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Chapter Text

When it comes to spending any significant amount of time in a confined space with Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix knows to anticipate that underlying thread of tension. This, though, seems notably worse than usual.

Edgeworth has been driving for what must be at least an hour and a half now, and hasn’t said much beyond his curt greeting when he picked Phoenix up from the airport earlier. He hasn’t indicated that he might turn on the radio either, and Phoenix knows better than to touch anything on Edgeworth’s car. Therefore, the journey so far has gone down in almost complete silence, save for the occasional squeak from the windscreen wipers and light pitter patter of the drizzling rain.

If Phoenix didn’t literally have the record of Edgeworth’s email directly requesting him to be here, he would have felt like an uninvited imposition.

Given he’d spent the entire flight trying to psych himself up for the next few days, Phoenix tries to take in his surroundings. He’s visited Germany once before- last year, when Edgeworth ‘consulted him’ on a case involving a criminal ring operating out of Berlin, but this feels far more remote.

(Surely there must be a town somewhere around here?)

(Unless the von Karmas used to get their groceries airlifted in or something?)

 …Phoenix wouldn’t put it past them. It really has just felt like forest upon forest, though. They’re not even on what feels like a main road anymore. Though, Phoenix isn’t exactly longing for an alternative. He’s experienced Edgeworth’s driving on the autobahn once before, and frankly? Never again.

Edgeworth himself has spent most of the drive gripping the steering wheel so tight, it looks like he’s attempting to choke it. Other than that, he’s maintained his usual stiff and composed demeanour so far. There’s something else to it, though, from the tension in Edgeworth’s shoulders and the way he squints at the road ahead of them.

Ever since getting hired at the Borscht Bowl, Phoenix has found himself doing that a lot more. Watching people, that is. Gauging.

(Though in truth, it’s also a lot to do with Trucy’s influence.)

Edgeworth has good enough instincts to notice if Phoenix has been staring at him for too long, so he quickly turns his gaze back to the trees. It still feels strange, and somewhat uncomfortable, being here like this. He’s not even a lawyer, not anymore– a sentiment that’s morphed from one of a sharp bewilderment to something more heavy and bitter. Even the sense of authority he once held in his arguments, his sharpness from fighting tooth and nail in the courtroom… has eroded away into something like an echo beneath his ribs.

He still doesn’t even really know why Edgeworth wanted his help for something like this. Sure, Phoenix has responded to the call and played ‘assistant’ a few times by now, but it’s not like they’re headed to a crime scene. Besides, he’s almost certain Edgeworth would have paid more attention to inheritance law than Phoenix ever did. Moral support, then? It seems like the most likely option, though he can’t help but feel it seems strange, from Edgeworth.

“You know,” Phoenix finally says, breaking the silence like a thin sheet of ice. “You never really filled me in on the details. What are we even supposed to do when we get there?”

Edgeworth barely even reacts to the sudden question, keeping his eyes on the road. “We will see what the will says. It’s more of a formality at this point, anyway. I already know most of what’s in it, but there are a few matters that remain unresolved, and it’s important to remain vigilant in case there’s anything unexpected.”

“And you think there will be?” Phoenix asks almost automatically.

Finally, Edgeworth looks at him, though his flat expression reads like annoyance. “Wright, if I expected it, then it wouldn’t be, a priori, unexpected.”

“Right,” he scratches his forehead nervously. “I guess I’m just surprised it took so long to get to this point.”

Edgeworth’s lips draw in a tight line, and his brow creases. “There were… complications. Given the revelation of his crimes, von Karma’s estate was frozen through the course of the investigation. He also held assets in multiple jurisdictions, all of which have unique legal processes.”

“Maybe I should have paid more attention back in college,” Phoenix says, and immediately attempts to swallow down the regret that comes with it.

(I’m not a lawyer anymore, so what does it matter anyway?)

“Believe me,” Edgeworth says, “I have done more than enough learning about international inheritance law for the both of us, over the past few years.”  

Phoenix almost asks why Edgeworth even wants him here, in that case, but he holds his tongue.

Surprisingly, it’s Edgeworth who clears his throat again. “Even this long after his death, von Karma’s presence manages to linger… I will be glad, to finally close this chapter once and for all.”

“Have you decided what you’ll do with it?”

“Not particularly.” Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ll found a charity for aspiring defence attorneys.”

(It’s meant to be a joke... Probably.)

Perhaps under different circumstances, Phoenix would have been able to smile at the cruel irony of it. And it’s not like the image of Manfred von Karma rolling violently in his grave isn’t at least a little amusing… Underneath the surface though, Phoenix can’t help but think about how necessary good defence attorneys are starting to become now, what with all the whispers about the ‘dark age of the law’.

He lets the conversation linger for a few minutes, hanging taut in the air like a thread between them. Perhaps it’s a sign of his impatience, or a slight fear of Edgeworth shutting down now he’s managed to jam his foot just slightly in the door, but Phoenix finds himself letting his thoughts flow out again.

“It’s pretty remote out here.”

Edgeworth hums. “It’s quite easy to imagine how this location inspired so many famous stories.”

“…You do get reception though, right? Trucy won’t let me hear the end of it if I don’t call her soon.”

“The house is adequately serviced.”

Thankfully, there are some signs of civilisation not too much later, which Phoenix hopes includes the hotel. He’s still not exactly adept at long-haul international travel, and if he spends too much longer in this kind of seated position, he’s afraid his back will never recover from the ordeal. Now he’s really starting to fear what might happen if ‘it all goes downhill after thirty’ turns out to be more than just an expression…

The von Karma… Phoenix can only describe it as a mansion, is situated a little further away from the town he glimpsed. Slightly too far to walk regularly, he thinks. Perhaps that’s on purpose. Though, it looks old and imposing enough that Phoenix is pretty confident it wasn’t all Manfred von Karma’s decision. Classicism with a hint of neogothic, the old art student buried somewhere deep within him supplies, taking in the stature of the columns.

Edgeworth parks the car, but makes no effort to get out, his hands still gripping the wheel just as tightly as before. He kind of looks like he’s just seen a ghost. And Phoenix would know, given who he’s friends with.

“What, no valet parking?”

His attempt at humour does the trick, or at least redirects Edgeworth’s ire towards himself. A noble sacrifice. “The butler is likely busy attending to the other guests at this moment in time.”

“Wh- butler?!”

Edgeworth finally untenses his hands, and opens the door. “Come along now, Wright. There’ll be more time for gaping later.”

Phoenix is only slightly tempted to call up Lotta Heart and beg her to write some kind of exposé about the crazy salary prosecutors must make. Though, she is pretty much the only journalist he knows of who didn’t rush to celebrate his downfall, so he’s not sure he has much bargaining power when it comes to favours.

It does feel good to stand back on solid ground, at least. Phoenix stretches his limbs out, wincing at the sound of his joints clicking. He frowns, as the chill in the air finally hits him. He’d figured this occasion warranted bringing his old suit out of retirement, but he realised he was somewhat missing the cosiness of the hoodies he’d become far more accustomed to. He’s not sure how he’s going to be any help to Edgeworth, but he grabs one of the binders he’d usually use for evidence just in case.

“Are you okay?” He looks over at Edgeworth, who hasn’t actually moved since getting out of the car.

His shoulders tense up, like a cat caught off guard, before he wraps his arms around himself. “I haven’t been back here… since the trial.”

While Phoenix’s natural instinct is to try and offer some words of comfort, navigating Edgeworth is never quite that simple. He needs to not press him too far into an uncomfortable direction. Instead, Phoenix just nods, letting Edgeworth take the lead to steel himself in his own time.

They’re greeted at the door by a man dressed formally in a black suit, complete with bowtie. The butler, Phoenix assumes, based on the crisp white gloves he glimpses. Not that Phoenix has met a butler before… The man is relatively young, no more than ten years older than him if Phoenix had to guess. Something about him makes Phoenix think of Kristoph Gavin– perhaps the long hair and neat ponytail, though the butler’s hair is a near white blond.

“Willkommen, Herr Edgeworth, it has been quite some time.” He turns to Phoenix, lightly lowering his head. “Good afternoon, Herr Wright, welcome to the von Karma estate.”

Being addressed by name catches Phoenix slightly off guard. Not that he’s unused to being recognised and subject to public scrutiny at this point, but he’s pretty sure his disbarment wasn’t international newsworthy, outside of express legal circles at least. Well, thinking about it in context, it’s more likely he’s being recognised for the other reason in a place like this.

“Herr Wolfe,” Edgeworth acknowledges, removing his coat. “Indeed, I haven’t visited in a while.”

Phoenix senses just the hint of something behind Wolfe’s eyes, though his face remains mostly neutral. “Of course. It must be peculiar… returning to this house.” He clears his throat. “I will escort you to the study.”

As they walk, Phoenix takes the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The interior fits the look of the outside of the house, clearly incredibly grand. Though, something seems off about it. The walls are painted a particularly unpleasant shade of magnolia that screams ‘not from this century (but not in the cool way)’, and it appears von Karma didn’t even have the decency to try and cover them with any further decoration.

Towards the end of the hallway, he catches a glimpse of an older woman, who seems to be busy dusting a vase of flowers. As if sensing his presence, she meets Phoenix’s gaze with something that can be only described as ‘scorn’, before swiftly turning on her heel and heading off somewhere.

 (If looks could kill…)

Wolfe pauses outside of an ornate wooden door, knocking lightly before pulling it open. He announces something in German, though Phoenix at least catches both his and Edgeworth’s names.

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The room is already relatively full, it appears. It feels like walking into some kind of micro conference. Phoenix instantly feels particularly out of place as everyone turns to look at them. Beside him, Edgeworth also seems relatively stiff. Not that Phoenix can blame him for that.

*CRACK*

Of course, there is someone Phoenix recognises.

“Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska von Karma bites, “you’re late.”

Edgeworth shrugs. “Traffic.”

The road had, of course, been almost completely clear for most of their drive.

She hasn’t changed much, in the years since Phoenix last saw her. Maybe her features have grown a little sharper, but that could just as easily be the way she’s glaring at them. At least her whip is still intact. Phoenix scans the rest of the room briefly, which reminds him of Edgeworth’s office in the Prosecutor’s Building. There’s one other woman, and three other men present– who are all still staring at them to the point of it being a little unnerving.

An older man, currently sat behind a grandiose desk and framed by a stack of papers so tall that Phoenix instinctively wants to recoil, says something in German that Phoenix obviously doesn’t understand.

(Seems like that might become quite some barrier… maybe I should have brought my phrase book with me.)

This time, he doesn’t pick up on any words either.

“What’s the rush, Rüdiger?” The unfamiliar woman speaks up, her voice carrying only a light flair of what he recognises as German accent. Her lilt otherwise reminds him of a movie star from the 1930s. “It would be nice to get acquainted, no? Now that everyone is here.”

The man at the desk doesn’t look particularly surprised at the request. “As you wish, Frau Rotfisch.”

She looks over at Wolfe, the butler, who has apparently remained in the room. “Herr Wolfe, perhaps some tea, if you will? Fetch the children, also.” She finishes the request with a flared gesture, whipping around her black, though with a notable blue undertone, hair.

The man sitting beside her on the couch looks uncertain. Phoenix notices a matching set of rings on their fingers. Mr Rotfisch, then? “Hilde…”

“They will benefit from this learning opportunity. Greta is already nearly the same age as Franziska was when she became a prosecutor.” She looks back up towards them. “Sit, Edgeworth.”

With the way she holds her gaze on Phoenix, when he initially remains standing, he assumes she must also mean him. Hoping he’s not sweating visibly, Phoenix follows after Edgeworth like a lost duckling, practically scurrying over to the couch opposite the couple.

Edgeworth at least outwardly appears properly refined. “You look well, Hildegard.”

Some level of familiarity, then… And suddenly, it clicks for him. It’s not as obvious as it is on Franziska, but with the woman’s grey eyes, and beyond that her general aura… he gets an unsettling feeling not unlike when Maya or Pearls channel the dead. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers von Karma quipping about his granddaughter when they faced off in court, and come to think of it, Franziska was obviously too young for that…

(So this is von Karma’s other daughter?)

Phoenix rakes his gaze around the room again, tuning out of the pleasantries for a brief moment. The other man, who hasn’t said a word since they arrived, has moved to take up a conversation with the man behind the desk. Probably not a member of the family, then?  Franziska is also still hovering, whip tucked under her arm, though Phoenix is sure she’ll use it on him if he looks for too long.

Hildegard clears her throat, catching Phoenix’s attention again. “Strange. It has been many years since we were all under one roof.”

“A circumstance I’m sure none of us anticipated,” Edgeworth responds with clipped politeness.

Phoenix finally reaches his limit with the awkwardness, and the tension is getting far too heavy. “Well, at least it’s nice everyone gets to– “

“And you, Mr Wright. What is your connection to this, precisely? Are you here as legal counsel for my dear brother?” She pauses, though it’s clearly more for effect, than actually thinking of what to say next. “I thought I heard you had been disqualified from practising law, though. Hmm. Recuperating your fees from many years ago, then? I apologise for my brother’s inaction, if that is the case, it would be unbecoming to leave you waiting so long, and I’m sure you are owed a handsome sum for your services.”

Paradoxically, Phoenix feels like he’s going to evaporate on the spot, but also like he’s been dipped in a pond of ice.

(I almost prefer the whip… it would sting less.)

“He is here as my assistant,” Edgeworth says curtly.

(I don’t think I agreed to that?)

“I prefer the term partner,” Phoenix adds, though kind of immediately wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Hmph,” is all Edgeworth has to say in response.

“I hope you’re not here to dig up trouble,” Mr Rotfisch leans forward, though turns his eyes to Edgeworth. “Nor you. We were under the impression you were done with this family.”

*CRACK*

“Please, Reiner,” Franziska suddenly pipes up, having struck the space between him and her sister. “Papa would have preferred his presence here to yours any day of the week. You are well aware of this, fool.”

Reiner Rotfisch doesn’t appear especially phased by it, hardly even flinching.

“Reiner understands he is not blood,” Hildegard says, “do you, Edgeworth? I am just surprised you haven’t attempted to tear your legal binding to this family out by now. You could have… spared yourself from this.”

He doesn’t have to look, to know that Edgeworth tenses. “I’m sure you are. And yet, here we are.”

A part of Phoenix sincerely wants to drill into her about how biology is not a necessity for family, and how adopting a child is just as valid as birthing one. He manages to quell his natural protectiveness, though. Edgeworth is probably the person who would appreciate that type of defence the absolute least.

“Here we are indeed,” Hildegard hums. “Why ever Father didn’t strike your name out himself…”

“It’s of no consequence,” Edgeworth says. “Manfred von Karma’s reasoning was his own.”

Her eyes glint with something. “Ever playing the dutiful son, even after such… ugliness. How admirable. Or, should I say, convenient?”

Before anyone can respond, a large crash reverberates throughout the room.

“Phoenix!”

Surprisingly, it’s a young girl who shouts, nearly making Phoenix jump out of his skin. As if this day couldn’t get any weirder? Before he even has time to think about why someone is calling for him, his vision is blocked by a solid mass of fur.

“Phoenix! Heel!”

And then, weirder still?

“Good boy, Phoenix,” Edgeworth says, “I have missed you.”

There is a deep, dark part of Phoenix’s brain that is going to park that comment and save it to replay on loop later. He pushes it down, though, because a Phoenix.exe blue screen crash isn’t helpful right now. He is meant to be here as Edgeworth’s assistant/partner after all.

He adjusts, though, and takes in the rather large leonberger that Edgeworth is now calmly petting.

 (So von Karma wasn’t lying about his granddaughter’s dog being named Phoenix?)

Despite everything, Phoenix feels something soften within him at that. Dogs really just seem to get along with Edgeworth, which is surprising since, if anything, Phoenix would have described him as more ‘cat-like’.

“Sorry, Uncle Miles,” the girl, who seems maybe a year or two older than Trucy, huffs out apologetically. She looks a lot like her presumed mother, though her eyes carry the deep blue of her father. “I told him to stop!”

“Ngk,” Edgeworth sounds, “I did warn you about the importance of training him as a puppy, did I not?” There’s zero venom behind his words, though, rather a resounding fondness.  

“I was busy, though,” she folds her arms, looking like she’s almost… sizing Edgeworth up, calculating the right argument to make. “It’s Hans’ fault anyway, for feeding him treats all the time.”

Yeah, she totally reminds him of Trucy… Ugh. Phoenix finds himself subconsciously fiddling with the deck of cards he usually carries around in his pocket with him, now slightly worn around the edges, which only helps a little to quell the ache in his chest. It’s a little frightening, just how quickly he seems to have morphed into one of those obnoxious parents who manages to bring his kid into every little thing… He can’t help it! Trucy is his light, after all.

(Hmm, maybe they would get along, though.)

(Focus, Phoenix! You’re here to help Edgeworth, not arrange international playdates!)  

A younger boy, this time with auburn hair, appears behind her, waving the packet of sweets that he’s holding for emphasis. “Not true!”

A small part of Phoenix internalises that both children appear to have a perfect grasp on what should be a second language, and beyond that don’t show the hint of an accent beyond what he thinks sounds slightly British. He’s sure there’s some kind of story there.

“Greta!” Hildegard’s voice cuts through. “That is enough. You are here to observe and listen.”

Like a flipped switch, both children nod obediently, almost standing to attention. Phoenix squints, realising that Hildegard is now holding a cup of tea in her hand. Huh? Sure enough, the butler is in the room again, carrying a whole tray of refreshments. Phoenix didn’t even notice him, but he must have entered during the dog fiasco.

The man behind the desk… Woody (? or something?)… finally raises his voice again. “As the acting Executor, I must insist that we continue.”

Predictably, though, there’s very little that Phoenix actually understands from that point. He manages to deduce that the man, presumably some kind of estate lawyer, is Rüdiger Stiltskin.

 (At least the surname is easier to say?)

The other mystery man, who somehow looks uncannily like Winston Payne, appears to be named Emmerich Fibber – Phoenix hasn’t figured out what he’s doing here yet, but he appears to know Stiltskin. He also keeps immediately averting his eyes, if Phoenix catches his look directly.  

Phoenix can, at least, read the room relatively well. The discussion appears to be somewhat dry and procedural, with a few notes being scribbled here and there. The occasional speck of Latin is a little jarring, though the mention of in dubio pro reo doesn’t help much in the way of context. Edgeworth isn’t giving him much either, with his ever-rigid posture and neutral face.

At some point, Franziska raises a complaint, which is enough to make Stiltskin look terrified. What follows is some rapid fire back and forth, with the exception of the children who just look bored, and Edgeworth who continues to sip at his tea. Phoenix kind of feels like it’s 2am and he accidentally turned on a telenovela.

The conversation ends, it seems, with Stiltskin pushing his papers aside, and the Rotfisch couple quickly standing to take their leave.

“Wha?”

Edgeworth scoffs. “Fall asleep, Wright? A short break has been suggested.”

Before he can say anything, Greta appears in front of them, hands on her hips. “Aren’t you that lawyer?”

Phoenix can’t help but cringe a little. “Uh, well, it’s complicated?”

“Hold it!” Hans speaks up, then. “Complicated is what grown-ups say when they don’t want to speak about something. What’s the real answer?”

Edgeworth finally sets his teacup down. “You’ve been practicing your examinations, Hans.”

His demeanour instantly changes to something shyer. “A-aunt Franzi gave me some lessons. You wait and see, U-uncle Miles! I’ll be just as good some day!”

(Great. They’re multiplying.)

“Aunt Franzi?” Phoenix can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

Edgeworth purses his lips. “Before you even think about calling her that, I guarantee you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Greta clears her throat. “Your deflecting won’t get past me!” She squints at Phoenix. “If you’re not a lawyer, then you’re Uncle Miles’ friend?”

“I guess you could say that…” Phoenix feels a little lost here.

“Are you helping Uncle Miles?” Hans tilts his head curiously, and glances at Edgeworth. “I didn’t think someone like you needed help.”

Greta raises a finger authoritatively, her eyes falling closed. “A prince ought always to take counsel.”

Before the interrogation can continue, though, someone calls out for them. At least, that’s what Phoenix thinks happens, because he doesn’t understand a word of it, but it causes the pair to leave pretty much on the spot. Well, there’s no doubting that they’re von Karmas, even if not in name.

“Did she just quote Machiavelli?”

A beat. “Yes.” Edgeworth coughs, then. “A favourite of his.”

“…I could do with some air,” Phoenix says finally.

He nods. “Good suggestion. Follow me.”

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Author's notes (which I am faking here for today otherwise they will show up on every chapter): 

This fic was meant to be a 20k one and done to revive my creative energies, which I started to write on New Years Eve. Things got a little out of hand... Admittedly, I have been hyperfixating on the gay lawyers a bit as of late... and now here we are. Possibly the fic I've put the most actual creative effort into ever (I actually edited this one!). Anyway, I hope it's as fun to read as it has been to write. I have tried to capture the feel of some kind of mish mash between the Ace Attorney trilogy and Ace Attorney Investigations games as much as possible, so expect all the mixed media additions to continue (and objection.lol lovers, watch this space...). 

Also this fic is already complete. So feel free to enjoy with the security that it will not be dropped. 

Chapter Text

Phoenix tries to force himself to remember that he’s standing in what was once Edgeworth’s home.

Normally, he thinks, it’s hard to picture someone as a child when you’ve known them for so long. But that certain image of young Miles Edgeworth may as well be burned into the back of his retinas. Imagining that him in a place like this, suddenly all alone in the world and spirited away by von Karma who made it that way… it twists like a hot knife in his gut.

‘This boy is innocent!’

(God, if only you could have been there that day, Edgeworth…)

(…No, I can’t think like that.)

Phoenix finally snaps out of his thoughts, as they step outside. It’s already relatively dark, and he can feel the definite chill of winter. Despite this, it still feels marginally better than indoors… more like standing in a graveyard than a crypt.

“I should apologise,” Edgeworth says, not meeting Phoenix’s eyes as he wraps his own arms around himself. “I fear I’ve tossed you into a lake of hungry piranhas.”

The image sends a chill down Phoenix’s spine. “I have to admit, I’m still not clear about why you asked me here. I don’t even speak German, so it’s not like I’m much help.”

Edgeworth looks at him directly again. “In truth, I hated my obligation to attend such a ceremony at first. I have no desire, nor care for his blood money.” He makes a face, briefly, before returning to neutrality.  “But the assets… go deeper than their monetary value. Until now, everything has been frozen in stasis, but with the will finalised… Well. Manfred von Karma liked to, ah, keep his cards close to his chest– perhaps that’s an analogy you can understand, Wright?”

He thinks through Edgeworth’s words, trying to decipher his implication. “There’s something you want… here?”

“One of his foundational lessons,” Edgeworth starts, “was the unreliability of the human memory. Prepare your witnesses extensively, yes, but the perfect evidence is the real key. So, then, what good is a forty-year career of perfect trials without the full, annotated records of them? I’m certain they’re all here. Studying from them was even made a regular exercise, for myself and Franziska. Forty years of trials,” Edgeworth swallows, “and their associated collusions and conspiracies. There is bound to be something in them. Leads.” 

(He’s looking… for forgeries?)

“Like from the SL-9 incident,” Phoenix thinks out loud, not missing the way Edgeworth’s jaw clenches at the mention of the case. “H-how deep do you think it goes, Edgeworth?”

“You’ve been investigating on your own for the last few years,” his eyes narrow, “don’t even think about lying to me about it. I imagine you already know the answer.”

Phoenix feels a weight sink deep in his chest, as it often does whenever Edgeworth dares to broach this topic. “Too much is based on hearsay, though. It’s not like there’s much proof lying around… unless you think...?”

“I don’t know yet. But I suspect you see now, how these records could be useful to the both of us.”

There’s a lot that Phoenix could say to that. Reactively, he’s already made it very clear he wants Edgeworth to stay out of his own investigation into the Gramarye case. And so far, that boundary has been respected. It’s not entirely from a place of pride, Phoenix knows how easily Edgeworth could end up implicating himself if he was seen to have any involvement. The less he knows, the better. And Phoenix resolved long ago that he won’t take the risk of putting Edgeworth into a position where he might have to lie for him.

Though, he’s aware that Edgeworth has his own fish to fry with the legal system. It shouldn’t be all that surprising, if their paths end up crossing. In truth, Phoenix doesn’t know how exactly to feel about that. But that’s a much bigger topic, one he’d rather not get into at a time like this.

“What was the fight about, earlier?”

Edgeworth looks momentarily surprised, but continues to stand firm. “Herr Stiltskin was going over some of the financial technicalities… The extensive technicalities. Franziska asked if he could hurry things along, and they, ah, bickered a bit. Now that you’ve had the pleasure of speaking to Hildegard, and you know how Franziska can be, I’m sure you can imagine it was mostly just petty words of little consequence.”

(‘Mostly’?)

“What about the other guy in there?” Phoenix asks instead. “He seemed… invested?”

“Manfred von Karma didn’t care much for the business of money,” Edgeworth explains. “Emmerich Fibber has served as his accountant and financial advisor for a very long time, at least as far back as I can recall.”

Phoenix can’t help but roll his eyes, at the idea of being wealthy enough to afford ‘not caring’. “Sounds like a nice problem to have.”

Edgeworth coughs. “Yes, well...”  

“I can’t believe you actually lived in a place like this,” Phoenix takes in the frame of the house again. “I mean I can, because, y’know?” He gestures at Edgeworth, which just earns him a raised eyebrow. “But it’s different walking around in it.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. “I hardly stayed here all the time. I was enrolled into a boarding school through my adolescence, and occasionally Franziska and I would be flown around to observe his trials.”

“So you’ve always been a bit of a migratory bird then, huh, Edgeworth?”

“…Perhaps we should see if things have calmed down again.”

“Right,” Phoenix reminds himself, “lead the way.”

The atmosphere in the room is somehow tenser than before, so it’s pretty clear that the break didn’t do much to help. It does, at the very least, seem that they have moved on to the more interesting portions of the reading. Everyone seems to be paying closer attention to Stiltskin’s words.

Without the language to help him follow what’s going on, Phoenix finds himself observing. He knows that a will reading isn’t exactly a happy occasion, but he feels like he’s picking up more unease and frustration from the others in the room, rather than any kind of sadness. Even beside him Edgeworth tenses up at one point, looking displeased as he makes a biting comment. Phoenix will have to remember to ask him about it later.

Curiously, he notices the butler, who just remains in the room this time, clench his hands together tightly at one point. Though there’s no sign of emotion on his face. The thought is quickly overshadowed, however, by Emmerich Fibber, who clearly has something to say about the situation.

Something about that appears to trigger Reiner Rotfisch into action, and he’s like an open book. From the rise and fall in his tone, Phoenix thinks he’s questioning the estate lawyer. Hildegard is still at his side, and whatever comments she adds are far tighter, more put together and measured. Stiltskin himself remains relatively calm, perhaps providing a neutral answer or explanation. Whatever he says, it’s enough to lower Reiner’s heat, but he still looks bothered.

Then, a purposeful cough. “Herr Stiltskin,” the butler begins, though the rest of his question is lost in translation.

Stiltskin’s expression looks like concern, as he glances over his papers before speaking a response. Something something… Wait– morgen. Morning? Phoenix knows that one! Some of the tension in the room also seems to drop. Are they suggesting they park it here and come back tomorrow? Phoenix supposes it makes sense, if the will was complicated enough to be caught up in bureaucracy for years, then it would probably take more than just one afternoon to get through.

“He was inquiring about whether we want to hold off on dinner,” Edgeworth explains lowly, as the others in the room drift into their own conversations. “But Stiltskin seems… unnerved by the weather. So, business will resume tomorrow.”

“The weather?”

The moment he asks, there’s a clear flash from outside the window. Confusion washes over him, because through that entire session, Phoenix didn’t even hear the hint of a storm.

 (Maybe it’s triple glazed?)

 Since he’s looking that way, he sees the butler speak briefly to Stiltskin, before placing a glass of wine down on the desk for him, and then drawing the curtains closed. Seems good enough as a signal for dinner. Well, he is a little hungry.

“Great,” Phoenix says, “spooky mansion, thunderstorm, and an awkward family reunion. All we’re missing now for a really great time is a murder mystery."

“Nghk!” Edgeworth practically recoils. “Don’t say something like that.”

Phoenix finds himself laughing lightly at the reaction. “Come on, Edgeworth. Don’t tell me you’re actually superstitious?”

“Inconceivable,” he folds his arms. “Nevertheless, you have a penchant for attracting misfortune.”

“Ouch.”

Edgeworth finally seems to let peace fall over himself. “We should join the dinner.”

Phoenix does catch a hint of nerves and discomfort in the statement, but it’s only fleeting. It seems like as good an idea as any. Not that Phoenix is… thrilled at the concept of dinner with a bunch of people who clearly hate his guts. He’s had worse though, at least.

 Of course, the dining room turns out to be just as fancy as the rest of the house so far. The walls are ornately covered in white wooden panelling, and the room is primarily occupied by a large, long table, which even has a fancy candelabra in the centre. It looks like something he’s only really seen in movies. That being said, despite the grandeur, it still seems dated.

Phoenix is more than happy to let Edgeworth take the lead, swiftly following to the empty seat beside him. He can’t help but notice, though, that their numbers seem to have slimmed by two.

“Are the others not joining?”

“Ah,” Edgeworth says, “Herr Stiltskin also said he would be working through some of the clerical issues, so will miss dinner.”

Franziska huffs. “That foolish accountant has also scurried off to somewhere of ill repute, no doubt.”

“Besides,” Hildegard looks like a viper about to strike an oblivious mouse, “we have not had the opportunity for a family dinner for many years now.”

