiting area, body stiff but for the rapid filling of his nose and lungs with antiseptic scent, the quiet calm of the room was nearly too incompatible with the white hot energy raging inside him to even process. For a moment, all he could do was wonder helplessly why no one was doing anything, saying anything.

At least he located them quickly, Trucy with her head resting heavily on Mr. Justice’s shoulder, the young man’s broad fist bunched in the knee of his tomato-colored slacks, Ms. Cykes on his other side, arms wrapped around herself. It was she who noticed Edgeworth first, fixing on him with tear-reddened eyes. She nudged the others, and Trucy immediately stumbled to her feet, round face pallid and lips thin as she fell silently into Edgeworth’s arms. He smoothed the hair atop her head, somewhat jerkily, as he seemed to have lost fine control of his hands. 

All but carrying Trucy, he navigated to two seats facing the younger lawyers. Keeping the girl securely tucked against his side, he looked to them both, desperate and yet reluctant to hear any news. 

“Th-they said…” Justice started hoarsely and cleared his throat, “they said, gunshot wound to the shoulder. They took him right into surgery, but they said his heart and lungs sounded alright, or at least not bad—that’s all they would say, but that’s a good sign, right?” 

“And this happened in your office?” Edgeworth’s voice was surprisingly cool and steady, and seemed to come from the other side of an impassable fog.

“Yeah.” Justice’s already sickly pale face blanched, making the bruise on his cheek stand out even more starkly. “There was a broken window from the force of the shot. He…he’s got some cuts to his face and hands so they think he must have tried to move around when he was still conscious…” Trucy whimpered into Edgeworth’s shoulder and he tightened his arm instinctively.

“That’s enough,” he commanded, “let’s have quiet for now.” 

The other two nodded, visibly relieved, and so began a wait that rivaled only that of that hateful elevator for the longest and most excruciating of Edgeworth’s life. Just a moment before, he had been nearly feral with the ultra-concentrated adrenaline searing his veins, and in an abrupt instant all there was to do was simply sit still in anxious ignorance. Of course, before long that heightened state proved unsustainable, but as the intensity receded, the influx of aching exhaustion that followed did not bring much in the way of clarity or rationality along with it.

(It was supposed to be me.)

At least there was a small part of him that could still recognize that thought as thoroughly idiotic—he never had and never would believe in premonitions from dreams. The night before last had been unusual but it couldn’t mean anything outside the workings of his particular psyche. 

It had been familiar at first, to the point of being rote. He had watched the elevator doors close, blocking out the last motes of daylight his father would ever see. He felt a comforting hand clasped in his, but when he turned and looked down—down, not up—it was Trucy holding onto him. For an instant, she was a little girl again, draped in pink as she had been when she was new to Phoenix’s life, and his. He startled back—this wasn’t how it was supposed to be—but she grew into her young adult form before his eyes and her grip became a terrified vice. Off balance, he bumped into someone; with horror, he found Phoenix to his other side, offering his usual knowing, trusting smile. The elevator slammed to a stop, darkness descended upon them, but…no. No. Not this, anything but this. It had been that sheer force of denial that had propelled Edgeworth to the surface of waking. Later, when he could examine the dream through the lens of cold reason, he’d been forced to accept the obvious: he was clearly experiencing some sort of mortality crisis, manifesting itself through imagery of past trauma. He’d thought perhaps the time had finally come to speak to a professional—as Franziska had been nagging him to do for years, competitively touting her own mental-health successes—and he would, just as soon as things quieted down at work. 

(It was supposed to be me.)

(Stop thinking that, fool.)

Minutes or hours or days later, he was rooted back to reality when Trucy slipped off her shoes and curled up on her seat, head coming to rest on his thigh. She seemed so small then, so vulnerable. Gazing down at her, a singular, clear feeling crested over the vast maelstrom of emotion: he loved her. Why had he ever hesitated to tell her, to show her? Would he ever learn? At least now he had the small consolation that while they both relied on Phoenix, they had each other too, and that would see them through this. 

So, he concerned himself only with watching over Trucy, ensuring her safety and comfort above all other considerations. It was a small area of control that in truth required little active effort, but it kept him sane—or sane enough—as time marched on, marked only by the comings and goings of the other poor souls trapped in limbo with them. Their hushed murmurs faded to static as he descended into a sort of trance, not restful and yet somewhat buffered from the pain of full consciousness. From this distant place, he observed dispassionately as Prosecutors Blackquill and Gavin appeared. The taller man rummaged in his bag and proffered an odd pair of headphones to Ms. Cykes, who extended the hard plastic band over her head with a weak grimace. Edgeworth thought there was some logic to the exchange he should recognize, but the pieces of information refused to connect in his muddled mind. The four of them soon retreated to a corner of the waiting room to hold a low conversation. Some undefinable amount of time later, he glanced back over to see Ema Skye had inexplicably joined them; he hadn’t even noticed her arrive. He tried to listen in on what they were all whispering about so heatedly—something about forensics—but it hurt too much to focus, so he returned to that neutral, floating place and counted Trucy’s quiet breaths. 

“Mr. Edgeworth.” Sometime later came Mr. Justice’s soft but alert voice, and all at once every sensation was stinging and glaring again. Trying not to wince, to present a controlled front, Edgeworth put a steadying hand on Trucy’s narrow shoulder as she eased herself up and to her feet. They joined the ragged semicircle of people staring expectantly at a plump young woman wearing a white doctor’s coat over navy scrubs. 

Her dark eyes swept over them. “You are all here for Phoenix Wright?” After a brief chorus of nods and muttered affirmations, she spread her hands in a mollifying gesture. “Alright. He is stable in recovery.” 

Relieved breaths—even a few nervous chuckles—exploded around him, but Edgeworth held. Evidence was everything, after all.

The doctor appraised them once more. “Obviously I cannot allow all of you to go traipsing through disturbing people. Are any of you family?” 

Trucy’s double-handed grip on Edgeworth’s wrist tightened painfully, and he spoke without a single moment’s hesitation, “we are.” 

The doctor’s gaze, piercing but not unkind, came to rest on him, and when he offered no elaboration, she ventured, “you are a…spouse?” 

“Yes.” A small part of him, a tiny reserve of grounded reason, seethed at his rashness in spouting such an easily falsifiable lie at such a critical juncture. However, that voice was readily drowned out by an agitated thrum in his gut that felt alarmingly like a mounting scream. He wouldn’t abandon Trucy to face this alone, and he needed to see Phoenix alive with his own eyes or else…he didn’t know what, but he was absolutely certain that stretching the truth to make this doctor think he was next of kin was the very least of what he was capable of just then.

Luckily she did not press him further. “Follow me.” 

Their guide took them through a maze of corridors past rows of identical doors, all blurring together, until she indicated a room near the end of the ward. She led them in, and without a pause or warning, there he was. Phoenix lay propped on bleached white pillows, his entire left arm wrapped and immobilized, little blue ice packs crowding his shoulder. His face was wan but slack, eyes still closed. Edgeworth longed to be near, to feel that soft gaze pierce through him, to hear that strong but dulcet voice. He wanted—perhaps selfishly—to be reassured, to be held and soothed; he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Phoenix’s freely and skillfully given emotional support. At the thought of what he’d nearly lost, the constriction around Edgeworth’s chest ratcheted one notch tighter.

The doctor spoke quietly of stable vitals and soft tissue damage and a fractured scapula and physical therapy and a number of other things Edgeworth would have to humbly ask her to repeat at a later time. 

“He should come to on his own soon, but he might just need to sleep it off for a while,” she explained, “he may be a little disoriented, so remain calm and be gentle, alright? We’ll be by to check in soon, but call us if you need anything.” She smiled warmly in Edgeworth’s peripheral and he gave a stuttering nod, keeping a keen and desperate eye on his partner. 

With the soft click of the door, there was a prolonged moment of fragile stillness in the room. Then, the chorus of quiet whirs and beeps of various inscrutable machines were joined by a meek utterance, “Mr. Edgeworth?”

Trucy had not spoken a single word since he’d arrived. Now, her voice was faltering and reedy, so unlike its usual timbre to be almost unrecognizable. 

“Yes?” The sound from his own throat was nearly alien as well. 

“This is all my fault.” She whispered, quavering. “I knew he was working hard on a case, I just didn’t think of it…if I hadn’t asked him to go back to the agency…”

“Trucy.” He gripped her shoulder tight, almost too tight, forced himself to look down into her liquid eyes. “Do you honestly think he would prefer you to be the one lying there, as might have occurred if you had returned to the office first?” Perhaps it was too harsh, but when two large teardrops escaped as she blinked in startlement, none welled in their place. 

“No…”

“It is not your fault,” he said, fierce and weary and frightened and relieved all at once, “the sole person to blame is the one who perpetrated this crime. We will find them and see they face justice.” It was a complete declarative statement; there was no matter of ‘if’ in his mind. In fact, it occurred to him that even now he should be working, striking while the iron was hot…but the inseverable thread in his heart pulled taut, tying him to this room and the two immeasurably important people in it; to simply walk away now would be to eviscerate himself. 

Wordlessly, he ushered Trucy to a chair by the bed, pulling up another on the opposite side for himself. He sat vigil over them, fighting a tide of complete emotional fatigue even as Trucy’s head descended to the blankets, small fingers brushing her father’s wrist on his uninjured side. Edgeworth kept them both under a watchful eye, stubbornly and irrationally afraid to look away. For this precious moment, they were safe, and they were his and he had every intention to keep them that way.

*****

Phoenix was adrift on a slow current, laboriously paddling upstream toward the boundary to consciousness. He managed to flutter his eyelids, but they quickly fell closed again, lined with lead as they were. In that brief moment of blurry sight, he thought he could make out a mop of chocolate-brown hair to his right. With concentration he accomplished some motion, just an inch, and indeed his hand brushed against the dome of a precious head. He also noticed the thin fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. 

Trucy had crawled into his bed again—that must be it. He had the vague feeling this hadn’t happened for a while, but his sense of time was slippery. He should probably talk to her, try to find out what was wrong, but he was so tired…besides, she rarely gave direct answers to such questions. He’d tried everything: a night light, whale sounds, warm milk before bed…and yet she still came to him, not every night, not even once a week, but often enough to stoke his new-parent anxiety. Sometimes, during these midnight visits, he got the strange impression that she was checking in on him, as if he could just disappear, as if everything else he said and did was mere misdirection. He hoped that wasn’t it. He could address the dark or invisible monsters or other mundane worries of childhood, but how was he supposed to fix this?

(Why are you still so afraid? What am I doing wrong?)

With Herculean effort, Phoenix opened his eyes again, for just a bleary instant before the shutters on his field of view slammed closed again. Stirring a new vein of confusion into his muddled thoughts, he could have sworn he caught sight of another figure, arms crossed, sharp chin tucked to chest at a crick-in-the-neck angle, face hidden by parted curtains of fine, silvery hair. This image swam about untethered for a time until it found purchase with another specific memory. 

(Edgeworth…? Damn bridge got me again.)

Curiosity momentarily sated by that feat of half-dreaming logic, Phoenix succumbed to peaceful darkness once again. 

——

When he next woke, it was with considerably more clarity, which was a real shame seeing as he felt awful. There was a deep but muffled pain in his shoulder, and beyond that his whole body was rigid and sore like he had been sitting motionless much too long. Worse still, he had an ungodly thirst, mouth and throat like a cracked, dry riverbed in a drought. 

However, he found all that discomfort could largely be set aside with the welcome sight of the two people hovering over him. Trucy and Miles, roused by his stirring, just stared at him with saucer-wide eyes, hardly blinking. 

(Well, someone break the tension…no? I guess it’s up to me.)

That connection formed by his jumbled, semiconscious thoughts left the memory of another hospital encounter snagged in his mind. So, he fixed Miles with his best impish grin and said, “we have got to stop meeting like this.” 

The wittiness of the comment was slightly undercut by the raw rasp of his voice, but he managed to get it all out coherently enough. His partner let loose a wordless sound of startled indignation that was so quintessentially Miles that Phoenix almost had to laugh, but for his burning throat. 

“Daddy,” Trucy said, bowling past his weak attempts to lighten the mood with that serious set to her mouth, fists curled into hard knots on the bed, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have asked you to go to the agency for me when you were so busy…” she said it all in a gasping rush. Phoenix clocked Miles’ eyes snap in her direction. 

(Oh right. I was shot…in my own office.)

A little part of him wanted to panic at that, but it was contained and deprioritized easily enough.

“Sweetie…it’s not your fault.” He reached, somewhat clumsily, to brush the limp hair off her cheek, feeling more than seeing the tremble in her jaw. “It’s going to be okay. Your old dad’s tougher than he looks.” 

“Heh,” Miles huffed, arms crossed waspishly, “yes, you have proven yourself remarkably…robust. It seems the only one who must suffer years shaved off his life when you attract these…incidents…is me.” 

A smile pulled at Phoenix’s chapped lips. “Love you, too.” 

There was a single knock at the door and a stout, curly-haired nurse entered. The creases at the corners of her eyes deepened when she caught Phoenix’s gaze. “Ah you’re awake, good!” She bustled around cheerfully, checking various devices, adjusting pillows and the bulk around his left arm, all while her gaze scanned him head to toe with clinical efficiency. Miles stepped back to accommodate her, but he clutched his own arm in a death grip in that agonized, lost way that made him seem so much younger.

“How are you feeling? Any pain, dizziness, nausea?” The nurse chirped, tactfully turning a blind eye to the dense aura of emotion surrounding Miles—or maybe Phoenix had just learned to read him better than most people could. 

“Uh…a little pain yeah but it’s not horrible,” he managed to reply, “also…pretty thirsty.” 

“You can sip a bit of water, if you like.” She produced a little plastic cup with an extendable straw as if by sleight of hand. “Hungry?”

“Uh…” the small trickle of water was like a cleansing rain to his mouth and throat, but it made him suddenly aware of the black hole that had replaced his guts, which meant he was either starving or liable to start dry heaving the instant solid food touched his tongue—or perhaps it was both.

Apparently reading the indecision on his face, the nurse gave a sympathetic look. “I’ll get something simple for you. Just take it slow and easy.” With a final pat to smooth out the wrinkles at the foot of his bed, she saw herself out at a brisk march.

After she was gone, Phoenix turned his attention back to Miles and Trucy, noticing for the first time how ragged they looked. Over his daughter’s shoulder, he caught sight of a small digital display on the wall, which read 8:11 PM.

“You two go home for a bit,” he commanded. Their mouths dropped open into twin O’s of protest, but he raised a forestalling hand. He fought back a cringe, as he’d unthinkingly tried to move his left arm; it was thoroughly restrained, but even that small twitch of muscle sent a knife through him from back to front. He hoped that nurse returned with painkillers, but in the meantime he schooled his features into something in the ballpark of placid and reassuring. “You look terrible, and I don’t think I’m going anywhere tonight. Get some food and rest and come back in the morning—how am I supposed to heal when I’m busy worrying about you?” 

Miles met his challenging stare, face like a darkening thunderhead. Despite his outward control, he was not coping particularly well—Phoenix could tell that much, but what could he possibly do? This helplessness was almost worse than the physical pain, but he had to believe this whole mess would be easier to manage by the light of day.

“There is a hotel a few minutes away—we will be there.” Even now, the prosecutor’s hidden reserve of obstinacy knew no bounds.

“Alright, that’s fine I guess,” Phoenix conceded with a sigh—he didn’t have the strength to argue in earnest, not against Miles.

“I will drop Trucy off and go gather some things at home,” his partner announced crisply, seeming a bit more like himself; he always did do well with an action plan. “What would you like me to bring for you?”

(‘At home…’)

A distant, delirious little corner Phoenix’s mind latched onto that phrase, pretended for a moment Miles meant ‘our home.’ Fortunately, his painfully conscious mind still had enough organization to keep that quarantined where it belonged.

“Eh, I think I’m probably good?” Phoenix glanced around, as if his surroundings could offer some hint as to what he was supposed to want just then. 

“Tsk. Says the man who sits before us practically naked.” 

Phoenix looked down at himself. “Hey! I’ve got this nice little gown and I’m under the covers—that is not ‘practically naked.’” 

“Hmph. I will select some proper clothing for you anyway, unless you wish to be discharged in said gown, with a flimsy drawstring the only barrier between your backside and the elements.”

“Fair enough.” But the reminder of clothes attached a sinking weight to his heart. “They had to destroy my suit probably, right?”

“Cut to ribbons to allow access to the wound, I’m afraid.”

