Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 24, 1997

The young boy with the peculiarly mature expression had been huddled in the corner of the couch for the better part of an hour now, his focus consumed by the children’s novel he had started the day before. The lights from the Christmas tree threw a rainbow of colors on his oddly silvered hair, but his interest was far more consumed in the culprit of the admittedly juvenile caper of the stolen dog. The presents were similarly still perfectly arranged under the tree where his father had placed them, with no evidence of childish prodding or shaking. Even the crystal bowl of candy lay unmoved on the coffee table, not a single piece missing.

Miles had always shown an abnormal amount of restraint disproportionate to his years, but this was cause for more distress than his usual maturity. The boy hadn’t shown much interest in anything in the last three months.

Not since the fatal accident that had taken his mother.

The psychiatrist had assured Gregory that every child reacted to trauma differently, but Miles seemed to be dealing with the loss in an unorthodox but harmless manner. Surely he had made every effort to make himself available to his aloof son, and had taken an extended leave from the office to provide support for his son… but Miles never asked for anything. Time, attention, money, anything would have been better. At least then Gregory would feel like he was helping.

With a small sigh, the young boy put the book down. “It was the neighbor.” he announced with noticeable disappointment. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be, it was too obvious.” He left it neatly on the stack to go back to the library. “I liked the dog.” he added quietly, returning to the couch and throwing a glance at the clock. It was still twenty minutes until seven, when they usually watched the evening news together. He picked up a magazine.

Gregory cleared his throat. “Would you like to open a present early, Miles?”

“But Christmas is tomorrow.” he replied simply.

“Well, yes.” Gregory admitted, settling onto the couch next to his son. “But no one will mind, and you’ll still have plenty of presents tomorrow.”

He considered it for a second. “No, thank you.”

His father slumped. “Maybe some ice cream? Cookies? It’s Christmas Eve, Miles, isn’t there anything special you’d like to do?”

Miles folded his hands in his lap a he thought. “Can we make cookies?” he finally asked. “For Santa?”

Gregory faltered. “Certainly.” he agreed. “But didn’t you say that Santa...”

“Mom and I used to make cookies for Santa together.” the boy explained.

“Well, we could buy some cookie dough, if you wanted...”

“No!” Miles interrupted. “No, we have to make gingerbread cookies, like every year.”

“Gingerbread?” Gregory asked awkwardly. “Those are rather complicated. I don’t know if we even have all the ingredients.” Cooking had always been his wife’s forte. Since the accident the two had been living entirely on take out meals. Some of them had been of the highest class available, but he was still just postponing the inevitable.

“We do!” Miles insisted, leaping to his feet. “We haven’t gotten rid of anything, have we? We should still have all the spices.” With a spring in his step not seen in quite a while, he bounded to the cabinet that contained the spices. “Cinnamon, cloves, uh…. Ginger! The recipe didn’t include nutmeg, but we always put some in. You have to grate it...” he set the jars on the counter. “It’s the big blue book on the left, can you please get it for me?” Some shuffling uncovered measuring utensils in a lower drawer. “I’m not allowed to measure the flour, I’m not careful enough.” Suddenly he turned, his eyes wide with nervous excitement, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “Can you help me, Father?”

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” Gregory began, shrugging off his jacket and placing it carefully on a chair, “but I would love to help. Perhaps you can teach me how?”

Miles eyes were genuinely glimmering with admiration. “Thank you, Father! Mom always said they’re better when you make them together.” He was halfway under the sink, attempting to drag out a large jar of molasses. “This is pretty heavy.” he admitted shyly.

“Let me grab that for you.” Gregory smiled. “It looks like chocolate syrup. Does it taste like it?”

“No.” Miles made a face so childishly disgusted that Gregory had to bite his cheek to avoid embarrassing the usually solemn child with a laugh. “It tastes terrible. I don’t even know why we add it, but Mom said it takes every ingredient to make the cookies work.”

“She was right.” his father answered. “Life’s that way too sometimes, isn’t it Miles? Bad things happen.” He ruffled his son’s hair lightly. “But we can always remember the good times, and life can still be special. We’ll never lose those happy memories.”

Miles was silent for a moment. “I miss Mom.” he finally admitted.

“So do I, Son. Every single day. Every minute.”

The boy’s face had that odd, contemplative look he sometimes got. “If it was a book, I would have been upset at the writer. Mom was such a good character. She was like the princess who always smiles, even when everything goes wrong and everyone’s mean to her. It’s like when there’s a story about a friendly dog and you know it has to die at the end. It’s not fair,” his nose wrinkled slightly with a look more akin to confusion than the expected emotion of sadness, “but that’s the way it happens.”

There were obvious tears in his father’s soft brown eyes. “No, it isn’t fair.”

“But… Mom would have wanted us to be happy, right? Grandma June told me that Mom said that her most important thing in the world was her family. She said Mom can see us, and if we’re happy, she’ll be happy too. Do you think Mom can see us?”

“I’m sure she can.” It certainly wasn’t the time to get into a theological debate with an elementary student.