Phoenix’s shirt somehow feels a little too tight. If it’s family dinner, why does he need to be involved? He knows he sealed his fate the moment he sat down, though, and the napkin he’d automatically rested on his lap may as well be a straitjacket. Even so… he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Edgeworth alone like this either. So he’s along for the ride no matter what.

The butler swiftly starts serving bowls around the room, his efficiency quite disarming. He clears his throat at the head of the table in order to make an announcement, before doing a second circuit with a wine bottle in hand.

(Hopefully that wasn’t some kind of toast?)

Thankfully, Edgeworth takes pity. “Parsnip and hazelnut soup, accompanied by Weißburgunder… You’ll know that as Pinot Blanc, I suppose.”

Admittedly, Phoenix is a little more excited for the wine than the soup.

He feels out of place, yes, but he’s not completely socially inept. That is to say, he waits before following the cues around him. The soup is pretty good, though it definitely falls into the category of ‘so fancy I might be enjoying it just because it costs so much’.

His enjoyment of wine, as a concept, is a more recent development. At least, there’s something that feels a little less pathetic about pouring out a glass of wine to drown your sorrows, than cracking open a beer. There’s also the bonus of it being stronger. This wine is a lot nicer than the stuff he picks up back at home, though, and it goes down smoothly.

…Phoenix also can’t help but feel like that butler is staring at him, and not in a good way.

He turns to his side, keeping his volume low. “Does he always just… stand there and watch?”

Edgeworth tenses. “Just try to ignore it.”

“It’s kind of creeping me out,” Phoenix shifts in his seat.

He’s given the hint of a glare. “Is it really that different to a waiter in a restaurant? Just imagine you’re eating out on a not so busy night.”

(…I think Edgeworth might be overestimating my familiarity with comparably ‘nice’ establishments.)

Phoenix tries to follow his advice. Unfortunately, tuning back into the wider dinner conversation is hardly a comfort. Hildegard is discussing some obscure law she apparently provided advice to some government on in a field Phoenix has very little interest in. Though, he is vaguely surprised that she doesn’t appear to be a prosecutor herself.

Then, Reiner Rotfisch steers the conversation, with a hint of ire to his tone. “It’s clear Franziska has her hands full playing... what is it now? Inspector?"

It seems she hasn’t brought her whip to the dinner table. "Special Prosecutor for Transnational Crime. Perhaps you fools would know if you paid attention to anything outside of your foolish provincial little world."

“Ah, yes, the infamously quaint neighbourhood of London.”

“Hmph,” Franziska leans back in her chair. “Spending a few weeks in a foolish city a few times a year doesn’t mean you live there.” 

(Oh boy…)

Phoenix takes a rather sizeable gulp from his glass, as the conversation shifts to a recounting of some of Franziska’s recent investigations. He can’t help but get the sense that she might enjoy this more than the actual trial work… not that he’d dare voice such a thing. The next he looks down, though, his glass is completely full again. Huh. Now that could be a pretty useful magic trick…

“So,” Hildegard trains her eyes on him again, and Phoenix immediately mourns his brief escape from scrutiny. “Phoenix Wright. What is it that you do these days? …Aside from assisting my dear brother, I presume?”

“I’m a professional pianist,” he says simply. “I’ve been working in a few restaurants and clubs, here and there, but I recently scored a regular gig somewhere.”

Beside him, he’s pretty sure Edgeworth chokes on something. Phoenix may not have broken the news about his new job to him yet… But it’s not like either of them really bring up their personal lives much anyway, whenever they talk these days.

“Since when have you played piano?” Edgeworth resembles a scandalised maiden somehow.

“Since I figured I had to start pulling my weight at the talent agency,” Phoenix shrugs. “Anyway, whatever keeps us fed, right?”

Hildegard’s mouth falls open, but before she can continue down that line of questioning, it appears to be time for the next course. Soup is soup at the end of the day, but the food that gets served onto his plate is absolutely, unmistakably in ‘super high-class’ territory. The conversation remains paused, though, save from another announcement from the butler.

“Fugu carpaccio, paired with Riesling Kabinett,” Edgeworth translates for him. “You can’t play piano.”

He takes it as an invitation to play one of their games. “No? It’s not like I haven’t had the free time. You don’t actually think I spend all day moping around, do you?”

“Isn’t that how you used to spend your time before?”

“Well now I’m wounded.”

“And you wouldn’t know the difference between Chopin and Liszt if they rose from the grave themselves and hit you over the head with a concert grand.”

Phoenix finds himself almost laughing at the image. “I mostly play jazz, actually.”

“Jazz.”

He takes a deep sip from his new glass of wine. “My strengths have always been in improv.”

Edgeworth’s brow furrows. “You’re getting paid to… sit on a stage and make bluffs?”

“Not so different to a courtroom, huh?” He meets Edgeworth’s stare. “Besides, I didn’t say that’s what they were paying me for.”

“Wright, if you’re wrapped up in something underhanded– “

Phoenix finally picks up one of the forks, as he feels one of Edgeworth’s rants coming on, but he’s interrupted by a sharp noise. It’s actually Greta who semi-hisses at him to get his attention, before miming the correct cutlery.

“Ah, right,” he says mostly to himself, before shooting her a thumbs up, which she seems to find amusing.

(Still a little embarrassing to be schooled by someone my daughter’s age, though!)

“I have started piano lessons recently,” Hans adds then, clear pride in his own tone. “I will surely participate in the end of school year recital.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Phoenix finds the children the best conversation partners by far. He’s always got along pretty well with kids in general, but as a father himself now, he knows exactly what kind of questions to ask. And seemingly in spite of their parents, Greta and Hans are actually quite pleasant. More than happy to talk about their own interests and schoolwork too, rather than firing too many questions back at him.

He almost misses the signs of disturbance further up the table, but the harsh clatter of cutlery being put down by force catches his attention. Reiner certainly looks a little miserable. Not a fan of pufferfish, maybe? Phoenix seems to remember something about it making people ill, if it’s cooked the wrong way…

“You should rest, if you’re not feeling well,” Hildegard almost seems pointed, towards her husband.

“Perhaps it is the guilt making him sick,” Franziska bites cooly.

(I definitely missed something...)

Reiner just stands, though. “Excuse me,” he says, before leaving the room quickly.

(As if the atmosphere wasn’t tense enough already…)

All that fills the room, after his footsteps, is the sound of his mostly finished plate being removed by the butler. Phoenix’s eyes drift to the view from the large windows he’s positioned opposite. It’s not really producing much sound, but he can see an almost violent amount of droplets pound against the glass.  

“The rain is really coming down strong out there,” he says for some reason, “hopefully it lets up soon.”

“Why, Phoenix Wright?” Franziska glares. “Afraid it’ll flatten that foolish hairstyle of yours?”

He decides to meet her. “Careful, Franziska von Karma, or I’ll start mistaking that for concern.”  

Unfortunately for her, the butler makes his rounds again, and now Phoenix is starting to get worried about how long this meal is supposed to last. He’s already a little full. This time, it’s some kind of mysterious red meat. The dish as a whole looks particularly hearty… At least he’ll sleep well tonight. Absentmindedly, he wonders how Edgeworth managed to stay in such good shape over the years, with a diet like this.

“Venison,” Edgeworth tells him, “with…” the cogs in his mind appear to whirl for a moment. “Juniper,” he settles on, “red cabbage, potato. Paired with Sp–  Pinot Noir.”

Phoenix nods, once again finding the idea of the wine more appealing. He doesn’t hesitate to sample it. Perhaps it goes down a little quickly, in fact, because he finds his glass pretty much empty before the butler has even completed his circuit of the table. Though silent, he does sense something in the butler’s eyes that screams ‘I am not amused’, before circling back around again.

Edgeworth clears his throat. “…You do realise he’ll keep pouring unless you say otherwise?”

He blinks, looking at his now full to the brim glass. “Wait, what? Oh, no, I didn’t-“ He decides to look down at the plate, instead, anticipating the need to soak some of that alcohol up. “Venison, huh? …Great.”

Edgeworth tilts his head. “Is something wrong, Wright?”

(…I totally didn’t cry when Trucy wanted to watch Bambi just a week ago.)

“Where are your manners, dear brother?” Hildegard says. “I imagine being in such a refined setting as this is simply… overwhelming for your assistant. I remember you were much the same, when you first came to this house.”

Phoenix hadn’t noticed her listening. He also kind of feels like he’s wandered into some nightmare version of Downton Abbey. Briefly, he notices his face is a little warm, but he pushes the thought down. Fine, then.

(We’ll do this your way, Hildegard.)

“You mean a place with napkins you’re not supposed to scribble on?” He says, keeping his tone light. “Yeah, it’s been a while, and I guess not as simple as riding a bike. Compliments to the chef, though.”

She lets out a feigned laugh. “How charming. Defence attorneys aren’t paid that much here, I’m afraid, so I would have thought it to be a rarity. A kind reminder for the times of your former vocation, then.” A beat. “Though, you said your new endeavour is to entertain restaurant goers, so perhaps it isn’t so distant after all. That being said, I suppose it must feel different, looking in from the outside.”

Phoenix picks up his wine glass, matching her stare directly as he takes a long sip. “Well, y’know, I lost my badge for presenting forged evidence to the court, so I suppose you could say I actually fit in here rather nicely.”

He feels the temperature drop.

 (Good.)

“You– “

“It’s a shame you and I never got to meet in court, really,” he finally looks off to the side, as if thinking and nonchalant. “Then my win record could have been four for four.”

(Sorry, Edgeworth, but I kind of had to.)

Hildegard takes an equally deep drink from her own glass. Phoenix can see her twitch, slightly, but to her credit she’s showing restraint. “A great shame indeed.”

“Are you any good at poker?”

Somehow, she manages to look more offended at that. “Gambling?”

He sets his glass down, and surfaces a light laugh. “It’s a game like any other, first and foremost. Anyway, gambling implies taking a risk, but I’ve never lost a game so far, so. The invitation’s open anyway, if you ever feel like taking me on.”

At that, Franziska speaks up. “What are the rules?”

“Huh?”

“The rules, Phoenix Wright.” She doesn’t seem angry with him, for anything he said before… “Tell me the rules, and I will crush you.”

It’s just the kind of relief he needs. That, and the solace of the well-cooked potatoes on his plate. Actually, Franziska appears to be somewhat invested in his explanation, only voicing her displeasure at the name ‘Texas Hold Em’. It quickly becomes clear that she’s serious about playing him, though. But as long as she leaves the whip out of it, Phoenix doesn’t mind. In fact, once she has some practice, it might be nice to face a more formidable opponent.

“I see now,” Franziska sets her cutlery down, having finished her own plate. “So this is the meaning of ‘poker face’. It will be the look on your face when you lose.”

(Whatever you say, Franziska.)

At least she helped him survive until dessert. This time, Edgeworth doesn’t tell him what the butler says. By taste, though, he quite easily identifies it as some kind of apple tart. It’s nice, sugary. The wine, which Phoenix figures is better to ease up on at this point, is just as sweet, if near nauseating.

Thinking about it, Edgeworth has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout this entire dinner. Phoenix attempts to sneak a glance at his expression, but there’s not much to go off with reading his tells when he’s just sitting there like this. He hopes Edgeworth isn’t upset with him, for his choice of earlier insults.

Edgeworth looks at Franziska, after taking a bite of the dessert. “Is Frau Falschen still here?”

Franziska hums. “Perhaps she made one of your old favourites in your honour, Miles Edgeworth.”

The chef’s name? Edgeworth looks a little troubled, though, even if there’s an underlying sense of enjoyment there. Finally, Phoenix senses him relax just a little further, his face reading as pleased, if only a little mellow. He already knew about Edgeworth being a closet sweet tooth, but it’s still interesting to see it in person.  

“Herr Wolfe,” Hildegard says, once the final plates are cleared. “Tea, in the drawing room as usual? And see that the children are taken to bed.”

The butler just nods lowly, as both kids get down from their chairs.

“Goodnight!” Phoenix says, because it feels right after their lengthy dinner conversation.

Greta smiles brightly. “Night, M-Herr Wright!”

That tugs on his heart strings, a little. Phoenix shifts, a wave of discomfort and longing falling over him. He stalls, snapping out of his autopilot once they’re in the hallway again. He’s not sure if he can expect a further slew of remarks or not, but it’s absolutely not worth delaying talking to his light for. He once swore to that girl he would never vanish on her, and he has every intention to keep his promise.

Chapter Text

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, lagging behind in the hallway, “I still really need to call Trucy.”

“Of course,” Edgeworth responds immediately, but then seems to hesitate, his hand on the door to a different room. “The drawing room is this one.”

Once Edgeworth steps inside, Phoenix is on his own. Not that he was expecting… anything in particular, actually, but the silence suddenly makes his discomfort feel marginally worse. All alone, in von Karma’s spooky mansion.

He figures the walls are thick, but he still feels a little weird about making a personal phone call right outside the room. Thinking about it for a moment or two, Phoenix paces a little instead, right down what he believes is the same hallway they walked down earlier. It turns to a corner, at the end, and Phoenix glimpses what appears to be some kind of sunroom or conservatory. He finds himself drifting towards it, since he doesn’t feel like opening other doors at random.

Inside, the sound of the storm is a little clearer, though still heavily muffled by the thick glass. Somehow that’s a little better than the artificial silence. His trusty Nokia also picks up some bars of reception, so it seems to be a good spot.

“Nick! Do you have any idea what time it is?”

(Whoops. I always forget about time zones… at least until they become vital for uncovering the truth behind a homicide.)

“You picked up instantly, though,” he says, “which means you were already awake.”

On the other end of the line, Maya clearly huffs in annoyance. “You’re lucky the Master of Kurain Village is such a morning focused role.”

He smiles fondly at her complaints, pulling his cards out of his pocket to shuffle idly with his free hand out of habit. “Did Trucy sleep okay? Did you get her to settle down at a reasonable time? Oh– and did you remember to make sure she ate all her vegetables? She didn’t say anything weird to freak Pearls out again, right? Because I did talk to her about that, and she promised–“

“Okay, Helicopter Dad, can we maybe do one question at a time, please?”

Phoenix swallows. “Sorry.”

There’s a pause, where Phoenix is pretty sure Maya rolls her eyes. “Ask her yourself.”

In the background of the call, he hears a quick shuffle, and then–

“Daddy!”  

Suddenly, his heart is full and warm and swollen ten times its normal size. “Trucy! I’ve missed you so much!”

“I miss you too, Daddy!” She responds instantly. “Guess what? I’m actually practising a new trick.”

“Oh yeah? “What kind of trick?”

(Always the hard worker, that girl.)

“It’s a surprise!” She says cheerily. In Phoenix’s experience, that usually means something with a clean up operation involved. “I’ll show you when you get back home.”

Yeah, it would be impossible to wipe the smile off his face right then. “I can’t wait. Have you been good for Auntie Maya?”

“Of course I have Daddy! Good as gold! We even went for burgers last night, and I finished it all. Didn’t even leave a crumb!”

(So much for ‘make sure she gets her five a day’... I hope the burgers had good toppings, at least.)

“At least you sound like you had a decent night’s sleep,” he’s more narrating his stream of consciousness, at this point. “Unless something else has got you all chipper?”

“Actually, I was coming up with some magical ideas with Pearls last night, and– “

“Trucy Wright,” he says firmly, “you are not allowed to coerce Pearls into channelling Houdini… or any other magician for that matter. We might end up banned from Kurain if there’s another incident.”

(Maya also happens to be just about the only babysitter who’ll accept food as payment.)

“…Can I ask Auntie Maya?”

“No.”

“What if I ask really nicely– “

She’s mostly just playing along now, he thinks. “What do N and O spell?”

“You’re no fun Daddy!”

(…That hurts a little. But I have to be responsible sometimes!)

“Hm, we can have plenty of fun with magic, but let’s just keep it in the realm of the living for now, yeah?”

Trucy lets out a sigh of compliance, even if begrudging. “How about Daddy? Are you helping Mr Edgeworth so far?”  

“Hm,” he decides to be honest, “I kind of wish I’d studied up on German a bit more. I think I’m missing quite a bit. This house doesn’t even feel real, Trucy, it’s more like a castle.”

“So Mr Edgeworth really is a prince, then?”

Much to Phoenix’s embarrassment, that had been Trucy’s first observation, when she once asked to see photos of ‘Daddy’s friends’. At least she hasn’t said it to Edgeworth directly yet, the few times they’ve interacted.

“Maybe something like that,” Phoenix sighs.

There’s a moment of silence. “Daddy… You’ll take me with you next time? I promise I’ll be really good until then. I won’t hide your keys again, and I’ll always remember to ask before working with my swords– “

“W-we’ll have to see,” Phoenix deflects, but even with a continent between them, he knows she won’t buy it. “Besides! It’s kind of up to what Edgeworth needs… if he ever even asks for my help with something after this. I promise, Trucy, I’ll be back home before you even know it. Remember what you always tell me? Me and you…”

“That makes two!” Trucy finishes easily. “I got it, Daddy!”

Phoenix clenches a fist tight around his deck of cards, wishing he could be patting her on the head instead. “You have a good day with Pearls and Auntie Maya, you hear?”

“Loud and clear! Should I pass the phone back to Auntie Maya?”

He should probably check if she needs something, he thinks, slipping the cards back into his pocket. “Sure, go ahead Trucy. I love you!”

She giggles. “Love you more, Daddy!”

…If that’s even possible. Ever since walking into his life, Trucy has become an ever present something, even if it’s just in the back of his mind. But whenever he’s actually with her, even just talking on the phone like this, the full force of his adoration for her hits him in the head like a tsunami of bricks. There is no world, no universe anymore, where he doesn’t love his daughter with his entire heart and then some.

“What did I tell ya?” Maya says, taking over the phone while obviously in the middle of eating something. “She’s in one piece.”

“Thank you, Maya,” he says genuinely, feeling lucky that he has friends he can trust to look out for his light.

“How is the romantic getaway, anyway?”

(She keeps asking questions like this recently, for some reason.)

“You know it’s nothing like that.”

“It isn’t?” She, for a moment, makes it sound like a real question. “You, Edgeworth, alone in a hotel in the middle of nowhere~”

“…All that, plus the ghost of Manfred von Karma breathing down my neck.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Phoenix’s hand tightens around the phone slightly. “Yeah.”

“So, you’re saying if the ghost of von Karma wasn’t there it would be different then? Because that can be arranged, you know!”

“Maya. Absolutely not.”

“Don’t say I didn’t offer! Anyway, catch you later, Nick. Enjoy your totally non-romantic trip!”

She hangs up, before he can actually say goodbye. Phoenix lets out a sigh, holding his phone close to his chest before putting it away again. Hopefully this whole will affair doesn’t drag on for too much longer, because he can’t wait to be home again.

The thought it cut short because he hears something, then, and turns sharply on the spot.

The silhouette of a man, who seems to have been trying to book it in the opposite direction, clearly realises he’s been noticed and freezes up. Perhaps weighing his options, the man turns casually, as though his actions for the last half a minute or so weren’t completely out of place.  

“Get lost or something, Mr Wright?” It’s Reiner Rotfisch, who looks a little pale in the face despite the bite of his words. “Or should we be worrying about larceny?”

Phoenix looks briefly around the conservatory. “It’s true this potted plant might be about half of my net worth,” he says, “but I was actually calling my daughter.”

Strangely enough, something in Reiner’s demeanour appears to relax. “…I wasn’t aware you had children.”

“Just the one,” Phoenix thinks about it for a moment, and then pulls his wallet out of his pocket. It may be light in cash these days, but there are more important things. “See? Her name’s Trucy.”

Reiner looks with what seems to be genuine curiosity. “How old is she?”

“Ten, now,” Phoenix tucks his wallet away safely again. “I can hardly believe it.”

“They sure do shoot up fast,” Reiner agrees. “It feels like just yesterday mine were all small and helpless, and now Greta won’t even hug me in public. Too embarrassing, or so I’ve heard…”

“They seem like really good kids,” Phoenix reflects. “Sharp… and persistent. Though, that seems to run in the family.”

Reiner smiles. “It certainly keeps me on my toes.” His posture straightens. “I suppose it’s nice to meet you in less exacting circumstances. Hmph, not that it isn’t par for the course, in this house…”

(Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought?)

“Yeah, I can’t imagine Manfred von Karma being the most welcoming father-in-law.”

The smile he gives him then is smaller, filled with an understanding.  “You don’t know the half of it.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like I wouldn’t want to?”

“Quite.” Reiner starts to turn again, but stops after about thirty degrees. “…Do not mistake Hilde’s reactions for genuine hatred. At least, not anymore. I know she can be difficult at first, but this is hard for her as well.”

Phoenix looks him over, and without really thinking, his hand clasps around the magatama in his other pocket. It’s not like Edgeworth gave him much of an explanation before asking him to come here, so he brought it with him just in case.  

“What does that mean?”

Reiner appears hesitant for a moment, but swallows deeply. “She was an only child, for much of her young life. Manfred was never around that much to begin with, and eventually there was a divorce… Hilde went to live with her mother, and they only visited on occasion. She always resented him for it, and then Franziska came along with her constant gushing about how great their Papa was, and how she wanted to be just like him. I think she felt… replaced.”

The statement hangs there in the air for a moment. It does seem to explain a lot. While it’s not something Phoenix can relate to himself, he has witnessed how Franziska and Edgeworth act around each other. Despite their bond, it’s pretty clear that von Karma had a way of driving a competitive wedge between siblings.

“Anyway,” Reiner continues, “Manfred was at least more reliable, with Franziska around. Until one time, after a long trial, he vanished for six months with no explanation. I already knew Hilde at that point… in my own recollection she was worried about him, despite everything, especially when he didn’t show up to her graduation. Then, like nothing even happened, he plucks the son he always really wanted out of thin air.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right with Phoenix. “Son?”

Reiner shrugs. “I can’t say much about the truth of the matter, but I don’t think that’s relevant to the optics. I truthfully only met Miles Edgeworth for the first time at my wedding, and then only at a few family obligations following that. First hand though, there was no mistaking that he was the chosen successor. Practically Manfred’s shadow. Especially after… well, Manfred had expectations, about her becoming a prosecutor, but Hilde was still young when she took the bar, and it didn’t go her way. I believe he told her there was no point in trying again, or something to that effect. At first, I actually think Hilde hated him because he was quiet and meek. The boy was simply given everything she’d ever wanted, and he had the nerve to look displeased. And then he did start acting like he wanted it, certainly by the time I met him, and Hilde hated that even more.”

Inside, Phoenix feels like he’s fighting for air. Perhaps even just a few years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back from coming to Edgeworth’s defence. From unpicking every contradiction in Reiner’s words. And there are many to choose from.

(Such as the part where von Karma murdered Edgeworth’s father in cold blood?!)

Somehow, though, a part of him recognises that this is useful information. Not that he knows what for, exactly… Phoenix does know that, if he really wants, he can just ask Edgeworth himself about this. In fact, maybe that’s what Phoenix should be doing. In many ways this conversation is making him feel icky and voyeuristic.

“To her,” Reiner lets out a deep breath, “he had everything on a golden platter. And then he threw it all away. First the losses in court, and then after that trial… he turned his back on this family and never so much as looked over his shoulder again. Not until today, it seems.”

“I thought this story was about how she doesn’t hate him,” Phoenix presses. “But I’m not really convinced by what you’ve said so far.”

For some reason, Reiner gives him the hint of a smile. “If I can offer you some sage advice, Mr Wright, avoid marrying into this family. The complexities are astronomical. But you were correct, sharpness and persistence… they’re traits that run deep within the von Karmas. My wife is… a remarkable woman, and too intelligent to truly blame the actions of her father on a young boy. But that doesn’t prevent the hurt, to know the legacy she coveted for so long is naught but lies and corruption.” His gaze drifts sideways, at that. “Even if she felt abandoned by the man, at least being von Karma’s daughter was once an honour. Now, it is something of a curse.”

It's hard to know what to say to something like that, so Phoenix doesn’t, letting it wash over him like drizzle. Even though he got no reaction from the magatama he’s still palming, he doesn’t fully believe everything. Though, he’s only heard Reiner’s versions of events, so they’re likely true from his perspective. More than anything, though, Phoenix figures that Reiner really loves his own immediate family.

“I will take my leave now,” Reiner says, “again. Looks like the storm won’t let up any time soon.”

As if on cue, a clap of thunder reverberates around the night sky.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, as Phoenix attempts to find his way back, he discovers that the big spooky mansion has a lot of doors. Worse still, they all look pretty much the identical. He’s not even sure which direction he entered from. He’d just been following others from room to room earlier, and the lingering buzz of all that wine isn’t helping much with his directional ability.

Phoenix figures he can’t have walked that far, in his quest to call Trucy. The first door, which he thinks could be correct, turns out to be locked. So that one’s out. The room next to it… he pulls open the door, and there’s nobody in the room. However, he does almost directly walk into some kind of stuffed deer head in the process.

(Guess I solved the crime of Bambi’s huntsman after all…)

Phoenix’s curiosity gets the better of him, which he thinks is a reasonable response to surprise taxidermy, and he turns on the light in the room. He can hardly believe it, but somehow all the other items manage to scream ‘super villain’.

(What even is this place?)

 The best Phoenix can come up with, as a stretch, is armoury. That is, there appears to be a significant number of lethal weapons lining the wall. A whole collection… fancy looking swords, some ornate crossbows, even a couple of hunting rifles. Phoenix shouldn’t be surprised about that. Manfred von Karma’s proven capacity to shoot a person with point blank accuracy implied at least a glancing familiarity with guns. A gigantic tapestry covers the wall opposite the weapons, which appears to be held in place partially by a thick, rope-like cord. Of course, the pattern on it clashes horribly with the rest of the décor.  

“Wright?”

Edgeworth manages to time his apparently grand entrance in tandem with another lightning strike, which makes him look like some kind of final big bad out of a horror movie… and maybe Phoenix shrieks just a little bit above his normal vocal range.

“Jeez, Edgeworth, don’t do that!”

Edgeworth just frowns, tilting his head curiously. “…Don’t open the door?”

“You scared me!”

He has the nerve to look smug. “Then you would do to become less skittish. What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I got lost?” Phoenix starts, and Edgeworth quirks an eyebrow. “I also got distracted. What is this place?”

“The trophy room,” Edgeworth shrugs.

Phoenix looks up at the wall again. “Is that some kind of German thing? Like, each time you win a trial, the other side has to surrender their weapons as a sign of defeat?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edgeworth says. “The trials here are conducted with a far greater level of both decorum and efficiency than anything you’re used to. These,” he gestures the wall, “are all heirlooms of sorts.”

Phoenix has never been the type to get sucked up in tales of nepotism and infamy. Of course, he knows that people in his… former profession gossip. He also vaguely knows that the von Karma ‘legacy’ was never just one man. Still, it seems like a sobering amount of history. He can only hope that the murderous streak isn’t a genetic thing. Though, he is literally looking at a mass collection of weapons…

“What’s with the katana?” Phoenix finds himself asking. He’s not sure why, but it sticks out from the other weapons, stirring a peculiar feeling inside him.

(Maybe it’s just Steel Samurai merchandise that Edgeworth somehow snuck into the collection?)

“Oh,” Edgeworth answers, “that’s Karuma, the ancestral great sword of the Asogi Clan, who were a long line of blade masters. Supposedly, the von Karmas were named in honour of it. The family ended up inheriting it at some point during the 20^th century.”

New evidence added

It piques Phoenix’s curiosity. “How come?”

“I don’t know much of the details,” Edgeworth admits. “My mentor was more concerned with his own record than external historical topics. He always left it hanging on the wall, despite that, allowing the sword’s condition to deteriorate,” he sounds bitter. “Not that I was ever able to touch it regardless.”

 All of a sudden, a familiar chill crashes over Phoenix, the room darkening around Edgeworth. It’s been a while since he felt this, and it catches him a little off guard. Before his eyes, chains coil around Edgeworth’s body, settling into place with one, singular shiny red lock over his chest.

Phoenix grins. “But you have touched it.”  

“Whatever do you– “ Edgeworth falters, though, as Phoenix reveals the glowing magatama. He squeezes an arm around himself, looking away from Phoenix as the furrow in his brow deepens. “Must you always bring that blasted rock everywhere?”

“Sorry, Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, not putting it away. “You didn’t really give me many details about what I would be walking into before, so I brought it just in case.”

“…” Edgeworth still refuses to meet his eyes, basically hugging himself at this point.

In truth, Phoenix does try to limit his use of the magatama, particularly with his friends, and definitely when it’s not relevant to a case. And he’s vowed to only ever use it on Trucy if it’s a genuine emergency, because she should have the right to keep some things to herself, even if it means keeping a secret or two from her dad. Not that it’s physically possible for him to keep anything from her, though.

Despite all that, Phoenix kind of wants to break this lock, and he can see the contradiction already…

He directs the magatama towards Edgeworth confidently, pointing to the katana on the wall with his other hand. “That sword is clearly sheathed. I know I’m not an expert, but the condition looks fine to me.” He pauses. “After all, if it’s hanging on the wall like any other decoration, then the sheath probably gets dusted just like them too. That means that only the blade could show signs of deterioration. But, how would you know what condition it’s in, unless you held it for yourself and unsheathed it?”

Edgeworth’s face screws up tighter, the lock pulsating. “He could have shown it off, at some point, without me having to touch it.”

Phoenix just finds himself grinning wider, though. “But you just said ‘he always left it hanging on the wall’. That’s a clear contradiction.”

Finally, Edgeworth’s head whips around as he looks him in the eyes, and the lock shatters easily. “Fine. I was misguided and… inspired. It was the only katana I had seen in real life before, and I wanted to know how it would feel… to hold a blade like that. I waited until he was out of the country, and my curiosity was sated.”