“Right. Could you see if they kept it? If they have…”

“I’ll find your locket…and your badge.” Miles declared, and Phoenix knew he would—if he had to turn the whole city upside-down, he would. Suddenly, like the breaking of a dam, the tall man took two long, hasty strides forward and leaned down, practically looming, to growl in Phoenix’s ear. “Do not incur further harm to yourself in my absence, or so help me…” but he didn’t finish the threat, or plea, or whatever it was; instead, his lips found Phoenix’s in a surprisingly hard kiss. All at once, that near-overwhelming touch awoke in him fresh vitality and retroactive dread, and his heart pounded, clutching at life and crying out, don’t go, don’t leave me, not ever. But of course, parting was inevitable; though for today, and hopefully for many days to come, it was only temporary. 

As Miles straightened, Phoenix reached toward Trucy with his good hand—she too set off a distinct rhythm in his chest. She had courteously averted her eyes from their embrace without comment, which, more than anything he’d seen so far, made clear the disconsolate state of her spirit. 

“Hey.” He took her hand, palm to palm. “That bit at the show yesterday, with the presents inside other presents that got progressively smaller? Do you think you could recreate it in here, tomorrow?”

It took a moment, but the glow of purposeful mischief gradually dawned on her face, a small flash of teeth heralding a quiet laugh. “Okay Daddy, but you asked for it.” He beamed back—all the medicine in the world couldn’t do more for him than that.

With a final meaningful look at them both, Phoenix arranged himself it what he hoped was a passable version of a brave face as the entirety of his innermost heart walked out the door.

——

Phoenix passed a fitful night, his vain attempts to get comfortable broken up by a clockwork regimen of check-ins and pills and little jello cups to revive his stomach. As light started to trickle in through the gaps in the window shade slats, he tried not to look at the clock too often or wonder when Trucy and Miles would be back or probe too deeply into what had actually happened to him and why.

But finally, morning came, much the same as it always did. The curly-haired nurse—Cordelia Akaretts, who went by Cordi—announced her shift was ending as she brought him a breakfast of steaming scramble eggs and toast that was simple of composition but generous of volume. As she adjusted the tray over his lap, it turned out she had other news as well.

“Oh, you’ll be happy to know that your husband and daughter are back. They’re talking to some sort of policewoman—I think she’s really here for you, but don’t worry, the other nurses and I won’t let her in until you’re good and ready and not a moment before—but anyway, your family should be coming by shortly. That girl of yours sure is a charmer! She’ll be a heartbreaker in a few years, I can tell!” 

Out of that torrent of chatter, only one little word penetrated his skull. He almost asked for clarification but managed to bite his tongue, and good thing, as the object of his confusion appeared seconds later.

“May I come in?” Miles’ clear baritone preceded him through a gap in the door. When Phoenix voiced his assent, his partner appeared in full. Gently banishing him the previous night proved to be the correct choice; he did look much better, more rested and self-controlled, if not entirely at ease. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two in peace.” Cordi positively glowed at them. “Mr. Wright, I expect you’ll be discharged today, so my replacement should be by to talk to you about home care instructions and your follow-up appointments, alright?” 

When she’d taken her leave, Phoenix asked, “where’s Truce?”

“The cafeteria,” Miles said as he hung up his overcoat on the door hook, “she is with Detective Skye, who seems to be waiting for someone or something that she refuses to explain. Irksome, but I suppose we will find out sooner or later if it pertains to the case.”

“I see.” There was a long pause in which Phoenix busied himself with plucking wisps of fuzz off the bedcover. Putting on a casual affect that sounded false even to his own ears, he said, “I heard something very…interesting from the nurse just now.” 

“Oh?” Guard immediately up, Miles titled his head to fix Phoenix with a sideways look, and he felt an echo of the defiant longing that icy stare elicited across a courtroom so long ago. 

Ignoring that, Phoenix went on, voice pristinely neutral, “yeah, apparently we got hitched while I was out.” The sensible part of him knew it was a bad idea to poke at this right now, that neither of them were in the right state to stir up this topic from its stable place of rest, but tired and battered as he was inside and out, Phoenix couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Miles’ eyes fell closed, a pained sigh hissing out his nose. 

“So, do you have something you want to tell me, Mr. Edgeworth-Wright?” Phoenix kept his voice determinedly light, like it was all just a cute little jest, but buried deep in the undertones was a malicious, self-destructive provocation that he despised even as he gave into it. “Or, dare I say, Mr. Wright-Edgeworth?”

“Don’t.” Gray eyes snapped open sharply. “Look, they asked for family—did you want me to send Trucy here alone to see you…like this? And what about me? I-” He cut himself off with an aggravated puff of air, pushing his fingers up under his glasses to massage his eyelids. “I said what I had to. What, would you have preferred I tell them we’re brothers?” 

“I…no. Sorry. I’m being an asshole.” 

(Although, I think getting shot gives me the right to act like a little bit of an asshole.)

What Miles said made perfect sense—logical as always—and it was true Phoenix really wouldn’t have wanted him to act any differently, given the circumstances. So why did this little ember of disappointment refuse to be doused?

He chanced a look at Miles again, expecting an intractable wall, but that couldn’t be farther from the shock of reality. Those fathomless eyes, the small line between his tight brows, the nearly imperceptible quaking in his arms held straight at his sides, as if resisting the urge to cling to himself. It was a look of pure vulnerability, yet all traces of emotional skittishness were gone; the last time Miles looked at Phoenix like this, it had been to shout ‘I love you’ for the first time, like it was a curse, like it was the purest truth that had ever passed through those perfect lips.

Phoenix felt himself suck in a breath and hold it as Miles let his mouth open, biting his lip as if to delay just one more moment, voice faint but clear, “Phoenix…I…”

The door flew open with a sonic boom. Phoenix startled so violently it sent a white hot lightning strike down his arm and the left side of his chest. Through watering eyes, he watched a cacophonous mass of people flood into the cramped room all at once.

Someone was shouting, “you people really can’t be in here—forget security, I’ll call the police!”

“I am the police!” A woman’s voice retorted—Ema.

“We’re really sorry, but this is important!” Phoenix would recognize those Chords of Steel anywhere. Apollo stumbled in Ema’s wake, Trucy and Athena fluttering around him, each trying to make their own opinions heard. Adding more confusion to the tumult, Gavin and Blackquill hovered in the doorway, jostling for position amidst a small army of nurses and orderlies.

“Hold it!” With the cold fury packaged in just those two short words, Miles brought the entire room to heel. He did not make them squirm, opting instead for information and efficiency. “Detective Skye—explain. Everyone else, quiet.” 

“Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth…Mr. Wright—” She threw a deferential nod Phoenix’s way. “Sorry to barge in, but you’re going to want to hear this. We’ve solved the case.”

Chapter Text

Apollo couldn’t overstate how relieved he was that Ema had taken the lead. With nerves frayed from stumbling upon his boss bleeding out on the floor of their workplace and head pounding from staying up most of the night to deal with the aftermath, he was quite sure he would have disintegrated under the nuclear-reactor-level heat of the Chief Prosecutor’s glare. Evidently, the last shreds of Ema’s sensible self-preservation instinct had been corroded away by that noxious energy drink she’d chugged twenty minutes ago, because she presented the same manic determination to Mr. Edgeworth as she had to the dozen hospital workers who had tried to bar their way.

Now, having declared that they’d solved the whole case—personally, Apollo wasn’t quite that confident in the explanation they’d managed to string together—she folded her arms expectantly.

Still a little red in the cheeks, Mr. Edgeworth turned stiffly to Mr. Wright. “Well? I will leave it up to you.”

“Uh…yeah let’s hear it.” Mr. Wright levered himself up with his right arm, the left buried in several inches of padding and bandages, making Apollo wince. He wished there were another way, but Ema was right; time was one commodity they did not have in abundance.

Mr. Wright looked over the crowd of nurses, sunken eyes glittering with apology. “This is lawyer business, uh, client confidentiality…so…?”

“Yeah, ‘hippo rules!’” Trucy added boisterously.

“It’s HIPAA, and that only applies to medical information…” Apollo muttered, but he may as well have been a spirit for all anyone paid attention. 

“This is a hospital, not a courtroom!” One of the nurses hissed. 

“I know.” Mr. Wright made a one-handed, conciliatory gesture. “But these are all good folk—they wouldn’t be here like this unless it was really important. I’m alright, scout’s honor.” Something in his bearing—dismissively enigmatic with just the right touch of earnestness to keep you constantly off balance, a feeling Apollo knew well from those early days—convinced them somehow, and they all filed out with a chorus of disgruntled sniffs and shaking heads. 

That left the room considerably less crowded but still uncomfortable with eight people. To make standing room, Trucy claimed the end of the bed, shooing her father’s feet unceremoniously to one side. A wave of her hand made a silver charm bracelet jingle on her wrist. Apollo had first noticed it when she’d found them in cafeteria where they’d been waiting on Klavier until moments ago. It was probably too late to comment on it now; he had too much else on his mind. 

Mr. Edgeworth, rather than crane his neck to stare down at Ema, opted to lower himself into a chair at Mr. Wright’s side, legs crossed primly. One of his hands came to rest protectively over Mr. Wright’s blanketed knee, and when Apollo hurriedly glanced away, pretending not to notice, he caught everyone else feigning the same obliviousness; it was one thing to suspect your bosses were in an intimate relationship—possibly already married in secret, though the jury was still out regarding the veracity of that—but to see evidence right before your eyes…it was simply too bizarre.

There was a prolonged moment of awkward shuffling while everyone else claimed their own stretch of drab wall, then Ema drew them to order with a brisk command, “Bird Man! Bring the thing!” 

“Is this necessary? Hold your own damn whiteboard.” Blackquill didn’t budge, casting a baleful look down at the detective; leaning against his hip was the thing in question, an unwieldy, three-foot long whiteboard she’s browbeaten him into taking down from her cubicle at Criminal Affairs and lugging all the way to the hospital.

“You’re tall and sturdy—makes for the best viewing of our visual aid, which is necessary to keep proper track of everything. Come on, we’re wasting time!” Ema clicked her fingers impatiently. Blackquill snarled something under his breath but dutifully hefted the smooth, white surface and stood behind the detective, looking like her assigned partner in a class presentation with the two older lawyers playing the role of stern teachers. Apollo dully wondered if Ema had been serious about trying to hook up with the surly prosecutor, and if so whether this bossy treatment was some sort of advanced reverse-psychology ploy. Whatever it was, it wasn’t helping their credibility; Mr. Edgeworth’s brow furrowed impossibly deeper, and even Mr. Wright looked dubious. 

“So, at present, we have two cases, which we have reason to believe are directly related,” Ema started matter-of-factly, uncapping her marker with a snap. “One: Who really murdered Frederick von Richter? Two: Who shot Mr. Wright?” She wrote these out on either side of the board in bold, blocky letters. Apollo only had an oblique view from his position, but it hardly mattered, as he already knew everything Ema was about to say forward and back. Mr. Wright’s eye twitched at the mention of his name, sending a new stab of guilt through Apollo. Maybe it was too soon to process all this, but they had no choice; the boss was critical to their next move.

“First, we know there is more to this situation than a simple mix-up with the drinks. Athena?” Ema gestured and made room as best she could, allowing Athena to take center stage, pulling the bulky headphones off her ears to hang around her neck.

“Are you alright?” Phoenix asked her, jagged brows lowering.

“Oh these? It’s fine, it’s just…hospitals are a lot.” Her shrug was only a little stilted as she soldiered on, all business. “I talked to Sylvia alone yesterday. It’s pretty clear that she only confessed for Wolfgang’s sake—she thinks she’s protecting him. Sylvia also let slip that she was told to call the police at the front desk instead of using her cellphone, but she refused to say more.” 

——

Apollo was brought back to the previous day, trapped in the hellish liminal space of the hospital waiting room, talking in low whispers with the prosecutors. Blackquill had come at Athena’s bequest; she’d called him with a garbled, desperate plea for reprieve from the terror and grief bombarding her ears from all sides, yet she refused to leave until she knew for certain what would happen to Mr. Wright. Blackquill seemed to have intuited enough from her half-sobs, as he arrived with almost supernatural swiftness, Athena’s protective headphones in hand. She’d taken them with visible and immediate relief, but Blackquill still hovered over her menacingly, as if glowers and katana swipes could ward off errant emotional vibrations. 

Surprisingly, Blackquill had also brought Klavier in tow, and for one insane moment, Apollo urgently wanted those calloused hands on his back, enveloping him in an insulating embrace, blotting out everything but the the pressure of those toned arms and a smokey, woody cologne and the scent of Klavier himself underneath…but Apollo stuffed that down furiously—he couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for that hydra-like cluster of feelings to rear its rapidly multiplying heads.

After they’d delivered an abbreviated update of current events to the prosecutors—which amounted to ‘Mr. Wright was shot in the shoulder at our office, no sign of forced entry or a struggle, and we have no leads on the perpetrator’s identity or motive, we’re waiting to hear how bad the damage is’—Athena launched into a rundown of what she learned at the detention center what felt like days earlier but was only hours.

“As you might expect, our trio were…tense,” she explained, voice still low despite her now partially obstructed hearing, “but I managed to convince Wolfgang and Manuel to let me speak to Sylvia alone—I guess they don’t see me as much of a threat at this point.” Athena crossed her arms, but otherwise didn’t allow herself to get sidetracked by her opinions on that. “She was terrified, but not for herself. I got her to talk through it a little bit, but she insists it really did happen like she said—she believes she gave Mr. von Richter orange juice by mistake, got the epinephrine injector from the medicine cabinet, and when that didn’t work, she went to call for help. She claims that she’s entirely at fault for his death, so anything that happened after doesn’t matter.”  

“‘Anything that happened after?’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Klavier asked, a silver ring glinting in the harsh, artificial light as he rotated it contemplatively around his thumb. 

“Well, I got her to talk about Wolfgang, and her fear jacked up tenfold. She said most people don’t know the real him, how sensitive he is deep down…she truly loves him.” Athena paused, hand over her heart, as though still affected by the strength of Sylvia’s emotion. “She said most people think of him as rough—‘wild and volatile’ were the words she used—because he used to lash out when he wasn’t…well, when he wasn’t in total control of himself. She said, ‘if he had been born someone else, he’d probably have a minor criminal record.’”

“We know he has a problem with alcohol and other drugs, and it sounds like it was serious enough to land him in hot water, but his parents intervened with the law—the privileges of wealth.” Blackquill summarized bluntly.

Athena nodded. “That’s what I guessed, too.”

“So…” Apollo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Perhaps she thinks Wolfgang was responsible for the bludgeoning while she was calling the police, but is still claiming sole responsibility to protect him.” There was something else about what Athena said, how Sylvia had described Wolfgang, that tickled in Apollo’s brain, but when he tried to snatch at a firm memory it slipped away. Instead, he moved on to another lingering question. “But we still don’t know why she left in the first place when she could have just as easily called 911 from her cellphone, or any other phone at hand in the condo for that matter. Why go all the way to the reception desk?”

“That’s just it!” Athena sat bolt upright. “I pressed her about that, and all in a rush she explained how she was in a panic at the moment and was just doing what she was told.”

“Told by whom?” Blackquill asked.

“I don’t know.” Athena hung her head. “She clammed up quick—I don’t think she meant to tell me that.” 

“But it does sound like there was another person there…” Apollo settled into the stiff chair to think…to think and to wait. 

——

In the present, Ema scrawled 4th person? on the whiteboard. “Based on witness testimony, there was a hitherto unidentified party in the room with Sylvia when Misters von Richter Senior and Junior were indisposed.” 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Mr. Wright said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “we saw on the security footage that no one went in or out after Sylvia, and the place was swarmed with paramedics and police not long after. If there was someone else there, where did they go?” He asked this in his paternal ‘teachable moment’ voice, suggesting he already had a solution but wanted to hear them work it out. 

(Brace yourself, Mr. Wright.)

“Prosecutor Blackquill and I returned to the crime scene last night.” Ema nodded to the dark-haired man, the whiteboard still slotted between his palms and chin.

“Oh, so I’m ‘Prosecutor’ again?” Blackquill sneered, but coming from him, one could almost mistake it for good-natured.

“Hush you. Anyway…”

——

It had been thirty-five minutes since Trucy and Mr. Edgeworth were taken to seen Mr. Wright, and Apollo was starting to suspect they weren’t coming back. He supposed that was understandable, this was a family thing after all—even though he hadn’t quite adjusted to lumping the Chief Prosecutor into that category with the Wrights—but it left him at loose ends. It wasn’t as though he could just go home, what with Ema and Blackquill due back any minute, but he was starting to grow antsy, not to mention hungry. 

To appease his restless limbs as much as his complaining stomach, Apollo paced off to find a vending machine, which he located easily enough near the bathrooms, glass window displaying a colorful assortment of single-serving packets of cookies and chips. 

(Well, I’ve had to make do on worse dinners…)

Rummaging in his wallet produced enough crumpled bills for a bag of Snackoos. With a grinding whir, the little metal spiral slowly released his prize, but at the last second it caught and sagged against the glass, just out of reach.

