Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth would not describe himself as being particularly incapable of anything. Whatever he set his mind to, he would make sure that he found a way to excel in that task. Proof of this fact was evident from a quick glance around his office—the old jacket that marked the early days of his prosecuting career, the numerous law books that lined the shelves, his eloquent tea set. Even the chessboard that stood politely off to the side gave an indication about his personality. Everything he reached for, he grabbed with conviction. There was hardly a thing that became a permanent obstacle to him.
So it made no sense for this paper to be mocking him with its pristine blankness.
With little grace, Miles let his pen slip from his grip onto the desk, instead burying his face in his hands. A little peek through his fingers, and a moment later he was straightening the pen.
Alright, maybe there was an area or two that Miles wasn't the most well-versed in. This one was going to be his eventual downfall, it seemed.
His heart and mind were currently set on different paths. For too long now, he had been juggling with his emotions and their subsequent meanings. The rational side of him had won over his actions thus far, keeping things locked up tight in order to maintain his professionalism, which had given him that stoic and cold persona that he was known for. He had been long-since accustomed to the rumors about him—Prosecutor Edgeworth is impossible to talk to; Edgeworth can turn people to stone with that glare of his; That Demon Prosecutor has no soul. These were normal whispers that drifted around, and they did not faze him. However, a certain…revelation, had his heart tugging him towards an unfamiliar side, one that he was not all that thrilled about exploring in depth. This was nothing that anyone who had heard tell of the prosecutor would believe. Yes, Miles Edgeworth was conflicted and lost.
There were a few words that he was considering for the introduction of this letter. He needed an introduction for this kind of thing, right? After a bit more of grappling with the fragmented thoughts around him, he finally put pen to paper to scrawl out a careful, "Dear Ph—"
"Edgeworth, sir?"
The pen fell with a clatter as Miles was startled upright. His palm smacked the paper over the desk a beat before he barked, "What is it?"
A nervous-looking Dick Gumshoe stuck his top half through the doorway. "A visitor for you, sir," he rushed out, his gaze dodging back and forth.
Miles, desperate to hide the evidence, slid the paper to the bottom of a nearby stack of case files, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other hand. "And is there a name to accompany this intrusive visitor?" he asked, voice laced with exasperation. Not even one sentence into this silly letter. Maybe that was a sign.
"Oh! It's—ow!"
"I require no such introduction! Step aside, you foolish fool."
Gumshoe was shoved out of view and replaced with puffy shoulders and ice-blue hair. There stood Franziska Von Karma, whip brandished in gloved hands—a whip which she had undoubtedly just used on the detective.
She strode in with all the confidence in the world, leaving a sputtering Gumshoe to be cut off by the closing door. Miles sat up straight again as Franziska stopped in front of his desk, arms crossed. Unbefitting considering the redness of her nose and the puffiness of her eyes.
"Hello, little brother," she greeted. "I presume you know why I am here, so there's no need to waste time on the technicalities of explaining. Have you reviewed the case file I sent over?"
Miles had to quirk an eyebrow at the sight of her. It appeared that the only reason the leakage from her nose had not fallen was from sheer force of will. Her voice, normally clear and commanding, sounded like it was being filtered through cotton. Even her pristine appearance looked a notch more on the frazzled side. Yes, Miles had read the case file; he read it because Franziska had come down with a cold. He was to be her replacement in court tomorrow.
As calmly as he could manage (which, honestly, took more than a grain of patience), Miles adjusted his cravat and cleared his throat. "I've read through it all. I also spoke to your witnesses and had the evidence reexamined, so I can confidently say that I am fully prepared for tomorrow's trial. Surely you don't doubt my ability to do even the bare minimum."
The whip in Franziska's hand tightened in a coil, like a snake poised to attack. "Of course I don't," she retorted. "Surely you don't doubt that I am completely thorough in making sure that a case originally under me goes smoothly. I will not stand to have the Von Karma name sullied by any means," she stated, then leaned over Miles' desk with both hands—plus the whip—planted firmly on the wood. "Especially against that lawyer."
Him. It would seem that Miles was not the only one having a mental conflict pertaining to the lawyer today. The mention of him made his shoulders stiffen ever-so-slightly. It had somehow slipped his attention that he was to be facing against his courtroom rival tomorrow.
"You don't need to worry," Miles continued smoothly. "Tomorrow's proceedings will go just fine."
Franziska's lips drew further into a frown. "Good. Then I suppose I can—" She froze, and sniffled. "What were you writing?" she suddenly questioned.
Two sets of eyes locked onto the pen currently laying crooked on his desk. "Nothing. I was simply startled when the detective barged in and must have moved it." A fruitless half-lie.