It is entirely unsurprising that it’s a Steel Samurai thing after all. Phoenix decides immediately that if Edgeworth truly thinks that messing around with a katana is peak rebellion, he can absolutely never speak a word about the ‘nights out’ that Larry used to drag him along to in his college years.

“What’s the big deal about that, though?” He’s partly thinking aloud. “Doesn’t exactly seem psyche-lock worthy.”

Edgeworth shudders. “…It may have been heavier than I anticipated, when properly wielded.”

Phoenix gapes at him. “You dropped a one-of-a-kind ancestral sword?”

“Nghk!”

Now his eyes are widening. “But wait– you said its condition had deteriorated… You broke a one-of-a-kind ancestral sword?”

“It made a large sound,” Edgeworth admits. “I was sure Franziska, or else one of the staff, would come and investigate. I wasn’t even supposed to be in this room to begin with. In my panic, I noticed that the tip of the blade was missing, but I didn’t have time to look for it before returning it to the wall. When I investigated the scene later, I couldn’t find the tip anywhere.”

While the idea of Edgeworth doing anything that could be described as ‘clumsy’ is alien to Phoenix, it’s a little funny to imagine. At the same time, he feels an urge to reach out and comfort that child in Edgeworth that had to grow up all too soon.

“It’s just a sword,” Phoenix says, finally putting away the magatama. “And nobody even noticed. So, no harm done, right?”

“But a katana is a man’s soul,” Edgeworth looks exasperated.

(Just because you heard something on a children’s TV show…)

Phoenix thinks about it. “If only you knew more about its last owner. Then Maya could have summoned him for you to apologise personally.”

(…Maybe a little hypocritical, since I just lectured Trucy about pimping the Feys out for unnecessary spirit channellings.)

Edgeworth looks away. “…I prefer to avoid such practices.”

Phoenix swallows, quickly remembering the fallout from the DL-6 incident and the circumstances of Misty Fey’s disappearance. Of course that kind of thing would bring up bad memories for him…

“Hm,” Edgeworth sounds, then, looking around the room at something.  

“…that doesn’t sound like a good hm.”

“Something seems different,” he says. “Almost like… something’s missing? Or perhaps out of place.”

Phoenix feels a trickle of suspicion. “Come on, Edgeworth, I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to try and freak me out like that. I’m sorry for exposing your secret, okay!”

“Nghk! I wasn’t!” He regains his composure. “It’s just a feeling.”

“You haven’t been here for years,” Phoenix tries to reason. He bites down the factor that it might be Edgeworth himself who feels out of place. “Even if some of the… décor got swapped around, that wouldn’t be that strange, would it?”

“Hmph. Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m definitely Wright,” Phoenix grins sheepishly.

Edgeworth pulls a face of displeasure at him, apparently not dignifying him with a response to that. “It’s late. We should head to the hotel, before someone stops manning the check-in desk.”

Of course, Phoenix follows without complaint, as the concept of leaving the spooky mansion is appealing. With Edgeworth leading, it seems a lot smaller than when he was trying to find his way around. Was he really that lost, or that drunk? Unless there’s some kind of parlour trick going on. It’s strange, how living with a magician has altered Phoenix’s perception of things.

“Ah, Mein Herr!” The butler appears out of seemingly nowhere, rushing to greet them at the door. “You mustn’t drive in this weather! I apologise, but once the wind started to pick up after dinner, I checked the forecast and it was full of warnings all night. Once I saw, I took the liberty of bringing your bags inside before the rain could get any worse. I have ensured that your room is prepared.”

Perhaps because he was already in the middle of his motion, Edgeworth opens the front door anyway. Sure enough, the storm is raging like crazy outside, nearly blowing the door from its hinges. With the benefits of sound proofing through the rest of the house, Phoenix hadn’t even realised the half of it. The wind is near deafening, and the rain seems something more like a tropical monsoon.

“…Very well,” Edgeworth says, closing the door again with some obvious physical effort.

The butler’s face is mostly neutral, maybe even bored. He does look like he’s been in the rain, but definitely not soaked to the bone. A weird kind of feeling sets in Phoenix’s stomach.

“Uh,” Phoenix says, “when you say the room–”

An annoyed look creeps onto his face. “Apologies, Herr Wright, I thought I heard you declare you were ‘partners’ earlier on. As it happens, all the other guest rooms are occupied regardless. I suppose there is the master bedroom.” Almost like a challenge.

(Even a dungeon cell sounds more appealing!)

“We’re fine,” Edgeworth says, before glaring daggers at Phoenix in a way that seems to scream ‘be quiet and follow me’.

Phoenix does just that, finding that the layout of the upper floor is just as confusing, after ascending the main staircase. He just hopes he doesn’t need to use the bathroom in the night or anything… Edgeworth is at least precise and efficient, half marching them directly in front of a door in the middle of the hallway. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before finally turning the handle.

(…that is the ugliest carpet I have ever seen in my life.)

Perhaps the décor shouldn’t be the first thing on Phoenix’s mind, but it’s kind of hard to look away. The background shade of teal isn’t completely distressing, but it’s embossed with these weird, repeated diamond shapes, with an almost orange centre. It reminds him of the way they decorate bus seats and arcade floors to try and mask how dirty they are… not that the place looks anything other than pristine in this case, though.  He has to force himself to remember that Edgeworth probably didn’t get any say in picking it out. Was this one of the ways von Karma punished him? Forced Edgeworth to have to look at this travesty of a design as some form of psychological torment?

The gravity of standing in Miles Edgeworth’s childhood bedroom begins to weigh on him, then. As Phoenix tries to ignore how the curtains on the window and four poster bed definitely clash with each other and the carpet, that solemn feeling takes its toll. Other than the gigantic bed, and the furniture that might be mahogany, it’s actually not particularly lavish. Pretty much devoid of any personal touches, at a first glance at least.

“Uhm,” Phoenix finally says out of the discomfort of silence. “I guess I’ll take the floor then, but do you think you can sacrifice a pillow?”

Edgeworth seems to falter beside him. “Your back would hold up to that?”

“Are you calling me old, Edgeworth?”

His eyes narrow. “That wouldn’t be an effective insult, since I’m already older than you, even if only by a matter of months. However,” he holds his index finger up for effect, “I, unlike you, have never endured a forty-foot drop into a violent river.”

Phoenix hums. “Can’t say I recommend the experience. But even so, it’s your bed after all…”

“I have not stepped inside this room for many years,” he says. “I am as much a guest here as you are.”

He rakes his brain. “You still have the will to deal with tomorrow. And, no offense, but I’ve heard you can be pretty grouchy when you don’t get a good night’s rest. So, it’s for my own good!”

Edgeworth manages to look mildly scandalised. “And where exactly did you gain such insight into my morning habits?”

“…Gumshoe may have mentioned it.”

About half a dozen or so variations of annoyance and despair cut across his expression. “Then I suppose we’re at an impasse.”

Phoenix knows when it’s not worth pressing him any further on something.

(Guess I’m resigning myself to my fate.)

“Right or left?”

“What?”

The hours of plane travel and whatever family drama he’d had to sit through earlier pretty much catch up with him in one fell swoop. “It’s a big enough bed, so, pick a side!”

Somewhere in the back of Phoenix’s mind, he recognises that the wine is making him more loose lipped than usual. Or maybe it’s the exhaustion. Most likely, some combination of both. He’s not sure quite how long Edgeworth just stands there like his wiring short circuited, but it’s hardly the worst way he could have reacted to the suggestion.

“…Left.” Edgeworth finally mutters.

“Well, fine by me, I am Phoenix Wright.”

“If you say anything else like that, I will throw you out in the rain.”

Phoenix chooses to ignore that as an ‘all bark, no bite’ level threat. “Speaking about that… is there a chance I can take a shower? I still feel like I’m steeped in eau d’aeroplane.”

Edgeworth is silent for a moment, before glancing at one of the walls. “This room is an en suite.”

Following his eyes, Phoenix notices another door slightly disguised by the panelling. He’s also not surprised at that fact, in such a fancy house. Everything else immediately falls to the wayside, as he thinks about how nice it’ll be to wash away some of the grunge of travel. He pulls his bag of luggage, presumably placed at the foot of the bed by the butler, over to the agreed right side. Despite being brought in during the storm, it’s not wet at all, which Phoenix isn’t complaining about.

One slight issue, he identifies as he fishes for toiletries, is that he obviously wasn’t expecting to have to share a room with anyone. Let alone a bed. He figures it could actually be quite a problem, as he stows the magatama and everything else from his pockets away safely. Even if he could somehow have access to his full wardrobe, Phoenix isn’t really the pyjamas type to begin with. He figures he needs to find something, though, because attempting to slip into bed in just his boxers might do permanent psychological damage to Edgeworth.

A little gingerly, he decides on his trusty sweatpants and a plain t-shirt he’d brought, which he’d hoped would make his return flight more comfortable. Hopefully Edgeworth can at least tolerate the sight of his forearms. He gathers the ensemble up in his arms, along with the necessary things for the shower and his toothbrush, and heads for the bathroom.

To his relief it’s pretty normal, as opposed to some kind of antiquated set up he wouldn’t have been able to work. He even manages to get the controls for the shower/tub combination correct first time, causing warm water to shoot out from above. Almost absent mindedly, Phoenix thinks that even if Edgeworth hasn’t visited here while, the showerhead is set at a perfect height, so he was probably still an adult the last time…

He tries to be as efficient as possible with the shower, both from a ‘not wanting to waste the hot water’ and ‘exhaustion’ perspective. He also hopes, once he’s done, that Edgeworth won’t be mad at him for using one of the towels he finds. After drying himself down quickly, he finds his improvised outfit to be acceptable, if a little weirdly restrictive. Then, once he’s brushed at his teeth for the recommended couple of minutes, he deems himself ready.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says from the desk where he’s working on a laptop, not looking at him at first when he enters the room, “you can hang your suit h– “

Whatever expression is currently on Edgeworth’s face, it isn’t one that Phoenix is familiar with. It’s like he’s shocked, somehow angry, maybe bothered by something… Phoenix’s ability is a far cry from the kind of talent Trucy has for reading people, but he likes to think he’s still relatively good at it. Edgeworth also has some clear tells, generally speaking. And yet…

“Y-you better not be planning to go to sleep without drying your hair,” Edgeworth finally says, almost huffing with annoyance.  

Reflexively, Phoenix finds himself patting his hair, but it’s not so wet to leave a puddle of water behind or anything. Usually, he lets it air dry, but he is admittedly unsure of how much longer he can actually stay awake for that.

(Maybe he’s freaking out because the bed linens are made of something unreasonably expensive and susceptible to damage? That must be it.)

“Do you have a hairdryer?”

It turns out he does, which he pretty much shoves into Phoenix’s hands before disappearing off to the bathroom himself. Obediently, Phoenix hangs his suit in the otherwise empty wardrobe as Edgeworth indicated, and gives himself a high blast of hot air. His hair doesn’t take long to dry at all, at least, which he verifies with another cursory pat. That should be good enough.

Phoenix starts to feel a little awkward all of a sudden, unsure of what to do with himself. The thrum of exhaustion is overwhelming most other things, though, and the bed is screaming out his name. Hesitating for only a moment more, he crosses over to it, letting himself fall onto the right side of the mattress as he pulls the covers up over his chest.

From the way it looks, he’d kind of been expecting it to be one of those beds he could just melt into, but the mattress is surprisingly firm. It’s not uncomfortable though, more like the kind of thing he knows is probably going to be better for his back after all. He wonders if he should pull the bed curtains. Or turn out the lights? It feels a little weird to do that just for his own sake, though.

He can’t imagine this room would have been all that comforting as a child.

(I should see if Trucy wants any more decorations for her room, when I get back home...)

Other than the sound of the running shower, Phoenix also notices that the soundproofing seems to be a little less stellar upstairs. That, or the storm is getting louder… It feels like minutes pass, and Edgeworth still seems to be taking his time. Phoenix lets his eyes fall closed, thankful that the wooden ‘ceiling’ of the bed blocks out some of the light at least.

It's been a lot of years since the last time he shared a bed with someone, other than his daughter on a few rare occasions. He’s not sure if he remembers the etiquette on pillow-talk. Sometimes, when his hangouts with Maya turn into impromptu sleepovers, he just drifts off to sleep during one of her Steel Samurai rants. Well… knowing Edgeworth, it’s not entirely unlikely that he could get a repeat of that experience.

Phoenix doesn’t get to find out, though, as the pull of exhaustion becomes too strong. Maybe he dreams about something. It kind of feels like he does, a certain kind of heaviness fogging his mind when he next comes to, though he can’t remember anything that happened.

Chapter Text

Blearily, the first thing Phoenix notices is near total darkness, which causes him to wonder what time it is. All thoughts leading down that road, though, get completely cut off by the jarring movement beside him. No, not just jarring, violent thrashing. Then, a whimper that reminds him of something like a wounded animal.

He remembers Edgeworth telling him about the nightmares. About how every night he relived the DL-6 incident, convincing himself that he’d accidentally shot his own father. But didn’t he say that they’d stopped, after the trial? Phoenix is pretty sure he hadn’t been lying to him about that at the time.

With his eyes adjusting slightly to the darkness, though not enough to make out much beyond shapes, he sees an Edgeworth-sized form writhe.  Moments later, a flash of lightning from outside produces just enough of a flash to illuminate the scene, and even a half a second is enough. The descriptor Phoenix can come up with is ‘primal fear’. Edgeworth yelps out this kind of hoarse, half sob noise that chills him right down to his very bones. Phoenix has had his own share of nightmares, especially during the earliest days after his disbarment, but he doesn’t think they compare to anything like this.

(I don’t know what to do.)

(I have to help him.)

(But how do I help?)

(I can’t just leave him like this!)

“Edgeworth!” Phoenix grasps his shoulder desperately, giving him a shake. “Wake up! It’s just a dream.”

It does work, insofar as Edgeworth going completely rigid, before almost choking on his gasp as he rouses. Phoenix attempts to reassure him with a shoulder squeeze, but Edgeworth bolts away from it, suddenly upright in an instant and then huddled completely in the opposite corner of the bed.

Edgeworth actually seems terrified of him, curling in on himself as he trembles.

Thankfully, this episode has freaked Phoenix out enough to jump-start his brain into action mode. At least, he’s capable of thinking things through logically. It’s almost completely pitch black, and Edgeworth’s rationality doesn’t seem to be awake with him right now, so it’s possible he’s in a kind of state where he doesn’t recognise Phoenix. There’s a solution to that, at least. Phoenix tries, moving slowly so as not to further startle Edgeworth, reaching over to the bedside table where he thinks he noticed a lamp. He flicks it on, bathing the room in faint, warm light.

Phoenix’s heart feels like it shatters on the spot.

He’s witnessed Edgeworth in the aftermath of an earthquake before. This is something like that, but not entirely. Whenever Edgeworth has a blackout, he’s only ever confused about what happened for the initial moments after regaining his consciousness, even if he stays shaken up about it for a while. No, this is something different. Edgeworth is quivering in place without so much of a hint of awareness or connection to reality.

“It’s me,” he tries, “Phoenix?”

He realises that Edgeworth is audibly wheezing. Not recoiling further from him, though, which the optimistic part of him wants to see as a good thing.  

Looking over at him, Phoenix simply doesn’t see Edgeworth the Renowned International Prosecutor. Instead, in those wide-blown eyes, he sees his childhood friend, nine years old and panicking. He’s gasping for breath like he can’t properly swallow the air in this room. It’s like some kind of alarm bell goes off inside Phoenix, waking up every single one of the paternal instincts he’s spent the last couple of years honing.

“Edgeworth,” he scoots closer and sets a firm hand on his arm again. Nothing. “Edgeworth, look at me,” he tries again, but he’s still non-responsive. “Miles!”

Finally, Edgeworth looks up at him in a different type of shock, and Phoenix can really tell that his eyes are glazed over and not entirely… here. That’s only the first step, though, and Phoenix knows he needs to be pretty quick because if he keeps hyperventilating like this, Edgeworth really will make himself pass out.

“You can breathe,” he says with as much authority as he can muster. “You’re not in that elevator. You’re here, in your bed, with me. This room isn’t airtight. You can breathe.” Phoenix wonders if that’s easier said than believed, though. “Can you maybe breathe with me?”

Edgeworth shakes his head. But at least it shows he’s actually listening to the words, and importantly he hasn’t pushed Phoenix away again.

“I think you can try, okay?” Phoenix says anyway. Hardly even thinking about it, he lets his hand rake down to instead grab Edgeworth’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “I’ll count, ready?”

It takes a moment, but Edgeworth finally relents, making an attempt to follow along.

Phoenix still doesn’t really know what he’s doing. What he even should be doing. All he can pull from is the hazy memories of those first few months after Edgeworth had left that note, years ago now. At that time where Phoenix finally allowed himself to feel that Mia was gone, and Maya was in Kurain, and it was just him in that office… Just Phoenix Wright alone in the world. A new reality he’d been forced to face, with both his mentor and… him, beyond the veil, completely out of his reach. He'd expected grief to feel more like sadness back then, but for the most part it was more like fighting to keep his head above the water.

Phoenix fights the way his own throat automatically constricts at the memory, because it won’t do either of them any good if they both get worked up. He focuses instead on the dragging out of the void part he’d had to learn. Steady breaths, in and out like clockwork, for as long as it takes for the heart pounding to stop. All he can do is keep counting, keep breathing, squeezing Edgeworth’s hand at the right intervals.  

Whenever Trucy has a bad dream, she’s usually the one who wakes him up, either through appearing at his bedside with teary eyes, or calling out for him through the dark. When that happens, thankfully less often now, Phoenix hugs her close and reassures her that she’s okay, it’s just a dream. Whatever’s happening to Edgeworth right now, though, is something different entirely. He’s never seen a bad dream keep such a hold over someone.

(…Is this what he used to go through every night?)

(No wonder he always looked so tired.)

(…Edgeworth…)

“G-gunshot,” Edgeworth finally splutters out, almost catching Phoenix off guard. “There was… I heard…”

Phoenix tries to think about what to do with that information, and quickly. “It’s just thunder,” he realises. “There’s a storm, remember?”  

There’s finally a twinge of recognition in his eyes. “J-just… thunder…?”

What Phoenix doesn’t anticipate is the way Edgeworth half lunges at him, and it’s a small miracle he doesn’t get knocked over. He’s used to a small child jumping at him, not a whole adult man. It turns out that Edgeworth’s plan started and ended at that motion, and he’s pretzeled awkwardly about a third of the way in Phoenix’s lap with his face smushed into his shoulder. Phoenix’s arms automatically move to catch Edgeworth, wrapping around him protectively. He briefly considers letting go, but with the way Edgeworth is also clutching back at him, half clawing the fabric of his t-shirt in his fists, he figures it’s probably okay.

The trembling doesn’t stop. Edgeworth doesn’t make much noise, but Phoenix thinks he might be sobbing, going by the occasional pained whimper. He’s not sure if he’s ever actually seen Edgeworth cry before. He’ll only know if there’s any evidence of moisture left behind.

Phoenix isn’t sure, in truth, how long they stay there. Only that it’s long enough to know he can anticipate some intense pins and needles later. Eventually, Phoenix starts to murmur something or other, but they’re not consciously thought-out words. Something like a repeated mantra of ‘you’re okay, it’s okay, I’m here’, maybe.

Still functioning by complete autopilot, he finds himself stroking Edgeworth’s hair. Surprisingly, the action doesn’t cause him to bristle away. If anything, Edgeworth appears to keen into it, finally starting to relax just a little bit. Any thoughts Phoenix has about that fall to be back of his mind to be dealt with later (or more realistically, not at all).

Another clap of thunder comes, then, and Phoenix can practically feel for himself the way it makes Edgeworth’s hair stand on end. He lets out an anguished noise, starting to panic all over again. Edgeworth is also now squeezing Phoenix so hard he’s starting to worry a little about his own circulation.

“Hey,” Phoenix says, grabbing Edgeworth firmly by the shoulders to make him meet his gaze. “Focus on me, okay? It’s just thunder.”

Red-rimmed eyes stare blankly back at him at first, but Edgeworth appears to find his equilibrium, nodding. “J-just thunder.”

He moves as if to brush the strands of hair that are sticking to Edgeworth’s forehead out of his eyes, but then he seems to regain a level of awareness before Phoenix gets the chance. Eyes squeezed shut now, Edgeworth slowly removes himself from Phoenix’s lap. He doesn’t move far away though, just drawing his knees up to his chest.

“I thought I was over this,” Edgeworth mumbles weakly.

Having spent years of his life priming his brain to respond to problematic situations in a very specific way, Phoenix is almost immediately flooded by theories and observations. There are two likely explanations: one; the thunder itself, and two; being back in the room where Edgeworth would have experienced most of these nightmares in the past. Considering it, Phoenix figures the answer is probably a mixture of both, as well as the wider circumstances of the trip as a whole.

(Come to think of it, in hindsight Edgeworth really did seem unusually quiet for most of the day…)

Phoenix decides it’s best not to voice any of this, though. He’s hardly qualified to act as some kind of therapist. He doubts Edgeworth would react positively to that kind of introspection in the first place.

“Hang on,” he says, trying to keep his movements slow as he reaches over the side of the bed, digging into his bag for a bottle of water he remembers purchasing from the airport earlier. “You should drink something.”

Edgeworth accepts it without complaint, taking some slow sips as he fiddles with the label.

“I’m sorry you had to be here to see me like this,” he says with some bitterness, squeezing the bottle hard.

“Hey, no,” Phoenix clenches his own fists to restrain himself. “I’m actually glad.”

Edgeworth shoots him a cautious look.

“N-not that you feel bad, obviously!” Phoenix instantly clarifies. “But so you didn’t have to go through it alone.” He finds himself shifting closer again, but with the way Edgeworth starts to tense, he decides to keep his hands to himself.

“…Hmph.” Edgeworth takes another sip of water.

He thinks of asking if there’s anything he can do to help, but knowing Edgeworth it won’t get him very far. It’s good that he’s getting back to normal, but Phoenix is more than aware that Edgeworth is capable of icing him out completely if he oversteps. In this new calm between them, Phoenix finally registers Edgeworth’s rose quartz coloured silk pyjamas, which shockingly don’t come with a cravat attached.

(So he does have a neck under there after all?)

“Y’know,” Phoenix decides to just let his stream of consciousness roll out, “sometimes whenever Trucy gets a really scary bad dream, I make both of us some hot chocolate and tuck her into bed. Only some of the instant stuff, though. At times like that I kind of wish I’d worked in that café for longer, maybe I’d have picked up some more useful tips.”

“…You’ve worked as a barista?”

(Oh, I mentioned that, huh?)

“Yeah?” Phoenix feels sheepish. “Not recently,” he specifies, “back in college. I got fired after only a few weeks though, so I’m not sure I really deserve to call myself a barista. It’s a funny story, actually. Larry– “

“No need to say anything further,” Edgeworth cuts in. “I understand the situation completely.”

A smile creeps onto Phoenix’s face. “Sometimes I read to her too, if she’s really too scared to try and go back to sleep. Talking about Larry, he gave her three signed copies of his book, but I think they were a little too young for her.” He feels his face scrunch in brief concentration. “I wonder if he was just foisting them off on me, come to think of it... Trucy’s favourite right now is Alice in Wonderland, anyway, though I can’t help but feel like some of the stuff in that book is even worse nightmare fuel. On the upside though, it seems to have given her some inspiration for her magic tricks. A few months ago she got kind of obsessed with the idea of turning white roses into red. She figured it out in the end – all on her own, and I still have no idea how she does that one – but before that I had to buy hundreds of flowers in bulk for her to practise with, and I swear I find old petals in weird places, even now. At least the apartment smelled really good for a while… sorry,” he realises, “I’m kind of rambling now.”

“…Keep going.”

Phoenix twists to look at him properly, and realises Edgeworth really has relaxed, though he’s still holding himself in a one-armed self-hug. Maya’s usually the only one willing to listen when he starts going on like this. It feels novel, for them. Most of his conversations with Edgeworth are to the point, about the specifics of a case. Given most of them involve international phone calls nowadays, Phoenix can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the efficiency. They still do the polite ‘how are yous’, and it’s not like they never talk about this kind of thing, mostly because Phoenix can’t help himself when it comes to his daughter. But he usually tries not to get too carried away. On Edgeworth’s end, Phoenix always clings to the small snippets he’s willing to share about his personal life… Well, if this is working as a distraction, then Phoenix will easily oblige.

“She reminds me of you, in a lot of ways,” Phoenix admits. “Like how she’s so sure about being a magician. It’s the same kind of conviction you used to have as a kid, about being a lawyer one day,” he falters for a second, figuring it’s not the best thing to dwell on in their current situation. “I mean, she already is a professional. And I know that as her dad I should probably push to make sure she has some other backup plans because showbiz isn’t exactly stable, but...”

Edgeworth blesses him with a slight smile. “You believe in her.”

“With my whole heart,” Phoenix nods. “If she says she’s going to do something, then I know she’ll just… do it. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Edgeworth says. “…She does still attend school, though?”

(Come on, I’m not that irresponsible!)

“She’s doing great in school. She’s even reading well beyond her level,” Phoenix can’t help his proud parental smugness at that one. “I actually need to watch her a bit with that, though. One time I left her in the office unsupervised for a bit, and when I stepped back in Trucy just looks up at me with these big, innocent eyes and says ‘Daddy, what does lethal proximate cause mean?’, and how am I even meant to respond to that?”

“Factually,” Edgeworth says without hesitation. “That’s an important term to know.”

(Huh. I seem to have entered the Twilight Zone where Miles Edgeworth hands out parenting advice.)

“Sure, because every kid’s dream is to get lectured on legal terminology before they even hit middle school. I think we’ll worry about long division, first.” And there goes that pang, despite his sarcasm, when he’s reminded of the cruel reality of Trucy growing up. “She’s already getting beyond my help, anyway. And what am I going to do if she ends up taking a language or something? I can barely even handle one.”

“Yes, your sporadic attempts at German are rather dire. I doubt it would take your daughter long to surpass your current level,” Edgeworth muses.

(Well, he’s definitely feeling better, if he’s back to insulting me…)

“I know some!” Phoenix insists. “Like, uh, sprechen du englisch?”

“Your pronunciation is atrocious,” Edgeworth says, “and you should use Sie if you don’t know the other person.”

He feels a certain kind of annoyance, and just the hint of the flare of his competitive streak. “But if I pronounce it too well, then how will they get that I can’t understand them?”

“Who other than a confused tourist would approach strangers with that kind of question?”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix shrugs. “Maybe I could be taking a survey to see how many people speak English in the local area.”

“Ack– you– “ and there it is, the annoyed Edgeworth face he knows all so well, “incorrigible.”

He finds himself side-eyeing him. “I know other things, too. Like… sauerkraut, and bratwurst, nutella, schnitzel,” he actually starts to think about it. “Hallo, and… Aha! Arschgeige!”

Edgeworth completely stills. “What?”

“I… think that was how you said it, anyway?”

“Wright,” Edgeworth looks serious. “Where did you learn that?”

“I think Franziska said it to me the last time you flew me out to Germany,” Phoenix admits. “Uh… she told me it was a formal way of saying thank you? I tried to look it up, but I couldn’t figure out the spelling… She kind of said it under her breath, but she’s never been good at thanks, so.”

It almost happens in slow motion. First, the absolute rigid tension in Edgeworth’s body, which goes on for just long enough to be a little alarming before the mask cracks, and suddenly he’s spluttering. Of course it catches Phoenix off guard, because seeing Edgeworth even crack a smile is a rarity, but full-bodied laughter? In an instant, the man looks about ten years younger. It’s a complete turnabout, from how he’d been earlier.

Phoenix locks those thoughts aside momentarily though, because he gets the uncanny sense that he’s the one being laughed at.

“Wait! What does it mean?!”

Finally, Edgeworth seems to come back to himself. “Wright, you haven’t actually repeated that to anyone, have you?”

“Uh, maybe? Am I just pronouncing it wrong? I don’t get it!”

Edgeworth’s lip quivers. “Unfortunately, you were pronouncing that one near perfectly.”

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix tries, “if you don’t tell me what it means, I’m going to repeat it at the end of my sentences all day tomorrow. And I’ll say you taught me!”

He looks like he’s deciding whether to call Phoenix’s bluff. “Franziska’s insults can be a lot more… varied and creative, in her mother tongue. The second part of the word means ‘violin’, and, well, I hope you can sound out the first half. The English is similar.”

Phoenix feels his eyes widen as the realisation dawns. “I’ve been calling people ass violins?!”

Edgeworth just hums.

“Franziska called me an ass violin?!”

“A surprisingly poetic one, for her.”

(I’m getting revenge on her for this… somehow.)

Despite the revelations, and the enlightening conversation, Phoenix starts to notice how tired he is, adrenaline dying down now he’s firmly over his initial fear response. There’s a real heaviness to his eyes, and he accidentally lets out a yawn in place of whatever reaction he would have otherwise had to Edgeworth’s quip.

“What time is it?” He asks.

Edgeworth looks over at something to his side. “…Just about 3:40AM.”

Phoenix stretches his arms out above his head briefly. “Do you feel like you might be able to try going back to sleep?”

Maybe subconsciously, Edgeworth looks over at the window. “I don’t know. But you shouldn’t… on my account…”

“I can try and rant to you about Trucy some more,” he says, “but I don’t know if I’ll last for much longer. I’m not sure what else will help. I know Maya pulls out her DVD collection whenever she’s in a rough spot… Oh, maybe that’s a good idea. Any chance you can get Steel Samurai up on that laptop of yours?”

Edgeworth looks a little taken aback at the suggestion, a hint of bashful red twinging his cheeks. “You want to watch Steel Samurai?”

“I mean, want might be a bit of a strong word,” Phoenix admits, “but if it helps keep your mind off things? Sure.”

