Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Phoenix is thirteen, Sister Mary lines up all the kids at Saint Philomena’s Home for Boys from youngest to oldest the way they always do, when someone’s coming by to check out the goods. He’s not particularly worried or anxious or even interested, really. When he had been younger and further up the line, it had been hell every time. He would sweat and shake and wonder, after, what exactly it was that had made every new parent set slide their eyes right past him and on to better things. Heck, even Larry got adopted first, the Butz couple taken by his cheeky grin and skinned knees when he was seven. It’s not like Phoenix was jonesing to be a Butz; he just kind of wanted to be anything, at that point.

Still, Larry’s family lived close and they went to the same school and they were still friends. The lowest point, really, had come when Phoenix was nine. He was only a week away from his tenth birthday, and everyone knew that after ten, nobody wants you. Ten’s practically grown up, so far as these things go. When the envelope of money went missing, everyone looked his way. He had means and opportunity; his motive was that he was an orphan and shabby and poor and so of course he’d take it. The teacher even looked sympathetic as she scolded him, and he’d cried with shame and the unfairness of it all.

And then: Miles.

After that, things were better- good- great.

So what if Phoenix wasn’t getting adopted? He has people right here and right now. He’s good with the younger kids and always willing to help out, so the sisters let him run and play and stay with his friends whose parents are kind in a way that’s a little bit pity but enough like genuine affection that Phoenix can latch on whole heartedly. He likes to draw and to act out stories and win card games, but he knows that kind of stuff doesn’t pay the bills. He’s got time to figure it all out, though- he’ll age out at eighteen and then he can go anywhere. He already knows he’s going with Miles. One of these days he’ll even tell him.

So Phoenix lines up toward the back with the older kids, wondering what’s for dinner later and hoping it’s spaghetti when the shadow falls over him. The man is very stern and very rich; Phoenix doesn’t have to be a genius to see how fancy his shoes are. Whatever kid this guy picks is going to be something, whether they like it or not.

“If, when making a purchase at a store, you are given too much change back, what would you do?” The man asks him.

“Uh. Give it back?” Phoenix says cautiously. It seems like a pretty obvious question.

“Why?” The man asks.

“Because…” Phoenix’s brow knits in thought. “If there’s less money at the end, the cashier will get in trouble. They might even get fired.”

The man nods. “And what if I were to say that in this scenario, the cashier would face no penalty. The loss would, in fact, go completely undetected. It would be a victimless crime. Would your answer change?”

Phoenix shakes his head. “I would give it back,” he says stubbornly. “It isn’t mine. It’s wrong.”

“Even without the strength of the law to back it? What a righteous young man you are,” the man says disdainfully, already moving further down the line. And that’s… rude. Phoenix doesn’t like that, and he doesn’t like the idea of any of them going with this rude guy who thinks doing the right thing is for dumb kids.

“Laws aren’t always right or wrong,” Phoenix says hotly, stepping out of line. “They just are.”

The man pauses, then retraces his steps. “Elaborate,” he requests.

“People have laws because we need them. They’re guidelines for a better world, but you can be an awful person and still follow the law. It’s how we use them, and how we look at things in court that matters.”

“By choosing what to prosecute, you mean.”

“And what to defend,” he adds, nodding.

The man makes a dismissive sound. “It’s rare to find a child who understands the concept of legal positivism, albeit crudely. Do you want to enter the profession, then?”

Phoenix shakes his head. He doesn’t want to tell this jerk about the class trial; it’s a precious, important memory. There’s no way somebody like this could understand. “My best friend is going to be a lawyer,” he says instead, and seals his fate without knowing it yet.

“Oh? Is that child here as well?” The man flicks his eyes further up the line at the older kids with mild interest.

“No,” Phoenix says. “Miles lives with his Dad. He’s a lawyer too.”

“What is his name? I’m rather well known in the field, perhaps we have met.”

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix tells him.

The man’s face goes queerly still, mouth drawing very tight into a line. Then his eyes brighten, a single, searing, mad look. Through the talks after, about patronage and opportunity Phoenix never forgets that look. They say Manfred Von Karma is taking him in because he’s a smart, sweet, hardworking boy, but Phoenix knows better. He just doesn’t know why.

“I’ll go,” Phoenix says, which is cute. It’s not like he has a choice, but it makes him feel better to say it like he does. “But if I’m going to another country, you gotta let me write. I’ll write one now to explain, and then I’ll write while I’m over there. I’m gonna write lots, but you’re rich so you can buy the stamps. Okay?”

The Sisters and Von Karma exchange an amused, indulgent look.

“Certainly,” Von Karma says. “I have business at the courthouse, if you write it now, I shall deliver it to Gregory Edgeworth personally this afternoon. We will fly out in the morning.”

Phoenix hurries off to use his special Signal Samurai writing paper, the set he got from Miles for Christmas two years ago and never uses because it’s too cool to waste on anything not important. He pours his heart out while Von Karma fills out paperwork, and stuffs four sheets of affection and promises to write and then meet again someday into the envelope clumsily.

He also pens a letter to Larry, but this one is less important. Larry won’t mind, and Phoenix only has so much time, anyway. He scribbles it off on the same nice paper because that is something Larry would get bothered about, and then gives it to one of the other big kids to hand off at school tomorrow. Usually this would be resentfully done, if at all, but no one seems jealous of Phoenix. Rich or no, Phoenix isn’t getting taken in because the man likes him and no one seems too eager to switch places. Still, it’s no big deal if it gets lost along the way- Miles can fill him in when he gets the real explanation. Larry was a Philomena kid once upon a time, so he’ll get it.

The first few months are hard. Phoenix doesn’t speak the language, the clothes are strange, and speck isn’t bacon, no matter what they say. He’s good at studying, though, because law is interesting and it reminds him of Miles and of home. His letters are full of rambling thoughts on this law and that regulation, and should it be applied like this or like that? He feels very important and grown up, being able to talk about these things with Miles for once instead of just smiling and nodding along whenever they talked about legal stuff in America.

It takes him a while to realize that Miles isn’t writing back.

First he thinks it’s the post. He was on that plane for hours and hours, who knows how long it takes letters to get where they need to go. And then, of course, Miles always takes his time with projects and homework, trying over and over to get it just right. This is probably just origami all over again, and soon Phoenix is going to get a whole telephone book’s worth of words and it’ll be great.

It’s starting to occur to him that maybe… maybe it’s more than just that, when he wins five rounds straight in Uno against Franziska Von Karma.

Usually he’s better about this kind of thing. He knows from Philomena’s that the littlest kids don’t like losing at all; there was no way Phoenix could wipe the floor with a spoiled princess like Franziska and get away with it. He just hadn’t known her mother was a witch.

A quarter witch, he’s told later. Most of the old line were, in Germany. The point is, when little Franziska points her tiny toy riding crop at him and hisses if you like winning so much, just keep on winning like the dog you are Phoenix doesn’t get that he’s been cursed. Not till he’s only half paying attention in a game of tic-tac-toe before dinner and finds himself suddenly very small and confused and fluffy, paws tangled in his own dark blue suit coat.

“Oh!” Franziska says, more delighted than he has ever heard her about anything he’s done. Then she picks him up and carries him to show her father.

It’s like this:

If Phoenix Wright loses at something, he turns into a dog. The dog varies in breed and size, as does the duration. It probably has something to do with how embarrassed he is at losing, and whether or not it was important, and how badly he wants to have thumbs again. He’s expecting Professor Von Karma to hit the roof, but he takes it surprisingly well.

“My daughter has a talent,” he says indulgently, chucking the girl under the chin as she preens. “Though it is an unfortunate malady. You know what must be done.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, then corrects himself quickly. “I mean, yes, professor.”

And so Phoenix stops losing.

At anything.

~~

Phoenix writes Miles for years. At first he tells himself he’ll only do it until the Signal Samurai stationary runs out, but then Franziska begins buying him very nice sets with her pocket money for his birthdays because she’s noticed him writing all the time. It seems rude not to use it. They get along pretty okay, more so now that she’s cursed him. For her birthday each year, he lets her win one game of her choosing and push dog-him around the estate in a baby carriage. It seems like a pretty small price to pay for peace.

Sometimes the letters are just a tired jumble of whatever he’s studying. He works through tricky legal terms and case reenactments and talks his way through question and answer sessions and sends them off, wondering if Miles is ever hung up on things like this, or if his brains and early start at home with his lawyer dad meant he was above this kind of thing now. Maybe that was why he didn’t write, maybe Phoenix’s stumbling attempts at analytical jurisprudence are just embarrassing to look at. Maybe Phoenix is too stupid.

For a while, after that, Phoenix only sends drawings, and quotes from movies or plays. Professor Von Karma encourages his interest in the arts, but only as a patron. He draws Franziska in the garden in pastels, having a tea party with her Steiff teddy bears. He does a miniature watercolor of his bedroom, rich but somehow empty. He shyly sketches his own face with graphite in front of the mirror. Phoenix sends Miles ticket stubs for The Tempest when he is fifteen, pasted to card stock on which he writes a piece from the ending monologue:

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you.

It’s romantic, because everything at fifteen is romantic. He likes the idea of being held captive by his audience, the boy receiving his letters across the sea. It sounds nicer than admitting that he can’t stand his stuck up school and the stuck up kids there and the stuck up professors who credit being the Von Karma ward with every accomplishment rather than give one minute of thought to Phoenix himself as a person. He misses Miles in a lot of ways.

When these, too, elicit no response, Phoenix is seventeen and as miserable as that implies. I hate it here, he writes, feeling raw. I wish I was home, but I guess home doesn’t want me either. The Sisters have plenty of kids and you won’t even write me back. Couldn’t you spare me one sentence, one time? A postcard? Here, I’ll pay you for your time. And he encloses fifty cents, a pale imitation of the way that post-trial, he couldn’t stop crying all those years ago.

“They hate me,” he had sobbed. “It’ll happen again, next time something goes wrong.”

“And I’ll defend you then too,” Miles promised, even though they weren’t even friends yet. “You can keep me on retainer.”

“What’s that?” Phoenix asked, forgetting to keep crying.

“You pay a small sum of money and then I’m your lawyer forever. Whenever you need me, I’ll be ready to take the case,” Miles said.

“Oh, um.” Phoenix had reached into his pocket and dug deep. “How’s fifty cents?” he asked.

“Perfect,” Miles had said.

Phoenix’s strength is in his bluff. He has good instincts and a solid foundation in law, but he feels things about people. He can tell the right direction even when the evidence is piecemeal. It drives Professor Von Karma up the wall.

“This is not how you win cases!” He bellows, throwing the transcript from the latest mock trial across the room in a flurry of papers. Phoenix does not flinch or startle, even when one slices a thin, shallow cut over his cheekbone.

“I did win that case, though. Sir.”

“One day you won’t,” Professor Von Karma says darkly. “And woe betide you that day.”

Phoenix thinks privately that it won’t much matter. He’ll be a dog. You can’t yell at dogs the same way you yell at people. It isn’t nice, but it doesn’t mean quite the same thing.

Phoenix finds out about Miles Edgeworth, novice attorney, flipping through the international papers. Phoenix passed the staatsman and is a full fledged prosecutor, but at twenty he is still a rookie and his cases are petty and obvious. This, though- Miles is a real lawyer. His work getting Valerie Hawthorne acquitted is just masterful. Phoenix writes his congratulations and addresses the letter to Miles Edgeworth’s law office. Maybe he’d moved, at some point, Maybe those childhood letters were simply recipients unknown somewhere. Now, with the law office business address neatly printed in tintype, perhaps Phoenix will hear from him.

(He does not).

“I’m ready to take a real case. An American case,” Phoenix tells Professor Von Karma. He has a perfect record, but overseas and for lesser infractions. He’s bluffing, of course- he knows that his mentor will berate him for not knowing his place.

“Perhaps you are right,” he says, and for the first time Phoenix knows how powerful his bluff can be. Years of pretending he was smart enough, strong enough, good enough and now he can even fool the Professor.

And so Phoenix Von Karma makes his American debut at twenty one, and wins his cases handily. Unorthodox, they say. He seems to be making claims out of thin air, and yet every time he is pressed for proof, somehow he produces it. Forgeries, people whisper. Dirty dealings and backroom negotiations. Absolutely not. He is a Von Karma, he leads investigations and he uncovers the truth. He keeps that perfect record for three more years. He writes Miles three times in those three years: once to announce his arrival back in LA; once to clumsily offer congratulations after the Penny Nichols acquittal and invite Miles for a celebration drink; and once to apologize, after the chief prosecutor will not let him recuse himself from State v. Butz.

It’s unprofessional not to mention gut-wrenching, having to prosecute your childhood friend being defended by your other childhood friend, but Chief Prosecutor Neil Marshall said it did not warrant conflict of interest and thus Phoenix’s hands were tied.

It’s terrible because Phoenix wants so badly to see them again, in person, face to face. It’s terrible because he’s looked over the case, and Larry is going to lose.

How could that rough and tumble kid have turned out to be such a desperate loser in love? Maybe Phoenix can figure out a way to spin the argument to fit into self defense or manslaughter. He’ll talk to them before the court date. Accidentally killing his girlfriend Iris’ ex-boyfriend with a downed electrical wire during a fist fight is still a crime, and Phoenix has a job to do.

He calls, this time. Mia Fey, of Edgeworth, Fey and Edgeworth answers. She listens to him politely before penciling him in for a three fifteen.

Miles Edgeworth and Larry Butz are waiting in the shabby little office when Mia Fey walks him back. They’re standing, holding a frantic, low voiced conversation as he approaches-

“Don’t lose your head, Edgey, remember he’s the enemy!”

“It isn’t like that, both sides are just working toward the truth, this is Phoenix, he wouldn’t-”

Phoenix clears his throat uncomfortably. They stop and turn and stare.

“Hey, buddy. Long time no see,” Larry says with a too-bright grin. “I like the neck, uh, thing.”

Phoenix almost reaches up to touch the jabot at his throat, then remembers himself, squaring his shoulders. Larry looks… pretty much exactly how Phoenix had pictured him, actually. His clothes are loud and he’s tall and gangling with a hairstyle and goatee that he probably thinks makes him look daring and cool but actually comes off a little sleazy.

Miles looks great. Tired, sure, and he’s got glasses now, but he grew up nice. His suit jacket is sort of red wine colored, with a grey waistcoat and black trousers. Miles is wearing a red bowtie just like he remembered and Phoenix coughs into his black gloved hand briefly in order to hide a smile. This is a formal occasion, no time for something like that.

“I won’t waste time. The trial is tomorrow.” Phoenix says, busying himself by opening his briefcase on the table and withdrawing the slim manilla envelope. “If I’m getting these filed before that, you need to fill them out now.”

“Oh wow, you were right,” Larry says, shocked. “He is the same old Phoenix, huh?” But even as the defendant sings his praises, Miles Edgeworth’s handsome face grows dark and stormy as his eyes skim the pages.

He throws them back into Phoenix’s suitcase with emphasis. “No deal,” he snaps. “My client is innocent.”

“Deal?”

“He wants you to plea bargain for a lesser sentence. He wants you to plead guilty.”

Larry gasps, hands over his heart. Phoenix stands frozen, hands at his sides clenching into helpless fists.

“How could you think Larry would be capable of this? Did you forget after all your time away? I don’t understand.” Miles shakes his head and has the nerve to look sorry. “I thought you were going to be an artist, not someone with so little faith in the system that he’d try to force a verdict before the trial even begins!”

Phoenix flinches, stung. It hadn’t been like that at all. The terms on the paper were more than generous- much more than if Larry is found guilty in court, with the mandatory minimum sentencing in place. He had been trying to help, and Miles is flinging it back in his face. Phoenix’s face burns with humiliation. How dare Miles try to behave like this- to bring up the past like he wasn’t the one ignoring it for the past ten years!

Phoenix forces himself to relax. He lowers his shoulders and smiles, the same easy smile he always wears in court. It says trust me. It says I know, I understand. Miles eyes him uneasily.

“My bad,” Phoenix shrugs. “I thought I’d try to save you a little humiliation in a public trial, that’s all.” He clicks the suitcase shut again.

“What does that mean?” Miles demands.

“It means that I win my cases,” Phoenix says.

“Even if the person on trial is innocent?”

Phoenix shakes his head. “You can’t know that. You have to look at the evidence.” Phoenix taps the suitcase. “Have you looked at the evidence, Edgeworth?” The use of his last name makes Miles flinch. Well, good. “Prosecutors rely on that kind of thing. Not the defense so much, I guess. I’d love to have the luxury of looking at someone and just knowing. You must be a very talented, lucky person now.”

Miles flushes.

“Nick, come on! It’s me, I didn’t kill anybody,” Larry says, starting to blubber while Miles awkwardly pats him on the arm. Phoenix stares at them with distaste. To think he’d wasted all his time on this.

“I don’t even know you,” he says coldly. “See you in court.”

~~

Phoenix loses the case.

~~

He is cold and then he is hot, sweating and shivering worse than when he was in line at St. Philomena’s, waiting to get rejected. Across the room at the bench, Miles and Larry are all smiles and celebration. They’ve vanquished the great evil, Phoenix Von Karma. Phoenix thinks he’s going to be sick. He wonders if it will happen before or after he’s a dog.