“Oh for the love of the Holy Mother…” Apollo felt his voice break, and just like that, the last fiber of his composure was riding on getting this food. He tapped, shook, even kicked at the machine with intensifying animalistic wrath, until a melodious voice froze him solid.

“Need some help, Herr Forehead?” Klavier leaned casually against the opposite wall, as if this were no more than a chance meeting between friendly acquaintances at the bar.

“D-did you follow me over here?” It sounded harsher than Apollo had meant, but he wasn’t about to walk it back either.

Klavier slowly and methodically brushed silky, golden hair out of his eyes, gesturing to the restroom sign on the wall. “Did you consider, perhaps I only need to take a leak?” 

“Go then.” Neither of them moved.

The other man’s face creased, the prince-charming mask slipping just an inch. “Here.” Lightly hip checking Apollo out of the way, Klavier used his taller stature and longer arms to achieve better leverage over the snack machine, and with a few shakes and taps, it released its bounty at last. Apollo gathered all the dignity he could muster and stooped to fish out the slightly crushed bag.

Straightening, he muttered, “thanks.” 

He was uncomfortably aware of Klavier’s gaze on him, and even more uncomfortably aware of how they had last parted. The night of the Christmas party, every note on the piano, every heartfelt smile, every flash of eye contact across the busy room, it had all loosened Apollo’s resolve, so nearly costing him his grip on bleak reality, on what he was supposed to be trying to do. He didn’t even really understand why anymore, only that ever since losing Clay, creating distance was an absolute imperative. So, when that realization crashed back into him somewhere along the stretch of dilapidated pavement between the Wrights’ apartment and the parking garage, he asked to be taken home before Klavier could suggest other arrangements. Upon arrival, he muttered an abrupt goodbye before those clear blue eyes could look at him, into him, wanting something…before Apollo could want something in return. That question at the courthouse still haunted him: What do you want from me, Apollo?

(I wish I knew.)

His feelings were no easier to sort out standing under too-bright fluorescents, sandwiched between a public restroom and an uncooperative vending machine in a hospital where his boss was recuperating from a brutal gunshot wound. And, as was his special talent, Klavier was about to make it that much worse.

“Apollo…when we are done here…I’d like you to stay with me tonight.” 

“What!?” Apollo’s heart slammed into the roof of his mouth causing him to nearly drop his hard-earned Snackoos.

“Not like that.” Klavier’s voice was level and almost a touch impatient, not even a hint of a flirtatious barb. “I just want to know you are safe. Athena is welcome too, of course—Gott knows I have the space.” 

“Wh-what are you talking about? Safe from what?” Apollo was starting to feel dizzy. This was veering dangerously close to a grim conclusion he had so far managed to stave off in his conscious thoughts.

“Come on, Herr Forehead.” Klavier’s mouth drew to a thin line and he swallowed, drawing Apollo’s eyes unwillingly to the knot in his long, smooth throat as it dropped in a nervous bob. “This attack happened at your office—how do we know…”

“There you two are!” They whipped around in sync toward the direction of Athena’s voice to see her scurrying up, Ema and Blackquill flanking her. Stilling himself with a shaky breath, Apollo strode forward to meet them, Klavier following at a saunter. That naked anxiety he had unleashed on Apollo  just moments ago had been tidily folded back up inside a pristine envelope of attentiveness and affability.

Apollo forced himself to look elsewhere as the five of them clustered together in a circle, heads nearly touching, like a pre-game huddle for the world’s weirdest sport. 

“Well?” At Klavier’s prompting, Blackquill withdrew three evidence bags from his coat.

——

Apollo blinked hard to—once again—refocus on the scene at hand, suddenly finding it distractingly difficult not to let his gaze flit toward Klavier like metal shavings to a magnet.

“There was a panic room in the master bedroom closet, just as Mr. Cantor said,” Ema explained. “We only found it because we knew what to look for—the carpet wasn’t fully secured in the back corner.” 

“Inside, we found three items.” Blackquill continued. “First, a single leather glove, with blood splatter on the back—”

“Which is a confirmed match for the victim!” Ema finished in a rush, eyes feverishly bright, though whether it was the forensics or the caffeine Apollo couldn’t say; he was becoming increasingly suspicious that she hadn’t slept at all. 

“Right.” Blackquill nodded curtly. “Notice the fine make and slim construction.“ Ema proffered the bag to Mr. Edgeworth, who held it so both he and Mr. Wright could examine its contents more closely. Meanwhile, Ema wrote $$$ woman’s glove - vic’s blood next to 4th person? and dragged the marker squeakily between them.

“There’s more.” Ema held out their second piece of evidence: a hand-sized plastic tube.

“Emergency epinephrine auto-injector,” Mr. Edgeworth obligingly read from the label.

“Yes,” Ema confirmed, “it’s to treat an acute and life-threatening allergic reaction, or anaphylaxis. They only discovered the puncture wound in the victim during the second autopsy. They never found the injector itself, because it was hidden in the panic room. Also of note, it has Sylvia Sterling’s fingerprints on it.” While she spoke, Ema was snapping on bright purple, nitrile gloves. She took the injector back from Mr. Edgeworth and slipped it out of the bag, holding it up for all to see. After a beat, she demanded, “what’s missing?”

“I don’t understand,” Mr. Wright said, narrowing his eyes in trepidation. 

“Perhaps this will give you a hint.” Without hesitation, Ema ripped off the safety cap and plunged the injector down onto her own thigh.

There was a collective gasp around the room, even though the majority of people present already knew the outcome.

(She didn’t say she was going to be so melodramatic with the demonstration…)

Ema lifted the injector, revealing unblemished trousers and a conspicuous lack of a needle. 

“Ema…!” Even breathless with astonishment and relief Mr. Edgeworth managed to sound reprimanding, but that didn’t throw the detective off her rhythm for a second.

“Compare that to this one.” With markedly greater care, she extracted a third piece of evidence from her satchel, cushioned with multiple clear bags and for good reason; it was another epinephrine shot but with a fully ejected needle—a thick, wicked-looking thing that made Apollo shudder. 

“Look at the label,” Ema encouraged as Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth leaned in to examine the second injector, Trucy hovering at a wary distance.

“Training device, no medicine, no needle,” Mr. Wright read. “Now I really don’t understand.” 

“Epinephrine auto-injectors usually come in sets including one such empty mechanism designed for practice purposes,” Blackquill explained, “better to know how the thing works in a controlled setting before you’re required to wield it to save a life, possibly your own.” He met quizzical stares with a shrug. “My sister has a peanut allergy.” 

“Wow…and to think I could have solved that whole situation a few months back on my own, if only I’d had some trail mix in my pocket,” Trucy mused, “I could have used it to ward her off, like garlic to a vampire or something.” That proclamation was met with excruciatingly awkward silence, to which Trucy just rapped a knuckle on her head, tongue peeking out. “What, too soon?” 

“Anyway…” Ema dragged her eyes away from the young magician. “This one doesn’t have any fingerprints on it. That leads us to believe someone tampered with the casings of the two injectors, such that Sylvia used the trainer by mistake, thus failing to deliver any medication at all.” 

“And whoever switched them had her leave the condo to call the police so they could inject Mr. von Richter with the real thing—once it was already too late—to cover their tracks.” Athena completed.

“This must have been around the same time they beat the victim with the little league trophy to obfuscate the allergic reaction.” Apollo chimed in.

“All while wearing gloves. Whoever did this was very intent on confusing us, and they were very thorough about it,” Ema said, delicately packing away the spent epinephrine injector before adding tampered w med to her board.

“Speaking of the weapon.” Mr. Wright was sitting almost fully upright now. “I suppose the panic room also explains why the bloody trophy seemed to have just appeared on the second day of investigation. At least, that makes more sense than not one single person thinking to peek under the couch until then. However, that presents a new problem…”

“Who retrieved it and planted it under the sofa?” Athena ventured. “Plus, the real killer would have probably needed help leaving the panic room—an ‘all clear’ sign or something.” 

“Exactly. I think we can safely assume that the culprit had at least one accomplice.” Ema scribbled another note to that effect on the whiteboard, though it was rendered nearly illegible in her haste. “Someone with unfettered access to the crime scene, someone unremarkable, someone who could tamper with evidence and plant it in order to lead us by our noses down a prewritten path.” She started pacing feverishly, making Klavier hop out of her way at his place near the small counter in the corner. “I’ve been thinking about this nonstop. What idiot was mucking it up so badly that multiple pieces of key evidence almost didn’t make it to court!? I know I failed the exam the first time, but there’s no way in hell I would make mistakes like that! So, I went down to the lab to give them a piece of my mind but…the new guy on their team had quit. No notice, nothing—just disappeared.” 

She sifted through her bag once more and threw down an ID badge sporting a brown-and-yellow lanyard onto the bed, scowling as if it had personally denied her the dream job. “They’d gathered up his stuff and I figured…they would have deactivated it already so it’s not a security risk, and it’s not like he wants it anymore…”

——

The previous evening, Ema had arrived around a half hour after Mr. Edgeworth, lab coat fluttering behind her. Once they’d gotten her caught up—Mr. Wright shot, don’t know who, waiting for news—she decided her coping method would be to grill Apollo on every last detail he could retrieve about the lead up to the incident. When he mentioned the empty detention center, that is, empty but for a single forensics officer on break, she slapped a hand to her cheek with a yelp that attracted bewildered stares and furious shushes from around the waiting room.

With trembling hands, she handed over the ID badge she’d ’liberated’ in her quest for answers. It bore the name Drake Skize and a photo of a nondescript man—average height, middling build, boring haircut—but familiar all the same. Apollo never forgot a face, always subconsciously scanning for rapid blinking, a puckering that gave away a bite to the inside of the cheek, a scratch to the nose. Faces were a gold mine for telegraphed tension, drawing Apollo’s critical eye even before he ever knew what exactly he was looking for.

“That’s him—same guy.” He glanced at the circle of concerned people around him. “What does it mean?” 

Klavier leaned forward with a dark expression. “We have evidence that was concealed, a new-hire forensics officer that overhears you speaking about the case, then not an hour later he resigns without notice, and at the same time Herr Wright is nearly killed?” He was the first to speak it aloud, to use the K-word, and it set off a ripple of flinches through their group; even Blackquill closed his eyes a moment. 

Ignoring the stir he caused, Klavier cast a glance over his shoulder. Apollo followed his gaze to find Mr. Edgeworth and Trucy, huddling together like the only survivors of a shipwreck, seemingly unresponsive to anything outside their personal tempest. Klavier watched them for a heartbeat then turned back, worrying his lower lip. “I never knew…Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth…I mean, it was something fun to gossip about, but I never realized it was like that between them, that it was so…” He trailed off into strained silence.

“Yeah.” Apollo seconded when it was clear Klavier meant to leave that thought hanging. It was probably the most inadequate response imaginable, but what else could they even say that wouldn’t feel shallow and hollow? Apollo kept his gaze locked ahead, staring at a magazine on the side table under Ema’s elbow, locking eyes with a beaming, muscular mountain climber on the curling front cover. It was all he could do, for in that instant he absolutely couldn’t survive looking at Trucy or Athena or Klavier or anyone.

Klavier cleared his throat, hard and rough for a man who made a living off of his voice, snapping them all back to focus. “We have to do something—figure this out. What can we do?” 

And just like that, Apollo was moored again. 

——

“Drake Skize…?” Mr. Wright slowly lowered the ID badge, absorbing Ema’s brief summary of their suspicions.

“I couldn’t turn up anything about him on a cursory search,” Ema said, “no criminal record, no social media presence, nothing. So, I turned to an acquaintance who specializes in stealing information. I won’t reveal their name at their request, which was, and I quote: ‘Operating when no other bird dares to take flight sometimes takes me into a bit of a legal gray area, so you’d better call this an anonymous tip lest you-know-who gets his cravat in a twist.’”

“Oh, good lord.” Mr. Edgeworth shoved his glasses up on his head to press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, looking at the absolute limit of haggard exasperation.

Apollo hadn’t spoken directly to Ema’s contact, Kay Faraday, but from what he gathered, big companies hired her to do white-hat penetration testing of both physical and digital security. However, if she found it iffy to tap into some of her less-than-scrupulous resources outside the bounds of a proper contract or subpoena, she didn’t seem to have any particular compunctions about sharing what she found. Apollo supposed it made sense for Ema to have a friend like that, but as to how a boastfully self-described ‘Great Thief’ knew someone like Mr. Edgeworth—that is, without ending up incarcerated—he couldn’t even begin to guess. 

“Anyway,” Ema barreled on, “it took a while, but our mutual friend turned up some very useful information. It seems Drake Skize does have a footprint in criminal networks—he and his partner, a woman going by Deirdre McCoy, specialize in infiltration by way of falsifying documents and credentials. They even go so far as making disguises, including custom prosthetics, if the job requires it. They must be good, because their services do not come cheap. What’s more, they consider almost nothing to be out of bounds for the right price, but they don’t like blood on their own hands, so they’re known to subcontract out those sorts of…uh…unsavory tasks.” 

There was prickly silence in the room then; they were getting close to the core of it, that second question on the whiteboard no one wanted to examine head on. 

Ema, the bravest among them, pushed forward. “This was a bit more difficult for K—for our source to unearth. However, there’s a definite trail linking them to an assassin known only by the alias ‘One.’ Turns out the feds have been searching him out for a few years. He’s been implicated in several murders that would have necessitated insider knowledge on specific people’s movements: a head financial advisor, a member of a university’s board of regents, an ambassador’s mistress…” She trailed off, eyes flitting to the ceiling.

Blackquill picked up the thread, face like ice, “I have heard of this killer. Some of the convicted are possessed of a certain fascination with his type, those that still walk free. They like to talk. The story goes that this man was given his moniker, One, for his killing method: a single shot to the head, instantly fatal, every time. The scenery, the distance, it does not matter. Legend says he never misses, hence One shot.”

Also…I guess now is as good a time as any to add this to our evidence.” Ema fumbled for a fourth and final bag, containing a single, thankfully clean, bullet.

“Is that…?” Mr. Edgeworth leaned forward in disbelief, then his face crumpled harshly once more. “Ema…where did you…put that away this instant!” His eyes darted to Trucy, who was staring at the crumpled fleck of metal, eyes so wide they seemed to take up nearly all of her ghostly pale face. 

“It’s evidence! This is why they sent me down here in the first place…to pick it up.” Despite her protests, Ema did what she was told and tucked the bullet out of sight. “The rifling marks, which are like the…”

“Yes, yes, we are all aware—just get on with it.” Blackquill shifted the whiteboard to wave one hand dismissively.

“Well anyway…” Ema shot him a warning look. “It’s a match for the bullets from all those other cases—that’s what linked those murders together in the first place. Seems he has a preferred weapon.”

Mr. Wright had gone statue-still, face impenetrably blank. To Apollo, this was worse than if he’d gotten angry like Mr. Edgeworth, or frightened like Trucy. They could take anything but this…vacancy. It was too much like the old Mr. Wright for Apollo’s comfort. 

“Mrs. von Richter had two men with her, after the trial, remember?” He said levelly, trying to break this unsettling petrification. “So if she’d hired this One as well…” but his throat went dry; he couldn’t do it, couldn’t point out the logical conclusion, as if that alone could manifest the implied alternate reality. 

“It’s okay. I guess I can be the one to say it.” Mr. Wright’s gaze darted up, shielded by glassiness, his voice a monotone. “Why am I not dead?” Trucy let out a spasmodic gasp, which did seem to jolt him back to himself just slightly. Not taking his guarded eyes off the small crowd before him, he stretched his good arm around Trucy’s shoulders and protectively coaxed her closer. 

“Herr Wright.” Klavier stepped forward, voice sober. “I speak for all of us when I say we are relieved you are…still with us. However, we do not think your survival was a stroke or luck or divine intervention. We believe the person who ordered this attack—which we are increasingly certain was Frau von Richter—did not intend to kill, but to send a message, a warning.” 

“A warning about what?” Mr. Wright demanded, voice breaking by just a hair.

“Think about what Drake Skize overheard at the Detention Center,” Athena reminded softly. “We had found out about the panic room where important evidence was hidden, and about the lawyer the von Richters were going to see…so maybe there’s something we’ve found they didn’t want us to know.” 

Ema had been dutifully catching up on notes while they were talking, writing Drake Skize: fake forensics officer, Deirdre McCoy: partner, ‘One’: assassin, and shot PW: warning? On the white board, each forming a node in the growing web of connecting lines.

“This one is all you, fop,” she said as she glanced up from her work, though her tone lacked its usual acidity; in fact, it could have almost been called grudgingly respectful.

Klavier wasted no time; Apollo knew he had been gnawing on this for hours, if not all night. “The attorney in question, Frau Beatrice Trayre, was, coincidentally, a colleague of mein Bruder.” A sad, apologetic smile played across Klavier’s face, the smallest echo of the anguished sobs of the other night, and Apollo tightened his fists, suddenly not trusting his arms not to reach out. “They worked together on a few cases. Her specialty is inheritance disputes, and she is ruthless—she will divert college trust funds and philanthropic donations if given half a chance, if it means more assets to line the pocketbook of her client, or an inheritor she is trying to court as a new client. However, she is fickle at best, and her loyalties go to the highest bidder.” 