“Then I think she’d be happy if she knew we were making cookies.”

“You’re so mature, Miles. I think she’d be proud of you, whatever you were doing.”

He flushed slightly. “I just like to read.” he replied dismissively, immersing himself in the recipe to change the subject. “It makes me sound smart. I’m not good at a lot of things, like making cookies.”

“No one’s good at everything, Miles.” his father replied. “There’s so many things I can’t do without Sarah. I have my law books and my clients, but I can’t even read a bedtime story right. I can hardly pack a school lunch. I’m not a very good parent.”

“I don’t need someone to read to me,” Miles pouted. “I’m already six years old. And I prefer hot lunches anyway.”

“So, what can I do to help my son?” Gregory asked. “What would make Miles happy?”

“Making cookies.” he replied simply. “Can you help me with the flour? It’s heavy.”

“Of course, Miles.”

There was relative silence for a while as they retrieved the necessary ingredients, lining them up on the counter top. Finally Miles dragged a chair over to the mixer. “You start with dry ingredients.” he explained, his face gaining the frivolous joy a child gets explaining something to an adult when they truly know more about the subject. “You’re supposed to sift the flour. It looks like snow when you do. Did you play in the snow when you were a kid?”

“Not really.” Gregory answered, holding the sifter above the bowl as his son sprinkled flour into it. “I lived in Huntington Beach, that’s not far from here, and you know it doesn’t snow in Southern California. I saw it a few times on vacation, but I never had the right clothes for playing in the snow, so we just threw it around for a few minutes and went inside to warm up.”

“It gets cold here, too.” Miles noted, refilling the cup.

“It gets pretty cold, yes, but it’s not the same. You know how much colder you feel when your clothes are wet, right?”

Miles paused to consider it. “That makes sense.” he nodded.

“Maybe someday we can go where it snows.”

“Maybe.” The young boy had finished with the flour, and began unscrewing the cap to one of the spices. “I don’t like rainy days, it gets messy and you have to stay inside and watch movies at school..” He sprinkled some earthy brown powder on the mound of flour. “And you have to be here for your clients, right?”

“My clients are important, but so are you.”

“I can take care of myself.” Miles replied sulkily. “Your clients come to you because they have no one else to help them!” Sometimes Gregory wondered if it was possible that Miles truly understood the importance of his work or if he’d just been influenced by too many of his father’s impassioned speeches, but it was hard to discount the starry-eyed conviction the boy showed. “If you leave, who will fight for them? I can eat hot lunches and get myself to the bus station if it means your clients can get the help they need.” He fished a nutmeg seed out of a jar. “Can you grate this for me?” he pouted slightly. “I guess I can’t do everything for myself.” he admitted.

“Don’t worry about it.” Gregory smiled, “How much nutmeg?”

“I’ll tell you.” his son returned, watching the tiny pieces sift onto his careful pile of spices. “I think…. that’s good. Now we mix this together, and then we start with the sugar.”

“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” his father marveled.

“I learned from Mom.” There was another short period of silence as they negotiated the shortening.

“I know there isn’t really a Santa.” Miles finally announced.

“I thought so.” Gregory admitted. “Are the cookies nostalgic?”

“Nostalgic?”

“They make you feel good, because you remember good times you’ve had.”

“I know what nostalgic means.” Miles wrinkled his nose slightly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He fished a stray piece of egg shell out of the mix. “I was confused when I found out about Santa. But Mom and I talked, and I realized I was happier knowing you and Mom brought me presents because you love me.”

“That’s very mature of you.”

“Mom also said that when you make food for someone you love, it’s a way of thanking them for what they’ve done for you. That’s why I wanted to make cookies.”

Attempts at words caught in Gregory’s throat. “You don’t need to make me cookies, Miles.”

“I know. I thought about it. Is it still special if I can’t do it myself? But I thought that I always had a lot of fun making cookies with Mom, so if maybe I could have the same sort of fun with you, it would be like thanking Mom, too.”

“Miles...”

He put the cap back on the vanilla. “Now we mix it until it’s smooth, and then you let it sit in the refrigerator for a few hours.”

“We may not be able to finish them tonight, then.”

That’s okay.” he replied. “I know they’re not for Santa, so it’s fine if we make them Christmas day.” He paused, gathering his courage. “Do… you think we could bring cookies to Mom? You know, instead of flowers?”

“We can do whatever you want, Miles.”

“Then we should make them pink. Mom liked pink best. Do you know how to make frosting?”

“I think we can figure it out, together.” Gregory smiled. “They don’t have to be perfect, right?”

“No, I guess not.” Miles agreed. “Mom never minded, even when they were ugly.”

“I don’t think she ever thought they were ugly.” Gregory said. “I know I never did.”

Miles had reached the hallway, but he turned around to encircle his dad’s legs in a hug. “Merry Christmas, Father, I love you.”

“I love you too, Son.” Gregory replied gently. “Would you like to watch the news?”

“Actually, I was thinking...” Miles began, “Maybe you could read me a story? I can read my own, but, I thought it would be fun if we read one together.”