Miles straightens and looks over, catching his eye. That smile fades, the eyes go dark. Disappointment, probably. Heck, he can get in line. Might as well head to the back, Phoenix is aware of how much of a disappointment Miles Edgeworth had thought Phoenix was from the start.

There’s a hard squeeze at the inside of his elbow and Phoenix winces even as he stands up straight.

“Do not embarrass yourself any further,” Professor Von Karma hisses into his ear, using the bruising grip to keep Phoenix upright. “You will hold the transformation until in private, or so help me god...”

Phoenix is too overcome to speak so he simply nods sharply once and allows Professor Von Karma to begin steering him out of the courtroom. There is a voice that calls his name once, but he has to keep moving forward with those stumbling steps and try to remember what it is like to have five toes all at the same time. His shoes are loose by the time they reach the elevators; Phoenix barely makes it to the car before he turns.

Chapter Text

After the Butz trial, Phoenix is a dog for two weeks. It is the worst two weeks of his life. Professor Von Karma rents the presidential suite of a high class hotel. He clears out a closet, and he shuts Phoenix inside.

“Every day you make noise is a day you will go without eating,” he tells Phoenix with careful enunciation.

After the second day, Phoenix does not make that mistake again. Not a whimper or whine or bark leaves him; he is permitted out twice a day for five minutes to do his business, and then it is back into the closet with him. The lights are kept off, and there is only the barest hint of light and fresh air at the bottom of the door that Phoenix presses his nose against desperately. Professor Von Karma notices by day five, and a rolled up towel is placed so as to block it for the rest of the duration.

Phoenix’s whole life is darkness and cold marble flooring and tiny walls that press in. He hadn’t enjoyed losing, even though he was glad that it meant Larry was innocent and free. He wouldn’t have enjoyed winning, even if Larry were guilty. It all seems terribly unfair. He eats what he is given when he is allowed, cold slop dog food licked from the bare floor while Professor Von Karma watches from above and tells him, coolly and calmly, why he’s a disgrace.

“I should have left you in that orphanage,” he says. “But I felt sorry for you. You didn’t even know then how little you were worth, how little you were wanted. They would have abandoned you anyway, you see that now? You’re not like them, and you’re not worthy of the Von Karma name. What even are you? To anyone?”

a dog

Just a dog.

“Remember,” he tells Phoenix. “This is what you are, and that is what they are. Creatures like the Edgeworths will only debase you to their level. You will never let that boy do this to you again.”

God, no, he won’t. He swears it in whimpers and whines. Von Karma pushes him back into the dark anyway.

The last day, Professor Von Karma opens the closet and throws in a pile of clothes. “Come out when you can dress yourself,” he snaps, closing the door again. It takes Phoenix the better part of three hours, but he manages to remember how to have hands. By the time he steps out, he is calm, with a vague, pleasant expression and blood pooling inside his mouth where he’s bitten himself harshly trying to regain composure. Professor Von Karma glances over him before nodding, approvingly. Then he opens the door and lets Phoenix leave.

Phoenix walks out of the hotel. He takes a taxi back to his home and bathes. He eats dinner at the table with a fork and knife. He goes to his bedroom when he is tired and turns out the light. After the second screaming nightmare, he does not make that mistake again. He buys a night light and tries not to feel like even more of a failure than before.

His next few cases shy away from murder. Phoenix busts up a smuggling ring, traps an art forger who was using his daughter to create exact copies of famous works. Then Professor Von Karma calls him into his office and offers him a case. Chief Prosecutor Marshall might technically be in charge, but everyone knows who has final say.

It is a test. Phoenix is good at those, so he takes the file.

Professor Von Karma is strangely subdued. “I had not thought it would turn out like this,” he murmurs, looking out the window and away from Phoenix. “I wonder if it is better or worse this way.”

~~

The fight that happens in the courthouse lobby between Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Von Karma is absolutely brutal. It is the most upset that Phoenix has ever been with another person, and the feeling seems mutual. How how how on earth can Miles defend the woman accused of killing his own father? Mia Fey had motive, means and opportunity. It made sense, and when laid out properly, the evidence supported the prosecution’s timeline. To challenge his logic because of some misplaced belief is completely idiotic. Miles can’t be this naive!

“How can you do this to your father’s legacy?” Phoenix demands. “How can you stand there and defend his killer? Is that how little all this means to you?”

“Don’t you talk about my father that way,” Miles spits back. “You don’t know the first thing about loyalty, Phoenix Wright!”

His old name is like a slap in the face; as little as Miles respects the Von Karma name, it seems that he respects Phoenix even less. Professor Von Karma was right; Phoenix was never going to be anything more than a pitiable orphan boy to these people. Fine. Expecting friendship from this man made him a fool. Phoenix will settle for respect, and he’ll earn it by crushing them under the weight of the truth.

It’s just that… as the case carries on, Phoenix starts to doubt. A little bit. Maybe.

Was it Mia Fey? It’s seeming less and less likely. And when Chief Prosecutor Marshall hands down the indictment for Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix stares at the paper for twenty minutes, wondering if he’s simply forgotten how to read. It’s impossible that the man would commit such a crime- any crime, really, besides the absolutely illegal way he manages to drive Phoenix up the wall. Miles would never hurt his own father, and so the evidence is flawed. What a stupid, sentimental reasoning, but there it is: it is the truth. Now Phoenix must find a way to prove it.

“Objection!” Phoenix shouts when April May flutters her eyelashes at the judge who raises his gavel to deliver a favorable verdict.

“On what grounds?” The judge asks.

“Oh, er… I was hoping to come up with something while I was objecting,” Phoenix admits, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily. Across the room, Miles stares and Mia Fey lays a hand on his arm. They rally. Phoenix pretends not to notice. “What I meant to say was… the prosecution would like clarification as to what the layout of the Edgeworth, Fey and Edgeworth law offices looked like from the position of the Gatewater hotel…”

By the time the verdict is to be reached, Phoenix knows that he has lost. He has allowed himself to lose, but losing was correct. Still, he can’t bear the idea of being caught again. Professor Von Karma is out of the country, but he might swoop in any moment if he gets wind of what happened. If Phoenix goes back into that closet, he’ll howl the moon down and probably starve to death for it. No, Phoenix will have to take his chances and try to make it home. Hopefully there’s enough food in his lower cabinets to last till he can remember knees again. He practically runs from the courthouse the moment the gavel clacks, rushing upstairs to his office and barely managing to close the door before getting snarled in his jabot. He’s just shaking paws free of his socks when a knock sounds at the door.

“Prosecutor Von Karma?” Miles asks, voice quiet and a little guilty. “I was hoping to speak with you before you left the courthouse…”

Shit.

Phoenix grabs his clothing in his mouth and hides it between the couch and the filing cabinet, but that is all he has time for. His shoes and keys are still on the floor. Hastily he scoops up the keys in his mouth just as the door swings open.

“Oh,” Miles says, pleasantly surprised. “Hello. Who are you?”

It just figures the nicest Miles has been to him since they were thirteen is when he’s a dog.

Phoenix wags his tail anyway. It’s Miles.

Miles frowns down at the shoes, but then nudges them to the wall neatly, clearly under the impression that Phoenix simply has office shoes and not-office shoes. Do people do that?

“Just you, then?” Miles squats down and offers his palm. He smells nice, a little sweaty and bookishly dusty, with breath like cheap tea. Phoenix lets Miles rub behind his ears and along his jaw. He’s a dog person, Phoenix realizes with a hazy sort of happiness, because Miles knows exactly the right way to pet him. Miles rubs his throat and, coaxed into relaxation, Phoenix swallows.

“What was that?” Miles asks suspiciously. Phoenix gags. The keys have gone down the hatch. He can breathe, thank god, but he can feel them lodged further down, uncomfortable and pokey in his soft throat.

“Let me see, please,” Miles orders, squeezing firmly until Phoenix obediently opens his mouth and lets Miles look. Miles curses.

“I don’t know who you belong to, but you need a vet.” He says firmly. “Let’s go, then. Don’t run off.”

Phoenix dutifully follows Miles out of the office. He could make a break for it now, but those keys need out and he doesn’t want to think about what might happen if he shifts while they’re still in place. Nothing good, he’s sure.

“Hey there, friend!” Detective Byrde grins at Miles in the hall before doing a double take at Phoenix. “Whoa, where did you get one of those? Is there a free puppies at the courthouse day going on or something?”

“Er… no,” Miles says mildly.

“Ah well. They’d probably run out as soon as I got there anyway, knowing my luck.” Detective Byrde sighs.

“This isn’t, ah… Prosecutor Von Karma’s dog, then?” Miles presses. “I found the dog in his office.”

Byrde’s eyes go wide. “Oh no, he’s in Germany this week.”

Miles shakes his head. “No, I meant… ah…”

“Oh, Phoenix. He doesn’t stand on titles, friend. Real good guy to work with. I don’t think he has a dog, though. Between you and me, I don’t think he has much of a life at all. Like he’s always real generous with evaluations and stuff, but if you try asking him what he did over the weekend he gets all stiff and weird. He’s like a really sad, nice robot who has never done anything human, like eat a hamburger or go to the circus.”

“Phoenix has eaten hamburgers,” Miles snaps, displeased. “And he went to the circus when he was twelve. He liked the tiger bit.”

“O-oh.” Detective Byrde looks embarrassed. “That’s what I get for running my mouth about stuff I don’t know. Sorry ‘bout that. I guess you know a lot about him, growing up together.”

“No,” Miles says softly, suddenly sad. “I don’t know anything.” He slides from feeling to feeling in a way that Phoenix can’t follow. It’s not openness, per se- not so much as the ability to accept the messiness of the human spectrum instead of shoving his three feet deep like Phoenix always has to. It’s all very insightful, but also his car fob is pressing a little bit into his larynx.

Phoenix gives a tiny cough, as a polite reminder.

“Detective, do you have access to a squad car? This dog has managed to swallow some kind of metallic object and I’m worried for his safety.” Miles kneels down to stroke Phoenix’s nose reassuringly.

“Oh my gosh! Well, what are we standing around here for? One puppy rescue, coming right up!” Detective Byrde fist pumps rather enthusiastically and Phoenix allows himself to be led outside.

After a trip to the vet that is full of indignities but does get the keys out of his throat, Phoenix is feeling hazy and pleasant from the drugs. He can’t be bothered to worry about much of anything as Miles loads him into the back of the squad car after. He wonders absently if they’re going to take him to the pound now. Perhaps he can find a quiet, camera-less spot to be a people again. He’ll have to figure out something to do about clothes, though. That might be difficult.

He’s carried through, up stairs and laid on something soft. He sighs, grumbly at the jarring.

“This is a dog?” Mia Fey says skeptically, holding tight to the strangely shaped necklace she always wears. “Why is he here?” Phoenix blinks, looking up at her. She’s staring right back down at him, and he knows that she knows that… that isn’t quite true. Ah well. So suspicious, but she’s not quite sure yet. It’s a pretty crazy theory, honestly. She can start shouting the rooftops down about how Prosecutor Phoenix Von Karma is some kind of spy-pet later; for now, Phoenix is just a drugged up dog.

“He’s sick,” Miles says from close by, and then careful hands are lifting Phoenix’s head and gently arranging him in someone’s warm lap. That tea-dust smell again. Miles runs hands through Phoenix’s silky ears and Phoenix’s tail starts thumping distantly, without his permission or anything.

“Hm,” Mia says, but she doesn’t say anything else after that.

~~

When Phoenix wakes up, he’s curled up on the office couch in Miles’ arms. He takes a deep, indulgent sniff of Miles’ hair and the man shifts, smiling even with his eyes still closed.

“Tickles,” Miles murmurs, pushing Phoenix’s nose away and sitting up. He yawns and stretches, making a rueful sort of face when his back gives several unhealthy cracks. “I need more exercise,” he murmurs to himself. “No time like the present. Would you like to go for a walk?”

Miles talks to dog-Phoenix like he’s honestly waiting for an answer, which is dangerous, intimate knowledge- Phoenix could fall for a guy who talks to dogs like that. He’d maybe thought that he was the kind of person who only really fell in love one big time, anyway. Miles had always been in the back of his mind, when Phoenix let himself think that way. He had sort of hoped it might be with someone who didn’t hate his guts, though.

They stroll through the park and Phoenix stays close. Technically, he should be leashed. It’s a steep fine if they get caught, but Miles seems content to just walk around like a blatant criminal, the sun on his face. He stops at a hot dog stand and buys two; he sits at a park bench and puts one down on its cardboard boat in the grass carefully for Phoenix. They eat and people watch a while.

“I used to come here with my father,” Miles says contemplatively after a bit. “After we won a case or lost one, we would get a hot dog and sit right here. We wouldn’t talk about the case itself, or what went well or what we wish had gone differently. We just… tried to remember life outside of court, that the reason we do all this is so that people can return to that normalcy, that chance at life.”

Phoenix rests his muzzle on Miles’ knee and Miles trails fingers down his nose.

“I wonder if he ever had anything like normal over there,” Miles murmurs.

Who? Phoenix wants to ask, but he cannot. He is a dog.

“Wuff,” he says instead.

“My sentiments exactly,” Miles agrees.

~~

Phoenix stays a dog for a week.

“It’s real nice you have an apartment that lets you keep pets,” Detective Byrde says with a grin when she stops by with homemade dog treats she calls Byrdie Biscuits. They taste like peanut butter cookies with a little less sugar and a nice crunch; Phoenix kind of likes them. He also likes how Miles puts down a plate for him to eat off, absently and automatically, even if it’s kind of unsanitary. Mia doesn’t like it so much; she’s already made Miles pay for a new no-dog-spit-allowed set for the office.

“I don’t,” Miles says shortly.

“Oh,” Detective Byrde looks confused. “Do you want me to ask around? Cops love dogs, somebody nice at the precinct will probably take him.”

“I don’t think he’ll be with us that long,” Mia says from her desk, glaring at Phoenix.

“That’s ominous, friend.”

Mia sputters. “I mean somebody’s going to come looking for him. He’s… very well behaved. Must be somebody’s really well trained little pet.”

Phoenix doesn’t like that last bit. He looks Mia in the eye and walks across the room before leaning down to chomp on her kitten heel, left by the door in exchange for comfortable in-office slippers, which are apparently a thing in second rate law offices.

“You bastard!” Mia yells, and Detective Byrde has to physically hold her back. “Those are Ferragamo, they’re worth like two paychecks!”

“Drop that, now,” Miles says mildly, kneeling to take the shoe from his mouth. Phoenix growls playfully but lets him, wagging his tail. “Not so well trained, I suppose.”

Mia puffs up pointing accusingly at Miles and then at Phoenix who cocks his head at her, exactly as a dog might. “Forget it!” She throws her hands up. “I’m taking an early lunch. You better figure this out before you get evicted,” she says to Miles, “or you end up a rug,” to Phoenix. Then she stomps out the door, too mad to realize she’s still wearing her inside slippers, cradling the Ferragamo heels to her chest like an ungainly segmented baby.

“I don’t trust a gal who doesn’t like animals,” Detective Byrde says sagely. “You’re gonna have a rough time with a girlfriend like that, Edgeworth.”

“Mia isn’t dating me, and she does like animals,” Miles corrects with a slight frown. “She swipes right on every profile with a cute dog, much to her detriment. She just doesn’t like this one. I can’t tell you why.”

“What are you going to do?” Detective Byrde asks curiously.

“My lease is up soon,” Miles says, putting on his shoe. “I wanted to find something closer to the office anyway.”

“You’re gonna move just to keep him? That’s real sweet,” Detective Byrde cooes.

Phoenix tucks his face between his paws. It’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for him. Which is… sad, actually. What the hell, he’s not really a dog!

“Yes, well.” Miles looks embarrassed. “I always wanted a dog and I like this one. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to take him around to the dog park before afternoon consultations… not that we have anyone to consult with,” he mutters petulantly.

“Not with that attitude, friend!” Detective Byrde says cheerfully, following him out. “You never know when a murder is just around the corner!”

“For such an unlucky girl, you really like to tempt fate. It’s almost admirable.”

“Aw, shucks. You’ll make a girl blush. Anyway, I’m off too- there’s a new cafe just opened. Real French. It’s right up my alley.” She waves and ducks down the street.

Funny, Phoenix wouldn’t have said Detective Byrde was much for international cuisine. Perhaps he could ask her about it sometime, that might be a good way to bond with his subordinates. The claims of sad, nice robot still sting a little, though it’s easier to forget when he’s dog shaped. It’s been… nice. Phoenix sleeps on the rug beside Miles’ bed and eats part of whatever Miles makes for dinner on his own plate, and after the first night of quiet, barely-smothered whimpering when it was dark, Miles started leaving the bathroom light on and the door cracked, so a little brightness spills into the bedroom. Phoenix had been a little worried he’d hate being a dog, after last time. He finds he doesn’t mind it so much this go around- the dog part or the losing.

Still, he should probably do something about this. Professor Von Karma is due back any day now; the only thing worse than losing is hiding from it.

“Oh,” Miles says, suddenly. His feet change direction and Phoenix trots beside him. They are only a few yards away when he recognizes the scent- spicy cologne, too-sweet tobacco and bitter espresso. A very soft whine escapes him; Miles looks down curiously.

