Chapter Text
It happens too fast.
It starts pretty normal, all things considered:Phoenix is helping Athena pick her scattered papers from the bench as the trial wraps up and court is adjourned, yet another victory for the defense. Athena beams and puffs her chest up with pride, eyes burning with passion and conviction, as she immediately starts chattering about the mandatory party at Eldoon’s place. Phoenix laughs alongside her and starts leading the way out of the courtroom, where their client is waiting for them, for the ritual thanks and possibly the promise of a paycheck. Wouldn’t hurt to actually get one of those from time to time.
Confettis are still fluttering joyfully about when there is an almighty roar, and Phoenix turns just in time to see the bailiff being thrown through the air and crash to the ground like a potato sack by the man Athena has just found guilty in her client’s place, a hulk of a man with the strength - and the brains - of a raging bull. The man’s face is twisted in pure rage, eyes blown wide and blood-shot, handsome tanned skin now flushed an ugly purple as he bares his teeth ferociously at Athena, foaming at the mouth.
A mad man.
A mad man with a gun, to be precise.
“You bitch!!”
The gun trembles violently in the man’s hand as it points straight at Athena’s back, and Phoenix sees her turn around, watches her joyful grin morph into terror as the reality of the situation sinks in, erases the joy of her victory in the face of impending death.
From the corner of his eyes, Phoenix sees Blackquill storm into the room again, looking possibly even more frenzied and out of his mind than the man who is holding Athena at gunpoint, katana unsheathed and ready to slice the armed arm away; he’s bellowing some intimidation and order to surrender Phoenix can’t really register. He only makes out a bunch of garbled screams and noises, and a finger that presses more and more on the trigger.
Only one thought crosses Phoenix’s otherwise worryingly empty mind as he watches, transfixed, Blackquill leap across the prosecution bench, showing an indeed rather impressive physical prowess, and dive at the rebellious criminal, as though in slow-motion.
He’s not going to make it in time.
Phoenix’s body does not need any further input than that to take action. Before he knows it, he’s moving, lunging at Athena.
A shot rings out.
Someone screams.
It doesn’t hurt, per se. At least, not at first, and not nearly as much as Phoenix expects. Sure, it stings bitterly when he feels something small and pointy pierce through his stomach, carve its way through organs and muscles like a hot knife cuts through butter; then, all at once and just as quickly as it got in, the bullet blows a exiting hole on his back, only to hit the wall behind them and ricochet on the concrete, chipping away the pint, and roll on the floor where it lies motionlessly, almost innocently.
It stings and burns, and the sensation of something leaking out of the newly formed hole in his flesh - something sickeningly hot and sticky - is truly uncomfortable, not to say disgusting. He presses a hand to the gaping hole, and grimaces when he feels liquid heat pour out of the wound. With a reckless bravery he does not have, he glances down, and it’s not with little displeasure that he notices his new dress shirt and waistcoat torn apart, a dark red stain soaking the fabric, red swallowing blue more and more extensively with each second, with each heartbeat.
Feeling suddenly quite tired, exhausted even, his knees wobble and fold beneath him. He crumples on himself like a puppet whose strings are suddenly cut off, and he would soon crash face first on the paved floor if small, and yet deceptively strong, hands didn’t grab him painfully tight, fist into his thoroughly ruined clothes, and gently ease him to the ground.
No, the bullet wound doesn’t hurt as much as Phoenix would have thought. Instead, what does hurt like hell is the desperate, high pitched scream that follows suit.
“BOSS!!!”
Phoenix, now resting on his back, blinks blearily at Athena's face hovering above him. She’s pale as a ghost, eyes wide in distress and horror and quickly filling up with tears as they linger on the bleeding wound, on the growing bloody stain.
Athena, who is young and bright and has a whole life ahead of her. Athena, who can’t be more than two years older than Phoenix’s daughter.
Her scream for Help, Simon, help!!!! is what hurts the most.
Everything is a blur after that. There’s more screaming and yelling and crying, but Phoenix is already struggling to keep his eyes open and can’t focus on what is said exactly. He opens his mouth to speak, to somewhat reassure Athena, who has ruthlessly shredded her blazer into strips of cloth and has pressed the makeshift bandages on the wound, but his mouth is dry as a desert, his tongue feels heavy and clumsy, and it stumbles on the words before they can reach his lips. Her hands are bloody, stained all the way to her forearms, and the once canary yellow fabric is now completely soaked red.
