Chapter Text
Miles hadn’t thought about it in five days, almost a full week, which meant he was fine. Someone who was upset would think about it every day.
This record was doubly impressive considering he’d spent the past week in Los Angeles: the ground zero for unwelcome thoughts. His colleagues in Berlin outright demanded he use his accrued vacation time, despite his wishes, so Miles packed his bags for the one place desperate enough to give him cases on short notice. Californian bureaucracy could cut red tape if it was in their best interest. Gumshoe took him straight from the airport to a crime scene at the Central Library, and the pair of them had a productive five days catching and sentencing the head librarian for the murder of a volunteer shelf-stocker.
It was Saturday now, however, and even though Miles could get into his office, he couldn’t be assigned any new cases. Crime never rested, but his superiors did. There were other things to do—papers to file, junk emails to delete, items to reorganize after months of Gumshoe’s “cleaning”—but every moment spent on simple tasks was another his mind could wander. Why did he still display the coat from his early days as a prosecutor, despite distancing himself from everything it embodied? Who had reset the pieces on his chessboard and taken away red’s advantageous position? When had the rickety picture frame on his desk fallen over, and why hadn’t anyone righted it?
And why was Phoenix Wright trying to call him?
Miles glowered at the robotic chime emanating from his cell phone. The five-day tally reset to zero.
Obviously, this was a ploy. When wasn’t it a ploy with that man? Wright would have some question he convinced himself only Miles could answer, and once Miles finished his explanation, Wright would decide he wanted a different answer and start an argument. They would debate their cases to one another, point for point, tit for tat, until every spiraling rabbit hole dried up and they’d come close enough to a mutual understanding. Wright would say goodbye. Miles would hang up, then find himself pacing in an entirely different room with aching cheeks and a watch three-hours fast.
But there would be no wasted afternoons today. Miles was setting a boundary. He would not answer any of Wright’s calls during the rest of his forced PTO. He was here for work.
The phone finished its fifth rendition of his ringtone, waited for applause, then took the silence as a cue for an encore. Cute. If Miles cared about the attention (and he very much did not) he might even be flattered by how desperately Wright wanted to talk to him. He could picture it now: Wright, slumped over the cheap desk in the dark back room of his “talent agency”, praying for Miles’ opinion on something stupid whilst oblivious to the computer two feet from his face that could answer his query with a simple Google search.
Miles flicked another email into his junk folder. Wright would have to learn to fend for himself. If he wanted a savior, he could find it in someone else.
The ringing stopped, and with a sad, electronic bloop, his cell announced a text message. Miles waited two minutes before sparing a glance:
mister edgeworth please call back :(((
Hmm. That was– That was not how they typically addressed each other.
…He never said he couldn’t contact Wright of his own accord.
The line connected before it had a chance to ring. Miles took the first move. “Hello?”
“Hi,” sniffled a high-pitched voice, and his well laid fortress crumbled into rubble and shame.
“Trucy.” Of course he would’ve picked up immediately if he’d known it was Wright’s daughter. Miles would never be so callous as to leave a poor, defenseless eleven-year-old out to fester. It wasn’t her fault that her previous family abandoned her, or that her new father was… the way that he was. To be catapulted into a strange environment at such a young age was a burden no child should have to bear. But bear it she did, and if she wished for Miles’ assistance, he would provide it in a heartbeat. "What's wrong?"
Her poor throat bubbled. "It's awful."
“I had assumed.” Miles patted about his suit jacket for his keys, then shoved his wallet in along with them. His chair spun out in his wake. “Where are you?”
“At home.”
Good: a ten minute drive. Seven, if the roads were clear. “Is your father there?”
“Yeah, but, he– he can’t talk right now.”
The door handle slipped like ice under Miles’ hand. Could Wright really be in danger again? Misfortune followed him like smoke from a flame, but surely after everything—surely, after losing his badge—the universe would leave the poor man alone. If he was hurt, and Miles had delayed his response…
He gripped the handle tighter. No. There was no sense worrying before he knew the facts. “Did something happen to him?”