“She sounds…pleasant.” Mr. Wright frowned.

“On a strictly personal basis, she’s not half bad.” Klavier shrugged. “When Apollo and Athena mentioned this, I offered to pay her a visit first thing this morning.” 

He slid his fingers into his tight pockets, creating a slight rounding in his shoulders that Apollo would have called a sign of embarrassment, if that were an emotion Klavier Gavin seemed capable of feeling. “Suffice it to say she was pleasantly surprised to see Kristoph’s kid brother so…‘grown up and mature.’ To put her in an accommodating mood…it did not take much effort.” 

Something hot and sour flared in Apollo’s gut. 

(Alright Justice, not the time. Get ahold of yourself!)

“She had recently helped Herr Frederick von Richter create a codicil to his will, a revision you could say,” Klavier explained, “she was rather pleased with her work, even freely showed it to me. She did not explicitly prohibit my reproducing or sharing it so…” he waggled his cellphone, which Apollo knew held precious photos of the document in question. “There was a time I was especially interested in contracts and civil law—perhaps it stemmed from signing our first album deals and such—but with my limited experience, this is quite the web of jargon to decipher. What I have gleaned so far is that the previous version of Herr von Richter’s will stated that, in the event of his untimely demise, Wolfgang would inherit his company and estate; however, all use of funds, property, or other assets would require approval from Wolfgang’s mother, Frau von Richter. It would appear their faith in their son was quite lacking.”

“So what does this…codicil entail, then?” Mr. Wright asked.

“It amends the will to give Herr von Richter the power to declare a different heir,” Klavier said, “importantly, this new golden child would not be beholden to Frau von Richter in any way—it would seem he was attempting to maneuver her out of any money or rights as well. I suppose their marriage had lost its spark.”

“I’ll say,” Ema muttered darkly.

“It would seem Herr von Richter had made his selection before he was killed, and planned a formal announcement to his family next week,” Klavier continued, “but his death invoked a small stipulation that Frau Trayre slipped in, seemingly without his notice—she was quite eager to show off this trick, let me tell you. Her subtle little plot twist made it so that Herr von Richter had to name a new heir with his wife and son present in person for it to be valid—a bit difficult to schedule with a such globe-trotting partner. What’s more, it states that, in essence, should Herr von Richter be shunted off this mortal coil before officially naming a new heir, his intention to exclude his son from his vast empire would be null and void—the old version of the will would remain valid.”

“So…she tricked him? Why would she do that?” Trucy asked, head still tucked against her father’s shoulder.

“That is an excellent question, fräulein.” Klavier smiled slyly. “She was very quick to share that she spoke a little German as well. We chatted happily about her time in Munich as a foreign exchange student in high school. Her host family had a daughter of an age with her, and naturally they were fast friends—still keep in touch, in fact. Frau Trayre helpfully supplied that her host family’s name was Weber…and a little digging in public records turned up a newspaper from 1992 announcing the marriage of Herr Frederick von Richter and Fräulein Cecelia Weber. Small world indeed.” 

“So if Mrs. von Richter was depending on her son to financially support her…” Athena started.

“But he was being written out of the will, which would diminish his mother’s control over their company and assets as well…” Blackquill said.

“So Mrs. von Richter had her friend invent ways to make it harder for her husband to declare a new heir…” Ema carried on, marker squeaking madly.

“In other words…it all points to motive for murder.” Apollo finished, just as Ema wrote Cecelia von Richter at the center of her board, circling the name with a flourish. 

This was the culmination of their argument, the grand summation of their blood, sweat, and tears spent over a near-sleepless night and hectic morning. Apollo hadn’t expect cheers or confetti or anything of that sort, but pinned between the stony faces of Mr. Edgeworth and Mr. Wright, he realized he had expected something—a thumbs up or a pat on the back at least. 

Instead, the Chief Prosecutor tapped his fingers on his folded arms and regarded them all one by one. He had been silent for some time, which suddenly stuck Apollo as an ill omen.

“That is all very well,” Mr. Edgeworth said at last, “and we appreciate your considerable efforts towards this investigation; you have achieved a great deal in a very short period of time, which is to be commended. However, there is the not-so-small matter of Mrs. von Richter’s alibi. She was confirmed to have been on a plane during the time of the murder.” 

Ema let out a sort of high-pitched, closed-lipped scream and tapped vigorously on the whiteboard, creating a halo of dots around the name Deirdre McCoy. 

“But Drake Skize works with a partner,” she babbled, “if McCoy was the one on the plane in disguise…”

“It’s certainly possible, but do you have proof? Where is this Deirdre McCoy now? Can you locate her in the next hour and thirty-seven minutes in order to call her to the stand today?” Mr. Edgeworth’s questions, asked in a pitilessly rhetorical fashion, as if he didn’t expect satisfactory answers, was like a cold gale on the rickety scaffold that was their case. 

Because in all truth they had nothing—nothing concrete anyway—and they were running out of time. Everything hinged on this next phase. 

“It’s true we don’t have any evidence,” Apollo said slowly, enunciating every word, “so we need to rely on testimony, and we need something indisputable. Mrs. von Richter thinks she’s already gotten away with this. We need to draw her out somehow, force her to show her hand. If we’ve read the situation correctly…” a quick glance toward Klavier, concern and determination writ across his face in equal measure, “…then we know something she doesn’t know, and that gives us some leverage.” 

Apollo sucked in a deep breath and forced a confident smile. Everything would be fine. 

“Mr. Wright, there’s something we need you to do.”

Chapter Text

Apollo Justice’s work process involved a great deal more physical activity than Edgeworth had bargained for. The young man sighed, tapped a finger to his forehead, shuffled his feet, fidgeted with the upholstery, even got up to pace in fits and starts, though he never traveled more than a single length of the room before throwing himself back down to stare at the files arrayed on the small table.

They were sequestered in a prosecution lobby, which Edgeworth had ensured would remain unused for the duration of the Sterling trial. The plan devised by Detective Skye, et al.—which Edgeworth had to begrudgingly admit was their best chance at maneuvering the true culprit into a corner, long shot though it may be—required the young attorney to remain out of sight for the time being. However, Justice refused, or was perhaps wholly incapable of, sitting out doing absolutely nothing, so he pored over the evidence, fishing for some critical but subtle connection. At that moment, he was particularly keen on extracting more meaning from the convolutions of the victim’s will, but it seemed slow going.

For his part, Edgeworth had been convinced to keep a watchful eye over the day’s proceedings, although it had meant leaving Phoenix to rest at home subject to Trucy’s ministrations. Unbeknownst to either of them, Edgeworth had quietly called in a favor from a stalwart colleague and friend; Dick Gumshoe now headed a small, private security operation and presumably had some of his people watching the Wrights’ apartment. The man had thus far refused payment, though Edgeworth had already resolved to pay double for the short notice and had every confidence he would win this particular argument in the end; even as a husband, father, and supervisor to some dozen people, the former detective remained biddable as ever when faced with Edgeworth’s superior will. That fact paired with Kay’s continual knack for increasing his blood pressure beyond healthy limits…well, as drastically as their lives changed, much remained remarkably the same, and it was a greater comfort to him than they could know.

Although the added layer of supervision did ease Edgeworth’s mind, it did not entirely prevent him from straying into fretful territory if left to idle, so he too applied himself to considering the case and all its many angles. However, he was drawn away from his train of thought when Justice’s rustling abruptly ceased, the lobby going silent but for the quiet rush and rattle of the air vent. He cast his gaze up over the rims of his glasses to meet wide, almost childlike eyes, staring directly at him.

“Mr. Justice, what is it?” It came out brusque but not biting; he still felt rather ashamed of how he’d lashed out at the young man, no doubt piling unearned suffering upon an already terrible shock, and had resolved to be softer toward him. 

Redness bloomed high in Justice’s round cheeks as his eyes flitted to the side, one hand smoothing down his hair. “Oh sorry…it’s nothing…”

Edgeworth swallowed an impatient sigh. In truth he was all but running on fumes and his guilt-induced grace did have its limits. “If you have something to say, out with it.” 

“Okay…” the attorney twiddled his thumbs a moment, stalling, then took a sharp inhale. “So you and Mr. Wright…you really…?” But all his foolhardiness seemed spent in one short burst, for he quickly trailed off into mortified silence. As well he should—it was an extremely personal question, not to mention irrelevant to their task.

(I should reprimand him…but then again, haven’t I deflected and lied about this long enough? The truth of such matters is rarely as salacious as some imaginations make it out to be. Perhaps putting it to rest would turn all these young lawyers’ minds away from gossip and back to their jobs…)

Framing it that way, he could almost forget to be nervous over slackening his grip on what was, to him at least, a painfully intimate secret.

“I believe I understand the gist of your question, and the short answer is yes.” That sat for half a breath before he rushed to amend, “however, what you may have overheard at the hospital…we are not actually bound in any legal capacity at present.” 

Far from the satisfaction Edgeworth had expected to see, this revelation seemed to leave Justice more troubled than ever, his face tight, fists curled over the momentarily forgotten evidence records.

(I am going to regret this.)

“What is the matter?” Edgeworth asked levelly. “You seem…ill at ease.” 

“It’s just…how?” The younger man muttered, pointedly avoiding looking Edgeworth in the face.

(Yes, instant regret.)

“I beg your pardon?” Edgeworth growled, “That is private.” 

Justice jumped as if touched by a cattle prod, waving his hands frantically. “N-no, of course! I only meant…I wouldn’t have guessed…it’s just…he’s so…and you’re so…” 

“I’m so what exactly?” Edgeworth found his arms folded of their own accord, fingers drumming.

Justice was glowing like a hot ember, and had the look of a man who had suddenly found himself neck-deep in a hole of his own making yet was half convinced the way out still lay beneath his feet. 

He took several gulping breaths before next speaking, his speech markedly slower and more deliberate. “What I mean to say is, how do you make it happen? How do you just…fix yourself and trust someone like that…hypothetically, I mean?” Though his cheeks were still pink, he had a sudden brittle intensity about him that took Edgeworth aback. 

(So that’s what this is about.)

Justice had suffered a brutal loss, but if his attempts to simply collapse in on himself were being thwarted by his handsome and affable courtroom foil, hellbent on plying him with friendship and affection…well, perhaps Edgeworth could relate to that. That did not mean he had good advice to give, but the younger man before him looked so utterly wretched, he had to at least try.

“I will say this,” Edgeworth started after a moment’s careful thought, not missing the hopeful gleam in Justice’s otherwise forlorn expression, “human beings cannot be perfect, and this includes yourself. If you’ve set lofty standards for being ‘fixed’ and therefore worthy, I’m afraid you will be waiting for a very long time.”

“Oh.” Justice’s voice was small and strained, and it was difficult to read how well he actually absorbed Edgeworth’s words.

“And,” Edgeworth pressed on, “do not assume that this hypothetical person simply just knows…anything. It will serve you both better in the long run to be forthcoming about your feelings, challenges, and intentions. It doesn’t just happen—it takes work.” 

“I see.” Head back, Justice spoke to the pockmarked ceiling. “I was afraid you’d say that. Does it get easier, at least?”

“Yes and no,” Edgeworth answered honestly, “ingrained habits and perceptions don’t just go away, but one small victory can build on the last.”

(Experience and maturity also help, but I don’t think ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ would be useful in this instance.)

“It’s just…” The attorney’s stare suddenly dropped down, desperately meeting Edgeworth’s eyes. “If you admit to the world and yourself, ‘here’s this person I trust and depend on,’ then it’s just out there, another important thing that can be…taken away. Then you think maybe it would have been better not to allow yourself to have anything in the first place. You know what I mean?”

In the deep recesses of Edgeworth’s mind there lay a sort of switch, teetering back and forth between states, buffeted by recent events but still not quite here and not quite there. For days it had been infuriatingly in flux on the edge of his awareness, just past his influence to control, to make a decision and feel secure in it. He couldn’t even quite pin down precisely why it was so elusive, but then all at once, from this most unexpected source, came the push that caused it to click over with finality.

It was as if Justice had presented a clouded mirror, the image indistinct and yet easily recognizable. Edgeworth too had lost much, and he had taken as well, and on instinct he was still flinching back to shield those tender scars. What if Phoenix had been ripped away? Or worse, what if Edgeworth himself was fated to abandon those who came to rely on him, to forever mark them with an empty wound wrought by his senseless demise? Would it have been better to have never become so entangled in their lives in the first place? No, perhaps he was so concerned with how the flame before him may be extinguished that he was denying himself the pleasure of its warmth. For a blessed instant, it was simple; if he managed to release that which was outside his control, it left only a simple truth:

He could have a family of his own—perhaps he had for some time—the worth of which far surpassed any fears of loss, or weakness, or conflicts of interest.

“Yes, I believe I do.” Edgeworth’s response was solemn, but he couldn’t prevent a small smile of relief from fluttering across his lips.

“But what if…I don’t know if I can take that again. I’m just not ready.” Justice still held him with wide, skittish eyes, dropping what meager pretense there had been at depersonalized speculation.

Edgeworth couldn’t help a small chuckle. “I should think not, if you are asking me of all people for advice.” He gentled his tone once more. “However, I do sincerely believe in what I’ve told you. Be honest, and…and have faith.” 

“Alright.” The young man donned a blank, contemplative look, resting his weight back into the hard sofa.

(He is going to have to work this out on his own, but perhaps I can offer some encouragement.)

“I owe you my thanks, Mr. Justice.” This declaration was met with a perplexed stare, which Edgeworth found amusing for some reason. He tapped his temple with a confident grin. “This conversation has helped me clarify some matters for myself, so if we take this as precedent, there is certainly hope for you.” 

Justice let out an embarrassed cough, puzzled as ever. Averting his gaze once more, the young attorney flipped restlessly through the sheaves of documents before them, seemingly at random, until his fingers faltered. 

“Hang on…” he loosed a single sheet from near the bottom of the pile. The case asserting itself in his mind once more, Edgeworth tilted forward so he could just make out the heading—it was a page from the stenographer’s transcript of the first day of trial. Justice turned the document towards Edgeworth, one finger creasing the edge at line 119. “During her first testimony, Ms. Sterling brought up inheritance.” 

Pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Edgeworth peered closely at the blocky, serif font. Indeed, there it was:

MR. JUSTICE: And how did Mr. von Richter take the news?

MS. STERLING: Not well- he said- well he said some mean things, something like, “when I told you to man up and make a real investment in the future of our family, to prove to me that you’re worthy of inheriting this company, I didn’t mean go propose to the first airhead with a pretty face you came across.” Then he said that I was just a nobody and a gold digger and that Wolfie should have higher standards…stuff like that.

 “You’re right.” Edgeworth scanned the witness’s statement a second time, the corners of his mouth pulled down. It was a second-hand account, but then again, Ms. Sterling had been interpreting for her fiancé, implying that she would have been closely tracking the conversation and Mr. von Richter’s exact verbiage. “Let us, as a thought experiment, take Mr. von Richter’s words, as recalled by Ms. Sterling, at face value. What does this tell us?”

“Well…” Mr. Justice’s index finger found his forehead. “That Mr. von Richter wanted his son to get married, to settled down I guess.” 

“Right, ostensibly as proof of responsibility and commitment,” Edgeworth agreed, “but what if this runs deeper than verbal demands?” Almost subconsciously, he reached for the weighty folder containing the dubiously obtained copy of the victim’s will. Edgeworth considered himself at least passingly familiar with the jargon and conventions of many legal areas, but this was nigh on impenetrable even to him, meaning it was more than likely the von Richters simply had to take their lawyer at her word as to what it actually entailed. This left considerable room for obfuscation and deception…was there a yet deeper layer they hadn’t peeled back?

Suddenly making up his mind on gut instinct, Edgeworth said, “I think it is time to let Ms. Trayre speak for herself.”

“Sorry Mr. Edgeworth…” Justice objected meekly, “but doesn’t it seem like she’s on Mrs. von Richter’s side? If she testifies, couldn’t that backfire on us in a big way?” 

“It is somewhat of a gamble, but I believe Ms. Trayre has more to tell which will help us unlock the truth.” 

(A gamble indeed…that man, always rubbing off on me when I least expect it…)

*****

“Why, Fräulein Cykes, don’t tell me you are at that bench all by your lonesome today?” Klavier lobbed the question across the courtroom with his very best charming-but-distant friendliness that had served him so well at many a meet and greet with fans.

“There has been an unexpected incident, which is none of your concern, Prosecutor Gavin,” the defense attorney responded stiffly with none of her usual sunshiny vigor. Either she was a surprisingly good actress or had worked up some actual nerves.

