Archive of Our Own ^beta

In all honesty, he truly had every reason to celebrate. Under the circumstances, it was also acceptable to believe celebrating felt inappropriate. The good tidings came with bad ones, even if the bad tidings were strictly personal and nothing more. To the public, he was no longer some awful demon prosecutor – he hoped, at the very least – and the true demons were the men he had honored for many years of his life.

It was, however, hard to honor them after the truth came to light. Knowing your former idols were nothing more than horrible men who were using you as a pawn for their games was definitely something to alter that thought.

Using him and some forged evidence to snake towards that precious guilty verdict – pah. Edgeworth would’ve loved to say he couldn’t imagine stooping so low, but the words would fall back in his lap. He was no better, really.

Granted, his knowledge of using such falsified, fake evidence had only come to light a short while ago. And that only come after he learned his father fell to Manfred’s hands, not his.

Needless to say, these past few months weren’t very easy on his being. The nightmares had stopped, and he supposed he was thankful enough for that. All the sweet dreams in the world didn’t stop the tittering of juries, of public opinion, still slinging mud at his very person. Not everyone was going to immediately think he was some sort of saint.

Reputations tend to stick for a bit, after all. Surely some people thought he was still a guilty verdict-hungry demon, willing to sink his teeth into whatever evidence would earn him the prize he sought for. He didn’t know back then, and if he did, he wouldn’t have been lied to for so long. By himself, by Manfred Von Karma, by Damon Gant. Lies grew upon each other, and eventually, they had to crash down. But he didn’t expect them to all crash so suddenly, nor at once.

Was his life truly so much of a joke? If the truth was so important to him, why did it take so long for him to realize it? He wanted to laugh at himself, but could only sputter a small noise of pity.

He sat alone in his apartment, Phoenix Wright’s invitation lingering on in his mind. That he never got to take him out and celebrate over him not killing his father – honestly, how brash could you get, wording it like that – and now for not being guilty of using dirty evidence. He had declined as politely as he could, saying he was one for celebrating in quiet solitude. It’d been such a trying few months, anyway. He could use the silence.

Phoenix frowned at him, knowing there was something else behind Edgeworth’s words, but didn’t pry anyway. It wasn’t his place to. He gave Edgeworth the name of the place they were going to be at, saying that Gumshoe was going to tag along as well. It was going to be a fun night of antics – ones they all needed.

Him, the most desperately, but his foolish pride refused to admit so. Out loud, at least. His dirty laundry was already out in the public. The court knew more about him than Edgeworth would’ve liked. He enjoyed keeping to himself, having his own guilt weigh him down. He had dealt with it fine enough for the past fifteen or so years anyway.

If “fine enough” meant closing off your emotions from your very few friends, anyway. And could he truly call them friends? It’s not like Gumshoe, Wright or even anyone else at the office were people he took off time to see outside of work, anyway. He didn’t really find the time for friendships after his father had passed away.

Even if he knew he wasn’t a murderer or liar now, beforehand, he didn’t think most people would be comfortable with befriending a man who committed patricide and used illegal means to win his court cases. Most secrets people kept from others were usually silly or weird, like they had a weird phobia of clowns, or they cheated on a math test when they were little.

He figured his secrets were graver than that, truth or not.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes focused on nothing in particular. He was used to the loneliness ever since he was young. It felt less comforting now, for some reason, and Edgeworth didn’t want to indulge in the reasons why. The more left unsaid, the better. He didn’t want to think.

He’d half a mind to swallow his pride and call Phoenix, asking if they had a spare table – room for one more, however he wanted to word it. But he knew Phoenix would gave him those same damn concerned looks he received in court.

The same damn looks of sorrow and worry that greeted him upon the witness stand. The damn look of worry when he argued that he was the hand who took his father’s life. The damn look of concern when Manfred had been announced guilty, the same looks months later when Gant’s lies were breathed into the same damn courtroom.

Edgeworth was beginning to think of that courtroom with disdain. It was supposed to be a place of a law, not somewhere for his personal traumas to be displayed out like objects in a store window. It had gotten his innocence, but it twisted and turned his stomach into knots knowing how many people knew.

With something of a sigh exiting his lips, Edgeworth slowly got up and headed over to his kitchen, taking out a small drinking glass. Shortly after that, a bottle of scotch was procured from a cabinet. This wasn’t the best way to deal with how he felt, but his brain was slowly going into overdrive. For once, he didn’t want to think. His mind wasn’t going to turn off anytime soon, especially with his phone so close, hovering over a certain spiky-haired attorney’s name.

He returned to his chair, filling the glass up to half before taking a swig. Scotch wasn’t something to knock back so recklessly, he thought as his throat burned. He coughed, keeping note to sip more slowly as he lamented.

What made him so worthy of such pity, anyway? Why did Wright care so much? Sure, the excuse of childhood friends could work, but why did he insist on defending him? Did he truly mean so much to him? And why?

What made him, Miles Edgeworth, so precious to Phoenix Wright?

