Chapter Text
Phoenix Wright is bright.
He's sunny and brilliant and golden, blue eyes gleaming with determination, his smile warm like a beam of sunlight. That badge on his lapel glitters against cheap polyester.
Edgeworth isn't like him. He's desaturated and dark and all jagged edges.
Red, not blue. Darkness, not light. Thunderstorms, not sunshine.
Prosecutor - not defense attorney.
[State v. Fey]
Three cups. He's just finished his third cup of coffee.
After the tongue lashing he just received from von Karma, Edgeworth thinks it's about time for another.
But the caffeine doesn't help. He still feels numb and utterly drained.
That surge of energy he felt during the trial - when he locked eyes with Phoenix Wright as the judge declared the verdict, the way his blood warmed, the way his heart rose into his throat like he was locked in free fall - washed him out, leaving him feeling hollow and exhausted.
After another two pitiful cups of coffee, Edgeworth looks at the time and heads out for an actual coffee from a cafe, since it's time for those to be opening.
As he walks, the shade of the sky - navy lightened to a soft, silky, dreamy blue - reminds him of that idiot's eyes.
[State v. Powers]
It's been a bad past few days for Demon Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth.
His favorite actor jailed, his favorite show facing cancellation, and even worse, his second defeat at the hands of that bumbling, bright buffoon Phoenix Wright.
And the cherry on top is the office coffee maker.
Damn that stupid thing, and damn Phoenix Wright while he's thinking about it.
But it's late by the time he gets back to the office to type up his case report, and all the cafes are closed, so Edgeworth places an order for a newer, better machine online and has Gumshoe bring him a tin of espresso from the late night supermarket.
Gumshoe brings him his coffee black with a chipper 'here you go, sir!'. Edgeworth takes it with an irritable 'what took you so long?'
As he's punching in the details of his defeat, he pauses to take a sip of espresso. He also pauses to think over these damnable details.
That feeling, again - the rush of blood to the heat, the full body flush, the way his heart sang after the verdict was called and Phoenix Wright smiled at him.
That smile. That brilliant, golden smile.
Edgeworth's fingers curl into claws and crush his styrofoam cup. Rivulets of espresso stream over his hand and puddle in his lap.
Damn that Phoenix Wright. Damn, damn, damn him.
Gumshoe jumps up, asks him if he's okay, sir?, did it burn your hand, sir?, want me to patch you up, sir? Edgeworth lets him do as he wants, since the big buffoon is so worried for some reason.
Gumshoe looks at him, brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay, Mr. Edgeworth?"
Edgeworth clenches his uninjured hand into a fist. "Wright as can be, detective."
[State v. Edgeworth]
It all happens in a cloud of cold and mist.
His coat is damp with spray from the lake, his arms are sore from rowing, and his knees are shaking as he stumbles out of the dinghy and onto the pebbly shore.
Before he knows it, the drab Christmas night is lit up by flashes of red and blue hues.
Amidst the chaos, Edgeworth catches a glimpse of Gumshoe's face as he's being shoved into the back of a squad car by cops who'd rather be at home with their families.
He looks sad, for some reason, and terribly concerned. Why? Edgeworth can't possibly fathom. He's had the man bring him espresso from the police station late at night, just because it tastes better than
In the morning, when rays of sun are streaming in through the tiny barred window of his holding cell and he's still dozing on the bench underneath it, he overhears two officers gossiping.
They whisper von Karma is taking this one.
Good.
Maybe if he's dead, then perhaps these thoughts of Phoenix Wright will finally leave him be.
***
When Wright holds up that sun shaped badge and presses it against the impact glass with a clink, and dares to ask, can I defend you, Edgeworth?, Edgeworth almost laughs. Almost.
Oh, the irony - his greatest enemy, come to laugh at him while he's down, offering him charity.
Wright insists that it's not charity, or pity, or anything of the sort.
And when Edgeworth gazes into those deep blue eyes, bright and vast like the afternoon sky, he knows that that's true.
"Stay away from this case."
The earth quivers beneath their feet, and Edgeworth quivers on the floor beneath the cubicle. Except he's no longer Edgeworth - he's no longer the Demon Prosecutor - he becomes Miles again. Imperfect Miles; terrified Miles; broken and jagged Miles.