“Certainly, Miles. Let’s go find a book.” As they left the room, Gregory marveled. Three months of counselors, therapists, and staying up nights wondering how on earth he would reach out to his son without Sarah there to help him.

In the end, all it had taken was a recipe for gingerbread cookies.

Chapter Text

January 3rd, 2002

The suit was a little too small for it’s owner. Miles had always dressed well, especially when he knew he would be with his father, but he only owned one all-black suit with long pants and it was a long-forgotten present from a well-meaning aunt. It seemed so alien to him, like the rest of his life these past days. He momentarily wished for the maroon jacket he normally wore, then choked on the thought as he recalled his last look at it, spattered on one sleeve with his father’s blood, carefully bagged and tagged as evidence. Disappearing from his life like everything he’d ever known. Replaced by a sterile, uncomfortable equivalent.

He was still adjusting to the idea that the dour old man who had only days before had been his father’s bitter enemy was to be his guardian from now on. Why on earth he had decided to take the child of his unworthy rival on as a ward was beyond the comprehension of everyone involved. However, the man’s income and influence more than made up for the lack of empathy. He had already been enrolled in a fancy private school across town.

Far from his new friends.

He tried not to think about it.

He was trying not to think about a lot of things these days.

Von Karma had arranged for him to take up permanent residence in a guest room in his sizable home. It meant it came furnished, which meant that he was limited to bringing only what he could justify to his new guardian. That meant his favorite toys were already boxed for donation. Books that he had read dozens if not hundreds of times were considered infantile for a child his age and abandoned.

The cardboard spaceship he had made with Phoenix and Larry was crushed and discarded in the kitchen wastebasket. He wasn’t sure the samurai toys had even been removed from it. At this point he didn’t have the emotional strength to even argue it. Of course he remembered how fervently Phoenix had insisted it be kept his house for safekeeping, that only Miles was careful enough to be trusted with such a precious treasure. Children’s treasure. Phoenix and Larry would have to be consoled by the fact that they were still able to live as children.

The world didn’t seem real. The bags and boxes and shuffling of movers in the other rooms. His father’s entire life neatly sorted and stacked and marked to be donated or discarded. The only home he ever knew being systematically disassembled in front of him. The fingers that he knew to be part of his own body that nevertheless seemed like intruders in his life, fumbling artlessly with his tie.

Only one thing seemed real. A bag in his breast pocket. Three cookies, all gingerbread. Two pink hearts, one un-frosted tree. Slightly misshapen and burned on the edges. Downright unsightly. He hardly knew his guardian, but he had a feeling that such childish sentimentalism would be met with outright scorn. But if he had to leave his old life behind, at least in this one respect he wanted it to be on his own terms.

He picked up a box of assorted books and returned to the living room. With luck, Von Karma had become disinterested with the tedious packing and left him under the care of the movers again. Perhaps the employees would be more understanding.

His father’s books had been packed and removed, and the living room seemed empty and alien, but the TV was still in it’s regular place. A man Miles recognized as a chauffeur sat on the one chair left and half dozed in front of what appeared to be the weather channel. He stirred when the young boy set down his load next to him. “Is that it?” he asked with disinterest.

“Yes, sir.”

“No toys?” he yawned.

“This will be sufficient.” the boy replied quietly. “I’m ready to leave.”

“Sounds good.” With a stretch, the older man rose to his feet. “Back to the manor, then?”

“Umm...” he shifted awkwardly. “Would it be possible… on the way… to stop by the graveyard? It’s not that far out of the way...”

“Again?” The gruff voice made him jump, almost dropping his belongings. “Your father is dead, Boy. There’s nothing there for you. You’re merely prolonging your suffering with pointless attachment.”

“Mr. Von Karma, sir!” So he was still there after all. “I promise, I won’t keep asking. It’s just...”

“Just what?”

“I...”

“Speak up, boy. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I...” Miles Edgeworth was not used to putting himself into situations where he didn’t have an answer readily available. Normally he wouldn’t have even gone into the conversation without planning for multiple directions the discussion could lead. Now, here he was, tongue tied and scared and unable to explain why his sanity depended on leaving cookies for his deceased father. “Today, I...” By accident he met the older man’s eyes, and in that second he could have sworn that that the monster knew exactly what he was planning to say. He was intent on dragging it out of the distraught child just so he could cause optimum ridicule. He closed his eyes. “Every year my father and I left cookies for my mother.” he began.

“A preposterous delusion.”

“Yes, but it was tradition.” Miles continued, fists clenched against his tears. “I won’t ask to continue it, but I still have…” He swallowed hard. “My father and I made these cookies. Just this once, if I could leave them there for him-”

“-And what in heaven’s name do you plan to accomplish with this ridiculousness?”

Miles choked. “We made them together! Every year we make them on Christmas Eve! It’s our way of showing our thanks to each other and all the people who have helped us. Father always worked so hard for everyone but himself. There’s so little I can do.” His left had closed over the small bag. “I haven’t asked for any of my toys, or clothes, or anything else. Just please, please let me do this. Just this one time.”

