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Miles has changed.
Changed a lot.
‘Demon Prosecutor’?
This man isn’t Miles; Phoenix knows Miles, and this stranger might have the same weird angular peaks of hair and beak-like nose and sharp, narrow gaze that his childhood friend has -- had -- but this stranger is not Miles. This man is Edgeworth, dressed in the grayscale ink of a newspaper (which is dying out anyway, who reads these anymore... who, besides Nick and the elderly?) and frilly necktie and a b-a-d reputation that precedes him.
It nearly knocks him over, when Phoenix absorbs the front-page article. There’s an old man muttering behind him, and he sheepishly puts a dollar in quarters into the box and buys a paper, and moves away to read it with blushing ears.
Phoenix leafs through the newspaper (the article continues, going into more depth on page 6) and finds himself in awe as he reads. No, this is definitely not his friend. Miles has integrity, has honor; he would never ever participate in under-the-table deals, evidence fabrications, illegal investigations... it would be kicking dirt onto his father’s legacy and spitting on it! Dancing on it! Having a picnic and not picking up the litter afterwards on it!
Miles was always insistent on picking up any and all trash he leaves behind.
Phoenix grips the paper, and it crinkles beneath his fingers.
He thinks about how tired Prosecutor Edgeworth looks in the photo, and how maybe it’s time to dust off the textbooks he borrowed from the library.
/
It all -- Doug, Dahlia, Mia -- sets his study progress back a little bit.
Phoenix thinks, Miles would probably understand.
As soon as his stomach lining recovers from swallowing glass shards, he calls Mia Fey, and all but pleads for her help.
She visits him the day after he calls, a bouquet of sunflowers in one hand and his law texts in the other.
/
September 7, 2016 kicks off at 10 am with Phoenix feeling massively underprepared.
Prosecutor Edgeworth stands across the room from him, the smirk from the news reports on his offbeat-handsome face, ready to pummel the newbie into the ground.
Phoenix barely manages to survive the first day.
He gets better as time goes on, though. Once he breaks the Demon Prosecutor’s ‘One Day Streak’ (a record in which he’d gotten the ‘guilty’s he’d desired in only one trial day; not many people can pull that off, much less multiple times; it made Nick beyond antsy), he Scotch-tapes his confidence back together and trudges through the rest of the trial.
His first turnabout isn’t very impressive, he’ll remember in years to come; having the ghost of your dead mentor possess your assistant’s body and literally hand him the damning evidence makes his swooping victory seem a bit... disappointing. It feels a bit like when he was a child learning to ride a bike, and his mother wouldn’t let go of the seat in fear of the inevitable scrapes, bruises and tears that would come with doing so.
But Nick isn’t picky, he’ll gladly take the win.
Prosecutor Edgeworth is not a part of the Fey Clan, and therefore has no ESP, but he looks like he’s seen a ghost as he leaves the courtroom.
Later on, Nick thinks the dying sunset reminds him of Edgeworth and his suit; bright burgundy and beautiful.
/
Edgeworth looks pretty bad, next time Nick sees him.
The newspaper photo was taken after a trial, one that took place only a week after State v. Fey,
Even in black and white, the bruised half-moons under Edgeworth’s eyes are unmistakable.
/
State v. Powers is... annoying, to put it lightly. Phoenix’s feet hurt, and his nerves are grated on from talking to unhelpful interns, mouthy security ladies, creepy producers using cryptic leet-speak, unbearably bratty children....
Mia’s coffee maker hisses and sputters when he uses it later, on the night before the third trial day, and Phoenix thinks about how Edgeworth could’ve used some coffee earlier. He looked about ready to keel over.
The trial ends -- another Not Guilty, Nick’s really starting to draw attention now -- and the next time he sees Edgeworth, the prosecutor is in the newspaper again.
He has a bandage on his hand.
He still looks exhausted.
/
State v. Edgeworth is a nightmare.
Phoenix sits on the firm green office couch, the spring poking at his rear end, his open mouth hanging open inches from the rim of his coffee mug as the news anchors discuss Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth being arrested on suspicion of murder.
Maya comes back in, disheartened by the fire chief shouting at her, but Phoenix quickly redirects her attention by telling her what happened. They book it to the Detention Center.
And promptly get rejected.
It stings a little, watching Edgeworth cross his arms like he does with a Plexiglass plane separating him. Phoenix wants to hug him, a little; updated autopsy reports and insults directed at his hairstyle -- his intelligence, his clothes, everything from head to toe, really -- can be put in the past, after all, if Miles keeps looking so lost and forlorn like that.
Los Angeles shakes beneath their feet, and Edgeworth disappears, crouching in a shivering ball of nerves beneath the window.
Miles has changed.
Changed a lot.
And Phoenix is going to find out why.
/
DL-6 sounds familiar, like the name of a song he knows the chorus to, but he needs more information. Because once Miles was packed up and taken away by Social Services, on a brisk Sunday in January (to live with his maternal aunt for a while, he explained in one of the three letters he ever sends Phoenix), his mother shushed him whenever he asked about it.
Showing Edgeworth the picture of Maya’s mother -- Misty Fey, child deserter -- does the trick.
He’s booked as the defense.
Phoenix hears the name ‘Manfred von Karma’ and nearly has a stroke, because he thought Edgeworth was bad, three months ago in September, but his mentor who hasn’t lost a case in forty years?
Nick doesn’t even know what goes into a eulogy.
So he simply decides he isn’t going to.
/
Edgeworth in the defendant’s seat is a much different sight than Edgeworth standing behind the prosecutor’s bench.
Behind the bench, Edgeworth is large and in charge; strong, determined, alive.
In the chair, he’s different.
He’s... Miles.
He’s Miles, who cried during art class because he couldn’t fold a delicate paper crane, who actually gave an apple to their teacher once (before the class trial, anyway) even though no one does that, who loved his father and wanted to be just like him.
He realizes he’s staring, as Miles lifts his head and looks at him with the glazed eyes of someone trying to hold back tears; Phoenix feels his ears go warm.
A lawyer never cries until it’s all over; von Karma might be winning at the moment, but Phoenix has no plans to cry just yet, so he hikes the corners of his mouth up into a smile when Miles’ eyes meet his own.
/
State v. Edgeworth draws to a close.
Phoenix doesn’t think it’s right to go out and celebrate without Miles, especially when the guy has to go back to Detention, but his concerns are waved off.
Larry makes him do shots.
The next morning, Maya says that he talked about Miles the entire time they were drunk.
/
Gumshoe calls the office a couple of days later; “Mr. Edgeworth came down to the precinct to wish me a happy new year!” he says, “Talk about a pleasant surprise!”
Nick stifles the weird pang that hits him when the gruff detective mentions that special visit from Edgeworth, but laughs freely to compensate when Gumshoe details exactly what the prosecutor had done. ('Whooooop, Detective Gumshooooe!' Oh, Edgeworth, how ridiculous.)
/
Edgeworth looks no less tired the next time they meet, up in Room 1202 in the Prosecutor’s Office building. Poor Ema insults her idol’s decor choices and car straight to his face, and he does feel pity for her, really, but Miles makes eye contact with him and smirks, and Phoenix is sold.
He’s left wanting a refund when Edgeworth calls him a pain in the neck, though.
Classic Miles.
/
Fighting against Miles Edgeworth is exhausting.
Fighting with him is exhilarating.
Miles’ eyes meet his, and those tired grays light up in unison with Phoenix’s soul rising from the ashes, and they share a smile that looks natural and beautiful on that weary face, and there’s a tingle that races up his arm and down his spine when they shake hands after the trial.