Unsurprisingly, given the mention of Edgeworth’s favourite hobby, it doesn’t take him long at all to get his laptop out and load up some kind of website, the design of which has a very loud and busy feeling. Phoenix is mostly used to the medium of Mayas DVD collection, but it seems that the show has quite a large presence on the internet.

(I think she said they’re called the Samaniacs?)  

Phoenix tries to make himself a little comfier, at least repositioning so he won’t wake up with a horrible crick in his neck. It’s not the easiest to do, though, with the small screen positioned between them. Phoenix fights the urge to slump over onto Edgeworth’s shoulder, as the ever-familiar theme tune begins to play.

Maya has obviously seen to it that Phoenix has, at least by proxy of being in the room, watched this show multiple times now. So he already knows it’s one of the later episodes, even if he doesn’t know what happens by memory. Honestly, he feels kind of lucky that Trucy hasn’t taken to this show too obsessively, despite Maya’s attempts, because then he might have to really pay attention.

“Is that the new special move?” Phoenix asks sleepily through one of the action scenes.

“No, Wright, that’s the ‘Steel Samurai Sushi Slash’.”

“Ah.” The colours are starting to blur together. “Did he beat the Evil Magistrate yet?”

“…the Steel Samurai never loses. And the Evil Magistrate isn’t in this series.”

“Ah.”

“That’s the iron infant,” Edgeworth says. “He’s the son of the Steel Samurai and the Pink Princess. He was born burdened with the knowledge that he too would one day be called upon to fight for justice.”

“The Steel Samurai and Pink Princess have a son? I thought they were just… co-workers or allies or something?”

Edgeworth actually looks… annoyed at him, in an infantile sort of way. “Are you dense, Wright?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His gaze remains trained on Phoenix, eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you just lack the capacity to understand romantic subtext.”

“Mmm, Edgeworth? It’s no good watching this if it’s not actually going to help you sleep. And I can feel a rant coming on.”

“Fine,” Edgeworth says, though he wears an obvious pout.

After that, though, things do mellow out again, with Edgeworth only making the odd comment or two, and Phoenix only able to mumble some vague acknowledgement in response. And just like that he’s slipping, slipping… the only other sound being the effects of a dramatic action scene flowing through the laptop speakers.

Chapter Text

The next thing Phoenix sees is daylight, and he’s alone in bed. There’s a nice, brief moment where he closes his eyes again, almost like he could snooze for just a little longer… a luxury really when there’s no kid to fret around. But that haze fades fast, once he remembers where he is.

The clock positioned on the nightstand nearest to Edgewo– on the left side of the bed reads 07:24. Phoenix still feels pretty groggy, though, even if his cumulative hours of sleep aren’t that bad. Or maybe it’s just the aftereffects of several glasses of wine hitting him. It’s also a little concerning that Edgeworth is nowhere to be seen. They can’t be resuming with the will reading this early?

Phoenix forces himself out of bed with a stretch, grabbing his suit to take into the bathroom with him, also making sure to pocket the magatama. Part of him can hardly believe he used to dress like this every day. One of the few benefits of his new lifestyle is being able to get away with wearing his more typical sweats and hoodie combo, with no real need to impress anyone. If anything, he thinks the more laid-back appearance makes others feel less on guard around him, which has its uses.

The mansion feels a little less spooky in proper daylight, and Phoenix is slightly less apprehensive walking around unaccompanied. It also gives him the opportunity to really appreciate how much the hallway reminds him of The Shining. He hopes it isn’t too hard to find Edgeworth… somewhere. Phoenix figures starting downstairs is more likely, though, so he heads in that direction. There isn’t much sign of activity, despite the several people he knows to be staying on the property, so after a few turns he ends up walking towards whichever door is directly in front of him.

“Skulking around, Phoenix Wright?”

He plants his feet firm, taking in the scene before him. “I’m surprised you make your own coffee, here.”

Even this early in the morning, Franziska manages to have this air of smugness. She’s leaning over an island style counter, staring down a French press. This kitchen feels oddly normal, though Phoenix doesn’t know the general standard for houses like this. It’s not like there’s a collection of cute magnets on the fridge or anything like that, but it gives a sense of ‘prim and proper wealth’ as opposed to ‘antiquated castle’ at least.

“I have particular tastes,” she says, without any further elaboration, and works on the finishing touches to her brew.

“I thought you would be more of a tea person,” Phoenix says, thinking of Edgeworth’s regular insistence that a cup of tea is vital for the mind in the morning.

Franziska must be in a generous mood, because she pours Phoenix a cup, though doesn’t go as far as offering anything like milk or sugar. “That is my brother’s hobby.”  

He’s certainly no Godot, but Phoenix appreciates coffee. Particularly since he’s been working nightshifts, but still needs to make sure Trucy’s up and on her way to school in the early mornings. The two of them mostly stand there in silence for a while, sipping at their drinks. It does taste good, but coming from Franziska that’s not entirely surprising.

She finally sets down her empty mug. “Why are you here, Phoenix Wright?”

“Edgeworth asked for my help.” Phoenix figures he should be cautious, and not say anything specific about their conversation yesterday.

*CRACK*

Franziska’s whip is a standard occupational hazard at this point, but he still can’t reliably predict it. Thankfully, she doesn’t actually aim for him, but instead the edge of the counter. They must be well made, if they can withstand the force of Franziska von Karma’s ire.

“Why would he need your help?” She glares at him. “I am certain my little brother’s knowledge of probate law far outshines yours. And you are no longer even a lawyer. There is nothing you could possibly do to be helpful here.”

“Shouldn’t you ask Edgeworth that question?”

*CRACK*

“Hmph,” she shoots Phoenix a smug look. “I want to know your motivations. Unless you were made to travel under duress.”

“I hate to ask,” Phoenix says, “but did I do something?”

She flares with anger, then. “You have done enough. Even if Miles Edgeworth is a foolish fool. You muddied the von Karma name. You ruined his perfect reputation. Did you forge evidence back then, too? Is that the true reason you hid away like a foolish coward? Couldn’t face being the biggest fraud of all? He should have heard it from you first.”

(Is she still talking about her father? What does she mean by that last part?)

“Franziska–“

*CRACK*

“Quiet!” Her eyes narrow in on him further, raging just like the storm from the night before. “You were not there. I happened to be there, Phoenix Wright. I know that you wouldn’t even pick up the phone. I still remember the title of the news bulletins: Dark Disgrace of a Fallen Attorney.” Her whole face contorts, then. “The fool could hardly be held back from declaring war on that foolish excuse for a bar association. And you wouldn’t even answer a call for weeks. Was this your revenge?”

Phoenix almost feels the clink of his mental armour fastening around him. “Revenge was the last thing on my mind.”

“Not even for his foolish stunt with the letter years ago?”

“I had a daughter and just about nothing else,” he gets out, hating the way Franziska manages to squirm right under his nerves no matter what. “And you know what he would have done, in the heat of everything, whether I wanted it or not. It was too risky.”

The fallout of the Lana Skye trial had still been in recent memory after all. In some ways, it had been Phoenix’s fault that Edgeworth’s reputation was muddied in the first place, even if it was necessary to the case. He couldn’t face being responsible for tainting him a second time. Especially when he remembered Edgeworth’s reaction to the conclusion of that trial, which Franziska helpfully pointed out.  In hindsight, it was probably for the better anyway, since Edgeworth wasn’t exactly in the Committee for Prosecutorial Excellence’s good graces back then.

(Not that I knew that part at the time…)

“Yes, how selfless of you,” her voice drips of sarcasm, “lying to my brother to prevent him from doing any further irrevocable damage to himself by going down with you. But if that were true, you wouldn’t be here now. And yet he tosses you scraps, and you come licking at them like a mutt. You are both pathetic.”

*CRACK*

Phoenix straightens. “Hey, look at that, you learned a new one! The fools thing was getting a little dry–”

“Pathetic!”

*CRACK* *CRACK* *CRACK*

“The fool really would have made a better defence attorney,” Franziska rants. “Because for some reason only a fool could understand, he finds you somehow deserving of this blind faith. He, who claims to value the perfect truth so highly, willingly turns his back on it now. You infect him with your rot, and he allows it again and again.” 

“I can save you some time,” Phoenix tries. “You’re not saying anything I don’t already know.”

Momentarily, she looks taken aback, but quickly regains her resolve. “Then why are you here?”

“Because he asked me to be.”

Franziska grips her whip, but makes no movement to use it again. “You don’t have any objection? You are truly the fraud everyone says you are? You won’t even deny it?”

He finds his gaze drifting off to the side. “That’s the charge I was disbarred for.”

Her expression contorts. “There is nothing worse than a criminal, Phoenix Wright. Nothing worse than a liar and a cheat. But a fool who has given up is nearly as bad. Only a fool could choose to walk among those criminals. Miles Edgeworth is my little brother, and I will do anything it takes to make him see that.”

Phoenix looks at her, really looks, and instinctively curls his hand around his trump card, which is warm in his pocket. “You’re afraid of something. And… I don’t think you hate me as much as you claim to.”

“...You know nothing about my feelings.”

Suddenly, the colour fades to black around them, and shiny chains surround her body. Five pristine red locks appear in his field of view. He can’t help but think Franziska looks surprisingly small, like this. Despite her exterior posturing, Phoenix remembers that she’s still younger than he was when he first made his debut in the courtroom.

(Seriously, though? Five locks? She wants to pretend she hates my guts that badly?)

Phoenix releases his grip on the magatama. He knows he doesn’t have a justification to go prying around in her heart unnecessarily. Besides, the existence of the locks tells him more than enough on its own.

“I’m keeping Edgeworth out of it,” Phoenix admits, feeling it’s probably fair at this point. “I won’t let him anywhere near the Gramarye case. And he knows it too. Yeah, I don’t really have a way of stopping him from acting on his own, but I trust him not to. But if he needs my help on anything else… of course I’ll come. Because I know he would do the same for me.”

*CRACK*

With no follow up remarks, the whip appears to be her final answer.

“Are you okay, Franziska?” Even if Phoenix doesn’t feel like trying to break her locks, he knows how heavy holding up that many secrets can be. “The will, and everyone being here… I can’t imagine this is easy.”

Franziska’s eyes widen momentarily, but after she recovers from the surprise, there’s little evidence of either anger or smugness left to cross her expression.  “I want this foolish farse to be over as soon as possible,” she finally says, and starts to head out of the room.

Phoenix, maybe discarding any remaining shred of self-preservation, follows after her. “Well, we got at least halfway through, right? Does that mean it’ll be over today?”

She doesn’t pause in her stride, or even turn to look at him. “Perhaps, if those Reiner Rotfisch and Emmerich Fibber fools learn to keep their mouths shut.”

“Right,” Phoenix says. “You were arguing about something? I couldn’t really follow it.”

“Your language comprehension is no concern of mine,” Franziska says, stopping by the door of what Phoenix is pretty sure is the study at this point.

It doesn’t come open, though.

(The same door I tried last night?)

Franziska frowns, gripping the handle tight as she tries it again. “This door should not be locked.”

“Is there a key for it anywhere?”

“It was Papa’s design,” it feels more like she’s talking to herself. “He would usually lock it from the inside when he was working.” Something dawns on her. “The key was given to Rüdiger Stiltskin when he said he wanted to stay behind and finish the paperwork.”

Vaguely, Phoenix thinks he must have left the house sometime during that awkward dinner, which had dragged on for quite a while. “Guess we’ll just have to wait until he gets here.”

“I needed to look through some of the page annotations,” Franziska complains. “To prepare my perfect argument.”

Phoenix considers it for a moment. “Is it important and would it make the reading be over sooner?”

“Of course.”

(Well, one thing for it, then.)

Phoenix rummages in the pocket that doesn’t contain the magatama, producing his portable set of basic lockpicks. Although Trucy would never reveal all her magician’s secrets to him, there are definitely some skills he’s learned from her that have some practical uses. It’s also good to have a backup method for undoing locks, in case any keys go missing during one of her tricks. Phoenix crouches down and starts to work.

“W-what are you doing?!” Franziska looks scandalised in a way that’s almost edging on cute.

“Didn’t you yourself say I was a criminal just a few minutes ago?” Phoenix quips. There’s resistance, though, and he can’t get the pick all the way in. “It’s no good, the lock is jammed with something. Did you say it could be locked from the inside?”

Franziska frowns, pounding on the door hard as she yells something in German. There’s only silence in response though, and definitely no sign of the footsteps of someone coming up to open the door. A sickening wash comes over him, then, like a kind of instinctive dread. Somehow Phoenix knows that Franziska is on the same wavelength.

“You should move out of the way,” Phoenix warns, taking a few steps back himself.

“F-fool!” She splutters in realisation. “I will sue you for property damage! Don’t be ridic– “

Before she can finish her sentence, he launches himself at the door, using the force of his body weight to break his way past the locking mechanism. Thankfully, the lock seems to have been installed for privacy instead of as a heavy security device. Phoenix pushes through, only just managing to stop his momentum as the door flies open.

(Ouch. I guess I’m not as young as I once was...)

Phoenix’s other thoughts end there, though, only just registering the gasp that falls out of Franziska beside him. Because directly in front of their eyes is the body of Rüdiger Stiltskin, slumped back in the chair with some kind of stake sticking out of his chest.

Profile updated

Chapter Text

Doug Swallow. Mia Fey. Turner Grey. Misty Fey... Rüdiger Stiltskin.

By all means, he shouldn’t be sensitive to the sight of death. It was something that used to just be a natural part of the workday, back in his former life as a defence attorney. Kind of par for the course when dealing with so many homicide trials. Even before he first stepped into court himself, the shock that would have come from seeing crime scene photos had already been drilled out of him by Mia’s evidence review pop quiz sessions.

But it never compares to the real thing.

D-dollie? W-what are you doing here? I p-pushed him, but… w-why is he so still like that? What’s wrong with him? …Is this my fault?

I’ll find who did this to you, Chief.

MAYA?! Wh-what?! What did you do?

How did- Ms Deauxnim? What was your scream just now?

It’s the blood most of all. Sharp, acrid blood like the old pennies he finds in the laundry when he forgets to shake out his jean pockets. Like fifty-year-old rust after a rainstorm. He can still feel it stuck to his nostrils, and on the back of his tongue. Then there’s the sweetness, just layered underneath, nauseating enough to make his stomach twist in loops.  

“Wright,” Edgeworth says, bringing a china cup to his lips, “your pacing is unnerving me. Please cease.”

“Y-you’re the unnerving one!”

(Seriously, drinking tea at a time like this?!)

He sets the tea down. “What would you have me do? Interpol have the study locked down for the investigation.”

Phoenix still can’t believe that happened so fast. Well, objectively he can, because he’d had the experience of attending multiple crime scenes with Franziska von Karma before. Thanks to Edgeworth’s previous requests for his ‘consultation’, Phoenix has also become a little familiar with the frightening speed at which Interpol can mobilise many agents at any given notice.  

It’s not exactly how he expected to spend his morning, though. Rounded up into a small room where most occupants have declared some kind of blood feud… or are otherwise named Miles Edgeworth, who isn’t necessarily the most reassuring person to hang out with after discovering a dead body. At least the kids haven’t been forced to endure this, since Franziska does have a heart somewhere under there, though being stuck to one of the guest bedrooms with no explanation as to why probably isn’t the most pleasant experience either.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Franziska enters the room again, her body language reminding him of some of his poker opponents whenever there’s a ‘big game’.

“Please do tell us, dear sister,” Hildegard Rotfisch sits, poised. “Have you decided to share how a domestic murder has international relevance?”

“That’s classified,” Franziska says. “As you’ll remember, this house now belongs to me, and any investigations will be at my discretion.”

Phoenix is a little surprised, when the magatama remains silent. He’d been prepared to assume that her control of the crime scene was some kind of petty competitiveness. There must be some deeper reason for Interpol’s involvement, then. Or else maybe the von Karmas are just otherwise rich enough that any controversy involving them is important.

“I refuse to submit to this–“

*CRACK*

Franziska appears more confident than angry when she uses her whip. “Now, now, sister. Do you have somewhere else to be? It’s no use, your room will be the first we search anyway.”

Hildegard, of course, reads between the lines. “You don’t mean to accuse me?!”  

Her lip quirks. “Only for aiding and abetting, at the moment.” Franziska fixes her gaze on the man beside her. “I have some questions for you first, Reiner Rotfisch. You’re the only one who was absent during our meal yesterday evening. Care to explain yourself?”

Reiner blanches. “I-I left the table because I felt unwell! You were there!”

Hildegard seems to be angrier on his behalf. “He was complaining of a headache earlier in the day. It is not unusual for him to retire early. I found him asleep in bed after we had our tea.”

“A convenient excuse,” Franziska says, “but nobody can verify his location between the moment he left the table, and some hours later.”

“This is ridiculous,” Hildegard stands flustered, “what about him?” She points decisively at Phoenix, glaring at him in a way that seems like she wants to squeeze his head from his skull. “He just disappeared after dinner, when everyone else headed into this room. Not to be seen for the rest of the night. That’s plenty of opportunity to skulk around and kill someone! A-and he’s already a criminal! Well, Herr Wright?! How do you prove your whereabouts?”

(Great. It’s actually been a while since I’ve been indicted for murder.)

“Phone records,” Edgeworth is standing almost directly behind him suddenly. Phoenix hadn’t noticed him move from the chair. “Wright neglected to join us in the drawing room because he was making a call to his daughter. Not long after that, we met up, and he was with me for the rest of the night.” Perhaps because of the lack of desk, Edgeworth slams his palm on the back of the sofa, but it’s not that effective. “That gives him an alibi!”

(Why do I feel like everyone’s going to end up getting the wrong end of the stick with that kind of statement? Did you really have to mention the ‘all night’ part?)

Phoenix also realises, then, that Edgeworth uncharacteristically left out some details. Such as the fact that he found him alone in a room full of weapons, which Phoenix is pretty sure was next door to the study in question. Perhaps it’s strategy, since Hildegard seems like she’d cling to that...

He doesn’t waste the opportunity, though.

He scrolls through his phone log. “The call lasted from 9:38-10:04pm. I got lost trying to find the drawing room again,” he realises, “and tried to enter the study by accident, but it was already locked at that point. The murder must have happened before that time!”

Even if he’s leaving out some details, Phoenix had only been down the hall when he ran into Reiner last night. He thinks he would have noticed if someone had entered the study, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being directly misleading.

“Hmph,” Franziska holds her finger out as though she’s the most important person in the room. “You fools are missing even more perfect evidence.” She looks at Edgeworth pointedly. “Be careful, Miles Edgeworth, or I might think all your time buried in books has dulled your senses. We must wait for the formal autopsy. However,” she stands as though poised for the kill, “I have examined the body myself. When we first broke into the room, it was in a state of complete rigor mortis. This occurs between seven to twelve hours after death. However, within the time the investigation has taken so far, there have already been signs of muscular relaxation. Given the conditions of the room, the time of death can be estimated to be earlier, between 7:00-9:00pm. This places the murder during our dinner. And only one person here was absent during that time.”

Reiner Rotfisch, who had remained mostly silent up until that point, practically recoils. “W-what’s the meaning of this, Franziska?! I didn’t do it! What reason would I have to kill him?”

“Great question,” she looks completely smug. “Have you already forgotten your foolish spat yesterday? You insisted on seeing the will for yourself. Maybe you were still reeling from anger. There are plenty of motives to explore. Which we will start doing right now, in jail.”

Franziska yells something in German, and two men in stiff suits enter the room. It doesn’t take knowledge of the language to figure out what’s happening. They’re going to end up arresting him. And yet… he said he didn’t do it, plainly. Phoenix believes him. He may not have a talent like Trucy’s, but he’s good at picking out the big lies all on his own. And besides… his magatama hasn’t even twitched.

“Hold it!” Phoenix shouts finally, unwilling to let it go on any longer. “I have no idea who killed him, but Reiner is innocent.”

*CRACK*

She glares at him, chin turned up to a point. “Hah! Based on what? The foolish word of a disgraced former attorney? Don’t make me laugh, Phoenix Wright.”

(I need to think fast, here. If the murder took place while we were eating dinner, then the killer can’t have been there. That doesn’t help Reiner’s case at all.)

(…No. Turn it around. If Reiner is innocent, then I have to show that being at the dinner doesn’t make a difference. But how could the murder have happened without the killer being at the crime scene?)

(!!!)

(It’s a complete bluff, but…)

“Didn’t you just talk about perfect evidence, Franziska von Karma?” He stares her down. “Even with the autopsy report, what you have is circumstantial at best! You haven’t even shown how he could have entered the study that evening. The door was locked and blocked from the inside. But if the killer couldn’t have exited the study, and we know that Rüdiger Stiltskin died at some point during the dinner, then the murder must have been pre-arranged to happen remotely while nobody other than victim was in the room. Therefore, whether Reiner was there for dinner or not doesn’t matter!”

(Huh. That felt like stretching out a sore limb.)

Franziska… seethes. “You… foolish fool?! The victim was impaled perfectly through the chest! What, are you going to argue he just got unlucky?”

“Surely you have further enquiries, Franziska,” Edgeworth cuts in. “Why assume the killer was even present at the dinner in the first place? What about the staff here? Or Emmerich Fibber, the accountant? A prosecutor should never be satisfied until they’ve pulled on every thread to the bitter end.”

(Okay, yeah…that’s definitely a more obvious argument...)

*CRACK*

“Have it your way,” she glares. “Reiner Rotfisch, you will still be taken aside for questioning. And don’t even think about entering the study, it’s off limits! As is leaving the estate!”

It still feels awful, watching Reiner be led out from the room. But at least Phoenix feels like he’s bought him some time. Phoenix isn’t entirely sure what for, though. There’s probably not a lot he can do without even being able to inspect the crime scene. And for Reiner’s innocence to be proven, they will need evidence.

He’s almost a little surprised that Hildegard has no comment to make, as she heads out of the room sharpish. Phoenix wonders if she does have something to hide, as Franziska suggested. It could just as easily be shock, though. Hildegard seems like the type of person who struggles with not being in control of a situation.

Evidence binder updated

That just leaves Edgeworth and him. There’s at least something for him to consider. Phoenix is pretty sure that Edgeworth won’t act without solid evidence or escalate the situation further, if he tells him the full story. The most important thing here is the truth, and Phoenix knows he’d be preventing that if he starts keeping key facts to himself.

“…I need to tell you something.”

Edgeworth blinks “…Oh?”

Even though Phoenix knows they’re alone, he finds himself looking out nervously for potential eavesdroppers. “I didn’t go to the, uh, trophy room after talking to Trucy. When I hung up, I ended up hearing some footsteps, and saw Reiner walking around somewhere. It… I could tell he didn’t want to be seen, but once he realised I noticed him, he just acted normal and we talked for a few minutes.”

Predictably, Edgeworth looks relatively annoyed at the revelation. “I was a fool for thinking you’d outgrown this kind of thing.” He shakes his head in a kind of dismay. “You neglected to think this was suspicious? You didn’t mention this to anyone? How can you be so convinced he’s innocent?!”

“Sure, it was suspicious!” Phoenix admits. “But I wasn’t thinking that someone had been murdered at the time, obviously! He could have been doing something else shady in this house… or maybe he just didn’t like thunderstorms… We had a normal conversation anyway, and he didn’t seem all that stressed. Even the most hardened criminals would have been more on edge about being caught mid-escape right after a murder.”

Edgeworth lets out a long sigh. “And what was this ‘normal conversation’ about?”

Phoenix scratches the back of his head. “Parent stuff? Y’know?”

(I don’t really want to go into Reiner’s psychoanalysis of childhood in the von Karma household.)

“No, Wright,” Edgeworth folds his arms, and taps his hand impatiently. “I don’t know.”

“Ah, sure, that makes sense,” he thinks. “You get used to it I guess. Small talk at parent/teacher evenings, or the paediatrician’s waiting room...” Edgeworth’s patience is clearly running out, though, so Phoenix tries to make himself focus on examples. “Like, ‘oh wow, how old is yours?’, ‘my kid actually started learning fractions already’, ‘I swear by this detergent for getting out grass stains’, ‘can you believe they’re putting up the lunch money fee again?’, ‘what an outrage!’…that kind of thing. It’s kind of mind numbing at first, but somehow it grows on you. Unless you end up sitting next to an antivaxxer,” Phoenix shudders.

“Wright!”

“A-anyway,” time to get back on track, “I had the magatama with me the whole time, remember? I even used it on you. It didn’t pick up on any lies. And besides, all I got was the sense he cared about his wife and kids a lot. Too much to risk prison over something petty.”

Edgeworth glares at him. “Why didn’t you lead with that point?”

Something about this conversation makes Phoenix feel nostalgic. “I have the magatama with me now, too. I don’t see how he could have avoided a reaction, he said clearly that he didn’t do it.”

“I believe you, Wright,” Edgeworth’s gaze shifts to the side. “But you know as well as I that pyscho-locks are not admissible in a court of law. Here or anywhere else.”

Even though he’s right, Phoenix feels his shoulders sink a little. He doesn’t have the option of seeing this through and digging out the truth in a courtroom. He has no right or standing to represent Reiner Rotfisch. Maybe things really are better here in Germany, but Phoenix knows how ruthless Franziska can be. If charges are actually brought against Reiner, it may just be over at that point.

“…You’re really willing to stand by as an innocent man gets put in prison?”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “No. Instead, we’ll find evidence that proves it.”

“…We?”

“Hmph,” Edgeworth folds his arms. “We’re both already here as it is, and your insight won’t be completely useless. I can raise your consultation fee, due to these unforeseen circumstances.” 

“Jeez Edgeworth, you know it’s not about that kind of thing…”

A hint of a smile. “I know.” Then, he swallows. “If Reiner didn’t kill him, then who did? I have to admit, if we can’t inspect the scene ourselves, then that’s the only place to start.”

Some part of Phoenix wants to argue. Finding a suspect is important, but he’s more concerned with how the murder could have happened. If Stiltskin really did die without the murderer being there, then proving the method would be crucial... Edgeworth is probably right, though, given their current circumstances.

“It could have been anyone with access to the room,” Phoenix says. “I didn’t see it up close, but Stiltskin was clearly struck directly in the chest by something. But it wasn’t a blocky object, more like a really thick arrow.”

Edgeworth considers it. “Someone strong, then. Either to drive something like that into his chest, or to operate a lethal weapon like that.”

“…Assuming they personally fired a weapon in the first place.”

“We both know your remote murder theory is ridiculous,” Edgeworth says. “How was the body positioned?”

“Upright in the chair,” Phoenix thinks. Even with the shock of seeing it, his mind is still attuned to looking out for details. A photo would be better than his memory alone… “He wasn’t slumped by a lot, so I think he must have been killed there in place, rather than sitting down after the fact.”

“Did you notice any blood?”

Phoenix is sure there must have been enough of it. “I think so. I could smell a lot of it, at least.”

Edgeworth nods, but then grimaces. “There are a few possibilities, if he was positioned like that for a direct hit. It could suggest that he knew his attacker and wasn’t afraid… but it could also suggest that he was being threatened or intimidated. Or, that the attack happened so fast he didn’t have time to react.”

“…Or there was no attacker present.”

“Nghk!” He seems to almost full body shudder. “Fine. It could also suggest that. But regardless, nothing narrows it down much. First, we should speak to those who we don’t know the positions of.”

“There’s that accountant,” Phoenix remembers, “he left before dinner, as far as we know.”

Edgeworth thinks for a moment. “I don’t know what kind of staffing arrangements are still in place, here. Any cleaners wouldn’t have been here so late, though. But,” his eyes are suddenly fixed and calculating, “I would certainly like to hear what the housekeeper witnessed. We shouldn’t wait.”

(I feel like I’ve been dragged along like this quite a bit recently.)

Phoenix still isn’t entirely sure what Edgeworth is looking for amidst everything, as he follows him out into the hallway. He can’t help but feel a really strange atmosphere, though, when he catches sight of the various Interpol agents being directed around. It’s such a big house… and quite like searching for a single needle in a haystack, apparently.

Chapter Text

Their investigation begins in the kitchen. Earlier that morning, only he and Franziska had been in the room, and Phoenix hadn’t noticed anyone else around. This time, though, they’re met with an elderly looking woman stirring something on the stove top, humming calmly to herself. Somehow, given the circumstances, it feels even more sinister than the way Edgeworth had calmly sipped at his tea.

“Herr Edgeworth,” the older woman doesn’t even turn to look at them. “Your presence here is like an omen for misfortune.” 

“…Frau Liesel Falschen,” Edgeworth says carefully. “It has been a while. I was surprised to find you still worked here.”

“Some of us understand the meaning of loyalty.” Her stirring pauses. “You should not have come back.”

(So much open hostility under just one roof…)

New profile added

Edgeworth tenses. “The only thing I care about here is justice and the truth.”

The woman’s shoulders seem just as rigid. Despite her accent, which is quite thick, her words are clear and she appears to be completely fluent.

“Pah, truth. Justice? Is that what you call betraying the man who made you?” She lets go of the ladle, causing a clang sound to echo. “The truth is not always justice. Any truth can be bent and morphed into a better one. A truth can be created, and people will believe in it if they like it enough.”

“Is that from some kind of slam poetry?” Phoenix thinks out loud.  

She finally turns to face them and raises her eyebrow, before tapping hard on a book she has displayed on a shelf, standing alongside other thick volumes and some stacks of papers. Come to think of it, maybe it’s a little surprising that Phoenix had been yet to see an image of Manfred von Karma himself anywhere in the house. But then there he is, right on the cover of a book, almost like he’s glaring back at Phoenix directly.

(He wrote some kind of autobiography?)

 (…It’s not all that surprising, actually.)

“Words of wisdom,” Liesel says.

Edgeworth doesn’t appear interested. “All I care about are your movements last night.”

