Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That has to be a mistake, Edgeworth thinks to himself, the first time he views the court docket. He had checked it, as usual, to make certain there weren't any last-minute changes in courtroom, and to learn the name of the day's opponent, to see who would be foolish enough to take one of his cases. But that name? He reads it a second time to make sure he saw it correctly.

Phoenix Wright
Partner, Fey & Co. Law Offices

Well, that answers the question of who would be foolish enough. But him, a lawyer? On the surface it seems completely wrong, but simultaneously he feels a distant understanding, like he's just found the second half of a clue he's held for so long he's actually forgotten about it. Edgeworth shakes his head slightly, wondering why he's still standing in front of a piece of paper in the courthouse hallway thinking about someone he hasn't seen in fifteen years. Someone who's become a defense attorney, no less.

Inexplicably, he's still thinking about it when he takes his place behind the prosecutor's bench.

Wright is not what Edgeworth remembers. Even well into their teenage years his letters had read like they were written by a cheerful ten-year-old, but there's little of that in him now. He's still easy to fluster and Edgeworth doubts he could come up with a plausible, logical train of thought if you paid him, but at least he seems to be taking this mostly seriously. Much like his now-late mentor, once Edgeworth thinks about it. 

And like his mentor he's irritatingly persistent. He objects to what seems like everything, he constantly asks for more testimony, and seems to have evidence to refute every claim. Edgeworth was expecting an easy victory inside of an hour. Instead he's sitting in the lobby outside of the courtroom several long hours later, with the knowledge that the trial is going into a second day. To top it off, Wright's managed to get his witness arrested. Infuriating.

“Are you all right, sir?” Detective Gumshoe is standing over him, looking nearly as angry as Edgeworth feels.

“I would be better if you could offer a proper testimony,” he says, “but otherwise, yes.”

“But what about that lawyer, sir? He thought you forged that autopsy report! Don't you want me to go over there and give him a piece of my mind?!”

“I don't concern myself with what some novice attorney thinks of me,” he says. “And no, I don't want you to waste your time futilely trying to convince Wright of the purity of my methods, I want you to find the evidence that will finish this trial.” Besides, it's nothing I haven't heard before.

“Yes, sir! You just wait; that girl's going down!” Gumshoe gives him a salute and practically sprints out the door.

Gumshoe returns to the Prosecutor's Office in much the same way, bursting into Edgeworth's office without knocking. He's about to give the detective the dressing-down of a lifetime, but he's already launched into what he needed to say. Edgeworth makes a mental note to include this intrusion in next month's salary evaluation.

“Mr. Edgeworth, sir! I came as soon as I could! They've arrested somebody else for the murder!”

“What.”

“Yeah, turns out that lawyer from today's the real killer. They found the guy who was staying in the hotel and he's going to testify about it tomorrow.”

“Th-That's absurd,” he says, not sure which one of the numerous problems with this situation he wants to object to. “I can't put together a case for a new defendant within a few hours! The evidence we have all indicates the victim's sister is the murderer; to prove it was Wright I'm going to need an entirely new investigation. Beyond that, I am the lead prosecutor on this case and any arrests made require my approval.”

“Sorry, sir, but the orders came down from the Chief Prosecutor,” Gumshoe says, glumly, taking the warrant from his pocket. It's not signed by Lana Skye, Edgeworth's direct superior, but he does recognize the signature as belonging to someone of equal status. “He also gave me this to give to you,” he adds, producing a letter in a plain white envelope. He takes it from the detective, warily, and rips it open.

“This is outrageous,” he says, reading it. 

“What does it say, sir?” Gumshoe asks, recoiling slightly like he's expecting to be violently told off for asking.

“That I am to take all of tomorrow's witness testimony at face value,” he tells him, angrier with the letter than with the detective's familiarity. “That my prior work on this case is essentially to be disregarded and the rest of it dictated by some self-important businessman.”

“That's not so bad, sir! And if anyone can do it, it's you.”

“I have few doubts that I can defeat Wright and whatever unfortunate public defender will be representing him, but that doesn't change the fact that not only is the guilty party currently walking the streets, but that someone thinks they can use the court like this and may try to do so again!”

“Oh. When you put it that way...”

The letter is crumpled up now, crushed in a burst of anger. He throws it in the trashcan and reaches for his case files. If he's going to have to get his conviction on unprepared testimony alone, Edgeworth is going to need to be ready for anything.

“Detective, get me some coffee.”

“Yes, sir!”

Despite last night's work, he was not ready for the next day's trial. Wright turns out to be a much more capable investigator than Edgeworth would have ever expected, and even with the handicap of spending last night in the Detention Center – a very rough night, if the black eye he was sporting was any indication – he's managed to find enough evidence to get Mr. White to confess on the stand, once his assistant points it out to him.

With White's confession, the judge has no other choice but to declare Wright not guilty. 

His perfect record, undone. And he can't even blame White and the Chief Prosecutor for handing him these obviously trumped-up charges against Wright, because his original case was equally incorrect – he has no doubt that Wright would have eventually cracked the case, regardless of defendant, through sheer stubbornness alone. He was going to lose this case the moment the police arrested Maya Fey, or possibly the moment Phoenix Wright agreed to be her lawyer. There's blood rushing in his ears, and he feels slightly ill.

He underestimated Wright and paid for it dearly. If he has any hope of salvaging his reputation after this, he's going to have to treat him as a worthy adversary. And then he's going to have to crush him. 

“Mr. Edgeworth, sir?” Gumshoe is in front of the prosecutor's bench, where Edgeworth is still standing. Everyone else has left the courtroom already.

“Yes, Detective?” he asks, dragging himself out of his thoughts.

“The trial's over, sir. Don't you need to go back to the office?”

The office is the last place he wants to be right now, as word about his humiliating defeat is probably spreading there as they speak, but to avoid it would be equivalent to an engraved invitation to mock him. 

“Yes, I suppose so. But, Detective?”

“Sir?”

“The next case you bring me will be airtight, or a salary cut will be the least of your problems. I will not be made a fool of by arguing against the evidence and I will not lose another case, especially not to him. Now get out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir.”

As expected, the Prosecutor's Office is ablaze with gossip; someone must have been in the gallery or spoken to the judge. Or to Wright, though that seems unlikely. His glare keeps anyone from attempting to speak to him directly, and as usual, the stairwell is empty, allowing him to make his way to his office unimpeded. Once inside, he puts the evidence on his desk, reminding himself to give it to the detective later for storage, makes sure the door is locked, and simply sits down on the couch. He should probably get back to work, but it's unlikely he would accomplish anything in his current state.

He still can't believe he lost. He still can't believe he lost to Phoenix Wright. Most of all, he can't believe that it wasn't some kind of shady trick pulled by a crooked attorney, but the truth. Edgeworth puts his head in his hands. He had been so sure in his course before this: the evidence said Maya Fey was guilty, ergo, she was arrested. But Wright managed to trump logic with faith: she was innocent, ergo, the evidence is wrong. It was practically a miracle.

Edgeworth slams down on that thought, hard, and gets off the couch. This one fluke does not mean his whole philosophy is wrong. Working for a conviction to ensure that all criminals are punished is a perfectly noble goal, and he uses perfectly legitimate means to achieve it. He will rise above this single, insignificant loss – perhaps he won't be as legendary as his mentor, now, but he will still be respected. Feared, even. Feeling a renewed determination, Edgeworth ceases the unconscious pacing he was doing around the office, ready to get back to work. But first, he stops to rearrange his chessboard, surrounding one lone black pawn with white pieces. A visual reminder is always useful in these situations, though the colours are all wrong. Maybe he should have some new pieces made.

“There's a phone call for you, Mr. Edgeworth,” his secretary says over the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“It's Ms. von Karma, sir.”

“Ah.” He's been expecting this. “Put her through.”

“Miles Edgeworth!” she says, already sounding furious.

“Good afternoon, Franziska,” he replies, determined to remain impassive. “Or evening, I suppose, with the time difference.”

“I did not make this call to exchange foolish pleasantries! This is about your disgraceful failure!” Something makes a loud sound in the background; she must be whipping something as a placeholder for Edgeworth himself.

“That was last week. I'm afraid you're running behind,” he says, deflecting.

“I am aware of this. However, unlike you, I have been extremely busy winning and putting the guilty in jail, where they belong. Speaking to a fool such as yourself was hardly worth my time. But your foolishness must be stopped, and since Papa told me he hasn't had the time I will take it upon myself to keep you from continuing to be an embarrassment to the name of von Karma!” This is punctuated by another whip-crack.

Edgeworth sincerely doubts that the reason he hasn't seen her father in several months, despite his very publicized loss, is that he was simply too busy. There are a few things he will take time from his incredibly precise schedule to do, and this is one of them.

“I have researched this lawyer who cost you your record,” Franziska says, apparently not interested in waiting for a response to her previous declaration. “Mr. Phoenix Wright. How could you lose to this no-name upstart attorney? Have you forgotten that you have trained under the greatest prosecutor in the world?”

“Of course not,” he snaps. “Wright got lucky and essentially blackmailed the witness into confessing. There was nothing I could do to prevent it.”

“All lawyers will try to play such foolish tricks, Miles Edgeworth. It is a prosecutor's duty to keep them from doing so and run a perfect trial.”

He sighs. Despite his pledge to himself, Edgeworth has been finding himself questioning his every decision, envying the assurance Wright seemed to have had in his work. Perhaps that's just a perk of being a defense attorney; building your cases to fit a specific truth instead of having to choose the most likely of infinite possibilities, the way a prosecutor does.

He doesn't deign to tell any of this to Franziska.

“While your record will be tarnished for all eternity,” she says, carrying on, “proving once and for all that I am the true successor to my father's legacy, I believe that you may be able to redeem yourself to me. You will rebuild your reputation, beginning with crushing Mr. Phoenix Wright in court!”

“I intend to,” he says, mildly. At the very least, he won't let him get away with the sort of nonsense he pulled this time, which will likely end in his client's conviction. The thought gnaws at him, inexplicably. He reminds himself that the odds of Wright representing two innocent clients in a row are astronomical, and that he shouldn't feel anything about doing his job.

Franziska cracks her whip again. “I expect to hear about your perfect victory very soon, unless you wish to be denounced as ever having been a student of the von Karma way!” She slams the phone down. Edgeworth rolls his eyes, replacing his receiver with exaggerated care.

Chapter Text

His objection to the end of Dee Vasquez's testimony is out of his mouth before his brain even registers what he's doing. Something about her story doesn't add up, and combined with everything Wright's proved about the crime scene and murder weapon, it's aggravating that itch he's had in the back of his mind since last month and his last run-in with Wright. After some flailing, Edgeworth asks Ms. Vasquez to tell the court about finding the body; when he looks over at the defence's bench he can see Wright and his assistant are frantically whispering to one another, presumably about him. With some effort, he refocuses on the witness stand.

Wright asks Vasquez a question. Her answer is a lie. The inconsistency is obvious. He waits for Wright's objection.

There isn't one. Neither Wright nor the younger Fey seem to have noticed that what Vasquez has told the court just now could easily unravel her entire story and implicates her as the actual murderer. If they don't say anything, she will likely walk free and their client will be convicted. Edgeworth grits his teeth. Admittedly, he has a much higher opinion of Mr. Powers than he does of most defendants, though his enjoyment of The Steel Samurai: Warrior of Neo Olde Tokyo is a carefully-guarded secret, but even with that consideration removed from the equation he finds himself still hoping Wright will make the connection and say something.

The defence is still conferring about something. This may be it. That crushing defeat of Wright he's been planning for the last month, admiring the new blue and red pieces on his chessboard. If Wright doesn't make his objection, that “guilty” verdict will come down. Edgeworth will be back on the road to near-perfection, the shame of his single loss buried under years of victory.

“Objection!”

Apparently he's gone slightly mad, as he's just objected to his own witness. For the second time. He points out the implications of her statement.

“Mr. Edgeworth!” exclaims the judge. “Are you thinking of a career change to defense?”

If he were prone to that sort of thing, he might have laughed. Him, a defence attorney. His fingers find their way to the sharp corners of the badge in his pocket as he looks across the room. Wright is agog, his assistant suspicious. 

“I appreciate the concern, Your Honour,” he says, looking back at the judge. “I will stand by my statement, however, regardless of how the court sees my role here. Now, Ms. Vasquez, do you have an explanation?”

Vasquez gives a wry smirk, then turns away again, disinterested. “So the prosecution is in cahoots with the defense? What kind of court is this?”

Edgeworth is suddenly struck by what he's done. He's not supposed to be helping Wright. He doesn't even like Wright. Technically, Vasquez is his witness and he can object to her testimony if he wants to, but doing so is basically putting nails in the coffin of his own case. It's an incredibly foolish move. His gaze drifts back over to Wright, who gives him a crooked smile that's equal parts gratitude and embarrassment. Looking at it feels like a punch in the chest, which is a sensation he doesn't want to analyse. It's this that makes him realize that the safest course of action for his career would be to stop trying cases against Wright entirely. He'll never get the crushing defeat he promised he would deliver, but it will save him from sabotaging his own cases and spending weeks afterwards collapsing under his own self-doubt.

In this particular case, the damage is already done. Wright manages to pull apart the rest of Vasquez's testimony without Edgeworth's assistance, culminating in her confession. With her explanation of Jack Hammer's death, the case is closed: Will Powers is not guilty. He can already picture the second loss being noted on his record – he's tried and won several cases since Wright's, but in his mind's eye the two black marks are side by side, and they're only going to multiply if he doesn't put some kind of stop to this.

“It appears as though you've brought about another miracle, Mr. Wright,” the judge is saying. Wright gives him a sheepish grin.

“Hmph,” Edgeworth says, finally giving in to his black mood. “Will Powers was innocent. That he should be found so is only natural, not a 'miracle'.” 

Wright seems to find his distemper amusing, because he snorts a short laugh before Maya pushes him and Mr. Powers out of the courtroom and into the defendant lobby. This is incredibly galling to Edgeworth, but actually, that's fine. It's replacing that strange feeling in his chest with anger, and that will make it easier to tell Wright that they won't be meeting again after this. He meticulously packs the evidence back up, allowing Wright enough time to offer congratulations to his client on the acquittal, and then enters the defendant lobby himself.

Will Powers is still talking to them when Edgeworth gets there, but they've already noticed his presence and he can't turn back around and wait a little longer. 

“Say something, Wright,” he says, uncomfortable under all of their stares. “I'm not good at small talk.”

“Huh? What?” Wright responds, obviously caught off-guard. He probably wasn't expecting to see Edgeworth right now, but this is a conversation he intends to have. “Um, that was too bad, Edgeworth!”

Of course he'd take this chance to rub it in his face. Another humiliating loss for Edgeworth, another unlikely victory for him. “You don't waste any time gloating, do you?”

Apparently Wright was being sincere, because his face falls at the accusation. “No, I really want to thank you. Vasquez would have gotten away if you hadn't stepped in.”

A few seconds pass while Edgeworth fumbles for something to say that will clear that look off of Wright's face. 

“I must say, I hadn't expected to see you again after all these years,” he says, finally.

“'Meet again'?!” Maya exclaims. Looks like Wright hasn't bothered to tell her about it. Edgeworth ignores her.

“However. In retrospect, it would have been better had we not met. Thanks to you, I am saddled with...unnecessary feelings.” Maya raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his unfortunate phrasing.

“...'Unnecessary feelings'?” Wright asks, leaving the do I even want to know implied.

“Yes. Unease and uncertainty.”

“Aren't those kind of necessary?” he asks, sounding like he would have never considered otherwise.

He doesn't understand, Edgeworth thinks to himself. “They only serve to get in my way. And you listen to me, Phoenix Wright. Don't ever show your face in front of me again.”

Without waiting for Wright's reply, he turns and leaves.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Edgeworth!” Gumshoe looks back at the door Edgeworth came through, the one to the courtroom and the defendant lobby beyond. “Were you just talking to that lawyer, sir?”

“Yes,” he says shortly.

“About the case? You two make a great team, pal. That lady didn't know what hit her.”

“D-Detective! Refrain from making such statements! Wright and I are not a 'team'. Wright is a nuisance and an impediment and a defense attorney. Even if he didn't keep blundering his way to the truth, we would not be a 'team'. That would be counter to the entire point of the legal system.”

Gumshoe hunches his shoulders, looking sad. “Sorry, sir. I just saw you guys out there today and thought maybe --”

“Thought what, Detective?” he cuts in, thoroughly ready to use this personal slip-up to enforce painful professional consequences.

“Nothing, sir. Never mind. But if you weren't telling him about the case, sir, what were you telling him about?”

“I don't think that's any of your business.”

“You're right, sir. Sorry, sir.”

They walk towards the underground parking lot of the courthouse. Edgeworth is troubled. If even Gumshoe has noticed his odd behaviour today, to the point where he's blithely accusing him of colluding with the defence, he's likely facing some sort of repercussion at the Prosecutors' Office. Would the successful arrest of the true culprit satisfy the Chief Prosecutor, or will his participation in finding her be too much to overlook? Perhaps he should take the judge's suggestion and change careers to defense and save himself the trouble. An image of himself in a different office, actually wearing his badge instead of keeping it in his pocket, crosses his mind. It's not the office he normally pictures.

“Wright, Wright, Wright,” he mumbles to himself, frustrated that he's still thinking about him.

“Sir?”

He hadn't really realized Gumshoe was still there. Or that he had said that out loud.

“Nothing, Detective. I'll see you tomorrow.” Edgeworth makes another abrupt getaway, heading for his car. Luckily Gumshoe seems to have parked away from him for once and doesn't make any move to follow. He returns to thinking about work as he drives. There may be some sort of punishment in store, yes, but Lana Skye is a reasonable woman, and until September he had a flawless record. Surely his superiors can overlook one transgression. Two trangressions, adds a more honest part of him. Yes, two, and both of them Wright's doing.

His parking job is rather haphazard, since he's still thinking about Phoenix Wright, and thus he's still struggling with that unease, and thus he's furious. He slams the car door for good measure, then feels childish for having let himself show that kind of emotion in public. Another misstep he can hold against Wright, for indirectly causing it.

As expected, there's a message waiting for him with his secretary. “Chief Prosecutor Skye wants to see you.”

He nods, absently. “Now?”

“She said as soon as you got back from court.” 

“Thank you.” Edgeworth goes back to the stairwell and heads for the top floor of the building, where Lana Skye keeps her office. Her door is already open, so he leans inside in lieu of knocking on it. “Chief Prosecutor?”

“Edgeworth,” she says, looking up from her work. “Come in.”

Closing the door behind him, he walks over to her desk and stands in front of it.

“I'm guessing you know why I called you here,” she says, back to flipping through some documents and not looking at him.

“Yes.”

“I'd like you to explain it to me.”

That takes him aback. He expected to come in here, have his punishment meted out, and leave to go fume about his own foolishness in his office. Or possibly at home, depending on the severity of the reprimand. “I – the witness was lying. I objected to her dishonesty. A perfect case doesn't require false testimony.”

“Considering that your objection let the defence tear a giant hole in her testimony and prove her guilt, and simultaneously, the defendant's innocence, I find it hard to believe it was a 'perfect case'.”

He grits his teeth at the reminder. “Yes, well, it would hardly be the first time.”

“You lost that case to Mr. Wright as well, did you not?”

“Yes,” he says, still strained.

“Hmm,” Ms. Skye says, considering. “He must be something special, if he's both Mia's protégé and the only lawyer who's managed to so much as scratch your perfect record.”

“Wright is an amateur who relies on bluffing, luck, and borderline witness-badgering. He is not 'special'.”

“Then you don't have an excuse.” He's startled again; she led him right into a trap. “There will be an inquiry into today's trial, but I'm not expecting to find anything; a student of von Karma would never stoop to conspiring with the defence, especially not to lose.”

“Certainly not.”

“Since you've proven yourself in the past, I'm not going to take further action right now, unless that inquiry does turn something up. But I will be paying close attention from now on, and I'm keeping you off any cases Mr. Wright decides to defend.”

“Understood.” Considering he was already planning to remove himself from any of Wright's cases, this is hardly a disciplinary measure.

“Then you're dismissed,” she says, taking one of her papers and turning her chair to face the window behind her desk. Edgeworth gives her a bow that she can't see and leaves her alone.

Wright doesn't attempt to contact him at all. Edgeworth had been expecting that he'd call, or show up at the office, and try to demand an explanation for his decision not to see him again, but apparently he was underestimating Wright again. It seems illogical that someone who wrote to a friend who never wrote back for over a decade would give up so easily upon finding him again, but maybe Wright really isn't that person anymore. Or maybe Edgeworth just couldn't live up to the imagined version he was writing to that whole time; it's hard to say.

It doesn't explain the disappointment he feels when he realizes Wright has given up on him for good.

Chapter Text

Going to the lake was a bad idea; he knew that from the start. But the letter telling him to come mentioned the incident, and so he went. Two hours later, he returns to shore and then home in shock, and he's still out of it hours later when the police come to arrest him for the murder of Robert Hammond.

Detective Gumshoe is there as soon as visiting hours begin, unsurprisingly. “Mr. Edgeworth! Are you okay, sir?”

He doesn't bother answering that. “What are you doing here?”

“To see you! Once I heard they had arrested you I came straight down here to tell them to release you. 'Mr. Edgeworth wouldn't kill anyone,' I said. 'He's a prosecutor! Nobody hates criminals more than he does!'” He stops, face dropping. “They said they couldn't do that, so I spent the last couple hours trying to get a lawyer for you.”

“A lawyer? Already?”

“Yeah, they're moving right along with your case, sir. You're gonna need a lawyer as soon as possible, and a good one. They, uh, gave this one to Mr. von Karma.”

He feels lightheaded. They may as well forgo the trial entirely and just hang him out in the yard this afternoon. “H-Have you found anyone?”

“No, sir. They all turned me down once I told them about the case.”

Edgeworth wonders if they turned him down after hearing his name or von Karma's.

“But that Wright guy probably owes you a favour for the Steel Samurai case,” Gumshoe continues. “I bet he'd do it.”

“Under no circumstances are you to speak to Wright about this,” he says, even more harshly than intended. “You may keep looking, if you wish, but it would save us all a lot of time if you filed for a public defender.”

“You just wait, sir. I'm gonna find somebody to defend you!”

“I'll believe that when I see it, Detective. Now return to your search, or your investigation, and leave me be.”

Edgeworth returns to his cell with low expectations. No one is going to take a case this hopeless, though perhaps this is just the universe catching up with him for fifteen years ago; they can't try him for his actual crime, but they can get him for this one, when his mentor destroys the lawyer he'll be assigned.

A few hours later the guard tells him he has another visitor – Gumshoe must be back with the bad news. It's not; on the other side of the glass is Phoenix Wright and his assistant.

“What are you doing here? Come to mock me?” he asks, angry and embarrassed and completely unwilling to let Wright know anything about this case.

“Edgeworth, we don't have so much free time we can spend it coming down here to laugh at you.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, averting his eyes. “You haven't taken a case in two months, Wright. Frankly, I was starting to wonder if you'd quit entirely.” 

Wright doesn't say anything for a moment, but presses something against the glass with a quiet click. His badge. “No, I'm still a lawyer. Let me defend you,” he says, with the kind of seriousness he usually reserves for accusing witnesses of murder.

“No,” he says. “You don't have the necessary experience, and I don't want you involved in this. You in particular I can't ask to do this.”

Wright is undeterred. If anything, Edgeworth's flat denial seems to have made him more determined. “Tell me what happened.”

“I've already told you, you can't help me.”

“Why not? I mean, it's not like you did it, right?”

As if that were the only concern in play. “Think what you will. I have only one request.”

“Huh?”

“Stay out of this case.”

Maya startles. “W-why?! Nick is trying to help you!”

“I know –!” he says, then starts again, calmer. “I know that. But I don't want your help.”

“Why not?” she demands.

There are a number of reasons, but he can't give any of them. Wright would not be swayed by the threat of von Karma, telling him it's for his own good will only redouble his efforts, and telling him the truth is out of the question. “Just go away and leave me alone,” is what he ends with, sounding weary and unconvinced even to himself. He can hear Maya's quiet accusation before the door to the hallway swings shut.

He feels a certain sense of relief returned to his cell. His hopeless case will go to a jaded, uncaring PD; Wright will remain untouched by the incident. With any luck, he'll forget the few months when he knew Edgeworth entirely, once he's gone.

They come back, scant hours later. Last-ditch attempt it is.

“I was hoping you got my message the first time.”

“Can I ask you about the murder?”

“Wright. I'll ask you again: please just leave me alone.”

“Edgeworth, I –”

“Please try to understand. This is not out of misguided pride or personal contempt, nor am I casting aspersions on your ability as a lawyer. I just don't want you anywhere near this case.”

“I...think it might be too late for that,” Wright says, pulling a small piece of paper from his pocket and pressing it against the glass. It's a photograph of the spirit medium from the incident.

Edgeworth's sharp inhale is probably audible even through the divider.

“Edgeworth?”

“You've only been gone a matter of hours, and I haven't even taken you on as my lawyer, yet you've already made remarkable progress in your investigation. I'll admit it; I'm impressed, Wright.” He gives a faint smirk. “But you were always single-minded in your work. Once you start on something, you always see it through, don't you?”

He takes the picture back, looking a little flustered by the almost-compliment. “About the DL-6 incident...”

“Right. DL-6.” He looks down, briefly, then back at Wright. “I didn't want you to find out about it. That is why I refused your offer to defend me. I apologize for that; I just wanted to keep you away from this.”

“So, do you still think it would be better if I had stayed away?”

Probably. “I don't know. But I see no point in hiding anything from you now.”

He tells him almost everything he knows about the incident, aside from the nightmare-memory he keeps to himself. 

“Wright,” he says afterward, looking at the clock and noting there's about an hour before his lawyer-seeking period is over. If he insists on involving himself in the case anyway, they may as well make it official. “It pains me to ask this of you now, but –”

“You want us to defend you!” Maya says, sounding almost excited at the prospect.

“Yes, I do. Will you?”

Wright gives him a lopsided smile. “How could I refuse you, Edgeworth?”

“Easily, if the other attorneys Gumshoe spoke to on my behalf are any indication.” The guard hands him a piece of paper to write his official request on; apparently he had been following their conversation. “Please give that to Detective Gumshoe.”

The guard hands it off to another guard in the hallway, who hands it off to Wright, who puts it in his pocket with an undue amount of care. He seems to be about to say something else when the earthquake hits.

By the time Edgeworth's recovered and gotten off the floor, they're gone again.

“'Karma'?” Wright says, checking the docket for the name of the prosecutor. It wouldn't surprise Edgeworth in the least if Wright had just realized this case wasn't going to be against him.

“Manfred von Karma. He's the best prosecutor there is. He hasn't lost a case in forty years.”

“Not a single case?” Maya asks, skeptical.

“He'll do anything to get a guilty verdict. Anything.”

“Sounds a bit like someone else I know,” Wright says, giving him a pointed look.

“You don't understand. I mean anything. He is a man to be feared. After all, he is the man who taught me what it means to prosecute.” Not that Edgeworth was really living up to the legend, even before Wright broke his record.

“He was your teacher, Mr. Edgeworth?”

“Something like that,” he agrees. His home life is not something he wishes to get into here and now.

“And now he's trying to get you found guilty?! Wait, do you think maybe he's going to lose on purpose to help you out?”

She's serious. He can scarcely believe it. “Not a chance. Picture someone as ruthless as me, times twenty.”

“That's pretty ruthless,” she says, though Edgeworth knows that's barely touching on the depths of von Karma's viciousness. She'll see, soon enough.

In the courtroom, Von Karma doesn't bother to acknowledge Edgeworth's existence at all, preferring to stand silently behind his bench, arms folded. Over at the defense's bench, Wright is sizing up von Karma, but Maya is flashing a thumbs-up at Edgeworth. He rolls his eyes at her irreverence.

As expected, von Karma steamrolls the proceedings throughout Gumshoe's entire testimony, but the judge shows an uncharacteristic amount of backbone and calls a recess to prepare a second witness instead of a verdict, most of which they spend discussing the possibility that the victim committed suicide.

Wright considers Edgeworth's version of events, then asks Maya to channel the spirit of her sister for help. She says it's impossible, which makes sense, considering the fraudulence of the discipline as a whole.

“Everyone has their off days,” Wright tells her, reassuringly. “I mean, I've just been getting lucky lately! Who knows when my luck is going to run out?”

“Wright!” he barks. “Don't jinx this case worse than it already is!” Aren't defense attorneys supposed to put on a brave face and support a client?

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He looks down. “Don't worry, Edgeworth. There's got to be some evidence to prove what really happened, and I'm going to find it.”

That's better. The rising panic he was feeling subsides from “unbearable” to simply “agonizing”.

“One minute,” the bailiff says, over by the door.

“Ready?” Wright asks.

“No.”

“Well, that's why you have me,” he says. The smile he gives seems a little strained, but Edgeworth would probably be more unsettled if it wasn't. “Just trust me, and we'll get through it.” 

Maybe Wright's not supporting him so much as they're propping each other up. He nods, letting the bailiff lead him back into the courtroom and away from his defense team.

At first, Wright's persistence serves him surprisingly well. He's not letting von Karma intimidate him, or at least he's not letting his intimidation stop him, and he's hammering away at the witness' testimony with single-minded determination. Unfortunately, von Karma is a much more experienced attorney, and he's prepared that photographer well. There's nothing definitively wrong with her testimony. Eventually the judge has to declare that further questioning will find Wright in contempt of court; terror settles across his face as he realizes that without questioning, there's nothing he can do.

“Hold it!”

Maya?

“Lotta Hart!” she shouts, voice shaking. “Your testimony stinks! It's unclear whether you were actually looking at the lake! It's highly doubtful whether you saw Mr. Edgeworth! Tell us the truth!”

“Hey, now –”

“Did you see him clearly that night? Did you see him fire that pistol? Answer me, Lotta!”

“What's the big idea, treating me like some kind of criminal?” Lotta says. “I saw him, I swear it! I saw –”

“Objection!” Edgeworth is only surprised that it took so long for von Karma to say anything, rather than by the objection itself. Either he has something prepared for this...or he wasn't expecting the outburst and had to regroup before objecting. “Declare the defense in contempt of court!”

“Yes,” says the judge, regretful. “I'm sorry, Mr. Wright, but you were warned. Guard, escort Mr. Wright from –”

“Wait!” Maya calls out. “I'm the one who did it, not Nick.”

“Ha! What's the difference?” von Karma says. “All that remains is the verdict. Judge!”

“H-Hey, wait!” says Wright, speaking up at last. “The witness gave new testimony when she said she saw the defendant! I have a right to cross-examine her!”

“You're in contempt of court! It's too late for wild claims!” von Karma snaps his fingers. “Judge! Sustain my objection!”

The judge considers for a moment, eyes closed. Edgeworth waits for his decision, fists clenched tight. “I cannot,” he says, finally. “She did make a new testimony, and the defense has a right to cross-examine her.”

“But he is in contempt of court!”

“No, I am! If you're going to arrest someone, arrest me!”

“Very well,” the judge agrees. “Maya Fey, you will leave the courtroom immediately.”

She complies, giving Wright a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she walks out from the bench, and even has a smile for Edgeworth when she passes him, escorted by a bailiff. He blinks a few times, unable to process it.

“I care not for this melodrama,” von Karma says, once the courtroom door swings shut again. “Listen well, Mr. Wright. I do not tolerate badgering of my witnesses! Present your evidence, or accept your verdict!”

He does, sounding so relieved that one would be forgiven for thinking he'd just won the trial. From that single statement, he manages to drive a wedge into Lotta Hart's story, and everything she says afterwards just allows him to force it deeper, until her credibility is mostly destroyed and she's provided evidence that supports their case.

“Therefore,” Wright says, indicating the enlarged photograph Lotta submitted, “only one explanation remains: the man who shot the victim was none other than the victim himself!” His shouting is quickly drowned out by the sounds of the gallery.

For a brief moment, it looks like Edgeworth's suicide theory was proven true.

“Objection!”

Should have known better. Von Karma's autopsy report rules out suicide, but Wright's deductions still hold. He's not going to be proven innocent today, but the judge adjourns court for further investigation, meaning he's not guilty, either. Edgeworth can scarcely believe it, for a number of reasons.

“That was a close one, huh?” Wright says, once they're out in the lobby. Like it was a particularly well-matched game of Scrabble.

Edgeworth gapes at him. 

“Don't you have anything to say?”

“No. I have yet to be declared innocent,” he says, partially because he doesn't really have anything to say, and partially because he doesn't trust himself to remain mostly calm if he keeps talking.

“Well, yeah, but...” Wright says, looking pitiful. Was he supposed to say something supportive there? “What happened on that lake, anyway? If he didn't commit suicide, and the shooter was about a metre away...”

“Don't look at me,” he says, more shrilly than intended. “I did not shoot him!”

“I was just kidding.”

“Well, don't,” Edgeworth says, weakly. Talking to Wright is giving him emotional whiplash.

“I should go check on Maya,” he says a moment later. “I need to make sure she's okay, being in detention again.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, thinking of her smiling at him earlier. “Tell her something for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her...tell her to watch what she says in court.”

Wright frowns, disapproving. “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Indeed.”

Wright leaves, almost immediately replaced by Detective Gumshoe appearing at his side.

“I need you to do something for me,” Edgeworth says, before he gets pulled into some inane conversation.

“Of course, pal!”

“I'd like to post bail for Maya Fey.”

Without Wright's presence, his thoughts begin to turn back to DL-6. The guilt he's been holding down all day rises again, pointing out that regardless of his innocence in this particular situation, he still deserves to be convicted. Another part of him points out that his conviction would let the real killer walk free. 

Maybe he should tell Wright about it.

He can't do that, though. That secret is buried so deeply he's not sure what dragging it out would do to him, and thinking of Wright's inevitable disgust with him is difficult. For one thing, it will make it a lot easier for him to do his job if he genuinely believes in his client. For another, he wants Wright to think well of him.

Moot point. One day isn't a victory. Von Karma will have his conviction, tomorrow or the next day. The secret can stay where it is.

Today's witness is the boat shop caretaker, an old man who keeps falling asleep and apparently has no memory of his past. He'll either be an easy target for Wright's constant pressing, or prove to be so obtuse it will have no effect at all. The old man answers Wright's questions, but those answers quite clearly implicate Edgeworth in the crime.

“Without any evidence to disprove the witness' claims,” the judge says. “I'm afraid I have no choice but to deliver my verdict.”

“No, Your Honour, wait, please –” Wright says. 

The judge shakes his head and bangs his gavel. Guilty.

Though it feels like his knees might give out any second, he's determined to make his exit with grace, calmly turning to the bailiff to let him escort him back to the Detention Center to await transfer to the actual prison. The effect is ruined when someone throws the doors open, runs to the witness stand, and unceremoniously shoves Edgeworth out of the way.

“Wait!”

“L-Larry?!” Wright says, stunned. Larry Butz?

“What are you doing here?” the judge asks, similarly.

It takes a few minutes to sort out that Larry heard a gunshot that night and wishes to testify. Von Karma objects, since a verdict has been handed down, but Wright manages to overturn it and convince the judge to let Larry talk.

“The court will adjourn for a five minute recess,” the judge says, once he's regained enough order to be heard. “Then we will hear this new witness.”

Edgeworth's not sure how he gets to the lobby, but he's pretty sure it wasn't under his own power.

“Sorry to keep you on the edge of your seat like that,” Wright says, giving him another one of those desperate smiles.

“I've seen worse,” he says, sincerely wishing this trial would stop being so dramatic. The constant turnabouts are stressful, to say the least.

Wright laughs, amused by the obvious lie. “I just wonder what Larry's going to say.”

He wonders that too, suddenly struck by the realization that nobody knows, not even von Karma. This is an opportunity they can't afford to waste. “This may be our chance, Wright.”

“Our chance to what?”

“Von Karma has only ever run perfect trials. Perfectly prepared witnesses, perfectly complete evidence. That's the secret to his success. This is the first time he's ever had to deal with something unexpected, a witness he hasn't even talked to testifying to the court. And it's Larry.”

“What are you getting at?”

“His testimony will likely be full of holes, Wright!”

“That's right,” Maya says, evidently familiar with Larry. “We can drag it out as long as possible! Find something to save Mr. Edgeworth!”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can do it!”

“That's the spirit, Nick!”

Larry's testimony proves to be as vague and useless as possible, but Wright is a man on a mission. He wrenches detail after pointless detail out of Larry until he finds something important. With one seemingly innocuous statement and an apparently useless piece of evidence, Wright manages to close the hole in the existing evidence and create a plausible situation where Edgeworth is not the killer: the person he met that night wasn't the victim at all – it was the murderer.

“Tell us the name of this murderer, then,” the judge says, caught up in Wright's whirlwind explanation.

“Well, Your Honour...I don't know.” He sounds oddly smug for someone who doesn't have an answer.

“You don't know?”

“I don't know, because he never told us! The murderer is the caretaker of the boat shop, the old man!” Wright completes his explanation. It's an extremely compelling argument, Edgeworth has to admit, and it looks like the judge agrees. He calls for the old man to return to the stand.

“Your Honour!”

“Bailiff! We're conducting a trial here! If you could –”

“The witness has disappeared, Your Honour! What should I do?”

“F-Find him! Quickly!”

They don't, causing the trial to be adjourned once again. He feels high-strung and anxious; if they find the old man before tomorrow, he'll likely be found innocent. If they don't, there's a good chance he won't be. Edgeworth has no idea which one of those things would be worse.

“I heard the story of the class trial,” Maya tells him when she and Wright arrive at the Detention Center a few hours later.

Edgeworth furrows his eyebrows in confusion – he has no idea what she's talking about, nor what it has to do with this case or their investigation. “What do you mean?”

“You don't remember? Someone stole your lunch money? In fourth grade?”

“My lunch money?” Recognition dawns. “Yes, I remember something like that.”

“Nick, I think you're the only one who remembers.”

“Well, it probably only really mattered to me anyway,” he says, embarrassed.

“Mr. Edgeworth, that's the whole reason Nick became a defense attorney! To pay you back for that!”

Because of that? Of all the things Wright could have meant when he said he needed to pay him back, he meant for that? “That's ridiculous.”

Wright looks offended.

“That said, it does sound like the kind of thing you'd do. You haven't changed a bit, have you, Wright? So simple, to a fault, even.”

He huffs a laugh. “Well, maybe, yeah. But I think you changed too much, Edgeworth.”

Straight to the heart of things as always. “Perhaps.”

“Why'd you become a prosecutor, anyway? Back then you used to talk about being a defense attorney all the time.”

He's silently grateful to Wright for leaving out any mention of his father, but to answer the question the subject has to be broached anyway. “After my father...I couldn't do it. I couldn't spend my life defending criminals. I'm sorry, Wright, but I'm just not that good a person.”

“And the suspect in that case was acquitted, right?” Maya says. “That probably didn't help.”

“Yes, he was, and no, it didn't. He was the only other person in that elevator.” Aside from myself. “It had to have been him, but he was still let out on that insanity plea. I started to hate defense attorneys.”

“Should I take that personally?”

“Hmph. This is no time for jokes, Wright.”

“So...what happened after that?” Maya asks. “Nick says you transferred schools and everything.”

“Yes, after the trial I went to live in Germany.” This is the extent of what Wright already knows; he had gotten Edgeworth's address after the move, somehow, to send him those letters. He decides to add on the rest of that sentence. “With my new mentor.”

“You mean –”

“Prosecutor von Karma?!”

“Yes.”

“So, he, like, adopted you?” asks Maya.

“Yes.”

“And he's still trying to prosecute you?”

“Yes.”

She looks ready to to try and take down von Karma with her bare hands.

“It wasn't ideal,” Edgeworth says, carefully. “But he taught me everything I know about courtroom techniques.”

“I can believe it,” Wright mumbles.

He ignores that. “He is a perfectionist in all things. In court, in his personal life. Not a single case he took on was left unsolved, and not a single one of those defendants was found 'not guilty'.”

“But that's –”

“I know. It's possible that some of them were indeed innocent.” More of a statistical certainty, really. “But it's impossible to accurately determine that in every case. All von Karma does is his job, and he does it perfectly.”

“That makes it sound like he's going to win tomorrow,” Wright says.

“Yeah, this is no time to be praising the enemy, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“My apologies.”

Maya stands up, raring to go. “Come on, Nick, we've got to get back to investigating if we're going to beat von Karma!”

“Yeah, you're right,” Wright says, getting up as well. “We'll be back if we find anything, Edgeworth.”

“Good luck.”

“Your lawyer's back, Mr. Edgeworth,” says the guard, opening his cell to walk him back out. “I don't think I've ever seen one come in and out of here so much.”

What could he have possibly found? He's only been gone for about two hours.

Wright and Maya are even more agitated than usual; he's barely in the visitors' room before Wright is shoving a sheet of paper against the glass between them. “See this letter? It came out of the safe in the boat shack where the caretaker lives.” Edgeworth isn't even fazed by the casual admission that they broke into the man's safe. Wright's investigatory habits are going to land him in serious trouble one day.

It details a plan to get revenge on him and Robert Hammond, essentially proving the caretaker is the murderer. But why would he want revenge on either of us? The only way they're connected is through DL-6, and there's only one person who would have any reason to hate him and Hammond in particular.

“Wright.”

“Yeah?”

“I believe I may need to tell you about something.”

He tells them about his nightmare, eyes focused on the table in front of him. He tells them about the earthquake, the dark elevator, the pistol, the scream. That he still dreams about it every night. He waits for their judgement, the last of his words trailing into silence.

Maya is the first one to speak again. “But that's just a dream,” she says. “Right?”

“That thought is the only thing that's kept me sane for the last fifteen years,” Edgeworth admits, although in the last few months and the last few days especially he's not sure how well he's been hanging on to sanity after all. “But what if I'm wrong? What if it's real? They say that people can shut out memories in self-defense...maybe it was I who killed my father.” It's the first time he's actually said those words out loud. Even when he was telling the story earlier it was in disconnected, impersonal terms.

“What?!”

“If you think about it that way, the letter makes sense – Yanni Yogi was innocent, and that's why he wanted his revenge on me.”

“E-Edgeworth,” Wright says, eyes wide. “You mean –”

“It was me,” he reaffirms. “I was the true criminal of DL-6. I shot my father.”

Wright runs a hand through his ridiculous hair. “This is bad.”

“What are we going to do, Nick?”

“I don't know! I don't think there's anything we can do, like it or not.”

“But, Nick! We have to do something!”

“I know that,” he says. “It's not like I want to believe it either, Maya.”

Edgeworth lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. Wright hasn't given up yet, not entirely.

“Maybe we should go ask Mr. Grossberg about it again,” she suggests.

“You're going to tell him about this,” Edgeworth says.

“Yeah, probably,” Wright says. “I know it was hard for you to tell us and you don't want more people to know, but I think it might be the only way to save you.”

He frowns, weighing the probability of one of Wright's characteristic “miracles” against the consequences of having this be known.

“That's fine,” is what he ends up saying. “Good luck, Wright.”

When Maya pats him on the back the next day at the courthouse, it gives him an electric shock.

“What on Earth –” he starts, once he's done reacting to it.

“She did the same thing to me, don't worry,” Wright says, looking like he needs to take his own advice. Not that Edgeworth can blame him for his anxiety.

“That doesn't explain why she's doing it at all.”

“Uh, well, yesterday we had a bit of a –”

His explanation is cut off by another shout of pain. Gumshoe, this time.

“Morning, Mr. Edgeworth,” he says, sounding much more cheerful than either he or Wright does.

“Good morning.”

“How did it go, Detective?” Wright asks.

“Have no fear! As promised, I've captured our runaway caretaker. Just brought him in; took all night, pal!”

“Thanks, Gumshoe. You must be pretty tired, then.”

“Nah, after that shock that girl just gave me I feel pretty good! What was that all about, anyway?”

“We had a bit of trouble with a stun-gun yesterday,” Wright says, seeming more embarrassed about it than anything.

Edgeworth is horrified. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, we're fine. Mostly.”

“Who would do that to you, pal?!”

“I think you'll have a pretty good idea after today,” Wright tells him.

“You mean it was the murderer?!” Gumshoe asks, still worked up.

“Something like that.”

“Time to go in, Mr. Wright. Defendant,” the bailiff says.

“It'll be okay,” Wright says to him, before he leaves Edgeworth behind for the defense's bench. “I know you're innocent.”

He doesn't say whether he means for this one, or for DL-6.

The trial dives right in to the cross-examination of the old man. Yanni Yogi, he corrects himself. But for all of Wright's questioning, he can't crack the witness' facade of harmless senility, resorting to asking to have the witness' fingerprints analysed.

“Er,” says the witness, swaying slightly from side to side, “I don't have any. You see, before I was the boat caretaker I worked at a chemical plant. Burned my fingers with the stuff.”

That's awfully convenient. Almost as if – wait. Could he? Edgeworth has few doubts that maiming a witness is within von Karma's capabilities, but that implies a level of forethought even he couldn't possibly possess. Someone would have noticed if one of the witnesses came to court with fresh chemical burns, localized entirely to his fingers. But what would be his motive, if not for the trial?

“Hmm,” the judge says. “Without fingerprints, it would appear you are unable to prove this man's identity.”

Present that letter, Wright! It's not as definitive as the prints would be, but he can certainly build a strong case around it. For some reason, he doesn't. Wright is occasionally denser than cement, but this is an astounding new level of thickheadedness.

Unless he doesn't have it. He says he was attacked yesterday by someone involved with the case; it's very likely they would have taken something that incriminating off Wright's unconscious body. Edgeworth feels his hope starting to dissipate.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” von Karma says, gloating. “It seems the case has been decided, no? There is no one who can testify to who this witness is! No one! Unless, perhaps, you'd like to cross-examine the parrot for a little comic relief?”

Wright's face changes from abject despair to something like triumph. He's not actually going to – “Your Honour, the defense would like to take Mr. von Karma up on his proposal!”

Edgeworth slaps a hand to his face, as if this is a harmless shenanigan and not something his life depends on. Cross-examining a parrot. Ludicrous.

“Hello!” it squawks, once put on the stand.

“Witness!” Wright shouts, slamming his desk. “You can't just say 'hello' and expect us to get anywhere! I want you to testify!”

The bird ruffles its wings a bit and doesn't testify. Edgeworth wonders if he finally had that mental break he's been expecting and if this is some kind of hallucination.

“Uh, Maya, you talk to her.”

“What? Me?”

“You got her to talk when we were investigating! Try it now.”

“R-Right,” Maya says, thinking about it. “Polly, have we forgotten something?”

That seems like a strange thing to ask a parrot, or any witness, but both Wright and Maya seem surprised when the bird gives another “hello”.

Von Karma smirks harder, verging on an actual smile. “Something the matter, Mr. Wright?”

He prepared the parrot's testimony. He goaded Wright into cross-examining it as a trap, just to humiliate all of them that much more. Behind the defense's bench, Wright and Maya are quietly talking. Are they planning on continuing with this nonsense?

“Polly,” Maya calls out again. “What's your name?”

From here, Wright manages to tie the two things the bird will still disclose to the DL-6 incident. Edgeworth can't believe this is happening. Wright actually turned the bird's squawking into admissible evidence, and he's basically proven that the old man is Yanni Yogi, even without that letter. Despite the way he acts and the truly indecipherable way he thinks, Wright is a very talented lawyer. With a few more years' experience he'll be nearly unstoppable, a real rival. He pities the prosecutors that will have to deal with the insanity.

The bailiff carries the bird and its perch out and brings the old man back in. Over von Karma's objections, he confesses, both to being Yanni Yogi and to killing Robert Hammond, and tells the court all about the revenge plan.

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” the judge says, shaking his head. “Why would you want to get revenge on Mr. Edgeworth? Wasn't he only a little boy fifteen years ago?”

Yogi looks over his shoulder at Edgeworth. “I'm not at liberty to speak on that matter. Why don't you ask him yourself?”

Edgeworth doesn't know how to react. This is the person who paid for his crimes, but he's the one responsible for this incident. Does he hate Yogi, or pity him? And what should he do now? 

“There are still a few mysteries left unsolved,” the judge says, once the bailiff has taken Yogi away. “Still, you are cleared of suspicion in this case, so I would like to pass judgement on the murder of Robert Hammond. Any objections?”

Wright doesn't say anything, but the relieved sag of his shoulders and shining eyes make it clear he doesn't intend to. Von Karma also remains silent, arms crossed. Edgeworth would have expected at least some reaction to the impeding destruction of his forty-year record.

“Very well, this court finds the defendant, Mr. Miles Edgeworth, not guilty!” He bangs his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

“Objection!” Like with Dee Vasquez two months ago, he says it without thinking. But he can't let this go, not like this, quietly letting the statute of limitations end to avoid his punishment. He owes it to the memory of his father to take responsibility.

Sorry, Wright. “Your Honour, I object to your judgement. I'm not innocent at all! As we have heard, Yanni Yogi killed Robert Hammond in revenge. But for what?”

“Objection!” Wright, this time, desperate and panicky. “The judgement has already been passed! I object to Mr. Edgeworth's outburst!”

“Objection! Have you already forgotten, Mr. Wright? Something like this happened yesterday, as well. A certain witness objecting after the verdict had been passed?”

Wright makes a strangled noise.

“We must hear this new testimony!” von Karma finishes, punctuating it with a snap of his fingers.

“He's right,” the judge says, nodding solemnly. “We have a duty to hear Mr. Edgeworth out. Your testimony, please.”

He takes a deep breath. “For the last fifteen years, I have had a recurring dream, or at least I told myself it was only a dream. But now I know it wasn't. Yanni Yogi wasn't the killer.”

“You mean in the incident where your father died?” asks the judge, surprised.

“Yes. There's only one answer. The murderer, the criminal in the DL-6 incident...it was me. I confess my guilt, Your Honour.” He pauses, getting a handle on his emotions. “The culprit was me.”

“Well, this is certainly unexpected! The defendant, declared innocent, confessing to a different crime! A crime for which the statute of limitations ends today! Honestly, I'm not sure how to handle this.”

“Bah,” says von Karma. “It's obvious. We hold a second trial, right here, right now, for the crimes of fifteen years ago.”

Was he expecting this? Is that why he took the first verdict so well? Along with the observations about Yogi's missing fingerprints, Edgeworth feels a certain suspicion about von Karma's involvement, though he's still missing the final piece that will bring it together.

“I think I would like to take a five-minute recess,” the judge says. “During this time, I will consider the appropriate course of action to take. Court is adjourned.”

Four of them are crammed into the defendant lobby, along with a bailiff and the guard who brought Edgeworth down from the Detention Center this morning.

“I don't believe it, pal!” Gumshoe exclaims, near-immediately. “I mean, you...kill your dad?”

He flinches at the accusation. “I didn't want to believe it myself, Detective, but it's the truth. I deserve to be punished. Murder is murder, no matter the circumstances.”

“This is crazy, just crazy!”

“Nick, what are you doing?” Maya asks, noticing Wright leafing through the court record.

“I was just looking through the evidence again,” he says. “I'm getting my case ready.”

“Your case? For what?”

Wright goggles at his assistant like she's just said something incredibly foolish and puts the files down. “Isn't it obvious? I'm going to prove that Miles Edgeworth is innocent.”

“What are you talking about, pal? He just admitted it! In court!”

“I'm sorry, Edgeworth,” he says, putting his hands on Edgeworth's shoulders, “but I don't believe your 'nightmare'.”

“W-What?” he stammers, half at the declaration and half at the physical contact.

“It's not real. It's just a dream, and the truth is in the evidence. The real fight is just beginning, but I'm going to prove you're innocent.” He smiles at Edgeworth, but his eyes are serious. “Trust me.”

“Wright...” he says, momentarily overcome. “All right.”

“Then just hold up a little longer, and I promise we'll get out of this together.” He gives Edgeworth's shoulders a reassuring squeeze where his hands are still resting, then lets him go. He picks up the court record from where he left it, then strides back into the courtroom with purpose, the rest of them left rushing after.

“Will the witness state his name and profession?”

“Miles Edgeworth, prosecuting attorney.”

“Fifteen years ago, you mistakenly killed your father, Gregory Edgeworth. Is this correct?”

Despite Wright's little pep talk about innocence, he has no reason to say otherwise. “It is correct.”

“Then testify about this matter to the court.”

He gives a short version of events, keeping his tone and expression as neutral as possible.

Wright objects without even questioning him, proving with a photograph that a second shot had to have been fired. A photograph of the crime scene. It's the first time Edgeworth's ever seen it, his father slumped in the corner of that elevator, blood everywhere. Is that what I did?

“Objection!” shouts von Karma. “I knew I should have stepped in before your wild fantasies got out of hand. Mr. Wright, look at the files again – no other bullets were found at the scene. Something else must have hit the door. The only shot that was fired was the one from the thrown gun.”

Wright suggests that the murderer took the bullet with him, having been hit by the first shot. He even suggests that the murderer is none other than Manfred von Karma.

“Von Karma?!” Edgeworth exclaims. The pieces of information he's collected but been able to connect start to fall together now. Von Karma was there that day, and considering the pride he takes in his work and his father's actions, he has a motive.

Of course, von Karma isn't going to give up that easily. “Well, then, Mr. Wright! Can you provide evidence to prove that I was shot?”

Of course he can't. You made sure there isn't any.

“All right, I'll prove it. And I'll even use evidence, since you like it so much.”

“Wh-What?!”

“First, I would like us to ask a question. If von Karma didn't undergo surgery, and didn't perform it on himself, where would the bullet be?”

“You don't mean –” the judge says. Edgeworth has no idea how Wright plans to prove this, unless he's about to perform surgery.

“I do. That bullet is probably still inside his body.”

“Is that even possible? After all these years?”

“There's one way to find out,” Wright says, reaching under the defense's bench. “We use this metal detector.”

One day, Edgeworth will learn not to underestimate Phoenix Wright. Why does he even have that?

“Well, von Karma?” he continues, waggling the metal detector in front of him. “I say we run this over you and see what we find.”

“Objection! I refuse!”

“You...refuse?” the judge says. “Are you admitting the bullet's still inside you?”

“Your Honour! The defense requests that we be allowed to use this metal detector!”

“Objection! I call for a suspension of this trial! This is an invasion of privacy!” His protests are getting weaker. He's cornered now, as long as Wright doesn't let up.

“Objection! The statute of limitations on this case runs out today! You were the one who said we had to 
end it right here, right now.”

“Mmph,” von Karma says. It's probably the first time in forty years anyone has managed to render him speechless.

“Enough. I will permit the use of the metal detector. Mr. von Karma, you will submit yourself for testing!”

Wright gets out from behind his desk, coming to stand in the middle of the courtroom, between the judge and the witness stand. Von Karma follows after, reluctant. “Arms up,” Wright tells von Karma, with the sort of dark satisfaction one gets from besting a foe.

Edgeworth grips the railing of the witness stand while he watches Wright slowly run the detector up from the floor. The device gives a soft, regular beeping until it hovers over von Karma's shoulder, where it bursts into a cacophony of shrill noises.

“Found something,” Wright says, returning to his bench with the metal detector leaning casually against his shoulder.

“It was you,” Edgeworth says, reeling. 

He tries to deny it, claiming he was shot at some other point.

“Do you have any proof of this?” the judge asks.

“I have no obligation to prove anything! It is Mr. Wright who must prove something here, not I!”

“Well, Mr. Wright? Can you prove that bullet is from the DL-6 incident?”

“Of course he can't! He doesn't have any of the DL-6 evidence!” I imagine that's because you have it. “So sorry, Mr. Wright.”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry.” The words sound like a concession, but the tone is all wrong. Edgeworth's heard Wright grasping and defeated in court enough times to know that that isn't what he's saying at all. “You were close; a day away from freedom. But, you see, I have proof!”

Von Karma goes white. “What?!”

“I have here,” Wright says, producing a small plastic bag, “the bullet taken from the body of the victim. It's in good condition, all the markings intact – do you think they'd match the one in your shoulder?”

Von Karma is sweating now, clutching his shoulder. 

“You will let us remove the bullet, Mr. von Karma,” Wright presses on, leaning over his desk. “Then we'll compare the markings there to this, and solve this case once and for all!”

The scream von Karma lets out is the same one Edgeworth's heard in his nightmares for years. All that time, the murderer was right there. Living in the same house, teaching him the law, praising his ruthlessness. Some kind of secondary revenge on someone already dead.

The judge seems to be at a loss for what to do. Maya is frozen in shock, hands at her mouth. Wright is still braced against the desk in front of him, waiting. Von Karma settles back into his usual demeanour with breakneck speed, even being the one to encourage the judge to have him arrested, and he's still calm as they take him away.

“It appears that we have come a very long way to the end of this maze,” the judge says. “Fifteen years later. Mr. Miles Edgeworth?”

“Yes?” His voice sounds distant to his own ears.

“You were innocent. You are innocent. As you said, it was all a nightmare.”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“And I will admit, I am glad to say the following: this court finds the defendant, Miles Edgeworth, not guilty!”

The crowd cheers. Wright and Maya celebrate with a hug. Edgeworth slowly picks the confetti off his jacket.

They're still celebrating when he finally makes his way into the lobby.

“So, it's finally over, Edgeworth,” Wright says. Now that the case is over, he's handling himself awkwardly, like he doesn't know what to say when it's not about trust and justice and saving lives.

He's not the only one. “Wright...I don't know how to say this,” he starts, looking for some way to tell him everything – I'm sorry and I owe you my life and –

“Ooh, I know,” Maya says. “Try 'thank you'.”

It's insufficient, but he's not going to come up with anything better. “Thank you, Wright.”

“You're welcome,” he says, wryly.

“I think you could have done better than that!” Maya chides him. “You've got a lot to learn, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Indeed.

“Whoooooooooooooooop!” Detective Gumshoe cheers, joining them. “Amazing, pal! And tonight, let's party! Dinner's on me! I mean, sure, my salary went down this month, but who cares?”

“See, Mr. Edgeworth? You should take a lesson from Detective Gumshoe. That's how you say 'thank you'.”

“I see.” He clears his throat. “Whooooooooooooooop!”

Maya giggles, pleased.

“I feel foolish.” At least partially because I think she meant I should have paid for dinner, not done that. He can hear Wright trying not to laugh where he's standing next to Edgeworth. It makes him even more embarrassed, but if anyone's earned the right to laugh at him, it's Wright.

“Don't worry. Just take it a little at a time; you'll get used to it.”

Lotta Hart comes in then, to apologize to him, with Larry following after, pushing an envelope into his hands before pulling Wright into some melodrama about his romantic life. Inside the envelope is a twenty dollar bill, a ten, a five, and three ones.

He nudges Wright. “That envelope that Larry gave me. It has money in it.”

“That's not that strange. People give money away to celebrate sometimes.”

Edgeworth rolls his eyes. Contrary to what Wright and his assistant seem to think, he's not that incompetent, socially. “It's thirty-eight dollars.”

“What a weird amount,” he says, not getting it. “It's not a little, but it's not a lot, either.”

He keeps looking at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Thirty-eight dollars exactly?” he asks, wheeling around to stare Larry down. He admits to the lunch money theft, claiming the statute of limitations has run out on it.

“If only I had known, I'd have become a prosecutor!”

“The same goes for me, only the other way around,” Edgeworth says. “For the longest time, I thought that I might have killed my own father, that I might be a criminal. I became a prosecutor in part to punish myself. If I had known the truth I might still have become a defense attorney.”

“Edgeworth...” Wright says, looking pained.

“Want to switch?” he asks him, only half-joking.

“No, I'm pretty happy where I am, actually. But, uh, if you ever do switch over, there's a spare desk in my office. I'll even put your name on the door.”

There's already a law office with his name on the door, currently under the care of his father's former assistant. He wonders how Mr. Shields (“come on, Miles, you can call me Ray, I'm not a lawyer yet!”) is, if he'll hear about today's trial. “I'll keep it in mind,” he says.

Lotta has them all line up for a photo that he can only imagine is going to be a complete mess when printed out, and then Gumshoe tries to corral everyone out the door for his promised celebratory dinner. The bailiff steps in at that.

“Sorry to rain on your parade, folks, but Mr. Edgeworth's not going anywhere tonight.”

“What? Why not?” Maya demands.

“He hasn't been formally released from detention yet. Can't have him roaming all over town.”

“What if we gave you thirty-eight dollars?” she says, eyeing the envelope Edgeworth's shoved into the pocket of his jacket.

“Maya, stop trying to bribe the bailiff before you end up in detention,” Wright says. 

“It's fine,” Edgeworth says. “Have a good time.”

“Are you sure, sir? We could wait if you wanted.”

“I'm sure, Detective. Please, go ahead.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Wright hangs back. “Are you all right?”

Edgeworth has no idea how to answer that. He's filled with relief and gratitude, but just under that he's a mess: shock, anger, sadness, confusion, residual guilt. “I could ask you the same question. He was the one who attacked you yesterday, I assume? For the evidence?”

“Von Karma? Yeah. He got the drop on me and Maya in the evidence room at the police station, took nearly everything we had. We're just lucky Maya managed to grab that bullet when she jumped on him.”

“She did what?!” he says, aghast. “I suppose I owe her, once again.”

“Yeah, she really came around on you after I made it clear we were taking your case.” I see I'm not the only one susceptible to his influence.“I'll tell her you said thanks.”

“Please do.”

“You never answered my question,” Wright says, after a moment.

He sighs, tired. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth,” he answers. “It's just...you've been through a lot in the last couple days. Or the last fifteen years, maybe. I want to know how you are, Edgeworth.”

“I don't think I can tell you that,” he says. Wright looks almost hurt by the answer, like the answer is being kept from him purposefully rather than because there is no sure response.

“Okay. But, uh, if you decide you want to talk about it, I'm around.”

“You certainly offer a very in-depth service to your clients.”

“I didn't mean as y–”

“You should probably go before the others get too far away,” he says. “And I believe we've held up the guard long enough.”

Wright glances over at the guard, who is patiently leaning against the wall by the door. “If that's what you want. I guess I'll see you around, then.”

He can't speak to that. “Hmm.”

When he's gone, Edgeworth turns to the guard, ready to return to the Detention Center. The guard gives him a judgemental look. “It's rude to eavesdrop,” he tells him.

His apartment is still closed off with police tape on the outside, and the inside is a disaster from the searches they conducted. So much for leaving this behind at the Detention Center. Edgeworth hangs up his coat, not bothering to step around or pick up the papers and other debris scattered all over his floor. He locates his kettle in the mess of kitchenware crowding his countertop and makes himself some tea. When it's ready, he takes it into the living room, clears enough room on his couch to sit down, and doesn't move for six hours.

Lana Skye calls in the morning, leaving a message telling him he has another week off before he's expected to return to work. The implication is almost amusing: sorry about the last fifteen years of your life, here's a week to get over it, see you on Monday. Instead, he takes the time to set his apartment back to rights, very firmly not thinking about his situation, and learning that his subconscious isn't ready to let go of those nightmares yet. Going back to work is almost a relief.

Chapter Text

This case is turning into a nightmare. First dragged across town to get that idiotic trophy, then back to deliver a screwdriver. Then haulled into questioning at the police station because a dead body was found in the trunk of his car, stabbed with his knife, and all of it done by the Chief Prosecutor. No sooner was Edgeworth cleared of suspicion then he was handed the case by the Chief of Police and told he'd be in charge of it.

“Have fun, Worthy,” Gant had said, giving him a friendly smile as he left the Police Department with the evidence.

“Fun”, indeed. There's no way this case is going to go over well – despite his lack of actual involvement, it was still his car, and few people will be convinced he had nothing to do with it. Furthermore, he's technically next-in-line for the position of Chief Prosecutor despite his recent legal troubles; having Lana Skye convicted will make it look like he was gunning for her job, despite having no interest in it. More potential gossip. Just what he needs.

The next day is no improvement. The crime scene has been put under the control of an infuriating patrolman, the detective-turned-lunch-vendor who witnessed the crime despises him, and once he gets out of a meeting with the inquiry committee that's been monitoring all his work for the last two months, he returns to his office to find Wright already there, accompanied by a teenage girl in a labcoat. He wonders if Lana chose Wright specifically for being a thorn in his side, or if she genuinely forgot about that months-ago conversation. The girl – the Chief Prosecutor's little sister, as it turns out – spends most of their visit accidentally insulting him, while Wright needles him about the King of Prosecutors award and implies that Edgeworth is the actual culprit. 

In court the following day, the witness presents multiple pieces of evidence she withheld from him for fear he'd tamper with it, Chief Gant humiliates him over the investigation, reveals a second killing at the Police Department, and submits a knife that ties all of it to the SL-9 incident. 

Getting a flyer for a French restaurant from Detective Gumshoe might be the nicest thing that's happened to him in weeks.

Wright turns up shortly after that, while he's drinking a cup of tea and trying simultaneously to plan out the next day's court proceedings and not think about this case at all.

“So, how'd the inquiry committee go?” he asks, forcibly nonchalant. 

Edgeworth sighs, putting the tea down. “They decided not to treat this as a case of concealing evidence, but as a communications error during the investigation. They let me off with a warning, as usual.”

“Are you still okay for the trial tomorrow?” Wright asks, genuinely concerned.

“Well, I'm still the presiding prosecutor, but they gave control of the investigation over to the Police Department. Any further investigation for this case will be presided over by Chief Gant – I can't do anything but wait for his results.” To be honest, he's a little suspicious about it. First the Chief had Gumshoe removed from the case, then those traps he had stumbled into during today's trial, and suddenly his reputation for evidence forgery has gotten him barred from investigating despite his recent record being cleaner than ever.

“I see.”

“I assume the two of you are conducting one of your own,” he says.

“Yeah!” Ema says. “We've been doing a very scientific investigation.”

“Then you may have use for this,” he says, taking out a fingerprinting kit he obtained from the Police Department immediately after having his investigative authority revoked, but before the officer in charge of requisitions knew about it.

“For me? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Even if he hadn't been, Ema was so excited by the kit that he probably would have let her have it anyway.

“But we're 'the enemy', you know!”

“I've no say in today's investigation,” Edgeworth tells them, shrugging slightly. “Do as you will.”

“Edgeworth,” Wright says. “I'm really --”

“No need to thank me,” he says, cutting him off. Whether Wright was going to thank him at all is up for debate. “Take your powder and the fingerprint files and have at.”

Ema practically pulls Wright out the door, excited by the prospect of further scientific opportunities. “Thanks,” he says over his shoulder, giving him a curious look.

Doing that was stupid, but there's something under this case that he can't get to, not with Damon Gant and the inquiry committee breathing down his neck. With any luck, they'll make Edgeworth's mistake and underestimate Wright, allowing him to break the case without raising any suspicions. He tries not to consider any of the implications of this act too closely.

As expected, Wright took that fingerprinting kit and ran with it, and between that and a very unsettling security tape manages to link the “unrelated” murders together and pull that cowboy patrolman to the stand. It's just the sort of result Edgeworth was hoping for, pulling back the layers of this mystery to get to the truth. Eventually they come to a roadblock, one he's been running up against for days: the executive whose ID number is on the evidence room record at the time of the murder, the one he lacks the authority to find.

“There is one situation in which we can be granted such authority,” he explains to Wright. “If an official charge filed against an executive is accepted.”

“You're all alike, aren't you,” Jake Marshall spits at him from the witness stand. “With your cover-ups and forgeries! That's how the Prosecutors' Office operates!”

“I take pride in my work, Officer Marshall,” he says, incensed. “I would appreciate it if you kept your slander to yourself.”

“'Slander', is it? Okay, let me ask you a question.”

“Yes?” he says. He has nothing to hide on this front.

“Not you,” Marshall says. “To the defendant sitting over there. Your own little 'executive'.”

“Don't be stupid. She's been charged with murder; of course we've looked up her ID number.”

“Don't play me for a fool, partner. That's not what I want to ask.” He turns to face the defendant's chair. “All I want to know is one thing, about that incident. SL-9. In that trial two years ago, did you really only use legitimate evidence?”

The longer her silence stretches out, the less sure Edgeworth is of the answer. “Do you need him to repeat the question, Chief Prosecutor?” he asks, barely keeping from slamming the bench and demanding an answer instead.

“I heard him fine. But I don't have to answer that, Officer Marshall.” Her refusal is as good as a confession, but she continues anyway. “Drastic crimes require drastic measures. We did what we had to, in order for him to get the verdict he deserved. Even if it involved 'forging' evidence.”

“No,” Edgeworth says, horrified. “No!” For the past two months he's been surviving off of the knowledge that he had never broken the law, that he had always done his job in a way he could live with. That he was better than von Karma, despite everything. But he isn't, never really was. It feels almost like the first time Wright bested him, or when he found that bullet in von Karma's shoulder, like the rug's been pulled out from under him and everything is the opposite of what he had thought.

