Work Text:
Miles Edgeworth prided himself on precision.
Precision in his arguments.
Precision in his diction.
Precision in the way every file on his desk was aligned at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
So it was deeply ironic that the one thing currently disrupting that balance was a glossy magazine spread across his desk.
You.
The Y/n.
Model. Singer. International icon. The kind of woman whose face appeared on billboards and whose voice somehow managed to be both haunting and infuriatingly catchy. Edgeworth told himself—often—that his interest was purely academic. Cultural awareness. Right right…Public figures mattered in court, after all. Right? Right!
That was why he had purchased the magazine. Oh, sorry. MAGAZINES. Actually, he didn’t purchase those magazines. He was down bad. So bad that he couldn’t contain himself and asked one of the security guards in the building to buy him them.
That was also why he was currently flipping through it far more slowly than necessary, sometimes he felt a bit obsessive. Guilty.
His eyes scanned the page with practiced restraint. Professional. Detached.
…Mostly.
He paused. A full-page spread. You leaning as against a piano, hair loose, expression soft but sharp all at once. The lighting was impeccable. Of course it was.
Edgeworth adjusted his cravat. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, as if the magazine had personally offended him.
He turned the page. Another interview. Another photo. Another reason his perfectly calm heartbeat decided to do something profoundly unhelpful. That was when—
BANG.
“Morning, Mr. Edgeworth!”
Edgeworth froze. Detective Gumshoe’s voice echoed far too loudly through the office, and in a split second, Edgeworth’s instincts kicked in. He grabbed the magazine and attempted to slide it into his desk drawer with the speed of a seasoned prosecutor hiding evidence.
Unfortunately, speed and grace did not save him. Edgeworth stared down at the torn page in horror.
“…Shit.” He mumbled.
The word slipped out before he could stop it. Gumshoe blinked. Once. Twice. “Uh—sir?” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Did… did the desk just lose a fight?”
Edgeworth cleared his throat sharply, snapping the drawer shut as if that might erase the crime he had just committed.
“That is none of your concern, Detective,” he said stiffly. “Why are you here unannounced?”
Gumshoe peered at the desk, then at the drawer, then back at Edgeworth. “Just wanted to drop off the reports,” he said slowly. “But, uh… was that a magazine?”
“No.”
Gumshoe squinted. “Kinda looked like—”
“I said no.”
A beat of silence.
“…Was that-“ Gumshoe asked.
Edgeworth’s eye twitched. “Out!”
“Huh?”
“Out,” Edgeworth repeated, voice razor-sharp. “Now.”
Gumshoe yelped. “Y-Yes sir!”
The door shut behind him. Edgeworth exhaled, slumping back into his chair just slightly. He opened the drawer again. The torn page stared back at him. He frowned. “…Unacceptable.”
Carefully—very carefully—he smoothed it out. “…I’ll have to buy another copy.” He told himself that firmly, decisively, with the kind of conviction he used when dismantling a witness’s testimony.
Not even a minute later, the drawer was open again. He can’t help it.
He stared at the torn page like it was evidence from an unsolved case. The rip cut straight through your photo—right along the edge of your shoulder.
“…Tch. Too careless.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was absurd. He was a grown man. A prosecutor. A respected figure in the law world. And yet here he was, silently offended that his magazine page had ripped.
Carefully, he lifted it out and set it on the desk.
Just for a moment.
He scanned the interview text this time, forcing himself to focus on the words instead of the image.
When asked about fame, you laughed and said you still preferred quiet moments—alone, away from cameras.
Edgeworth paused. “…Hmph.”
That… was unexpectedly relatable. He leaned back slightly, arms folding as he reread the paragraph. You spoke about discipline, about loneliness, about the pressure of being seen but never truly known.
His expression softened before he could stop it.
“So you value solitude,” he murmured. “Sens…ible.”
A knock interrupted him. Edgeworth snapped upright so fast the chair creaked.
“—Come in,” he said, far too quickly.
The door opened again.
Gumshoe.
Edgeworth’s soul briefly left his body.
“S-sir,” Gumshoe said, holding a paper bag. “I forgot to give you—” He stopped. Edgeworth was still holding the magazine. The torn magazine. They locked eyes. Gumshoe’s gaze dropped slowly to the cover. Then back up.
“Ohhh,” Gumshoe said, realization dawning. “So that’s—”
“That is not—” Edgeworth began sharply.
“You’re a fan!” Gumshoe blurted out, grinning.
Silence. Pure, devastating silence. Edgeworth closed his eyes. “I am not,” he said evenly. “A ‘fan.’”
Gumshoe tilted his head. “But you got the deluxe issue.”Edgeworth’s eye twitched again.
“It was the only copy available- and how do you know it’s the deluxe issue?” His eyebrow arched.
Gumshoe stood.
“Detective Gumshoe,” he said coldly, “Never speak of this again and I will dock your pay for the next three months.”
Gumshoe zipped his lips instantly. “Got it! Got it! Love not talking!” He turned to leave, then paused.
“…She is pretty cool though.”
The door shut. Edgeworth sat back down slowly. He looked at the magazine. Then—against his better judgment—he sighed.
“…Annoyingly so.”
He folded the torn page neatly and placed it back in the drawer. Just then, his phone buzzed.
A notification. Rolling his eyes, “I can’t be alone with my thoughts for one second?”
Franziska: Hey, little brother. I’ll be arriving at your office so, don’t lock your door.
Edgeworth stared at the screen. “….What?” he dazed. Edgeworth was confused. It’s been a while since Franziska had hit him up. Quiet literally. He was kinda glad. It was hard getting those them bruises away. But, you know, of course he missed her.
He looked back the magazine. Very calmly. Very composed. And absolutely not because of you. Not because his heart would race when he thought of you sometimes. The way his blood would rush.