Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain. How perfectly ironic. Edgeworth snapped his umbrella shut, shaking water from the folds as he entered the dank apartment building. Gray eyes travelled around the room with careful calculation, the brain behind them already forming theories about a case he wasn’t even sure he was taking.

Tenants get their mail here at the lobby door. It wouldn’t be difficult to observe someone from the street and learn their habits. His gaze darted from crack to hole to mismatched stroke of paint and back again. Money is not a motive. I can’t imagine anyone who lives like this having something worth stealing.

“Hey! Don’t touch anything until Prosecutor Edgeworth gets here, pal!”

Edgeworth inclined his head towards the stairs, annoyance curling his lip as he started the short trip to the second floor. If the killer had been looking for a victim of opportunity, they would have chosen someone downstairs. It’s unlikely every tenant on the ground level was gone at the time of the murder, so there must have been a specific target. Wood panels creaked under his feet, hidden somewhere beneath a layer of carpeting that was repulsive both aesthetically and bacterially. No, money was definitely not a motive.

He stopped at the top of the flight, taking a moment to peer down the hall before actually stepping into the corridor. Gumshoe said it was the second door on the right. It seems the victim had several neighbors. Someone had to have heard something, especially at two in the morning when there’s no bustling activity or heavy traffic to mask the sound of a gunshot. He entered the apartment, immediately noting it was cold and poorly lit as well as in a general state of disarray, each footstep summoning a puff of dust around his shoes.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth, you’re here!”

Edgeworth forced himself to acknowledge the familiar presence, fingers rising to rub the equally familiar sensation of a migraine forming. “Yes, it appears I am. Tell me, Detective, did you or your men look for a distinct set of footprints in this dust, or did you trample all over the crime scene without paying attention to anything at all?”

Gumshoe blinked. “Uh…”

“Never mind,” Edgeworth sighed. “Where is the body?”

“Well, sir…” Gumshoe rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish in that ‘kicked puppy’ kind of way that always accompanied a blunder. “To be honest, I don’t think you needed to come out for this one. We got it pretty much nailed. Our suspect is down at the precinct, and most of the evidence is already on the way to your office.”

Edgeworth arched a brow, not bothering to keep the irritation from his face. “You didn’t think to call and tell me this before I drove all the way here in such miserable weather?”

Gumshoe kept rubbing his neck, looking at anything but Edgeworth’s face. “I, uh, I didn’t want you to talk and drive in the rain, you know… it’s really dangerous.” He jumped then, a big grin parting his lips as he apparently remembered a redeeming feature of the situation. “This case is a lot less depressing than your usual cases, though!”

If there had ever been a moment when Edgeworth considered the man in front of him to be relatively intelligent or competent human being, he recanted the thought immediately.

“It’s a self-defense case. So, you know, there’s not really a bad guy here. Or, I guess, there is, he’s just, y’know, dead.” Gumshoe laughed again, broad shoulders bouncing.

“Murder never bears good fruit.” Edgeworth tapped his upper arm and lectured the man in a low, almost deadly tone of voice. “You would do well to remember that, given the fact you’re a detective. It’s your job to catch the criminals, not civilians. If someone had to use self-defense, it’s only proof the department isn’t doing its job properly.”

Flinching back, Gumshoe returned to rubbing his neck. “Right, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t think about it that way, sir.”

Edgeworth struggled not to roll his eyes. “Clearly,” he drawled. “Can you at least tell me if there’s anything I need to do right here, right now, at the crime scene, tonight?” He figured being as specific as possible was best when dealing with Gumshoe.

“I didn’t let the boys move anything in the bedroom—that’s the crime scene—because I thought you might wanna take a look. Thought it might be a little better than pictures.”

Incredibly, a shred of intelligence has been shown. Outwardly, a nod was all Edgeworth offered, pushing past the detective and down the short hall to the master bedroom. It looked fairly typical, with jewelry scattered across the carpet, a toppled bookshelf, and a full-length mirror broken on the floor. His eyes wandered to the red splatters on the bedspread as well as the middle-aged man at the foot of the bed who, presumably, was their source.

That’s not right. Edgeworth gave the body a wide berth at first, observing from a distance as he tried to figure out how the victim died in a sitting position, slouched over and somewhat lilting to the side, if he was the aggressor. It almost seems he was sitting down when he was killed. Unless the body was moved after the fact, but that seems unusual for a self-defense case. Crouching down, he took a glove from inside his coat and slipped it on, picking up the necklace closest to him. Cheap. He followed the angle of impact with his eyes and eventually wound up at the top of a dresser. I understand not purchasing a box for the jewelry if it wasn’t valuable, but…

Frowning, Edgeworth made a sweeping motion with his arm, trying to imagine doing so in the middle of a fight. He stood up and moved closer, turning around to try falling backwards with the same kind of motion. It’s possible, I suppose. She grabbed the dresser for support while backing up and dragged the jewelry over the edge. He ruminated on it a moment more and then decided to inspect the next thing.

Edgeworth approached the mirror and fingered the mangled corner, looking at the half-torn sticker at the bottom. Wal-Mart, and I believe the color of the sticker implies a clearance price. He looked at the bookshelf, scowling for several moments before abandoning it in favor of a closer look at the body that had rubbed him so wrong.

I’m no medical examiner, but I’m going to say single gunshot wound to the chest is our COD. It probably didn’t take long to die, if it took any time at all. He leaned forward and sniffed. Interesting. I’m anxious to learn how intoxicated he was. Standing back up, he made a few more mental notes—clothing, hands, bloodstains—and then looked at the doorway. He was shot here by someone in the doorway. Isn’t that a bit backward for self-defense?

Turning his attention back to the bookshelf, he tried to view it as a defense attorney’s. Perhaps, he thought, his inner monologue sounding an awful lot like Phoenix Wright, the enraged husband pushed it over as a show of force. That could have made her feel threatened.

Or, a more cynical, familiar voice that sounded an awful lot like himself replied, it’s an inexperienced attempt to fabricate signs of a struggle. But he would withhold his judgement for now. It wasn’t an incredibly unlikely scenario, and he had seen cases with abnormal positions and circumstances before. Depending on what the defendant claimed happened, they might reveal an unusual but valid explanation.

Or they might trip over their own lies.

“Gumshoe.” Edgeworth stepped away from the corpse and peeled his glove off, dropping it into the detective’s hand. “Did Wright take the case?”

Receiving the trash far too enthusiastically, Gumshoe shook his head. “No, sir! He’s sick with the flu and said he can’t.”

That was off, too. Because, as infuriating as it was, Phoenix Wright would fight for an innocent person come rain or shine, rich or poor, peak health or literal deathbed. I’ll call him.

“I take it the trial is tomorrow?”

Gumshoe nodded sharply. “Yessir!”

“Have you talked to any of the neighbors? Did anyone hear or see anything?” It was difficult, after all, for a prosecutor to prosecute without at least one witness. Not that he couldn’t do it—because of course he could—but he wasn’t exactly hoping for such a situation to arise.

“Nobody was home when it happened, so we got nothing.” Gumshoe held his hands up helplessly.

“Nobody? Not a single person in the entire building was around to hear or see anything?” Edgeworth scowled, disliking the situation a little more with every detail he learned. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, I thought it was weird, too. But,” the detective shrugged, “the kid saw everything, so I think we’re good as far as witnesses go.”

Edgeworth’s brain took a beat of deafening silence to jump the gap Gumshoe had left in his details. “There was a child in the house?” He rubbed his temple more aggressively, trying not to raise his voice. “He saw everything, and you waited until now to tell me?”

“Well… uh…” Gumshoe opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, struggling to explain away his bumbling incompetence, and he finally settled on a weak, “It didn’t come up?”

Heaven help me. Edgeworth pushed past his useless partner for the second time that night, looking into the neighboring room. That would certainly be the bedroom of a child, yes. But it was empty, so he kept moving until he was through the living room and into the dining and kitchen area.

“Can I see Daddy now?”

That was the first thing Edgeworth clearly heard the boy say, and it brought back entirely too many unwanted memories.

“I wanna see my daddy. Please? Please, I wanna go to Daddy…”

“I know, sweetie, but you can’t right now.”

Edgeworth cleared his throat to get the officer’s attention and, once she looked up at him, gestured to the boy on her lap. “I need to speak with him.”

Glaring, the woman tightened her protective embrace. “He’s in shock. He doesn’t need to be questioned right now.”

Edgeworth arched a brow and crossed his arms, exuding displeasure. “Being shocked and being in shock are two different things, which you should know.” He glared. “The Initial Trial System ensures a three-day trial will commence the day after the crime is committed, and on top of that, the longer I wait, the less reliable my only witness is going to be. I need his statement now, before the details start fading, so I do apologize, but I don’t have time to wait.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Gumshoe’s booming voice cut her off.

“Hey, pal! Prosecutor Edgeworth needs evidence so he can… uh, be Prosecutor Edgeworth. If he doesn’t have witness testimony, he can’t prosecute, and that would make him… y’know, just plain old Edgeworth.”

That is so far from correct I don’t even know where to begin. Still, it was effective enough, and after a seething glare was sent his way, the female officer turned her attention to the boy on her lap.

“Arthur, this man is going to ask you some questions about what happened tonight.” She flashed a warm, kind smile at him. “We really need you to get the answers as soon as possible. Do you think you can give it a shot?”

Rubbing his eyes and sniffing, the blonde gave a mumbled, “Mhm.”

Edgeworth acknowledged the officer with a nod, understanding her perspective but unable to summon enough sympathy to risk evidence, and then he knelt in front of the chair. “Hello. My name is Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. Arthur, was it?”

Arthur, presumably, nodded and curled up a little tighter. “Arthur Coleman, fourth grade, 522 Del Monte Street. My daddy’s phone number is (714) 547-3339.”

Edgeworth pursed his lips, noting the compulsive answer and its format, but he simply nodded. “Thank you. That’s very helpful. Now—”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur sniffed.

Edgeworth wet his lip and nodded slowly, somewhat peeved by the interruption. “Right... Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”

“Um…” Arthur breathed deeply and dragged his hands over his face, a few more cries shaking his shoulders before he managed to form words. “Um, Daddy came home acting funny, and… and Mom told him not to do that anymore, so… so, uh, she…” He blinked rapidly, fresh tears welling up in his light blue eyes and spilling over his cheeks. “She said to—to hide under the bed, and…” he cleared his throat, “…and, um, she told him to leave, or she would call the police… and then it got really loud and… noisy, um… and then there was a big bang, and ev-erythi-ng got re-ally qui-et and…”

Once the boy started gasping between every syllable, Edgeworth suspected he had gotten all he could, and his theory was confirmed a moment later when Arthur burst into tears. Standing up and stepping back, Edgeworth left the child to the very attentive officer and turned his own attention to his barely redeemable partner.

“Did you get all of that?”

Gumshoe nodded, entirely too proud of the meager accomplishment, and handed over a notepad. “Here you go, sir!”

Edgeworth took the booklet in hand and skimmed the contents. His punctuation and spelling are atrocious. But Gumshoe had taken notes about body language and emotional cues just like Edgeworth had taught him, so he supposed he couldn’t complain. “It’s sufficient.” He sighed and tucked the book away in his coat. “We’ll have to wait and see how the defense pleads before we do much more in the realm of investigation. Oh, how I loathe the first day of a trial.”

Gumshoe laughed, a bit nervous but a bit pleased. “I know you do, sir, but the paperwork and forensics take time. We gotta get the photos printed, and we—”

“I know that, but it’s inconvenient,” Edgeworth snapped. “Regardless, I was referring to the problem of not knowing what kind of case I need to build until I get there.” Not that he expected Gumshoe to understand. “It doesn’t matter. My point is, there isn’t much else I can do here, so I will see you in the morning, Detective.”

“Goodnight, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

Edgeworth had already started walking away, and the farewell was met with an absent-minded, over-the-shoulder wave. His thoughts were already back at his office, organizing evidence and contemplating different ways the defense could possibly spin things.

“Hey, Detective Gumshoe, what are we doing with the kid?”

Edgeworth slowed, and he turned back towards the kitchen, rolling his eyes when Gumshoe shrugged. Completely out of answers, per the usual.

“Great question, pal! DCFS isn’t going to open a case in the middle of the night, and we haven’t found any living relatives in the area. Mom also couldn’t provide any friends or neighbors she wanted to turn the kid over to, so…” Gumshoe nodded toward the kid and then made a gesture with his hands. “I know it sucks, but it’s not like one of us can just take him home.”

“Uh, actually…”

Edgeworth saw Gumshoe’s gaze shift to a young man dusting for fingerprints, and he silently urged the two of them to hurry up and come up with a solution so he could leave.

“In a situation like this, if the precinct is too full, someone with legal authority can take temporary custody until the trial is over. Once the Initial Trial System went into effect, several states adopted a legislation to cut out or simplify the steps involving minors so trials could still be completed in three days. I know the precinct isn’t full right now, but…”

There was an awkward silence and several exchanged glances.

“Hey, don’t look at me, pal! I can barely afford instant noodles for myself!”

“I don’t think my wife would take that kind of surprise very well...”

“My apartment’s too small. I wouldn’t have any place to put him.”

Excuses were tossed around from person to person until there was no one left, and Edgeworth slowly lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Can anyone in this entire bloody unit accomplish anything? “Gumshoe,” he started, already regretting the words he had yet to speak. “How long would the boy need to be in the custody of a legal authority?”

“Should just be until the trial’s over, sir.” Gumshoe gave one of his big, toothy smiles.

Scowling, Edgeworth snapped his fingers and demanded a better response. “I do not have time for uncertainty, Detective. I need a definitive answer, and I need it now.”

Gumshoe winced. “I mean, again, it should just be until the trial’s over, but there’s always a chance something goes wonky.” He shrugged. “But we can make arrangements if we need to, so… if you’ve got a caretaker in mind, we can say definitively just until the trial’s over!”

 “Definitively isn’t… you… never mind.” Sighing, Edgeworth gestured toward the kitchen, knowing the boy was just out of sight. “Send him out. I’ll take him home with me.”

“What?” Gumshoe stared, jaw dropping and eyes bulging. “You, sir?”

Edgeworth lifted a brow, annoyed. “It’s the most efficient solution, and it can’t be that difficult to watch a single child for a few days.”

Gumshoe threw his head back laughing while the policewoman guided Arthur around the corner and into the living room. She gave Edgeworth a deadly glare, and he stared right back, utterly unfazed. He knew he wasn’t the best with children—he didn’t understand a single thing about them, to be sure—but it was only three days. He was hardly going to let the boy starve or drown, and honestly, what else was there to childrearing?

“Y’know I’m standing right here, right?”

Edgeworth met the fiery gaze of a traumatized, nine-year-old witness to a murder who was trembling with some combination of anger and grief. Perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. “Well, why don’t you stop standing there and march down to the car instead?” No, that’s ridiculous. If I can handle adults, I can handle children. They can’t be that different.

However, as Edgeworth followed Arthur out of the apartment, he noted with no small amount of unease that Gumshoe had yet to stop laughing.

Chapter Text

“Come along, and don’t trip over the rug.” Edgeworth stepped into his home and shed his coat, hanging it on the nearby rack before turning to take Arthur’s and do the same. He stopped, realizing with a bit of embarrassment the boy didn’t have one. Because they had left the apartment without one. Without getting any of Arthur’s belongings whatsoever, actually.

Sighing, Edgeworth let his hand fall back to his side. “We’ll have to go get your things before the trial tomorrow.” Which meant waking up earlier in the morning. Fantastic. “You can’t very well go without clothes.”

“Could’a told you that,” Arthur muttered with an eye roll.

Edgeworth gave him a sideways glance. “Then why didn’t you?”

Arthur shrugged, but there was some bite in his tone when he replied. “You didn’t ask.”

Edgeworth stared for a moment and then crouched down, making deliberate eye contact with his temporary charge. “Arthur, I am going to tell you something that will, hopefully, make your stay very smooth and uneventful: I am always, entirely, irrevocably, and unconditionally in charge. I don’t have the time or patience for an attitude.” He stood up and removed his cravat with a stare down his nose. “You didn’t have a coat to keep you warm and dry on the way here, and now you don’t have pajamas to wear tonight, all because you decided to be petty. You’re impulsively sabotaging yourself, and while that doesn’t affect me directly, it is irksome, and I won’t tolerate it. Understand?”

Arthur crossed his arms with a pout. “No.”

Edgeworth scowled, disapproval in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.” Arthur reiterated slowly, as if Edgeworth were the dumbest person on the planet. “I don’t even know half the words you used. How’m I supposed to understand you? What, did’ja swallow a dictionary or something?”

Edgeworth went to pinch the bridge of his nose, as he often did when frustrated, but his fingers never made contact. “I wasn’t going to hit you.” He was certain he would look back at the moment and lament how idiotic he must have looked with his hand frozen in midair. “I was going for my nose.” He would probably lament how ineloquently his words were coming out, too. But for the moment, he just lowered his hand. “I would never hit you.”

Arthur watched him, all defiance gone from his eyes, replaced by fresh tears and fear. He swallowed thickly, chewing on his lip, and he didn’t relax in the slightest.

Edgeworth observed, meeting the anxiety with curiosity and suspicion as his mind took the revelation and ran with it. He responded like an abuse victim, but abuse was never mentioned as a part of this case. Not physical abuse, anyway. I imagine there was a fair amount of verbal abuse going on in that household… perhaps emotional, if there was an element of control and fear… He creased his brow and kept thinking, vaguely aware of Arthur’s bewildered stare. It’s possible the defendant’s motive wasn’t protecting herself, but rather, her son.

“Mr. Edgeworth?”

“What kind of clothing do you have?” Edgeworth asked suddenly, shifting to a new train of thought. “Do you have a suit or dress pants?”

Biting his lip, Arthur shook his head. “No. I never needed one before.”

Edgeworth contemplated the situation for a moment before accepting the most obvious option with a mild sigh. “I’ll have to take you shopping, then. It won’t be until after the trial tomorrow, but at least you’ll have something presentable for the last two days.”

Arthur continued to chew on his lip, stuffing his hands in his pockets and retreating into himself like a turtle. “But I like these pants.”

“You can’t wear the same pants three days in a row.” Edgeworth unlaced his shoes and slipped them off before walking into the living room and pulling the guard from the fireplace. He figured a damp and cold person of any age could use some warming up, and it had been his own failure that caused Arthur to be in such a state to begin with. “You can’t wear the same shirt that long, either.”

“Mom let me.” Arthur lingered in the archway with that ever-present, confusing mix of hostility and timidity in his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t wanna change clothes.”

Edgeworth turned his head to deliver a sharp look. “What did I just get done telling you?”

Arthur shuffled in place. “That you’re in charge,” he sighed, eyes downcast.

“That’s—”

“A bunch of fancy words in charge.”

“—ri…” Edgeworth stared for a moment, struggling to summon a response, but he eventually went with a simple nod. He understands the important part, I suppose. Turning back to the fireplace, he said, “You can come in, you know. Just take your shoes off and leave them by the door.”

Arthur took a breath as if to speak, but Pess came bounding down the stairs before he could, barking in the joyous and energetic way that always brought a smile to Edgeworth’s face. She was the best part of coming home, her shining eyes and wagging tail doing wonders to ease the weight of the day.

Arthur, evidently, had a different perspective. He screamed the second he saw her, darting across the room and practically tackling Edgeworth to the ground. “Pick me up! Pick me up! Now, now, now!”

Edgeworth buffered, lost in the sudden hysteria, and it wasn’t until Pess came close enough to trigger another terrified scream that he jumped into action. “Pess, zurück!” Grunting, he got one arm underneath the boy while the other wrapped around Arthur’s waist. “Calm down, she won’t hurt you. She’s perfectly tame.”

“I don’t like dogs,” the boy blubbered, trying to climb higher. “I don’t like them, please get it away. I don’t like dogs, I really don’t like dogs.”

“Well—” Edgeworth huffed, “—what would you like me to do about that?”

Arthur buried his face in Edgeworth’s shoulder and held on tight, still pushing his feet against Edgeworth’s belt and hips to get farther from the ground. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t like them!”

Edgeworth took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and looked around at the quickly growing list of things to deal with. There were dirty shoeprints on his cream-colored carpet, and the shoes that made those prints were now staining his shirt and pants. There was snot on his shoulder, Pess needed fed, Arthur was terrified, and there was still no fire in the fireplace.

“I need a minute to think.” Edgeworth attempted to put Arthur on the couch. “Just—"

“No, no, no! No, I don’t want to!” Arthur wrapped his legs around Edgeworth’s waist and somehow managed to wind his arms around the prosecutor’s neck even tighter. “Don’t put me down! Please, don’t put me down!”

Exhaling sharply, Edgeworth straightened back up and continued to hold the screaming, twisting form in his arms. “Arthur, this is absurd. She won’t come near you. Just—”

“No, no, no, don’t put me down, don’t put me—”

Edgeworth finally managed to untangle the limbs and wrestle Arthur onto the couch, catching his flailing ankles before the muddy shoes could do any more damage. “You need to calm down.”

“Pick me back up!” Arthur clawed at the burgundy suit.

Edgeworth grabbed Arthur’s wrists and tore them from his lapels with a stern, “That is enough.” It wasn’t quite a yell, but it was enough of one to be effective.

Arthur froze on the spot, still whimpering and sniffing but no longer behaving like the couch was on fire.

“Good.” Edgeworth blew his bangs out of his eyes and looked toward Pess, repeating the order to keep her distance. “Zurück.” She immediately obeyed, understanding the portion of the couch where her master currently knelt was not to be approached. Releasing Arthur’s wrists, Edgeworth shifted his attention to the boy’s feet, wrestling off the dirty, barely-held-together shoes. “I’m going to put these by the door, and I’ll be back. Pess won’t come near this end of the couch. Understand?”

Arthur didn’t seem to take the slightest bit of comfort from those words, but he didn’t move from the couch. Satisfied, Edgeworth took the shoes out to the foyer and returned to the train wreck his living room had become.

“I need to clean these footprints before the stains set, and then I’ll get a fire started. Pess is going to the kitchen to eat, so there is nothing to worry about.” Edgeworth made deliberate eye contact.

Arthur said nothing, gnawing on his lip, his skin growing noticeably red.

“If you keep that up, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Edgeworth chided.

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t respond in any way; he just kept staring at Pess and chewing.

He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I suppose I’ll have to get some chapstick. But that was a problem for later. Right now, Edgeworth had floor stains and a hungry puppy and a cold child with no pajamas, so he went across the foyer to the kitchen with Pess trailing after. I think it’s safe to say this is not as easy as I thought it would be.

Still, he made a commitment, and he was determined to see it through. It was difficult, but Edgeworth had always enjoyed a good challenge, so he returned to the living room with cleaning supplies and got to work, glancing up every few seconds to see if Arthur was still crying.

He was.

Edgeworth groaned internally. “Arthur, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Arthur hiccupped, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. “So?” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’m still—” sniff, “—scared.”

Pressing the paper towels into the carpet, Edgeworth tried to veil his frustration. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can you be scared of nothing?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur cried, pushing back into the cushions even more as his voice cracked. “Haven’t you ever been scared of something stupid?”

Edgeworth opened his mouth. Oh.

Elevators. Perfectly safe, used by millions of people every day, and yet he couldn’t set foot in one. He was too afraid—too afraid of nothing—and when he thought about it that way… “Well, I might be afraid of something harmless, but I have good reason for it.” Which was a rationalization, and he knew that, but he didn’t like the thought of losing an argument with a   nine-year-old.

“Yeah, and so do I,” Arthur snapped through angry tears.

Edgeworth focused on cleaning the carpet. “Is that so?”

“Ya-huh.” Arthur sniffed, still curled up in a little ball on the couch.

“What reason do you have, then?” Edgeworth hated to admit he was wrong, but he knew it was about to happen. This is why you don’t make arguments before you’ve examined all the evidence.

“I…” Arthur shifted on the couch. “I used to have a dog…”

Edgeworth frowned slightly, putting the wet paper towels aside. “So, you used to like them.”

“Yeah,” Arthur spoke with a bit of a slur, and even though Edgeworth wasn’t looking, he had to assume the boy was once again gnawing on himself. “His name was Maelstrom. Daddy named him, not me. I wanted to call him Blackie. ‘Cause he was back all over.”

Edgeworth nodded his head, gathering up the garbage and supplies. “Ah. Very original.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “He was… the best dog ever—like, like ever—until he—got sick.”

“Did he die?” Edgeworth wanted to retract his question the second he saw Arthur’s face crumble, realizing he had chosen the wrong words, wrong tone, and essentially wrong everything. “I, uh, apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you, I…” He shook his head with a sigh. “Just… ahem, just tell me what happened.” Wait. “If you—If you want to, that is, of course.”

Thankfully, Arthur seemed to miss the awkward way Edgeworth was stumbling over his words just as much as he had missed the sarcasm. “He got really sick… and he came after me.” He put his chin on his knees. “He bit me… dragged me around…” He sniffed. “Everything hurt all over, and I had to go to the hospital and get a bunch of shots. Then I had to get more shots at home, and Maelstrom…” He trailed, leaving the rest of his perspective on the story unsaid.

Edgeworth pressed his lips together and offered a stiff nod. “Sounds like he contracted rabies.” And that would certainly be a good reason for a fear of dogs even when—or perhaps especially when—they were friendly and trained.

But Arthur didn’t say anything, so there was really no opening to ask, and Edgeworth wasn’t sure how to continue the conversation after that. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he should even try to cultivate further conversation given the luck he had had so far, but he couldn’t not speak to the boy for three days straight, especially if he wanted the truth of what happened in the apartment.

“Arthur.” Edgeworth kept his voice soft, sitting on the floor in front of the couch. “I have never spent any time with children before, and I—”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Arthur rubbed his eyes with sleeves that were too damp to really help.