Another sob wailed out. “Well.” Trucy gave a labored breath and swallowed back her tears. After a long pause, her voice turned inquisitive: “Do I count as a something?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hold on.” She boomed like an army general. “Stay back.”
A thump fell before her, followed by a familiar laugh, and from afar: “Hey, Edgewor– ow! Gah.”
Trucy giggled maniacally. The handle dropped out of Miles’ grasp.
“I need your help, but,” she grunted, “Someone told me not to call you, so I took his cell phone and locked myself in my room. But then he got in with the key that’s only supposed to be for emergencies, so I tackled him, and now I’ve got him pinned on the ground. I don’t know how long I can keep him down, though, so we have to talk fast.”
“I see.” The faint scent of past-brewed tea filled Miles’ lungs. He trapped the warmth like a lifeline, clinging to it until it seeped out with his next words: “Would you put me on speaker phone, please?”
“Oh, uh, okay! …There you go.”
“Wright, quit entertaining this and take the phone away from your daughter.”
The other man groaned, and his voice came clearer into focus. “Yeah, okay.”
“Nooooooo!” Trucy shrieked. “Back-stabber!”
More squabbling came over the line. Miles counted to three before giving up and storming back to his desk. His chair fell into line beneath his foot. He slumped into it and arranged his phone against his shoulder. The seat slowly drifted to the left. It was always a ploy.
“Aha!” The triumphant noise drowned out Trucy’s laughter. Wright took a deep breath. “Hi!”
A heavy sigh. “Wright.”
“Yeah.” The man winced. “Sorry. I told her not to pull the sick-and-wounded routine on you, but she took it like I was telling her not to call you at all, and then,” he turned away from the mic, “Quit making that face at me, kid, you’re fine.”
Miles caught himself wringing his hands, and clenched them into fists to stop the bad habit. All the commotion had turned them sweaty. He wiped them on his pants. His keys would make them smell like metal, and a pen button would pick up over the phone. Too noisy. He dragged the fallen picture frame across his desk, face down, and settled for messing with the kickstand.
“Are we taking you away from admiring your Will Powers dolls?” Wright asked.
Miles’ Steel Samurai figurine—singular—sparkled in the sunlight beneath his office window. He knocked the kickstand against the plastic backing and frowned. “Why are you under the impression I'm in California?”
“We ran into Gumshoe at the store.” Goddamnit. Sometimes it felt as if the detective's sole purpose in life was to leak classified information to Wright. Not that Miles' location was a secret, but…
Trucy piped up. “Are you still going to be here on Monday?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wright said. “We were wondering if you could give us a ride for a holiday thing.”
“Holiday?” Miles squinted at the calendar on his computer. A green, pre-set event blended into the noise of next week. “Ah. For Easter.”
That would explain the Judge's insistence on asking everyone if they were having a “good Friday” yesterday. And all the bunny-themed books on display at the library. Holidays were things which tended to happen to Miles, rather than things he partook in. He only remembered them when he came into work and found the office empty, or when the world went feral in December. (And for other reasons in December.)
Easter wasn't an interesting one to begin with. When you were non-religious and child-free, it was just another set of colors and mascots that cycled through the grocery store. That made the request quite odd, though. To Miles' knowledge, Wright also didn’t care about Easter. Perhaps there were activities he did now for Trucy's sake, but none would require Miles or his car.
“Um. No,” Trucy griped. “I said Monday.”
“Yes.” Miles nodded uselessly. “Easter Monday.”
“Easter's only on Sunday, silly!”
Multiple countries would beg to differ, but fine, whatever. His calendar only counted Sunday, too. It didn’t matter. He had no time for their shenanigans. The coming week’s court docket was barren, and it would be booked full by the time Miles finished with it. “I will be, technically, though—”
“Trucy,” Wright interrupted, “I don't think Edgeworth knows what happens on Monday.”
A performative gasp rang out. Miles set the picture frame in his lap to pinch the bridge of his glasses. “Don't do this.”
They ignored him. “That's sooo sad.”
“And he calls himself cultured.”
“I don't know how I'd even live!”
“I definitely wouldn't.”