His rapidly numbing brain can’t help but think it’s a really nice shade of red.
“Stay with me, boss.” Athena keeps rambling and rambling, her face flushed and tear stricken. Phoenix would like to reach out and wipe those tears away, but his body feels like it’s made of lead, heavy and unresponsive. He can only lie there, trapped in his own body, fighting with all he has just to keep himself awake. “Help is on the way. Everything is gonna be fine. It’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna be alright.”
So she says as fear cracks her voice, as her grasp on him grows tighter, as though she can physically stop him from slipping away and lose himself in death’s embrace. Phoenix would be moved by such display of affection, if only he wasn’t so tired, so, so tired…
“Don’t let him drift off, Athena,” a deep voice says somewhere in the dark - in the end, Phoenix's eyes must have slid closed without his permission at some point. That’s weird - a voice that Phoenix vaguely recognizes as Blackquill’s. It’s low and worried, bearing no trace of the Twisted Samurai for once. “I’m going to call Edgeworth-dono. He needs to know.”
Oh shit, Miles. Somehow, in his impulse to move, to protect a girl that could very well be his own daughter, he has managed to completely forget about what Miles’s reaction to this unexpected conundrum might be. He can already picture him throwing a fit, start blaming himself for no freaking reason - as though it’s his fault Phoenix throws himself into trouble at the first chance he gets. Really, his own husband should know him better than that by now - and shut out everything else while drowning in his grief and guilt…
They had a dinner date scheduled for later that week, it’s been such a long time since they’ve had some time for themselves; as Chief Prosecutor, Miles is always so busy...
And then there’s Trucy, waiting with Apollo at the office, ready to join Phoenix and Athena at Eldoon’s…
He can’t kick the bucket here, he thinks. If not for himself, then for his family. Miles, Trucy, Maya, Athena… they have lost too much already, to add another item on the list would be going against his own policy, really.
He stirs, tries to sit up, despite Athena's protests and attempts at keeping him down.The pain in his bleeding stomach surges up and a pained groan escapes him as he's forced to quit trying pulling himself up and he falls on his back again. He lets out a shuddering breath, suddenly feeling extremely tired. Athena is saying something, but he can’t hardly make out a word, but she’s stroking his face, pushing back his hair - he’s drenched in sweat, gross, so gross - and her hand is so warm…and when has it gotten so cold in here, again? He feels like he’s freezing, but it’s already June, he was just fine up until a moment ago…
He’s tired. Like, new levels of tired. Trucy and Miles always tease him that he’s more like a zombie than an human being in the morning, and never those words have rung truer like they do now.
He’s dying. With every slow, shallow breath he takes, with every drop of blood pouring out of the wound, he dies a little more, approaches dangerously to the point of no return.
He’s dying and, judging from the panicked inintelligible screaming around him, everyone else in the room knows it.
The doors of the room open with a bang. Several people stomp inside with a sense of great urgency, and it’s not until he feels the ground tremble around him, the imperious voices grow close to where he’s lying on the cold hard floor that he realizes such hurry is for him. He hears Athena sob something in response to the paramedics as they crouch down and shove her away - jerks - to grab a hold on him and hoist him up on a stretcher.
Brisk hands press on the wound, check his faint pulse, tie something around his chest to slow the bleeding. He can tell he’s being carried away with much haste, he feels every little bump on the tiled floor.
He wants to give a shout at Athena, tell her everything is going to be fine, that she must not cry, not yet, not ever, but he just… can’t. Every connection with his body is seemingly severed, and he can only listen to her loud sobs and hysterical screams, fainter and fainter as he’s being led away against his will, he doesn’t want to leave her alone, but what can he do, if he can’t even muster up the strength to console her?
He can only put his trust on Miles, believe he’ll know what to do and be there for her and Trucy, that he will take them under his wing and be their pillar in this time of need.
I’m leaving it into your capable hands, partner…
And then, everything goes dark.
He can’t quite shake off the feeling there is something… strange today, for some inexplicable reason. Foreboding, almost ominous, a most unusual sense of dread, but for what, Miles does not know.
It makes no logical sense whatsoever. Miles has checked his schedule multiple times throughout the whole day, in case he happened to forget an important appointment or missed one of Trucy’s show - that would be an unfortunate mistake Miles has sworn to never make again. Trucy’s sad, resigned face will haunt him forever - but nothing came up. On the other hand, he would be all too willing to forget about the nuisance of a prosecutor currently standing in front of him.