Nobody on the inquiry committee moves to have him fired, despite having all of the ammunition they need to finally be rid of him, but he leaves the meeting with the distinct impression that his time at the Prosecutors' Office is up. At least they agree on something. He'll finish this case tomorrow and then tender his resignation.

Wright returns while he's drafting the letter; in Edgeworth's haste to keep it from him it ends up first on the floor and then in his hands.

“Edgeworth, you don't mean --” he starts. Why are you so shocked?

“You heard what she said. I can't continue on here having been involved in something like that.”

“But Mr. Edgeworth,” Ema says, “none of it was your fault! My sister was the one who actually did it!”

“A prosecutor is responsible for what he presents in court, and that evidence had a man executed.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can't forgive myself for what I've done, and I can't expect anyone else to, either.”

“But you can't just leave,” Wright protests. “They need you here, for tomorrow, right?”

“First last year's trial, now this. It seems all you do is worry about me.” It's part of why he hasn't seen Wright in the last few months; with his life the way it is, the concern would be suffocating. And frankly, Wright's seen him in enough compromising situations for one lifetime. “To be honest, you're getting on my nerves. But tomorrow is the last day; it's too late to change prosecutors, so I'll be staying until then.”

“And after that?”

“I don't know, Wright. For the time being, I'd prefer to just talk about the trial.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” he says, clearly worrying again despite the admonishment not to. “If that's what you want.”

He realizes later that Wright took the resignation letter with him when he left, probably childishly convinced Edgeworth couldn't quit without it. He writes another one.

Despite his upset the previous day, both specifically Wright-related and general, Edgeworth goes to the defendant lobby before the trial begins. He has his suspicions about who the “executive” who was at the crime scene at the time of the murder is – a high-ranking officer with ties to SL-9 who's been hampering Edgeworth's progress can only be one person, after all – but to do anything about it, he needs Wright's help. 

“I have a pretty strong hunch,” Wright tells him, once he asks about the number. 

“The only reason this trial didn't reach a verdict yesterday is because there was still room for doubt on this ID record. Once that doubt is removed, I can call for a ruling on the defendant. Five minutes after the trial starts, Lana will be found guilty.”

“But she didn't do it,” he says, immediately. 

“I figured you'd say as much. That's why I came here. To hear what you have to say.”

“Lana's hiding something,” Wright says, carefully. “The only way we'll ever know the truth is to draw it out of her.”

“The 'truth'?”

“Everything goes back to the SL-9 incident.”

Unfortunately, it does seem intertwined with this case. “Today's the last day of the trial, Wright. We don't have time to reminisce about the past.”

“That depends on you.”

“On me?”

“If she's found guilty, you'll lose your only chance to find out what really happened.”

For a moment, Edgeworth thinks he might be trying to suggest that he take a dive on this one and lose purposefully, before remembering who he's talking to. “I'll think about it. See you in court, Wright.”

He makes up his mind with astounding speed. Gant has Lana confess and ask for a verdict, even having her forfeit her right to representation when Wright tries to object.

So Edgeworth does it instead. There are few consequences Gant can visit on a prosecutor who's already halfway out the door. “The prosecution has not yet proven the defendant guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Any ruling at this stage would certainly be premature.”

“Come now, Worthy,” Gant says with mocking cheerfulness. “I understand this is a difficult time for you, but why don't you just be a good little boy and keep your mouth shut?”

“Hmph,” he says, so far beyond caring what happens to him if he does this. He's going to tear this case open if it kills him. “I don't think I care for your tone, Chief Gant.”

“What?” Gant asks, menacing. One last chance to stay quiet.

“Creating another fabrication to cover your past mistakes...Sorry, but I'm no longer the naive little boy you would have me be. With this sudden confession from the defendant, it's obvious to me some kind of deal was struck behind the scenes.”

Across the room, Wright is looking at him with something near awe. Edgeworth feels like a weight's been lifted, now certain that he's doing the right thing. It's been a long time.

“Some kind of deal, hm?” Gant says, back to casual. “Not everyone operates the way you do, Worthy.”

“I thought so,” he says, unconvinced by the denial. “Your Honour, the prosecution would like to change its first witness. We would like to call Ms. Ema Skye.”

“Hold it,” Lana calls, jumping up from her seat. “Mr. Edgeworth, I am exercising my right to self-representation. I don't think we need to contin--”

“I don't care what you think,” he cuts in. “The exposure of truth sometimes results in tragedy; however, no matter how tragic the truth may be, it would be an even greater tragedy to avert one's eyes from it. I stand by my request.”

“Very well,” the judge says, nodding. “That's okay with you, right, Chief Gant?”

“You'll live to regret this,” Gant snarls at him. “Mark my words.”

I doubt it. “Ms. Ema Skye. Please take the stand and testify about the events of two years ago.” He hands proceedings over to Wright, for her cross-examination.

They end up proving that she was responsible for Neil Marshall's death, her name written in blood on the pieces of a shattered jar from the crime scene.

“See, Worthy?” Gant says, taking the place of the now-unconscious Ema at the witness stand. “Can't say I didn't warn you. Do you understand the implications of what you've done?”

The implications...?

“Two years ago, Joe Darke was sentenced to death, convicted because of his final murder. And now, it turns out he didn't even do it! An innocent man, sent to his death by your forgeries.”

Edgeworth tries to object, formally or otherwise, but all that's coming out is an incomprehensible noise. Wright leaps to his defense.

“Objection! Joe Darke really was a serial murderer! He deserved that verdict!”

“I'm afraid that's not important, Wrighto. Didn't you know? We're not defenders of justice.”

“What?”

“We're merely keepers of the law. Sentencing a man to death is no light matter. Even if there wasn't any cover-up or evidence forgery, the responsibility falls on the prosecutor in charge. Despite what anyone may say, this fact cannot be denied.”

The gallery breaks into angry whispers, condemning the Prosecutors' Office and him in general. He doesn't even realize the judge has called a recess until Wright pulls him into the defendant lobby by the arm, caught up in it.

“Sorry, Edgeworth,” he says, once the doors are closed on the courtroom. “I didn't mean to get you in trouble.”

“Don't worry about it. This is my problem, not yours.” He senses another trial in his near future and wonders if Wright will represent him despite his guilt. It seems doubtful, but they're always making exceptions for each other.

“Hope I'm not interrupting anything, pals,” Gumshoe says, coming up behind them. Wright quickly lets go of Edgeworth's arm where he was still holding it. “The Chief Prosecutor told me to give you this if there was a break in today's trial. She said if you were planning to take himon, you'd need it.”

Wright takes the book from Detective Gumshoe, holding it up for Edgeworth to see when he catches him trying to look at it. Evidence Law? 

“Doesn't look like it'll do you any good now, though. All that's left is the sentence.”

“That's where you're wrong, Detective,” Wright says, securing the book under one arm. “Lana didn't kill Detective Goodman, she just stuck a knife into his dead body. That means the real killer is still out there.” He catches Edgeworth's eye, as if asking if they're on the same page. He gives a slight incline of the head as an answer – they've been on the same team for most of the trial already. Of course he's ready to lend Wright his support, or as much of it as he can give without running the risk of a mistrial.

“We should get back out there,” Wright says, once their non-verbal agreement is in place. “Are you going to walk this time, or do I have to drag you again?”

“Very amusing, but I believe I can find the prosecutor's bench without you holding my hand,” he says, trailing off slightly on the last word. He had meant that in the figurative sense, but considering how Wright had dragged him around in the first place it becomes awkwardly literal.

“Okay, but don't complain to me later if you get lost.”

He rolls his eyes. “Please just go to your own bench.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” he complains good-naturedly.

The gallery is reopened then, the judge returning as the audience files in once more. “The court will now reconvene for the trial of Ms. Lana Skye,” he says, banging his gavel once. “Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Yes, Your Honour?”

“The inquiry committee is planning to impose harsh penalties for your actions.”

“Thank you for the news, Your Honour,” he says, barely restraining the sarcasm.

“Now, normally, this is where the prosecution would call forth a witness, but, er...” He coughs. “This isn't easy to say. You see, there is some concern that Mr. Edgeworth may have, ah...”

“Struck a bargain?” he supplies, not wishing to drag this out further. He's already heard all of the accusations and will deal with the consequences; now is hardly the time for delicacy. “You think I may have manipulated the witnesses.”

“I didn't say that! It's just, you see, everyone's been talking and --”

“Very well, Your Honour. I have a solution to propose.”

“A solution?”

“This being the case, the prosecution will allow the defense to call forth all future witnesses. Undeniably, this is an unusual arrangement, but a very effective one. It would prove I haven't struck any 'deals' with the witnesses.” He looks over at Wright, trying to convey the importance of agreeing with the force of his stare alone.

“Well, Mr. Wright?” the judge asks. “What do you say?”

“The defense accepts the prosecution's proposal,” he says without hesitation.

“Then it's settled. The defense may call forth the next witness!”

“Understood,” he says. “The defense calls Damon Gant to the stand!”

Off and running. Gant complies, though his acceptance is full of veiled threats and general complaining, and his testimony denies everything, pinning the murder on Ema and the forgery on Lana. At least, until Wright provides the piece of the jar he found in the Chief's safe, and they rapidly approach the truth.

It even turns out he put the victim's body in Edgeworth's trunk, making him fetch that screwdriver to make him an unknowing accomplice. With that, Gant invokes his right to refuse to testify, slamming shut the window of opportunity.

“Running away?” Edgeworth asks him.

“I've let you two play your little game,” he says. “But you don't have any proof. If you did, you'd have shown it. So if you've got something, present it; if you don't, I'll be going.”

Neither of them has anything, of course, unless Wright has something unexpected up his sleeve. 

“I have no conclusive evidence, Your Honour,” Wright says.

There has to be something they can do, something to present. The judge is telling Wright he'll have to hand down a penalty for falsely accusing the Chief of Police.

“Objection,” Edgeworth calls. It's nice to be the one pulling Wright out of trouble again, instead of the other way around. “In the absence of evidence, the only method is testimony. And there is one witness who has not yet testified.”

Wright catches on. “Your Honour! The defense would like to call the defendant, Lana Skye!”

“Lana,” Gant says, as she gets up to take the stand, “Remember that if you were to accept Mr. Wright's claims that it would have serious consequences. Both for you, and for your sister.” He switches back to joviality. “Okay, I'm off!” As if you're actually planning to leave.

As expected, Lana refuses to admit anything until confronted with evidence, and continues to fight up until Wright suggests that Gant's forgery wasn't meant to protect Ema, but to frame her for Neil Marshall's death and ensure Lana's cooperation. She reveals that the Evidence Law book she had Gumshoe bring Wright has a photograph in it: a picture of the crime scene as Lana found it, two years ago.

This brings Gant back to the stand. “I'd like to put in a word or two in my defense.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth calls. He can tell he looks unbearably smug right now, but it's only because this is going to be very satisfying. “I'm afraid it's too late for that.”

“What?”

“You already refused to testify. That means you forfeited your right to make statements of any kind. So just sit back, relax...and enjoy the sound of the noose tightening around your own neck.”

Gant makes a noise like the noose is not metaphorical, but quickly jerks back to normal. “I don't need to make any statements. The evidence will do the talking for me.”

“You have evidence to present?”

“No, but Wrighto does. You have something to show us, don't you? Something that proves who killed Neil Marshall?”

What does he mean? Does Wright have some kind of trump card after all?

“I don't have any evidence I can present at this time,” Wright says.

“You lie! I know you opened my safe! You took what was inside – the decisive evidence!”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, exaggeratedly blasé.

“Oh, I see. It's because you know whose fingerprints are on it. That's why you won't present it.”

“Present what?” Edgeworth says, frustrated.

“Notice the victim's vest in this picture? Something missing?”

There's a large area missing from Neil Marshall's vest in the picture, as though someone cut it out. “You had this in your safe?!”

Gant spins some story about keeping it as “insurance” to keep Lana in line with the possibility of Ema being blamed for the murder. “Come on, already, Wrighto. Cough it up.”

“So you admit to having it,” Wright clarifies.

“Yes. Not that I want to, being Chief and all, but it's better than being portrayed as a murderer.”

“All right,” he says, bringing it out. It's a piece of leather, with an obvious handprint on it. They're Ema's, but Wright quickly dispels the notion that she killed Marshall by pointing out the lack of blood on it, proving he was killed after Gant's arrival on-scene. 

“That was close, Wrighto,” he says, still sweating. “You almost had me. But that cloth is illegal evidence. You can't do anything to me with that – in fact, I'm going to have you brought up before the Bar Association for it. I'll have your badge!”

This is a much more cunning plan than Edgeworth would have given Wright credit for, especially considering two days ago he didn't seem to know the basics of evidence law in the first place. “True, illegal evidence cannot be used to convict a person, but that's assuming this is indeed illegal.”

“Well, Mr. Wright?” the judge asks. “Do you admit to concealing the cloth?”

“I did refuse to present evidence at one point,” he concedes. “But it wasn't that I didn't, it was that I couldn't.”

“'Couldn't'?”

“There are certain procedures for presenting evidence. Mr. Edgeworth, if you'd like to remind the court?” he asks, almost amused.

“Gladly,” Edgeworth says, giving a bow before reciting the two rules of evidence that allow Wright to prove his evidence was made legal by Gant's own statements. Thoroughly beaten, Gant confesses on the spot. Wright gives Edgeworth a grin that he unsuccessfully tries to return before Gant ruins the moment by speaking up again.

“Tell me, Worthy, what are you doing in court?”

“Me?”

“You despise criminals. I can feel it – you and me, we're the same. One day, you'll understand: if you want to take them on alone, you'll figure out what's needed.” He leaves then, guided out by his former underlings.

Lana Skye takes the stand for her verdict.

“I'm sorry I couldn't get you out of all your trouble,” Wright tells her.

“My, my. What high standards you have, for a rookie. Regardless of that, I owe you my thanks...and you too, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Me?” he says, again.

“You've suffered every bit as much as I have for the past few days. Believe me, I know what an ordeal it's been for you.”

“It was nothing,” he says, lying.

“I was worried the pressure might break you, but you rose above it and guided Mr. Wright to victory. You've done well.”

He thinks back to October, when Lana Skye had taken disciplinary measures against him the last time he helped Wright in court, and that was much less blatant than this. Perhaps it's a good thing my job is essentially lost already. “I only did my job.”

With that, her verdict is officially handed down. Lana smiles for the first time since Edgeworth has known her. He stops by the lobby afterward to give her his congratulations, intending to leave after that and start the process of cleaning out his office.

“I hope you don't blame yourself for what happened,” Lana says, stopping him. “We were the ones who acted corruptly, not you.”

“Perhaps in this way, yes, but it's too late for me. Chief Gant was right about me. If I continued on this path, trying to fight crime alone, I may have tried to do something like he did.” A terrifying thought. “That is why I cannot stay.”

“Don't you understand?” she says, still smiling gently. “You weren't alone. You were working together with Mr. Wright.”

That seems like a rather shaky foundation to build a career on. He can't go into every trial expecting someone else to keep him in line. “It's time for me to go. There are some loose ends that need wrapping up.”

Wright calls his name, catching him before he exits the room. “Are you really planning on quitting?”

“Yes. I don't believe this is the place for me anymore, not after today.” He won't be another von Karma. He'll take himself out before he stops recognizing the difference between right and wrong. 

“You're being too hard on yourself, Edgeworth. You've done some things wrong, but you're giving them too much weight, and not enough to the good things you've done. Could do, in the future. This could be the start of something new for you.”

“Do you write these things out in advance, or are you practicing your improvisational motivational speaking?”

He rightfully ignores the weak attempt at deflection. “It's up to you. But whatever you decide...I'll be waiting for you. In court.”

“You'll be waiting a very long time, then.”

“Maybe. Doesn't mean I won't do it.”

“No, I don't imagine there's any force on this earth that would keep you from doing something so stubborn and ill-considered,” he says. “Well, I won't keep you from your vigil, Wright. Farewell.”

Edgeworth's mind remains unchanged, despite Wright's and Lana's words to him. If this case has proven anything, it's that he's too far gone to continue as a prosecutor. He's done too much damage – lied, forged evidence, convicted innocent people, caused deaths. There's nothing he can do to make up for that now, but his judgement isn't so skewed that he won't take action to ensure it doesn't happen again. He can get out before he makes any more mistakes. Leave the law in safer hands, like Wright's.

Besides, they've made it clear he's not wanted here, and he's tired of struggling against popular opinion. He'll give them what they want, and leave. And then what? Edgeworth has been raised for the law since he was a child. A prosecutor is what he is, on a fundamental level. There is nothing else for him. Leaving would kill that part of him, and consign what's left to a bleak and aimless existence – though with the rate he's losing parts of himself these days, there won't be much left for long anyway. It would probably be easier and faster to destroy them all at once.

Better for everyone, he decides, idly studying his badge. What is he, compared to the things he's done? Some might even consider it a fair trade, a just punishment. Wright will never forgive him, but as their paths will ever cross again, it hardly matters. He tosses his badge onto the shiny surface of his desk, mind made up.

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

Chapter Text

Thirty-one times he walked by this building without going in. Forty-three days he managed to keep that promise to himself. Forty-three days spent in excruciating boredom, avoiding Franziska's attempts to get in touch with him and wondering at what point the past six months will fade into “unpleasant memory”. It's presumably not helping that he's currently sitting in the gallery of a courtroom when he ran thousands of miles to get away from this exact situation, but he couldn't resist it any longer; perhaps he wasn't as successful at killing off his inner prosecutor as he had thought. He adds it to his mental tally of failures.

The trial is probably the most civil court proceeding Edgeworth has ever seen. The defense compliments the prosecution on his opening statement. The prosecution demands a reluctant witness answer the defense's questions. The defense provides supporting evidence to the cornered prosecution. The prosecution objects to fill a logical inconsistency in the defense's argument. Edgeworth takes a look around the court. Nobody, from spectator to attorney to judge, seems to be fazed by any of this. Is this normal?

When the verdict is handed down, both the prosecutor and the lawyer thank the judge for her wisdom, congratulate each other on the trial, and leave smiling. The defendant is understandably upset, since he's going to prison, but all in all, it seems to have gone smoothly for all parties.

He needs more data. With that in mind, he goes back the next day, and the day after that. Different lawyers, different judges, different crimes – every single trial is the same. It's baffling. Not only would this kind of conduct get a case thrown out and the attorneys responsible fired back home, but nobody seems to hold any kind of personal stake in winning. All of the congratulations offered to each other are sincere, and twice now he's heard the loser offer to take the victor out for a celebratory drink. No wonder von Karma always hated France, he thinks, with bitter amusement.

On day fifty, after he's spent a week hanging around the courthouse, Edgeworth makes a phone call to an old friend. Apparently said old friend hasn't heard that he's supposed to be dead right now, as far as that side of the Atlantic is concerned, because he takes the call without a word about it and pulls some strings without question. Starting on day fifty-one, he is officially a “legal research liasion”, which is likely a made-up position, but one he's going to take regardless. It seems like a fine compromise: he'll stay out of the actual courtroom, but still be able to use his previous skills and training. Perhaps his work will even lead to some changes that will keep people like himself and his mentor out of the profession altogether, in time. Edgeworth hangs up the phone, feeling better than he has in months.

For the “practical” aspect of his research, the Prosecutors' Office assigns him one of their own to shadow, a young woman named Sophie Leclair, and the office next to hers to work out of.

“Last night this was a broom closet,” she confides, showing it to him. “I do not think they knew you were coming.”

“Ah, probably not,” he says, acutely embarrassed about having essentially dropped into their laps. “This will serve. I'm not here to sit in an office.” Although if he's going to sit anywhere, he would prefer it to be in this windowless room; looking out of the huge windows in his eighteenth-storey hotel room always makes him start thinking about how long it would take to hit the ground.

“Not to be rude, monsieur, but why are you here?”

“To observe, mainly. To improve, possibly.”

“Hmph,” she says. “I should have known that an American would think he can come over here and 'improve' our ways! From what I hear about America I think it is more likely that we could improve you!”

“That is what I meant,” Edgeworth says, blinking in the face of Leclair's sudden ferocity.

“Oh. My apologies.”

He gets the feeling she's not very familiar with his past, if she thinks he'd be offended by that. There's a reassuring thought. “It's fine,” he says.

“Okay,” she says, the Anglicism jarring in the rapid-fire French she's been speaking until now. “I will let you get to work. My office is next door, if you have any questions on how to improve.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Shortly after that, he hears – second-hand from the local legal newspaper, since he hasn't spoken to her in months – that Franziska is set to make her American prosecutorial debut. She's going to challenge Wright, he realizes, to get revenge on him for his part in her father's conviction. It's not going to end well; unless Wright has dropped his standards significantly and started taking guilty clients, he's going to win, and Franziska clutches tighter to her perfect record than Edgeworth ever did. She's going to break, and it's going to be hard and violent, knowing her.

For a brief moment he thinks he should try and get in touch with Wright, if just to warn him about the faceful of whip leather he's about to receive, but there's no way he can. He probably hates him now, justifiably, and even if he doesn't, reaching out would give him false hope that Edgeworth will return. For now he'll just keep an eye on the news and pray that things don't get too out of hand.

“You have been to a French trial before, correct?” Leclair asks him, the two of them standing in the lobby outside the courtroom. This is the first time she's taken him to court, the previous weeks having been devoted to studying the law from books, holed up in his office, despite what Edgeworth had claimed upon his arrival.

“Yes, a handful of times,” he agrees, “but not in any official capacity, nor with any particular knowledge of the law.”

“At this point, monsieur, the only law you need to remember is the first: an attorney's purpose –”

“– Is to find the truth,” finishes a woman's voice. The stranger is a short woman with her long brown hair in a braid, smiling broadly.

“Émilie,” Leclair says, turning to face her with a matching smile. “Monsieur, this is Émilie Desjardins, my partner; Émilie, this is Miles Edgeworth, the American I told you about.”

“Oh, the one in the closet,” Émilie says, nodding. “Nice to meet you, monsieur.”

“Likewise,” he says. “Forgive my ignorance, but I wasn't aware that Prosecutor Leclair had co-counsel for this trial.”

“That is not what she meant by 'partner',” Émilie says. “I am Monsieur Martin's lawyer. Sophie is the prosecutor who handles my cases.”

“I think the word you would use in English is 'rival',” Leclair says, “but I also do not think prosecutors and lawyers work as closely in America.”

“No, we don't.”

“Are you scandalized, monsieur?” Émilie says, teasing him in a way that reminds Edgeworth a little of Maya Fey.

“No,” he says. “I had something similar when I was a prosecutor, for a short time.”

“Oh? I thought you just said you didn't do that in America.”

“It was considerd a rather unorthodox method, yes.” If by “unorthodox” one means “a borderline breach of professional ethics”.

“So does that mean there is a second one of you here?” Émilie asks, looking around as though she could spot another American by sight alone.

“No, he didn't come with me.”

“How cruel of you,” she says, laughing. “Leaving him behind like that.”

This is getting into uncomfortable territory. “I'm sure he would agree with you,” he says, thinking of their parting. I'll be waiting for you. “I am going to get a seat in the gallery. Good luck with your case.”

Leclair shakes her head. “You still have a lot to learn, hein?”

In June, Wright finally takes his first case since Lana Skye's. As Edgeworth expected, Franziska jumps on it, the first case she's taken since her arrival stateside two months earlier. Also as he expected, she loses. The article covering this event doesn't go into detail about her reaction, but he knows his sister well enough to know that whatever happened, it wasn't pretty. Unfortunately, the only way to find out, since journalism isn't providing the answers, is to get in touch with someone who was there.

This leaves a handful of options. Franziska herself is likely the most obvious choice, but a call from him at this juncture would probably only worsen her mood – between their long silence, the revelations about her father, and his unintentional feigned death their relationship is in a precarious place. Wright is likely an even worse choice than Franziska, for a number of reasons. Why he even entertained the notion of calling him is a mystery. No; his best option is probably the last one: Detective Gumshoe.

Edgeworth braces himself for the earful of rambling he's bound to get and places the call. He doesn't get either, at least not the first three times he makes the call, because then all he gets is a weird, high-pitched noise and the detective hanging up on him.

“Detective!” he practically shouts, the fourth time he picks up. “Stop hanging up on me. I need to speak to you.”

“Uh, no offense, pal, but I don't want to talk to any ghosts or spirits or anything, all right?”

“I'm not a ghost, Detective.”

“You gotta be something, pal, because the Mr. Edgeworth I know is dead.”

“Maybe in a philosophical or metaphorical sense, but technically, no.”

“Don't try to confuse me with your ghost talk!”

Edgeworth drops his face into his hand, exasperated. He'd forgotten what talking to Gumshoe was like. “Detective. I am not dead. I am not a ghost. I am alive, and in France.”

“What are you doing over there, sir?! If you're alive, we need you back here! The Office is falling apart –”

“I doubt that.”

“– Mr. Wright's gone kind of crazy –”

“I believe that.”

“– and worst of all, they've got me working for Ms. von Karma! That whip really hurts, pal.”

“I'm aware,” he says. He sincerely doubts there's anyone alive who's gotten more lashes from Franziska than he has. “She is what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“What about her, sir?”

“She lost her first case a few days ago, correct?”

“Yeah. She didn't take it too well, either – she whipped Mr. Wright unconscious, right there in court!”

“I see,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “I was worried that this would happen. I need you to keep an eye on her for me.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Keep me informed about what she's doing, if she does anything strange. I don't want her to...I'm concerned, that's all.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“I wouldn't let her find out about this, though, Detective. She's likely to take it out on you and your salary, as well as myself, the next time I see her.”

“Does that mean you'll be back?!”

“I don't know. It sounds like I may need to, in the future, but for now I am restricting communications to your reports, which you will not speak of to anyone.”

“Yes, sir,” Gumshoe says, sounding miserable.

He spends the next few days expecting to be inundated with angry phone calls from the people Gumshoe told, but none come in. Perhaps he's not the only one working on self-improvement.

“Are you going to assist me in court this time?”

“No.”

“What if I guarantee that we will win? I know how you Americans like your 'perfect records'.”

“No.”

“I could send you to Émilie and you could help her instead?”

“No.”

“I will give you ten Euros.”

“No.”

“I will find something to convince you.”

“Try harder.”

“Monsieur,” Leclair says to him, conversationally, as the two of them have a cup of coffee at opposite ends of the breakroom table, “you came from Los Angeles, yes?”

“I did,” he confirms. “Why do you ask?”

“Here,” she says, essentially throwing the newspaper she was reading at him. Edgeworth picks it up, straightens it out, and has a look for what she's talking about.

Halfway down the page is an unflattering photograph of a familiar face; he's so surprised upon seeing it that he nearly rips the page in half. LA lawyer loses memory, wins case, proclaims the headline next to it. He gives the article a quick read: apparently someone assaulted Wright in the courthouse with a fire extinguisher; despite the resulting amnesia wiping his memory of the crime, the law, and his own identity, he managed to have his client acquitted.

“Typical,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Friend of yours?” Leclair asks, clearly fighting to keep a straight face.

He sighs, knowing there's no getting out of this one. “This would be the 'rival' I told you about.”

“Sounds like he's getting into trouble without you.”

“No, that's just Wright,” he says, the first time he's actually said his name out loud since leaving. “I don't think it's possible for him to take a case without suffering some kind of physical indignity.”

“Maybe he should find a safer line of work,” she jokes.

“He wouldn't. Wright is nothing if not determined. Once he's set his mind to something he's impossible to sway.”

“Is that how he used to defeat you? Badgered you into giving up?”

“Not quite,” he says, not sure if she's still teasing him. “It was more that he badgered the entire court into telling the truth.”

“What, even you, monsieur?”

It's always so strange, remembering that the people in this office just think of him as the dour American in the broom closet and not unrepentant forger of evidence and disgraced protégé of a convicted murderer. “Especially me.”

Leclair gives him a considering look. “Well, when we send you back you'll be cured of that, if you aren't already. It will save your rival some work.”

He gives a snort of derision. “I'm sure he'll appreciate that.”

She just smiles. “May I take my paper back? Émilie would be so upset if she knew I had a picture of your great rival and didn't show her.”

“Must you discuss this with her?” he asks, handing it over anyway.

“There are no secrets between partners,” she says, snatching it. “Yours included.”

“It's a real mess, pal,” Gumshoe says, concluding his update on the latest clash between Franziska and Wright. It certainly sounds like a mess – a flying defendant, a missing murder weapon, the whole thing took place at a circus, Franziska terrorizing her subordinates more than usual.

“What ridiculous theory is Wright advancing?”

“Huh? He thinks the acrobat in the wheelchair did it, but I don't think he could've. He can't even get outside, sir.”

A suspect who can't get outside killing someone two floors down in the yard. It's difficult to piece together without having all the evidence on hand or without having personally investigated, but one thing should hold true. “Detective, convince Ms. von Karma to run a surprise search on the suspect's room, preferably shortly before court reconvenes.”

“We've already searched him, sir, there's nothing in there.”

“Please think about it a little harder. If he can't leave the room, he can't hide the weapon. If he is the killer, he will have it somewhere.” And if I'm right, he should wind up bringing it straight to court for Wright to uncover.

“Wait, you actually think he's right, pal?”

“Have you ever known one of Wright's wild guesses to be wrong?”

“...Good point, sir. I'll have them do that search.”

“Let me know if it works.”

“I will.” Gumshoe pauses. “They were talking about you at the crime scene. Mr. Wright and Ms. von Karma, I mean.”

“I-Is that right?” he says, momentarily feeling like his heart's stopped. He honestly never considered that the two of them would talk outside of court, or that it would be about him.

“Yeah. They don't think you're dead, you know. So if you wanted to come back...”

“The case ends tomorrow; I would never make it in time.” It's a weak excuse and they both know it. They don't need him for the case; Franziska needs his help, whether she's realized it or not, and he needs to return at some point to repair his most recent mistakes and cast off the last vestiges of his old self.

“Does that mean you'll come back for the next one, sir?”

It will probably be months before Wright takes another case, if his career to this point is any indication. Plenty of time to prepare, and it would be a lot harder to back out over lost nerve if he's already promised someone. “Yes,” he says, after a moment of consideration. “I'll come back.”

Promising to come home in advance was a bad idea. It's been a month and a half since Edgeworth last spoke to Gumshoe, and now he lives in a constant state of high alert, worried that the next time the phone rings it'll be because Wright and Franziska are facing off again.

“You're wound tighter than usual, lately,” Leclair observes, having just watched him jump in surprise at the sound of someone else's phone receiving a text.

“I've been expecting a phone call,” he says. “I may be leaving soon.”

“Ah,” she says. “I see why you're so nervous.”

He frowns. There's no reason she should know that; he barely talks about himself, and when he does it's in fairly vague terms.

“Don't look so confused,” she says, seeing the look on his face. “I've always known there was some kind of story about why you showed up here out of the blue.”

“I—I—”

“And I know how to use Google,” she adds. “There are a lot of stories about you out there. I didn't know you were so famous.”

“Is that all you have to say about it?” he asks, disbelieving. “Why would you allow me to work here if you knew?”

“I didn't know, at first. I only looked you up after you told me about your rival.” She looks down, then back up. “I also don't think it's my place to judge you on things you used to do. You had proven yourself in the months you spent here, and that is enough for me. You've changed, monsieur, whether you've realized it or not.”

“Too little too late, I fear,” he says. To have someone recognize him as having changed is reassuring, but Edgeworth doesn't believe that will solve anything when he returns home. It especially won't accomplish anything with Franziska, not until he convinces her of the necessity of following his example. It might work on Wright, if he isn't blinded by his own emotions. More and more he thinks he may have to take a case to prove himself, something he doesn't really want to do.

“You won't know until you get there,” Leclair says, shrugging. “They may forgive you, they may not, but they definitely will not if you do not ask.”

Just how much does she know about this, anyway? Logically speaking, she's right, but that doesn't do anything to mitigate his apprehension or guilt.

“I would like to make one more suggestion,” she continues.

“Yes?”

“When you do leave here, say goodbye this time.”

A month and a half later, when he gets a hurried phone call from the Gatewater Hotel, he does.

Chapter Text

As soon as he's recovered enough from the flight, he heads directly to the Police Department to review what the investigation has uncovered while he was in transit. True to form, it's more complicated than it would look at first glance, and there are a few inconsistencies that make it clear that there's a piece of the puzzle that's yet to fall into place. Edgeworth has faith that Wright can fill it in, but it will be much easier if he has all the evidence, and there are several police reports and medical files here that a defense attorney wouldn't be able to obtain normally. Suicide reports, he realizes, with discomfort. He photocopies them, wondering whether Wright is likely to accept his help.

This train of thought is derailed by a loud whipcrack from the main Criminal Affairs department, heralding Franziska's arrival. He gathers up the files again and leaves the photocopy room, intending to offer her the support he came here to give, but the scene he walks into was not the one he was expecting. Franziska is there, leaning into Detective Gumshoe's personal space while she berates him, but Wright is there as well. There's a small girl in robes like Maya's clinging to his hand, but Maya herself is nowhere to be seen. Edgeworth had been planning to speak to each of them separately, Franziska first, then Wright later, but Gumshoe can see him over Franziska's shoulder and it's only a matter of time before everyone notices he's already there.

He makes his presence known, the three of them who weren't looking at him all turning around in unison. Franziska is halfway between looking shocked and looking even angrier than usual, and the little girl just seems confused, and Wright looks like he might pass out. But even under that he looks terrible, dead-eyed and exhausted, like he hasn't slept in a week. That's odd; Edgeworth has never seen him look like that, and he's seen him after being beaten and electrocuted. There's a missing angle here, something personal under the surface of this case that hasn't come out yet.

“You,” growls Franziska.

“E-Edgeworth!” says Wright, still looking like he's seen a ghost. Well, this is likely as close to that experience as one can get.

“It's been a long time,” he acknowledges, but before they can exchange more words Franziska starts in on him. He can hear Wright still talking, probably explaining who he is to the girl; he wonders what he's telling her. Likely nothing good.

“How dare you show your face to me?” Franziska says. “You've soiled the von Karma name and dragged it through the mud! Run away with your tail between your legs like the ill-bred dog you are!”

“Ah, yes, the von Karma family creed: 'to be perfect in every way'. Then tell me, Franziska, how are things going? I hear you've had a hard time maintaining perfection for these last few months.”

Surprisingly, she doesn't hit him for that. Perhaps her denial isn't as deep as he thought it would be. “You don't know what you're talking about, Miles Edgeworth.”

“On the contrary,” he says, “I know exactly what I'm talking about. Or have you forgotten the topic of our last conversation?”

“I remember perfectly well,” she snaps.

“Then you would do well to listen to me and accept the help I've come here to offer.”

“I do not need help from the likes of you,” she says. “I haven't given in, and I will never hand this case over!”

When did I imply that I wanted it? “Franziska...”

She ignores him. “Mr. Phoenix Wright! I will see you in court tomorrow. It will be a clinical lesson on the meaning of total victory!” She storms out, shoes clicking against the tile floor.

That went about as well as he could have expected; better, even, if the lack of whipping is taken into account. Hopefully she'll become more receptive to his offer as she calms down, inasmuch as she ever calms down.

A tense atmosphere settles. Gumshoe makes a hasty exit, presumably understanding how awkward this is going to be. Wright sends the girl with him, leaving just the two of them and the uninterested Chief Detective at the other end of the room.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, once the other members of their group are out of earshot. “I thought you went and died, Edgeworth! And now you just walk back in here like nothing happened?”

“If that's the impression you got, it's not the one I intended to give.”

“I don't care,” Wright says, the volume of his voice increasing and then decreasing in the middle of the sentence as he tries not to shout. Then, even more quietly, “I didn't want to ever see you again.”

Despite having been bracing himself for a reaction like that for months, it still stings. It's fitting, though – a year and a half ago, he was telling Wright never to show his face again, and now that he's the one ready to be civil Wright isn't. Edgeworth wonders if they'll ever agree on whether they hate each other or not, or if they're doomed to always be at cross-purposes.

“Your hatred for me is quite one-sided,” he says. “In fact, I intend to help you.” He holds out the files he had just finished aggregating.

Something about what Edgeworth said or the gesture itself has apparently caught Wright wrong-footed enough to actually take them. He opens the folder, but quickly flips it shut once he realizes what's inside. “I don't think this is what you meant to give me.”

“Yes, it was.”

“This is evidence,” he says, as if reminding Edgeworth what it is will make him reconsider. “You can't give me this. The Edgeworth I know wouldn't give me this.”

“Perhaps not,” he says. “But I'm giving this to you regardless.”

Wright pulls a face, bewildered. “Why?”

“The case will be solved quicker and more easily if both sides can work together.”

“Is this some kind of trick?” he asks, suspicious. “Like, it's going to turn out tomorrow that the two of you have 'updated versions' of these?”

“Do you honestly think I would come all this way just to play some kind of asinine practical joke?”

“I don't know what to think of you anymore, Edgeworth! Half the time you're trying to sabotage me, and half the time you drop the answers in my lap. It seemed like you were trying to be better than von Karma, but then you run away because your perfect record wasn't so perfect after all. So excuse me for thinking that you're just as likely to throw me under the bus as you are to actually help me!”

Is that what he thinks? “I see. While it's up to you whether you believe me or not, I have no interest in 'throwing you under a bus'. And should you require any further assistance, it is available to you.”

They just look at each other for a moment, Wright apparently trying to gauge his sincerity. “I'll keep that in mind,” he says, though he doesn't sound like he intends to take up the offer. “I should really get back to work.”

“You're leaving?” he says, suddenly worried that this short conversation is going to be their last interaction and he'll never be able to prove himself. “Wright, it's the middle of the night. What could you possibly need to do now that you didn't do earlier?”

“I can't – It's – That's not really any of your business,” Wright says, but it lacks force. If anything, it sounds more like he's trying to push Edgeworth away from something. We've switched places again, he thinks, remembering his desperate efforts to keep Wright away from DL-6.

“No, I suppose it's not.”

He sighs. “It's not about you. There's just...something I need to take care of before I can deal with this, all right?”

“You don't owe me an explanation, Wright.”

“No, I don't,” he agrees. “But you still owe me one.”

He leaves, but at least he takes the files with him.

Franziska isn't there yet when he arrives at the courthouse to try and speak to her before the trial. He's early, but normally she would be too; her father had always stressed the importance of punctuality and the psychological impact it had to lay in wait for one's enemies.

When she does walk in, it's immediately obvious why she was late, her left hand grasping her right shoulder, that entire side of her body covered in blood. She walks right past him, staggering over to the door to the courtroom. She's been shot.

“Franziska,” he says, positioning himself between her and the door and trying not to sound as horrified as he feels, “what the hell are you doing?”

“You are a fool to ask such a foolish question,” she says. Between the pain, the shock, and the blood loss, it comes out weak and halting. “This is my case! I need to get inside –”

“Are you insane? You need to get to a hospital, if anywhere.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Miles,” she says, looking more pale and unfocused by the second.

“Yes, I would, because I don't want you to drop dead in the middle of the courthouse!”

“Well, too bad. I will not let you take me anywhere but to the prosecutor's bench, so I can destroy that foolish attorney once and for all!”

Wright certainly leaves an impression. “You can destroy him after you've seen a doctor.”

“I don't need a doctor! I can defeat him like this!”

“Yes, your 'perfect victory'. Do you think it counts as such if you're getting blood all over the floor?”

This transparent appeal to her pride would normally earn him nothing but a whipping and several insults, but in her weakened state it actually seems to be working. “Fine. You will accompany me to the hospital. Afterwards, I will return to destroy Mr. Phoenix Wright!”

“As you wish,” he says, holding the door to the outside open for her.

“Who will take over for today's trial?” she asks him, once they're seated in the waiting room of the clinic. What kind of clinic makes a gunshot victim wait, he has no idea, but there they are, with her struggling to stay conscious while he fills out her paperwork.

“I don't know,” he says, checking some boxes. “I haven't called the office yet.”

“You are going to take it, aren't you.”

He sighs. “I don't know why you're convinced that I want your case. I'm going to call the office once you've been admitted and have a substitute sent.” Though the more Edgeworth thinks about it, the more he realizes he is the best candidate. Next to Franziska and Wright, he knows more about this case than anyone else; a substitute would have no clue and no time to prepare.

Once he turns in the paperwork, someone finally comes to collect Franziska and take her off to be treated. “Call Scruffy as well,” she says, being wheeled away by a nurse. “Find out if he caught the fool who shot me.”

He had honestly forgotten about that angle of the shooting. Apparently Franziska still keeps a better head on her shoulders in these situations than he does. “I will,” he acknowledges, watching her turn a corner and out of sight.

Gumshoe hasn't caught anyone, apparently, but he and several more officers are combing the scene and surrounding area. “Keep me informed,” he says, hanging up that call and dialing the Prosecutors' Office. “Put me through to the Chief Prosecutor,” he says, once a secretary answers the phone.

“Who should I say is calling,” he says, bored.

“It's Miles Edgeworth on behalf of Prosecutor von Karma, and it is urgent,” he says, not wanting to be put on hold for any length of time.

“I'll see what I can do,” the secretary says, not changing his tone. The hold music starts up. Edgeworth attempts not to crush the phone into splinters in a fit of rage.

Luckily, it only lasts a brief moment before someone else is picking up. “Chief Prosecutor Freeman,” she says. That answers the question of who took Lana's position. “I hear there's something urgent going on with Ms. von Karma?”

“Yes,” he says, still angry about the lack of interest everyone else is showing. “She has been shot and is currently in the hospital.”

That gets Freeman's attention. “What? Oh my god, is she going to be all right?”

“I can't say for certain, but she has been holding up remarkably well.” And if anyone could heal a bullet wound with sheer determination, it would be her. “As you might imagine, she will not be appearing in court today and a substitute will be required.”

“This is awfully short notice,” she says, the sound of shuffling files coming through the phone. “But I guess you can't ask a crazed gunman to make these things more convenient, huh?”

“I would think not.”

“Seems like everyone's already in court today,” she mutters, the shuffling noises now accompanied by the staccato click of a computer keyboard. “Not to mention the lack of prep time...I don't think anyone would take it. But I can't cancel it either, not when it's moved into its three days...”

Edgeworth taps a foot, thinking. It seems like he might be the only option after all. “Might I make a suggestion, Chief Prosecutor?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“I could take it, if the Office was willing to temporarily reinstate me as a prosecutor.”

“You? I thought you went crazy and quit or something.” He doesn't say anything to that uncomfortably accurate analysis. At least it seems as though the rumours of his death didn't spread as far as he thought. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Not at all. “I don't think there's any other recourse. I'm familiar with the case and available, which is more than can be said for anyone else.”

There's a few seconds of rapid typing; presumably she's entering a change of prosecutor into the system. “All right, then, you've got your job back for the next three days. After that, we'd have to have a more serious talk –”

“That won't be necessary. I'm only doing this because no one else can; I don't intend to make a full return.”

“Then strap on your badge and get over to the courthouse, because you're about to be late.” Freeman hangs up before he can tell her he doesn't have a badge, nor did he ever wear it.

It's tempting to say that returning to court with Wright feels like old times, but that would be disingenous. Edgeworth has long cast off the resentment that coloured most of their former trials, and his main goal has changed from “victory at all costs” to “accurate verdict”. But there's still something very familiar about squaring off with Wright again, that old pattern of pushing at each other until something is revealed. He'd almost say he was enjoying it, if he wasn't mired in anxiety about whether he's learned enough to practice law again, about Franziska, about whether this is proving anything to Wright.

They wear down two witnesses and call a third, though when Wright begins to close in on Ms. Andrews, she refuses to testify. Given Andrews' co-dependency and the rest of the situation, this has Franziska's hands all over it – she must have promised her something in exchange for her silence on this point. That's fine; he can drag it out of her later, before court reconvenes tomorrow. He might have to take her to see Franziska at the hospital, if she's clinging to her this way, but he can arrange that.

“No, wait, please, Your Honour,” Wright says, frantic. “The trial, please continue the trial!”

There it is again. “What are you so upset about, Wright?”

“Edgeworth,” he says, pleading, “I know you know who the real killer is. We have to keep going. Please.”

Do I know who the killer is? Honestly, he suspects it's Engarde, but has a hard time keeping ahold of that thought. Wright doesn't take on guilty clients, and if he did he wouldn't be begging Edgeworth to expose it this way. Or perhaps he would. Maybe a defense attorney's faith only stretches so far.

“Please,” he says again, and Edgeworth suspects if they weren't on opposite sides of the room Wright would be shaking him by the shoulders trying to get his point across. “If I don't get a verdict – then Maya –” He stops there, wide-eyed.

Everything slots into place. That's the personal angle he hasn't been able to sort out: something's happened to Maya, and whoever's done it is using it as leverage; presumably a guarantee of her safety if Wright can get a “not guilty”.

“But it's impossible to continue if this witness refuses to testify,” the judge says, not unkindly, though it's doubtful he's grasped the full meaning of Wright's outburst.

Edgeworth objects without hesitation. If Andrews won't testify about this, he'll have her testify about something else. And they'll keep going until she cracks. It's not what he was originally planning, but they can make it work. He catches Wright's eye, trying to convey that he knows and that he's doing what small things he can to help, but judging by the look of abject gratitude Edgeworth gets in return, he already understands.

Andrews is more stubborn than anticipated, and likely intelligent enough to have seen through this tactic and continues to refuse to testify. He grits his teeth, frustrated that while she can see what he's trying to do, she can't see that withholding her testimony is obfuscating the truth and will only lead to being implicated in the crime.

Edgeworth weighs his options. It's unthinkable to let her continue to hold her secrets and take the fall for this – it would end with her in prison, the real criminal back on the streets, and the rest of them a little more corrupted from having let it happen. Forcing it out of her, however, will be almost as damaging, considering the nature of his trump card and the consequences that will follow for Maya, should this lead into a guilty verdict for Matt Engarde.

He looks down at the attempted suicide report sitting on the bench in front of him. This is far crueller than anything he'd intended to do, now that he's moved beyond his mentor's influence, but there's nothing else to be done. Presenting this will, at the very least, keep all the responsibility for an unfortunate end squarely on his shoulders. He can carry it.

The gambit works, and she breaks down on the stand, confessing that she tried to frame Engarde for the murder, but that she didn't do it. Unfortunately, between that and the assassin's calling card she provides, the trial has to be adjourned for further investigation. He hopes that whoever's blackmailing Wright didn't put a time limit on his verdict.

Unexpectedly, he runs into Wright at the clinic when he goes to see Franziska. He's carrying a bunch of flowers, which Edgeworth finds almost humorous; only Wright would bother to show such courtesy to someone who's been regularly assaulting him for the better part of the last year.

“About today...” he says, once Franziska and her tulips have left again and they're assured of her eventual recovery, “what happened, Edgeworth? That was harsh, even for you.”

He crosses his arms, trying to decide how to phrase this. “She wouldn't have testified if I didn't force her to. Unfortunately, her weak spot was weaker than most.”

“You made it sound like you had changed your mind about doing that kind of thing,” he says.

“I have no desire to be uselessly callous, but it is a sword I'm willing to fall on if it will benefit others or lead us to the truth.”

“We could have done something else! There had to have been another way.”

“Always the optimist,” he says. “I weighed the options and did what I could with limited time and limited resources. Exposing Ms. Andrews' secret was a necessary measure for all of us.”

“You don't have all the information to make those kinds of decisions! You don't know about M–” He stops again, looking around as if worried someone heard him.

“About Maya,” he finishes. “You said something similar in court. What happened to her, Wright?”

“Kidnapped,” he says, almost inaudibly. “They're holding her until I get Matt acquitted.”

“I see. In that case, I'll have the police assemble a rescue team to resolve this.”

“There's no way you can find her. We have no idea who took her and no clues to go on. The acquittal's the only way to save her.”

“I wouldn't say there are no clues,” Edgeworth says, producing the card he got from Adrian Andrews. “This is the calling card of Shelly de Killer, the assassin who killed Mr. Corrida. It's likely that he is the person holding Maya.”

“An assassin?” Wright asks, taking the card to study.

“Yes; evidently we are not searching for the person who committed the actual act, but the person who requested it.”

“But why would he do that? He has nothing to gain. He already got away with murder.”

“De Killer has a certain code he follows,” he explains. “Above all, he values the trust between himself and his clients. Part of an assassin's job is to keep the client from being implicated in the crime; if this were to happen, he would feel compelled to step in.”

“But that would mean his client is...”

“Matt Engarde, yes. I'm afraid your client is, in all probability, his client as well.”

“I can't believe that,” he says, looking more beaten-down than ever. “I can't.”

It isn't a refusal to see the truth, but to admit to seeing it. He gently pulls the card from Wright's hand and returns it to his pocket. “I know this isn't what you want to hear from me, but it's only fair to let you know that I don't intend to let him get away, regardless of circumstance.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “I guess you didn't get to help me after all, huh?”

“Now that I'm in charge of this case, I do have to be a little stricter with information than I might like,” Edgeworth agrees, “but I'm still willing to offer what assistance I can.”

“Okay,” Wright says, but with an inflection of I'll believe that when I see it.

In retrospect, single-handedly carrying a taxidermied bear larger than he is all the way from the crime scene to his car was probably a more extravagant display of “assistance” than strictly necessary, but Wright did look impressed, so he'd consider it worth it.

The bear was charged to Matt Engarde's credit card, as it turns out, continuing to close the net around him. He sighs, mentally apologizing to Maya for what he has to do. He heads to the Detention Center; once Wright catches wind of this evidence he's going to want to speak to Engarde, and visiting hours are over. Without authorization from the police or the prosecutor, he won't be able to get in.

When Wright emerges from his meeting, it's clear something has passed between him and Engarde, because he looks hopelessly lost. The little girl who's been tagging along with him looks ready to burst into tears.

“Edgeworth,” he says, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you to join me.”

“He did it,” Wright says, without further preamble. “Looks like you were right all along.”

“I wasn't waiting here to tell you 'I told you so',” he says, frowning. “What will you do now?”

“I don't know! It feels like every choice is wrong.” He stops, looking like he's running over the situation again, trying to find the loophole and coming up empty. “What should I do, Edgeworth?”

That takes him by surprise. Wright must be desperate if he's asking him what the right thing to do is. “That's not something I can answer for you – only you can decide where to go from here. You have to decide why it is you fight, and act accordingly. As I have.”

“Huh? You've always fought for yourself, haven't you? You and Franziska both, you try your hardest to pin me down, even when you know you're wrong, because you're just there to win. And that's why you ran away last year – because you weren't winning anymore.”

“I will not deny that I did so in the past,” Edgeworth says, slowly. Talking about his former career is painful, not to mention embarrassing, but it is why he came back here. The person hearing about it is not the one he intended, but the idea is the same. “However, you are mistaken.”

“About what?”

“If my record being broken was the only factor in my departure, wouldn't I have left after the first time? Or the second?”

“Then why did you –” he starts, puzzled.

“I don't think now is the time for the full story,” he says. “What I can tell you is that because of you, and your victory over me a year and a half ago, I began to realize the error of my ways. That things like a perfect record were meaningless.”

“So, what, you left to go find yourself?”

“Yes, in part,” he says. “While I was away, I learned what a prosecutor is meant to be. And now you must do the same in what time we have left.”

“What, you get a whole year and I have a day?”

“You don't suffer the same blindness I did,” Edgeworth says. “I have faith you will see your answer before the verdict is read tomorrow.”

Before Wright can interject again, a loud beeping starts coming from his pocket, leading to him producing a radio tranceiver. He makes no effort to exclude Edgeworth from the conversation on the other end, which is strange at first. Less so, once it becomes clear that the person on the other end is Shelly de Killer. It gets strange again when all three of them end up in Edgeworth's car, driving over to Engarde's mansion at top speed because he has a cat.

Once they've cleared the main areas of Engarde's house, they come across a locked interior door.

“Well, I'm pretty used to breaking doors down by now,” Wright says to him, and before Edgeworth can question that statement, he's smashed through it. It looks like he's not the only one making foolish, over-the-top displays in this investigation. It's...rather impressive, really, though he's still wondering how many doors have been left broken in Wright's wake.

Unfortunately, while a note left in the wine cellar confirms Maya was being held there, and that Wright's cat deduction was entirely correct, neither she nor anyone else is still in the building.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “The police are set up along all routes from here, at least, so he won't get far. Leave the rest to us.”

“Let me know as soon as you hear anything,” Wright says, scrawling his phone number on a scrap of paper from his pocket and handing it over.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asks, confused.

“Back to the Detention Center,” he says. “There's someone else there I need to talk to.”

“You could just ask.”

“Huh?”

“For a ride,” he clarifies. “It's past midnight and the Detention Center is a fair distance from here. I'm not going to make you walk all that way with an eight-year-old girl. It will be faster and easier for everyone if you let me help you.”

“Uh, yeah, okay, if you're sure,” he says, as if this is a much more generous offer than it is.

He doesn't even protest when Edgeworth offers to drive him home afterwards.

Wright does a good job of playing for time, once they're back in court. In fact, it's actually quite a good defense; the problem is that they both know it's built out of lies and will have to be dismantled eventually. Unless, of course, the answer Wright found wasn't the one Edgeworth was hoping for, and he truly is playing to win. The final outcome will be the same either way, at least on a professional level, but he's not sure he could pull Wright out of the dark the way he did for him.

Edgeworth tells himself off for considering it. He wouldn't go that far. He's decided to do his job and explore every option, that's all. That's what they're both doing. The gallery isn't taking such a nuanced view, however; every move Wright makes causes an uproar. The audience is convinced of Engarde's guilt, and without knowing Wright's motivation for defending him, they're equally convinced that he's equally bad. When he requests that Celeste Inpax's suicide note be analysed – a completely reasonable request, in his opinion – they actually begin to chant the word guilty, drowning out all further argument. He's dumbfounded; he's never seen a crowd react like this in his life.

Wright's cell phone goes off. His ringtone is the Steel Samurai theme song. Against all reason, he actually takes the call. It's hard to make out what he's saying with the gallery still so riled up, but he hears it when Wright tells him to “catch” and throws the phone at him.

“Wright!” he exclaims, indignant, as he barely keeps it from hitting the floor. Though a phone built like this would probably survive a fall off a building. The caller turns out to be Detective Gumshoe.

“Mr. Edgeworth? Is that you? Listen, you've gotta buy us some more time,” he says.

If Gumshoe is calling, that means there's some lead on de Killer, which means they just need to hold out a little longer. There's nothing more to add. “Court is in session,” he says, hanging up. The ancient phone goes into his pocket to give back later, because he's not about to encourage anyone to start throwing things in a court of law, especially one with a crowd this volatile.

“Your Honour,” he says, now that that small insanity is over with, “the necessary tests should only take about thirty minutes. A recess is all that is necessary.”

“Are you certain? We could just reconvene tomorrow –”

“Please, Your Honour,” Wright adds. With both sides in agreement, he allows the recess. Edgeworth effectively shoves the evidence into the hands of a waiting patrolman to take back to the lab and follows Wright into the defendant lobby.

“What's going on with Maya's situation?” he asks, because they don't have time to waste.

“He got away again,” he says. “I don't think we can find her in time.”

The phone rings. “Report,” he says, answering it. Wright is hovering around anxiously trying to listen in, but Edgeworth doesn't know how to put this brick on speaker so he ends up just raising the volume, holding it up, and having them both lean in. The bailiff raises his eyebrows.

“It looks like we just missed them, sir,” Gumshoe says. “But he left a couple things behind.”

“Evidence?” Wright asks.

“Wait, how are you both on the phone right now?” Gumshoe asks.

“Answer the question!”

“Yeah, pal! I've got them with me right now, and I'm on my way over.”

“Shouldn't those things be with the specialists from the crime lab?” Edgeworth asks.

“Uh, well...I kind of swiped them when they weren't looking.”

“What?!”

“Sorry, sir, but we didn't have the time for that! We've got to put the law on hold for now. But don't worry, I'll be there – I'm pulling out all the stops to get there in time!”

“Try to get here in one piece,” Edgeworth says, but before Gumshoe says anything else, there's a loud screeching and a disturbing crunching noise. He's run his car into something. “Detective?”

“No one can stop...I'm...” he says, the connection cutting off. Trying to call him back yields nothing.

“What do we do now?” Wright says, taking his phone back. “We don't know where he is, and we need that evidence! Not to mention that he might be hurt...”

“I have no idea,” he says, honestly. “Without his cell phone to track I'm not sure what can be done.”

“Wait – Franziska. She had a tracking device on Detective Gumshoe. She showed it to me and Pearls back at the hotel. If you can call her, she might be able to find him.”

He pulls out his own phone and fires off a message to her while Wright takes a seat on the couch against the wall. Hopefully, the clinic staff didn't try to confiscate her phone. “All we can do now is wait, I suppose.”

“Edgeworth,” he says, calling his attention up from the screen of his phone.

“What is it?”

“I shouldn't have judged you. I can't judge anyone anymore. What I'm doing right now...I know my client is guilty, but I'm pinning the blame on someone totally innocent, and using the evidence to do so.” He stops, struggling for words. “It might be my turn to 'choose death' now.”

Hearing him say that is a sharp, sudden shock, like falling into a frozen lake where he only expected solid ground. He hopes that's not how Wright felt when he read his note. “Don't...don't say things like that,” he says. “It doesn't suit someone like you to cry useless tears.”

“I'm not crying,” he protests, though he tries to surreptiously wipe his eyes.

“The point is,” Edgeworth tells him, producing a hankerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and putting it in Wright's hand, “whether you did your job well or not cannot be determined until the verdict is spoken. The same is true for me.”

“What...happened to you while you were gone?” he asks. “I guess I've been trying not to see it, but you are different now.”

He joins Wright on the couch. “At first,” he says, remembering the first few weeks where he was nearly catatonic, “not very much. But then I returned to the law, as an observer, and I realized what the real purpose of our profession was.”

“The truth?”

“Exactly. And that it is impossible to find it alone. The law is not a competition, it's a cooperative.”

“I think you need to work on that a little more, because I still have no idea what you're doing most of the time.”

“It is a process,” he says, checking his phone again.

“Did Franziska get back to you?”

“No, but she rarely does. It's just as likely that she's already found Detective Gumshoe as it is that she never read the message at all.”

“How are we supposed to know what to do if she's not going to tell us?!”

“We don't,” he says, bluntly. “All we can do is make the best decisions we can with what we have now, and hope that she decided to be helpful.”

“I still don't know what that decision is, Edgeworth.”

“Neither do I, but –”

He's cut off by another bailiff running in and telling him he has a phone call. She looks baffled, probably wondering why she had to come to the defendant lobby to get the prosecutor.

“That will be the results of the handwriting analysis,” he says, standing up. “Think about what you have to do.”

It turns out he has a delivery as well as a phone call. The call is, indeed, from the crime lab, where they've discovered the suicide note is a forgery. The delivery is a radio set.

“What on earth is this?” he asks the secretary who gave it to him. Franziska and Gumshoe's evidence...?

“I don't know, sir,” she says. “A man dropped it off and said you'd need it for the trial.”

“What? How so?”

“He said there's a decisive witness on the other end who wants to talk to you. It also came with this.” She hands him another one of de Killer's calling cards.

De Killer wants to talk? It can't be a good idea to speak to him, but at the same time, they're rapidly running out of things to talk about in court. He carries the radio into the witness lobby before switching it on.

“I see you have received my gift,” comes a voice, seconds later. “To whom am I speaking?”

“Miles Edgeworth,” he says. “I am the prosecutor of this case. Am I to assume you are Mr. de Killer?”

“Correct, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“You'll understand if I'm loath to believe that without proof,” he says, knowing that trying to goad him into showing his face isn't going to work, but trying it anyway.

“Ah, yes, of course. I've done a little research, and as it turns out, you are familiar with Miss Fey...” There's a slight shuffling on the other end of the connection, and the voice that speaks next isn't de Killer's measured one.

“Help me,” is all she says. She sounds so weak that this statement alone has redoubled his determination to have them all found guilty.

“Maya!”

“Sufficient evidence, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“Yes, fine. Now, may I ask what you are attempting to do here?”

“I am submitting myself as a witness. Should you agree not to trace this signal, I will testify to the court about my involvement in this incident.”

“By which you mean that you were hired by Matt Engarde to kill Juan Corrida.”

“Precisely.”

The police are currently closing in on de Killer's location. De Killer himself is willing to sit down and speak to the court, giving the name of his client and putting the last nail in Engarde's coffin. Tracing the signal is nearly irrelevant at this point – it might save a few extra minutes, but it will end the same way. “Your condition is accepted. We will make no move to trace the source of this connection in exchange for your testimony.”

“I thank you for your trust, Mr. Prosecutor. Let me know when you have me on the stand.” He cuts the connection.

Once on the stand, de Killer testifies that his client was Adrian Andrews.

Edgeworth is appalled – first at de Killer's blatant lies, and then at himself for trusting him to tell the truth in the first place. Between the perjurious assassin and the forged suicide note, his formerly unbreakable case is crumbling, the evidence vanishing piece by piece. There's nothing he can do now. The only way out is for Wright to hold off on asking for a verdict, and he might refuse, taking Maya's safety over Engarde's conviction. Edgeworth is confident that he'll make the right decision, but doubt still creeps in at the edges of that thought.

“The defense requests that we be allowed to question Mr. de Killer.”

“But...that witness has cleared your client through testimony,” the judge says. “Your job here is done!”

“I'm not done yet,” Wright says, with none of the uncertainty of an hour ago. “To see through this witness' lies and find the truth – that is my job, Your Honour!”

He breathes out, relieved. They're on the same wavelength now, trusting each other to make the right moves.

Wright leads de Killer through a labyrinthine cross-examination, making him give up more and more information and wasting more and more time. Where the hell is Franziska? He can't keep this up indefinitely.

And that proves to be true. He's too used to breaking witness testimony, and this one is no different; he's proven that there's no way Adrian Andrews is the one that hired the assassin, infuriating de Killer.

“I'm sure I mentioned this before,” he tells Wright, “how I hate traitors above all else. Your cross-examination has clearly demonstrated to me that you wish to break your end of our agreement.”

“No, that's not –”

“Enough. If that is your only intention, there's one thing left for me to do.”

“Wait! Don't, please –”

“Well, Mr. Attorney, if you bring this trial to a speedy end, I may stay my hand. Otherwise...” he trails off, leaving the implication obvious.

What to do now... Asking for more testimony is pointless; it will only ensure that he cuts the connection and ends Maya's life. But to ask for a verdict will let both Engarde and de Killer go free and have Adrian Andrews take his place as the accused.

“Mr. Edgeworth,” the judge says, “what is the prosecution's opinion on how to proceed?”

“We...we should...” He wonders if Wright's aware of the high-pitched noise of panic he's making. “The prosecution...rests. No further questions, Your Honour.” Was that the right choice?

“If the prosecution rests, then all that's left is the defense's final remarks,” the judge says, one of the bailiffs bringing Engarde to the witness stand. “So, Mr. Wright, do you have anything to add?”

“There's no need to ask, old man,” Engarde says. “After all, my lawyer is going to say what I want. Aren't you?”

This is the person who's going to get away, unless Wright throws caution to the wind here and refuses to comply. But that would mean sacrificing a friend's life, and Edgeworth can't begrudge him trying to save her, considering he just gave in to do that exact thing a few minutes ago.

“My client is...” he starts, looking at Engarde and then at Edgeworth, as if it will help him decide, “Matt Engarde is...”

The sentence never gets finished, because he's interrupted by the loud sound of the door being kicked open.

“Objection!”

“Franziska!” they both say, surprised to see her. Her right arm is lying in a sling, but in her left hand she's carrying a cloth bundle.

“You see now, don't you, Mr. Phoenix Wright?” she asks. “This is exactly why you never take your eyes off of that scruffy fool!”

“Did you bring the evidence?” Edgeworth interrupts, still high-strung from their near-disaster.

“You should know better than to ask that, Mr. Miles Edgeworth,” she scoffs, coming to join him at the bench. “A von Karma is perfect in every way! The evidence is in perfect condition!” One-handed, she begins unfolding the cloth.

“Is that –”

“Scruffy's coat, yes. I apologize for its ugliness, but there was nothing else to wrap the evidence in. Don't worry about him, either; his injuries are minor and he'll be fine.”

“That's good,” he says, starting to calm down slightly. “Now, let's have a look at the evidence.”

Her haul turns out to be a pistol, a video tape, and a bellboy's uniform. The calm starts to subside again – what do any of these items have to do with anything? The gun is completely unrelated, they already knew about the disguise, and no one knows what's on the tape. Across the room, Wright seems to have come to a similar conclusion.

“The court thanks you for your efforts, Ms. von Karma,” the judge says, “but I don't think any of these items have told us anything new.”

Is this it? After all that work and that last-minute entrance, it ends here?

“Objection!” Wright calls, surprising everyone. “We've all seen this, but someone else hasn't. I'd like to present something to Mr. de Killer.”

“What does the prosecution think of Mr. Wright's proposal?”

Edgeworth has no idea what he's planning, but that's fine. He doesn't need to know. “No objections, Your Honour.”

“Very well,” the judge says, nodding. “Proceed, defense.”

In typical style, he takes the unwatched videotape and manages to spin it into a perfectly convincing bluff, that it's a tape of de Killer committing the murder, filmed by Engarde as blackmail. In fact, that's very likely what's actually on the tape, considering they already know about Engarde's spying and the missing tape from his mansion. Combined with de Killer's hatred of traitors, it's a perfect move.

“Mr. Wright?” de Killer says, once he's finished hearing the explanation. “My contract with my client is over as of now. I seem to have a new job on my hands.”

“You mean –”

“Yes. And I will now return to you your precious item.”

“I'm not an item,” comes Maya's faint voice, before the connection ends.

Now the person with no options isn't Wright, or himself – it's Matt Engarde. With de Killer's change of heart regarding the identity of his client, they could easily have him found guilty, and if the judge refuses to accept that testimony he'll be in the sights of a very determined assassin. Edgeworth would rather he go to jail, of course, but at least some measure of justice would be dealt regardless.

“I'm not sure what's going on,” the judge admits. “This has been a very complicated trial! Mr. Wright, what do you think?”

“Yeah, it was pretty complicated,” he says.

“He meant about the verdict, Wright,” Edgeworth says.

“Oh. Well, I may be a Mr. Engarde's lawyer, but I think a 'guilty' verdict is appropriate here.”

“M-Me?! Guilty?!”

“If you'd rather deal with Mr. de Killer...” Wright suggests.

“No,” Engarde says. “No! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty...” He keeps shouting it, clawing at his own face in a way that will probably haunt them all for a long time after this. They have to have several bailiffs drag him out of the room to allow for the official verdict to be passed. Franziska goes with them to handle the paperwork, and likely to introduce him to her whip.

The police call him while he watches her, letting him know that Maya Fey has been found and picked up, and they'll bring her over to her emergency contact, Phoenix Wright. When he tells Wright and Pearls about it, she punches Wright in the arm and starts to cry. Wright himself just looks relieved, rubbing at where she punched him.

“She's stronger than she looks,” he says, defensive, when he notices Edgeworth looking.

“I didn't say anything.”

Franziska comes in then; Engarde must officially be in custody.

“About earlier,” Wright says to her, “thanks.”

She whips him. “How can you take this so calmly?! You lost! Your perfect record has been crushed!”

He sighs. “I don't think you'll ever understand.”

“How dare you?!” she sputters, more upset at the insinuation that there's something he could understand but she couldn't than the aspersions it cast on her moral fibre.

“She may, in time,” Edgeworth says to him. “After all, I was like that myself, until a year ago. Until I met my match, and he saved me twice over, including through my defeat. It was only out of foolish pride that I didn't realize it until it was too late.”

“'Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death',” Wright recites.

“Yes. But that isn't what happened. From what you tried to show me, and from my own work afterwards, I found the strength to return. For that, I believe I owe you both my thanks and my apologies.”

The half-smile he gets in return feels like an accomplishment, especially considering how devastated Wright has looked for the last few days. And directed at him, no less. Edgeworth is so pleasantly surprised that he catches himself returning it.

“You pathetic fools,” Franziska says, ruining the moment. Perhaps thankfully; it was getting awfully sentimental. “I don't want to hear the wretched whimpering of a disgraced loser!”

“Franziska –”

“A von Karma is someone who is destined to be perfect. You are no longer worthy of being one! And neither am I!”

“Franziska –”

“It's over...it's all over!” she says, throwing down her whip and something else with a loud clatter before running out of the room. He ends up with the “something else”, which turns out to be the receiver for Detective Gumshoe's tracking device, while Wright ends up with the whip.

“Oh, jeez, you're not going to start whipping people now, are you, Nick?”

“Maya!” he exclaims, breaking into a full-fledged smile as he and the two girls collide into a group hug. Edgeworth leaves them to it for a few minutes.

“I'm relieved you're all right,” he tells her, once the hug has disengaged.

“Hey, looks like you've made some real progress,” she says, apparently unfazed by his being there at all.

“Um, yes, well. I suppose I'm a little different from who I was when you last saw me,” he says, suddenly awkward in the face of her compliment.