“…and I have difficulty understanding how other people feel.” Edgeworth cleared his throat. “I am very… logical, and I don’t…” He rubbed his temple with a sigh. “I’m trying to say I shouldn’t have disregarded your fear just because I don’t share it. I…” He averted his eyes, heat rising in his chest. “I don’t really know… what I’m doing, here, in this particular… so I ask you to please be patient with me.” He swallowed and forced himself to look at Arthur, watching the blonde head slowly lift, green eyes glassy. “Do you think you can do that, Arthur?”

Arthur gave a timid jerk of the head. “Yeah.” He dragged his arm across his eyes, and Edgeworth wondered if lotion could combat how raw and irritated the skin around them was. “Yeah, okay.”

Edgeworth flashed a small smile, something that required a bit of effort on his part, and then he got to his feet. “I still have to feed Pess and get a fire going. Are you hungry?”

Arthur shook his head immediately, which made Edgeworth suspect his witness wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t press. He had to get his house in order before he could even think about starting another debate with the emotionally unstable child. We got off on the wrong foot, but I can still do this.

He could almost hear Wright shouting, ‘Objection!’ from the other side of the city.

“Are you still cold?”

Arthur looked at the opposite end of the couch and shook his head, prompting Mr. Edgeworth to give a sharp nod and stick his equally sharp nose right back in his book. Arthur watched for a moment, lips twisting as he contemplated, and then he hugged his knees a little tighter and turned back to the fire. He liked Mr. Edgeworth. Maybe not as much as he liked his teacher, Miss Penelope, but he still liked Mr. Edgeworth. He was a kinda mean and kinda scary man, but he was also a kinda confused and kinda dorky man.

Yeah, he definitely dunno what he’s doing. Arthur hid a little grin behind his knees, nose wrinkling after a second when he caught a whiff of the mild odor from his sweatpants. They’re starting to smell funny… but Mom’s not here to do the laundry… He felt a chill run down his spine. I don’t want new clothes. I don’t like changing clothes.

He startled, seeing movement near his feet out of the corner of his eye, and he froze when he realized the large dog was sniffing him. He glanced to the left, but Mr. Edgeworth was lost in his book, so he looked back at the dog and stared in helpless terror. Go away. Go away, go away, go away! I don’t like you, go away! He pushed himself backward when she laid her head on the cushion, but to her credit, she never touched him. She was just too close.

Arthur swallowed and glanced at Mr. Edgeworth again but still got no help, so he took a moment to breathe and just watch the very calm, steady way Pess stood there. Her head was on the cushion, and he could hear a soft whine every few seconds, but she didn’t move closer, and she didn’t paw at the sofa. Slowly, shakily, Arthur extended a hand and let it brush against the top of her head—her fur was so soft, softer than Maelstrom’s had been, and he wondered why—and pet her a few times before drawing his hand in close.

“There,” he whispered. “I pet you. Now go away.”

Pess whined again, this time pressing her wet nose against his foot.

“Pess, leave him. Zurück.” Mr. Edgeworth didn’t even look up from his hardback, turning a page before continuing coolly. “If you pet her, you’re only encouraging her to come near you again.”

Arthur chewed his lip and inside of his cheek, the chapped skin stinging and in some places burning. Pess unhappily pulled her head off the cushion and trotted over to her master, who began stroking her fur with a soft smile on his face. Her eyes closed, and she enthusiastically wagged her tail to let him know how happy she was with the attention. No. Dogs are scary. I don’t like them.

Mr. Edgeworth eventually returned to his book, leaving Pess to complain a bit before she settled on the floor at his feet. Arthur flashed a weak smile and waved at her when she looked over, hoping it wouldn’t encourage her to come closer the way Mr. Edgeworth said petting her would. Because she really was pretty, and she wasn’t nearly as scary from a distance as she was up close. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

But then he remembered the trial. He remembered Mr. Edgeworth was going to try to put his mom in jail, and he remembered why she was on trial in the first place. He remembered coming around the corner and seeing his father on the floor, limp and bloody, with his mother standing over him. He remembered her grabbing his arm so hard it began to bruise, and he remembered her hitting his sides as she told him exactly what to say when the cops came.

“For Heaven’s sake, what are you crying about now?”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur responded instinctually, clenching his teeth and bracing himself.

For a second, there was nothing, but then the cushions shifted, meaning Mr. Edgeworth had gotten up. Arthur covered his head and waited, knowing he couldn’t stop whatever was about to happen, but the only thing that happened was a gentle hand on his knee.

“You don’t need to apologize for crying. I…” Mr. Edgeworth sighed, and when Arthur braved a quick look, the man was staring at the ceiling and moving his mouth in a silent struggle to find the right word. “I told you, I have… a hard time… with…”

Arthur watched the battle in Mr. Edgeworth’s head play out, heart pounding against his battered ribcage.

Sighing in defeat, Mr. Edgeworth dropped his gaze to Arthur’s face with an expression of weary helplessness on his own. “I was raised in a very strict household. Sometimes, I just respond to things in the way I’m accustomed to—sorry, used to—without thinking.”

Arthur sniffed, toes wiggling as he fidgeted anxiously on the couch. He chewed on the inside of his lips, knowing if he was too obvious, Mr. Edgeworth would likely tell him to stop. Which would probably be best for him considering he could taste blood, but that wasn’t the point right now. “You, uh… you, too?”

Mr. Edgeworth gave him a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod. “Me, too.”

“So, you won’t…” Throat suddenly dry, Arthur cleared it and wet his lips, reigniting the burn. “You won’t hit me? Even if I deserve it?”

“No, I won’t.” Mr. Edgeworth’s voice was soft—softer than it had been since he stepped into the apartment and snapped at Mr. Gumshoe—and he didn’t seem sure of what to do with his hands or face, or even where he was supposed to look. “I would never hit you, even if you deserve it. Because I… don’t think you do deserve it. I don’t—my brain doesn’t work that way. Alright?”

Arthur blinked a few times, profoundly confused, but he nodded his head anyway. Mr. Edgeworth had just said he wouldn’t get hit, and while there was always a chance Mr. Edgeworth was lying, there was also a chance he wasn’t. Although, just to be safe…

“Do you promise not to hit me, Mr. Edgeworth?”

Still wearing that half-forced, half-nervous face, Mr. Edgeworth nodded. “I promise not to hit you. I promise I will never, ever hit you, Arthur.” And despite his general lack of confidence in the situation or the role he was supposed to play, he had no lack of confidence when he said those words.

But Mom says a lot of things, too. And she’s always confident. And they’re still not true. Arthur slowly nodded, still chewing on his lips, though he had graduated to the upper instead of the lower one. “Okay.”

“You really do need to break that habit of yours. They’re already chapped and raw. If you keep it up, you’ll be bleeding soon enough.”

“Sorry.” Arthur did stop, but his lips began to twist in the absence of his teeth gnawing on them.

Sighing quietly, Mr. Edgeworth shook his head, but there was a smile on his face. “It’s alright. I said that for your benefit, not mine. I’ll go fetch some chapstick.”

Arthur jerked his head in a nod, but when he saw his caretaker start to stand, a “Mr. Edgeworth?” burst up his throat without permission.

“Yes?” Mr. Edgeworth sank back into a crouch.

Swallowing, Arthur forced himself to breach the topic, not wanting to hear the answer but knowing he needed to. “Do you… have to put my mom in jail?”

Mr. Edgeworth sobered, his smile immediately gone. “If your mother didn’t do anything wrong, then no. I would not put her behind bars for a charge with no evidence behind it. But if she did do something wrong, then I will find out. And then I will absolutely put her behind bars. It has to be that way, otherwise more people could wind up hurt.”

“But what about me?” Arthur blurted the words before he could stop himself. “I don’t wanna get hurt! don’t wanna go to foster care! I wanna stay here, with my school, and my friends, and, and…” His mouth moved as he struggled for words.

Mr. Edgeworth’s face was blank for a few more moments, and then he sighed softly. “I know. We’ll… just have to wait and see. Things will work out in the end.”

“Do you promise that, too?”

“I can’t promise that one, no, but I think there is a high probability of it happening.”

Arthur creased his brow, the stinging in his eyes temporarily abated by confusion. “And… what does that mean?”

“It means it’s very likely. I believe there’s a very good chance things will work out.”

“Oh.” Arthur nodded, gaze wandering downward. “I guess that’s better than no chance… or a bad chance…”

But it wasn’t a promise, and that meant things could go wrong. It meant his mother could still wind up in jail. It meant he could still end up alone. And Arthur couldn’t wind up alone.

He just couldn’t.

Edgeworth was pulled from his novel by the clock, eyes taking a moment to adjust and read the hands telling him it was midnight. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his bookmark from the end table and put the book away. “Well, Arthur, I think it’s about time for you and me to—”

He stopped when he saw the boy passed out on the couch, arm hanging over the edge of the couch while the rest of him remained curled up on the cushion. Pess was on the ground right beside him, keeping watch as if she thought her eyes alone could protect him from all unseen threats and monsters.

Amused, but also feeling like he had just done something a responsible caretaker shouldn’t,  Edgeworth stood up and stretched with a deep inhale. He winced at the pop in his lower back, the relief always outweighed by the feeling of doing something undignified. “Come on, Pess. Bedtime.”

Pess jumped to her feet and headed for the stairs, and Edgeworth couldn’t help but smile, an expression that lingered as he turned his attention to the boy on the couch. So peaceful… so beautifully non-verbal…

And significantly less fearful.

Edgeworth leaned down and, after some deliberation, got Arthur situated against his chest. He replaced the fireplace guard with one hand, wanting to ensure the smoldering embers didn’t find their way onto the carpet, and then, with one last look around the room to confirm everything was in order, he flicked off the lights and started walking. Navigating the dimly lit foyer and hallway was easy, and soon he was peeling back the covers of the bed in the guest room. He lowered Arthur as carefully as he could and then stepped back, trying to think of anything he may have missed. I can’t do anything about the lack of pajamas. He shouldn’t need a nightlight because he’s already asleep. He didn’t wash up or brush his teeth, but again, he’s already asleep. He can do that in the morning.

Satisfied with the state his troublesome little guest was in, Edgeworth left the room and closed the door, making his way toward his own quarters. This is wrong. That thought had been popping in and out of his head ever since he examined the crime scene; the nagging feeling that had been eating away at his brain from the moment he met Arthur to the moment he was in. This is wrong.

Edgeworth grabbed his toothbrush and turned on the water, his brain still attempting to piece together the events of the evening. He said he didn’t want to be taken away because he didn’t want to leave his friends and his school. He didn’t seem at all concerned about being away from his mother. Brush. He refers to his father as ‘Daddy,’ but refers to his mother as ‘Mom.’ It’s the opposite of how things usually are. Spit. In fact, if I recall correctly, he was asking for his father when I walked into the kitchen. He didn’t mention wanting his mother at all when he should have, at the very least, been asking for them both. Brush. What was that little rehearsed introduction he gave me? Name, address, and… his father’s cell phone number. Spit. If the victim was an absent father, the mother would have taught Arthur to give people her number when he was lost. But he recited his father’s when, again, he should have at least memorized both. Gargle. He said he didn’t like dogs, but what he meant to say was that he was afraid of them. Did he mention not liking anything else? Rinse. He doesn’t like changing pants. No, wait… he said he likes his pants, but he said he doesn’t like changing clothes. If saying he doesn’t like something is his subconscious way of saying he is afraid something, why would he be afraid of changing clothes?

Edgeworth spit one last time and braced his arms against the counter, staring his reflection down as if he thought the double might offer something helpful. Because he didn’t have any evidence to back up those little psychological tics—nothing to prove they were associated with the case at all—and without evidence, it didn’t mean much.

But I do know one thing. His expression darkened slightly, hard lines drawn across his face, and he wasn’t sure if he was feeling determination or a hot, sharp bitterness in his chest. Something about this case is very, very wrong.

What? Edgeworth startled awake, subconsciously aware of a loud thump being the cause, and his bleary eyes searched frantically for the clock on his nightstand. 2:37. He had fallen asleep not twenty minutes prior. What on Earth…? Throwing the sheets back, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, creeping to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting to see if the sound came again. He heard stark silence, a frown pulling on his lips as he looked over his shoulder. Pess was wide awake but not necessarily agitated, and more importantly, she was lying at the foot of the bed. It couldn’t have been her knocking something over, and it definitely wasn’t Edgeworth himself, so that left two options. It was either a home invader or—

“Mr. Edgewooorth!”

Edgeworth opened the door. “Arthur?” He squinted, trying to see if the boy was coming toward him or if he had to go—Oof! Something collided with his waist, little hands pulling on his shirt while their owner wailed into his stomach. “Arthur, calm down.” He went to his knees, trying to get a look at Arthur’s face but finding himself enveloped in a hug. “Arthur, you have to tell me what’s wrong. You have to calm down, and breathe, and tell me what’s wrong.”

Arthur shook his head, still screaming at the top of his lungs but offering no explanation as to why.

“Do you feel sick? Do you need a nightlight?” Edgeworth tried again to find Arthur’s face. “Couldn’t find the bathroom? Surely you didn’t get lost. My house isn’t that big.”

But the sobbing continued unhindered.

“Arthur, if you don’t tell me what the problem is, I’ll go back to bed and leave you out here to cry.”

“No!” Arthur tried to go one step further and wrap his legs around Edgeworth as well, practically climbing him. “No, no—no, please don’t—go back—to bed.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong,” Edgeworth repeated, taking Arthur by the arms and trying to form some semblance of face-to-face conversation. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Arthur stayed close, barely allowing any space between himself and Edgeworth. “Had a bad dream—about Daddy—and Mom.” He hiccupped in between the words, wiping his tears on his sleeve and successfully smearing the saline and snot all over himself.

“First of all, stop that. You only have one shirt, and you’re making a mess of it.” Edgeworth stood up and pulled Arthur into his bedroom, flicking on the light and fetching a tissue box from the dresser. “Second of all, you need to take a deep breath and calm down. Getting hysterical over a dream will not make it go away.” Trust me, I know. But he didn’t say that. He simply put a hand on Arthur’s head and waited for the boy to follow instructions.

Arthur tried to breathe, grabbing a tissue with a quiet, “Okay.” He blew once, twice, thrice… and then five or six more times. He pulled tissue after tissue from the box, wiping his face and muffling his cries in crumpled wads of white.

“Uh… there, there.” Edgeworth hesitantly pat Arthur’s head. “It’s alright.”

“I want my daddy…” the boy breathed, trembling as he stood there with a handful of tissues.

Edgeworth sighed. “I know, but I can’t help you with that.” He winced at his own words. “And I’m sorry about that. I… I wish I could help you with that.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, instead grabbing another handful of tissues and continuing to quietly cry, blowing his nose in between staggered gasps for air.

I don’t know what to do. Which was ironic and very much an understatement. Edgeworth had been plagued by bad dreams every night since his father was murdered, and even after his nearly twenty years of dealing with them, he still didn’t have a truly reliable or healthy method.

“Can I sleep with you, Mr. Edgeworth?” Arthur’s voice broke.

Edgeworth opened his mouth, unable to offer anything but a panicked, “Oh, well, uh—”

“Please?” Arthur wiped his face yet again and lifted his eyes from the floor, peering up at the prosecutor imploringly. “I don’t like—being alone.”

There’s that word ‘like’ again. Edgeworth could hardly send him back to the guest room knowing how terrified he would be, and it was indisputable that they both needed quality sleep before the trial.

“Alright.” Edgeworth lifted Arthur into his arms, freeing a hand to grab the tissue box as he returned to the bed. “I don’t suppose it would hurt this one time.”

For a split second, something like a weak smile pulled on his lips, and he seemed truly relieved, but then he changed. He stiffened up, eyes wide, and shook his head as he began to pull away. “N—no. No, that’s a bad idea. Sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I—I wasn’t thinking.”

Edgeworth frowned, not letting the boy scurry off just yet. “What’s the matter?”

“I told you, I wasn’t thinking,” Arthur insisted, sounding panicked. “I just wanna go back to my room and sleep. Okay?”

Gray eyes narrowed slightly, devoid of anger but certainly bearing suspicion and bewilderment. It took a moment, but when he contemplated the possible cause for the sudden change inside the context his own childhood experiences provided, the answer was obvious.

“Arthur,” Edgeworth started softly, waiting until the boy stopped wriggling in his arms to continue. “I won’t be mad if you wet the bed.”

Arthur froze, expression torn between shock and disbelief as his eyes slowly made their way up to the prosecutor’s face. “But…” He blinked. “You won’t?”

Edgeworth smiled softly, and he briefly wondered how many times he had done that in the past twenty-four hours. “No, I won’t. I promise. And if it makes you feel better…” he shifted Arthur onto the mattress and unwound his arms before moving toward the bathroom, “…you can sleep with a towel under you.” He didn’t wait for an answer, retrieving one from the closet and bringing it to the bed. “How’s that?”

Arthur took the towel timidly, biting down on his lip with a hesitant nod. “It’s, uh… it’s good. Th-thank you. Um, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Mmhmm.” Edgeworth felt a yawn coming as he crawled back to his side of the bed, and by the time they were both settled under the covers in the dark, he was quickly drifting back toward unconsciousness.

“Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth. I, um, I really, really mean it.”

Edgeworth felt a little fist curl through his shirt, and he reached out blindly to rest his hand on whatever he could find of Arthur. “You’re very welcome. Now…” he blinked a few times, knowing the second his eyes closed, he was gone, “…mm, we both need to sleep, or we might find ourselves snoring in the courthouse tomorrow, and that would be rather inappropriate.”

Arthur giggled and then fell silent, curling up on his half of the bed while Edgeworth kept to his own, though he never fully let go of Edgeworth’s shirt.

I suppose, Edgeworth thought, watching the digital numbers change from 2:59 to 3:00. I suppose this isn’t all that terrible. There are worse things. Still, he would be relieved when his three days were up. Not that he didn’t like Arthur—he did, actually; more than he thought he would—childrearing just… wasn’t for him. He didn’t have the temperament for it, his schedule was always full and extremely unpredictable. Even without those factors, he didn’t have any kind of knowledge or understanding on how to do even a remotely adequate job. He wouldn’t be able to do it. It wasn’t for him.

It just wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Arthur grabbed onto Mr. Edgeworth’s hand as they crossed the street, eyes darting in every direction. He had never see a building so big and yet… so not square. He was used to seeing tall buildings in a rectangular shape, with their identical rows of windows and lights and fire escapes. But courthouses were not just tall buildings. They weren’t plain and square—they weren’t even skyscraper-y or tower-y—and they looked more like palaces to him, but they were so, so big.

“Have you ever been to a courthouse, Arthur?”

Shaking his head, Arthur leaned into Mr. Edgeworth’s side and held his hand a little tighter. “Huh-uh.”

Mr. Edgeworth glanced down with a light smile. “You don’t need to be afraid. It’s just a building, and there’s nothing inside but people.”

“Bad people,” Arthur muttered in reply, still looking all around himself, wondering if and when a boogeyman might jump out. “Scary, awful, mean people.”

Mr. Edgeworth looked surprised for a moment, but then he offered a smirk and a sideways nod. “True enough, but it’s my job to get rid of bad, scary, awful, mean people. You don’t have anything to fear. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Arthur nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to try and hurt him in court today? Or at least hurt his mother? Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to get Arthur sent to an orphanage where he wouldn’t know a single soul? Wasn’t Mr. Edgeworth going to make it so he was more alone than he had ever been? Because all of that sounded like it was going to hurt.

“Hold on.” Mr. Edgeworth let go of Arthur for a moment to open the door, a black briefcase preventing his other hand from doing the job. “Go on.”

Arthur ducked his head and shuffled in, avoiding eye contact even though it looked like the building was mostly empty. Mr. Edgeworth came in after, and Arthur quickly grabbed the prosecutor’s hand, happy to be holding on to someone he knew.

“Um, Mr. Edgeworth? Can I… Can I go see my mom now?”

Edgeworth shook his head without so much as a glance in Arthur’s direction, but that was probably good, because Arthur wasn’t looking where they were going, so someone had to make sure they didn’t run into anything. “No, unfortunately. She has to stay in the defendant’s lobby until we’re in court. You’ll be near her when you’re on the stand, and when you’re done, you’ll go to the gallery. You won’t be close to her there, but you’ll be able to see her.”

“What’s, um…” Arthur almost tripped over his own feet, and he realizing he really should have been trying to watch where he was going. “What’s the gallery?”

“It’s a place where people can watch the trial without being down by the lawyers and witnesses and such. This way.”

“Huh?” Arthur yelped softly when they changed directions, his brain running a little behind the sudden jump from an answer to an order, but he kept his feet under him. “Um, Mr. Edgeworth?” he started, nervous about asking his question but not liking the thought of being somewhere so far away from anyone he knew.

“Yes?” Mr. Edgeworth started up a staircase.

Arthur followed obediently. “Can I just, um, like, stay with you?”

“Behind my desk?” Mr. Edgeworth snorted. “I don’t think so.”

Arthur stuck out his bottom lip, contemplating the idea of digging his feet in so they had to stop walking. “But why not? I wanna stay with you, Mr. Edgeworth!”

Mr. Edgeworth continued to drag him along, shaking his head. “I already said no.”

“But I don’t want to go to the gallery!”

Mr. Edgeworth screeched to a halt at the top of the steps, turning on the spot and glaring the young boy into silence. Arthur leaned back slightly—not so much he might fall down the stairs behind him—and bit the inside of his cheek to keep Mr. Edgeworth from noticing he was engaging in his chewing habit again. He stared, heart pounding, and waited for punishment.

“If I say the answer is no, it’s no. There’s nothing else to discuss.” Mr. Edgeworth narrowed his eyes with a very pointed, very intentional expression. “I am not about to waste my time explaining myself to a child. You do as you’re told. Understood?”

“But—”

“Am I understood?”

Struggling, jaw moving soundlessly as the desire to be heard and the desire to please battled in his mind, Arthur tried to form an answer. Eventually, the desire to please won, and he bowed his head with a quiet, “Yes, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t say anything, turning around and pulling Arthur in the direction of… wherever it was they were going. Arthur kept his eyes down the entire time, tears welling up and forcing him to sniff the moisture away. He won’t even listen to me! I want Daddy!

“What are you crying for?” Mr. Edgeworth’s voice was terse.

“You won’t let me finish…”

“That’s because whatever you have to say is irrelevant. It’s not as if you can change my mind.” Mr. Edgeworth stopped outside a door and let go of Arthur long enough to fish around in his pocket and withdraw a set of keys. “I told you where you’re going to sit, and that’s where you’re going to sit. Simple as that.”

Arthur opened his mouth with an objection dancing on his tongue, but it never made it past his lips. He looked back down at his feet instead. It was pointless to argue. That was what caused him to cry in the first place: the helpless frustration he had to keep bottled up inside. I shoulda kept my mouth shut.

Mr. Edgeworth got them both into the room and closed the door behind them, leaving Arthur to his own devices as he made his way over to a nearby table with a box. He grabbed a note off the top and read it silently before setting it aside, murmuring about a pay cut as he pulled the flaps apart.

Hesitantly, Arthur slid the note toward himself, wiping his face on his sleeve as he scanned the words.

Hey, Prosecutor Edgeworth!

 

This is all the evidence we found at the scene! Sorry I didn’t take it to your office… looks like I lost the key… again. There’s some stuff for Arthur in the other box. I would have brought it over last night, but I had a weird fainting spell, and I guess it slipped my mind.

Good luck, Prosecutor Edgeworth!

 

Love, Gumshoe

Arthur giggled to himself, finding it silly the policeman from the night before would sign a letter to Mr. Edgeworth with ‘love.’ Detective Gumshoe was the first person to come when Mom called. Frowning, he abandoned both the note and the train of thought. He went to the second box—which supposedly had his ‘stuff,’ which hopefully meant toys—and wrapped his arms around it. He picked it up with a soft grunt and a little muscle, carrying it a few feet away and plopping down on the ground with it. Peering in, he quickly found a mess of socks and toothpaste and—ooh!

Arthur immediately snatched his bright green hoodie, wrestling it down over his head and humming to himself at the resulting warmth. So soft. So fuzzy. Still, clothing wouldn’t keep his mind occupied, so he looked again and lit up at the sight of a red racecar. He grabbed it, sadness all but gone, and continued to dig until he found the blue corvette that went with it.

Humming a little tune, Arthur started driving the cars around. He had plenty of space to work with, his hands steering the vehicles anywhere from the windowsills to the potted plants, underscoring the movements with the necessary sound effects all the while.

I wonder what Mr. Edgeworth’s box is for. The note said it was evidence, so… stuff for the trial? Maybe I should look… I don’t want anything in there to hurt Mom… He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about her; didn’t want to think about what she had done. He wanted to play, so he left his thoughts in the metaphorical dust and did exactly that, racing over the top of a television and underneath the tables.

“Are you quite enjoying yourself?”

Arthur jumped, having forgotten Mr. Edgeworth was in the room with him, and he wondered if he was breaking a rule without knowing it. “Um… yeah. Mmhmm.”

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t look angry. He offered a faint smile—which Arthur was realizing was the same as a regular smile for a normal person—and turned his attention to the bag in his hands. It seemed all was well, so Arthur continued to play, and a sense of peace settled over the room.

A peace that lasted until a young girl with strange hair and purple robes burst through the door with a loud, “Mr. Edgewooorth!”

She was followed by a man in jeans and a bright blue sweater who rubbed the back of his neck and nervously laughed from behind a surgical mask. “Hi, Edgeworth.”

Mr. Edgeworth acknowledged them with a nod. “Maya. Right.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Frowning, Arthur slowly approached the group.

“I heard you were sick,” Mr. Edgeworth continued.

Chuckling, the man waved it off. “It’s really not that bad. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

Purple Girl—who he assumed was called Maya—rolled her eyes and folded her arms, bracelets knocking against each other. “He’s got a fever of 102, and he was up all night coughing his guts out. I told him to take medicine, but he won’t listen to me!”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed, thoroughly exasperated. “You need to take care of yourself, right.” He looked at the girl, then, with a flat affect and dry tone. “Please keep an eye on him, Maya.”