“I swear, there must have been cheating!” Gaspen Payne shrieks with that nerve grating voice of his. “I’d never lose against a rookie like that yellow monkey and her birdbrained partner. They must have forged evidence!”
It takes Miles every ounce of self control he has to refrain from forcibly kick him out of his office. He scowls at the older man, who at least is smart enough to belatedly realize his blunder and gulps, sweating bullets as his focus keeps shifting from Miles’s glowering face and the unassuming ring sitting at Miles’s ring finger.
“Regardless of your defeat at the hands of Athena Cykes and Phoenix Wright, who are undoubtedly more honorable and trustworthy that you’ll ever hope to be,” Miles says quietly, and relishes fully in the start Payne gives at the not so veiled insult. “I can’t help but notice your performance as of late has been rather… lackluster. And make no mistake, I don’t mean your record, about which I care very little indeed.”
Payne recoils sharply, his ridiculous hairdo bouncing up and down with the movement. Miles smirks. Alas, he may not stand the man, but watching him squirm in discomfort compensates at least in part the absolute torture dealing with a Payne is.
Miles grabs a manila folder from his desk, flicking through the contents. “No, what I’m fairly concerned about is your conduct. I have here several reports regarding your superficial investigations, mistreatment of your subordinates and, quite interestingly, pieces of evidence that never turned up in your official investigations. Care to explain?”
Perhaps it’s a play of the light, but Miles is rather sure Payne has just blanched several shades paler. He’ll need to tell Phoenix his revenge on the dreadful prosecutor has been exacted at last, so he will finally stop complaining that Miles never stands up for him.
His phone suddenly rings.
Half annoyed to be so unexpectedly disturbed and half glad to have a distraction from Payne, he picks it up - much to Payne’s displeasure - and glances at the caller ID. Blackquill. Strange indeed, there is hardly any reason for Blackquill to be calling him at this time of the day; the man is supposed to be facing Phoenix and Miss Cykes in court today, picking up from where yesterday’s proceedings were halted…
As the call drops and, barely a second later, another comes in, Miles feels again that most unusual, uncomfortable sense of nausea make his stomach churn. Blackquill is a man who can respect boundaries. He has never been so insistent as to call twice in a row.
Not unless there are very good reason to.
He has a bad feeling about this, to borrow one of Phoenix’s favorite catchphrases.
His hand trembles as he finally picks up. “Edgeworth speaking.”
“Edgeworth-dono,” Blackquill says hurriedly into the phone, skipping all the pleasantries. “There’s been a shooting in the courthouse.”
Miles’s heart skips several beats, his sense of dread quickly swelling up, sending him straight at the edge of panic. He can tell there’s more to this call than mere professional obligation. His hand grips the phone tighter. Even Payne has quieted down, trying to listen on what Blackquill has to say that has the Chief Prosecutor look so distraught all of a sudden.
Miles really doesn’t want to hear what is coming next. He already knows. He’s already been there before.
“And,” he forces himself to retain some sort of reason, to keep a leveled head. No jumping to conclusions before he has all the data in his hands. It’s a lesson Phoenix has gone to great lengths to teach him. “What about the victim?”
There’s a long, poignant pause.
“Defense Attorney Phoenix Wright.”
Miles would be lying if he said he hadn’t suspected as much. But even if deep down he knew, such knowledge does nothing to lessen the blow. His eyesight flickers threateningly, dark spots growing wider at the corners of his eyes as his breath quickly spikes up, turns ragged and shallow. All of a sudden he’s not in his office anymore, he’s in a dark elevator with no oxygen left, a gun in his hand as he stares at the two crumpled corpse sitting on the floor in front of him, one of which is wearing a familiar blue suit and very distinctive spiky hair…
“Is… is he…?”
He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Luckily, Blackquill immediately catches on.
“He’s being carried to the hospital as we speak. He’s still alive.”
Still alive. He’s still alive. Meaning there is only one place Miles truly needs to be right now, and it’s not his office. He stands up so abruptly his swiveling chair glides all the way back until it hits the wall and nearly topples down. He pays it no mind.
“I see,” he says, and he’s relieved to hear his voice comes out steady and firm. Hearing that Phoenix is still alive and about to undergo treatment has given him a new sense of purpose, a new anchor to keep himself grounded to reality and not to drown into despair. “I’m on my way. Have Mr. Justice and Trucy been notified of the situation yet?”