 “Whatever happened to your manners?”

Somewhat ominously, she moves over to a device that looks kind of like a saw. Or a torture weapon. The blade seems particularly sharp, as she handles a piece of bread and feeds it through. Out comes a perfect slice. There’s nothing inherently threatening about her appearance, with the only notable thing being that her hair is tied so tightly in a bun it almost seems to pull her face back… which seems painful.

“A man is dead,” Edgeworth finally says. “That’s the priority.”

“A shame,” she says, but doesn’t sound all that serious. It’s a little strange to witness,  since older women usually fawn over Edgeworth.

“You have quite a lot of food on the go,” Phoenix observes.

“Hmph,” she sets the bread to the side and stands with her hands on her hips. “Frau von Karma has inundated us with a number of unexpected guests. I had little choice in the matter.”

“…You’re cooking for all those Interpol agents?”

Edgeworth cuts in, though, setting a hand down on the counter. “Never mind that. Tell us your whereabouts. From about 7pm to 10pm.”

She doesn’t seem particularly intimidated, but maybe she’s used to Manfred von Karma. “Obviously, you fool, I was here in the kitchen cooking all night!” Her expression hardens. “I would have stepped into the pantry a few times, if you’re going to be particular on the details.”

(Fool? Maybe this is where Franziska gets it from?)

Even though he watches closely through her answer, Phoenix finds Liesel hard to get a good read on. The magatama doesn’t react, so he’s relatively confident that she can’t be the culprit if the murder was committed physically. Even though there’s no clear tell he can see that suggests she’s thinking things through or unsure, Phoenix can’t help but notice how she’d instantly corrected her own statement with a detail he might have pressed her for, if it were a cross-examination. Almost like a second nature to her.

“Did you see anyone else? Or hear anything unusual?” Phoenix cuts in.

Liesel frowns. “Are thunderstorms unusual? The only other person I saw was Herr Wolfe, who had to come through the room to collect the food.”

“Did you speak to him, between each course?” Edgeworth asks.

Her face morphs into something almost angry. “These are ridiculous questions. If you are considering that either of us could have carried out a murder in the minute or so between serving several plates of food, all while going completely unnoticed, then you are even more undeserving of any association with the von Karma name.”

“An alibi is useless if nothing can corroborate it,” Edgeworth says. “If you are ultimately called to the stand as a witness, you will almost certainly be subject to scrutiny as the only member of staff who wasn’t seen during the key time period. Any defence attorney worth their salt will hound you over these details when they cross-examine you, so I advise you get your story straight. Frau Falschen,” he seems almost a little hesitant, “you understand the meaning of a perfect testimony.”  

Edgeworth isn’t wrong. Even though Phoenix is certainly a little out of practise, it would probably be his first line of questioning, if he had to stand in court. It also doesn’t surprise him that Edgeworth clearly knows that, and is already planning ahead.

As they speak, Phoenix finds himself drifting around the room, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Aside from the large amount of food on the go, there doesn’t seem to be anything obviously out of place. Though, a small stack of papers balanced neatly on the shelf between what he thinks are cookbooks, and the visage of Manfred von Karma’s face, catches his eye.

He finds himself focusing on the two other doors in the room instead. “Where do these go?”

Liesel’s eyes flit over to where Phoenix is gesturing. “The one on the left leads on to our staff lodging. The right is the pantry, which also connects to the wine cellar.”

Perhaps they should check out the staff lodgings a little later, though Phoenix gets the feeling he wouldn’t find much. Even if Liesel’s previous comments were a little evasive, he gets the sense that she must have absorbed some knowledge from working for von Karma. Enough that she would know not to leave decisive evidence lying around. If the killer is some unknown third party, though, he figures it could be useful to get an idea of how they could have even entered the property unnoticed.

He opens up the pantry door, and there’s nothing unusual he can see immediately. Presumably, the way to the wine cellar is through a clearly marked trap-door sort of thing. It looks quite solid, though, like it could be an effective way to keep someone prisoner.

“Calling me a liar, Phoenix Wright?”

(Okay, it’s starting to freak me out a little. Even if it’s probably just from process of elimination, is my face that recognisable?)

“This is quite a heavy-duty door,” Phoenix comments.

“A precaution,” Liesel answers for him. “A few members of previous generations of the von Karmas were known for their nervous disposition. Hmph, though we never found out if it was the tornadoes they feared most, or something else.”

“Tornadoes?!”

“What did you speak about?” Edgeworth asks, as Phoenix abandons the pantry and begins to drift again. “When you interacted with Lambert Wolfe?”

“Serving instructions,” she says stiffly. For a brief moment, Phoenix thinks he feels some warmth radiating from his pocket, but she continues before any true reaction can take shape. “The weather? I don’t recall, exactly.”

Phoenix finds himself thumbing through the stacks of papers. Even though he doesn’t speak the language, something about the page on the very top sticks out to him. Whatever Edgeworth says about his German ‘pronunciation’, he thinks he can at least figure out the rough idea of what a word might sound like. Besides, it’s not all completely different to English, and the items on the page seem familiar.

“What’s this?” Phoenix asks, placing the page in front of her on the counter.

Liesel squints. “Last night’s dinner menu. One of my duties as the housekeeper is to keep a ledger of all food supplies used, so we know what we need to order and can invoice it correctly.”

“Maybe we can narrow this down,” Phoenix suggests, though mostly to Edgeworth. “If we think it all happened during dinner, it might be useful to figure out which part.”

Edgeworth considers it for a moment and nods. “Tell us what happened, course by course,” he fixes his sharp eyes on Liesel.

Liesel scoffs. “If you insist on treating me like a criminal–“

“If you just tell us,” Phoenix tries to say as reassuringly as he can muster, “then we can be out of your hair quicker. And we can try and stop Interpol from bothering you, if we already have the full story.”

(Have we fallen into some good cop bad cop type of routine?)

After a moment of hesitation, Liesel nods. “Herr Wolfe came in to inform me that Herr Stiltskin would no longer be joining us,” she begins. “The ingredients were already prepped, some actively being cooked, so I asked what he wanted me to do. He told me to keep the spare portions aside for ourselves, rather than see them go to waste. This is standard. Whenever a guest can’t make a formal dinner at the last moment, we usually decide to split the courses equally between us. The soup was ready at that point, so he brought a glass of wine out for Herr Stiltskin, before returning so he could begin dinner service. I don’t remember us having a discussion when he took the soup, we were running late and he appeared anxious.”

Something strikes Phoenix about her words. “Hold it! Rüdiger Stiltskin missed the dinner because he had work to catch up on, but couldn’t he have still had some food brought to him with the wine?”

(Maybe that’s a more fundamental injustice I’m picking up on...)

Edgeworth, who apparently started taking notes at some point, shoots him a look which feels like a question. Is this path relevant?

“I don’t believe he was hungry,” Liesel answers easily. The magatama stays silent. “The fish course simply required some last-minute touches, so I ate my portion of the soup until Herr Wolfe returned and gave me the cue to begin the final garnish. We usually wait until the last minute so that nothing gets cold, since we don’t have a hotplate like a professional kitchen.”

Phoenix finds a wash of confusion at her words for some reason, but feels inclined to brush it off. It had felt like the butler, Wolfe, had been in the room for the entire dinner, but Phoenix knows he must have come or gone, or else their food would have had to spawn out of thin air. He remembers Edgeworth telling him to pretend like the butler wasn’t there, so maybe that’s just a key part of the job.

A part of him wants to press Liesel on their apparent subtle communication signals, since ‘cue’ can be quite a pretty broad term. However, Edgeworth didn’t even twitch at that sentence, so Phoenix figures that must be pretty normal in this line of work too.

“He returned with the cleared bowls,” Liesel continues. “I believe he mentioned the weather at the time.” A small smile creeps on her face. “That morning he’d said there was a big storm in the forecast, but I just thought he was being overdramatic about it like usual, so he came in gloating about being correct now that the storm had really picked up. Yes, I added some extra pepper to his portion of fish when he turned to retrieve the wine. But I was mostly busy focusing on the main course. At some point during my cooking, Herr Wolfe came back with a half-eaten plate of fish and informed me that Herr Rotfisch had been taken ill. I don’t think we spoke much the other times he came back and forth, until the dinner was over. Since we now had two spare portions, we both ended up eating a plate of the main course together after everything was done for the night, and we both took our leave to our rooms.”

A small moment of silence washes over them as she finishes speaking. Nothing sounds unreasonable about her statement, and with the magatama he knows she’s not lying directly. Maybe he’s just rusty, but there’s not a lot of room to even begin pressing her further. Somewhere, in the back of Phoenix’s mind, he wonders if she’s ever testified in at an actual trial before.

There is one thing she said that seems a little weird, though.

“You have arguments about the weather?”

She frowns. “I did not say it was an argument.”

Phoenix itches his forehead as he thinks it through. “But didn’t you say you were bothered enough about it to tamper with his food?”

“It’s more of… you have a strange way of saying it… pet peeve?” Liesel says, then nods in self-affirmation. “Every morning, Herr Wolfe relies on his favourite newspaper for this kind of information. But the weather is always changing, isn’t it? How can that printed prediction be so accurate? He bosses me around with them, too, even though they’re completely exaggerated most of the time. I took my own small vengeance where I could.”

“Do you have the newspaper?” Phoenix asks.

“We would have thrown it out. This morning’s is here, though,” she gestures.

Phoenix takes her up on the offer. If they get completely stuck for clues, it might be worth going over later. He can’t read much of it, but the front page is a picture of clear storm damage.

“Are we done here?” She folds her arms. “I have things to do.”

Edgeworth nods tightly. “Very well. I have no further questions,” he packs his notes away. “Wright?”

Phoenix hesitates. “You said you’re the housekeeper… would that give you access to the keys for the locking doors in the house?”

She blinks. “Generally speaking. There are some that were completely private to Herr von Karma,” her eyes meet his sharply, “and there is no master key.”

Well, it seemed worth a try. Clearly done with their questions, Liesel Falschen turns back to her cooking, and there’s no real use in sticking around further. Though it doesn’t feel like they gained much in the way of information or leads from that exchange, it’s an important loose end to tie up. Even though it doesn’t sit right with him, Phoenix thinks, as he and Edgeworth vacate the kitchen. Perhaps, if she spent enough time with Manfred von Karma, and studies his ‘life lessons’, it makes sense that she’d be familiar with giving a watertight testimony…

Updates to the evidence binder 

Chapter Text

Edgeworth grips the railing of the staircase near to the entrance of the house, but doesn’t start climbing up, looking at Phoenix seriously. “Did you get anything?”

“No reaction,” Phoenix pats his pocket, where the magatama stays hidden. “But something about it didn’t sit right with me.”

A nod. “Whether she was lying or not, there’s something she wasn’t saying… Frau Falschen was asked about their interactions through the dinner as a whole. I wouldn’t expect her to recall the specifics of each conversation without being pressed, given some time has passed since the incident, and she was busy with other tasks at the time. Her unprompted focus on the minute details about the fish course feels peculiar. I would hazard a guess that something significant happened during that interaction, if it stuck out to her as a key moment.”

Maybe a few years ago, Phoenix might have been taken aback by Miles Edgeworth of all people talking about assumptions and guess work. However, having now witnessed a few active investigations from this perspective, Phoenix knows it’s part of his logical process. The only difference between them is that Edgeworth uses these kinds of thoughts as the leads to pursue evidence and witnesses, rather than a strategy in open court.

It seems like they’re on the same page, with Liesel. But Phoenix doesn’t have a useful answer for him. They really need more evidence first.  

“Do you think they’ll have finished questioning Reiner?” Phoenix asks instead. “I think we should hear what he was actually doing last night.”

Edgeworth nods. “A good idea. He remains a key suspect. His whereabouts last night are still unclear, not to mention he has the strongest motive.”

“Motive?”

His face looks solemn for a moment, before contorting with realisation. “Of course. You wouldn’t have understood that conversation. You recall how the will reading ended yesterday evening? Reiner started a tense argument with the victim… As von Karma’s oldest child, Hildegard had been under the impression that she might inherit the majority of the estate.”

“…And she isn’t?”

Edgeworth’s lips press in a tight line. “Not quite. There were some… complex interpretation issues, but it was made clear that this house at least would be Franziska’s.”

Phoenix frowns. “But that’s not Stiltskin’s fault, is it? Isn’t he just the messenger? Even if they argued about it, that’s hardly a reason to kill someone.”

“Wright...” Edgeworth hesitates. “Whether I want to believe he would do something like this or not, I have an obligation to report his behaviour last night to the formal investigation.”

Phoenix feels a wry smile creep onto his face. “They put that in your contract over here or something?”

Edgeworth’s fists clench. “A moral obligation. The most important thing is solving this case, and if you saw him at the scene of the crime, it’s possible that you’re a key witness. We must allow this incident to be properly investigated to its bitter end.”

In some ways it’s funny how the tables have turned between them. Genuinely, Phoenix is happy for Edgeworth, that he’s found a motivation and purpose in integrity and the truth no matter what. But not everyone shares those values. For a moment, Phoenix considers that Liesel Falschen may have been right. What people believe carries more weight than any ‘truth’.

Liesel’s words… Manfred von Karma’s words…

(…What’s the matter with me?)

“A day,” Phoenix says. “They’re still just focusing on the theory that Reiner did it, we’re not interfering by ruling out alternatives… Give us until the end of the day, and if we can’t fully agree on another possibility, then I’ll drop it. I even promise that I won’t make you subpoena me, if it comes to it.”

“How generous,” Edgeworth deadpans. “Let’s question him, then. No use in wasting time with a deadline approaching.”

As it turns out, Franziska (or at least Interpol acting at her behest) has only sequestered Reiner Rotfisch to one of the guest bedrooms, possibly even the one he’d been occupying the night before. It ultimately seems like a better option than a police interrogation room, though.

While Franziska has them banned from investigating the crime scene, all Edgeworth needs to do is to show the agent manning the door his ID to be let in. Which is easier than expected. Much like the other rooms in the house, the interior décor is still an assault on the eyes. Maybe Phoenix needs to stop being surprised each time, but to make matters worse, they’re all different types of ugly.

Reiner Rotfisch looks a little surprised to see them, sitting idly by the desk in the corner. “Did they send you two in as their backup plan or something?”

Edgeworth shoots him a look that reads as something like ‘it’s your move’.

Phoenix swallows. “I just had a couple of questions about last night– “

“I am not elaborating on what I already said. If you want anything else, you had better do your jobs properly.”

“…We’re still not actually allowed to investigate the crime scene itself,” Phoenix explains. “But, if you want us to prove your innocence, more details would help.”

Reiner raises an eyebrow at him. “Weren’t you disbarred, Mr Wright? I appreciate your speaking up on my behalf earlier, but I have no need of your services.”

“The prosecution also has a duty to investigate thoroughly,” Edgeworth chimes in. “And within the remit of the law. It is crucial that prosecutors themselves uphold those values. You should not be indicted without probable cause.”

Reiner hums. “Naturally, it saves the courts time. And the taxpayer money, on whatever your salaries rocket up to for trials. That’s a shame for you, though, I’m sure.”

Phoenix grips the magatama in his pocket. “What were you doing, when I ran into you last night?”

Reiner looks between them, and he sighs. “The same as you. I took a lengthy phone call. I didn’t want my wife to have to overhear, and I knew she would be worried if I wasn’t resting, so I was trying to avoid her.”

Mia always told him that the most important part of being a defence attorney was believing in your client. But Phoenix is no longer a defence attorney, and Reiner Rotfisch is not his client. There’s no reason Phoenix should believe in him at all. In fact, he’s free to scrutinise each word. Every possibility.

Reiner said he didn’t do it, and the magatama seemed to agree. But his behaviour yesterday evening was still strange. A part of Phoenix wonders if he really could have been doing something like giving instructions to a hitman over the phone. But then why would he leave dinner early and make himself so suspicious?

(I’m almost afraid to ask.)

“Who were you on the phone to?”

His lips press in a tight line. “I can’t tell you.” Predictably, the room darkens, and heavy chains wrap around Reiner’s body. “I’m invoking my right to remain silent, from here.”

Edgeworth seems to know, somehow, without Phoenix telling him. Perhaps he’s sensitive to the magatama’s power, having wielded it before, or maybe he can just read the look on Phoenix’s face.

“How many?”

Reiner’s eyes dart nervously. “How many what?”

“Three,” Phoenix tightens his fist, ignoring Reiner. “I don’t think we have enough evidence to break them yet, though.”

Edgeworth seems to lock on to Reiner. “You refuse to say anything further?”

“I’m sorry.” Phoenix doesn’t need the magatama to know he’s being genuine about that at least. “If you believe one thing, know that this isn’t even about me. Keeping silent is the right thing to do.”

There’s not much they can say to that. As much as Phoenix kind of wants to try and press him for a little more information, he’s limited. It’s a strange adjustment, but Phoenix needs to be conscious that he is, technically, working for the prosecution. Anything that could be seen as undue pressure or coercion on a potential suspect could have serious consequences.

As they leave the room, it’s clear that a bad mood has completely washed over both of them. No real leads, and Reiner not wanting to cooperate… It’s the most locks he’s seen in a while from a suspect. Three locks can indicate a pretty big secret, but it’s not usually enough for something like murder, at least.

Phoenix lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair.

Edgeworth shoots him a sidelong glance. “If you don’t have the evidence to break them, and I can’t make him talk his way into telling us, then it’s a dead end.”

“I know…” Phoenix keeps his head down low, staring at the bright red carpet as they walk. “Something about that call– “

“Not here,” Edgeworth interrupts him.

With the Interpol agents and other house guests all milling around various parts of the mansion, some of whom may have committed the crime themselves, Phoenix catches on that it’s a bad idea to talk about this in the open. Edgeworth’s mind is clearly racing as he resumes his stride down the long hallway, the tension between them thickening minute by minute.

Edgeworth pauses at the end of the hallway, taking a moment to scan their surroundings. Phoenix tries to follow his eyes, which land on a small door leading to an unoccupied lounge space.

“Come. We need somewhere to think without interruption.”

Phoenix follows him silently. Like the rest of the house, the rug and curtain combination make him want to puke, but he resolves to deal with it. The rest of the décor is grand, or at least meant to be, but it comes across more… dreary. He’s surprised to see a large flatscreen TV, though.

(Well, I guess he had to have somewhere to watch Steel Samurai…)

Edgeworth closes the door behind them with a soft click, ensuring their privacy. Phoenix takes the opportunity to slump down onto one of the sofas… though that’s mostly just to spare his eyes from being assaulted by its violent green colour. He at least tries to think it through, whatever their next move could be…

Edgeworth folds his arms, bowing his head like he’s deep in thought. “You said the magatama didn’t react this morning?”

“…It’s not fool proof,” Phoenix admits.

No matter how suspicious Reiner appears, there’s just something in his gut that screams ‘not guilty’. In large parts, because it doesn’t add up. If the key evidence against him is his absence during dinner, then a shady phone call much later doesn’t tie him to the murder itself beyond being circumstantial.

It would be a decent defence, assuming the prosecution didn’t have any solid evidence connecting him to the crime scene. Even the more easily swayed judges wouldn’t be satisfied enough by that alone to make a conviction… probably. And Phoenix still can’t see a way in which Reiner could have actually left the room locked from the inside in the first place, which brings him right back to square one where Reiner’s presence at dinner is meaningless. Unless…

(Well, there is a way he might not have lied on a technicality.)

Phoenix swallows down the unnatural feeling of revealing his hand like this. “Do you remember Matt Engarde?”

He doesn’t even need to look, to know Edgeworth tenses in response to the question. “Of course I do.”

“I had the magatama then, too,” Phoenix says. “When I agreed to represent him, I asked if he did it. The magatama didn’t respond at all, when he said ‘I didn’t kill anyone’. Even though he knew more details than he let on, and even instigated everything, he didn’t actually commit the murder himself, so it wasn’t a lie.”

Edgeworth looks at him. “So it’s no guarantee?”

“I’m positive that Reiner couldn’t have killed him, at least not directly,” Phoenix affirms. “Even after carrying it for so long, I don’t completely understand how it works, but I think sometimes the magatama’s response depends on what a person truly believes. Sometimes psyche-locks can show up if they outright refuse to answer the question. But… if they give a truthful answer, even if it’s not everything they know… I don’t think it’s always triggered by lies of omission.”

“Couldn’t you get around that by asking if they have a secret or if they’re keeping something from you?”

Phoenix shakes his head. “No, it needs to be something more specific. That approach might work if we had a better idea about what he’s hiding, though. It can depend on how you ask the question.”

Edgeworth rubs his forehead. “A third party such as a professional assassin seems unlikely, but it shouldn’t be ruled out yet.”

For once, it really does seem that they’re on a very similar wavelength. But, although a hitman turned out to be the answer with Matt Engarde, Phoenix can’t quite make the idea fit. While it would make the dinner issue irrelevant, there’s still that fundamental problem.

(It doesn’t matter who, not until I can understand how.)

“It’s not just unlikely,” Phoenix suddenly finds himself spurred on by energy. “It’s impossible. Even a professional assassin couldn’t just slip out from a locked room without leaving some kind of trace. And neither could Reiner. Once we can figure out how the murder happened, we’ll be able to eliminate more suspects.”

“Wright…” Edgeworth starts. “That would be my preferred approach, but without more evidence or insight into the crime scene, any conclusions we draw will be half-formed at best.”

Phoenix frowns. “Yeah, but Franziska’s made it clear we’re not getting in there.”

He exhales sharply. “She is not… impossible to negotiate with. If she’s really unwilling to let us enter the scene, we might be able to get our hands on photos at the very least.”

“Photos?” He tilts his head. “Would she really give those up?”

Edgeworth scoffs. “It’s not like we’re opposing counsel. She still won’t go down without a fight… but everyone has their price, even Franziska. Perhaps if we offer her something sufficiently valuable… though the question is what.”  

Something comes to mind, but it goes against all of Phoenix’s instincts. Considering he’s only just convinced Edgeworth to let him keep it to himself for now, lest they pour even more hot water over Reiner Rotfisch. But… he’s not a client. Phoenix’s duty here really should be for the sake of the truth alone.

Phoenix also knows it’s the only solid piece of information they really have. He had, after all, caught the prime suspect of a murder case sneaking around near the crime scene, at a time that can even be corroborated to the minute thanks to his phone records. Unless they find evidence of Reiner handling the murder weapon itself, as it currently stands the prosecution may be forced to build a case based almost entirely on the man being absent from dinner. Phoenix has spent enough time around Franziska to know how much she’ll hate that.

And if he has the only witness testimony tying Reiner to a definite location on the estate? Franziska won’t have a choice.

“We can give her the phone call.”

Looking at Edgeworth’s face, Phoenix can see him work through the exact same logical path. “…You’re willing to disclose that?”

“It’s not like I want to,” he looks at the floor for a moment. “But she needs it, right? Unless the defence attorneys over here are incompetent,” Phoenix thinks, “the current evidence against Reiner could be torn apart in seconds in an actual court. It’s not helping us that much right now, anyway, and if it means she’ll give us the photos…”

Edgeworth nods slowly, his tension fading just a little. “Very well. It’s a reasonable gambit. But… tread carefully. Franziska won’t hesitate to use anything we tell her to her advantage. She may even force you to testify at trial.”

He can’t hold back a light chuckle at that idea. “I would love to see her try.”

Although, he can’t help but think, as they exit the small living room in pursuit of Franziska, that it could be an appropriate avenue for the revenge he owes her. Being obstructive or cryptic is probably only the least of things he could do to get on her nerves… if she actually risks making him take the stand.

(Maybe I’ll even refer to her as Prosecutor Arschgeige.)

Chapter Text

 As they descend the main staircase, the Interpol agents around the property look to be busy. They’ve gathered into small groups for the most part, though Phoenix isn’t sure what exactly they’re doing. A low hum of chatter drones in the background, though if they are discussing something as useful as case details, it’s not in a language that Phoenix understands.

“We need to speak to Franziska,” Edgeworth says frankly to the agent posted at the entrance of the study.

“She’s not here,” the agent doesn’t seem to bother looking at them, but it’s hard to tell with the dark sunglasses he’s wearing. “Didn’t say when she’d be back, either.”

“Great,” Phoenix mutters. “Now what?”

Before Edgeworth can answer him, though, Phoenix’s nostrils are hit with a comforting smell. Turning over his shoulder, it looks like most of the agents are heading in a certain direction, possibly towards the dining room. Liesel’s lunch must have just been served. At the thought, Phoenix is suddenly reminded of the fact that he didn’t get to eat any breakfast, and his stomach growls audibly in protest.  

Edgeworth just shoots him a questioning look.

“Ugh, sorry,” Phoenix says sheepishly, patting his abdomen with guilt.  

He folds his arms. “Perhaps you should eat something before you faint mid-investigation. Go on, I’ll locate Franziska and join you shortly.”

Phoenix hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure? I mean, I could– “

“Go,” Edgeworth says. “You’re less use to me on an empty stomach.”

(Probably true, but still, ouch.)

He sighs in resignation. “Fine, fine. Just don’t be too long?”

Edgeworth’s only response to that is a small huff, so Phoenix turns his heel and heads towards the dining room.

It turns out Liesel hadn’t been kidding, there’s quite a mountain of food, laid out like a buffet. It’s mostly an assortment of sandwiches, which still look fancier than most things Phoenix is used to, but a far cry from his meal the night before.

Almost compelled by the call of some kind of subsistence, his situational awareness dials down just a little while he grabs himself a plate. Which means that he doesn’t immediately notice the person poised at the table behind him.  

“Why?”

“Uh–  good afternoon to you too?”

Hildegard Rotfisch glares at him like she’s out for blood. “What is it that you want?”

Phoenix blinks. “A sandwich?”

She slams her teacup down on the table so hard that Phoenix is amazed it doesn’t shatter. “You’re up to something. Why else would you involve yourself in Reiner’s affairs? Is it money? Some kind of favour?”

Considering he’s been berated by the woman in every interaction they’ve shared over the last twenty-four hours, maybe it’s odd that Phoenix feels a level of sympathy.

Maybe it’s surprising, given all the corruption and the fifteen years of evading justice that Manfred von Karma managed to pull off. But despite that, it turns out all of his ‘heirs’ are terrible liars. Hildegard, Franziska… and Edgeworth. Even if they’re not the types to easily open up to other people, it almost doesn’t matter. Now that Phoenix does this ‘professionally’. All three of them, their emotions can be so, almost scarily, easy to read.

(Which is a reminder to not leave Trucy alone with Edgeworth for too long… I’m not sure his psyche would survive.)

So, Phoenix can confidently fill in most of the blanks for himself when it comes to Hildegard, given the background he already knows. This is a person who may have never experienced help without some kind of ulterior motive. Though Phoenix understands she has reasons to distrust him specifically, he can’t help but sense that general suspicion is more like her baseline. He can see it, in her eyes, and the way she looks at other people and her surroundings. Almost like she’s afraid that someone’s going to jump out from over her shoulder. There’s not really deceit in it, though. More… anxiety?

“I said something because I think he’s innocent,” Phoenix says plainly, sliding down into a chair.

Even if she’s terrible at hiding her own tells, it doesn’t mean she can’t read other people. It’s not like getting good at poker is the only way to learn a skill like that. And if his suspicions are correct, it’s quite possible that she’ll be able to tell if he’s lying.

Her fist clenches. “We don’t need, nor want, your help.”

“I’m not trying to help you,” Phoenix shrugs, and leans back easily as he chews on his sandwich, though he doesn’t think it’ll do much to lower her guard. “And I’m not your husband’s attorney. Doesn’t mean I’m comfortable sitting around with the actual killer on the loose.”

“…And Miles?”

“…Cares about uncovering the truth more than anyone, even if it turns out to be really ugly in the end. He…” Phoenix pauses, the memory of a broken Edgeworth at the witness stand still raw and gritty despite the years that have passed. “He would rather implicate himself, than let something rest unsolved.”

Hildegard doesn’t respond after that, and Phoenix doesn’t feel like pushing her. Honestly, he feels even more inclined towards Reiner, thinking of their conversation the night before. A part of him wonders if whatever his secret is has something to do with Hildegard. It seems like he’s willing to go out of his way to protect her.

(Would he really cover up a murder, though?)

By the time he’s done with his much needed portion of food, Edgeworth still hasn’t shown up. He considers his options for a minute or two. Phoenix knows there’s a pretty high chance that he’ll only get himself lost if he also goes off looking for Edgeworth or Franziska, but anything’s better than sitting around and doing nothing. Before he leaves, though, he grabs another sandwich. Just in case.

Aimlessly walking in and out of the rooms feel like the biggest no-go. Though, at least with the Interpol agents barricading the entrance, Phoenix won’t forget which door is the study this time. The only other thing he can think of doing which would even remotely be considered useful is checking out the exterior perimeter. On the off chance someone did enter that room last night, it’s possible there could be some evidence if it was through the window.  

When he steps outside, the cold air hits his face and reminds him of the reality of the size of this estate. He can barely tell which room the study is from this location. In fact, beginning his cursory loop, most curtains on the ground floor are drawn completely closed.

Despite the agents currently on the premises, and the number of cars now parked outside the front of the mansion, it’s silent in a way that could be considered anywhere between peaceful and eerie. But Phoenix has never been that great at appreciating quietness.

There’s no sign of any obvious new damage to the walls or windows, though Phoenix supposes some evidence could have been washed away with the rain. He thinks he can probably assume that no windows were left open during the storm at the time of the murder, though, or else he’s sure he would have heard the news. It had been deafening, when Edgeworth had opened the front door to the wind last night. Unfortunately, that makes it seem all the more likely that the culprit isn’t some new unknown party who could have just disappeared into the night.