Maya nodded enthusiastically, confirming that was definitely her name, and her lips parted in a broad, cheeky smile. “What do you think I’ve been doing? He’d probably be dead by now if it weren’t for me.”

The man’s jaw slackened. “Hey! I can handle myself, thank ya-choo!” He coughed into both the mask and the crook of his arm several times while Mr. Edgeworth looked on with raised eyebrows.

“Sure you can, right. You’re also an excellent defense attorney.”

Arthur tugged on Mr. Edgeworth’s jacket and waited until the gray eyes were on him instead of the stranger. “Are you guys friends? What’s his name?”

Mr. Edgeworth pointed to the man. “Right.”

Okay, so they were friends. “What’s his name?”

Mr. Edgeworth looked bewildered. “…it’s right.”

“About what?” Arthur asked, looking up at his caretaker’s friend.

Crouching down, the man rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. “My name is Phoenix Wright. W-R-I-G-H-T, like the brothers who invented the airplane.”

“Ohhh.” That made sense. His dad had taught him about the Wright Brothers. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wright. I’m Arthur.” He held out his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Arthur, but we better not shake hands while I’m sick. Also, you can just call me Nick. Or Mr. Nick, if it’s more comfortable for you.” Mr. Nick smiled, and Arthur knew he was smiling even with the mask in the way because it was the kind of smile that went up to his eyes.

So, Arthur smiled back. He liked Mr. Nick.

But then Mr. Nick was looking at Mr. Edgeworth, and then he was using the grown-ups-are-saying-things-they-don’t-want-kids-to-hear voice as he tried to pull Mr. Edgeworth aside.

Mr. Edgeworth glanced at Arthur, and while he didn’t seem angry, he definitely wasn’t happy. “Arthur, stay in here with Maya, and behave yourself. I’ll be right back.”

Arthur bit down on his lip but stopped the second Mr. Edgeworth gave him a disapproving look. Don’t leave. But he nodded obediently. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m sorry.

Mr. Edgeworth didn’t hear his silent pleas—obviously, and Arthur really couldn’t blame him for that—and he left the room with Mr. Nick and pulled the door shut behind them, leaving Arthur and Maya alone. For a moment, they just sort of… looked at each other, neither of them knowing exactly what to say.

“Do you like Steel Samurai?” she blurted suddenly, unable to contain her excitement.

Arthur blinked, processed the question, and grinned like mad. “Do I ever!”

“What’s this about, Wright?”

Phoenix glanced around to ensure the hall was empty. “Alyssa Coleman is guilty.”

Edgeworth visibly struggled not to roll his eyes. “Well, yes. She admitted to shooting her husband, and there was a witness, so we can safely assume—”

“No, I mean it wasn’t justifiable. That’s why I didn’t take the case.”

Edgeworth wasn’t any less dismissive. “I would imagine that’s why the State is charging her. If it were clean-cut justifiable hom—”

“Edgeworth, let me finish.” Phoenix looked around again, wary of people and security cameras alike. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to shape your opinion and stuff because it’s against the rules, but I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. Something bad.” He paused, letting the point sink in, and once Edgeworth registered the statement and began to contemplate, Phoenix reached into his pocket for a slip of paper. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, but if it comes down to it…” he discreetly slipped the scrap to his long-time friend, “…this person might be able to give you some… perspective on the case.”

Edgeworth didn’t look at the scrap, probably just as wary of the security cameras as Phoenix was, and instead slipped both hands into his pockets to regard his childhood friend with cool eyes. “If you have it all figured out, why didn’t you take the case?”

Phoenix lifted his arm to his mouth and coughed weakly. “Haven’t you heard, Edgeworth? I’m sick. Very, very sick.” He opened his mouth to continue, but his pseudo-coughing had put a tickle in his throat, and soon his wheezing was genuine.

“This is why you should never try to be funny.”

Phoenix slapped himself on the chest, doubled over and trying to force the spasms out of his ribcage. “You’re one to talk—” cough, cough, “—I’m surprised you even got—” cough, cough, gasp, cough, “—the joke, given your non-existent—” cough, cough, “—sense of humor.” Coughing, coughing, and more coughing, until it finally subsided and he could breathe again.

“Do you need a glass of water, Wright?”

“Shut up,” Phoenix groaned, sinuses throbbing behind his eyes. “There’s a water fountain around the corner.” He cleared his throat, waving his hand in an ‘moving on’ sort of gesture. “It’s better sometimes if I’m on the outside. I already know the right verdict, and I can look into things without anyone getting suspicious that I’m fishing for something.”

Edgeworth paused and glanced off to the side, chewing on his bottom lip.

Phoenix cleared his throat a few more times, still recovering from the fit, and tried to reassure his childhood friend. “I know you and I don’t always agree about what it means to be a prosecutor or a defense attorney, but… for Arthur’s sake, don’t you think we should wrap this up as quickly as we can? Less trial, less trauma.” Ideally, anyway.

Edgeworth didn’t reply at first, his sharp, gray eyes brimming with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Phoenix kept quiet, brow creasing with worry as he waited for Edgeworth to give him a clue as to what was going on in his head.

“What will happen to Arthur?” was what Edgeworth finally asked.

The question caught Phoenix off-guard, and it took a moment to respond. “I… don’t know exactly. He’ll have to go to an orphanage or foster home of some kind. He’ll be somewhere in the system.” He paused, scrutinizing the torn look on Edgeworth’s face. “You’re not seriously considering letting her off the hook because she has a kid.”

“Of course not!” Edgeworth glared at him with a familiar, righteous fire in his eyes. “I would never do such a thing. There are just… aspects of this case I want to look into first.” He tapped his jawline with his index finger, lips pursed. “I’ll have to play it by ear today. My first witness—” he glanced toward the room they had just left, “—is most likely going to fall through, but that’s irrelevant. I simply have to make the cross-examination go long enough to push the trial into tomorrow and buy myself more time to collect evidence.”

Phoenix nodded. “Knowing she’s guilty and proving it are two different things.”

“As are proving it and convincing a judge,” Edgeworth tacked on dryly.

“True.” Phoenix chuckled softly, but the resulting vibration in his throat sent him into another series of coughs. “Okay, I need a drink.” He buried his face in his arm again. “Send Maya out, would you? We’ll be—” two more coughs and a violent clearing of his throat, “—sitting in the gallery. Might help to have an extra pair of ears in there listening.”

Edgeworth nodded once and grabbed the doorknob, but he didn’t twist it. “Would it be alright if Arthur sat with you before and after his testimony? He seems perturbed by the idea of sitting in the gallery alone.”

Phoenix blinked, confused by the tender-hearted nature of the request. No offense to his best friend, but Edgeworth wasn’t exactly ‘good’ with children—or people in general—and sympathy was not high on his list of skills. Actually… was it on his list of skills? Like, at all?

“Uh, sure.” Phoenix cleared his throat several times, wishing he could get rid of the allover sore, achy, phlegmy state of his throat, and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? We sit with Pearls when she’s here. What’s the difference?”

Edgeworth’s mouth twitched up in the corner. “Thank you, Wright.” With that, he disappeared into the pre-trial prep room.

Maya came out a moment later, babbling about her new best friend, and Phoenix pretended to listen, his head bobbing on an automatic cycle as his mind wandered. He isn’t wrong. There are still some things that don’t add up… and we need enough evidence to convince the judge… but I know she’s guilty, and he should know I know these things. Even if that means bad news for Arthur, he can’t just… Phoenix shook his head and bent over the water fountain, getting the long overdue drink he needed. I hope you know what you’re doing Edgeworth.

“Court is now in session for the trial of Alyssa Coleman.”

Arthur pressed down on his stomach and bit his lip, taking a deep breath to calm his nausea.

“The prosecution is ready, Your Honor.” Mr. Edgeworth spoke seamlessly with an air of relaxed confidence. He was prepared.

“The defense is ready, Your Honor.” The defense attorney on the case was no different, his solid voice leaving a faint echo in the open courtroom. He was prepared.

Even Arthur’s mom, sitting in the defendant’s chair and dabbing her eyes the way she did when she wanted his dad to buy her things they couldn’t afford, was prepared.

Arthur was the only one not prepared.

His fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, heart racing at the thought of standing before the judge, the gallery, and two shouting lawyers as he recalled the worst night of his life. He just wanted to be alone—well, no, actually, he didn’t, but he didn’t want to talk about what happened in front of dozens of strangers.

“And it looks like the defendant is pleading not guilty, correct?”

“Correct, Your Honor.”

Arthur gulped. Not guilty of what? What did they say she did? Does she mean… she got rid of Daddy because he was hurting her, so she’s not guilty of the… not-okay one, or is she saying she didn’t do it at all? I don’t understand. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He gnawed on the inside of his lower lip.

“Would the prosecution make their opening statement?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Mr. Edgeworth leveled a stony gaze across the room at his opponent. “Bruce Coleman was shot in his apartment at approximately 9:45 p.m. on August twenty-first. Police arrived at the scene to find the defendant sitting on the couch with her unconscious son. She claimed self-defense, the child later woke up in hysterics and corroborated her story. The State is charging the defendant with murder in the second degree.”

What’s murder in the second degree? What’s a degree of murder?

The judge nodded. “I see. The prosecution may call its first witness.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Arthur’s gut clenched, and he balled his fists at his sides.

“The prosecution calls Detective Dick Gumshoe to the stand.”

Arthur blinked, staring at Mr. Edgeworth in confusion. Huh?

“They always call the detective first.”

Arthur startled with a shout and turned to the man beside him. “M-Mr. Nick!”

Putting a finger to his mask, Mr. Nick shushed him. “Remember, we’re in court.”

Arthur felt blood rushing to his cheeks, his face heating up as his heart continued to pound, and he shrank into himself as he realized with no small amount of embarrassment that the whole courtroom had probably heard him shout, including Mr. Edgeworth.

Mr. Nick gave a warm smile. “It’s okay. I was explaining that the detective always goes first. He’ll state the facts he found in his investigation, and then Edgeworth will call you.”

Arthur took deep breaths, trying to settle his mind as well as his trembling hands. Mr. Nick tapped his shoulder, and Arthur looked over expectantly, wiping his slick palms on his pants.

“I just wanted to say good luck, and don’t worry. You’ll be great up there.”

Arthur forced a smile, but he felt even worse than before. If I’m gonna be so great, why’d he wish me good luck, huh?

Edgeworth crossed his arms over his chest, listening carefully to Detective Gumshoe’s layout while looking at the plans spread on his table. Occasionally, he would glance up at the gallery, hoping to see Arthur but failing to, and then his eyes would return to the witness.

“Hold it!”

The defense attorney on the case, an out-of-towner named Luke Stevenson, pressed Gumshoe this way and that, but the facts of the case were standard. Edgeworth rarely had to object, and Gumshoe was on and off in a flash, the only big difference being that of evidence added to the court record.

“Will the prosecution call the next witness?”

Edgeworth nodded. “The prosecution calls Arthur Coleman to the stand.” He watched as a bailiff retrieved the crates often sued for shorter witnesses, and Arthur came into view a moment later when he started down the steps toward the stand.

Arthur waited until the crate was in place to hop up, quietly thanking the bailiff before facing forward, fingers nervously toying with the hem of his shirt.

“Witness, please state your name and grade in school.”

Arthur looked at him, and Edgeworth could tell how unbelievably terrified he was, as if the fact he wouldn’t look at anyone or anything other than Edgeworth in the first place wasn’t enough of a clue.

Softening his tone, Edgeworth repeated himself with just enough of a smile on his lips to encourage. “State your name and grade, Arthur.”

Arthur blinked. “Hey!” He pointed at Edgeworth. “You just said it!”

“Did I?” Edgeworth tapped his chin and glanced toward the ceiling, not allowing the smirk to full leave his mouth. “Hmm. Slip of the tongue, I suppose.”

Arthur became slightly more comfortable at that, and he stood up a little straighter and managed a loud, clear, “I’m Arthur Coleman, and I’m in the third grade.”

Edgeworth frowned. “Third?”

“Mmhmm. Because of my birthday.”

“Ahh, that makes sense.” Edgeworth was pleased by the speed and clarity at which Arthur elaborated on his statement. “Excellent explanation, Arthur. I’ll have you testify in just a moment, but first…” he shifted his gaze to Luke Stevenson, steel gray boring into sage green relentlessly, “…I have something to say to the defense: you will not badger this witness. You will get the necessary information, and then you will immediately desist. This is not a request.”

Stevenson glared, but Edgeworth sent the sharp heat right back across the courtroom, pinning his opponent for a few seconds before he put his attention back on the stand. “Arthur Coleman, please testify to the court regarding what you experienced on the night of your father’s death.” He winced inwardly. That probably could have been worded a bit better.

Arthur swallowed and took a deep breath. “Daddy came home acting funny, and… well, Mom told him not to do that anymore. She said, um, she said to hide under the bed, and then she told him he had to go away.” He wrung his hands, struggling to stay calm. “She said if he didn’t, she was going to call the police. Then… it got really noisy… and there was a lot of shouting, and, um… and Mom screamed, and there was a bang… and then everything got really, really quiet. And that’s… that’s all that happened.”

The judge nodded gravely. “You experienced something awful, didn’t you?”

Arthur didn’t have an answer, simply staring at his feet in silence.

Edgeworth scowled, tilting his head as he looked over his papers. This isn’t right. He leafed through the pages, eyes flickering from picture to picture as he reconstructed the house in his mind. Something is missing.

“Did… did I do something wrong?”

Edgeworth glanced up and arched a quizzical brow. “No, not at all. It seems the defense has simply forgotten their purpose here.”

Stevenson tisked and shook his head with a grin. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I simply can’t decide where to start.”

“Mm. Well, perhaps you could hurry it up?” Edgeworth crossed his arms, tapping his bicep with more than a little irritation on his face. “Some of us don’t enjoy wasting time.” Though I suppose that’s not necessarily true. I’m the one who needs to drag this out. He spared a glance at Arthur and offered a fleeting smile when he saw the nervous, expectant look on the boy’s face.

“Would the witness please expand on their first statement?”

Arthur spoke slowly, his words uncertain. “I don’t remember… exactly what I said…”

Edgeworth picked up the transcript and, after clearing his throat, read it aloud. “‘Daddy came home acting funny, and… well, Mom told him not to do that anymore.’”

“Oh!” Arthur perked up, gaining some confidence. “So, I just say more about that?”

Stevenson nodded sharply. “I’d like you to explain what you mean by ‘funny.’”

Arthur went to the tried-and-true self-soothing of gnawing on his lip, and Edgeworth inwardly cringed when the skin began to break. “I… don’t know what you mean…”

Stevenson smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk in a casual manner. “Well, you said he was ‘acting funny.’ Was he acting funny like a clown does, making faces and telling jokes? Was he acting funny in an unusual way, like falling over or stumbling? Was it something else?”

Edgeworth stared the opposition down, keeping his façade of cold indifference, while inside he frowned in confusion. His demeanor changed. When Stevenson started speaking to Arthur, his body language and tone changed. But his eyes didn’t. They’re still snake eyes. He might have kept his frown inside, but his finger started tapping a little faster.

“Um… it was kind of like the second one.”

“Good job, Arthur. Now—”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed his hand on his desk, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he startled Arthur. “You’re leading the witness, Stevenson. Arthur, now that you have an example of what words you can use to describe your father’s behavior, I want you to tell us how he was acting in your own terms.”

Arthur lifted a hand to his mouth and started scratching, his teeth apparently losing the ability to ease his anxiety. “I… I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” Stevenson rolled his eyes. “Mr. Edgeworth is simply being difficult.”

“That’s Prosecutor Edgeworth to you, Mr. Stevenson.” He all but snarled the words, sending a glare across the room before turning his attention back to his witness. “You were given a list of options, and you chose one, which was fine. But now I would like you to describe what you saw without choosing a pre-determined description worded by someone else.”

Arthur seemed to grow more fearful with every passing second, nervous eyes darting from person to person as he struggle to figure out who to listen to, who to obey, who wanted what was best for him, who—

“Can you describe this room to me?” Edgeworth asked, deciding to try something else.

Arthur looked around and stammered out his reply. “It’s… um, it’s big, and the—the ceilings are really high, and… there’s a lot of—lot of light… everybody echoes when they talk.”

Edgeworth smiled to encourage the account of their surroundings. “I agree. But I didn’t give you any of those words, did I? Because I would use words like spacious and resonant. But you used your own words based on what you were looking at, and I would like you to do the same with your answers. Think back to that night and use your words to describe what you saw.”

Nervousness dropping off slightly, Arthur shifted and bounced on his toes a bit. It seemed knowing what was expected of him inspired confidence despite his overall fear. “I can do that. I can—yeah, I can do that.” He stopped, chewed again, and continued. “He was really loud. He does that sometimes. Not in a mean way, just… laughs louder, talks louder… and he walks with big, booming footsteps. He sometimes has… um, had a hard time standing up straight. And he talked funny, like everything was a tongue twister.”

Edgeworth nodded—he felt like he was doing that a lot, but he didn’t know how else to offer praise in this setting—and scribbled a note on the legal pad to his left. “Thank you, Arthur. That was perfect. Satisfied, Mr. Stevenson?”

“Very.” Stevenson wasn’t the least bit perturbed. “Arthur, let’s talk about your third statement.” He lifted a paper from his desk and read aloud. “‘She said if he didn’t, she was going to call the police. Then… it got really noisy… and there was a lot of shouting, and, um… and Mom screamed, and there was a bang… and then everything got really, really quiet.’” He looked up. “Can you describe the sounds you heard?”

“The sounds?” Arthur echoed cautiously.

“You said it got really noisy,” Stevenson explained. “What was the noisy part?”

Arthur tensed, the reaction not going unnoticed by Edgeworth, and he started to fiddle with his hands. “Well, I… um, there were stomping footsteps… a lot. Um, Mom told him to go away… she shouted a lot—”

“Hold it!”

Arthur jumped, and Edgeworth shot Stevenson an accusatory glare.

“We already know your mother was shouting. I want to know about the other noises you heard. You were hiding under your bed, there were footsteps, and there was shouting, but there was more going on than that.”

Edgeworth prickled. You’re pushing it, Stevenson.

“You probably heard some sounds like someone being hit or sho—”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed his hands down. “Your Honor, the defense is clearly leading the witness.”

The old man nodded, eyes wide, as though some shocking secret had just been revealed. “Oh! Yes, yes, clearly. Mr. Stevenson, please refrain from leading the witness.”

Stevenson glowered at the prosecutor standing across from him. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Edgeworth allowed himself the pettiness of a smirk and looked to his witness once more. “Arthur, what do you mean by noisy?”

Arthur was scratching at his mouth again, green eyes glassy. “I—I don’t know. It just was. There was… I think the TV was on… or the radio, maybe? Someone was talking, like… like a DJ or the news people. It was turned up loud… I couldn’t tell what Mom and Daddy were saying, but that was loud, too. I… I really don’t know. I didn’t hear anything else.”

Stevenson perked up at that. “The defense requests the witness append this statement to their testimony.”

Edgeworth arched a brow. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Stevenson?”

“Absolutely.” Stevenson flashed a predatory grin.

“I…” Arthur seemed so small behind the large, wooden stand. “How do I append something? What’s that mean?”

“It means to add it to your testimony.” Edgeworth briefly let himself look away from his opponent. “We use that word quite a bit. Just remember that append means add.”

Arthur blinked. “Okay… I can do that.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear anything else.”

“Objection!”

Edgeworth saw Arthur jump despite all attempts to hide it, and he began compiling a mental list of things he would do to Stevenson when the trial was over. But Stevenson couldn’t hear his thoughts, and thus, paid him no mind. Instead, he set his eyes on Arthur, going after the contradiction like a shark after blood.

“There is a huge contradiction in your testimony, Arthur.”

“Th-there is?” the little blonde stammered, his anxiety spiking again.

“Yes, there is. Investigators found quite a mess at the crime scene. There was a lot of jewelry and a broken mirror on the floor. You didn’t hear the glass shatter? There was also an overturned bookshelf. You didn’t hear any thumps too loud to be a footstep?”

“I—” Arthur froze like a deer in the headlights. “I—I didn’t—”

Edgeworth laughed. He laughed out loud, the sound resonating in the court, and he had half a mind to be embarrassed about it, but he just couldn’t help himself. “Oh, Mr. Stevenson.”

Stevenson stared back at him, lingering somewhere between angry and cautious.

“You’ve dug your own grave.” Edgeworth shook his head, still smiling to himself, and gestured toward the center of the courtroom. “By all means, please continue your line of questioning. But understand, once you go down this road, you cannot go back.”

Stevenson glared silently, but the determination in his eyes only grew.

“What’s going on?” Arthur spoke cautiously, eyes wary.

“It’s just part of the trial,” Edgeworth assured. “Be patient.”

Stevenson squared his shoulders. “Arthur, did you hear any glass shattering?”

“No, I… I don’t remember that.”

“Did you hear a loud thump, like a something heavy falling over?”

Arthur blinked, confused, looking between the prosecution and the defense multiple times before his eyes finally landed on Edgeworth, begging for help.

Edgeworth only offered him a small smile, knowing he couldn’t steer the boy any particular way but hating how distraught he was. He doesn’t understand at all. Because if he did, he would have been lying through his teeth. He doesn’t realize he’s taking away the only witness backing his mother’s story.

“Arthur,” Stevenson pressed. “Did you hear something heavy falling over?”

He’s trying to get Arthur to say he heard sounds of a struggle. Shouting is not enough to warrant deadly force, even in a Stand Your Ground state, and both of their names were on the lease, so Castle Doctrine is out the door. It’s impossible for him to trespass on his own property, and without a restraining order…

“No… I don’t remember that. I heard footsteps, and shouting, and…” Arthur bit down hard, a few tears escaping the corners of his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s alright, Arthur. You haven’t done anything wrong. You told the truth.” Edgeworth looked across the room at Stevenson. “It just so happens the truth is not what the defense would like to hear, because it proves one of two things. Either Arthur wasn’t present and conscious at the time of the murder, and thus, he is not a valid witness. Or,” and this was the one he was betting on, “there was no life-threatening struggle.”

“Objection!” Stevenson’s voice echoed in the courtroom. “It’s entirely possible he didn’t hear those specific sounds amongst all the other noise.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed a hand down on the table. “Shattering glass, maybe, but he said he could hear a television or radio in the next room. There is no reason why he wouldn’t hear a heavy bookshelf falling over in a room just as close on the opposite side.”

“Objection! He also said he couldn’t make out what his parents were saying. Clearly his ability to hear what was going on in that room was diminished.”

“Objection!”

“Objection!”

Edgeworth slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward, snarling a vicious, “I didn’t even say anything!”

Stevenson slammed his desk, too. “You didn’t have to!”

“Order! Order!” The gavel pounded relentlessly onto the block.

 Silence blanketed the courtroom while Edgeworth and Stevenson continued to send mental chaos across the board, both of them steaming.

The judge cleared his throat. “The prosecution and defense are lacking either the evidence to prove their points or the mental clarity to present it properly.”

Edgeworth continued to hold Stevenson’s gaze. “The police department had very short notice on this case. I’m afraid even the autopsy report hasn’t made it to us yet.”

“I call for a twenty-minute recess. Try to get more results during this time and be prepared for the reconvening.”

Edgeworth sighed in frustration, shoving his case files into his briefcase as court was let out. That should be enough time to grab a coffee and contact Gumshoe. I need to be prepared for Stevenson to turn this on its head. If he goes with the idea of no witnesses, there’s nothing but physical evidence, and I don’t that is sufficient to convince the judge of Murder Two. On the other hand, if Arthur re—

Edgeworth stopped dead in his tracks. “Arthur?” He looked at the witness stand, but it was empty. He looked at the gallery, but he got the same amount of nothing. “Arthur?” He turned in a circle, rapidly scanning the room before bolting to the doors. He slid out and looked around, but all three corridors were void of children, and there was no crowd to hide Arthur, only stragglers. “Arthur!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Arthur!”

No response. No little footsteps. No sound effects.

I’ve got to pick a direction. I’ve got to pick—left, we came from the left. That direction would be familiar to him. It wasn’t much, but it was all Edgeworth had to go on, so he took off running. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he must have looked ridiculous—a grown man in a three-piece suit running down the halls of a courtroom—but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Because while that thought was in the back of his mind, the front of his mind was overwhelmed with one thought and one thought only.

Find Arthur.

Until that happened, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

Sneakers squeaked against the tile floor, high-pitched echoes bouncing off the courthouse walls as Arthur pushed down the burning in his legs and ran faster. He pumped his arms, panting too much to chew on his lip like he wanted, the muted colors of the walls and floor blurring together past the tears in his eyes. He rounded a corner, nearly falling in the process, and then he was off again, heart pounding and lungs aching. But he couldn’t stop. He had to find a quiet place away from everything where he could curl up, cover his head, and just be alone.

Mr. Edgeworth knows I lied! He knows now, and he’s gonna be so mad at me. I don’t want him to be mad at me! I don’t want him to yell at me. I don’t want him to hit me. I like him. I don’t—I just wanna go home!

Arthur slowed in the middle of an intersection, looking around and trying to figure out where he was. He turned in a circle, looking down each corridor and wiping his face on his sleeves. I wanna go home… I wanna go home… I want Daddy… Thinking about his dad had him sobbing all over again, and without letting himself think, he bolted down the hall to his left.

“Arthur!”

Arthur screeched to a halt, realizing with horror that he had gone in a giant circle and wound up running back toward the courtroom he had just left. Mr. Edgeworth had come after him, but he must have gone the opposite way and wound up in front of Arthur instead of behind him.

“Oh! There you are. You—”

Arthur pivoted and ran back to the intersection, flying around the corner to his left.

“Arthur, wait! Get back here!”

Ducking his head, Arthur kept going as fast as his feet would take him. He grit his teeth and choked back another sob, egged on by the sound of Mr. Edgeworth running behind him.

“Arthur, just stop running for a moment and talk to me!”

