Work Text:
Miles wakes to a harrowing scream for the first time in quite a while and it takes him about six seconds to realize it was fortunately not his own.
Or perhaps it was unfortunately not his own.
There is, rare as it may be, one other person in the house at this time, his sleep-drunken mind reminds him, who the scream could belong to.
The clock on his nightstand tells him it is 1:26 in the morning, which means he has been home for about four hours, his head is slowly catching up with being awoken so suddenly.
The first hour was spent getting his guest comfortably settled in the spare room after showing him the bathroom, urging him to shower while brewing a can of fresh tea - for both their nerves.
Guests are a rare enough occurrence for Miles as is, the only regular visitors being Phoenix, occasionally accompanied by Trucy. (Though Phoenix stays overnight much more frequently than his daughter.) Therefore he should be meticulous in his hospitality. Especially since he himself suggested Prosecutor Blackquill may stay with him after his acquittal until they would get the remaining legal work done and find an apartment for him to stay in starting tomorrow.
A pit steadily forms in his stomach as the house once again turns eerily still.
The situation is not entirely unfamiliar, with nightmares having plagued over half of his own years, although much less frequently these days.
He had dealt with them alone at first, curled under the blankets of a bed much too big for a nine year old boy, terrified of the wrath his mentor would unleash upon him should he be witness to such pathetic displays of weakness. Eventually a little girl would join his side, hesitantly patting his back through the blankets, chattering in hushed tones until he fell to dreamless sleep again.
That too, however, came to pass eventually, Franziska and Miles only grew older, their relationship becoming increasingly competitive until Miles spent the aftermath of his nightmares once again alone, quietly biting the inside of his cheek until his breathing regulated enough to get out of bed and occupy his mind with studying.
Phoenix had taught him that it was much easier when he isn’t alone when demons haunt his dreams, a favour Miles gladly returned when the time arose during his friends’ seven year long disbarment, throughout many, mutually hard nights and hour-long phone calls.
In a way, Miles now sees himself in Prosecutor Blackquill. A harsh reminder of his own wrongful arrest for the murder he never committed pushes against his mind.
Miles' hands already shake when he knocks against the door to his guest room and he has to force them steady. The silence is deafening in the dark hallway. He holds his breath for a moment, then knocks again.
Nothing.
“Are you well, Prosecutor Blackquill?”, he asks, hoping the uncertainty in his voice is not too obvious. He doesn’t receive an answer either way, only the sound of muffled rustling of sheets and choked sobs.
Ah, it seems he was correct with his assumption.
“I am going to come in.” Miles says, matter-of-factly and full of fake confidence, before slowly pushing the door open. He adjusts the room's lighting to a low-dimmed setting, then enters.
Before him…
Oh dear.
Prosecutor Blackquill sits on the bed hunched forward, long black hair spilling over his back instead of being tied in the usual ponytail. Even from this distance, Miles can see he is shaking terribly, one hand grasping a death-grip on the blanket, white knuckles curling and uncurling into the fabric. The other clutches at his chest, pulling against the harsh constraints that are his nightgowns. Blackquill's breath comes out in short, irregular gasps, trembling and spluttering in one desperate attempt to retain the sobs that force themselves outward.
(Did he have to deal with this in prison, too? Muffling his voice in the middle of the night in fear of being heard, judged, punished?)
He walks towards the bed in slow steps, sitting down on the edge right next to Blackquill. Despite the dim light, he can see the tears spilling down his cheeks clearly, sees his knuckles turn white from the violent death-grip on the poor fabric. A small trail of blood runs down his chin from where he presumably bites the inside of his cheek to stifle the sounds of his panic.
Miles' heart clenches, again, he sees himself, shuddering through countless horrid nights. He swallows, steeling himself for a task he feels far from ready to handle.
This was much easier with Phoenix, Miles thinks before finally speaking in a voice as calm as he could manage. “Ehem, P-Prosecutor Blackquill? Can you hear me?”
Anxious eyes flicker, Miles can practically see the fear and turmoil coursing through them, but the other makes no further sign of answering him, still too caught up in the horrors of his nightmare.
He sighs, reaching towards the other man slowly, taking hold of both hands the way Phoenix taught him and unfolds them carefully in the other's lap. Blackquill pulls against the grip, gasping incoherencies but Miles holds on steadily despite his own, racing heart.
“Here,” he takes a deep breath, squeezing Blackquill's hands gently. “Breathe with me. Slowly. In- and out. In- and out.”
Blackquill relents surprisingly quickly, most likely simply because he doesn’t know what else to do.
(A slight worry pinches Miles and he hopes desperately that the compliance is not something drilled into Blackquill's mind throughout many years in prison, but trust that Miles’ intentions are genuine.)
“There you go, just like that, keep breathing.” He continues to talk, his voice low and gentle, until Blackquill's breathing finally slows, desperate gasps steadily decreasing and eyes no longer flickering.