“Well, do not fret. I will see us through this.” It was supposed to sound condescendingly saccharine—an affect Klavier was quite good at when he put half a mind to it—but he winked and hoped she read the true reassurance he intended in it. This would be a difficult tightrope to walk, to diminish Athena just enough to make certain parties let their guard down without actually making her feel bad. He would have no desire to do that regardless, but it certainly didn’t help that he could practically feel Herr Jailbird’s glower from the gallery behind him, steadily burning a hole into the base of his skull. 

(Ah, so he feels he holds exclusive rights to antagonizing her, how brotherly.)

It was sweet and pure in its own odd way; Klavier couldn’t even bring himself to muster envy.

It had been a simple matter to select Ms. Cykes and Klavier himself as the best suited to kick off this little performance. After they got Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth on board that morning—no small feat—Ema had immediately launched the next phase. After a sort of ill-tempered musical chairs that was all bumps and shuffles and knocked elbows as they changed positions in the small hospital room, she had affixed a small gadget to Herr Wright’s mobile phone and stationed herself at a receiving device in the far corner, the rest of them crowded around her like a socially inept clique clustering at a party.

Once they’d coached Herr Wright through a few awkward practice runs, the detective gave the thumbs up. Somehow, this nifty little tech setup allowed them to eavesdrop on Herr Wright’s conversation, though the device was set to the lowest possible volume to prevent feedback with the cellphone. So, with bated breath they all strained to listen to the ringing on the line. 

“Mr. Wright, to what do I owe the pleasure?” A gravelly, feminine voice answered.

“Mrs. von Richter, I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Herr Wright paled slightly, but his voice was hard as diamond.

“Oh?”

“There was a shooting at our office yesterday and…and we need to make some changes to Ms. Sterling’s defense team. We thought you’d like to know.”

“My goodness,” the woman gasped theatrically.

“Fortunately, no one was killed.” The attorney’s fingers suddenly clenched around the phone, cord-like tendons jumping out on the back of his hand. “Yes, very fortunate…my daughter spends a lot of time in that office, you know.” 

With a dismayed expression, Athena waved a hand downward in a pacifying gesture, while Ema mouthed, stay calm. Herr Wright closed his eyes, uninjured shoulder rising in an exaggerated deep breath.

“I never knew law could be such a dangerous profession. Then again…” The heavy pause on the other end of the line was precisely calculated down to the millisecond, cultivating a pool of poisonous dread into which her next words could splash down. “If, in the course of your investigations, you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong…well, is it any surprise that might attract dangerous attention? Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wright?” 

Well, at least there could no longer be any doubt. She thought she had Herr Wright by the throat—no need to sully herself with overt threats when she could plant the suggestion and let his imagination do the rest. 

(Kristoph would have loved testing himself against this woman.)

It was a cynical thought, though thankfully Klavier had little trouble keeping it off his face. A small part of his mind was always self-monitoring this way—he couldn’t help it anymore—as absurdly self-absorbed as it was to think anyone would look at him when all eyes were glued to the man with the phone.

Well, there was one person Klavier hoped would spare him a glance, even now. Perhaps that was rather self-absorbed, too.

Herr Wright worked his jaw a moment, then in a near whisper he said, “yes, there is some truth to that.”

“So glad we understand each other. Now, about this trial…”

“I’m sending my other junior associate, Athena Cykes.” 

“Alone? Isn’t she a bit inexperienced as a defense attorney?” That sultry voice was nearly chipper now. 

Herr Wright sidestepped the implication. “I’ve thought it over, and I believe this is for the best.”

“Well I will trust in your wise decision, Mr. Wright,” Mrs. von Richter replied, “I look forward to this trial very much.” And without farewell, the line went dead. 

So, with rockstar-prosecutor Klavier Gavin on the case—news of the assignment, despite coming at the eleventh hour, was easily spread via the prosecutor's office’s reliably leaky rumor mill—and Ms. Sterling with only a single, callow defense attorney at her side, the outcome seemed inevitable while retaining the appearance of legitimacy. At least, that is what Mrs. von Richter undoubtedly thought, as they had hoped she would.

Now, in the courtroom, Klavier avoided glancing at the widow directly, though she was easy enough to identify though the corner of his eye by her ostentatious getup: a broad-brimmed hat and the pelt of some hapless spotted creature draped around her shoulders atop a black turtleneck. She had confidently sauntered out of her hidey-hole to gloat, so now they only needed a way to pin her down.

“Well, Mr. Gavin, do you have any other opening remarks?” The Judge demanded.

Klavier paused for a toothy grin, careful to pay equal attention to all segments of the audience, lingering just long enough to build anticipation. “What more is there to say, Herr Judge? Sylvia Sterling has confessed to murdering her fiancé’s father, Frederick von Richter.” 

“Objection!” Athena cried, almost startling Klavier with the cutting force of it. Perhaps he did not need to lead this dance as firmly as he’d thought.

(What did you expect? Where has underestimating defense attorneys ever gotten you, exactly?)

“She did no such thing!” Ms. Cykes declared to the court. “She admitted to taking actions that accidentally resulted in Mr. von Richter’s death—involuntary manslaughter.”

“Of course, thank you,” Klavier smiled, and he hoped Athena took it as friendly admiration. Sometimes he worried that the facade, this heightened version of himself he took to court and the stage, had fused too well with his inner thoughts, that he didn’t know how to be genuine anymore. But of course, it wouldn’t do to navel-gaze about that now…

He continued on, unhurried. “The details of this accidental wrongful death are precisely what we are trying to better understand. As such, the prosecution would call Sylvia Sterling herself to testify.” 

“Does the defense have any objections?” The Judge prompted.

Ms. Cykes made a convincing show of weighing the options, even lightly flicking that adorable little earring, as she was wont to do when deep in thought. Finally, she answered, “no, Your Honor.” 

At the Judge’s signal, the bailiff escorted Ms. Sterling to the witness stand, for what Klavier prayed was the final time. The defendant approached with her chin tilted at a striking angle, just as if she were walking a runway. A couple nights spent in the detention center had not diminished her beauty in the slightest; in fact, her tired, doleful eyes gave her the aura of a damsel in distress who, faced with the dragon’s maw, would fiercely guard her elegance and dignity to the last. 

She was intriguing, and under wildly different circumstances he might have quite enjoyed some flirty repartee. It had been his favorite pastime during those whirlwind years at the Gavinners’ height of fame; he was quite well known for it, in fact. So much so that when he’d started experimentally applying his well-honed charisma to men as well, it could easily be dismissed as a sort of quirky vanity that drove him to crave novelty and challenge in his attention-seeking; they’d explain it away, ‘oh, he does this with everyone.’ He did not, in fact—his tastes may be varied but they were not indiscriminate—but what did he care if that’s what people thought? Still, their agents had impressed upon him the prudence of leaning into that interpretation. Formally ‘coming out’ (as what exactly they tactfully avoided naming) could prove a valuable boost to their popularity if timed and packaged correctly, but the PR team had their hands full with the next late-night interview, the next album, the next tour. Better keep it in the back pocket to spice things up whenever the band took the inevitable dip toward stagnation and irrelevance. Too bad it all fell apart before they could get that far. Still, at the time he was fine with keeping his curiosity contained. The world was filled with fascinating and gorgeous women, so what was there to miss, really? Yes, it was fine…until…

(Scheiße, distractible today, aren’t we? Getting dangerously close to taking myself seriously with those kinds of thoughts…)

Klavier anchored himself in his body, feeling the delicate push and pull of well-trained muscles as his fingers progressed through the bridge of '13 Years Hard Time For Love.' Not his favorite by a long shot, but familiar and effortless, just right to ground him and center his focus.

When he spoke, he let the slightest hint of the melody guide his cadence. “Alright, Ms. Sterling. Please tell us again exactly what happened as you remember it, bitte.” 

In her breathy but clear voice, the witness recounted the evening yet again, from the couple’s arrival at the victim’s condo, to the argument, to the juice mix up, to her call for help. She did not deviate from what they had heard previously, though Klavier thought she stumbled very slightly as she narrated leaving the crime scene, and he could have sworn he caught a shift in her shoulders to angle away from Ms. Cykes.

“Fräulein Sterling, does this look familiar to you?” Klavier approached the stand, holding up the epinephrine injector in its clear evidence bag.

The witness’s chin trembled. “Y-yes. When Mr. von Richter had an allergic reaction I used this on him, but it didn’t work.”

“That makes sense, seeing as your fingerprints are all over it.” Klavier set the item aside and casually slid his hands into his pockets, letting his thumbs hang out, briefly amusing himself at the thought of 'Lecture on Appropriate Courtroom Attire and Behavior, part 47' he might have had to look forward to, if only Herr Edgeworth were present. “But it is no surprise it was ineffective. Did you know, this particular device never contained any medication at all?”

“What? Explain this Prosecutor Gavin!” The Judge goggled at him, befuddlement as endearing as always.

Klavier obligingly described the two epinephrine injectors, though he didn’t quite have the nerve to demonstrate with the same dramatic flare as the good detective. Instead, to punctuate his point, he aimed an accusatory finger toward the witness stand. “If the defendant tampered with the medication, intentionally delivering a ‘blank,’ this is no longer an accident, but premeditated murder!”

They had all agreed on this tactic, that Klavier should appear to go hard on Ms. Sterling to really sell it, but forcing this turn caused a pebble of anxiety to clatter in his chest. If their plan didn’t pan out…

“Order!” The Judge clacked his gavel above the shocked gasps and exclamations bouncing around the room, but Athena did not wait for quiet.

“Objection!” She held up her copy of the report Ema had spat out for them not fifteen minutes before court commenced. Of course, the attorney had to pretend she was seeing the information for the first time, which she achieved by holding it up to her face and making a meal out of scrunching her brow. “It says here there were no fingerprints on the injector with the needle. If my client swapped the medication as you say, shouldn’t her fingerprints be on both?”

“If you are going to keep up in this courtroom, Fräulein, you must learn to think a few more steps ahead.” Klavier snapped his fingers with impeccable lazy arrogance. “The defendant could have used gloves when swapping the cartridge of medication from one to the other, so you would think she had nothing to do with it.”

Athena slammed her hands on the table, teeth bared, but only managed to splutter a few syllables, as if stunned. 

(She is good at acting—color me impressed.)

Finally, she choked out, “b-but…when would my client have had access to the medication in order to do this?” 

“That is a good point.” The Judge nodded. “Prosecutor Gavin, can you prove the defendant had the opportunity to tamper with the medication, so that the practice device would appear to be the real one?” 

“Evidence…I have not,” Klavier said slowly, heart rate picking up slightly, “but, we may be able to acquire testimony. Perhaps not a witness to the crime per se, but someone who presumably could speak to the nature of the victim’s allergies, where he kept his medication, and the defendant’s access to such.” 

This was it. This was how he would call Cecelia von Richter to the stand. The reasoning was tenuous, but it was the best they had. He just hoped the widow—the real killer—would be so overconfident, so eager to save her own interests and rid herself of an inconvenient daughter-in-law in one fell swoop, that she’d fail to sense that this was a group number until it was too late. Klavier caught Athena’s eye, and she gave the smallest nod, tight lipped but with righteous anger flickering in her eyes. Her fingers were already closing on her emotion-decoding gadget, readying herself. They would press the truth out of Frau von Richter somehow—they had to. 

But just as Klavier opened his mouth, another voice sliced through the courtroom, “Hold it!”

Apollo was taking long strides through the aisle, face hard and resplendent with determination. Surprise and panic and desire boiled up in Klavier all at once, and for a split second, he felt his carefully trained face go rogue, betraying something of that frothing mess. Did Apollo see? Did he know this effect he had on the notoriously suave and seductive Klavier Gavin? That he could set Klavier’s gut to squirming and fluttering like he was only a bashful boy? 

By the time the defense attorney reached the bench beside Athena, Klavier had exerted some order over the chaos within, compiling and setting aside amorously flavored emotions in favor of the more immediate concern for the case. Putting a lid on distracting butterflies brought an urgent realization to the forefront: this had not been part of the plan. Of course, he schooled his expression into one that portrayed only mild surprise at the sudden appearance of another attorney without giving away his growing alarm at the deviation from their strategy. It was a difficult needle to thread, that was for sure; they were lucky Klavier was such a professional.

“Mr. Justice…wh-?” The Judge, on the other hand, was openly flabbergasted.

“My apologies, Your Honor,” Apollo answered with a crisp nod, “but new information has come to light that cannot wait.” 

“B-but I received a notice of a change in lead counsel for your team…?” The Judge asked, still blinking rapidly.

“Ah, yes…about that…” Apollo’s confidence faltered, one hand pinning down his springy hair, a sheepish grin on his face that threatened to arouse Klavier’s less-appropriate thoughts once more. 

(He certainly doesn’t make it easy…)

“Circumstances have changed,” Apollo finished, somewhat weakly.

Klavier chanced a quick visual sweep of the gallery. Frau von Richter was there, eyes wide and mouth twisted in a livid snarl. Their plan had hinged on her belief that Apollo had been the one taken out of commission and that his fate had warned his colleagues off looking into the matter of the will any further, as had been Apollo’s task as overheard by the fake forensics officer. Yes, that had to have been her goal, if she’d had her assassin target the Wright Anything Agency office specifically. That was why they’d commissioned Herr Wright and his skillfully crafted half truths; they needed her to believe what she wanted to believe. It was the only way they could have possibly lured her into any false sense of security, to even have a chance at catching her in a vulnerability. Now though, they’d showed their hand; there was no going back.

(Herr Forehead better know what he’s doing…)

 “Please, I- I’d just like to ask the witness some questions, if the court will allow it.” Apollo pled with the Judge.

“Ah, well…Prosecutor Gavin, any objections?” The Judge turned to the prosecution bench.

Klavier forced himself to pause, closing his eyes and clicking his fingers to an inner rhythm. He couldn’t afford to appear hasty. “I have to admit, you have me quite curious as to where this is going, Herr Forehead…so I will allow it.” When he opened his eyes, at last he permitted himself to catch Apollo’s gaze, bright and yet weighty and indecipherable. Klavier stared back for as long as he dared, allowing only a single thought to pass through his mind’s filter. 

(I trust you.)

With an almost imperceptible nod, as though Klavier had spoken aloud, Apollo turned to the witness. 

“Ms. Sterling. As it turns out, the victim, Mr. von Richter, had quite the complex last will and testament. Were you aware of this?” The woman simply stared blankly, though she twisted her delicate fingers together, betraying her nerves. Apollo pressed on, “he was going to effectively disinherit your fiancé, Wolfgang von Richter, instead naming someone else as the sole inheritor of his estate and business. However, his death has complicated matters—the ‘line of succession’ is a bit murky, as it were…”

“That’s enough!” A sharp voice rang out, but Klavier didn’t immediately look around with everyone else. His gaze was magnetized to Apollo, drawn to the triumphant lift at the corner of the man’s mouth. With a rib-stretching inhale to still himself, Klavier turned to Frau von Richter, who had risen to her feet. With all the slinking grace of a prowling leopard, she descended the steps from the gallery, hefty cane falling forcefully on the floor with an echoing clunk at every step.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Judge demanded. “Bailiff—“

“Hold it, Your Honor,” Klavier intervened smoothly, letting pure instinct guide him, “this is the victim’s widow, Frau Cecelia von Richter. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter of this will. If she has something to add, I say let her testify.” 

“Hmm,” the Judge’s patience was clearly wearing thin, and he was not so imperceptive as some may think—he had a decent nose for shenanigans. “There are many strange things about this case, and I cannot say I appreciate being left in the dark. Prove to me the relevance of this matter, or I’ll have all comments pertaining to this last will and testament stricken from the record.” 

“Thank you Your Honor,” Klavier dipped his head respectfully, then turned his full attention to the witness stand. The two women before him could not have made a greater contrast; the older stood straight with a challenging tilt to her surgically de-wrinkled chin, poised but for a hellish burning in her eyes, while the younger was slowly collapsing in on herself, face sickly pale and arms trembling from her death grip on the stand before her. Klavier addressed the former, “would you care to give your name and occupation to the court?” 

“Cecelia von Richter, and what you might call my ‘occupation’ is beyond your understanding and not pertinent in this moment.” She declared this in the clipped tone of someone who expected to be heeded and obeyed. “I simply wish to say that all of this about a new heir is nonsense. My dear departed Frederick was not trying to disinherit Ludwig, merely teach him a lesson. I will not have this upstart besmirching the name of my late husband!” She pointed a knobby finger at Apollo, but he did not even blink.

“You’re lying,” the attorney said calmly, “your husband was not just trying to ‘teach Wolfgang a lesson.’ Had he not died, Wolfgang really would have been stripped of any future inheritance, which means your influence would have been lost, too.” He turned to the Judge, “an early version of Mr. von Richter’s will gave his wife control over all decisions regarding money and other assets—Wolfgang would effectively be owner in name only.”  