He just about notices the sound of crunching gravel a little too late, before something bashes into him with enough force to knock him off his feet. Heavy panting… and a whole lot of fur… Phoenix blinks, contorting his body to look up at the animal that’s now squashing him. He pets the dog in a daze, half trying to keep it from slobbering all over his face.

Then, childish laughter. “Wow, Mr Wright, Phoenix really seems to like you!”

Greta Rotfisch crosses into his vision, her arms folded like she’s studying him. “I think you’re losing this fight. Are you embarrassed?”

“I surrender,” Phoenix gestures with his hands. “Uh, would you mind calling him off?”

She sighs. “Phoenix, come back.”

The dog obeys, trotting happily over to her side with his tail wagging. Phoenix gets back to his feet, dusting himself off. He doesn’t hurt anywhere, at least, so that’s a bonus. Greta, along with her brother Hans, look at him as though they’re expecting something, which is a little unnerving. Given the whole murder case, they seem surprisingly calm, though Phoenix thinks it’s possible they might not know the specifics of what happened.

“Y’know,” he tries a semi-stern tone, “usually it’s better to help first, then get your taunts in later.”

Greta quirks an eyebrow at him. “It would be better if you didn’t put yourself in a position where you needed assistance in the first place.”

His jaw almost drops, wanting to counter argue that it’s her dog, and he was the innocent victim in all this. Though, for Phoenix’s longevity, he considers that he knows better than to get into a fight with a preteen. Something in Greta’s demeanour shifts then anyway, shoulders and expression relaxing like she has an ‘on/off’ switch.

“You kids are von Karmas through and through,” he scratches at the back of his neck.

Hans practically beams. “Thank you!”

Phoenix looks between them, as it occurs to him that they don’t look to be supervised by anyone.  “So… did they just let you out for fresh air or something?”

Greta shrugs. “Had to at some point. There’s no cause to detain us for.”

“Plus,” Hans pats the dog’s head, “Phoenix had to go pee. Nobody raised an objection, even with the murder investigation.”

Human Phoenix can’t quite hold back his cringe at the sentence.

It seems Greta is sharp enough to catch it.  “Ah, that’s right. Your name is also Phoenix!”

Hans pouts. “That’s confusing.”

Phoenix thinks for a moment. “You can just call me Nick, if you like?”

Both children look at each other, before giving him a nod of approval.

“About that,” he thinks he may as well ask, “how did you come up with that name, anyway? It’s a little unique, isn’t it?”

(Though, as I’m the human here, if anyone’s getting interrogated for their weird name choices, it should probably be my own parents…)

“We got Phoenix as a puppy for Christmas a few years ago,” Greta says with a smile. “I don’t remember it that well, but I think I was struggling to come up with a cool name. I’m pretty sure Uncle Miles suggested it in the end.”

Hans clapped enthusiastically. “Since Santa brought him down the chimney, obviously! Phoenixes come from ashes.”

(…Edgeworth named a dog after me before I’d even faced him in court?!)

Phoenix is, frankly, unsure of how to react to that revelation. Partially, he has no idea if Edgeworth would have meant it in a sentimental way, or else for subordination reasons. Both have their own… interpretations. The latter Phoenix wouldn’t necessarily put past him, either, given how prickly Edgeworth used to be. Either way, he figures it’s probably best if he keeps this information locked up in a tight box, to be processed at a much later date. Alone, preferably.

“Wait,” Phoenix’s thoughts finally catch up to something Hans said earlier, “you know about the… murder investigation?”

“Of course,” Greta says.

Hans nods. “We know everything.”

“…everything?” He thinks he starts to sweat. “Any ideas about the culprit, then?”

Suddenly, Hans looks down at the ground. “You don’t think it was Papa, do you? I-I heard that you stood up for him, earlier. Mr Nick… is my Papa really going to go to prison?”

It hits him right in the heartstrings. Of course it does. It hasn’t even been that long since he had a nearly identical interaction with Trucy, before the trial that changed everything… Phoenix sees it, then. These kids may have had an incredibly strong façade trained into them, but they’re still kids who clearly care about their father.

“I don’t think he did it, no,” Phoenix lets out a heavy exhale. “I’m trying to figure out what really happened. I don’t know if they’ll arrest him or not, but I won’t stop until we get to the truth, okay? I promise, I’ll do anything I can to help.”

A small smile grows on Hans’ face. “You’ll help him? Does that mean you’ll represent him in court?”

(Shit.)

Greta hisses something to Hans in German, before Phoenix can respond himself.

“Yeah,” Hans says to her, “but he just said–“

“I, uh,” Phoenix bends his knees to be a bit closer to Hans’ height. “I would if I could, but I’m not allowed to be anyone’s lawyer right now. I’m really sorry about that. All I can say is I’ll try my best to help solve the case.”

“Then you should investigate as much as you can,” Greta holds her voice steadier, though looking at her now, her underlying fear is obvious. “Even Aunt Franzi can’t bring charges if the evidence points somewhere else.”

(I’ve seen people charged on a lot less, but hopefully things are better in Germany...)

Hans frowns again, though. “If there is any evidence…”

“Hey,” Phoenix says. “You want to be a lawyer someday, don’t you? Isn’t that why you were practicing?” It earns him a small nod. “Well, then I’ll tell you a lawyer’s greatest weapon: always believe in your client, no matter what happens.”

The words knot up a bit in his throat, though.

(If I truly even believe that myself…)

A beat passes.

“For a defence attorney, maybe,” Greta says, though her tone is more playful.

Phoenix finds himself smoothing his hair. “Well, you got me there. But, you never know!” He sighs, then. “Well, I should be getting back to the investigation. You kids make sure you don’t go anywhere too far, okay?”

“But we were going to play hide and seek,” Hans complains.

Greta looks off to the side. “Well… I guess.”

Hans seems more enthusiastic. “You’re just scared because I found the best hiding place ever yesterday, and you’re gonna lose!”

“Or I could be doing something more important with my time,” Greta scoffs. “I don’t believe you, anyway. And I don’t lose!”

For some reason, Phoenix finds himself curious. “A hiding place?”

“Ja,” Hans nods. “But I can’t tell you where, otherwise it wouldn’t be a good hiding place.”

“Of course,” Phoenix nods along with him. “We can’t give your sister an unfair advantage. Hm, speaking of hiding places, have either of you seen, uhm, your uncle anywhere?”

Greta looks over her shoulder, which seems to be in the direction towards the back of the house, where he’d had a brief conversation with Edgeworth yesterday. “He looked like he was brooding about something.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix sighs, “that’ll be him. Thanks for the tip.”

Once they part ways, and the kids head off with the dog at their heels in the opposite direction, Phoenix finds himself with a new resolve.

Chapter Text

When Phoenix turns the corner towards the back end of the house, his eyes immediately catch sight of a flash of light burgundy. Edgeworth doesn’t seem to notice him for a moment, though he’s not doing anything other than sitting on a very small wall towards the edge of the courtyard, like he’s in some kind of mental trance.

“I’m guessing you didn’t manage to find her?”

Edgeworth blinks slowly, but then shakes his head. “No. If she’s still this busy, the chances of convincing her to listen are slim anyway.”

“Here,” Phoenix offers the sandwich he’d brought with him, “can’t have you passing out on me either.”

There’s just a brief moment of reluctance, before Edgeworth accepts it from him and takes a slow bite. Neither of them need to state the obvious out loud. They’re not going to get anywhere like this, no matter how much thinking they manage to do together. They really need something solid. Above them, the grey tinted sky seems to swirl ominously. If it ends up raining again, Phoenix can only hope it’ll bring down some kind of lucky sign pointing to what to do next…

A sign… that sounds like a shriek?

Edgeworth is on his feet at once. “Who’s there?!”

The mystery man doesn’t get very far, trying and failing to go back around the corner. He’s carrying a heavy briefcase that hits him hard in the kneecaps, though that doesn’t cause him to slow his pace. Apparently, Edgeworth can stride pretty fast when he wants to, and the other man is clearly outmatched. Emmerich Fibber, Phoenix recognises when he turns.

The final person of interest that hadn’t been accounted for yet.  

Fibber mumbles something in German, manoeuvring his briefcase behind his body in what may be a poor attempt to hide it, before relaxing as he takes them both in. “S-sorry! I was… just trying to get some air!”

The world around Phoenix world immediately into darkness, the tell-tale sound of a lock clinking into place filling his ears.

One red lock, right over his chest.

“You are aware of my career, Herr Fibber?”

It turns out with Edgeworth here and all fired up, Phoenix doesn’t even need to try and start questioning Fibber himself.

The other man starts to sweat. “Y-yes.”

Edgeworth stares at him with his patented intensity. “Then you’ll know what happens to those who blatantly lie to me. If you were really just trying to get some air, you wouldn’t be avoiding eye contact. You wouldn’t be perspiring. No, to me, you look exactly like somebody desperately attempting  to calculate the limits of what they can say without incriminating themself. So, I suggest you answer honestly. What are you doing here?”

That’s all it takes, apparently. The lock shatters on its own, and Phoenix’s vision returns to normal.

“I swear! I just showed up like I was supposed to this morning, and suddenly all of these agents were here!” Fibber trembles in place. “I-it freaked me out so much that I ducked behind one of the cars, but then I saw them carrying a body bag out! That means murder, doesn’t it? W-who could do such a thing?!”

Phoenix shares a mutual look with Edgeworth.

(Yeah. Something’s up with this guy.)

“So you decided to evade them?” Edgeworth taps his foot impatiently.

Fibber glances to the side awkwardly. “Well, yeah. I didn’t want to get caught up with Interpol. They’re n-notorious about their notices! And their interrogations… And– “ he stumbles into a German ramble, then, so Phoenix is pretty much lost. He’s surprised that Edgeworth isn’t immediately stopping it, though, instead letting the rant devolve until Fibber eventually runs out of gas.

“You know an awful lot about criminal procedure,” Edgeworth keeps his stare locked. He’s sharp, calculating something that seems more like they’re playing a round of chess, than having a conversation. “Does it really come up that often in your profession?”

Fibber tenses up quite dramatically at the question, and then scratches the back of his neck. “I took a module of criminal law once! F-for fun!”

Phoenix almost balks at the idea that any part of studying criminal law could be seen as a fun side-hobby. Well, on a technicality that’s how he’d described it before finally switching from his art major, but he’d at least had some kind of greater purpose. At least from the lack of locks, Phoenix can tell Fibber isn’t lying about this part.

Still maintaining his posture, Edgeworth doesn’t directly say anything next. But even without being the actual target, Phoenix can feel his glare like sharp daggers.  

Fibber’s shoulders slump. “At least it might be cool to experience what an arrest is like…”

Edgeworth pulls one of his faces of pure disbelief. “You think it would be ‘cool’?”

Fibber sets down the briefcase behind him, almost like he’s trying to block it with his legs and holds his wrists out. “Here, I’m not resisting arrest. T-trespass, right? Or interfering with a crime scene? You can take me to the jail yourself. In fact, let’s do it as soon as possible, I’ve probably wasted enough of your time.”

Though Phoenix is pretty sure that Edgeworth doesn’t just carry handcuffs around with him on his person at any given time, Phoenix wouldn’t be all that surprised if he takes him up on the offer regardless, given the way Edgeworth is still glaring at the other man. Something really doesn’t sit right with Phoenix, though.

“Mr Fibber,” Phoenix says, “I’m not sure you’ll find Edgeworth’s interrogation much better than Interpol.” Somewhere, his memory supplies that Fibber is also familiar enough with the von Karma family. “And I think you know that. So there’s a reason you want to avoid Interpol specifically.”

Fibber’s hands retract almost immediately, pulling tight to his chest, but the expression on his face reads as ‘giddy’ more than anything else. “W-wow, Herr Phoenix Wright. You got me there!”

(Huh?!)

“There’s only one type of person who would be this afraid of being interrogated by Interpol,” Edgeworth’s glare remains low and steely, “a criminal.”

Fibber’s eyes dart between them both, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Are we off the record, here?”

Phoenix also shoots Edgeworth a curious look.

“…If you admit to criminal wrongdoing, then I will have to act appropriately,” Edgeworth responds, which is decidedly a non-answer.

“I guess I should have expected that,” Fibber says sheepishly, shuffling on his feet.

Whether conscious or unconscious, he still seems concerned about that metal case, and Phoenix is sure something’s up with it. “What’s with the briefcase?”

“Ah!” His eyes widen. “Nothing that important! Really! It’s just paperwork!”

Another chill sets through Phoenix, vision darkening around him. Too many more of these, and he’s a little concerned he’s going to develop a migraine. There are two locks this time, front and centre around his figure.

“…Just paperwork?” Phoenix tests, not yet taking the magatama from his pocket.

“Really!” Fibber nods enthusiastically. “In fact, most of them are nothing to do with the will or anything. Um, if you’re not going to arrest me, can I be on my way? I don’t want you to waste your precious time on someone like me…”

Phoenix blinks, because two new locks join the fray, gleaming at him almost conspicuously. Sure, he could tell Fibber was acting shifty from a mile away, but that’s a lot of locks. Phoenix starts to wonder if he is actually wrapped up in the murder case after all…

(Wasn’t he involved in that argument with Reiner last night?)

“Um,” Fibber tugs at his shirt collar. “D-did I say something?”

Edgeworth clears his throat. “Wright.”

Phoenix blinks again. “Four locks.”

Giving him a sideways look, Edgeworth speaks in a lower tone. “Do we have the same problem as before?”

Phoenix considers the situation. “Pretty much. But… these ones feel looser somehow.”

“What are you whispering about?” Fibber asks.

“Very well.” Edgeworth nods, ignoring the question, though there’s a gleam in his eye. “Then allow me to try a different approach.”

In his own way, it feels a little like the temperature drops around them. Edgeworth meets the twitching man in a deadly glare. If Phoenix didn’t know better, he might think that Edgeworth has some kind of mind control powers, because Fibber fixes on him, moulding like clay.

“Herr Fibber,” Edgeworth says coldly, “what you said just now about the paperwork… ‘most’ of the files are nothing to do with the von Karma estate. What about the ones that are?”

Fibber’s eyes widen in panic. “W-well, I, uh… They shouldn’t concern you! Just some pieces Herr Rotfisch consulted me on previously. We didn’t get the full time to discuss our fall-back plan after things were cut short last night, so we hoped that today…”

Edgeworth folds his arms. “I see. So you were discussing business matters. When you say ‘fall-back plan’, these were something impacted by the outcome of the will reading?”

To Phoenix’s surprise, one of the locks dissolves before his eyes.

“Yes,” Fibber looks down at the ground. “We had worked on the assumption that the Rotfisch’s would gain this property, but then that was up in the air… I admit, I wasn’t happy about that, but I had plans!”

Edgeworth maintains his glare. “…”

“I was actually up all night, reworking and adjusting things. That’s why I was so late getting here this morning. Herr Rotfisch called me unexpectedly after I was already home and asked me to revise some of the proposals.”

(Well, that answers the question about Reiner’s phone call.)

“Care to elaborate on the contents of these ‘plans’?”

Fibber’s short moment of calm fades just like that, and he’s twitching again. “They’re really just business proposals… We’ve been working on them for a while, is all.”

With his focus so intent on defending against Edgeworth’s onslaught, he’s clearly not paying attention to the case behind him. Phoenix knows an opportunity when he sees one, and having a magician as a daughter has taught him a lot about the power of misdirection. As he mentally calculates the trajectory to whip around and grab it, he considers that Edgeworth might not be happy with him for stealing property, but in this case he figures the ends may justify the means.

(Besides, what’s he going to do, get me disbarred?)

The case is surprisingly heavy as he snatches it away, so Phoenix just sets it on the ground in front of them, clicking it open before Fibber gets the wherewithal to stop him. Unfortunately, it’s nothing as immediately useful as the murder weapon jumping out at them, but there does seem to be a large stack of architectural blueprints right there on top.

“Blueprints for this property?” It’s a good thing Edgeworth is busy interrogating someone else, as it seems Phoenix can avoid the tongue lashing for now.

“T-that’s a personal project!”

If a look could actually kill a man, Phoenix is sure Edgeworth would manage it right here and now. “A personal project that involves this house?” Edgeworth waggles a finger at him condescendingly. “I don’t think so. Out with it. Now.”

“They’re hotel plans,” Fibber finally admits. In Phoenix’s periphery, another lock disappears. “That is… what we were proposing to do with the place. Yes.”

Edgeworth looks a little surprised at the fact. “This was… Reiner Rotfisch’s doing?”

“My proposal!” Fibber specifies. “But yes, we have been working on it together. This region has received a boost in tourism recently, so it only seemed like the natural choice. It’s a classic property, and has its own unique selling point, so we thought we could compete with the other hotels in the area.”

“…And I suppose Hildegard is none the wiser?”

“He guaranteed me he could talk her round to it. It was a really good business opportunity! And so topical, too!”

Phoenix, for his part, is still mostly leafing through the files in case there’s anything else incriminating.

(Wait. This document is weird. What the-)

Phoenix pulls out a weirdly detailed diagram of an assortment of weapons, which include a gun, knife, candlestick, pipe, wrench, and a bundle of rope.

“What’s this for?”

Admittedly, Phoenix is pretty confident that Emmerich Fibber isn’t the mastermind behind the murder they’re currently trying to solve. Though, in a hypothetical court scenario, Phoenix thinks he would definitely have enough to pin things on Fibber to secure a trial extension at the very least. His links to Reiner, mutual involvement in the disagreement, and now a bunch of weapon details…? It doesn’t look good.

“They’re just props!” Fibber’s eyes widen in panic. No additional locks fly into view at that, at least.

Edgeworth takes the plans from Phoenix, studying them briefly. “…That’s what the annotated notes here imply.” He trains his eyes back on Fibber. “But why would you be carrying something like this amongst your business documents?”

“U-uh,” he says, “well… it’s a personal project. Like I said, not all of these are relevant!”

New evidence added 

“Hmph.” Edgeworth gets a smug look on his face, which is a lot less disheartening when trained on someone else. “You mentioned a ‘unique selling point’ earlier. You also said you took criminal law classes for ‘fun’. But that’s not right. You were doing market research, weren’t you?”

Fibber slumps. “Those classes really were for fun. But… you’re not wrong about the rest of it.” He takes a deep breath, then, and it’s like he’s gained a second bank of energy. “This location would be the perfect setting for the ultimate murder mystery experience. This is a beautiful region of the country, yes, but there’s not much to do other than take a hike. No, part of the attraction is the stories, isn’t it? So, picture being here but you’re also part of a story.”  He looks between them both. “Are you familiar with LARPing?”

Phoenix wrinkles his nose at the unfamiliar word. “No–“

“Of course,” Edgeworth shrugs coolly. “Indeed, these events are popular amongst certain demographics. Just last year, the first ever Real Neo Olde Tokyo LARP event was arranged by an impressive group of grassroots fans, though sadly it was unofficial. Thankfully Global Studios have never been particularly litigious when it comes to fan works, so the event was well attended without fear of retaliation… or at least so I have heard.”

A moment of silence rolls over them all, and Phoenix does his best to ignore the two psyche-locks that slam into place over Edgeworth’s chest.

“Then you get it. The grounds of this estate are just isolated enough,” Fibber says. “And, we’re completely safe from copycats here with our natural advantage. True crime is more popular than it’s ever been, so what better place than the house of an actual murderer! That’s some serious marketing potential right there!”

One of Fibber’s remaining psyche-locks rattles slightly, but doesn’t break, so this can’t be it.

(Edgeworth himself is looking pretty murderous right now…)

“You want to market this house as a… murder-themed attraction because of the crimes of its previous owner?”

Fibber fidgets slightly, oblivious. “Uh… yeah? That’s the hook, isn’t it? People are really into this kind of stuff. It’s… fascinating, looking into that kind of psychology, even in a light entertainment kind of way. True crime fans would pay good money to experience–“

Edgeworth cuts him off. “Fascinating? Is that what you call it? To make a spectacle of the place where a man spent decades constructing a career of manipulation and lies? Where he plotted to ruin countless lives, not least my own?”

With something like fear crossing over Fibber’s face, he seems to attempt to stammer out a response, but Edgeworth doesn’t give him an opportunity.

“None of that matters to you though, does it?” He practically spits out the words with disgust. “I’m certain you’ll draw in crowds who have nothing better to do with their asinine existence than pay a small fortune for a slice of such ‘light entertainment’. Tell me, how much were you planning to charge? What was the death of my father worth to you?”

It’s… rare to see Edgeworth’s cool and collected mask slip off. When it does happen, Phoenix is used to the cause being from a frustrated annoyance or flustered embarrassment (something Wendy Oldbag was always talented at drawing out). He understands the need to be careful here. Edgeworth doesn’t respond well to things he might perceive as weakness or pity. At the same time, Phoenix can’t just let this go on any further.

Fibber looks duly horrified. “I-I really meant no disrespect–“

Phoenix clears his throat. “It doesn’t really matter what you meant, Mr Fibber. It might feel like just a story to you, but the key part is in the name: ‘true’ crime means it actually happened, and it doesn’t feel so fun when you’re one of the main characters.”

Honestly, Phoenix doesn’t know that his words will make much difference. Many years ago, just after the murder of Doug Swallow and his own trial, some of the ‘journalists’ from the campus newspaper had tried asking him about it. Things like ‘you were dating her for eight months, did you really never see the signs?’ and ‘do you think poor Doug would still be alive if you’d just given her that necklace like she asked?‘. Not that he’d been able to give much of a coherent answer when everything was so fresh back then. Then there were those who seemed to suspect him regardless of the trial’s verdict… Phoenix swallows the memory down, though doing so momentarily makes him feel those phantom pieces of crushed glass.

“F-for what it’s worth,” Fibber says sheepishly, “the proposal was nothing to do with the real DL-6 incident. It was one hundred percent fiction! Really… nothing more than a harmless murder mystery plot, just a little more involved. The idea was to have a tailored weekend of crime solving, where guests are put into the role of detectives and have to work together to figure out all the clues. One lucky guest would have been chosen as the murderer, and the final climax would have been a trial event to be held in the replica courtroom here,” he taps the blueprints for effect. “I- I was going to give up on it anyway, after this morning…”

(Replica courtroom? Honestly, I’m not even that surprised coming from von Karma...)

“Ridiculous,” Edgeworth huffs quietly.

Something inside of Phoenix twists. Edgeworth already seemed a little fragile, having experienced another one of his nightmares. Nightmares which Phoenix had clearly underestimated the severity of… It’s taking a lot of restraint to ignore his instincts to try and comfort him somehow. Phoenix closes his eyes for a moment.

(Edgeworth will only end up being more bothered by this conversation if we don’t get all the information out of this guy.)

(Wait… he brought up something weirdly specific just now…)

Phoenix pulls his magatama from his pocket, presenting it directly in front of Fibber. “The ‘DL-6’ incident? That’s a specific detail.”

Fibber blinks. “It was a famous trial! Of course Manfred von Karma was one of my clients back then too, so it was relevant in that way...”

His eyes drift obviously off to the side at that comment, which is one of the easiest tells for Phoenix to spot.

“Sure, it was a famous trial, but it happened years ago. I agree it wouldn’t be that strange to remember some of the details, but you brought up the term ‘DL-6’ without even thinking about it. It’s a police incident designation, that’s not just common trivia.”

“Sure it is!” Fibber looks impassioned for some reason. “It was a key part of your most iconic turnabout! Of course I know about it!”

“My… what?”

Fibber freezes up for a second, face turning a shade of pink. “I have a really good memory, anyway. It’s a key part of my job! I couldn’t get anywhere if I wasn’t good at focusing on the small details…”

Phoenix keeps the magatama trained steady. “I don’t believe you. You have your own connection to the DL-6 incident… something more personal.”

“Wow,” Fibber relaxes all of a sudden, the lock finally shattering to pieces. “Guess I’m cracked. I can’t believe it. To have been questioned by the Turnabout Terror… and the legendary Phoenix Wright is just as good as I imagined.”

(…) 

“…Uhm–? I’m not sure I’m following?”

Edgeworth’s low voice beside him almost makes him jump out of his skin. “There’s nothing more insufferable than playing coy, Wright.”

“I’m not playing anything–“

“Wow,” Fibber claps his hands together, and his eyes almost seem glittery somehow. “The back and forth between the both of you is just how I pictured it too! You really got me good… Well, is it too late to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Phoenix Wright? I admit it, I’ve been a fan of your work ever since that trial, I used to follow all of your cases!”

Despite having seen the psyche-lock with his own eyes, Phoenix can’t really believe what he’s hearing. Besides, there’s still a lock left in play… He has no leads on what that lock could be yet, though, so slowly retracts the magatama.

“…Why? I don’t understand the appeal.”

Fibber looks shocked at that. “W-well, it’s… wow, Phoenix Wright, you know? The way you can just… bring them down! Like bam, objection!” He suddenly points at him, though he’s standing close enough that he almost pokes him in the face in the process. Another flush comes across his face, and he brings his hand back in. “How could that not appeal?”

To his side, Edgeworth breathes tightly. “You’re clearly more defensive about this than your supposed ‘true crime’ hobby. Hm. Your courtroom roleplay idea, and the criminal law classes… they’re because of that man?”

(I do have a name, you know…)

Fibber just nods, and looks back at Phoenix. “I guess you were Wright, like always…”

Edgeworth makes a pained sound a bit like a dying cat.

Fibber continues, though. “I’ll be honest… you’re kind of my hero, Phoenix Wright. It’s not just your skill in court. I hated working for Manfred von Karma. He may have only been a client, but…” he visibly shudders. “It’s hard to explain. But then you finally took him down! And that set me free too, even if you didn’t know it. And you just kept going! I always thought you were the perfect example of what a true lawyer should be.”

Admittedly, the praise feels nice at first. It’s not like his clients never thanked him after trials, but he hasn’t experienced anything like this for two years. But with that thought, Fibber’s words kind of sting. They just don’t fit right, and Phoenix isn’t all that sure if they ever have. Not to mention the obvious fact he’s glossing over…

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Phoenix says, “but I’m not a lawyer anymore.”

Fibber clenches his fists. “So what? It’s not like you did anything wrong!”

Almost instantly, Phoenix feels every muscle in his body tense.

(Stay calm, tread carefully…)

“What do you mean?”

Somehow, his fists clench tighter. “The forgery nonsense, right? It’s so obvious it’s painful. Even logically, why would the best lawyer around even need to cheat against some wannabe rookie? I-I know you didn’t cheat during your first three trials for a fact! Herr von Karma himself paid someone to look into it. And those were against far more experienced prosecutors! Well, mostly Herr Edgeworth, I suppose... Either way, why bother trying it for the first time at such a low stakes trial for you? But, it doesn’t make sense if you were used the cheating either. The forgery itself… clearly top-quality work, of course. I know that the end of that trial was never made public, but it was easy to join the dots on what happened. The forger fessed up, didn’t they? If you knew a professional and paid for their services, then you’d also have the sense to pay for their silence. T-that’s just part of the process! Only an idiot would try something like that without creating a proper contingency, and, well, I don’t think you are one!”

His stomach ties up in knots. Of course Phoenix knows all that. He’d made similar arguments, or at least tried to. The Bar Association hadn’t actually cared much at all about how he gained the forged evidence, though. They maintained that the only facts that mattered were whether the document was a forgery, and whether Phoenix had presented the document during trial… and neither of those facts were in dispute.

“Herr Fibber,” Edgeworth says intensely, having pulled himself mostly back together. “These are intriguing claims from a financial adviser. I wasn’t aware that your profession involved such in depth knowledge of evidence forgery.”

The colour drains from his face. “Oh. W-well, it doesn’t exactly! Of course I do see things, discrepancies in accounts, obvious money laundering…”

Edgeworth simply stands there, almost daring him to speak further.

“I think Manfred von Karma’s dishonesty is already widely known, as it is...”

“To an extent,” Edgeworth holds up a finger, as though indicating for him to pause. “The pattern, but not the specifics. Certainly not enough to opine on the process of avoiding detection. You had firsthand knowledge.”

The final lock dissolves away, and the chains with it. Rather than relieved, Fibber looks more or less defeated. There’s a clear wave of sadness surrounding him, which might even be contagious.

Fibber nods, though it wasn’t exactly a question. “I really wasn’t directly involved. Manfred von Karma wasn’t a pleasant man to work for, but… he was brilliant when it came to fine details. Nobody could argue with his precision.”

“Precision,” Edgeworth repeats. “That’s what you noticed in the evidence. You’ve seen forgeries before– von Karma’s forgeries, haven’t you?”

He hesitates for a moment. “I’m not sure on that point, and I don’t think he ever commit any crimes for financial gain, but… I did notice things. There were ways he would cover his tracks, from weird transactions, physical deposits from around the world, networks of bank accounts… At first, it just seemed like average laundering or tax evasion.”

Edgeworth, standing with his arms crossed, taps himself impatiently. “So you were complicit in his crimes?”

“I…” Fibber sighs deeply. “The hole I was in was already too deep, at that point. I did as I was asked to do, whether by specific detail or broad instruction, and didn’t ask questions. He was the most ruthless prosecutor alive at the time, he could have ended me whenever he chose. I really meant what I said, earlier; I’m good at noticing small details… patterns. I started to put together the dots, looking at the timing and costs involved. There were also a few payments for services I recognised… from other clients who were less careful.”

Phoenix finds a certain heaviness in his own chest. “Is this the real reason you were so desperate to dodge Interpol?”

Fibber’s shoulders slump. “I thought they were here for me, at first. Nothing traced back when the other investigations into his estate were taking place. But like I said, I don’t think any of this was for financial gain, which I think is what would have alerted the authorities. I-I swear, ever since von Karma was arrested, my hands have been completely clean.”

“…Immunity,” a reluctant voice comes from beside Phoenix.

“S-sorry?”