Was it really because of some classroom trial? Was it because of Wright’s ever constant search for the truth? Did those two factors make the case that important?

He wasn’t sure what to think next, and before he knew it, the glass was being refilled.

Wanting to distract his mind from Wright, his mind trickled back to the whispers of the courtroom.

He wasn’t deaf. He had heard the others gossip during the trial. Even the daftest of people would’ve picked up on it.

He could only stand there like a hapless fool, unable to reply. It wasn’t proper for the defendant to really lash out, anyway—even if he was being subjected to slander. And there was that look of sadness once again, coming from the defense’s bench.

Funny. He wasn’t trying to think of those eyes.

The glass was refilled once more.

The light fuzziness that swirled around in his head felt more than welcome. He hoped the fuzziness would drown out all of this nonsense, and he’d be able to sleep without unwelcome thoughts. Granted, sleep never came easy either way. Nightmares tended to steal those peaceful nights away from him. It felt horribly sad to admit it to himself, but Edgeworth honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had a peaceful night’s rest.

Perhaps he was as pitiful as the others saw him.

His eyes drifted over to the phone once more. Upon the screen lighting up, the same certain attorney’s name was still highlighted.

He was hardly drunk enough to even consider calling Wright. What would he do, anyway? Shoot another look of pity at him? Go take away the slowly emptying bottle of scotch and give him so water and scoot him off to bed? Give him some sort of ‘I’m always here for you if you want to talk’ sort of speech?

God. The last thing he needed was to lay out even more of his emotions in front of Wright. He’d rather drink himself silly before allowing another sob story to surface itself.

Some voice, not muddled by the alcohol, told him he did want to call Wright. That it was better to accept his sorry self, put down the glass, and ask for help.

It’d been so many years, and he finally had someone who would drop everything and help. Why was he wanting to reject it? Was it pride, or something else?

His confidence faltered, and he polished off the remnants of the glass before hitting the call button.

The ringing felt like it lasted for ages before he got a too-cheery greeting from Phoenix.

“Hey, so you called! Do you still need the address?”

“…W…wright,” Edgeworth realized how muddy his words sounded. “I could… use your company, if you’d humor me.”

He wasn’t there to see it, but he knew that Phoenix’s expression changed too fast, and excused himself from the table he was sitting at. The loud noise of the restaurant faded as Phoenix darted to the outdoors.

“Edgeworth? Are you alright?” Phoenix paused for a while. “Have, uh, you been drinking?” He never imagined Edgeworth as one for liquor, and definitely not one to drink alone.

“Truly nothing slips by you,” Edgeworth didn’t know where he was going with this. He wasn’t even sure why he called. “But yes, you can say I’ve had a few.”

Flabbergasted, Phoenix sputtered into his phone, getting an odd look from some passerbys. What on earth was Edgeworth doing? If he were to expect any of his friends giving him a drunken phone call out of nowhere, Larry was much, much higher on that list than Edgeworth.

“Uh, you said you wanted me over?” Phoenix felt a bit bad having to leave everyone so suddenly, but they’d understand. “I can come over. Just tell me where to go.”

There it was again, that same self-sacrificial nature that Phoenix loved to throw around so much. He was willing to cut his little fun night out to just make sure Edgeworth was okay.

Regardless, Edgeworth mumbled out the location of his apartment. Phoenix heard the scraping of a glass on a table. He told Edgeworth he’d be there soon, and after offering hasty apologies and an explanation to everyone else, he was on his way.

-

Edgeworth wasn’t a man who spoke often of his troubles – Phoenix knew that. He couldn’t imagine what on earth would happen the moment he entered Edgeworth’s apartment, but he’d brace himself for anything. He was here to help a friend.

Double checking the number, he knocked on the door, hoping Edgeworth had not drank himself sick. Time felt like it stood still until he heard footsteps approach him, the sounds of locks being turned as the door slowly opened.

Phoenix entered without a word, shutting the door and escorting Edgeworth to the couch, away from the bottle of scotch that sat on the kitchen table. Phoenix didn’t know how much the bottle held before, but he knew that more than enough had found its way into the glass that resided next to it.

“Edgeworth…” Phoenix didn’t know where to start. He had so many things he wanted to ask. After some brief contemplation, he figured the obvious would be the best start. “Why… why are you locked up in your apartment, drinking alone?”

How was he supposed to answer that? Edgeworth’s gaze didn’t meet Phoenix’s – he didn’t need those same, worried eyes to meet his.

“When you said you wanted to be alone, I figured it’d be okay, considering what you’d been through, but…” Phoenix stopped mid-sentence, going to get him a glass of water. “This honestly isn’t what I imagined.”

Edgeworth could’ve laughed, if he didn’t feel so miserable. Just as he predicted, here was Wright, giving him a glass of water. He expected to be carried to bed shortly after. It’d fit all too well.

“Guess being alone with my thoughts proved a terrible idea,” Edgeworth didn’t take a sip of water. He stared into the glass miserably instead, thinking that’d do him better. “Then again, it’s not like I’ve made the best decisions in my life anyway.”