“Mr. Edgeworth, how have you gone all fifty years without—”
A snort bubbled over the act in Wright’s voice, and he stopped her, strangled. “Kiddo, he’s– he’s not that much older than me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I– wait, are you still joking, or?”
“No, I actually thought he was fifty,” Trucy said. Wright found this even funnier. “Wait, how old is he? How old are you?”
If he was old, this joke was fossilized. “Wright, will you please tell me what you’re trying to wrap me into?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Oh my God. “I know you’re supposed to be on vacation, Edgeworth. All your European coworkers would be really pissed if they found out you didn’t take a single day off. They like their labor rights over there.”
No one cared what he got up to on his own time. And he would love to see Wright try to report him in full German to the Berlin Prosecutor’s Office. “I—”
“Bring your car! We need it!” Trucy ordered. “Monday! One o’clock! And not the morning one!”
The call disconnected before Miles had a chance to argue. Rude.
His phone clattered to his desk. He flicked the frame kickstand a final time to lock it in place, and, without thinking, slammed it upright next to his computer.
Maya’s face grinned across a quarter of the picture (just like in every other photo she’d taken: because how else could you guess the photographer if they weren’t front and center?) Little Trucy and Pearl filled the space below her. Further behind, in the mess of Wright’s Agency, Franziska clasped her hands by her skirt, looking as though a hidden gunman would fire if she didn’t appear pleasant. Gumshoe waved from the couch, Larry failed at putting bunny-ears behind one of the girls, and Wright was caught in profile: dragging Miles in by the arm and saying something to get him to smile.
Maya had been so proud when she gave it to him. “It was the only one where you weren't forcing it.”
Miles sighed, and pushed the frame back until it left the sunlight.
One o’clock, then.
✤✤✤
The minute hand of his watch hit the top of the hour as Miles knocked. Wright opened the Agency's door twelve seconds later.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re here.”
Was he being sarcastic, or genuinely surprised by Miles' arrival? It was hard to tell anything with Wright these days, and his just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance only confused matters. The stubble and dark circles always shadowed his face, so those weren’t much as clues. His shoes teetered on the line between house slippers and outdoor-ready sandals. Miles had been forbidden from commenting on the neon monstrosity on his head: safer to exclude it from the evidence. That left Wright’s facial expression, and the squint in his eye had never boded well for Miles before.
“Trucy asked me to come,” Miles settled. It was the truth, after all.
Wright leaned against the door frame. His squint closed off around the edges. “Sure.”
“Hi Mr. Edgeworth!”
Trucy barreled out past her father to catch Miles around the waist. He patted her on the back until she abruptly shoved him away and held him in place. The kitten graphic on her pajama shirt copied her blank, upward stare into his soul. She quirked her mouth, glanced at her father, and after a moment’s more inspection, nodded at Miles in approval.
“Okay, yeah. I can see it. I guess you can be thirty.”
Good to have her permission. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” She drew her hands into excited fists. “Did you bring your car?”
“I… find it hard to get places without it.”
“Perfect.” Her small fingers latched onto Miles’ wrist, and with the strength of a team of horses, he was whisked inside the tornado debris the Wrights called home. “You get to be the chauffeur,” she instructed, and yanked him away from a pile of discarded fabric. “I made a map so it would be easier for you.” A party streamer draped from the ceiling almost hit him in the face. “But I’m not quite ready yet, so you have to wait a bit. Sorry.”
“Ah.” Miles stumbled over something on the floor and caught himself on the back of the black reception couch. He snapped his hand back and clenched it by his heart. “Wait. Wait.” The offending object clung to his ankle, and he kicked at the strap of a bright yellow backpack until it released him. Multicolor folders and math homework slid out of the open pocket.
Monday.
His nose shriveled. “Why aren’t you at school?”
She stopped and let their arms go slack. “It's a holiday.”
“I called her out sick,” Wright offered. The door bell chimed in closing. “It’s not our fault the school system doesn’t recognize our important cultural celebration.”
“Your ‘cultural celebration’,” Miles said.
Both Wrights nodded. Silence.
He should have considered a career in dentistry with the amount of teeth-pulling he had to do with these two. “…Which is?”