She laughs. “You can tell me about it later, because right now I'm way too hungry to pay attention.”

“The police didn't feed you?” Wright asks, sounding scandalized.

“They did, but it was like two sandwiches and it's been three days! I could probably eat you right now!”

“No need for that! I'll take you out to get something.”

“Come with us, Mr. Edgeworth,” Pearls says, looking up at him with huge eyes.

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Wright adds, hastily.

“No, I'd like to.”

“Does that mean we get to sit in the car again?” Pearls says.

“Car?” Maya asks. “Did you learn to drive while I was gone, Nick?”

“I know how to drive, I just choose not to.”

“She was talking about my car,” he clarifies, before this escalates into an inane argument. “And yes, I'll drive, if you like.”

“I'm in. The faster we get there the faster I can eat.”

That seems to have decided for all three of them, as everyone starts walking towards the door, Pearls now clinging to Maya's hand instead of Wright's.

“So, what's Mr. Edgeworth's car like? I bet it's really fancy.”

“It's really fast,” Pearls says, still in awe. According to Wright, she hadn't been in a car prior to his and had found the experience fascinating. “And shiny.”

“The word you're looking for is 'gaudy',” Wright says.

“It is not,” he says, as they enter the stairwell. “It's merely...”

“Flashy?” Maya guesses.

“Blinding,” Wright suggests.

“Ostentatious?” Pearls offers, the polysyllabic word making him do a double-take.

“...Conspicuous,” he finishes, holding the door to the courthouse's underground parking lot open.

“I'll say,” Maya mutters, once they're standing next to the car. “Pretty cool, though.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You're welcome!”

“Now,” he says, once they're all settled in and buckled up, “where am I going?”

Dinner is surprisingly pleasant; Gumshoe turns up partway through, proving that the injuries from his accident weren't too severe, and everyone is in good spirits, even Maya, who would have every right not to be.

As things are winding down, his pocket starts beeping. For a moment he's very confused, before remembering that he picked up the receiver Franziska dropped earlier. Curiously, it's not pointing to Detective Gumshoe's location, several feet away, but somewhere else entirely. Franziska must have taken his coat, he realizes, and a quick mental calculation says she's headed for the airport.

He has to leave, go catch her before she makes the same mistake he did. That is why he came back here in the first place, after all, even if he found himself caught up in the trial instead. He makes some excuses to everyone else and makes his way to the exit, only for Wright to catch up to him in the hallway, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, hang on a second,” he says. “You aren't leaving, are you?”

“I am leaving this building, yes,” he answers, “but I'm not leaving the country, if that's what you're asking.”

“Okay, good,” he says. “Don't – don't go anywhere without warning me first, all right?”

“All right,” Edgeworth agrees, bemused. Though it's not as if he hasn't established a precedent for that sort of thing. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“Uh, mostly. But I also wanted to give you this,” he says, holding out Franziska's whip. “Tell her I said thanks.”

“How did you know I was going to see her?”

He shrugs. “It wasn't that hard to figure out.”

“Indeed,” he says, pocketing the whip. “Thank you, Wright.”

“Good luck.”

She's still waiting at the airport when he gets there, fidgeting impatiently in one of the chairs in the waiting area, though she springs to her feet when she notices him.

“You're running away,” he observes.

“Shut up,” she tells him. “You don't understand. You don't understand what it means to be 'Manfred von Karma's daughter'!”

“Franziska –” he interjects, because he does know a little something about that, but she doesn't want to hear it.

“So many expectations from everyone around me, expectations that I must fulfill! I'm expected to win no matter what! Failure is not an option for me!” She lowers her voice slightly, realizing people are looking at them. “My father was a genius, there's no doubt about that. But me...I'm no genius. I've always known that.”

He finds that hard to believe, coming from someone who passed the bar at thirteen. She must be struggling more than he thought, if she's exposing her insecurities like this.

“You may not be your father,” he says, the subject of Manfred still delicate territory between them, “but you are a prosecutor. You always have been and always will be.” The same way he is, that stubborn part of him that lived on no matter how hard he tried to kill it.

“No, I'm not. Not anymore,” she says. “I've even thrown my whip away.”

“Speaking of that,” he says, pulling it from his pocket, “Wright gave me this to hold onto.”

She takes it, reluctant.

“I'm going to say this again,” he continues. “We prosecutors do not fight for personal honour or pride. It took me far too long and cost me too much to realize that, so I am telling you this in the hope that you will spare yourself the trouble. I hope you will think deeply about what it is you should be striking down with that whip.”

“You and that attorney are a perfectly matched pair of fools,” she says. “He thinks you've changed, but you haven't changed a bit, always leaving me alone and walking ahead without me. I...I've always hated you!”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. They've always had something of a turbulent relationship, but he'd always classified it as simple sibling rivalry. Nothing personal.

“And then my chance to take revenge on you arrived,” she continues. “If I could win against him, make Phoenix Wright bow down in defeat...then the girl you left behind would have risen higher than you!”

Again, he had misinterpreted. He had thought her determination to crush Wright was about her father, but it was always about the two of them. And now he's the one who finally managed to get that win and break that perfect record, and he doesn't even care. He wonders how things would have turned out if de Killer hadn't shot Franziska, letting her earn her victory and get her revenge. Probably not all that differently.

“I can't do it,” she says. “I can't change who I am and throw away everything I've been until today.”

“I believe you can. Today, you chased after me, after I left you behind all these years, and that's why we're standing here side by side. But I have no intention of stopping. If you decide you are quitting here and now...this is where we part ways, Franziska.”

She narrows her eyes, thinking, then draws herself up to full height for her proclamation. “Don't think I'm going to walk in your shadow forever. Our battle begins now. So you better prepare yourself, Miles Edgeworth!”

It's not enough to make her stay, but he has confidence that his lesson has gotten through to her. She'll keep prosecuting, hopefully without making the mistakes of her father and brother. He stays long enough to watch her plane vanish into the sky.

The next day, he makes three phone calls: one to request a new research position, having finished with France, one to tell the Parisian Prosecutors' Office when he'll be back to collect his things, and one to make an appointment to speak to the Chief Prosecutor here about cleaning out that office, since he never did so.

Once again, Freeman offers to reinstate him. He has to admit that the offer is tempting, to be able to return to an improved version of his former life, and now that he's made his return to court he finds he's missed it. Regardless, Edgeworth feels his skills are better used in research, with its far-reaching implications, and there's no reason he couldn't accompany any future Leclair-equivalents to court, so he turns it down. The Chief Prosecutor wishes him luck and tells him he's welcome back any time, and that he can leave his office intact if he wants to. She even went so far as to return his badge and put his disappearance down as an unpaid suspension in the records, to make it look like he'd been officially disciplined for the SL-9 scandal. If he wasn't already committed to leaving, he'd want to stay just to investigate her suspicious generosity. He might, still, when he returns.

Though he decides to leave his office the way it is for the time being, he still climbs the stairs to the twelfth floor to revisit it. Someone has evidently been coming by, since it's remarkably clean for a room that hasn't been used in a year. He shakes his head; Gumshoe will never realize he has an actual job to do. The one thing that remains legitimately untouched is his chessboard, the pieces still arranged in the attack formation he put them in when he had vowed to destroy Wright in court. How foolish he had been then. Checking to make sure no one has tried entering the room, he dusts it off, putting the pieces back into their starting positions, two perfect rows at either end of the board.

When he walks into the offices of Wright and Co. a few days later, he walks into a three-person game of trashcan basketball.

“Maya, there's no such thing as a slam dunk in this game,” Wright is saying, before he notices someone is standing in his doorway. “E-Edgeworth!”

“I'm starting to understand why you so rarely take cases,” he says, looking at all the crumpled paper on the floor.

“Hey, we do this because we don't have any clients, not the other way around.” He throws his last “ball”, which bounces off the edge of the can and onto the ground. Maya imitates a buzzer, while Pearls tells him it was a very nice shot. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asks, ignoring them both.

“You asked me to warn you before I went anywhere.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He turns to see the girls looking at them, clearly interested in where this is going. “Let's go talk about this outside.”

“Spoilsport,” Maya calls cheerfully as they walk out.

“So,” Wright says, once they're across the hall in the stairwell, “you're going?”

“Soon, yes.”

“Oh.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he says, leaning against the railing of the landing they're on. “I guess I just thought you might have changed your mind.”

He doesn't say anything to that.

Wright picks things back up. “It was nice seeing you again, at least.”

“That isn't how you felt before.”

“Can you blame me? It was hard for me when you left – it seemed like we were finally on equal terms, that we were –” He changes tack. “And then two days after Lana's trial Gumshoe shows up at my door and tells me you died...and when you show up again it's at the worst possible time. I think I was worried it was going to be like the last time you disappeared, when you went from the friend who defended me to,” he makes some sort of gesture, looking for an appropriate descriptor, “the way you were.”

“That doesn't even make sense,” he says. “Those situations aren't comparable.”

“I know that,” he says, slightly annoyed. “But until this case I didn't really understand what had happened to you, and you turned out to have changed so much – I mean, you even apologized, and I didn't think I'd ever hear you do that.”

Was I that bad? “I suppose I should thank you again,” he says. “And for what it's worth, it was good to see you again as well.”

“Maya's right, you are improving.”

“Hm,” he says, non-committally.

“I need to ask, though,” Wright says, after a moment. “Are you coming back again?”

“Eventually. I enjoy my work overseas, but I don't think I'll be doing that forever.”

“Okay, good to know. But...don't go that whole time without keeping in touch, all right? I worry about you.”

“If either of us needs to be worried about, it would be you,” he says, uncomfortable with the concern. “I'm not the one who finds himself getting beaten with fire extinguishers in the middle of the courthouse.”

“You know about that?” Wright asks, surprised.

“Yes, your more absurd adventures are considered newsworthy even in Europe,” he says.

“Huh, I didn't know anyone paid attention to my cases.”

“Considering the sort of client you usually take, I'm surprised you aren't talked about more.” Against his better judgement, he takes out one of his business cards, writing his cell phone number on the back. “As for your request, you may want this.”

“Wait, really?” he says, sounding so perplexed it makes Edgeworth wonder if he miscalculated until Wright very carefully puts the card in his pocket.

“Please remember that there is an eight-hour time difference, should you use that.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he says, and smiles. As before, seeing it makes him feel like he's achieved something, except now there's no real reason that it should. It's been several days and Wright's lost that run-down look he had during the case; he's probably smiled plenty of times since Edgeworth last saw him. The back of his mind prickles.

“I guess I'll see you when you come back, then,” Wright continues. “Have a good trip.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Tell the others I said goodbye.”

“I will.”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

“No promises.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

He laughs. “Bye, Edgeworth. And thanks again. For everything.”

Edgeworth doesn't bother trying to convince him that the thanks are unnecessary. “Goodbye, Wright. I'll...be in touch.”

Chapter Text

A week later, he's cleaned out his closet-office in France and accepted his new position in Borginia. Since they actually learned about his arrival more than twenty-four hours in advance, the Prosecutors' Office there has given him a legitimate office to work out of, a grad student who's working as his translator and general assistant in exchange for some kind of course credit, and between them and his corporate benefactor, a short-term apartment so he doesn't have to live out of a hotel this time around. If it weren't for that half-answered question lodged in the back of his thoughts, Edgeworth would say that things were, objectively, in the best state they had been in years.

He gives it another week before contacting anyone, and then he sends two messages. The first one is for Franziska, telling her to ensure she gets continuing treatment for her shoulder, and the second one is for Wright: You can reach me at the Prosecutor's Office in Borginia, should you need me. Franziska gets back to him with surprising speed, which he takes as confirmation that she usually reads his messages and just chooses to ignore them rather than the alternative of her not receiving them in the first place.

He wasn't being facetious when he referred to this news as “interesting”; he is genuinely curious about who might have such secretive business with her. Without further information, however, he can't put it together, so he files that mystery away to be solved at some point in the future.

Wright's answer comes in an hour and a half later: good to know. He considers it for a moment, trying to determine whether he's supposed to respond to that, before deciding that he's upheld his part of their bargain and leaving it alone.

There's another month between that exchange and the next.

Apparently he never explained that unorthodox workspace situation. Not that it was ever particularly relevant to what they were talking about.

He doesn't write back for several minutes.

Several more minutes.

Although, now that Edgeworth is thinking about it again, it may have just been out of spite for having been foisted upon them. It's hard to say.

He decides not to let Wright have the satisfaction of being a lot quicker on the draw here.

Having “stayed in there forever”, this is probably a point to reorient the conversation before it becomes unbearably humiliating.

Is that what he had meant by “keeping in touch”? At least that clears that up.

Edgeworth hopes that doesn't mean he's answering the phone in court again.

It took less than five minutes in a word processor, but Edgeworth suspects providing further details is only going to harm his case here.

The game lasts the better part of the week, sending and receiving Battleship coordinates and their results, interspersed with a handful of conversational tangents (“i don't think you can play monopoly over the phone”). The whole experience is surreal, both because he hasn't had a conversation that didn't serve a practical purpose in fifteen years and because interacting with Wright usually means there's some sort of crisis in progress. But now the two of them are in regular, casual contact, playing a game in their spare hours. Well, Edgeworth's spare hours; the timestamps on most of Wright's messages imply that he should be in the office when he sends them.

He crosses out another box on the grid and tries to estimate how long it will take to get used to the idea of having a friend.

A moment passes.

It takes him a few more minutes to elaborate.

Nobody says anything for a few minutes.

He thinks about offering to help, but he doesn't think there's anything to be done short of getting arrested again, and both of them would probably be better off if he didn't.

Edgeworth has a suspicion that he should not find losing a semi-facetious argument to Wright remotely enjoyable. He should find it aggravating or embarrassing or fundamentally disturbing. Something negative, and normal. But all he feels instead is slight amusement, an interest in having more pointless arguments in the future, and –

Oh, god.

He likes Wright.

At first, he actually feels a small sense of relief – this is the answer to that question that's been waiting patiently, half-forgotten, in his subconscious, and now the irritation is gone. That is quickly replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror. He doesn't know anything about how to proceed from here; accidentally developing a romantic interest in someone, particularly this someone, had never seemed a likely possibility, and he's not prepared for it in the least. And what if people found out about it? That he's got some sort of juvenile crush on a colleague?

This is a disaster, he thinks, dropping the phone onto the couch beside him. Another foolish thing he's done, harbouring feelings for the person who already holds the titles of friend, rival, and rescuer, the person who's already been every exception to his rules, the person who's thrown his life into disarray multiple times.

The sensible thing to do would be to cut Wright out of his life and hope the unwanted feelings go with him, but experience has already proven that strategy doesn't work, and that Edgeworth will go back eventually. Since explaining the situation is out of the question, the only option is, essentially, to do nothing. He'll stay in contact, but initiate nothing himself, and maintain his physical distance by staying out of the country. This infatuation can't possibly last that much longer anyway.

His phone goes off. Checking it reveals that he has not one, but three messages, spaced a few minutes apart. Apparently he's been caught up in this crisis for longer than he thought.

He's not about to reveal the reason for his sudden abandonment of the conversation, so he focuses instead on feeling disgusted with himself for reading those messages four times.

Yes, he did want to know; he was just hoping it would have been sooner than this – it's been two months since Edgeworth made that suggestion in the first place, and seven months in total. That can't be a sustainable business model.

He doesn't hear anything more while the case is actually being tried, but a few days later he gets a message.

How...ominous.

There's no way he's going to wait for Wright's painstakingly typed-out messages for this, so he just calls him.

“Explain.”

“Hey, you can't just phone me from there! I'm pretty sure I don't have a good long-distance plan.” The fact that hearing his voice again makes his heart speed up makes Edgeworth want to walk over to the nearest wall and bash his head into it a few times.

“I will pay your phone bill if necessary, and it pains me that you don't know what you're paying for in the first place.”

“That's a generous offer from someone who once tried to bill my office for a stick of gum.”

“That was to keep that old woman from construing it as a gift, and we both know I never followed through.”

“Which was good, because I was still paying off those doors Morgan Fey billed me for a couple months earlier...”

“What did you – this is getting off-topic. Tell me about this case.”

“It's a long story.”

“Which is why I wasn't going to wait for you to type it out.”

“Okay, well, it started because Maya lent the Sacred Urn of Kurain to an art show...”

It turns into a long, rambing story about a locally-famous masked thief, a private detective, someone breaking the vase (for the second time), a body in a safe, several instances of blackmail, and the culprit being stupid enough to try and get out of a murder conviction with one for larceny. At one point Wright has to turn storytelling duties over to Maya to get a glass of water, which turns into a digression about motorcycles until Wright takes the phone back to talk about double jeopardy.

“...so in the end Ron didn't get convicted of the murder he didn't commit, but he also walked for the thefts he did commit, and it was mostly my fault.”

“I see,” he says.

“Huh, I really thought you were going to freak out, or at least call me stupid a few times.”

“I believe we had come to the conclusion that neither of us was in a position to judge the other. My opinion on the matter is irrelevant.” He pauses. “Though I can still insult your intelligence, if that's what you want.”

“It feels like somebody should. I really screwed that one up and nobody seems to care.”

“It is difficult to fault someone for doing their job. You provided a plausible defense and had evidence to prove it.”

“Yeah, but I was wrong.”

“You were,” he agrees. “However, that is why prosecutors exist. While some of the fault lies with you for misinterpreting the evidence, some also lies with them for not serving their function and proving it.”

“This guy does seem more interested in coffee than working,” he says. “But I think you're the only prosecutor who feels that way about your job.”

“I'm working on that.”

“And good luck to you there, because the sooner you succeed the sooner I stop having mugs of coffee thrown at my head.”

“He's throwing them at you?” he asks. Another reason to be concerned about the state of the Prosecutors' Office.

“Yeah. Between that and the whip I'm really starting to miss you.”

Edgeworth considers the wall again. “I'm sure you'll have the same effect on him as you did with Franziska and myself.”

“Convincing him to leave the country?”

“That isn't what I meant, but he would find it difficult to throw anything at you from that distance.”

He laughs. “Yeah. But first I need to...no, you know what, never mind.”

Something strange must be going on again. “Is everything all right?”

“It's nothing. Or I think it is, at least.” Before Edgeworth can attempt to press for further information, he starts talking again. “Also, I should really let you go, because it's like two in the morning for you.”

“It's one thirty-eight,” he says, looking at the wall clock.

“I was rounding up. Thanks for the talk, though – I feel better now.”

“You're welcome,” he says, not sure what part of that conversation would have had that effect.

“How's Borginia?”

“Warmer, and with fewer arsonists.”

“Catching a lot of them?”

“Yes. Although lately I have been wondering if your insane murder cases are contagious.”

“Why?”

“Since I arrived here, I have not had a single file containing something out-of-the-ordinary cross my desk. But for the past four days I have been investigating a murder committed with a mackerel.”

“Like...the fish?”

“Yes, the fish! Never did I think I would have to explain to the court that I could not produce a murder weapon because the defendant ate it.”

“You can't blame me just because somebody across the ocean used an improbable weapon and you had to do something ridiculous.”

“No, I suppose not. I've just grown so accustomed to your involvement in these situations that the concepts have become inseparable.”

“Nice to know you're thinking about me,” he says, wry.

“Unfortunately,” he says, more genuinely.

“Remember that neighbour with the confetti cannon?”

“You mean the cannon you kept setting off, even after you knew it was there, for at least two separate holiday seasons?” He still remembers the time in October when Wright was in the middle of telling him about something Maya did only to walk right into a faceful of Halloween confetti and start swearing loudly. The next phone call had been about the fine the building's superintendent slapped him with for the noise violation.

“Yeah, that one. They've put up their Christmas decorations.”

“What sort of monstrosity have they rigged up this time?”

“I haven't gotten up the courage to actually open the door, but from what I can see through the peephole, the police department has started selling Blue Badger-themed holiday decorations.”

“I've changed my mind. If you decide to sue your neighbours I would be glad to help.”

“Now, now, Edgeworth, you know filing frivolous lawsuits is illegal,” he says, trying for deadpan and not succeeding.

“It would be worth it.”

“No, it wouldn't. The whipping Franziska would give you alone would make it not worth it.”

“True.”

“Well, I need to go pick the girls up from the train station, so I guess I need to open the door. Wish me luck.”

There's a muffled foom noise and an exasperated “goddammit”.

“The cannon makes its triumphant return, I assume?”

“Consider that knowledge your Christmas present.”

“You,” Wright says, telling him about the results of his latest case, “should be glad you weren't here for this.”

“What happened,” Edgeworth says, settling in for another long-winded story.

“Well, one of my old clients was accused of another murder,” he says, “but somehow – and I really don't know how this happened, and I asked – when she tried to have me called in, she got an impostor instead.”

“Who would want to impersonate you?”

“I'm getting to that,” he says. “As you probably guessed, the impostor lost, so she went to prison for a month before Gumshoe basically broke into my office to yell at me because he thought it was my fault.”

“Does he often barge into your office for that purpose?”

“What? No, he was just upset because the defendant was Maggey.”

“Who?”

“The girl he likes. I'm kind of surprised you don't know about it; you talk to Gumshoe way more than I do.”

“We don't spend that time discussing our romantic lives, Wright.” Thankfully. “Presumably you were able to have her first verdict overturned in light of the impostor?”

“Yeah. I still don't even know how everyone was fooled by this guy. He was orange, for one thing.”

“Yes, you would think that would have been a clue for most people. There are many words to describe you, but 'orange' is not one of them.”

“I'm glad somebody noticed, because apparently nobody here did. Anyway, the whole thing only got more absurd from there.”

“I don't know how it could.”

“I had to present an old man's French maid fetish as evidence.”

“I suppose that would qualify,” he says, quietly horrified.

“Do you know how long it took me to get that information? The resources I had to utilize? How much birdseed he threw at me?”

“No, and I don't want to.”

“Fair enough. I'm still trying to forget about it myself.” He can hear Maya on the other end, asking if Wright is telling him about the old man or “the oily chef”. “No, we're talking about the old guy. I didn't even bother trying to tell him about that one.” She says something else. “Yeah, most likely. He'd probably freak out, like he does with that old lady.” Some more muffled speech. “Don't let him hear you say that, Pearls.”

“What are you three talking about?!”

“Trust me, you'll be happier if you don't know.”

“If it involves that old woman, I'd like to be prepared.”

“She's not actually involved. And don't worry, I wouldn't let you fall into her clutches. Pearls might, though.”

He has no idea how to respond to any of this. Why are they talking about this? Why is he dissecting that promise for implicit meanings it probably doesn't contain? Why does Pearls want to leave him at the mercy of the security lady? “Thank you?”

“Anytime, Edgeworth,” he says, cheerful. “Now, anyway, back to the actual case. Turns out that there was this loan shark who needed money...”

“Happy New Year!”

“Wright, it's January third.”

“Well, I wasn't going to call you on New Year's Eve, because you'd probably be asleep and you'd probably have me arrested for waking you up, and then I lost my phone for a couple days.”

“When you say 'lost' --”

“I mean it spent two days on the fire escape. I was trying to find out if it was a better way out than using the front door, and I guess it fell out of my pocket. If you were wondering, it's probably easier just to deal with the cannon. Certainly hurts less.”

“Are you implying that you fell off the fire escape?”

“Kind of? I wouldn't worry about it, I was already most of the way to the ground.”

Yes, of course, why would I be worried about you breaking your neck climbing out the window? “In the future,” he says, very carefully maintaining a neutral tone, “I would prefer that you don't tell me about it when you do something stupid. I don't think I could handle the strain.”

“You don't want to hear about it, or you don't want me to do it? Because I'm pretty sure I already told you I that I couldn't promise that.”

“While I would feel better if I knew you weren't falling out of buildings or accidentally convincing suspects to commit assault with a deadly weapon, I also know better than to try and stop you. So yes, I'm only asking that you don't tell me about it.”

“Fine, I promise to keep all of my stupid decisions to myself from now on. Wouldn't want you to catch a case of the vapours every time I trip over something.”

“Your concern is touching.”

The next time Wright contacts him, it's a brief message about taking his assistants up a mountain for some undisclosed reason, and that he'll be out of touch. Edgeworth has to admit he's a little surprised; he would have assumed Wright would want to be able to complain about being dragged around in the snow to someone who wasn't able to punch him in the arm and tell him to shut it. He'll probably hear all about it afterwards anyway, so he just marks the message as read and carries on with his day.

With this in mind, it's even more alarming than it normally would be to wake up in the middle of the night to his phone ringing. Nobody outside of work calls him except Wright and Franziska, and she knows better than to phone someone at three in the morning.

He answers the phone. “Edgey! Get up! It's an emergency!”

Larry? He must be having some sort of incredibly strange dream.

He's about to hang up and return to sleep, hopefully forgetting all about this in the morning, when Larry manages to catch his attention. “It's Nick! His life is in danger!”

“What?!” he shouts, getting out of bed, and his neighbours will almost certainly be shoving an angry note under his door for that. He asks his second question more quietly, gathering what he'll need to fly home for at least a few days. “What happened?!”

Larry's answer is a lot of incoherent rambling about bad luck and flowers and begging Edgeworth for help. Does he think I'm some kind of doctor? He assures him he's on his way, for whatever good that will do any of them.

Chapter Text

Nobody in this hospital seems to be particularly concerned with efficiency, he notes as he stands, arms folded, in front of the reception desk trying to find out where his critically-injured friend is.

“Giving me that dirty look isn't going to make me go any faster,” the nurse stationed there says, flipping through some files and not actually looking at him.

Edgeworth doesn't respond to that, focusing his mounting irritation and fear into the white-knuckled grip he has on one sleeve and trying to determine who he would have to speak to to have her fired.

“Ah, here you are,” she says. “Phoenix Wright, room 601.”

He keeps a dignified pace until he reaches the stairwell, at which all bets are off. The sixth floor has a strangely casual air for an intensive care unit – there are people ambling up and down the hallway, a few people drinking coffee at the machine in the corner, and several bored-looking student volunteers manning another reception desk. Maybe he should stop running.

Room 601 has two beds in it, but only one patient: a very familiar face, apparently asleep in the bed by the window. There's almost a complete lack of medical equipment in here, furthering the impression that this is a general ward of the hospital and that Larry made him fly all the way out here for nothing after he swore to himself he wouldn't go anywhere near Los Angeles until he overcame those feelings. Which he very clearly hasn't, if the way his heart seems to be trying to twist in on itself is any indication.

He should leave, he thinks, taking off his overcoat. No one would even know he was here, he thinks, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Most of the panic has worn off now; Wright is obviously alive and seems to be in acceptable condition. Edgeworth will have to find a way to extract his vengeance on Larry later for his blatant exaggeration, but right now he's too burnt out to think of an appropriate punishment.

This rapidly-disintegrating thought is destroyed entirely by Wright waking up. “Hey, Edgeworth,” he says, casually, propping himself up on one elbow. He sounds very congested and slightly dazed, like he's on some kind of medication.

“You don't seem surprised to see me.”

“Huh? I've already had th-” He stops. “Uh, never mind. But what are you doing here? You didn't come all this way to yell at me, did you?”

“Of course I didn't come here -” run out on my job in the middle of the night, hire a private jet, terrorize two taxi drivers, four airline employees, a pilot, and several members of the hospital staff “- to yell at you. Larry told me you were in a much more serious condition than you are.”

Wright almost smiles at that, settling into an actual sitting position. “He did watch me fall off a burning bridge into a river in the middle of winter; I think we have to let him have this one.”

“What?!”

“He didn't tell you about the bridge,” he groans. “Okay, well, first of all, I had to do it to get Maya before the bridge burned out. And look, I'm fine. I mean, I've got this cold and the nurses say my back is pretty banged up where I hit the water, but mostly fine, I'll be out of here in no time.”

“So Maya is -”

“Still trapped on the other side of the river,” he says, with a sort of dopey mournfulness. Edgeworth wonders if they had to drug him for his actual injuries or to keep him from trying to escape the hospital and reattempt this rescue. “And Pearls is up at the temple alone, Iris is in the Detention Center, and whoever killed Ms. Deauxnim is still on the loose.”

Larry had said something about an “Iris” on the phone, hadn't he, but the rest is a surprise. “There was a murder as well?”

“Did Larry tell you anything useful? What am I saying, of course he didn't. Yeah, someone killed one of the other guests at the temple, and they arrested one of the nuns who lives there for it. But,” he says, trying to gather some conviction from under the painkillers, “she didn't do it. She couldn't have done it.”

Edgeworth has a bad feeling about this. “You've taken her case.”

Wright nods, the motion loose and uncoordinated. “But I'm not getting out of here before the trial starts tomorrow...”

“Her case will be passed to someone else. They wouldn't try her without representation.”

“No, no,” he says, face going even whiter than before. This must be distressing him. “I just need someone to step in for the first day, then I can do it. I have to do it, I can't let this go to some stranger.”

The devotion to his client is not unusual, but the specification of some stranger is. “Why not?”

“I can't tell you that.”

He frowns. What kind of secret could he possibly be keeping about some nun in an isolated temple he's presumably never been to before? “Fine. That doesn't particularly matter, anyway,” he says. “But who do you intend to be your substitute? Despite the misleading name, there are no other lawyers at Wright & Co.”

“No, I don't have anyone, but -” Wright reaches over to the nightstand on the opposite side of his bed, grabs something, and holds it out. Edgeworth puts out his own hand, tentatively, and takes it.

It turns out to be a gently-glowing green stone, shaped like the ones he's seen the Feys wear around their necks, and an attorney's badge. I don't have anyone but you. “You can't be serious. I could lose my badge for this. You could lose yours. I don't know anything about the case, you won't tell me about the client, I'm not a -”

Wright grabs his still-outstretched hand with both of his, pressing the stone and the badge into his palm. “Please. I need your help. Iris needs your help. I know this is asking a lot, but nobody else can do it. Please, Edgeworth.”

They're both going to regret this. He should have taken his chance to leave while he had it. “Today and tomorrow. Then I'm giving this case to the first actual defense attorney I can find, whether it's you or not.”

“Thank you,” he says, palpably relieved. “I really owe you one for this.”

“It's hardly the first foolish thing I've done for you,” he mutters.

“Correspondence Battleship was not that bad.”

“That's not what I was talking about, yes it was, and please give me my hand back.”

Wright looks down, evidently having forgotten about it, and sheepishly removes his hands. “Sorry.”

“I should leave, to allow enough time for the investigation,” he says, still apprehensive about the whole thing. “But before I do, why did you give me this rock?”

“It's a magatama,” Wright says, and he looks about three seconds from losing consciousness. Edgeworth's acceptance of his request must have eased his mind enough that he's letting his illness carry him off again. “You can use it to see into peoples' hearts. Break their psyche-locks, learn their secrets.”

What nonsense. “That -” he starts, but Wright's already fallen asleep again. He shoves the magic rock into his pocket, and before he can think better of it, pins the badge to the lapel of his jacket and shrugs his coat on over it.

His lack of preparation for taking on this case becomes apparent as soon as he gets to the Detention Center. When the woman at the front desk asks who he's there to see, he realizes he doesn't know Iris' last name. He gets lucky on that one, since apparently nuns don't have surnames. She asks who he is and why he's there, and he wonders if he's supposed to try passing himself off as Wright, or give his own name. He hedges his bets and says “her lawyer”, showing her the badge for emphasis.

“I'll have them bring her out,” she says, opening the gate dividing the waiting area from the visiting area. Someone really needs to bring him the actual files on this case, because he really doesn't think he can keep bluffing like this. Then again, that is what Wright does.

A guard brings his client in shortly after he sits down on his side of the glass. She's a pretty, dark-haired girl around his own age, and Edgeworth has the distinct feeling he's met her before. She doesn't look like she recognizes him, however; on the contrary, she seems very confused.

“Are you...my lawyer?” she asks.

“For now,” he says. “My name is Edgeworth, Miles Edgeworth. I've been asked to take your case.”

“H-How is Mr. Wright?” she asks, turning slightly pink at the mention of his name.

“Bruised from hitting the water, and he's caught a nasty cold, but he should be fine in a few days.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, with the sort of teary-eyed gratitude one does not generally display over a stranger. Ah, he thinks, catching on.

He pushes that idea aside. With any luck it won't be relevant to the case. “Now, please tell me about the night of the murder.”

“Yes, of course.”

Partway through the story, she stumbles over something, grinding her explanation to a halt. Around her, two red locks slam into place. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the sight, but it remains there. This must be that nonsense with the rock.

“So do you have any idea as to what really occurred last night?” he asks, eyes still drawn to the psycholocks.

“I think it was the result of the tremendous spiritual power that was unleashed,” Iris says. At the change of subject, the locks vanish. “Spiritual training has been a cause behind many great tragedies.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't accept that. I'm a man of science. I don't believe in 'spiritual power'.”

“I understand. Most people don't.”

“Then logically, the killer must be a human being. That said, answer me this question: were you the one who killed Elise Deauxnim?”

“No.”

No more locks come up; she must be telling the truth. And I just finished saying I don't believe in spiritual power. This certainly explains a number of things about how Wright chooses his clients and how he can keep such perfect faith in them. It's a little disheartening, really, to think that he had been weighing all of Edgeworth's answers against this thing, two years ago. Or perhaps not – after all, he had been wrong about the events of DL-6, meaning either the stone can tell intentional lies from false memories, or that it can't, and Wright had defended him anyway.

“If you approve,” he says, returning to the present, “I will serve as your lawyer tomorrow, until Wright is released from the hospital.”

“No, please don't give this back to him! He wouldn't want to defend me.”

“He was very adamant that he wanted to,” Edgeworth says, a phantom grip around his right hand. “He only asked me to defend you because of the extenuating circumstances.”

“If he has that much faith in you, then I will gladly entrust my fate in your capable hands.”

“Before that, I have one question.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know Wright?”

“Why would you ask that?” she says, no longer looking at him.

Because between the way he begged me for help and the way you blush and stammer, I'd have to be an idiot not to think so. “Whenever you came up in conversation, he would act a little strangely.”

“Mr. Edgeworth,” she says, “what is he to you?”

“A...very dear and indispensible friend,” he says, carefully. Hopefully the magatama around her neck is just for show.

She gives him a studying look. It seems out-of-place with the soft expressions she's been wearing until now, but simultaneously makes her seem more familiar. Perhaps he should have asked her if she knew him.

“It was five years ago,” she says after a moment. “That's when I...deceived him.”

“'Deceived him'?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“I heard that he was in a lot of pain after what happened – that's why I thought it was best if he never saw me again. I wanted him to forget about me, without learning the truth.”

What on earth happened between those two? “Well, if you ask me, Wright is still suffering, and until he learns the truth I don't think he'll ever truly recover.” He hopes encouraging this will kill off his own feelings. He hopes this will make Wright happy. “It's not too late to tell him the truth, once this matter is concluded. In fact, I'm making it a condition of my defense.”

She gives him that look again. “All right, Mr. Edgeworth. I promise.”

“Then I'll do everything in my power to get you an acquittal.”

There's someone waiting for him when he arrives at Eagle Mountain. “Hey, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“Detective Gumshoe,” he says by way of greeting. “What are you doing up here? Unless, perhaps, you were transferred to another district. I suppose the vast amount of nothing is easy to guard.”

He laughs. “I've missed that biting sarcasm of yours, sir! No, I heard you were back in the country and arranged to come out here. They even let me take charge of the investigation!”

“Of course they did,” he says, mostly to himself.

“But, uh, what are you doing here, sir? This one's Prosecutor Godot's.”

“Who?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess you never met him. He showed up after you left. Scary guy in a mask, drinks a lot of coffee, really got it in for Mr. Wright.”

This must be that prosecutor who kept throwing things. “Is that so?”

“Yep. Nobody seems to know why, though.”

“Interesting,” he says, wondering what Wright could have possibly done to a new prosecutor in the span of a few months to inspire such hatred. “Do you know where this Godot is right now? I need to speak with him.”

“No one's been able to get in touch with him at all today, sir,” Gumshoe says. “If he doesn't show up soon we might have to ask them to give it to another prosecutor.”

Actually, that would work out for the better, wouldn't it. While he doesn't have a way to keep Godot from showing up, he can move the pieces into position for when he doesn't. “Excuse me, Detective; I need to make a phone call.”

It's a little late in the day to make this call, but she'll probably forgive him once he explains why.

“Miles Edgeworth!” Franziska shouts, picking up. “Do you have any idea what time it is, you foolish -”

“Franziska, please. I'm only calling this late to make you an offer that I think you'll want to take me up on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What would you say if I told you you had the chance to crush both myself and Phoenix Wright in one fell swoop?”

“...I'm listening.”

He explains. She's horrified, naturally, at what he's doing, but the proposition proves too tempting, and she agrees to fly in. He makes a second call to attempt to wrangle a judge for this trial who won't know him as a prosecutor on sight; the best he can manage is one who's seen him once before, but hopefully the intervening years will have made him mostly forget about it. Having set things up to the best of his abilities, he rejoins Gumshoe a short distance away.

“Did you find him, sir?”

“I wasn't looking into that. I was arranging for a replacement.”

“But couldn't you just do it? I mean, you're already here and everything.”

“I'm otherwise engaged for the duration of this case,” Edgeworth says, pulling the lapel of his overcoat away to show the badge pinned to his jacket.

“Woah, woah, woah, pal, you can't do that! You're a prosecutor, Prosecutor Edgeworth!”

“I'm aware of that, Detective. However, I owed Wright a favour, and he asked me to take up Iris' defense until he is recovered.” And he held my hand and looked pitiful while doing so, and apparently my heart is as soft as my head.

“So...you're going to be that nun's lawyer?”

“Yes, which reminds me – did you find any previous cases in her past? I feel as though I've seen her before, but I can't place her.”

“Nope. We ran her fingerprints and came up with nothing.”

He had been so certain. Where else could he possibly have met her but in court?

“Well,” Gumshoe continues, “everyone knows you're pretty popular with the ladies. Maybe she's an old girlfriend you dumped when you were younger!”

“D-Detective!” he says, aghast. “Where did you hear such nonsense?!”

“I didn't hear it from anyone. It's just sort of how I imagine you to be. Sir.”

“Refrain from imagining my personal life,” he tells him, attempting to take comfort from the fact that at least Gumshoe is not imagining it correctly.

The investigation does not improve from there. The evidence they find seems more detrimental to their case than helpful, the older nun who witnessed the crime forcibly wrestles a strange-looking hood onto his head when he tries questioning her, Larry is there and has taken an interest in Iris, Maya is not only trapped on the other side of the bridge but locked in a rickety old secondary temple, and Pearls is missing entirely after having been last seen with the victim. He has a newfound respect for Wright, if this is what being a defense attorney is like.

On the bright side, there's still been no word about Prosecutor Godot, which means it will be easier to install Franziska as his opponent, lessening the chances of him and Wright being disbarred in tandem, and he's managed to break the first psycholock on Iris' secret.

“But why would I need to keep anything a secret?” she asks, once he's gotten her to admit she received the blackmail letter he and Gumshoe found in the main hall of the temple earlier. “There's no one around to tell.”

“Perhaps not under normal circumstances,” he says. “However, last night was different. There is one person you wouldn't want your secret told to.”

She bites her lip, looking away.

“Phoenix Wright,” he says, making the lock start to shake where it hangs on the chain. “You mean something to him, it seems, and I can tell he holds a special place in your heart as well.” Of course it became relevant.

“I should have expected as much, especially from a friend of his,” she says. The lock shatters. She tells him where the blackmailer asked to meet; Edgeworth makes a note to investigate it.

“The trial starts tomorrow,” he says, once she's finished. “I promise you, I will win. I am going to win so that you and Phoenix Wright can see each other again. But when I do, I expect you to tell him your secret, the one you haven't told me.”

“But it's pointless,” she says, tearing up again.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I may know who he is, but he has no idea who I am.”

A trip back up the mountain and another round of lock-breaking proves Larry the author of the blackmail letter, which he intended as some sort of love note. Edgeworth considers throwing him into the nearby river. He also mentions seeing a bolt of lightning strike the bridge and ignite it, but when questioned further, five more psycholocks come up. He seriously reconsiders the river, but decides to drag him into court and put him under oath instead.

With the investigation concluded for the day, Edgeworth tries to pay another visit to the hospital to fill Wright in on the less personal details of the case and check on his recovery, but visiting hours have ended when he gets there, and the nurses are still immune to his glare. Tomorrow, then.

Being in the defendant lobby without Wright is strange. Normally he only comes in here when they're on opposite sides of a case, to berate or encourage or plot with each other during a recess; he's never been in here for another lawyer, and definitely not as the lawyer. But he's picked up enough from Wright over the last three years to know he should just focus on supporting Iris, so when the bailiff drops her off with him he gives her the results of the blackmail investigation to ease her fears on that front.

“Oh my,” she says, once he finishes. “Mr. Laurice feels that way about me?”

“Yes, and apparently he isn't aware of your real secret at all.”

“Oh,” she says again, blushing.

“This is no time to be embarrassed!”

“I'm sorry! I'm just...hardly accustomed to this sort of thing.”

That makes two of us. “Worry not. I will drag the truth about what he saw out of him on the stand, mark my words.”

“Um, Mr. Edgeworth?” she says. “You are a prosecutor, aren't you?”

“H-How did you know that?” He hadn't told her about his actual profession, trying to keep the number of people who know about the offense he's committing here to a minimum.

“Mr. Wright used to talk about you, sometimes. He said that you were a famous prosecutor, and that he was studying law so that he could help you,” she says, then gives a small smile. “It looks like he did, just like he always wanted.”

“Ah, yes, he did. Very much so.” He fiddles slightly with the corner of the file folder he's carrying, acutely aware of Wright's badge on his jacket and his magatama in his pocket. “Why do you ask?”

“Are you sure you want to do this? If your identity was revealed -”

“I've taken the necessary precautions.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Iris,” he says, looking her in the eye, “it is a prosecutor's job to doubt people, but right now, I am a defense attorney. My job now is to believe in people, and to believe until the bitter end. That's what a friend of mine once told me.”

She gives that same smile again, as if to say yes, I know what you mean.

“You may pass judgement on me from the defendant's chair. You are the one to decide whether or not I am able to do the task with which I have been entrusted.”

Her eyes fall to Wright's attorney's badge. “There's no one I trust more.”

He hasn't faced off against Franziska since they were both students, running mock trials against each other under her father's stern supervision, and even with the years between and the changes they've both undergone, it still feels a bit like one of those days. It's hard to say how this will end based on that experience, however; while she almost always lost when it was her turn to play defense, claiming that no proper prosecutor would sink to a lawyer's level, even for educational purposes, the results of the opposite arrangement were far more mixed.

The proceedings are long and drawn-out; it feels like he's jumping from idea to idea without knowing if the next one will hold up, all the while being embarrassed by Sister Bikini, tripped up by Franziska, and obstructed by the judge. He's really starting to gain an insight into why Wright only takes a case every few months; doing this more frequently is probably detrimental to one's health.

Unbelievably, the thing that has the judge end the trial for further investigation is Larry's testimony, complete with drawing of a flying nun. Once again, he imagines throwing Larry into the Eagle River, but settles for watching Franziska whip him several times. After all, he does owe him one for this.

Wright lets him know he's been released from the hospital and to meet him at the bridge, which he agrees to. Gumshoe has been working on it since last night, and while it's still rickety and presumably unsafe, it at least mostly exists once again, which will allow them to cross over and rescue Maya. It may even be finished before Wright gets there; he'd like that.

They're aware of his arrival before he actually comes into view, between the sound of him crunching through the snow and the hacking cough. When he actually gets there, he looks like he just ran a marathon walking over from the temple – someone probably should have driven him over with that snowmobile that posed such a problem in court earlier, or better yet, forced him to stay in the hospital.

“Wright,” he says, trying to get a good look at him through the truly absurd scarf he has wound around his face, “are you sure you're well enough to be doing this? You still look a little green.”

“Actually, my fever's gone down quite a bit,” he says. “Only 102.2 degrees! Nothing to worry about!”

It would be more convincing if he didn't have to stop to cough again.

“Anyway, I read today's trial record on the way over here,” he carries on, like he's not swaying around on the spot and sweating profusely. “You weren't bad, Edgeworth. Pretty impressive considering the circumstances.”

“We're not in the clear yet,” he says. For one thing, they no longer have a murder weapon now that he's discredited the ritual sword they found impaling the body.

“Yeah, I know. But I can handle things from here.” He sticks his hand out, palm up.

Is he asking me to slap it?

“Uh, you've still got my stuff,” Wright says, noticing his blank look.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says, first fishing the magatama out of his pocket and then reaching into his coat to unpin the badge.

“You actually wore it,” he says, and even with the scarf in the way it's obvious that he's grinning with delight. “I thought you'd just shove it into your pocket like you do with yours.”

“Yes, well,” Edgeworth starts, not sure what kind of excuse he's trying to give here.

Gumshoe, fortunately, comes in from the far end of the bridge at this point. “Don't worry about anything, pal. I'll dig up the murder weapon myself, or I'll eat my coat!”

“I'll leave you to the investigation, then. There's something I'd like to look into.” And a situation I'd like very much to get out of.

“Yeah,” Wright says, like he knows what that “something” is, but doesn't offer to clear it up.

“All I want is confirmation, one way or the other, and since I probably won't be getting it from you...”

“I'm sorry, Edgeworth.”

“...I'll take my leave. Take care, Wright.”

Trying to look up information on Iris at the precinct yields absolutely nothing. She hardly exists, as far as the wider world is concerned, but that feeling still persists. He's seen her, in court, and he's going to find out when. If he can't find her, then he'll find the case, even if he has to read through every one he's ever worked on.

He doesn't need to. The information he's looking for is right there, in his first case (second case). Not sure he wants to know, considering that his collusion was essential to her escaping conviction for the murder of Sgt. Valerie Hawthorne, Edgeworth pulls up Dahlia Hawthorne's records.

STATUS: Deceased (01/08/2019)

A quick check into that reveals that she was executed by the state for the murder of Doug Swallow, as discovered by the attorney Mia Fey during a trial, case number RG-4. He pulls that file up too.

STATE v. WRIGHT (RG-4)

No is his first reaction, nothing but simple disbelief. But the facts are all right there in the transcript. She tried to kill him, and when that didn't work, framed him for a murder. No wonder Wright grabbed onto this case the way he did, if he thought Dahlia was involved, but it doesn't explain why he and Iris are so fond of each other. If he thought Iris was Dahlia, shouldn't he have hated her, or at least been indifferent once he discovered the girl at the temple wasn't her?

“Hey, you,” interrupts one of the detectives. He's holding a cell phone to his ear, a hand over the mouthpiece.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You Edgeworth?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Aren't any cops dressed like that around here. Anyway, I got an order from Prosecutor Godot here that you need to bring 'the defendant' back up the mountain. Apparently there's a murder suspect in a cave that only she can open, or some stupid thing, so go get her from the Detention Center.”

“Murder suspect?” he says. They're already trying someone for the murder, and the person this detective is referring to would be Maya...Something new has come up in the investigation now that the bridge has been completed, and not something good, if it's incriminating her. That girl cannot stay out of trouble for long, can she? The detective just shrugs and walks off, his job here finished.

He manages to check Iris out of the Detention Center without anyone asking why her lawyer is suddenly working for the Prosecutors' Office, though he does fumble briefly when they ask to see his badge and he goes for his lapel instead of his pocket.

“What's going on?” Iris asks him, following him into the parking lot. “I don't think they're supposed to let me out like this...”

“There seems to be some sort of door only you can open, so I've been sent to bring you back to do so.”

“Oh, the Sacred Cavern,” she says. “Is the bridge repaired, then?”

“I assume so,” he says, pulling the car onto the road. “We'll finally be able to rescue Maya.” And then investigate her as a suspect.

“You know Mystic Maya?”

“Assuming that's Maya Fey, yes. She's been Wright's assistant for the last few years; they're quite close friends.”

“It seemed that way when they arrived at the temple,” she says. “I hope she's all right, and the little one, too.”

He had forgotten they had never found Pearls. “I hope so too.”

They drive in silence for a few minutes before she says anything. “Mr. Edgeworth? Can I ask you something?”

He thinks he knows where this is going. “If I may ask you one myself,” he says.

“Um, yes, okay.”

“When I first visited you in the Detention Center,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road, “you told me that five years ago, you had 'deceived' Wright.”

“Yes, I did,” she says, voice small.

“I've just been looking into some old case files, and five years ago Phoenix Wright was arrested for murder. The actual killer, however, was a woman named Dahlia Hawthorne. A woman who, coincidentally, is your exact physical double. What was your involvement in this incident?”

She bursts into tears. He pays even more attention to driving.

“I...was Dahlia Hawthorne,” she says.

He slams on the brakes. “But if you're Dahlia, then -”

“No, I'm not really her,” she says. “But he thought I was. For eight months. After Dahlia...after she...after she met Mr. Wright, she gave him something, but she needed it back. He wouldn't give it up.”

“She was going to kill him for it,” he says, returning the car to motion. It's a good thing the road up the mountain is so rarely used.

“But I didn't want her to! She had done so many terrible things already, and some of them were because of me, so I asked her to let me try and get it instead, and she wouldn't have to. But he was so stubborn, and never gave it back...and Dahlia was tired of waiting. So she went after him herself, without telling me and -” She can't finish telling the story because she's crying too hard. Edgeworth offers her his handkerchief.

“So the Dahlia who tried to kill Wright and was executed was a separate person from the one who, ah, loved him.”

Iris nods, face hidden by the handkerchief.

“I understand your reluctance to tell him.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” he says, considering. “I don't think that's my place, and it has no bearing on the case at hand. That said, I still think you should tell him, once you've been acquitted.”

“I don't know if I can do it.”

“You can, and you will.”

“He'll never forgive me.”

“You underestimate Wright's capacity for forgiveness,” he says. “I'm sure he told you why he wanted to help me, five years ago. If he can forgive me for all of those things, I have no doubt he will do the same here.”

“...I'd like to ask you my question now.”

“Go ahead.”

“You and Mr. Wright,” she says, then backtracks. “You...care for him. The same way I do. Don't you?”

“Yes,” he says, shortly.

“I thought so,” she says, softly. “I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” They've gone as far as the car can take them; the rest of the trip to the temple is a short walk on foot.

She waits until they're side-by-side on the path before continuing. “Because...you came all this way to see him, and when you arrived he asked you to help me, even though it was dangerous for you to do so. It must be hard for you.”

“My acquiescence to his request was not some kind of...romantic gesture,” he says. “Nor do I expect or desire for my ill-considered feelings to be reciprocated.”

She blinks her big eyes at him. “Why not?”

“I want Wright to be happy,” he says, and now they're in view of the main gate of the temple, where two people are standing. “Please don't say anything further.”

“It seems you have a visitor,” Franziska says, noticing them.

Wright turns around, face lighting up as soon as he lays eyes on her. He took the scarf off at some point, it seems. “Iris! I'm really glad to see you!”

“Godot sent her up with me,” Edgeworth says. Franziska makes a disgusted noise at the mention of his name.

“Never mind him,” Wright says. “We've got to hurry and unlock the Sacred Cavern!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wright; it's all my fault she's locked in there! Mr. Edgeworth, we should go.”

“All right,” he says. “Let's hurry to the Inner Temple, then. I'll see you later, Wright.”

“Wait, what? No, I'm coming with you guys!”

“I can't allow you to come with us,” he says, holding up a hand. “I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but Maya is in a rather delicate position. This isn't only a rescue operation, it's an investigation. We can't allow members of the public to interfere.”

“Come on, Edgeworth,” he says.

“If anything happens, you'll be the first to know,” he says. “Please understand, Wright.”

“But it's Maya!”

“Mr. Wright!” Iris cuts in, surprisingly forceful. “All that matters is that Mystic Maya is rescued, correct?”

“Listen to the voice of reason for a change, Phoenix Wright,” Franziska says, one hand on his shoulder and the other on her whip. His shoulders sag, defeated.

“From now on, consider anything beyond the bridge off-limits.” He gestures for Iris to come with him as they head for the Inner Temple.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asks, once they're a few minutes out. Apparently she wasn't done with this discussion.

“No.”

“But why not?”

“I would think that was obvious,” he says, because there are numerous reasons why disclosing this information would be a bad idea. Wright quite clearly likes Iris, Edgeworth is a barely adequate friend at best and would make an awful romantic partner, it would be unbelievably mortifying, this is still a temporary condition. The better part of a year temporary.“He wouldn't want me to tell him.”

“Don't you think he deserves to know?”

“What we want, what we deserve, and what we get are not always the same thing,” he says. “Why would you even want me to tell him?”

“For the same reason you want me to tell him my secret,” she says. “I want him to be happy, too.”

They cross the bridge in silence. Gumshoe did an admirable job rebuilding it, surprisingly; it hardly moves at all under their feet, making it easier to forget that they're suspended over a freezing river somone already fell into this week.

“Why do you think hearing about my feelings would make Wright happy?” he asks her, once they're on solid ground. It's not like the two of them have any unfinished business that could be solved with a confession, the way he does with Iris. They've already worked through that, between von Karma and Engarde.

“Because,” she says, but that's the only part of her explanation she gets to say, because that's when the earthquake hits. Before blacking out, he has one last conscious thought: at least we weren't on the bridge anymore.

He wakes up in a snowdrift. Judging by the fact that it hasn't melted into his clothes very much, he was only out for a few minutes at the most, but Iris took that chance and ran – he can't see her anywhere.

“Iris!” he calls, getting up. What an idiot he is, escorting a defendant on his own, trusting her.

“Edgeworth!” calls a voice from the bridge.

“Wright!”

Franziska, following close behind, scrunches her face in contempt at his lack of acknowledgement.

“Are you okay?” Wright says, gently brushing snow off the sleeve of Edgeworth's overcoat. “After that earth-”

“She's gone,” he says, mind switching between anger and shock and back again. “She ran away! I let her escape!”

“It wasn't your fault,” he says.

“That's no excuse for letting the suspect get away! We need to set up a perimeter and search this mountain from top to bottom before she gets any further!”

“Did you check the Inner Temple?” Wright asks, still calm.

“Why would I? This side of the bridge is a dead end.”

“No, that's not it. Iris isn't the kind of person to run away, Edgeworth. She's still here, probably checking on the Sacred Cavern – Sister Bikini says it might have caved in during the quake.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He looks at Wright, who's practically resonating assurance. “Then we should search the Inner Temple.”

They do, and they find the Cavern still standing, Iris where Wright predicted she would be, and four more locks on the inner door.

“Please remove these at once,” he says to Iris. It's harsher than the way he usually speaks to her, but she did leave him unconscious in the snow after a very uncomfortable personal conversation.

“I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Edgeworth,” she says, unaffected by it.

“What?!”

Wright turns to him. “Edgeworth, how are you feeling? You look a little pale in the face.”

“Like you're one to talk with your face all green,” he snaps, furious with himself for fainting, with Iris for running away, with the locks on the door, with Wright for being nice to him when that's the last thing he should be doing.

“Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska says, pushing her way between them. “Go and get some air. I will watch over the suspect.”

“Don't be ridiculous! I'm perfectly f-”

She whips him.

“There's no telling what kind of mistakes you could make in your current state. Get some rest! That is your only concern now!”

Edgeworth looks at the three of them, all staring back at him. Wright and Iris are wearing almost matching expressions of concern; Franziska just looks as though she will physically remove him from the premises if necessary. “...Understood. I'll...go lead the investigation in the garden outside.”

He excuses himself, quickly, and goes to stand in the garden as stated. How embarrassing, to have been so blinded by emotion, to have been so affected by that earthquake. It's been seventeen years and the case is solved; shouldn't he be free of this response by now? So stupid, how could I have done that?

“Edgeworth?” Wright says, startling him.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to know if you were okay,” he says. “You know, hug it out.”

Is he mocking me?

Wright takes a step back, hands out in front of him, like he's expecting violence. “Okay, you don't need to look at me like that, I wasn't serious about the hug.”

He tries to normalize his expression. It must work to some degree, because Wright drops back into a normal posture.

“You went back to Criminal Affairs to look into something concerning Iris, right?”

The case, of course. Even that seems like a welcome change after the conversations he's been having today. “Yes. From the moment we met, I felt like I had seen her before, in court.”

“What did you find?”

“I was right, and I was wrong. I had seen her face before, six years ago. My first appearance in court.”

“And?” he says.

“It wasn't Iris. The woman I knew then was a different person; she has nothing to do with this case.”

Wright frowns. “You're wrong about that. She's involved in this, I know she is.”

“I've already told you, she isn't. I can't give any more information away.”

“You know I already know,” he says. “Why can't you tell me what you found?”

“Because there's no evidence that she's connected to this case, Wright! There are rules and procedures that have to be followed!” That's probably a hypocritical thing to say, considering yesterday he was telling an entire courtroom that he was a defense attorney, but he doesn't call Edgeworth on it.

“Then I'll prove it to you,” he says, then, inexplicably, “Edgeworth, what do you know about the Fey clan?”

“Very little, I would say, beyond that it is the family of your assistant. Why?”

“Okay,” he says. “Well, the Feys possess strong spiritual powers -”

“I don't believe in spiritual power.”

“You don't have to for this to explain things,” he says. “The Feys use this in a discipline called the Kurain Channelling Technique. The oldest daughter of the main line of the family holds the title of Master of Kurain, usually.”

Yes, I've met her.

“In the last generation, however,” Wright continues, “the older daughter of the Master was passed over in favour of her younger sister, who had stronger powers. That daughter has been the Master for the last twenty years or so, but her older sister never stopped trying to take the title from her.”

“This still has absolutely no bearing on the case, Wright.”

“No, it definitely does. Not only is Hazakura Temple run by a branch family of the Feys, but they gave us the motive, the suspect, the victim, and, probably, the real killer.”

“What?”

“The older sister who was forced out was Morgan Fey, Pearls' mother and Maya's aunt,” he says. “But it turns out she had two other daughters. Twins.”

“Iris and Dahlia,” he says, understanding.

“Yeah. And the younger daughter, the Master, Maya's mother – she was here too.” He clears his throat. “The victim, Elise Deauxnim.”

He sorts it out. “Your theory is that Ms. Deauxnim – or Fey, as it were – was killed in some sort of dynastic struggle for control over the family, and that Iris and her sister are accomplices working for their mother?”

“Not exactly. I really don't think Iris was involved at all. I don't even think she knows about her real family.”

Except for Dahlia, he thinks, but he promised not to tell him about that.

“But you see, Dahlia is definitely related to this! Please...tell me what you know about her. Please.”

The day he's unaffected by this undignified pleading cannot come soon enough. “It was my first case. I was a novice, and due to my inexperience, the defendant died.”

“Terry Fawles, right?”

“You already know about that?”

“You're not the only one who noticed something about Iris and Dahlia,” he says. “I checked Mia's old files.”

“Yes, she was a key witness in that case,” Edgeworth says. And I let her lie, because I thought it would help me win. “Mr. Fawles had been imprisoned after the two of them had staged a kidnapping, from which she escaped with a valuable item. Five years after that, she re-emerged to kill her stepsister to ensure her silence on the matter, and manipulated Fawles into joining Valerie Hawthorne in death.”

“After Terry Fawles died...what happened to Dahlia? Did you check that out?”

Wright should know better than to lead the witness like this. “Irrelevant. She can't be involved in this case.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “Why are you so sure about that?”

“It's simple. Dahlia Hawthorne is dead.”

“What?”

“Well, her metabolic processes are a matter of interest only to historians, so to speak.”

“She's...dead?”

“I only just discovered this,” he says. “I never knew about the murder case you were involved in in your college years.”

“But you do know about it now.”

“Yes. And I know that she was found guilty, thanks to the persistence of Mia Fey; and I know that last month, her sentence was carried out.”

“Executed,” he says.

Edgeworth nods. “I'm sure that's a bit of a shock for you, for more reasons than one. But do you understand now? She can't be connected to this case – she's dead, and once someone is dead, there's no way to revive them.”

“I don't agree,” Wright says, quietly.

“You're not honestly suggesting that...that utter nonsense about spirit channelling, are you?”

“It's -”

“That medium and her powers were both fraudulent,” he says, anger welling back up at the reminder of that incident. “Because of her, an innocent man was arrested and the case was never solved! Channelling is nothing but lies and cheap tr-”

“Edgeworth,” Wright says, placing his hands on Edgeworth's shoulders, just like he had done in the courthouse lobby before he had unravelled DL-6 for good. “You'll understand someday, and see that the Kurain Channelling Technique is real.”

That seems like a strange thing to have grabbed him to say. “I -”

“And I'm sorry for bringing it up. I should have remembered.”

“I'm sorry as well,” Edgeworth says, because it was his failure that got Wright entangled in this in the first place.

“Seems like we're always apologizing to each other,” he says, like he's just considered the idea.

“I have a lot to apologize for.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but I think everyone already knows you're sorry for that. Or I do, at least. Right?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Then, from now on, you're only allowed to apologize to me for things you've done recently.”

“You can't -”

“If you can tell me what I can and can't tell you, then I can do the same. It's only fair.”

“Perhaps we should agree that these are the only rules before we have to compile some sort of conversational treaty.”

“I wouldn't put it past you to actually do it,” he says, finally returning his hands to his own pockets.

“It would certainly make things more orderly.”

“Yeah, sounds like a great time, Edgeworth,” he says, sardonically. “Come on, let's check out this garden before the police realize we're not supposed to be back here. There's got to be something that'll get Maya out of this.”

When he gets to the courthouse the next morning, Pearl and Wright are looking around the defendant lobby, frowning in confusion.

“If you're looking for Iris,” he says, “she's in the prosecutor's lobby, going over today's testimony.”

“'Today's testimony'?”

“You heard me. She's going to testify as a witness for the prosecution; I hear they are gunning for a confession.” Franziska had kept him up to date last night; the mysterious Godot had turned up yesterday and wasted no time pressuring Iris into confessing. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “In better news, Franziska has successfully removed most of the locks from the door. Maya should finally be rescued soon.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Godot intends to nail this case shut today,” Edgeworth says. “Be prepared to fight like there's no tomorrow.”

“You don't have to tell me that.”

“I know. I can see it in your eyes. You're not the same fever-ridden, frantic maniac you were yesterday.” It's true; he looks much better. Less pale, without that glassy look in his eyes.

“Like you can talk,” he mutters. “It's strange, though. On the way here I decided this was going to be the end of all this. Almost immediately after making that decision, I could feel myself getting stronger.”

“Interesting. Maybe you've passed your cold onto someone else.”

“Was that a joke?”

“It wasn't a serious suggestion.”

“Hey,” the bailiff interrupts. “The attorney needs to get into the courtroom, whichever one of you that is.”

“Better go, then,” Wright says.

“I'll be watching from the gallery. As for the truth of this case,” he says, “I leave the rest in your capable hands, partner.”

Wright was right about a lot of things: this case was all about the Fey family succession, Dahlia Hawthorne was definitely involved, and the Kurain Channelling Technique is undeniably real.

Dahlia wasn't the murderer this time, however; that honour goes to Godot, formerly known as the defense attorney Diego Armando. He leaves the court leaning heavily on the shoulder of one of the bailiffs, blood trickling down his face and staining his shirt black where it falls.

Iris confesses to having switched places with Dahlia during her relationship with Wright, and her feelings for him, right on the witness stand.

“I have something to say to you, too,” he says to her. “You really are the person I always thought you were.”

What the hell does that mean?

He's the last of them to make it to the lobby; Franziska had presumably been out there since her return from the Sacred Cavern about halfway through today's proceedings, and she's standing with Wright and Maya.

“Excellent work today, Wright,” he says, joining them.

Maya jumps. “Huh? When did you get back, Mr. Edgeworth?”

“They've actually been helping me with this case,” Wright says, indicating both Edgeworth and Franziska. “If they hadn't been here for the first day, the defense wouldn't have gotten anywhere.”

“Wow. But, uh, where were you, Nick?”

“I hear he fell into a river and caught a nasty cold that forced him to sleep all day,” Franziska says.

“Yes, he laid in bed shivering while I did all his work for him.”

“Ouch. Talk about embarrassing,” Maya says, throwing a playful elbow into Wright's side. “Hey, where's Pearly?”

“I haven't seen her recently,” Edgeworth says. She had been sitting with him into the gallery until she ran off, turned into her cousin, and spent some time behind the defense's bench with Wright. He's been trying not to think about it.

“I guess I'll go look for her then,” she says, strolling away calling her cousin's name.

“You seem puzzled,” he says to Wright, as the latter watches Maya's search with a furrowed brow.

“I don't get it,” he says. “How can she be so cheerful after everything that happened?”

“I think I understand how she feels. Maya wasn't the only one badly wounded by this incident, and I believe it's for that person she's trying her best not to cry.”

“Pearls,” he says. “Her mother gave her those instructions and told her it was for the good of the family. She probably believed every last word, and because of it Maya's mother was killed and Maya herself was in danger...”

“Correct. And so, Maya is putting on a brave face for her, until they can both smile again.” You should know something about that, shouldn't you? After all, “the only time a lawyer can cry is when it's all over”.

Gumshoe bursts in from the doors to the outside, then, and insists on taking them all out for a celebration, followed shortly by Maya returning from her search. “I can't find her anywhere! I called the village, and they said she isn't there, and she isn't here...”

“I think I know where she is,” Wright says. “You guys go on ahead; Maya and I will go get Pearls and meet up with you there.”

“But you're -” Gumshoe protests, silenced by Franziska's whip.

“Very well. We'll go on ahead,” she says.

“Don't keep us waiting, Wright,” Edgeworth says.

“We won't,” he says, and he and Maya dash out of the courthouse together.

They do. Gumshoe and Franziska leave before Wright and Maya get back, telling him to congratulate them when they get there. He probably should have left with them, even if it would have been rude, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe he should just admit that keeping his distance wasn't, isn't, working. It's not like he can't repress his crush from here just as well as he could in Europe.

“Just you?” Wright says, as the three of them join him at the table. “I mean, I can't blame them for not wanting to hang out at Très Bien, but...”

“Yes, I drew the short straw and was made the designated table-warmer,” he says, but Wright's snort of laughter indicates he doesn't buy that excuse.

The girls order something from the overly-friendly French chef when he comes by the table, but Wright doesn't.

“You couldn't pay me to eat here,” he says, when Edgeworth asks him about it.

“Yes, that's a warning I could have used several hours ago.”

“Shouldn't he be in jail?” Maya says. “I mean, he did steal that lottery ticket during Maggey's case...”

“Maybe they gave him community service.”

“And it wasn't shutting this place down?” she says, keeping her voice low.

“Knock it off, he's coming back.”

The two of them seem pleased enough with the horrible food, smiling and laughing on the other side of the table.

“I see things went well between them,” he says. “Is that why you were gone so long?”

“Yeah. Looks like they're going to be okay,” Wright says, with fondness.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You've learned some strange truths about some painful memories, not to mention the fact that you fell off a bridge.”

“My cold's all cleared up, so I'm fine there,” he says. “For the rest...I guess I don't really know. I thought finding out about Iris and Dahlia would clear up the ambivalence I felt about her, but it didn't.”

“You didn't seem very ambivalent about her to me.”

“Well, I was her lawyer, wasn't I? I always believed she was innocent, that was never in question, it was just...something personal that I couldn't shake. And it seems like it should be gone now, but it's not.”

“I see,” Edgeworth says, although he doesn't. “That reminds me, obliquely, of something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Hm?”

“When you used the magatama on me, two years ago, what did it say when I told you about DL-6?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I didn't have it back then – Maya gave it to me a couple months after you left. It's a good question, though. I don't know what would've come up.” If the girls are listening, they either don't know the answer or won't share it, because they don't offer any information.

“So you took my case without knowing if I was telling the truth or not?”

“I didn't have any way to confirm it, no, but I didn't need to. Like I said back then, I always knew you were innocent.”

That eases a fear he didn't know he was carrying around. That blind, unshakeable faith was always what it appeared, given because he needed it.

“Why'd you even think of that?”

“It was a thought I had when I first uncovered some of Iris' psycholocks.”

“'Psyche-locks', Edgeworth.”

“The name doesn't matter.”

“Seems like you guys were getting along, though,” Wright says, quickly looking across the table to make sure Maya and Pearl still aren't paying attention to them. “You and Iris, I mean.”

“We had a certain understanding,” he says.

“Oh?”

“A particular truth we agreed on.” And one we did not. “Give her my best when you see her next; I didn't give her a proper farewell before she was returned to the Detention Center.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Wright says, sounding almost confused.

The chef drops off the check, which Edgeworth pays without hesitation.

“Thanks,” Wright says. “Maybe we should bring you with more often.”

“Hmph. I'd just like to get out of this place as soon as possible and never return.”

“You said it,” he says, looking across the restaurant and into the kitchen, where the chef is doing some sort of shimmying dance. “I feel like we should be covering Pearls' eyes to protect her innocence.”

“I think it's too late for all of us,” Maya says, solemnly.