His heart aches deeply at the thought of the young girl, always bright and chipper in the face of the many - too many - adversities she has already faced and overcome despite her young age. She doesn’t deserve another source of grief and abandonment.
“Not yet. I’m going to do so as soon as possible.”
“Good. I take it you’re with Cykes?”
There is a brief pause. “Yes, I’m getting her to the hospital as well. She was not injured in the accident,” he quickly adds, correctly predicting Miles’s next inquiry with ease, “but I want to make sure nonetheless.”
“Of course.” Miles is all too well acquainted with the shock resulting from seeing someone dear being shot to death in front of his eyes. It’s not hard to guess Miss Cykes must be traumatized, possibly in shock and panic. “Stay with her, don’t leave her side. I’m sending Gavin to the scene to take over the investigation in your place.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Miles has just closed the call and is about to exit his office when a rather irking, squeaky voice lets out a cough as fake as his owner’s toupee.
“Er… what about me, Chief Edgeworth? I can take care of the case in the flamboyant brat’s place, if you want. I can be much more effective.” Payne says, looking almost hopeful. Miles is thoroughly disgusted by this little, poor excuse of a man, for whom he truly has no time to spare.
“You have no reason to worry about the case, Payne. As of now, you’re fired.”
And with that, he all but runs out of the office.
Panic threatens to surge up and pull him under when he finally reaches his car and, for the first time since that fateful call, Miles finds himself truly alone. The car feels stuffy, claustrophobic, stifling and hot. He blasts the a/c at full power, tugs at his cravat until it comes undone and flutters to the ground, but nothing seems able to stop him from regressing back to a kid, a kid alone in the dark and scared as the man he loves the most passes away right in front of his eyes.
Breathe.
It’s happening again. He let DL-6 happen again. Nearly three decades later and he has still learned nothing, has still failed to protect what truly matters to him. Von Karma is probably having a heartily laugh at his incompetence from the other side.
Breathe.
He tries to, inhales and exhales following the regular rhythm he and Phoenix have practiced so many times, after every nightmare they shared along with a bed. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his hands clammy and cold around the expensive leather.
No, now it’s not the time to be having a fit. He still has to get to the hospital, ascertain Phoenix’s and Miss Cykes’s condition, inform Trucy. He has no time for panic.
At the thought, light blossoms again in front of his eyes, banishes the dark interior of the elevator he's stuck in. The sliding doors open, and he’s once again in his car, a full grown adult with a family that needs him now more than ever.
Perhaps it’s the thought of his daughter that manages to completely dispel the panic and keep it at bay. His vision fully clears, his breathing evens out. His grip on the wheel tightens as he starts the car up with a soft, purring noise. He doubts he has ever needed every single drop of horse power this engine packs like he does now.
Predictably enough, the ride is quick. Very quick. He can faintly hear Phoenix’s panicked screaming to slow down, please!! in the back of his brain. He’d give anything to be able to hear the real deal again.
In a matter or minutes he’s storming inside, following the receptionist’s indication until he reaches a waiting lounge out of the emergency ward. He’s not surprised in the least to see Miss Cykes and Blackquill are already there; Blackquill is pacing nervously around, looking pale and frazzled and fairly out of his mind. Blood is trickling down an awful-looking gash right over his cheekbone, the result of a well-placed blow on the prosecutor’s face once Blackquill stepped into the fray and tackled the assailant.
But the one who really catches his eye is Athena; she’s sitting on a plastic chair set against the wall, back hunched up protectively, staring vacantly at her own bloody hands - here Miles has to take a deep breath, for that is Phoenix’s blood and it’s so, so much - in her lap. She’s deadly pale, a stark contrast with her bright ginger hair, usually shiny and combed, and now frazzled and caked in blood.
He has already seen that face, that posture of soul-shattering guilt and regret. In a mirror in Von Karma’s manor, twenty-six years ago.
“Edgeworth-dono.”
Blackquill’s greeting startles both Miles and Athena, whose red rimmed and bloodshot eyes fly wide open in horror and recoils violently, curling up on herself even more as she looks at Miles as though she expects an attack at any given moment.
He wonders if this feeling constricting his chest - of protectiveness, fondness, desire to shelter - is what Phoenix went through when he first crossed Trucy’s path and he took the foolish, and yet so appropriate in the long run, decision to take in the newly orphaned little girl.