“Prosecutor Von Karma,” Miles greets the man who is standing very stiffly outside of the police station, his nostrils flared with barely contained fury as he stares down at dog-Phoenix. “I had been hoping to see you. I trust your trip to Germany was pleasant?”

“Must we engage with meaningless small talk, Young Edgeworth?” Professor Von Karma asks, but without venom. He is distracted. “That dog… where on earth did you find him?”

“Phoenix’s office,” he says, and the use of his first name makes Professor Von Karma look at him sharply. “But I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Detective Byrde said the dog didn’t belong to him…?”

“Detective Byrde is a fool,” Professor Von Karma says distantly. “Though, I suppose, technically correct. The dog belongs to me. Come, Phoenix.”

Phoenix obeys, crossing over to sit at the professor’s feet immediately.

“You named the dog… Phoenix?” Miles looks confused and faintly outraged.

“My daughter named him. She has a rather unique sense of humor. I imagine you will see my human ward in court soon enough; he is most likely hiding with his tail between his legs after another shameful defeat.” There’s an edge of steel to Professor Von Karma’s voice and Phoenix tries to not react. He is a dog. It’s fine.

“It’s not shameful to find the truth,” Miles argues. “Mia was innocent.”

“No one is innocent, Young Edgeworth,” Professor Von Karma says sharply, then turns on his heels to leave. Phoenix follows.

Professor Von Karma drives them directly back to Phoenix’s home. “Installing a dog door would, perhaps, be a sound financial move for the future, since you insist on being a disgrace,” he growls, opening the front door with his spare key and gesturing Phoenix inside. “You will join me at the main residence for dinner tomorrow.” Then, to his immense surprise, Professor Von Karma closes the door and leaves.

It only takes Phoenix perhaps an hour to change back, this time. He takes a long bath first. As he soaks away the faint traces of dog and brushes his teeth three times in a row with great enjoyment, he wonders what the heck Miles even wants with him. There’s nothing left of whatever stupid boyhood connection he’s imagined; the fact that Miles is handsome and smart and kind to animals and the best smelling person in the world doesn’t change the fact that he hates Phoenix and all he stands for. And Phoenix stands for the truth; he can’t throw that away, even if Miles wanted him back. Which he doesn’t, so. There you are.

It’s weird the professor didn’t punish him. It isn’t as though Phoenix wanted to be punished; he just didn’t think Professor Von Karma would consider his lingering terror of the dark and small spaces to be a good long lasting one without a little reinforcement. Maybe he’s got something really nasty planned for tomorrow. That’s tomorrow Phoenix’s problem.

In the morning, Phoenix goes to the office. He finds a backdated leave of absence approval, signed by Chief Prosecutor Marshall and Professor Von Karma. He has a busy morning of catching up with necessities before running into Detective Byrde on his way out of the lobby.

“Are you taking lunch?!” She bellows in shock.

“People eat lunch,” Phoenix says defensively.

“No, that’s not- I mean, that’s great! You should take lunch. Every day, even!”

“I’ll try,” Phoenix says, amused. “Uh…” he racks his brain for a way to make conversation. She looks like she’s expecting some. “French food. Do you like it?”

Detective Byrde looks confused. “No? I like burgers a lot more, honestly.”

“Oh.” Phoenix deflates slightly. “I thought I heard something about a new French place…?”

Detective Byrde’s eyes widen. “You heard-!” She looks at him suspiciously, up and down. Phoenix shifts in place, mildly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Then, coming to some decision, she balls up her fists at her sides, shoulders tensing as she leans in.

“You too, then? I never would have guessed you for the type! Those fancy waiter uniforms are just…” she sighs theatrically, then frowns at him again. “I’m disappointed, though. There’s no competition if you’re in the game, sir!”

“Just Phoenix,” he corrects her automatically. “And, erm. I’m not in any game.” He racks his brain for an appropriate response in a conversation he does not understand. Maybe he really is a robot. “I’m a spectator,” he bluffs.

“Oh ho ho.” Detective Byrde covers her mouth with her hand. It was a good response after all. “Window shopping is nice sometimes too, huh? You know, I think I learned a lot about you today, Phoenix. Who knew we’d have something like that in common?”

“Maybe we could go sometime,” Phoenix says, desperately trying to find the fraying end of this conversation. “A friendly, uh. Hang out, or… whatever.”

“It’s weird when you say it like that,” Detective Byrde says. “But I’m all in! That’s smart, you know, if we go together it’s a lot less suspicious. No one will notice us looking.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees. “Anyway, I need to…?” He gestures toward the door.

“Go ahead! And hey,” she grins. “Your secret’s safe with me!”

“Cool,” Phoenix says, and flees.

~~

Phoenix steps into the Edgeworth, Fey, and Edgeworth offices for the second time as a human being and looks around with interest. The first time his visit had been brief and nerve wracking; the rest he had been significantly shorter. He looks longingly at the corner under Charley the spider plant; it had been his favorite napping spot. He could do with a nap now, someplace bright and open like this.

“Come on, Miles. You’ve just been sitting there staring out the window all day. Let me take you to lunch,” Mia wheedles from the next room.

“I’m not hungry,” Miles says stiffly.

“He’s back with his family now and he’s very happy, I’m sure…”

“You didn’t even like him,” Miles sulks. “I’m sure you’re delighted at this turn of events.”

“Not if you’re so unhappy over it,” Mia says sincerely, then looks up and sees Phoenix through the open doorway. “Anyway, looks like you’ve got company.”

Miles glances up, then does a quick double-take. He jumps to his feet, chair rolling back and thudding into the wall. Mia pushes it back under the desk calmly, looking bemused.

“Prosecutor… Phoenix,” Miles says hesitantly.

“That’s me,” Phoenix says weakly. “I heard you were looking for me. And, uh. I wanted to drop some things off.” He gives an envelope to Mia and one to Miles. “For dogsitting.”

Miles frowns. “It was no trouble. I don’t want your money.”

Phoenix looks at him earnestly. “It’s a token of gratitude. Knowing he was safe and well cared for… it meant a lot. Plus Detective Byrde mentioned a vet bill- those keys are mine, by the way, thanks-“ he snags them off the desk and puts them in his pocket. “I’d have paid a kennel to take him in, but things got, uh, complicated.”

Mia looks at him sharply; he avoids her eyes.

“Anytime,” Miles says absently, turning the envelope over in his hands without opening it. “If you ever needed… I mean, I would. Ah.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix says gently. “I won’t need it again, though.”

“So the dog stays with Von Karma, then?” Mia asks sweetly. Phoenix fixes his most pleasant, plasticky smile on.

“He’s a well trained pet, after all,” he says. “Where else would he go?”

Miles clears his throat, picking up on the tension and not really understanding why.

“Yes, well… We’ll accept this token of your thanks. Reluctantly.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mia mutters, but then she heads over to her desk, washing her hands of the conversation. “I’ll bring you back a ham sandwich. And you…?” she raises an eyebrow at Phoenix questioningly.

“Thanks, but I’ll be gone by the time you get back,” he assures her.

“My wallet…” Miles pats his pants but Mia waves dismissively.

“Should be good enough for lunch, anyway,” Mia says, holding up the envelope and sailing out the door.

“A little more than that, probably,” Phoenix says, amused.

“Did you give her a lot?” Miles asks, voice a little odd. “She hardly helped.”

“A little Byrde told me there was some collateral damage. I felt fiscally culpable.”

Miles snorts. “She got those Ferragamos at a sample sale. They cost her fifty dollars, though she did admit to threatening assault over the last size nines.” He looks at Phoenix a bit worriedly. “Er, that was a joke.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, feeling sadder and more robotic than ever. “I got that.”

“Of course you did,” Miles mutters to himself. “I only meant- it wouldn’t do to prosecute her again. Not so soon, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says again, awkwardly.

“That… that was a joke too.” Miles wilts. A brief, poignant silence. Phoenix breaks it.

“Sorry, but was there a reason you asked about me, or…?”

“Yes” Miles says, latching on quickly. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For throwing my case?” Phoenix asks lightly. “My pleasure. Don’t get used to it, though.”

“For helping uncover the truth,” Miles corrects, one hand on his desk. “And putting my father to rest, along with all the other victims of PinkCorp’s dark dealings. I never would have been able to put April May away without your assistance.”

“I hope you’re as flattering to the next prosecutor,” Phoenix says, looking down at Miles’ fingers splayed across the desk top. He always gave such nice ear rubs. Bet he’s good at them on people, too. Too bad Phoenix will never get to find out. “Might get you even further.”

“What does that mean?” Miles frowns.

“It means if you keep talking like that, I’m going to lose my job. Look, this was a one-time-only moment of madness. It’s not happening again- though I’m sure you’d love to try your luck with a prosecutor you actually respect.”

Miles steps back a little at the bitterness in Phoenix’s voice. He actually looks hurt. What a fraud.

“Nevermind,” Phoenix says, tone light again, bringing his own hand up to cover his face briefly till he can fix his smile back into place again. “If that’s all you had to say, you’ve said it. I helped with the case, and you helped with my dog. We’re back to zero. You’ll forgive me for saying this, but I hope I don’t see you again, Edgeworth.”

“In court?” Miles asks quietly.

“There either,” Phoenix agrees, and he leaves.

~~

Dinner is extremely strange, even for the Von Karmas. Franziska is in Germany and so it is only the two of them and the usual horde of sour faced loyal servants who look at Phoenix like he’s on the wrong side of the table. The meal is a full course formal affair, which is not usual, either, even for them. As Phoenix tries not to slurp his Consommé Madrilène, he waits for the axe to fall. He’s still waiting through the cheese course of fresh Fior di latte caprese, and wary dissecting his salmon herbes de provence beurre blanc. By the time they meander to dessert, Phoenix is a bit bored. Sure, the lavender chocolate meringue tart is good and all, but it doesn’t beat a peanut butter Byrdie Biscuit. With all the build up, you’d think this was his last meal or something.

“The study,” Professor Von Karma announces, rising, and Phoenix follows obediently at his heels. Von Karma pours them drinks with his back turned to Phoenix, and then they sit in two plush armchairs facing each other.

“If, when making your purchase at a store, you are given too much change back, what would you do?” his mentor asks for what must be the five hundredth time.

“I would give it back,” Phoenix says.

“Why?”

“Because the loss of funds is an indication of a crime. It could be a ploy to incriminate customers in theft; it could be done to excuse later larger sums deliberately embezzled. Returning the money should be accomplished publicly and be well documented pursuant to the crime,” Phoenix recites, smiling thinly. He’d had that lesson strictly reinforced the first month- along with the slow suffocation of Phoenix’s penchant for energetic small talk. What a stupid, eager to please kid he’d been.

“And if it is an honest mistake?”

“There is no such thing. It is still loss of property and responsibility of the venue to press charges,” Phoenix says, trying to sound like he means it. The words never sound right, when he says them.

“Do you believe that?” Professor Von Karma asks mildly.

“Which part?”

“Any of it. Have you ever fully adapted what I have taught you?” He remains seated, swirling his hurricane glass slightly, expression neutral. It’s a trap, probably, but what else is new.

“Some of it,” he says. “I believe in the convictions I have made and in the need for prosecutors to uphold the law. I don’t think we always go about it the right way. Everyone in the world can’t be guilty; there’d be no one left to prosecute. Nobody’s perfect.”

It’s blasphemy, what he’s saying but he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t know why he’s here or what Professor Von Karma wants from him.

“I did not take you in expecting to grow fond of you,” he says abruptly. Phoenix, surprised, snorts out a laugh that he covers very badly bad by taking a sip of his drink. Awful stuff, way too strong. Whatever this vintage is must be extra old and expensive, just the smell is making his head swim.

“I must admit,” the professor says, “you have pleased me more often than you have not. The experience raising you was not altogether unrewarding.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix says, smiling while he thinks about closets and licking dog food off of bathroom tiles in the dark.

“One last question,” Professor Von Karma says. “Then this will be over.”

Phoenix nods, and accepts a top up of his drink. He’ll call a car if he has to.

“If, when in your pursuit of justice, you are confronted with an obstacle, how do you proceed? It is not a great obstacle, of course, but… troublesome. It caused you great pains, though it really had little significance outside of yourself. It was simply something that prevented you from fully embracing your role as champion of the law. You could leave it be and suffer mediocrity or remove it and improve your mindset and your results. Which do you choose?”

Phoenix frowns, trying to think. The alcohol is going to his head quickly tonight. “What do you mean by removal?”

“Simply that the object would go away. There would be no penalty save the disappointment of some small number of ignorant, insignificant people. It is more that the act itself is supremely self-serving, though too it would serve the greater good by allowing important work to continue.”

Phoenix rubs his chin thoughtfully. It’s so abstract. Does the Professor mean to challenge some existing regulation that limits prosecutorial powers?

“Would removal of the object impede the ability of other parties to complete their duties? I mean in general, would the defense have a harder time after?”

“No,” Professor Von Karma says slowly. “While initially the defense would suffer some losses, I believe overall that there would be a benefit to each side.”

“Then… I don’t see the issue,” Phoenix decides. “Clear the… the path to justice.” He reaches to put the surprisingly heavy glass on the side table and misses somehow; there’s a distant tinkling noise as it breaks on the ground. He can’t seem to see where it fell. “Needs of the many. Kind of thing. Did I get the answer right, Professor?”

“Yes,” Professor Von Karma says coolly. “I believe that you did.”

~~

Phoenix blinks.

Motion?

Ugh. He feels so sick. It’s like that field trip in fifth grade. Miles had-

The sound of a gun, going off at close range.

Cold metal press to his fingers.

Then…

Slowly his vision clears. He’s upright, leaned heavily against the side of a building- a boathouse, by the looks it. The area is lit by the flashing red and blue of police sirens. There’s crime scene tape cutting off the dock.

“Sorry about this, friend,” Detective Byrde says sadly as she clicks the handcuffs behind his back. “But you’re under arrest for the murder of Raymond Shields.”

Chapter Text

Phoenix sits in the detention center and wonders if dogs get the death penalty. When he loses this case (and he absolutely, positively will), will he make it out of the courthouse? Will they find him in the cell overnight? Will they move him to the pound, or let him stay in people jail till it’s time for the injection? That might be okay, they’ll probably treat him better as a dog than a prosecutor in there, anyway.

… will he make it that long?

He isn’t the type to say something’s hopeless, but…

There are other ways this could go. If it has to. Theoretically, he knows how to do that kind of thing. If he had to.

He tells Detective Byrde what he remembers, which isn’t much. He was at the Von Karma residence, then he was getting arrested.

…he knows how that sounds.

He still wasn’t sure, not really- not till she said.

“You gotta give me more to work with- was someone else there? Do you remember a voice or a shadow? The Chief Prosecutor thinks this is an open and shut case, he put their best man on it!”

“Von Karma is our best man,” Phoenix says, unthinking.

Detective Byrde goes pale.

“Oh.” Phoenix says. Then he laughs a little. “Right. Of course. That’s… fine. Just out of curiosity, what’s my motive, anyway? I don’t even know this guy.” He shivers; it’s cold out in just his shirtsleeves.

“He’s a PI. He was looking into corruption at the prosecutor’s office, something about an old conviction.” Detective Byrde looks away. “They’re saying he had proof prosecutors have been forging autopsies, toxicology reports- all kinds of stuff. It makes us look real bad, you know, so they’re rushing this.”

“My toxicology report came back clean, didn’t it?” Phoenix asks, bemused.

“As a whistle,” Detective Byrde agrees. “Don’t you have anything else to say? Anything that might help? You know I don’t want it to be like this!”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, straightening. “Thanks for everything, Maggey,” he says sincerely. Then they take him back to holding.

~~

“Did you come to laugh at me?” Phoenix asks dully when they turn him into the visitors area and he looks across at Miles fucking Edgeworth. “Because I’m missing dinner and I hear there’s cherries jubilee for dessert, so if you could speed it up a little…”

“What happened?” Miles asks, because he couldn’t catch a social cue if it was printed on a brick and tossed at his head. Beside him, Mia looks between the two without speaking, worrying her strange necklace between her fingers.

“I don’t know.”

“Phoenix…”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix snaps. “I don’t remember.”

Miles blinks and sits back in his chair. “You’re not hurt,” he says, sounding more worried than he has any right to be. Phoenix shakes his head, though. “Then… were you drunk? Drugged?”

“Go home, Edgeworth.” Phoenix says, standing to signal the guard.

“Wait! Stop, don’t-” Miles stands too.

There’s a rumble and the ground shakes. Phoenix doesn’t much like earthquakes in general, but then the lights flicker and die. In the deep windowless interior of the jail, everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes, he’s on the floor and Miles is gone.

Thank god for that much, at least.

~~

“You’re back,” Phoenix sighs.

“The Detective said you still have not hired a defense team,” Miles says immediately.

“Yes, well. Guess I was a little too good at my job for a bit there.” Phoenix shrugs. “No one I asked would take the case.” It’s none of Miles’ business if he hadn’t asked anyone to begin with.

“Phoenix, please.”