“It is rather disturbing,” Edgeworth agrees. “Though strangely hypnotic.”

“Okay, we definitely need to get out of here, come on.”

He drives them back to Wright's apartment with a strong sense of déjà vu; perhaps this is going to be some kind of slightly morbid annual tradition. Wright unbuckles his seat belt when they stop at the curb, but instead of getting out just hands his keys to Maya and tells them to head inside.

“Can I help you with something, Wright?” Edgeworth asks, starting to feel a little discomfited now that it's just the two of them.

“I just wanted to say thanks again for helping me out. It was kind of a crazy thing to ask you, and I really appreciate it.”

“Yes, well,” he says. He really needs to work on his excuses. “I could hardly refuse you such a sincere request.”

“I know the feeling,” he says. “But, really, thank you.”

“You're quite welcome, though I'll thank you never to speak of it again.”

“Hey, I'd be in just as much trouble as you if anyone found out. We're in this one together,” he says. “Besides, I wouldn't blackmail you with something that would actually ruin your life, Edgeworth.”

“Isn't that the point of blackmail?”

“Not between friends it isn't.”

“Sometimes I worry about your experience with friendship.”

“That's because you worry about everything.”

“My concern is perfectly justified, considering the number of times you've imjured over the course of our acquaintance.”

“I'm not that bad,” he says. “You just like making it sound like I can't go two days without falling off a building or lighting myself on fire.”

“I don't 'like' any such thing,” he says, then, “did you actually light yourself on fire?”

“Even if I did, I promised not to tell you about it.”

“You are the most – did you set yourself on fire or not?!”

“Calm down, it was just an example. I haven't started living up to my name in a non-metaphorical sense.”

“That isn't funny.”

“Everyone's a critic,” he says. “So should I start telling you again, or...?”

He rolls his eyes. “If you find yourself in a situation where you legitimately require my help, then yes, by all means tell me about it, though please contact any applicable emergency services first.”

“I'll remember that. Ambulance first, bossy prosecutor second,” he says, but the smiling way he says it makes the insult feel affectionate, like he doesn't really mind the concern for all his complaining. “I should probably go in before Maya falls asleep and can't let me in to my own apartment.”

“It would be a pity if you had to sleep on the front steps, like some sort of business-casual hobo.”

He laughs. “I'll see you when you get back, I guess. Hopefully it'll be under better circumstances than the last two times.”

“I'll be back in a month,” he says, effectively deciding not to bother staying away anymore. He still intends to leave again, but it will have nothing to do with this. “Considering you've already had your yearly catastrophe, I'm sure it will be fine.”

“Really? Huh, maybe we'll even get a chance to face off in court before you leave again. It's been a while.”

“I'd like that.”

“Yeah,” Wright says, smiling again, “me too.”

Chapter Text

It's quiet in the office.

Of course it is, it's after hours on a Friday night. Everyone's gone home. Normally it's this quiet when he works late, but after the last month, he's grown used to having multiple people in here at all hours of the day. Kay and Gumshoe twittering incessantly about something silly, Sebastian tailing after him, asking for advice, Franziska and Agent Lang harrying him for files to take back to Interpol. But those cases are closing now, and everyone's needed elsewhere. Even Gumshoe has been temporarily taken off his hands, reassigned to that new “prodigy” with the fake accent.

The sun is setting, shining unpleasantly off the glass front of the building across the street. Maybe he should go home as well. There isn't really much work to be done tonight, and it's not like he's accomplishing anything standing around and squinting into the blinding sunset like this.

He turns back to the desk, intending to get the files for his last few cases into order, to be worked on tomorrow morning. When he's in an appropriate state to do so, instead of feeling unnecessarily morose about his assistant, and his sister, and his –

“I thought you might still be here,” says a voice from the doorway. “Can I come in?”

Edgeworth blinks a few times, trying to hasten the adjustment of his eyes to the relative darkness of his office, but he doesn't need to be able to see to know who's at the door. “Wright,” he says, trying not to sound as surprised as he is. “Yes, yes, come in.”

He does, leaving the door open. “Are you okay? You're...blinking a lot.”

“I'm fine,” he says, wishing Wright would stop leaning in like that. “I had the sun in my eyes.”

“Oh,” he says, but doesn't move back.

He makes the space himself, moving around the other side of the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“Work.” Work? They don't have any work to talk about. He's already filled Wright in on all of his current cases, and he's filled Edgeworth in on his own complete lack of such. “I needed to check something with you.”

“Oh?” It sounds as though he may have picked something up. That still doesn't explain why he came over here.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket and coming to stand next to Edgeworth so he can show it to him. “Is this one of your defendants?”

Shadi Enigmar, AKA Zak Gramarye, it says, in Wright's scratchy handwriting. “No,” he says, though the name sounds familiar anyway. “Why?”

“I'm on my way to see him down at the Detention Center,” he says, “but I realized that if you were prosecuting I couldn't do it, because you've been giving me all the details of your cases, and we should probably be laying low after – after February.”

“After I talked you into illegally standing in for me in court,” you mean. “You didn't have to come all the way up here to ask.”

After all, he could easily get that information from Mr. Enigmar himself, either by outright asking or a simple comparison of his case to the ones Wright knows Edgeworth is working. There's no reason he needed to talk to Edgeworth at all, and he certainly didn't need to do it in person.

“I didn't want to risk running into a lecture about the dangers of talking on the phone while riding a bike,” he says.

“You could pull over first.”

“Well, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. “It's just been awhile.”

For some reason, he thinks of Iris when he hears that, a memory of the two of them standing out in the snow.

“I, ah, recognize his name,” he says, shaking it off.

“Huh? Who?”

“Your prospective client.”

“Oh. Yeah, he said he was a famous magician when I talked to him. He seemed kind of upset I had never heard of him, actually.”

“No, no,” Edgeworth says.“I – wait, didn't you already defend a famous magician against Franziska?”

“Different guy, but yeah. I'm starting to think I should start advertising at magic shows or something.”

“It would be a natural fit. You do have some experience in pulling theories out of a hat that they might appreciate.”

“I don't think that's where most people would say I pull them out of,” he mutters. Then, louder, “how do you know him, then?”

“I've seen the case file.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You said it wasn't one of yours.”

“It isn't, but it is Detective Gumshoe's.”

“He's working for someone else again? But you told me – I mean, I thought – aren't you staying in town now?” That pained look is back. Why are we still standing so close together?

“I'm not leaving,” he says. It's still a tempting prospect, in some ways, but he has too many responsibilities here now, and with Mr. Amano and his son in prison he doesn't have the money for it. “The detective was temporarily reassigned – one of our new prosecutors doesn't have a permanent partner yet, but insisted on taking this case for some reason or another. Since I'm not currently taking on any new cases and thus he has nothing better to do for most of the day, Gumshoe was the logical choice.”

“Oh,” Wright says, relaxing. “Good.”

He really needs to push Wright out the door. Possibly literally.

“So, what's the new guy like?” he asks, apparently blind to Edgeworth's inner turmoil.

“He's seventeen and allegedly some sort of prodigy,” he says. “I mostly found him irritating and extremely full of himself.”

“He's a teenager and a prosecutor, I think that's mandatory.”

“Hilarious.”

“You know, if you think something's funny you could just laugh at it,” Wright says, bumping their shoulders together.

Not likely. “That implies I thought it was funny.”

“You did, I can tell. You always get this look on your face that isn't really a smile, but still kind of looks like one?” He gives a real, non-interpretive smile. “It's nice.”

He stands there, dumbstruck, for a few moments, trying to formulate a response.

“I --” he starts, but the sudden entrance of another person into the room cuts him off. They spring apart, like the newcomer has caught them in the midst of something.

“Evening,” Raymond Shields says, walking in the still-open door of the office. He's carrying a cardboard box, for some reason. “Thought you might still be here, though I didn't think you'd have a guest.”

Does everyone think I live in my office...?

“And if it isn't that man, too,” he continues, examining Wright with an inexplicable level of amusement. “Long time, no see, Nicky.”

“Uh, hi, Mr. Shields,” he says.

Raymond looks delighted. “You remember me!”

“Mostly just that time Mr. Edgeworth had to give you the Heimlich because you were choking on a bunch of paper,” he says.

“Didn't chew my notes thoroughly enough,” he says, grin undiminished.

“May I ask what you're doing here?” Edgeworth cuts in before he can say any more. He'd really rather not get into the rest of that story.

“Oh, yeah. I just came by to drop off some of your stuff from my office,” he says, indicating the box. “Hope I wasn't interrupting anything.”

He frowns. What could he possibly have left at Mr. Shields' office?

“No, no,” Wright says, answering the question. “I mean – I should get going anyway, that guy's going to start wondering where I am if I don't get down there soon, and it's going to take a while on the bike –”

Mr. Shields claps Edgeworth on the back. “Miles will drive you. Won't you, Miles?”

“I-If you like –”

“No, it's fine. And the bike –”

“It'll fit in the trunk.” Raymond's insistence on this is...confusing.

Equally confusing is why he comes with them when they finally manage to wrangle the bicycle into the trunk, sitting in the backseat with his still-mysterious cardboard box.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Edgeworth tells him, looking in the rearview mirror.

“Trust me, you'll want it,” Wright says, buckling his own.

He takes genuine offense. “Excuse me?”

“Well, it's just...you brake really hard when you drive.”

“Remind me again how long you've had your driver's license –”

“I'm just saying, you don't want to hit a red light and throw him through the windshield –”

“Why am I driving at eighty miles an hour in this hypothetical situation?”

“You don't need to be going that fast for that, didn't you ever take Driver's Ed?”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he says, in the evasive tone of someone who technically did something.

“Much as I'm enjoying this,” Mr. Shields says, leaning on the back of the passenger seat, “maybe you should actually start driving.”

Both of them snap around to look at him. “Put your seatbelt on!”

“Wow, stereo,” he says, finally acquiesing.

“Thank you.” He starts the car, backs out of the space, and begins the drive.

“So, kiddo,” Raymond says, addressing Wright, “you're a lawyer now, huh? How'd that happen?”

He knows exactly how, why, and when; they've talked about Wright at some length over the last week, having been centrally involved in most of the important events in the last three years of Edgeworth's life, though he naturally left out several details. Maybe he thinks this counts as small talk.

“A couple things,” he says, “but mostly, I owed Edgeworth a favour.”

“Must have been one hell of a favour.” He knows it wasn't.

Wright laughs, self-consciously. “Yeah. I'd do it again, though.”

“I bet you would.”

“Huh?”

Ray brushes it off. “Looking forward to working with Miles again?”

“Yeah, I guess, but we're not on the same case right now –”

“No? I would've thought, since you were in his office...”

“No, I was actually there to make sure we weren't, because he gave me way too many details about his cases –”

“Because you asked for them!” he protests.

“I didn't say I didn't! You'd do the same thing if I spent the last month dissolving an international smuggling ring, solving a presidential assassination, and reuniting an entire country!”

“You are –” he says, trying to say that phrasing it like that is giving him far too much credit for the reunification of Cohdopia, but he gets interrupted by two calls of “eyes on the road!” and doesn't finish.

“But yeah, hopefully we'll work together again soon,” Wright says, once satisfied with Edgeworth's attention to the road.

They probably won't. It's something he realized recently; between Wright's usual refusal to represent anyone he doesn't believe in and his own redoubled determination to never bring charges against the innocent, it could be quite some time before they ever face off again. Maybe they never will.

It's a good thing, both in the sense that the courts and the public will benefit and in the sense that he won't be trying to deal with his personal feelings during a trial, but it still feels like a loss.

“I did promise you one when I returned,” he says, anyway.

“We've got time, though, now that you're sticking around for a while.”

Ray catches his eye in the rearview mirror and briefly raises his eyebrows. It feels like he's trying to make a point about something.

After that, he asks Wright about his friends and family and clients, and the last leg of the drive is just anecdotes, mostly about Mia and Maya and Pearls.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the Detention Center, parking with exaggerated care. Wright rolls his eyes when he realizes, but there's a flicker of a smile in it, and Edgeworth allows himself to appreciate it while everyone gets out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” Wright says, locking his bicycle onto the rack next to the building. “Though I should probably stop taking you up on it.”

“Are you that concerned about my driving?”

“I wouldn't complain if you eased up on the brakes a little,” he says, “but no. It's just...I don't know if we should get in the habit, at least when work is involved.”

“Ah,” he says. “No, I don't imagine it would be good for either of our reputations if we started showing up at crime scenes together.”

There's a snort from over by the car; when he looks, Mr. Shields is staring intently at the night sky.

“Probably not,” Wright says, looking over his shoulder at the Detention Center's entrance. “Okay, I should really get going now. Wish me luck for tomorrow.”

“You don't need it.”

He grins. “Doesn't mean I don't want it.”

“You don't even know if you're going to take the case, ergo, I don't know if there's any reason to wish you luck.”

“Fine, don't,” he says. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

“Until then.”

Wright heads up the stairs to the door, throwing a quick goodbye in about halfway up for Ray, who raises one hand in a lazy wave. He watches until he's vanished inside the door, and, if he's being honest, a few moments after that.

“Well, that answers that question,” Ray says, still leaning against the car. “Your old man's going to love this one.”

“Which one?” he asks, confused. Nothing happened tonight that one might feel compelled to report to the afterlife.

He gives him a sidelong glance. “You and me are going to have to have a long talk in the near future.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don't have the right visual aids to have it now,” he says, answering the wrong question.

“'Visual aids'?”

“You know, slides, diagrams. Maybe a banner. Give me a few days.”

He's not entirely certain what this conversation is going to be about, but he is certain that he's going to hate every minute of it.

Edgeworth drops Mr. Shields off at his own car in the Prosecutors' Office visitors' lot and returns home, glad to be relieved of his puzzling behaviour. All that's left now is to find out what's in that box.

It's rather light, as it turns out; there must not be very much in it. Your stuff, he called it, but that doesn't provide any answers to what the contents might be – it's not as though he's forgotten anything in the single visit he's paid to his father's former workplace.

The only way to get any more information is to open it. A strange reluctance seizes him as he thinks about doing so, almost like fear, but it's a foolish, baseless reaction, and is summarily ignored. He pulls the lid off.

Inside is an assortment of items, some of which he can discern without further investigation, and some of which are further contained in thick plastic bags. On top of the pile is an envelope with his name on the front, the logical starting point. He pulls the letter from it.

Miles –

Hopefully you're not reading this while I'm still in the room, or else we're probably both going to look stupid. But even if you are, this is important, so keep going.

This box has all the stuff I accidentally inherited from your dad in it, except for the hat, which I'm keeping forever. I don't have anything from your house, unfortunately, because I'm not technically family and they wouldn't let me claim anything. I shouldn't even have the stuff I do, but lucky for us your father was on good terms with a certain detective/Great Thief, who extra-legally handed it over once the investigation was over.

I've been hanging on to it ever since, but I think it's time I give it to the person it should've gone to in the first place. If I'm right, you'll probably find a use for some of it, and he would have wanted me to. I would've given it to you even sooner, but you've been busy, and it's taken me three days to write this note for you.

Consider this my apology – for not being able to do anything for you back then, for acting like a jackass in the recent past, for not having anything better to hand over now, for that terrible selfie that's in there – and a reminder that your dad always loved you, and he'd be so proud of you now. We both are.

You're welcome,
Uncle Ray

He blinks a few times, momentarily overcome by emotion. Well, that certainly explains what of mine was at his office, he thinks, sliding the letter back into its envelope. He lifts the objects out of the box, one by one, to lay them on the coffee table for appraisal.

The largest, most attention-catching items in the box are the photographs: two of them, in completely different frames. One is the “selfie” Mr. Shields mentioned in his letter; the other is of a young Miles himself and his father. It used to sit on his father's desk, once. He sets them up on the end table next to the couch, propping the unframed photograph Kay gave him before she left between them. He's going to have to replace that the next time he sees her; this one is rather unflattering.

Next are the books. All three have matching plain black covers, and a brief look into each reveals them to be his father's case notes, covering several investigations over a period of about a year. He lays them aside to read later.

Beside the books is a small collection of plastic bags, the kind used to store leftover food. He would wager that those were not the bags they originally came in. These are the things his father was actually carrying and wearing that day – his cufflinks, his glasses, his attorney's badge, his wedding ring. The badge should have been returned to the Bar Association years ago, but if they haven't come to claim it by now they probably won't bother. The left cufflink is missing its backing, not that he owns any shirts that require them anyway. The glasses have a cracked lens, probably from improper storage. The ring doesn't fit.

It's slightly too large. If he turned his hand it would fall right off. At least, it would fall off his ring finger; it fits perfectly if he moves it over one. That's probably better, he decides, looking down at it. People are less likely to misunderstand if he's wearing it on the wrong finger of the wrong hand. It would be better if he didn't wear it at all, of course, but it's the only thing in the box that he can wear, and he feels like he should carry something with him. He wants to carry something with him.

He flexes his fingers a few times to used to the new weight, thinking about what kind of thank-you card he's going to have to get Mr. Shields for this.

Chapter Text

It's late afternoon, and he's wondering where Detective Gumshoe is. He's supposed to be giving his testimony for Klavier Gavin today, thus fulfilling the last of his duties for that case and returning to his regular post, but he hasn't shown up yet. Odd, for the first witness of the day; Gavin and Wright must really be having it out.

Another half-hour passes before the door slams open. “Sir! I'm back!”

“Detective,” he says, barely looking up. “I was starting to wonder if you had finally learned how to give a proper testimony. Wright usually tears through yours within an hour.”

“Oh, he did,” Gumshoe says. “But, uh...you haven't heard about it?”

“Heard about what?” Is he talking about his testimony?

“You're not going to like it, pal.”

He gives the detective his full attention, now. “Tell me.”

“That trial turned into a real mess after they finished up with me,” he says. “I was halfway over here when I got called back to the courthouse to help find the defendant.”

“He ran away?” That seems like strange behaviour for someone Wright agreed to defend; that means he was likely innocent and had little to worry about in terms of the verdict. Either Gavin had some unforeseen trick up his sleeve, or Mr. Enigmar is another Engarde.

“Yeah, he disappeared right off the witness stand in a cloud of smoke! Like a magic trick!”

“You mean an escape act,” he says, adding the implications of that statement to the other. Something like that can't be done on the spur of the moment, meaning that he expected to find himself in a situation where escape was a better option than staying for the end of the trial, he's the sort of man who likes to be prepared for every eventuality regardless of likelihood, or he intended to vanish even if found not guilty, for some reason or another.

“Yeah. Then I got called away from the search because they needed to hear from me again.”

“They continued the trial without the defendant?”

“No, I think they're suspending the whole thing until they find him, but...this is the part you're not going to like.”

“Get to the point, Detective.”

“Well...the judge wanted me to talk to some people from the Bar about Mr. Wright,” he says. “Turns out that after I left, he pulled out some evidence that wasn't very good. Fake, I mean, like a forgery.”

“I don't believe that,” he says, stunned.

“I didn't either, at first, but Mr. Gavin had the guy who made it come in to testify, and it was kind of hard to argue with that, pal. Sir.”

That doesn't make any sense, on more than one level. “How did Gavin manage that?”

“I don't know! He did all that stuff without me, pal, I had no idea about any of it.”

This gets stranger and stranger with every piece of information he gets. Why wouldn't Gavin include the police in his investigation? He might be involved with the forgery, but why? “And? What happened?”

“The guys from the Bar took a vote, and that was it. They took Mr. Wright's badge right there.”

“That's absurd. There was barely enough of an investigation to have him suspended, much less disbarred,” he says, already trying to compile a case for an appeal. Wright, a forger. The idea is laughable.

“Like I said, pal, it was hard to argue with the guy who made it,” he says. “And let's face it, this isn't the first time Mr. Wright's done something like this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, he's always tricking people with the evidence, right? Like when he stole that thing from Chief Gant but wouldn't say so until he did? Or when he lied to that assassin about the tape we didn't watch? Or that Tiger guy about the poison? And don't get me started on him asking you to defend th--”

“Detective! Would you mind not mentioning that in the middle of the Prosecutors' Office?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, sir. But you get what I mean.”

Do I? There's no doubt that Wright has pulled some rather underhanded stunts in his time, but nothing out of the ordinary for an attorney, and the badge-fraud aside, none of it was illegal. “I understand your argument, but I don't agree.”

“Then what do you think happened?”

“I'm not sure yet,” he says, still trying to fit the pieces together, “but I intend to find out.”

Before he goes to demand answers from Klavier Gavin, he takes a moment to call Wright, intending to offer his support. After all, he doesn't know anyone with as much experience in these matters as Edgeworth himself.

But the call goes straight to his voicemail. The one to his office line is met with a busy signal.

He frowns, considering. On the one hand, the silence is extremely concerning. On the other, he doesn't think Wright is as weak as he was, and he's likely leaping to the worst-case scenario for very little reason.

He'll call back later.

Gavin opens his door on the third knock, immediately affecting a casual lean against the frame. “Herr Edgeworth,” he says, grinning. “I was told I should expect to see you, but I didn't think you'd be so quick about it.”

He hates office gossip so much. “There's no reason to wait when it comes to the truth.”

“No, but the truth is already out. Talking to me is just a waste of your valuable time.”

“Your opinion is noted,” he says, “but don't take it personally when I tell you you're wrong.”

Gavin cocks his head to the side. “Maybe we should take this into my office. It wouldn't be very cool of me to embarrass you in public.”

“Fine,” he says, as pleasantly as possible. It's not as though he expects this child to successfully outmaneuver him.

Due to his status as a recent hire, Gavin's office is fairly small, and crowded with furniture. There's an electric guitar lying on a couch, apparently not plugged in to anything. Even so, he's soundproofed the walls. Gavin takes a seat behind the desk and kicks his feet up. Edgeworth remains standing.

“All right,” he says, once settled. “Hit me with your best shot, mein Herr.”

If he expects this to be an interrogation, he's going to be sorely disappointed. “Tell me what happened.”

“Not much to tell you,” he says, leaning back. “Your friend decided to cheat to get his client off the hook, he got caught, the defendant ran away rather than face justice.”

“There's more to it than that. To have a witness prepared to testify would require you to have advance knowledge of the defense's evidence, which would mean someone had to tell you about it.”

“Ja, and?”

“Who was it?” There's no obvious answer – Wright had no reason to mention it regardless of his knowledge of its status, the forger wouldn't have indicted himself, nor would the defendant if he were the source of the forgery, and the police weren't involved in this aspect of Gavin's investigation.

“I don't have to tell you that.”

That opens a new possibility and almost instantaneously slams it shut again. “You received an anonymous tip.”

“You're as good as they say,” he agrees. “Legally speaking, I can't tell you who it was.”

“But you considered the information credible.”

“Why not? It cost me nothing to look into it, and it turned out to be true.”

“And you performed this investigation without police assistance.”

“I didn't need the help. No point in bugging our friend with it, ja?”

“It must have taken you some time to put all of the evidence together yourself.”

He shrugs. “Not really. I built my case yesterday morning, went over and got Herr Forger on my lunch break, spent the afternoon getting him ready to testify. Easy.”

“So you received this information sometime before yesterday morning.”

“That is what I said. Maybe you need to have your hearing checked?”

“No,” he says, finally getting to the point where he can break Gavin's case open. “But perhaps you need to have your facts checked, since Phoenix Wright wasn't appointed as Mr. Enigmar's lawyer until last night, several hours later.”

Gavin remains unfazed. “I know.”

That brings him up short. “Wh – then how can you possibly believe Wright had anything to do with the forgery?!”

“All it proves is that he would've had to have it made before he got hired. Troupe Gramarye's a big name, and one of them killing another is a big case. Maybe Herr Wright just likes to be prepared.”

“Clearly, you're not very familiar with him,” he says, mostly to himself. “It seems like it would be a waste of time and money to have a forgery made before being hired, not to mention the risk involved.”

“I guess I don't know very much about evidence forgery,” he says, lightly. “Maybe you should share your expertise with me.”

He should have realized this would come up, and he feels foolish for not having done so. It might be doing more harm than good to get involved, with a reputation like his. “Are you insinuating that you believe I had a hand in this?”

“If you did, you made a very stupid decision to come down here,” he says. “But no, I don't think so. What I do think is that it's possible that your...partner has picked up some of your bad habits.”

“Absolutely not, and I will prove it,” he says, despite not actually being a position to do so. He doesn't need proof to uphold his own conviction, but he will, if he's going to convince anyone else. “And I never had any such habit.”

“Sounds like something a repeat offender would say.”

“It's also something an innocent would say.”

“But you're not an innocent, are you, Herr Edgeworth? Don't get me wrong, your recent work is very impressive, but --”

“Unless you'd like to change your opinion about my involvement, what I've done in the past has nothing to do with this,” he says, barely avoiding clenching his teeth through the entire statement. “Someone has already shown me the error of my ways, including the mindset you've just demonstrated. For your sake, I hope someone will teach you the same lesson.”

At that, Gavin swings his legs off the desk and jumps to his feet, incensed. He makes the mistake of trying to stare him down, but he's no match for the only thing of use Edgeworth ever learned from Manfred von Karma.

“Fine,” Klavier says, breaking eye contact and stalking over to his filing cabinet. “Then I'll just have to let you see for yourself that there are no errors to be fixed.”

He shoves a file into Edgeworth's hands. Across the top, in neat, angular letters, it says Enigmar, S. “You're giving me your records,” he says, half a question.

“If that's what it takes to reach the truth. I can't have you barging into my office all the time.” It's probably meant as a flippant dismissal, but he's lost some of his earlier confidence and it doesn't quite work out. “Bring it back when you're done, and I will try not to tell you 'I told you so'.”

What will you say when we prove you wrong? “I thank you for your generosity.”

“Ja, ja, now go read that somewhere else. I've got work to do and songs to write.”

The file turns out not to be particularly helpful. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Gavin is a conscientious investigator who keeps meticulous notes; the only information that seems to be missing is the identity of the tipster.

That's a very bad sign. Without an obvious blind spot in the investigation or a major discrepancy in his conclusions, it will be much more difficult to have the judgement overturned. But all he has now are the issues in the timeline and his own staunch belief, and that's not enough. He needs Wright's half of the information to find the contradictions.

He's also troubled by a small piece of information in the suspect data. There's only one person listed under “family”: Enigmar, Trucy. DOB: 07/07/2011. Hopefully she has some relatives on her mother's side of the family, or...well. He'd rather not go down that route.

Wright doesn't answer him when he calls twice more that day, or the next morning. Dread crawls along his nerves as he considers what that might mean.

He leaves work as soon as it's acceptable and heads for Wright's building. He's going to feel like an idiot if it turns out he was worried for nothing, but he'd gladly take that over the alternative.

Someone has propped the front door open with a wooden doorstop, meaning he doesn't need to be buzzed in. Normally, he'd consider this a terrible idea that compromises the security of the residents, but today he's just glad it's removed one step from the process.

He climbs the stairs to the fifth floor, takes a faceful of Memorial Day confetti from that neighbour's asinine cannon, and knocks on the door.

“Wright, it's me,” he says, hopefully loudly enough to be heard, but not so loud that he attracts attention.

No answer. He speaks slightly louder this time. Still no answer.

He gets out his phone and sends a message: I'm standing outside your door. Answer it.

Still nothing. The cannon is making a strange noise as it tries to fire again with no ammunition. He brushes the small, shiny pieces of paper off his clothing while he ponders his options.

He adds another message to the first. Where are you?

The journalists start calling the day after that, and he dismisses them all with an increasingly brusque “no comment”.

He also accidentally does the same thing to Franziska, when she calls, meaning that he gets quite an earful when she calls back.

“Tell him to get himself back into the courtroom,” she says, once she's done yelling at him. “I haven't had my victory yet.”

“I'll be sure to pass that along,” he says, though privately he thinks that would be more likely to convince Wright to stay out of the law indefinitely, not to mention the difficulty of telling him anything in the current state of things.

“Good. Phoenix Wright may be a fool, but even he is not that foolish.”

“Shall I tell him that, as well?”

“Don't you dare,” she says, whip snapping in the background. “I don't want him to think I hold him in anything but contempt.”

I'm sure he already knows you don't. “That barely qualifies as above contempt, but I won't. Now, unless you have something further you want to discuss, I need to get back to work.”

“Hmph. You're probably just reviewing his case.”

“I am not,” he says, even though the file is sitting on his desk right now.

“You've always been a bad liar, Miles Edgeworth.”

He manages to put it out of his mind enough to take a case and finish it in two days. The defendant's lawyer spits an accusation his way once his client is declared guilty; Edgeworth tells him he's free to file for access to the Prosecutors' Office's records of the case if he truly suspects foul play.

“You know as well as I do access hasn't been granted to a defense attorney in over ten years,” he says, still furious.

“Then consider yourself fortunate that you wouldn't find anything even if you received it,” he responds, as blandly as possible.

The lawyer storms out of the courtroom without another word.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment. Apparently he and Wright are being caught in some sort of feedback loop of guilt – everyone's convinced Wright is a forger because of him, and everyone's convinced he's fallen back into old patterns because of Wright.

If he were more concerned about his reputation, he might consider putting an end to his attempts to restablish contact, but...he isn't. It's certainly frustrating to return to a place where all he'll receive for his work is distrust and insults, but he's been there before, and his concern for his friend and greatest ally (among other things) greatly outstrips any he has for himself.

Still, he wishes said friend and ally would finally talk to him so they could work on getting the both of them out of it.

The Chief Prosecutor denies the lawyer's request.

“Man, it's been murder trying to get a call through to you lately,” Mr. Shields says. “But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. How're things?”

“Busy. Frustrating.”

“Things not going so well with Nicky's case, huh.”

“No, not particularly.”

“How's he doing?” he asks, sympathetically.

“I wouldn't know.” But I assume not very well.

“What? How do you not know something like that?”

“Easily, considering we haven't spoken since it happened.”

“Well, why not? Have you tried?”

“Of course I have,” he snaps. “I've called, I've sent messages, I've gone to his apartment. I...I don't even know where he is, much less anything else.”

“Oh my god, how are you both like this,” he groans, quietly. “All right, what stupid thing did you do or say that caused this?”

“Wh-- Why do you assume this is my fault?!”

“Because, one, there has to be a reason he went from 'making lame excuses just to see you' to 'avoiding you like the plague', and two, you have all the social grace of a brick.”

“I do not.”

“Don't get me wrong, we all think it's adorable, but you're definitely a brick, Miles.” He tries to protest this description further, but gets cut off. “Now, what was the stupid thing you did?”

“There isn't one,” he says. “We haven't interacted at all since we brought him to the Detention Centre.” There was no opportunity to do anything, unless –

Unless it wasn't something he did recently.

I would prefer that you don't tell me about it when you do something stupid.

“I have to go.”

“Score one for Uncle Ray,” he says. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi.”

He's too distracted to address that remark right now, though dimly it registers that that explains a lot, so he stumbles through a goodbye and hangs up.

Quickly, he taps out a new message. This isn't covered by our conversational stipulation. Please call me.

He waits for several minutes for a response, but it doesn't come. It was a long shot anyway.

“Hey, Mr. Edgeworth, got some stuff for you!” Sebastian says, holding up a book in one hand and a file in the other. The book is his, which Sebastian borrowed for his studies, but the file...

“I was only expecting the book.”

“Yeah, I know, but I ran into Klavier Gavin downstairs and he asked if I'd bring this up to you.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you,” he says, taking them both. Frankly, he doesn't like the idea of Gavin using his coworkers as errand boys, but he's not about to criticize Sebastian for a helpful gesture. He puts the book back on the shelf where it belongs and takes the file over to his desk.

Most of it consists of the official police report on Shadi Enigmar's escape from the courthouse. It's a surprisingly long document for something that doesn't even have any answers in it; he half-expects it to end with the conclusion that magic is real.

The last few pages, however, are only tangentially related. He's not even sure why Gavin included them, unless he was trying to make some kind of deliberate statement – it's the file Child Services has opened on Trucy Enigmar, now a ward of the state after being abandoned by her only living relative.

He has to put it down because his hands are shaking so much that it's starting to crumple the pages.

“Uh, Mr. Edgeworth? Are you okay? Jeez, what's in that thing?”

An ugly reminder. “Another reason to see a fugitive apprehended.”

His face scrunches up in thought. “You mean that magician? What did he do? Other than run away, obviously.”

“Suffice it to say that he wasn't a very good father,” he says, closing the file.

“Oh,” he says. “You mean like --”

“No, not like that.” Not like yours. “He left his daughter in the courthouse when he disappeared. He was her only family.”

“Wow, what a jerk,” he says, with feeling.

“To put it lightly.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” he says, taken aback. Aside from having her father thrown in prison for as long as possible, there isn't much he can do.

“Well...that's what happened to you, isn't it? I'd be worried.”

“I am,” he says. “However, I don't imagine her situation will turn out like mine.”

But after he says it, he realizes that he doesn't actually know that. The instigator of this incident is still unknown, as is their motive. It's unlikely they'd be another von Karma, but it's impossible to be certain. Even so, if something like that were to come to pass, what could he do about it? It's not like he could step in instead.

“I guess not,” Sebastian says. “What do you think is going to happen instead?”

He sighs. “I have no idea.”

“A ten-minute recess while we wait for the defense to get their evidence in order,” the judge says, pounding his gavel. He sounds as exasperated as Edgeworth feels.

Today's trial has been a complete disaster from the start; the defendant's lawyer is a public defender fresh out of law school and she's been flailing ineffectively all morning. He's trying to show some restraint due to her inexperience and the relative thanklessness of her job, but her complete ineptitude is really wearing at his patience. At least he's just been given a few minutes' reprieve to recollect himself.

At a loss for something to do for the next several minutes, he checks his phone. He tells himself it's to see what time it is, but it's mostly driven by the half-submerged hope that there's finally a response.

When it turns out that there actually is one, he's so overcome by surprise and relief that he has to sit down. One of the bailiffs takes a step forward, like he was afraid Edgeworth was about to pass out and he'd have to catch him.

He taps out a response as quickly as he can.

After a brief moment of consideration he adds something else.

He's a lot more understanding with the PD, after that.

Chapter Text

It takes another week or so (nine days, to be specific) before Wright actually agrees to see him, bringing the total to over three weeks. For some reason, he asks him to come by his office, despite it being after hours and that its operations have had to be suspended. He knocks, ignoring the feeling of nervousness that wells up as he does so.

The door swings open. Before he can say anything, or even get a good look at the person behind it, he's getting turned around and pushed back out into the hallway.

"What on earth --" he starts, offended, but the pushy stranger does turn out to be Wright, so he leaves off.

He looks different. He's unshaven, the blue suit is gone, replaced by a cheap-looking set of casual clothes, and his distinctive hair is hidden away under a knitted hat.

"That bad, huh," he says, noticing Edgeworth's scrutiny. He slides the hat off self-consciously, shoving it in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

"Possibly worse," he says, before he can stop himself. He tries to correct course. "The beard suits you."

His hand goes to his face, like he had forgotten about it. "Yeah? It wasn't really a...conscious decision, or anything." He stops touching it. "Well, if nothing else, at least I don't have to worry about shaving anymore."

"You may have to when you return," he says. "Or commit to something more substantial."

"What, like the Judge's? I don't think I could pull that off, physically speaking." He looks away. "But about that --"

"If we're going to discuss matters of actual importance, I'd like to point out that we're still in the hallway."

"I know."

It appears nothing more is forthcoming. "Is there a reason we're standing in the hallway?"

"Yeah, we're getting to that," he says, looking back at the door. "But for now, we're out here."

He glances at the office door, wondering what could possibly be in there. "Is that wise?"

"The building's pretty much empty by now. I don't think anyone's listening in."

He exhales, eyes on the files he brought. The reason he came here in the first place. "Fine. Let's just hope you're right."

Somewhat surprisingly, he doesn't turn this into an awful pun on his name and returns to the point he had been trying to make. "About coming back...I'm not sure I would, even if I could."

"What?" he asks, aghast. Surely he'll reconsider, once they sort this out.

He takes a moment. "After what happened, what I did...they weren't wrong to take my badge. I deserved it."

"That's ridiculous," he says. "You were framed. At worst, you made a mistake, but it's not --"

"You don't get it," he interrupts. "It wasn't just that, it was my fault. Anyone else would've been smart enough not to use something like that without looking into it first, but...I didn't. I didn't think twice about it when she gave it to me, or when it came up during the trial. Gavin even gave me the chance to get out of using it, and even that wasn't enough to change my mind. I was just so convinced that everything would work out like it always does that I ran right into it."

"Wright --" he tries, but he keeps going.

"He didn't do anything wrong," he says, presumably referring to Mr. Enigmar, "and now he's on the run because I was too stupid to realize that there's more to this job than believing in people and getting lucky. That's...I did the complete opposite of what a lawyer is supposed to do! I turned someone into a criminal! I ruined his life, Edgeworth," he says, wiping at his eyes because they've started watering. "And maybe not just his."

"His daughter." The discussion about why he's wrong can wait for a few minutes.

"Yeah," he says, and then, "I wasn't sure you'd know about her."

"Gavin included that information with the rest," he says, flipping through the file to the relevant pages and holding it out. "I'm not sure whether he was simply trying to be thorough, or if it was meant as some kind of...swipe at me for interfering."

Wright takes the file, looking through the remaining pages with a blank expression. "He hasn't updated it in the last week, I guess?"

"I haven't gotten anything from him since about two days after the trial," he says, then realizes the implication. "You have more information."

"Something like that." He closes the folder and moves for the door. "Come with me."

He's halfway through asking why he's suddenly allowed inside the office, with several follow-up questions about the recent influx of furniture, when something else takes priority.

"Daddy!" A small girl in a pink top hat and matching cloak pops up over the back of the couch. "Are you done now?"

"Uh," he says, glancing down at where Edgeworth's grabbed his onto his sleeve in shock, "no, not exactly."

"You...?" he asks, unable to form a complete sentence, unclench his hand, or lower his eyebrows.

"Me," Wright agrees. "Still need to file the last of the paperwork, but..."

He blinks a few times to clear the initial surprise, forces himself to let go of his fistful of sweater, and attempts to sort through his racing thoughts. They push against each other, objections quickly discarded in favour of reason, a game of speed chess with himself.

"You okay?" Wright asks him, nervously.

"Yes, yes," he says, pulling himself together. The girl -- Trucy -- is eyeing him with a certain amount of apprehension. "I'm...quite relieved, actually."

Now Wright's the one who looks shocked. "Are -- are you sure that was the word you were looking for?"

"Do you think I'd lie just to spare your feelings?"

"Probably not," he says. "I guess I just didn't think the truth was going to."

"What are you guys talking about?" Trucy says, with the signature annoyance of a child listening to adults talking over their head.

"Grown-up stuff," Wright says, to complete the scene. "But come over here a minute, I want you to meet someone."

She hops off the couch and runs around the other side to where they're standing. She's short, even for her age; maybe she's wearing the hat indoors to try and compensate for it.

"Trucy, this is my," he hesitates slightly, "good friend, Mr. Edgeworth. Edgeworth, my daughter, Trucy."

That's going to take some getting used to, but he's determined to make a good impression and ignores it. "A pleasure to meet you," he says, giving her a bow.

She giggles at the formality. "You too! I was starting to think Daddy didn't have any friends."

"Wow, thanks," he mumbles from off to the side.

Odd; he would have thought Wright would have introduced her to Maya and Pearls long before him, to say nothing of Iris. "I can assure you that there are at least two of us."

"That's not helping as much as you think it is," he says, half-covering his face in embarrassment. "But yes, you'll be meeting Maya as soon as I...get back in touch."

Her face lights up at this, strangely. "Is she --"

"No," he says, emphatically. "Definitely not."

"Ugh," she complains, "you're hopeless."

"Yeah, probably," he says, giving Edgeworth a brief glance.

"Hm," she says, then, "Can I show him a magic trick?"

"Well, I think you'd have to ask him that," Wright says.

She does. "Yes, all right," he says, feeling a bit bewildered by the whole thing. This is really not what he expected to happen when he came over here.

She steps back, and he expects to see her pull out a deck of cards or conjure something from her hat. Instead, she summons a six-foot-tall wooden mannequin from under her cloak, startling him so badly he actually jumps backwards in surprise. Wright finally cracks a smile upon seeing it.

"Say hello to Mr. Hat," she says, but he hasn't quite gotten there yet, having just watched an eight-year-old break the laws of physics.

"Where did that come from?" he asks, unable to stop looking at it. It's bigger than Trucy is; there's no way she could lift it, much less be carrying it around to perform impromptu illusions.

"It's called magic, Edgeworth," Wright puts in. At least he's enjoying himself.

"And a magician never reveals their secrets," Trucy finishes, through the puppet.

"No, of course not." It might be better if he never finds out. "But thank you for the demonstration, Trucy; it was very...impressive."

"Do you want to see another one?"

She looks so excited that he says yes, despite the fact that it's likely to be just as frustratingly inexplicable as the last. But this time she does produce a deck of cards from the pouch on her belt, holding them up with a flourish.

"Now, if my lovely assistant would shuffle these for me," she says. Wright takes them from her with only the barest of eye-rolls and easily gives them a trick shuffle before handing them back.

"Have you always known how to do that?" Edgeworth asks him, surprised.

"For a while," he says, shrugging.

He mulls that idea over until Trucy interrupts again. "Excuse me, I'm trying to do something here!"

"My apologies," he says, and draws a card from the deck when she offers it. For the next several minutes, they watch her produce the three of diamonds from increasingly unlikely places; he's tempted to assume that she keeps them hidden around the room for this exact reason, until they start showing up in everyone's pockets. That has a worrying implication of its own.

"For my next trick," she starts, having clapped her hands and vanished the cards, "I --"

"Trucy," Wright breaks in, "it's getting kind of late."

"It's not that late."

"It is for you," he says. "Besides, do you really want to use up all your best material now and have nothing for next time?"

"Good point, Daddy," she says. "Looks like my lessons in showmanship are paying off!"

"Sure. Go brush your teeth."

"Fine. But you have to promise I'll get to show him another trick next time."

"We promise," Wright says, without consulting him. "But you have to promise not to try sawing anyone in half again."

"Deal." She gives Wright a hug. "Night, Daddy. Night, Mr. Edgeworth."

"Ah, good night," he says, off-guard, and she's gone.

"She's really something, huh?" Wright asks him as they move to sit on the couch.

"My thoughts precisely," he says. The television is still on, showing an episode of The Jammin' Ninja. Hopefully she wasn't watching this.

"So, uh. I'm guessing you probably have some questions."

"A few," he says, "including why you need to take lessons in showmanship from a small child."

"She thinks I need the training for my new career in entertainment." He catches the questioning look Edgeworth's giving him. "Playing the piano at restaurants."

"I didn't know you played the piano."

"I don't."

"Not to state the obvious," he says, "but I can't imagine that ruse is going to hold up under scrutiny."

"Depends how many times the customers are willing to listen to 'Chopsticks'," he says, then sighs. "But that's not the real reason they hired me."

"Then why did they?"

"Cards," he says, almost defensively. "Poker, specifically. It's completely legal, though, don't freak out or anything."

"If it's legal, why are you posing as a pianist?"

"Raises fewer questions, for one thing, and it's a little easier to sell that at a talent agency."

"You have a talent agent?" Perhaps he is serious about not returning to the law.

"More that I am a talent agent," he says. "It's what the office is for now, to find work for my 'piano-playing' and Trucy's magic."

"And to double as a living space, apparently."

"Yeah...couldn't really afford both it and the apartment anymore, and we needed the business space." He looks over at a potted plant. "Among other reasons."

"I think there are by-laws about this sort of thing."

"Not in this building. I had a look at the zoning, and there are so many loopholes I don't think it's even technically a part of this country."

"Hm," he says, unconvinced. Are things so desperate that he's taken to multiple acts of dubious legality in a matter of weeks?

"You're thinking about trying to convince me to come back once this is over," Wright says, after a moment. He wasn't, exactly, but it is a connected thought. "Don't."

"I really do think you should reconsider."

He makes a frustrated noise. "I can't. I shouldn't. I told you what happened, how can --"

"By that logic, I should never have come back," he says. "Unless that's what you're trying to say."

"You know it isn't."

"Do I?" he asks, setting a trap.

He walks right into it. "Of course not! Even if I thought that when you were gone...I could never have gotten Engarde what he deserved without your help, and all the things you've done since --"

"Precisely my point. The mistakes you've made in the past have nothing to do with the good you could do in the future, unless you let them. You're still needed, Wright."

"I don't...how can I be sure I wouldn't just do something like that again?"

"That's something you have to work out for yourself," he says. "But you will."

"You seem pretty sure about that."

"I am."

"Believing something without evidence isn't your usual style."

"No, it's not," he says, choosing not to rationalize. "But I can hardly express how invaluable your certainty was to me, when I needed it."

His expression changes. "I don't want you to do anything just because you feel like you owe me."

"That's not -- I imagine I'll always feel a certain obligation towards you, but...I believe in you because you've earned it. You've always done what was right, and what was needed, and you'll do so again."

"What if I can't?" The question is very soft.

"I'll help you," he says. "I can't hold any kind of official role in this as you did for me, but even without it I'm prepared to offer you any assistance I can, whether legally, financially, or...personally. Either of you. We can do this."

It grows quiet in the wake of his words. That may have been a step too far, he can never really tell, why does this have to be so confusing?

"You haven't really asked me about her," Wright says, after a few minutes of anxiety.

"I'm not sure it's my place to pry." Besides, it's not difficult to figure out; Wright is both easily swayed by sad stories and naturally protective. On top of that, he seems to feel personally responsible for Mr. Enigmar's departure. Of course he'd do anything he could to help Trucy.

"I really don't get you sometimes," he says. "But I wanted to...I'm still not sure it was the right decision. For her, I mean."

"And you think I can tell you that?" It is, admittedly, not an entirely illogical conclusion. It doesn't mean it's correct, or that his thoughts on the subject actually matter.

"I think you can tell me your opinion."

He exhales, eyes on the ceiling, and tries to put together something both honest and comprehensible without having to delve into feelings and memories that are better off staying buried.

"I can't tell you I don't have any reservations," he says, carefully, "but they are fairly minor, all things considered."

Wright seems comforted by the idea that he isn't being supported wholeheartedly. That probably says something about at least one of them.

"Really? I've been pretty worried that one of you was going to tell me I did the wrong thing, but...I had to do something. I couldn't just leave her with no one, not after..."

"Not after I've seen what happened to you"? "I understand," he says, trying to head off the emotional reaction before it starts. "But no, I don't feel that way at all."

"Not even with those reservations?"

"No. As far as I'm concerned, what she needs for is someone who can provide the security her other father took when he left. Someone who would go to any length to do so and always will. You're having difficulty seeing it at the moment, but...that's you, Wright. I doubt there's anyone out there who could do better."

A few seconds pass while Wright searches for a response. He settles on a rather unexpected one, yanking Edgeworth towards him by the lapels.

He's hugging him, inasmuch as that's possible when two people are seated side-by-side.

For a moment, he doesn't know how to react. There's an instinctual urge to throw him off, clarify that his offer of support only stretches so far, but...what good would that do? It might spare him some pain and some guilt for a few seconds, but it would only be replaced tenfold when Wright would give him that wounded look and tell him it's fine and he's sorry for doing it.

The decision's even easier to make when he notices the shuddering way Wright's breathing. He's trying to disguise it, and he can't see his face from this position, but his emotional state is obvious by the way his hands are clutching at the back of Edgeworth's jacket. Silently, he mirrors the gesture, turning the embrace from an awkward one-sided grab into something mutual.

They stay like that for several minutes, even after the sniffling subsides.

"Thanks," Wright says, eventually. It sounds like a signal to let go, but he makes no move to disengage himself. "I needed that."

"You're. Quite welcome," he says, stumbling over it.

He draws back, taking one hand with him to dry his eyes more properly. Edgeworth drops his own arms immediately. "Still," he says, "I probably should've warned you. I know you don't really...do that kind of thing."

There's an apology forthcoming. "Don't."

"Don't...what?"

"Don't apologize to me. You have no reason to be sorry." Really, if either of them does, it's him.

Wright looks unsure, but seems to take him at his word. "Okay. If that's what you want."

"It is," he says, straightening his clothes from where the recent manhandling has pulled them out of place. Wright looks away as he does so.

"I know, but --" he starts, then quickly stops, red-faced. "Never mind."

Why is he embarrassed?

"I can't believe you actually like this stuff," he says, recovering. Edgeworth notices that The Jammin' Ninja is still playing on the TV set.

It seems as though they're going to move on from everything that just happened without having to acknowledge it further. That's fine with him.

He snorts in derision. "I don't like it, nobody likes it, between the production values and the writing it's a miracle they even broadcast it."

"My mistake. I didn't know you had such high standards for children's television."

"It's not --" he says, then realizes he can still claim plausible deniability. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh." He doesn't push any farther, but it's obvious he didn't buy it.

Nobody bothers to change the channel. Someone catches the Jammin' Ninja trying to sneak into a building, further proving that he is not living up to that title.

"Do you know how she does that?"

"Huh?" Wright says, turning away from the television. "What, Trucy and Mr. Hat?"

"Yes."

"That's really bugging you, huh."

"I just don't see how it's physically possible."

"So that's a yes?"

He gives him a flat look. "In a sense."

He huffs a short laugh. "Sorry to disappoint, but I have no idea. She takes that 'a magician never reveals their secrets' thing pretty seriously."

"Even with you?"

"Even with me."

The episode thankfully ends after another brief musical performance. The channel switches to a low-budget science-fiction movie, which he endures for several minutes before saying something. "Do you think we should actually look for something worth watching?"

"We didn't bother during your ninja show and that was way worse."

"I already -- why do you even think I watch that?!"

"Extrapolation?" He turns to look at him. "I kind of got the feeling we weren't talking about this."

"We weren't," he says, "but you brought it up again and I want to know why you suddenly have opinions about my televisual habits."

"I heard a certain story about you from the Steel Samurai," he says, clearly trying not to laugh.

"No." He had left that aspect out of his version of events for a reason.

"Yeah. Though the giant statue in your office was kind of a giveaway, too."

"I cannot believe Larry told you about that," he says, hiding his face in his hands. Wright fails to contain his laughter any longer. "I also cannot believe they let that idiot play the Steel Samurai."

Wright gives him a condescending pat on the arm, making him realize that they never returned to their respective ends of the couch after being haulled to the middle.. Maybe he should do it now. Or maybe that would be insulting.

"This movie is really bad," Wright observes, after the "robot" onscreen loses an arm from its suit mid-gesture.

"I did suggest we look for something worthwhile."

"It's TV, 'worthwhile' isn't really the point."

"Then we may as well leave this on and spend the next hour and a half watching a one-armed robot fight a man in a gorilla suit."

"It's fine with me if it's fine with you."

Three hours later, Wright sees him out, handing over his files on the case. He promises to come back in a few days at the latest, earlier if he finds anything. Wright agrees to do the same with Gavin's files.

"I'll see you soon, then?"

"I suppose so."

"Hopefully in better circumstances, though."

"They weren't...all objectionable," he says, trying to continue being supportive. "Things will change once we solve this, and now we have all of the information."

Wright half-smiles. "Still being certain, huh."

"Indefinitely," he agrees. "Until next time, Wright."

"Looking forward to it."

As am I, he thinks, then makes an exit before he says something like that out loud.

He allows himself a sigh and a moment to compose himself in the hallway. Everything about this is so far out of his experience, and he can't shake the feeling that he made some kind of misstep dealing with it. On top of that is a thick layer of guilt -- he's not the one who should be doing any of this, not when things aren't as strictly platonic as he'd like them to be. As Wright thinks they are.

No sense dwelling on it now, he decides, and reaches into his pocket for his keys. His hand brushes against something else, something that wasn't in there before. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows what it's going to be before he even sees it, and it's confirmed when he does, standing under a streetlight to get a better look: a three of diamonds.

Well. Something else to bring back when he returns. He can hardly leave them playing without a full deck.

Chapter Text

"Oh, Miles," Mr. Shields tells him, once updated on the situation. "You really have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

He refuses to admit it, but no, he doesn't.

This is not going as well as he'd hoped.

When Wright had given him these files, he'd been so sure that it would reveal the full picture, that putting the two halves together would uncover an obvious truth. Instead, everything just fits around the same gap in knowledge he already had. It's like a puzzle with a piece missing: he can see the shape of it, the idea of what he's looking for, but unless Gavin decides to reveal its location there's no way to fill it in.

That's to say nothing of the second section of the file: Wright's investigation into Mr. Enigmar's disappearance from the courthouse. He doesn't know where he is now, unfortunately, but he's beaten the police to the answer of how he got out in the first place, and it somehow makes that part of the story worse than it already was.

He's still thinking about it when Detective Gumshoe arrives to take the evidence from their last case to storage.

"Morning, sir!" he says, cheerful as ever.

"The evidence is over there," Edgeworth tells him, gesturing vaguely without looking up.

Gumshoe picks up the box without another word, but instead of leaving the office with it, appears over Edgeworth's shoulder.

"You still working on Mr. Wright's case?"

"Yes," he says, shortly.

"Those don't look like Mr. Gavin's files."

"They're not."

He's quiet for a moment, but doesn't make any move to leave. "That's kind of funny, pal."

"What is?" Nothing in these documents is remotely amusing.

"Well, it's all backwards now. Like, back when he first showed up and made you lose that case, all you wanted to do was get him fired, and now that somebody else did, you're working so hard to get him back." Edgeworth turns to look at him. Gumshoe's face falls. "You're going to cut my salary for saying that, aren't you?"

"I would never do something so pointlessly vindictive," he says. "And I wasn't trying to have Wright disbarred, I was trying to get him to quit."

"...Are those different things?"

Not in any relevant way. "It doesn't matter. I haven't wanted anything of the sort in a long time."

"I know, pal," he says. "You find anything to help him yet?"

"Nothing useful," he says, clamping down on the surge of annoyance that admission brings. "I imagine that confirms your prior suspicions."

Gumshoe rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess," he says, dubiously.

"Unless you've changed your mind," Edgeworth offers, curious about the hesitation.

"I don't know anymore, sir. Mr. Gavin said he had evidence and brought that guy in to testify, but...if you don't think so, he probably didn't do it."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You're always right about this stuff! And," he shoots a glance at the door to make sure there's nobody else listening in, "I don't think I trust Mr. Gavin."

That takes him by surprise; Gumshoe's trust is not that difficult to win. "You don't? Why not?"

"He did a lot of this investigation by himself," he says. "Didn't take me or any of the other officers with him, like he didn't want anybody else to know what he was doing."

"He did tell me something along those lines when I spoke to him," he says, thinking.

"Nobody else I've ever worked with ever did that -- not you, not Ms. von Karma, not Mr. Godot. You trust me, I trust you, and if you say there's a way to prove Mr. Wright didn't fake that evidence then I believe you."

Edgeworth just sort of looks at him for a moment before speaking again, not sure what to say.

"That's very...Thank you, Detective." He turns back to the file and is suddenly struck by something. "That gives me an idea."

"Yeah?" Gumshoe leans in for a closer look.

"Perhaps the best way to find the real culprit isn't to look for someone who wants to harm Wright, but to look for someone Gavin would trust enough to believe."

"You think?"

"It would explain both why he sprang into action so quickly and why he felt comfortable following up on it without police assistance," he says, thinking out loud. "We won't know until we look into it more closely, but I believe it would be worth it."

"Then you got it, sir," he says, trying to salute and then scrambling to recover the box of evidence he nearly drops. "He won't get away with this!"

"No, he won't." He closes the file.

Gumshoe finally stops hovering behind him, moving to the other side of the desk. "You're really picking up on Mr. Wright's methods these days, huh, pal?"

"What?"

"Your new idea. It's like what he does when he 'turns the case around'," he explains. "He's really been rubbing off on you lately."

It takes him a moment to recover, having not even realized the nature of his new theory. "Detective?"

"Yeah, pal?"

"Get out of my office."

Wright looks exhausted, when Edgeworth goes to see him, days later.

"I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"Is this a bad time?" he asks, realizing he probably should have called ahead.

"No, no, it's fine," he says, letting him in. "Maya and Pearls came down for the first time since...since."

"That's good. Isn't it?"

"Yeah, don't get me wrong, I'm always happy to see them, it's just...the four of us had to have a talk that I really would've liked to avoid."

"What about?" he asks, genuinely unsure of why that particular group would have to have a serious discussion.

"Just...don't ask," he says, tiredly. "It probably won't come up again."

Maya's the only one in the main office-turned-living room; the girls are nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Mr. Edgeworth! I didn't know you were coming by today," she says, and then pulls a face. "Nick, you didn't call him over here just so someone else would agree with you against Truce and Pearly, did you?"

"What? No," he says, a little indignantly. "I'm not dragging anyone into this if I don't have to. And I don't, because we're done talking about it."

Edgeworth represses another request for clarification. He hates being left in the dark like this, but there's presumably a reason Wright told him not to ask.

"Please," Maya says. "If that's the last we've heard of that I'll eat my magatama."

"Don't jinx it."

"I'm just saying!" she huffs, then turns to address Edgeworth instead. "So, if you didn't come to defend Nick from dying of embarrassment, what did you come for?"

"I came to work," he says, holding up the files he intended to return today, "though that seems an unlikely prospect at this point."

"Sorry," she says. "You'll just have to hang out with us instead."

"I don't..." he starts, because he was intending to leave as soon as he got Gavin's files back. "Hang out", she said, like that's something he ever does.

But then they both look at him expectantly, and he can't quite bring himself to say so. "I don't have anything better to do," he says, taking a seat on the end of the couch.

"Here, I'll take those back," Wright says, gesturing to the documents now sitting in Edgeworth's lap.

He slides the playing card he had paper-clipped to the inside cover and holds the rest out for him.

As it turns out, Wright just meant he was going to take it to the desk still standing in the back corner of the room. "What's with the card?" he asks, shoving the folder into a drawer.

"It's Trucy's; she left it with me last time." He lays it on the coffee table, since she isn't here to take it back.

"That's weird," he says, coming back to give the card a look. "I've never seen her make a mistake in a trick before."

"Maybe it wasn't a mistake," Maya suggests.

"Why would she want to give him one card?" Wright asks, putting it down again.

Nobody seems to have an answer for that, so Edgeworth moves on to a different question. "Where are the girls, anyway? Or should I refrain from asking that, as well?"

"Trucy wanted to introduce Pearls to the world of magic, as you might've guessed. They're around here somewhere."

"Sawing each other in half or some such, no doubt," he says, much to Maya's stifled laughter.

"They are not," Wright says. "For one thing, that one's out here." He indicates a person-sized box in the corner.

"Should someone her age be doing that?" he asks, eyeing the saw leaning against its side. "It seems as though it may...end badly."

"It's fine, it's a fake saw," he says, rolling his eyes. "The box is already separated, you don't need a real one."

"How would I know?! Do I look like an expert on stage magic to you?" That said, he does know its first rule. "She's not going to be pleased when she finds out you revealed one of her secrets."

"It's worth it if you don't think I'm letting an eight-year-old run around with a deadly weapon!"

"Jeez, Nick, how much trouble did you get in last time?" Maya asks, still trying to mask her amusement. "I bet it was bad."

"I didn't," he says, filling in for the protests Edgeworth can't seem to make on his own behalf.

"Really? Even dressed like that?"

Wright gives her an exasperated look. "Would you leave my clothes alone?"

"Nope!"

"I'm not going to wear a suit if I don't have to," he says. "But no, not even then. He was...really nice, actually."

"You don't have to sound so surprised about it," Edgeworth says, fighting a losing battle with embarrassment.

"Well, good," Maya says, ignoring him. "Since you decided to call him first instead of your best friend."

"It's not a competition, Maya," Wright says. "And it just turned out that way, because when I call his number, I actually get him, and not whoever's closest to the phone booth and doesn't give you my message for a week."

"It's not my fault there's no cell service up there!" she complains. "Do you think I could get them to fix that after I become the Master?"

"Is that even what the Master does?" Wright asks.

"I thought you were already the Master," Edgeworth says, because he could have sworn that was the whole point of that case on the mountain.

She points to Wright and says "Not really, but I bet they'd listen if I asked enough," and then points to him and says "Not yet. I have to pass a test first, and I won't be ready for another couple years, probably."

"I see." He doesn't ask for details. He doesn't really want to know.

"Yeah, it's going to --" she says, obviously intending to explain anyway, but stops when Trucy and Pearl walk into the room. "I'll tell you about it later."

With any luck, she'll forget. He switches his attention to Trucy, who's chattering next to him.

"Hi, Mr. Edgeworth!" she says, excitedly. "When did you get here?"

"Not long ago," he says. "How are you?"

Wright snorts at this weak attempt at small talk. He receives a glare for his trouble.

"Good!" she says, oblivious to it. "I've been showing Pearly some of my magic tricks."

"Don't try and show her the 'sawing-a-person-in-half' one," Wright says. "Unless you want a lecture about sharp objects."

Why does everyone think of him like this? "I wasn't --" he starts, before deciding this protest is pointless. "According to you it's not even a sharp object."

"Daddy! You're not supposed to tell people that!" she says. "But no, we weren't going to. I don't think this is cheering Pearly up as much as it was supposed to." She smiles. "Made me feel better, though!"

"Why were you upset?" he asks, confused.

Wright and Maya both answer this with a loud "no!"

Too late; Trucy is not deterred by the outburst. "Daddy says he and Aunt Maya are just friends and that we shouldn't expect him to date anyone anytime soon."

He definitely should have left when he had the chance.

"And you're concerned by this?" he asks, not sure why he's prolonging this conversation.

"Yes! Aren't you?"

Wright drags a hand down his face. "Oh my god."

"I, ah..." How the hell is supposed to answer that? Until this very moment he thought Wright was dating Iris, and it's not as though he's about to express any other opinions he might have. Why is she even asking him this? "...No?"

"Ugh," she says, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I'm never going to get a new mom. Oh, hey, is this one of my cards?"

That breakneck change of pace is never going to stop throwing him. "Yes, it is."

"Thanks for bringing it back! Now I just have to remember which deck it came out of."

He takes her distraction as an opportunity to talk to Wright, quietly. "Was that the 'talk' you mentioned earlier, by any chance?"

"Yep," he says, like he can't quite believe he's talking about it now. "Sorry about that. I hope she didn't scare you out of ever coming back here or anything."

"I must admit it wasn't what I expected to be asked when I came over here."

"Yeah, I guess it's not really the kind of thing we ever talk about," Wright says, frowning at first before breaking into a shaky smile. "I'm just glad you didn't take her side; I never would've lived it down."

"Hmph. I've told you before that I don't waste my time formulating an opinion on your hypothetical personal life. I was hardly going to."

"I was kidding," he says. "The 'hypothetical' part was kind of mean, though."

"As far as I'm concerned, it is," he tells him, the mystery of what happened between Wright and Iris returning to the forefront of his mind. It's hard to believe he could have been wrong about that from the beginning, considering his conversations with her, but the way even her relatives haven't mentioned her implies he's missed something.

"I know. It just seems...weird to talk about that kind of thing with you."

It's hard to argue with that, though the fact that Wright thinks him so inept and so heartless is extremely galling.

"What are you guys whispering about?" Maya interrupts, eyes narrowed.

"Uh," Wright says.

"Nothing important," Edgeworth says.

"You guys are so..." she says, waving her hands around as a substitute for an adjective. "But, hey, I just asked Pearly and it turns out that the Master of Kurain could probably convince someone to put a cell tower up on the mountain!"

"Does it not seem weird to you that Pearls knows more about your job than you do?" Wright asks.

"She knows more about your job than you, too!" she shoots back. "Since, you know, she can actually play the piano."

"Not very well," Pearls says. She sounds very glum; she must not be taking today's revelation very well.

"Better than Nick," Maya argues. "Seriously, Mr. Edgeworth, have you heard him try? It's like listening to a cat go through the garbage disposal in slow motion."

"No, but that's...an extremely vivid image," he answers, not sure how anyone could be that bad at the piano.

"It's not that bad," Wright says, like he heard that.

The other three immediately offer their opinions, and it devolves from there, only ending when Edgeworth points out that no one's claims can be substantiated without the presence of an actual piano to be played.

"My hero," Wright tells him, mostly sarcastically.

It still hits like a genuine declaration. "Yes, well," he says, once again at a loss for words.

It isn't until much later, when he's home alone, that he realizes he never shared his new theory with Wright.

At least he remembered to get Gavin's files.

"I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to get these back," Klavier says when he hands them over. He smiles, gratingly. "At least it saves me the trouble of having to send someone after you, ja?"

Edgeworth doesn't deign to respond to that.

"Did you find anything, mein Herr? Should I clear my schedule?" The way he's still smirking makes it obvious that he already knows they didn't.

"No," he says, a little more sharply than he would have liked. He doesn't want Gavin to think his provocation is working in any way.

"Sehr gut," he says. "My band is going on tour in a few weeks; our fans would be so disappointed if we had to postpone."

"I'm sure." He turns to leave.

"Before you go," Gavin says, stopping him in his tracks, "I wanted to offer you an apology."

"An apology," he repeats, blandly. "What for?"

"For having proven those things about your friend," he says. It sounds sincere. "It was probably hard for you to give up on him after everything."

"I haven't," he snaps, "and you haven't proven anything."

"It sounds like someone should give you a refresher on the meaning of 'reasonable doubt', mein Herr." The irritating, cocky version of Gavin snaps right back into place. "Maybe you should go over it with your other favourite forger sometime."

"Prosecutor Debeste," he says, intentionally emphasizing his title, "had nothing to do with his father's crimes."

Gavin scoffs in disbelief. "You're a much more forgiving man than your reputation suggests."

"I wouldn't believe everything you hear," he says. "Now, unless you have something else you'd like to say, I need to get back to work."

"Go right ahead," Gavin says, taking a seat at his desk. "I've got an idea for a new song to work on anyway."

i think i found a lead, Wright messages him. come see me after work.

He does, desperately hoping today's visit will remain on topic.

"What did you find?" he asks as soon as the door opens.

Wright closes it again before answering, and he does it with another question. "What do you know about Kristoph Gavin?"

"Prosecutor Gavin's brother? I've never met him, but I understand he's made quite a name for himself as a defense attorney in the last few years." Edgeworth has heard about him regularly since his return; his win record would be astounding even for a prosecutor, and he's allegedly completely unflappable, even when he should have been under considerable stress. "I didn't know you knew him."

"I don't, exactly," he says. "He's part of the Bar Association, so we met recently."

"When he was taking your badge, you mean."

"Actually, he was the only one who voted against it," Wright says. "But now I'm not really sure why."

"Did something happen?"

"He asked to see me today, at his office. To apologize, he said."

The impulse must run in the family. "All right," he says, not sure where this is headed.

"Well, uh...turns out he probably wasn't as sorry as he wanted me to think." He tosses something in Edgeworth's direction, light and underhanded.

He scrambles to catch it, its familiar green glow providing a sudden understanding. "You got a reaction from this?"

"Three Psyche-Locks on the apology," Wright answers, "and five on the part where he said he knew I didn't do anything wrong."

Suspicious. "Did you manage to break any of them?"

"Can't break them without evidence, and I don't have any." He looks troubled. "But the fact that they showed up at all means he has to know something, right?"

"Most likely," Edgeworth says, turning the stone between his fingers as he thinks about it. Kristoph Gavin is almost a perfect suspect -- he has the resources and connections to have made it happen, and would definitely qualify as someone Klavier would trust. Where it breaks down is his motive; right now, it doesn't seem like he has one. "It seems as though further investigation is in order."

"Yeah, I guess so." He hesitates for a moment. "He asked me if I wanted to have dinner with him sometime."

Edgeworth has several thoughts about this, but all he ends up saying is "What? Why?"

"I don't know, but...it might be a chance to learn something."

He's going to take him up on it? "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" he snaps. "You don't know anything about this person, you can't --"

He stops up short, realizing that he might be objecting to the wrong thing here. Or at the very least, for the wrong reason. So much for remaining on topic.

Wright is looking at him, confused. Edgeworth tries again, this time consciously reminding himself that he has no right or reason to feel anything about Wright's decisions, much less this reflexive, overwhelming...distaste.

There's a better word for that feeling, but it will remain unspoken, even in the privacy of his thoughts.

"We don't know what he wants, or what he would do to accomplish it," he says. "It might prove to be dangerous."

"It's not my first choice either, but we need to know what he knows."

"Yes, but --"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No, but that doesn't make this a good one," Edgeworth says. "You're putting yourself too much at risk, Wright."

"He's not a supervillain, Edgeworth. I think he's pretty limited in what he can do to me during one dinner."

"He cost you your job without even meeting you. I wouldn't underestimate him."

That keeps him quiet for a moment. "Well, yeah, I guess," he says. "But I really don't think we're going to get a better opportunity than this, and I should probably take it. Either that, or...we just leave it."

Leave it, and let the case go unsolved. That's not an option; someone's manipulating the justice system, and they can't be left to do it again. Edgeworth's made that his mission in the last few months, hasn't he? To find that corruption and expose it for all to see, to force them to face the consequences?