The trial.

“Edgeworth, you know as much as I, and the entire state, that you weren’t guilty of anything, and never were,” Phoenix wanted to reach out, but Edgeworth wasn’t a person for physical contact.

“Of course you’d say that. You defended me.” Edgeworth wished he still had the scotch. It’d be easier that way. “But the falsified evidence. You… you can’t defend that.”

“I can. Because you didn’t know. And you were appalled.” Phoenix made a small gesture towards the water, wishing Edgeworth would take a damn sip already. “That’s not who you are, Edgeworth. You aren’t some demon prosecutor.”

“Really? So many people seemed to say otherwise.” Edgeworth scoffed. Wanting that look to leave Phoenix’s face, he took a small sip of water.

Not that’d it do much to counter four glasses worth of scotch.

“They didn’t know any better, Edgeworth… and once the truth was revealed, all of that went to Gant, not you. Everyone here knows that he, and Manfred were at fault for all of that. It was never yours,” Phoenix hesitated slightly before the next part, “and I knew that.”

He finally looked up at Phoenix, and couldn’t read the expression on his face. Maybe it was because of the alcohol, or that it was hard to place the emotion Wright was feeling.

“I know that you being innocent won’t magically erase all of that hurt, but… sitting here alone won’t help, either. That’s why I invited you out. I thought having a night of fun would help,” Phoenix felt a pang of hurt at Edgeworth’s expression. He’d seen that familiar sadness before. “I just don’t think I could’ve left you alone after that.”

‘I don’t deserve this.’

‘But, why did you call him in the first place?’

“Whatever you think of yourself, and whatever those people said in the courtroom… I know you’re a good person. At least, I believe it to be true. In the end, you knew what mattered most was the truth. You’re still a good friend to me, Edgeworth.” Despite his earlier hesitation, he laid a hand on Edgeworth’s shoulder. When Edgeworth didn’t flinch away, Phoenix scooted closer and let that hand rub his back.

When Edgeworth started trembling, Phoenix drew his hand back in worry, wondering if he had upset him even further. “I-I’m sorry, I just…”

His words hit a screeching halt when the faintest of sniffles filled the short space between them.

“…Miles?” Phoenix couldn’t stop himself from getting personal. This wasn’t related to the case anymore. This went past court regulations and formalities. At the moment, they weren’t a defense attorney and a prosecutor – this was a moment between two friends, two old friends who had more than a little catching up to do.

Edgeworth didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t imagined, out of nowhere, his emotions would get the better of him. He didn’t enjoy being so vulnerable, so open. He wasn’t sure when the tears began. All he was aware of was Phoenix’s arms around him so suddenly, and that being left alone with his thoughts was much too dangerous.

“H-hey, it’s okay. I’m here, okay?” Phoenix spoke in a low whisper, continuing to rub Edgeworth’s back. Tears weren’t something he thought would happen tonight, nonetheless from Edgeworth. But that really didn’t matter how, helping him mattered.

He felt Edgeworth nod weakly into his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his jacket tightly. There wasn’t much words would do at the moment. Wright knew everything, anyway. It’d just be repeating old information.

Part of him wanted to be glad of Phoenix’s help, and another part regretted dialing his number. Edgeworth wasn’t sure which part he wanted to side with. Phoenix had already seen him in such a pathetic state.

Now, it just felt worse.

Phoenix let Edgeworth sob into his shoulder until the tears had ceased. Words weren’t spoken, but neither man found them necessary. Phoenix knew there wasn’t much to say, and Edgeworth had said enough.

Phoenix brought him another glass of water, along with some tissues. He suggested after some more water and drying his eyes, he should head off to bed and rest. He offered Edgeworth to call him whenever he needed – and that he’d leave him a message later on tomorrow, after he had slept. He said his help was merely a phone call away, no matter the hour. It’s what friends were for.

He wasn’t sure of the time that he finally was left alone. He was less sure of the time once he slipped into bed, finally succumbing to a somewhat dreamless rest.

-
‘Miles Edgeworth chooses death.’

What was he supposed to think of this?

He had only seen Edgeworth a few days ago. He figured the lack of contact meant Edgeworth still needed time to himself. Nothing more. Not this.

He’d harangued Gumshoe enough for having zero idea of what it meant, or when it was made. All he knew was that Edgeworth had vanished mysteriously.

No body. No nothing. Searches yielded no results. Gumshoe wanted to propose other possibilities than suicide, of course, and maybe Edgeworth had gone to some “soul-searching” after the recent cases he’d gone through.

“Soul-searching” didn’t seem an appropriate guess, given the wording, but Phoenix humored his guess anyway.

All he wanted to do was help. To show Edgeworth that he cared, that not everyone was out to use him as a pawn. That he was still a friend. What was the point of calling him over that night? Some last words of self-hate and nothing more? Or to rub salt in the wounds, and that despite all his efforts, Phoenix’s help was for naught?

Phoenix gave a sigh laced with anger and hurt, crumpled up the note, and exited the empty office.