Miles, whom he left behind in that elevator, many years ago.
Whom Wright leaves behind as soon as the quake is over.
Honestly?
Good.
Or at least that's what Edgeworth tries to tell himself.
***
Phoenix Wright asks him about DL-6.
Edgeworth almost laughs.
Almost.
Wright asks him about DL-6, and presses that sun shaped badge against the impact glass with a clink, and dares to ask, again, can I defend you, Edgeworth? Please?
And Edgeworth... he finally gives in (the first time in what will soon become a pattern).
Wright would just stick his nose in it anyway, he reasons. It's better to give it to him straight - hopefully, he'll see the futility in trying to crack a fifteen year old cold case and let von Karma drop the guillotine so this can end quickly and cleanly.
Or... at least that's what Edgeworth tries to tell himself.
***
The sight of Wright battling for his cause is much different from the defendant’s chair than from the prosecutor's desk.
Mostly because Edgeworth is much closer, and he can see that von Karma has Wright on the ropes - the stress around his eyes, the tight set of his mouth, forehead shiny in the fluorescent light, tie crooked and hair unkempt from anxiously smoothing it with sweaty palms; it all points to Wright being nervous as all hell.
As he should be.
This newbie has a snowball's chance in hell against von Karma.
And honestly? Good. It's better that way - guillotine, quick and clean end, and all that.
Or... at least that's what Edgeworth tries to tell himself...
***
Yet, at the trial's brassy, triumphant crescendo, Wright catches his eye amidst the adrenaline.
He nods to him and smiles, quick and confident. His eyes are bright with hope, not panic, for the first time all day.
I've got it now, he seems to be projecting. I've got you, Edgeworth.
And the feeling returns, warming him from the inside out, and for the first time since he left his old life behind in that elevator, on that fateful day fifteen years ago,
Miles Edgeworth lets himself hope.
***
The second worst day of his life - or maybe it's still the first, just drawn out over the span of fifteen years - finally, finally, draws to a close.
Edgeworth – imperfect Miles; terrified Miles; broken and jagged Miles, in desperate need of a shower and a good night's sleep Miles – must return to the Detention Center to fill out release forms and other such paperwork.
It's a laughably anticlimactic end to the whole debacle that was his murder trial. But he also grateful for it, because truth be told, he's far too exhausted to join in on the defense team's (and Gumshoe's, for some reason) quaint little diner celebration anyway.
He finishes the forms, and they dump him out on the street a bit past two am. He goes to call a cab, but his phone is dead, so he has to turn right back around, walk back into the station, and ask to use their phone. Just embarrassing.
When he unlocks the door and trudges inside, Pess greets him, rump a-wiggling. She even forgets her manners and jumps up on him, tongue lapping kisses at his face. She's in good health - Gumshoe mentioned he came over and fed her and kept her company for a bit. And also watered his cactus to death, it seems.
Edgeworth stoops over and holds her paws, numb and washed out, even faced with the sheer adoration of the only thing on this planet he loves and cares about more than the law.
He gazes into her sweet eyes, sees the joy and love and warmth in them, and thinks about Phoenix Wright.
He jerks awake from a night terror, Manfred von Karma's scream of anguish ringing staccato in his ears, and thinks about Phoenix Wright. That nod of assurance, that quick, confident smile, the light in his eyes; I've got it now. I've got you, Edgeworth.
Damn that man. Damn, damn, damn him.
Needless to say, after the whole rigamarole, he's put more or less on 'probation'.
Lana Skye gives him a call (never a good sign) and - very politely of course, in that sickeningly politician-like manner she's fine-tuned over the past couple of years - coerces him into taking a 'leave of absence'.
To recover from your traumatic experience, she says.
As if his life isn't all one big continuous traumatic experience.
He didn't think he'd be so okay with it. But when he really thinks about it, he's actually relieved that he'll be spared from the stares and whispers. It'll give him time to pick up the pieces of his pride and try to glue them back together.
Gumshoe swings by with a coffee and a sandwich from that bistro near the courthouse for lunch, a new cactus to replace the one he overwatered to death, and a couple of new toys for Pess.