Trucy took a deep breath and clasped her hands by her chest. Slowly, she shuffled in a circle, then again, faster, and faster still, until her hair whipped about like a propellor. It swished behind her as she pointed a toe and threw her fingers into the sky to release an explosion of glittery confetti. “It’s Discount Candy Day!”
“What?”
She blinked. She scooped up a handful of the confetti, twirled, and threw her arms to the sky once more. “Discount Candy Day!” The flakes drifted back and forth to collect by their feet. Her head tipped. “You know, like a sale?”
“Wright, why did you actually bring me here?”
“To go to the store,” the man agreed. “So we can get candy.”
Well: they could sort this out themselves. Miles wasn't needed anymore. Or at all, really, though it was nice to have witnessed Trucy’s safety. He trusted Wright to keep her from danger, but he didn't trust the world at large, and given the other things that man liked to keep to himself, it was better to have assurance. But she was unharmed, and Wright was breathing, so Miles could go back to work and plan the trial he'd agreed to.
As if she could read his mind, Trucy slid between his path to the door. “Wait! It's not just about candy.” She made a loose fist and rested it against her forehead. “It's about family.”
A family Miles was not part of. “Forgive me for thinking you two can do this on your own.”
“We could, but.” Her melodramatic pose deepened. Good grief. “Every year, Daddy takes me to the best store in the world and lets me get all the candy I could ever want. Then we go to the best park in the universe, and I get to eat a whole bunch and run off my sugar high. And then we come home and watch movies until I crash on the couch. It’s tradition.” She took Miles’ hand between her palms. “But it takes so, so long to get everywhere on the bus. And you,” she rasped, squeezing with the force of a tectonic plate, “you have a car.”
Miles reclaimed his fingers. “I cannot be the only person you know with one.”
Her head shook somberly. “Mr. Kristoph always tells us no. Please, Mr. Edgeworth. You're our only hope.”
Water flooded Trucy’s eyes to set the blue depths into swirling whirlpools of sorrow. The current cast her mouth into a deep frown. She pointed her feet inward and sniffled back the waves.
Wright made fake puppy eyes by the door.
Oh, to have an ounce of Gavin’s mental fortitude. Miles was weak. He could've hung up the phone two days ago the moment he ensured Trucy’s safety, but no: he just had to drift closer, had to hear out Wright's siren song until he was left dashed upon the rocks of good will. “Fine.”
“Yay! Thank you!” Trucy clapped and gave him another hug. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back. I have to put on my Monday best.”
Off she went, like a blur. A door slammed down the hall. Wright sauntered across the wreckage and fell back into the couch. His smirk oozed out like a fox slithering into a chicken coop.
Miles huffed. “I hope you're happy with yourself.”
“I am. Thanks for asking." His shoes flopped off his feet, and he settled his folded legs on the center cushion. If Miles didn’t know better, he’d think Wright’s next words were earnest: “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Gumshoe told me you guys harassed a little old woman at the library.”
“Well, that 'little old woman' was rigging bookshelves to fall on anyone who breathed at her wrong, so.”
Wright snorted. “Yeah?”
Miles toed the folders into Trucy’s backpack. They slumped out again, dragging more papers in the avalanche. He adjusted the collar of his turtleneck and cracked his knuckles beneath his fingers.
“Um.” Wright drummed out a pattern on his knees. “How’s Germany been?”
“It’s Germany.”
The pleasantry in his voice dropped. “Alright. What is it? Do you need something?” He leaned to catch Miles’ eye, and Miles clicked his tongue and looked off to the windows. “We still have some of your weird tea. And I finally got a working kettle.” A group of birds flitted through the alleyway. One landed on the sill and jumped around. “Do you want to sit, or?”
“No,” Miles bristled.
Because at his last visit to the Agency—over a year ago, near midnight, at a nondescript “holiday party” that was just a polite way of avoiding the word “Christmas”—he sat on that couch with Wright. Franziska abandoned him as soon as it was socially acceptable, and Gavin, Gumshoe, and Maggey followed not long after. Larry disappeared to God-knew-where, and in their vain search of the office, they found Maya and the girls passed out on Trucy’s futon, piled together in ways that could only be comfortable for octopi.