“Your father is dead.” Von Karma repeated archly. “There’s nothing under that wilted patch of grass except for a few handfuls of ashes. There’s no one to appreciate your foolish sentiment.”

“But-”

“If you really wish to honor your father, you’ll forget about this naivety and focus on remembering what happened in that elevator!”

The boy didn’t reply, but his eyes went even wider and his thin lips trembled.

“The man who murdered your father is going to be let off scot-free because you are so wrapped up in delusions you can’t bring yourself to remember a few moments of your life that happened days ago, and your focus is on bringing his cremated remains a pile of inedible cookies.” Von Karma continued. “I understand that you are a child, but this infantile behavior is beyond my comprehension. If you really believe yourself to capable of studying in the Von Karma household, you’ll have to show me that you are capable of handling yourself like an adult.” The young boy was still deathly silent, eyes locked on a patch of nothing a few inches in front of his face, breath shallow. “I can promise you that no one in our household will support your foolishness. Will you prove that you have even an ounce of common sense and give me that bag?”

“I...” his voice was weak and empty.

“Do not make me question my decision to invite you into my house.”

“Please, Sir, may I at least keep them? As a memento?” He was met with an ice cold glare. “Even one?”

“Do you want to honor your father by ensuring that people like him are safe from the wickedness of the world, or do you want to cling to your weaknesses and a bag of broken sweets?”

“I...”

“Give me the bag, Miles Edgeworth.”

With his gaze averted in defeat, the young man let the small package fall to the ground. His guardian picked it up with a scowl. “Out of respect for your recent difficulties, I will forgo punishment in this case, but I want you to think long and hard about your actions today and your goals in life.” he turned to the chauffeur. “Take him straight home, understand? I will require your services later today.”

As Miles filed out the door, he tried to ignore the sound of the garbage disposal running in the kitchen.

Years later, he would be able to pinpoint it as the last time he’d allowed himself to cry over the death of his father.

Chapter Text

The office of the high prosecutor was still warm, a sort of sticky, residual heat from a day in March that insisted it was a summer day. Los Angeles was like that sometimes, even at nine-thirty at night. As natives, both lawyers knew better than to complain about it.

Miles Edgeworth sat at his desk, back to the hazy dark of the city. He was reviewing a case. It had become the first rule of their meetings: If he wasn’t actively speaking, he was working. It wasn’t rude, it was efficient. He could listen and process facts simultaneously, it seemed to Phoenix that the young prosecutor’s mind was like an anxious dog, always needing to be directed to a task lest it become destructive. A year ago, he had foolishly assumed the damaging impulses applied only to court rivals and underlings. Experience had since taught him that the sharp wit cut its owner as often as it wounded others. He hoped but didn’t expect that Miles would provide an opening for the conversation that needed to take place.

The rapid tap of the laptop’s keys was as steady as raindrops. It was almost enough to be calming. Miles himself appeared to be a vision of unshakable peace, but what was going on under the surface? Phoenix had asked himself that so many times over the last few days that it had sort of lost meaning as a concept. Part of him realized the only way to find the truth was to ask. Part of him didn’t want to know. Another substantial part of him believed that there was no possible way to explain the actual reality of the last few days using one consistent definition of truth, and thus any discussion was meaningless. Reality had proclaimed that Miles Edgeworth was no longer dead, and so he wasn’t. Reality had decided that Maya was safe, and so she was. Not long ago his sanity had hinged on knowing that Matt was innocent, and now he couldn’t be more grateful that his client was guilty and in jail.

Around forty-eight hours ago, Edgeworth had been some sort of sociopathic monster who had committed cruel acts on a personal whim as he coddled his frail pride. What was he now?

“Wright, if you don’t have anything meaningful to say, I suggest you head home. My couch is neither comfortable nor appropriate for sleep.”

“Don’t you have anything to say?” Phoenix asked listlessly.

“Nothing specific.” Miles replied conversationally. “Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

“You think?!”

“I’m not a mind reader, Wright. If you think it needs to be said, you need to say it.”

Phoenix threw himself back into the arm of the chair. “Like it’s really that easy.” he grumbled at the ceiling.

“I never said anything was easy. Words are woefully inadequate for the tasks we ask of them.” He had that infuriating habit of discussing things like murder investigations and overwhelming emotions with the same detached tones usually reserved for mild speculations about the exact temperature you might expect tomorrow. “Nevertheless, if one wishes to be heard they must first speak.”

Phoenix had that annoying feeling that he was being patronized.

“I can get you a room, if you’d prefer.” Miles offered, in a voice that was all helpful and no kindness. “You’ve had a rough time these past few days.” the cadence of keys didn’t slow.

“And you?!” Phoenix returned, both horrified and vindicated at the anger in his voice. “How has life been treating you?!”

There was a slight pause. “I’ve nothing to complain about.”

“Is that so?”

“It sounds like you do, though.” the laptop clicked closed. “Well, as they say, ‘the doctor is in’. What’s on your mind?”