But he can't consider it a good idea to send Wright off to meet this potential perpetrator, not when there are so many unknown variables in the equation, and not when he'd be taking a chance on someone else's safety and not just his own.

That's not his decision to make, though, and Wright presumably didn't tell him about it to get his approval so much as to keep him advised on a joint investigation. He folds.

"I don't like this."

"Yeah, I kind of got that much."

"Let me know when you intend to embark on this particular bit of foolishness."

Understanding dawns on Wright. "Wait, are you giving me instructions because you've decided I should go?"

He doesn't answer the question directly because they both know that's exactly what he's doing. "Don't take any unnecessary risks."

"I wouldn't be able to tell you about if I did."

"You can tell me whatever you want." He glances away.

"But you said --"

"I know what I said," he says, wishing they didn't have to discuss this. "And I know what I'm saying now."

"Huh. I wasn't expecting you to change your mind about that one any time soon," Wright says, thoughtfully.

"Recent experience has proven that I'd rather have too much information than too little."

Wright sighs. "I...I told you that wasn't why."

"I know. It's not about that." At least, not entirely; a closer inspection of his reasoning reveals that it's partially because he doesn't want there to be two things Wright won't speak to him about.

"Okay," Wright says. "I'm not taking mine back, though."

He must mean his ban on useless apologies. "Fine. Yours was always less restrictive anyway."

That makes him laugh, briefly. "I can't tell if that was a really roundabout way of telling me I do a lot of stupid things, but I'll take it."

It wasn't supposed to be, but Edgeworth declines to clarify. "Tell me if you learn anything," he says, finally offering Wright his magatama back.

"You want me to call before and after I go?" He takes it. Their hands barely touch. "Last chance to tell me if you don't want to hear about something."

"If you follow my instructions there won't be anything I don't want to hear about in the first place." Probably.

"You know, this is why Maya always thinks I'm in trouble with you."

"Well," he begins, with the intention of denying that he ever gets anyone in trouble, because he does not, and he has no idea why everyone thinks that he does, but somehow, the end of that sentence comes out as "stop telling her about it."

Wright laughs for real this time, helpless in the face of such an inane suggestion.

"I'm still going to tell her," Wright says, after he's finished.

"I realize that," he says, sublimating his response to that laughter, that unwelcome soft-edged feeling it always creates. "I still expect those calls."

"I know," he says, but fondly.

Chapter Text

It isn't until he tries to drink it that he realizes the tea has gone cold. It doesn't seem like it should have, he thinks, looking down into the cup; he made it shortly after Wright called to say he was leaving for his meeting with Kristoph Gavin, and that was only -- he checks -- five hours ago.

Well. That explains a lot.

He sighs, putting the cup back down. This is pathetic, sitting alone in the middle of the night with an unread book and an undrunk cup of tea, waiting for a phone call he never should have asked for in the first place.

There's not even any reason to be doing it at all, he tells himself, absent-mindedly twisting the ring around his finger. Gavin took him out in public, indicating he doesn't have anything particularly nefarious in mind, and even if he did he isn't likely to succeed where a forty-foot fall off a bridge failed.

The phone rings, buzzing loudly on the tabletop. He answers it before it gets to the second ring, wincing at how quickly he jumps to the call.

"It's me," Wright says, unnecessarily. No one else is going to be calling after midnight. "I hope I didn't wake you up or anything, but I just got in and I figured you'd want me to call now instead of later."

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Don't tell me you were waiting up for me."

"As if," he says, untruthfully. "How was it?"

"Terrible." There's a soft thwump in the background, like someone collapsing onto a piece of furniture. "I didn't learn anything, except that Kristoph's a huge jerk."

"It seems to me you could have figured that out without going to dinner with him."

"Yeah," he says. "I guess you were right about this whole thing being a waste of time."

"I didn't say it would be a waste of time," he clarifies. "My objection was that he might try to make some kind of move on you."

There's silence, and then Wright says in a strangely high-pitched voice, "You want to run that one by me again?"

"He might have tried to cause you further harm," he says, confused. "I thought I made that abundantly clear."

"You did, you did," Wright says, hurriedly. "It's not like I actually thought you meant it like that, but the wording was..."

"Was what?"

"I'm way too tired to explain slang to you, but please promise me you'll look into it. I can't let you run around saying that to people."

"You say that like you've ever had to explain it to me."

"Are you forgetting the time you called me to ask what 'lit' meant when all the interns kept saying it?"

"You didn't know either," he points out. "You had to ask Maya."

"Yeah, but my guess turned out to be right."

"It doesn't count if you were just guessing."

"I'm always guessing!"

He almost smiles at that. "Touché."

"What do we do now?" Wright asks after a moment, presumably referring to his failure to learn anything earlier tonight.

"Try again, I suppose," he says, though he still doesn't like the idea any better than before.

"I'm not sure there's going to be a next time. I think he just wanted to gloat."

Edgeworth frowns. "How did he gloat without incriminating himself?"

"Let's just say he was way too interested in how I was dealing with the loss of my job," Wright says. "Anyway, I didn't really get the impression that he wanted to be friends or anything."

"I'm sure you'll find a way around that. You have in the past."

"Wh-- are you talking about yourself? That's different," he says. "You're different."

"Not as much as either of us might like to think." Wright would have convinced him to stop doing what he was doing, one way or another; he has no doubt of that. He just managed to do it without needing to throw him in jail first.

"It is, because I don't actually want to be friends with Kristoph Gavin!"

That only begs the question of why he wanted to be friends with Edgeworth, but he doesn't dare ask. "I don't want you to either! And you don't have to be, you just have to convince him to see you a few more times, which I'm certain you can accomplish."

"I feel like there's an insult in here somewhere."

"Not intentionally."

"So, our strategy is to lull Kristoph into a false sense of security until he accidentally confesses?"

"Preferably in front of a witness."

"I...don't know if this is going to work. Especially if I start bringing witnesses."

"You won't know if you don't try."

"Nice platitude," he says. "If he ends up murdering me I'm blaming you."

It's just a joke, but it still makes his eye twitch to hear it. "Do you think he's going to?"

"I was kidding about that," he says. "Come on, if he wasn't going to do it after I used the wrong fork the entire night, he's not going to."

"What?"

"Turns out he takes proper etiquette very seriously, but also considers himself too polite to say anything about it."

Sometimes it is difficult to remember why he likes talking to Wright. "...What?"

"His poker face needs work."

"Didn't I ask you not to provoke him?"

"Yes, you were very clear about what I was and wasn't supposed to do," he says, probably rolling his eyes. "It wasn't like it was on purpose, I'm just not used to eating with multiple forks."

"It's from the outside in, it isn't that hard."

"Why am I not surprised that you know this?"

"It's common knowledge."

"Uh huh," he says. "Maybe I should just get you to teach me this stuff for next time."

"There are hundreds of books on the subject, you don't need me to do it."

"I...No, I guess not." There's a short pause. "Anyway, that's about it for my report."

"Report", as though I were his boss. Edgeworth definitely did not handle this correctly. "Thank you," he says, because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I'll talk to you later," he says. At least he sounds amused by the whole thing. "But you should really go to bed."

He does, once he washes that teacup out.

Chapter Text

Things progress in much the same way. Wright continues to see Kristoph Gavin, doesn't learn anything, and then calls to tell Edgeworth about it, even though he hasn't asked him to since the first time. In between is mostly work, and none of it very interesting.

Someone deigns to correct that last part, however.

"You're coming to work for me."

"Good afternoon, Franziska," he says, because he lives in hope that one day she'll take the hint and start prefacing her calls with some sort of greeting. "Was there something I could help you with?"

"This is no time for your foolishness," she says. "We have a case for you."

By "we", she presumably means "Interpol". "I have cases here."

She scoffs. "Parking tickets and shoplifters. I thought you would appreciate the opportunity to do something worthwhile, instead of wasting your time looking for criminals where they don't exist."

There are still criminals in the Prosecutors' Office, he has no doubt, but she's right that he hasn't managed to find any of them since bringing in the former Chief Prosecutor. "It's going to take time to find them, Franziska," he says. "It's not as though I can act pre-emptively."

"Then you can do your waiting here, while making yourself useful. Or do you have some other reason you need to stay?" It's not meant as an actual question, but as a point to be made: work is all there is, and you're not doing it properly.

"You know I don't." It's true, but it feels like a lie.

"Good," she says, closing the matter. "Interpol will make the arrangements with your Chief Prosecutor. I expect to see you very shortly."

As always, Franziska hangs up on him before he can get another word in. He supposes that means he's going.

Someone once told him that it was impolite to leave the country without saying goodbye first, so he makes certain to do so.

Gumshoe gives him his usual hangdog look of disappointment at being left behind; Sebastian tells him to have fun (and looks inordinately relieved when reassured that Edgeworth will still be within contact); Raymond is, unfortunately, his usual self.

"Uh huh," he says, once apprised of the situation. "Are you going to own up to the real reason you're going, or are we pretending we don't know about that?"

"Franziska asked me to come," says Edgeworth, who is not pretending about anything.

"Should've guessed," he says. "How'd you explain it the first couple times you did this?"

"I...it was for work," he says, still baffled.

"Was it?"

"You're implying something."

"Same thing I'm always implying," he agrees. "You've really got to stop ditching him every time you two have some kind of a moment. It's not very nice."

"That is not what I'm doing," he says, "and even if it was, I would have left after --" Something tells him this is not an argument he wants to make.

It's too late for that, however.

"After what? The last time I got anything out of you it was that you went all overprotective boyfriend because of the guy who might have forged that thing and Nicky was -- surprisingly -- into it. What did you do that was better than that?" Raymond is clearly having a field day. Edgeworth, on the other hand, kind of wishes he was dead. "Have you been holding out on me, Miles?"

"Ngh," he says, remembering a hug he very specifically did not mention, mostly for this exact reason.

"You have!" he exclaims, delighted. "What happened?"

This time he can't even get any sound out.

"Wow, must've been big if you're so tongue-tied; the trouble's usually in getting you to stop talking," he says. "But I better let it go for now. I'm not interested in giving you a nervous breakdown."

"Are you sure about that?" he asks, mouth finally catching up to his brain.

Mr. Shields laughs. "You'll thank me for the help one day."

"You're not helping."

"Aren't I?"

"No."

"Aren't I?" he repeats.

"No!"

"All right," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement. "But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when you stop being a chickenshit, take your Uncle Ray's advice, and live happily ever after."

...'Chickenshit'? "I can't help but feel that you still hold the wrong impression of the situation."

"Do I?"

"I'm not doing this again," he says.

"Aren't you?"

"Goodbye, Mr. Shields." He hangs up to the sound of laughter.

It's tempting to forgo seeing Wright before he leaves, just as not to appear like he takes instructions from Raymond, but the idea runs up against his conscience and has to be dropped. It's quite late when he arrives, having debated the decision with himself for longer than he'd like to admit; so late that for once there isn't a pack of young ladies hanging about.

"Is something wrong?" is the first thing Wright asks when he opens the door.

"What? No," he says. "Why would you think that?"

They move inside so he can close the door, but not much further. This isn't going to be a long visit. "Well, it's not like you turn up at my door in the middle of the night on a regular basis."

"I suppose not," he says. "But no, nothing's wrong."

"What's up, then?"

He folds his arms. "I'm leaving."

"That was fast. You didn't even answer the question first."

He rolls his eyes. Wright's sense of humour is truly dreadful, sometimes. "Leaving the country. For work."

The smile fades off his face. "Are you coming back?"

"Of course," he says, slightly bemused. "This is simply a favour for Franziska; I should be back in a week or two."

"You had me worried for a minute," he says, visibly relaxing. "I thought you were taking off for good."

"I still have work to do here," he says, though his thoughts catch uncomfortably on the implications of Wright's words. "It's unlikely that I'll ever leave in the long term again. Certainly not in the foreseeable future."

Wright nods, as if absorbing this information. "How's that going, anyway? I haven't really heard about you busting any of your coworkers recently."

Must everyone bring that up? "I haven't," he says. "It was a large part of Franziska's argument for why I should join her."

"And that actually worked on you?"

That gives him a brief moment of doubt -- maybe Mr. Shields was right after all: he would never normally let Franziska push him around like that, not without much more of a fight. "Apparently so," is what he says. "She wasn't entirely wrong. They can bear my absence from the office for a few days."

"I guess. And we do most of our work together over the phone anyway."

"Calling it 'work' might be something of an overstatement."

"Well, it usually starts out that way," he says, grinning again. "We just get off-topic."

"Further proof that you don't need me around."

"I...It's different when I know you're around. Easier, I guess."

This is the second time today he's been at a loss for words, standing there with what he knows must be a very stupid look on his face as he tries to figure out what that means and what he should say to it.

Wright seems fine with not getting a response, however, and shakes the whole thing off. "When are you leaving?"

It takes him a moment to remember what the ticket Franziska e-mailed him said. "Tomorrow, at ten."

Wright checks the time. "That's pretty soon," he notes. "I'm surprised you had the time to come over here."

He would have had even more time if Mr. Shields hadn't unnerved him with his unasked-for opinions, but he elects not to mention that. "I've done most of what I need to do already," he says. "This is the last of it."

Wright just sort of blinks at him for a moment, eyes wide but face otherwise blank. A little like...like I looked two minutes ago.

"Thanks," Wright tells him, sincerely.

"Yes, well," he says, with the distinct sensation that the axis of the planet is moving under his feet, "I know you prefer it when I do."

"Well, yeah, that's kind of what you're supposed do with a friend."

"So I've heard." That unsteady feeling hasn't subsided. It's giving him a bit of a headache. "That was all I came for. I shouldn't keep you any longer."

"Oh," he says. "All right."

"Be careful while I'm gone," he says, reaching behind himself for the doorknob.

"With Kristoph, or in general?"

"Preferably both."

"What happens if I'm not?"

"If what you've told me is any indication, Gavin will stab you with a salad fork."

Inexplicably, that makes him laugh. "I'm going to miss you."

It strikes him as odd, how often the feelings Wright expresses overlap with the ones he keeps to himself, because of course he's going to miss him, despite his best efforts not to.

And then it strikes him that it might not be that odd at all.

"I'll -- I'll let you know when I return," he says, and leaves.

He wonders, speed-walking out of the building in a state of moderate panic, if Raymond will be satisfied with one "I told you so", or whether he intends to say it once for each separate point.

Chapter Text

Long experience has taught Edgeworth that ingesting staggering amounts of caffeine is in no way a suitable replacement for sleep, but there's also an aphorism about desperate times.

For the most part, the preoccupation keeps him awake, restlessly switching between working on the murder case he came over here to work on and the personal one he might have come over here to avoid. When he does sleep, he alternates between two kinds of dreams: the stress kind that leave him even more exhausted than the insomnia, and ones where his subconscious offers its extremely unwanted opinion on the best way to resolve the dilemma.

It probably doesn't speak well of him that he actively prefers the ones where his teeth fall out.

"What is wrong with you?"

It's after work; he and Franziska are going through the case files in her apartment, and have been for several hours. The question comes completely out of the blue, startling him.

"What?"

"You have hardly slept since you arrived nearly three weeks ago, and you always look as though you're about to be sick. Something is wrong with you."

"Is this affecting the quality of my work?"

She shrugs. "You do as well as can be expected."

"Then I don't think it's any of your business."

"Miles!" she says, outraged.

He tries again, this time with a conscious handle on his irritability. "It's a personal issue."

"We don't have personal issues."

"Perhaps you don't," he says. "Some of us have not been so fortunate."

"What could possibly be making you overreact like this?"

"I am not overreacting," he says, though he's not sure that's true. "I don't think you would want to know."

"All you have in your 'personal life' is that uncle of yours, and that foolishness with Phoenix Wright that you insist on involving yourself with," she says. "Why are you making that face again?"

"Am I?"

"Is that case causing your so-called 'issue'?" she demands.

He sighs. "Not exactly."

"But it is related."

"Franziska, please," he says. "For both our sakes, don't."

She narrows her eyes. "Fine. But get over it as quickly as possible; I'm tired of seeing your miserable face."

He's tired of it too, but can't seem to keep the questions from circling around in an endless loop with no answers.

Mainly one question, or more accurately, two permutations of the same basic idea; the ones that he never attaches answers to, even when feeling brave or frustrated enough to finish the others: how.

How could he possibly, and How do I proceed from here.

But unsolved mysteries or not, he needs to get in contact with Wright, and sooner rather than later. He's already been gone longer than he said he would with no end in sight, and he is not a "chickenshit" who's avoiding the issue. Though it seems allowing himself to confront it has not been turning out well either.

He pours himself another cup of terrible hotel coffee and places a phone call.

Wright tells him he hopes the case turns around soon, and lets him know that there haven't been any changes on the Gavin front.

"Is everything all right?" he asks, with that out of the way. "You don't sound very good."

"I'm fine," Edgeworth says, automatically. "I haven't been sleeping well."

"Are you having those nightmares again?" he asks, heart-achingly concerned.

"No, not like that," he says. "I just have something on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I...don't think I can." Not with you.

"Okay, well...call me if you change your mind," he says. "Or if there's anything else."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll work it out," he says, reassuringly. "Good luck with the case."

Not for the first time, he considers that Wright might have too much faith in him.

"We've been over the scene dozens of times," he says, as he and Franziska arrive there once again. "I don't know what you think we still need to look at."

"Find something," she directs. "Aside from this hideous wallpaper."

"I can assure you there's nothing left to find," he says. "And that wallpaper is nothing compared to the painting in the upstairs hallway."

"Do not remind me. What kind of person wastes their money on something like that?"

"One with no taste, I would assume." He looks down the hall, to the room where the murder took place. "Shall we have another look, then?"

A thorough re-examination of the house and surrounding area doesn't turn up anything new, much to everyone's disappointment and irritation, Franziska's especially. Several of her agents jump when she takes it out on him with her whip.

"They seemed surprised by that," he says to her, shaking off the sting. "Have you been experimenting with positive reinforcement instead?"

"My agents are competent," she says, the insult intended to cover her embarrassment at being caught.

"I don't suppose there's a way to be moved to that category."

"No," she says, putting the whip away. "Certainly not when you're so distracted by your 'personal issues'."

"Have you changed your mind about the quality of my work?"

"No, but that is because you have me to keep you in line until you stop acting like a fool."

"I'm working on it," he says. "It's a...delicate situation."

"You and your 'delicate personal issues,'" she says. "If I didn't know better, I would almost think..."

She frowns, lost in silent thought. Edgeworth mostly considers himself fortunate that the other agents have gone back into the house, leaving the two of them alone in the victim's backyard, because he really doesn't want there to be witnesses to this.

As it turns out, there's nothing for them to see. Franziska simply turns around, walks into the house, and doesn't say another word to him.

"What are you doing here?"

He's gone to Franziska's apartment. Waiting for her to calm down and resume speaking to him of her own volition has proved ineffective, and he doesn't need this aggravation on top of the others.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Me?" she asks, incensed. She lets him in anyway, to keep from having to shout at him in the hallway. "How dare you? How can you accuse me of any such thing?"

He doesn't dispute the implied allegation, because he can't. "You've been ignoring me for days, Franziska," he says, "giving me the silent treatment like a child --"

"I don't have anything to say to you."

"We work together --"

"You work for me, Miles --"

"I am not here to argue semantics," he says. "The fact remains that your refusal to communicate with me is hampering our investigation."

"You have been hampering it for weeks!" she exclaims. "You're so preoccupied with your...romantic foolishness that you can barely --"

"I have never once let this affect my work."

"You can't know that --"

"You've told me so every time we've discussed this!" he says, frustration leaking out. "I don't quite understand why you're this upset about this, but it isn't about work."

"I am not upset," she says. "Why would I care if you want to...sleep with Phoenix Wright?"

"I don't --" he starts, but it doesn't seem like an appropriate thing to discuss with his sister, even if she brought it up. "That may not be it, but you certainly seem to care about something, or you wouldn't be grinding your teeth that way."

The whole thing is faintly unbelievable; backwards, even, with her upset about his problem.

"It's none of your business," she says, repeating his own refusal back to him.

"I have never heard something so blatantly untrue in my life," he says, nearly sputtering with indignation. "If my...situation is what's causing your distress, it is inarguably my business."

"Is that what you call it?" she asks, sneeringly. "And how dare you try to position yourself this way when you are far more distressed about it than I!"

"Yes, because I have a reason to be!" he says. "Which your reaction is only contributing to, so if you would care to explain --"

She scoffs. "Do you plan to explain yourself to me?"

"What would I explain? You've already found me out, Franziska."

"I know what your secret is," she says. "I have no idea why you're acting so foolishly about it."

"Fine," he says, throwing his hands in the air. "If it will clear this up, I'll exchange my explanation for yours." It's not as though I have any dignity left to protect.

She crosses her arms and glares at him, clearly not pleased to have her bluff called. "You first."

He stares out the window, trying to gather his thoughts and arrange them into a palatable explanation, but in the end speaks as directly as he can bring himself to. "He feels the same way about me, I believe," he says, deliberately impassive. "I...find myself at a loss for what to do about it."

"You are losing your touch, if you have to ask," she says. "All you have to do is forget about it."

"I have spent the better part of a year trying that," he says. "It's not so simple."

"Because you cannot, or because you refuse to?"

He regards her quietly for a moment, standing there with her fists clenched accusatorily, before turning away again. "Both," he says. "I won't distance myself more than necessary. I can no longer justify it."

Franziska doesn't say anything, presumably because she's trying to yell multiple things at once and tripping over them. "Why?" she eventually gets out. "If you won't do the intelligent thing and leave, why don't you just tell him and be done with it?"

"A number of reasons, not least of which is that he has informed me that he has no desire to ever speak to me on the subject of romance, which I can only assume would extend to this particular discussion." He sighs. "Not, of course, that he's wrong to think so."

"So you do understand," she says.

He looks at her again, bewildered. "Understand what, precisely?" he asks. "Are you trying to say that you've been acting like this because you thought I hadn't taken my personal shortcomings into account? Because I can assure you that I have considered them all, and more besides."

"Must you always be so obtuse?" she says. "Of course that isn't it."

"Enlighten me, then," he says. "We did have a deal."

She presses her lips together for a moment before speaking. "You...you keep moving on without me," she says, eventually. "You leave it all behind like it never mattered to you at all!"

"What do you mean?" he asks, though a suspicion is creeping in even as he does so.

"Everything he ever taught us!"

"Your father?" he asks, more out of surprise than actual need for clarification.

"I don't need you to remind me that he was..." She gesticulates in a way that's presumably supposed to mean wrong or a murderer. "But you've moved on from all of it, first in work and now in this, while I..."

She has to stop to recollect herself. Edgeworth stands by, not sure what to say.

"You were the only one who could understand what it was like, to be a von Karma, that we weren't -- we couldn't --" she continues. "And now you can, and you do, because there is nothing you won't do better or faster than me!"

"I had no idea," he says, a little dazed. "I never realized that we both received that particular...lesson."

It doesn't really make sense to him -- Manfred von Karma had an ulterior motive in trying to raise Edgeworth to be as heartless as possible, but Franziska? What was the point?

It's possible there wasn't a point, he realizes. It may not have even been intentional with her; it's not like he was a particularly good father even outside his more egregious acts.

"Why is it so much easier for you?" she asks, almost like he hadn't spoken at all.

"Nothing about this has been easy for me," he says. "But as similar as our circumstances are, they are not the same. My feelings on the subject are likely much less conflicted than yours, and that may simplify some things." And I have a persistent friend who refuses to let me struggle alone. "You will overcome it, in time, if that's what you want."

"Is that what you think?" she asks, quietly.

"Yes. I also imagine you will handle it with much more grace than I," he says, because she never -- intentionally or not -- faked her own death over an emotional crisis.

That causes a flicker of amusement to cross her face. "It would be difficult not to. You still look like you may collapse at any second."

"It's only temporary. I'll come to a solution eventually."

"Hmph. It seems to me that you could have at least chosen someone more worthwhile to trouble yourself over."

"I admit I was expecting that comment much sooner," he says. "But no, I don't think I could have."

It didn't help him come to any sort of conclusion, but coming clean to Franziska seems to have lifted enough stress that he's not having those dreams anymore. A small victory, but one he's more than willing to take, with the actual problem unsolved and the case still stalled.

"This is absurd," Franziska says, after another unproductive day. "We have been over the crime scene, the neighbourhood, and the better part of the city dozens of times and haven't found anything remotely useful! How are we being...outsmarted by some criminal?"

"I don't know," he says, which is the best answer he can provide despite having put substantial thought into the matter. The lack of evidence implies a professional of some sort, but that's hardly a real lead in itself. Confusing the issue further is that some of the evidence they do have was found in a locked wing of the house on an entirely different floor from the actual crime scene, but none of the victim's belongings are missing, and there are no signs that the culprit even attempted a burglary at all. If they didn't steal anything, there's no reason for them to have gone upstairs in the first place, given that it's obvious that they entered directly into the victim's living room through that room's patio doors and the upstairs door was picked on the wrong side for an escape. "Perhaps we need to examine the case from a different angle. Discover an alternate possibility that remains unconsidered...ah."

"Did you think of something?"

"Not for this, no," he says, half-thinking about something else.

She whips him. He can admit that he probably earned that one.

But he's fairly certain he just stumbled onto the solution for his personal problem -- he had been working from the assumption that something would have to change between them, whether from confessing his feelings or from removing himself from the situation altogether, but now he can see that there's a hole in that logic that he's been overlooking.

There's no real reason that he has to do anything about it at all. There's nothing about that information that would compel him to take action, and if he doesn't wish to change things he doesn't have to. He can just...leave it alone, maybe with a little less self-denial. One of his questions will remain unanswered, but he doubts he'd ever understand that, even if Wright told him directly.

It seems embarrassingly obvious, in hindsight, but he never claimed any sort of expertise in the subject.

"Give me the case files," he instructs Franziska. "I really think there's something waiting to be found if we only approach it correctly."

Bemusedly, she hands them over. "Try to keep your mind off of your foolish infatuation while you look for it," she says. "And don't drink so much coffee that you lose all motor control and start spilling it."

"That only happened once," he says, taking the documents and leaving.

The phone rings while he's working on it; he answers it without looking.

"Edgeworth."

"Hey."

"Wright!" He smothers the surprise, recalling that he is attempting to conduct himself normally when they interact, in the spirit of maintaining their friendship.

"Is this a bad time?" he asks, picking up on it in spite of that.

"I can spare a few minutes."

"I'll keep it short, then," he says, with the distinct impression that he is rolling his eyes. "I need to ask you for a favour."

"Of course," he says. "Assuming there's anything I can do from here."

"Yeah, I just need to ask you for a phone number."

"A phone number? For whom?"

"Mr. Shields."

Edgeworth very nearly spills his coffee. He puts it down, very carefully. "Why?"

"The one in the phone book's been disconnected."

"That's not what I was asking."

He sighs. "Someone came by the office looking for a lawyer today," he says. "I guess word hasn't gotten around to everyone yet. I had to send him home without doing anything, and...I was thinking, I should find someone to direct people to, take on my old clients, that kind of thing."

"And you want that person to be Mr. Shields?"

"Well, it was either him or Kristoph Gavin. I don't really know a lot of other -- a lot of lawyers," he says. "Should I not?"

"No, no, it's not --" he says. "He's an excellent lawyer, and I'm sure he'd be more than happy to help you."

"But...?" Wright prompts.

But I don't even want to think about what he might tell you. "Don't take anything he says very seriously."

"He's going to try embarrassing you, huh."

More that if I'm not going to tell you, I certainly don't want somebody else to do it. "Almost definitely."

He laughs. "I promise not to believe anything he tells me about you."

"Very reassuring," he says, but gives Wright the number anyway. There was a professional obligation in it.

"Thanks," Wright says. "I guess I should let you go; it sounds like you were working when I called."

"I was."

"Not going so well?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Kind of sounded that way," he says. "And you probably would've been home, like, a month ago if it was going well."

"Ah," Edgeworth says. "I suppose you're right; things have not lent themselves to easy solutions."

"Things, plural?" he asks. "I thought you were only working one case."

"I am," he says, quickly. "Although..."

"...Edgeworth?"

"Although if what we thought was one case is actually two," he says, rapidly formulating a new theory. "I have to go."

"You're welcome?"

"Thank you," he says, hurriedly, and hangs up.

While the idea of a second, unrelated criminal feels plausible, even likely, and would explain a lot about the state of the crime scene, there's still one major flaw in that explanation: what the second person's crime actually was. It's nearly unheard of for someone to affect a break-and-enter without a secondary objective, yet they passed over the valuables on the second floor and never ventured downstairs to the victim's location, ruling out murder as a motive. The victim didn't call the police, implying that the break-in was either never discovered, or occured after his death.

He ruminates on it for quite some time, standing around in the victim's house with the handful of night-shift officers assigned to guard it.

The painting turns out to be the key, the ugly one in the upstairs hallway.

It had been given a cursory examination earlier in the investigation, determined to obviously not have been stolen from the premises, and mostly forgotten about except in the context of some casual art criticism. But looking at it more thoroughly reveals some damage to the back of the frame and some frayed canvas edges, invisible from the front, as if someone had cut something out of it: an art theft. The location of the painting, just outside of the locked door the thief had picked, lends itself to the idea.

But what was actually stolen, if the facade it was hiding behind remains in place? And who would have even known about the second artwork's existence to go about stealing it? And how did the victim come by the -- presumably valuable -- hidden painting in the first place?

He hangs the frame back on the wall, and leaves the scene to look into reports of stolen paintings.

Cross-referencing the victim's travels with police reports of stolen art reveals a pattern so blatant it's amazing he wasn't in prison long ago. Checking that pattern against the movements of his friends, family, and coworkers for possible accomplices provides one name, some low-ranking employee who barely registered in the investigation before now.

She concedes to the charges with surprising ease and even more surprising dignity, but maintains she had nothing to do with the murder despite her poor timing -- she had made her escape across the victim's patio and seen the body through the glass doors, but no more. The theft was simply a financial matter, according to her; the victim owed her payment for stealing the painting from its original owner in the first place, and she took it back when the money didn't appear to be forthcoming.

"Now would be the time to disclose anything you do know about the murder," Edgeworth warns her. "You'll be going to prison either way, but a certain amount of leniency could be exercised, should your information lead to an arrest."

"Kind of wish I had some," she says, with the vague hint of a smile. "But all I've got is what I've already told you, and this."

She reaches into a drawer, pulls something out, and hands it over.

"At least, I think it's from there?" she says. "I found it stuck to my shoe while I was, uh, making my getaway."

It's a calling card, though he doesn't recognize the insignia. But Franziska does, and she is furious at the sight.

She explains it to him later, once their art thief is safely in custody and she's calmed down slightly; it's the mark of a criminal organization that's been growing exponentially in this area in recent years, mostly by absorbing any other lawbreakers they find into their ranks...or killing them off to reduce competition. Though she doesn't seem aware of it, that thief is probably safer in Interpol's hands than not.

"As you can imagine," she says, "we have been trying to bring them down for quite some time, even prior to my arrival. Finding this man's murderer is going to prove nearly impossible."

"More so than usual, given that they've had several weeks to make arrangements."

"Yes," she says, grudgingly. "This case is likely to take several more months, if not longer."

"Indeed," he says, for lack of a better response.

"You are going home after that girl's trial. You were never intended to work on this case; it's too long-term for a temporary consultant like you to get involved with," she says. "And I don't think we could convince you to stay, even if such an offer were made. You have too much...business in America now."

He's taken aback; he would have thought she'd try to keep him around as long as possible, considering her opinions on both his usual work and his personal life. She must have been even more annoyed with him than she said, and decided it was the lesser of two evils.

Whatever it was, it's probably as close to an understanding as they're going to get.

"All right," he says. "If you ever need my help in the future --"

"I will consider it," she says. "Should I find myself working a sufficiently insignificant case."

"I appreciate it."

Their cat burglar gets several years in prison, and the promise of protection afterwards, should she need it. The painting is returned to the gallery it was stolen from, though Edgeworth still has a hard time believing anyone would intentionally display it; it's as ugly as the the decoy used to conceal it, the sort of mind-numbing hodgepodge Wright would like. He gets a plane ticket back to Los Angeles for the next day and a ride to the airport from Franziska.

She looks like she wants to ask him something, but all she says is "Don't do anything foolish."

"I don't intend to," he says. "But perhaps I still owe you an apology for my conduct these last few weeks."

Again, she doesn't address it directly; she gives him a searching look, but no indication whether she accepts or rejects the apology. "Goodbye, Miles."

"Goodbye, Franziska," he says. "Take care."

She raises an eyebrow, and leaves him to wait alone.

He goes to see Wright shortly after arriving home, because to his slight dismay, that is what he would do, normally.

"You're back," Wright says upon seeing him. "I wasn't expecting -- the article said you guys hadn't found the murderer."

"Franziska sent me home," he says. "They're writing about this in the newspaper now?"

"You recovered twenty years' worth of stolen art, of course they are." The paper in question is lying out on the couch; Wright hands it to him to inspect. "Not a very good picture, though. You look like Sweeney Todd."

"You would look much the same if they photographed you next to that abomination." Most of that is because he's catching up on six weeks of lost sleep, but he chooses to blame it on the fact that he was roped into posing for a picture with the victim's stolen painting.

Franziska had enough pull to get out of the unnecessary media attention; he, unfortunately, did not.

"Are you kidding? That's a Munch --"

"Hmph. I knew it."

"Knew what?" he asks, abandoning his protest.

"That you would recognize something so obviously lacking in artistic merit."

"Really?" he asks, pointedly, but with a grin.

"Quite sincerely." He returns the newspaper to the furniture. "I suppose I don't need to recount anything about the case, then."

"Not really. Unless you want to tell me why Franziska fired you."

"She didn't fire me," he says. "It became part of an ongoing investigation, and she knows I have concerns here. I don't have the time."

"Oh. Yeah, of course," he says, eyebrows raised. "How is Franziska, anyway?"

"Fine," he hedges. "She's apparently decided to stop whipping her subordinates, myself excluded."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

He reflects on this. "Somehow I doubt you've made the former group. She specified to me that it was a matter of competence."

Wright snorts, moving the newspaper out of the way so he can sit down. "Yeah, there's no hope for either of us, then."

"No," Edgeworth says, joining him, "probably not."

Chapter Text

"You gave Nicky my phone number."

Raymond dragged him out for coffee; he should've known there was a reason. At least they've ended up drinking it in the nearby park, where people are much less likely to overhear this.

"I did," Edgeworth says, refusing to react.

"Huh. I would've thought you'd call me five seconds after you did it, freaking out and demanding that I behave myself. Or at least a couple days later to check up on me."

"I didn't need to; Wright told me all about it," he says. "He tells me you agreed to help."

"Well, yeah. I wasn't going to leave him out to dry and make the future really awkward for everyone." He still doesn't get the reaction he was hoping for, so he keeps going. "He's a good kid, worrying about people he doesn't even know."

To put it lightly. "Yes, he is."

"It's almost impressive how sappy you made that sound."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you don't," he says, amused. "He does it too, you know. Then he told me we had to change the subject because he promised you he wouldn't let me embarrass you."

It's much too late for that. "He wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Have some faith in your Uncle Ray," he says. "We've been over this, I'm not going to tell him anything. Still, it was very sweet of him to humour your baseless paranoia like that."

He exhales. "You can stop now."

"Stop what?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Implying that he --" The words still catch on each other when he tries to say it. "I already know."

"You do?" Raymond's head snaps up in surprise. "Then why are we -- Wasn't this your whole problem? That you were convinced that he didn't and wouldn't ever love you back?"

"It's not that simple," he says, trying not to flinch at Raymond's casual use of the word love. "It's not any one thing."

In fact, he can think of at least three more right now.

"It never is."

"I simply don't think now would be an appropriate time to act on this," he says, "even putting aside the other reasons it wouldn't work."

"You know my girlfriend is in prison, right?" he asks. "There's no such thing as the right moment."

"Obviously it isn't quite as dramatic as that," Edgeworth says, "but the last few months have been...turbulent. For him. And I don't want to add to that."

"Yeah, for him. You're totally fine," Raymond says, possibly sarcastically. "But I see your point."

"You do?" He did not expect that to work.

"It's been a big year for everyone," he says. "And, yeah, maybe now's not a great time to try working out exactly what's going on between you guys. That said, you're always miserable when you leave, he looks like I'm ripping his heart out whenever I bring it up, it'd be a lot easier on the both of you if you'd just accept that you're always going to come right back anyway, and you might even solve some of your individual problems if you work on them together because as far as I can tell you're both a lot smarter when you're not busy mooning over each other."

Edgeworth blinks at him a few times, trying to parse that sentence. "I think --"

"I just don't want you to end up like your Uncle Ray," he continues, "wasting twenty years for reasons that seem stupid now and then sitting out another ten because you didn't do something when you had the chance."

"You can't possibly be held responsible for any of Ms. Hall's decisions."

"Not logically," he says, "but I can't help but think if I had stuck around to catch that guy myself, or get Jeff out of prison, or something...Point is, it's too late for any of that. But it makes a good lesson for you."

"As I was trying to say earlier," he says, "I had, more or less, come to a similar conclusion."

Now Mr. Shields is the one caught off-balance, but he recovers himself quickly. "'More or less'?"

"I don't share your certainty regarding the outcome," he says, "but I have decided to allow our friendship to progress without attempting to influence it one way or another."

Raymond squints at him, thinking it over.

"Close enough, I'll take it," he says, then grins. "Look at you, actually taking my advice and not making the worst possible decision. I'm so proud."

"You're overstating the depth of the achivement involved."

"I don't think I am. Even if you have to keep the lid on Schrödinger's Boyfriend for a while yet."

"Schr-- That is not -- You are not --"

Raymond just smiles wider as he sputters indignantly, enjoying his sought-after reaction. "I should get back to the office. Got a couple things to take care of," he says, tossing the remains of his coffee into a trash can. "Good luck, Miles."

He pats Edgeworth on the shoulder as he leaves. Edgeworth lets him.

Chapter Text

This amounts to very few practical changes, as intended. He stays in regular contact over the phone, and every few weeks one of them comes up with a sufficiently reasonable excuse to do it in person instead.

He would say it was nice, if he was the sort of person who described anything that way.

"Kristoph showed me his office today," Wright tells him, on one of the increasingly rare occasions that the call is actually about the case.

"What was it like?" Edgeworth asks, struggling to picture it. It would probably help if he had ever met Kristoph Gavin, but he's not exactly eager to do so.

"Nicer than mine."

"It helps if you don't live in it."

"I meant before that!"

"It was perfectly fine as a place of business," he says. "Though I suppose you mostly have Mia Fey to thank for that."

Wright laughs. "I'd be offended by that but I've seen how you decorate."

"Is there something you'd like to say about my office?"

"No, actually," he says. "It's very...you. Which is more than Kristoph can say; that place looks like a display at a furniture store."

"Strange. If anything, his brother's office suffers from an excess of personality."

"I can only imagine."

"He has an amplifier for a desk."

"Of course he does."

Of all the things Edgeworth was expecting to see when he checked his messages during this recess, this was not it.

He's fairly certain that was a joke.

Wright evidently reads his message in its intended spirit of insincerity, judging by his response.

Ah. So it's more about that and less about the works of George Lucas, but presumably he isn't interested in having a serious discussion about it if he's doing so in text messages in the middle of the workday.

Edgeworth chooses to ignore this intentionally provocative statement.

And he does, because he knows the pointed look he would've gotten if they were in the same room, the one that implies because you like children's television and things that are boring.

Edgeworth starts and erases about eight different responses to that before realizing he doesn't have a sufficiently convincing argument for their narrative importance, and that this is not really worth arguing in the first place.

He checks the time.

One more message comes in, right before he opens the door to return to the courtroom.

"Your uncle's a weird guy," Wright declares one day, frowning at a text message.

"I am aware," Edgeworth says, not bothering to correct the use of 'your uncle', since after several months of trying he's given up on it. "He once sent me a message that was nothing but five lines of eggplants."

Wright turns to look at him with mingled bewilderment and amusement. "What? Why?"

"I have no idea," he says. "What did he say to you?"

"He keeps making jokes about cats every time we talk." He puts the phone away. "Does he think I have a cat?"

Mr. Shields must have been very proud of his Schrödinger joke, if he's running it into the ground even now. "I find it's best not to ask questions about his motivations."

"I guess you'd know."

"What do you even talk about with him?" he asks, the desire to know temporarily overtaking his tact.

"Work, mostly. He had a lot of questions about the case files I gave him, and he has more access to what Kristoph gets up to professionally than either of us." He grins. "Why, were you worried it was about you?"

"No," he says. Honestly, because he knows he would have heard about it already if it was.

At moments like this, he wonders just how much Wright knows about the exact nature of their relationship. It's hard to imagine that he would actually know less than Edgeworth himself, given the differential between their relative people skills, but it's difficult to tell.

Not that Edgeworth would ever admit to that particular strand of reasoning to anyone else.

Today's internal debate is interrupted when Trucy comes in to borrow her father for some kind of consultation. She waves at him as she does, as confusingly happy to see him as she always is.

Edgeworth takes the opportunity to ask Mr. Shields what, exactly, he thinks he's doing.

The answer comes in near-immediately.

He follows this with a line of increasingly-nonsensical emojis.

"Are you yelling at your uncle on my behalf right now?" Wright says, reappearing behind the couch.

"He spends enough time bothering me; he doesn't need to do it to you," he says, clicking the phone off. "Is everything all right with Trucy?"

"Yeah, it was just about her homework. Though I'm not sure how much help I was; it's been a while since I was in the third grade and my long division is rusty."

"It wasn't good even at the time, if I recall."

"At least I knew how to fold a paper crane," he mutters. "What, did you tell Ray he wasn't allowed to bother me because you wanted to do all of it?"

"Should I refrain from impugning your mathematical prowess?"

"Like you're not dying to tell me off for bringing up the origami thing."

"It was a matter of personal pride!"

"Oh my god --"

"-- and I will have you know that I can now fold a quarter-inch crane without a single flaw, which I will demonstrate if necessary."

"It's not."

He does it anyway.

"How was work today?"

"The defense accused me of illegal activity three times."

"A good day, then," Wright says, with the kind of resigned amusement of someone who's been listening to variations on a theme for months on end. "I think your record is eight, now."

"Eleven, but that was split between two people," he corrects.

This sort of thing has always been a problem for him, ever since the early days of his career, but it's been happening more often and more openly over the last several months. Coupled with the way his colleagues at the Office are still keeping a mistrustful distance from him after the near-simultaneous convictions of Prosecutors Portsman and De Beste, it hasn't been a particularly pleasant work environment.

"They're really not letting this go, huh," Wright says. "I didn't think it would stick to you like this."

"I have never been well-liked among the opposition," he says, pre-empting the apology Wright is no doubt about to give. "This is about what I've done, as much as I may wish everyone would forget about it."

"Still, I can't help but feel like --"

"Wright," he says, "it's not you."

The other end of the call remains silent, Wright struggling to keep from protesting further. It's not the first time.

His guilt will be alleviated soon enough, once they finally solve this case and have Wright reinstated. Edgeworth doubts it will have much impact on his own problems, but that hardly matters.

"How are things at the restaurant?" he asks after a moment, trying to steer out of that conversation.

"Oh, you know. Another day, another note that says 'please stop' in the tip jar."

"Perhaps we should start keeping a tally for that, too."

"First one to five wins," Wright says, playing along.

"How early is too early to notify you of my inevitable victory?"

He laughs. "Any time's good for me."

Wright acquires a piano.

"Were you that offended by the complaints about your playing?" Edgeworth asks, watching him poke at the keys.

He shrugs. "It might be a good idea to practice a little."

"You've had that job for over a year," Edgeworth points out, attempting to approach without tripping over something. The office has been impossibly crowded since Wright started living in it, and this is not helping. "Did you only realize that recently?"

"I didn't find any pianos by the side of the road until recently," he corrects, still awkwardly trying to pick out a tune. It's like watching Gumshoe try to type a report.

Edgeworth eyes the instrument suspiciously. "You're taking other people's garbage now?"

"It doesn't count if it's furniture," he says. "I can't -- It's not even my real job there, it would be a waste of money to buy one, it..." He sighs. "Look, don't judge me for this."

"No," Edgeworth says, taken aback by the genuine upset. "No, of course not."

"Sure."

"I'll do my best not to."

He cracks a smile. "That's more like it."

"I would never judge you too harshly for something you clearly need."

Wright glances at him, verifying that it was, indeed, meant humourously. "Hey, I've gotten a lot better over the last year!"

"Are you sure?" he asks, Maya's remark about household pets and heavy machinery coming to mind.

"You know, they say people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

"That assumes that my house is made of glass."

Wright looks at him, surprised. "I didn't know you played the piano. The flute, yeah, but not the piano."

"I learned after I..." He leaves it there, the blanks easily filled in. "I haven't played in quite some time, however."

"Will you show me?" he asks, something like hope in his eyes.

"You want me to play?"

"Yeah," he says. "You can't tell me that and then not show me."

He stands up from the bench and moves back, allowing them to switch places. Edgeworth does so, because of course he does.

He doesn't recognize the music when he plays it, but that may be because the piano is in dire need of a retuning.

"What is this?"

"Uh, Elton John, I think," Wright says, leaning over his shoulder to look at the music.

"Don't you work in a Russian restaurant?" he asks, missing a few notes while trying to ignore their proximity. "That doesn't seem...thematically appropriate."

He shrugs, straightening up again. "People like Elton John."

He plays to the end of the song. Wright turns the pages of the music for him.

"Okay, you can definitely throw stones," Wright says afterward. "If you ever go into this professionally I'd be out of a job."

"Let's hope it never comes to that," he says, getting up from the bench. With any luck, neither of them will be doing any such thing soon. "I don't like to play for an audience."

Wright looks alarmed. "Should I not have --?"

"No," he says, cutting him off. "You didn't -- It was fine."

"No encores, though."

This would be a perfect opportunity to close this discussion forever, but what he says instead is "Have that thing tuned first."

"I kind of wasn't expecting to hear from you for the next little while," Wright says when he answers the phone. "I figured you'd be busy after what happened today."

He is, presumably, referring to the incident at the space centre, and the fact that it's been all over the news all day. "I'm not involved with that case."

"Really? Because after Lana and Gant and those other guys I thought you'd be the obvious choice."

"That is precisely why I am not involved," he says. "The Chief Prosecutor felt that assigning me another intra-office case -- despite the fact that only Lana's was known to have prosecutorial involvement when I was given it -- would give the impression that I was serving some kind of...inquistorial function."

"You are doing that."

"Not on the Chief Prosecutor's behalf, and that seems to be what matters here." In fact, he's not even sure she knows about it at all.

"Great priorities from the Prosecutors' Office, as usual," Wright observes. "So...you're just going to have to let this one go?"

"It would appear that way."

"But you're going to get involved anyway?" he says, knowingly.

"How can I not? How can I trust someone else to handle the case objectively when the Chief Prosecutor has made it clear that there is only one acceptable outcome?"

"I get it. And I'll help, if you need it," he says. "But...be careful. It sounds like things are getting worse over there."

"It's been like this for years, in one form or another," he says. "I doubt they'd get rid of me now, when they've had far better opportunities to do it and then hired me back after they did."

"I think you might be giving them too much credit," he says. "If they've decided they're above the law I don't see why they'd play fair in getting rid of you."

He hadn't really thought about it all that much, but Wright does have a point. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Thanks," he says, but then sighs. "Things aren't going so well for either of us, are they?"

"Maybe not professionally," he says, because while he does spend the better part of every day having people cast aspersions on his ability, intelligence, and capacity for basic human decency, this is the best things have been in a long time.

"Regretting your decision to stick around yet?"

"Not at all."

Chapter Text

Despite how often they talk about it after the fact, it's quite rare for employees of the Prosecutors' Office to attend the trials of their colleagues. Edgeworth would know, considering how often he's involved in those trials in one way or another; no one showed for Portsman, Lana, or himself.

Which is why it catches his attention when Klavier Gavin takes a seat a few rows ahead of him in the gallery when he goes to see Blackquill's. He had no idea Gavin had even returned to the country, much less that he had any kind of investment in the case.

The trial itself is no less surprising. Regardless of the Chief Prosecutor's apparent intent that no more of her subordinates wind up in prison, nobody objects to Blackquill's attempts to plead guilty or confess, aside from the trial's only witness, the victim's young daughter. She frames it in some rather odd terms, but she's adamant in Blackquill's innocence.

It doesn't make much sense -- a testimony like this could, in the hands of a competent lawyer, make for an excellent defence, but Blackquill's lawyer is allowing him to plead guilty. Meanwhile, if the prosecution has decided to let him go down for this after all, there's no way he should have let this witness be called in the first place. It comes off more like both sides are gunning for a loss more than anything.

But no testimony can repair the damage that's already been done, and in due course Blackquill is convicted of murder, though the judge seems reluctant to do so. Blackquill himself receives the verdict with the same composure he's had for most of the day, barely even wavering when the death sentence comes down.

Edgeworth leaves the courtroom disquieted, a feeling only intensified when Klavier Gavin catches up to him on the way out of the building.

"Gavin," he says, voice neutral. "I wouldn't have expected to see you here."

"Ja, our tour ended the day before yesterday, just in time for me to check it out. Never thought Herr Blackquill would --" His customary smile slips for a moment, before Gavin catches it, reasserts his usual self. "Can't say I'm surprised to see you here, mein Herr, though I would have thought you'd be behind the bench for it. You're always behind it, nein?"

"I perform my duties as a prosecutor, nothing else," he says, not about to rise to the bait.

It's difficult to say what Gavin is thinking behind his sunglasses, or when he asks his next question. "What do you think your duty would have been with Herr Blackquill?"

"I couldn't say," Edgeworth tells him, truthfully. "I don't have that kind of information."

"You saw the trial, nein? You have all the information any of us could get."

A trial with one witness and scarcely any more evidence. Gavin really is shockingly naive if he thinks there's nothing more out there, though what it might be is anyone's guess. "I'm sure," he says flatly, not interested in talking about investigative techniques or office politics with someone who's not likely to believe any of it.

Klavier's eyes narrow, aware he's being brushed off. Insulted, even. "Ah, what am I asking you for," he says, after a moment. It's a little unsettling, how quickly he snaps back to that smile whenever it falters. "I'll see you at the office, ja?"

"Indeed," he says, noticing that Gavin's exit is much less leisurely than usual.

As expected, the office is abuzz with gossip about it for days afterward. Most of it is flagrantly inaccurate, which means it probably didn't originate with Klavier Gavin. Nor is it coming from the prosecutor who handled the case, since most of it is theories about why Blackquill was allowed to be convicted.

"Maybe he was actually guilty," Wright suggests when Edgeworth runs it by him.

"So were the others, and that didn't seem to matter," he says. "And I'm not certain he is."

"Didn't you think so before?"

"For some reason, I was under the impression that the case was being handled properly."

"Who knew you were such an optimist?" he jokes. "What made you change your mind?"

"The victim's daughter testified," he says. Wright waits patiently as he searches for words. "A girl about Trucy's age. I don't know how much of her mother's -- the incident she saw, but she was very insistent that Blackquill had nothing to do with it."

"One witness who might not have even been there isn't usually enough for you," Wright says gently.

"I know she wouldn't have testified if she wasn't sure. I know it." He has to look away. "I wouldn't have, when I...when I was in her place."

"Edgeworth..." Wright says, because he doesn't know what else to say, and lays a comforting hand on Edgeworth's arm.

"Don't look at me like that." It's been years now, but he still can't stand it when Wright looks like that, equal parts sadness and sympathy and concern. "Please."

He puts on what must be his best poker face, but leaves his hand where it is.

"I spoke to Klavier Gavin at the courthouse," Edgeworth says a moment later, to distract himself.

"How'd it go? Any different from usual?"

"Somewhat. He seemed...troubled by Blackquill's conviction."

"Never thought I'd see the day where you agree with Klavier Gavin," Wright observes. "Do you think it was for the same reason?"

"I doubt it. Gavin has likely never even experienced something like that second-hand." The image of Klavier's pasted-on grin briefly crosses his mind. "He wouldn't understand."

"No, I guess not." He looks thoughtful. "I wonder what it was."

"You could always ask him."

"That's not funny."

But he smiles anyway.

"You've got a visitor, Mr. Edgeworth," Detective Gumshoe says, leaning in his office door.

He turns from the bookshelf to ask who it is, when he's nearly knocked off his feet by a particularly enthusiastic hug.

"Hi, Mr. Edgeworth!"

"Hello, Kay," he says, disengaging her and straightening himself out. "What brings you here?"

"Gummy told me that you have a case that's giving you trouble, so I came to offer the services of the Yatagarasu," she says, striking a heroic pose. "Also, it's almost time to apply to college and I have a campus tour scheduled for this weekend."

She reaches into her bag and produces a brochure for him to examine. "Ivy University," he reads. "I believe a friend of mine attended their law school."

"Who?" Gumshoe seems genuinely unable to think of anyone. "Wait, do you mean Mr. Wright?"

"Who's that?" Kay asks, before he can answer. "Oh, oh, is he the guy?"

Edgeworth raises his eyebrows. "What guy?"

"You know, the guy. The one you always talk about but never say his name, who saved your life and showed you how to do your job right and taught you the meaning of friendship?"

Gumshoe looks slightly offended by this assertion.

"Ah," Edgeworth says, face turning bright red. "That guy. Yes."

"Do I get to meet him?" She looks genuinely excited at the prospect.

"What? No."

"Aw," she says. "Will you at least ask him if it's a good school?"

"If you like." He's not sure why he doesn't want to introduce her in the first place. "What do you intend to study?"

She shrugs. "I haven't decided yet."

"Couldn't find a school with a thieving program, huh?" Gumshoe asks, laughing.

"No," she says, fake-pouting.

"Thankfully," Edgeworth says, flipping through the brochure. It's a fairly typical example of one, touting the school's beautiful campus and cutting-edge facilities. Mostly just an advertisement.

"I only steal the truth, it's not like I go around breaking into little old ladies' houses," she grumbles. "That reminds me, is there anything I could steal to help you with your case?"

"I don't want you stealing anything," he says. "And it's not a case, officially speaking, which is why we won't be discussing it here."

"Ugh, fine, tell me later. Just remember that Gummy and I are taking that tour tomorrow, so not then."

His eyebrows go back up at that. Nobody came with Kay? And she's taking Gumshoe? "Enjoy yourselves, I suppose. We can talk about legal matters afterwards."

"Okay! I'm going to go say hi to Sebastian now; see you guys later!"

"His office is downstairs," Edgeworth calls after her as she dashes out the door. "Perhaps I should warn him that she's coming."

"He'll be okay, pal." Gumshoe shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's nice to see her again, isn't it?"

"Yes, very much so."

"If she goes to school here, is she going to work for you again?"

He thinks about the environment he would be exposing her to if that were the case, the atmosphere of deceit and corruption. "I don't know."

"You haven't been around for the last couple of days. Did something come up?"

Wright is doing what appears to be some sort of craft project with a hot glue gun and a piece of fabric that may or may not be a bedsheet. Trucy has professed to be helping, but she mostly seems to be watching while her father does all the work.

"Kay was in town," Edgeworth answers. "I brought her to the airport this morning."

"Who's Kay?" Trucy asks, almost suspiciously.

"Mr. Edgeworth's Maya," Wright says. "It was nice of her to come back and visit."

"It wasn't strictly to visit," he says. "She wanted to help with Blackquill's case, and she was touring a college in the area."

"Did you actually let her help?" Wright asks.

"I let her look at the files and took her to the space centre," he answers. "But nothing came of it, not that I expected it to."

"Too bad. How'd the college thing go?"

"Fine, as far as I know."

"You didn't go with her?" He sounds almost confused.

"She took Detective Gumshoe," he says. "Should I have gone?"

"I don't know," he says, shrugging. "I just thought she would've asked you."

"No," he says. "She did have a question for you, however."

Wright looks up in surprise, accidentally hot-gluing some of his fingers to the fabric. "For me? About what?"

"The school she was visiting was your alma mater," he says, taking a hold of the cloth so Wright can pull himself free. "She wanted to know what you thought about your time there."

"Your what?" Trucy asks, watching the proceedings closely.

"Where he went to college," Edgeworth says. He makes a mental note to do a better job adjusting his vocabulary for nine-year-old ears.

She looks at Wright. "You went to college?"

"Wh--yes," Wright sputters. "I was a lawyer, Trucy."

Edgeworth tries to look as though he doesn't find this amusing. Judging by Wright's expression, he is not succeeding. As an apology, he moves the conversation forward.

"Do you have anything you want me to tell her about it?"

"Uh, well, it's a really good school," Wright says. "And it's not like what happened to me is the typical experience."

"I wouldn't think so."

"What happened?"

They both look at Trucy, alarmed, and then at each other, unsure of what to tell her.

"Nothing," Wright finally says, but he's picking the residual glue from his fingers in exactly the same nervous way Edgeworth is fiddling with his ring. He doesn't envy Wright any future conversations on the topic. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

She studies them for another moment, as though it might convince one of them to divulge something more, but eventually gives up and leaves the room, back to the book she was reading before Edgeworth showed up.

"I am not looking forward to having to explain that one to her," Wright says when she's out of sight, still peeling glue off his hand.

"It's happened to all of us, not to mention her biological father," Edgeworth says, not certain how reassuring that is. "I doubt she would look at you any differently for having been wrongly accused."

Wright sighs. "I'm not sure that's the part I'd have a hard time explaining."

"Ah." It likely would be difficult to address the circumstances of that particular episode with a child, especially one who's proven to have her own opinions on the subject. Or a related subject, at least. He plucks at the probable bedsheet instead. "What are you making? I never did ask you."

"It's Trucy's Halloween costume," he says, unfurling the whole thing and holding it up for inspection.

"If I give you the money for a replacement, will you promise me not to make her wear that in public?" he says, having inspected it. "Didn't you go to art school?"

"I didn't major in costume design," he says, defensively, then puts his creation down. "She's not going to end up as the Steel Samurai, is she?"

"I assumed she would decide for herself."

"That isn't a no!"

If there was any more evidence logged for Blackquill's case, there's no way to find out. The files are only available with the express permission of the Chief Prosecutor. As are, he quickly finds out, the records of any case he didn't work himself. He stares at the computer screen in shock for a moment before making his way to Sebastian's office.

"Can you access files for another prosecutor's case?"

Sebastian jumps in his seat at the unexpected question. "Yeah, of course."

"When was the last time you checked?"

"Yesterday, I think?" He tilts his head to the ceiling while he thinks. "Yeah, it was yesterday, after lunch."

"Would you check again? Just pull up the information from my last case."

"Okay," he says, confused, but hits a few keys to do it. "Hey, it won't let me! It says I have to ask the Chief for permission."

"Yes, I had the same experience," Edgeworth says, distracted by thoughts of why. "I wanted to know if it was only me."

"Why would they only do that to you?"

Sebastian must be even further out of the loop of office gossip than he is. "Some of my work has been unpopular with our colleagues."

"Wh-- oh," he says, catching on mid-word. "But they all did it. I mean, my dad...my dad..."

"I know." He doesn't consider it necessary for Sebastian to speak of his father. "Unfortunately, the Office sometimes has...other priorities."

"That doesn't seem great."

"So I've heard."

They circulate a memo about the change the next day, rationalizing it as a measure to improve accountability.

A measure to keep us from knowing what goes on here, more accurately, he thinks darkly to himself.

"More like a measure to keep you from knowing what's going on in that office," Wright says, looking over the memo.

"That's almost precisely what I said."

"Great minds think alike." He puts the paper down. "What are you going to do about this?"

"I have no idea," Edgeworth admits. "I don't have the authority to do anything about it."

Wright thinks about it for a moment. "Do you know anything about hacking computers?"

"Why would you think I know how to do that?" he asks. "And aside from the fact that I don't, it would make anything I found inadmissible in court, which would defeat the purpose entirely."

"I don't know, you know how to do a lot of weird stuff," Wright says, hands up in defeat. "So, basically, your only option is to convince the Chief Prosecutor to change her mind."

"More or less. And I very much doubt I would be able to, considering that I seem to have instigated the change in the first place."

"Huh." There's a moment where they silently run through the issue again, trying to find a loophole. "At least there's still the witness for Blackquill. Did you talk to her?"

"She's left the country with her new guardians," he says. "I don't have anything for that."

"There has to be something somewhere." The words are almost accusatory, but his tone is decidedly not. "You'll turn it up eventually."

"How can you still believe that?" Edgeworth asks, surprised by how frustrated he suddenly feels. "I've been working on your case for over a year and I haven't progressed at all."

"I'll always believe in you," he says calmly. "And these things take time. I never thought we'd figure it out in a week or anything." Wright slightly emphasizes we as he says it, a small rebuke towards Edgeworth's use of the singular.

"I certainly thought we'd have found it by now," he admits. "I never imagined that the courts would go so long without your presence." That I would work so many cases without you.

"Yeah," Wright says distantly. They still don't see eye-to-eye on the subject of whether he should return to the law once the case is properly solved, but at this point they have an unspoken agreement to argue about that bridge when they come to it.

"It's not just your case, either," Edgeworth continues. "I was of so little use to Franziska that she sent me home, and now Blackquill --"

"She sent you home because that was a long-term investigation and she couldn't keep you for the next couple years," Wright interrupts, "and you've only been looking into Blackquill for a few weeks."

"He's on death row, Wright," he says. "Time is limited."

"I know that. It doesn't mean there's no time, and..."

"...you believe in me, for some inexplicable reason."

He smiles, wry. "When have I ever needed a reason?"

"An excellent point," Edgeworth says, matching his tone.

"You can always count on me."

"I'm well aware of that."

On the thirty-first, Maya sends him a text message.

It's accompanied by a photograph: Trucy in a thankfully store-bought Halloween costume, Wright behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Both of them are smiling broadly for the camera.

A second picture comes in shortly thereafter, this time a four-person selfie with Maya and Pearls joining the others in the frame. It's hard to tell with everyone crammed together, but it looks like both of the Feys are wearing costumes to match Trucy's, even if Maya is far too old to be going out for Halloween, in his opinion. All three of the girls are smiling, but Wright just looks like Maya blindsided him with a second picture. Edgeworth can relate.

Both pictures are adorable.

There's something ominous about that line of smilies, but he's well used to that.

Chapter Text

"This is bad," Wright says, grimacing at his newspaper. In the months since Blackquill's conviction there have been seven articles in four different papers about the questionable legal practices in the city, both current and past. Edgeworth and Wright have both read them all. "At least this one didn't drag you into it."

The other six articles all mentioned his past wrongdoings, both briefly and in-depth. None of them have seen fit to mention that he's at least partly responsible for bringing most of the others named in the article to justice.

"They still dragged you into it."

"All of them do," he says, more lightly than might be expected. "It was a pretty high-profile case; I'm not surprised they bring it up."

The papers do not mention Wright's involvement in more positive affairs, either.

"It's hardly fair to put you on the same level as Damon Gant or von Karma."

"Haven't you ever heard 'life's not fair'?"

"I've always hated that saying."

"Everybody hates that saying," Wright says, folding the paper back up. "You'd think having all of this out in the open would get the Prosecutors' Office to clean up their act a little."

"If anything, it's making things worse. Everyone seems convinced that everyone else has been manipulating their cases in one way or another, and thus joining in is the only way to keep pace." He rubs at his eyes, exhausted just thinking about it. "The public seems to be picking up on it as well; I haven't had so many hostile defendants or witnesses in my life."

"When you say hostile --"

"Profane comments about my wardrobe, mostly."

"Can you blame them?"

"That's quite an accusation coming from you," he says, pulling at the excess fabric of Wright's sweatshirt sleeve.

"Yeah, I kind of forgot what I was wearing before I said that," he says, smoothing it back down. "I just hope their hostility sticks to insults and not, like, punching you in the courthouse."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

Wright looks horrified, but not as much as that statement might usually warrant; he knows all about von Karma and Calisto Yew, after all. "You don't have the best track record with that stuff, huh."

"Better than some."

They finally take the police tape off of Blackquill's office door. He watches with a handful of other onlookers as a dark-haired woman directs a small crew of movers through the process of emptying the room; presumably Blackquill's next-of-kin.

He catches Klavier Gavin's eye before turning and heading for his own office.

"He did what?" Wright asks, aghast.

Edgeworth doesn't actually repeat himself; he knows that Wright heard what he told him. He's just having a difficult time understanding why one of the office's fledgling young prosecutors would ask Edgeworth if he would be willing to teach him what he learned under Manfred von Karma's wing.

"It was several days ago. It doesn't concern me any longer."

"Yeah, that's why you've stress-folded every piece of paper in my house into an origami crane," Wright says, pulling a half-finished specimen out of Edgeworth's grasp. He hadn't even noticed he was doing it. "We'd be in big trouble with Trucy if she couldn't go on this field trip because you turned her permission slip into a bird."

"Ah. Yes. But I did write the cheque for that," he says, handing it over.

"Thank you," Wright says, with the slight discomfort he always has when the subject of money comes up. At least he never tries to refuse it.

"You're welcome, as always." He'd cover more than the occasional unexpected expense if he thought Wright would let him; Edgeworth doesn't have much to offer as a friend, but money he has to spare.

"So, uh, back to what we were talking about," Wright continues, unfolding another of the cranes, "what did you tell that guy?"

"I told him that under no circumstances would I teach von Karma's methods to anyone," he says. It's true, though he's leaving out the part where he had been so appalled that he had just stared the young man down for a couple of minutes. "He seemed...annoyed by my decision, but he took no for an answer."

"And that was it?"

"Yes." He's now helping Wright. "There was nothing else to be done. I don't have the authority to do anything myself, and it's not as though reporting it to my superiors is a possibility."

"I've been thinking about that," Wright says. "A lot of your problems at work are because you don't have the power to do anything, right? Well...what if you did?"

"You don't mean --"

"Become the Chief Prosecutor yourself."

"It's not as simple as that. It's not as though I can take the position just by deciding to."

"I know it's not," Wright says. "But you could try."

He's right; Edgeworth was very nearly promoted into the position once, and he could do it again. Aside from that, what are his other options? Quit, or wait to be forced out? He can't do that, leave the office to deteriorate more and more. The question is how to position himself as an acceptable candidate to his superiors without doing anything untoward, and to the public without rousing suspicion at the office.

"I've never wanted to be the Chief Prosecutor," he says, resigned to the knowledge that it probably is the best solution. The only solution.

"I know."

"It's largely office work. The Chief Prosecutor almost never takes cases."

"I know."

"It could take years to happen, if it does at all."

"I know." By this point, Wright has his hand on Edgeworth's back. He can't tell if it's meant as a supportive gesture, or a condescending one for complaining about a hypothetical that barely qualifies as a problem. Possibly both. "You'd be good at it, though."

Doubtful. "I certainly couldn't be much worse than past holders of the position."

"That's the spirit."

"Unbelievably low standards?"

"You spend all your time with me, you should be used to having those by now," Wright jokes.

"Quite the contrary," he says. "And I do not spend all my time with you, I see you perhaps once a week."

"That's pretty much the same thing for you."

"It --" It pretty much is. "-- Ngh."

This pat on the back is definitely condescending. "It's okay, I don't mind."

Chapter Text

This is quite possibly the strangest message Wright has ever sent him.

No wonder Wright is so loath to take my money.

His eyebrows shoot up at Maya's message. Why is she asking? Why is she asking him? It's not as though they were talking about this, or Wright, or anything at all. He hasn't even spoken to Maya in months; he avoids seeing Wright when he knows the Feys have come in to town, not wanting to intrude.

That's a leading statement if he's ever seen one.

He tries to focus on the fact that Maya doesn't seem to know the details of Wright's association with Kristoph Gavin, but he finds her characterization of him too distracting. Wright's stories about Gavin never gave the impression that they were particularly similar, but perhaps Wright has been trying to spare his feelings.

Small steps, he repeats to himself, remembering the conclusion he and Wright had come to on how to approach becoming Chief Prosecutor. It's taken him a few days, but he's finally come up with a first step: he takes his breaks in the communal areas instead of remaining in his office. Part of the job is to be a public figure; increasing his profile within the office itself will likely be important in the future.

Nobody talks to him, and there's a two-table radius around him in all directions, but Edgeworth catches four double-takes and one whispered conversation about how strange it is for him to be in the building but not shut up out of sight.

They don't sound opposed to it, which seems like a decent start.

Maya gets back to him a few days later, unexpectedly.

Sebastian keeps staring at him. It's unnerving.

Edgeworth cracks after about fifteen minutes and asks him why he's doing that.

"Oh! Uh, sorry!" he says, freezing in place. "I guess I'm just not used to you eating lunch out here yet."

Technically, only Sebastian is eating lunch; Edgeworth is reading e-mails on his phone.

"Is it really that strange?"