Arthur covered his ears, torn between screwing his eyes shut and trying to see where he was going. Mr. Edgeworth didn’t call for him again, but his footsteps were getting closer, and Arthur knew he couldn’t outrun someone with significantly longer legs. He just barely got to the next corner before his arm was seized in a vice-like grip, the hand whirling him around and leaving him staring up at Mr. Edgeworth in pure, unadulterated terror.

“Don’t ever run off like that again.” Mr. Edgeworth was bent over and panting, bracing one hand against his knee. “First you disappear, and I can’t find you, and then I find you, and you run the other way!” He shook his head with a hard, heavy exhaled. “You scared me half to death!”

Arthur trembled and tried to find his voice, tugging his arm in an attempt to get free. “I… I just wanted to be alone,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Mr. Edgeworth took another second to catch his breath and then straightened up to continue the lecture. “This is not the place to be alone, and you should never, ever wander off without permission no matter where you are.”

Arthur pulled on his arm again, trying to back up, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried again to apologize. “I’m sorry…”

“What if someone had grabbed you and run off?” It was as if Mr. Edgeworth hadn’t even heard him. “They could have done any number of horrible things to you. I might have never seen you again.”

Arthur sobbed, hiding his face behind his free hand. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

For a second, there was nothing, and then Mr. Edgeworth slowly sank into a crouch with a sigh. “I know you’re sorry, Arthur, I just… I want you to understand the danger you just put yourself in. I’m not angry with you, you just…” He took a deep breath. “You scared me, that’s all. But it’s in the past, and obviously, nothing bad happened to you, and here we are.”

Arthur kept his face hidden, and when Mr. Edgeworth pulled his hand away, he glued his eyes to the floor. His shoulders shuddered, saline splashing to the marble tiles as his lungs continued to heave with sobs.

“Come now, Arthur. You aren’t going to cry because of a scolding, are you?”

“You hate me, don’t you?” Arthur hiccupped, keeping his head down, shame heating his neck and face. “I—lied to you, and then—I ran away, and now—”

“Arthur,” Mr. Edgeworth started.

Arthur stepped back and pulled on his arms, ducking his head in a desperate attempt to cover his face as he started wailing louder. He felt Mr. Edgeworth’s hands move to his shoulder, but the firm hold did little to comfort him. If anything, it sent a twinge of fear down his spine.

“Arthur, I don’t hate you. I… yes, you did lie to me, and yes, lying is wrong, but… this is a very complicated… situation with… circumstances that…” Mr. Edgeworth let out a sigh, and when Arthur looked up, he was shaking his head. He looked lost, like he didn’t know what to say, which was silly, because grown-ups always knew what to say.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Edgeworth…” Arthur sniffed a few times.

“I know, and I forgive you.” Mr. Edgeworth reached up and gently tugged Arthur’s lip from between his teeth. “You’re biting again. You mustn’t do that. Look, you’re all cut open and bleeding.”

Arthur stopped biting, but he couldn’t have cared less about his bloody, torn skin. His chest was aching, his eyes were raw, his throat was sore, his head was pounding—he was miserable.

“Hold me?” Arthur hesitantly raised his arms, unable to look Mr. Edgeworth in the eye.

“Ah, well, I… you see, I, um… I’ve never… I’m not really sure how to…”

“Please?” Arthur voice cracked, and he almost bit his lip but managed to stop himself, hoping obedience would make Mr. Edgeworth want to pick him up.

“I…” Mr. Edgeworth didn’t say anything for a moment, though Arthur could hear his clothes rustling, and then his hands slid under Arthur’s arms. Clearing his throat, Mr. Edgeworth lifted Arthur from the ground and fumbled for a few seconds before situating the boy on his hip. “How’s that?”

Arthur wrapped his arms around Mr. Edgeworth’s neck, holding on tight. “S’good. Thanks.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Edgeworth cleared his throat and started walking back to the courtroom, and while the arm underneath Arthur didn’t move, the one wound around his middle struggled to find its place. “Certainly…”

Arthur lowered his head to Mr. Edgeworth’s shoulder, but he jumped back up when his nose rubbed against the white, ruffled thing the prosecutor always wore. “Oh! Mr. Edgeworth, I—” He bit his lip. “I accidentally wiped my nose on your… thingy. I’m really sorry.”

Surprisingly, Mr. Edgeworth simply chuckled. “Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be the first time my cravat has been used as a handkerchief. I have a spare with my briefcase, so it’s not a problem.” He gave Arthur a pointed look. “You biting, however, is a problem, and you’re doing it again.”

Arthur gasped and immediately stopped. “S-sorry.”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed. “What am I going to do with you? Hmm?”

Arthur sniffed, lifting his shoulders in a faint shrug. “I dunno.”

“I put your chapstick in my briefcase as well, so I’ll grab that when I get my cravat.” Mr. Edgeworth lifted Arthur a little higher. “Hopefully, recess will last long enough for me to do everything I need to…”

Arthur leaned against Mr. Edgeworth and dropped his chin to the shoulder of the wine-colored suit, exhausted from the day and getting colder with every moment he wasn’t moving. “I didn’t know there was recess.” He sniffed. “Do we get to play?”

“Uh, no. Well, I suppose you could, but I can’t. Recess is for the lawyers to look at their evidence and think about the case they want to make.” Mr. Edgeworth let go long enough to pull something from his pocket, and then he grabbed on again.

“Mr. Edgeworth…” Arthur sniffed again, half-lidded eyes staring at the sparsely occupied corridors behind them. “Do you believe I saw what happened?”

Mr. Edgeworth sighed softly, and that was really all the answer Arthur needed, but Mr. Edgeworth used some words anyway. “I want to believe you, Arthur, but I have to follow the evidence. And the evidence says you haven’t told me the complete truth.”

Arthur leaned in a little closer, hooking one leg around Mr. Edgeworth’s hip so he didn’t slide down. “You talk to the evidence?”

Mr. Edgeworth gave a sideways nod, his hair brushing against Arthur’s temple. “In a manner of speaking… I suppose I do. I look at pictures and fingerprints and forensics, and I use it all to figure out what really happened. That’s my job.” He came to a stop and shifted Arthur until they were looking at each other, a poignant sadness going into his eyes. “You understand, don’t you? I have to do my job. I don’t want to hurt you or your mother, but I can’t lie.”

Arthur nodded, trying to blink away his tears. “I know.”

It didn’t look like his answer made Mr. Edgeworth feel any better, but Arthur found himself unable to speak as they continued down the hall to the lobby outside the courtroom. I’m sorry, Mr. Edgeworth. I’m really, really sorry…

That, at least, was the complete truth.

It was difficult for Edgeworth to pull his attention away from Arthur and focus on the trial, but constantly reminding himself Arthur was with Wright helped to curb the separation anxiety. He’s fine. He’s safe. He’s with a reliable guardian—relatively speaking—getting lunch up the road from the courthouse. I’ve been to that noodle shop. It’s safe. Everything’s fine.

“Has the prosecution made any changes to their opening statement?”

“There is nothing to change, Your Honor.” Edgeworth chuckled and shook his head, allowing himself a bit of bumptiousness when addressing the case at hand. “Lack of a witness, in this particular case, means lack of a testimony that can corroborate the defendant’s claims. The State is still charging Alyssa Coleman with murder in the second degree.”

“Very well.” The judge nodded. “Has the defense made any changes to their plea?”

“No, Your Honor.” Stevenson lifted a brow, staring Edgeworth down from the other side of the courtroom. “The defense is still pleading not guilty under the pretense of justifiable homicide.”

“I see,” the judge offered his, as always, enlightening perspective. “Well, Prosecutor Edgeworth, do you have a witness to call?”

Edgeworth nodded. “Seeing as the case has come down to physical evidence, the prosecution calls Detective Dick Gumshoe back to the stand to reiterate the physical findings in the Coleman apartment.”

Gumshoe, who apparently hadn’t realized that was the next logical move to make, startled loudly and clambered his way up to the witness stand.

“Detective,” Edgeworth started, silently counting backward from ten to give himself a pinch of patience. “Please testify regarding the physical evidence of the case.”

Gumshoe nodded enthusiastically. “Right, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

Oh, sweet mercy. Edgeworth started counting down again. Heaven help me.

“After we detained the defendant and got a medic with the kid, I started lookin’ around the scene. Mr. Coleman’s body was in the bedroom, propped up against the bed like he is in that picture I showed you.”

Edgeworth handed a copy up to the judge to head off any unnecessary questions.

“There was a bookshelf and a broken mirror and a bunch of jewelry—a real big mess in the bedroom. The rest of the house was cluttered, but I didn’t see signs of a struggle. We got the hunting rifle from the closet, sent the body with the coroner, and waited for forensics to finish up. There wasn’t nothin’ special about the forensics on scene, and ballistics came back showing the bullet was from the rifle we found.”

Edgeworth somehow made it through the testimony without having a coronary or demanding a recess or both. Wasn’t… nothin’… He said… Edgeworth cleared his throat. “Thank you, Detective. Um… if the defense would like to… cross-examine.”

Stevenson nodded, his expression torn between annoyance and bewilderment. If nothing else, he at least shared Edgeworth’s sentiments on Gumshoe’s lack of professionalism and… mindfulness in general.

“Uh…” Stevenson shook his head. “Detective, I’d like to press your first statement. You said you detained the defendant at the scene. Why?”

Gumshoe tilted his head to the side and scratched his neck, confused. “Huh?”

Stevenson also tilted his head, though in a very different way, and tried again. “You can’t detain someone unless you have a reason to believe the homicide wasn’t justified. What reason did you have for detaining the defendant, if any?”

“Oh!” Gumshoe grinned, apparently understanding what was being asked. “Well, to be honest, there wasn’t any hard evidence for the arrest, but I did have reason to believe somethin’ was off-color. See, you lawyers deal with murder trials all the time, but there’s more to trials than murder, and lotsa cases don’t make it this far, especially when it comes to battered women. They don’t wanna testify against the abuser, and that’s sometimes still true even when the abuser is dead. They get so psychologically beaten down, see, and they don’t think it’s worth defending themselves, or they think nobody’ll believe’em.” He nodded to Alyssa. “She didn’t look or act like a battered wife. No bruises, no blood, no scars, no bloodshot eyes—heck, she wasn’t even crying when I got there.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Now, could be shock or personality, but I volunteer at a shelter on weekends, and I’m pretty used to interacting with abused women—and men, really. But this defendant just… wasn’t acting how a typical battered woman would have acted. Not toward her kid, not toward us, not toward the medics—” He cut himself off, made a face, and then shook his head. “Might’a just been a fluke, but it was weird enough that I thought somethin’ was fishy.”

Edgeworth blinked, surprised for multiple reasons. First, Gumshoe had drawn conclusions from observation and inference rather than plain-as-day, in-your-face, factual evidence. Second, he had no idea Gumshoe spent his free time helping battered women and… whoever else went to a shelter for help—it wasn’t as if Edgeworth knew—and despite his disparaging opinion of the detective’s IQ, he had to admire the all-consuming desire to help others.

“So, what you’re saying is, you arrested the defendant on a gut feeling?”

Edgeworth glared at Stevenson, fully prepared to knock him on his backside, but Gumshoe beat him to it with a round of foot-stomping and a shout.

“Hey, pal! Nothing is more accurate than a detective’s gut!”

Edgeworth rolled his eyes. “I believe what the good detective is trying to say is that his experience led him to believe something was amiss at the scene of the crime.”

“That’s not good enough,” was Stevenson’s level response. “You need probable cause.”

Edgeworth chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “In a murder trial, the defense attempts to place reasonable doubt of guilt within the mind of the judge. Detective Gumshoe had reasonable doubt of innocent. That’s reason enough.”

“It’s innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around. You’re comparing apples and oranges, Mr. Edgeworth, and so is your detective.” Stevenson extended a finger to point at Gumshoe, eyes blazing. “Detective, did you or did you not have probable cause to arrest this woman?”

Gumshoe’s brow scrunched up, and he looked between Edgeworth and Stevenson as if they were both crazy. “Uh, weren’t you listening?”

Stevenson frowned. “What?”

“No bruises, no blood, no scars. You can’t shoot someone for yellin’ at you, pal, or a lot more people would be dead.” Gumshoe laughed at his own joke, the chortle tapering off into a sigh of satisfaction. “I told you about my gut feeling ‘cause it plays a big part in making sense of what I see, but all the same, she was in perfect condition for a lady who said she was fearing for her life less than twenty minutes before.”

Edgeworth smirked across the room, making a mental note to raise the detective’s pay in the near future. “Satisfied?”

Stevenson glared and turned back to Gumshoe, pursuing another statement. “Detective, you said you didn’t see signs of a struggle in the rest of the apartment. Did you see anything odd or out of place at all?”

Gumshoe rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling, humming loudly as he thought over the question. “Hmm… well… let me uh… hmm…”

Edgeworth pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps a raise is a bit much. I shouldn’t get carried away. Still, he made no attempt to cut off Gumshoe’s lengthy rumination.

“Can’t think of anything, pal. I remember the kitchen was awful messy. I went looking for something the kid could snack on—you know, trying to calm him down—and the fridge was pretty empty. I did find some candies, but he didn’t want those, which I thought was weird because they tasted great…”

Stevenson massaged his temple with two fingers. “Let me guess. You had a gut feeling about the kitchen, too?”

Gumshoe nodded slowly, almost absently, like he hadn’t realized he had a gut feeling about the kitchen until that moment. “Yeah, I guess I kinda did. It didn’t fit, just like the defendant. Battered women usually keep a real clean house because they don’t want to tick off their man. But this kitchen was a downright mess, and the kid didn’t want to go anywhere near it. Oh! And there was lots of beer in the fridge.”

Stevenson motioned for more information. “And…?”

“Oh, that’s it.” Gumshoe shrugged. “It’s just—yanno, the kid said his mom was yellin’ at his dad for drinking. I figured if she didn’t want him drinking, she wouldn’t have kept a twenty-four pack in the fridge. Or she would at least have kept some juice or tea or something else in there he could drink instead. But nope. Just beer. Thought it was kinda wonky.” He shrugged his broad shoulders once again and laughed in that dopey way he often did.

Edgeworth frowned at his notes, gaze narrowing. That does sound a bit strange. Even if the beer was for her, it’s as Gumshoe said: would she have kept something else for Bruce to drink? Something other than the tap? He twisted his lips. Perhaps I should return to the crime scene and do a little more investigating of my own.

“Mr. Stevenson, does this line of questioning hold any relevance?” the judge asked.

Stevenson shook his head with an irritated sigh. “No, Your Honor, it would appear not.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth threw his finger out and, wearing his signature smirk, wagged it condescendingly. “Not so. Detective Gumshoe presented multiple oddities in the house that require more thorough investigation. Why doesn’t the house match up with the typical home of an abusive male-on-female dynamic? Why didn’t Arthur want to go into his own kitchen, when the only thing on his mind should have been the horror he had just witnessed? Or, if not witnessed, made aware of after the fact? Furthermore, we need to reevaluate the clutter and fallen furniture in the master bedroom to determine whether the evidence of a fight was real or fabricated. I think it would be rather foolish to continue the trial before we know these pertinent details.”

The judge nodded deeply while Stevenson sent a sneer across the room. Edgeworth simply smiled and waited, glancing up at the judge’s stand when the old man began to speak.

“Yes, yes, I can see the logic in this.”

Stevenson rolled his eyes. “He’s buying time.”

“Hmm?” the judge looked at the defense, his ear inclined toward the desk.

“Nothing, Your Honor. I think your ears were tricking you.” Stevenson smiled sweetly.

The judge nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. That makes sense. Of course.” He cleared his throat and picked up his gavel. “We will reconvene tomorrow at 8:00 AM. You have until then to gather more evidence and speak at length with any potential witnesses. Adjourned!”

The gavel came down, and Edgeworth held Stevenson’s stare just long enough to intimidate, and then he grabbed his case files and made for the exit, snagging Gumshoe’s arm as he passed. “Come on. I managed to buy some time, but it isn’t much, and we have a lot to investigate.”

“Yes, sir, Prosecutor Edgeworth, sir!”

Edgeworth had more than the investigation to worry about, too. He had to get clothing for Arthur, look into the name Wright had given him before the trial, go over the updated case files, talk to people, perhaps make a trip to the coroner or the lab, and somewhere in all that mess, he had to keep Arthur happy, fed, occupied, clean—oh, goodness, clean, Arthur needed a bath—and he had less than twenty-four hours to do it all.

It’s fine. I still have everything under control. He ran a hand through his hair, bangs falling back into place after his fingers trailed through. I have everything under control.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want that one.”

Edgeworth shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a slow, steady stream before he tried to put words on his tongue. “Arthur, you need a suit. You have turned down twenty-two thus far, and if you don’t pick one soon, I’m going to pick one for you.”

“It’s not my fault.” Arthur pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, seeming genuinely distraught at his inability to find a suit he liked. “None of them are right.”

Edgeworth raised a brow. “What constitutes a ‘right’ suit?”

“Oh, I know that one!” Arthur cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domes—”

“No, that’s—” Edgeworth couldn’t keep from laughing, though he did try to suppress it, knowing how he himself hated the embarrassment of misunderstanding things. “That’s the Constitution. I asked what constitutes a right suit. As in, what does it need to have in order to be considered a right suit? What makes it right? What are we looking for?”

Arthur puckered his scabbed lips, brow scrunching as he considered the question. “Um, it needs…” He moved his hands vaguely, struggling to find the right word. “It has to be…”

Edgeworth tapped his foot, waiting less-than-patiently while Arthur turned in a circle and examined every rack he saw. Edgeworth was opening his mouth to start counting down when Arthur took off running.

“Ooh!”

“What—Arthur!” Edgeworth darted after him, grateful there was no one else in the vicinity to see him behaving so foolishly. “Where are you going?”

Arthur grabbed a suit from a rack and whirled around, holding out the hanging jacket and slacks with a beaming smile.

Edgeworth blinked, caught off guard, but his lips pulled into an instinctive smile before he could even process what he was seeing. “Burgundy, huh?”

Arthur nodded, still grinning. “Just like yours.”

“Just like… mine, yes. Just like mine.” Swallowing, Edgeworth tried to figure out if he felt flattered or nervous or… and when he couldn’t give the feeling a name, he simply maintained his smile and pressed on. “You’ll have to try it on, and once we’re certain it fits, we’ll need to go get the pajamas and casual clothes.”

“Why don’t you wear casual clothes?” Arthur asked, his train of thought jumping to a completely new track with Phoenix Wright levels of spontaneity. “Like, you wear suits at home. But suits aren’t comfy. So why would you do that?”

Mouth moving disjointedly, Edgeworth floundered as he tried to think of an answer. “I… don’t really know, I…” He exhaled. “I had to wear them all the time when I was young, so… I supposed I just… got to a point where I enjoyed it.”

“What?” Arthur gasped, looking scandalized. “How did you play tag? And hide n’ seek? And jump in leaf piles? And—”

“I didn’t do those things.” Not after his father died, anyway. “Let’s try on the suit, shall we? It’s already two o’ clock, and we aren’t even done shopping.” He gestured toward the fitting room with a blank expression, not knowing what face he could wear when he felt so… unsettled. Melancholic. Lypophrenic.

Thankfully, Arthur only stared at him for a few seconds and then accepted the answer—or lack thereof. He turned around to face the fitting room and started hopping toward them, arms pressed to his sides and feet together. Befuddled, Edgeworth trailed behind as the boy navigated the numerous racks in the bounciest way he could. It seemed odd—not that Edgeworth really knew what typical children did or didn’t do—but it was amusing in its own way.

Arthur came to a stop outside one of the stalls and whirled back around, holding out his hands expectantly. “Suit, please!”

“You can manage on your own?”

“Yup!” Arthur chirped enthusiastically.

Edgeworth was unsure if he believed that, but he relinquished the outfit, and Arthur happily wrapped both arms around it before disappearing into the stall. Edgeworth hesitated and then took a seat on one of two nearby chairs, trying to plan the rest of his day. We should be able to buy regular clothes and pajamas by size; no need to try anything on. I have to investigate the crime scene again, but I also have to arrange dinner for Arthur and myself… and really, I should find a way to investigate the scene without Arthur there… perhaps Wright could watch him, just for an hour or so. Speaking of Wright… He reached into his pocket and grabbed the scrap his friend had given him before the trial. Tasha Clarke. Nothing but a name and a phone number, but perhaps it would be helpful.

“It fits!”

Edgeworth glanced up, tucking the note away. “Step out and show me, please.” Not that he didn’t trust Arthur to judge a properly fitted suit, but he didn’t trust Arthur to judge a properly fitted suit.

“Um… but it fits.”

Edgeworth creased his brow. “I heard you. I want to see it anyway.”

There was a brief pause. “I… I don’t have a shirt to go with it.” Arthur cleared his throat. “I don’t wanna come out without a shirt on.”

“Oh. Well, that’s understandable.” Edgeworth slid to his feet. “I’ll just come in and—”

“No!” Arthur objected almost frantically. “I don’t want you to see, either.”

Edgeworth didn’t like the sound of that. “Is there… any particular reason why?”

Arthur paused again, a bit longer than before. “I just… don’t like it.”

Edgeworth took a moment to wrestle with himself, trying to figure out what he wanted to do. He had already determined Arthur said he didn’t like things that scared him, and Edgeworth didn’t want to force anything, but at the same time, he was acutely aware of the fact he only had two days left to uncover the truth about what happened inside Arthur’s home. What do I do? Fighting the urge to sigh, Edgeworth approached the door and lowered his voice. “Arthur. Why are you afraid?”

“M’not afraid…” It was a weak objection; Arthur couldn’t even be bothered to enunciate.

“I think you are.” Edgeworth touched the door handle. “I need to come in and make sure the suit fits you properly.”

“It does,” Arthur whined.

Edgeworth didn’t fight the sigh that time. “Arthur. Which one of us is a bunch of fancy words in charge?”

Silence, then a feeble laugh that melted into a sigh, and then a sliding lock.

“Thank you.” Edgeworth slipped inside and closed the door quickly to preserve Arthur’s privacy, kneeling down. “Stretch your arms toward me.”

Arthur did as he was told, and Edgeworth confirmed the sleeves fit. Not perfectly, of course, but as much as a non-tailored suit could.

“Now out to the sides.”

Arthur buffered, tears welling up in his eyes as he reluctantly followed the instructions.

Don’t react, is what Edgeworth told himself before the jacket opened with the movement, and he was glad he prepared himself, because he certainly would have reacted had he not. “Arthur,” he started, cautiously pulling on the lapels to further reveal the layered bruises, “what happened to your stomach?”

Arthur sniffed, staring at the wall and refusing to answer.

“Does it hurt?” Edgeworth brushed his fingers against the edge of the yellowest mark, silently reminding himself it was at least good the bruises were healing. “Does it hurt to breathe or talk? Does it hurt when I pick you up?”

Arthur shook his head, still staring to his left. “No. It’s fine. I fell.”

Edgeworth wet his lips, wording himself as carefully as he could. “It isn’t fine to be hurt, Arthur, and you should always tell someone when you are.” He forced a smile to relay some kind of warmth or comfort. “Tell me how you fell to hurt yourself this way.”

Arthur flexed his hands and starting chewing.

“Lip.” Edgeworth pulled the skin until it was free. “Tell me how you fell.”

“Tripped down the stairs.” Arthur rubbed his face but wouldn’t quite wipe his eyes.

I don’t believe that for a second. “You fell down the steps and hurt your stomach this way?”

Arthur, apparently unaware his story was highly improbable, nodded seriously.

“Who was with you when you fell?” Edgeworth inspected the length of Arthur’s pantlegs, feigning a continuation of the suit examination.

“Mom was with me.” Arthur sniffed and cleared his throat. “Does it fit?”

If you keep pressing, he’s going to stop answering altogether. Like an uncooperative witness. I’ll have to leave it alone for now. “Your jacket is a bit big,” Edgeworth put his hands on the floor and pushed himself up, “but I’m hardly going to have it tailored for a two-day event.”

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror, some of his sadness melting away. “I like it.” He adjusted the collar, a bright smile painted on his lips. “I really, really like it.” He turned the smile to Edgeworth. “I need a shirt and a vest like you have.”

Edgeworth smiled lightly. “We can find a shirt, but we’re running out of time for more suit pieces to be hunted down. Perhaps we’ll get the vest tomorrow, and you can wear it the third day of trial.” He sincerely hoped Arthur forgot all about that idea the second they left the store. “Come on. We have a busy day, and tomorrow isn’t going to wait for us to catch up.

“Okay!” Arthur bounded out of the fitting room, Edgeworth on his heels.

Someone had to have inflicted those bruises. Now I just need to figure out if it was his mother, his father, some bullies at school… Edgeworth rubbed his forehead. A busy day, indeed.

Edgeworth let out a heavy sigh. It was an exasperated, exhausted, two-hours-of-investigation-with-no-leads sigh, and he didn’t really let it out so much as he hurled it out of his mouth with the force of a solid punch. Let’s start from square one.

He walked to the front door and turned around, pretending to enter the apartment. Directly in front of him, there was a wall with a coatrack, and the living room was to his left. I’m Bruce Coleman. I’m intoxicated, and I just walked in my door. He moved into the living room and stopped, noting the hall to the left that led to the bedrooms but focusing on the archway opposite to it. If I cross the room and enter the kitchen, where Alyssa claims she was, I should be stabbed, not shot. He frowned. Maybe I was just on my way to the kitchen, and I hadn’t actually arrived yet? He took a step but stopped immediately. No, because if I’m anywhere in the living room, I can intercept her before she gets to the closet with the gun. She still would have grabbed the knife first.

Edgeworth backed up a bit and, after a second of thought, turned and went down the hall. He passed an open door on his right—Arthur’s room—and then he was faced with a decision between the bathroom in front of him and the master bedroom to his right. I’m intoxicated, so maybe I need the facilities. He scowled. But if Alyssa is waiting for me when I come out, the argument takes place in the hall. I wouldn’t walk away if I’m the aggressor, so there’s no way for me to end up in the bedroom unless she were to go in there first… but why would she corner herself? He entered the room in question and looked around. Somehow, I end up in the bedroom first. Alyssa comes in, and we start to argue. Ergo, she initiated the conflict.