Edgeworth looks Fibber in the eyes again. “Immunity. I told you earlier. If you admit to any criminal wrongdoing, I am compelled to act appropriately. However,” his words bite sharply, “there are times where a greater good must be considered. The information you possess would be wasted rotting in a cell. Immunity, that’s the price I can offer for your full testimony and cooperation.”

“Y-you would really help me like that?”

“Do not mistake this for help,” Edgeworth snaps. “I’m handing you to Interpol either way. But, I can choose to do so under specific conditions: protection from prosecution here, and in Japanifornia at least, plus whatever influence I can leverage in any other relevant jurisdictions. But only,” his tone drops cooler, “if you fulfil your side of the bargain. That means every shred of information you have; every document, every client involved, and your commitment to testify to it under oath.”

Fibber hesitates for only a moment. “Yes. I’ll do it. You have my word.”

Edgeworth looks down at the briefcase, still open on the ground. “…And we’re keeping these documents.”

“Take them!” Fibber says. “I… guess I don’t have much need for them anymore.”

“Very well,” Edgeworth nods. “Then we’ll go meet with my sister without delay.”

(That honestly sounds like more of a threat.)

Phoenix quickly realises it’s his responsibility to handle the briefcase, though Edgeworth isn’t exactly waiting around for him. He quickly stows all of the documents they’d removed back on top and snaps it shut, hoping they’ll have a chance to go through it soon enough, since he’d prefer to avoid carrying it around for the rest of the day.

Despite Edgeworth’s determination, Phoenix can’t help but feel a little concerned. Edgeworth was clearly bothered by Fibber, though he can’t really be blamed for that. Maybe the investigation is serving as a decent distraction, but Phoenix can only hope it doesn’t end up hitting him all at once instead. The conversation had left a lot of distaste in Phoenix’s mouth, and he’s not even so directly involved.

(Plus, as nice as it is to have a ‘fan’, did he really have to be involved in forgery?)

New evidence added

Chapter Text

Though he’s not sure exactly how long they were talking to Fibber, it was apparently enough time for Franziska to return to her investigation in the study. Phoenix is honestly a little surprised that she’s still working away at this initial phase so closely, though he can make a solid guess it’s because the circumstances of the murder are complicated.

Just looking at her tells him more than enough, once Franziska steps out of the still forbidden room to talk to them. She definitely looks a little exhausted. On top of that. she’s bothered by something, though it could just be their presence.

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow anyway. “I see you’ve located our missing accountant. At least you’ve kept yourself busy with something remotely useful.” She runs her finger casually down the length of her whip as though it’s a calming gesture. “He’s not a priority, though. I am busy with matters of actual importance.”

“Franziska,” Edgeworth says calmly, “you may benefit from this interruption.”

Her eyes narrow as she steps forward, her heeled boots creating a jarring clack sound. “This had better be good, Miles Edgeworth, or there will be consequences for another attempt at meddling with Interpol’s jurisdiction.”

“Naturally,” Edgeworth manages to shrug casually, before sharpening his glare. “Case Orion.”

Fibber fidgets in position. “Um– what does that mean?”

Edgeworth just eyes him sharply, which seems to be enough of a signal to ‘zip it’.

Trying to mask her surprise at the word, which Phoenix figures must be some kind of code name, Franziska pulls her whip taut. “Really? Him?”

“He had access to a number of accounts,” Edgeworth replies. “Which he has agreed to give detailed testimony about in exchange for immunity.”

*CRACK*

The strike of the whip is so fast, there’s barely a chance to react. “What foolishness is this?! Immunity? Why would you strike such a deal behind my back? If he knows something, I will extract it myself.”

Fibber lets out a soft, petrified sounding whimper.

“It’s hardly foolish,” Edgeworth says, barely reacting. “You know just as well as I, everything must be perfectly above board. He will be better used through cooperation. There are wider gains– “

“Do not lecture me.”  Franziska’s hand tightens around the whip again. “Fine. I will consider your foolish immunity deal. But I will lead the questioning, and if I find even a hint of deception… you will regret this.”

Edgeworth nods. “Understood. However, don’t you think we deserve a reward?”

*CRACK*

She tilts her head so she’s looking down on them. “Pathetic, how desperate you’ve become. If you think this snivelling fool is worth access to the crime scene, think again.”

“Photographs,” Edgeworth meets her eyes intensely. “And progress updates on the investigation so far. Forensics as well, if you have them.”

Rather than responding to them, Franziska turns to the agent who was posted at the door. “Take this man into custody. Ensure he is monitored at all times.”

“Custody?” Fibber’s eyes widen in panic.

Franziska shrugs nonchalantly. “Just to ensure your protection.”

Maybe, if the circumstances were different, Phoenix would feel bad for him.

He doesn’t, though, not particularly.

As he’s led away, Franziska steps back into the room for just long enough that she might have double crossed them, but after a minute or two she returns again with a thin dossier in hand.

“Don’t think for a minute that this means you’re in control here,” she holds the files out loosely. “You won’t uncover anything I haven’t already noticed.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Edgeworth says.

As expected coming from someone like Franziska, the scene photographs are thorough, covering most angles of the room. It’s not as good as being able to look at the scene in person, but Phoenix has had to work with far less before. He tries to ignore the memory of blood odour as they look at a close up of the body. In it, Stiltskin sits in place, a heavy stake piercing him through the heart. With the force of it, he’s pierced right through, essentially skewered to the chair. Most of the blood around him collects like a pool at his feet.

“The stake in his chest is a crossbow bolt of some kind,” Phoenix says, mostly muttering to himself.

Franziska scoffs. “Obviously. The autopsy is ongoing, but the bolt punctured the heart cleanly– a precise kill.”

Edgeworth frowns. “Too precise.”

“We discovered the murder weapon in the study,” she ignores him, but a clear irritation washes over her face. “An ornamental crossbow. I have confirmed that it was stolen from one of the displays in the trophy room next door. There are no fingerprints.” Franziska pauses, then, and grits her teeth. “It was discovered concealed by the air vent. There are… clear signs that it was rigged to fire automatically, most likely by a timer system.”

The realisation dawns on Phoenix instantly. “So I was right? The murder took place remotely?”

“…It was a foolish bluff. But even a tickless clock doesn’t lie twice in a day.”

(Even if it’s only to insult me, I feel weirdly proud that her knowledge of phrases seems to have improved... Even if she’s still a bit off.)

Edgeworth looks a little rigid. “What?”

Phoenix frowns. “…Could you at least try to sound less shocked?”

*CRACK*

“I will not have fools wasting my time,” the volume of Franziska’s voice raises by a few levels.

“Wait,” Phoenix thinks, “so then you admit that Reiner’s absence at dinner doesn’t mean anything in the end?”

She scowls. “He’s still the primary suspect. He has the clearest motive, not to mention the opportunity and knowledge of this house to set the trap up. We will find solid evidence soon, connecting him or anyone else.”

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” the comment slips from Phoenix’s tongue. “Considering alternatives like this? I’m kind of impressed.”

“Do not mistake pragmatism for weakness, Phoenix Wright!” Franziska snaps. “I will find the truth, and when I do, I will crush Reiner Rotfisch with it.”

She turns on her heel at that, disappearing back into the crime scene with a door slam to boot. Despite her typical barbed attitude, Phoenix feels something more like relief. For the first time in a while, it really seems like they’re making some progress. There’s also a quieter voice in him which basks in the satisfaction of being right all along.

Phoenix sighs, running a hand through his hair as he thinks. “That was… something.”

“At least she’s consistent,” Edgeworth says. “We have plenty to review… let’s not waste time here.”

New evidence added

For what feels like the fiftieth time, Phoenix is stuck following somewhat aimlessly after Edgeworth. Aside from potentially becoming a key witness to the crime by complete chance, Phoenix isn’t that sure he’s contributed much. Then again, it’s not like Edgeworth asked him here specifically to help him solve a murder either.

The room Edgeworth leads him to sends a shiver down the length of Phoenix’s spine. Everything about that drowns out the absurdity of Manfred von Karma actually having this room in his home. Phoenix hasn’t set foot in a courtroom since that trial. Sure, it’s clearly downsized, but the rest of the opulent details are near spot on.

“This is…”

“My mentor used it to rehearse arguments and refine his demeanour in realistic conditions, all in the name of perfection of course,” Edgeworth explains. “It was also… a regular part of mine and Franziska’s training. I used to find it easier to think, in here.”

Phoenix tries his best to push his own feelings aside. “Makes sense. A lot of people perform better under pressure.”

He doesn’t immediately receive a response to that. Edgeworth starts laying the documents from Franziska’s dossier out on the prosecution bench, but there’s some unusual tension. If Phoenix really concentrates on nothing but Edgeworth, it’s subtle, but he can see the slight shake in his hands as he touches the papers, and his shoulders are more rigid than usual.

“Hey, are you okay, Edgeworth?”

Edgeworth freezes in place temporarily, but doesn’t turn to face him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The whole thing with Emmerich Fibber,” Phoenix decides not to give up easily, and takes a step closer. “I could tell how much it bothered you.”

“I fail to see the relevance.”

He almost considers reaching out physically. “It can be hard to focus if you’re affected by– “

“Wright,” Edgeworth finally turns to look at him, “if you’re not going to help with this, the least you could do is be quiet.”

It’s a warning.

Phoenix knows to back off, as much as he doesn’t really want to. Like a child sent to the naughty step, he skulks away. He’s not entirely sure what he can help with in terms of the documents Franziska gave them, but there are also a number of papers they’d confiscated from Fibber. Phoenix ignores the muscle memory which would have led him over to the defence bench, instead laying out some of the papers across the gallery seating area.

Much like many of the things that have plagued him during this trip, Phoenix once again has to contend with the German language. Edgeworth will definitely need to take his own look at some point, in case there’s something else important here. That aside, he makes stacks to group whatever documents seem obvious enough.

The blueprints become one pile, and anything he can safely categorise as part of Fibber’s hotel business plan go into another. Looking at them properly, they extend across all floors of the house. Phoenix isn’t sure if they’re ‘official’ or not, though, seeming pretty bootleg to him. There’s an extensive plan for a basement that runs along almost the full length of the house, though split into a few different sections. Phoenix remembers Liesel Falschen mentioning a wine cellar. A pretty big wine cellar, though… It also seems to be connected to some kind of weird void.

He tries to scan through some of the rest of the papers, in case anything else has illustrations or words that jump out at him. At the very least, numbers have an easier time transcending the language barrier, and there’s something that catches his eye on one sheet. Of course, Fibber had mentioned working in a kind of partnership with Reiner, and it looks like he had some financial details on him. Phoenix might not understand everything, but it’s pretty obvious what a bunch of negative, red coloured numbers mean.

“…Huh. Looks like Reiner’s in some kind of financial trouble.”

New evidence added

Edgeworth stops what he’s doing for a moment, stepping up so he’s peering over Phoenix’s shoulder. “That appears to be the case. This… could indicate a stronger motive.”

Phoenix frowns. “Why, though? What would killing the estate lawyer achieve?”

“Perhaps desperation?” Edgeworth theorises. “Access to the will itself? Could even be heat of the moment anger. Murders often don’t make sense.”

“Maybe the hotel idea was some last-ditch attempt to get out of the hole.” Phoenix muses. “We might as well hang onto this… it could come in handy, if we try speaking to Reiner again.”

Edgeworth nods, looking at the other papers briefly. “I’m taking those,” he says, snatching up the blueprints.

“Hey– “

His back remains turned, though. Phoenix sighs, looking at the other papers they’ve gathered for the first time in detail. Flicking through the newspaper they’d taken from the kitchen earlier, there don’t seem to be any articles about a killer running loose through the countryside. He also scans the list of courses from the meal plan. Squinting at the fish course, he notices there’s a small annotation, and though he can’t read much of what it says, he can definitely see the word ‘Stiltskin’.

The thought is cast aside at the sound of a strange beep. Admittedly, it makes Phoenix curious enough to traverse back down to Edgeworth’s side. He’s furiously inputting something into a device that looks something like one of those new-fangled mobile phones people are always talking about.

(I don’t need any of that extra complication in my life, no thank you.)

“What are you doing?” He asks eventually. “I haven’t taken a good look at them myself yet, but surely there’s some new information in those crime scene photos? It sucks that we can’t check it out for ourselves, but…”

Finally, Edgeworth turns back, a somewhat triumphant look on his face. “Access to the crime scene won’t be necessary.”

“Sure,” Phoenix shrugs, “if it makes you feel better.”  

“Wright,” he holds his gaze, “this is a special device called Little Thief. It can reconstruct a location depending on the data you input. It isn’t perfect, but it will allow us to investigate a highly accurate simulation of the crime scene.”

Phoenix blinks. “Little… Thief…?”

“I didn’t name it,” he clarifies, before the slightest hint of flush creeps onto his face. “It was a gift from… well, a remarkable young woman. She’s consistently upgrading this tool to have even more impressive capabilities, but she was generous enough to entrust me with one of the older versions.”

Frankly, Phoenix has no idea what Edgeworth’s talking about, nor what kind of ‘young women’ he supposedly knows. Has he even witnessed Edgeworth speak to a woman who wasn’t family, also one of Phoenix’s close associates, or else directly related to a criminal trial? Perhaps it’s a weird thought, but it reminds Phoenix of the way he can tend to ramble on about Trucy from time to time.

He can’t go too far down that line of thought, though, because Edgeworth is suddenly pacing around, pushing the benches around the room and out of the way. Phoenix is a little surprised to see that they can move like that, but he supposes there’s nothing wrong with the space having multiple functionalities. Having cleared quite a large space in the centre of the room, Edgeworth clicks something on the small device and suddenly the room is tinted in bright green. More than that, it’s like they’re standing inside the study itself, and Phoenix can only see the courtroom features outside the ‘walls’ if he really squints.

“Wh-what’s this?! Where?”

“As I explained,” Edgeworth says, “a reconstruction of the scene.”

Phoenix balks. “This kind of technology exists?”

Edgeworth rolls his eyes. “Clearly, Wright, otherwise we wouldn’t be using it.”

“R-right…” He turns then, only to be met with the dead body of Rüdiger Stiltskin, and fails to restrain his yelp. “That’s too realistic.”

“We’ll begin by verifying Franziska’s claims,” Edgeworth says, “taking into account the alleged crossbow and its positioning.”

He approaches to the side of the door, where there are some ornately detailed panels… or maybe they’re grates? It’s not a feature Phoenix would have paid any attention to when he was in the actual room, since it blends so well with the rest of the décor. A couple of extra inputs into the small device, though, and the grate pops off, so it appears to be the air vent in question. It’s actually at a weird height, just slightly below Edgeworth’s hip. Unfortunately, that means it looks to be the right height to hit a person in the chest while sitting.

“Even the vents here are crazy fancy,” Phoenix comments. Even with the swirled details, there are gaps in the grate, just about big enough for a bolt to pass through.

Edgeworth is still peering into the vent, where the hologram of the crossbow shines clearly. “Hmph. It’s positioned in the correct place, and the trajectory of the bolt would certainly align if it was fired from in there.”

He tilts his head. “Did they find anything else with it? Franziska mentioned it was some kind of timed system, right?”

“There appears to be a small rock,” Edgeworth says, “and some burnt remnants of tape and string…” He mumbles something to himself for a moment. “This is a latchet crossbow with a top trigger, it could be fired with a relatively light press.”

Phoenix scratches the back of his neck. “That seems kind of unsafe.”

“It doesn’t seem like the most reliable system,” Edgeworth ignores him, “but if you were to suspend this rock above the trigger with the string and tape, it could be set off by setting the string alight like a fuse until the rock falls down.”

Phoenix thinks for a moment. “Where do these vents lead to? If the killer could feed the string through to another opening, then they could have ignited it from a completely different room.”

“…It couldn’t be set too far in advance,” Edgeworth says. “It will depend on the type and length of the rope, but it could take anywhere from between an hour to just a few minutes to burn through. That would make the most likely time of ignition after we paused the will reading, and everyone headed to dinner.”

(I don’t even want to say it… But I have to.)

“We know Reiner and Fibber had blueprints of the house,” he admits. “If anyone would have an understanding of the vent system, it would be them.”

Edgeworth doesn’t respond to him, instead stepping away from the vent. It gives Phoenix an opportunity to look over inside vent himself, and even though he wouldn’t expect Edgeworth to miss anything, he’s still a little disappointed that there’s no other clue that could be tied to someone else.

“So it required a precise set up,” Phoenix continues to think aloud, “and careful planning. The murder could have been arranged days in advance.”

Not even turning to look from where he stands over the desk, Edgeworth just lets out a sigh of contempt. “If it even happened at all.”

Phoenix frowns. “What do you mean, ‘if’? Is it really that hard for you to accept I was right?”

“Ngh,” Edgeworth spins, expression easily portraying his annoyance, “this isn’t about you. Fine, I… acknowledge that this system was activated, but nothing about it makes sense. It’s ridiculous, not to mention overly convoluted.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t ‘ridiculous’ and ‘overly convoluted’ kind of par for the course with us?”

“There has to be something missing,” Miles says. “Something we can’t see. This is only a simulation based on the evidence gathered by Interpol. If they missed something, Little Thief won’t be able to project it.”

Phoenix finds himself sighing. “Maybe dial it back a step. I agree, it’s pretty weird, but surely not the craziest? I’ve seen capes draped over flying statues before…”

“It’s not just weird, Wright,” Edgeworth says. “It shouldn’t even be possible. The crossbow is set up to hit the victim squarely in the chest. This would only ever work if you could guarantee that the victim would be sat in that precise location at the moment the string burned out.”

“Could the argument that caused them to call it quits for the evening have been started on purpose?” Phoenix considers.

“That wouldn’t have helped much. There would be no guarantee of the victim remaining in place at that specific time, especially left to his own devices. It’s not unnatural to assume he would remain sat behind a desk, but why go to such efforts to attempt something like this if there’s a chance it wouldn’t even work?”

At some point during the rant, Edgeworth starts pacing. For someone who’s pretty much known for how cool and collected he is during an actual trial, it’s at least a little bit fascinating to see this other side of him. A bit reassuring too, to know that even Edgeworth doesn’t just manifest all the right answers out of thin air.

(…Which is pretty much I was doing most of the time.)

“There are no signs of a break in,” Edgeworth points at the windows, which are hidden behind curtains in the projection itself, but are clearly undisturbed.  “Only a toddler could have fit through that vent, at a push. And there’s not enough blood!”

Phoenix’s eyes rake across the scene, particularly towards the dark pool collected at Stiltskin’s feet. “Uh… it seems like there’s plenty of blood to me?”

It doesn’t help, since Edgeworth lets out another one of his despair noises. “There’s something wrong. We’re missing… something.”

Phoenix takes a cautious step forward. “…What if we’re not?”

Edgeworth’s gaze sharpens. “What do you mean?”

Phoenix considers it again for just a moment. “You said this device isn’t perfect, and it’s true that there could be evidence that Interpol haven’t found yet. But, what if we’re not missing anything?”

“…Then the incident doesn’t work.”

He nods. “Exactly. So, if we know the incident isn’t possible, then we stop trying to make it make sense. It’s like… we’re putting together a jigsaw, and we have all the pieces and they do fit, but the picture isn’t clear in the end. That just means we need to put it together in a different way.”

Edgeworth is silent for a moment, and stares at Phoenix like he just told him Santa isn’t real. Really, Phoenix isn’t fully following exactly what Edgeworth is so bothered about, but he’s pretty sure he’s on to some idea. Maybe, if he can just help him string it together somehow, they’ll be able to work through all the bumps.

New evidence added

Eventually, Edgeworth shuts down the simulation, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wanted to come here because it’s easier to think.”

A small smile manages to creep onto Phoenix’s face. “I think that’s just a classic case of method acting.”

Worryingly, Edgeworth’s eyes widen. “You may be onto something.”

“What do you– “

“It’s not like we have a judge or witnesses,” he starts a little manically, “but it will do. Here,” just like that, he’s pulling the prosecution bench back into position. “It’ll be close enough like this. Wright! Argue it with me!”

Baffled by him, Phoenix can’t stop his dry laugh. “You can’t mean– “

Edgeworth nods slowly. “We always had a knack for being able to claw the truth out together.”

Fortunately for Edgeworth, he can be quite hard to ignore when he looks like this, like the fire of a hundred armies is burning behind his eyes. “…as in you want to roleplay… a trial?”

Chapter Text

This chapter can also be experienced as a fully playable court case. Complete with: 

• A full court record of evidence and profiles. 
• Additional content for wrong answers (plus an easy way to jump back to these once you complete the game for QoL).
• Slight overuse of Edgeworth's damage animation because I like it too much. 
• ...Your suspension of disbelief about Phoenix wearing his badge because I can't easily edit it out on objection.lol 

Play it here now

(But also come back after because I am weak and do yearn for your comments and kudos.) 

Somehow, he kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. It’s not that he has… a fear of the courtroom or anything. In truth, Phoenix has started to make peace with it a little. When the wound was fresh, he’d been more determined to get to the truth, to try and fix things, but it was hard to force that momentum through as every lead dried up one by one. He hasn’t given up, he really hasn’t… He just has different priorities now. A daughter to keep fed, who he wouldn’t exchange for anything in the world. And he doesn’t even hate his new job.

But the reason that drove him so forcefully down the path of law in the first place is standing right in front of him. Phoenix knows his reasons for being an attorney grew deeper than that, Mia Fey being a huge part of it, and he found his own love for the job somewhere along the road. But saving Miles Edgeworth from himself had been the key behind that force. A few years ago, after he left that note, it had even felt so empty without him that Phoenix didn’t even take any cases, not until Maya was in trouble.

Things are, of course, different now.  

Sure, there’s plenty to be concerned with when it comes to Edgeworth’s general wellbeing, but in terms of needing to be saved? All he needs to do is just look at him, the man he’s become… Phoenix can’t prevent himself from softening at the thought if he tries. Absentmindedly, he realises he’s fiddling with his jacket, his thumb rubbing over the rough texture of what used to be his badge, but is now nothing but a pierced void of frayed fabric.

Phoenix still thinks he can live with never standing in court again, it’s something he’s starting to make his peace with.

(But if he really needs me?)

“It’s been years,” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll be rusty.”

Edgeworth stares him down, like he’s about to pull a gun from his holster and declare a shootout. “Afraid of losing, Wright? I can go easy on you if you like.”

He can’t help himself, a smirk creeping up his face. “No, do your worst.”

There’s a momentary crackle of energy between them, but it fizzles away as Edgeworth frowns. “It’s technically your theory of the crime we’re arguing over.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “So?”

“Well, it would make more sense for you to be the prosecution in this case.”

He almost laughs, though realises just in time that Edgeworth isn’t kidding. “But, I don’t know how to do that?”

Edgeworth squints. “You were present in trials before. It’s not that hard.”

(‘Not that hard’, says Mr Internationally Acclaimed High Prosecutor…)

Like a baby deer trying to pad along a thin sheet of ice, Phoenix stands behind the prosecutor’s bench. Something about it just feels wrong, even if facing Edgeworth like this is generally familiar to him, and maybe a little comforting. But even if he’d been at the top of his game, he’s sure this would have felt just as off-putting.

(Right! I have to make an opening statement!)

(…How do they usually go again? Something, something, call out a detective?)

“Uh- the pr-prosecution will show that…” Phoenix hesitates. “Is Reiner still the defendant, here? It feels a bit weird to accuse him if I don’t think he did it.”

Somehow, the furrow in Edgeworth’s brow gets deeper. “Don’t focus on the person for now. It’s… a trial for your idea.”

Phoenix nods at his words, and takes a deep breath. Come to think of it, it had been him who brought up the idea of method acting. Maybe, Phoenix thinks, it’ll be easier if he treats this more like a performance. He’s just playing the role of a prosecutor, and he has a pretty easy reference for that.

“The prosecution,” he starts again, deepening his voice a pitch as he tries his best at ‘intense glare #4’, “will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the weapon that killed Rüdiger Stiltskin was the crossbow. And it was rigged to fire automatically!”

From across the courtroom, he sees the colour drain from Edgeworth’s face. “What on earth are you playing at?”

Phoenix slams down on the desk with one hand, pulling out his ‘intenser glare #2’ impression. “Objection! If the Defence wishes to add a comment, he should follow the proper court procedures, uh, verily!”

(…Maybe this is a little bit fun.)

Edgeworth meets him with his own furious desk slam. “Objection! You call that an opening statement?! I’ve seen fresh interns do better. You should start with specific, factual information.”

“Don’t you usually call out a witness from law enforcement for that?”

“Obviously,” Edgeworth glares, “we don’t have access to one. So you’ll just have to cover it.”

He stares at him deadpan. “You know, you’re kind of backseat driving at the moment.”

“Coming from a man who doesn’t even know how to drive,” Edgeworth scoffs.

“Let’s just switch back,” Phoenix half begs. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“At least we’re in agreement about something.”

As they both cross the courtroom and swap benches, they give each other a brief nod of acknowledgement in the middle. Behind the proper bench this time, Phoenix already feels better, like the world is shifting back onto the correct axis. In his right place, the static electricity in the air is able to build, the force of it nearly making his hair stand up on end.

“…Let’s pick up where we left off,” Edgeworth says. “As far as I understand, your argument is this: some unknown person set off the contraption by setting fire to a string, which ultimately resulted in a crossbow bolt being fired from the concealed vent. This bolt aligned directly with the victim’s position behind the desk and struck him through the heart, resulting in his near instant death.”

“Correct.”

A smug look creeps onto Edgeworth’s face. “But this set up is ludicrous. For a method that would require such in depth planning ahead of time, not to mention extensive knowledge of the internal layout of this house, there are too many ways in which such a plan could fail.”

“Whether you like it or not,” Phoenix slams his hands on the desk, “it doesn’t matter. There’s evidence that the crossbow was fired, and that it killed the victim.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth shouts quickly. “I concede that the contraption was activated. But the cause of death is still conjecture at this stage. We need to await an update to the autopsy report.”

“It’s not like he could have been hit by something else,” Phoenix counters. “We know the door was locked, and we didn’t notice any damage to the windows. And a little ‘conjecture’ is necessary sometimes. Sure, the method was chancy, but maybe you’re just too used to dealing with criminal masterminds. Not all murderers are actually that good at it... Wouldn’t a crossbow fire fast?  If the killer knew Stiltskin would be in that room to work through will details, him being positioned at the desk is a pretty safe bet. As for the accuracy, almost any shot in that general area would have been fatal. Maybe he just got lucky,” he points across the courtroom for extra emphasis on the last part.

 Edgeworth just glares at him for a moment. “I cannot pretend to know the mind of a criminal. But stupidity and rashness are one thing, insanity is another.”

“Plenty of murderers are insane!” Phoenix says. “In fact, most of them probably, by definition.”

“And that’s still complete conjecture!”

This isn’t getting them anywhere, though. It’s like he said before, they need to put a puzzle back together again in a completely different layout. Although Phoenix is willing to accept that their killer could have set something up that could have easily failed, given the unlikely plots and plans he’s had to uncover before, he forces himself to think about it in Edgeworth’s way. If the killer needed to guarantee that Stiltskin would be in a specific position by the time the crossbow fired, then maybe they… guaranteed it?

“…You’re assuming there was a chance the crossbow could fail since Stiltskin could have moved out of the way. But what if he couldn’t?”

Edgeworth’s eyes widen for a moment, before his glare returns again. “Elaborate.”

He’s mostly working it out real time, but Phoenix nods. “I maintain that the killer could have assumed Stiltskin’s general position would be the desk. But they could guarantee it by… well, there’s plenty of ways to do that, but the easiest would be to knock him out somehow. Franziska would have noticed any other injuries if they were there, so I don't think he was hit. It's possible the killer could have done it with some kind of drug.”

“…But there’s no evidence of drugging,” Edgeworth says, looking over his own notes. “I'm certain Franziska would have ordered tests, if anything suggested the possibility.”

“You mean there's no evidence yet,” Phoenix points out. “But as you said yourself, we’re still waiting on the full autopsy report. We're both flying mostly blind here, Edgeworth. Right now, the possibilities are still wide open.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. “It would make your scenario more plausible, I accept that, but we can’t rely on such wild guesses at this stage.”

“Even if I can't prove it happened for sure yet, I think I can prove it was possible.”  Suddenly, it’s like a deeper part of him awakens again. “We might already have the evidence. Take that!” He presents the menu list he’d picked up earlier. “Stiltskin’s name is written here on this menu... And look, the handwriting is slightly different! It could mean that someone was planning to tamper with his meal. Isn’t this at least a clue?”

Although Edgeworth looks sceptical, he takes it from him, reading it quickly. “There’s nothing nefarious here. The note just says that he requested a specific vintage of chardonnay for the fish course.”

“Ah.”

Edgeworth keeps glaring at the paper, though. “Hold it! …Something’s wrong with this. We were served Riesling Kabinett during the fish course. But this menu clearly says it was meant to be chardonnay.”

(I’d been hoping it said something like ‘kill Stiltskin here’. All this proves is that Edgeworth is a wine snob.)

“And that’s an issue because…?”

“They deviated,” Edgeworth says.  

“I mean, maybe the service wasn't up to your standards, Edgeworth, but-“

“This is nothing to do with standards,” from his tone it seems like more than a domestic mix-up. “Frau Falschen told us she needs to keep an accurate record of everything served in this house. The wine cellar here is quite extensive, not to mention valuable. They would not have made such a swap unless there had to be a change at the last minute… Such as the victim requesting his wine be served to him in the study so he could continue working. They wouldn't have been able to serve a bottle that had already been opened during dinner. That's the only possible rationale for the discrepancy.”

“Okay,” Phoenix nods along with him. “So if the wine was drugged, then Stiltskin could have been knocked out right there at the desk, when he was already planning to be alone. Wouldn’t that make the staff our primary suspects? They'd have the biggest opportunity to spike the wine.”