Miles often berated him for his rashness, back then. Now, he thinks he understands his husband’s motivations a little better.
“Are there any news?” Miles asks Blackquill eventually. Blackquill shakes his head dejectedly.
“Not yet. We only know he's already undergoing surgery. Justice-dono and Wright-kun are on their way here as well.”
Miles figured as much. He glances up to the white double pushing doors, behind which a long, aseptic corridor unfurls for several feet. Only authorized personnel is allowed to walk past this door. To think Phoenix is somewhere behind this barrier, and might never get out again…
His breath hitches in his throat, the corners of his eyes sting suspiciously. He’d do better not dwell on it.
He hurriedly averts his gaze from the accursed doors, unable to stand the mere sight of them. Instead, his attention drifts back to the one other occupant of the room, one who has been exceptionally silent the whole time. She notices him as well, and hugs herself tightly, leaving blood stains all over the sleeves of her dress shirt.
“Are you injured, Miss Cykes?”
He makes it a point not to ask whether she’s feeling fine or not. It’s painfully clear she’s not fine at all.
Miss Cykes - Athena, he tells himself, there is no place for formalities at a time like this, and he knows Phoenix would approve the use of the first name - shakes her head jerkily. Then a strangled sob tears through her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers weakly as more tears start streaming down her usually jovial eyes, stain her reddened cheeks. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. The bullet was intended for me, I should be the one being operated on!”
Miles sees her point, understands the logic, as twisted and flawed as it is, behind her reasoning. It would be easy, so terribly easy, to pin the blame on her, to say 'if only you hadn’t been there, this would have never happened’. It's probably what Athena has been telling herself relentlessly for the past hour.
Instead, he reaches out to his breast pocket, pulls out a handkerchief - he has taken to always carry one on himself ever since he first met Kay - and offers it to the crying young woman. Athena blinks at him, looking thoroughly bemused by the unexpected gesture.
“Miss Cykes, by now you should be more than well aware of Phoenix Wright’s tendency to attract trouble, not to mention to save every person in his range he feels might need his help, without caring whether they do ask for it or not. Quite the contrary, I don’t deny I would have been sorely disappointed if he let that deranged man shoot you to save his own life. It would not be like him, or like the teachings he so dutifully follows, to allow such a barbaric crime to take place without lifting a finger to prevent it. I’m sure you know of what I’m talking about.”
Timidly, almost fearfully, Athena finally takes the proffered handkerchief. She twists it nervously in her shaking hands.
“‘A lawyer can’t cry until it’s over’.”
Miles nods solemnly. “Correct. You shall do well to always keep it in mind.”
Athena actually lets out a wet chuckle at that, although it does sound awfully like a pained whimper. Miles reasons it’s the best he can hope to get out of her as of now. She does, however, smile and dab the handkerchief over her tear stained face. It doesn’t fully halt the stream now that the dam's been broken, but it’s at least some progress.
“Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth,” she whispers, wiping furiously her eyes. “I kinda forgot all about that.”
“Quite understandable. Just make sure you never do so in front of Phoenix. He’s surprisingly uptight about it.”
Athena chuckles again, with a little more conviction this time around. She still sounds like she has come down with a rather vicious cold, and her nose is red and runny, but the smile she offers him is hopeful.
Miles does not, and will likely never will, have Phoenix Wright’s parental sense and tendency to adopt stray children like they’re his own, but as he's confronted with this young woman’s smile, holding strong despite the obstacles, Miles is forced to admit it’s a rather rewarding feeling.
As he carefully, stoically avoids eye contact with both Cykes and Blackquill and starts fidgeting awkwardly on the spot, he’s suddenly saved by an all too well known voice.
“Thena! Papa!”
Trucy, looking pale and scared like Miles never wishes to see her again, charges in the lounge with a loud scuffling noise; Apollo Justice, who looks just as tense as Trucy is, is hot on her trails, and lastly Klavier Gavin brings up the rear of the party.
Trucy immediately shoots herself at Miles, wrapping her slender arms around him and burying her face in his chest. Miles holds her close to him without even thinking, with a rather Phoenix-ish nonchalance he has never know he had. All self consciousness - there are two of his closest subordinates in the room, after all - is pushed to the side when he feels her tremble like a leaf in his arms.