His intruder did not look impressed. "Come, now, little brother," she cooed in that icy tone of hers. "I may have come down with a minor hinderance, but I can assure you that my mind is sharp as ever." She pointed to the pen. "You moved it, you say, which would explain it's position. But"—she picked it up with deft fingers—"the pen is open. Obviously it was being used. But on what? There is no writing paper in sight, and I do not take you for the type of young schoolgirl to doodle hearts on her hand. You are hiding something from me. So, what were you writing that you needed to stow away so quickly?"
Damn her for being a prodigy.
Miles let out a heavy sigh. "Will you leave it be if I tell you that it's not your business?"
And there was that finger waggle. "Then it's Phoenix Wright, isn't it?" She looked much too smug for a sick woman.
"I do not need your interference, Franziska," Miles shot back.
That was how she knew she was correct. Her smile resembled that of a cartoon cat about to pounce on a mouse. Miles did not enjoy feeling like a mouse.
Discontented, he plucked the pen from her fingers, capped it, and set it back down parallel to the stack of files to his right. "Well, if all you came here for was to needlessly check up on my preparedness, then I believe it is time for you to go home and rest so you can be rid of that cold of yours. And not pass it on to me," he added after a beat, coupled with a pointed eyebrow raise.
Franziska crossed her arms with an indignant huff. To Miles' annoyance, she ignored his statement completely. "Perhaps I should resume the oversight of this case after all," she mused. "You might be distracted by that attorney, if your connection is so important that it drives you to write him a personal letter."
"I will have no such problem." Miles was growing tired of this back and forth. While at times it was invigorating and kept him sharp, all he wanted right now was to be left alone to figure out what he should say in this accursed letter. Franziska had confirmed what she wanted, so she had no reason to stay in his office other than to tease him.
And that, she did. "Then dispel my doubts by telling me exactly the nature of this message you are so stressed about. Unless you want me to find out on my own. You decide which is easier." There she went, laying out his options on the table.
It appeared that Miles had no real choice but to relent. "Alright," he conceded, "I'll tell you. It's part apology, part confession. I have some…unresolved issues that he deserves to know about regarding our past. All I am doing is saying what I should have said a long time ago. None of it has to do with this case, and it will not even be on my mind during the proceedings. Does that satisfy you?"
Miraculously, that seemed to do the trick. After another few sniffles and taps to her arm, Franziska gave a single nod. "That will do. Carry on, then. You will tell me how the trial concludes the second it ends," she demanded. For a moment, Miles thought the tightening grip on her whip meant she would use it on him, but she simply turned on her heel and marched out of the office.
A sigh of relief deflated Miles when the door clicked shut, followed by the envelopment of silence. He was alone again.
Eyes glanced to where the hidden paper was stashed. Miles sighed a second time, now with more dread. He retrieved the paper and placed it back on the center of the desk. Once more, he felt his skin prickle with irritation at its emptiness.
Maybe he really was running a fool's errand. What good would this do either of them? When he thought of all the hurt he had caused Phoenix Wright during their lives, the mound of wrongdoings could not nearly be erased by a simple letter. Not a whole lifetime of them.
That doesn't mean you can run away again, chided a voice in his mind. It would be better for them both if Miles set aside his stubborn nature and finally put all of his thoughts out. Right?
Dear Phoenix Wright, he wrote.
This letter may come to you as much of a surprise as it did to me. I have found myself in a state of uncertainty regarding my emotions—ones that I have kept behind lock and key since childhood. As you know by now, my upbringing under Von Karma fostered very little in the way of expressing vulnerability.
That was a bit of an understatement, he noted with a mirthless laugh. It was more like Von Karma had actively discouraged and punished any display of what he considered "weakness." But he continued.
Since I have more or less escaped his shadow, I've slowly been coming to realize several key things about myself. This starts with the fact that I have been needlessly cruel for quite some time. Especially towards you. I have disrespected your kindness and toyed with your emotions in order to protect myself. While you were not the first I had done this to, you were certainly the most impactful. It was you that made me finally acknowledge the error of my ways. What I once regarded as a crutch, I am now working to make peace with.
Which brings me to the initial reasoning for writing you. If I am to start correcting my mistakes, I might as well begin by apologizing to the one I have negatively impacted the most. Phoenix Wright, I am sorry. I have repeatedly and deliberately run from any problems that involve you. In my humiliation at feeling so vulnerable, I thought it best to distance myself from you completely. I know he is gone, but I cannot fully dispel his teachings that have been so deeply carved into me—I have shown weakness, which means I am not worthy. I have not felt worthy of your friendship, your kindness, since our school days. I believed that if I could not be perfect, then I would be better off dead. However, I have witnessed you displaying imperfection time and again, and you have never acted as childishly as I. What you do in the face of mistakes is work tirelessly to right them, which I suppose makes sense with your namesake. Initially, this made me scoff; if you had displayed such imperfections, then it was foolish to continue to stand tall. It has taken me far too long to acknowledge the courage that you possess. After all this time, I want you to know that I admire your tenacity.