That wouldn’t matter in some places, but they were in a state where initiation played a significant role in the determination of both guilt and sentencing. It was also a state where one had to reach the area of last retreat before using deadly force. That’s not good for her. If I’m right, not only was she the initiator, but she clearly had a chance to get away. Bruce is the one trapped, because she’s between him and exit. He went back into the hall, switching roles. I’m Alyssa. I’m fed up with my husband’s drinking, and I’m going to tell him, but I’m afraid. I bring a weapon with me to ensure my own safety. Why don’t I run when he gets violent? He looked down the hall. Arthur. Maybe I don’t think I can get us both out in time, so I have to stand my ground here. I’ve got more than just myself to protect.

Steadily dumbfounded and increasingly frustrated with his dumbfoundedness, Edgeworth walked back into the room. If Bruce runs at me, and I shoot him, he’ll likely fall forward. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll end up flat on his back, not propped up against the bed. So where is the threat to me? What triggers the fear of death or great bodily harm so such an extent I feel the need to pull the trigger in order to save myself and my child? His scowl deepened with every thought in the ongoing sequence. Nothing about this scenario makes sense. Alyssa told Arthur to hide under his bed. Why? He would be closer to the conflict, closer to the danger, and able to hear everything through the walls. Why not send him to the kitchen, or better yet, out of the apartment altogether? Why not ask him to call 911 or run to a neighbor for help? He thought of Tasha Clarke, wondering if she was one such neighbor, and wondering if that had anything to do with why Wright wanted him to question her.

Shaking his head, Edgeworth tucked the thought away for later and got back to work, his earlier frustration returning. Arthur was found in his room, utterly hysterical. It’s possible he ran there after the murder, but his testimony is likely accurate: he was told to hide under his bed, so he did. He squinted at the room and then made a beeline for the kitchen and dining area. Arthur is afraid of the kitchen. Gumshoe has suspicions about the kitchen. Alyssa didn’t send Arthur out here.

Edgeworth combed the dining area, but nothing was particularly eye-catching, so he moved to the more kitchen-esque half of the room and began to snoop.

Investigate. He began to investigate.

Dishes sat in the sink, a foul odor rising from the pile, and there was old pizza on the stove. Sugar, creamers, and a coffee machine were shoved in a corner by the fridge with some equally cluttered shelves up above. Nothing notable. He slowly turned, slipping on a pair of latex gloves as he observed the various messes. He opened the cabinets one after the other, finding pots and pans and anything else one would expect to find in a kitchen cabinet. He was forced onto his tiptoes by the ones above the fridge, but he managed to reach the knobs. Napkins, plastic cutlery, paper pl—wait. Eureka!

Abandoning his previous search entirely, Edgeworth dropped to his hands and knees. I can’t look at this from an adult perspective. Arthur is closer to the ground, so whatever Alyssa didn’t want him to see is low, not high. He sat back on his haunches, scanning the kitchen. I’m a terrified child, and I need somewhere to hide. Somewhere small, where I can curl up and feel safe. Gray eyes scanned the room, drifting from tea towels to bottles until finally falling on the pantry. Lots of toilet paper in front of the door, but that’s easy to move. He pulled the bulky packages out and crawled under the lowest shelf, looking around. I’m hiding. I have a nervous tick for lip biting. I fiddle with things. He tapped along the wall and floors with his gloved hands. My parents are shouting at each other. Maybe I want to feel safer, so I build up the wall outside my hiding place. Edgeworth grabbed the paper towels that had been stored next to the toilet paper. I stack them on top of each other. I have a little more space now… He tapped the walls and floor again, and the second his knuckle struck the floorboard, he heard it.

It's hollow. There wasn’t much light in the pantry, but feeling his way around was enough. He found a hole too small for his finger, but not for Arthur’s. Reaching into his breast pocket, he grabbed his pen and stuck one in the hole, lifting the board with ease and looking down into the compartment with a satisfied smirk.

That’s check, Alyssa Coleman. He grabbed a tray of little, glass bottles and a mason jar full of… candies, it looked like? Confused, but still pleased with the discovery, he got back on his feet and carried the items to the counter. He grabbed one bottle and held it up to the light with a squint that quickly melted into something more devious. I stand corrected. Edgeworth reached for his phone. This is, in fact, checkmate.

Chapter Text

“I thought I would be finished at the office sooner. I know you want to play, and I apologize, but you need a bath, and it’s too late to do anything else before bed.”

Arthur hunched his shoulders but didn’t resist, shuffling to the stairs and throwing a final, longing look over his shoulder. Mr. Edgeworth gave him a knowing look, pointing to the steps with one hand while the other held a file.

“Go on.”

Groaning theatrically, Arthur trudged up the stairs. He wasn’t against taking a bath—it had been a while, after all, and his arms were kinda sticky from the humidity outside—but he had been running around the city with Mr. Edgeworth all day. He wanted to play.

He really wanted to play.

I guess I can play in the bath. It would be hard, though, considering how worried he was. He had heard a lot of hushed voices discussing his mother, and adults didn’t do that when they had something good to say, so whatever Mr. Edgeworth found during his investigation must have been bad. I don’t want Mom to go to jail.

Not that he really wanted her to come back home, either, especially since Daddy wasn’t there to protect him anymore. But he didn’t want to be alone. I don’t want to move and get put in an orphanage, and… Arthur sniffed and rubbed his eyes, pushing the thoughts aside as he kicked off his shoes. He tossed his pants, underwear, and shirt after them, everything winding up in a crumpled ball in the corner, and then he experimented with the bathtub long enough to figure out how it worked.

Hmm… I wonder if Mr. Edgeworth has any bubble bath. He padded over to the closet and opened the door, unsurprised to find it just as organized as the rest of the house. “Oh, wheeere is my bubble bath?” He muttered the modified lyrics under his breath, grabbing a shelf and using a plastic bin as a foothold. “Oh, wheeere is my bubble bath?” Pulling himself up, he tried to get a look at all the bottles. “Oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh wheeeeeeeere—ah!"

He flailed his arms as the world spun, and before he could even figure out what was happening, his head smacked against the tile. Containers and bottles crashed down around him, battering his body and scattering across the floor. It hurt—oh, his head, his head hurt so bad—and even though he didn’t mean to, he started crying. No! He clamped his hands over his mouth, rolling onto his side and trying to muffle himself, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Mr. Edgeworth had to have heard the loud crash, and when he came up and saw Arthur crying—

I gotta stop. I gotta stop right now! But it hurt. His head was throbbing, a sharp pain stabbing into the right side, he felt sick to his stomach, his ears were ringing—it hurt so bad.

“Arthur!”

Arthur flinched once when the door flew open and then again when Mr. Edgeworth shouted.

“Arthur, what happened? Hey! Answer me!”

Arthur choked out another sob and screwed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It was—it was an accident! I’ll clean it up! I promise!”

“I don’t care about that, just tell me if you’re hurt!” Mr. Edgeworth grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up so he was sitting. “Hey! Tell—” He stopped, lowering his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, his stomach twisting. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Look at me,” Edgeworth demanded, his voice firm but his hands gentle.

Arthur opened his eyes but stared at the floor, pressing a hand to his head.

“I just want you to look at me, alright? Please.” Mr. Edgeworth put his finger under Arthur’s chin and tugged gently, speaking with an odd blend of urgency and patience. “Come on. Let me see your handsome face.”

Arthur hesitated for another second and then relented, allowing Mr. Edgeworth to pull his head up, and making unfocused eye contact. “Yeah…?”

“Does it hurt? Yes or no?”

Sniffing, Arthur offered a, “Mmhmm…”

“Tell me, specifically, where it hurts.” Mr. Edgeworth thumbed the tears away.

“My…” Blinking hard, Arthur struggled to keep Mr. Edgeworth’s face in focus. “My head… really, really hurts…”

Mr. Edgeworth nodded sharply. “Did your head hit the ground hard? Or did you mostly land on your body?”

“Head…”

“Alright.” Mr. Edgeworth took a deep breath, almost like he was trying to calm himself, and then he stood up. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He turned off the bathtub faucet. “We’re going to get you in your new pajamas,” he explained, lifting Arthur into his arms and leaving the bathroom behind, “and we’re going to go see a doctor.”

Arthur shook his head but immediately froze, moaning from the pain. “I don’t wanna see a doctor…” He pressed his forehead into Mr. Edgeworth’s shoulder.

“It’s not optional.”

Arthur whimpered but kept his mouth shut, fingers gripping and releasing the shirt beneath them. His stomach was still churning, and the throbbing in his head wasn’t getting any softer, and he was so, so tired. He was so tired.

“I…” Mr. Edgeworth sighed, carrying Arthur into the kitchen. “I’m sorry if that sounded harsh. I didn’t intend it that way.” He grabbed a nightshirt from the bags and set Arthur down, carefully working the fabric down over his head while being careful not to touch him. “Can you tell me why you don’t like doctors?”

Arthur pushed his arms through the sleeves and shrugged, standing there in something like a daze as Mr. Edgeworth sifted through the bags. “I dunno.” He sniffed. “They ask questions.”

Mr. Edgeworth tore open a pack of underwear and withdrew a pair, holding them by the floor so Arthur could step into them. “Well, they have to ask questions to find out what’s wrong. What questions do they ask to make you not like them?”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as his foot tried to go into his boxers, he toppled to the left. Something—probably Mr. Edgeworth—caught him before he hit the floor, but that didn’t take away the dizziness. “Mr. Edgeworth?” He reached out blindly and felt around for his caretaker, a sharp ringing in his ears growing steadily louder. “I—I don’t feel well…”

“…an you hear me? Ar…”

Arthur tried to put his foot down, but it wouldn’t move—actually, his foot might have already been on the ground. No, it couldn’t have been. Not if the kitchen was still rocking back and forth. Right? “Mr. Edgew…” Saliva filled his mouth as he grappled with what felt like a sleeve. “I really don’t feel good…”

“Do you n… ash can?”

Arthur opened his mouth to say yes, he definitely did, but dinner came out instead. Tears blurred his vision, lungs aching as they struggled to pull air around the twisting in his gut, and the next thing he knew, the whole world went black.

Edgeworth slapped his hand, silently scolding himself for the nail-biting habit he had picked up over the last hour and a half. His thumb was back at his mouth less than twenty seconds later, teeth closing and grinding until he slapped himself again. It’s just a concussion. He’s going to be fine. It’s just a concussion. They have to run tests. Of course they have to run tests, it’s mandatory. On top of that he’s covered in bruises. I should have filed a report as soon as I saw the bruises. Why didn’t I file a report as soon as I saw the bruises? Not that it would have kept him from falling, but—

“Hey.”

Edgeworth startled, his head snapping up to find Wright in the doorway, but the relief he felt upon seeing his friend wasn’t enough to ease his anxiety. “Oh, yes. Hello. Sorry to wake you.”

Wright shrugged, entering the exam room. “You didn’t wake me.” He held out the plastic bag in his hand. “I brought the clothes.”

Edgeworth stared for a few seconds before it clicked. “Right. Yes, I asked you to—yes. Thank you.” He took the bag and indicated the hallway. “I believe there’s a restroom that way. I’ll go change. He’s, uh—Arthur’s getting a CT scan right now. They—let me change quickly. I’ll be right back.”

Wright gave him a small smile and a nod, and Edgeworth left the room behind, walking the length of the hall to the single-person bathroom. He hurried in and locked the door behind him, rushing through the buttons on his shirt and the buckle on his belt as he shed his clothes. He grabbed several napkins and wet them at the sink, wiping down his stomach and upper thighs before changing into the casual wear Wright had brought. That’s a little better, I suppose. Less sticky, anyway. Not that Edgeworth had it in him to care. When Arthur had vomited all over him and passed out, the only thing he could process was the urgent need for an ambulance.

Edgeworth splashed water on his face and took a breath. I’ve been in here too long. They could come back with Arthur at any time. He stuffed the soiled clothing in the now empty bag and left, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he made a beeline for the exam room.

“You look terrible.”

Edgeworth glared half-heartedly and tossed the bag at the man who had brought it. “They’re your clothes, you imbecile.”

Interestingly, Wright laughed in response, leaning back against the nearby counter with his arms crossed. “Well played, but I was talking about how you look unbelievably stressed and exhausted.” He patted the empty chair Edgeworth had been sitting in previously.

Edgeworth shook his head and chose to pace, feeling he had been still for far too long. “He woke up just a few minutes after he passed out.” His thumb wandered up to his mouth before he forced it back down. “He hasn’t passed out again since then, but for the longest time after waking, he wasn’t making any sense.”

“Sounds like a pretty bad concussion.”

Edgeworth stopped pacing for half a second, a brief wave of shock and jealousy washing over him before giving way to the guilt that had been gnawing on him all night long. “This is why I shouldn’t be in charge of children. I couldn’t even deduce that much from what happened; I had to wait for the doctors to tell me.”

“You knew to call 911.” Wright shrugged, not seeming concerned. “That’s what I would have done—it was the best thing to do—so it doesn’t really matter that you didn’t know exactly what was wrong.”

“Yes, it does. I didn’t—” Edgeworth stopped pacing and rubbed his forehead with a heavy sigh. “He was just lying there, and he wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t get him to wake up, and…” And it had terrified him, and it was still terrifying him, and he didn’t know how to get to a point where it didn’t terrify him. “They, ah… they said they’ll probably release him tonight, and I don’t… know what to do, Wright, I’m not…” He ran a hand through his hair again. “I’m not cut out for this. I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t how to talk to him, and I don’t know how to give him what he needs. I’m not fit to—”

Edgeworth stopped when he heard footsteps and wheels approaching the room, heart skipping when Arthur’s bed was maneuvered into the exam room. He gave Arthur a smile, but Arthur simply looked down, biting his lip anxiously.

“Dr. Callahan will be in shortly,” the nurse informed them, reconnecting a cluster of wires to the monitor and giving Arthur a warm smile. “Hang in there, buddy. Everything’s alright.” She nodded to Edgeworth and Wright, a brief acknowledgment, but then she was gone.

“Man, it must be busy in here tonight.” Wright got to his feet and walked over to the bedside, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Woah! You’re hooked up to all kinds of things. You’re like an android or something, in for repairs.”

Arthur smiled weakly, green eyes half-lidded. “Yeah, I guess so…” His hand twitched in his lap. “I wish I was just here for repairs.”

But Wright only smiled some more, gingerly pushing Arthur’s hair out of his eyes as he approached with a kind of warmth and playfulness Edgeworth had never been able to pull off. “I mean, you kinda are. It’s a head repair.” He smiled brightly. “It’s really not that big of a deal, actually! I had a couple concussions when I was a kid, and it sucks, but you’ll feel better soon enough.”

Arthur hummed in response, but he still looked depressed. His expression was entirely blank, his head flat against his pillow, and his eyes were unfocused and directed at nothing. He looked exhausted, but it was more than that. He looked defeated; dead inside, almost.

Edgeworth cleared his throat and joined his friend by the bed. “How, ah, how do you feel?”

Shrugging, Arthur continued to stare at nothing, but tears gathered in his eyes. “S’fine.”

Edgeworth looked to Wright for help, but all Wright could offer was helpless confusion. Evidently, he didn’t know what to say or do, either, so Edgeworth had to make do. “Does your head feel better at all? Or is it about the same?”

“Same,” Arthur mumbled, picking at the hospital blanket.

Edgeworth wet his lips, struggling for a moment. “Is there…” He took a breath and tried to revise himself. “Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Arthur sniffed. “M’not bothered.”

Edgeworth glanced at Wright again, and while they were both uncertain, the younger attorney did his best to help, clearing his throat and moving a little closer. “Arthur, you seem pretty upset. What happened tonight was scary, and… I’m sure you’re in pain right now.” He paused. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to tell us what’s wrong.”

Arthur sniffed again and blinked hard, one tear rolling down his cheek. His chest stuttered, quiet sobs chopping up his breaths. “Are you—are you mad at m—me?”

Edgeworth closed his eyes, the question cutting like a knife. “No.” He opened his eyes and shook his head, reaching out to gently turn Arthur’s chin toward him, just as he had in the bathroom. “No, Arthur. I am not mad at you. I am not even frustrated, not in the slightest.”

Arthur let out a harsh breath, more necessity than relief, and he quickly sucked it back in and squeaked, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth reached for the handkerchief he kept in his jacket, but of course, he wasn’t wearing his jacket, so there wasn’t a kerchief to grab. “Wright, go find some tissues.”

“Got it.” Wright gave a thumbs up and hurried out the door.

“Arthur, look at me.” Edgeworth waited in patient silence as Arthur whined and slowly turned his head. “I am not angry with you. I was worried, that’s all. I’m… I’m sorry if I shouted or… scared you in some other way, but it wasn’t out of anger. I promise.”

“But it’s so expensive,” Arthur whispered, voice breaking on the last word. “Mom always said if I needed a doctor, it would cost so much money we would have to live on the streets, and…” he sobbed, “and I don’t want you to lose your house, Mr. Edgeworth!”

Edgeworth kept his breathing level and, much more important, kept his anger from showing on his face. “What your mother told you…” is a disgusting lie, and even if it weren’t, it isn’t the kind of thing you tell a child, and furthermore— “…it, ah, doesn’t apply to me. I have plenty of money, and I’m not losing my house. I’m not losing anything.”

Arthur blinked a few times, eyes wide and expression bearing what Edgeworth desperately hoped was relief. “Y-you’re not?”

Edgeworth smiled slightly. “I’m not.” He paused, unsure of himself, but then took Arthur’s hand. “Even if I were going to lose my house, it wouldn’t matter. Your health is more important than a house. You are more important than a house. Houses can be replaced; you can’t.”

Arthur started to shake his head, immediately freezing up from the pain.

Edgeworth gave his hand a squeeze, lips twitching. “I don’t care about money, Arthur. I don’t care about the mess or the hassle… or anything else you’re thinking of. I care about you.” He squeezed again. “You might not think much of yourself, but you don’t get to decide what I think of you, and I think you are worth quite an awful lot.”

Arthur squeezed back, screwing his eyes shut as he tried and failed to stifle his cries.

Wright suddenly popped back up beside the bed. “I found tissues.”

Edgeworth glanced at him, mildly concerned. “What took so long?”

“Dr. Callahan wants to talk to you.” Wright pointed to the door he had just come through, where a woman in a white coat was waiting with a carefully guarded expression.

Edgeworth met her gaze and spent a moment giving his own calculating stare, and then he turned back to Arthur with a smile. “I’ll be right back. Wright will stay with you, okay?”

Arthur nodded hesitantly, but his attention was quickly taken by Wright, who began cleaning his face. Satisfied things were stable, Edgeworth turned and walked out to meet the doctor as she herself started down the hall with a gesture over her shoulder telling him to follow.

“Mr. Edgeworth, I understand this is a very delicate situation you’re in.”

“Yes, I—”

“But you should have filed a report.” Dr. Callahan walked briskly. “You should always file a report when there are unexplained or insufficiently explained bruises on children.”

Edgeworth would have been offended by the accusation if he weren’t so concerned and guilt ridden himself. “I understand. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind forty-eight hours.”

Dr. Callahan slowed briefly but resumed her pace in less than a second. “Mm, yes. I forgot about that. The Initial Trial System; effective in some ways and obtrusively problematic in others.” She led him into a dimly lit room and up to the x-ray board inside. “I apologize if I came off as callous. I do understand the flurry of activity surrounding a murder trial.”

Edgeworth shook his head. “Just as I understand the nature of your job and how many unreported or unresolved cases of abuse you must see.”

She glanced in his direction, but all she offered was a grim nod, and then her attention was back on the board. “I don’t know if you have any suspicions about the identity of the abuser, but whoever they are, they have been doing this for a very long time.” She pointed to several spots on the film. “These were all broken at some point and likely left untreated, especially the fracture in his arm. This is what it looks like when someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing resets a bone. It’s passable, but it’s not how it should be.”

Moving seamlessly, Dr. Callahan turned on the ceiling lights and turned off the board. “We took pictures of the bruises, which we’ll send to the Prosecutor’s Office, but I had these two printed right away.” She put one on the table, directly under the light. “I wrote measurements in the top corner for use in your investigation, but in my experience, a handprint of this size belongs to a woman.” She pulled the second picture. “These marks were also left by a woman, unless the man of the house has long, well-kept nails that could leave bruises in this shape.”

Edgeworth shook his head. “Mr. Coleman was blue collar. His work wouldn’t allow for that.” He took both pictures, sensing her urgency and knowing she had patients to return to. “This is everything you wanted to show me personally?”

Dr. Callahan nodded. “Like I said, everything else was sent to your office.”

Edgeworth nodded back. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

They both went out the door, Dr. Callahan hitting the lights and walking in the opposite direction. “Can you get back to the room on your own?”

“Yes,” he replied, though he wondered what she would have done if he said no because she was already halfway down the hall. “Goodnight, Dr. Callahan.”

“Good morning, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth buffered for a moment and then realized it was past midnight. I suppose that’s fair. He sighed and looked at the photos again, glancing up only to ensure he didn’t run into anyone or anything. Definitive proof of abuse that points toward Alyssa as the culprit. It’s not enough to prove murder in the first, but it should sway the judge against her, and it will certainly kill time during tomorrow’s trial. I’ll need the help after tonight’s fiasco. He sighed, realizing he was running out of time to plan for tomorrow, especially considering tomorrow was today already. I need someone to watch Arthur. He’s hardly going to want to sit in a courthouse all day with a headache and an upset stomach. I might have to ask Wright to do it, though I really did want him to be present for the trial. Gumshoe will have to be at the courthouse, too. I suppose there’s Maya, but…

And he wanted to say that was a problem for another day, but it really wasn’t. It was a problem for the same day, but… at the very least, it had to be after some kind of sleep. Arthur, you are going to be the death of me. Oddly enough, Edgeworth found he didn’t really mind.

In fact, he kind of liked it.

Chapter Text

Edgeworth kept his arms folded tightly over his chest, not allowing fatigue to weaken his glare in the slightest. His ability to focus on casework was minimal, breakfast had been a last-minute pack of Pop Tarts, and his road etiquette on the way to the courthouse was less than stellar, but he would not have a weak or unintimidating glare.

“You look like you had a rough night, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Prosecutor Edgeworth, thank you very much.” Edgeworth tapped his bicep and glanced at the empty stand to his right. “I believe you were going to call a witness?”

Stevenson leaned on his desk with a toothy grin. “You believe correctly. The defense would like to call Arthur Coleman to the stand.”

Edgeworth maintained a cool expression, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit devilish inside. Such a narcissist, Mr. Stevenson. You couldn't resist an opportunity to make a fool of me by bringing up Arthur’s absence, could you? He polished his fingernails on his lapel, expression nonchalant. “Arthur is not at the courthouse today. Besides, we already determined he was lying about what he witnessed. Is there something else you wanted to ask him?”

“Why isn't Arthur at the courthouse?” Stevenson asked.

“You didn't answer my question.” Edgeworth scowled.

“You didn't answer mine.” Stevenson straightened up and shrugged. “Yesterday, your detective proposed the defendant might not be a legitimate abuse victim. You’ve asserted the witness wasn’t present for the murder, but it’s very probable he was present for the abuse. I'd like him to testify regarding the ongoing state of the household and family dynamics.”

Edgeworth kept a completely flat affect. “Arthur was taken to the emergency room last night after falling and sustaining a concussion.” He opened his mouth to continue.

“What?” Alyssa exploded, jumping from her chair with both hands clasped together in front of her chest. “He went to the emergency room? How could you let that happen? Weren't you watching him?”

Edgeworth met her gaze evenly, a thousand calculations running through his mind. It was interesting all on its own that Arthur being injured was the thing to finally make Alyssa Coleman speak in the courtroom, but what came out of her mouth was equally fascinating. Her words, certainly, and he would get to that in a moment, but the cold eyes and exaggerated tone brought a very familiar feeling to the front of his mind.

Manfred von Karma.

Edgeworth smirked. “I find your concern rather odd, Mrs. Coleman.”

Alyssa stammered, perplexed, and brought her hands up to hover just under her chin. “What do you mean? He's my little boy. He’s my baby!”

“You must have a very unique—or perhaps confused—understanding of how a mother is supposed to treat their baby, then.” Edgeworth picked up a copy of the medical report and handed it to the judge. “I would like to submit this into evidence and draw the court’s attention to two things in particular.” He held up an enlarged photo and indicated the set of crescent-shaped bruises. “These were found during Arthur’s physical examination. Per the doctor, the marks were most likely caused by a female.” He held Stevenson’s stare for a moment, and then he very intentionally shifted them to his true target. “I had the coroner examine Mr. Coleman’s hands, and they confirmed that not only were his nails incapable of making these marks, but his hands and fingers were too wide to have made…” he grabbed a different picture, “these marks. Mrs. Coleman, you, on the other hand, have smaller and daintier hands ornamented with very well-kept, manicured nails.”

Alyssa glared across the courtroom, eyes blazing, but she summoned a thin veil of tears as she wrapped her arms around herself. “I would never hurt Arthur. I would never hurt Arthur.”

“Well, someone did.” Edgeworth nodded toward the judge, slipping his hands in his pockets and forgoing visual aids in favor of unshakable confidence. “According to his x-rays, someone has been hurting him for a very long time, and they often failed to properly treat the injuries they inflicted.”

“Objection!” Stevenson shook his head. “Connecting the defendant to bruises and superficial cuts in and of itself is shaky—you can only eliminate suspects through those methods; you cannot use them to convict—but you and I both know you can't link broken bones the same way.”

Edgeworth held up his hands in feigned helplessness. “Well, you're certainly right about that. However,” he slid them back into his pockets and once again met Alyssa’s gaze, “as Arthur’s mother, it was the defendant’s responsibility to have any injuries taken care of. She did the opposite by telling Arthur, per his statement, that a visit to the doctor would put them on the streets, a lie which sent the boy into hysterics once he woke up hospitalized.”