Shame and fear are etched into the younger's face, making him look much more aged than he is, yet impossibly young at the same time.
Blackquill still shudders, helplessly attempting to pull himself back together so he could politely thank Miles, then request for him to leave so the inevitable breakdown may overwhelm him with no audience to see.
But this is what Miles knows too well to let happen. The loneliness after a nightmare that leaves you gasping for air and any sense of what is here and now and real is much more terrifying than facing those fears head-on.
“There now, very good,” his hands slowly lessened their hold. “It is much easier to calm down when someone is with you.”
Blackquill inhales deeply, then slowly exhales and manages a quiet albeit raspy “Thank you”.
“Of course.” Miles smiles ever so slightly, removing both of his hands from Blackquills so he could rest one lightly between his shoulders blades, unmoving.
Silence.
“Do you… wish to talk about it?”
Blackquill shakes his head but does not retreat from the hand on his back. Miles sighs.
“How about tea?”
Blackquill gives him a quizzical look before sighing heavily. “That… sounds great, Mr. Edgeworth-dono."
At that, Miles gives Blackquill’s shoulder a light squeeze and gets up from the edge of the bed. “Let’s head to the living room then.”
The younger follows him a few steps behind, silent and uncharacteristically timid.
Miles’ living room connects to a half-open kitchen, separated by a bartop counter with low hanging lights falling from the high ceiling. He walks into the dark room blindly and turns the counter lights to a dim setting, leaving the ceiling lights turned off. Blackquill had stopped somewhere near the door, looking somewhat like a lost dog or misplaced item.
Miles gestures to his guest to sit on the comfortable wine-coloured couch, Blackquill obliges wordlessly while Miles himself moves towards the kitchen partition, getting a kettle set up and preparing chamomile tea while the water slowly bubbles to a boiling point.
He joins Blackquill on the couch a few minutes later with two cups of steaming tea in his hands. Blackquill sits, legs pulled up against his chest, eyes barely glancing past his knees and looking at nothing in particular. It takes the scent of the steaming tea below his nose for the man to snap out of the thoughts that most likely swirl through his tortured mind.
“Here.” Miles hands him the cup. “I find it to be quite calming.”
Blackquill takes the cup with shaking hands, taking a careful, slow sip and inhaling deeply into the steaming mug. “Thank you.”
The silence is comfortable, yet somewhat awkward.
“It... it is fine if you do not want to share what plagues you. However… I have had my fair share of night-terrors for many years, though much less frequently these days.” Miles pauses, letting the confession settle onto the other. “And most of the time talking about them helps to put my mind at ease. A certain defence attorney taught me as much.”
Silence hangs between them for a few moments, Blackquill quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on the implications.
“I… I was supposed to be executed tomorrow.” His voice is barely above a whisper. Haunted.
Ah.
It is a hard concept to wrap one's head around. Miles himself was plagued by guilt for fifteen years before his innocence was proven, however, unlike Prosecutor Blackquill, he has never actually been convicted of the murder he was accused of, nor the one he believed to have committed. He never spent a significant portion behind cold metal bars and stale concrete walls, wrapped in chains and watching his time run out on the clock day by day.
He isn’t sure if he could have handled it as well as Prosecutor Blackquill did, but he sincerely doubts it. Especially since Miles fully believed in his own guilt, whereas Blackquill wholly knew it wasn’t he who committed the crime.
The execution date was set for tomorrow. Today, if they care about the technicalities. Miles shivers at the thought, the dreadfulness of such a fate incomprehensible for one who never experienced anything like it.
“You’re afraid.” He says, grip tightening around his mug. “Reasonably so.” Blackquill glares at him, yet he doesn’t object.
(They are so much alike, just a few years ago Miles would have been scared to even admit it.)
“Not like you would know what it’s like, Edgeworth-dono.”
Miles hums. Blackquill is not entirely wrong, but not right either, a half-true assumption, if you will. Many people have heard about the ‘Demon Prosecutor’ yet Blackquill may be a few years short to have caught wind of the notorious incident that took place ten years ago, let alone DL-6.
“You’re right, I don’t know what it is like to spend years in prison. However…” A small pause, Miles chooses his words carefully. “I too have almost been convicted of murder on two accounts.”
Blackquills stares, an almost dumb founded and curious look in his eyes, were they not still brimming with tears that stubbornly refused to stop.
“What?” He almost blurts out, but his voice cracks halfway through, Blackquill inhales sharply, hands fiddling with the mug.
“Mhm… yes.” Miles sighs, then puts his own mug down on the coffee table. This is not about him and while he doesn’t like to talk about his trauma these days, sometimes opening up a bit might help someone else and Prosecutor Blackquill most definitely could use the help as well as the conversation.