Phoenix turned in the chair roughly, his exhaustion suddenly gone. “Are you offering me psychological advice?!”

“Mhhn...” Miles replied calmly. “Only if you’re interested, of course.” Phoenix threw a look over his shoulder and found Miles studying a paper, expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to educate you on your feelings.” He folded the paper neatly and placed it in his briefcase before picking up something else. “But sometimes it can be good to get these things out.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?!”

“You don’t find me qualified on the matter.” Phoenix could feel the smirk creeping along the hairs on the back of his neck, like nails on chalkboard. “It’s fair, I readily admit it’s something I’ve struggled with in the past-”

“If you were feeling so goddamn cheery, what was the note about?!” Phoenix whirled around, grasping the arm of the chair with both hands to steady himself, physically and emotionally.

He was met with dispassionate eyes and an intensely blank face. “Obviously, I was feeling different when I left it.” he replied, his voice as impassive as his expression. “I thought it was clear that that’s what I was referring to when-”

“Why didn’t you talk to me?!”

Miles shrugged. “You did speak to me. You were the last person I spoke to, in fact.” he cleared his throat, and for the first time seemed slightly uncomfortable with the situation. “I suppose that doesn’t help,” he rectified, “I wasn’t sure if you were aware.” Again he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t capable of showing it at the time, but you were very helpful.”

Phoenix stared back blankly, incapable of processing the compliment. Helpful? Miles had found their conversation… helpful? He would have been less surprised if Miles had smiled, complimented him on his impeccable fashion sense, and then clipped through the ceiling. “Then, why… why did… why that…?”

Miles closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’d like an answer, of course, and I wish I could give you one. I suppose you deserve one. Unfortunately, I can’t explain my thought process that night because there was no discernible thought process. I wasn’t myself, Wright. I wasn’t my father’s murderer, but I wasn’t my father’s son. I couldn’t have called myself Von Karma’s pupil, and I certainly wasn’t the protector of the weak I had hoped to be as a child. In fact, I hardly believe I was anyone.”

“We could have talked. We could have figured something out-”

“We certainly could not.” Miles interrupted, “I wasn’t a person who could have processed your concerns. Your worries would have only continued to add to what in my mind was already an insurmountable debt. I doubt we would have reached a satisfying ending.”

Phoenix was taken aback. Far from the absolute ignorance of the past year he was expecting, this was a little too open. He’d seen Miles’s office in his mind every day ever since he found that note, scrutinizing things from every angle, trying to uncode the slightest hitch of breath in an attempt to understand what had been going through the other man’s head. Now he was inundated with facts which were lighting up the room of his psyche with the clinical glare of practiced testimony, and what he was getting more than anything was that Miles had also spent a lot of time locked in that same office, trying to understand what had happened. “We could have called the authorities…”

“And spent a few weeks in observation, with the press trying to fight their way in? With the story of the week being my psyche, and a full breakdown being the best outcome they could hope for?” he sighed, and there was just a flutter of uncertainty in it. “You’re right, of course, it would have been the logical solution, and I do apologize for making your life more difficult. However,” his brow furrowed. “At the time… all those people, all those questions I myself didn’t know the answer to… at the time, it seemed so much worse than death. I couldn’t-” Whatever further truth he had considered revealing was stopped. “I made a choice based on what I believed to be the only options available to me at the time. In retrospect it was rather childish of me. I hope you didn’t think I was calling your emotional outbursts over the past few days unreasonable, I only felt that it was inappropriate for the situation.” He pushed his chair back and crossed a leg, spreading his arms slightly in a welcoming gesture. He was still holding a file of paperwork in one hand. “So, as I’ve stated before, you have my ear if you would like it. If that’s not to your liking, I’ve offered you room and board, which you obviously are in dire need of. You’ve been immeasurably helpful to me, and I only hope to prove to you that your confidence and your compassion were not mislaid.”

Phoenix settled back into the couch, dumbfounded. “You said I helped you that night,” he finally said quietly, “but you said I couldn’t have helped you.”

Miles sighed again. “Words are so inefficient, aren’t they?” he shrugged again, glancing to the side in an uncharacteristic show of hesitance. “Miles Edgeworth, the prosecutor you worked so hard to meet, the one you met in court, That Man had suffered a fatal wound long before that night. You struck the final blow yourself. It was necessary, of course, but… it had gotten rather messy. That case with Gant was a sort of trial by fire, to use a cliched term, and I had taken a lot of damage. I had already known I couldn’t continue on like that, but on that night, it had reached a critical point. I could go down with the ship and cling to everything I thought I understood to be true, or I could denounce what I’d spent most of my life working towards and face that some sins are too great to apologize for. Once a death sentence is carried out, you can only do so much by way of an apology.” He was quiet for a moment. “Part of me had decided that I owed it to those I’d convicted to die.”

“But! It wasn’t your fault!”