Which left the two of them.
And that really should have been Miles’ cue to grab his coat, shake hands, “see you later”; except Larry had poured him too much mulled wine, and another hour of sipped water and shared stories would do Miles' BAC some good. It would be far from the first evening he and Wright spent talking each other’s ear off. Things were good between them, which was not a truth that held across their entire relationship, and regardless of whether Wright wore a badge, Miles was proud and happy to be honest friends.
Perhaps too happy, which threw some doubt on his portion of the honesty, but it wasn’t unreasonable to think the feeling went both ways. If Miles shook his hand for too long, it was only because Wright wouldn’t let go. If one of them got strangely sarcastic during a debate, it was only because the other started it. If Wright ended up on the center cushion of the couch, laughing like bells and far, far too close, it was only because Miles lured him over with a stupid article on his phone.
And if Miles kissed him, it was only because Phoenix kissed back.
They got far too into it for technically being at a party, but God help him, Miles could have ignored an earthquake with Phoenix in his lap. If years of turmoil could be solved in just minutes, he needed to make every one of them count. This was what they were always meant to be doing. Miles kept one hand raked through Phoenix’s messy hair, and when they finally parted with heavy breath, he dared to fiddle with the top button of Phoenix’s shirt for permission.
Phoenix tensed and pulled away—which was fine, of course. Miles had been too eager in asking to begin with. Then Wright left entirely, which was less fine, and told Miles he was sorry, but he thought they were better as friends, and it was pretty late, anyway, so maybe they should call it a night.
So yes. Miles would stand to wait for Trucy right now.
The bird outside pecked at the window. Its beak clanged, harsh and hollow, until it hopped back and gave up. It packed up its wings and soared away.
It didn't matter. Wright didn’t owe Miles anything; he didn’t fly across oceans to earn favors. Their relationship was meant to stay platonic. The sooner Miles could banish his ridiculous thoughts of that changing, the better things would be for everyone. It was stupid to think any good could come from trying.
“Edgeworth.” Wright settled his feet on the ground, and Miles tried not to find it endearing when the man tipped his head in concern. “Hey. Are you—?”
Clopping footsteps beat through the hall, and Trucy’s cape fluttered behind in her approach. It was a bright pastel blue—swapped from her usual red—and decorated with faux-dandelion puffs at each tip. A matching top hat teetered on her head, pulled askew by the weight of the chunky cloth flowers tucked into the band. Her dress flowed clean and pressed, and little bunny faces dangled from her ears.
“I’m ready!” She raised a corner of the cape like a wing and flapped it for Miles. “Do you like my new magic outfit? My old one got too small.”
He did his best to smile. Another good reason to ignore his delusions: Trucy hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just a child. No sense taking it out on her today. “It’s very pretty.”
“Thank you.” The corner fell to drape below her knees. “I think we made it a bit too big, though. My hat fell off a couple times at my show yesterday.”
“I told you already,” Wright said, “you’re going to grow into it.”
“Maybe by the time you’re old and grey.”
He stuck out his tongue and flicked her hat over her eyes. Trucy squealed in protest and fixed it, then yanked at his hoodie strings to return the favor. Soft laughter spilled out as Wright leaned over and let her pull his beanie down. She climbed onto his leg to knead it in and jumped off with a satisfied cheep. Wright dragged the beanie off and fixed his thick hair before smothering it in yarn once more.
Miles took a heavy breath. “Which store am I taking you to?”
Trucy rustled a folded-up map from her belt bag and pointed along a glittery trail from the Agency to a final, giant circle. “Hyper-Mart.”
Oh, dear God. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! They have literally everything there.” She foisted the map onto Miles. As if it was even possible to miss that place. “And their candy is extra cheap. Daddy says they make it out of dirt.”
Satan’s cigar ash might be more accurate. Miles sent a fruitless prayer to the ceiling. Hyper-Mart.
She pulled at his hand again. “C’mon, let’s go!”
This couldn’t be over soon enough.