He shrugs, fork in mid-air. "Kind of. I mean, you've been working here for like ten years and everybody says this is the first time you've done it." He finishes his bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Why'd you change your mind?"

"I can't talk about here," he says, moving to his next message. It's from Kay; she's gotten into three colleges, including Ivy.

"In the breakroom?"

Edgeworth looks up from where he's halfway through typing a response that starts That isn't funny; please do not choose a college based on whether or not it will improve your chances of meeting "the guy". "In this building."

Sebastian catches on to the basic idea, at least. His reaction time is improving. "Oh, okay." He mimes zipping his mouth closed. "I won't say anything."

"I appreciate it."

"Hey, did Kay tell you about her college acceptances?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Yes," he says, still struggling to craft an answer to Kay's message that isn't too judgemental, condescending, or panicky, "I'm well aware."

It probably is. Wright likely isn't in much danger of losing his job; it's not as though semi-professional poker players willing to work for minimum wage grow on trees, after all.

He still worries about it, though.

Chapter Text

my two dads (or is it three dads?)

Step two is leaving the office on time, with everybody else. This doesn't mean that he stops working late; it just means he does it in the stifling silence of his apartment or, less frequently, in the comfortable chaos of Wright's. If Wright finds it strange to have him preparing his next day in court at his kitchen table while his daughter does her homework there, he never says so.

"I didn't know grown-ups had homework too."

Edgeworth looks up from his case file, where he's currently highlighting suspicious credit card activity. "We don't, usually. I'm simply making an effort to spend less time in the office."

"Good, I wouldn't want to have to write book reports even when I'm old," she says.

"I'm not old," he says, because he's not, he's not even twenty-nine yet, being fairly early in the year as it is. "But no, there's a sharp decline in how many book reports you have to write after a certain point in life."

"Do you still have to do math?" she asks, sounding disgusted by the prospect.

"That depends on what kind of career you choose, I would think," he says. "For instance, being an attorney involves very little math, and when it does it's fairly simple."

"Is that why Daddy became a lawyer?"

He tries valiantly not to smirk at that. Tries being the operative word. "He's still trying to help with your homework, I see."

"My teacher told me not to let him," she confides.

"Yes, he never did have a particularly good grasp of the subject."

Wright leans around the doorframe. "Stop telling people that!"

Trucy laughs for a solid minute and half after he leaves.

"Is this you?"

Trucy holds up her textbook, grinning maniacally. It's a picture of one of the Founding Fathers, all stern expression and ruffled cravat.

"I see you've inherited your father's sense of humour," he says, much to her continued amusement. "Are you studying the American Revolution, then?"

"Yeah," she says, putting the book down. "Are you mad about the Boston Tea Party?"

"No. Why would I be angry about that?"

She shrugs. "Daddy says you drink a lot of tea. So you wouldn't want people to just throw it away, right?"

He has never thought about it. "I suppose not."

"Do you think it turned the water in the harbour into tea?"

"Probably not," he says, but can't help wondering, trying to estimate how much tea it would take to flavour a major port.

"What has she got you thinking about so hard?" Wright asks, passing by the table to pour himself some grape juice by the refrigerator.

"Nothing," Edgeworth says, embarrassed by his peculiar train of thought.

"The Boston Tea Party," Trucy says, because she never misses an opportunity for mischief.

"Mr. Edgeworth does like his tea," he says, moving to look over Trucy's shoulder at her textbook. "Hey, check it out, he dresses exactly like this picture of Thomas Jefferson."

"That's what I said!" Trucy says excitedly.

"I've never been prouder," Wright says, hand over his heart.

"Your father reminded me your birthday is coming up."

"Yeah, it's in like two weeks," Trucy says, not looking up from the deck of cards she's shuffling. It's summer now and she doesn't have homework of her own anymore, but she still comes to sit with him in the afternoons.

"What would you like for your birthday?"

"A new mom," she says, without missing a beat. "Or another dad, I guess. Aunt Maya says that happens sometimes."

He blinks a few times. "I - I don't think I can help you with that."

She's not put off by that at all. "Daddy says there are three more Star Wars movies but also that pigs will fly before anyone makes him watch The Phantom Menace again."

"Of course." He considers it. "You do have a DVD player? I can't imagine Wright would be such a Luddite as to still have a VCR, but I try not to take it for granted."

"What's a Luddite?"

"Someone who hates modern technology."

She nods sagely. "Also, what's a VCR?"

"I suppose that answers my question."

...according to California state statute 64.8, subsection... Edgeworth stops writing to think about it. Is that in subsection six or seven?

A few moments' thought does not provide an answer; he's going to have to look it up.

"Wright," he says, walking into the living area, "do you have --"

Both Wrights appear to be weaving something. Or more accurately, Trucy is weaving something while Wright assists by holding things.

"Do I have what?" he asks, looking up.

"I need to look up a state statute," he says, still watching whatever Trucy's doing. "Do you have them?"

"All my law books are a couple years out of date now, but I should have it. Just let me finish up here."

"What are you doing?" Edgeworth asks, genuinely curious.

"Pearly taught me how to make friendship bracelets," Trucy says, putting aside the one in progress to pull out a mass of the finished product. "I made a whole bunch, it's fun. Do you want one?"

"A-all right," he says, letting her tie one around his wrist, a veritable rainbow in a diamond pattern. Then, because she seems to be waiting for a reaction, "Fine craftsmanship."

"Come on," Wright says, smirking. "Let's go look for that book."

He's still smiling like that as he opens the shelves, looking for the right text.

"Don't," Edgeworth warns, quietly enough that Trucy won't hear.

Wright grabs a book, sleeve falling to reveal a sizeable stack of woven bracelets and a coat of sparkly purple nail polish to boot, and hands it over. "I wasn't going to say anything, believe me."

"Why don't you have a girlfriend?"

He's barely paying attention, busy cross-referencing several books and a handful of printouts he brought from the office. "I don't like girls."

"Oh. Okay."

Hours later, climbing the stairs back to his own apartment, it occurs to him that Trucy should probably not have asked him that, and that he definitely shouldn't have answered.

"Now, the primary objective when opening a game of chess is to try to control the centre of the board." He indicates the necessary squares.

Trucy frowns at the board. "I thought it was to capture the other person's king."

"She's got you there, Edgeworth."

He ignores Wright's interjection. "All right, it's your secondary objective in service to the primary objective of capturing the king."

"Okay," she says, advancing a pawn towards it. "What do I do when I have a piece there?"

"You want to control the area, not merely occupy it," he says. "You'll need more than one piece for that."

"And you're going to try and do the same thing?"

"Yes."

"So I want to have more of my pieces out there than you?"

"Most likely. Don't risk your king or queen this early in the game, though."

"Aw. The queen sounds awesome, I want to use her."

"Later."

They make their next few moves in silence. Trucy takes his advice and engages most of her smaller pieces; he arranges to meet her in the middle with minimal conflict.

"Hey, you could take that pawn," Wright points out to his daughter.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Edgeworth says. "If you do, I could take that rook right after. It's not worth it."

"Oh, wow, I wouldn't have even noticed that," Trucy says, scrutinizing the board once again.

"Learning to think several moves ahead is a very important skill in chess."

"You're really good at this game, huh?"

"I suppose so. I've played since I was younger than you are." He moves one of his knights. "My father taught me."

"If you're so good at it, why do you and Daddy only ever play Battleship?"

"We have an agreement not to, since Edgeworth has an unfair advantage," Wright says. "Same reason we don't play cards, either."

"Mr. Edgeworth has an unfair advantage at cards, too?"

"I meant I did," he says, returning Trucy's rather insouciant grin. "But maybe I'd have a shot now, since I've learned all his secrets by listening to your lessons."

"Hm," Edgeworth says non-commitally.

"Sounds like a challenge to me, Daddy."

"I'm in if Edgeworth is."

"I'd wait until after Trucy goes to bed," he says. "This won't be appropriate for children."

"Jeez, it's just chess," Wright says, a little nervously. "How bad's it going to be?"

("Checkmate."

"You know," Wright says, looking down at his captured king, surrounded by untouched pieces, "you were right. That was way too violent for kids.")

"Exaggerate."

"E-X-A-G-G-E-R-A-T-E. Next card."

"Right again. Hang on a second." Wright puts down the flash cards. "Edgeworth, why do you keep staring at the side of my head?"

"There's something attached to your hat." It looks vaguely familiar.

"Yeah, it's a button. Ema sent it to me." The look he gives at the end of that sentence implies that yes, there's more to this and that no, he won't explain it while helping Trucy prepare for her spelling test on Wednesday.

So Edgeworth returns to his work, and the Wrights to theirs, and he tries not to cast a curious eye at Wright's new accessory.

"Okay, kiddo," Wright says, some time later, "you're out on parole for the time being. We'll go through the list again in a bit."

Trucy does not need to be told twice, and scurries off to her leisure time with some speed.

Edgeworth keeps working, not certain how this discussion is supposed to start, or who's supposed to start it. He gets about two minutes of this silence before something comes skittering down the length of the table and lands on his documents. He looks up to see Wright, chin on hands, elbows on table, pin conspicuously not on hat.

"That is an eerily accurate impression of Trucy," Edgeworth tells him, picking the button up off his files to examine.

"Less likely to end with your car keys in my hat, though," he says, moving into his usual posture.

"Sometimes I worry about the overlap between sleight-of-hand and pickpocketing."

"Is it pickpocketing if you get them back?"

"Weren't you a lawyer?" He ceases his study of the pin. "I don't understand why Ema sent this to you."

"There's a bit of a trick to it," Wright agrees, standing up and moving closer so he can take it back. He twists the faceplate in a particular way, allowing it to be lifted off. "Here."

Underneath the cartoony expression of surprise is a lot of very small wires and circuits whose purposes are easily discernible. "This is a recording device."

Wright nods. "She thought it might help."

"I had no idea our Miss Skye was also an engineer." It really is quite impressive; Edgeworth has seen a lot of covert surveillance equipment in his line of work, but rarely anything so compact.

"I don't think she is, usually. Her letter said that's why it took her so long to make it, she wasn't used to doing this kind of thing."

"It's too bad we couldn't have saved her the effort."

"She would've finished building it anyway," Wright says, which is probably true. "She also said that this was her last year in school, so she'll be back here in a couple months."

"I'm sure she'll be flooding local crime scenes with luminol in no time," he says, trying to put the button back together.

Wright takes it back and reassembles it himself. "Tell her I said hi when you see her."

"Of course." Wright's put the pin back on his hat, but he hasn't done it correctly. "You're wearing that too far over."

"What?"

"The pin is too far to the side. The camera's not going to record anything, unless you intend to stand perpendicularly to it."

"Maybe that's exactly what I was going to do," he says, but he's unfastening it as he does. "Is that better?"

"No."

"I'm just trying to catch something incriminating, not win an Oscar. It doesn't need to be perfect."

"The fewer flaws in the video, the harder it will be to contest it. We've had trouble with security footage before, if you'll recall."

"Yeah, yeah." He holds it up before attaching it. "Here?"

"Further to the left. Your other left, Wright. No, not to the right, I was saying your -- give me that." Standing up, he grabs the offending item out of Wright's hand and pins it back on at the correct angle. It would be better if he could wear it in the centre and have it follow his eyelines exactly, but that would be a little conspicuous. "There. That's much...better..."

He's just noticed what he's done. This is closer than they usually get, practically nose-to-nose, with Edgeworth's hands still up where he was adjusting Wright's hat. His fingers are numb.

"Edgeworth, I --" Wright starts, red-faced and anxious.

"No, no, I shouldn't have --" he cuts in, looking much the same way.

It's only when Wright's attention snaps to the door that it registers that they're still in exactly the same stance, that he neither lowered his hands or stepped back. He dearly wishes he had.

"What are you guys doing?" Trucy asks, head cocked to the side in sincere confusion.

Wright glances back at Edgeworth, finally backed up to a reasonable distance, and sighs. "Good question."

Chapter Text

"One of those paintings of dogs playing poker."

"A fifty-dollar gift certificate for fast food."

"A scented candle, but one that smells weird."

Edgeworth unwinds another loop of lights for Wright to hang. "I think you suggested that last year."

"It's fine, it's not what I got him."

"One of those singing plastic fish." They're participating in what has become an annual tradition: suggesting appropriately passive-aggressive Christmas gifts for Kristoph Gavin before Wright's apartment/office becomes too uncomfortably festive for Edgeworth to spend any time in. He'll come back sometime after New Year's.

"I'm surprised you even know about those," Wright says, grinning.

"Please keep in mind I've spent eight hours a day with Detective Gumshoe for the last nine years."

"Yeah, he does seem like a Big Mouth Billy Bass kind of guy." He puts some more staples into the ceiling. "What about one of those mugs that says 'World's Best Lawyer'?"

"I think he'd take it at face value and feel smug about it."

"'World's Most Adequate Lawyer'?"

"Better, but I don't know where you would buy that."

Wright laughs, climbing off the stepladder. "I'm glad that's done. I hate being on that thing."

"I can't believe you do this every year," Edgeworth says, face turned towards the ceiling and the various strands of Christmas lights strung across it.

"There's no room in here for a tree, so I have to do what I can," he says with a shrug. "Thanks for helping me with it. I know being around this stuff is hard for you."

He stumbles through a "you're welcome", feeling foolish as always that something so mundane has such an effect on him. "I suppose I can consider it practice for Saturday."

Saturday night is the Prosecutors' Office holiday party. Technically, it's mandatory, but Edgeworth has never gone and no one's ever bothered to question it. But now he's trying to put himself back in the running for Chief Prosecutor, and attending office functions seems like the kind of thing he should be doing.

"I know you're trying to make appearances at these things, but are you sure you want to start with this one?"

"I'm not starting with this one. I went to the Halloween party."

Wright's face lights up. "Please tell me there are pictures."

"I didn't wear a costume!"

"One of you glowering in a corner while everyone bobs for apples would be just as good." Edgeworth provides a live rendition of said glower. "Okay, okay. Even if you did go to one already...don't stress yourself out at this one."

"I'll be fine, Wright."

"I know, it's just," he waves a hand around, "and I won't see you for a while after you leave today, and..." He shrugs again, lost for words.

"I'll call you," Edgeworth says. "I'm sure I'll have something to say about it."

"Yeah, I bet," Wright says, smile faintly returning. "You want to test these lights with me, or is that too much?"

"It's fine."

Wright turns the lights out and plugs the decorations in. "Well, what do you think?"

Very few of the strings of lights match, coming in different lengths and sizes and colours. Lit up, this is much more obvious, small rainbows interspersed with bright blue icicles and tiny snowmen.

"It's very nice."

"The strangest part is that I actually kind of believe you."

So far, Edgeworth is unimpressed with this party. Despite taking place in a ballroom rented for the occasion, it's quite a bit like a day at the office, with everyone casually gossiping to each other and talking about work. The only differences are that the coffee's been replaced with egg nog, and the string quartet dutifully cranking out Tchaikovsky pieces in the corner.

There's also the problem of what to do with himself now that he's here. He can hardly spend all night lurking silently at the fringes of the gathering, but he also doesn't know how to go about joining in when he doesn't actually know these people very well. Leaving is also out of the question; too many people have taken note of his presence already.

He finds himself studying the room's decorations while he considers the problem. It's mostly silver and white with the occasional bit of green pine, the kind of understated celebration he's seen in dozens of places with pretensions of class. It's horrible, nothing like the eye-searing hodgepodge at Wright's earlier in the week, too much like the courthouse that December and von Karma's house every year after --

"Mr. Edgeworth? Are you okay?"

He refocuses his eyes from where he's been staring into the middle distance, panicking in silence. Sebastian and a small bespectacled woman he's seen somewhere before are standing in front of him.

"I'm fine. When did you get here?" he asks, not settled enough to be polite.

"Just a couple minutes ago," he says. "Detective Gumshoe and Maggey picked me up but there was some trouble with the car."

"Dick's still outside looking at it," the woman says. "I guess I'll have to add this to the list too."

Right; now he remembers her: Maggey Byrd, with the unaccountably bad luck. What she's doing here is anybody's guess.

"I didn't realize you needed a ride," Edgeworth says to Sebastian. "I would have offered if I had known."

"I know," he says. "They had to drive through my neighbourhood to get here anyway, it's okay. And you never come to these things so I didn't think you were going so I didn't ask."

"Oh, right, Dick told me that you don't celebrate Christmas when we were doing the Christmas cards last year. At first I thought he meant that we should get you a Hanukkah card but he said that no, you just don't do anything for this time of year."

"Ah, no. Not usually," he says, desperately hoping "Dick" didn't fill her in on why that is. "I'm...trying something new this year."

"That's nice," she says, beaming.

Further discussion on the subject is interrupted by Gumshoe's arrival.

"Mr. Edgeworth! You came this year!" he says, surprised.

"He's trying something new," Maggey informs him.

Gumshoe looks at him like he doesn't know what to say to that to avoid offending him. "How are you liking it so far, sir?"

"I don't," he says, and immediately regrets it. Coming here will have had no point if gets caught complaining about it.

Now all three of them are looking at him like Gumshoe did.

"It's not that bad, Mr. Edgeworth," Sebastian ventures. "Last year someone kept throwing the hors d'oeuvres at Prosecutor Gavin when he tried to get everyone to sing Christmas carols with him."

"Maggey still can't hear 'Deck the Halls' without laughing," Gumshoe says fondly.

"I can't help it, I just picture that tiny crab cake landing in his guitar right as he started the 'fa la la la's -- the look on his face --" She breaks off giggling. Sebastian is stifling his own laughter with one hand.

"Well, here's hoping that the opportunity to pelt someone with food presents itself once more," Edgeworth says dryly.

Gavin is in attendance again, occupied in conversation with some of the other young prosecutors and detectives. It doesn't seem to be going well; he's frowning at whatever the others are saying. At least he doesn't look likely to burst into song.

"I bet you're hoping it's Mr. Gavin again," Gumshoe says with a chuckle. "Though Mr. Wright probably would've appreciated it more."

"Speaking of Mr. Wright, how is he? I haven't spoken to him since he introduced me to the lawyer who was taking over his clients," Maggey says.

"You've met Mr. Shields then," Edgeworth says, mostly for his own benefit. "Wright's fine. Busy doing holiday things with the girls."

"Who's Mr. Wright?" Sebastian asks, which takes Edgeworth somewhat by surprise. It's been quite a while since he's talked to anyone about Wright without someone immediately making some kind of insinuation.

"A dear friend of mine," he says, before everyone starts noticing the silence.

Sebastian nods. "Oh, the guy."

At least this probably means that he and Kay are still getting along.

He finds out why Detective Gumshoe brought Maggey with a little while later, when everyone's sufficiently liquored-up to start dancing. Frankly, it looks a bit absurd with their height discrepancy, but they're both smiling and laughing as they twirl around together, so clearly they're enjoying themselves regardless. Sebastian looks like he's having almost as nice a time with the paralegal who asked him out onto the floor, even if she does keep stepping on his feet.

Nobody asks him to dance, naturally, but it's just as well. It would probably be good for the image he's trying to project if he joined in, and it's not as though he doesn't know how, but it feels wrong to even consider it. Not here, not now, not with these people.

"Why am I not surprised to see you holding up the wall, Herr Edgeworth?"

"Mr. Gavin," he acknowledges. "I don't see you out there either."

"Even I have to take a break sometimes," Klavier says, but his smile looks strained. He straightens it out. "You're quite the hot topic tonight. Is it true that this is the first time you've come to one of these?"

He gives Gavin a sidelong look, but the question seems more or less genuine. "Yes."

"I can't blame you for that," he says, jerking his head towards where there's an extremely sloppy conga line forming. "What made you decide to finally check it out?"

"I'm trying something new this year," he says again. The conga line knocks over a chair. Edgeworth fears for the buffet tables.

Gavin laughs at that. "Ja, you'll be a real party animal soon enough."

"I doubt that."

"It's not a bad thing," he says, shrugging. "Who does it hurt if you have a little fun during the holidays for once?"

"No one at all." And therein lies the problem. There's a constricted feeling in his chest, making it hard to breathe. "Excuse me."

Klavier sounds almost worried when he calls after him, but Edgeworth doesn't stop.

He probably should have listened to Wright and not come, he decides, out in the parking lot. Nothing's been accomplished here except making himself look even more high-strung and unapproachable than usual. How can it still be so difficult twenty years later?

He looks back at the building, wondering if he should go back in. If he can go back in.

No, he concludes. Enough damage has been done on this attempt; he can try again in a few months, for Valentine's Day or Easter or whatever other excuse they come up with to hold a party. Nobody will care anyway.

"How was it?"

It's possible Edgeworth should have planned out an answer before calling Wright, who was bound to ask this exact question, but he didn't, and he has to take a moment to think of one. "As disasters go, I suppose it was fairly minor."

"Edgeworth."

"You don't need to tell me that you told me so, I know you did."

"I wasn't going to say that," Wright says. "What happened?"

Edgeworth tells him the pertinent details. "It was a waste of time. You were right; I shouldn't have gone."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Wright says. "I bet nobody even noticed anything."

My beloved optimist, he thinks, sighing. "Klavier Gavin certainly did."

"Oh," Wright says, comprehending. "You talked to him?"

"Right before I left. But it wasn't...I did leave because of what he said, but I don't think it was what he intended."

"What do you think he was actually trying to do?"

"I don't know," Edgeworth says. "It didn't seem like he wanted anything in particular."

"What, he was just making small talk?"

"Essentially, yes," he says, a little surprised by the realization. "I don't think I can explain it, but if anyone is going to make things difficult for me, I doubt it will be Gavin."

"Really?" Wright sounds a little dubious, but given who they're talking about, it's only to be expected.

"I can't be sure, but yes," he says. "I wish you had been there; you're much better at this sort of thing than I am, you could have told me."

"I don't think they'd let me into a Prosecutors' Office party, but it's the thought that counts," Wright says, a bit flustered all of the sudden.

"You aren't missing anything," Edgeworth says. "Did you know Detective Gumshoe has a girlfriend?"

Wright sputters a laugh. "What?"

"He brought a date. I was surprised."

"You were? He's been dating Maggey for a couple years now."

"I didn't know!"

"How? You work with the guy, it has to have come up!"

"Yes, we work together, we don't gossip about girls!"

Wright snickers knowingly. "Yeah, I bet you don't. Still, you must be even better at tuning him out than I thought. Or maybe you heard it and just didn't catch it because he didn't phrase it like it was 1895 --"

"I do not talk like that --"

"You use the word 'ergo' in conversation, you talk exactly like that --"

"It just means 'therefore', it's not that strange --"

"-- but it's part of your charm, I wouldn't worry about it --"

"-- and it's not my fault if people --" part of your charm catches up with him. "-- if people...I can't recall what I was saying."

"Probably something unnecessarily baroque," Wright says cheerfully.

"I can't believe I've missed you," he grumbles.

"But you did," he says, just to be annoying. "Wait, you did?"

"Well, I -- that is -- yes." It must be all right to admit to that much. Wright's already said that to him several times.

"I'll have the place undecorated as soon as I can," he promises. "Give me a couple days."

"Wright, it's the seventeenth."

"...Give me like a week and a half."

Precisely nine days later, he's barely out of the car in front of Wright's building before Wright is pulling him into a hug.

"There's no shame in it," Wright says, quietly, while they're pressed together on the sidewalk. He could be talking about any number of things -- that Edgeworth is still so damaged by the death of his father, that he made such a poor showing at the office party, what he said over the phone, that he's leaning into Wright's embrace in broad daylight. Knowing Wright, he means all of them.

"I missed you," Edgeworth tells him again, off-balance.

"I missed you too."

Chapter Text

Hoping to make up for the setback of the Christmas party, Edgeworth tries thirty-six cases in the month of January.

It's a lot of work, which is perhaps why he's not certain if he's imagining things when Kay turns up for lunch one day. It quickly becomes apparent that she is indeed present, having come up from the college campus to see him and Sebastian. They've gotten most of the basics and pleasantries out of the way -- how she likes her studies and her new roommate, how things are at the office. The latter was difficult to explain, given that they were having this conversation in said office, but they seem to have conveyed the general idea with carefully chosen words and expressions. Kay offered to come back as his assistant, if it would help, but all he could tell her was that he would consider it.

"Okay," she said. "I gotta find a job somewhere, though. College is expensive!"

"I didn't pay you when you were my assistant," he had pointed out.

"Only because it was an emergency! You pay Gummy, don't you?"

"Likely more than he deserves," he said, "but I see your point."

And then she and Sebastian had broken off into their own conversation, which has since devolved into Kay commandeering Sebastian's phone to "find him a nice girl" with his online dating profile or some such nonsense.

They're still swiping rather combatively when Klavier Gavin pulls up an unoccupied chair and joins them.

"Guten Tag," he says, as though he joins them for lunch every day and that this isn't a worrying aberration.

"Mr. Gavin," Edgeworth replies, eyebrow raised questioningly. Kay takes Sebastian's shocked silence as a chance to seize control of the phone.

Gavin lets them all sit there in discomfort for a few moments before speaking again. "I picked up a murder case yesterday," he says, still casual, "and when I finally got access to the records this morning, I discovered that it's very similar to yours. Or one of yours, I should say, nein? You've been keeping busy, mein Herr."

"Which one?"

"Let me see." He takes out his phone and tilts his sunglasses down to read the screen. "John Kane."

Edgeworth has to think about it for a moment before he remembers. That was one he took on the day before yesterday, the second-most recent of his current five. "You've come to compare notes, then?"

"Ja. Once you're done with your lunch, or...whatever is happening," he says, indicating the shenanigans still happening off to Edgeworth's right.

"I'm trying to find Sebastian a girlfriend," Kay says, thrusting the phone at Klavier. "Here, help me out. Yes or no on this one?"

Gavin examines the young lady in question for a moment. "I don't trust anyone who says they 'like all music, except for country and rap'."

"Good call," Kay decides, flicking one finger to the left.

"My files are in my office," Edgeworth says, not prepared to watch Klavier Gavin of all people play nice with his protégés.

Gavin stands to follow almost immediately, only pausing to toss a short wave off. "Auf Wiedersiehen, Fraulein, Staatsanwaltchen."

The notes on Gavin's case show an eerie similarity to his own -- same weapon, same type of victim, same part of the city.

"It looks as though we have a serial killer on our hands, mein Herr," Gavin says, fascination and disgust painted over with his usual coolness.

"Technically, three murders would be required for that," Edgeworth points out offhandedly, mostly focused on mentally reconstructing the two cases.

"Depends on who you ask," Gavin says. "But it will end here."

"Indeed. However, the question must be raised --"

"Which one of us is going to handle it."

"Precisely."

"I think we'll have to take it to the Chief," Gavin says. "She's the one who makes the assignments in the first place."

Edgeworth inclines his head in agreement. "There's no point in delaying; we might as well take our findings to her now."

"No time like the present. Let's see what she has to say, ja?"

"She put you both on it?!"

Edgeworth is, as is now usual for him, working out of Wright's kitchen. Or rather, ostensibly working; he doesn't really expect to get very much accomplished tonight. Not least because Wright is, as is now usual for him, standing very close and gently putting his hands on Edgeworth's arm and/or shoulders.

By mutual unspoken agreement, they have never spoken of this. By a second agreement, it also never happens when anyone else is in the room.

"She said she couldn't decide," he says. "I think she just didn't want to deal with us."

"You. And Klavier Gavin."

"Yes."

"That's going to be...something," Wright says, looking like he can't decide whether he wants to express horror or pity.

"Indeed." Gavin's been less cutting, more polite -- pleasant even -- the last few times they've interacted, but Edgeworth has no illusions that he isn't in for a few days of intense teenage scrutiny. "At least I'll have finished most of my other cases by tomorrow evening. I don't need to have him accuse me of being distracted."

"These Gavins are going to be the death of us, huh."

"Quite possibly."

"Unless that serial killer gets us first."

"Unlikely. Neither of us fit the apparent victim profile."

"Well, at least there's that."

"As far as inspirational speeches go, Wright, this isn't one of your best."

"Sorry, I used up today's on Trucy," he says, shrugging his free shoulder. "Try me again tomorrow."

"I suppose the first thing to do would be to reexamine both crime scenes together," Edgeworth says, when he and Klavier Gavin meet up the next morning. "Unless you have a different suggestion?"

"Not at all," Gavin says. "My place or yours?"

"I had the original crime scene," he says, "so mine."

This makes Gavin laugh, for some reason. "You're all right with driving, ja? I doubt you'd want to ride my motorcycle with me."

"And you would be correct." Gavin laughs again, possibly at the face he pulled at the idea. "My car is in the underground lot."

The drive over is quiet, Klavier alternating between looking at his phone and gazing out the window the entire way. He's not much livelier once they arrive, either, merely greeting the officers posted outside and then listening attentively while Edgeworth describes the scene and original investigation. He even takes his sunglasses off, keeping them folded up in his shirt pocket.

"Very thorough, Herr Edgeworth," he says, once they're finished the walkthrough. There's still a touch of derision in Gavin's tone, as though he doesn't quite believe it.

"You've already been granted access to my records; feel free to double-check them," Edgeworth tells him, bristling at the unspoken accusation.

"No need to be so touchy, mein Herr. I believe you," he says, unruffled. "What do you suggest for our next move?"

"The original investigation was performed under the impression that it was an isolated incident," he says. "However, we now know that is not the case, meaning there may be some evidence here that was overlooked prior to the discovery of the related crime."

"Evidence that links this murder to the other," Gavin says, following his train of thought, "and if we get lucky, something at my crime scene that will point us to the next intended victim."

"Quite right."

Klavier looks almost impressed with him. How easily his opinion of me changes.

Klavier hovers close by the entire time they investigate, undoubtedly convinced Edgeworth intends to commit some kind of crime if he so much as blinks. Edgeworth refuses to acknowledge this, as though he hasn't even noticed Gavin's suspicion, much less felt bothered by it.

"My brother has been spending time with Herr Wright," Klavier says, conversationally, after they've been working in near-silence for about forty-five minutes.

"Is that so," Edgeworth says, still impassive, like he doesn't know all the details of that particular association.

"Don't you think that's...strange?"

He studies the knick-knacks on the victim's fireplace mantel as a display of nonchalance, but imbues his question with enough scorn to indicate the sustained direction of his loyalties. "Concerned that Wright intends to continue undermining the legal system through him?"

"No! No, Kristoph would never -- he's not like that." It lacks conviction; either Kristoph Gavin is no paragon of virtue even in the eyes of his little brother, or Klavier's opinion of Wright is even lower than he thought. Interesting. "Never mind."

Pressing Gavin would probably only raise suspicion, so Edgeworth lets it drop. Gavin senses defeat, or at least that he won't get the reaction he was looking for, and does the same. He barely speaks for the rest of their time at the first house.

"How's the investigation? You try strangling Gavin yet?"

Edgeworth rolls his eyes at Wright's exaggeration. "It's...fine, mostly. Nothing I wasn't expecting."

"Blink twice if he's listening and you need me to stop talking about him."

"Wright, we're on the phone. And no, he's not here; we're taking a short break." At the moment, he's waiting in the car while Gavin takes a coffee break across the street. Once he returns, they'll be off to the second crime scene.

"And you're using it to talk to me?"

"I knew you wouldn't have anything better to do."

"Because I usually spend my free time keeping you from working yourself to death in my kitchen," Wright says. "You're throwing my whole schedule off."

"I'm sorry if my catching a murderer is inconveniencing you."

"It is, and you can tell him I said that."

"Who, Gavin?"

"No, the murderer."

Edgeworth momentarily imagines trying to his relationship to Wright to a very nonplussed serial killer. "Sometimes I forget what a strange person you are."

"Takes one to know one," he says cheerfully. "Have fun with Klavier."

"You've catalogued a lot of evidence," Edgeworth observes as they revisit Gavin's investigation. Klavier had called him thorough earlier, but it was nothing compared to this. He must have taken notes and photographs for every single object in the house and taken half of it back in plastic forensics bags.

Briefly, he feels sympathy for Gavin's detective.

"My mentor always used to say that evidence tells the story of a crime. I like to make sure I have every chapter," he says. "Not the sort of thing your mentor would say, nein?"

Manfred von Karma's opinion of evidence was that it was power, and that a prosecutor needed to obtain as much of it as possible, to be used only at their discretion. If a case was better served by something never seeing the light of day, then it never did.

"No, it's not."

"You're very open about that, mein Herr."

"There would be no point in denying it," he says, taking a note about the victim's area rug. "Everyone is well aware that I was not as fortunate as you apparently were in this area, and you are hardly the first to throw it in my face."

"In their defence, you make it a little hard to forget," he says, flipping up the end of Edgeworth's cravat with one finger.

"I'm simply used to it now," he says, smoothing it back into place. "The way I dress is hardly intended as some kind of statement."

"Do you really think that no one will see one anyways?"

"I expect to be judged by what I do and not by what I look like," he says, anger flaring. "Perhaps your mentor failed to teach you that particular lesson."

"Maybe you aren't as much like him as it seems," Gavin says. "That was much more idealistic than I expected."

Had he been speaking to anyone else, he would have credited Wright for that, for reminding him that he had had things like morals and ideals once. That before von Karma he had both a real mentor and a real father. But Edgeworth is talking to Klavier Gavin, so he doesn't. "You'd do well to consider it, regardless of what you think of me. It may be useful to you one day."

In the end, what puts them onto the killer is the furniture. While both he and Klavier had noticed that both victims had their living rooms arranged in a fairly unorthodox manner during the original investigations, it took some time to reconsider it in light of the connected crimes. When reviewed, it became clear that both rooms' furniture had been reorganized into chevrons and arrows when viewed from above, and that the first victim's home was pointing towards the second.

From there, it's not too difficult to locate likely targets using the direction of the second room and a similar distance from the first crime scene to the other, cross-referenced with the victim profile and public records.

The police turn up with a suspect late the next night, caught trying to break into the home of one of the possible victims he and Klavier had identified. In his pocket, a knife much like the murder weapon.

"Looks like we've got our man," Klavier says, watching the police take the man away, off to the Detention Center. "We could take this to trial tomorrow."

"We haven't even interviewed him," Edgeworth says. Clearly Gavin hasn't taken his advice to heart.

"He was arrested breaking in to a house with a weapon. There's not much room for doubt." He doesn't sound defensive, just confused at the challenge.

"'Not much' isn't the same as 'none'," he says. "I won't take this to court until we're absolutely certain."

Klavier works through a few reactions, face once again shrouded into indecipherability by his sunglasses. "Tomorrow morning, then," he says. "Meet me at the Detention Center."

"He actually said that stuff to you?" Wright says. "Jeez, and I thought you had no tact."

"Tell me, does this kettle look black to you?"

"But if I was tactful with you, who would you argue with then?"

"I could find someone."

"And I wish you luck with that," he says with the confidence of someone who knows the other person will do no such thing.

"Do you think he's right?" Edgeworth asks him, a moment later. "Am I giving the wrong impression?"

"I may not be the right person to ask," he says, considering it.

"You do struggle with matters of fashion."

Wright shoves him lightly. "No, because I've only ever seen you."

"I suppose you met me before von Karma," he agrees. "The association wouldn't be as strong."

"For what it's worth, I think you're right about it. And if you give it enough time, I'm sure anyone who's interpreting it Klavier's way will start to change their minds."

"Thank you, Wright."

"Any time."

Klavier bursts into the Detention Center not long after Edgeworth himself, looking surprisingly chipper. Edgeworth wouldn't have taken him for a morning person.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Edgeworth," he says, smiling brightly. "Did you enjoy your night off?"

"It was...acceptable," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Gavin looks at him for a moment, like he expects there to be more to that statement. But there isn't, so he goes back to smiling and suggests that they get to work.

The interview is simple. The suspect -- Dennis Adams -- is the kind of murderer who likes to brag, and is only too glad to describe his actions for them. He only stops to complain that there was no real media coverage of his "work", which had been intentional on the part of the Prosecutors' Office and the police department.

"He's very proud of himself for someone who got caught so early," Klavier observes as they leave. "And you see, I was right: he did it."

"Which we only know for sure because we talked to him," Edgeworth points out. "We would have looked very foolish indeed if we had brought him to court only for it to turn out that he lived there but had forgotten his keys."

"Maybe, but how likely is that?"

"Not very, but I don't take chances. If we're wrong, somebody could be killed, or wrongfully imprisoned, or otherwise ruined by what we do and say. The law is not something to gamble on, Mr. Gavin."

Gavin's jaw twitches minutely, probably biting back a denial or retort. "One of us needs to file these charges with the office so we can take this to court."

"I can do it if necessary, but I imagine you'd prefer to do it yourself," he says, offering his share of the files. "All I require is the date, time, and courtroom number."

Klavier takes the files, adding them to his own.

"Shouldn't you distrust me as much as I distrust you?" Klavier asks, not looking up from the papers in his arms. If he had asked it any later, Edgeworth would have been out the door.

"You're not-infrequently wrong, but you're neither incompetent nor malicious," he says. "I'm not concerned about letting you file the case."

Klavier nods absently. "I'll let you know when the Chief schedules the trial, ja?"

"Dankeschoen," he says, just to watch the way Gavin's head snaps up in surprise.

The judge pounds his gavel. "Let's take a fifteen minute recess while the prosecution sorts itself out," he says, his serious expression making one of its rare appearances.

And he's right to look at them that way, and to essentially throw them out of the courtroom like he's putting unruly children into time-out; the trial has been a catastrophe so far. While Edgeworth trusts Gavin well enough, he isn't willing to risk the case by putting him in charge, and Gavin doesn't trust him at all and won't let him do it either. Which means that they talk over each other, get into minor squabbles over the evidence, and, in two particularly heated instances, object to what were obstensibly their own points.

The lawyer on the other side of the courtroom, an exhausted-looking public defender in a cheap suit, is having the time of his life. He only stopped laughing when the judge threatened to have him up on contempt of court.

"We're going to lose if we don't settle this," Edgeworth says, after they've been out in the lobby for a few moments waiting for the other one to speak first.

"Then let me handle it," Klavier says. "Since we've established that you trust me but I don't trust you."

"We've also established that I don't take chances. I have vastly more experience than you do, especially in cases like this."

"Do you really care that much about being the one to win it?"

And just like that, possibly without even realizing it, Gavin has checkmated him. Because no, he doesn't really care who does it as long as Adams is put away. Hasn't in years, not since a certain lawyer thoroughly disabused him of the notion.

Besides, he meant it when he indirectly complimented Klavier's competence; he could likely win this alone, much as Edgeworth might not like the way he does it, and he definitely will with Edgeworth there to assist.

"No, I don't," he says. "Take the lead."

Klavier is so shocked he actually drops the accent for a moment. "Wait, really?"

"Yes. But keep in mind that I will not hesitate to take over if necessary."

"It won't be," he says, the swaggering rockstar once more.

A certain lawyer is going to get an earful about today, he can tell right now. He wonders who Klavier is going to complain to about him.

Due to their initial hiccup, the trial runs its full three days. But when the judge hands down his verdict, it is, much to Edgeworth's relief, guilty.

Because they always manage to find out, despite everyone's best efforts to keep this trial quiet, both he and Gavin are set upon by the press immediately upon exiting the courthouse. He lets Klavier take the lead on that as well.

As it turns out, he's a very good interviewee, a probable side effect of his dual career path. He takes it seriously, but with enough charisma to keep it from too horrifying or depressing to show on television. He's respectful towards the police and the defense and Edgeworth himself, making no indication that he thinks of his co-counsel as anything but a fine, upstanding citizen and prosecutor. All in all, it is a much better job than Edgeworth has ever managed in similar circumstances.

After it's all over, Klavier extends a hand for him to shake.

"The cameras are gone," Edgeworth says. "You don't need to."

He leaves his hand out. "You're right, I don't."

He shakes it, confused.

"It's over."

"I know, I saw you on the news, scowling over Klavier Gavin's shoulder," Wright says, letting him in. "You let him take lead prosecutor?"

"He made a surprisingly salient point about it not mattering who did it as long as it was done."

He nods in acknowledgment, arm returning to its new usual place around the back of the couch. "I wasn't sure I'd see you so soon. I thought you might have needed some time alone."

"It wasn't quite that bad."

"Did you make a friend?" he asks, affectionately mocking.

He leans into Wright a little, reflecting on the last few days. "I have no idea."

Chapter Text

On his way to the stairwell one morning, Edgeworth runs into an unexpected but familiar face in the lower levels of the Prosecutors' Office.

"Ema."

"Mr. Edgeworth!" she says, unduly surprised. She knows he works here.

"I hadn't heard that you had returned," he says. "Have you been back long?"

"Uh, not really. A couple of weeks, I guess."

"Have you applied to the forensics department, then?"

"Yeah," she says, shifting the stack of files she's carrying in her arms. "I...I didn't...I'm a detective."

"They didn't take you into forensics?" he asks in disbelief. Ema's been training for a scientific career for years, and even now wears a labcoat over the rest of her clothes. It's hard to imagine that she wouldn't measure up to the police department's standards.

"It's okay," she says, unconvincingly. "I can take the test again in a couple years and get in then."

Despite her best efforts, she seems rather distressed, so in the interest of not ruining her day Edgeworth backs away from that topic slightly. "Who are you partnering with?"

"Prosecutor Winslow, down the hall," she says, gesturing with her head since her hands are full.

He has no idea who that is. "How is it?"

Ema shrugs. "Okay. I should probably bring him these files, though."

"Of course," he says, and she hustles away. He should get going to his own office, but stops to message Wright first.

He gets about six floors up before Wright responds.

He's working on a response when he notices someone waiting outside the door of his office and quickly pockets the phone instead. It wouldn't do to get caught texting his...his...Wright when he's meant to be working.

"The Chief Prosecutor wants to see you," the man says, watching Edgeworth unlock the door.

He puts his briefcase in its usual place, hangs up his coat. "Now?"

"Now," he confirms, turning from the door in a clear gesture for Edgeworth to come with, though he knows full well where the Chief Prosecutor's office is.

The Chief calls him in as soon as he knocks at her door, waving him into a chair in front of her desk. She then makes him sit through several minutes of useless pleasantries before cutting to the chase and explaining why she wanted to see him.

"The Association of American Prosecutors is having a symposium next month," she says, and he immediately doesn't like where this is going. "I'd like you to represent this office."

Although he saw it coming, he still asks "you would?"

"You've been doing good work lately, and you're easily the most prominent member of the wider legal community we have here," she says, brandishing a copy of one of his scholarly articles as emphasis. "We could use a bit of prestige about now."

"That's very flattering, but I'm not sure I'm the best choice for this," he says. "And I'm perfectly content to stop travelling for the time being."

"Are you refusing me?" the Chief Prosecutor asks, and her tone suggests he reconsider.

"I -- No, of course not." He reminds himself that he has long-term goals for this office, and that going along with this would advance them. "I would be honoured to attend."

"Good!" She hands him an envelope. "Here's the information. Have a good time."

"You have to go," Wright tells him, looking over the papers the Chief Prosecutor gave Edgeworth.

"Yes, that was the impression I got," he says. "I wasn't sure you'd agree so readily."

Wright shrugs. "You have that kind of job. I didn't think you'd be able to hang around here forever even if you wanted to."

"I did try to decline it; she wouldn't take no for an answer," he says.

"It's only for a few days. You'll be back before we even notice you're gone."

"A few days is still longer than usual, now," he says. "I'd hate to disturb your schedule again."

"Not that I wouldn't rather have you stick around here, but it's probably good that they want you to go. They'll be making you the King of Prosecutors again in no time."

"Don't even joke about such a thing," he huffs.

"Only you would be offended by the idea of winning an award, even if it does have a stupid name," Wright says. "You don't have to worry about it. I can survive a couple days without you."

"I wouldn't put money on it."

"Ouch," Wright says, putting one hand over his heart like he's been greviously wounded. "I haven't even done anything life-threatening in a long time."

"You're still on probation," Edgeworth says, much to Wright's amusement.

"So, what's going on with Ema? Since I couldn't quite make out your last message from earlier." He holds up his phone to display a text message that reads I'm noasgraedfffffffffffffffffff.

"I was partway through typing when the Chief Prosecutor's envoy came to speak to me," he says, trying not to sound embarrassed. "As for Ema...I'm afraid I don't know very much. It's all under the jurisdiction of the Police Department, meaning I couldn't access her results even if I asked, and she didn't tell me much herself either. I don't even know the prosecutor she's working under."

"Though that might be a good thing."

"In what way?"

"Well, if you don't know them, then they're probably not out breaking the law or anything, right?"

"I suppose so," he says. "I'd still prefer to make his acquaintance."

"Yeah, me too," Wright agrees. "But I'd probably have a harder time coming up with an excuse."

Sebastian, as it turns out, has met the mysterious Prosecutor Winslow, Ema's boss and apparent subject of much gossip.

"Yeah, you don't know Aptly Winslow?" he asks Edgeworth when he brings up the subject.

"No," he says. "'Aptly'?"

"Oh, that's not his real name, it's just what everybody calls him because his winrate is so low."

"As in 'Winslow is aptly named'; I see. Do you know anything else about him?"

Sebastian opens his mouth to say something, but then reconsiders. "Kind of, but I'm not sure how much of it is actually true? I've only met him like twice and he was mostly just complaining about stuff the whole time."

"Tell me anyway."

"Why the sudden interest, Mr. Edgeworth? I mean, if you've never met the guy or even really heard of him why do you want to know so much?"

"His new detective is an acquaintance of mine," he explains. "I'd like to be sure that she's in good hands."

"Hrm," Sebastian says, frowning in thought. "Like I said, he has probably the worst winrate in the office, but nobody's really sure why. Most people just say it's because he's bad at his job, but some of the others say it's because he always picks a fight with the judge. And a couple people told me that he throws cases for money." He shrugs. "There's some other stuff too, but none of it's about work, so..."

"What's it about, then?"

"The way he looks, the way he talks," he says. "Did any of that help?"

"Not as much as if we knew which rumours were true," Edgeworth admits, for the sake of being honest, "but it gives me some idea. Though I'm still not sure if we should be comfortable with Ema working for him."

"He didn't seem like a bad guy to me," Sebastian offers. "Plus he's pretty short. If she has to, I bet your friend could take him in a fight."

"As reassuring as that is, I would still prefer it didn't come to that."

"Well, then I think you're just going to have to talk to him sometime."

"It would seem that way," Edgeworth says, already thinking of excuses to do just that.

He can't think of one, at least not one that would make it obvious that he's looking in on Ema. And as luck would have it, the one time Edgeworth actually has something to say to her, she's in his office alone. Winslow, for all the gossip about him, barely seems to have any physical presence in the Office at all; if Ema and Sebastian hadn't confirmed his existence, Edgeworth would wonder if he was even real and not merely some kind of Prosecutors' Office-only urban legend.

It'll have to wait until he returns.

The day before Edgeworth leaves for the symposium, Wright has Ema come by for dinner. Or more accurately, he has Edgeworth bring her with him.

"So," she says, on the way over, "you and Mr. Wright have dinner together a lot?"

"According to him I do," he says, remembering something Wright had said even before he started spending nearly every evening there. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she says, but then explains herself anyway. "It's just that I didn't think you and Mr. Wright, like, actually hung out outside of work? At least, that's what I thought the first time."

"You were right," he says. "This is...things have changed in the last few years."

"I guess so."

Since Maya and Pearls are also in town, it's quite the full house when they arrive.

"Hey, you guys are here," Wright says as they come in the door, all smiles. "Good to see you again, Ema."

"Hi, Mr. Wright," she responds. "Does Mr. Edgeworth always just walk in here like that?"

"Well, it's not like there's a doorbell," he says sheepishly. "Here, come meet everybody else."

The girls group up with Wright like they're having a family portrait taken and wave as he points to them for Ema's edification.

"My former assistant-slash-best friend, Maya; her cousin, Pearls; and the one in the cape is my daughter, Trucy. This is Ema Skye; I know I've told Maya about her, at l--"

"YOUR WHAT?!" Ema exclaims, bug-eyed with shock. "You have a kid?! How long have you had a kid for?!"

"Did you honestly not tell her that before she came over here?" Edgeworth asks, semi-rhetorically.

"I adopted her about three years ago now," Wright answers while elbowing Edgeworth in the side for asking that. "It's...kind of a long story."

"My other daddy had to leave me behind when he disappeared," Trucy explains, though by the look on Ema's face it did not clear anything up. Edgeworth, very considerately, does not provide his personal opinion on the matter.

"Huh," Ema says after a moment. "I thought it was going to turn out that you were, like, secretly married this whole time."

"Who, Nick?" Maya says with a scoff. "He wishes."

"Hey, I could be married if I wanted."

"Could you, though?"

Edgeworth continues to not say anything.

"...We should probably call this off before you-know-who --" Wright gestures at the two young ones "-- decide to weigh in again."

"Chicken," Maya says, "but yeah, good point."

Ema and Maya get on like a house on fire. Even the science vs. magic divide he and Wright had anticipated was easily worked past when Maya gave her a live demonstration (while Edgeworth very subtly removed himself from the room) and Ema immediately folded it into her eminently rational worldview. And as usual, Trucy and Pearls are attached at the hip, which leaves him more or less alone with Wright.

Wright makes him set the table.

"Does any of your silverware match?" he asks, standing in the kitchen with a handful of mismatched utensils.

"I think you already know that it does not."

"Terrible," he mumbles, while Wright laughs at him.

"I told Mr. Edgeworth already, it's fine," Ema says, later, when they finally get around to talking about her new boss over dinner. "I mean, he's nuts, but I'm pretty sure he's harmless."

"So he's just incompetent, then?" Edgeworth asks, recalling what Sebastian told him.

"I guess? We haven't taken anything to court yet so I don't know for sure. But with me as his detective, even Mr. Winslow can't lose, right?"

"Right!" Trucy agrees, feeling some sort of spiritual kinship with Ema's passion.

"I'm sure you're a big help to him," Wright says sincerely. Edgeworth nods along, only partly because Wright is pointedly nudging him with his foot under the table.

"Yeah," Ema says, suddenly frowning. "Whatever, it'll only be for a year or two," she adds, shaking it off.

She seems completely recovered by the time dinner is finished, chatting away happily with Maya once more.

"I'm going to be so relieved when Ema gets into forensics," Wright says, quietly, so that it won't be heard in the next room.

"I'll feel much better when everyone is returned to their proper positions," Edgeworth agrees. Wright gives him a reproving look for it but doesn't try to argue.

"And at least everybody's getting along," Wright says. "It's a good sign for if we ever have to make them socialize with the rest."

"The rest of what?"

"You know, the others. Kay, Sebastian." He grins. "Gumshoe."

Edgeworth rolls his eyes. "I can promise you that you're in no danger of the detective coming by."

"Can't say so for the others?"

"No."

"That's fine, I'd like to meet them." He considers the room. "We might need a bigger table, though."

"First you'd need a bigger house to put it in."

"Yeah," he says. "I guess we could just have some of them eat in the living room."

"Very formal."

"You've seen my forks," he says, "what were you expecting?"

"Hey, Mr. Edgeworth," Ema says, peeking around the doorframe and making Wright stop holding his hand across the table, "I told Lana I would be back early so if you're still okay with driving me home we should probably go soon."

"Yes, of course," he says, still wondering when, exactly, he and Wright had started holding hands, and how he hadn't even noticed. Judging by Wright's expression, he's having similar thoughts.

"Okay, I'll go put my shoes on. Over there. By the door." She vanishes back out of the kitchen.

"I guess it's goodbye again," Wright says, once they've stood up and extricated themselves from the table.

"I'll only be gone for four days, Wright, don't be so dramatic."

"Well, you never really know. You were supposed to be back in a week last time and you were gone for two months."

"Yes, well," Edgeworth says.

This time he notices when it happens; Wright gives him a tentative touch on the wrist, and he moves his own hand to meet him.

"Come home soon," he says softly.

"I certainly intend to."

All four of the girls are waiting near the door when he leaves the kitchen. It feels like a trap.

"We weren't going to let you leave the country without saying goodbye first," Maya says, hands on her hips.

"I'm not leaving the country," he clarifies, mostly reflexively.

"Oh. Where are you going?"

"Washington."

"The one up there or the one over there?" Presumably she means to indicate the east coast but she's actually pointing southwards.

"The one over there."

"Cool," she decides, then claps him on the back. "Have fun!"

"Thank you," he says, and turns his attention to Trucy.

"Are you going to meet the president?" she asks.

"Not that I'm aware," he says. "The Attorney General, at best."

"Boring," she says. "When will you be back?"

"In four days, barring unforeseen circumstances."

"Will you bring me back a souvenir?"

"If you like."

"Oh, can I have one too?"

"Yes, Maya, I'll buy you one too."

She does a fist-pump of victory. Trucy giggles. "Bye, Mr. Edgeworth," she says, and then, because she is her father's daughter, "make lots of new friends!"

"Enjoy your trip, Mr. Edgeworth."

"Thank you, Pearls." He's never gotten the impression that Pearls has taken to him as much as the others, so he genuinely appreciates it. "We should get going before Ema's sister starts to worry."

"Yeah, of course," Maya says. To Ema she adds "Send me that thing we were talking about."

"Sure," she says, and exchanges her own goodbyes with them before walking out to the car.

It's about fifteen minutes into the drive when Ema speaks again. "You were right."

"About what?"

"That things are really different from what I remember."

"Ah."

"It's good, though! It's nice!" she says, hands up in front of her. "Lana will never believe it."

I'm not so sure. "How is she?" he asks, because he never has.

"All right. I don't think she wanted me to work for the police, you know, but she didn't stop me."

"She's earned the right to be suspicious," he says, pulling up to the curb in front of an apartment block. "Give her my regards."

"Sure," Ema says, with a grin that says it won't be the only thing she tells Lana about tonight, and heads for the door.

He flexes his hand, remembering. They don't do that; they've never done that, at least not when copious amounts of stress and painkillers weren't involved. It's a good sign that things are getting away from him, heading somewhere he's never been and never intended to go.

He's going to do it again.

Chapter Text

Someone's waiting with a cardboard sign with his name on it when Edgeworth lands at the Los Angeles airport.

"I believe you're looking for me," he says to the person holding it, and she laughs and lowers it. "Hello, Trucy."

"Hi! Welcome back!"

He turns to her accompanying adult. "Wright."

"Hey, Edgeworth."

"It's a little ironic for you to be playing chauffeur, don't you think?" Edgeworth asks.

"I'm not playing anything, Trucy is," he says. "There isn't an actual driver waiting for you or anything, is there?"

"No, my car is in the long-term parking lot; I was going to drive myself. You'll need to come with, I imagine?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind. It was kind of a hassle getting out here in the first place."

"It's not a route intended for bicycles," Edgeworth agrees.

"Very funny," Wright says.

"We took the bus," Trucy explains. "Well, like four buses. This is really far away from our house."

"That must have taken hours," he says, to which Wright responds with a shrug. "You didn't need to trouble yourself just for this."

"We wanted to," Wright says. Trucy nods in agreement, looking oddly serious with half her face hidden under a pair of limo-driver sunglasses.

"Your bad habits are going to rub off on her."

"If waiting around for you is my worst habit then I'm fine with that."

"The grape juice is your worst habit," Edgeworth says. "I'm legitimately concerned."

Wright takes his suitcase from him, insisting on carrying it to the parking lot. "I can quit any time I want."

Edgeworth passes out the requested souvenirs (and one for Pearls; she didn't ask, but he wasn't about to leave her out, either) back at Wright's.

"Where did you find a stuffed Abraham Lincoln?" Wright asks him, grinning.

"I was in Washington. A better question is where I didn't find something like that." He reaches into the bag again. "Here's yours."

Wright takes it with more caution than it warrants. "Jefferson," he observes.

"For all his flaws, he was a man of style."

"Yes, his cravat is very nice," he says, smothering laughter.

Seventeen dollars well spent.

"So, how was it?" Maya asks, once the young ones have escaped from what promises to be an uninteresting adult conversation.

"People kept asking me if I knew Klavier Gavin," Edgeworth answers, annoyed just thinking about it. Both Wright and Maya laugh.

"Did you make any new friends?" Wright jokes, recalling Trucy's parting advice from a few days before.

"Don't be absurd," he says, which makes Maya snort another laugh. "Though I suppose I did...make the acquaintance of one of the other attendees."

"What?!" Maya exclaims. "We're gonna need details!"

"He wanted to discuss my published work with me," he says, with a suspicion he's missing something. "He must have had a lot to say, since he kept inviting me back to his room at the hotel."

Wright and Maya exchange a look.

"Uh," he says, eyebrows raised, "I hate to be the one to tell you, but that guy was trying to pick you up."

Edgeworth looks at him, nonplussed.

"He wanted to hit that," Maya says.

"Hit what?"

"Get in your pants?" she tries.

"Why would --?"

"Nick, you have to stop letting Mr. Edgeworth go out unsupervised."

Wright ignores this. "He was trying to, uh, seduce you."

"Ah," Edgeworth says, feeling like an idiot. "I didn't -- I didn't realize."

"So you didn't let him?" Maya asks, disturbingly casual.

"No!" he exclaims, at the same moment Wright hisses a horrified Maya! in her direction. "I wouldn't -- I've never -- I don't want people to!"

"Like...nobody? Ever?"

"I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it!"

She glances over at Wright, who is silently imploring her to stop, "You don't?"

He's at a complete loss for how to explain himself. How to explain that he has never been interested in anyone but Wright, and even then his interest couldn't be met with seduction. And he especially can't say any of this when he's not certain what Maya thinks (or knows), or with Wright in the room.

It's also just dawning on him that Wright might not be averse to...seduction-related activities. This might pose a problem. Eventually. In that nebulous future Edgeworth mostly avoids picturing.

There's always something.

"Edgeworth?" Wright asks him, leaning forward a little to get a better look. "Yeah, you really freaked him out, Maya, he's making that face. I told you --"

"And I told you that you guys need to --"

"Now's not the time," Wright says, and he and Maya exchange a few more half-sentences.

"Should I go?" Edgeworth asks, embarrassment superseded by the discomfort of exclusion.

"No, we're good," Maya says. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Mr. Edgeworth."

"It's all right."

"I'm going to go...somewhere else for a bit," she says, getting up. "Sorry again."

It's very quiet after she goes. Neither of them knows what to say.

"Is it strange?" Edgeworth blurts out, eventually. "That I don't think about it?"

Wright shrugs. "It's unusual, I guess, but it's nothing to feel weird about. And I always kind of figured you didn't."

"Is that so?" he asks, not sure if he's relieved or annoyed by this revelation.

"Well, you always look kind of...horrified whenever someone suggests that you do. It was just a feeling I got."

"Very observant."

"I have my moments," Wright says. "And you told Trucy you didn't like women once. I just extrapolated."

"She told you that?"

"I'm her dad, she tells me pretty much everything." He seems to debate with himself about something for a moment. "I don't know why you didn't just tell her you don't fall in love at all."

"Because that wouldn't have been true." Now he's even more confused than usual; he'd been working off the premise that Wright already knew that his feelings were romantic, given things like the hand-holding, and they had simply agreed not to talk about it. Without talking about that either.

Perhaps trying to base their relationship on implications, no matter how heavy they might be, is not the best idea they've ever had.

"So...the one thing but not the other."

This is ridiculous.

"Yes?"

"Okay." Wright nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe this all makes perfect sense to him.

"What about you?" Edgeworth asks, partially out of pique.

"What about me?"

"If you get to know about me, it seems only fair that I should know about you in return."

"I think about it," he says, after a moment. "But I haven't done any of it in years. For a couple reasons."

"Dahlia and Iris."

"That's one of them." He sighs. "It lost a lot of its appeal after that. And when it got it back, it was, uh, more limited. There's only one person I feel that way about now, and I...it's complicated, I guess."

It's a little strange to think that Wright has his own reservations about their relationship considering the way he usually acts, but it does explain how they haven't come to some kind of crossroads long before now. Maybe he's been in just as much denial as Edgeworth himself.

"There's only one person for me as well."

They're talking about each other and they both know it. What Edgeworth can't discern is whether this is merely an acknowledgement of that fact, or an agreement for now, or a promise for later.

In a way, it doesn't really matter. He's not missing out on anything by waiting, and their lives are so intertwined these days that it's mostly hanging a different name on the same thing. He'll still be Wright's friend, still feel the same way, whether he wants him now or later or never.

In another way, it matters very much.

Wright covers one of Edgeworth's hands with his own. "It can wait."

Sometimes he feels like Wright might be able to read his mind.

"Thanks for telling me all of that," Wright continues.

"I'm not certain that I did tell you anything."

He laughs quietly. "I think I got it anyway."

Chapter Text

There's someone on the couch in Edgeworth's office when he arrives one morning.

"Hey," the interloper says. "Heard you've been looking for me."

He's short and bespectacled, with the kind of face that's more commonly seen on porcelain dolls than real human beings. Must be another teenage prodigy.

"How long have you been in here, Mr. Winslow?"

"Oh shit, good guess! How'd you know?" he says, not answering the question.

"I haven't been looking for anyone else recently."

"Makes sense," Winslow says, nodding. "I didn't know when she started that Skye was one of yours, else I would've come up a long-ass time ago."

"'One of mine'?" he asks.

"What, just because I lose all the goddamn time doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot." He gets up from the couch, flinging out an arm when he nearly loses his balance in the process. "Everybody knows you've got a couple of the young ones around here under your proverbial wing. Skye, Debeste, that girl with the ponytail who doesn't actually work here. Gavin, maybe? Maybe not. Doesn't really matter, he's off making another one of his shitty albums anyway."

"He is?"

"Yeah, he left yesterday or the day before, I don't know. Anyway, I just came up here to show my face and let you tell me to set a good example for today's youth or whatever the fuck." It's almost impressive how he can keep saying such harsh words in such a mellow tone of voice.

"I merely wanted to introduce myself."

Winslow smirks. His teeth are incongruously sharp. "Sure." He sticks out a hand for a shake. "Aptly Winslow."

"Miles Edgeworth," he answers, shaking it. "Seb-- Prosecutor Debeste told me that wasn't your real name."

"Obviously fucking not," he says with a snort. "But nobody around here's called me anything else in almost ten years. I could probably file my taxes under that stupid fucking nickname."

Ten years? How old is this person?

"I see," Edgeworth says, privately glad that he calls everyone by their last names and can avoid that issue entirely. "Thank you for coming to see me."

"Sure," he says again. "I'd hate to get on Miles Edgeworth's bad side. We all know what happened to Gant and Debeste and that asshole in the tennis get-up, and I'd probably get shanked on my first day in prison."

"There's never been anything personal about those cases."

"Good, because I'd probably be shit out of luck if it was a personality contest." He heads for the door. "You know where to find me if you need me. And thirty-one."

"What?"

"You were wondering how old I am. Thirty-one." His shoulder bangs off the doorframe as he leaves. "Fuck!"

Well, then.

He's not sure what to make of Winslow. Certainly not his first choice for Ema to work under, especially after she was so disappointed by not making it into forensics. But the way he was more concerned about rubbing Edgeworth the wrong way on a personal level than being arrested seems to indicate that he has nothing to hide on that front, at least.

Either that, or he is extremely confident in his ability not to be found out, though Edgeworth has to admit he's having a difficult time picturing how someone so forthright could get away with much of anything. He will simply have to keep an eye on it.

The one thing he can say is that Winslow certainly lived up to his description.

"It's just up here, around this corner," Wright says, pointing, and lo and behold, around the corner is the infamous Eldoon's Noodles, of which Edgeworth has heard much but never seen. Frankly, he had never really expected to; Wright has always been strangely evasive when it comes to the topic of local noodle vendors who specialize in hypertension. But earlier tonight, Wright had dragged him along when he went to go buy dinner, saying he needed the extra pair of arms to carry it back, which Edgeworth might have believed if he hadn't seen Wright carry around a lot more than five servings of noodles before.

Edgeworth had gone along without protest, however, because if Wright was finally initiating him into his secret noodle society there was probably a reason.

Eldoon's is just a regular street vendor's stand, staffed by a very elderly man in a hat shaped like a bowl.

"Hey, Manny," Wright says when they get close enough to be heard.

"Phoenix!" the old man replies, like he hasn't seen Wright in ages. (It's been about four days, by Edgeworth's count.) "Who's that with you there? It's certainly not Miss Maya."

"Uh, nope," he says, beckoning Edgeworth a little closer to the cart. Edgeworth moves to introduce himself, but Manny beats him to it.

"The famous Mr. Edgeworth!" he says, looking as awed as if he were meeting an actual celebrity. He turns back to Wright. "Phoenix, you actually did it!"

Wright laughs nervously. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Have we met...?" Edgeworth asks, confused.

"Nah, I'd remember that," Manny says. "I've just talked to this one --" he jerks his thumb in Wright's direction, "-- at least once a week since he was still running after Miss Mia. I have heard a lot about you."

"Have you," he says faintly.

"Mmhmm. Didn't think he'd ever get you out here to see me, though." He stirs his noodles a bit. "In fact, we had a wager going on it, didn't we, Phoenix?"

"Technically, Maya made that bet," he says, "but I'm holding you to it now."

"Dare I ask?" Edgeworth says, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, all the stories made you sound like a real persnickety fellow -- no offense -- so I bet Phoenix wouldn't be able to convince you to come with him to an old man's noodle stand and prove how great you were in person," Manny says. "Their side of it was that if you did, I'd have to retire."

"Which you should've done years ago, bet or no bet," Wright says. "I know you got that hip replacement, but you're still working way too hard."

"You also know I can't until Guy comes around and takes it over for me." Manny sighs. "I don't know what I'm talking about. Having a doctor in the family's supposed to be something to brag about, isn't it?"

"My mom never approved of me becoming a lawyer. Not that she would've approved of me working for Anatoly instead," Wright says with a shrug. "It's different for every family. And you still love Guy, like my mom still loved me. You'll work it out."

"That kid of yours is lucky she ended up with you, my boy," Manny says. "Right, Famous Mr. Edgeworth?"

"I've always said so."

Manny points his ladle at Wright. "And for the record, I don't approve of you working for Anatoly either."

"So you've told me. But what am I supposed to do? It's not like I can use my college degree anymore."

"Well, you could always let your rich boyfriend pay for things," he says, much to Edgeworth's mortification. "Seems like the least he could do."

"I would if he let me," he says, and now Wright looks equally flustered.

"I do, sometimes!"

"So stubborn," Manny says, ladling noodles into containers and shaking his head. "Dinner's on the house tonight, since I couldn't hold up my end of our bet."

"Are you sure you don't want Edgeworth to pay for these instead?" he mumbles.

Manny brushes this off with merely a look. "Have yourselves a nice night. Tell the girls I said hi."

"Will do."

"Nice to finally meet you, Famous Mr. Edgeworth."

"You as well," he says, taking the half-stack of take-out that Wright is thrusting upon him. It seems he was serious about that "extra pair of arms" thing.

They're about halfway back to Wright's when Edgeworth finally asks the question -- for a certain value of "ask" or "question" -- he's been thinking about.

"I didn't know that," he says. "About your mother."

"It's not a big deal," Wright says. "Like I said, we still loved each other. It's not like it was on the scale of Maya's family, or the Gramaryes."

Or the von Karmas. "It doesn't have to be. If you insist on waiting for problems of that magnitude you'll never have any of your concerns addressed."

"Is this about me not taking your money all the time? Because I always let you give it to me when I need it."

"It's about letting me help you as much as you help me."

"I...How am I supposed to argue with that?"

"You're not."

"I need to go pick something up from work," Wright tells him, looking down at his phone.

"I could drive you, if you like," he offers, and because he is actively trying to let Edgeworth do favours for him, Wright accepts.

The Borscht Bowl is not far from Wright's, so it's a short drive. The restaurant itself is a shabby older building, crumbling in places. It does not, as a dining establishment, inspire confidence.

"I know it's not much to look at," Wright says, leading Edgeworth to briefly think it might be nicer inside.

It is not.

It has one of those bells at the entrance meant to alert the staff to new arrivals, but, unsurprisingly, no one shows up when it rings.

"Kolya, that you?" comes a man's voice from around the corner, in the dining area. It has a strong Russian accent: Anatoly, Wright's employer.

"Yeah, it's me," Wright says.

"Got here faster than usual," he observes. "Don't tell me fancy car outside is yours."

"I got a ride here."

"From who, Magnum, PI?" This finally brings the speaker around the corner and into view. He's an older man, huge and bearded. He looks between Wright and Edgeworth for a second before settling on the latter. "So, you're driver, yes?"

"Yes. Miles Edgeworth."

"Ah, your paren'," Anatoly says to Wright. "The one you're texting when you're in vegetable storage."

"You know about that?"

"I know everything that happens in my restaurant," he says, ominously. "Doesn't matter. Customers probably appreciate when you take break from piano."

"Jeez, you too?"

"Piano is just to keep you busy, is not why I pay you," Anatoly says with a shrug. "Speaking of, what you came for: your winnings from last time, and rules for next time." He hands over two white envelopes.