“That's not a lie!” Alyssa clenched her fists at her sides, visibly shaking with rage. “We can't afford to go to the doctor. That’s true for all of us, not just Arthur!”

“Order!” Banging his gavel, the judge made himself useful for a change. “The defendant will refrain from such outbursts or they will be held in contempt of court.”

Edgeworth ignored the judge and answered Alyssa coolly, “As I said earlier, you have very well-kept, manicured nails, Mrs. Coleman.”

Alyssa seethed but sank into her chair without a word, crossing her arms over her chest and communicating as much loathing as she could without speaking.

“Objection!” Stevenson looked at the judge and gestured across the room. “This is irrelevant. How do Mrs. Coleman's money management skills play into a murder trial?”

I got you. Edgeworth chuckled, reaching up to flick his bangs away from his face. “It has nothing to do with the money, Mr. Stevenson.” He let the silence sit for a moment. “I stated only two facts, those being that Arthur was taken to the emergency room and that he is not in court today, yet Mrs. Coleman did not once ask about the condition of her son. She was, however, quick to accuse me of inadequate care, and when I confronted her with doubts about her concern, her defense was not a love or affection for Arthur, but rather… ownership. You care because he’s your baby, not because you love him.” Words fell smoothly, landing with perfect pace and potency. “When informed of his past injuries, you didn’t even try to present another way your allegedly abusive spouse could have been responsible; you simply defended yourself by insisting you would never hurt Arthur. Lastly, when informed of the fact your words send Arthur into hysterics when he woke in the hospital, you neither expressed guilt nor asked if he was calmed and assured; you simply defended yourself and your actions, insisting they were justified.”

Stevenson opened his mouth, but even though ‘objection’ only took a split second to shout, Edgeworth didn’t give him the time.

“We are supposed to believe the defendant is a victim of abuse who acted in self-defense on the night of Mr. Coleman’s death, yet Arthur shows recent abuse from a female, and Mrs. Coleman shows a disturbing lack of maternal instinct. Arthur misses his father, not his mother, and has been taught to give strangers his father's cell phone should he ever get lost. He fears retribution for things like wetting the bed or dropping a dish, something his father would have a hard time encountering during his sixty-hour week. On the other hand, a homemaker would have encountered those exact things while waking Arthur long after his father left for work or while cooking and eating throughout the day.” Edgeworth smirked at Alyssa—at the burning hatred he saw—and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction as he exposed the nuances of Arthur’s behavior he had been ruminating over for hours. He was fine with her throwing a fit—in fact, he was counting on it—and the list of things he still had up his sleeve to push her over the edge wasn’t short. “On the night Mr. Coleman was shot, Arthur was unconsolable. However, in that haze of panic and grief, he insisted he not be put anywhere near the kitchen. Such a fear seems so… unusual. Worth looking into, you might say.” He pulled an evidence bag with a glass bottle from the shelf under his table, handing it up to the judge for submission. “Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, or GHB, isn’t the best drug for recreational purposes, but it’s perfect for rendering someone unconscious and distorting their memories of what occurred prior to intoxication.”

“Objection!” Stevenson spread his arms, the flailing gesture so markedly different from the confident way Wright would plant his fists on his hips once the shout finished ringing through the chamber. “Again, I have to ask what any of this has to do with a murder trial? Even if you could prove the defendant abused her son—which you haven’t because all you have is circumstantial evidence and coincidences—it wouldn’t do anything to prove or disprove if the murder of Bruce Coleman was justified self-defense!” He held his hands up slightly, a gesture of surrender. “I won't deny the presence of illicit substances, but you can't prove they belonged to the defendant or that she even knew they were in the residence. You also can't prove the defendant—or anyone else, for that matter—used them on Arthur Coleman at any time, let alone the night of the murder.” He sneered, lip pulling up as he went in for what he no doubt thought was the kill. “Your theory is intriguing, Mr. Edgeworth, but that's all it is: a theory. It's entertaining conjecture which, even if proven, would have nothing to do with the murder.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth slammed his hands flat on his table, glaring across the courtroom. “Before we even consider evidence or proof, let's address what bearing the resulting conclusions would have on this trial.” He took a breath. “If the defendant is proven to be the abuser of her child, then the idea of her being the abuser in her marriage must be considered and pursued. If she is the aggressor in the relationship, it takes away the justifiable aspect of justifiable homicide. As the detective so succinctly put it yesterday, you can't shoot someone for shouting at you. If Mr. Coleman was not the abusive partner, what would have possessed him to attack Alyssa on the night of his death when he had allowed her to be in control on every other occasion? You can't prove he attacked the defendant any more than I can prove if and when the defendant administered the GHB!”

“Objection! The burden of proof lies with the prosecution. It’s your job, Prosecutor Edgeworth, to provide proof, not mine.” Stevenson flashed a wicked grin, but his voice was acidic and hot. “Secondly, if the defendant is proven to be the abuser, that right there could have been the trigger for Bruce Coleman. He may not have known; may have found out or witnessed the abuse for the first time. Protecting your children can be a very powerful motivator.”

“Objection! We are not in a Stand Your Ground State. If she was the instigator or did something to provoke Bruce Coleman, such as assaulting his child, she does not have the explicit right to use deadly force in self-defense.”

“Objection! This is all conjecture until you provide some proof, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

“Objection! You were the one who decided to explore this hypothetical, Stevenson!”

They were interrupted by the banging gavel as the judge called for order. “I am very confused by all of this, but I can see things are going nowhere fast. Is there a point to this arguing?”

Edgeworth bared his teeth, all but snarling as he leaned forward over his desk. “Yes, Your Honor, there is.” He spent another moment simmering and then slowly straightened up, adjusting his vest. “Looking at the physical evidence and crime scene alone, it is inconclusive, at best, that Bruce Coleman ever endangered the defendant’s life. We also do not have the witness we originally believed we did, so we only have the word of the defendant herself to go on. Ergo, we must determine whether she is of trustworthy character before we consider her words to hold any sort of evidential weight.” His eyes narrowed slightly, though he couldn't decide who he wanted to glare at more; the snake or the spider. “We know who fired the weapon. We are not here regarding a matter of who or where or how, but why. Why was Bruce Coleman killed, and was that reason justifiable or not? Intention is difficult to prove with physical evidence, so we must rely on the evidence of that which we cannot see, and the prosecution’s argument today is that what we can see is very, very troubling.”

Stevenson also straightened up, running a hand through his hair as he collected himself. He met Edgeworth’s gaze unwaveringly, pinching the lapels of his sage-colored suit. “Loathe as I am to admit it, I have to agree, Your Honor. Regardless of what point we are trying to prove, we do need to find something other than physical evidence to prove a motive, or lack thereof.” He clenched his jaw. “Evidence that is indisputable, regardless of the form it takes.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course.” The judge nodded, comprehending the situation no more than he had a few minutes prior. “Well, if you both agree on where the trial needs to go, we shall take a ten-minute recess to allow you both to gather your thoughts and theories.”

Edgeworth heard the gavel fall, and as much as he wanted to continue the glowering contest he had going on with Stevenson, he had to make a call before recess was over. And then it's back into the ring.

“When are you coming home? I like Maya… but I… well, I miss you.”

Edgeworth shoved the memory aside and opened his eyes, diving headfirst into Round Two. “Let's start from the beginning, shall we?” He spread the evidence on his table as he spoke. “Alyssa Coleman, the defendant, claims she was arguing with Bruce Coleman about his alcoholism when he, an abusive husband and father, became so violently enraged she feared for her life and shot him in self-defense.” He glanced up, silently welcoming an argument from Stevenson, but he received none and looked back at the facts. “Investigators found an overturned bookshelf, a broken mirror, and jewelry scattered across the floor, none of which indicated the struggle the defendant alleges to have happened.”

“Objection!”

“Be patient, Mr. Stevenson.” Edgeworth gave him an annoyed looked. “I wouldn’t make such a statement without elaboration.”

Stevenson only sneered. “I wouldn't put it past you.”

Edgeworth rolled his eyes and got back to the matter at hand. “First, the jewelry, which was scattered across the floor from the dresser to the opposite wall. For that trajectory to be achieved, someone had to swipe the items off the dresser from the back to the front, which wouldn’t have happened due to shoving or bumping or someone falling against in the struggle.” He held up two fingers. “Secondly, the mirror. It was lying face down and shattered roughly two feet away from where it hung on the wall. If someone had been slammed into the mirror, thus breaking the glass, it would have fallen straight down and wouldn’t have gotten as far from the wall as it did. If it had been used as a weapon, we would have injuries or glass shards on the victim or the defendant to corroborate, and we do not. Thirdly, the bookshelf, which was well outside the area of conflict and neither light nor unstable yet knocked over.”

Surprisingly, Stevenson remained silent, and while Edgeworth didn’t like the lack of a facial expression he could read, he didn’t let the ambiguity impact his confidence. “On their own, these three pieces of evidence are unlikely to have been manufactured organically, making the idea that all three did just that in tandem even more preposterous. It is, however, a striking match for the kind of organized chaos one finds in a fabrication.”

“Yes, yes, indeed.” Nodding gravely, the judge tried to contribute something of substance to the conversation. “Prosecutor Edgeworth, why did you not mention these facts yesterday during the detective's cross-examination?”

Edgeworth’s eye twitched, some kind of cross between a wince of embarrassment and an annoyed brow crinkle. “As previously mentioned, Your Honor, the department was unprepared for this case, especially the forensics of it. If you recall, I didn’t even have an autopsy report during yesterday’s proceedings.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

Stevenson rolled his eyes, but if he had any accusations, he kept them to himself.

Edgeworth cleared his throat. “In short, the signs of a struggle were fictitious, and without a struggle, we lack physical evidence of an argument taking place at all. Further, the defendant claims the argument was about Mr. Coleman’s drinking, yet the fridge contained a surplus of beer. It seems unwise to stock your fridge with a substance you want your family rid of.”

“Hold it!” Stevenson's finger flew out, a silver signet ring catching the light. “You can't prove the defendant is the one who purchased the alcohol.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth spread his hands incredulously. “She didn't think to dispose of it?”

Stevenson didn’t even hesitate. “Following yesterday’s cross-examination, I questioned the defendant regarding the inconsistency, and she explained her husband bought the alcohol just the night before. She did, in fact, see it in the fridge, but she left it there with the intention of pulling Mr. Coleman into the fridge and questioning him about it when he got home.” He chuckled, continuing in a sardonic tone. “Of course, when Mr. Coleman came home, he was already intoxicated, amplifying the helpless frustration she felt upon finding the beer in the fridge and triggering the argument that later escalated.

Oh, I’m so very sure. But Edgeworth couldn’t deny the plausibility of the scenario, and he didn’t have evidence to prove the it hadn’t happened, so he let it slide. He had enough evidence to allow Stevenson small victories here and there; hopefully, it would create a destructive overconfidence Edgeworth could take advantage of. “Very well, Mr. Stevenson. We’ll presume this portion of the interaction went the way you said.” Though he did make a note to locate a receipt with the date of purchase as soon as he could. “Mrs. Coleman finds beer in the fridge and is frustrated. Mr. Coleman comes home intoxicated, multiplying his missteps in relation to his alcoholism.” He braced his arms against the desk and leaned forward. “Mr. Coleman was found propped against the foot of the bed with a single gunshot wound to his chest. Forensics dictate the shot was fired from the doorway, so at that distance, we first have to question why the defendant didn't simply turn around and run, but more importantly—”

“Obje—”

“More importantly, we have to question the body’s position. If there was distance between them, yet Mr. Coleman was proving himself a threat worthy of lethal action, he had to have been running toward her to close the distance. Had that happened, momentum should have caused him to fall forward, and even if the bullet had contained enough force to knock him backwards, he would have then fallen on his back or side. At the most, he could have hit the bed on the way down, yet he was seated—rather neatly, I might add—at the foot of the bed. This brings the defendant’s claim of fearing for her life into question.”

Stevenson narrowed his eyes, but Edgeworth wasn't quite done.

“All of things brings us to today and the recently submitted evidence regarding the abusive dynamic in the household. We could summon Arthur Coleman, this time as a witness of character rather than the crime, but I believe the evidence presented thus far is more than enough. Arthur’s body is a testament to the long-term abuse suffered in the household, yet Alyssa has no physical signs of abuse anywhere on her body, and behavior doesn't match that of a battered woman nor a decent mother. So, let's return to my opening statement.” He picked up his notes and cleared his throat, reading from the paper. “‘Alyssa Coleman, the defendant, claims she was arguing with Bruce Coleman about his alcoholism when he, an abusive husband and father, became so violently enraged she feared for her life and shot him in self-defense.’” He put the page down and looked at Stevenson and Alyssa in turn. “So far, there is only one part of this case that hasn’t been called into question at least once, and that is the fact Alyssa Coleman shot and killed her husband.”

The judge nodded eagerly, clearly able to follow along and almost excited to see what would happen next. “Ah, yes, yes.” He cleared his throat and straightened up, looking at Stevenson. “Does the defense have a rebuttal?”

Stevenson looked at Edgeworth for a long time, and then a smile started to curl the corner of his mouth. Edgeworth was once again reminded of a viper as the black-haired attorney chuckled and broadened his predatory grin, a single word falling from his lips. “Motive.”

Edgeworth arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?” He had no sooner said the words when he realized his mistake. He tensed, shock spilling over his features, fists clenching behind the desk.

“You haven't established a motive. You’ve brought the motive of self-defense into question—hounded on it, in fact—but you haven't given a reason why Alyssa Coleman would want to murder her husband. He was her sole source of income, and given his hours, he rarely had to be dealt with. He could provide free childcare from time to time, and if you're correct about him not being abusive, well… what reason would she have to kill him?”

Edgeworth silently cursed his failure to look past of the current roadblock, teeth grinding as he struggled to conjure even the vague concept of something that could be called a motive. Stevenson hadn’t said anything he could argue against, and the only motives coming to mind didn’t make any more sense than what had already been listed. I could look into his life insurance policy, but what are the chances it’s worth more than she would get from his steady and prolonged income? Perhaps an affair? But why kill Bruce if that’s the case? Why not elope and get rid of not only the husband you don’t want, but the child you don’t want, either, by disappearing. They don’t own their property or home, so nothing of significant value would have changed hands as a result of Bruce Coleman's death. Although, if you combine the desire for the life insurance money with the desire to have a new husband, perhaps—

“Prosecutor Edgeworth?” the judge prodded, blinking those wide, ever confused eyes. “Do you know what the defendant's motive was?”

Edgeworth wet his lip, loathe to admit he needed more time to analyze the possibilities. “Regrettably… the prosecution does not have… a theory at this time.” He never looked away from Stevenson, the superiority in his opponent’s eyes making his own expression that much more scathing. “I will immediately endeavor to correct this, however, we can hardly end the trial today.” He tried to get his frazzled brain back under his control; tried to return the velvet to his tongue. “I may not have a motive at this time, but I have successfully dismantled any possibility of the defense’s proposed motived being valid.”

“Hmm, yes.” The judge nodded and pursed his lips. “I will adjourn the court for today, and we will reconvene tomorrow. We must have a verdict tomorrow, so I recommend the defense and prosecution both fully consider their arguments before presenting them.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Edgeworth glared at Stevenson.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Stevenson smirked back, but there was a seething hatred beneath it.

You’re certifiably insane if you think I’ll let that monster walk away, Stevenson, let along with Arthur in her grasp. Mark my words, this is a fight you will greatly regret picking. And rest assured, Alyssa Coleman, you'll have an impressive collection of regrets yourself once I'm done with you.

That, he promised.

Chapter Text

Edgeworth wasn’t sure exactly what he expected to find when he came home from the courthouse. He thought, perhaps, he would find delirious children and a house in disarray. He thought, perhaps, he would find an awful lot of noise and an awful lot of complaints from the neighbors. He thought a lot of things would, perhaps, be waiting for him when he stepped over the threshold, but none of them were even remotely close to what he actually found. Instead, it was as if his home had gone completely uninhabited since he left that morning. There were no scattered toys to stop on, no crayon pictures on the walls, no evidence of a food fight. It was quiet, the only sound being the TV in the living room, which was far from being too loud and carried a familiar tune into the foyer.

The Steel Samurai. Smiling to himself, Edgeworth shed his jacket and went to lean against the archway. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at the duo on the couch, though his attention was mostly on Arthur, who was curled up on the couch and dead to the world, a blanket wrapped tightly around him. He watched the lump rise and fall as Arthur snored softly, dark circles lingering beneath his closed eyes while his hand dangled over the edge of the cushion. Pess laid on the floor right in front of him, resting comfortably as she waited for him to wake up and pet her some more.

“Hey, Mr. Edgeworth.” Maya sat up on the other end of the couch, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn. “I wasn’t actually asleep. I was just resting!” She flashed a bright smile.

Edgeworth smiled a little wider himself, not knowing if he believed her but finding he didn’t much care. His house was intact, and Arthur looked content. He didn’t need much more than that to be satisfied. “Thank you very much. Just one more day, and then things will go back to normal.” He stared at her once he finished speaking, unsure of what he was supposed to do or say. He had never relieved a babysitter before. He intended to pay her, but she had already refused twice, so he would have to do it in a more underhanded way, which he couldn’t do while she was standing in front of him. So… what was he supposed to do?

What would a parent do?

Maya didn’t give him a chance to think it over for very long, her lip finding itself wedged between her teeth as worry filled her eyes. “Mr. Edgeworth, what’s going to happen to Arthur once all the… stuff… is over and done?”

Edgeworth opened his mouth slowly, and despite spending a large portion of his day asking the same question, he still didn’t like the taste of the answer on his tongue. “He will be handed over to the state and one of its state-funded organizations. Foster care, perhaps. Then he’ll get placed with a good family.” He shrugged, expressing a dismissiveness he couldn’t even begin to feel.

Maya looked up at him with a mixture of affront and concern, clearly insulted by the insinuation that she would buy the overly optimistic scenario, but more than that, afraid for Arthur. She didn’t say anything at first, seeming as lost for words as he was, and she eventually clasped together in front of herself. “He’s a great kid.”

Edgeworth nodded, gaze shifting to observe the boy on the couch. “Yes, he is. He’s very kind and gentle, even without his fear of retribution. Much more intelligent than he gives himself credit for, too.” He looked back at Maya and found a pair of glassy eyes.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” She sniffed and blinked a few times to dry her eyes.

That’s the other question I’ve been asking myself all day. And once again, he still didn’t like the answer. “Thank you for your help today, but…” he pushed off the wall, dropping his arms to his sides, “…I would like to spend the rest of the day with Arthur, if you don’t mind.”

Maya blinked a few more times and lowered her face. She took a deep breath, stood still for a moment, and then straightened up with a broad smile on her face. “Don’t have too much fun, okay? You gotta be in tip-top shape tomorrow.”

“I’ll be careful.” Edgeworth offered a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he wondered how certain people were able to put on such a brave face with little more than a few seconds to breathe.

But Maya couldn’t hear his inner train of thought, so she offered no answer and trotted to the door, casting a final look over her shoulder before disappearing. Edgeworth watched the door close and padded over to the couch, sitting on the end opposite of Arthur, where Maya had been ‘resting.’ He reached down and unlaced his shoes, kicking them off in a manner more casual than he was accustomed to, and then he leaned back and allowed himself a moment of peace. He watched Arthur breathe for a few moments, just as he had when he first came home. He looks so peaceful. He spends far too much time with fear on his face. Reaching out, he brushed Arthur’s greasy bangs out of his eyes, a fond smile tugging on his lips. His smile lingered even when he looked down at the floor to give Pess a raised eyebrow. “And you appear to have a new favorite, don’t you?”

Pess whined softly, but just when it looked like she was going to stand up and come to him, she looked at Arthur and lay back down. Chuckling, Edgeworth kept his voice soft and extended his hand toward her. “Pess, it’s alright. Nothing is going to hurt him here. He’s safe.”

Whining again, she looked between the two and eventually approached Edgeworth, letting him pet and stroke her for several minutes before she felt the need to go back and sniff the blanket and couch where Arthur laid.

How could anyone hurt such a precious boy? Even Pess, incredibly intelligent but an animal at her core, knew the little boy on the couch needed to be protected and cared for. She was hesitant just to leave him in case someone would come do him harm; there was no room in her mind for any ideas of hurting him herself. But Alyssa did.

Edgeworth had experienced his fair share of bruises and demeaning lectures as a child, but that was because he had been a difficult child to handle. He didn’t like following rules, and he made entirely too much noise, and he was so particular about everything being just so. His irrational fear of elevators and earthquakes and loud noises, his penchant for a color some would call pink, his constant bickering with Franziska, his—

Edgeworth shook his head, banishing thoughts of how those steps out of line had ended for him. Arthur isn’t like that, though. I deserved it; Arthur doesn’t. Alyssa has no excuse. He trailed his fingers through Arthur’s hair again, stomach twisting. He’s so fragile. He won’t survive the system. Or he would, and Edgeworth would find himself prosecuting a familiar face in five or six years. What am I supposed to do?

More than that, what could he do? He didn’t know anyone who was looking to expand their family; outside of work, he didn’t really know anyone at all. He didn’t have any connections in the foster care system, no associates who worked in and around DCFS and all the things that pertained to, and none of his political connections would do him any good in a scenario like this.

Of course, he had had that thought. He had, for a fraction of a second, considered the idea of adopting Arthur himself. He had entertained the thought of homeschooling, knowing it was statistically better than public school or private school, and also knowing it would keep Arthur in a safe, familiar, predictable environment while he healed from his trauma. He had conceptualized a scenario where he could rely on Maya, Phoenix, and even Gumshoe when he couldn’t manage everything himself.

Very, very briefly, he had tossed the notion around in his head.

“Hnn…” Arthur moved his head under Edgeworth’s hand, his own fingers coming up to curl through the soft shirt sleeve. “Mr. Edgeworth… you’re home…” Mumbled though the words may have been, Arthur was wearing a sleepy smile.

Which, of course, summoned the upturn to Edgeworth’s lips that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. “I only just arrived. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Arthur sat up and rubbed his temple with a grimace. “Mm… I wanna be awake anyway.” He yawned, slouching against the back of the sofa and looking up with bleary eyes. “Did you, um… did you make Mom go away?”

Smile tightening, Edgeworth shook his head. “No. We, ah… we still have some things to discuss and debate. We’ll conclude the trial tomorrow.”

Arthur crinkled his brow. “Huh?”

“It means we’ll finish it. We’ll bring it to a close.” Edgeworth almost stroked Arthur’s hair again, but he caught himself before he could, knowing it was foolish to form a bond he wouldn’t be able to maintain. “We do need to talk, though. Because, if your mother is found guilty, we need to figure out a long-term plan.”

Arthur ducked his head and started to chew.

“Lip.” Edgeworth reached out and gently tugged Arthur’s chin. “Do you know of any extended family we could reach out to? Or friends your parents trusted?”

Shaking his head, Arthur drew his legs in and wrapped his arms around them. “Mom doesn’t like her family. I don’t even know if they’re around anymore. And Daddy never talked about his.” He twisted his hands in the blanket that was still half wrapped around him. “I know you have to do your job, Mr. Edgeworth, but…” He looked up with glassy eyes. “I really don’t wanna go away. I don’t wanna go anywhere that isn’t—that isn’t—” He struggled, and even though he couldn’t find whatever word he wanted, Edgeworth was fairly certain he was trying to say he didn’t want to go anywhere he would be all alone and surrounded by people and places he didn’t know.

Sighing softly, Edgeworth pulled Arthur closer. It was a bit awkward, trying to get Arthur turned around and facing the couch, especially while still tangled in his blanket, but soon he was nestled against Edgeworth’s chest.

“I know you don’t.” Edgeworth, unsure if he was willfully ignoring logic or just unable to dedicate effort to it, stroked Arthur’s hair on a loop. He had discovered during the late-night hospital run that Arthur found it more comforting than most other gestures. “But there’s nothing either of us can do about it.” He knew that wasn’t encouraging, but he didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t about to lie.

“Can’t you… can’t you just…” Arthur gestured vaguely, but he didn’t seem to have an ending to his sentence in mind. Instead, he trailed off into more tears and held on tight.

Edgeworth swallowed, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his chest every time Arthur let out another cry. He just kept toying with the blonde strands, cursing his inability to come up with the right words when his literal profession was to come up with the right words, often on the spot. “It’s going to be okay, Arthur. I don’t know how just yet, but it will be. Alright? I promise, I am going to make sure everything is okay.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, face still buried in Edgeworth’s chest, but he offered a weak nod as his tears continued to soak into the white button-down. Edgeworth bit his lip and glanced skyward, as if he hoped there might be some answers on the ceiling. Everything has to be okay. Somehow, it just… it has to be okay.

Arthur looked up from his tea, still sniffing from his earlier tears as he watched Mr. Edgeworth pace around the kitchen on the phone. Mr. Edgeworth didn’t seem to be upset, exactly, but he was rushing. He did a specific gesture with his hand, Arthur had realized, when he was in a hurry. He sort of rolled it, as if he thought he could physically make the conversation go faster. His facial expressions—which were usually much more controlled—were also a big clue. Apparently, when the person he was talking to couldn’t see him, he let himself get a little more… animated.

“No, I understand.” Edgeworth nodded, rolling his eyes. “Yes, of course.” He threw one hand up with an incredulous look on his face. “Mm-hmm.” Roll, roll, roll the hand. “Yes, and so deeply I appreciate the effort you are expending at this particular moment on my behalf, but I need those files in my inbox tonight. I have less than twenty-four hours to discover a motive, and financial documents tend to be very telling in that department.”

Arthur sipped his drink and licked his lips, warmth settling in his tummy. He loved the mint kind of tea the most, especially when Mr. Edgeworth added a little extra honey. I wonder what a motive is. Sipping again, he continued to witness one side of a conversation. I know he’s asking about Mom. He felt sick just thinking about the final day of the trial. Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours away. Mr. Edgeworth’s smart. He’ll figure out what Mom did. Not that Arthur knew for sure what she had done himself—he had been unconscious, after all—but… he knew.