While the good detective tries to teach Pess how to fetch the toys - and winds up doing most of the fetching himself when Pess just stares blankly (she already knows how to fetch, just to be clear, she's just perplexed as to why Gumshoe is playing fetch for her) - Edgeworth feebly nibbles at the sandwich and sips at the coffee he brought. Espresso, black, rich and smooth. Just like he likes.
...perhaps he'll switch to tea.
When Gumshoe grows weary of fetching toys, he reveals the actual reason he stopped by.
He presents a printed out photograph - personal sized, fit for a wallet. Or, well, almost fit for a wallet. It's a bit large for Edgeworth's, to be honest; the edge sticks out a bit from behind his miserable looking ID, simply begging to get weathered and frayed over the years.
But even though Gumshoe's newspaper confetti is sprinkled in his hair, and Miss Fey's eyes are red and her 'not guilty!' sign is sideways; there's an awkwardly large gap on the left next to Larry, like someone was meant to be there; and Wright is awkwardly grimacing as his assistant shoves her way in front of him, and Edgeworth himself is caught right there in 4k, smiling sidelong at Wright, how mortifying...
He loves the picture. A lot.
He thanks Gumshoe, and even gives him the rest of his sandwich.
[State v. Skye]
Edgeworth is used to having accusations leveled at him. He didn't earn the moniker Demon Attorney for nothing.
Most of it came from his vicious methodology, yes, but a small percentage was derived from jealousy. And with jealousy came sordid rumors - whispers behind his back. It was just childish, honestly. Literally high school behavior. So he hardly entertained it with a reaction.
But accomplice in the murder Bruce Goodman? He barely even knew the poor fool, certainly not enough to want him dead - and Chief Skye seemed to merely tolerate him, so why would she seek him out as an accomplice? Again, the thinking behind that is practically juvenile.
But regardless.
It's bad enough that his car was taken as evidence - his Audi TT! Only a year and a half off the line!!! Oh, the agony - but then Phoenix Wright had to stick his nose in this one, too.
He endeared himself to Edgeworth after helping with DL-6, but he's starting to become a pain in the ass again.
(That’s what Miles tell himself, at least.)
***
It's official. His pride, his reputation, his dignity - all of it, poof, gone up in smoke.
So he throws his hat in with the defense. It's not like he has anything else to lose, right? He's one misstep from being disbarred, anyway - might as well do something good with the time he has left.
They compile their evidence together and pick apart the proceedings. They both know something isn't right with this case - everything from Lana Skye's change of character to the evidence lists to Chief Gant's shadow cast over the whole thing.
They come together and cooperate. And honestly, damn Phoenix Wright. Damn that man a thousand times, because teamwork with him is brilliant. It's exhilarating. It's like the sun coming out after an everlasting blizzard.
It reminds him of why he always wanted to become an attorney, even as a young child - finding the truth feels good, helping innocent people feels good.
It's the most terrifying thing he's ever experienced.
***
All's well that ends well.
Well, except for Miles Edgeworth. As usual.
This is all Wright's fault.
Thawing his heart out, giving him the capacity to believe in goodness again, deluding him into thinking maybe, maybe there's hope after all - only for it all to be wrong, just like everything else Edgeworth thought he knew.
No... no, that's not entirely fair. In a way, Wright helped him for the better. Pulled the wool away from his eyes, unblinded him, shined a light in the darkness - showed him the true nature of things.
But in another way, it just feels cruel, because now he really sees. His whole life is a pitiful farce.
His upbringing and mentorship under von Karma: a joke. A sick, sick joke, played out by the hands of a narcissist with a pathetic little ego. And the rest of his coworkers are just the same: corrupt and self-serving. Accomplices. Liars. Murderers.
And he's not just throwing stones in glass houses. Edgeworth is the same as him, too; the same as the rest. Just as corrupt, just as complicit, just as guilty as the entire lot.
How many people did he convict using forged evidence? How many people did he sentence to death because he had faith in the system?
How many peoples' blood does he have on his hands?
He's never going to be able to recover from this. His career, his life - it's all over.
This is the end for Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth.