Work Text:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: A question
>Wright,
>I hope this email finds you well, or as well as it can, given the circumstances.
>I know messaging you like this is not my usual habit, and so I apologize in advance if this catches you off guard. But I admit, I've been hearing rumors, and I'm not sure what to believe. I don't mean to pry, but I suppose a certain nosiness comes along with the job.
>Forged evidence, Wright? What's going on? None of this sounds like you.
Miles made a face and moved to delete the entire email. The tone didn't feel right. Too cold, too clinical. "You’re not writing a deposition, Miles," he chided himself, "just an email."
Or maybe it wasn't detached enough? Was it too forward? Too clingy?
How was it that he could compose an opening statement in his sleep, but found it Herculean to write a simple email?
He slumped in his desk chair, one hand carding through his hair as he exhaled heavily through his nose. He'd spent the better part of the entire damn day turning the pieces of the puzzle over and over in his head, everything he'd put together between overhearing whispered conversations and catching snatches of legal documents. But he just kept coming back to the same hopeless conclusion.
None of this made any sense whatsoever.
Wright was impulsive, at times outright reckless, and God knew he'd gotten a little...creative when it came to past legal matters. Miles could still recall the time when that man, in a state of delirium in the hospital, had not only asked him to take his place, but then pressed a stone into his palm and mumbled some nonsense about using it to see into people's souls. He had returned the strange trinket the next day, of course; what use did he have for such silly superstition? Yet, he occasionally still caught himself checking his pocket as if the weight of Wright’s absurd convictions might have somehow left a physical trace.
But babbling about spirits and secrets was one thing. Using forged evidence? That absolutely didn't fit with what he knew of the defense attorney. Wright was idealistic almost to a fault; surely he would never stoop so low. There had to be something missing here. Some piece of the puzzle that was unaccounted for.
Miles paused, fingers poised above the keys, then gave it another go.
>Wright,
>I've been surprised to hear of
No, that was no good, either. (Don't make it about yourself, Miles...)
>Wright,
>Are the rumors really true? This doesn't sound right
No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t how he wanted to ask about this.
"Mr. Edgeworth, sir?"
Gumshoe's large frame filled the doorway. Miles looked up, bleary-eyed.
"...those papers you were asking about." Gumshoe shuffled over to the desk awkwardly to set them down at the edge.
"I, ah—yes. Thank you." Miles shook his head briskly and turned back to the matter at hand.
"You doing alright, sir? You're acting a little..."
Gumshoe fished for a moment for the right word to say. Or, at least, the least offensive one.
"I'm fine," Miles lied, sagging back into his chair as though someone had forgotten to water him. "Just...feeling stymied at the moment."
Gumshoe shrugged as he made his exit. "I'm sure it's nothing you can't figure out."
Miles' lips quirked up into a weary, private smile. "On the contrary. This is the one case the Demon Prosecutor has never been able to crack."
He gave it just a touch more thought as he watched Gumshoe's departing back, then decided to keep it simple.
>Wright,
>Please call me when you see this. I'd like to speak with you.
>—Edgeworth
A couple of weeks went by.
No call ever came.
###
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]; [email protected]
Subject: An offer
>Wright,
>Unsure if you saw my last attempt at messaging you. Gumshoe suggested maybe you no longer had access to your work email, so I'm sending this to both accounts, just in case.
Miles hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done.
Then he recalled the time he went to that Steel Samurai convention in full cosplay.
Nope. This was still worse.
>I've received word
No.
>I've been informed
No.
>Gumshoe told me the news.
>I'm very sorry, Wright.
>If you need any help cleaning out your office, or with anything else, please don't hesitate to
reach out.
>—Edgeworth
He stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment, then added one final line—just sentimental enough to make him wince.
>Please take care of yourself for me.
And with that, he hit Send with trembling fingers.
The email sat in Phoenix's inbox, unread.
###
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Wellness Check
>Wright,
>It's been months now, and none of us have heard from you.
>I haven't heard from you.
>I've tried emailing you, I've left voicemails, I've tried driving past your goddamn apartment at all hours of the day and night
>please for the love of god just answer me
>please talk to me for more than ten minutes at a time i don't care about the fucking weather or how work is going please just let me in please i need to know you're alright i need to hear your voice
>how am i supposed to fix you if you won't let me in
>i want to be there for you i need to be there for you please please please
Well, Miles thought, shuddering, as he slumped over his laptop in the darkness. There was no way in hell he could send any of that. Especially on his work account? Just plain unseemly.
He deleted the entire thing, looking over his shoulder the whole time, as if Gumshoe might suddenly materialize in his bedroom, and tried again.
>Wright,
>Just checking in. It's been some months now since anyone at the precinct has heard from you, and we all wanted to wish you well.
>I know we've spoken on occasion in these past few months, but it might do the others some good if you'd drop them a line. Officer Byrde was asking after you just the other day. Between you and me, I think Detective Gumshoe is also more concerned than he might let on.
He took a breath.
>On a personal note, I can tell you I do enjoy our talks, brief as they might be lately.
>I understand that the events of the past were painful for you, and I realize you may not want any lingering reminders. I may understand such a sentiment better than most.
>I just ask that you not leave me behind with everything else you might discard.
>—Edgeworth
His fingers trembled a little as he sent it through.
He collapsed back against his bed, heart racing like he'd just run a marathon.
"You're an idiot, Miles Edgeworth," he told the open air.
If the bedroom had any objections, it kept them to itself.
With a quiet groan, he closed the lid of the laptop and plunged the room into blackness once more.
###
A few more months crawled by.
There had still been calls here and there, never very long, always about mundane, inoffensive topics.
The Borscht Bowl Club.
Trials Miles was working on.
Phoenix's weird customers.
Miles' weirder witnesses.
Bland small talk. Nothing that would have meant anything to anyone else. But Miles had been drowning in the sea that was Phoenix Wright, and so, he clung white-knuckled to every life raft that was thrown his way.
He was pathetic.
Undignified.
Hopeless.
A fool.
And, right now, too desperate to be ashamed of any of it.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Munich
>Phoenix.
>I apolgize for any confusion; I'm sending this from my own account, as this felt too personal a request to send through a work email.
>Further apologies; Franziska made me this account years ago, before I'd learned any German.
>Feel fortunate that you're an only child.
>I suppose my using this account is fitting, considering my current circumstances. I've been handling a case in Munich for the past few weeks; they needed the assistance of a German speaker, and I suppose the task fell to me.
>I'm writing because I'd like to extend an invitation for you to join me.
He tried to push down the familiar anxiety that prickled at him whenever he thought of cracking himself open to let all the raw, messy bits ooze out. Now wasn't the time for that kind of hubris.
>You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
(Seriously, Miles? At least come up with your own material if you're going to do this.)
>You're all I ever think about. You're all I've been able to think about for years. I lose sleep over you, I lose my mind over you, you are everywhere I go, you are in everything I do, I dream about you at night, the other night I swear to God I saw a constellation that looked like your face...
(...on second thought, perhaps I should consider outside help after all.)
He groaned, rubbing at his temples, and backspaced all the way until the blinking cursor sat silently under that polite, sterile opening again like it was waiting for him to behave himself.
He exhaled slowly, and finally typed:
>I'm writing because I'd like to extend an invitation for you to join me. Munich is beautiful this time of year, and the casework is manageable. Think of it as a vacation.
>I'd be grateful for your company, if you're free to travel. No pressure; I simply thought of you. And I thought, perhaps, you might enjoy a change of scenery.
>With me.
He hesitated over the last two words, chewing the inside of his cheek. Too forward? Too presumptuous? Would Wright even want that, after everything?
He threw caution to the wind.
>I do not mean to insult your dignity, but if money is a concern, I can cover everything. I would be glad to, frankly, if it meant getting to see you again.
>I miss you, Phoenix.
He didn’t delete it this time. He let the words hang there, just long enough to feel real.
> Please let me know at your earliest convenience.
>—Miles
He hit Send before he could stop himself.
Then, he launched his phone across the bed, and rolled over to bury his face in his pillow with a strangled whine.
###
Phoenix felt...guilty.
He'd spent the better part of a year purposely dodging Miles. And he hated himself for it.
Every missed call, every text he left on read, every email sitting forlornly in his inbox—they all felt like daggers to his heart.
But he told himself it was better this way.
Miles was...God, he was perfect. Successful career; a little too successful, if you asked Phoenix. The man needed to learn the meaning of "vacation." Between said successful career and his father's inheritance, doing pretty well for himself. Jet-setting all over Europe, doing something that actually made a difference. Didn't help that he was freaking gorgeous.
And then, there was Phoenix, making pennies in some crappy dive bar.
The whispers that echoed around him when he passed by seemed to have finally died down with time, but now and then, he'd get a little reminder. A glimpse of an old headline, a dark look from a stranger. Proof that no matter how much time passed, the world would always remember him as a disgraced fraud—quiet reminders that he wasn't the same man anymore, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.
Miles was like some Greek god come to life. The last thing he needed was some beer-scented burden bringing him down.
So, Phoenix kept his distance.
He'd exchanged pleasantries, sure; he wasn't completely heartless. But, more often than not, he would find an excuse not to answer the calls. To "accidentally" delete the emails. To "forget" to clear his voicemails, so any new messages couldn't be saved.
Did it make him feel like throwing up? Absolutely. But it was a necessary evil. Phoenix was an apple that had rotted from the inside out, and he'd just been doing a little pruning to make sure he didn't infect the rest of the tree.
He didn't know what possessed him to click on this email in particular. It might have even been a genuine accident. But something about the raw honesty he saw in its contents pierced through all those layers of self-loathing like a scalpel.
Heart in his throat, he felt compelled to reply.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: are you serious
>why is this even a question????
>i would LOVE to go
>just let me know when and i'll get everything ready here
>i miss you too.
>—Phoenix
Phoenix knew it was foolish to hope for anything else. What he really longed for deep down was still an unattainable dream; always would be.
But there was this. And it meant the world to him.
His phone buzzed, and he didn't even have to check to see who it might be. He simply allowed himself to answer, without obsessing over what to say or how he might sound, too caught up in the giddiness of actually being somewhere he belonged.
"Phoenix!" Miles' voice was breathless with the same excitement. "Oh, I'm so glad you replied."
Phoenix suddenly didn't even know what he'd ever been trying to run from.