“I didn’t kill my father. I didn’t kill Hammond. I was an innocent victim of circumstances. How many others were convicted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why did I get a reprieve?” His voice was eerily calm. “I can’t remember all the thoughts going through my head back then, but I know it was a bad place to be. You were the one that met me where I was. I’ll admit I probably don’t remember the majority of what was said by either of us, but you were there. You had been to the same court battles I had, you'd seen all my miserable secrets and fears played out exactly as I had. You heard what Lana said, what Gant said. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you had to be as exhausted as I was, but you came to check on me. More than that, you came prepared. I don’t even know where you managed to find that recipe. "

"The cookies? I told you, my mom asked your dad. I had nothing to do with it. I just asked her if she still had it." His cheeks burned and his heart was rushing. He hated to think that his best friend's survival had hinged on such a last minute decision. On his mother's hoarding. On his fixation with the party where he'd last seen Miles as a boy. There was no need for Miles to shoulder that pain. It made him feel helpless, and that made him feel angry, and the anger made him feel stupid. Everything he'd done and accomplished, and it had all come down to dumb luck. He’d thought he'd saved Miles, but in the end he'd totally misunderstood the very nature of the beast Miles had been facing.

He wished he hadn’t shown up tonight. Some part of him, closer to the surface than he cared to admit, resented the blow to his self righteous fury he'd carried for the past year.

"Hmmm…" Miles’s demeanor was still reserved. "It may have been something of a fluke, but it's the only original writing I have from my Father. Even more so, it was a memory of my father I hadn't allowed myself to enjoy since his passing. Von Karma would never have allowed such frivolity, indeed, I myself repressed it as a sign of my weakness. But, you know, he couldn't take those things from me. He could only twist my perception of it. I don’t remember where or when I had the revelation, but it was a turnabout worthy of your courtroom antics. My father isn't coming back, and I can't just will away my sins. But von Karma couldn’t undo the good my father did, and he couldn't remove the good times. I'm a very flawed man, Wright, and I'll likely devote most of the rest of my life to undoing what I've done. But, I can improve, and I can change, and… perhaps someday, I can even learn to relax and enjoy myself in the downtime."

He stood up. "You’ve had a trial by fire these past few days, and it's likely if you continue your path you'll be inviting further injury. As someone who's faced similar trials in his life, I'd like to offer you any help I can. My ear if you'd like, my sympathy if you'll take it, my shoulder if you think it could be any use. If you're not interested, I understand. You don’t need to force yourself to forgive me. I believe in time I’ll be able to show you a Miles Edgeworth that deserves your trust, and I'm confident that someday you'll be able to see my return in a positive light. In the meantime, I'm willing to wait. "

Phoenix flinched. "I didn’t mean it…"

"Didn't you?"

"It fucking hurt, Edgeworth! I…"

"I understand, Wright. You don’t have to believe me, but I do."

Phoenix was suddenly aware Miles was close, standing near the couch. He didn’t know when It had happened, and he was sure it was a terrible idea, but it was a matter of seconds to throw himself out of the couch and he'd crashed himself into his childhood friend's arms. To his shock, he wasn't rejected, and his face was suddenly buried in rich fabric and a strange cocktail of expensive cologne and the stench of someone who had spent the last few days trolling the depths of Los Angeles. Miles had been working like crazy these past few days as well, for Phoenix, for Maya, for himself.

Everyone's nerves had been shot, and perhaps he'd meant more than he realized. Maybe he really had hated Miles for being alive. In the end, what difference did it make? Yesterday Miles had been a sociopath and Matt had been innocent. Nothing had made sense. Tonight everything made sense. There had been a day when Manfred Von Karma had been the center of Miles Edgeworth’s world. Perhaps their lives would be torn to shreds in ways their current selves couldn't comprehend.

Right now, Miles was alive, and his best friend.

He balled his hands into fists of fabric and stopped trying to hold back the hot tears welling in his eyes. Miles didn’t move to accept his embrace, but neither did he reject it.

"Someday I hope to be the sort of person who can support you in the same way you've always supported me." Miles said, his voice softer than Phoenix would have thought was possible. "But for now, I hope I can at least be a source of more comfort than pain. I thank you for your patience."

Phoenix made a choked hiss. "Shut up,”

“I apologi-”

“Just shut up. It’s not some race, it doesn’t matter if you’re making things easier for me. I’m friends with Larry, do you think I went to all the trouble to see you again because I thought it would make my problems go away? You’re my goddamn friend, Miles, and you’re a good one! Just don’t do that again. Don’t… don’t disappear like that again.”

Miles cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re going to like my itinerary, then. I’m afraid I left things rather in a hurry.”

Phoenix squeezed a warning. “You know what I mean.”

He thought he heard a smile in the words. “I’ll give you my new number if you promise not to jump to conclusions if I don’t answer.”

Phoenix sniffled wetly and didn’t try to hide it. “That sounds good.”

“It’ll be a while yet before I can make it back to the states,” Miles explained casually. “If it’s seasonable, I may bring you cookies.”

Phoenix sniffled again. “That sounds good. that sounds real good.”

He was so very, very glad he’d come today.

Chapter Text

Miles Edgeworth was not a babysitter.