There’s a clink against the glass and Phoenix looks up. Miles is leaning forward, holding his defense badge out against the glass for him to see, like he doesn’t know what Miles is and what he stands for. I’m a lawyer, you need a lawyer, 2+2 is 4, Phoenix, you stupid idiot. Phoenix glares, ready to fight it out. Then Miles lifts his other hand and opens it, palm up. He’s holding two quarters: fifty cents.

“I know about the forgeries,” Miles says, eyes blazing. “I know about IS-7. I’m still your counsel, Phoenix Wright. You put me on retainer.”

Phoenix covers his eyes with one hand, leaning back in his chair. He is not going to cry. Beside Miles, Mia lets go of her necklace and relaxes, nodding at Miles sharply. Whatever that means.

“You win,” Phoenix says, although he doesn’t feel like he’s lost. “If you want my hopeless, thankless case, you’re welcome to it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Tell me what you remember,” Miles requests. “The night of the incident.”

“After I left your office I went back to mine and finished up work around six. I arrived at the Von Karma main residence at six twenty; dinner is always served exactly at six thirty. Missed enough dinners to remember that growing up, for sure. After a nightcap, I got arrested.” Miles looks irritated. “I don’t remember,” Phoenix interrupts. “I was having a drink and then I was getting arrested. In between was a blur.”

“So you had alcohol in your system. Anything else?” Miles asks briskly.

“The toxicology report is clean,” Phoenix says. “Detective Byrde should have a copy, if you can talk to her away from the professor.”

“Even just one drink should register something,” Miles says, confused. Phoenix stares at him.

“It’s fake,” Miles realizes. “You were drugged. This is all a ruse to get rid of Shields before he exposed how rampant the medical forgeries have become.”

“Why frame you?” Mia asks. “You’re as loyal as they come.”

Phoenix shrugs. “Some people aren’t good with pets,” he says. “They get tired of them when they don’t listen. They take them back to the shop or they get someone to put them down.”

Mia’s face falls.

“I don’t remember you being afraid of the dark,” Miles says, apropos of nothing.

“Objection, relevance.” Phoenix snaps. “You’ve got a limited amount of time to present an impossible to win case, you definitely don’t have time to go on tangents.”

Miles flushes. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Is there nothing else you can tell us about what you remember?”

Phoenix tries to think back, moment by moment. If this was his witness, what would he want them to say? What would be the most helpful way to word what little information he has?

“It isn’t concrete, just a series of impressions. I doubt they’re useful. I was sitting in the armchair in Professor Von Karma’s study, and we were having a drink and discussing some legal scenarios. I went to put my glass down and I missed. It broke- I heard the glass break. Then I remember feeling sick.”

“What kind of sick?”

“It reminded me of that fifth grade dolphin watching trip,” Phoenix says absently. “Not that you’d remember.”

“You were so seasick that you cried,” Miles says quietly. “I took you on the other side of the boat, where no one could see. I didn’t want them to make fun of you.”

“...every time I puked you made the same stupid joke about not feeding the fish.” Phoenix smiles a little, aware that it’s wobbly. “Wow, I can’t believe you remember that.”

Miles smiles back, hesitantly. “I do. So you were seasick. Do you remember your position?”

“Laying down.” Phoenix says decisively. “It’s worse laying down.”

Mia takes notes furiously.

“I remember hearing a gunshot. It was loud- my ears were ringing. Then…” he winces.

“What is it?” Mia asks.

“I remember touching metal. Like I think someone put my hand on something metal, maybe around a grip. You’re… probably going to have my fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

Miles sighs, resigned.

The air conditioning kicks on and Phoenix shivers.

“Where is your coat?” Mia asks disapprovingly. Phoenix rolls his eyes, about to snap back when-

“Wait. Where is your coat? And don’t be snide, this time, I can tell you were going to be.” Miles looks intent.

“I don’t know,” Phoenix says again, irritated. “It was gone by the time I got arrested.”

“It’s not on the evidence list,” Mia says, flipping through the court record.

Miles straightens, his eyes bright, suddenly, behind his glasses. “We need to get down to the precinct,” he says. “Phoenix-”

“Don’t worry, I know the drill.” Phoenix waves goodbye through the glass.

Miles grows serious. He leans down and in; Mia looks away and pretends she cannot hear him.

“I am going to save you, Phoenix. You’re innocent and I’ll prove it. I will never give up on you- I promise you that.”

Then he’s gone.

~~

It occurs to Phoenix, watching from the defendant’s seat, that Miles Edgeworth is completely unhinged.

Oh, sure, his arguments seem logical enough, in some funhouse world where real life legal rules don’t apply. Yet somehow his claims stack, each innocuous piece of evidence supporting conclusions that would not be out of place in a German telenovela. It’s devastating and a little absurd to watch, from the other side of the bench. In his own defense. Phoenix vacillates wildly between being deeply mortified and extremely impressed.

Of course it was in Professor Von Karma’s best interest to say that Phoenix had missed their dinner plans altogether that evening, and of course his battalion of well paid snobby servants would lie to the judge’s face on the subject. Too bad Phoenix’s coat was found hanging on a hook in the hall closet.

“Before his criminal activities were exposed, this miscreant had access to my home and hearth,” Professor Von Karma says disdainfully. “Obviously it was left on a previous occasion.”

“I dunno, he was wearing it when he left the prosecutor’s office, friend.” Detective Byrde admits when pressed. “Said he was going to Prosecutor Von Karma’s for dinner! Oh, and I gave him a coupon for Tres Biens, since we’re both big fans.”

“This coupon?” Miles asks, holding up the coupon in question, pulled from the coat pocket. “The one they only began handing out the day of the crime, that expires in exactly three weeks?”

“That very one,” Detective Byrde grins. “I wouldn’t forget who gave me that in a hurry. I wrote it in my diary and everything!”

From the coat and the coupon, Miles switches directions almost violently, skittering the judge’s attention over to Phoenix’s account of events and the mysterious white powder on the cuff of the missing coat.

Miles slams his hands against the bench. “Objection!” He calls. “The defendant clearly admitted to imbibing alcohol before the alleged crime. The powder on his sleeve has been tested and found to contain a fast acting sedative dissolved in a high percentage spirit, probably brandy.”

Professor Von Karma wags a finger. “Ah ah ah, but that is a contradiction to the facts! If you will turn your attention to this toxicology report-”

“Objection!” Miles shouts again. “That report is faked.”

“That’s a strong accusation, council. You must be able to prove such an assertion?” THe Judge’s eyebrows wriggle warningly.

“That I can,” Miles smirks. “Turn your attention to the secondary toxicology report.”

“Secondary-?!” Professor Von Karma clutches at his chest.

“Verily. You see, the defendant is extremely prone to seasickness. It simply did not fit the facts that he would be able to stand in a boat and fire a weapon with any accuracy when he was busy whimpering in the bottom of the vessel like a wounded animal-”

“Jesus, Miles, come on,” Phoenix mutters under his breath, ears going red.

“And as surmised, there was a substantial amount of, er… stomach contents in the boat at the scene available for independent analysis. When I told San Fran that it was in connection to the Raymond Shields case, their PD was happy to assist. Apparently Shields had been very helpful in rooting out corruption in their own department some years back. You’ll find a detailed listing here for evidence of chain of command, so it was all quite aboveboard.” Mia hands out copies for the prosecution and judge.

“If you’ll turn to page seven…”

One by one, Miles strips away the prosecution’s arguments until Professor Von Karma is fuming, nearly purple with rage. There’s doubt, now, in the Judge’s expression as he considers the case, but it isn’t enough.

“This is a mockery of the judicial system,” Professor Von Karma says scathingly when Miles tries to put Phoenix on the stand. “You might as well cross examine a dog, for all the good it will do you.” Phoenix winces.

“What did you say?” Miles asks, perking up.

“I said, a dog would be a more useful witness than that substandard curr,” the Professor sneers meaningfully. Phoenix bites back the urge to whine.

“The defense would like to take the prosecution up on their offer,” Miles says, with great, undeserved dignity. “We call Missile the police dog to the stand.”

For the six longest minutes of Phoenix’s life, he watches Miles Edgeworth cross examine a dog.

“Bark once for yes!” Mia suggests helpfully.

“Do you know this man?” Miles asks gravely.

“Woof,” says Missile.

Phoenix tries to signal the Judge to just find me guilty and make this stop but Mia makes him sit back down and be quiet.

It ends as spectacularly as the start; Missile leaps across the bench to rip open Professor Von Karma’s coat, revealing the packet of drugs and the letter inviting Shields to meet under false pretenses. Master is acquitted after an almost fifteen year wrongful imprisonment in the IS-7 case, where the Professor used forged evidence to force a conviction. The motive is uncovered: a reprimand on the perfect Von Karma Record cementing the lifelong rivalry between himself, Gregory Edgeworth, and Raymond Shields, less than a week before he took Phoenix in. Now Phoenix watches as his mentor is led away in chains for murder, forgery, tampering with a crime scene, and kidnapping.

Phoenix Von Karma is found not guilty.

And when the confetti falls and Miles turns to Phoenix with a broad, happy, beautiful grin, Phoenix realizes he’s head over heels in love with an absolute madman.

~~

Phoenix thanks the team and buys everyone burgers after. He tries to talk payment with Miles, but he gets brushed off so many times that he eventually just catches Mia in a corner and asks her to bill him later. He stands around his own celebration party and feels like he did that first week in Germany, with everyone speaking words he thinks he almost knows and laughing at him unkindly when he just wants to go home. Wherever the hell that is.

Then Phoenix goes back to his house and just… stares at the wall for a couple of days. Sometimes he faces the tv, and he’ll throw some mindless snacks into his face, but that’s where he lives now, on his side on a couch too expensive to be used like this. He’s staring blankly ahead in his boxers because he doesn’t even own casual clothes anymore. He’s a fake bloodless friendless robot person and he would give anything to have just lost the stupid trial so he could be a dog again.

The prosecution’s office is closed for weeks while they investigate just how deep the corruption ran. Phoenix isn’t entirely sure he still has a job there anymore anyway. Franziska isn’t taking his calls. He’s in love with a guy he owes everything to who can barely stand being in the same room with him. It sucks. Dogs don’t have to worry about this kind of shit.

~~

“Where are your pants?” Mia Fey asks when he opens the door. “Ugh, I told Miles he should just come instead. Here, move.”

Phoenix steps to the side, bemused as she pushes her way in.

“Here’s your bill,” Mia says, waving a manila envelope, “and take out. I added the receipt for that in here too. I hope you still eat Mapo Tofu.” It’s as close as they’ve come to talking about the dog thing. Phoenix blinks.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rusty from not using it.

“Miles is worried about you. He made me come because he thinks you’re sweet on me- don’t look at me like that, I am very attractive! And it’s your own fault, giving me a two grand bonus for dog sitting would give anybody the wrong idea.”

“Shoes are expensive,” Phoenix says vaguely. “He probably just doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Yeah, well, if you opened the door like that when he showed up, I doubt you’d have to do much awkward talking. Not till later, anyway.” Refusing to elaborate, Mia eyes his pile of mail on the table spilling over onto the floor. She scoops up an armful and starts sorting it, business-like.

“Go shower,” she orders.

“Why?” Phoenix asks stupidly.

“When’s the last time you did?”

Phoenix can’t answer.

“Right.” Mia points a phone bill at him. “Shower. Shave. Pants. Food. Then we go see Miles. He saved you from a death sentence, the least you can do is show your face so he knows you didn’t flee the country in shame and misery or drown in a ditch somewhere. Chop chop.”

~~

“Phoenix,” Miles says, coming across the room to meet him at the door. They shake hands; it’s weird. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Phoenix says.

A pause.

“How are you?” Phoenix asks cordially.

“Oh, fine. Yes.”

Another pause.

“The bill,” Mia prompts, and walks over to her desk to pretend she can’t hear them. Hell, Phoenix wishes he couldn’t hear himself.

“I came to, uh, pay my bill.”

“Oh, that’s…” Miles glances down at the sheet, then does a double take. He snatches the paper away. “That’s really high, Mia!” Miles glares over the paper.

“I don’t think so,” Phoenix says, surprised. “It’s below market rate for a top rated defense attorney.”

“Top rated,” Miles says, voice a bit high.

“You’re undefeated, and you’re making a name for yourself. You have a reputation. I really should be paying twice this, I assumed Mia gave me a discount because of our history.”

“History… with Mia,” Miles says, voice flat.

“With… you?” Phoenix blinks, confused. “Like a friends and family discount. Or something.”

“Larry paid me in art,” Miles says, a non-sequitur. The both of them look at the large, gaudy, blobby painting hanging over the back of the desk. It looks more and more obscene the longer that he stares. How Larry manages to draw a lascivious parallelogram is both a talent and curse.

“I could probably still get him convicted on a lesser charge, if you like. First forgery’s free,” Phoenix offers. It startles a shout of laughter out of Miles who claps his hands over his mouth to smother it.

“Sorry,” he says, composing himself. “I just didn’t think you’d be able to joke about something like that.”

Phoenix shrugs. “I was already on trial for murder, everything’s fair game now. Who even knows if I have a job to get fired from anymore.”

“Are you okay? I mean, how are you really?” Miles asks, incredibly kind and seemingly interested. Which, uh, no. Phoenix might be pathetic, but he’s not that pathetic. He doesn’t need Miles to crumb out attention to him like he’s a starving bird.

“Nope,” Phoenix says firmly. After everything Phoenix did to catch Miles Edgeworth’s eye, the answer was not get framed for murder. Absolutely not. “Ask something else. Anything else.”

“Alright. Why are you afraid of the dark now?” Miles asks instead and Phoenix scowls. Going right for the jugular, he sees. “You never were when we were children.”

“Because I have such good memories of being in dark places. That’s usually how phobias start, right?”

“I’m just trying to understand-”

“Oh, you know, when I lost my first trial the professor locked me in a closet for two weeks. Made me eat off the floor, didn’t let me see the sun. It’s why I’m afraid of elevators, too, and any other small spaces, if you were curious.” Phoenix says offhandedly.

“Fine, don’t tell me, then!” Miles throws up his hands, exasperated, and Mia is hiding her face behind a book pointedly.

“This was a bad idea,” Phoenix mutters, turning toward the door.

“Wait!” Miles yells, loud enough that Mia’s head snaps up from her romance novel and Phoenix jerks to a stop. “Wait, I… I don’t want you to go.”

Phoenix flushes, even though he knows it’s not like that.

“It’s been such a long time, I…” Miles looks to the side, rather red himself. “I want to catch up.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” Phoenix says, and Miles frowns, stung. “I mean… I don’t have interesting things to talk about,” he amends weakly. “I’m not good at small talk anymore.”

“Then I’ll start,” Miles says decisively and Mia lets out a very quiet ha! behind her bodice ripper. He shoots her a glare before turning back awkwardly to Phoenix. “Er… read any good books lately?”

~~

Miles divides Phoenix’s bill into twelve weekly payments for absolutely no reason except that now, for the next twelve weeks, Phoenix is expected to show up with a check and have lunch at Edgeworth, Fey and Edgeworth. Picking up the tab for something better than what comes through a drive through goes a long way in thawing the icy temperature of the room whenever he steps through the door, and even though he feels stilted and stupid, it does get him out of the house. Which seems like a good idea, in theory. It might be something he told a friend to do, who was sad and directionless and feeling less like a person and more like a sentient piece of unusable furniture - assuming he had a friend to advise.

Phoenix tries to prep for these lunch meetings like he did for trial, scouring the news headlines and coming up with possible topics like pieces of evidence and writing them on index cards he tapes to the walls. If they cover one, he takes it down. He would worry about running out of conversation if he wasn’t so sure that Miles was going to get over his guilt-induced Phoenix improvement project any day now and it would all be a moot point anyway.

Heading out for the third time in as many weeks, Phoenix is accosted on his doorstep by a familiar, messy haired detective.

“Phoenix,” Byrde cries. “Perfect, you’re all ready to go. We better get a move on, I don’t want us to lose the best seat in the house.”

“What?” Phoenix finished locking the door. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry, friend. I know they kept the one I gave you as evidence for the upcoming Von Karma trial, but check it out!” Byrde fans out a dozen orange, white and pink coupons for Tres Biens and grins.

“Today… it’s the last day for the promotion,” Phoenix says slowly from memory.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget. Let’s get shaking!”

Phoenix studies her open, delighted expression and the little orange tickets. He had made the overture before, that does seem to preclude later arrangements. Besides, her testimony had helped put the first few cracks in the case against him. He owes her.

“One sec,” Phoenix says. He makes a call; someone picks up.

“Edgeworth, Fey and Edgeworth,” Miles says serenely.

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says in greeting. Miles’ cellphone is an archaic hand-me-down from his father; indestructible and basically a paper weight that will make 911 calls if absolutely necessary, connectivity subject to severity of the situation and phase of the moon. The landline, Phoenix has found, is the best bet for communication since it’s harder to ignore than a letter.

“Phoenix,” Miles says, surprised. “Everything alright?”

“Walk and talk!” Byrde demands and starts steering Phoenix down the street.

“I…guess I made plans earlier,” Phoenix says, bemused. “Looks like I won’t make it today. Sorry for the late notice.”

“Is that Detective Byrde?” Miles asks.

“Yeah, I- ouch, stop pulling me, I’m walking!”