And Mr. Edgeworth knows, too.

“Yes, thank you. You’ve been fantastic, and I really, truly do appreciate this.” Edgeworth hung up and sat down in front of his computer, fingers tapping away. “Hopefully, it won’t take too long to get here. How’s the tea?”

It took a moment for Arthur to realize the question was directed at him, and he stammered a bit before replying. “Oh, uh—it’s good! Thank you! I, um, it’s… I really like it.”

Mr. Edgeworth smiled softly, which he didn’t used to do as much as he did now, which was something else Arthur had noticed. “Good. Perhaps I can take a break when you’re done with that, and we can do something together.”

Arthur smiled weakly, but it didn’t last. He was still thinking about his mother, his father, the murder, and his own fate if she was found guilty. He didn’t want to be alone, and if he had to get a new family, he didn’t want it to be made up of strangers. He didn’t want things to change—why couldn’t they stay the same but just get better?

“Arthur…” Mr. Edgeworth seemed like he had more to say, but he never said it. Instead, he sighed a soft and sad kind of sigh before getting to his feet. “Come on.” He clapped his hands together and flashed a smile as he moved toward the kitchen drawers. “Let’s play cards.”

Arthur blinked a few times. “But I don’t know any card games.”

Mr. Edgeworth only smiled again. “Then I’ll teach you.” He grabbed a box of cards from one of the drawers. “We can start with Gin. It’s simple enough, and it’s a great building block for learning other card games.”

Arthur stared for a moment, knowing the situation he was in couldn’t last. He had less than twenty-four hours. But when he caught a glimpse of his caretaker’s smile, he felt a giggle rise in his throat, and he quickly got to his feet. “Okay, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“It’s Edgeworth, right? Miles Edgeworth? I’m Tasha Clarke.”

Edgeworth extended his hand and offered the obligatory, congenial smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Clarke.” He gestured to the apartment behind her, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Oh!” Tasha stepped back and made a sweeping gesture into the cluttered living space. “Yes, of course. Come on in, and sorry about the mess.” She closed and locked the door behind him, immediately going for the biggest toys on the floor and trying to make a clear path to the kitchen. “Jack’s at school right now, but I worked a double shift yesterday, and I haven’t had time to—”

“It’s really not a problem.” Edgeworth crouched down and gathered a few cars into his hands. “Arthur Coleman has been staying with me since the murder, and while he is careful to clean up after himself in the living room, the guest room he’s been staying in is… another story altogether.”

Tasha straightened up and tossed some blankets and animals onto the couch, a smile lighting her features. “He’s with you? Oh, that’s wonderful!” She turned toward the kitchen and motioned for Edgeworth to follow. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

Edgeworth smiled faintly, placing the cars in a nearby plastic bin before walking after her. “Yes, he is.” He sat down at the table and cleared his throat. “So, Miss Clarke—”

“Oh, Tasha, please.” She bustled around the kitchen, grabbing mismatched mugs and filling an old kettle with water. “You want some coffee?”

Edgeworth took a moment to roll with the social punches, so to speak, complying to the best of his ability. “That would be lovely, thank you, Tasha.” He crossed one leg over the other, fingers interlaced over his stomach. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Alyssa Coleman.”

Tasha nodded and grabbed a half-filled coffee pot from the edge of the counter, pouring a drink for each of them. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be. Alyssa and I didn’t know each other that well. Her apartment is right next to mine, and Jack is just two years younger than Arthur, so they played together a lot, but…” She carried the mugs to the table and then went for what Edgeworth assumed would be sugar and creamer.

“You would be surprised how much people know without realizing it.” Edgeworth glanced at the coffee and tried to tell himself it wasn’t too dark for him. “How would you describe Alyssa? Let’s say if, ah, someone were moving in down the hall and wanted to know what to expect from her.”

“Hoo boy.” Tasha winced, apologetic before she even said anything, and brought over the sugar and hazelnut-flavored creamer. “She’s… the kind of person you don’t mind a quick chat with, but you don’t want to be close friends with her. You don’t… really want to be friends at all, if you can help it. She’s very… loud in jarring, grating kind of way. She always has something negative to say, and if you talk about your life for more than two minutes, she’ll flat-out interrupt you to talk about herself. I…” She trailed off, sinking into the chair across from him and giving the black mixture a sip. “It sounds terrible, but she really isn’t a… nice… person.”

“Homicide investigations are hardly the time for niceties.” Edgeworth added a generous helping of each of the sweetening ingredients laid out before him, yet somehow, the coffee still tasted like acid on his throat. He had absolutely no idea how the petite and bubbly, though equally calloused and tanned, woman across from him was drinking it straight. “You said your children often played together. Could you offer some insight into how Alyssa behaved as a mother?”

Dark purple nails fiddled and twirled through short, brown curls as Tasha considered the question. “She’s… I mean, being at home with your kid all the time is hard.” Her words sharply contradicted the look on her face; a look Edgeworth had long ago came with a fear of being called out on your own shortcomings if you offered any kind of comparison between yourself and others in a similar situation.

“I have no doubt about the difficulties she had. However, someone crossed the line between discipline and abuse with Arthur, and some of the evidence points to a female perpetrator.” Edgeworth tried to find a discreet way to add more cream to his coffee, but in the end, he settled for faking a sip. “If I told you I suspected Alyssa of abusing Arthur, would that surprise you?”

Tasha floundered for a moment, and then her head sank into her hands as she rubbed her temples with a heavy sigh. “I suspected. I couldn’t prove anything, and I—I work so much I was never here to listen through the walls and—” She exhaled sharply, gripping her hair. “I called in anonymous noise complaints a few times, hoping the police would see… something while at the door.” She lifted her head, dark eyes desperate. “How bad was it?”

“I don’t think that’s important right now.” Edgeworth shook his head, brow creased with concern. “You are not responsible for policing other people, Miss Clarke. Tasha, apologies. It’s one thing to know about but ignore such situations, but you cannot possibly put the weight of an investigation and intervention for people you just so happen to live next to on your own shoulders.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “You do understand how preposterous that would be, yes?”

Smiling weakly, Tasha averted her eyes and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I did what I could with what I had.” She took a deep breath and looked at him again. “Alyssa never wanted Arthur; it was Bruce’s idea to keep him. She always fantasized about running off and living the single life again. She had a lot more love for herself than she ever did for Bruce and Arthur.” She scoffed, but it was a worn-down kind of frustration that spilled over. “But you couldn’t confront her about it. Couldn’t confront her about much of anything unless you wanted your ears to ring for a couple days.”

“She was a confrontational person, then?” Edgeworth surmised that much from the short time he had known her, but his opinion didn’t much matter to the court. “Even with those outside her family?”

“Oh, yes. Oh my goodness, yes.” Lips twisting into a scowl, Tasha let her eyes drift while she accessed her memory. “But Bruce definitely got the worst of it. I’m hardly here, and I still managed to hear them fight at least three times a week. Who knows how many fights they had while I was at work? I used to I always kinda hoped Bruce would just… take Arthur and leave her, but,” she shrugged, “guess that didn’t happen.”

Edgeworth sighed but fought to conceal the true amount of exasperation he felt about the whole situation. “No, it certainly didn’t.” He faked another sip, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the fact that the cup was still nearly full. “I would like to hear your statement about what you heard on the night of the murder, and depending on what insight you can provide, I may ask you to testify in court tomorrow.”

Tasha nodded, but there was hesitance in her voice. “I, um… I’ve never been good at… talking in front of people. Is that—I mean, what’s it like?”

“Just stand there and tell the truth.” Edgeworth gave her a confident smile, though he felt it may have come across as more of a self-satisfied smirk. “If you tell the truth, I can take it from there.”

Chapter Text

No matter how hard Edgeworth tried to appear calm, he could only conceal the rising panic to an extent, and the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck was beyond that extent. It was the final day of the trial, and he still didn’t have a motive. He had called Tasha Clarke to the stand, and she testified regarding Alyssa’s less-than-family-friendly behavior, but all it did was solidify Alyssa being the household abuser. It disparaged her character, certainly, but other than her habit of complaining to her neighbor about her desire to live the single life again, there wasn’t any kind of motive hidden in the testimony. And saying, ‘she killed her husband because she really wanted to be single again,’ would probably not go over well.

Stevenson didn’t even need to dispute Alyssa being abusive. It didn’t matter that she beat her child and husband—that was a different charge for a different crime, and it would get a different trial—and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t the victim of ongoing abuse. What mattered was means, motive, and opportunity, and despite what the song said, two out of three was very bad. It wasn’t enough, and Edgeworth had no motive to complete the trinity with. He had searched the house again, recovered financial documents, called Bruce’s place of business, called any family members he could dig up no matter how long it had been since they saw the family—he did everything, and he got nothing.

“Well, Mr. Edgeworth?”

Edgeworth glanced at the judge and then met Stevenson’s gaze. “I believe…” He was running out of time, he had no witnesses to call, and no evidence to submit to the court. “Or rather, the prosecution was like to propose…”

What? What could have prompted Alyssa, after eight years of begrudgingly accepting her life as a wife and mother, to suddenly commit pre-meditated murder? Why wouldn’t she just file for divorce? It wasn’t as if they had all that many belongings to split between them, so even if she got nothing from him, she wouldn’t lose all that much in the long run. And if she thought she would, why not grab whatever money she could and run away? Why take such drastic measures?

“If you could answer sometime today, that would be stupendous, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Think about it from the very beginning. Bruce came home drunk, Alyssa chose to kill him. Why? His brow creased slightly. Why was he drunk? I assumed, because he drank regularly, that it was part of his regular routine, but what if it wasn’t? What would have prompted him to drink? Was it positive or negative? On the negative spectrum, there were many reasons, but most of them were vague and unhelpful, like a hard day at work, a bounced check, a pile of bills, a fender bender that would raise insurance rates, and so on. Nothing on that list was worth murder, so if Bruce came home and delivered the bad news, it wouldn’t have meant anything to his wife. If he were drinking because of a fight with Alyssa, it wouldn’t have left her feeling hurt or betrayed in any way. Given her distaste for her family, she probably would have welcomed the chance to verbally kick Bruce into a corner, regardless of who or what started the argument.

No, none of those were right. So, positive?

What would have been cause for celebration? Birthdays? Edgeworth briefly recalled the file for each family member. No. No birthdays, and no holidays, either. If he got a raise or promotion, it would increase Alyssa’s access to money, so that’s not a motive. Good news from extended family wouldn’t have done anything because neither of them communicated with their relatives. He kept his expression blank, neurons firing a billion times per second. What was Bruce passionate about? What did he enjoy? Nothing worth killing over, that was certain. Bruce Coleman was your Average Joe. He worked an average job, with an average income and apartment, who enjoyed average hobbies. There was nothing earth-shattering about his hunting license or bi-weekly poker night, the attendance of which did not greatly impact their finances.

What would Wright do? Edgeworth resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and find his rival’s face in the crowd. There isn’t a pet bird to interrogate, so how would he turn it around? He closed his eyes briefly. He always latches on to the smallest, most insignificant detail and beats it to death until it makes sense. Come on, come on… what about Bruce is worth killing over? All he did was go to work and—

“It seems Mr. Edgeworth has run out of things to say, Your Honor.” Stevenson smiled, slick as ever, and braced his arms on his desk.

Edgeworth narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his own desk with a snarl. “Hardly.”

The judge cleared his throat from above. “Ahem, yes, well… do you plan to share what you have to say, Prosecutor Edgeworth?”

There’s something in the beginning of the case I’m missing. What happened before he went out drinking? What would have made her—

“Mr. Edgew—”

“The prosecution calls Alyssa Coleman to the stand.” Edgeworth shifted his gaze from Stevenson to Alyssa, running his tongue over the inside of his teeth. “I want you to testify about why you and your husband were fighting on the night of his death.”

“Objection!” Stevenson pointed across the courtroom. “We already know why she was fighting with the victim. He was drinking, something she had repeatedly told him not to do.”

Edgeworth narrowed his eyes. “No. Establishing Alyssa as the abuser might not give us a motive for murder, but it does tell us she had no reason to curb Bruce’s drinking. Abusers love to be in control—they thrive on it—and you aren’t going to be more in control of a household than you are when the head of it is unable to stand. Likewise, you aren’t going to be more in control of a man twice your size when he’s sober rather than not.”

Stevenson opened his mouth to speak, but the judge cut him off with that typical, wide-eyed, utterly clueless nod. Thankfully, though, the cluelessness was working in Edgeworth’s favor this time around.

“Yes, yes, I see. I will allow it.”

“Your Honor—!”

“I will allow it.”

Edgeworth allowed the smallest of smirks to pull on his mouth. He didn’t know where he was going with his argument just yet, but he knew he was on the right path, if only because he felt like someone was choking him, and Wright usually looked like someone was choking him right before he blew Edgeworth’s case to pieces.

Straightening up, Edgeworth cleared his throat and addressed Alyssa once she was at the stand. “Defendant, please state your name and occupation for the court.”

Alyssa stood with her hip to the side, oozing a disinterested nonchalance as bedazzled nails drummed on the stand. Her free arm was tucked neatly under her cleavage, blonde waves falling around her shoulders and tangling in the large, golden hoops she wore.

“Alyssa Coleman. Unemployed.”

Edgeworth inhaled slowly but discreetly. I have to be quick, and I have to get it right. I’m out of chances, and if I want to keep Arthur away from her, I have to stop her here and now. He was terrified of what Alyssa would do if she had unfettered access to Arthur between being cleared of murder and being charged with abuse and neglect. “Mrs. Coleman,” he glanced down at his notes, took a discreet breath, and lifted his head to meet her dark brown eyes. “Please testify regarding the argument you had with your husband on the night you shot him.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I already told you. Bruce came home drunk. I told him not to do that anymore, and he ignored me, like he always did. I was angry, so we fought.” She shrugged. “That’s all there is to it.”

The judge nodded. “Yes, I see. Hmm, well, the prosecution may question the defendant.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Edgeworth searched Alyssa’s face, realizing just how much he truly despised her only once he saw how much she simply didn’t care. “Mrs. Coleman, you keep alcohol in the house even though you want your husband to remain sober?” He forced his anger down preemptively and brought out the cool, level-headed composure he needed to keep her out from under his skin.

“I never said I don’t drink,” was her response.

Edgeworth shrugged. “I never said you did. But your own appetite for alcohol doesn’t explain why you kept such a large quantity, why it was in plain sight, or why it happened to be the same brand Bruce preferred.”

“I shouldn’t have to drink warm beer from a secret stash because my husband has no impulse control.” Alyssa looked down at her nails, polished them on her shirt, and inspected them again. “His struggles are not my problem. And it’s not a crime to have the same favorite drink as your spouse.”

Edgeworth had an almost curious tone to his voice when he pressed her. “That doesn’t seem like a good way to maintain a healthy relationship. Especially when it seems Bruce cared about your problems quite a bit. You stayed at home all day eating bonbons while he worked up to sixty hours a week—hard, back-breaking work. Are you telling me he did that for himself?”

Alyssa tensed slightly, a new anger flashing through her eyes before she blinked it away. “Bruce might have worked a lot, but he didn’t do it for me. He did it for himself and, as you might have guessed, his habit.”

Edgeworth chuckled, gesturing to hand she was still inspecting. “It didn’t go to your manicures? Or your designer shoes? It didn’t pay the bills and rent you should have been contributing to with your own income?”

“Objection!” Stevenson slammed his desk. “Your Honor, he is attacking her character, not establishing a motive! There is no relevance to this line of questioning.

“Yes, I see.” The judge nodded—as he was so very prone to do—and looked at Edgeworth. “Can you tell me where you’re going with this?”

Edgeworth smirked. “Of course, Your Honor. My theory is that the defendant is lying about the true nature of the argument between her and the victim, and because I believe the true cause of the conflict could be related to, or itself be, the motive for murder, it is extremely relevant.

The judge hummed. “Hmm… yes, I see. You may proceed.”

Alyssa glared at Edgeworth.

Edgeworth grinned back. “Mrs. Coleman, you testified that, ‘I was angry, so we fought. That’s all there is to it.’” He spread his arms. “I fail to see how an argument over alcoholism could lead to murder under the circumstances. We’ve already ruled out self-defense, so what could he have said or done in regards to his drinking habit that would make you pull the trigger?”

Alyssa smirked with cherry red lips and tilted her head. “I believe that’s something you have to answer, Mr. Prosecutor.” She batted her lashes. “I’m hardly going to establish a motive for you.”

Edgeworth narrowed his eyes but still bore a hint of a smile. “No, no, of course not. But if it wasn’t premeditated murder, then your reason isn’t a motive. It is simply context. Something inspired you to pull the trigger that night, and if it wasn’t self-defense nor his drunkenness, it had to be something related to the argument in another way.”

“Well, Mr. Prosecutor, you seem to have all the answers.” Leaning forward, Alyssa put her elbows on the witness stand and plopped her chin in her hands. “Why don’t you tell me what I was fighting with my husband about?”

Edgeworth stared for several moments, searching her eyes for any sign of innocence, guilt, regret—even panic would have given her some semblance of humanity—but there was nothing. There was nothing, and Edgeworth scrambled to think of what she would have argued about the most when it came to Bruce.

Because she was not going to walk. Edgeworth would die first.

“You fought about Arthur.” Edgeworth almost surprised himself with the statement, not entirely sure where it came from, but the second he said it, he realized it was the exact answer he had been looking for.

Alyssa grit her teeth and bit down on one of her precious nails, the answer clearly hitting a sore spot. “Excuse me?”

“You and Bruce disagreed about Arthur more than anything else. You were far from Mother of the Year, but Bruce loved being a father. Miss Clarke testified earlier that, to her knowledge, Bruce was the one who wanted to keep Arthur while you did not. Do you deny that?”

Alyssa drummed her fingers faster, the fire in her eyes suddenly flaring. She didn’t say anything, but her breathing picked up, and every muscle in her body was suddenly stone. He was getting closer, and her mask was crumbling fast.

But she won’t admit to anything. I either have to walk her, step by step, to the truth, or I have to make her angry enough to spew it at me. Edgeworth glanced down at his papers, the pictures of several nail marks in pale skin catching his eye. She hates Arthur. She wants nothing to do with him. But Bruce wanted to keep him. That didn’t help him understand what they would have argued about in the present day, though. Arthur is nine years old. She long ago accepted his existence. She lashes out, tries to punish him, tries to punish Bruce, but she hasn’t shown any signs before now of taking action to remove either of them from the picture. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, outward expression unchanged. Something new must have come into the picture. Did Bruce want to try for another child? Did she say no? Rape, perhaps? That would be a good motive, but there’s no indication of Bruce being abusive, sexually or otherwise, and surely rape would have come up in the original claim of self-defense from an abusive husband.

Edgeworth’s eyes widened, slowly traveling up to Alyssa’s sneer. He didn’t have to force her. He didn’t have to ask her to try. Neither of them were sterilized, and there’s only so much birth control and condoms can do. It’s been nine years; something was bound to malfunction eventually. His lips parted before he even knew what words to use, but pieces were falling into place, and it made sense. It made sense, it was a motive, and that was all he really needed.

“Mrs. Coleman, you’re pregnant.”

Alyssa bit down on her nail hard enough to snap the acrylic off, but Edgeworth didn’t give her a chance to argue, excitement surging as he began to understand. “Bruce was drunk because he went out after work to celebrate the good news. Meanwhile, you were at home, drugging Arthur so he was out of the way and manufacturing signs of a struggle in the bedroom. After that, it was a simple matter of waiting at home with the loaded gun, following him to the bedroom, shooting him, and then calling the police.” He shook his head, an almost disbelieving simper on his face. “He probably saw the mess, turned around to come back out and ask you what had happened, and you were waiting in the doorway with a bullet.”

Alyssa stared him down, but she was trembling—almost imperceptibly, but Edgeworth wasn’t so easily fooled—with a rage that told him he was right. “It’s a nice idea, but you can’t prove anything you just said.”

Edgeworth chuckled, lifting his hands with a shake of the head. “Can’t I?” He put his hands on his hips. “Performing a pregnancy test would easily confirm at least one aspect, and once we know this was not his typical after-work binge, we can reach out to his coworkers and the bartenders to confirm his reasons for celebrating that night. What do you think they’re going to say?”

Alyssa gripped the stand railing, her remaining nails digging into the lacquer. “Alright, fine! I’m pregnant. That doesn’t—”

“Please change your testimony to reflect that.” Edgeworth smiled pleasantly.

Alyssa practically growled, dark brown eyes growing darker still. “I told Bruce I was pregnant. He went out to drink. When he came back, we fought about it.” She inhaled slowly to calm herself and smirked like a devil. “But that is all you can prove.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth wagged his finger at her. “Not so, Mrs. Coleman. By adjusting your testimony, you admitted to your own motive.” He gestured to the slender woman on the stand. “You’re not showing. You don’t look pregnant in any way, which is why it took me so long to figure this out. Looking at you, looking at your house, talking to your neighbors, and even sharing a roof with your son came with no indication of you being with child. You could have aborted the baby without ever telling Bruce—without telling anyone—and life could have gone on unaltered. You knew from past experience that Bruce would want to keep his baby, but you made him aware of the pregnancy anyway. Why? That wasn’t a very smart thing to do, unless… you wanted to start a fight.”

Alyssa had the decency to look surprised, but it lasted no more than a second. Her head lowered, a curtain of hair concealing her face. Her hands shook at her sides, breathing labored, and then—

“He had no right!” She jerked her head up and shrieked into the open courtroom, apathy replaced by a burning rage and hatred so strong Edgeworth wasn’t sure how she had lived with it for so many years. “I never wanted Arthur, but Bruce made me keep him. He ruined my life! I was going to go somewhere, be something, be someone, and he took that from me!”

Edgeworth arched a brow, unimpressed. “Did he lock you up for the duration of your pregnancy?”

“He was going to leave me if I got an abortion.” Alyssa’s shoulders were heaving, hair in disarray, teeth bared as she screamed. “I didn’t have anywhere to live other than with him! He was my only source of money!”

Edgeworth quirked a brow at her, speaking with heavy condescension. “Do you expect sympathy? He didn’t force you. You could have left him. It may not have been easy, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. Instead, you chose to stay and have Arthur, and in the time that followed, you did nothing to ensure such a situation would not arise again. You know who didn’t get to choose?” He held up a picture of the crime scene. “Bruce didn’t get to choose.” He used his other hand to lift a picture of a battered ribcage. “Arthur didn’t get to choose.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You’re going to try very hard—and I promise you won’t succeed—to keep the child inside you now from choosing. You see, Alyssa,” he inhaled deeply, every last bit of pent-up anger bursting out through his raised voice and the hand he slammed on his desk, “forcing someone isn’t giving them an option they like and an option they don’t. Forcing someone is removing their ability to choose at all. When you grab someone by the shoulders and dig your nails into their skin, you are forcing that injury on them. When you drug them, kick them, beat them, lock them away, or shoot them, you are forcing them to endure your abuse; you are forcing them to surrender their life when it was not yours to take or even request in the first place. That is what it means to force someone to do something. That is what it feels like to not have a choice.”

Alyssa’s anger seemed to fizzle out, and Edgeworth could have sworn he saw her smile a little at his lecture. She ran her tongue over her lip and snorted. “How like a man.”

“Classy response, Mrs. Coleman.” Edgeworth wouldn’t even deign such a baseless argument with a substantiative response.

Alyssa only stared back, lips slowly parting in a very self-satisfied grin. She might have lost her freedom, but there was a sick satisfaction in what she had accomplished. She was pleased with herself, and Edgeworth realized, a bit sick to his stomach, that her delight had to come from the fact Arthur was still suffering. It didn’t matter that Bruce was dead, and it didn’t matter that she was going to be behind bars for the rest of her life. All that mattered was that Arthur was going to struggle with the trauma she had inflicted for the rest of his life, no matter how absent from that life she was. She would be able to hurt him no matter where she was, even if she was six feet under, without even trying.

Of course, Edgeworth would do all he could to lessen the pain, but he couldn’t take it away. Not all of it, not completely. No one could. You… He cleared his throat and turned to Stevenson, who had already begun cleaning up. “Does the defense have anything to add?”

“No, I do not.” Stevenson shook his head, and there was something unsatisfying with his lack of frustration over losing. But then again, he wasn’t Wright. He didn’t care about innocence, only about getting paid, and he had more paying clients on the road ahead of him.

I suppose there is a bit of comfort in knowing that, just as Bruce was nothing more than a paycheck to Alyssa, Alyssa was nothing more than a paycheck to Stevenson. Standing up a little straighter, Edgeworth looked at the judge and waited, stomach churning in a combination of nervousness, fury, and adrenaline. He couldn’t imagine the judge was going to let her walk, even without a clear-cut confession, but if he did, Edgeworth wasn’t sure he would be able to keep from launching himself across the courtroom.

“In light of everything presented over the course of this trial, I hereby find the defendant, Alyssa Coleman… guilty.”

Edgeworth let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and the gavel came down.

It was finally over.

Edgeworth tapped the wheel as he drove, occasionally glancing at the passenger seat to see if Arthur had stopped staring blankly out the window. Arthur hadn’t—he been absent from reality since the trial ended—and the rain beating on the glass did little to lighten the atmosphere. I should thank Wright and Maya for taking him out of the gallery when things started going south. Still, Arthur had heard enough of his mother’s disdain, and on top of that, a social worker found them in the prosecutor’s lounge immediately afterward and said he had an hour to pack his things before he had to go.

Edgeworth felt sick. His heart was pounding, sweaty palms shaking against the wheel. His throat was tight, a solid lump right in the middle, and the air in the car felt too stale to breathe. He was nauseous. He had a headache. He was tired. He was exhausted.

“What’s gonna happen to the baby?”

Edgeworth sighed softly and shook his head, happy Arthur had finally said something but clueless about how to answer. “I… don’t know yet, but… I’ll do everything I can to protect him or her.” He smiled lightly, a flicker of warmth in his chest. “You’re very kind to be thinking of the baby right now. I… I know you’re in a lot of pain, too.”