He didn’t even deal with adults if it wasn’t strictly necessary. Parties were a hassle, restaurants were loud and distracting. Children were better off not seen or heard, if possible. People were welcome to pursue relationships and families, but for his part, Miles would rather be left out of the whole process.

Which is why he had no idea why he found himself in the comfort of his own house, sitting on his own cozy chair, avoiding eye contact with a small child who was, unfortunately, in his care. For her part, young Trucy was a fairly conscientious young charge, and her father had apparently driven home the message that Mr. Edgeworth wouldn’t enjoy seeing his expensive decorations vanished or otherwise used in magic tricks. That said, there wasn’t much in the prosecutor’s house to offer a small child.

“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” she asked.

“I don’t have any specific objection to it,” replied Miles, who wouldn’t have known where to begin explaining the various thoughts and memories the holiday brought up for him. “But with my work schedule, I don’t have time for such things.”

“But do you have time to spend with your friends?”

Miles opened his mouth to respond that he had no one specific he considered a friend before he realized that would lead to some rather difficult questions about what his relationship with her father was. “Not in a very long time,” he replied, “Not since I was probably your age.”

Trucy shifted her feet awkwardly. “Daddy said that something really bad happened to you when you were a kid.” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve heard a little about your life, and you’ve suffered similar hardships.” Miles replied. “You have my sympathies as well.”

“No!” She sat up straighter. “Not like you. You lost your father.”

“Well, I believe it could be said that you’ve ‘lost’ your father as well. Although there’s always the hope that you may some day be reunited, it must have been difficult.”

“That was sad,” she agreed. “But if my dad hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have been able to meet Daddy! And I love him very much, so it’s like I’ve got a whole new dad! That’s exciting!”

“But he’s not your real father.” even as he said it, the words seemed unnecessarily cruel, but he wasn’t driven by cruelty. This little girl, barely up to his waist, had suffered unspeakable loss without falling into despair. It had taken him decades of therapy and work on himself to get to the position he was in now. At that moment, it seemed like Trucy had something he desperately needed.

“He’s really my daddy!” Trucy insisted. "He told me he would be, and then he filled out all the paperwork. My real dad didn’t have to fill out paperwork. I know how much Daddy hates filling out forms, so it proves he wanted to be my daddy. That’s good enough for me!” she pushed herself out of her seat. “And he has to fill out tons of paperwork every time he sees you too, so that proves he likes you too! And I don’t know you very well, but I like you too.”

“That’s a very… optimistic point of view.” Miles admitted. He hadn’t really thought about his reasons for cloistering himself away from others. While he definitely was an extremely busy man, it would be a lie to say that he had no time to spend with others. He simply chose to spend that time alone. Part of that was indeed his personality, he really did like time to be alone in a quiet place, but he also was finding he enjoyed spending time with others.

Particularly Wright.

“I guess I’m an op-tem-ist, then.” Trucy replied. “But that’s not bad, is it?”

“No, it’s certainly not a bad thing.”

“But it’s not bad if you still feel sad,” Trucy explained. “You must have loved your dad very much, and that proves that he was a great daddy. It’s a compliment!”

Miles would have to process that a little.

Trucy stepped closer. “Did you celebrate Christmas with your Daddy?”

That was a loaded question for a number of reasons, but it was hard to hold it against his adorable inquisitor. “We didn’t really celebrate. I think we got a tree a few times, but he was very busy and I thought I was too grown up to worry about kid stuff. We didn’t watch Christmas movies or go talk to a mall Santa or anything like that. We weren’t religious, and again there was much I considered childish. However…” here he paused. “However, there was a tradition started by my mother, where we would make cookies for the ones we cared about. For my father, I guess is what I mean.”

Trucy jumped, clapping her hands. “Let’s make cookies then!” she squealed with delight.

“B-but we can’t!” Miles stammered. “I don’t have the proper ingredients. I don’t know if I even have a baking sheet.” He’d lived in this house for almost a decade, at least when he was in the United States, and he’d used his kitchen, but never for something like cookies.

“We can buy some, can’t we?” she asked. “We can get a recipe online.”

“I actually have a recipe,” Miles replied. “Do you like gingerbread?”

“The best!”

“We would need cookie cutters as well,” he fretted. “And candy for decoration.”

“See?!” Trucy giggled. “It’s the greatest idea ever!”

“But…” As he had just finished telling himself, he was busy but definitely not incapable of finding time for personal endeavors. Furthermore, he was already stuck in the role of caretaker, it made little difference if the supervision took place at his home or the store. The only possible variable was how much money a child with a free hand might spend on candy. What was he afraid of? “You know what? Let’s go.”

“Yaaaaaaaay!”

It ended up taking two hours and three stops to gather the necessary materials, and usually that sort of outing took quite a toll on his energy reserves. Merely a multi-stop outing which required interactions would ensure he spent the evening quietly by himself poring over a book. However this time, whether from the young girl’s enthusiasm or his own eagerness to complete his childhood ritual, he found he came home with more energy than he left, and it wasn’t long before he was in shirt sleeves wrestling with a bag of flour.