Byrde takes Phoenix’s phone. “Sorry, friend, this here’s a time sensitive mission! He’ll have to call you back.” She clicks the phone off and puts it in Phoenix’s pocket.

Tres Biens is the kind of place that would have sent the professor into cardiac arrest. It looks like what an eleven year old girl hip deep in her pony phase would think of a Parisian cafe. It is garish, ugly, kitsch, and incredibly cheap-made, despite the frankly unreasonable prices on the menu. Twenty five dollars for cassoulet? It’s a peasant dish.

Once they are seated and looking over the menu in too-small, incredibly uncomfortable white wicker furniture, Phoenix takes one look at their server and gets it. Maggey Byrde is not a connoisseur or a cute cafe kind of lady. No, she is not here for salmon en papillote that looks like something out of a kid’s cuisine microwave dinner, and she sure doesn’t care about the thrifted lacey curtains belonging to somebody’s dead grandma. Byrde is here for one thing and one thing only: a six foot three, slightly scruffy, square jawed, broad shouldered bear of a man in a black servers apron over a swishy skirt and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, bow tie carelessly undone. He’s got the placid, slightly stupid expression of someone who is having a good time just being here, and his eyes light up when they fall on Byrde.

“My favorite regular,” he grins. Then he sees Phoenix and his face falls. “And, uh. Who’s your friend?”

“Just a co-worker, Detective Byrde was telling me about the, uh… great service and… atmosphere.” Phoenix says, who could not be more awkward about it if he were being held at gunpoint.

“He’s a fan of the uniforms,” Byrde pipes in with a grin.

“Yeah, er… I like bowties,” Phoenix says half-heartedly.

“Oh! Sorry, mine’s always falling apart. I’m not so good at tying them,” Gumshoe sighs, dejected. “Ms. Cadaverini is always fussin’ at me about ruining the aesthetic.”

“I bet Phoenix knows how to tie a bowtie,” Byrde says innocently. Phoenix glares.

“Would you mind?” Gumshoe asks, brightening.

“I can try,” Phoenix says grudgingly. Gumshoe obediently kneels in front of Phoenix’s chair and Phoenix ties his bowtie as quickly and competently as he can manage. Gumshoe smells like vanilla and aftershave and gives off warmth like a bear-shaped heater and Phoenix uncomfortably enjoys it. He hasn’t been this close to another person since he had wrists again.

“All set,” Phoenix says, looking away pointedly. After taking their order, Gumshoe walks off whistling and Phoenix whirls on his betrayer.

“The hell was that?”

“Oh I know I said I was worried about the competition, but I couldn’t help myself! Something about the dynamic. Size difference, you know? You’re what, five nine?”

“Five eight,” Phoenix admits grudgingly.

“Even better.” She’s starry eyed. “I will treasure the memory of that hunk of bûche de Noël on his knees for many long and lonely nights.”

“You could probably just… ask him out.” Phoenix jerks a thumb over his shoulder where Gumshoe is waiting for food to come up at the window, patently ignoring the tirade of abuse hurled his way by an invisible, foul mouthed cook in the kitchen. He’s staring over at their table with that absent, silly grin.

“No, no. It’s the fantasy, you know? He probably, I dunno. Has a podcast and plays Fantasy Football. If I wanted to be disappointed by a real person, I’d date around the precinct.”

Still, when Gumshoe drops their meals off, Byrde isn’t above accidentally-on-purpose knocking her butterknife onto the floor.

“Let me,” Gumshoe says gallantly, bending over, his maid uniform skirt sliding up around his thighs.

Phoenix and Byrde quietly share the view.

“Thank you,” she chirps as he walks away. Then she shrugs at Phoenix. “I’m only human.”

Phoenix’s croque monsieur is soggy, which he expected, and burned on the inside… somehow. The cheese is uncomfortably crunchy, and the bechamel sauce tastes like he personally offended it.

“I stick to the desserts,” Byrde says sagely.

“Are they better?” Phoenix asks.

“Cheaper,” Byrde says, which is a no.

Somehow, by the time he gets dropped off at home, he’s accidentally agreed to go again next week. And if he’s got an upset stomach half the night, at least he’s feeling something other than vague dread.

Phoenix gets a routine down pat. Monday: sitting in the shower, thinking back over his time in Germany and systematically picking it to pieces for evidence that the professor wanted him dead from the start. Tuesday: go to the public library, check out three books to have something to say when Miles asks about books later. Why does he always ask about books. Does Phoenix look like a books guy? He reads the cover summaries, anyway, so it’s not completely a lie. Wednesday: Lunch with Byrde, ensuing nausea. So far the worst had been the shrimp lorraine, which left him immobile for ten hours. The best had been a macaroon, which only left him with a vague chemical aftertaste for twenty minutes. Thursday: call Franziska and mope when she doesn’t answer. Friday: The bank for withdrawal, then lunch at the Wright Agency.

Weekends vary. Sometimes Phoenix hides in his house ordering doordash. Sometimes he goes for long walks. A couple of times he goes to plays like he used to, but it’s hard for him to stay all the way through now. The darkness of the playhouse gets to him eventually, and he has to claw his way out to the brightly lit bathroom to calm down; then he feels too stupid to go back in after. He’s seen the first half of Rosencratz And Gilderstern Are Dead four times.

A few weeks later, Phoenix, Miles and Mia are enjoying a perfectly acceptable array of Thai when Byrde shows up with a copy of a police report for something Mia’s working.

“I tell you what, friend, those substitute Prosecutors from San Fran sure know their stuff, but I miss working with you.” Byrde says when she sees him, a little misty-eyed. “You know one of them told me I ought to shine my shoes and quit looking so slobby?”

“I have told you to shine your shoes at least three times,” Phoenix reminds her.

“Well yeah, but it’s different when you do it,” Byrde says dismissively. “We’re buddies! None of them would go appreciate haute cuisine with me, if ya know what I’m saying…”

Phoenix rolls his eyes and tosses her a spring roll to get her to stop talking. The damage, however, is done.

“Do you dine together often?” Miles asks, interested. “Any recommendations?”

Byrde rubs her neck a little and grins sheepishly. “I dunno if that would be your kind of place, Edgeworth…”

“Why’s that?” Mia asks, flipping through her notes and half listening.

“The food sucks,” Phoenix says shortly.

“Then why do you go?” Miles asks, puzzled.

“For this hot dish!” Byrde pulls out a large rolled laminated poster from inside her ridiculous coat. “Check it out, I was coming to show you this, actually. Limited edition, bay-be, from their mailing list sweepstakes!”

They look on mildly as she brandishes the giant photo of Gumshoe in a sleeveless tux style shirt, flexing in front of a badly photoshopped Eiffel Tower, crouching so his thigh high stockings are clearly in view.

“Oh,” Phoenix says. “It’s a good picture of him.”

“Isn’t it?” Byrde grins. “I’m putting it in my bedroom.”

“Seriously? You go just to ogle some poor waiter?” Mia asks, amused. “Let me see.” She holds up the poster critically. “You know, he’s not half bad. Bit stupid looking, but nice shoulders. I’m a sucker for nice shoulders. I will say that I didn’t think that was your type, Mr. Prosecutor.”

Phoenix flushes. “He’s not.” Byrde stares, betrayed. “Well…” Phoenix sighs, thinking about last week when Gumshoe had been sweeping and couldn’t quite reach underneath the booth with the broom.

“You’re thinking about when he picked up that table in one hand,” Byrde says knowingly.

“I’m thinking about when he picked up that table in one hand,” Phoenix agrees. “But it’s just, uh. A friend thing. A thing I do with my friend… Byrde.”

“It’s super weird when you say it like that, friend!” Byrde chirps. “But when you’re right, you’re right.”

Miles, who has been suspiciously quiet this entire time, is looking over the poster somewhat glumly.

“Not your kind of thing?” Phoenix asks conversationally.

“No,” Miles says absently. “I like smart men.” He rolls up the poster and hands it back to Byrde. “I have got to start going back to the gym,” he mutters to himself testily, and spends the rest of their lunch hour meticulously going over his personal schedule to make time for it. Phoenix watches him color code each block in smitten silence while Mia keeps the lights on by doing the only actual work between the three of them.

Phoenix’s stasis is finally cracked when the prosecutor’s office calls to inform him that they will be resuming business within the next week and that his office is ready, should he wish to return. He realizes, once it’s on the table, that he actually wants that very badly. There will be a few more days of cleaning and bureaucracy, but then he’ll be an employed, mostly functional member of society- one with friends, apparently.

When Phoenix leaves after twelve weeks of lunches, a sloppy, handwritten receipt in his pocket for the last of his debt to Edgeworth, Fey, and Edgeworth, Miles walks him to the door.

“Next week, same time?” Miles asks nervously. “I believe it’s my turn to buy.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says softly, like speaking too loud might make him change his mind.

It’s nice, trying to get to be friends with Miles again, but it’s hell on his heart sometimes. Pretending Phoenix hadn’t torn his whole ribcage open for ten years of his life and that Miles just hadn’t cared probably is the only way they’ll be anything like normal friends, but it doesn’t mean Phoenix’s feelings aren’t hurt. He hates it whenever Miles asks about growing up in Germany and he shuts the conversation down immediately. Sometimes he up and leaves. It’s not fair for Miles to ask those kinds of questions when he damn well knows. And if he tore up the letters without looking, that’s worse.

Phoenix doesn’t want him to know, but every day is a struggle not to tell him. He doesn’t know how to look at Miles or speak to Miles or hear him laugh and not want to say hey, you know, I love that about you. Whatever it is he’s doing, it’ll be true. Pretty soon Phoenix knows he won’t be able to shut it down at all.

He’s mulling this over when Byrde gives him a call.

“That excited for tomorrow, huh?” he asks, amused. It’ll be the first day officially back on the job, after all.

“Something like that, friend, but we’re clocking in early.” Byrde sounds grim. “Get down to the courthouse, you’ve got a case. Chief Prosecutor Marshall just got caught dumping a body in your office.”

Chapter Text

Phoenix begins the Marshall case with a vague feeling of unease and irritation. He gets that he’s an easy target for framing, what with the whole Professor Von Karma thing barely out of the papers, but twice within six months just seems excessive. There’s blood on his blue office carpet, and it’s stained a vaguely body-shaped splotch a sickish purple. He has to work in here. Now every time he goes over to the french press in the corner he’s going to be standing where Angel Starr’s neat little chalk outline reminds him a dead body was discovered. He wonders glumly if there’s a spot in the basement they could put him. It’s fewer stairs down than up, anyway.

At least Detective Byrde had been bringing Phoenix a little unasked for welcome-back present of plastic chartreuse flowers that clash awfully with the decor. She had snuck in after hours to leave her little surprise and discovered Chief Prosecutor Marshall mid-disposal. That cleared Phoenix’s name up real quick- possibly too quickly, since now he’s expected to take charge of the case. He had hoped to be done prosecuting people he knows by now; don’t they say third time’s the charm? He’s morosely sifting through the paperwork on his desk, now blood-splattered and definitely a health hazard, when a familiar face peers at him owlishly from beyond the open doorway.

He groans. “Please,” Phoenix begs. “Please, please tell me you’re not taking this one.”

Miles coughs into his fist, a little uber-fake ahem. In his hand is a small slim envelope that Phoenix already knows contains the intent to represent.

“Come in, then,” Phoenix sighs. “If you’re going to upend the whole thing I might as well see what you’re working with from the start. Maybe I can counter it for once that way.”

“There’s no countering the truth, Phoenix,” Miles says primly.

“Shouldn’t it be Prosecutor Von Karma now?” Phoenix asks and Miles flushes. “That was a joke,” he adds after a beat.

“Right,” Miles agrees, flustered. “Could I…?”

“Knock yourself out.” Phoenix gestures at the bloodstain. Miles pokes around, taking a few notes for the court record here and there. Phoenix tries to concentrate on his own findings, but Miles is distracting. Maybe if he helps a little Miles will leave faster? He watches as Miles bends over to check the grate in his smartly tailored slacks, directly in front of his desk. Phoenix can’t be expected to work under these conditions.

“Suppose you want this,” Phoenix says, tossing Miles a copy of the autopsy report; Miles straightens, fumbling to catch it.

“And it is the most current version available?” Miles asks, eyebrows arched.

“That was one time-”

“That was a joke,” Miles says, and then they’re smiling at each other, somehow perfectly at ease in the middle of a crime scene. If it were anyone else, anywhere else, Phoenix might even think they were flirting.

“Where’s Mia?” he asks, trying to derail that train to Disappointment City.

Miles frowns at the change of subject. “Kurain Village. She went home to visit her sister for the weekend; Maya’s coming up to stay a while in the city after.”

“Right,” Phoenix agrees. The room feels a few degrees cooler somehow. “It’s just weird to see you flying solo,” he adds.

“And are you, erm, flying solo?” Miles asks. Phoenix blinks.

“Prosecutors tend to work without co-counsel,” he says slowly.

“Ah, yes. What I meant was-”

“Knock knock,” Detective Byrde says as she knocks on the door frame.

“Oh, hey friend,” she says to Miles, then she turns to Phoenix. “I’ve got Chief Prosecutor Marshall all lined up for questioning, if you’re ready to go? The squad car’s out front.”

“Eureka,” Miles murmurs quietly, eyes fixed on the wall near the body. That is never a good sign.

“Detective,” Phoenix sighs, gesturing for her to examine the area.

“Uhh….”

“Lay it on me,” Phoenix requests.

“It looks like we might have maybe possibly accidentally overlooked one teensy-tiny little-”

“Byrde.”

“There’s something in the vent!” Byrde pulls on her rubber gloves and rummages around; after a moment she reappears with a crumpled piece of bloodied felt.

“What can it be?” Miles asks, look at it closely.

“It’s a hat,” Phoenix says irritably. “Angel Star’s hat, with the little rice ball on top. The killer must have shoved it into the air vent.”

“But why?” Miles shakes his head. “Nevermind. You’ll need to dust for prints, I assume.”

“Oh yeah,” Byrde agrees, “Nice job, eagle eyes!” Phoenix glares at her. “I mean, hah! What are the odds we’d miss a thing like that?”

“Just bad luck,” Phoenix says darkly. “Better be extra careful going back over the scene, Detective. Right through lunch, if you have to.”

Byrde wilts a bit. “R-right. But the detention center-!”

“We’ll take a cab,” Phoenix says, heading for the stairs.

“We?” Miles echoes in the hall.

“Unless you want to bike it six miles.” Phoenix shrugs, self-conscious. Maybe he’s overstepping. Maybe Miles would rather bike it six miles than share a cab, even if Phoenix is paying.

“... not after twelve flights of stairs down. Is there something wrong with the elevator?” Phoenix’s step stutters; he has to grab the handrail a moment for balance. He continues without responding, but Miles is too damn quick on the uptake.

“I thought you were joking,” he says finally. “Small spaces and the dark. Anything else I should know?”

“I don’t know why you need to know any of it,” Phoenix says lightly. “You wanna take the elevator from here? I can meet you in the lot, unless you have enough money to spare for your own cab fare and still make rent.”

“Asshole,” Miles says under his breath, but he follows Phoenix all the way down.

“Dibs,” Phoenix says when they get there, and he goes in first. Chief Prosecutor Marshall is as unhelpful as he ever was as a boss, compounded as a witness.

“I obviously look guilty,” is all he’ll say. “I’ll testify in court if I have to, but you’re wasting your time otherwise. Don’t put too much thought into it, it’ll be a slam dunk.”

“...should you be telling me that?” Phoenix asks, baffled.

“I’m only letting Edgeworth take my case because my kid brother begged me to let him try, but I’m telling you it’ll be pointless. I promised Jake I’d let it go to court, but that’s as far as it goes. Take the win, Von Karma.”

Phoenix’s eyes narrow. “You have never once made this easy on me. Not as a prosecutor, and not when I was being framed. You’re hiding something.”

“Bigger than murder?” Marshall scoffs, but won’t look him in the eye.

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Somehow.”

~~

It’s all downhill from there.

This case is… oddly shaped. He and Miles tackle it from opposite sides but circle back around, touching base and comparing notes. It might be a breach of ethics, but there’s something inherently flawed in the picture, in a way they can only approach together to see sprawled out and complete. He’s getting warning after warning, missive after missive and it occurs to him that the state regulatory board for prosecutors is going to take his badge at the end of this case. He was assigned it specifically to fail and so they would have a neat, pat reason to put him aside after the professor turned on him. It doesn’t actually matter what the verdict is or what is revealed, he thinks.

He thinks.

Then Miles blows the case wide open.

“The killer had to hide the hat when sewn into the brim were these photographic negatives depicting the real killer: Chief of Police, Mike Meekins!”

Phoenix’s old cases, lined up and carefully dismantled. Gant had been guilty, hadn’t he? Had he? False testimony. Forged evidence. Tampered. Ruined. Fuck the board. He wants to take off his badge and throw it off the nearest bridge himself. How could he have sat through his own trial, through the rehash of IS-7 and never suspect? So self-righteous, and he was part of the problem all along. He’s sick with loathing, for the courtroom, the judge and himself. He can’t even raise his eyes to look at Miles across the bench. What he must think of Phoenix now. He avoids all contact between sessions, as stiff and metallic and ball-jointed as he ever was and worse.