Arthur didn’t look away from the window, and it seemed he was going to lapse back into silence. His lips started to move, but all he did was sigh. Sniffling, he opened his mouth and tried again. “How much longer?”

“Less than two minutes. It’s just up ahead on the left.” Edgeworth tried to keep his frown inward, but the question bothered him; he knew Arthur knew where they were. “Do you… want me to help you get everything together?” His gut twisted even as he said it.

Arthur shook his head, emotionless.

Edgeworth exhaled. “Okay.” He didn’t really know what to say beyond that, and seventy-seven seconds later, he was parking in the driveway. He opened his mouth to make another attempt at conversation, but Arthur got out and shut the door, keeping his head down as he ambled up the steps and waited. Normally, he would look back at Edgeworth and urge him to hurry, bouncing on his toes while he waited. Normally, he would have hopped up the steps like a bunny.

But today wasn’t a normal day.

Sighing—the kind of sigh a soul let out—Edgeworth got out and approached the door, walking up the steps and unlocking it with a twist. Arthur pushed past Edgeworth to get in, and they both kicked their shoes off without a word passing between them. Arthur disappeared up the steps, somehow accomplish a pace that was rushed and sluggish at the same time.

I can’t pretend I didn’t know this was going to happen. Edgeworth rubbed his face with both hands and shuffled absently into the kitchen, robotically going through the motions of putting a kettle on to boil. He thought he could, at the very least, make Arthur a cup of tea before social services arrived. Arthur loved tea, especially the mint flavors, and a dreary day like this was perfect for a warm drink. I knew this was coming. I knew. He has to go. I can’t take care of him. This was always going to be a temporary arrangement. He put his elbows on the bar and lowered his face into his hands. He has to go. What else can I do?

Of course, he knew what else he could do. He had already had the thought—more than once, the most recent time less than twenty-four hours prior when he relieved Maya from babysitting duty—he simply shut himself down every time it occurred to him. 

“He’s a great kid.”

As if Edgeworth didn’t know that; as if his reasons for refusing to keep Arthur revolved around the idea of Arthur being too much trouble. That had never, at any point, been the problem. Arthur was resilient, intelligent, kind, thoughtful, loving, and certainly not the problem.

The problem was Edgeworth. Edgeworth had absolutely no confidence in his ability to raise a child. None. He didn’t know where to begin—couldn’t even watch Arthur for three days without a trip to the emergency room—or how he was supposed to navigate when he didn’t even know where on the map he was—

Edgeworth startled at the sudden realization of a whistle getting louder, and he automatically went through the process of preparing tea while his mind wandered. He sat down with his own cup and set the other across from himself, drumming his fingers for a second before he grimaced. Eugh. It sounded too much like Alyssa’s acrylic clacking on the banister. He laid his hand flat instead, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest. It would be just like me to drop dead from a heart attack at twenty-six. But it wasn’t a heart attack. He couldn’t imagine a heart attack would hurt any more than what he was feeling currently, but he still knew that wasn’t source of his pain.

“I’m all packed, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth looked up from his drink and saw Arthur standing in the entryway. He forced a smile, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Good job. I made you some tea.”

Arthur shuffled over and sat down, but he didn’t look up or offer thanks. He just stared vacantly into the liquid, his mind clearly light years away.

“Arthur…” Edgeworth treaded carefully. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Arthur blinked and sniffed, brushing his eye with his sleeve. “You don’t know that.”

Edgeworth leaned forward, trying to get Arthur to look at him. “I do, though. I know everything is going to be okay. It sometimes takes a while, but everything eventually comes around to being okay in the end.”

Arthur hung his head a little lower and wrapped his arms around himself, a shudder wracking his little body as he curled up on the chair. “What did I do wrong…?”

Edgeworth shook his head emphatically. “Arthur, you didn’t do anything, I swear. Your—Alyssa simply…” He exhaled, frustrated by his lack of words. “There is some sort of faulty connection in her brain. She doesn’t—”

“No, I mean—” Arthur bit down on his lip, trying not to cry. “I mean what did I do to… you? To make you send me away?”

Edgeworth closed his eyes briefly, not understanding how he could hurt so much from a feeling. His heart felt like someone was wringing it in the same way they would wring a dishrag to get rid of excess water, and he could hardly breathe through the pressure. “Oh, Arthur, you… didn’t do anything wrong. You are a wonderful boy, and these past three days have been amazing. I love having you here.” He struggled to keep control of his tongue, not entirely sure what was going to fall out of his mouth. “You were never supposed to stay permanently, but it’s not your fault. That’s just the… the situation. I’m just—I’m just not good with kids—at raising kids, you see, I’m—”

“You’re good enough for me,” Arthur mumbled, gnawing on his lip as crocodile tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. “I think you’re good at raising kids.”

Edgeworth exhaled softly. “Lip.” He didn’t know what else he could say to offer any help, but Arthur didn’t stop like he normally did. “Please, Arthur. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “S’just my lip.” He didn’t look up, and he didn’t stop biting. He hadn’t touched his tea. He hadn’t made eye contact since before the trial.

Edgeworth struggled, hands hovering midair as he tried to make sense of his own thoughts. “Arthur, I… I wouldn’t know what to… do. I might make a lot of mistakes. It’s—it’s a big responsibility, and—it’s a very big responsibility, and I wouldn’t know how to do it… responsibly.” He ran a hand through his hair, an accusation ringing in his ear. You’re making excuses. “What if you have questions I can’t answer? What if I get it wrong?”

Arthur lifted his head, a flash of green peeking through his bangs. “Do you love me, Mr. Edgeworth?”

Edgeworth didn’t know the answer to that. He knew he felt something for Arthur—an intense desire to protect, a warmth in his chest when they were together, swelling pride at every little accomplishment—but he wasn’t sure if that was the same as loving a child. He was afraid to say he loved Arthur. It was such a big word, with such big implications, and how could he reconcile loving Arthur with letting him spend the rest of his childhood under someone else’s roof?

Edgeworth swallowed. “I… I do love you, but… that doesn’t mean I won’t… make mistakes—big mistakes—along the way, and those mistakes can impact your life—your entire life.” Case in point, Bruce’s and Alyssa’s mistakes had created the situation they were in at that exact moment.

Arthur dropped his head again, shoulders quivering. “When you really love someone, the mistakes don’t matter so much, I don’t think. I don’t really… I don’t want anything else. I just…” He trailed off, voice trembling. “I just wanna stay with you. I don’t—I don’t wanna go!”

Edgeworth opened his mouth, but he was cut off by a knock at the door. Already? He hesitated but got up and went to the door, every step seeming to echo in the otherwise silent house. We were supposed to have an hour. It was like a death march. It’s only been forty minutes or so. Arthur isn’t ready. I’m not ready He unlocked the door and greeted the woman on the other side, unable to manage a smile. “Come in,” he said softly, stepping back to let her inside.

“Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth. My name is Sarah Cook with DCFS.” Smiling warmly but with a clear understanding of the seriousness of the situation, she shook his hand and gestured to the clipboard in her arms. “I’m here to pick up Arthur Coleman.”

Edgeworth just nodded, unable to speak, and led her to the kitchen. Crouching down beside Arthur’s chair, he cleared his throat and managed to form a sentence, vaguely aware of her standing off to the side. “Arthur, this is Miss Sarah with social services.”

Smiling again, with that same cautious understanding, the dark-skinned woman leaned forward and offered a tiny wave. “Hey, there, Arthur. You’re gonna come with me, and we’re gonna get you set up at a really nice place, okay?”

Arthur glanced at her but went right back to staring at his lap.

She’s kind. Good with kids. Edgeworth tried to comfort himself with the thought, but neither his logic nor his conscience was having any of it. You know social workers rarely spend time with the children they’re assigned to. You have no idea what kind of overseer he’ll have in foster care. He cleared his throat. “His, uh… his things are already packed up in that box by the door. We just have to… ahem, just have to say goodbye, and then he’s all ready.”

“Of course,” Sarah complied, taking a few steps back to give the two some space. She could read adults as well as children, apparently.

“Hey.” Edgeworth put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gently pulled. “Come on. We need to have a proper goodbye. Can you give me a hug?”

Arthur slid from the chair and stumbled into Edgeworth’s arms, hiding his face in the burgundy suit jacket he had been so happy to copy. Edgeworth wrapped his arms around the boy and held on tight, feeling Arthur shake against his chest.

“Arthur, listen.” Edgeworth whispered, hoping he could do something to soothe the onslaught of tears, but with the way his own eyes were burning, he doubted he could. “I know it’s scary, but it could also be exciting. You’re going to live with a new family, and you might even get brothers and sisters.”

“I don’t want brothers and sisters.” Arthur sobbed a few times, pushing his feet against the floor in an attempt to bury himself in Edgeworth’s arms. “I want you.”

Edgeworth sniffed and grit his teeth, ignoring the stray tear that escape. “I know.” He didn’t know what else to say. He just kept holding on. “I love you. I do. I’m sorry I didn’t answer right away when you asked before.”

That only made Arthur cry harder. “Please, Mr. Edgeworth! I’ll do anything!”

Sarah stepped closer and held out her hand. “Arthur, sweetie, it’s time to go. It’ll be alright, okay? You’ll see.” She blended a cheerful note into her sympathy. “We have some new toys looking for a good friend to take care of them. We can pick one out as soon as we get there. You’ll make some new friends, and Mrs. Davenport is a wonderfully sweet woman.”

Arthur slowly extended a hand, but it was more a sign of surrender than acceptance. He maneuvered his feet beneath himself and tried to stand up.

But Edgeworth didn’t let go.

“Mr. Edgeworth, please. The longer this takes, the harder it will be on both of you.”

Edgeworth shook his head slowly, one hand buried in Arthur’s hair. “I can’t.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware his knees were hurting from how long they had been on the hard linoleum. And oddly, the back of his mind was the only thing processing information; the rest of it was blank.

“I’m sorry?”

Edgeworth shook his head a little faster and tightened his hold. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He sniffed again, feeling a brief, hot trail on his cheek. “I can’t let him go.”

Sarah was silent for several moments, and when she spoke, uncertainty was thick in her voice. “You… want me to get you in touch with an adoption agency instead?”

Edgeworth nodded dumbly.

Arthur sniffled. “Mr. Edgeworth…?”

Thankful he didn’t have to look into Arthur’s eyes, Edgeworth slid off his knees until he was sitting with Arthur in his lap. “I can’t let you go. I just can’t.”

Edgeworth might have been known for his ability to plan, to look at the end of a case before he fully understood the beginning, to live several steps ahead of where he was, but he hadn’t realized how much he needed Arthur until he was about to lose him. Suddenly, the idea of a home without Arthur became the reality of a home without Arthur, and Edgeworth hadn’t been ready for that. He wasn’t ready for the last hug, the last cup of tea, the last car ride home, the last kiss goodnight, the last giggle, the last round of sound effects accompanied by a flying matchbox car. He just wasn’t ready, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be.

 “You said the mistakes don’t matter much, right?” Edgeworth stopped trying to keep the thickness from his voice, dashing his tears away before returning the hand to Arthur’s back.

Arthur pulled back just a fraction—just enough to look up at Edgeworth’s face—a bewildered blend of fear and hope in his eyes. “You mean it? You’ll keep me?”

Edgeworth huffed out a small laugh. “I have to.”

Arthur stared, confused, and shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

Edgeworth shook his head right back, smiling. “You misunderstand me. I have to keep you, not because I have an obligation, but because… I don’t want to know what it will feel like to be here without you.” He brushed the blonde hair back, thumbing the flushed skin. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next, with your mother or the baby or even you, but whatever happens, it’ll happen to both of us. Alright?”

Arthur stared, blinked, and after another moment of caution, moved in close and curled up, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as he burrowed into the man who had been caring for him a mere three days. “You mean it?”

Edgeworth sniffed and kissed the top of Arthur’s head. Briefly, and once again only in the faint portion of his brain that was working, he realized he had never done that before. “I do.” He shook his head and sniffed again, eyes wet but brighter than they had been since he heard the guilty verdict. “You’re going to stay with me for as long as you want.”

Arthur inhaled sharply. “Even if I want to stay forever?”

Edgeworth laughed. “Even if you want to stay forever.”

Because as long a time as forever was, it still wouldn’t be enough time to spend with the boy who had turned his world completely upside down in three days. Forever was never enough; not when it came to family. And Arthur Coleman and Miles Edgeworth were definitely family.

Case closed.

Chapter Text

What have I forgotten? Edgeworth ran his hands through his hair for the millionth time and looked around the kitchen and living room areas with the large foyer in between. It was modestly decorated with streamers and balloons, there was a variety of drinks and snacks on the counter, and the table was set for six. Off to the side of the food on the counter, three small presents sat with a sealed envelope, and there was plenty of room for any presents the guests might bring, so nothing would need to be adjusted last minute. But I have to be forgetting something. I haven’t been this prepared for an event since…

Well, since before he was a father. It seemed there was no time or preparation to be had when there was a child in the equation. His courtroom skills hadn’t suffered at all—in fact, his steady acclimation to unpredictability improved them in some ways—but he never truly felt prepared. He had never had that problem until he had a little boy to look after, and suddenly things just wound up left by the wayside on a regular basis. Not on purpose, they just got pushed back more and more and more every day, and things often seemed to… sort of just… happen. It was a very sporadic and complicated existence.

And Edgeworth loved it. It wasn’t in his nature, but he loved it nonetheless.

Edgeworth heard a familiar thump, thump, thump on the steps, and then the front door flew open, allowing a young man with snow-dusted hair and a worn, black jacket to come in and wipe his shoes on the mat.

“Come on,” Edgeworth urged, not bothering with pleasantries in light of his eagerness. “Show it to me. I want to see it.”

Faintly scarred lips parted in a broad grin, one hand pulling off a glove so the other could reach into the jacket and—

“Detective Sergeant Arthur Edgeworth, from homicide. I’ve got some questions for you, sir.” Arthur grinned like a little kid on Christmas, beaming as he held out his badge.

Edgeworth smiled even more, shaking his head with a tone of disbelief. “Detective Sergeant at twenty-three. And you used to try and convince me you weren’t that smart.” He grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Bashful as ever, Arthur maintained his confidence until Edgeworth put some space between them, at which point he huffed out a nervous laugh and glanced off to the side, as he often did when complimented. “I, um—I’m glad. Glad you’re proud, I mean.”

Edgeworth took the badge from Arthur’s hand and looked it over, eyes wandering to the right-hand side of the leather sleeve. “Mind if I do a little detecting of my own?”

Arthur sobered, letting out a soft sigh. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Edgeworth pulled the corner of the paper he could see sticking out, unsurprised when a folded document came with it, and even less surprised to find it was a homemade birth certificate with the name Elisa Leah Edgeworth. He had printed that certificate more than ten years earlier, after all. He knew how important it was.

“You’re going to carry her with you?” Edgeworth asked softly, chancing a look at Arthur’s face while carefully refolding the paper and tucking it away with reverence. “I think she would appreciate that.”

Arthur nodded shortly, eyes downcast, and held out his hand for the badge. “I couldn’t help her, but I can help other people as a detective. Not in the same way, but… it’s still helping.”

Edgeworth pressed his lips into a thin line, summoning words he had repeated to his son many, many times over the years. “There was nothing either of us could do.” He paused to let the statement settle, and then he offered a smile. “You said you’re going to the March for Life, didn’t you? I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Arthur stared at his badge, as if looking right through it to the certificate he had just concealed, and then he quickly tucked it into his coat. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat and sniffed, forcing a smile. “She would be thirteen if she…” He shook his head. “Almost a freshman. Crazy about boys. Trying to learn how to walk in high heels.” He laughed, somewhere between melancholy and wistful. “Driving you crazy, probably. Or maybe she would be more like you and not like me.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

Edgeworth pulled Arthur into another hug. “I would hope that, regardless of who she took after more, she would still be incredibly proud of her big brother and want him to celebrate his remarkable accomplishment.”

Arthur didn’t seem comforted by the words. “Mom was eight weeks pregnant when she… Elisa never got to open her eyes.”

“Arthur—”

“She had eyes, Dad, but she never got to open them. Her heart was beating—giving off twenty percent of the energy an adult heart does!” Arthur threw his arm out in a broad gesture to the staircase, growing more animated, as he often did when his sister became the topic of conversation. “She had muscles and a skeleton and reflexes; she had little tiny teeth, and ears, and lips, and a nose; her organs were all there and they were working, they were forming blood cells and acids and…” He slowed to a stop, the fight draining out of him. “And Mom killed her. But we could have taken her. We could have—I know you would have, even if I hadn’t begged you to. I—” He stopped, a look of realization dawning on his face. “You’ve heard all this before.” He laughed weakly, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. “Sorry.”

Edgeworth smiled softly. “I don’t mind listening. I know how much it hurt you when I… when we couldn’t save Elisa. I know you need to talk about it sometimes. If I ever…” he wet his lips, trying to word himself carefully, “If I ever have an expression that makes you think I’m not on your side, it’s just me worrying that the passion you have for saving people might become anger if you aren’t careful.” He reached out and squeezed Arthur’s shoulder. “You can’t save everyone, and you can’t save anyone by being angry about those you couldn’t.”

Arthur wiped his eyes, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I know.”

“Do you?” Edgeworth arched a brow. “I can’t prosecute every guilty person, and your Uncle Wright can’t defend every innocent one. As a detective, you have to accept that you will not solve every case, even if you do manage to crack every single one you are put in charge of.” He took Arthur’s face in his hands. “We are human, and we need to be okay with that.”

Arthur met Edgeworth’s gaze. “Tch.” He smiled. “Sorry, who was it who slipped just a moment ago and almost said he was the one who couldn’t save Elisa like he was the only one involved in the process?”

“Circumstantial evidence. Rethink your case and try to make your argument again at a later date.” Edgeworth waved it off, a smirk pulling on his lips when Arthur laughed, but there was a sense of morbid wonder as he was struck, not for the first time, by how deep certain thoughts were rooted in his mind.

Roughly two years into raising Arthur, Edgeworth had realized therapy for one of them was not enough. If he was going to be a good parent—if he was going to help Arthur process his trauma—he had to work through some traumas of his own, even if that meant swallowing his pride and doing the unthinkable. So, he did, and yet, even after years of rewiring his brain, the ever-critical voice of Manfred von Karma would find a way to slip back in from time to time, shaming him for any failure to reach perfection.

“Do you need any help setting things up?” Arthur asked as he shed his coat, pulling Edgeworth from his thoughts.

“I was actually just thinking to myself that I’m more prepared for this event than any of the ones I’ve held over the past decade.” Edgeworth smiled.

Arthur laughed, the last tendrils of grief fading as he approached the table. “Six plates?” He turned toward Edgeworth with a hopeful smile. “Is Franzy coming?”

Edgeworth flashed a less-than-certain grimace. “She’s hoping to. With this dreadful winter weather, her flight was delayed, but she’s trying her best to be here.”

“Awesome!” Arthur smiled, leaving the table behind to put the kettle on the stove. “Did I get anything in the mail?”

“You got a postcard from the animal shelter.” Edgeworth leaned in the entryway to the kitchen, watching how naturally Arthur moved around his home, knowing where everything was without even looking. “It seems two dogs and a cat are not enough; we simply must adopt more.” he glanced down as he spoke, half expecting one of the aforementioned animals to appear. “But I don’t think Friska would be too keen on the idea of more intruders in her territory. Oh! You also got a letter from your sponsored child in Nigeria.”

“Awesome! I’ve been waiting to hear back from her.” Arthur turned around and leaned back against the stove, scanning the room before looking at Edgeworth with starry eyes. “I can’t believe I’m a detective.”

“I can. I never doubted you for a second.” Edgeworth gestured toward the kettle. “Are you sure you want a cup now? We’ve got about an hour and a half before people start showing up, and I really don’t need help with anything, so you’re more than welcome to get some rest.” He smiled faintly. “I doubt you slept much last night.”

Arthur considered the idea for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” He turned off the stove and walked past Edgeworth toward the staircase, stopping a couple steps later to lean back into his father’s peripherals with a wicked grin. “But stalling won’t save you. I can wait until after the party to beat you at chess.”

Edgeworth chuckled, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye. “I don’t know what’s funnier, you managing to stay awake after nine in the evening, or you thinking you can beat me, the Chess Master, at chess.”

“Oh, it’s on, Chess Master.” Arthur laughed and continued his walk to the stairs, slipping into a jog as he took each one rapidly.

Edgeworth shook his head. He never was very good at patience. He watched the tall, broad-shouldered young man disappear from sight. I can’t believe he’s all grown up. It seemed like mere weeks since Edgeworth had stood in that very kitchen and completely panicked. He remembered staying up all night, sitting at the table long after Arthur had gone to bed, frantically trying to figure out what he was supposed to do and how. Over the years, he had often said that, in that moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of what it might be like to find out you’re going to be a parent in high school, out of wedlock, totally unprepared.

He had consumed twelve—and he did count them—cups of tea before the night was over, clacking away at his laptop, trying to figure out how he was supposed to… well… raise a child. He ordered over thirty different books from various websites, all of them on parenting and child psychology.

Edgeworth meandered over to the chalkboard still fastened to the wall, adjusting the streamer taped to its corner. He had decided on homeschooling without much deliberation. Statistically speaking, it was the best way to educate, and it worked well with his schedule. He never had to worry about picking Arthur up or dropping him off; never had to worry about when the bus went or where. He simply took Arthur with him. He would work cases, Arthur would do his schoolwork, and they would pop across the street to have lunch and, on special days, ice cream cones.

Arthur loved it. Edgeworth loved it. It worked out perfectly.

Arthur wanted to learn to play guitar, so Edgeworth found a studio two blocks from the prosecutor’s office and paid for lessons that overlapped with his work hours. Wright, Maya, and Gumshoe regularly chipped in to help with transportation when Edgeworth couldn’t make the schedule work, and it was commonplace for Wright to show up unannounced with tickets to a museum and happily announce he was taking his nephew on a field trip. Wright loved using school as an excuse to take Arthur anywhere, which was fine, because Arthur loved to travel.

And oh, did they travel.

Of course, Edgeworth took Arthur to Germany to meet Franziska. She had taken to him immediately, much more than Edgeworth thought she would, and it became mandatory to visit at least twice a year. During those visits, they would often catch a train or simply drive through Europe, exploring any little thing that captured Arthur’s interest without any real destination in mind.

And somewhere in all the busy days, cluttered schedules, and easy-going Sunday afternoons, Edgeworth had learned how to be a father. It hit him, sometimes, that he didn’t know exactly when he stopped panicking about his role. He remembered the first night clearly, and in the weeks that followed—finding doctors, a dentist, financial and legal records—he was certain the fear held on.

But then Arthur would smile, and suddenly, it was like nothing else mattered. No matter how hard it was, no matter what went wrong along the way, Edgeworth would do anything to see that smile again. He would take the fear, the doubt, the stress, the sleepless nights, the arguments, the responsibility, the pain—all of it, if he could just get a smile. If they could laugh together; if he could lay on the couch with Arthur on his chest, drifting off to dream. If he got to experience one more Christmas, one more Halloween, one more birth—

Edgeworth gasped. “I forgot to pick up the cake!”

Laughter floated down from the upper level, and Edgeworth cast a scathing glare toward the steps as he rushed across the foyer to get his coat and gloves. “Keep that up, and you aren’t getting any cake!”

“Objection! That would classify as cruel and unusual punishment!”

Edgeworth went halfway up the stairs to hear better. “Objection! One could argue that, given the unhealthy nature of the food in question, it would be cruel and unusual punishment to do anything but withhold cake.”

“Objection! You love me too much to do that me.”

Edgeworth stopped, smiled, and closed the short distance between himself and Arthur’s bedroom door. “The prosecution rests.”

Arthur laughed from inside. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No, it certainly wouldn’t.” Edgeworth opened the door and poked his head in, smiling when he saw Arthur sprawled on his bed under a mountain of blankets. He stared, and he remembered. He remembered so many things just by looking at Arthur.

He remembered concussion number two. He remembered watching the same movie ten times in a row and being unable to get catchy songs out of his head. He remembered burying Pess. He remembered bringing home a puppy a couple months later and talking Arthur out of naming her Blackie Two. He remembered trips to the beach and the park. He remembered painting Arthur’s bedroom, and then repainting it when he decided he was too old for the color scheme. He remembered Arthur’s first broken heart. He remembered the slumber parties.

He remembered everything.

“Dad?”

Edgeworth smiled, vaguely aware his eyes were damp. “I love you, Arthur. More than anything. You do know that, don’t you?”

Arthur rolled onto his side and kicked aside the blankets with a quiet laugh. “Yes, Dad, I know. You tell me every day.”

“Saying something, even every day, doesn’t make it true,” was the simple retort. “Do you know I love you? Do you believe it?”

Arthur smiled, not seeming to understand the gravity of the conversation. “Yes, I know, and I believe. Your evidence is all in order, and you have proven your case beyond a reasonable doubt.” He tilted his head, somehow able to pull off the same, lopsided grin he did as a child. “What about me? How’s my case looking?”

Edgeworth smiled warmly, a dull and somehow pleasant ache throbbing in his chest. “It’s exemplary.”

“No objections?” Arthur raised a brow.

Edgeworth shook his head. “No objections.”

Arthur laid back down and covered himself in blankets once more. “You don’t have to get the cake if you don’t want to. It’s pretty miserable out there.”

“I don’t mind. Just keep your cell phone on you in case I get stuck somewhere.”

Arthur gave a thumbs up and then retreated into the warmth. Edgeworth smiled and shook his head, closing the door and walking back down to the foyer. He put on boots and a hat, grabbing his keys and doing a final sweep with his eyes before stepping out. Well, Dad… I know I didn’t become a defense attorney like you, but I tried to be a good father like you. I hope I made you proud. He started down the steps, smiling softly to himself as he realized… if his father could see him and feel half the pride Edgeworth felt when he looked at Arthur, that would be enough.

It would be more than enough.