They bask in each other’s presence, father and daughter clinging to each other, their only anchor in the middle of the storm raging around them. Trucy shakes and sobs, her tears staining through the fabric of Miles’s waistcoat, and Miles holds her a little tighter, hides away every tear she can’t rein in.
Mr. Justice mumbles an awkward greeting, but all insecurity fades away the instant he lays eyes on his exhausted and distressed junior partner. Miles sees his features set in fiery determination that reminds him too much of his husband, whose fate is still unknown, not to be painful. Justice instantly runs over to Cykes, puts a comforting arm around her shoulders and brings her close to him.
Miles glances down to Trucy. “She needs you.”
She nods. “Yeah, I know.”
She steps back, disentangles from his embrace. Her eyes are puffy and glistening with tears, but - just like her father in the direst of moments - she smiles brightly and runs over to where Cykes and Justice are sitting side by side; she wastes no time to kneel at Cykes side and joins her brother in whispering comforting words to the youngest addition of their Agency, to push down her own pain in order to support her friend.
In the midst of the ravaging sense of loss, something akin to pride blossoms in his chest.
Gavin, who has watched the entire little scene from a respectful distance, finally walks straight to Miles, face stretched and grim. “The culprit has been apprehended and secured. The trial has been scheduled for tomorrow with high priority. To be fair, there’s not much to prove, as we have several dozens of eyewitness and a camera recording. It’s just a formality at this point.”
It takes Miles a ridiculously long second to realize Gavin has shifted into his prosecutor mode. After such an emotionally distressing hour, he all but welcomes the change of topic. He might have improved with handling and expressing his emotions over the years, but he’s quickly reaching his limit of emotional talks he can sustain within a day. Work is an objective, impersonal topic, a safe haven for his frayed nerves.
Or it would be, if the case at hand didn’t involve his own husband.
“Very well. What about the bailiff responsible of the loss of the weapon?”
“Identified.” Gavin replies without missing a beat. He’s apparently not impressed with the careless bailiff whose abysmal incompetence has caused this accident either.
“Good, I want him fired within the next ten minutes.”
Gavin’s left eyebrow arches ever so slightly. “As much as I share the sentiment, Herr Chief, do we actually have the authority to do that?”
With as much dignity he can muster up under these circumstances, Miles pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m fairly sure Chief Gumshoe won’t have any objections, once you explain the situation to him.”
Gavin actually smiles at that. “Ach, I see.”
Silence falls, as companionable as it can be whilst waiting with bated breath for someone to relay some information. Both men stare at the two attorneys plus magician huddled together, supporting each other protectively in the darkest hour.
“He made a good job raising them.” Gavin speaks after a few moments, eyes firmly trained on Justice’s back. “You both did.”
“I hardly did anything. That-” Miles tilts his head to point at the latest three stray kids Phoenix has adopted throughout his life. “Is all Phoenix’s doing.”
Gavin makes a non-committal sound. “A family, huh? It’s nice to see a decent one, for a change. Our line of work only makes us see the worst side of families and such, really.”
Miles instantly knows Gavin is not really talking about work anymore. Another Gavin floats at the forefront of his mind, and a wave of bile surges up in his throat.
“Trucy was planning to host a party for the fourth of July. Feel free to participate. I’m sure Mr. Justice would have no qualms.”
Gavin blinks, apparently just as taken aback as Miles feels. Apparently, Phoenix’s rashness and impulsiveness has rubbed off on him more than he first assumed.
“Thanks for the offer,” Gavin says, “but I don’t think Herr Wright would be thrilled to have me around.”
“If there is one thing I’ve long learned of Phoenix Wright, it’s that he never turns his back on those who have nobody to turn to.” Miles counters easily, confident of the truth of his words. “Our door is always open.”
He expects Gavin to laugh. Instead, the young man stays silent for a most uncomfortable moment.
“Thank you, Herr Chief. I’ll consider it.”
Silence falls again. Nobody talks for what might be minutes or centuries, each too lost in their thoughts and grief, or varying kind and nature, to speak. The clock ticks, unperturbed, cruel; seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours.
Several times Miles feels himself teetering on the slippery edge of panic and despair, but one look to the Wright Anything Agency trio always manages to give him the strength to pull himself up before he falls.
Is this what you mean by having faith, Phoenix? To gain your strength from the ones who count on you?
I have taken care of them, as you would have wanted me to.
But what about me, Phoenix?