Marshall is not guilty of anything but tampering with a corpse; Meekins’ faux incompetence cracks as he’s arrested, and Phoenix receives a summons for a prosecutorial hearing. None of that matters because after the trial ends, Phoenix has no time to waste - his nails begin sharpening to claws before he reaches the courtroom doors. The acting Chief Prosecutor is waiting in Phoenix’s office to suspend him formally; there are too many people out in the streets, reporters with cameras shouting things. Miles paces anxiously in the hall outside the main stairs. Phoenix wills himself to stay human and takes the back exit, through the alley. His vision swims from black and white to human colors and back again. It makes him careless. He doesn’t even see the car before it slams into him.

~~

Phoenix wakes to icy water; he gasps and chokes. In a twist of fate, his curse is the thing that saves him. His limbs twist small, black fluff fur and short legs and floppy triangle ears. He floats free of the heavy human clothing that would have drowned him at a larger size. The current is swift and it carries him downstream; luckily he is light enough to float. He breathes as best he can until he is caught on a tree branch jutting into the river. Slowly, painstakingly, Phoenix makes his way to the shore.

Everything hurts. His ribs. His head. One paw can’t bear his weight at all. He rests a while on the rocky shore, then he staggers up. Phoenix recognizes the place; a tributary leading into Gourd Lake. He turns his small black nose against the wind and takes a deep sniff. He limps in the direction that smells like safety. It takes him a long and terrible time to reach the offices of Edgeworth, Fey, and Edgeworth, but finally he collapses on their cheap little welcome mat and sleeps.

The next while is a blessed blur. Hands and drugs, food and warmth. Voices, sometimes. They speak to him and around him. Phoenix struggles to wake when he hears a shout of anguish. He raises his head from the cushioned dog bed.

Miles leans with one hand against the wall to brace himself, head bent in despair. Detective Byrde speaks to him in a low voice and every word seems to hurt him worse. Phoenix wishes she would shut up.

“-hit and run-”

“-caught disposing of the body-”

“-coat with bloodstains-”

“-swift moving current-”

Phoenix lays his head down and goes back to sleep.

~~

Phoenix does try, in his doggie way, to reassure Miles. When he can stagger around the apartment on all four paws, he roots around until he finds newspaper clippings with Phoenix in them. He’s not sure why Miles has so many newspaper clippings with Phoenix in them, but it’s a lucky break. He drags them over to Miles and puts them down. There, he points with his paw, then his nose when that doesn’t work.

Miles hisses a low, painful breath and throws the clippings in recycling. “You’re right,” he says to Phoenix. “I shouldn’t keep looking at them. Good dog.”

Phoenix wags his tail. He is a good dog. He can try harder, though.

~~

“How funny, what is your dog doing with all those sticks?” a child asks Miles at the park.

“I’m not sure,” Miles admits. “He seems to like them.”

Phoenix huffs, sitting back on his haunches. The sticks spell a perfectly legible Phoenix.

“They almost look like letters,” the child says, squinting.

“I think so too, sometimes,” Miles agrees. “But dogs can’t write. It’s a trick of the mind, when one can’t shake a thought.” He stands and clicks his tongue; Phoenix trots to his side. Miles picks him up, which he enjoys. Phoenix had been too big for that last time, roughly irish setter shaped. Now he’s the perfect size for a cuddle- and anyway it’s nice to be off his sore paw a while. He licks Miles’ hand and gets scritched behind his ears. Bliss.

~~

At first, Phoenix isn’t too worried. Being a human sucks, he’ll enjoy the reprieve. A little niggling voice in the back of his head says maybe he ought to be trying harder, but he’s healing! He still has twelve stitches in his side. Phoenix will wait.

One day, when Miles goes off to the agency and Phoenix is having a good day and feeling spry he decides to poke around the place. He’s a dog; human right to privacy is an illusion. He paws under the dresser and finds a quarter. He sniffs Miles’ laundry jealously for a trace of someone else but smells nothing but hypoallergenic detergent and familiar friends. Good. He drags open drawers and roots in the trash and is a general dog nuisance. He goes into the closet, which is fine! He’s small so it’s not so little in comparison. But then he puts his little paws against the wall for purchase, trying to reach an interesting looking green box on the lowest shelf and the whole thing comes tumbling down on top of him, pushing the closet door shut. He whimpers and scrabbles at the door, but it’s futile. Phoenix cries and howls for what seems like forever until a jingle of keys in the hall outside catches his ear. Phoenix scratches at the door vigorously until quick footsteps approach and Miles flings it open. Phoenix jumps up as Miles leans down and then he’s being held close.

“You’re such a good boy, I knew something was wrong when my landlady called to complain about the noise. Did you shut yourself in? I never knew how common it was for dogs to not like the dark or small spaces. My… ahem. A dog of my acquaintance used to dislike elevators, too.”

Phoenix snuggles close, getting his black fluffy fur all over Miles’ suit and not caring a bit.

“What were you getting into? Ah…” Miles pauses. “I see,” he says unhappily. “Well. Now’s as good a time as any to clean house.”

Phoenix looks back into the closet, illuminated now by the single bulb hanging above. A few boxes of photos and papers fell in the avalanche, but only one has its lid knocked off, spilling letters across the floor… letters written on Signal Samurai writing paper.

Phoenix growls low in his throat. He pushes away from Miles who puts him gently down. Phoenix grabs the nearest letter in his mouth and savages it, furious. Stuck in a closet this whole time! Unopened! Unwanted.

“Stop! Drop that!” Miles orders, shocked and upset. Phoenix has never done anything like this before. Phoenix does not listen; he bounds between Miles’ legs and out of the room to the little space between the couch and TV where it’s hard for Miles to reach. He rips the letter in two. Phoenix is ready to tear it further into pieces when he sees a little corner of writing peeking through.

…that’s not his handwriting.

It takes some doing and Phoenix gets a papercut inside his mouth but he manages to pry the least mangled corner open.

It reads:

… and even if you are too busy studying in Germany to watch Signal Samurai anymore that’s ok, you can write me back about anything you want to talk about. I know you have new Germany friends because you’re so good at making friends, but I hope you didn’t forget me. I didn’t forget you. Your Friend Ever, Miles Edgeworth.

Phoenix noses over the envelope. It’s addressed to the Von Karma estate, to Phoenix Von Karma, and it is marked return to sender.

Miles sits on the corner of his bed with the box of letters in his hands, looking down into it. Phoenix guilty drops the letter halves at his feet.

“Bad dog,” Miles says with a sigh and Phoenix whimpers. Miles puts the mangled letter back in the box with the others. Then he stands and walks it into the kitchen, heading to the trashcan.

No! Those are Phoenix’s letters! Phoenix runs between his legs, barking at full volume.

“Wha- Stop that! I’ll fall, settle down. Hush!” Miles nearly drops the box again. Phoenix looks at him and then runs full tilt at the trashcan, headbutting it so that trash scatters across the floor. “What has gotten into you?” He asks, bewildered. He puts the box on the counter and Phoenix sits quietly. Miles picks up the garbage and cleans up the kitchen, glancing over at Phoenix suspiciously now and then. Phoenix just yawns.

Miles reaches for the box.

“Awooooo!” Phoenix cries. From the apartment below, someone bangs a broom against the ceiling. Miles drops the box. Phoenix wags his tail.

“Alright,” Miles says slowly. “The box stays.” This time Phoenix is perfectly placid, trotting after him, watching him put the box carefully back onto the shelf. Then he kneels on the carpet, staring at Phoenix. Is this it? Has he puzzled it out? Miles is a smart man, he has to have.

“Sit,” Miles says. “Roll over. Shake. Play dead.” Phoenix happily goes through the motions. “Bark once.” Phoenix barks. “Growl.” Phoenix growls. “Spin in a circle.” Phoenix spins till he’s dizzy and flops over on his side.

“Unbelievable,” Miles says, reaching over to scratch Phoenix’s belly in just the right spot so his leg kicks out satisfyingly. “You’re so well trained.” Then he gets up and goes to make dinner.

Okay, whatever. Phoenix will just wait till Miles is asleep and then he’ll get his thumbs back! He’s going to read those letters and then he’ll wake up Miles and… he doesn’t know. He’ll say he had amnesia or something. Weirder things could happen. Probably Miles will be glad enough to see he’s not dead so he won’t ask too many questions. If he bothered writing, maybe Miles really does care. Maybe they really have been friends all this time and neither of them knew it.

~~

It’s a long night.

~~

The next morning, Miles clips a lead to Phoenix’s collar. “Come along,” he says. “After yesterday’s little stunt, you’ll just have to start coming to the office with me. You’re probably just lonely, aren’t you?”

Well, Phoenix won’t argue that, exactly. He’s a bit slow and sleepy but Miles is patient and never yanks Phoenix along. Instead, he lets Phoenix ride on the bike seat most of the way, pushing it along at a casual pace. “I’ll get a carrier at lunch time,” he tells Phoenix. “You can let me know when it’s a walking day and when it’s a riding day.” Phoenix barks in agreement.

“Took your sweet time today, huh?” Mia teases when Miles walks in the front door.

“You’re the one who said to,” Miles replies mildly, Phoenix tucked up under his arm.

“Yes, I’m only… only…” Mia stares at Phoenix. Phoenix’s ears droop. “Where did you get that dog?” Mia demands, the color draining from her face.

“Oh don’t start, Mia. I know you have some kind of crusade against office pets, but-”

“How long?”

“Three weeks,” Miles says in a voice that does not invite further questioning. “He was injured, you were still in Kurain. He doesn’t like to be left alone and he’s a very good dog-”

“What’s his name?” Mia asks.

“Er,” Miles says, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“Nevermind,” she says, getting out of her chair. “I’m taking Dog out for a walk.”

“He’s tired,” Miles protests, cuddling Phoenix protectively. Phoenix tries to look extra pathetic for good measure, really working those puppy-dog eyes.

“It’ll be a short walk.” Mia says, holding out her hands. “You want us all to get along, don’t you? Let me see your dog.”

“...Fine.” Miles hands Phoenix over and Mia takes him outside. Behind the building near the dumpster the coast is clear. She puts him down on the sidewalk and looms with her hands on her hips.

“Listen buster, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here but Miles is a mess. Everyone thinks you’re dead. You need to turn back right now. Right now! Here, I’ve got some spare clothes in my car that my ex left, they ought to fit okay…”

Phoenix whimpers.

Mia trails off. She touches that strangely shaped rock on her necklace.

Phoenix closes his eyes. He stretches out one paw, then the other. He thinks about being tall and furless, about the arches of his feet. He tries just like he tried all night long. Nothing happens.

“Fuck,” Mia whispers.

“Woof,” Phoenix agrees.

Chapter Text

Maya Fey is only supposed to be away from Kurain Village for a week, but she takes one look at dog Phoenix and announces that she’s staying all summer.

“Maybe longer,” she says, throwing the tennis ball across the room tirelessly; Phoenix obligingly runs it back. Not like he has anything better to do. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s better hands on training than I’ll get back home, anyway.”

“If Auntie Morgan were still around, that would be one thing,” Mia sighs. “After she went on that penance pilgrimage for abusing her powers, Mom’s been acting head. She’s great at the day to day but she doesn’t have enough power to know what to do outside of the academic. She said she would check the old Hazakura libraries just in case, though.”

“We can go through my spiritualist training together,” Maya tells Phoenix. “Practice mindfulness. Center your dogma.” She looks at Mia. “Who is he, anyway?”

Mia hands her a newspaper article. Maya scrutinizes the picture, turning it side to side. “Phoenix Von Karma,” she reads, then snorts. “You’re a lot cuter like this,” she tells dog Phoenix who is currently flattered and retroactively offended. “That name sure is a mouthful. What are you calling him?”

“Dog,” Mia says flatly. “I don’t think it ever occurred to Miles that animals ought to have names.”

Maya scoops Phoenix up protectively in her arms. “You don’t mean that he thinks this is a dog?” She sounds horrified.

“He is a dog,” Mia points out, though she sounds a little guilty.

“Mia! Have you tried telling him?!”

“No, and you better not either. Miles Edgeworth is not the type to believe in things like that. You should have heard him when I tried to get him to use the magatama. He only lets me do it because he thinks it’s intuition marketed as delusion. And anyway, don’t let the puppy eyes fool you.” Mia points a perfectly polished nail at Phoenix. “This one likes being his dog.” Phoenix tilts his head so his ears flip over cutely.

“Well we can’t have that,” Maya says to the dog in her arms. “You have to trust your spiritual advisor or we’ll never get to the bottom of this. Don’t get comfortable! You’re not really a dog, you know. You’ve got to do chores and go to the dentist and take physics exams like everyone else.” Maya looks a bit teary at this.

“You’re sure you’re staying for the dog’s sake?” Mia asks dryly.

“Mia have you seen-” Miles pokes his head into the room from the kitchenette. “Ah.” His expression softens. “You’re all getting along well. It’s lunch time, though,” he tells Phoenix who obligingly wriggles till Maya puts him down.

“We’ll talk more after lunch, Phoennn…” Maya draws the word out as Mia meets her gaze, eyes wide and panicked.

“Feen?” Miles repeats, puzzled.

“Feen. Neh.. Uh. Fee… nee. Feenie.” Maya nods decisively. “Feenie.”

“What is a Feenie?” Miles asks.

“The dog, Miles. Dogs need names.” Mia says shortly.

“Do they?” Miles frowns. “Still, Feenie. Where did you come up with that?”

“Childhood pet,” Maya says carelessly.

“I thought your mother was allergic.” Miles looks at Mia.

“Pet goldfish,” Mia replies. “A really exceptional goldfish. Maya liked him a lot.”

“Do you think he likes it?” Miles asks doubtfully, eyeing Phoenix as though this small black Pom might get offended over a cutesy nickname.

“Try calling him and see what happens,” Maya encourages them both.

“Feenie,” Miles says and Phoenix rushes over on his short little legs. He bounds around Miles’ feet, tail waving wildly. The sisters follow them into the kitchen where their lunch order awaits. Miles neatly cuts a third of his pepperoni calzone and sets it on a plate on the table for Phoenix who waits politely in the fourth chair with his paws on the table until Miles is also seated. They eat in perfect synchronicity.

“Gah,” Maya says to Mia. “I see what you mean.”

~~

It’s not that pressing, is it? It’s not like Phoenix is missing anything, being a dog. Sure, his house is probably getting repossessed and all his things sold or tossed. But his only family had already written him off and nobody can sue him for gross negligence if he’s a dog. Phoenix gets to spend time with Miles that isn’t fighting or full of awkward human silences and even though he is fiending to read those letters, does it really even matter anymore? Miles looks a little sad sometimes and hugs Phoenix close, and lays back on the couch and covers his face with his hands but he just lost his dad and his rival. All things considered, he’s doing pretty well. At least as a dog Phoenix can make him happy. They get groceries and go for walks and work in the office. They cuddle on the couch and listen to podcasts and Phoenix sleeps on Miles’ feet to keep them warm - he has lousy blood circulation. Phoenix does a lot more good here as a dog than he ever did anywhere as a person. As far as he’s concerned, being human is the worst. He tries half-heartedly now and then but it’s mostly to appease the Feys.

“You have to try harder than that,” Maya scolds. “You have to want it.”

Phoenix is Not Interested.

~~

“You’ve been cooped up in the house for months,” Mia argues outside the detention center when her latest client walks free post-trial. “You’re going on an outing.”

“I detest outings,” Miles says haughtily. “And Feenie gets lonely without me.”

“Woof,” Phoenix agrees. He’s been sitting with Maya in the gallery and he wants to go home. There were too many people there all sweating and perfumed and deodorized. The mismatched smells gave him a noseache.

“I know a place that’s pet friendly,” Detective Byrde says, joining them. “Nice work on the cross examination, by the way! Can’t believe I got a fedora confused for a trilby, how embarrassing.”

“Where’s that?” Miles asks, politely overlooking her ignorance over men’s fashion.

“We don’t want to… to…” Mia trails off, hand on her necklace as she looks at Phoenix. Phoenix doesn’t care for that look, actually. It reminds him of the one he gets at bath time. She and Maya have a brief, silent, sisterly conversation. “Actually, we do,” she corrects. “I think it’ll be an excellent bonding activity. Tell you what, I’ll even pay.”

“Winners never pay,” Miles says suspiciously.

“I’m feeling generous. You haven’t had anything but consultations and the occasional notarization for months. Come out and celebrate. If not for you, then… think of the dog. Feenie should be socialized. He’s only ever at the apartment or at work.”

Phoenix does not want to be socialized, but Miles sighs and scoops him up. He does want to be held so he lolls his head back against Miles’ arm adoringly.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to expose him to new and stimulating experiences,” Miles says.

“Stimulating is definitely the word, friend!” Byrde says with a lascivious grin.

Tres Biens is, per usual, completely deserted.

“Is it always like this?” Mia asks, flicking the dusty lace curtains with a manicured nail.

“Pretty much,” Byrde agrees cheerfully. “I’m pretty sure it’s a mob front, no way they make enough to stay open on their own.”

Miles looks horrified, shielding Phoenix protectively in his arms. “And you brought us here? You’re a cop!”