“You can speculate all you like about what Frederick did or did not intend,” Frau von Richter growled, “but it does not change the fact that he is dead thanks to this little chit. It is very tragic, but Ludwig will inherit and I will guide him to make good choices for our future.”

“Is that so?” Apollo crossed his arms, pressing his rolled shirtsleeves up another centimeter. “Sylvia?”

The younger woman squeaked at being addressed. “Y-yes?”

“In your earlier testimony, you described the argument between Wolfgang and his father. You told us Mr. von Richter said Wolfgang had to prove he was responsible enough before he could inherit the von Richter empire. Do you remember that?” 

As if not trusting herself to speak, Sylvia nodded jerkily.

“Well, turns out, he brought up that idea with someone else, someone who decided to interpret it very literally.” Apollo produced three crisp sheets of paper, handing one to Athena, bringing the second to the Judge’s bench, the third to Klavier. “Here I have a statement from Ms. Beatrice Trayre, the attorney who penned Mr. von Richter’s will. She claims it was his wish to pass on all ownership, rights, and responsibilities over his estate and business to his son, Ludwig Wolfgang von Richter with no limitations…if certain requirements were met.” There was silence as they all read:

Statement by Beatrice Trayre regarding the last will and testament of Frederick von Richter, witnessed and transcribed by Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth and Mr. Apollo Justice: 

“Listen, the truth is Frederick and Cecelia are both greedy, conniving, garbage people and nothing would bring me more joy than seeing them get what they deserve. So, when old Fred went ranting and raving to me about his son, well, I felt bad for the kid and wanted to give him a chance. I snuck in a loophole for him in the new codicil to the will, drawing inspiration from Mr. von Richter’s exact words. In laywoman’s terms, it means that if Ludwig von Richter could manage to sober up and marry someone at least halfway respectable before his father formally specified another heir, he’d inherit everything without his mother holding all the strings. 

Hope that answers your questions, cause now that I’ve copped to all this I’m taking the piles of money those two paid me to screw each other over and I’m going on a long vacation to an undisclosed tropical location.”

(She betrayed both of them…I cannot say I saw that coming…)

“B-but this means…” the Judge spluttered, “what does it mean?”

“It means that as long as Wolfgang goes through with marrying Sylvia, he is set to inherit in his own right.” Apollo turned to the bride-to-be in question, voice laden with meaning. “Do you understand, Sylvia? You aren’t beholden to anyone.” 

“She told me it was the only way to fully protect Wolfie,” Sylvia’s voice was halting and her gaze distant, as if speaking only to herself, “that if the authorities found out she was there…if they suspected…he’d go free, but he’d have nothing without her…because of the way the will was set up… but if what you’re saying is true…if we get married…” 

“Do you hear yourself?” Frau von Richter scoffed. “Frederick would have never accepted you, he rejected you outright…!”

“Hold it!” Apollo slammed his fists on the table. “How do you know that?”

“What?” The widow placed a hand to her chest, managing to look merely haughty, though an angry flush was seeping up her face—they had her on the back foot.

“Wolfgang and Sylvia told Mr. von Richter about their engagement the night he was murdered. How could you know his reaction unless you were there!?”

“Sh-she must have mentioned it in testimony. After all, you know about it, so why shouldn’t I?”

“Ah, but you were traveling at that time,” Klavier called out, letting sharp accusation color the undertones of his voice. “And I somehow doubt you have been visiting detention to offer Fräulein Sterling maternal comfort, but that can be easily checked.”

“Unless you haven’t been traveling abroad, Mrs. von Richter!” Apollo’s pointed hand swung forward as he unleashed unrestrained Chords of Steel. “But why would you lie? Was it to create a false alibi for yourself in your husband’s murder?” 

There were moments on stage when Klavier felt what he could only describe as unadulterated, concentrated elation. Blinded by stage lights, swathed in the scents of leather and makeup powder and sweat, he felt weightless, energized, as if his entire body were resonating with the music, the people, the very molecules of the air. There was nothing quite like it, and yet it paled in comparison to this, when he and Apollo pursued the truth in perfect duet. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to drag Apollo into the nearest storage closet and kiss him within an inch of his life, to kneel before him and whisper please, I love you. But he couldn’t act on any of those impulses, not until he understood whether it was wanted, and certainly not with their task here left unfinished. He could only hope his chest would keep being big enough to contain it all.

But, it turned out, there was not much left that required Klavier’s prosecutorial input. Without warning, Sylvia’s head snapped up, long hair rippling behind her, grim courage flashing across her face like lightning. Words poured from her mouth in a torrent that was almost too fast to parse. “When I went into the kitchen she was there, but she told me not to mention it and she helped me with the drinks and I knew, I knew I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that with the orange juice, but Mr. von Richter was choking and Wolfie was nearly knocked out and I was confused and she gave me the injector that didn’t work and she started beating him and said I had to pretend it was an intruder, to do exactly what she said…to protect Wolfie…!”

Beside her, Frau von Richter’s face had gone an ominous shade of purple. Abandoning all decorum, her hand flew up, splaying manicured nails like bestial claws, and she roared, “shut up, you stupid little wh—”

On instinct, Klavier lurched forward to interpose himself, saw Apollo stumbling out from behind the defense’s bench to do the same, but Athena was faster than either of them; it seemed that she at least had some forewarning, having not allowed her attention to leave the true danger in the room, an emotional bomb under increasing pressure. Already two steps ahead, Athena sprang forward and gripped Frau von Richter’s bony wrist, halting the downward arc of her hand before it could reach Sylvia’s unguarded face. She screeched and thrashed, but Athena held fast—she was surprisingly strong for such a coltish young woman—though she backed away with a look of relief when two bailiffs descended on them. 

Apollo and Klavier reached her a heartbeat later, followed by Blackquill and Ema, who had abandoned all formality as they practically vaulted down from the gallery. The five of them simply looked at one another with wary disbelief. Even once the culprit’s screams—violent curses upon her husband, Sylvia, her own son—faded from their ears, and the Judge called the room to a shaky order to deliver a definitive Not Guilty verdict, even then, the realization had only just started to touch their overtaxed minds:

Just like that, it was over.

——

The hall outside the courtroom buzzed with a euphoric relief, and it was contagious. Wolfgang and Sylvia seemed unable to decide between embracing or talking; they kept breaking apart with hands flying between them, only for one to cut the other off in order to press close again, Manuel looking on with watery eyes. Athena had both hands wrapped around Blackquill’s thick forearm, bouncing on her heels with glee. He gave in to swaying along with her pushing and pulling about, a rare warm smile cracking his stoney visage, though Klavier didn’t miss the occasional sidelong look cast toward Detective Skye. She certainly took notice, and in fact eyed the prosecutor with shameless appraisal—Klavier was sure to file that under Fascinating New Observations which he could analyze at length later—that is until Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth tapped her on the shoulder; in a flash, she was all eager deference. 

Klavier was content to stand back and watch the joyous scene unfold, but a tentative touch at his elbow instantly monopolized every iota of his attention. A not insignificant corner of his focus had, of course, already been intently aware of Apollo’s presence beside him; in fact, it had required no small effort to remain cautiously aloof. At that small contact, though, their eyes met and without speaking, they peeled away from the crowd into the deserted defense lobby. 

At the soft click of the door, Klavier turned, mouth opening of its own accord, no doubt to let loose some inane quip to diffuse the tension as was his nervous habit, but his teeth snapped together at the sight of Apollo’s face, hard and yet uncertain, with eyes screwed shut. 

In the mystery of it all, Klavier had conveniently forgotten that his involvement with this case had been something of a desperate ploy from the get go. Apollo’s sudden and complete withdrawal all those weeks ago had been like a bucket of ice water to his heart. Sure, plenty of his past lovers had found themselves bored or constrained and pushed him away—though disappointing, that at least he could understand—but never had he been simply ignored. Needless to say, he’d panicked.

What was he supposed to do? Just show up at Apollo’s shoebox of an apartment with flowers and a boombox playing…something Apollo liked? What did he like? Not pop-rock love ballads, clearly. Yes, that was probably the stupidest thing Klavier could have done, not that he had any particular reservations about making a fool of himself, especially for such a noble cause, but even he was not so twitterpated as to expect that to go over well. Thus, by comparison the second stupidest idea that sprang to mind actually seemed quite reasonable at the time. 

The best excuse he had to see Apollo was court, so he beseeched a certain little magician to tip him off whenever Apollo took his next case. He certainly owed her a whole box of rare Gavinners merchandise, if only to buy her continued silence on the matter; Klavier wasn’t sure he could survive the combined ire of Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth should they read something more sinister in his texting a teenager he barely knew for aid with his relationship woes—not his proudest moment.

But regardless of how it happened, here they were, and despite weeks of lying awake at night rehearsing what he might say if only given the opportunity, Klavier’s throat was clamped shut.

The wall clock ticked, loud and intrusive, once…twice…three times. Then, Apollo inhaled, eyes still closed, and blurted out, “I was abandoned as a kid.” 

Klavier’s breath caught somewhere near the fitful rhythm at the center of his chest, but still he did not speak. Suddenly, he had no clue what was happening, but something was happening, he really wasn’t imagining it, but it was oh so delicate, and he was petrified of shattering it all with a clumsy word or gesture. 

Apollo sucked in air again, speaking in a laboriously forced monotone, “Clay was the only one I ever told about…where I came from. We were there for each other, until we weren’t. Now, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve lost my only person in the world. I’ll never, ever get over losing Clay, but I’ve been thinking, and I do still have people—Trucy and Athena and Mr. Wright and…” for the first time in his speech Apollo faltered and Klavier’s heart jolted to a stop. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve got some stuff to work though, stuff I can’t really make myself talk about yet, and it might take me a long time to get there, maybe forever. I just thought you should know that if we…well…I want to try…I want to try for real…if you do.” 

So slowly, Apollo opened his eyes, the color of sun-warmed earth. Without meaning to, Klavier had stepped forward; he could have counted every precious freckle dusted across the man’s nose, and would have, had he been in any mood to linger. For once, he did not feel the slightest pressure—from within nor perceived from without—to speak, to construct the perfect lyrics to this moment in real time. This silence, saturated with all the emotion between them unchained at last, said more than pretty words ever could.

Instead, he allowed his body to communicate in careful, small stages. Soft but direct eye contact. Chin tilted down. Face shifted forward, closer. He could feel Apollo’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, and when they stilled, calm but expectant, Klavier took that as his cue. Their lips landed together with practiced ease, flooding Klavier’s mind with a kaleidoscope of sensual memories, instantly igniting a small but searing spark of excitement deep in his gut. Following its encouragement, he pressed deeper, Apollo’s pliant mouth opening for him as their arms tangled around each other. 

Yes, this was an achingly familiar song—to say he missed this would be a criminal understatement—yet there was something else, new chords that made for a richer melody. Apollo’s hands caressed tenderly as often as they squeezed hungrily, and Klavier responded with like enthusiasm. Just as he committed himself to escalating, running mental calculations on whether it was worth the risk to carry on right there in the defense lobby or whether they should sneak off to one of their trusty secluded nooks, the decision was abruptly wrested from him by the telltale sound of a turning doorknob. 

Apollo sprang away, or tried to, as Klavier kept one stubborn arm velcroed to the man’s waist. 

Athena’s glowing face appeared in the doorway, eyes and mouth twitching as she caught sight of them. “What-?”

“Nothing!” Apollo all but shouted, ears red as his suit. 

Their inadvertent interloper’s mouth dropped open, but her digital pendant—Klavier thought he’d overheard her call it Widget—was the first to respond, humming to life with rapid flashes of yellow and green and red. Athena let out a sound somewhere on the boundary of gasp and shriek, turning pink herself, fumbling with the thing frantically as it chattered in a robotic voice. Klavier couldn’t hear much over Athena’s increasingly desperate curses, but he thought he caught snippets about ‘doing it’ in the courtroom and ‘don’t you have any shame?’

“I have got to recalibrate this thing…first them and now…I can’t keep living this way!” Her furious muttering, Klavier suspected, was not meant for them to hear either, but he couldn’t help but laugh. He felt drunk; everything was simply delightful just then, and he didn’t think anything short of Armageddon could have spoiled his giddiness, and perhaps not even then. 

“Athena, what is it?” Apollo demanded peevishly.

“Huh?” She had somehow beaten her technological companion into submission, but the effort had left her frazzled and wild-eyed.

“Why did you come in here?” 

“I was looking for you!” She shot back, one fist still clutching her ‘Widget,’ the other planted on her hip. “Wolfgang and Sylvia decided they don’t want to wait any longer to get married and since we’re in the courthouse already…they can’t bring along all of us at witnesses of course, but they’ve invited us out to celebrate after!”

Athena lost her battle with the dreamy grin trying to retake her face, but she reserved some sharpness in her gaze for her fellow defense attorney. The two engaged in a heated staring contest, until Apollo relented with a bashful shrug and nod, and the sting of her responding eye roll was blunted by a jubilant smile. 

Meanwhile, Klavier was beginning to sincerely fear that he may pass out from choking back giggles, so he said, with admirably little wobbling, “hah, that sounds wunderbar—first round of beverages, alcoholic and non, is on me! Please, after you, Ms. Cykes.” 

She hmph-ed in a final performance of stern disapproval and bounced out of the room. 

When they were alone once more, Klavier withdrew his arm to stroke a thumb over Apollo’s flushed cheek, just under the healing bruise. He satisfied himself with planting a chaste kiss on that oh-so-kissable forehead. Being able to do that, undoubtedly, he had missed most of all, and perhaps now he didn’t even have to feel like it was a theft, like he was getting away with something. 

“Well, schatz?” He murmured. 

Apollo only hesitated a moment, but when their eyes locked, his brow smoothed and his mouth curved upward into a subtle but true smile, and to Klavier it was like a brilliant dawn drawing back the curtain of night. “Yeah, let’s go.” 

Their hands slid together, fingers intertwined. 

Chapter Text

“Is…this your card?” Trucy gestured with maximum panache, as if she were performing to a stadium of thousands and not to one worried, cranky, sore dad. Phoenix was sincerely trying not to be too difficult a patient, but everyone else was pursuing a manipulative murderer in the name of justice while he was just supposed to, what, hide and cower? Sure, he wasn’t as confident as he would have liked in his ability to get off the couch on his own, let alone stand in court, and, yes, concealing his injury was important to the group’s strategy…but he didn’t have to be happy about it. Trucy, the light that she was, had been putting her all into looking after him, which at least kept the crankiness to manageable levels.

In answer to her question, he shrugged and said, “nope.” 

“Oh, really? Darn.” Her pouting face reminded him so much of how she’d been in those early days—already so talented and yet thirsty for more, which at times manifested as ruthless self-criticism—that he nearly melted on the spot, but he knew better. He stared her down with a brick-wall poker face, and sure enough, within seconds she cracked a mischievous smile. “Oh, but what’s that?”

Phoenix followed her gaze to his lap, which was covered by wobbly folding tray bearing a big bowl of soup. It was chicken noodle from a can that Trucy had heated in a pot on the stove instead of using the microwave because: “my Daddy deserves a home-cooked meal!” Following her cues, he picked up his spoon and shifted a large cube of pale meat floating suspiciously high on the broth surface. The motion was somewhat clumsy, and he bit back frustration for the four-hundredth time that day.

(They didn’t even have the decency to hit me in my non-dominant arm…)

Beneath the chicken lay a soggy, crumpled playing card. Gingerly he fished it out and flattened it as best he could, revealing the three of hearts, as was foretold.

“How does she do it, folks?” Phoenix grinned appreciatively while Trucy leapt to her feet to give a deep bow. “Do you think the ink on these cards is toxic…? Whatever, I’ve survived worse.” Phoenix managed to scoop the chicken cube to his mouth without incident.

Once Trucy had her fill of flourishes, she plopped down on the couch beside him, causing the liquid in the bowl to slosh dangerously. As she raised her hands to tuck them behind her head, Phoenix’s eye caught on a silver charm bracelet jangling at her wrist. 

“What’s that?” He jerked his chin towards it, loading up another spoonful of noodles and carrot flecks. “I don’t think I’ve seen that before.”

Trucy lowered her arms, delicately pinching each charm in turn between thumb and forefinger on her opposite hand, a faraway look stealing over her face. 

“What?” He chuckled teasingly, “don’t tell me you’ve got a special someone?” Trucy didn’t even roll her eyes at that, and Phoenix felt a small frown crease his face. Was something wrong?

“It’s not that.” She shook her head. “Mr. Edgeworth gave it to me, when we were at the hotel while you were…anyway, he had it with him when he came to my room to talk. He said it was supposed to be for Christmas, but he hadn’t been sure I would want it, or when it was the right time to give it.”

“Oh.” Phoenix lowered the spoon that had been suspended halfway to his mouth. “Well, that’s nice. Can I see?”