“When I was nine years old my father was shot in the courthouse elevator during an earthquake. For many years I have believed to have been the… culprit in the incident and was plagued by guilt. However, fifteen years later on the dot, my innocence was proven not just to the court but to myself as well by a man who I now owe a great debt to.”
“Phoenix Wright-dono.” Blackquill almost chuckles, kindly ignoring the blush that must be creeping up Miles’ neck at the tone in his voice. He glances to the side.
“Well…”
“Who was the true culprit?”
It is the most basic yet important question in any murder case and somehow it is the one that they fear the most. Especially in his case. Especially in Blackquill's case.
Especially to them.
It is a reality that Miles had feared for the better part of his life, back when he was a teenager studying law, when he passed the bar exam and when he took his first court-case which ended in a double-homicide.
Back on December 28th 2016 when he leaned against the cold stone walls of his cell in the detention center, when earthquakes shook the building and he found himself crying into the sleeves of his suit at the age of twenty-four, a false accusation added to the one from his nightmares that he had buried inside him and feared to be real for fifteen years, all atop a death sentence just waiting to fall upon his name.
Back then, he had been saved, truly saved in more ways than one and yet, he had never felt more broken than when confetti rained from the ceiling and Phoenix tackled him in a crushing hug in the middle of the courtroom when all he wanted was to run from this freedom he never thought he deserved.
But Prosecutor Blackquill never had a saviour like Phoenix Wright. At least not when the verdict fell.
Miss Cykes was too young and too afraid of the world to do for Blackquill what Phoenix had done for Miles. A traumatized girl claiming to hear a murderer's heart crying out for help, screaming ‘I am innocent’ when he just aggressively admitted his guilt would never have been taken seriously in a court of law in the first place.
And yet she had tried.
And pulled through, seven painful years later but somehow right on time.
“It was my mentor.” Miles continues and it feels like he is tearing off a bandaid so he could give it to someone else. “He was the one who murdered my father, then raised me for fifteen years so he could pin another murder on my name and sentence me to death as his final act of revenge against my father.”
Blackquill scoffs, not unlikely at the similarities their fates hold, how Miles almost ended up the same way he did and he must have noticed that his superior may be one of the few people in the world who understand how he feels right now.
“How… Did you move on?”
The question might as well count as a confession to all the twisted emotions he must be hiding and Miles can’t help but meet the younger's desperate eyes, grief apparently being written all over his face because Blackquill seems to falter beneath his gaze and maybe he already understands.
“I… didn’t.” He begins, slowly, hesitantly. “At least not at first and maybe not entirely to this day.” Miles has to choose his words delicately.
This is a fine line to be walking on with someone he has read more about in court records than talked actual words with. This is not Phoenix, nor Franziska, and yet Miles feels compelled to offer Blackquill this dreadful honesty and possibility to relate.
“It took many years to come to terms with everything that had happened. At first I tried to do it all by myself. I left everything behind and ran away. Back then, I wasn’t even sure if I would return, but…” He takes a deep breath, the word ‘alive’ catches in his throat and he doesn’t dare to say it. “But when I did, I learned that I can’t do everything by myself and sometimes it is better to talk about the things that happened with someone by my side.”
This time, Blackquill stays quiet for a long time. He doesn’t seem to bother stopping or wiping the tears from his face and Miles absently wonders if that is where the deep bags under his eyes come from.
“I-” Blackquill begins, his voice dry and the words die somewhere along the way so he takes another gracious sip of tea and swallows hard.
“You’re right. I suppose my head hasn’t fully caught up with the reality that it’s… finally over.”
This time he finally wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt roughly, sniffing, and Miles can’t help but think about how young Blackquill looks like this, how much he must have gone through in prison and how seven long years were stolen from him together with the prospect for a future.
And Miles vaguely remembers what it is like to have that rug pulled away from under your feet, slipping and falling towards that bottomless pit; guilt and fear following you all the way and eating you alive.
But he also knows what it is like to have a hand reaching out to you, to have the strength to grasp it and slowly be heaved back on your feet, one step at a time.
Miles inhales deeply.
“Coming home takes… time and courage. You will have to learn how to live with the world as well as yourself.”
(He doesn’t add just how long it takes, how painfully long-winded recovery is and how deep the repercussions etch themselves into the soul.)
“However,” Miles smiles, fully aware of how old the lines on his face probably make him appear and part of him hopes he looks at least half as wise as he pretends to be. “You have many people who are already willing to help you with all of that. Especially young Miss Cykes. Don’t turn them away.”
Blackquill's eyes search the bottom of his now empty cup. Miles is not sure if he finds what he is looking for in there, but maybe he does once he finally speaks again.
“Mr. Edgeworth-dono?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
And he smiles, ever so slightly.
The tea in the can has not quite gone cold yet, Miles fills Blackquills cup one more time.
“Any time, Prosecutor.”