"Thanks," Wright says, putting them in his pocket.

"Now, you going to tell Anatoly how you meet such classy man?"

"Hey, I have class too!"

"You work here, you have nothing," Anatoly says.

"We met in school, in the fourth grade," Edgeworth says, "or in court about six years ago, if you'd prefer to count from there."

"I always count from beginning," Anatoly says. "So, you are lawyer too, then?"

"I'm a prosecutor," he says. "Wright was my rival."

"Prosecutor?" Anatoly turns to Wright, asking him a barrage of questions in Russian that Wright -- shockingly -- seems to understand, answering them by nodding or shaking his head. Edgeworth can't understand it, but he can guess what it's about. Wright's answers seem to meet with Anatoly's approval because he carries on like nothing happened. "So, what then? Did Kolya lose to you so many times he had to quit?"

"Not at all," he says. "I lost to him every time."

"Not every time," Wright argues.

"That verdict was mostly your doing; I'm not sure I should take credit for it."

"I couldn't have done it without you." He rubs at the back of his neck. "And I gave you your first loss, seems only fair that you should give me mine."

"I'm -- I'm thankful that you did."

"I know. I am too."

Anatoly raises an eyebrow and asks Wright another question, which makes them realize they've been staring at each other for the last few minutes.

"No!" he answers, emphatic.

"Had to check," Anatoly says with a shrug. "Now get out of here unless you're going to buy something or take your fancy friend downstairs and clean him out, da?"

"Yeah, we're not going to do either of those things."

"Come on, I made solyanka fresh, you should have some."

"I work here, Anatoly, I know that means you made it like five days ago."

"It was only three!" he says, and then realizes what he just copped to. "Is that how you kept beating this one, hm?"

"It was one way of many," Edgeworth answers for him.

"I only beat you like five times; you make it sound like it was every day," Wright says. "Come on, let's head out."

"'Kolya'?" Edgeworth asks as they walk out the door.

"Yeah, it's short for Nikolai. Like 'Nick' in Russian."

"He does know your name isn't Nicholas?"

"I'm...not actually sure," he says, sheepish.

"Terrible."

When they pull up in front of Wright's building, Edgeworth feels the urge to ask another question.

"Why are you introducing me to these people?" he asks. "It wasn't long ago that you wouldn't have even considered showing me this place or letting me meet Mr. Eldoon."

"I -- " He sighs and starts again. "When we had...that conversation, I told you there were reasons I didn't bother with that stuff. You only really see the decent parts of my life, the times when I'm at home with Trucy, and not the parts where I work in a shady basement for a shadier guy and buy noodles off the street and let Kristoph Gavin take me out to -- If we're...I need you to have seen the full picture."

"Wright," he says, reaching over to take one of his hands in his. "I lived with Manfred von Karma for ten years. I work in what is probably the most corrupt office in the country. And I was equally corrupt, once. I still would be if it weren't for you.

"Believe me when I tell you that nothing like this could ever diminish you in my eyes."

Wright looks like he might cry.

"Besides," Edgeworth adds, "I already knew you were the kind of person who bought noodles off the street."

The tears are still there, but he manages to laugh. "They're good noodles!"

"No, they're not," he says. "...Don't tell Mr. Eldoon I said that."

"I don't know, he might think it was funny."

"Yes, he did say I was...what was it?"

"Persnickety."

"Right. 'Persnickety'."

Wright is smiling in full again. "Saying it that way is just proving his point."

"Wh-- I am not!" Edgeworth says. "You think I'm persnickety?"

"Well, yeah. I think you're very persnickety." He stops. "This word is losing all meaning."

"Somewhat."

"It's not all you are, though. Otherwise you would've stopped hanging around me a long time ago."

"Or perhaps hanging around you is why I've become more obliging in the first place."

"Maybe," Wright agrees. "Just like how hanging around you has given me an insatiable desire to put ruffles on everything."

Apparently the moment they were having is over now. "Leave immediately."

"And the persnicketiness returns," he says with a clearly fake sigh. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

"I'll be in court until at least three," Edgeworth tells him as affirmation.

Once again, there's somebody in Edgeworth's office. He's going to have to talk to security.

The visitor in question is more or less Winslow's exact opposite: a tall, dark-haired woman, angular and imposing.

She also seems familiar, somehow.

"Miles Edgeworth?" she asks when he walks in.

"I am," he says with a small bow.

"I've come to speak to you about my brother. I'm sure you're familiar with his case."

"Possibly," he says. "Who is your brother?"

"Simon Blackquill."

Ah. "I attended his trial," he says, moving to sit behind his desk. Ms. Blackquill takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of it. "But I'm afraid I don't know very much beyond that."

"I can assist you with that," she says, holding up a file folder. "However, there's something you should read first."

Blackquill pulls an envelope from the folder and passes it across the desk to him. She doesn't deign to explain any of it and simply waits for Edgeworth to open it and read its contents.

Herr Edgeworth, the letter starts, immediately revealing its author, if you are reading this, that means you are speaking to the lovely Aura Blackquill, and she has followed my instructions to let you have this explanation.

Dr. Blackquill and I have been in contact since shortly after her brother's trial. Neither of us believe he is guilty, and we've been working on gathering the evidence for an appeal. However, my commitments with my band, the Gavinners, mean that I'm not able to put in the time and effort that the Blackquills deserve.

This is where you come in, mein Herr. You were the one who made me look into Simon's case in the first place, when we talked at the courthouse after his trial. It seems only right that I give it back to you. If you want it. At the very least, I think I can trust you not to tell any of our colleagues about this. I can't say the same for anyone else there.

Justice isn't being done for Dr. Cykes, or for Simon Blackquill. I see that now. Find their truth for them, ja?

It's a good thing Edgeworth already knows who this message came from, because Gavin's signature is illegible.

"If you have any further questions, you may ask me," Dr. Blackquill says as he folds the letter back up.

"Gavin has been gone for weeks," he says. "Why haven't you come to see me before today?"

"I'm trying to reduce the likelihood that anyone in this office will draw a connection between you, Klavier, and myself," she says. "If I came to see you immediately it might cause someone to wonder if he had handed some business off to you, even if Klavier and I had never met in his office."

"I see." Even he thinks that might be slightly paranoid. "Do you trust me to take Simon's case?"

"I wouldn't have come if I hadn't already decided," she says. "I've looked into your work. You're good at what you do, and if you truly care about justice as much and stepping on your colleagues' toes as little as they say, then my brother is in safe hands."

Edgeworth blinks a few times in surprise. That was possibly the first time someone's spoken of his reputation in a purely positive light.

He kind of wishes Wright had been there to hear it.

"I appreciate that," he says. "In that case, I would like to officially offer you my services as an attorney."

"I accept." She holds out the file. "This is what Klavier and I have put together to this point."

It's a rather thin collection. Rifling through it reveals that most of it is composed of Gavin's notes, though in retrospect he probably should have guessed. There are also several photographs, a largely-redacted police report, and contact information for both Blackquills.

"I've told Simon to add you to his visitors' list at the prison," she says. "I can't promise that he actually did so; he hasn't been as cooperative with our investigation as he should be."

"Do you know why that is?"

Dr. Blackquill sneers unpleasantly. "He's trying to protect her, even though she did it. She's the one who killed Metis."

A suspect? "Who is?"

"Athena."

"Dr. Cykes' daughter?" He doesn't think he's doing a particularly good job of keeping the revulsion from his face. Athena Cykes was eleven years old then, can't be more than thirteen now. To have killed her own mother -- it's practically unthinkable.

Isn't it?

"I had hoped you wouldn't have been as soft on her as Klavier was," she says disdainfully. "Come to my laboratory sometime and I'll explain it in full. You have the address."

Edgeworth frowns at the small stack of paper she left him with, wondering exactly what he just got himself into.

Chapter Text

Simon Blackquill has him leave the prison empty-handed for the eighteenth time.

Edgeworth is fuming the entire way back into the city. It's been months and he has yet to even lay eyes on his client, much less get anything useful from him.

Wright notices as soon as Edgeworth walks in the door. "He didn't see you, huh."

"No."

"He'll come around," he says, patting Edgeworth on the arm encouragingly. "Some clients are stubborn; you have to keep trying until they let you in."

He narrows his eyes. "You're talking about me, aren't you."

"You did kick me out like three times, and you were only in there for a day and a half."

"That was for your own protection and I told you as much at the time!"

"I know, I know," Wright says. "But maybe Blackquill's doing the same thing, thinking it'll be safer if everyone just leaves it alone."

"So I should keep throwing myself at the problem until he gives in."

"It worked for me," he says. "Look at us now."

"Somehow, I don't see things working out like that between Mr. Blackquill and myself."

Wright makes a strange choking noise. "I really hope not," he says. "Are you going to see Simon's sister instead? You said she had that theory to show you."

"I could," Edgeworth says. "I would have preferred to speak to Simon first, but evidently he intends to have me wait."

"And you're using that as an excuse to put Dr. Blackquill off." Edgeworth looks at him, offended. "It's not a bad thing; I wouldn't want to go either. But you are avoiding it, and you can't prove her wrong until you go."

"You're forgetting there's a chance she isn't wrong."

"I...I guess so. It's not likely, though," Wright says, troubled. "I still think you should go and check it out. We have to know, even if it's something we don't want to hear."

"And if it is?"

"We do what we always do," Wright says. "We deal with it together."

The Cosmos Space Centre must have taken quite a hit from the double disaster of Dr. Cykes' murder and the shuttle explosion shortly thereafter, because the premises are nearly deserted when Edgeworth arrives. He spots two boys in the parking lot, and nothing more. Not a single employee, not a single guest. Even in broad daylight, the dearth of people gives the huge building a strange, almost eerie quality, but it's easy enough to ignore as he follows the marked route to the robotics laboratory.

"So you've finally come," Dr. Blackquill says as Edgeworth comes through the sliding doors. "I was starting to wonder if you'd given up."

"Not in the least," he says. "It's merely difficult to find an opportunity to come here without drawing attention."

"Hm, true," she says. Fortunately, she's as paranoid as ever. "Should I jump right in and show you, then?"

"No," he says, a little too quickly. "I'd like some background information on the case first, if you don't mind."

"What kind of 'background information'?"

"Your work here. Your relationship with Dr. Cykes and her daughter. Dr. Cykes' relationship with her daughter; her relationship with your brother. It's impossible to say at this stage what could turn out to be relevant to the case."

Aura eyes him with suspicion, but proceeds anyway. "Metis and I met in college. We were always close; at first she was something of a mentor to me, but later we were partners. She brought me here after she was hired for the robotics program, and we've worked together ever since, with me building the bots' hardware and Metis programming their neural networks. All of the centre's robots are our creations; I'm sure you saw some of them on your way in here."

"I didn't see any robots."

"Hmph. They're supposed to guide visitors; I'll have to take a look at them later," she says, handling a drill in a rather threatening manner. "I introduced Simon to Metis, of course. She's the one who got him interested in psychology in the first place, and she was so flattered by it she took Simon on as a student once he finished his law degree." She's still spinning the drill, creating an angry whining sound. "He thought psychological training would help him in court. Obviously it didn't, or I wouldn't be talking to you right now."

"Simon's win record was impressive," Edgeworth says, because he's at a loss for what else to say. "He was undefeated prior to his arrest."

"Like that means anything, especially these days," she says, which strikes Edgeworth as a callous thing to say about the brother she's so passionate about defending.

"You think he was cheating in court?"

"No. I just don't understand your office's obsession with winning. One of the first things you learn as a scientist is that there's no such thing as winning, only progressing."

"I'm afraid a judge might disagree with you on that, Dr. Blackquill."

"For now."

He lets that ominous remark pass. "You haven't said anything about Athena Cykes."

Aura starts up the drill again. "She was trouble right from the start," she says after a moment. "Metis never even told me who her father was, and she and I -- she told me everything. I told her everything. Not that it matters who he was, I suppose, though I do wonder if that's where she got it from."

"Got what from?" Edgeworth asks, completely lost.

"Athena's hearing is exceptionally good, to the point that it's really more of a detriment to her than anything. She cried practically non-stop when she was younger because of it, and only stopped when she finally got old enough to tell Metis what the problem was. Those were...difficult years. Really, all of them were, after she was born -- even after we knew it was her ears, finding a satisfactory solution took a lot of time and effort, especially for Metis. She had to run all kinds of experiments on Athena to get the necessary data, and even though they were all fairly routine it made them both miserable. Then I had to build all of the prototypes and upgrades for Athena's earmuffs, and she complained about those, too, even after they were proven to work..." Aura stops, collects herself. "That does bring me to the reason I had you come here."

The moment comes at last. Edgeworth motions for her to proceed.

It's a gruesome story, involving the automated repair system for the robots as applied to the human body. Edgeworth is horrified.

"Why are you so certain that it was Athena? Simon must have known at least as much about the laboratory's capabilities as --"

"Motive, Mr. Edgeworth. Like I told you, Athena was tired of being Metis' guinea pig, while Simon had never had so much as an argument with her. They were two peas in a pod, with that whole samurai thing," she says, flicking her wrist in annoyance. "But Simon was just as devoted to Athena, if not more; I'm not surprised he took the blame for her, even if it was a stupid thing to do."

"But -- could it not have been a visitor, or an intruder...?"

"You're a smart man," she says. "But you wouldn't have known what this machine was for if I hadn't shown you, would you?"

"Well, no --"

"And besides, I've already told you about the robots. They register the faces and identification of everyone who even sets foot in here, and unlike today, they were working perfectly then. We have the full logs from that night, and no one was here besides Metis, Athena, and Simon." Aura hands him the print-out. "No visitors, no intruders."

Having seen the security camera footage at Simon's trial, he knows there are no records at the centre that can dispute what she's posited. There are no issues he can raise right now.

She may not believe in the concept, but it looks as though Aura Blackquill is currently winning.

"I have to admit," Wright says, after Edgeworth's recounted his day at the space centre, "I was really hoping Aura's theory was going to turn out to be impossible."

"As was I," he says. "But without access to any evidence that still exists or her brother's testimony, I can't prove her wrong. I need Simon to speak to me."

"I'm sure he will, eventually."

"We don't exactly have all the time in the world," Edgeworth says. "He's already been on death row for two years at this point. His execution could be scheduled at any time."

"And he knows that better than you do," Wright points out. "Things will turn around. With any luck, sooner rather than later, but only Simon can make that decision. And when he does, I know you'll be able to solve the case."

It's painful to hear that from Wright, the other person he's sworn to help and been able to do nothing for.

"I don't know how you can always be so hopeful."

"It's better than the other options."

To Edgeworth's immense surprise, Simon Blackquill only turns him away twice more before finally acquiesing to his constant petitioning.

Blackquill has changed in the two years since his trial; his face is more haggard, and his hair is starting to come in with patches of white. Regardless of what he's been going through, he greets Edgeworth calmly and casually, like they've run into each other at the grocery store. It's a little unsettling.

He doesn't say anything after that, either, which only adds to the effect.

"I've come to discuss your case," Edgeworth says, breaking their stalemate. "I'm sure your sister has informed you, though I don't know to what extent."

Blackquill shrugs. "She told me the first one dropped out and she found someone else to take it on, that was about it."

"Yes, I've been working on it for several months now," he says. "I might have made more progress if you had been willing to speak to me."

The jab drags a smirk out of Blackquill. "I wanted to you to see Aura at her lab first. She told me you finally did."

"I don't understand."

"You needed to see what would happen if I was exonerated." He shakes his overgrown hair out of his eyes. "They'd go after Athena instead, show the court -- and the public -- the same thing Aura showed you. I would go to any lengths to protect her from that."

"And you have," he says. "But you didn't kill Metis Cykes, Mr. Blackquill. I won't see an innocent man executed."

Blackquill returns to silence, expression dark.

"Nothing will happen to Athena in your stead; you have my word on that. I understand how difficult this is for --"

Blackquill scoffs, cutting him off. "No, you don't."

"I can assure you that I do," Edgeworth says, reaching into his pocket. This, at least, he has plenty of evidence for, though it takes him a moment to find one without Wright in it. That might draw the kind of scrutiny Edgeworth doesn't need right now. "I wasn't offering you a platitude."

He looks at the photograph Edgeworth is holding up to the glass for quite some time before speaking, and when he does, Blackquill betrays no emotion in either his face or voice. "I wouldn't have taken you for a family man."

"One could say the same of you," Edgeworth says, deliberately equally blank. "I won't work your case without your permission. If you don't believe in my ability to protect either of you, then you only need to say so. But what was presented at your trial was not what happened, and I have devoted my life to finding the truth. This needs to come to light, Mr. Blackquill. For you, for your sister, for Athena Cykes. For justice itself."

"Quite a speech," Blackquill says, looking away as if disinterested. "Fine. I'll give you a shot. But I'm entrusting Athena's life to you, Edgeworth-dono. If anything happens to her, I'll be coming for you."

This would likely be more threatening if Edgeworth believed Simon had ever killed anyone, but he's intimidating enough that it's not without impact.

"I'd like to hear your version of events when I return next week," he says. "Please be thorough."

Simon merely nods in acknowledgement as he lets the guards take him back to his cell.

He explains briefly.

Chapter Text

Everything falls into a routine for the next few months. He goes to the office and tries to act like the sort of person his superiors might consider making Chief Prosecutor, he goes to the courthouse and gets jeered at by the defense and the gallery alike, he goes home and splits his time between working on Wright's and Blackquill's cases and being distracted by whatever combination of friends and acquaintances is there that day, he goes to his actual home and catches a few hours of sleep before doing it again.

There are a few interruptions to the pattern, of course, like the days Ema shows up to complain about her consistently strange boss, or when Maya got it into her head to forcibly celebrate his and Wright's thirtieth birthdays. There are also more welcome interruptions, like the time he spends as Sebastian's co-counsel as the latter makes his tentative return to active prosecution, or the night Wright haulled him out to see one of Trucy's performances.

It's largely fine, even if Edgeworth wishes he could do more.

In a surprising turn of events, his wish is -- for once -- granted.

"You know where Athena Cykes is?"

Blackquill has just offered to tell him what he knows about her whereabouts, after months of what seemed like fruitless visits to the prison. Simon must have gotten something out of them, at least; he wouldn't have changed his mind otherwise.

"I know where she might be," Blackquill corrects. "Cykes-dono came from a large family. Athena could be with any number of relatives."

"Any information is better than none," Edgeworth says, not bothering to ask why Blackquill hadn't divulged any of this previously. It's always the same answer.

Simon was not exaggerating about the size of the Cykes family; by the time he's finished making suggestions, Edgeworth has the names of five sisters, two cousins, a great-aunt, some vague and approximate location data for most of them, and a promise that there are more if none of those leads pays off.

"I imagine this will keep me occupied for some time, but I'll keep that in mind," he says, reading over the list once more. Not just a large family, but well-travelled, too. They're spread out all over the world: the United Kingdom, Germany, Japan, Zheng Fa, Egypt...

He's not even sure where to start.

"You know, I've seen you do a lot of weird stuff over the years, but Facebook-stalking old ladies is a new one."

Wright's come up behind him to watch him work. "I'm not stalking anyone, I'm looking for Athena Cykes' relatives." He brandishes the list for emphasis. "I'm surprised you even know what Facebook is."

"I'm not that out of touch," he says. "Does this mean you have a Facebook?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Edgeworth says, attempting to check a profile for proof that it's the right person. Private. "The only person I'd care to talk to is infamously hopeless with technology."

"Hey, I just proved I know some things about the internet."

"Barely," he says. "It's irrelevant. I already have your phone number."

"And you're always in my house anyway," Wright says. "How's your search going?"

"Not well. I can't access most of the profiles, and the ones I can don't provide any information that could confirm their identities." He clicks away from another dead end. "I'm not sure what I would say to them regardless."

"I guess 'I'm working on an unsanctioned appeal for the guy who might have killed your sister and I need to talk to your teenage niece' is kind of a hard sell," Wright says, removing himself from the space over Edgeworth's shoulder to sit at the table with him.

"Indeed," Edgeworth says. "I'm starting to think...I think I may have to see them in person. If I ever find them."

"In person?"

"I'll be able to make a better case that way," he says. "Show them what I've found, convey the seriousness and urgency of the situation, demonstrate that I can be trusted. Make a personal connection."

Wright raises an eyebrow. "You're going to make a personal connection with a victim's family."

Fair point. Socialization is not Edgeworth's forte, particularly on a short timescale.

"I didn't say it was a flawless plan," he says, already trying to find a solution. He hits on one almost instantly. "Come with me."

It would solve several problems, really. They can't miss each other if they both go.

Wright startles. "What?"

"You could come with me. Help me with the case. It would certainly add legitimacy to what I'm doing if I had a lawyer with me."

"I'm not a lawyer, Edgeworth."

"Yes, you are."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. "Why would you want it to be me? You've got other people who could help."

"You already know I'm working on Blackquill's case," he says. "The others don't. And I intend to keep it that way; the fewer people who know, the better."

"I can't," he says. "I'm not you, I have a kid and a boss who's going to notice if I don't show up."

"I think Anatoly can spare you for a few days."

"And if he decides he can't?"

"I'll pay him for your time."

"You're nuts," Wright says, but without insult. "I don't think you can pull that one with Trucy, though."

"Not really, but I think you should go," Trucy says from the doorway, scaring the living daylights out of both of them. She certainly has a good sense of dramatic timing.

"Trucy --"

"It sounds important," she says. "And Mr. Edgeworth needs your help."

"It is, and I do," Edgeworth says.

"When did you start admitting to that?" Wright grumbles. "I...I'll think about it, okay?"

"Yes, of course," he says. Trucy gives him a thumbs-up from where she's standing behind Wright's back; Edgeworth decides the safest course of action is to ignore it. "It's not urgent. I don't expect to find anyone without putting substantially more time into it."

"Yeah," Wright says. "I'll put some thought into it after I have a talk with someone about eavesdropping. Again."

"I was helping!"

Despite still being on the fence about whether or not he'll go on any of the resulting expeditions as well as his technological ineptitude, Wright helps him look for Athena Cykes' relatives. Edgeworth sets him up to take over on Facebook, while he himself moves to the internet at large. Wright takes his notes on it by hand, which he finds amusing, given he could just as easily type them.

"Luddite," he accuses, fond, when Wright catches him looking.

"Should you be making fun of me when you're trying to get me to do something for you?" he asks mildly, returning to his task.

"Whether I'm nice to you or not will have no bearing on your decision," Edgeworth says.

"Lucky for you," he mumbles, writing something down. "Are you okay with -- not getting an answer right away?"

"Of course," he says. "You have legitimate concerns, and I did ask you rather suddenly."

"If you want to take it back, I get it."

"I don't," Edgeworth says. "Unless you want me to."

"I don't," Wright says, eyes firmly on his page of notes.

"Then I can wait."

"Okay."

"All right."

It takes three weeks to find someone, and another three days and the inadvisable act of asking a favour from Franziska to get an exact address. It's that of Doris Cykes-van Vliet, the middle of Metis' five elder sisters, who lives in the Netherlands with her husband.

"So," Wright says as Edgeworth finishes up the phone call with his sister, "you'll be going soon, then?"

He catches the singular. "You've decided not to come."

"No, no," he says. "I haven't -- I don't know if I will or not yet. I was just asking."

"I should go as soon as I can," he says. "But I can't make any plans without your decision."

Wright sighs. "I don't know."

"Maya promised to look after Trucy and Anatoly took my money," he says. "We've settled everything you've told me about."

He looks like he has something important to say, but what comes out instead is "I don't even own a suitcase."

"I can lend you one," Edgeworth says, going for calm but winding up closer to mystified.

Mystified seems to work, because Wright gets to what is, presumably, his actual problem. "It's...Is it weird? For us to do this?"

"I didn't think so," he says. "Is it?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, why did you think it might be?"

"You know -- we'd be, like...alone. Together. The whole time."

"We're alone together all the time," Edgeworth points out. "We're alone together right now."

"It's different," he says. "We at least have Trucy around, even if she's in another room. And we'd be in a different country."

"Does that change things?" He's back to mystified. Evidently there are more nuances to this sort of thing than he'd ever considered.

"Maybe?" Wright says, proving that he doesn't know either.

"You don't have to accompany me if you think it's a bad idea," he says, after a moment. "I don't want to...make things awkward. But I think it would turn out better if you were with me. I always do."

Wright works it over. "Bring that suitcase by sometime."

He does.

"Wow, that's really ugly," Trucy says upon seeing it.

"And really not your style," Wright agrees.

"It was a gift from a friend."

"I didn't get you this," he says, an obligatory joke at Edgeworth's expense. "Wait, are you talking about the flight attendant who tied you up?"

"That was a misunderstanding," he says.

"She tied you up! After finding you unconscious on the floor!"

"She also thought I'd killed someone," he says, "and you're one to talk about that."

"What were you doing on this plane?" Trucy asks, puzzled.

"Trying to come back here," he tells her, like he can't quite remember why.

"You were in the Detention Centre with an armed guard and we had a way bigger problem to deal with," Wright cuts back in. "Besides, we weren't...really friends then. I didn't know if you'd have even wanted my help. You barely let me take your case."

"You may be right," he concedes hesitantly. He'd still hated being vulnerable in front of Wright then, instead of accepting it as a somewhat embarrassing fact of life. "Still, I don't hold any ill will towards Ms. Teneiro."

"Not even for giving you this thing?" Wright asks, indicating the iFly eyesore once again.

"I hold no ill will towards her for restraining me," he amends.

Wright snorts, then turns to Trucy, who's been entertaining herself by trying to find out if the suitcase is big enough to fit her inside (it's not). "You're sure you'll be all right staying with Aunt Maya for a few days?"

"Yep," she says, clearly not nearly as troubled by the prospect as her father. "It'll be cool, we never go up to the village and now I'll be there for all of spring break!"

Edgeworth's private theory is that they never go up to Kurain Village because every time Wright is confronted with a high concentration of spirit mediums someone dies, but this is probably better left unspoken.

"And you can always call us if you need to," Wright says. "I can come back right away."

"I know," Trucy says, as though she's already heard this spiel several times. Knowing Wright, she's likely to hear it several more before they actually leave. "I still think you should go. It'll be fun, right, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"It's...possible," he says, which is as close to promising a good time as he's ever gotten.

"We're going for work, Trucy, I don't think it's going to be all that much fun."

"It could be," she says. "I have fun at work."

"Good point," Wright says, like doing a magic show every couple of weeks is the same thing. "Maybe I'll get Edgeworth to pick a card when we have some free time."

"Or you could do it with the people you're going to see! Magic is a great icebreaker, you know."

"We'll...keep that in mind." He picks up the suitcase. "Okay, I'm sick of looking at this thing. Let me go put it away."

Trucy waits until he's out of the room and then says, without even looking at Edgeworth, "You have a regular suitcase you could have given Daddy, don't you."

"Several."

"Are you going to tell him that?"

"I'm sure he already knows."

In the lead-up to their departure, Edgeworth makes one grievous error in judgement: he tells Raymond about it. He had intended for this to be a simple notification, but, naturally, it does not stay that way.

...Assuming he understood that euphemism correctly.

At this juncture, Mr. Shields forgoes messages and calls him. Edgeworth picks up without a word.

"HE'S WHAT?"

"I felt I would benefit from his assistance and asked him to go with me."

"Holy shit. Miles. Holy shit." Maybe Wright was on to something about this being a bridge too far. "I'm so proud!"

"Yes, well. Thank you, I suppose."

"I can't wait to tell your old man that you two are finally going on your honeymoon."

Even though he does something like this every time, it still sends Edgeworth sputtering. "We are not doing any such thing!"

"I know," he says, unruffled. "But one day, maybe."

"I doubt it."

"I don't."

Leaving for the airport is a bit of a mess, but he'd expected that. Wright's still in the process of some last-minute packing, with help from Trucy and Pearls (though from Edgeworth's perspective it mostly seems like they're getting in the way).

"Uh-oh," Maya says, upon Edgeworth's entry. "Nick, Mr. Edgeworth's here! You're in trouble now!"

"We're almost done!" Trucy yells.

"And I am not," Wright calls back. Then, sticking his head out into the hallway, "am I?"

"No," Edgeworth replies. "I suspected something like this might happen and scheduled accordingly."

This gets no answer from Wright, but Maya has a good giggle over it.

Lost for what to say, he thanks her again for looking after Trucy while they're gone.

"Really, it's no problem," she says. "I'd do it even if I wasn't so glad you were finally taking Nick with you. He's so mopey whenever you take off. So much sighing."

"I-I'm sure it's not that bad," he says.

"No, it's pretty bad." She grins. "How about you? I bet you're way classier than Nick, like you read a lot of sad poems or something."

"There are no poems!"

"Come on, I know you miss him too," she says. "Kay told me you're always giving speeches about it."

"I do no such thing," he says automatically. "You've never met Kay."

"Nope, but Ema added her and Sebastian to our group chat. She's cool, I like her."

That can't possibly be good, but any further prying is interrupted by the the appearance of the rest of the household.

"All right, I think I'm ready," Wright says, putting his bag by the door.

"We should be going, then," Edgeworth says, as a prompt. He may have allotted some of that extra time for what's bound to be several lengthy goodbyes, but it's still finite.

Wright jumps to it, double-checking that Maya's ready to take on an extra charge for a few days, giving the girls -- both of them, for some reason -- the "you can call us any time" speech yet again, and seeing them each off with a hug.

Edgeworth makes a valiant attempt at some farewells of his own, but the best he manages is the now-standard promise to buy everyone a souvenir and awkwardly patting Trucy on the head. She doesn't seem put out by this, at least.

And with that, they're on their way.

Chapter Text

The flight is long and boring, but it's infinitely preferable to an eventful one. At least if Edgeworth were to pass out this time he'd have someone to rely on.

Or perhaps not; somehow Wright had never heard that it's necessary to equalize the pressure in the Eustachian tubes during take-off, so he's been frustratedly trying to get his ears to pop for several hours now.

"You could've warned me," he complains when they land.

"I offered you that gum for a reason," Edgeworth says, steering him towards the baggage claim. Wright manages a small victory when it turns out it's a lot easier to pick a bright yellow monstrosity off a conveyor belt than one of the hundreds of similar black bags.

"Maybe you should start using this one," Wright says after they've been waiting for a while.

"Maybe you should keep your suggestions to yourself," he says. "Besides, if I was using that one, what would you use?"

"I --" he says, caught off-guard. "Plastic bag?"

"I sincerely hope you're joking."

"Take your suitcase back and find out."

"This is the hotel you booked us into?" Wright says, staring up at the front of the building from the sidewalk.

"Yes," he says. "Is there a problem?"

"There might be," he says, sounding like he's close to a minor panic. "Are they going to let me into a place this nice?"

"You've been in nicer."

"Not dressed like this I haven't!"

It's a fair point. Edgeworth's become so inured to the way Wright dresses these days that it didn't even occur to him, but he does look out of place.

Evidently Edgeworth isn't at his best after all that travelling, because his answer to the problem is to grab Wright's hand.

"What are you doing?" Wright asks, inching ever-nearer to losing it completely.

"They won't question you if you're obviously with me," Edgeworth says. It's not an ideal solution by any means -- for one thing, they never hold hands where anyone can see -- but it will work. Unlike Wright, he's dressed for the occasion.

"This won't be good for your reputation as a ladykiller," Wright says by way of acceptance.

"At this point I don't think anyone but Gumshoe still believes that."

"I'm surprised anyone ever did."

"I don't know whether to be offended or to agree with you."

"You can probably figure out how to do both," he says, and then pulls him inside before Edgeworth can decide on "offended" and abandon him out on the sidewalk.

As it turns out, checking into a hotel while holding hands with someone is not without consequences.

"Uh," Wright says, halfway through the sliding door adjoining their two rooms, "it's been a while since I stayed in a hotel, but the rooms don't usually...connect, do they?"

"Not unless you ask for it," Edgeworth says, feeling a bit like he's watching this happen from outside of his own body.

"...Did you?"

"No!"

"Huh," he says, clearly coming to an understanding of how and why this has occurred. "I'm -- I'll just go back to my own side of this now."

"Please do."

"See you in the morning," Wright says, retreating.

Edgeworth allows himself one pained groan, carefully muffled by a pillow so the sound doesn't carry.

They're both groggy and jetlagged when they meet up for breakfast in the hotel's dining room. Wright is sleepily making his way through some toast while Edgeworth knocks back an inhuman amount of coffee in preparation for the day.

"That much caffeine can't be good for you," Wright says, using a hand to keep his head propped up.

"I don't sleep well," he says in his defense.

"I know. But your heartrate must be like, three hundred."

"My heart is none of your business."

Wright's so sleep-deprived that he actually snickers. "You should at least eat something. I'm getting an ulcer just looking at you." He thrusts a second piece of toast across the table.

Edgeworth eats it as grudgingly as possible.

"I thought that we should go over the case again, discuss strategy," he says, once they're back upstairs, killing time before leaving to visit Athena's aunt. The stupid adjoining door has its uses; yelling at each other through it is much more convenient than the alternatives.

"We've both read that file a hundred times," Wright says, door still firmly shut. "I don't know how much more there is to get out of it."

"Humour me."

The door finally slides open, and Edgeworth suddenly understands what was taking so long. Wright appears to have gone back in time, dressed for the day's work in his old blue suit.

"Here," Edgeworth says, stunned out of saying anything else. He shoves one set of the files in Wright's direction and taking a seat at the room's singular small table.

Wright just takes the papers and joins him, so he assumes any conversation about the wardrobe change has been avoided.

He is proven wrong when Wright gets tired of him taking sidelong glances at him about twenty minutes later.

"Just come out and say it, Edgeworth."

"Say what?"

"You were going to say something about the suit," he says, still flipping pages and not looking at him. "It's not like you to keep your thoughts on my clothes to yourself."

"I didn't know if you would want me drawing attention to it," he says, no longer pretending not to stare. Wright even shaved for once; seeing him look so much like his old self is very strange. Distracting, even.

"Trust me, I had your inevitable judgement in mind when I packed this thing," he says, prickly with self-consciousness. "You can tell me if it's bad."

"It's not bad."

And it's not. It's not good either -- the suit is starting to show its age, fraying and losing buttons and no longer fitting quite right -- but it's not bad. It's wonderful to see him looking like a lawyer again, even as it pains him to think about the years when he dressed like that every day, of why he doesn't now.

"Oh," Wright says, apparently genuinely surprised to hear it. "I guess it has to be better than my usual get-up, huh?"

"Well, yes," Edgeworth says, which almost gets Wright to smile, "but I didn't -- expect you to replace it. I wanted you with me regardless."

They both go a bit red in the face at that.

"Is that so? I can go change back, if --" Wright starts to joke, still faintly embarrassed.

"Which isn't to say there wasn't room for improvement," he interrupts. He gets the smile this time. "Besides, we don't have time for that."

"They don't know we're coming, it doesn't matter when we leave."

"It matters."

The van Vliets live in one of those very European townhouses, white-fronted and close to the street. They almost get blindsided by two separate cyclists while standing in front of it trying to project the appearance of serious legal professionals and not a couple of lunatics who hassled each other about clothes the entire way there.

They ring the doorbell before accomplishing this, because one can only stand outside someone else's house for so long without attracting attention.

It's answered by a tall, middle-aged man with a mustache, presumably not who they've come to see.

"Good afternoon," Edgeworth says. "I'm Miles Edgeworth, and this is my associate, Phoenix Wright." Wright gives the man an awkward wave. "We're looking for Doris Cykes."

"Why do you want to see my wife?"

"We're investigating the death of her sister."

"I see," Mr. van Vliet says, then moves aside to allow them through. "Well! I'd better let Doris decide what to do with you, hm?"

He takes them into a sitting room and introduces them to his wife, an elegant woman in a long dress and sharp bob haircut, before excusing himself to go make tea.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" she asks, taking a seat in an armchair. "Maarten didn't exactly say."

Edgeworth continues to take point. "We're investigating your sister's case."

"I see," she says. "They told me they had already convicted someone."

"A conviction does not always mean the case is solved."

Doris narrows her eyes. Maarten returns with a tray of tea and biscuits and sits in the chair next to his wife's.

"You said you were a prosecutor, Mr. Edgeworth?" she asks, taking up a cup.

"Yes."

"Then you, or your office, is responsible for that conviction, aren't you?"

"I didn't work Dr. Cykes' case," he says, putting sugar into his tea. Wright holds out another cup, so he adds a scoop to his as well. "My superiors -- The politics of the Prosecutors' Office are complicated at the moment. They denied my request to take it on."

"So, what, you've come all this way because you took a political loss over my sister's death?"

"No," he says, horrified. That wasn't what he meant at all. "We came because there's an innocent man on death row."

"Blackquill's brother," Doris says. "Simon, was it?"

"Yes," Edgeworth says, wary.

"He worked at your office."

"He did."

"Was he on your side in these complicated politics?"

"I don't know."

"Yet you still believe he's innocent."

"Yes."

She takes a long sip of her tea. "I'll be blunt, Mr. Edgeworth," she says, putting the cup down. "Are you working for the Blackquills?"

"I wouldn't say that," he says. "I'm not a defense attorney. I don't have clients in that way."

"Call it what you like," Doris says, "but one of them tapped you for this. Most likely Aura, but perhaps Simon himself. Didn't they?"

Wright deflects it for him. "Do you know the Blackquills, Mrs. van Vliet?"

Surprisingly, she lets him. "Somewhat. I haven't been back to the States in years, so I never met the brother. Aura, though...she'd been inseparable from Metis long before then."

"It sounds as though you didn't like her very much."

"Of course I didn't," Doris says. "She was in love with my sister, but not in any way you'd consider good. She loved Metis like -- like an object. Like a possession. And I honestly couldn't tell you what Metis thought, or how she felt about Aura. She always kept her around, but obviously she was seeing other people, or my niece wouldn't --" She freezes at the mention of Athena, like she didn't mean to say it.

"It must've been hard on Athena," Wright says, letting her know that this wasn't news to them.

"I imagine so," she says. "It wasn't healthy. And then Aura brought her brother into things; like I said, I couldn't make it back by then, but our other sisters and cousins were, and...well. I don't have any reason to think he was any better than his sister. Apparently, he was worse."

Wright exchanges a glance with Edgeworth before continuing. "What happened? It wasn't about Athena, was it?"

"No, no," she says, eyes wide for a split second before returning to her calm facade. "You might be easier to talk to than your companion, Mr. Wright, but I haven't forgotten that the both of you are here on Blackquill's behalf. What do you want?"

"Like Mr. Edgeworth said, we believe there's an innocent man on death row because his trial wasn't handled appropriately," he says. "Part of that is that there isn't very much evidence in either direction, and only one witness. We're looking for her."

"'Her'?" The realization dawns. "You don't mean Athena."

Wright nods. "I'm afraid I do."

"She's not with us," Doris says, confirming what Edgeworth had already suspected. Doris herself had admitted that her relationship with Metis was distant, and the few family pictures on the small table in the corner indicate that the van Vliets don't have any children of their own. Not the likeliest home for a traumatized orphan, not when the extended Cykes family has so many other options.

"But you know where she is."

"I do," she says. She seems to struggle with an inner conflict before she speaks again. "I won't tell you. My niece has been through enough; I won't put her through more for their sake."

"It's for her sake too," Wright says. "Athena deserves to know the truth of what really happened. She can't fully heal from this without it."

"You're making a lot of assumptions," she says. "What do you know about what Athena needs?"

This one naturally falls to Edgeworth. "My father was murdered when I was nine years old," he says. Wright inches closer, trying to offer support through proximity. "Wright was the one who finally solved the case and brought the man responsible to justice. He knows. We both do."

Doris' determination wavers. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Edgeworth."

"Thank you."

"However, I still don't believe there was an error made in the first place," she says. "I cannot help you."

Both Edgeworth and Wright protest at the same time, but Doris merely holds up a hand and repeats her decision. "Please," she says. "Go."

And that's that.

"You have my card, should you change your mind," he says, standing.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Wright adds, and then Maarten is showing them to the door.

Defeated, they return to the hotel in silence.

"That could've gone better," Wright says, practically collapsing onto the bed. Edgeworth tries to remember whose room they're in as he joins him more sedately.

"It could've gone worse."

"I'm sorry I couldn't make her hear us out all the way," he says. "That was supposed to be my whole reason for coming."

"As far as I'm concerned you succeeded. It's only because of you we got as far as we did," he says. "It doesn't seem as though she was predisposed to listen."

"No, not really." He frowns, bothered by something. "You think she's right about the Blackquills? That they're as bad as she says?"

"The only thing that matters to me is whether he killed Dr. Cykes or not, and I don't believe he did," Edgeworth says. "I'm in no position to judge either of them on anything else."

"That's fair," Wright says. "But if she's not going to talk to us, what do we do now?"

He thinks about it. "We have two options -- either we stay until our scheduled flight in a few days on the off chance that Doris has a change of heart, or we leave early."

"What do you think?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "It might be best to cut our losses and leave."

Wright sits up straighter. "Wait, seriously?"

"Are you so surprised? You were the one who was so concerned about this trip being 'weird' and I don't think I can argue that it hasn't been."

"Well, no," Wright says, almost reluctantly. "It has been pretty weird."

"But?"

"It's nothing," he says quickly.

He rolls his eyes. "I don't need that magic rock of yours to know you're not telling me something."

"Present your evidence, then."

"I'm not going to do any such thing," he says. "You'll tell me or you won't."

"It's just -- you know the problem's not the...weirdness in itself. I mean, I like the weirdness." He looks briefly appalled with himself for saying that, then rubs at his forehead as if to clear the thought away. "That's the problem, I guess. That it'll be hard to go back to our usual weirdness level if we keep this up."

"So you do think we should go home."

"No, I don't."

"You're not making any sense."

"I know!" he says, flopping backwards into full horizontiality. "I know."

"There are legitimate reasons to stay," Edgeworth says, eyes on the ceiling. "It's still possible that Doris will wish to speak to us again."

"You're not helping," Wright says. "Weren't you supposed to be convincing us it would be smart to pack it in and go home?"

"Because I was under the impression that's what you wanted."

"It's what I should want."

"If this whole experience has taught me anything, it's that we never actually want the things we should."

"Still not helping."

"I'm aware."

Somehow that's the end of their discussion, which turns into rather awkwardly eating room service and watching Revenge of the Sith on the television. It's in Dutch, but it hardly seems to matter.

They don't go home.

This leaves them with a glaring issue the next morning: what to do with all of this newly-freed time. It's all the more obvious without the fog of jetlag hanging over them. No, today is bright and clear and horrifying.

"I don't really know how this works," Wright says, having eaten about half his breakfast in silence. "You know I don't do much -- any -- travelling."

"I can't say I do either," he says, contemplating his teacup. "I usually have more than enough work to fill my time when I'm out of the country."

"Maybe I shouldn't find it surprising, but you've really never gone anywhere just to see the sights or whatever?"

"No."

"That's kind of sad," he says, completely devoid of sarcasm. "Hasn't there ever been something you wanted to see? A place you wanted to visit?"

"Of course there are. I said that I didn't visit them, not that I never wanted to," he says. "There's actually a place here I...would appreciate seeing in person."

"Yeah?"

"I realize it might make you uncomfortable," Edgeworth says. "I understand if you have to refuse."

"...Where are you trying to take me?" he asks, a spoonful of cereal hovering awkwardly in midair.

"The International Criminal Court."

"What."

"It's one of the United Nations' highest courthouses," he says, feeling silly about the whole thing. "I've...wanted to visit it for as long as I can remember."

"Oh. Yeah, we can definitely do that," he says, eating the cereal. "We probably could've made time for that even if we were still working."

"I don't know about that."

"You basically just told me it was your lifelong dream, Edgeworth."

"I did not," he says, even though he did. "...What did you think I was going to suggest?"

"I don't know, I was just having a hard time thinking of something you'd want to do that I wouldn't," he says. "Makes perfect sense that it would just be visiting an even bigger and fancier courthouse."

"You really don't have any problem with that?"

"It's only a building, Edgeworth. It's not a big deal." He has some more cereal. "And it's important to you."

"All right, then," he says, taken as always by the thoughtfulness.

"Okay."

"That wasn't like what I expected," Wright says, once they've taken the tour of the ICC and are reentering the city proper.

"What did you expect?"

"A different building, for one. I kind of figured a court that important would be in one of those big Gothic buildings." He sticks his free hand, the one not occupied holding one of Edgeworth's, into his pocket. "A tour guide who wasn't thinking about how much she wanted to kill us."

"She was rather short-tempered, wasn't she."

"Didn't take very kindly to any of your corrections, that's for sure."

"I don't think it's too much to ask that the tour be factual," Edgeworth says. "And she didn't appreciate your bad-faith questions about the nature of international jurisprudence, either."

He laughs once. "It's a miracle they didn't throw us out."

"It's a miracle they didn't officially sanction us."

"What, like a trade embargo? Lucky for you they didn't, I know how much you like your imports."

"I'd just have Gumshoe order them for me."

"The worst part is that he'd totally defy the UN if you asked him to."

"His loyalty is admirable."

"I'll say. You wouldn't catch me doing that."

"That's where you draw the line?" Edgeworth asks, because their willingness to help each other has yet to show an upper limit.

"I have a great respect for the United Nations," Wright says.

"Tell that to our tour guide."

"I would, but I don't think we're allowed back in there."

Still free on the next day, they wind up on another tour, this time of one of the country's royal palaces. According to Wright, it's "because it's there", and that was good enough for Edgeworth. That's more or less how people usually decide to go sightseeing, as far as he can tell.

Their tour group is otherwise a group of elderly Canadian monarchists, genuinely interested in the palace. Out of respect -- and in the interest of not getting nearly kicked out of another building -- they try to tone down the double act a bit.

"I'm not joking," Wright says in a low voice, pointing at an ornate chair on a dais, "Kristoph has that exact throne in his dining room."

"That can't possibly be true."

"You don't know him."

"Does he actually use it, or is it a conversation piece?"

"He's never used it while I was around, but I would bet my life that he sits in it. Probably with, like, a goblet of wine just to be extra dramatic. It's probably where he does his evil scheming."

"Now you're just guessing. We don't even know for sure that he does any evil scheming."

"I'm hypothesizing," he corrects. "And we know he's a jerk, he's doing at least some scheming."

"Do jerks have to scheme?" Edgeworth asks.

Wright shrugs and changes the subject. "What's your place like?"

"What do you mean, 'what's it like'? You've been there."

"Years ago, after the police ransacked it."

"Why the sudden interest?"

"It's not sudden," he says. "I just thought of it again because we were talking about Kristoph's house."

"Do you spend a lot of time thinking about my apartment?"

"Kind of? It's just -- do you think it's strange that we only ever hang out at my place?"

"Not particularly. You have both a child and frequent visitors, which I don't," Edgeworth says. "And you don't drive, so I'd have to come and fetch everyone anyway. There's no reason to go to mine."

"I guess that's true."

"I don't mean it to sound like you're not welcome there," he says, feeling like he's not explaining this correctly. "You are, of course. But it's just a place. I have no special attachment to it."

"No, I get it," he says. "But if you own anything that looks like it belongs in this building you have to tell me."

He casts an eye at a suspiciously familiar vase off in the corner. "I'd like to plead the Fifth."

"Our last day and no further contact," Edgeworth says. "It looks as though we'll be leaving empty-handed."

"Well, not entirely," Wright says. "We're still on the hook for souvenirs."

"It's not quite the same thing."

"Yeah, but it's just as important."

He raises an eyebrow. "'Just as'?"

"Nearly as."

There are several small shops in the same neighbourhood as the hotel, which is where they begin to look.

"What's a stroopwafel?" Wright asks him, picking up some kind of round snack from a shelf.

"I don't know, what does it say on the packaging?"

"A bunch of stuff in a language I can't read."

Edgeworth takes it from him. "It appears to be some kind of small waffle."

"Wow, thanks."

A salesperson appears. "Hello!" she says. "Are you shopping for souvenirs?"

"Yeah," Wright says. "We're picking out something for everyone at home."

"Of course! Who are you buying for?"

"They're for our --" He stops, because even after all these years they still haven't found a good way to explain Wright's family to people. "Let's go with two daughters and a little sister. At least." He turns to Edgeworth. "Wait, are you getting anything for yours?"

"For my what?"

"You know, for Kay and Sebastian."

"I wasn't intending to," he says. "They don't even know where I am right now."

"Oh. I kind of forgot this was supposed to be a secret."

The saleswoman is observing this discussion with a barely restrained interest. He supposes it must sound strange out of context.

"So, just the three, then?" she says. "How old are they? What do they like?"

"Uh, twelve, thirteen, and twenty-three," Wright says, causing another jolt of alarm in their new associate.

"Wow, you must have been together a long time to have such grown-up children!"

"Well, you know, they're adopted," he stammers out.

Edgeworth covers his face with one hand. Of all the things to clarify.

They wind up buying a bit more than expected, stroopwafels included, mostly to compensate the saleswoman for having to deal with their...complications. When they get back to the hotel they have to spend some time dividing everything up so it will fit in their suitcases.

"Why is so much of it orange, anyway?" Wright asks, as they dump everything out to try again.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you probably know the answer."

"It's in honour of the royal family, the House of Orange," he explains, mostly unwillingly. "Really, you should've picked this up at the palace yesterday."

"Maybe, but I didn't." He does a double-take. "'The House of Orange'?"

"Yes. Technically the House of Orange-Nassau, and --"

"Kind of a weird name."

"That's very judgemental coming from a man named Phoenix Wright."

Wright grins at him. "'Those in glass Houses of Orange shouldn't throw stones'?"

It's so bad that Edgeworth has to just stand there for a minute and feel his will to live draining away. Wright takes the opportunity to switch out some of his half of the pile, laughing the whole time.

It takes about seven trial runs, and one of them has to lean on the suitcase lid while the other works the zipper, but they manage to get everything packed without having to resort to an extra bag or leaving anything behind.

"Flight's in a couple of hours, right?" Wright asks.

"Yes."

He seemingly struggles with his next question. "Ready to go back to normal?"

"I don't know," he says. "This was...easier than I thought it would be."

"I know what you mean," he says, looking down. "Probably harder to get out of, though."

"Most likely," Edgeworth says. He sits down. "I'm not sure if it's better or worse, having any idea what it's like."

"Better," Wright says. "It's definitely better."

"You seem very sure of that."

"Well, yeah." They're sitting very close together. "I'm surprised you're not; facing up to uncomfortable truths is kind of your whole thing."

"I -- I suppose it is," he says. "Just as catching me in a contradiction will always be yours."

"Always." He smiles lopsidedly. "Let's go home."

Chapter Text

Loath to be separated after an extended length of time in close quarters, Edgeworth tags along when Wright takes the train up to Kurain Village to pick up Trucy.

He's never been to the village, merely passed it by on the way to the temple further into the mountains. It's similar to other towns in the area, one of the Japanese-style villages too far out to be absorbed into Los Angeles proper. Kurain has kept up less with the march of time than some of the others, however; the most modern amenities it has to offer are the phone booth and the train station, and Edgeworth wouldn't be surprised if those dated back to the nineteenth century too.

They barely leave the station and start towards Fey Manor when there's a cry of "Daddy!" and a purplish blur is slamming into Wright. For a moment Edgeworth thinks it's Pearl, but when he gets a better look it's Trucy, dressed in a borrowed set of acolyte's robes. When in Rome, he supposes. Pearl arrives a few steps behind, and then they're all gathered in the wide dirt road.

"You learning some real magic to go along with the stage kind?" Wright asks, indicating his daughter's outfit.

"I wish!" she says. "Pearly's been training me but I don't have the actual powers. We sat under a waterfall yesterday!"

"Did you? I've only done the one with the block of ice," he says. "I wouldn't recommend it."

"What are you two doing out here?" Edgeworth asks. "I don't see Maya anywhere."

"We were just running an errand for her," Pearls says. "She's at the Manor."

The girls tell them a little more about their week on the way up to the house, although "house" is perhaps an understatement. It's easily the largest building in town, and set up on a small hill to overlook it. Edgeworth had known, abstractly, that the Fey family was of some influence in the area, but hadn't fully understood what that entailed.

The door isn't answered by Maya, either; a very quiet teenage girl in robes receives them and leads them into the more private areas of the manor where Maya's at a desk, writing something. When she hears the door sliding open she throws her pen down and runs over.

"Hey! Everybody's here!" she says. The other girl slips out of the room and vanishes. "And I do mean everybody. Didn't think you'd come up, Mr. Edgeworth."

"Yes, well," he says.

"Yeah, we ran into the girls pretty much right off the train," Wright says to distract from that. "Who's the one who showed us in? You have students now or something?"

"Nah, I'm not good enough for that yet," she says. "Natsu's like our fifth cousin or something, she lives in the village. She and our other cousin Yuki come up to hang out and help around the house sometimes, since it's huge and most of the time it's just me and Pearly."

"More family, huh," Wright says, like he can't quite decide if he's happy for the Feys or dreading the day one of these cousins tries to violently seize control of the clan.

"Yeah," Maya says in the same tone, and it's a sad state of affairs when meeting your distant relatives means bracing for yet another attempted murder. But in typical Maya fashion she brushes it off quickly. "How was Europe? You guys have a good time?"

"Yeah," Wright says.

"Did you find who you were looking for?"

"Nope," he says, not changing inflection at all.

Maya snorts. "So what did you do that whole time?"

"Look, we brought gifts," he says in a subject change so abrupt it should require seatbelts. Edgeworth obligingly holds up one of the bags as if to prove the point.

"This isn't over," she says, but takes the bag.

She makes them stay for dinner in order to make good on that, though she at least takes enough pity on them to have Trucy and Pearls sit on the other end of the proposterously large dinner table where they can't hear anything.

"Seriously," Maya says, halfway through the soup, "what did you get up to over there? You two are even more --" she makes a couple of hand gestures, linking her fingers and interlocking her knuckles, "-- than usual."

"Are we?" Edgeworth asks, and both Maya and Wright give him the kind of look that makes him wish he hadn't. On further consideration, he probably should've denied they were two-pinkies-hooked-together in the first place.

"You came all the way up here," she says, shrugging.

"We didn't -- Nothing happened," Wright says.

"Then why are you holding hands?"

Both of them look down at the space between them, where they are very much not touching. But the fact that they had to check is incriminating enough, and Maya knows it, if her smug smile is any indication.

"Fine," Wright says. "We went...out. Sightseeing."

"And held hands."

"Yes," he says, exasperated.

"That's so cute," she says, clasping her hands together. "Come on, give me all the details. I bet there's more."

"Edgeworth," Wright says, without actually looking at him, "when's the next train?"

"Not soon enough," he says from behind one hand.

Maya slurps her soup obnoxiously.

Detective Gumshoe meets him at the door to his office when he returns to work on Monday with an excitement completely unwarranted by the occasion.

"You're back!" he exclaims, practically bouncing up and down as Edgeworth unlocks the door.

"Yes, just as scheduled," he says, bemused.

Gumshoe continues to hover throughout the day, looking at him without saying anything. It kind of reminds him of Trucy trying to ask Wright for something. "Are you all right?"

"Me? Oh, yeah, I'm fine, pal," he says. The hovering does not cease.

He tries again. "Is there something you'd like to say?"

That works. "I asked Maggey to marry me."

"I -- ah --" This is much bigger news than he was anticipating; he's at a loss for words. "Did she say yes?"

"Yeah, of course, pal!" Gumshoe says, grinning from ear to ear. "I came in the day after real excited to tell you, but it was the day you left so I didn't get to. It's okay, though, the excitement still hasn't worn off."

"I can see that." He's doing a terrible job with this. "Congratulations. That's very -- I'm sure -- it's good news."

"Thank you, sir! We're over the moon."

"Yes, I can imagine," he says, not sure he can.

Gumshoe launches into a more detailed rendition of the proposal, followed by tentative plans and hopes for the wedding, which Edgeworth mostly consigns to background noise while he works.

"So, where were you last week, anyway, pal? Nobody said," Gumshoe says once he's run out of steam.

"I was on vacation," Edgeworth says, expression perfectly flat.

"That's a good one, Mr. Edgeworth," he says, "but I know you don't take vacations."

He doesn't say anything. Gumshoe asked, he answered.

"It was a joke, wasn't it? Sir? Sir?"

"Please tell me you've talked to Detective Gumshoe," is the first thing Sebastian says at lunch.

"I have," he says, trying to extract himself from Kay's welcome-back hug. "Why?"

"Because he's been yammering at us about his engagement all week and half of it is because he didn't get to tell you," Ema grumbles from the table.

"Don't get us wrong, we're so happy for him --" Kay says.

"I'm not," Ema interrupts.

"-- but he's really overdoing it and we're running out of things to tell him."

"But now you're back so he's finally told everyone and maybe he'll stop," Sebastian says.

"Experience suggests he won't, but perhaps he'll have mercy on you," Edgeworth says. "Aside from that, how have you all been?"

"Exams are coming up," Kay says, with an exaggerated grimace. "But they're the last ones I'll ever have to take!" Of course; she's graduating this year.

"I did some research for Prosecutor Veracruz and it won her the case," Sebastian says with some small pride. He'll be confident enough to return to the courtroom full time soon.

"I failed the forensics exam again and my boss is still an idiot," Ema says emotionlessly, punctuating it with a crunchy snack of some sort.

"That's unfortunate," Edgeworth says. He really wishes he was better at responding to things.

"Tell me about it," Ema says between crunches. "No matter how much evidence I find, or how many witnesses I bring in, we lose almost every case. I didn't think anyone could be that stupid, but, turns out, I was wrong!"

"I think he's up to something," Kay says, stealing one of Ema's snacks. "Did you ever look into him, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Somewhat. Winslow's winrate is the lowest in the office, but that still put him at over eighty percent. He shouldn't be losing that often," he says. "Other than that I didn't notice anything strange."

"You didn't?" Ema mutters.

"Personal idiosyncracies notwithstanding," he amends.

Kay evidently took the rest of her day off, since she accompanies him on the way back to his office after lunch.

"Ema doesn't seem like her usual self," he says.

"Yeah," she says, frowning. "She's been grumpier than usual since she failed the forensics thing a couple days ago, but she's not too happy about work in general."

"I see," he says. "You said you thought Prosecutor Winslow was 'up to something'."

"You'd be suspicious too if you heard what Ema has to say about him!"

"What does she say? Beyond that he's an idiot, that is."

"It's probably better if you talk to her about it," she says. "I guess I could look it up in the group chat but --"

Edgeworth holds up a hand. "That's quite all right. I'll speak to her directly."

"Good, you probably don't want to see what's in there anyway," she says. "Ema will probably yell at you."

"I'll bring backup."

The elevator at the other end of the hallway opens with a ding. "You guys!"

"Gummy, don't --"

"I'm getting married!" Gumshoe shouts, sweeping both of them into a bear hug right there in the middle of the office. He's telling the proposal story again.

"Noooooooooo," Kay wails. Edgeworth can see her point.

To no one's real shock, Wright handles the news much better than he had.

"Oh, that's great," he says, smiling so brightly one would think something wonderful was happening to him. "I'm only surprised it took so long."

"It is uncharacteristically responsible of Detective Gumshoe to be so certain before making a decision," Edgeworth agrees, poking at his noodles with his chopsticks.

"That's not what I meant," he says, rolling his eyes. "I meant they've been together for like four or five years, and they were in love even before that."

"I don't know anything about that," Edgeworth says, because he doesn't.

"Mm-hmm," Wright says, because he's well aware of that fact.

"Who's getting married?" Trucy asks, now that they've stopped talking.

"The detective who works with Edgeworth and one of my old clients," Wright says.

"Oh," she says, clearly not that interested anymore. "But speaking of getting married --"

Wright groans. Edgeworth goes still, in case her vision is movement-based and it will keep her from seeing him, internally cursing Maya for telling her about Europe.

"-- when are you --" Trucy tries to continue.

"No," Wright interrupts.

"When are you --"

Then again, if Maya had told her, he imagines they'd be in for a much zanier scheme than simply being asked about it.

"No."

"When --"

"No."

"When are you get--"

"No."

Amazingly, this works, because Trucy's been reduced to helpless laughter and can't keep pressing the issue.

"How old are you?" Edgeworth asks, unimpressed.

"Younger than you," Wright says, grinning.

"By three weeks," he argues, not doing his alleged maturity any favours. Wright is only too quick to point this out, and it spirals into an argument about debating styles, child development, and in a leap he doesn't remember making, the acceptability of putting pineapple on pizza. Edgeworth is mostly standing in as Trucy's proxy in the last one, having no real opinions about pizza of his own, but she feels strongly enough about it for the both of them.

At least she's not thinking about marriage anymore.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Simon Blackquill says, once the guards have settled him into the visiting area and moved out of earshot.

"I've been following up on your leads," Edgeworth says. "I returned from visiting one of them a few days ago."

"Did you find her?" he asks, intensity briefly overtaking his usual disaffectation.

"No."

He sits back, bored again. "Which one was it?"

"Doris. In the Hague."

"Did she tell you anything?"

"Nothing of use."

"Hardly a surprise."

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow at such a confident assessment. "She told me the two of you had never met."

"We haven't," Simon says. "But she's met Aura."

"She did mention that."

"Did she mention that they despise each other?"

"Not as such," Edgeworth says. "It was somewhat implied."

Blackquill never quite smiles, but he does flash his teeth. "It's never implied when Aura tells it."

Speaking of 'hardly surprising'. "And what does she tell you?"

Blackquill takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "It's possible I should have mentioned this before, but my sister's relationships with most of the Cykeses have been...tense."

"Yes, I might have liked to know that ahead of time."

"You should've asked," Simon says.

"It's in your own best interest to tell me whether I ask or not."

Blackquill just stares at him with that blank expression of his. Edgeworth moves on; he's not likely to get any more of a response than that.

"Why were Dr. Blackquill's relations with the Cykes family so strained?"

"Several reasons," he says. "Aura's not -- I can't say that none of it is her fault. She can be abrasive. Harsh. Both of us are. But that's only one reason out of many." He suddenly changes direction. "I assume you met Doris' husband when you went to see her."

"I did."

"And what was he like?"

Edgeworth frowns, confused. "Tall. Had a mustache."

Blackquill pulls a face of such bewilderment that he can only assume he's missed the mark by some distance. "I meant," he says, once his expression is under control again, "that Mr. van Vliet is old money. Doris -- like her sisters and cousins -- married into the same kind of wealth and privilege they were born into, which is substantial. Cykes-dono forsaking that to have a complicated relationship with my sister and a child out of wedlock was a serious deviation from the norm. It was hard for her family to accept, not that any of them would admit to being so old-fashioned."

"When you say 'complicated relationship' --" Edgeworth says.

"From what I've heard, you know exactly what it means," he says blandly.

"Ngh."

Having gotten a reaction out of Edgeworth, he continues. "To be honest, I don't know the exact details of what was between Aura and Cykes-dono. Partners, but I'm not sure in how many ways." He looks away. "We're not the kind to talk about it."

"No, I understand," he says. "My sister and I -- we're not either."

"Hm," Blackquill says. "They did love each other, regardless. They had their issues, especially where Athena was concerned, but Cykes-dono's family has always blown it out of proportion. Taken it out of context. I'd doubt anything they told you."

"I admit I did have some concerns about Dr. Blackquill's relationship with Athena, both from Doris' account and from Aura's own."

"Aura's not really the maternal type," he says after a pause. "You might have guessed. But she did her best; Cykes-dono wouldn't have let her be around Athena if she was anything worse. Neither would I."

"She thinks Athena killed Metis," Edgeworth reminds him.

"Yes," he says, jaw tight. "Grief is not always rational."

He can't argue with that. "She -- Doris, that is -- had some reservations about you as well."

"Most of that's transferrence from Aura," he says. "She's never met me. Most of them haven't. As far as those fools are concerned I'm just a symptom of my sister's influence on Cykes-dono."

"Which you weren't."

"Their relationship probably didn't hurt my chances," he admits, "but I earned my place with Cykes-dono with my research. She never would have taken me on as a mere favour. The paperwork should be out there somewhere if you'd like to see for yourself."

"I would." It's not so much that he doesn't believe Blackquill about his psychological bona fides, but more that he's fairly desperate for any piece of this puzzle.

"I'd start with Aura," he says, apparently understanding this. "She inherited all of Cykes-dono's professional effects; she should have had copies of everything."

There's something profoundly tragic about that, for two people to have been so close, to have loved each other, and have it reduced to a few boxes of office paper. Aura Blackquill's coping mechanisms will always be a mystery to him, but Edgeworth thinks he understands her a little more now.

Maybe he should think about writing a will.

He stands up, finished for the day. "Thank you for your help, delayed as it may have been," he says. "I'll return when I've made further progress."

"Return when you've found Athena Cykes."

"I'd consider that significant progress," Edgeworth says. "But I'll visit whenever I deem it necessary. It's --"

"-- in my best interest, you've said." He turns to signal the guard that he's ready to go. "I heard it the first time."

Chapter Text

Business has started picking up somewhat again when Edgeworth returns to the Cosmos Space Centre to see Aura Blackquill; he still doesn't catch more than a glimpse of her robots, but he does have to weave through a small crowd of patrons to get to her office.

She's hard at work on something on a computer screen when he enters and barely acknowledges him.

“The documents you asked for are there,” Aura says, waving a distracted hand at a sizeable pile of boxes. “I didn't know what you would find relevant so I simply copied all of it.”

Edgeworth can't help but suspect that she's thrusting so much paperwork upon him out of spite for asking for copies at all, but he really doesn't know what might turn out to be useful. “Thank you, Dr. Blackquill,” he says. “I appreciate the assistance.”

“Hm,” she says.

It takes him several trips and the better part of a day to move them all, his car not being the most spacious, but eventually he has them all safely transported home.

“I'll contact you if I find something,” he says on his last trip out, trying to hide the way his arms are shaking from overwork.

“No need,” she says, hammering at her keyboard. “Keep it between you and Simon. It's his case, not mine.”

“Yes,” Edgeworth says, recalling what's in the boxes, “of course.”

He thanks her again and departs, Aura never having once looked up.

“I don't know how I feel about keeping a dozen boxes of semi-legal evidence in my house,” Wright says, watching Edgeworth rearrange said cartons from a haphazard pile into stacks against the wall.

“Where else would I keep them?”

“At yo--” he starts, then seems to think better of it. “Never mind.”

“It's only temporary,” Edgeworth says. “Once I've read them and compiled any evidence they have to offer, we can dispose of them.”

“It'll probably take as long to shred them as it did to read them,” he says, clearly not envying Edgeworth the task ahead.

“I'm sure it won't be that arduous.”

Wright raises his eyebrows. “Let's hope not.”

Three days after he collects the documents from Aura, Ema Skye provides him with several more boxes of her own – arrest reports to help determine the mystery of Mr. Winslow's unimpressive career.

“She didn't give you more, did she?!” Wright says, alarmed, when Edgeworth starts adding them to the others.

“Aura didn't,” he says, steadying a stack of boxes against the piano. “These are Ema's.”

“Right, that thing with her boss,” he says, leaning against the couch. “How's that going to work with the stuff you're already doing?”

“I don't know,” Edgeworth says wearily. “It's not ideal, but I may have to handle them one after another.”

“Seems fair to me,” Wright says. “Blackquill's on death row, I don't think Ema could fault you for putting that first.”

“That may be true, but I've also committed myself to ending the corruption of the Prosecutors' Office. Leaving this uninvestigated could cause untold damage.”

“Ema's a smart kid. If this guy was that kind of bad she'd have figured it out herself.”

“I suppose.”

“And what's he going to do in a couple of weeks that he hasn't done in ten years?”

“You never know,” Edgeworth says darkly.

Wright gives him a fond eyeroll. “I'm sure he was just waiting for you to be distracted.”

“He might have been.”

“How would he even know? The Blackquill thing is a secret, remember?”

“So is what I do at the Prosecutors' Office.”

“Okay, now you're just making my point for me.”

“I am not, I'm saying that he could have --”

“Stop,” Wright admonishes. “He almost definitely doesn't have a nefarious plot up his sleeve. You can take the time you need for Blackquill.”

He sighs. “I just --”

“-- feel responsible for way more than one person should, I know,” he says. “We both do that.”

“It's not a fault in my case,” he says. “I hold myself responsible because someone should.”

“There you go again,” Wright says, frowning. “And don't think I didn't catch you saying it's a flaw when I do it.”

“Only in the sense that it weighs on you, it's not a criticism. It couldn't be; I'm only here now because you made me one of your responsibilities.” And that only covers Edgeworth himself, to say nothing of the girls or his other clients. “That's one of the things that's so miraculous about you. Even your flaws turn out to be blessings.”

Wright blinks in surprise, unable to settle on any other emotion. “Sometimes I forget how good at that you are.”

“At what?”

He lands on a small smile. “Never mind.”

“Can you even understand this?” Wright asks, reading one of Dr. Cykes and Dr. Blackquill's papers over Edgeworth's shoulder. “I have no idea what this is trying to say.”