She unclasped the bracelet with a satisfying clink and dropped it into his outstretched hand. It was made of one solid band with a near-seamless hinge through the middle, etched with an intricate design that shimmered when the light touched it, a pleasing effect but not too showy. Three simple charms dangled from the band: two chess pieces—knights—and a diamond shape. 

Regarding each thoughtfully, Phoenix asked, “what did you talk about?”

Trucy averted her gaze, uncharacteristically withdrawn. “Just some stuff. Me, him…you. He…wanted my opinion on something.” She absently riffled the deck of cards a few times. Just when Phoenix thought she’d say no more, her hands stilled and she turned to face him, her small chin jutting out slightly. “We’re going to keep him, aren’t we?”

“That’s the plan.” Phoenix felt his face soften. The way Miles and Trucy cared for each other, it suffused him with warmth down to his fingertips. It lifted some of the heaviness in his body, although it was chased by an unexpectedly fierce pang of longing. For a selfish moment, all he wanted was Miles there with them, trial be damned. He ached to hear Miles’ spare key scratching in the lock, to see him smile openly as Trucy dragged him over the threshold, to give a disdainful tut over their sodium-laden lunch as he set about planning an acceptable evening meal, to blush fetchingly when Phoenix breathed some new sweet nothing over his ear, tailor-made just to fluster him.

But thoughts of Miles were shadowed by a lurking sense of something unsatisfied, incomplete, a pendulum suspended in its arc and poised to fall back on them. 

(What was he about to say, back in the hospital?)

Phoenix’s persistent insecurity found fertile ground in that empty, unresolved space, try as he might to quash it. Although he had told Trucy the truth, he was infected by doubts that Miles even wanted to be kept.

——

Phoenix heard the happy news of their legal victory early that afternoon, though he had trouble following exactly how events had unfolded; by the garbled sound quality, Athena had him on speaker phone, but there was so much background commotion he could hardly make out every other word, plus she kept getting distracted. Phoenix knew what that post-trial manic high could be like, but apparently you had to be there to catch it, so he just gave his congratulations and left them to their celebrating. To his immense relief—which he felt perhaps even more keenly in his wallet than his pained shoulder—they did not invite him out. 

He finally got the juicy details when Miles came in a few hours later, looking wrung out but pleased. As he sat down to remove his shoes, Trucy descended upon him to encircle his broad shoulders in a tight squeeze, which he submitted to with only a small performative huff. As predicted, when he caught sight of the chicken noodle soup can by the sink, he shook his head contemptuously and put in a delivery order for hearty pork and vegetable dumplings from their favorite hole-in-the-wall spot. He even bent to brush a warm kiss over Phoenix’s lips before settling himself neatly on the couch beside him; if anything good came out of this whole harrowing fiasco, it was that it seemed to have broken some sort of seal on sharing this type of small intimacy in front of Trucy. For her part, his daughter seemed completely untroubled by it, a knowing smile twitching in her cheek.

“So, Mrs. von Richter really confessed to it all?” Phoenix asked some time later, when they had all tucked in comfortably to their informal meal.

“That’s what they tell me—that, and that she is quite remorseless, boastful even,” Miles responded, delicately blotting the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “It seems it was all premeditated. She found out her son and Ms. Sterling had a visit scheduled with her husband, so she planned it all to the minute. She tampered with the epinephrine shot, brought the orange juice, suggested the drinks, and intimidated Ms. Sterling into lying under the guise of protecting her son. She used the panic room to hide from her family and the authorities—we do not believe her husband even knew she was present before he died. She hired experienced criminals to obscure evidence and establish an alibi, with one of them sabotaging the forensics investigation from within and another taking her place on both the outbound and inbound transatlantic flights, just as Detective Skye surmised.” 

“That’s…convoluted,” Phoenix said weakly, “but there’s one thing I don’t understand—why go to all that trouble? I mean, her son could have ended up shouldering the guilt. If she was going to hire a literal assassin anyway, why not just…?”

“Well, she requested your office specifically, didn’t she?” Miles arched his eyebrows pointedly, as though that explained everything. When Phoenix raised his brows right back, high and incredulous, the prosecutor sighed reluctantly. “You…have a reputation for doggedly reconstructing complex lines of reasoning to get your client acquitted, a skill it would appear you either select for or teach to your junior associates, or both. I believe Mrs. von Richter thought if she laid a false trail with enough curves, she could manipulate you into thinking you’d reached the end after arriving at Ms. Sterling. That conclusion would seem complete and satisfactory to the court, thus her connection to the crime would never be discovered, a risk that was far greater if she’d taken the more direct route of ordering a hit against the victim.”

“Oh.” Phoenix wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

“Although, perhaps she simply fancied herself some sort of untouchable mastermind—I have had my fair share of experiences with those given to such hubris. Regardless, I believe her decision to turn to violence and threats in order to prevent discovery of her husband’s will was one made in pure panic, and proved her undoing in the end. Her most egregious error was to assume you a captain calling orders to obedient drones, rather than the nucleus of an astoundingly persistent and competent team of people.”

Miles paused for a moment, lips pursed thoughtfully. “That reminds me, did you know that Ema has been applying to work in the forensics department for some time, and they have been denying her, despite her credentials and experience?”

“No…” with a flush of guilt, Phoenix realized he’d hardly thought to question or even notice the apparent halt in Ema’s pursuit of her childhood dream.

“Well, there is certainly an opening now, and I should think a letter of recommendation from the Chief Prosecutor will be enough to meet their standards.” Miles folded his arms and leaned back with a look that said there would be hell to pay if it didn’t.

“I bet she was excited to hear that.” Phoenix grinned, heart swelling. People who didn’t know Miles particularly well often perceived him as cold and indifferent, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

“Quite. In fact, for a moment I feared she might faint, although lack of sleep might have had something to do with it.” 

“Speaking of,” Trucy said, standing abruptly, fists on hips, “you look half dead, Mr. Edgeworth! What if you get sick? What’ll I do then, if you’re both laid up? I insist you take some time off work to rest, and I won’t accept any objections!”

Far from putting on a stern, mildly insulted front as Phoenix expected, Miles released a long sigh. His shoulders rolled forward and his head fell onto one hand, elbow braced on one knee. With his cravat abandoned—but still meticulously arranged, it wasn’t that serious—over the arm of the couch and his waistcoat unbuttoned, a slight frizz to his hair, darkened puffiness around his eyes, and an airbrush-light stroke of stubble lining the underside of his jaw, he did look downright bedraggled by Miles Edgeworth standards. So, given the evidence, perhaps his answer wasn’t so surprising:

“Yes, I suppose you are right.” 

——

The following morning, Miles announced he would take the entire week for personal time, a heretofore unprecedented gap in service for Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth. Not only that, evidently he had resolved to spend the entire stretch with Phoenix and Trucy, longer than he’d ever slept over consecutively. However, he did not kick off his break with idle relaxation; he cooked and cleaned and nagged Phoenix about getting up to stretch his legs every hour or so. Although, much as he pretended to grumble each time he was roused, Phoenix couldn’t honestly have said that he actually minded. It did help to have another adult around to keep the apartment in order—in better order than it was usually kept, realistically—while he convalesced. What’s more, while Phoenix could, mercifully, manage most bathroom matters on his own one handed, he was forced to concede that he needed some assistance dressing and bathing, a task his partner took up with the upmost solemn pragmatism. Mere days ago, Phoenix would have never believed there was any way showering with Miles could fail to be at least a little sexy—how blissfully ignorant he had been.

Still, what Phoenix appreciated most was the simple joy of Miles’ company. They could chat at their leisure about this or that: a new restaurant on the corner by the courthouse or the subtle themes of an episode of Steel Samurai (to which Phoenix mostly just nodded along) or reminiscences of the good old days (as if they didn’t need more encouragement to turn sentimental), or they could even just settle into a warm, companionable silence. They could let their glances linger as long as they wanted; although, when he wasn’t getting Phoenix in or out of his clothes with all the efficiency of a cadet making his bed before an irascible sergeant, Miles seemed unusually bashful, quick to blush and avert his eyes when caught staring, which happened perhaps a bit more often than was typical. However, any unusual behavior was easy to forget at night when the rhythm of their breaths—and, Phoenix liked to imagine, their heartbeats—would converge and lull them into sleep. And if ever Miles twitched or whimpered, a tight squeeze from Phoenix seemed enough to hold him steady.

Even that tangle of whatever it was that still lay unspoken between them seemed to loosen and fade, thought Phoenix couldn’t rightly take credit for that.

The day after the trial concluded, Phoenix lay stretched out on the couch in medication-induced semiconsciousness, Miles seated in the armchair reading a book, stiff-postured as ever but for one socked foot tucked comfortably underneath him, when the latter’s phone started chiming and vibrating obnoxiously on the coffee table.

Miles examined it, mouth downturned, and swiped it open.

“Hello, Edgeworth sp-”

“EDGEWORTH!” A shrill scream tore through the phone’s small speaker, startling Phoenix from his doze. “Edgeworth what the actual fuck-”

Miles snapped the phone out to arm’s length, holding it gingery like a ticking bomb, glasses askew. Grimacing, he swiveled toward Phoenix. “It’s for you.” 

Stomach sinking—he knew they had forgotten something important—he took it. 

“-could be dead and I have to find out from a text from Franziska…! I’m coming right now but I need your credit card number info the tickets-”

“Maya!” Phoenix interjected, ears ringing as he brought the phone close enough to capture his voice.

“Nick? Nick is that you!?”

“Yeah it’s me, calm down, will you?”

“Nick! What happened? I heard…” her voice, though hardly any quieter, had gone thin. The sickly feeling of guilt in his gut redoubled at the image of her wide-eyed face.

“Sorry, it’s just been a lot…” He recounted the whole tortuous tale, from Cecelia von Richter’s first call to her indictment for her husband’s murder. Maya’s anger safely diverted, Miles soon stood and left the room, returning a moment later to jangle his keys and a wadded up bundle of reusable grocery bags near the door, to which Phoenix gave a nod of acknowledgment without breaking stride in his recounting.

After he was through and Maya had explained in excruciating detail exactly what she would have done had he actually had the gall to die on her—which involved channeling his spirit under freezing waterfalls everyday until she herself passed on and found a more direct way to harangue him in the afterlife—their talk turned toward a familiar if only slightly mortifying topic.

“So, Nurse Edgeworth is looking after you.” In a snap, Maya traded upbraiding for nettling. “Healing you with the power of kisses, hmm?”

“Something like that.” Phoenix hoped the full extent of his eye roll came through in his voice.

“But seriously, how are things going? You know, maybe after this little practice run, now could be a good time to ask him to move in together like I know you’ve been wanting to.”

He had mentioned no such thing to her, but, irritatingly, perhaps he didn’t have to. Regardless, the point was moot and he didn’t especially feel like talking about it. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that—work’s busy and it’s the holidays and all…but what’s the rush, you know?” He thought he sounded cool and unconcerned, but she caught him out anyway. 

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That tone, Nick.” Maya was instantly exasperated. “What’s wrong? Did you two have a fight or something?”

“Sort of…” he couldn’t resist any longer; just like that, the reservoir was starting to overflow. He told her everything about the uncomfortable conversation before the Christmas party—which felt like ages ago now—and that moment in the hospital, when Miles had seemed so raw to his core that even the memory of it made Phoenix’s heart ache and rattle.

After he’d finished, Maya remained silent for a handful of a beats. When she spoke, her voice was quieter but still insistent. “Well, it’s pretty obvious what to do: find out what he was going to say.” 

“B-but what if he…” without warning, Phoenix’s throat constricted sharply. Maya would hear it, but he couldn’t stop himself; there was too much pressure, too much momentum. “Ah, Maya, I just…I think I just don’t know how to do this, t-to love someone the right way…maybe I never did and that’s why I brought so much trouble on myself. I can only seem to give too little or too much and now when it really, really matters I…” His let out a shuddering breath, a flash of hot embarrassment writhing in his stomach, only to be drowned out by mounting despair.

“Nick, come on.” Phoenix was so shocked at the blunt impatience in Maya’s tone that it brought his spiral to a dead halt. She went on, “this is Edgeworth we’re talking about, remember? You’re putting too much stock in what he says or doesn’t say—you need to pay attention to what he does.” He didn’t have any response to that, but she hardly left space for him to interject anyway. “Let us submit to the court record that he dropped everything to rush to your bedside, again, then lied in order to see you, insisted on staying in a hotel to remain close, looked after Trucy, apparently even had a special heart-to-heart with her, and is now taking a whole week off of work—a week, Nick!—because he can’t stand to let you out of his sight that long while you’re down. Does that sound like a man with one foot out the door because you’re the one taking it too seriously?”

“I-well, when you put it that way…” Phoenix said sheepishly, a little blossom of hope unfurling in his chest despite himself.

“Look, don’t get me wrong,” Maya said, unrelenting, “you’re a hot mess, but so is he, and you balance each other out. You’re it for each other, Nick—everyone seems to know it but you. If you really want to take the next step, ask him, and whether it takes a day or a year or a decade he’ll make it happen because he’s him and you’re you.” 

“But…okay, you’re right,” Phoenix sighed, a tide of uncomplicated assuredness slowly rising within him, a relief after so many days snarled in uncertainty.

“Of course I am.” He could hear the grin in her voice. “Being the emotional backbone of this family is a heavy responsibly which I take very seriously.” 

“Yeah, guess I owe you a double cheeseburger whenever you get back from training as an international spirit medium superstar.”

“With fries and a shake,” she appended matter-of-factly, “I’ll add it to the tally.”

“I don’t think I want to know how long that is.”

“Hey, it’s a small price to pay for your lifelong happiness.”

“Tell that to my bank account…”

They laughed and bantered for a time, though he found a stubborn wetness clinging to his eyelashes with how acutely he missed her—he really was a hot mess. 

Once they said their goodbyes, Phoenix sat in the stillness, reveling in the peace that could only come with settling on an important decision. It seemed so obvious now. He wanted Miles, each and every day, to wake up with him, lay down to sleep with him, to kiss goodbye and hello, to bicker about chores or whether or not to get takeout again or the correct answers to Trucy’s math homework, to make each other smile knowingly in that special way shared between just the two of them. Every day, for better or for worse. 

So, he would have to make it happen.

——

There was being dedicated to a course, Phoenix told himself, and then there was being hasty. On reflection, his instinct was to bide his time, not to delay but to allow a moment to present itself organically. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—it wasn’t as though a romantic sunset on the beach would just manifest itself as he lazed around his apartment in sweats waiting for his shattered shoulder to knit itself back together—but he was sure he’d know it, like a spotlight cue, like a contradiction at the center of everything. In the meantime, he was surprised at his own lack of impatience. He no longer had to fight the urge to clench his fist lest something rare and precious tug through the gaps in his fingers. All he felt was the same comforting conviction that he and Miles were on a merging path, even if the lack of an explicit roadmap was still a bit daunting.

One obstacle, Phoenix soon realized, was that it really was a conversation that required total privacy, yet he was loath to ask Trucy to leave. By her hovering, cheery though she was, Phoenix could tell his injury had shaken her severely. As it had always been, he came up empty on soothing words of fatherly wisdom, so he compensated with his attention. Just being there was what was important, right? So, they talked and played games and snuggled up under their favorite blanket to watch trashy TV, and it was nice. As he indulged and comforted her as best he knew how, he came to realize that—as had so often been the case since she had first magically appeared in his life—he needed this just a much, perhaps more. 

But as ever, time marched on, and she never let him forget for long that she was entirely her own. Late one morning, she came whirling out of her room, jacket half zipped as she turned over blankets and couch cushions. 

“Heading out with Polly! He hasn’t wanted to hang out in ages!” She explained breathlessly as she searched, excitement plain in every syllable, “he’s taking me to see Taurusaurus Ultimate: Dawn of the Age of the Cow.” 

“Huh? I don’t think I understood a single word in that title.” Phoenix shook his head, tracking her progress around the room with his eyes.

“Wow, it’s true what Auntie Maya says about you: You really are so uncultured it’s like you’re doing it on purpose,” Trucy commented nonchalantly, somewhat muffled with her head and shoulders buried in the hall closet, digging through a hodgepodge of coats, shoes, and magic props.

“Hmph. What else does Auntie Maya say about me?” 

“Oh, lots of stuff.” She gave up on the closet, gaze scanning the room, cheeks puffed out.

Miles emerged from the kitchen, dish rag in one hand, the other holding a small handbag by the checkered strap. Trucy snatched it with a grateful pat to his arm, then bounded for the door. 

“Be back in a few hours, love you guys!”

“Love you too—” 

“Be safe—” 

Phoenix and Miles called after her in unison, but they were cut off by the thump of the door swinging shut. In the calm left by Trucy’s departure, they turned to regard one another. Miles was dressed casually—by his usual standards, at least—with simple khakis and a plain white button-down, cuffs rolled up neatly to the elbows. Even in this bare-bones ensemble, he cut a striking figure, shirttail tucked tightly to accentuate his waist, smooth collar parted to reveal the enticing lines of his throat.