Phoenix almost wants to compare this feeling to Dahlia -- holding hands with her for the first time, pressing a goodnight kiss to her dainty wrist because kissing her properly would probably give him a joy-induced heart attack; even with that chaste non-kiss, he'd practically floated all the way back to his dorm room -- but it’s way different than this. Edgeworth isn’t like Dahlia; he’s not adverse to loving a man like Miles, but he’s not in love with Edgeworth. They were barely even friends two months ago, there’s no romantic love between them at all.
Miles is no Dahlia.
He’s miles better.
/
Phoenix asks Miles out for lunch, the afternoon after the SL-9 retrial; dinner is too date-ish, coffee is too casual, and drinks in the office is just crude, so lunch it is. He probably overthinks those implications a little, but it'll be nothing compared to Edgeworth, whose mind probably never slowed down. Charley already hears enough about Edgeworth, he probably wouldn’t care too much for the guy sitting in his office either.
(What’s that? Plants don’t care? Because they aren’t sentient and thus don’t have thoughts? Shut up, how about that?)
No answer; he leaves a voicemail.
/
When he finds out, via Detective Gumshoe’s choked-out voice over a call, he leaves about ten more, each more desperate than the last.
Phoenix Wright is no stranger to crying. He’d always worn his heart on his sleeve, letting the tears spill over his eyelids whenever his chest felt too full to handle any more sadness. Since meeting Mia, he’s chilled out with the crying a bit, though. A lawyer never cries until it’s all over.
Well, it feels like it’s over.
But he doesn’t cry. Nick isn’t quite sure why his eyesight isn’t blurring as he stares at the bright numbers on the screen of his phone.
It hits him like the crack of a whip.
It’s not over.
Miles Edgeworth is a bastard.
/
Not for the first time, Phoenix misses Miles.
He’s used to the sensation that comes with it; it hits him like the crack of a whip, his chest swelling when Franziska von Karma disappears and Miles is back like a bad cold, smirking and waggling his finger and shouting objections like nothing’s ever changed. The twin-tailed whip smacks against his skin, and fresh pain from the new welts formed beneath his suit distracts him from the pain rubbed raw from his nerves.
Phoenix misses Miles.
He hates it.
/
Miles Edgeworth stands in the middle of the police precinct like he even left; chin raised, nose running, eyes a little brighter than they were a year ago.
It hits him like the crack of a whip, a Molotov cocktail of emotions -- shock, awe, angerfuryrage, relief relief relief, angerfuryrage what the fuck are you doing here why didn’t you call you could have called i’m so fucking glad you’re here -- smashing into him and lighting him on fire. He wants to punch Edgeworth.
He also wants to throw his arms around him and never let go.
Phoenix settles for “I wish you’d just stayed dead!” and stomps out of the precinct.
/
He wants to punch Edgeworth.
He also wants to throw his arms around him and never let go.
“I... didn’t mean it,” he mutters, the ice in his glass clinking against the sides. “What I said earlier...”
Phoenix looks up at Miles. Their eyes meet.
“I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad you’re here.”
/
All Nick wanted the first time was a proper goodbye. Back in 2002, when Social Services sent Miles away to live with his aunt, he never got one; back in February 2017, in the countdown days between the end of the retrial and Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death, he never got one. It really isn’t too much to ask for, considering how many favors Edgeworth should owe him at this point.
Miles gives him two numbers, one for a cell phone and one for an office phone, and an email address. Then he’s off again, saying goodbye to the Fey girls and shaking hands with Phoenix (that tingle shoots up his arm again) and boarding his plane and flying away, 3500 miles away. (3596, Miles snarkily corrected when Phoenix dared to approximate the first time.)
Nick considers texting him; calling him; emailing him.
Miles never responded to texts before; international calls were too expensive; why bother him with emails when he’s probably swamped with them already?
Nick decides not to.
/
So, it took falling off of a bridge and almost dying to bring him back.