Byrde shrugs. “I’m in homicide! Organized crime is above my paygrade. This place lives to serve another day. Good news, huh, Gumshoe?”

Gumshoe seems a bit subdued this go around, smiling weakly at Byrde. His eyes linger on Mia, but then he waves a hand negligibly. “Table’s this… way…” he trails off, catching sight of Miles.

“Hey,” he says, stopping in the middle of the restaurant.

“...hello.” Miles answers, confused.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” Gumshoe grins a bit too-widely. Phoenix feels a low growl building in the back of his throat.

“Huh. How’d you know?” Byrde asks Mia quietly, but Phoenix’s doggie ears are all-knowing.

“You shot him down… two weeks ago? Long enough to want to rebound. And just look at him- man loves a little nerd he can put in his pocket, one that dresses badly and has a bunch of weird allergies. You and Miles are just his type. Er… no offense.”

“None taken!”

So taken. So totally taken!

“Aw. Cute dog,” Gumshoe says and that does get Miles to pay attention.

“His name is Feenie… apparently.” Maya gives him a thumbs up, already buried behind her menu. “Do you like dogs?”

“Love ‘em! Got one at home called Missile…”

The two begin chatting in earnest as the girls settle in around the table, discussing their orders. At some point, Miles and Gumshoe sink into chairs. Miles puts Phoenix on the floor. Like… like some kind of pet!

“Whaddaya say, we could take the dogs out to the park, maybe get some ice cream…?” Gumshoe asks hopefully, though he does shoot a nervous glance at Byrde, who is pretending to be fascinated with the weekly special flyer that has not changed since they opened three years ago.

“Well…”

Phoenix snaps.

“Yeowch!” Gumshoe leaps up from his chair, Phoenix’s teeth still clamped around his ankle. His skirts fly up; Mia covers Maya’s eyes with her menu.

“Feenie!” Miles says, shocked. Phoenix lets go, ears flat and tail tucked under. “Bad dog! Very bad, we don’t bite new friends.”

Friends! Friends already. As long as it took Phoenix to get there, they’ll get married by next Tuesday.

“Aw, it’s alright.” Gumshoe says goodnaturedly, rubbing at his ankle with a wince. “Probably just smelled the bouillabaisse I spilled on my socks last shift.”

“You… haven’t washed them?” Miles asks apprehensively.

“Nah, too much hassle. I only bother once a week. Two weeks, if it’s slow. So! How’s about that walk in the park?” He grins, leaning in and Miles leans back against his seat turning his head to the side. The conversation grows significantly cooler; god bless Miles and his hygienic hangups.

“I think Feenie isn’t quite ready for that yet,” he says primly. Phoenix hops up into Miles’ lap triumphantly. The rest of their celebration dinner is acceptably chaotic. In the end, everyone gets a terrible stomach ache from the baguette chèvre tomate. Byrde is a little too bright and cheerful and she keeps giving Phoenix peanut butter byrdie biscuits when no one is looking.

“I know, I know, but you won’t judge me, right?” she whispers to him. “Just cause I know it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean I want him with somebody else.”

Phoenix accepts the biscuits and tries not to think about it too hard.

The associates of Edgeworth, Fey and Edgeworth get into the car after saying goodbye and the atmosphere tenses considerably once the doors close.

“I know what that was, Mia. I appreciate the thought, but please don’t do that again.” Miles says in the mild way he only uses when he’s close to losing his temper. Maya and Phoenix watch on anxiously from the backseat.

“I thought you might be in the market for a little light flirting,” Mia admits, pulling out of the lot. “I didn’t think you’d go for it or anything. Maggey is going to marry that guy, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

“No,” Miles says. “I’m not in the market for any degree of romantic overture, and I won’t be for the foreseeable future. I know that you are trying to help, but please stop. You know how I felt about Phoenix. I can’t just move past something like that.”

Ah.

That little scene wasn’t for Miles at all. It was for Phoenix. Look at what you’re missing! But… ever since the letters, Phoenix had been sort of wondering anyway. Miles is a hard read; he always had been. Phoenix is out of practice reading anything but danger signs, but his surprise is residual. He was important to Miles; Miles was important to him. In another world, in another life, maybe that could have been something.

Mia and Maya want him to have a revelation and Phoenix tries, he really does. When they get back to the apartment, Phoenix tries being tall enough to reach the letters. He tries finding his mouth to tell Miles how he feels. It’s just… that little voice, in the back of his head mumbling and muttering. So Phoenix would come back. What then? No job. No prospects. No excuses for where he’s been or what he’d done. Phoenix will screw it up like he has the rest of his life. He halfheartedly tries one last time to swish his tail away. No dice.

No, Phoenix decides then. A dog is still better than what he was before, or what he’d be now. At least he can be around Miles this way. Miles won’t hate him. He’s just a dog.

Mia and Maya are deeply unhappy to see Phoenix at the office the next day. He’s sorry about it- they have done their best. He’s a screw up pup, that’s all. Maya goes back to Kurain for the start of school and that’s fine too, even though she cries a little bit into his ruff before she gets on the train. She knows Phoenix has quit trying to be anything better.

“Did you hear?” Mia asks Miles on the way back to the office. “They finally hired a new full time prosecutor to fill the vacancy.”

“Did they?” Miles asks disinterestedly, though his fingers still where they were rubbing Phoenix behind the ears. Phoenix licks his wrist and Miles resumes the excellent pets.

“Yeah,” Mia says. “Some girl with a fancy name. Heck of a coincidence. Franziska Von Karma.”

~~

“You!” Franziska bellows, pointing at Phoenix outside of Tres Biens as Byrde reluctantly leads Gumshoe away in cuffs. Furio Tiger lays face down in a bowl of vichyssoise behind crime scene tape.

“Is there a reason you are harassing my dog?” Miles asks coldly.

“Your dog, oh, I see. His dog. Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” Franziska demands, borderline hysterical. “You would go off and be some defense attorney’s kept little creature, Phoenix!”

Miles stiffens. “Why did you call him that?”

“It’s his name, isn’t it?” Franziska demands.

“That’s her dog,” Mia says. Franziska and Mia stare at each other for a long moment. Mia looks at the whip; Franziska looks at the necklace. A silent understanding passes between them.

“Yes,” Franziska says. “That is… my dog. Phoenix.”

“Von Karma said that the other dog was his, the setter.” Miles says, voice a little strained. “He said you named that dog Phoenix. You expect me to believe this is your dog too?”

“All our dogs are named Phoenix,” Franziska sniffs. “It is a perfect name for a foolish, selfish little beast with no sense of self preservation!” Her voice raises with barely suppressed rage and Phoenix wilts, ears flat and tail tucked under.

“I think you should let her have the dog, Miles.” Mia says encouragingly and she’s right. If anyone can walk back the magic, it’ll be Franziska. Phoenix does not want to be whipped or put into a closet or starved, but probably he should try it. If he hates being a dog enough, maybe he’ll accidentally be human again. It’s for the best. Then Miles can get a real dog, and fall in love with a real person and-

“I don’t care what you think!” Miles snatches Phoenix up so quickly that he yips a little in surprise. “You weren’t here! He isn’t chipped! You can’t have him back! And his name is Feenie!” Miles puts Phoenix in the front basket and bikes away from the crime scene without another word. As soon as Miles turns the lock on his apartment door, he slides down to sit on the floor. In his good suit! Phoenix paws at him uneasily and Miles gathers him up, burning his face in Phoenix’s fur.

“They can’t have you,” Miles says, voice muffled. “You’re all I have left.” His fur feels a bit damp. Phoenix lets himself be held and cried on, unsure of what to do. If he were a person… but…

Miles calms after a short while, pulling back with red eyes and mussy hair. His glasses lenses are smeary. Phoenix licks his face clean. He can’t help himself.

“Phoenix,” Miles says and Phoenix stops. “That really is your name, isn’t it?” Miles asks sadly. “You really are a Von Karma dog.” Phoenix whimpers. He’s not! He belongs to Miles.

“Do I have to give you back? Wouldn’t you rather stay with me forever?” Miles wheedles. Phoenix snuggles up under his arm so that Miles is hugging him again. He likes that. Of course he wants to stay with Miles forever. It is all he has ever wanted.

“God I miss him,” Miles says, eyes closed. “Phoenix.”

This time, he’s not talking to a dog. He is talking to a ghost. All that time meditating and thinking about his soul core and chewing on the magatama and Phoenix finally understands. Even if he isn’t himself right now, he can’t stay here any longer. It’s cruel that the only thing holding Miles up is a clever, distracting animal. If Miles wants him human, he’ll be human. Phoenix has to come back, whatever it takes.

Once Miles falls asleep, Phoenix paws open the window leading to the fire escape - it never did sit properly in the frame. He trots down the metal stairs to the parking lot.

“Took you long enough, little brother,” Franziska says sharply, opening the passenger door of her powder blue convertible. Phoenix hops in and they drive away.

Chapter Text

Franziska Von Karma wouldn’t be caught dead staying in a property valued less than a grand per square foot so the two story mansion she is inhabiting doesn’t surprise Phoenix. What does throw him for a loop is what lies just inside the door. Boxes and trash bags, piles and open wooden crates slop across every surface, spilling over the sides and onto the floor. When he gives the air a tentative sniff, he sneezes. The dust is thick on everything, masking the familiar smell of his childhood overseas. These are Professor Von Karma’s things.

Franziska walks carelessly through the house in her shoes, high heel stabbing through an old autopsy report on the way into the kitchen. She still has not put him down. She sets a cast iron pan on the stove and turns the heat on high. Phoenix eyes the skillet with trepidation. Is his paw going on there? His nose? God he hopes not. He gives a little whimper and then Franziska looks down at Phoenix as though she’s just remembered she’s holding him.

She drags over one of the island barstools and deposits him away from the blue-orange flame, thank god, and goes into the fridge. She pulls out a large porterhouse steak. The white T-bone in the center glistens in the golden accent lighting. It is cartoonishly enormous; when she slaps it down into the hot pan, the steak curls up along the edges hanging over. She sears it on both sides and puts it onto a plate. Utterly lost, Phoenix lets himself be picked up again and tucked up under her arm, back legs hanging in the air. She takes him and the steak both upstairs.

The trail of old suit coats, out of date texts, and black and white family photos leads up the staircase and alongside the hall to the master bedroom. They pass what was probably an office once, entryway blocked with boxes and furniture turned at odd angles to fit. He can tell with a single curious sniff that these things once belonged to Phoenix The Human. The past hovers near the doorway to the master bedroom; she leaves her heels there alongside it in the plush carpet and goes in.

This one single room is clean and nicely furnished. The bed is a serviceable double with a pale mint bed set. There is a dog bed in the corner and a small heap of bones and toys and a dozen different kinds of dog biscuits. A triple filtration system deluxe dog fountain burbles crystalline water just outside the attached bathroom, boasting a rainfall shower and enormous jetted tub. The cabinets are filled to bursting with dog grooming supplies for every kind of coat. Franziska puts the plate on the floor and curls up on a cushion on the carpet beside it, like a child. She watches him, unblinking, as he eats the most awkward steak of his life one nervous nibble at a time. He is a rather small dog and it is a rather enormous steak. He sits back on his haunches midway through, full to bursting.

Franziska, who has removed her gloves, reaches down with bare hands to pick up the half eaten steak. Turning it in her hands, she bites into the untouched half, savage and unladylike. The juices run down her face and hands, and so do a few stray tears. She stares straight ahead and eats the steak around where Phoenix has bitten - unseasoned, undercooked. Phoenix puts his head tentatively in her lap. When she finishes eating, he licks her fingers clean.

“Disgusting little beast,” Franziska murmurs affectionately.

In the morning, Phoenix is still a dog. He wiggles his nose, confused.

“If you’d stayed another day with your damned defense attorney you’d have likely had it already. But you’re easier this size for me, so I’ve stoppered you up for the moment.” She smirks at him coolly. “I’ve got a case to wrap up first, and I can’t have you distracting the defense.”

She loses, of course. Gumshoe cries out his gratitude into Miles’ jacket shoulder, leaving a smeary snotty wet spot as thanks. Then Detective Byrde offers him a ride home.

“I thought you hated me,” Gumshoe sniffles. “You arrested me and everything. But then you testified on my behalf…”

“I wanted to recuse myself from the case but they wouldn’t let me,” Byrde admits huffily. “If I knew it was going to turn out like this, I’d have said yes to that date - then it would have been a conflict of interest.”

Gumshoe perks up a little. “Yeah? Well… maybe you still should. Just in case I run into trouble sometime later.”

“Is he planning on getting arrested again for love?” Mia murmurs to no one in particular. “I can’t even get a text back.”

“Maybe I should,” Byrde says, lashes lowered. “If you still wanted to. Just- just in case.”

The romantic moment is somewhat undercut by the dead stare of absolute betrayal Miles levels at Phoenix from across the defense lobby. Franziska, still holding Phoenix and a grudge, lifts Phoenix’s little black paw to wave at Miles, smirking.

Miles looks briefly crestfallen, then shakes it off. He stalks over determinedly.

“Prosecutor Von Karma,” he says with all the politeness he can muster. “Sell me that dog.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Sell me that dog, please. I beg of you.”

“Very nice. The answer is no.” Franziska allows Miles to step closer and run a hand over Phoenix’s head, scritching under his ears. “I leave for Germany shortly. Phoenix will accompany me.”

Phoenix’s little doggy head whips around to stare at her. She looks less triumphant than strangely apologetic. Her words ring with an odd sort of certainty - an echoey, powerful thing he hasn’t heard since keep winning like the dog you are.

“When?” Miles asks, voice unsteady.

“As soon as my last trial wraps up with my obvious victory.”

“The Andrews case?” Miles asks.

“You’re not the attorney, Grossberg is,” Franziska says sharply. Miles shakes his head.

“Andrews requested a change in council, Grossberg faxed over the paperwork this morning. I was about to head to the crime scene.”

“You should not be on this case.” Franziska’s grip tightens on Phoenix and he whimpers a little. “Andrews was specifically advised against it.”

Miles raises his eyebrows to the stratosphere. “Against me? Because you’re tired of losing?”

“No, you foolish little fool, because-” She stops talking, noticing her death grip on her brother-puppy. She relaxes her hold and lets out a long hissing breath. “You will lose. I will triumph. There is nothing more to say.”

Miles nods, not listening. “Will you take good care of him?” He asks wistfully, holding Phoenix’s paw like you might hold a person’s hand.

“I will,” Franziska answers, and then Miles strides away, wiping at his eyes behind his glasses as he goes.

“I dislike this situation intensely. You will return to your original form and you will help me convict Andrews properly before she can do any more harm. Come, little brother.”

They go straight to her office where a new suit of mens clothes are laid out on the couch.

“You have five minutes,” she says.

Phoenix yips in protest.

“Fifteen, then.” Franziska closes the door and her high heels clack away down the hall toward the vending machines. She has a passion for vending machine snacks, fostered through hours of waiting in the halls for her father’s trials to end. By the time she returns, arms laden with swiss rolls, candy bars and honeybuns, Phoenix is leaning over the open file on her desk, expression serious.

“Andrews is guilty,” he says.

“Of course she is,” Franziska says impatiently. “Have a milk bar and hand me that autopsy report.”

There were two reasons that Franziska Von Karma took over Phoenix’s position as a temporary hire: to deal with the belongings of her dead brother and incarcerated father and to find the mysterious Heart Attack Killer. She had thrown herself into the international investigation with a fever after her father’s arrest in the classic Von Karma style of not permitting any room for emotional processing whatever. All the signs had led back here.

“I missed many of your messages while I was undercover,” Franziska explains.

“Not all,” Phoenix points out.

“No,” Franziska admits, not looking at him. “Not all.”

The Heart Attack Killer always claims their crimes, leaving a polaroid picture of the crime scene with a heart drawn on it. Their clients are always wealthy and well connected.

“At first it seemed a straightforward case.” Franziska taps the police picture of the crime scene. “Andrews had motive, means and opportunity. Then it was discovered that it only appeared to be so because of her bumbling bimbo of an assistant.”

“Matt Engarde?” Phoenix shuffles through the witness statements. “Detectives found him in possession of the calling card?”

“It seemed he had deliberately taken it and lied about the time he last saw Andrews specifically to frame her. Now there’s pressure to make his arrest instead.”

“But you don’t believe that,” Phoenix deduces.

“No, Heart is notorious for protecting their clients. Such direct interference would be akin to a death sentence. Police found the photograph by mistake, Engarde’s cat was chewing on the photograph, it had gotten stuck to the sole of his boot apparently. And his watch was an hour slow due to daylight savings time.”

“I see.” Too many coincidences. Had Heart set up Engarde as a patsy from the start? Phoenix frowns suddenly. “Wait, what do you mean interference is a death sentence? Aren’t you prosecuting Andrews right now?”

Franziska tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “I am a Von Karma,” she says snootily. “I am above intimidation.”

Famous last words. As they walk down the courthouse steps, Phoenix is preoccupied with his worries about the waiting crime scene and Miles Edgeworth. What the hell is he even going to say? Should he text first?