As if reeled in by Phoenix’s appreciative gaze, Miles crossed the room and dropped to perch on the edge of the cushion where Phoenix lay with his head on the arm of the couch. Phoenix reached up to cup his partner’s shapely jaw, noting the subtlest tinge of pink in those high cheekbones before letting his eyes flutter closed contentedly. 

“Alone at last,” he murmured.

“Yes…” Miles’ response was low, with the smallest edge of hesitancy. 

“What should we do?”

“Well it looks like you are going to fall asleep,” Miles huffed, and Phoenix realized he’d yet to reopen his eyes, and suddenly lacked the willpower to do so. 

“Just…resting my eyes…one sec…” He would take advantage of this opportunity, to pour out his heart and finally bring it all into the open. He would…any minute now…

When Phoenix peeled his eyelids open, Miles was gone, replaced by a blanket pulled up to his chin, warm and smelling of fresh laundry. Although it felt like no time had passed at all, the light slanting through the window had shifted to an early afternoon angle. It seemed he’d been dragged down into yet another midday nap, his healing body greedy for rest. With a sigh, he levered himself up, cautiously stretched. Running a hand through his hair, he padded toward the kitchen, in search of his partner and perhaps a glass of water. 

However, he was halted in the doorway by a puzzling scene.

The table was blanketed in a sea of paper, arranged in neat stacks with a rainbow of colored tabs sticking out the sides. Seated at the head, long fingers interlaced before him, gray eyes piercing and inscrutable, was Miles.

“Ah, Phoenix—please sit down.” 

“Wh-what is this?” Phoenix asked warily, groping for the back of a chair.

“Here,” his partner indicated a particularly hefty collection of folders, “you will find details of my financial assets. After much thought, I’ve concluded that I have no reservations that need be addressed in any sort of formal agreement; however, I am open to such if you find it necessary. In essence, I am willing to freely share what I have, though you should know that Manfred von Karma’s estate—of which, through a convoluted turn of events, I remain a beneficiary—comes with some irksome stipulations. How you would fit into that puzzle is best discussed with Franziska present, I’m afraid.” 

“Okay…?” Phoenix was utterly dumbfounded, but Miles hardly seemed to notice, steamrolling on. 

“This describes my health insurance plan, including vision and dental, which I would encourage you to join as a dependent.” He moved on to the next sheaf of paper without so much as pausing for a response, gaining a sort of frenetic momentum. “Here, I have obtained the forms to initiate adoption so that we may at least ascertain the requirements and timeline involved. I am of course aware that Trucy is rapidly nearing the age of majority, thus the matter of custody will soon be irrelevant, but there are still several legal benefits to a stepparent formally adopting a stepchild—for inheritance purposes, for instance. However…” at this, Miles hesitated for the first time, his businesslike shell cracking to reveal a vulnerable core. “However, I must confess that in my research on this matter, I found the emotional benefits most compelling. If you would allow it, I would use this as a gesture to demonstrate that I consider my commitment to Trucy just as binding.” 

“Miles,” Phoenix puffed out a nervous chuckle, absently tracing a chip in the table’s edge with one finger. “What is all this? I don’t understand.” The weepy little sore spot in his heart knew what it sounded like, but the pessimist in him tamped that down. This wasn’t at all how it was supposed to go.

“I do not know how I can make it clearer to you.” This man ambushed him with a metric ton of documents with no warning or preamble, when he was supposed to be on vacation no less, and he had the audacity to look affronted when Phoenix was a little slow on the uptake? As if sensing that he was straying into troubled waters, Miles took a deep breath and said, “I’m laying out the terms of my offer…that is to say…ah…” 

Sharing financial assets? Health insurance plans? Adopting Trucy? Dare he believe that it actually was what it sounded like?

“Miles Edgeworth,” Phoenix said, unable to hide his shocked disbelief, “are you asking me to marry you?” 

A blush dawned on the other man’s face from collarbone to hairline, but his mouth remained hard, and he gave a valiant effort at a haughty sniff. “I-I had thought that was evident.” 

Phoenix felt a laugh burble up his throat and spill over his lips. Miles drew up, color intensifying to something that wouldn’t be terribly out of place in his wardrobe. 

“I am being serious.” He muttered through clenched teeth, a slight sharpness to his voice.  

“I know, it’s just—” Salvaging what control he could over his sanity, Phoenix stood, pivoted around the table, and crouched down before Miles. He gripped his partner’s knee, for balance at first, but the touch did create a small but much needed release valve for the desperation clamoring in his chest, so he pressed his fingers into the other man’s firm thigh and very nearly laughed again. Their eyes locked, Miles’ stormy grays curtained by his hair, those silky soft swoops hanging enticingly as he angled his face down toward Phoenix. His gaze was piercingly vulnerable but heated and determined, too, and it made Phoenix a little dizzy, or perhaps that was just his erratic pulse barraging his brain.

“—it’s just, you always have to one-up me at everything, don’t you?” Phoenix gave a lopsided grin, instantly marred by a nervous lick of his lips. “I mean, you were preparing all this—when did you even have the time…? Whatever, it doesn’t matter—the point is, I…well, I was just trying to get up the nerve to ask you to live with us.” 

Miles’ expression was statue-still but for his eyes widening the barest fraction. Phoenix’s tongue went dry and clumsy as he fumbled to add, “I-I mean, it doesn’t have to be here…though maybe it’s weird to invite myself and my kid to move in with you…? However you want to handle it would be fine, that is…if you want…?” How was this possible, that his inner voice, so eloquently constructed and recited over previous days, could get so lost between his brain and mouth, garbling up into…this train wreck?

“You still haven’t responded to my…request.” Phoenix could almost see the shape of the word proposal form in his partner’s throat, only to retreat at the last moment. “Is this some sort of…counteroffer?” 

“I think they could be complementary courses of action, don’t you?” And yet, a flicker of doubt asserted itself. “But what about ‘conflicts of interest?’” 

At this, Miles finally broke eye contact, glancing up to the ceiling as he leaned back. “Oh, that. I have decided that I do not care.” Phoenix twitched in surprise, letting one knee hit the floor to keep from toppling over. Miles’ gaze dropped back down, hard and resolute. “I’ve realized I cannot fix this entire dysfunctional system single-handed…and perhaps I was using the matter as something of a shield, an excuse, against…change, I suppose. Regardless, I’ve done my part to set up a structure for navigating such relationships in a professional capacity, but the responsibility to see it codified and enacted lies with those above my pay grade. They will simply need to accept that my relationship with you, the way you challenge me and enrich my life, only serves to enhance my effectiveness as Chief Prosecutor. Thus, any guidelines they could hand down that would interfere with those best interests…well that would certainly be cause for conflict.” 

(Smooth…wonder if he practiced that line.)

But Phoenix knew with uplifting certainty that Miles was entirely serious. As much as he acted like a paragon of lawful respectability, he did not hold anything back when it came to rebelling against rulings that he felt failed to serve a greater good.

Barely two heartbeats passed when Miles, the lines of his neck hard and still tinged with blood, rasped out, “Well?”

(He’s so cute when he’s nervous like this…may as well savor it.)

“You first.” 

“Wha- me?” Miles bared his teeth, eyes stretching wide again, but Phoenix kept his own face placid. An electric silence stretched between them for one second, two. Predictably, Miles broke first. “As ever, you are utterly incorrigible.” 

“I’m only getting worse with age, I’m afraid.” 

“Well, with that persuasive argument…” in one fluid motion, Miles extended both arms to scoop up Phoenix’s free hand while steadying him at the waist, then drew them both to their feet. Their gazes collided, as tender and vulnerable and fervent as they had ever been, and Phoenix’s breath came up short. 

“I think,” his partner said, a near whisper, and yet it was thunderous on Phoenix’s ears, “I think you still do not grasp the entirety of what it is you have done to me—what you still do to me.” He paused, swallowed. “But if you require an explicit statement…yes, I would cohabitate with you, if you would have me.” Miles stilled again, indented his lip with a brief flash of teeth, and breathed out a a shaky sigh of agitation and apprehension. “Will you-”

“Yes.” Phoenix was halfway to slamming their lips together when the simple answer exploded out of him, carrying with it all the tangled threads of longing and doubt that had been stitched into his heart. 

They pressed together, mouths soft and breaths mingling. Phoenix was grateful for the arm encircling his lower back, the gentle hand that had migrated up to hold his cheek, the firm expanse of unruffled chest that received his weight, for they were pillars of support without which he may very well have collapsed. That was Miles—that was both of them—knowing without words when to be firm, when to be weak.

He couldn’t even been irritated at his useless arm trapped between them—that was part of it, somehow, the whole perfect-imperfect scene.  

When they separated, allowing just enough space to speak and look each other in the eye, Miles cleared his throat, recapturing something of his practical tone. “Well, that’s that matter settled. The follow-up is this: Whom do we call first? Or do we wait for Trucy to return home so that she may take priority?” 

“What?” Phoenix murmured thickly, still somewhat dazed.

“Ah, well…I thought you might like to announce our…engagement.” Miles’ flush deepened once more—Phoenix felt a momentary stab of half-serious concern for his circulation—but his eyes were intent. “I do not wish you to feel like…like it is a secret that need be obscured for the sake of my comfort. What matters is that you are indispensable to me, and if others understand nothing about my life but one single thing, it should be that fact.” 

“Really?” Phoenix felt a new wave of warmth simmer up inside him, and yet…

(He really has changed his mind on this…but one good turnabout deserves another, I suppose.) 

“How about tomorrow?” He suggested, the tug of a grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “For tonight, let’s keep it just between us. It is sort of fun to have a secret—a good secret, I mean—to have you all to myself.” 

“You—”

Miles mouth dropped open slightly, and Phoenix swooped in to seize it in another swift but searing kiss. “Incorrigible, I know.”

Miles fixed him with a look so heavy with layers of vexation and loving fondness it was a wonder Phoenix could decipher it all. Yet, in that look was everything, what it all came to, every moment of the story between them. Best of all was that they got to keep going, to keep taking one step after another on the path, bound together, colliding, as they ever were and ever would be.

Chapter Text

Edgeworth eventually returned to work buoyed on a jaunty tide of high spirits. It was a strange way to exist, rather alien to him; that inauspicious twenty-eighth day of December had come and gone, very nearly without remark, as if it were any other day. Except, it wasn’t any other day, for he, Miles Edgeworth, was engaged to be wed to one Phoenix Wright, and the jolt of energy that electrified him each time that new fact burst into his mind anew made him feel as though no day could ever be normal again. That was ridiculous of course, as he had no fanciful notions that they alone would avoid the banal routine of married life; he looked forward to it, in fact. Still, his cavorting heart and spinning head showed no signs of calming. 

In the few days since, they had delivered news of their betrothal in small, personal conversations. Edgeworth much preferred this method to a grand announcement; he had no reservations about sharing such a thing, not anymore, but there was only so much spotlight he could take at once. Those closest to him had reacted much as he’d expected: Franziska tutting, Kay cackling, Gumshoe blubbering. It was Phoenix’s people who, predictable in their own ways, had the more boisterous reactions, and Edgeworth was all too happy to play the blushing bridegroom and allow his partner to manage those situations. Although, he was given to understand that Pearl and Larry were in cahoots planning some sort of engagement party, but not even dread over that inevitable disaster could sour Edgeworth’s mood. 

Despite his distractible emotions, Edgeworth was determined to apply himself to his fullest professional ability. As expected, he was greeted with an inbox bursting at the seams and a schedule crammed with meetings, but the sight brought nothing but a confident smirk to his lips. What had been an insurmountable burden a mere week ago now seemed a delectable challenge.

(Let us show them that I am not the Chief Prosecutor for nothing.)

But he had hardly tucked in when there was a familiar knock and throat-clearing at the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Graham?” He peered at his secretary over the rims of his glasses, catching sight of her desk behind her, where the small succulent plant he had gifted her was prominently displayed on the corner. Some might say its leaves looked rather dour and prickly, but something told him the stalwart woman could handle that.

“A Dr. Weber here to see you, sir. He doesn’t have an appointment, but insists that he’ll wait until you have a free moment. Shall I call security or…?”

“No, no.” Edgeworth shook his head, brows knitting. She had pronounced ‘Weber’ after the German fashion, with more of a V sound, which piqued his curiosity. Something about that tickled familiarity, and if he left it unresolved he may very well end up turning it over in the back of his mind all day long. So, he gestured in affirmation to Mrs. Graham. “I have some flexibility now. Please, let him in.” 

She eyed him up and down, as if searching for signs of fever or perhaps an imposter, but withdrew without comment. A moment later, a tall figure in a sharp tweed jacket stepped over the threshold. He peered at Edgeworth a moment, and though he bore the first tracings of lines around his bespectacled eyes and carried a small paunch, he was aglow with a boyish charm that snapped him immediately into place in Edgeworth’s memory. 

“Ah, it is you!” The visitor unleashed a hearty laugh, approaching with two long-limbed strides.

“Y-you…” Edgeworth had risen to his feet, but he was, to his chagrin, entirely speechless. 

(Of all the people…am I going mad?)

“It’s Bernard—do you remember? Well, it’s Professor Weber now…” He wiggled his fingers cheekily. “Look at us! So important now, eh? You look great!” He spoke English fluently, with only a light accent to betray his origins. 

“Of course I remember…” Edgeworth’s mind was beginning to thaw. Yes, he remembered a young man whose patience and kindness Edgeworth had repaid with an abrupt and impersonal letter. That he remembered quite clearly. “W-what are you…?”

“What am I doing here?” Dr. Weber—Bernard—chortled again. “Well, the short answer is that I happened to be in town and had a minor brush with a legal matter, and what name should I happen to overhear but Miles Edgeworth? And Chief Prosecutor of this very district! It’s my last day in town and, well, who am I to deny serendipity’s call? I simply had to know. Sorry to drop in on you like this, but can you blame me?” 

“I suppose not.” Edgeworth replied, reclaiming some composure at last. “What legal matter is this? Do you need my assistance?” 

“You would hone in on that—you haven’t changed a bit!” Bernard’s tone bore not a single modicum of resentment, and yet the words pierced Edgeworth like a blade. The other man went on, oblivious, “But not to worry. My uncle had arranged some pomp about his will and I happened to have also been invited to give a seminar at Ivy University around the same time, so thought I’d drop in and seen what all the fuss was about. Well, turns out my aunt—my father’s sister, you see—went and murdered him! Though, I suspect you already know more about it than I.”

“Yes…” Edgeworth nodded slowly.

(Ah, now I recall, Weber was Mrs. von Richer’s maiden name…what a strange, small world.)

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Bernard frowned, though he waved a dismissive hand. “We weren’t especially close, I’m afraid. The money, well, let’s just say I usually keep out of all that business for the sake of my health.” 

The silence stretched thin between them, in which Bernard’s earlier words rebounded in Edgeworth’s mind, scraping against those parts of him that were still sore, and in all likelihood would always be so to some extent.

“Bernard,” he puffed out, unable to hold back any longer, “I am sorry…about how things turned out back then. You see, what you said…I have changed. I have changed considerably, more than I would have thought possible—I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” 

Bernard was shaking his head, a soft look stealing over his features. “I understand. Don’t get me wrong, I hated you for a good long while, but as I got older well…I stopped thinking about you so much. When I did it was only to, well, to hope that you had found what you were looking for, I suppose. Besides, what is youth for but to get all that recklessness and heartbreak out of your system? If I had not been crying at the bar feeling so abjectly pitiful, the bartender wouldn’t have had to snap me out of it to keep me from warding off her customers, and so I wouldn’t have met my wife! I even got two cute kids out of the deal so…let’s just chalk it up to fate’s design, hm?”

Contentment permeated Edgeworth down to his core. As a prosecutor, there were some actions from his youth that would take a lifetime to atone, but as a man, perhaps he could close the book on striving for forgiveness and firmly turn his attention forward—is that not what Phoenix had been teaching him all this time?

With that sentiment, the only way he could respond was the truth. “That makes me very happy to hear.” 

“And what about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Anyone special?” 

“Ah.” Edgeworth felt his cheeks warm, but not with embarrassment as if he had been caught out in a secret. Rather he found he was pleased, eager even. How odd it was, but…pleasant. “About that…through a truly remarkable series of events, I find that I am going to marry a man I have been in love with for a decade. What’s more, I will—I do—have a quite charming and talented stepdaughter.” 

Bernard’s freckled face broke into his widest, toothiest grin yet as he clapped Edgeworth on both shoulders. “Wonderful news! Congratulations!”

Edgeworth couldn’t help but smile back, suffused with a deep satisfaction at having fulfilled this man’s altruistic hope for him:

He had found what he was looking for.