“More or less,” he hedges. He's been reading these psychoanalytic-neurological-artificial-intelligence-electronic-engineering articles and the notes that created them every night for weeks now, and he's adjusting to the jargon through sheer overexposure. Dr. Blackquill's contributions still tend to go over his head – while Edgeworth may be more scientifically-literate and technologically-inclined than Wright is, it doesn't make him an expert roboticist – but as far as he can tell anything of interest to Simon's case would be under Dr. Cykes' slightly more accessible headings.

Speaking of which, he hasn't even reached the point where Simon's own research efforts begin to appear in the documents. Judging by the date on the one he's currently reading, he's still a few months off. One more paper, maybe even the next one.

“Emphasis on 'less'?” he suggests knowingly. And correctly.

“I don't need to understand every detail,” Edgeworth says. “I merely need to know the nature of their work for contextual reasons. To look for competitors or collaborators or...any other information that might help.”

“Are you finding a lot of that?”

“...No,” he admits.

“Sorry,” Wright says, patting him on the shoulder. “I'm sure you will. Either that, or you'll figure out the science part and learn how to build a robot.”

He snorts. “What would we need with a robot?”

“We could probably use someone who knows how to cook around here,” he says, considering. “Or we could get it to practice magic with Trucy so we don't have to.”

“An attractive prospect,” he says, because she's been practicing her exits lately and that many smoke bombs in an enclosed space has been a less-than-pleasant experience. “Though judging by these diagrams, they're not equipped for fine motor skills.”

“I guess that could be a problem,” he says. “What do they use them for at the space centre, then?”

“They're apparently tour guides.”

“The future is now,” Wright says dryly. “Seems kind of like overkill to program robots for that.”

“They have some security features that humans can't employ,” he says. “That seems to have made the difference.”

“That place had a murder and a sabotaged rocket, I don't think it's working.”

“Indeed,” Edgeworth says. “Dr. Blackquill hasn't been able to explain it either.”

Wright ponders it for a moment, propped up on one elbow. “Yeah,” he says. “There's probably only one way through, and it's something most people would never think of.”

“You seem very sure all of the sudden.”

“Dr. Cykes...” he starts, then backtracks. “Dr. Blackquill will have been looking for a solution since before you – or Klavier Gavin – got involved. If there were a bunch of holes in the security system, or a logical way to break it, she would've given you a list on your first day.”

That follows, Edgeworth has to admit. Dr. Blackquill wants this case solved to get justice for Metis as much as to free Simon. If she had anything to give him, she would've done it.

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” Wright asks.

“Why would it be?”

“Being illogical isn't your strong suit.”

“Hmph,” he says. “That's what I have you for.”

About a year into Simon's tenure as Dr. Cykes' protégé, the papers begin to reflect his specialization instead of only hers: fewer articles on artificial intelligence, and more on criminal psychology. In fact, Edgeworth has actually read one of them before, back when it was originally published.

But in the last of the boxes he got from Aura he finds something interesting. Even given their shift from writing about robots and the auditory properties of emotion to prosecutorial techniques and the psychological underpinnings of criminal behaviour, this paper stands out. It's a profile of one individual, seemingly commissioned by some organization rather than intended for publication.

And that is the majority of what Edgeworth can glean from it. The entire report, and the notes it was based on, have all been heavily redacted, presumably by whoever wanted it made in the first place. It seems strange to keep what amounts to dozens of pages of blacked-out text, but he can only assume that Dr. Cykes had her reasons. Really, he's grateful she did; a secretive, possibly government-mandated psychological profile is the closest thing to a lead Edgeworth's found in all these papers. He reads them once, twice, then sets them aside to scour the remaining documents for references to these ones with a renewed motivation.

“What do you think it is?” Wright asks when he shows it to him.

“It's hard to say,” Edgeworth says, collecting a pen and some blank paper. “I'm going to cross-reference the uncensored information in both the final product and the notes it was based on to attempt some kind of conclusion.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Though it seems like you could just ask Simon about it when you go to see him.”

“I could try, but I doubt it would work,” he says. The first pen is out of ink when he tries it out. “You know how difficult he likes to make these things. Without something specific to press him on he won't tell me anything.”

Wright brings him a few pens from his desk. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you don't need to know the right answer to press him, you just need an answer.”

“I don't follow.”

“You just need a plausible theory, and if you're right he'll tell you, and if you're wrong, he'll correct you.”

“You're talking about bluffing.”

“Maybe,” he says, endearingly sheepish about it. “It worked pretty well for me.”

“I remember,” Edgeworth says. “But that's your way. It's not mine.”

He looks at the piles of documents, the blank pages Edgeworth intends to add to them. “The hard way.”

“You must think it a waste of time.”

“No, not really,” he says. “It's probably the right way. I just...I want to make your life easier, you know?”

“Of course I know that,” Edgeworth says. “Not a day goes by that I don't think about it.”

“Not -- I meant, like, as an ongoing thing.”

“So did I,” he says, confused.

While Edgeworth expected the cross-referencing and subsequent analysis to be a short and simple task, the truth is that it's more complicated than that. He's still scribbling notes and page citations a few days later, filling in only the smallest of gaps in his knowledge.

His main takeaway is that Metis and Simon ran extensive testing on the subject's voice. None of the results are readable, of course, but the amount of missing graphs and notes following up on each suggests that they found something of interest. Persistent overload, perhaps; some of the other papers that used this matrix struggled with that.

Some of the blanks also seem to be locations; whoever this person is, they're apparently well-travelled. But without the names of these places, it's hard to say just how well-travelled, and impossible to search for suspicious activity there.

This is futile.

“I don't think that's going to work,” Wright says, watching him hold the pages of this cursed psychological profile up to the light in a desperate attempt to make out what's been redacted.

“You don't know that.”

He picks up one of the other pages and joins in. “It's definitely not working.”

“I think I can see a G,” Edgeworth says.

“You can not.” He takes Edgeworth's page from him, leaving him blinking into the brightness of the lightbulb. “It's not World War II, they didn't just take a marker to it.”

“You don't know that,” he says again.

“This is why I make you take breaks, you know.”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Wright says. “If you've been reduced to this it might be time you throw in the towel, go see Blackquill.”

“We've talked about this –”

“That was before you lost your mind completely,” he says. “You don't have to try bluffing him or whatever, but talking to him is the only option you have left.”

As usual, he's right; there's nothing left to find in the documents themselves, and all outside research into Dr. Cykes' career has been a dead end.

“I'm not sure how well it's going to go,” Edgeworth says.

“Thank you,” Wright says, seeing it for the agreement that it is. “See, you're as stubborn as he is. It'll be fine.”

“Stubbornness only counts for so much when time is limited.”

“Something's better than nothing,” he says.

“It will be a few days until he's next allowed a visitor,” Edgeworth notes. His eyes drift to the stacks of boxes. “I suppose this gives me the opportunity to start on Ema's case.”

“About that,” he says, getting up and disappearing into the other room. Intrigued and somewhat bewildered, Edgeworth half-follows, watching Wright take a file folder off his desk from the kitchen doorway. “I have something you might want.”

Not understanding, or perhaps not believing, Edgeworth flips the file open when Wright hands it to him. Inside is a page of Wright's scratchy handwriting, several pages of even scratchier writing that seem to be his notes, and some of Ema's arrest reports.

“Is this – did you –”

“Yeah. I think so, anyway.”

In the few hours of the day where he wasn't working, parenting, or hanging around Edgeworth, he borrowed the files and worked out a solution to Ema's problem. Without being asked, without even telling anyone, so he could drop the finished product in Edgeworth's lap and take the issue off his hands. To make his life easier.

“How long have you been working on this?” he asks, a little bit awed.

“A few weeks, here and there,” Wright says. “It was actually pretty straightforward, you would've figured it out in no time.”

“I –” he starts, but it's not right. It feels like words aren't enough, somehow, though they've always been sufficient before. Without really knowing what he plans on doing, he reaches out with his free hand to draw Wright in by the front of his sweater.

For a moment they're just standing there looking at each other, Edgeworth's hand the only point of contact, before Wright realizes that was as far as Edgeworth had gotten and is now paralyzed with doubt, confusion, and sheer unadulterated terror.

Wright takes the lead of their – whatever it is they're doing – without a word, adjusting their positions, keeping all his movements slow and telegraphed like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. He slides one arm around Edgeworth's waist and uses it to eliminate the remaining space between them, then tips his head forward to press their foreheads together, successfully turning their standoff into an embrace.

“Thank you,” Edgeworth says softly, encompassing two very different things.

“Um. You're welcome,” Wright says. Typically, now that he's not putting on a brave face, he's a bit flustered. “I mean, I don't know if I'm even right about it. The case.”

“What did you find?” he asks, because it's not like he's had a chance to look.

“Wh-- read it yourself, I put a lot of work into that!” he says. “But, you know. Later.”

“Of course,” Edgeworth says, tightening his grip. “Later.”

Chapter Text

Trucy is watching them intently.

On its own, that isn't new or noteworthy; after all, she has eyes like a hawk and zero compunctions about using them. What's new is the introduction of her phone into proceedings. She's constantly tapping out notes and/or messages or taking pictures (and once or twice a video, Edgeworth is fairly sure). He's starting to feel a bit like an endangered species living with David Attenborough.

Really, he can't blame her. Both he and Wright have been stranger than usual since that night a week ago, and it's just the sort of thing Trucy would latch onto.

“You're finally going up to see Simon tomorrow, right?” Wright asks him.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning chin-in-hands across the table, towards Wright. Adjacent to this, Trucy is furiously clacking out yet another message.

Wright mirrors his posture. The table is so small they're bumping elbows. Trucy's typing somehow increases speed. “That's good,” he says. “I bet you'll have it all figured out by this time tomorrow.”

“I don't know about that,” Edgeworth demurs.

Under the table, Wright knocks their ankles together so they're in further contact. “I do,” he says. “And I'm sure you'll be falling all over yourself to come home and tell me about it.”

“Yeah,” he says again, because he doesn't have the presence of mind to issue one of his usual denials. Or to stop saying yeah, or heaving it out like a sigh every time he does. “I want to tell you everything.”

On a normal day, Wright would nettle him endlessly for saying something like that, or at least be flustered by its obviousness, but today he seems perfectly content to just take it at face value and smile fondly at Edgeworth. More than fondly, really. “Besottedly”, perhaps. “I'll listen to anything you have to say.”

Trucy doesn't even bother to look embarrassed when the click of her camera's shutter breaks the silence.

This visit is going to be a mess.

Edgeworth's lapse in intelligence hasn't gone so far as to grant him the self-delusion necessary to think otherwise; Simon Blackquill is an expert psychologist and a ruthless prosecutor – he's going to see the problem in an instant, and he won't pull his punches. Edgeworth will be lucky to get out of this with his pride mostly intact, never mind with any useful information.

But on the slight possibility that Blackquill will jump at the chance to talk to him, Edgeworth has to go through with it. The case takes higher priority than not looking like a fool.

Unfortunately for him, Blackquill is the same as ever, stone-faced and non-compliant. He barely even twitches an eyebrow when Edgeworth produces the profile, nor when half the pages make a break for freedom because he forgot the paper clip.

“What is this?” Edgeworth asks, once the papers are bundled back together.

“Proof that your office doesn't have a stapler.”

“I won't insult either of our intelligences by acknowledging that answer,” he says. “And of course I have a stapler.”

“Well done.” Simon takes another look at the document. “Where did you get that?”

“Your sister was kind enough to provide copies of all of Dr. Cykes' work,” he says. “This was among them.”

“I don't recall much of that study,” he says, not even trying to be convincing. “It was a few years ago now.”

“I find that hard to believe.” It's not as though Dr. Cykes' records were overflowing with blacked-out secret reports. “Tell me what you know.”

“I don't see the point,” Blackquill says. “You haven't accepted any of my other answers today.”

“Those answers were obviously untrue,” he says. “Tell me the truth and I won't object.”

“The truth is that thing won't help you.”

“I'd prefer to make that decision for myself.”

“It's not a question of what you want, or even what I want. That profile's been redacted for a reason, and I doubt the ones behind it would appreciate it if someone who's not even supposed to know starts spreading the word.”

“I'm not asking so that I can disseminate the contents.”

“No, but you'd still do it,” Blackquill says. “Not widely, but there's someone you'd tell. Isn't there, Edgeworth-dono?”

“Well, I – that is – not necessarily,” he says, very pointedly looking up and away.

“Tch. I knew it.” He observes Edgeworth through the glass. “You're behaving abnormally today – some kind of development with that partner of yours?”

“That's none of your business!”

“Yes, then,” Simon decides. “Obviously it's a positive change, and considering your background and obvious inexperience...first base?”

“That's quite enough!” Edgeworth exclaims, scandalized, though he's not entirely sure what Blackquill was suggesting.

He smiles briefly. “Congratulations, but I won't be telling you about that study. Your soppiness has finally broken containment and started affecting your work. Don't come back until you've recovered.”

Edgeworth would really like to argue that point, but he also knows he can't. “And you'll tell me about it then?”

“Cross swords with me at your best and I'll consider it,” he says. “But for now, you can leave.”

“He threw you out?” Wright asks later that evening. “Is he allowed to do that?”

“I don't see why he wouldn't be,” Edgeworth says. “I'm his visitor, not the reverse.”

“Well. I guess. But he still shouldn't throw you out.”

“It doesn't matter,” he says. “I wasn't of any use today. I never would've been able to convince Blackquill to tell me anything.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Wright says, winding himself around Edgeworth protectively, not even seeming to notice what he's doing. “You're the best there is, what could've gone so wrong?”

The best there is provides a demonstration, brain completely offline at being held so close again. All he can do is blush furiously and attempt to resist the way his skeleton seems to be losing structural integrity. Wright continues to be oblivious to the whole thing, fine with staying where he is and waiting for Edgeworth to stop melting and talk.

“This,” he finally says. By this point Wright's supporting most of his weight, but he can form vaguely coherent thoughts again. “This is what happened.”

“Isn't there like, a glass divider, or --?”

“Not this,” Edgeworth says, flailing one arm. “I'm so – I can't think clearly. It's starting to seem like you can't either.”

“You've always thought that, though.”

“Wright,” he complains.

“Look, I think I know what you mean. But I...” He moves to a different thought. “Is it...is it a bad thing? The way you feel?”

“It's – It's -- I don't feel like myself.”

And that's just it, isn't it: it's not that he feels badly, it's that he doesn't.

Ever since that night, it's like he's opened a reverse Pandora's Box. All of the thoughts he didn't dare to think and the feelings he tried to not feel have slipped through his fingers and made themselves known, and in the process drowned out everything else. But where the container in the myth let out nothing but suffering, whatever has broken in him has only released his most hopeful, yearningly romantic thoughts. How happy he is to see Wright every day, and how he wishes Wright would just kiss him already, how much he looks forward to when they finally put themselves together and spend the rest of their lives upholding the law and bickering pointlessly and jointly wrangling their various children and protégés...

"But no," Edgeworth says, answering Wright's earlier question, "I don't think it's a bad thing. It's just --"

"Weird?" he asks, half-smiling.

"Confusing." He wonders how much further he can lean into this embrace before Wright just lets him fall over. “I'll adjust, assuming I regain my higher brain functions at some point.”

Wright snorts. “That wears off eventually, trust me.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“Then I'll take over as the smart one, I guess.”

“I can feel my thoughts clearing already.”

“See, you're back to normal.” He reshuffles their tangled limbs into something slightly less awkward. “By the way, I don't think you should come over this weekend.”

“What?!” Edgeworth says, turning to look him in the face. Weren't they just --

“Maya's coming down.”

“She often does.”

“Who do you think Trucy's been sending all those pictures to?”

“...Ah.”

Edgeworth has a very uninteresting few days.

Wright messages him in the middle of the night on Sunday. He answers it immediately.

At lunch, Gumshoe is regaling everyone with tales of his continued wedding planning. Edgeworth isn't really listening, but in his current state he finds it nice, how in love he and Maggey are. The children, on the other hand – Sebastian looks like he's on the verge of literally dying from boredom, and Ema is rapidly approaching homicidal. Well, he at least has a distraction for her, if not him.

“Ema,” he says, “if you're done eating, I have something to discuss with you.”

“I'm done,” she says, jumping up and sweeping her very definitely unfinished lunch back into its bag. “Let's go.”

Sebastian watches them leave, a silent plea in his eyes.

“How was your weekend?” Ema asks him on the way up the stairs. She gives him a sly grin when he turns to look at her.

Right. The young ones are all in communication now; of course she heard about...whatever it was that went down at Wright's. “Uneventful,” he says.

“Maya was pretty disappointed she didn't get both of you.”

“Yes, well,” Edgeworth says. “She'll have plenty of chances in the future, I'm sure.” Her meddling is also unnecessary, but that doesn't seem like something he should admit to.

“Yeah, probably,” she says. “Hey, Maya put some pictures in the group chat, you wanna see?”

“No.”

“Your loss, it looked like a complete disaster.”

Edgeworth pushes the door to the twelfth floor open and tries to decide if it's worth it to ask Ema why she thinks that's a good thing. He concludes that it is not.

“So,” Ema says once she's seated across his desk from him, “I'm guessing this about...you know.”

“Yes,” he says. He doesn't have the actual paperwork with him -- it was at Wright's with the rest and he didn't have the opportunity to get it over the weekend – but he remembers the findings enough to explain the situation. “It looks as though your instincts were correct; Mr. Winslow is very likely throwing some of his cases.”

“You're sure it's not that he's just that stupid?”

“It seems unlikely,” Edgeworth says. “What we found indicates that he loses every single case he takes for certain offenses, while his numbers are approximately average for the others. I doubt anyone could unintentionally manage such a pattern.”

“I guess not,” she says. “What kind of stuff is he letting slide?”

“Drugs, mostly. Solicitation, gambling, that kind of thing.”

Ema looks surprised. “That sounds like organized crime.”

“Yes, it might be,” he says. “I'll bring you the full analysis next time; you can decide how you'd like to approach this then.”

“Yeah,” she says, already thinking about it. “Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Any time, Detective.”

“You're back!” Wright says, practically scrambling over the back of the couch to get over to the door and take Edgeworth by the hands. “I've missed you.”

“It's been three days.”

“Closer to four, and I've been through a lot.”

“So I've heard.” He threads their fingers together. “Do you want to talk about it? You didn't say much, before.”

“I don't know,” he says. “Do you think we're setting a bad example?”

“No,” Edgeworth says, confused. “A bad example of what?”

“You know, that we're not modelling healthy interpersonal behaviour for the girls. Not providing an appropriately stable environment.”

Someone's been hitting Google, by the sounds of it. “I'm going to assume that's something Trucy said.”

“Yeah. Maybe she's being affected by this stuff more than I thought.”

“I don't think she really meant it,” he says. “She wants you to, ah, find someone, and simply over-exaggerated why that is for effect.”

“It was definitely effective,” Wright agrees.

“You're an excellent father,” he says. “You know I've always thought so. And I'm certain she does as well.”

“I hope so,” he says, hiding his face in Edgeworth's shoulder. “It's just hard not to worry about it.”

“I know,” Edgeworth says. “But that you worry about it is a good sign, I think. A bad father wouldn't care, if not worse.”

Wright sighs. “Maybe.”

“I would know,” he says, then swallows nervously. “But...if there's a different way you think we should handle this, then I understand.”

He jerks back upright. “You don't mean --”

“I-If you thought it was necessary.”

“Are you crazy?!” Wright goggles at him. “Do you know what kind of mutiny I'd have on my hands if I drove you away?!”

“Would you,” he says, stunned.

“You really don't know--? Edgeworth...they care about you, and not just because I do," he says. "You're a part of this family too, even if it's not really, y'know, official or anything, they want you to stick around, and so do I, obviously, but we weren't --”

“Soon,” Edgeworth cuts in, surprising both of them. “I can't -- not yet, but not long now, I don't think, then we could, we could – if you wanted to, of course --”

“Uh,” Wright says, looking like he might pass out. “Y-yeah, I would, if you want to, I mean --”

“I want to,” he says, just as faintly. Am I really saying these things out loud?

“Oh. Okay, then.” He gives Edgeworth a weak smile, but neither of them loosens the death grip they have on the other's hands.

It seems like something more should happen to mark this momentous occasion, but of course nothing does. It's just the two of them, together, hearts pounding in silence.

Wright makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh, diffusing the tension. “The girls are going to be insufferable,” he says. “They're going to think it worked.”

“...We can never let them know.”

Chapter Text

“I don't think this is anyone we're looking for.”

“Really?” Wright asks, taking his eyes off an old lady's Facebook profile to look at Edgeworth instead. “You don't think Metis Cykes' youngest sister is pushing ninety? I never would have guessed.”

“I was confirming that we agreed --”

“-- she doesn't even spell their last name the same way --”

“-- which I will take to mean you agree --”

“-- obviously I agree, that's what I was saying --”

“-- I was trying to be respectful and ask --”

“-- just close the window already, oh my g--”

“-- fine, I will!”

“Fine!”

“Why did I agree to work off of one screen with you, again?” Edgeworth asks, feigning annoyance. The real answer, of course, is for the excuse to sidle right up to one another, legs overlapping and shoulders together. It would be too inefficient a search technique otherwise.

“Because we're friends and it's nice to hang out?” Wright asks, exaggeratedly virtuous.

“No, that can't be it.”

“Right, I don't know why I thought otherwise,” he says, jerking one of his legs to the side so it pulls Edgeworth's along with it.

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“You're the defense right now, the burden of proof's on you.”

“I don't think --” His phone rings, cutting off his well-reasoned argument. He unwinds his limbs from around Wright and goes to the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?” he says, and it somehow sounds like he was one excuse away from sitting in someone else's lap. He clears his throat.

“Hey, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“Kay!” Thankfully, his voice has gone back to normal. “It's good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, it's been a while,” she says. “I have some big news for you, so I was hoping we could meet up?”

“Certainly,” he says, considering when he's free. He and Wright are supposed to be researching together for the next few days while waiting for Ema and Simon to allow him to proceed on their cases, though they'll probably do it on separate computers after today. “I'm likely engaged until the weekend, if it can wait until then.”

“Sure, it's good news, I promise. Nothing urgent.” She gives him directions to her apartment, and they make plans for Saturday.

“Who was it?” Wright asks as he re-enters the living room.

“Kay,” he says. “She wanted to see me this weekend; she has some news to tell me.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Okay. See you when you're done.”

Edgeworth settles back onto the couch. Wright hands him the laptop.

About three seconds of eye contact later, they're just as on top of each other as before Kay called.

“Check that one,” Wright says a few moments later, pointing to a link.

“Blackquill didn't give us anyone named 'Mildburg Huffman'.”

“Just do it.”

He sounds serious, so Edgeworth obliges and opens the profile. “I don't see anything useful, do you?”

“Oh, no, I just wanted to know if she was holding a real crocodile in that picture.”

“And you were criticizing my choices --” he sputters. He takes another look at Mildburg. “That's clearly an alligator!”

It's odd to meet Kay at her home; usually she stops by the Prosecutors' Office when she wants to see him, and it affords her the chance to visit Gumshoe and Sebastian as well. If she's asked him to come to her apartment, she must have something to tell him and him alone.

Whatever the reason for the change, it wasn't for privacy, because she has two roommates and they aren't subtle about their curiosity.

“Ignore them,” Kay says, putting some tea on.

“I'll try,” he says, but frankly their giggly staring is unnerving.

A few minutes later, she brings the tea over to the table. She also brings an envelope, which she hands over to Edgeworth.

Confused, he accepts it, taking the letter from inside.

He reads it quickly. “You're -- you're going to law school?”

“Yeah!” she says, beaming.

“Congratulations,” he says. “I had no idea -- I'm very proud of you.”

Kay smiles even wider, somehow. “I didn't want to say anything in case I didn't get in,” she says. “But...I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do now that I have my undergrad done, and I've decided that I want to be a lawyer.”

“A fine choice,” he says, still looking at her acceptance letter. “I'm sure you'll make it to the Prosecutors' Office in no time.”

“Well, that's part of what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, fiddling with her mug. “I know everyone expects me to be a prosecutor, like you and my dad, but I – I was thinking of becoming a defense attorney.”

“I didn't mean to make an assumption,” he says. “Defense attorneys are an integral part of the system, and you know there's nothing inherently superior about being a prosecutor.”

“Except for the money,” she says, one last bit of silliness before becoming serious. “That's kind of why I wanted to become a lawyer instead. We already have you and Sebastian and Ms. von Karma as prosecutors, but we don't have anybody on the other side except Uncle Ray. It'll be all out of balance.”

“That's true,” Edgeworth says. With Wright still disbarred, their quest to repair the broken system has no other allies among the defense.

“And, um, I talked to Uncle Ray about it,” she says, “and he said that, you know, assuming I get my badge and everything, that he'd take me on at the firm, and that way...that way there'll be someone there when he retires.”

He blinks in surprise. The firm, his father's former practice, the one that still bears his name. This wasn't merely to warn him that Kay wanted to join their corrupt, dangerous profession, or the fight to fix it; nor was it to celebrate her acceptance to law school. It was this, to ask if he had any objections to eventually taking on his family legacy.

“I can't think of anything more fitting,” he says after a moment. “Mr. Shields started out as my father's assistant; it seems only right that my assistant would follow after him.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Edgeworth says. “Neither he nor I could ask for anyone better.”

“Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth,” she says, darting around the table to give him a hug. He's still sitting down, making it rather awkward and one-sided.

“You're quite welcome.”

The remainder of their visit is more along usual lines, talking about their mutual friends and colleagues, Kay sharing stories of the application process now that she's not keeping it a secret from him, a few brief words about Edgeworth's unsanctioned casework. Still positively disposed towards him from earlier, Kay is kind enough not to tease him about Wright and whatever Maya put in their little group chat about recent events.

Once the tea is gone and they've gotten each other fully up-to-date, Edgeworth takes his leave. He's still busy, and presumably Kay would like to get back to her own life as well. She gives him another hug at the door, he tries to be polite to her still-lurking roommates, and goes.

He's barely closed the door when he hears one of Kay's roommates shout. “DUDE, YOUR WORKDAD IS HOT!”

“EW, KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS,” Kay shouts back. “BESIDES, HE'S TOTALLY MARRIED.”

...At least now he knows why they kept staring at him.

Wright is hard at work when Edgeworth returns from Kay's, continuing their search for Athena and Dr. Cykes' relatives.

“Find anything?” he asks, pulling out his phone and sitting down with him. “And before you ask, no, interesting pictures of reptiles do not count.”

Wright pivots so that he's sitting perpendicularly to Edgeworth and can drape his legs across the latter's lap. “Your loss, there was a picture of an iguana in a sombrero a couple pages back.”

He is actually somewhat intrigued by the idea of a lizard in a hat, but chooses not to express this. “You haven't, then.”

“No,” he admits. “How was Kay?”

Edgeworth fills him in on her news.

"Oh," Wright says. "That's...good? Mostly good, kind of not?"

"Yes, that's about the sum of it," he says. "It’s not that I’m not proud of her, but with the state of the courts being what it is I can't help but worry."

"Yeah.”

"I didn’t think it was right to burden her with those concerns,” Edgeworth says, thinking it over. “I don’t know she would have appreciated me worrying about her, and I don’t want her to think I was trying to discourage her because I doubt her abilities . She’ll make an excellent lawyer, of that I’m sure, but it’s not safe right now. I don't need to tell you that.”

“Not really.”

“And I...I'm surprised she would care about keeping the office open, I suppose.”

“Really? It doesn't surprise me at all.”

“It doesn't?”

“No. It's a family business, and nobody else is in a position to take it over someday -- Sebastian's on the wrong side of the courtroom, Ema's with the police, and none of the others seem likely to head into law.”

“That's the second time someone's implied I act like Kay's father today,” he says. “One of her roommates called me her 'workdad' when I was there.”

Wright smiles at the term. “She wasn't wrong.”

“She also said I was hot,” he adds in a fit of insanity.

“...She wasn't wrong,” he says again, making Edgeworth's eyebrows jump in surprise. He's aware that people seem to find him attractive, but he's never really been sure if Wright thought so. “And you do act like her dad, that's why.”

“I'm not sure I do,” Edgeworth says. To be honest, he doesn't have much of an image of paternal behaviour to start with; his memories of his father are faded and indistinct, and his memories of von Karma are worse than useless. Besides that, Kay is an adult now, was already very nearly one when she became a fixture in his life -- what more is there for him to do? “I'm not even old enough to be her father,” he says, trying and failing to get this across.

“That doesn't really matter,” Wright says. “It's not about that kind of thing, it's about what you do. Helping her keep her grades up, making sure she's not so broke she's going to starve, trying to steer her into a career and away from a life of crime, that's the kind of stuff parents do. And I'm not even getting into, like, the kidnappings and amnesia you told me about.”

That doesn't prove anything, that's the sort of thing he does for all of their assorted young people, and on the heels of this thought he realizes his mistake. Somehow he's been adding one and one to get zero -- taking on a guiding role in the lives of several people he thinks of as the children, and never making the connection that this would make him their father.

Wright is already looking at him in a way that's half-pity and half-amusement, so he doesn't bother to say anything about this sudden discovery.

“Kay was not headed for a 'life of crime',” he protests instead. “I've seen you at a crime scene, you're possibly more larcenous than she is.”

“That wasn't theft, it was evidence,” he says. “And now I get paid under the table for semi-legal gambling purposes, so bad example.”

“On the contrary, I think you set a great example,” Edgeworth says. “Certainly better than I do.”

“Don't say that, you do a great job,” he says, sincere. And then, ruefully, “but yeah, on paper it's probably not great that we're responsible for so many people.”

“What's worse is we're somehow an improvement for all of them.”

“Yeah, that's...” Wright searches for a word to sum it all up. “Hard to think about.”

“Something to look into after we've dealt with the legal system, I suppose.”

“Well, that sorts us out for the next twenty years or so,” he says, taking the idea of overhaulling another major social system in surprising stride. “What are we going to do for the forty after that?”

“I'm sure a problem will present itself,” Edgeworth says. “One always does.”

Chapter Text

“You look disappointed.”

“I'm not disappointed,” Edgeworth says to Wright. “How could I be disappointed by finding another of Dr. Cykes' sisters? It's merely...I know if we visit this woman, we're going to have to pay another visit to someone else.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It's not what we're going there for.”

“I mean, it kind of is now,” Wright says. “Is there something going on with you and whoever it is?”

“Such as?”

“Well, it sounds like you don't want to visit them, so I thought you might be mad at each other or something.”

“No, we're on perfectly good terms,” he says. “It's an added hassle, that's all.”

“The cost of having friends,” he says unsympathetically. He takes the card with the address from Edgeworth. “Who do you even know in Zheng Fa, anyway?”

In the intervening years of their last face-to-face interaction and this prospective visit, Agent Lang has been promoted significantly. In fact, he's actually the Minister of Justice in the Zheng Faian government; Edgeworth has kept up with his work there out of both personal and professional interest.

Unfortunately, this means that getting in touch with him is much more difficult than it used to be. Lang being the kind of person he is, his personal and work communications are all the same channels, and being a government figure, that means they're all heavily vetted before anything gets to Lang himself.

Since Edgeworth can't leave his actual reason for visiting Zheng Fa on the record, he has to tell all of the various receptionists and aides that he's merely going to be in the country on vacation, and it's obvious none of them consider this important business. And it's not, but he knows Lang would be deeply offended if Edgeworth was in the country and didn't so much as stop in.

In the end, he leaves the same spiel, my friend and I will be in Zheng Fa next month, and as a friend and former colleague of Minister Lang, I would like the opportunity to see him, with roughly twelve different employees.

It takes about a week, but Lang eventually calls back.

“So I hear you're coming to Zheng Fa,” he says without preamble. “I didn't think you were the vacationing type.”

“Perhaps I've changed my ways,” Edgeworth says, because it's not actually a lie.

“You must have, if you've given up the lone wolf life,” he says. “Not that you were ever very good at it. You bringing your sister or the crow girl?”

“Neither. You didn't meet him; he was busy during those cases.”

“Should've guessed,” Lang says. “Well. Lang Zi says: judge wisely who enters your den, but leave the door open to them always.”

He really does have one of those aphorisms for everything. “I'll take that to mean we should visit.”

“Sure, come for tea. I'll put you back on with Zan, he does my schedule. Glad you called. Would've been rude of you to come all this way and not even let me see your pretty face.”

“I thought you might say so.”

“Did you, now,” he says. “Well, if you need ideas or information for your trip, I have connections with the Ministry of Tourism these days; tell Zan to put you through to Guo once you've finished up.”

“Duly noted.” Not actually going on vacation, he's not going to do that.

“See you soon, Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth sets up a time with Zan the schedule-keeper and does not accept any of his offers to transfer him to any other departments.

That's it, he supposes. No way to back out now.

The flight is long. Extremely long. When they stumble off the plane, Wright asks what day it is, and between that and the time zones Edgeworth actually has to check.

“Okay, we're here and checked in to the hotel,” Wright asks. He's sprawled half-asleep on a couch in Edgeworth's room, hat pulled low over his eyes. It shouldn't be endearing, but it is. “Which thing are we doing tomorrow, talking to Ms. Cykes, or seeing your friend?”

“Lang first; it was the only opening he had in his schedule,” Edgeworth says. “We can see Ms. Cykes the day after.”

“All right,” he says. “It'll be fun to finally meet one of your friends, since you never introduced me to any.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wright says. “So what's he like?”

“Hm,” he says, considering the question. “Lang is...The first thing I noticed about him was how much he cared about his subordinates. That's not common among prosecutors or most of our police, but he knew everything there was to know about every one of his officers. He even took a bullet for his secretary after she turned out to be a spy.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Even so, we didn't get along for quite a while; our personalities clashed, we didn't agree on procedure, and due to some family history he was biased against prosecutors. Eventually, however, we came to respect one another, and even appreciate each other's admirable qualities. We're...kindred spirits, he called us once. Both following in the footsteps of our fathers, but not blindly; wholeheartedly devoted to the cause of justice and the art of investigation; atoning for our past mistakes.”

“Sounds like you guys have a lot in common.”

“In some senses,” Edgeworth says. “But Lang is a very different man than I. He's a man of action rather than words. Brash to the point of aggression. Personable and charismatic. Expressive, straightforward. Aside from the more obtuse of his ancestral maxims.”

Wright lifts the brim of his hat off one eye. “The more obtuse of his what.”

“Lang, that is, Shi-Long Lang, the one we're meeting, had a famous ancestor, Lang Zi. He's quite well-versed in his teachings.”

“I see.”

“'Lang' means 'wolf', so be prepared for a lot of wolf metaphors,” Edgeworth adds.

“I'm not sure you needed to warn me about that.”

“You might come to appreciate that I did.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

Shi-Long Lang meets the two of them in the plaza where he works, a tidy little public space with government buildings on three sides and a fountain in the middle. It's quite nice.

“Edgeworth! Long time no see,” he says, approaching where he and Wright have been admiring some flowers. “How's it going?”

“Fine,” he says, shaking Lang's hand. “This is the friend I mentioned, Phoenix Wright. Wright, Shi-Long Lang.”

“Zheng Fa is known as the Land of the Phoenix,” Lang notes, moving on to greet Wright. “Guess it's more literal than usual today.”

Wright doesn't address this, sticking with something more standard. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Any friend of our pretty boy is a friend of mine.”

“'Pretty boy'?” he repeats incredulously, turning to look at Edgeworth. He's smiling hugely, like Lang just gave him the best news of his life.

“Yes,” Edgeworth says, long-suffering.

“Don't tell me you hadn't noticed,” Lang says.

“I noticed,” he says. “It's just, in my experience, Edgeworth doesn't like it when people bring it up.”

“In my experience, he doesn't mind it too much,” he says. “Do you, pretty boy?”

“I tolerate it.”

Lang grins, showing his sharp teeth. “You've got a real gift for understatement.”

“You have a gift for overstepping yourself.”

“And we average out real nicely.”

“At least to the average.”

Lang barks a laugh. Wright looks surprised, for some reason.

“Anyway, I think I promised you guys some tea,” Lang says. “I'll take you over to my place.”

Typically for a man of his standing, Lang has a driver. Atypically for a man of his standing, Lang sits up front to make friendly conversation about the local baseball team with said driver. The driver, Zhou, doesn't bat an eye at this; presumably it's routine behaviour.

Lang lives in his family estate, a large walled house in the west end of town. It's clearly very old, with rings of the neighbourhood having grown out from around the core of ancient homes like rings of bark around a tree. The inside doesn't really reflect this; it's not new, but it's not nearly as old as the exterior. Regardless of its age, it's well-decorated, much more tastefully than Edgeworth would've expected from Lang.

“This is quite the home you have here,” Edgeworth says.

“Yeah, it's really nice,” Wright adds.

“Thanks, I'll tell Xiulan -- she's my decorator -- you like her work,” he says, taking them into a sitting room that opens onto a courtyard. “I'd ask you how you like Zheng Fa, but Zan told me you guys just got in yesterday.”

“Yeah, we did,” Wright says. “Haven't really seen much but the hotel and the way to your office.”

“It might be all of it. Sightseeing isn't really why we came,” Edgeworth says.

“I knew it,” Lang says. “Lang Zi says: the grey wolf cannot become the red wolf.”

“Huh?” Wright says.

“I warned you,” Edgeworth tells him.

“So what's the case? Obviously it's something you're doing on the sly, or else you'd have just said so on the phone.”

“We're trying to find the witness to a murder to save an innocent man from death row,” Edgeworth says. “A girl who now lives with relatives, some of whom are here in Zheng Fa.”

“I had heard things were getting bad over in the U.S. but not even letting you investigate crimes is news to me,” he says. “Best of luck to the both of you.”

“Thank you.”

One of Lang's various subordinates enters and leaves a tea tray with a salute. “Thanks, Yaling. Happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Thank you! It's so good of you to remember, Shifu!” she says, and departs.

“She says that every year,” Lang says, smiling fondly.

“This is what I was telling you about, Wright,” Edgeworth says. “Truly absurd detail.”

“It's not absurd,” Lang argues. “It's my responsibility as leader of this pack to keep my people happy, and I can't do that without knowing them.”

“It's impressive,” Wright says. “How big is your, uh, pack?”

“Two-hundred-and-seven at this morning's headcount.”

“That must take up a lot of your time.”

“At first. Not so much now. Low turnover rate within my ranks.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Thinking about applying?” Edgeworth asks, eyebrow raised.

“Hey, it probably pays more than my job,” he says. “I doubt Mr. Lang's in the market for the world's worst piano player, though.”

“Just Lang's fine, no need to stand on ceremony,” he says. “And you can't be that bad.”

“No, it's quite terrible,” Edgeworth assures him.

“Show the guy a little support,” Lang says. “A pianist? I thought you were bringing that lawyer of yours. Make another friend, then?”

“This is that lawyer,” he says.

“Huh,” he says. “Lang Zi says: the turn of the seasons brings many changes.”

“You can say that again,” Wright says.

“Nice to see at least one of you appreciates the wisdom of my ancestor.”

“I just don't believe Lang Zi actually said some of the things you say he did,” Edgeworth says.

“I've got all his works, printed, e-book, ancient scroll, any language you need; look them up if you want.”

“I'm not sure we have the time to spare.”

“Don't challenge me if you're not willing to put in the work, pretty boy.”

“Hmph,” Edgeworth says. “You know I always do.”

“That's what you say, but here you are, turning me down.”

“You should be used to the rejection.”

Lang smirks. “Not really.”

Wright has that consternated expression again, but he also seems somewhat amused, smiling slightly under the befuddlement.

“Last time we spoke, you were telling me about those anti-counterfeiting measures you were working on,” Edgeworth says, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, yeah,” Lang says, letting him. “It's still in progress, of course. These things take a while.”

“What kinds of reforms are you looking into?” Wright asks. It might be more out of politeness than genuine interest, but at least he doesn't look so discomfited anymore.

“Tons of stuff. New materials, new printing processes, new verification tech that I don't fully understand but pretend to,” Lang says. “Things have been getting better over the last couple years, since Edgeworth and me fixed that smuggling ring, but people are still worried about their money. Can't blame them.”

“Right, I've heard Zheng Fa was having economic troubles,” he says, then turns to Edgeworth. “That was what you were doing?!”

“He's giving us too much credit,” Edgeworth says.

“Knowing you, he's not giving you enough,” Wright says. “Jeez, I thought we had a lot on our plates trying to fix one city. You hang out with this guy for two weeks and you reunite one country and keep another one from collapsing.”

“Yeah, it was a pretty busy month,” Lang says. “But you guys are trying to clear out the Prosecutors' Office, that's like trying to cut down the rainforest with a butter knife.”

“Just when I thought I had changed your mind about prosecutors,” Edgeworth says.

“You did! Now I don't think all of you are corrupt, just most of you.”

“The worst part is that I can't even say you're wrong,” he says.

“Well, one day you'll be in charge, and if anyone can turn that snake pit around it's you,” Lang says.

“I'm not sure whether to thank you or not.”

Lang shrugs one shoulder. “Hey, I'm a cop. Ain't like we're any better,” he says. “We're all doing what we can to change that.”

“Kind of seems like you've got us beat,” Wright says. “Running your entire country's Department of Justice while we're just...”

“Floundering around Los Angeles,” Edgeworth finishes.

“Maybe, but Zheng Fa's barely bigger than L.A., and I got a famous family name to work off of. Anything you guys do is already a bigger deal than what I get up to.”

“It's a moot point at the moment, since we haven't accomplished much of anything,” Edgeworth says.

"It's not about winning. The thing that matters is the fight."

“It has to be a little bit about winning,” Wright says. “Nothing changes if we don't.”

“Not bad, hotshot,” Lang says. Hotshot? Wright mouths to Edgeworth, who shrugs. “What I mean is it doesn't matter who does the winning. Even if all we're doing is keeping the flame alive for the next generation, that's something.”

“I guess,” Wright says. “But the longer this is drawn out, the more people are going to get hurt by it. Lives are at stake. It's our duty -- well, your duty -- to end it as soon as possible.”

Lang takes a long sip of his tea. “I see our pretty boy wasn't kidding about you and your ideals.”

“O-Oh,” he says. “He told you about me?”

“Whenever he thought it was relevant,” Lang says. “So, several times a day.”

“Don't exaggerate,” Edgeworth complains.

“Who's exaggerating?” he says, spreading his hands. “It's not like I don't appreciate it; him getting to you eventually got to me, and we're all better people for it, yeah?”

“Very much so.”

“Shifu! Excuse the interruption!” Yaling says from the doorway. “You have your dinner with the representatives from CIC in half an hour, you should prepare yourself!”

“Thanks, Yaling,” he says, and she departs again. “Those are some private prisons guys. I'm going to let them buy me dinner and then tell them when, how, and why they can go to hell.”

“Sounds like quite an evening.”

“It's the best part of this job,” he says, grinning unpleasantly. “Thanks for coming to see me, pretty boy. And it was great to finally meet you, hotshot. Really, really great.”

“Well,” Edgeworth asks later, “what did you think?”

“Of Lang?”

He nods.

“I like him," he says, a little uncertainly. "He definitely likes you."

"What do you mean by that?"

“I mean he likes you likes you.”

“He does not.”

“He does,” Wright says. “You guys were flirting like crazy the whole time, at least one of you has to be doing it on purpose.”

Edgeworth sputters a bit. “I was not flirting with Lang!”

“Like I said, not on purpose.”

“Not at all!”

“Okay,” he says.

The two of them have never had a disagreement that ended in such simple acquiescence, so Edgeworth makes it for all of ten seconds before demanding to know what led Wright to this conclusion in the first place.

“On his end...pretty much everything,” Wright says. “He’s leaning into your personal space and calling you ‘pretty boy’ like that with his shirt open; what else am I supposed to think?”

“In Lang’s defense I think he always wears his shirt like that.”

“What, even at work?” he asks, and then shakes his head and keeps talking before he gets an answer. “Doesn't matter. He’s into you.”

“If you insist,” Edgeworth says. “What about me?”

“What about you?” he says evasively.

“You said we were both doing it, I’d like to know.”

“You’re not as obvious,” he says, looking away. “It’s...the look on your face, mostly. You almost smile when you talk to him, and you don’t do that with -- with most people.”

With anybody but me, Edgeworth translates. “I’ll -- try not to do that.”

“I’m not saying you have to stop,” he says. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” It’s in everyone’s best interest that he stops. Someone’s feelings are bound to get hurt if he accidentally gives Lang the wrong impression. More of the wrong impression.

“Okay. If that's what you want.”

Something about Wright's casual acceptance of this entire situation rubs Edgeworth the wrong way. “Shouldn't you be having more of a reaction? Shouldn't this bother you?”

“Why would it? It's not something I'd be mad about either way, and you weren't even doing it intentionally.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why, did you want it to bug me?”

He hesitates momentarily. “No.”

“You do! Aw, Edgeworth, are you put out that I'm not jealous?”

“No!” he says again. “At least, I don't think so.”

“I'm not sure if that makes perfect sense or if I never would've guessed,” Wright muses. “But, uh, it's not going to happen.”

“It really doesn't bother you if I flirt with other people.”

“Not really? Though I'm starting to worry about what would happen if I did it, not that I would,” he says. “I don't know, it's like we're beyond that kind of thing. Jealousy's for people who feel insecure; believe me, I know. And I'm...very secure. In this. With you.”

“Oh,” Edgeworth says, deeply affected. “I – I'm glad to hear that.”

“Uh, you're welcome, I guess,” he says, obviously unsure of what to say. “So you're not...disappointed?”

“How could I be?” Even if he had wanted Wright to be jealous, which he isn't certain was the case, he's more than happy with this alternative -- he's not jealous because his trust is simply that unshakeable, because he's heard and believed everything Edgeworth's told him about his hitherto-nonexistent romantic history. The depth of understanding required sets Edgeworth's heart to fluttering in a way he will find mortifying an hour from now. “And if I were, I'm not sure you should indulge me.”

“Who said anything about indulging you? I was going to say maybe Lang's jealous of me and you could get it from him.”

That was probably a joke, but Edgeworth doesn't respond to it as such. “If I don't want your jealousy, I certainly don't want his.”

“My point exactly,” he says, smiling. “It probably doesn't matter. He seems less like the kind who gets jealous and more like the kind who if he can't beat them, joins them.”

“I...what?”

“Don't worry about it,” Wright says. “Doesn't really apply to us, anyway.”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry if this makes it weird between you guys,” he says. “I just...I really thought you should know.”

“It's all right,” Edgeworth says. “I did need to know. I'd hate to think what might have happened if things progressed.”

“Yeah. Probably would've been awkward.”

“It's still going to be awkward now,” he says. “But hopefully the kind we can move past.”

“If he can't move past it, he's not worth being friends with anyway.”

“I'm not one of the children, you don't need to give me lessons on friendship.”

“I'm pretty sure I do,” he mutters. “I'm just trying to say that I'm with you on this, okay? Whatever you want to tell him, however you want to handle it, I've got you.”

“I know,” Edgeworth says, just sort of putting his hands on Wright in an unimpressive attempt to initiate an embrace. “You always do.”

He looks down at where Edgeworth's hands are, but neither says nor does anything about it. “Yeah.”

Their eyes meet. Edgeworth tentatively slides his hands over Wright's shoulders and around to his back, finishing what he started. Wright immediately responds by throwing his arms around Edgeworth, having been waiting for him to get where he was going.

“You okay?” Wright asks him after a moment.

Edgeworth almost-smiles at him. “Perfectly secure.”

“Work question,” Wright says to him at breakfast, “what do you think is going to happen today?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Doris probably told the rest of the family about us. What's this one going to do when we show up?”

“Hard to say,” Edgeworth says. “We don't know if Doris even said anything, or what that would have been, or how today's subject will react.”

“So we're basically just going to march up and ring someone's doorbell without knowing whether she's going to do anything but slam the door in our faces.”

“...Essentially.”

Wright considers his eggs. “It's a good thing we keep the details of this case to ourselves. I would not want to try and explain that we came all the way to Zheng Fa and that was our master plan.”

"It would only reflect badly on me if we did have to explain. Everyone's used to your seat-of-the-pants methods, I'm the one who plans."

“We'll all still like you even if it gets out that you didn't think ahead once,” he says. “It's not like we keep you around for your time management skills.”

“You don't?”

“No, your work-life balance is awful.”

“And yet I still find all this time to spend with you.”

“That's not work to you?” Wright jokes.

“Not at all.”

Electra Cykes-Yu does not slam the door. In fact, she looks almost happy to see them. He wonders if it's some kind of a trap.

“I heard you might be coming!” she says, bustling around her kitchen and holding snacks and drinks up in offer as she talks, her curly red ponytail bouncing and swinging behind her. “From Doris! Well, Doris told Ianthe who told me. Close enough, right? She also said Doris said not to talk to you, but if it's about Metis then I'm going to!”

“Yes, we're trying to re-open the investigation into her death,” Edgeworth says.

“We suspect the wrong person was arrested and put on death row,” Wright adds.

“Right, Aura's little brother,” she says, nodding. “I was really surprised to hear it was him! I mean, aside from Metis and Aura being Metis and Aura, if you know what I mean, Metis used to tell me about him whenever we talked and it never seemed like he would do something like that! According to her, he practically worshipped the ground she walked on, would do anything for her. Used to think of himself as some kind of samurai, I guess? So, yeah. It was hard to think he would do something like that.”

“That's one of the things that didn't add up to us, either,” Wright says.

She looks up inquisitively. “One of them? Was there more?”

“Quite a bit, unfortunately,” Edgeworth says. “We can lay it out for you, if you'd like.”

“Oh, I would,” she says. “Metis wouldn't want the wrong person to be in prison for her death, especially not Mr. Blackquill. I want to know.”

She takes from the kitchen into a seating area; in her huge winged armchair across from their comparatively small loveseat, Electra looks almost intimidating, a queen holding court.

They tell the story of Simon's case, switching off as necessary. The ease with which they work together is always so satisfying; at multiple points they hand the telling over mid-sentence, but there's never a break in its flow.

“That does sound shady!” Electra says once they've finished explaining. “I guess I can't say for sure if he did it or not, but it doesn't seem like Simon got a fair trial.”

“That's all we're trying to do, really,” Wright says. “Getting him a fair trial should bring out the truth of what happened to your sister, one way or the other.”

“The truth,” she repeats, thinking it over. “What will you do if Mr. Blackquill really did do it?”

“If that's what really happened, then we would accept any verdict and any sentence the court hands down,” Edgeworth says. “I have no personal stake in this case. I am not a defense attorney seeking to further my career, nor am I a personal friend of the Blackquills attempting to free a guilty man out of friendship. It is entirely a matter of seeing justice done.”

“I don't know a lot of lawyers,” she says, “but that's not usually the only reason for what you do, is it?”

“Not usually,” Wright says. “Edgeworth isn't that kind of person, though. When he says he only wants to find the truth, he means it. He means everything he says.”

“He does have an honest face.” Electra smiles. “Okay! Well, then, I think I can help!”

“Help?” Wright says, surprised.

She doesn't answer, copying something from her phone onto a notepad. “Athena's living with my sister Tyche. She and her husband have like, five houses all around Europe so they might be hard to pin down, but here's her number and the addresses that I have.”

“Mrs. Yu,” Edgeworth says, accepting the note with trembling fingers, “words cannot express our gratitude.”

She gives a dainty, one-shouldered shrug. “When Doris told me you might come to see me, I expected the worst. She made it sound like you two were a couple of ambulance chasers, just trying to get someone out of jail for the sake of it, or for the money, you know? But...I really believe you when you say that you're just trying to make this right. Maybe that's silly of me. And I know some of our family won't be happy, with you or with me, but it wouldn't be right for us to tear apart another family just to spare ourselves a little bit more pain. We've already suffered worse losing Metis in the first place; we can handle anything you have to do.”

“That's...really compassionate of you,” Wright says, only marginally less speechless than Edgeworth is. “We won't put you or your family through anything we don't absolutely have to, I promise you that. We know how difficult even doing this at all is.”

Electra smiles weakly, her eyes watery. “I really think Metis is in good hands with you. Athena, too.”

“We will do our utmost for all of you,” Edgeworth says. “You have our word.”

“I know you will,” she says. “Be careful with the rest of my family, please. Especially Athena.”

“Yeah, of course,” Wright says earnestly.

“When you see her, tell her Aunt Electra says hi, and that...that I hope one day she can understand why I did what I did.”

"She...told us,” Edgeworth says once they’re out on the curb in front of Mrs. Yu’s home, still in shock. “She told us.”

"We did it,” Wright says, just as stunned.

"She actually told us,” he repeats. “She told us!”

He doesn’t even realize he has his hands on Wright until Wright’s grabbed him right back, the two of them excitedly shaking each other by the arms and shoulders as if trying to drive home the importance of this achievement by physical emphasis.

“She told us!”

“She told us!”

"Tone it down, boys. I don't want to have to take you in for public indecency."

At the sound of that familiar voice, they first jump together, before springing apart. Lang’s leaning against the Yus’ front gate like he’s just been waiting for them to notice.

"Lang," Edgeworth says. "What are you doing here?"

"Had the evening off. My meeting cancelled after hearing about my run-in with those prison contractors. Thought I'd see if you guys wanted to have dinner."

That doesn't explain what he's doing here, specifically. Edgeworth decides not to ask.

"...What did you do to the private prisons guys?” Wright asks.

“Heh, wouldn’t you like to know,” he says ominously.

Edgeworth rolls his eyes. “You’re a government representative, at worst you gave them a very stern lecture.”

“Sure, but it was a stern lecture no one’ll ever forget,” he says, grinning. “Your meeting today went pretty well, if the two of you jumping up and down like teenage girls at a Gavinners concert is any indication.”

“Yes, very successful,” Edgeworth says, flushing.

“You guys have the Gavinners out here, too?” Wright asks, pained.

“Sure, they’re huge everywhere, aren’t they?” he says. “Not my thing, but it’s not like I live under a rock.”

“Yeah,” Wright says. “Right.”

Lang raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press, for once in his life. “So you guys want to get dinner or what?”

“Ah, well,” Edgeworth says, not sure what to say. Wright’s gone completely poker-faced and is of no use. “We -- yes, let’s go out.”

“Great. Zhou’s parked up the street, probably bored out of his mind,” he says, turning and beckoning them to follow.

When Edgeworth looks back at Wright to gauge his reaction, he just smiles.

Lang takes them to a small local restaurant where he’s clearly well-known to the staff, who try to extend their greetings to Edgeworth and Wright, only to run into the language barrier. Lang explains them away in Mandarin, probably in a vaguely insulting way if his tone is any indication. The hostess takes them to a table in the back that’s not exactly private, but is more secluded than the others, and hands over one menu.

“I figured I’d handle this,” Lang says, flashing the untranslated interior of the menu in explanation. “I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

“You’re playing with fire, pretty boy. I could easily have you begging for mercy by the end of the night,” he says, and Edgeworth suddenly notices that they’re leaning towards each other, smirking. Flirting, again.

He pulls himself back and forces his expression back into its usual neutral frown.

Lang furrows his brow, confused. "What's up with your face?"

"He's trying not to flirt with you,” Wright says blandly. Edgeworth wishes he had a menu so he could hide behind it.

"Feeling jealous, hotshot? Had to warn him off me?”

"No, I said to keep doing it. This is all him."

“How open-minded of you,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t be?”

“Didn’t want to make assumptions,” he says. “You seem like you could go either way.”

Wright shrugs. “I’ve mostly been going one way, these days.”

Lang chuckles. “I bet.”

The server returns and Lang puts in what might be a long order and might be another one of his ridiculous conversations with an employee. Once she’s gone again, he and Wright return to making friendly chit-chat. Wright’s telling him about the children, for goodness’ sake.

Edgeworth throws his hands in the air. “Is no one going to react normally to this?!”

“No,” Lang says.

“I already explained!” Wright says.

“Lang Zi says: expect nothing. Jealousy is only the echo of disappointed entitlement.”

“That one’s pretty good,” Wright tells him.

“Thanks,” he says. “You know, I think I’m starting to like you.”

“Uh, did you not, before?”

"Hey, you're not the only one who can go both ways."

"I am still here," Edgeworth reminds them.

"Now this one," Lang says, still only addressing Wright, "only goes in one direction. I bet he gets real jealous.”

“It’s never come up,” Wright says, glancing at Edgeworth.

“Probably scaring them all off with that glare of his.”

“I am not,” Edgeworth protests. “I don’t get jealous.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Lang says. “I bet you bare your fangs at anyone who so much as looks at him.”

“I did no such thing!”

Lang raises an eyebrow at the past tense. “‘Did’?”

“...Iris,” he says, obviously not for Lang’s benefit. “I encouraged her. I wanted you to be happy. I still do, of course, but…”

“You -- you two talked about that?” Wright asks, eyes huge.

“Yes.”

“I had no idea,” he says. “I didn’t even think you were...that long ago.”

“Longer,” Edgeworth admits. “I don’t really know when it started. I realized it after Engarde, but...you’ve always had a strange effect on me. I was trying to impress you by the time Will Powers came around.”

“Yeah, and then you yelled at me afterwards.”

Lang snorts, then begins serving himself under the accurate impression that they’re not paying attention to the food. “Sounds about right.”

“I didn’t yell.”

“You literally said I was giving you ‘unnecessary feelings’ and told me never to show my face in front of you again!”

“Hell of a mixed message,” Lang comments, shoving noodles in his mouth. “What's an 'unnecessary feeling', exactly?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Edgeworth says. “He was complicating my life by making me question my actions. I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“How long was this before you and I ran into each other on that kidnapping?”

“About two years,” Edgeworth says. “Why?”

“You’d sorted all of this out by then,” he says. “I wanted to know how long it took you.”

“Most of that time, I’m afraid.”

“Okay, so. That was about five years ago, and another two to make seven.” He’s moved on to making plates for Wright and Edgeworth. “Hotshot, how long for you?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” he says, caught by surprise.

“Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second,” Lang says, shoving a now-full plate in his direction. “Try again.”

“It’s complicated,” he says, looking down at the sudden influx of food.. “...Twenty years, but also five is probably the best answer I can give.”

Twenty years. It’s been longer than that now, but even rounded down it’s a long time, the entirety of their relationship. It’s absurd, even by Wright’s usual standard, but it also makes a good amount of sense. Even when they were apart, Wright was thinking of him, writing to him, getting a law degree just to see him. There’s no logical reason to do any of that, therefore...

“You’re both in it to win it, huh,” Lang says. “How old were you twenty years ago, ten?”

“...I was nine. It was more than twenty years, I just --” He waves a hand in the air, nervous. “It’s kind of embarrassing. Makes me sound a little crazy.”

“I don’t think it’s crazy,” Edgeworth says quietly. “I envy your capacity for feeling.”

“Nah, it’s crazy,” Lang says. “It’s also pretty romantic. Fate catching you early.”

“...I kind of hope fate would have bigger things to worry about than this.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Edgeworth says.

“You two…” Lang says, trailing off like he doesn’t know what he wants to accuse them of. “Ah, just eat something while it’s still hot, all right?”

There’s a lengthy standoff over who’s going to pay for dinner, which Edgeworth wins, laying out a small stack of bills, and then all three of them are standing outside, preparing to part ways.

“I, ah, would like to speak to Lang alone for a moment,” Edgeworth says to Wright. “If you don’t mind.”

“I thought you might,” he says. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Edgeworth hands him the keys to the rental and approaches Lang. “We should talk.”

Lang doesn’t look up from checking his phone. “Yeah, probably,” he says. “Let’s get out of the way of the door first.”

They move around the corner of the building, but once they’re in place, Edgeworth doesn’t know how to broach the topic.

“No wonder you never took me up on it,” Lang says eventually.

“I, ah. Didn’t realize an offer was being made,” he admits, embarrassed. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.”

“You flirted back.”

“So I’ve been told,” he says, folding his arms. “I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression.”

Lang shrugs. “Kind of. It’s fine, though. No harm, no foul.”

“All right.”

“Does make me wonder how you two hooked up, if you’re this clueless.”

He looks sidelong at Lang. “We haven’t.”

“You sure about that?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

Edgeworth sighs. “Less all the time.”

“Heh. I’d tell you to make it official already, but I’m sure you’ve got your reasons,” he says. “And you’ve probably heard it before.”

“Quite a few times.”

“Yeah, not surprised,” he says. “I’ll give you some real advice instead: love is trusting someone enough to be honest, and being honest enough to be trusted. Leave pride behind.”

“Is that one of Lang Zi’s?”

“Hell no,” he says. “Lang Zi’s advice on dating is mostly for finding suitable brides with sizeable dowries. That was just from me to you. As your friend.”

“I appreciate it,” he says. “I’ll...try to take it to heart.”

“Sure,” he says. “But as long as you’re listening to me: put a ring on it and put all of us out of our misery.”

“Ah, maybe in the future,” Edgeworth says. There’s still a lot separating the present from marriage, even if the idea is making his heart race.

“I’ll try to hang on until then,” he says. “Anyways. Thanks for visiting, pretty boy. Been a while since I got to go out for anything but work.”

“It’s been good to see you again,” Edgeworth says. “I hope...I hope things haven’t changed between us, after this.”

“Ha! Someone’s got a high opinion of himself.”

“I didn’t mean --” he starts to protest, but Lang cuts him off.

“Nah, we’re fine. I knew what I was up against from the first time you told me about this guy shining in your eyes or whatever. And him turning out to be even crazier than you? Our little tango could never hold up.” He grins briefly, then lets it lapse. “I should apologize too. For flirting with you without you even knowing, maybe making things awkward for you and your better half.”

“Not at all,” Edgeworth says. “Wright was quite serious when he told you that he had no problem with our relationship.”

“Much as you wish he did. Don’t know why; it’s obvious you’re both the type to mate for life, nobody’s going anywhere.” He looks up at the full moon. “It’s real sweet. I’m rooting for you.”

“And I you.”

“There’s gotta be someone out there, right?” he says. “All right. I won’t hold you up any more; take your man and have a good trip home, huh?”

“Until next time,” Edgeworth says, offering a hand to shake.

“‘Til then,” Lang says, clasping it in his own. “See you around, pretty boy.”

“I don’t know what I expected to happen tonight, but I don’t think that was it,” Wright says back at the hotel, taking off his jacket and tie.

“I didn’t expect both of you to handle this with such...equanimity.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Hmph.”

“It's weird. I don’t really know why I said all of that,” Wright says, taking a seat on the bed with Edgeworth. “You think he was using some kind of interrogation technique?”

“The Lang I’m familiar with didn’t do much in the way of interrogations,” he says. “But I think he was trying to help.”

“Did it? Help, I mean?”

“He gave me some advice,” Edgeworth says. “And I suppose there’s a certain catharsis in having divulged some of that information.”

“Yeah, I feel better too,” he says. “I wasn’t...really planning on telling you about how long it’s been, though.”

“I only wish I could have told you the same thing.”

“Wh-- Really?” he asks, less surprised than genuinely confused.

“Yes,” Edgeworth says. “You...you know everything you’ve done for me. Everything you are to me. Seven years hardly seems enough to express it.”

Wright looks down at where their hands are joined. “I was only halfway in for most of that time,” he says. “I was just a kid, and then I hadn’t seen you in years, and sometimes it seemed like I’d never see you again. Everybody I told about you said I should forget about you already. Well, everybody but Iris -- she always encouraged me, even though I think she knew. And I tried to, at least to dial it back to something anyone would do for a friend, and I think it...kind of worked? There was always a part of myself that I held back, even once I had actually done it and found you again. And I kept it back, because you -- you left, and I -- I -- I --”

“I hurt you,” Edgeworth says softly.

“Yeah. You did. And you came back, and we patched things up, but you still didn’t stay. And I fell off a bridge, and you flew in in the middle of the night and did every crazy thing I asked, and I thought...well, I thought a lot of things. But you left. And you came back again to do international diplomacy with Lang or something, and I,” he clears his throat, “I lost my badge, and I adopted a kid, and I had no idea what I was going to do about any of it...and you beat down my door and promised you’d stay.”

“That was --?”

“That was it,” he confirms. “Having you back, with me, going where you go, it’s...it’s what I was waiting for that whole time.”

He says it like he isn’t still waiting.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says, much more plaintively than intended. He lays a gentle hand against Wright’s cheek. “Oh, my dearest.”

Wright takes a sharp breath in, looking absolutely astonished. His face seems awfully close to Edgeworth's; when Edgeworth glaces down he realizes that at some point he crawled into Wright's lap, following some impulse to be nearer to him.

It's...surprisingly nice, actually, but it's too far. They’re really pushing it tonight, practically confessing their love, and the night before a trans-Pacific flight is not the time to push further.

“You look kind of freaked out,” Wright murmurs. “You want to call it a night?”

“I...I think I have to.”

“Okay,” he says, generously not watching Edgeworth peel himself out of his lap. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

He doesn’t have to; their rooms are next to each other, and Edgeworth could easily make his way there. But it's something couples do, so he doesn't protest.

“Here we are,” Wright jokes, once they’ve made it the ten steps to Edgeworth’s door. “See you in the morning?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay. Good night, sweetheart,” he says, and then tenses like he didn’t mean to say that. “Uh. Good night, I mean. Just -- ignore that.”

“I-I’ll try,” he says, and slips through the door.

That word follows him around as he gets ready for bed. Sweetheart. What a perfectly Wright thing to say -- nobody else would think of him in such terms, as someone pleasant. Loveable. At best, he's Lang's pretty boy; at worst he's a smug know-it-all, an unfeeling machine, a demon.

Wright called him sweetheart without even meaning to.

The warm ache in his chest keeps him awake most of the night, but for once he doesn't mind the lack of sleep. Clearly Wright is in the same boat, spending most of the next morning's flight asleep on Edgeworth’s shoulder.

He doesn’t mind that, either.

Chapter Text

About a month after returning from Zheng Fa, the Chief Prosecutor calls Edgeworth into her office, and asks him to do something he swore he never would.

She asks him to handle the arrangements for the King of Prosecutors award ceremony.

Wright, being the compassionate soul that he is, laughs himself silly when Edgeworth tells him about it.

“She knows you're the worst possible choice, doesn't she?” he asks.

“What, Mr. Edgeworth could totally plan some party,” Trucy objects. “He has style.”

Wright just laughs harder.

“Thank you, Trucy,” Edgeworth says, as if the object of his affections isn't cracking up at his expense at that very moment. “Though I believe Wright is mostly referring to my...distaste for the award itself.”

“Not just that award,” he corrects. “All awards. The concept of awards. Edgeworth hates being the centre of attention, but having been a genius all his life, has won a bunch of trophies and had to stand on stages accepting them.”

“...Something like that.”

“Oh,” Trucy says. “But getting trophies is great! Remember when I won the talent show and got that huge one?”

Edgeworth still thinks it was probably unfair for Trucy to compete against regular children, but this was her first year at that school and they hadn't known any better. According to Wright, it was a bloodbath.

“I remember we had to get Edgeworth to pick us up because they wouldn't let us take it on the bus,” Wright says.

“And now you use it to hold loose change.”

“It's for bus fare,” he says. “The circle of life.”

“Anyway,” Edgeworth says, “I take specific issue with the King of Prosecutors award because it rewards the worst kind of behaviour among my colleagues.”

“And it has a sexist name,” Trucy says.

Franziska has made this complaint before. “Yes, that as well.”

“Edgeworth's won it, what, twice? Three times?”

“Not in the last seven years, I'm proud to say.”

“They tell you who's winning this year?”

“Vincent Lavoie,” he says. “One of several prosecutors I've had my eye on, but been unable to prove any wrongdoing.”

“Spell his name wrong on the trophy,” Trucy suggests.

They likely shouldn't encourage Trucy's petty streak, but it's so amusing that Edgeworth can't help it. “Truly the comeuppance he deserves.”

“Exactly!”

“Why do they want you to plan this thing, anyway? Don't places like the Prosecutors' Office usually hire professionals for that?” Wright asks.

“I assume it's either meant to be a gesture of trust from the Chief Prosecutor, or it's meant to keep me busy,” he says. “Either way, I accepted. If I'm going to make Chief Prosecutor myself, I can't very well turn down a request like this.”

“No, I guess not,” Wright says. “Still, you think they'd ask someone who's been to a party before.”

“I've been to plenty of parties,” he argues. “The rest of the office parties, for one, and most of the ones you host.”

“I don't know if the experience of buying streamers for pre-teen girls' birthdays is really going to transfer over.”

“It might.”

Party planning is a lot more work than Edgeworth would have thought, though he now understands why it exists as a standalone profession. Even roping in Gumshoe, with his newfound wedding experience, is only helping so much.

Upon listening to him struggle over the phone with a truculent engraver, Wright takes pity on him and offers more assistance.

“You want to help me plan the King of Prosecutors award ceremony.” He infuses this with as much disbelief as possible.

“Not exactly,” Wright says. “She does.”