And suddenly, after what had to be several hours, the double doors swing open with a loud bang. The noise shatters his dark thoughts and the rapidly growing exhaustion, and in a second he’s already fully alert, tense and taut. Glancing around the room, he sees he’s not the only one.
A tired looking woman walks out the door, pulling down the mask covering the lower half of her face. “I take it you all are here for Mr. Phoenix Wright? Are you family?”
Six “Yes” bounce over the white walls. The woman grins tiredly.
“Whoa, talk about a dedicated bunch… anyway, I’m doctor Heather Carey and…” she pauses, and then breaks out in a proper, if not exhausted, smile. “He’s stable and out of danger. He has yet to regain consciousness, but that’s a tough guy if I’ve ever seen one, we’re pretty confident he’s gonna recover just fine.”
The wave of relief that crashes down on Miles is so strong that he feels himself grow faint, and his vision flickers dangerously. He’s barely aware he loud shouts of joy coming from Trucy and Justice, the relieved sobs of Cykes, the muttered thanks to all heavens of Gavin and Blackquill.
He says nothing, just closes his eyes and keeps telling himself to breathe in and out, in and out, don’t let go.
“He’s being transferred to the intensive therapy ward,” Dr. Carey continues over the booming cheers and cries. “You’ll be able to pay a visit in a little while.”
“Sweet! I wanna be there when he wakes up!” Trucy perks up, but Miles rounds on her instantly.
“No. You’re leaving.”
There is a moment of general bewilderment.
“No way! He’s my dad! I want to stay here!” She protests vehemently as she stands up abruptly, drawing herself to her full height and clenching her fists at her sides; her eyes fill with more tears but this time, Miles feels safe to assume, they’re born out of anger and outrage than grief.
It takes more effort than he cares to admit to keep his composure and level a stern glare at his now thoroughly peeved daughter.
She has quite an intense scowl for a sixteen years old girl, he has to acknowledge as much. Unfortunately, not enough to make him budge in the slightest.
“We’ve been here for hours.” He replies evenly. “There is no point in all of us staying now that we know he’s stable. All of you go back to our apartment and get some rest. I’ll keep you updated.”
He looks pointedly at Cykes, who appears exhausted beyond belief and on the verge of collapsing at any given time, and Blackquill, who should really treat his own wound.
Trucy catches on quickly. Her righteous anger subsides, and Miles can easily see she’s torn between the need to stay at her father’s bedside and the necessity to bring her friend somewhere for her to unwind and rest.
“But…” she whispers weakly, but Justice places a hand on her shoulder, cutting off her protests.
“He’s right, Trucy. There’s nothing we can do here now. Better use this time to rest properly, so we can visit when Mr. Wright wakes up. I’m never gonna hear the end of it if he catches you with bags under your eyes.”
That’s actually a fair point. Trucy pouts, though the corners of her lips twitch rather conspicuously, but then relents.
“Fine, two on one, you win.” She says with a clearly exaggerated sigh. “You’re going to tell me straight away when he wakes up, right?”
Miles nods. “But of course.”
“Even if it’s in the middle of the night?” She raises an eyebrow in cheeky challenge, in the same irritating and yet endearing way her father does.
“Yes.”
“Pinky promise?”
And just like he’d do with her father, Miles rolls his eyes. “Yes, pinky promise.”
Trucy beams at that. “Alrighty then. Come on, Thena, let’s go.”
As Justice and Trucy help Cykes stand up and together shuffle their way out of the lounge, Blackquill addresses Miles again.
“You have my deepest gratitude, Edgeworth-dono.”
“Don’t mention it. Miss Cykes should not be left alone for the time being. You two keep an eye on them and make sure they stay put. Trucy can be quite a handful when she sets on doing something.”
“Mainly mischief, ja?” Gavin chuckles heartily. “Like father, like daughter.”
“Indeed.”
And with that, even Gavin and Blackquill are soon gone. For the first time since that dreadful call - has it really been no more than a few hours? Miles feels like it’s been a lifetime ago since he has last been in his office - he finds himself alone.
The world shakes violently around him, all of a sudden. Earthquake? At this time?
Ah, no, it’s just him. Uncontrollable shivers wrecks through him, his knees tremble; he makes it just in time to the chair Cykes has just vacated before his legs give out, and he slumps bonelessly on the seat, the back of his head resting against the wall as he stares at the pristine white ceiling above without really seeing it.
And when he finally breaks down, silent tears streaming down without shame or remorse, he can only be glad there is nobody else to witness them.