Miles paused. His hand had started to shake. Was this really okay for him to be admitting? He considered ending there, but…no, he had to see it through. So, he closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then put the pen to paper.
I am certain that I have been a source of pain for you, and I have no right to be confessing to what I am about to disclose. As I have grown as a prosecutor and as a man, there has been one force at the center of it all. That force is you, Wright. My last admission is once again a selfish one. My original judgement was incorrect; the feelings I have are necessary, pivotal to my very being. You are what has brought me through all of my tribulations, even if you weren't aware of it. I have come to realize that I have been harboring feelings for several years now, and I can deny them no longer. I do not ask you to return them, or even to acknowledge them. I simply felt that it was time I spoke my peace. You don't deserve to be in the dark anymore.
Respectfully,
Miles Edgeworth
Miles swallowed hard. His fingers burned with the urge to crumple the paper and toss it into the trash. Was pouring your heart out supposed to fill your throat with bile? How on Earth did people do these kinds of things face-to-face?
Putting that thought aside before it threatened to make him faint, Miles carefully folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, then wrote the name of its recipient on the front. He could give this to him after the trial tomorrow. Shove it into his hands and get out before he had to witness the reaction.
Miles was partially right in that he wasn't going to let his personal feelings get in the way of his performance at the trial. Even if his eyes wanted to linger on Wright's hands as they slammed on the desk, his ears to hone in on Wright's commanding voice over the courtroom, or his mind to wonder about what was to come later on between them, he would not let them remain fixated on such things. One miniscule trip-up at the beginning of the proceedings made him snap out of his ridiculous state, and he quickly slipped into his usual manner of serious concentration before anyone could point out that uncharacteristic flaw.
Every so often, he locked eyes with the man across from him. Something about him felt peculiar—more so than normal, that is. The way he looked at him felt more direct than what was appropriate for a courtroom, though he would always tear his gaze away to instead look at the witness and spew some of that accusatory nonsense which he was known for.
It was their typical back and forth, Miles hammering down nails with conviction, Phoenix passionately worming his way through to prove that his strikes were misplaced. The trial was supposed to be a smooth one-and-done, but in typical Phoenix Wright fashion, the defense attorney had unraveled the events so much that there was to be another hearing the following day. Maybe Franziska would be feeling better by then and could take back her original position. Then Miles wouldn't have to look at him.
As he walked out of the courtroom, Miles ran through what he was going to relay to Franziska. His original plan to deliver the letter to Phoenix after trial was going to have to wait until it had actually ended, so he decided to focus on what needed to be done in the meantime. Nevermind how the envelope practically burned inside his jacket pocket.
He took a moment to deliberate. His back ached from letting his posture slip for too long yesterday, and the irritation of faulting in court that never truly left him only added to that pain. While he would normally take the stairs, he figured he could brave the elevator this one time, just to save his back some of that pain. So, momentarily bracing himself when the ding! of the elevator sounded, he stepped inside.
"Edgeworth, hold it!"
An arm stuck between the elevator doors just before it could close. It retracted, and in walked Phoenix Wright.
The spiky-haired lawyer smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Maya ran ahead and I have to catch up to her before she drains my wallet for lunch," he said.
Maybe Miles should have taken the stairs, after all.
He gave a curt nod. "I presume Miss Fey is walking herself to the restaurant down the street?"
"Yep," Phoenix replied. "Said she wanted to celebrate even though the trial isn't over yet. I know she just wanted an excuse to get burgers, but I couldn't say no." He did that endearing gesture where he rubbed the back of his neck and let out an awkward chuckle. Miles had to feign a disinterested hum and look away to avoid dwelling on that.
The doors closed properly this time, Miles suppressing a wince at the metallic clank. He never could quite get over that surge of panic when he was in an elevator. But, since he was working to overcome his obstacles, this one was going to have to give way as well.
"So…" Phoenix predictably broke the silence. "Why were you prosecuting today? I mean, not that I didn't want to see you, but I thought, you know, Franziska—"
"She's come down with a cold," Miles interjected, knowing full-well that Phoenix was capable of stuttering his way all the way down.
Phoenix's expression grew sympathetic. "Ah, I know how that goes. I never pictured her having that problem, though. Almost feels like she's too scary to let germs get to her," he joked with another little laugh.
Miles opened his mouth to respond when he felt himself begin to shake. Or—no—everything else was shaking. He stumbled back, the briefcase in his hand falling with a thud as the lights flickered. Vaguely, he registered a shocked yelp to his left, but the world was currently being filtered through static, and he couldn't bring himself to check on it.
His legs gave out underneath him a second later, and his back hit the handrail hard as he fell against the wall before sliding down to the ground. His heart was pounding in his ears, which he slammed his hands over to try and block everything out. Strobes of light made his head swim. Miles curled in on himself as tight as he possibly could. The last thing he recognized was his name being called out, and then everything went dark.