Phoenix wakes up to the blur of burgundy beside his bed, and thinks he’s dreaming. Miles is sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, one leg crossed over his knee, scrolling through something on his cell phone and idly sipping something in a paper cup, wrinkling his nose and brows as he swallows.
It’s probably the morphine or whatever he’s on getting to him, but Phoenix is so happy to see that trademark sneer.
Miles probably doesn’t realize he’s smiling, a soft curve of his thin, severe lips that has Phoenix feeling dizzy in addition to all the drugs he’s loopy with. He complains about the coffee, and he even lets Nick have a sip of it, out of pity for the sick if nothing else. (If he were a childish person -- which he’s not, shut up -- he might realize they kissed indirectly).
Phoenix feels awful about ruining this dandy time they were having.
He’s on the verge of passing out when he presses his badge into Miles’ cool calm and curling those slender fingers over it. “Please,” he slurs, his arm magically turning to lead and falling onto the bed.
He falls asleep again, and when he wakes up, Miles is gone.
His badge, the magatama, and the nun’s robe is also gone.
Nick can only hope that’s a good sign.
/
Miles, bless him, filled in for him in court.
It might still be the morphine’s influence, but he wants to drag Miles in by the lapels -- oh, be still his beating heart, Miles actually wore the badge!! -- and kiss him.
/
An earthquake hits while they’re all up at Hazakura Temple; Phoenix and Franziska, who isn’t actively trying to flay him at the moment, share a look and instantaneously start a slippery bolt down the snowy slope. They find Miles collapsed in the snow, a crumpled figure curled in on himself where he stands, wrapped in dark against the starkness of the white ground.
Iris isn’t anywhere in sight, but Phoenix is briefly glad she isn’t, because if she’s anything like she was years ago, then she’s too observant for her own good. She would notice the way his arm jerks like it wants to extend but he stops it just in time; how he clenches his fists when he draws away and Miles grasps his elbow again, just barely suppressing the urge to hug this precious idiot standing in front of him. That isn't something he needs, not quite right now.
/
State v. Iris probably took ten years off of his life.
Nick slumps on the defense lobby’s couch once it’s all said and done, Maya pressed up against his side, Pearl squished between them. Miles and Franziska stand off to the side, murmuring quietly to each other; Gumshoe watches over them with a nervous eye.
He’s so tired.
Miles and Franziska drift over toward them, after a while of quietly talking. It sounded like they were using German, but Nick was too occupied with the aching of his feet, the chill settled deep in his bones, the weariness of his soul.
He’s so tired.
...Miles settles in the armchair beside the couch, because the trio on the couch deserve all the space they want, and he blinks languidly at Nick as their eyes meet.
Phoenix gives him a weary smile.
Miles smiles back.
/
Miles willingly parts with the group when Phoenix leans close into his personal space and asks if they can talk alone, right next to his ear.
They go outside (after Nick reprimands Maya for trying to drink the champagne Gumshoe brought. He’s a servant of the law, after all, and surely Mia would disapprove of him letting her underage sister get tipsy) and settle in the uncomfortable chairs arranged around a tiny patio table.
Nick’s pulse is racing, but only because of the important subject he’s chosen to broach. Miles doesn’t make his heart pound like he’s newly lovestruck anymore, but alas, the sweaty palms remain. (Dahlia -- Iris? -- would always complain about them whenever they held hands, and surely Miles will too.)
There has always been an ‘us’ between them -- Phoenix and Miles, Miles and Phoenix, always together somehow -- and as their pinkie fingers bump together (gahh, they’re supposed to be mature adults, not children! But.. maybe.. the ‘us’ between them started when they were children, pressed close in the same bed together during the one sleepover they managed to have...).
Miles’ gloved hand -- phew, Phoenix is saved from complains about his drenched palms. For now -- covers his own, fingers crooking in between Phoenix’s splayed ones.
Neither of them lets go.
Miles smiles.
It’s like hope.