The pop sound is surprisingly subdued. Phoenix lifts his head curiously. At first glance he sees nothing different, though he is aware of a sudden wetness on his cheek and along his right arm. He turns in that direction. Franziska stands stock still and very pale, gazing straight ahead. Red blossoms from her shoulder outward, soaking the expensive white and blue of her usual court suit.

“I’ve been shot,” Franziska says abruptly, then laughs, short and disbelieving. Phoenix catches her as her knees buckle, protecting her from a fall down the steps. Bailiffs are running, ushering the crowd aside. People scream, cameras flash -

There must be a car or an ambulance or a little red wagon that gets them both from point A to B, but the next time Phoenix breathes and takes notice of it is halfway through the doctor’s statement that Franziska is fine, she’s in no danger, she’ll retain full range of motion in that shoulder with proper rest and rehabilitation.

“Can I see her?” Phoenix asks. “I’m her next of kin.”

“She asked for you,” the doctor smiles briefly. “But I’m afraid her reaction to the anesthesia was not good. She became rather aggressive and had to be sedated in order to preserve her stitches.”

Phoenix refrains from explaining that is in no way the fault of the anesthesia.

“We’ll bring her to gradually tomorrow morning and she can be discharged afterward into your care.”

“Thank you,” Phoenix says. He reaches out automatically to shake the doctor’s hand, then recoils when he sees himself. He’s all over blood and completely disheveled.

“You might want to go home and clean up,” the doctor says kindly. “I’ll have the nurse call you tomorrow afternoon when she’s awake and alert. I’m sure you have things that need to be done, Prosecutor.”

Phoenix’s jaw tightens. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

As Phoenix strides out of the back to the visitor’s area up front, he stops in his tracks. Miles Edgeworth, holding an enormous bunch of yellow tulips, looks him up and down, taking in the blood spatter, his expression unreadable.

“Oh. Uh… long time no see?” Phoenix tries with a sheepish grin.

Then Miles crosses the distance between them and slaps Phoenix in the face with the bouquet of flowers.

Chapter Text

Phoenix Von Karma sits at the walnut desk in his office with his jaw set, pen rapidly moving across the stack of papers that require his signature before he can officially take over the Andrews case. He doesn’t have anything like a cellphone anymore but the answering machine on the desk flashes with an absurd number of messages waiting. He’d unplugged the landline phone two hours ago when Franziska’s sedation wore off. When he glances over, the number of messages waiting rolls over to 76 on the display.

A quick little tip-tap on the door frame and then the door flies open; Detective Byrde walks in carrying a stack of folders.

“Got the transcripts from the first round of interviews right here-” She glances up and drops them, neat and orderly stacks mixing, mingling and flying under every piece of furniture while she draws out the last eeeee sound like her circuits are the ones overloading this time.

Phoenix looks at the mess on the floor and sighs.

“You!” the Detective says.

“Me,” Phoenix agrees, resigned. “Restrain yourself, Byrde.”

“No way, friend!” Maggey launches herself across the room to splat against his front in a flying tackle of a hug; the momentum sends Phoenix’s chair rolling into the far wall, head smacking against the windowsill.

“Ow.” Phoenix says, measured.

“You’re here! You’re okay! You’ve got all your limbs! You’ve got… uh, flower petals in your hair?”

“I do, yeah.” Phoenix touches the back of his head gingerly, pulling out another petal behind his ear and checking for blood while he’s at it. Miles really hadn’t held back in the least.

“Are you okay?” Maggey asks.

“No,” Phoenix says, then buries his face in his hands for a few shuddery breaths. Maggey pats his shoulder and makes nonsensical shushing noises till he gets it together.

“There, there. I’m sure everybody doesn’t hate your guts.” Maggey’s pocket vibrates and she digs out her cellphone, brightening when she sees the ID.

“See? Here’s your sister calling to check on you-”

“Don’t,” Phoenix warns, but it’s too late. Maggey answers the call and Franziska’s shrieking cries of mangey case thieving cur make Phoenix wince from several feet away. Maggey quickly hangs up.

“You know what! I just had a great idea. Instead of looking at Ms. Prosecutor Von Karma’s files, why don’t we go down to holding and you can conduct your own interviews? I know how hands on you like to be in an investigation!”

“That’s probably for the best,” Phoenix agrees, eyeing the paperwork mess all over the carpeting.

~~

Phoenix and Maggey arrive at the Detention Center just as Miles Edgeworth is leaving, the wine red flash of his sports coat astride his bike passing in periphery as they go to park. Phoenix suppresses any embarrassing wounded noises but only just barely. Strange that Miles is biking to and from the scene, a case this big usually means Mia is around to play chauffeur.

The woman behind the glass looks completely out of place, blonde hair falling in waves over one eye. Her makeup is flawless, her dress black and very tight, paired with matching opera gloves and pearl earrings. She’d been arrested mid-awards show and clearly looks it. On her left wrist is a highly sophisticated smartwatch.

“My sponsor,” She explains apologetically. “I have to wear it continuously, it’s in my contract.”

“Is that so?” Phoenix asks with disinterest even as he jots down every detail of her testimony. “You’ve had a chance to meet with your legal representative?”

“Such a dear little man,” Andrews purrs. “So dedicated to his clientele.” Her watch lets out a beep and she touches it with a gloved finger.

“What’s that sound?” Phoenix asks.

“I’ve recently acquired a cat,” she answers smoothly. “From time to time, I get updates on how she is doing.”

“Oh no, does the kitty need food?” Maggey asks, concerned.

“She’s in good hands,” Andrews assures her, mouth curving into a self-satisfied smile. “That was her caretaker checking in. You see, this cat has a kitten with her. That can make them quite territorial.”

“Right,” Phoenix says uneasily. Her small talk rubs him the wrong way somehow. “Let’s talk about Celeste Inpax.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“Well, her murder for one thing. Her blood on your shoes for another.”

“The crime scene was a madhouse. Press trampling all over the scene, police running to and fro… Surely the Detective would agree that it’s hardly evidence on its own.”

Byrde blinks back, face a perfect neutral.

“Besides,” Andrews adds, leaning back in her uncomfortable plastic chair as though it were a golden throne. “Why should I want to hurt Celeste? She was my mentor, you know. It’s thanks to her I even got my first role.”

“I know all about your big break,” Phoenix says dryly. He flips open the copy of Star Strucked: Celebrity Gossip Byrde had found in the hotel lobby. “Page six,” he points out. “You two were thick as thieves before you snatched her big break for yourself. The leading role wasn’t the only thing you stole, was it? That famous director Juan Corrida was Celeste’s fiancee.”

“Unsubstantiated muck raking,” Andrews says, pulling out a compact and lipstick from seemingly nowhere.

“We have Celeste’s texts.”

A miniscule pause before Andrews blots her lipstick with a tissue that she tosses at Phoenix with contempt. “You can’t pin this on me. I wasn’t there, Mr. Scary Prosecutor.”

Phoenix unfolds the tissue carefully. “It’s a flattering shade,” he admits. “It’d look good on you, Byrde.”

Detective Byrde stares at him like he’s grown two more heads and Andrews snorts.

“That washed out little thing? I think not. Besides, even if she wanted to, it’s an exclusive. This shade is a copyrighted and trademarked Adrian Allure product. There’s only one tube manufactured at a time and it belongs to me.”

“Funny you should say that,” Phoenix says with a smirk, pulling out the little bag of evidence from his case file. Inside is a polaroid photograph with a heart drawn on front in glitter gel pen, the Heart Attack Killer’s signature calling card. On the back corner is a smear of lipstick.

“What do you know,” Phoenix feigns surprise. “A perfect match.”

~~

“I want to talk to the assistant,” Phoenix says abruptly as Byrde puts the police car into drive.

“Yeah? He’s kind of an airhead…”

“Is he? I wonder…”

Phoenix frowns at the card in his hand. Something about it is bothering him. The lipstick, the timing… it’s a bit too convenient. Andrews is guilty, he’s sure of it. Those secret messages dripped with the venom of a friendship’s rotten corpse. Still, that lipstick… better to be sure.

Matt Engarde’s apartment could generously be called a shoe closet, if one was not too particular about their shoes. The wallpaper is peeling, the ceiling is more waterstain than clean plaster, and there is a distinct smell of cat.

The young guy before them has a nice enough face but an unstylish haircut, and his boring clothes aren’t doing him any favors either. His jacket is too short in the sleeves and too formal for those pants. Engarde nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose while a small orange cat winds figure eights between his ankles.

“Who’s a good kitty?” Byrde asks, instantly on the ground.

“I thought you liked dogs,” Phoenix says, a little put out.

“I like anything cute!” Byrde uses the loose string end of her hideous sweater sleeve to bait the cat into playing pounce.

“Uh… do you wanna come in?” Engarde asks uneasily.

“No,” Phoenix says shortly and Engarde is visibly relieved.

“I understand you were in possession of the killer’s calling card.” Phoenix again shows off the little plastic baggie.

“I mean technically Shoe was,” Engarde evades clumsily.

Phoenix frowns, looking down at the cat. When their eyes meet, Shoe fluffs up threateningly. Cats always do that around Phoenix.

“Where did you get the lipstick?”

“What lipstick?” Engarde frowns too. Phoenix flips the photograph over and taps the stain. “Huh. I guess it was already there?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Engarde insists. “I know how it looks but I took the picture by accident, look it’s all covered in kitty chew marks. Adrian’s kind of a shitty boss but I could just quit, you know? If she goes to jail I’m out of a job and a reference.”

“I’ve read your screenplay,” Phoenix says, a stab in the dark. There’s a stain along his sleeve that looks like it might come from an old fashioned typewriter.

“...really?” Engarde’s eyes go wide.

“Yes,” Phoenix lies through his teeth. “It was all in due course of the investigation, but it was a real page turner.”

“Right?!” Engarde grabs a hold of Phoenix’s arm leaving a fine trail of cat hair on his dark suede coat. “Everybody said a spy drama set in a maid cafe could never work as a period piece, but they just didn’t get it!”

“It’s a social commentary.” Phoenix bluffs.

“It sure is,” Engarde agrees, eyes shining.

“Which is how I know the writer is far too clever for that to be the whole story.”

“You got me.” Engarde raises his arms in good natured defeat. “I knew the cops would come around asking questions so I made sure the picture was front and center. I used a lipstick brush to get the little bit of Adrian’s Aurora Blush out of last month’s old tube and onto the back of the photograph. I figure that would at least place her at the scene of the crime, you know? I was just helping out. I mean she did it. You know she did.”

“Why?” Byrde asks, snuggling Shoe close.

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t thinking anything when I first took the picture.” Enagrde takes Shoe back, kissing the cat on the forehead and rocking him like a baby. “I just couldn’t stand anybody seeing Celeste like that. She was a hell of a girl, so alive, you know? On screen and off. ‘Course then the cops came and took all kinds of pictures, so that was pretty stupid, huh?”

“You were in love with her.” Detective Byrde’s eyes are wide and empathetic, but Phoenix just feels a little sick to his stomach.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in a jerky voice. “But don’t try helping again, Matt Engarde.”

“Sure,” Engarde agrees, with the same sad twist to his smile that Miles had worn since Phoenix disappeared.

“It was nice of you to take in her kitty, even if you hate her guts,” Byrde says kindly.

Engarde’s face scrunches in confusion. “Adrian’s? No, Shoe’s mine. Adrian hates animals, the closest thing to a pet she’s got is her fox fur coat.”

~~

There’s something up with Miles.

It’s more than just seeing Phoenix face to face again across the courtroom, no matter how much Phoenix flatters himself. His expression teeters between exhaustion and nausea. Whenever it is Phoenix’s turn to speak, Miles grips the edge of the defense’s stand like a lifeline.

It takes him until the first recess to put his finger on the problem. Even at his most desperate, defending Mia, himself, Phoenix, there had been a certainty about him. He would not lose these cases because he knew for certain the defendant was innocent. Here he is shaken to pieces.

Why?

Miles’ phone rings in the hall outside of court before he even makes it to the defense chambers and he nearly drops it in his haste.

“Here,” Phoenix says, retrieving it. Miles snatches it from his hand without a word, turning away to speak urgently into the receiver.

“Yes? Recess. I…” He glances over his shoulder at Phoenix, then moves quickly into chambers out of hearing range.

“He just needs time,” Byrde says sagely.

Phoenix is not so sure.

He can’t throw the case. Andrews is guilty, from the way Miles is acting, he must know it too. But justice can be slow. Patient.

After the recess, Phoenix calls Matt Engarde to the stand to testify for the defense.

“No further questions,” Phoenix says after he finishes. He takes the photograph from Engarde and holds it casually aloft - the back facing the defense side of the courtroom.

“Objection!” Miles shouts, leaning forward over the dais. “The defense requests to examine the evidence in greater detail.”

“Granted.”

Phoenix hands the bag to the bailiff, the bailiff to the defense.

Miles straightens suddenly, color returning to his pale face in a brief, attractive flush. “Mr. Engarde,” he says. “Would you be so kind as to tell the courtroom about this purple mark on the back of the photograph?”

“Sure,” Engarde says easily. “It’s lipstick, isn’t it?”

~~

The lipstick debacle carries them through the afternoon until the Judge checks the time on the clock high in the courtroom and adjourns for the day.

“No,” Miles whispers, looking utterly lost.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Edgeworth?” The Judge asks in return.

“None whatever,” Phoenix answers and when Miles glares at him, he matches the gaze steadily.

The Judge raps his gavel and the crowd disperses. Phoenix makes a beeline for Miles, grabbing a few official-looking papers at random along the way.

“I don’t even want to see your face,” Miles says bitterly. “If you had any idea…”

“Mr. Edgeworth,” Phoenix says loudly. He shoves the papers at Miles and ushers him into the hall. “These papers require your attention before the continuation tomorrow, so put up with me for a few minutes longer.”

As soon as the door shuts in Phoenix’s office, Miles looks up from the papers, eyebrows crinkled in confusion.

“Why on god’s green earth would I need Detective Byrde’s lunchtime expenditure reports?”

“You don’t,” Phoenix says, snatching the papers back and stuffing them randomly into a drawer. “Obviously you don’t, I was trying to get you alone.”

“How dare you,” Miles snaps, reaching for the door.

Phoenix slams it shut again and leans there, crowding Miles back against the door so that they are face to face.

“Where’s Mia?” Phoenix asks.

In his pocket, Miles’ phone rings.

Miles answers the phone and listens intently. Phoenix, meanwhile, walks to his desk where a laptop sized device is already set up and waiting. He pulls on the attached headset.

“- It ain’t nothin’ to me if you wanna let the gals kit over for their slumber party ‘nother night or two,” a female voice drawls across the line. “But I ain’t exactly got a red carpet to be rollin’ out. Gotta wait for payday to hit the grocery store, if ya know what I mean.”

“Please don’t hurt them,” Miles begs.

“That’s up to you, sugarlips.”

The line goes dead.

Slowly Phoenix removes his headset and looks at Miles who has flung himself across the sofa in the corner with a sigh so deep it seemed to come from his toes.

“When did she go missing?” Phoenix asks, disconnecting his headset and putting the tape on loop, low volume but loud enough for both of them to hear.

“The afternoon after Franziska Von Karma was shot. I haven’t heard from Mia since she went to pick up Maya from the train station.”

Phoenix’s pen scratches through the paper as he takes down the note.

“Then.”

“Yes. The Heart Attack Killer is holding them both hostage until Andrews reaches a not-guilty verdict.” Miles glances at the recording device. “When did you set that up?”

“I asked Byrde to rush the warrant and the wiretap at recess.”

“How did you know?” Miles asks, at a loss.

“I know everything about you, Miles,” Phoenix admits softly. “There - do you hear that?” He rewinds the recording back a little.

“Hear what?”

Phoenix shushes him, cocking his head to the side and closing his eyes to focus in. “There’s something in back, some kind of… music?”

“It’s so faint,” Miles says, surprised. “How could you even tell?”

Phoenix half shrugs, then leans in further. “I’ve heard this before,” he muses. “Not long ago. When…?”

Miles breaks into a short whistle and Phoenix jerks to attention like a dog called to heel.

“That’s it! That’s-”

“Cirque de Galactica!” They chime in unison, nearly nose to nose. Phoenix looks aside, embarrassed. “Regina still owes you for getting her off the hook for that murder, give her a call and see where they’re set up. I’ll get Byrde on standby.”

“Certainly,” Miles says, flipping his ancient phone to life and giving Phoenix an odd sort of glance from the side of his eye. Maybe Phoenix was a little too helpful here, he seems suspicious. “Big fan, are you?”

“Of your cases?” Phoenix asks dryly.

“Of the circus.”

“Ah. Both, probably,” he mumbles and before Miles can respond, a chipper voice crackles across the line.

“How many divorce lawyers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” She’s loud enough that Phoenix can hear clear across the room.

“Regina…”

“Well?” She demands, the bright honk honk of her pink rubber nose as punctuation. “You called a clown, pay the clown tax.”

“I don’t know, Regina. How many divorce lawyers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“One, but he screwed my ex-husband too!” Her giggling drowns all attempts at conversation for several minutes; in the meantime, Phoenix leans out the door to signal to Byrde. By the time she has the police car out pulling out front, the two of them are running down the stairs, an address by the docks on the hastily torn-out legal sheet in Miles’ coat pocket.