“Have you ever made cookies before?” he asked.

“Only refrigerated cookies,” she answered. “That’s what makes it fun!” She overturned a few small jars of spices and grabbed a bag of spice drops.

“Those are for decoration,” he reminded her.

“So I just have to leave enough to decorate, right?”

“I guess you’re right.” After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a small handful for himself.

“Can I have your orange ones?”

“Only if I can have your red ones.”

“No fair!”

He clucked his tongue. “I’d say it’s the very definition of fair.”

“Whatever, I’ll just get some lemon drops.”

“As long as you remember to leave some for the cookies.”

“The cookies!!” Trucy gasped. “I forgot about the cookies!”

“There’s no time limit, you can’t mess them up by forgetting them. Don’t worry.”

She turned to him with a small, relieved smile that made him feel warm in his chest. “Then no more candy until we finish the cookies.”

“That sounds good.”

In twenty minutes they had some slightly uneven and lumpy dough that smelled delicious. Trucy was rolling it awkwardly with a wine bottle. The air between them had relaxed considerably, but there was still hesitation in Trucy’s voice when she spoke. “Your Daddy was a lawyer. Right?”

“Indeed.”

“So, he was busy a lot, right?”

“Most of the time.”

“But he was home for Christmas?”

“Most people are.”

Trucy faltered again. “I know Daddy used to be a lawyer,” she said, “and I know he’s not anymore. He’s still really busy though. Like today, I have to stay with you while he sees the lawyer Jedi council.”

Miles snickered a little and then felt bad. “It’s an important meeting, yes. I’m sure he’d rather be home with you.”

“‘Cause your dad always wanted to be home with you?”

“I can’t pretend to know what my father was thinking,” Miles replied, “But I believe he enjoyed the custom as much as I did.”

Trucy thought about that for a moment. “Do you think Daddy likes being with me?” she finally asked.

He stopped cold. “Of course he does, Trucy. You’re his whole world.”

“Yeah,” she said in a tone he’d never heard her use before, “because I took his world away.”

“Trucy,” he started without knowing where he was going, “Wright is an adult. Whatever he did in that courtroom, it had nothing to do with you. And I know he doesn’t blame you. He wouldn’t be Phoenix Wright if he held onto things like that. Trucy, I can promise you that your father is one of the most genuine people on the planet, and he would never have adopted you if he hadn’t loved you with one hundred and ten percent of his heart.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Look, Trucy, I know you hardly know me, and I’m probably a little scary, and you don’t really know my relationship with your father, but I’ve known him since he was a little kid, and I’ve seen him suffering from every emotion known to man, and some emotions that I believe are unique only to him. You may not know it, but your father gets mad, and he even holds grudges, and if he didn’t love you with every ounce of his heart you would know.”

Trucy sniffled.
“And I believe…” And he was hit by a thought, not necessarily an epiphany, but something that none-the-less smacked of the profound. He’d always realized that his father must have loved him and therefore enjoyed their time together, but he realized that his father, like him, was a failable human. He didn’t know how to raise a grief-stricken little boy who’d just lost his mother anymore than Miles knew how to deal with a little girl who’d just lost her father.

And that was fine. The language of love wasn’t one spoken with perfect certainty. Love wasn’t standing on a sturdy platform and hefting others to safety. Love, more often than not, was finding another human struggling alongside you, reaching out a hand, and saying, “Let’s go together.”

Love was perfect imperfection.

“I believe, Miss Trucy Wright,” he finally continued with renewed confidence, “that your father will be genuinely jealous of the time I’m having with you today.”

Trucy sniffled slightly. “Do you really think so.”

“I do,” Miles replied, “So we’d better make sure to make him the best cookies we can, so he knows he's important to us.”

“Even if they’re a little lumpy?”

“Of course. That’s our love language.”

Trucy smiled so brightly it was hard to believe that she had ever been upset. “I want to make him a Santa hat cookie!”

“That sounds delightful.”

The sun was already set when Phoenix finally made it back to the house. “God, Edgeworth, I’m so sorry, I know I said two hours, but they really needed to bust my ass, I’ll-” he stopped when he saw Edgeworth, hair disheveled and slightly flowered, shirt flecked with frosting and smelling a little smoky. “Shit. I, I’ll pay your dry cleaning bill…”

“Hardly necessary,” Miles replied simply, “We’ve had a splendid time.”

“We made cookies!” Trucy giggled.

“Ohhh,” Phoenix stared back, dumbfounded. “We?”

“Indeed, Wright. I too wished to express my gratitude.” Miles dropped a small bag of cookies into Phoenix’s hand. “Merry Christmas, Phoenix Wright. You have a delightful family.”

“We’re delightful!” Trucy crowed.

“And I would be honored if the two of you would join me for dinner.”

Phoenix looked even more flabbergasted. “Are you alright? You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He took Miles’s shoulder. “Did your heart grow three sizes today?”

Miles smiled. “Perhaps it did, Wright, perhaps it did.