Edgeworth frowns. “The more I think about it, this scenario actually makes less sense. If they were capable of slipping something into his drink, why not just use poison?”

“Less traceable? Easier to get a hold of?” Phoenix thinks about it for a moment. “The crossbow itself came straight from the ‘trophy room’, so maybe their supplies were limited somehow.”

“Even if I accept the possibility that the victim was drugged to facilitate the crossbow attack,” Edgeworth grips his desk tightly, “there’s another fundamental issue with the murder as a whole: take a look at the crime scene photos, and you can see clearly there’s not enough blood for an attack like this. Based on Franziska’s notes, Interpol also conducted additional tests with luminol and didn’t find anything. This confirms that nothing was cleaned up after the fact.”

“It looked like plenty of blood to me, when we found the body this morning,” Phoenix protests, “it’s just mostly pooled underneath the body.”

Edgeworth slams down a hand. “A crossbow shot at this range, with enough force to pierce the victim through like this, should have resulted in significant and clearly visible blood splatter. But look, there’s hardly any,” he points to one of the scene photos. “Even the will is pristine, and it was right there on the desk, in the firing line.”

“Well…” Phoenix tries to think, “couldn’t the bolt be acting like a tamponade?”

Apparently, that’s worth a headshake. “We’re talking about a direct hit to the heart, which would have been actively pumping blood at the time the bolt struck. It’s theoretically possible that the bolt could have been a somewhat effective tamponade, but the effect wouldn’t begin immediately. The initial force of the strike should have ejected and splattered significantly more blood than this.”

Phoenix hesitates at that thought. “Aren’t you usually the one who insists on cold, hard evidence? You can’t seriously still be denying that the crossbow was activated. And the bolt did hit Stiltskin there in the heart, we can see that clearly!

“Nghhhk,” Edgeworth groans in frustration. “Don’t you see the problem? These facts cannot coexist. It’s not physically possible.”

That certainly seems to be the case. Phoenix frowns, scratching at his chin. If the facts can’t coexist, then maybe they just… don’t coexist. The part he knows is true for certain is that Stiltskin ended up with a bolt in his chest. He repeats Edgeworth’s words in his head again; ‘a direct hit to the heart, which would have been actively pumping blood at the time the bolt struck’.

“You’re right,” Phoenix says. “They can’t. There had to be a blood splatter, because the heart ‘would have been actively pumping blood at the time the bolt struck’. But if his heart wasn’t pumping at the time, then there'd be no splatter! This whole time, we’ve been assuming that Stiltskin was killed by the bolt. But what he wasn't?”

Edgeworth’s eyes widen. “You can’t be suggesting…”

“Stiltskin was already dead.”

The realisation washes over them both for a moment. Even though Phoenix is aware they’ll have no way of confirming that until the autopsy is complete, for now it seems like a good lead. Admittedly, it also introduces a whole host of new complications, and makes the killer’s actions even harder to understand.

“If he was already dead,” Phoenix thinks, “then it doesn’t matter when the crossbow was fired. Someone could have even come back and set the whole thing up in the middle of the night.”

Edgeworth shifts. “And how do you propose he was killed, if not by the bolt?”

“That’s an easy one. We already established that Stiltskin could have been drugged to knock him out,” a new confidence buzzes through Phoenix’s veins. “...But he could have been dosed with poison instead.”

“…You may have solved one contradiction, but now you’ve introduced a host of new ones. Without the autopsy results to prove such a theory, we can't go any further, certainly not today.”

He breathes in for a moment. “Is there really nothing else we could test, maybe even quicker than the autopsy? What about the wine glass Stiltskin was served? It might still have traces of the poison.”

Right there, in place, Edgeworth seems to freeze. “Wright!”

(I'm not sure I like that look...)

“…That’s it.”

“Huh?”

(Did I say something stupid?)

“Wright!” Edgeworth thumps his desk. “There is no wine glass listed under Interpol’s findings. There was no sign of one in the simulation, either.”

The comment washes over him for a moment. “But, I also remember the glass being delivered to him… Maybe the butler took it away again at some point during the meal, before the door was…”

(Ah. It was locked, wasn’t it?)

(…Wasn’t it?)

Edgeworth slumps again. “Potentially, it could have been removed...”

(The door was still locked this this morning, I remember trying to unpick the door... But I couldn’t because…)

“Objection!” Phoenix shouts. “No, not ‘potentially’. We’re missing something even more basic here. The door wasn’t just locked from the inside. It was… jammed.”

“…How could it have been jammed?” Edgeworth says slowly.

“Huh?”

Edgeworth doesn’t even look cocky or mad, like he usually would. More… surprised, and maybe a little determined. “Answer me, Wright. Why would he have shut himself in that room? There are a few explanations for why he might have locked the door, but you said it was jammed from the inside. If you're correct, then only the victim himself could have done that.”

“…”

Phoenix feels his mind whirling a million miles an hour. It’s a really good point. Not airtight yet, since there’s the possibility that Stiltskin himself could have been acting irrationally. His elbows slide down onto the bench and he tugs at his hair as though it might help him pull an idea or two out.

“It can’t have been suicide…”

“Why go to such extreme efforts?” Edgeworth supplies. “There are more… efficient methods than locking yourself in a room, automating a crossbow, and sitting at the desk awaiting its strike, while also dying first by some other means. Never mind that he would have had to set this elaborate scheme up in mere minutes. That is, for the estimated time of death to make sense.”

“T-then…”

The answer is obvious to him. Well, an obvious paradox at least. If Stiltskin wasn’t the one who locked that door, then it was someone else. But someone else couldn’t have left the room, and there didn’t appear to be any particularly useful long-term hiding places during their brief investigation.

(I need to turn my thinking around, then.)  

“Then a third party had to be in that room,” Phoenix finally says, his own hands falling on the desk in front of him. “I’m not really sure why they carried it out the way they did, but no matter what, someone else needed to be there to make the murder actually playout. That means,” he points out to Edgeworth across from him in the room, “there was another way in and out.”

“Objection!” Edgeworth yells. “That’s ridiculous! Nobody could have fit inside that air vent, and the windows weren’t forced. And before you even say it, Wright,” he glares deeply, “If you even consider suggesting something inane like a hidden passage...”

Phoenix just finds himself shaking his head. “You’re thinking about this the wrong way, Edgeworth. We don’t need to prove another entry point could have existed, we know that one has to exist because the killer must have used it.” An elated grin grows on his face. “How else do you explain the missing wine glass, and the door being jammed from within? My daughter does a ton of vanishing item magic tricks, and even she couldn’t make something disappear entirely from the room itself.”

“Nghk!” Edgeworth leans over the desk, seething like it actually hurts him. “But where would it even lead to?”

“Something about these blueprints has been bothering me,” Phoenix taps the papers, the pieces finally falling into place. “Look here. I don't know how accurate Emmerich Fibber's plans were, but he didn’t completely make them up. Why is there a strange void in the middle of the basement floor? This one space being left empty… there's probably enough room for a staircase. If it goes down another level, then it could connect to the study through some sort of passage.”

“E-Eureka…”

It feels a little like coming out of a trance. “I have no idea where the entry point would be from the study, though. And it’s not like we can do a further inspection of the crime scene.” He grins. “We could always try and find the entrance to the other end...”  

“This entire notion is still ridiculous,” Edgeworth says, “but because it involves you, then it’s doubtless exactly what happened. History has taught me that your outlandish theories have a tendency to be… distressingly accurate.”

Phoenix deadpans. “That might be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

Edgeworth just stands up straighter, though. “I almost pity you, if you saw that as a compliment,” he frowns. “…And your statement is inaccurate. I frequently say ‘nice things’ to you.”

“Oh yeah,” Phoenix leans on the bench. “Like what?”

He opens his mouth, but then immediately slams it shut again. “Fishing for compliments is undignified.” It might just be the lighting, but his face looks just a little pink, as he looks down across the blueprints. “We must return to the case at hand. As you surmised, if such a passage were to exist, we would only be able to confirm this by finding the other side of it. I am already familiar the basement space you can see within these plans. The, ah, 'panic room' on one side of the void... It's a newer part of the house. I can assure you there are no entrances to that space from that direction. And if there were such an entrance from the wine cellar side, I've certainly never seen it. However... the void could also be there for structural reasons, rather than an entrance. That is, if a passage led somewhere else towards the edge of the estate grounds.”

(Great. So this case could involve a completely unknown third party after all…)

Phoenix thinks it over. “So like an escape route?”

“Ironically,” Edgeworth says, “he always did have a fear of confinement. It would not… be all that surprising overall... He used to lock himself into that study for rather a long time, on occasions. In fact, there was a time I could have sworn neither Franziska nor I saw him for over a week...”

“If not another part of the house, where do you think it could lead to? I’m not sure how far out this estate goes, but I can see at least a couple of buildings in the exterior plans. Are there any others?”

Before answering, Edgeworth starts organising the papers and packing them away. “Not really. Other than a disused wine press house, there’s only the mausoleum.”

Phoenix blinks. “M-mausoleum?!”

“Yes. Historically, many affluent families in this region constructed private burial sites on their property.”

“Is he… uh…” Phoenix gulps, trying to think of the right way to phrase it. “…There?”

Edgeworth’s lips press into a thin line. “As far as I’m aware.”

Phoenix awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that with our luck, the creepy secret passage is probably going to end up leading to the mausoleum.”

“Verily,” Edgeworth folds his arms. “If we investigate this lead, then we best do it now, whilst we still have natural light. We also need to be discreet. If Franziska finds out we’re galivanting across the estate like this…”

“I got it,” Phoenix says. “Let’s head out.”

Chapter Text

There’s definitely a feeling of ‘wrongness’ that comes over him. Even if there’s nothing all that weird about grabbing their coats from wherever the butler stored them the evening before, the element of trying to act natural sets Phoenix on edge. It’s kind of like going through airport security, and suddenly feeling like an international criminal for no good reason.

Or maybe his legs have just felt a little shaky since stepping out of the courtroom.

The coats are definitely worth it,  as they step outside and the cold bites at his cheeks. Edgeworth leads the way for obvious reasons, striding ahead with a brisk urgency. They’re practically the same height, but Phoenix briefly wonders if Edgeworth’s legs are proportionally longer. Or maybe, not having to cycle to the office every day has had a real impact on Phoenix’s own stamina.

They pass quite quickly through some pristine looking gardens, though Phoenix thinks they would be more impressive in spring or summer. The estate grounds are more like an open park of sorts, though some of the natural forest surroundings have been allowed to encroach in. The estate as a whole could almost be like its own small haven… or prison, depending on how you look at it.

“I’m surprised you don’t have stables or something like that,” Phoenix tries to make conversation. There’s still a buzzing in his skin following their courtroom debate, which hasn’t quite gone away yet.

“Hmph,” Edgeworth sounds, “Franziska desperately wanted horses as I recall. She was allowed to ride as a reward, from time to time, but we travelled too frequently to commit permanently to a pet like that.”

A small smile grows on Phoenix’s face. “Really? I can’t picture her as much of an animal lover.”

“Why else do you think she got her first riding crop?” Edgeworth asks wryly.

“And you?” Curiosity overtakes him. “No… polo or whatever it is they make fancy kids do?”

Edgeworth frowns for a moment. “Learning such a skill from scratch was considered too time consuming. It is socially acceptable to attend such events as a bystander, regardless…” He hesitates. “If you must know, I dedicated most of my time to sports with a sociable element. Particularly golf, though I dabbled with clay pigeon shooting. I was also permitted fencing as a personal indulgence.”

It takes everything Phoenix has to hold in his laughter at the image. “Pretty violent options, all things considered.”

Edgeworth tenses like a cat caught off guard. “Nonsense!”

Phoenix hums, though. “Is it? I mean, guns, stabbing people, clubbing objects…”

“Nghh,” Edgeworth lets out. “Most sports equipment can be repurposed as a weapon. It’s no different to something like a baseball bat.”

“Let the record reflect,” Phoenix retorts, “I’m terrible at baseball.”

“I find that unsurprising.”

It takes him a moment to realise it’s an insult. “Hey! I can do some sports… like… basketball.”

Edgeworth stops in his tracks, and lets his eyes rake over Phoenix from head to toe. “Are you tall enough for that?”

“We’re practically the same height!”

“I agree,” Edgeworth says, “but in my choice of sports, that’s less of an inherent advantage.”

(For both our sakes, I’ll tactfully avoid mentioning that the only reason I had to get good at it was because I was cast in a bootleg, definitely illegal production of High School Musical back in the day…)

“No, your choice of sports is more about the social status advantage.”

Edgeworth bristles. “Golf is merely a refined sport. It requires strategy, precision, and-“

“Boredom?” Phoenix interjects.

“Discipline,” he finishes, folding his arms. “Something you lack entirely.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “At least basketball has actual stakes. More than just hitting a ball and walking after it.”

“That is a simplistic view,” he stops walking at that point, entirely focused on their ‘debate’. “It’s about analysing terrain, and wind angles, and force. It’s an apt workout for the mind.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says, that buzz still alive under his skin. “I still bet I could beat you at mini golf.”

Edgeworth looks… displeased at the suggestion, his expression sitting somewhere between disbelief and offense. “Mini golf.”

“You know,” he shrugs, “with the windmills and the loop-de-loops. A challenge with real obstacles.”

“Wright! Are you seriously suggesting that a novelty attraction for tourists and-and children is a fair test of skill compared to the distinguished sport of golf?!”

(It’s kind of fun getting him worked up like this.)

Phoenix finds himself smirking. “Why not? Are you afraid I might actually win?”

“Don’t be absurd!” Like that, Edgeworth’s genuine death glare crosses his expression. “I could beat you blindfolded.”

“Be careful, Edgeworth,” Phoenix grins, “or I might make you prove it.”

Edgeworth squints at him. “If you insist. On your head be it.”

“Then it’s a da-“ Phoenix freezes mid-sentence, stopping himself just in time. He tries to deflect like he’s clearing his throat. “A day I’m looking forward to.”

Even if he doesn’t mean anything by it, Phoenix is aware of how prickly Edgeworth can get over things, and might overthink casual slang like ‘it’s a date’. Phoenix isn’t blind to the fact that, yes, mini golf is generally a popular date activity. It is also justifiably a suitable ‘challenge your friends’ activity. He considers whether bringing Trucy along would make the situation worse or better… Assuming the outing would even happen in the first place.

As thrilling as their debate is, it has to come to a close right there, as they arrive at the creepy mausoleum. Perhaps that assessment of it is a little unfair. Objectively speaking, the mausoleum looks peaceful, far enough away from the house itself to be out of view. It has its own dedicated spot at the bottom of a small incline, with only an old tree to keep it in direct company. However, it’s hard to really feel ‘at peace’ considering its owner.

“Well,” Phoenix says, probably unhelpfully, “there’s nothing that screams secret passage right away.”

Edgeworth, thankfully, is already looking actively for clues. “Given the rainfall yesterday, you would expect that anyone leaving in a hurry would have left footprints. It’s clear, though.”

“It did rain heavily all night,” Phoenix counters. “They could have been washed away by now.” He clutches onto his coat tightly as a chill passes them. “So, this is it then.”

“…It’s one of the few structures on this estate older than the main house itself. If I recall, there are several generations of the von Karma family interred here.”

Something possesses him to try and be brave. Phoenix takes a step forward, sensing Edgeworth’s hesitance to lead. The air inside feels damp, as he steps inside the interior, the faint smell of mildew and earth hitting his nostrils. Surprisingly, the inside isn’t as ornate as he might have imagined, with several rows of stone coffins lining the walls. It doesn’t look abandoned, but also not frequently maintained. The last time must have been… just a few years ago. One of the coffins, while still understated, is clearly newer than the others.

Phoenix’s eyes rake over towards Edgeworth, who’s still hovering in the entrance. There’s clear tells of unease and anxiety radiating all over him, not that Edgeworth can be blamed for it. Phoenix’s own stomach twists into a knot of guilt. Even in the best of circumstances, if such a thing exists, doing something like this can’t be easy…

“I can take a look myself,” Phoenix offers.

The suggestion just knocks Edgeworth out of his thoughts, though. “No. It’s time to focus.”

Phoenix swallows. “You don’t, uh, think an entrance is going to be inside any of these, do you? Because I kind of draw the line at smashing open coffins.”

“As bizarre as this situation is, Wright, try and be realistic. We’re not investigating this based on The Goonies levels of logic.”

He pauses. “You’ve seen that movie?”

Edgeworth frowns. “Of course I have. You were there at the time.”

“Ah,” he says, the answer already obvious. “Larry.”

His mind wonders back to those precious months of their friendship, back before the DL-6 incident. Come to think of it, Larry had been astonished at Edgeworth’s lack of ‘pop culture’ knowledge, and had made it his personal mission to get him up to speed. Phoenix isn’t sure why Larry also roped him into it, but it resulted in a few weekend sleepovers. He may have blocked out the memory slightly, since he used to get freaked out by a lot of Larry’s movie choices, often ending up hiding behind Edgeworth’s shoulders…

“Precisely.” Edgeworth knocks him directly out of his thoughts.  

They both work in silence, for a while, examining all the edges of the floor tiles and walls for any sign of movement. It’s not exactly a huge structure, though, and the search isn’t looking good. Phoenix tries not to think too hard, as he gets to the area next to Manfred von Karma himself. He’s sure it’s just his imagination, but he can’t get over the feeling of being watched.

(Maybe I really should have taken Maya up on her offer to channel him…)

“It could be a one-way entry kind of system,” Phoenix thinks out loud, “but otherwise I got nothing… Maybe the passage doesn’t actually head out of the property?”

“But why ever have a passage that simply connects areas of the house?” Edgeworth frowns, and then lets out a sigh. “Perhaps it’s for the best that we didn’t find anything. A passage leading here would have been… unsettling to say the least.”

“I guess it was a long shot anyway…” He looks up, sensing the tension practically flowing in waves from Edgeworth. “Are you… okay?”

Edgeworth backs himself decidedly towards the entryway. “This was my first time setting foot in here. And now I’ve spent more time at Manfred von Karma’s graveside than my own father’s.”

It feels like a weight dragging down his chest. “You haven’t visited?”

Rather than answering for a moment, he just turns away, arms curling around his own body. “…We should head back to the house. There’s no use staying here any longer.”

As if on cue, rain starts to pour. Though ordinarily, remaining inside would be a far better option, he’ll take a bit of water over the creepy mausoleum any day. Edgeworth also seems to share that sentiment, leaving the graves behind them. With no great discovery to keep him going, Phoenix finds that fire under his skin rise up once again, like it might consume him if he doesn’t expel it somehow.

It feels different, though. Less of a buzzing, and more like discomfort. The sensation runs into him like a truck, a sudden, crushing blow that screams ‘you shouldn’t be here’, ‘get out’, ‘wake up’. The only word he can possibly ascribe to is wrong. In a way, he’s reminded of the day after the Hazakura trial, when all was said and done and he finally returned to his apartment alone. Only at that point had it actually felt like he’d just fallen forty-feet from a bridge.  

So an adrenaline crash, then. Or at least something like it. Phoenix has never considered himself prone to violent urges, yet he feels this inexplicable desire to punch something. And then he considers that maybe, stepping back into a courtroom might have just set some deeply buried part of him off.

“You didn’t actually answer my question,” Phoenix points out.

“I’m fine,” Edgeworth says easily, and Phoenix does his best to stave off any reaction he has to the three psyche-locks that appear at the statement. “You were in fine form earlier, too. During our courtroom scenario.”

The sudden change in subject throws him. “Oh. Uh, thanks, I guess?”

Edgeworth just shrugs. “You seemed… happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes,” he says, “the most like yourself I’ve seen in two years.”

Phoenix stops in his tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Edgeworth pauses too. “Don’t overthink it, Wright.”

“No,” he stays guarded, “if you have something to say, then say it.”

“I’m talking about you being in your element,” his frustration apparently spills over. “It’s been a long time since I saw you so alive. I’d hoped that you might start to remember.”

Phoenix’s eyes narrow. “So was that the plan then? And what, you thought standing me behind the defence bench would make me magically realise how much I want my badge back?”  The fire under his skin grows, almost white hot now. “Was all of that earlier about thinking better under trial conditions just your attempt to manipulate me?”

He baulks. “W- Of course not!”

“Then what?!” Phoenix’s voice cuts through the downpour.

“I saw the spark again, Wright,” Edgeworth deflects. “You do miss it.”

Phoenix clenches a fist. “You mean you think I miss it... Or you want me to miss it, for some reason. I don’t get it, Edgeworth. What, am I only worth something to you as a lawyer? Then I have some bad news for you,” he laughs without humour, “that ship has already sailed.”

“You’re twisting my words,” Edgeworth says it low, almost like it’s a threat. “This is nothing to do with worth. It’s to do with your brilliance, and your insistence on letting it waste away.”

Another dry chuckle spills from Phoenix. “This sudden support for my legal career is surprising, coming from you. Fine, if you enjoy it so much, I’ll pick out a contradiction, ‘specially for you!” Because he’s feeling petty, he pokes Edgeworth in the chest with his index finger. “You say this is the happiest I’ve been in years? But how would you know that, Edgeworth? I’ve seen you less times than I can count on one hand.”

Edgeworth doesn’t back down, though. “And whose fault is that? You’re the one so determined with keeping your distance.”

“Hah! Coming from you, of all people?”

He glares. “Whatever my indiscretions in the past, you are the one who would not return my calls. If not for the occasional set of tabloid photos, I would have been forced to send Gumshoe on a welfare check.”

Phoenix almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. If not for the fact that the magatama hasn’t reacted again, he wouldn’t believe it. Whatever shred of rationality there is left within him is more than aware that they’re not in the right headspace to have what’s clearly becoming a serious conversation. Edgeworth is pressing at him, though, trying to worm his way straight through Phoenix’s veins, directly into his bloodstream.

Phoenix tilts his head. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten the part where I forced you to move to a different continent.”

“That’s not-“ Edgeworth’s voice almost sounds desperate for a moment, before he reigns himself back in. “Wright. That had precisely nothing to do with you.”

“No? I guess not, huh.” Phoenix clicks his tongue.

“You’re being unfair.”

“Unfair?” Phoenix retorts. “I’m practically the CEO of unfair.”

Edgeworth clenches a fist. “Then why are you running from that sense of fight? Why have you settled for burying yourself in mediocrity for the last two years?”

“You-“

“Really?” He steps closer. “Piano? Card games? Have you really given up?”

Phoenix’s teeth grit together. “Wow. Okay. Firstly, I don’t know when you thought you earned the right to have an opinion on my career choice?”

“I have a duty to tell you the truth,” Edgeworth says, “whether it’s a truth you like or not.”  

“Is it?” Phoenix chuckles again. “Or is it just what you want? Wait. Is this why you asked me to come here? Or any of these trips, for that matter.”

Edgeworth steps closer again, somehow. “I told you why I invited you. Yes, I thought we might be able to access a number of documents that could be useful to your investigation, if you even are still investigating, but the primary reason is because you are the person I trust the most.”

Almost shaking at his words, Phoenix turns again, starting to make his way up the incline. “Not enough to make my own life choices apparently.”

“They’re not your own anymore, though. It was you who decided to take in a child.”

There it is.

Somehow, the idea that Edgeworth actually had the guts to say it catches him off guard, though. Whatever Phoenix had been feeling earlier, adrenaline or unease or even ‘happiness’, it immediately explodes through him into something like rage. Regardless of what the emotion is, it’s the most he’s felt in a very long time.

Phoenix snaps back around. “You do not get to bring my daughter into this. Let me make this very clear to you; I don’t care whether you approve or not. And knowing what I know now, even if it meant giving up my badge, I would make the same choice again and again because what she deserves is someone who loves her. I might not be able to give her a fancy estate in the middle of nowhere and private tutors and whatever else people like you had, but she is loved. I understand that this is a sore subject for you, but-“

“You are nothing like him!” Edgeworth is outright yelling now. “That you would even think to compare-“

“I don’t know what to think right now!”

“What I think,” Egdeworth says, cooler this time, “is that you are better than this. That has little to do with money or even what you’re doing. If you really never want to step foot in a courtroom again, then so be it! But at least do something that matters. You have suffered an injustice, and if you’re insistent on not letting me help you, then only you have the power to set things right again.”

Maybe it’s the rain, or maybe it isn’t, but Phoenix feels like a cloud of fog is wrapping around his head. He can hear it, physically, but it’s like moving through a tinnitus filter. Whatever Edgeworth’s saying, they’re things that Phoenix already knows. Feelings he’s spent so much time shoving down.

“What injustice?” He says quietly. “It doesn’t matter how I got it, I presented forged evidence, and that’s that.”

“So. Did. I.” Edgeworth seethes, stepping forward to punctuate each word. “I commit an identical offense, multiple times over. Or have you forgotten? You may have made a careless error once, but my career was built on a foundation of them. If that’s how you really feel, should they take my badge too? Be realistic, Wright. At least your mistakes never sent anyone to the gallows.”

Somehow, it makes Phoenix even more livid. “What would that accomplish? Throwing yourself on a pyre out of- out of self-pity doesn’t fix anything!” In fact, it’s the primary reason Phoenix has been so desperate to stop him from helping. “You’re actually in a position to change things, and that’s what the law really needs.”

Edgeworth’s arms fold, gaze narrowing. “Are you listening to yourself? How is your self-flagellation any different from mine?” They’re so close, at this point, that they’re almost breathing each other’s air. “If you think that resigning yourself to this does anything or helps anyone, you’re mistaken. All that makes you is a coward!”

“A coward?” Phoenix glowers. “Fine! Then maybe I am. And maybe we’re not different after all. But at least I didn’t make you think I was dead for a year!”

“You-“

A lot of things happen all at once. Phoenix tries to step even closer, to really stare Edgeworth down. The rain, which he’s been too angry to really notice, has however made the ground relatively slippery. Standing on a slight incline as they are, his foot slips out from under him. As he instinctively throws his arms out for balance mid-stumble, he sees Edgeworth’s eyes widen in alarm, feels him grip at his coat as though attempting to provide stability. Already expecting to fall over, and potentially bring Edgeworth down with him, it’s all Phoenix can do with the remaining microsecond of his reaction time to grasp at the back of Edgeworth’s head in some attempt to lessen the impact.

They don’t fall, however. Edgeworth’s grip on him, along with Phoenix clutching back, is just enough to counteract the opposite forces. In fact, it works a little too well, closing what miniscule distance remains between them as their faces smack into each other, though not hard enough to cause any lasting pain like a headbutt.

In the chaos, Phoenix doesn’t have quite enough time to process what’s actually happening to him, almost like he’s slipping into an out of body experience. All he knows is he felt unsteady, Edgeworth grabbed a hold of him, and now Edgeworth’s lips are on his.

Chapter Text

It’s not… pleasant.

Not with all that force behind it. Phoenix thinks his lips might end up bruising. Otherwise, well, it’s not unpleasant either.

His mind stutters for a second, completely short circuiting, everything else blurring together in a kind of mush. The last shred of his capacity for coherent thought wonders if Edgeworth did that on purpose. Then it’s just… full goo. Nothing but soup, up in there. Lights out. Crash to blue screen.

(…Pain. Tingles. Ouch. Soft?)

All of this, in real time, lasts for no more than a second or two. However, the full reality of their position does eventually snap back to Phoenix, and they both jerk away as horror mutually washes over them. While Edgeworth practically shrinks in his silence, though, Phoenix just about regains enough of his bearings to remember how angry he is.

“What the hell was that?!”

Edgeworth, definitely the culprit, has the nerve to look annoyed. “You tell me!”

It’s not good enough, Phoenix decides. He’s owed a full testimony. “You’re the one who grabbed me!”

“I grabbed you?” Edgeworth snaps. “You practically lunged at me!”

“I tripped!” Phoenix defends. “And, y-you were tugging me closer! What did you think was going to happen?!”

That earns him a full glare. “I was trying to prevent you from face planting the mud.”

Phoenix’s eyes narrow. “And you thought you would help by- by kissing me?!”

At the accusation, Edgeworth fully stumbles away. “I did no such thing!”

“Oh yeah?” Phoenix, for some reason, closes most of the space between them again. “The hell else do you call that, then?”

Edgeworth fixes his eyes. “The real question is what you were trying to achieve in the first place. You moved first, so you’re at fault.”

“You,” he seethes, “are the one who decided to grab my jacket and pull me right into your-“

“Do not finish that sentence!” Edgeworth raises his voice, his hands twitching at his side.  

Phoenix throws his arms in the air in his frustration. “Fine! Then next time I fall over, I’ll make sure to aim away from your perfect, holier-than-thou self!”

A scoff. “Next time, you might consider learning how to walk properly without causing an incident.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have tripped in the first place if you weren’t standing so damn close!”

Phoenix turns, then, because actually looking at Edgeworth’s face is just making him angrier. They’re also cold and wet and still standing meters away from the grave of Manfred von Karma and all his ancestors. Phoenix wants nothing more than to get back indoors, though he’s a bit more careful with his feet this time.

“Standing close?” Edgeworth follows after him. “You were the one invading my personal space.“

“Oh for the love of-“ Phoenix turns again, ire and anger and everything else about to come pouring out of him. The only reason he falters is the mystified look on Edgeworth’s face, and the quiver of his lip. “Don’t treat this like it was some grand conspiracy to-to-“ words fail him, so Phoenix just gestures between them.

Edgeworth folds his arms. “To what? Enlighten me.”

“I don’t know!” Phoenix shouts in desperation. He can barely even remember what he was so angry about before, but all of the fight seems to drain out of him. “Can we just… it was an accident on both of our parts. Let’s just chalk it up to that and move on, okay?”

“Then we’ll never speak of this again,” Edgeworth nods approvingly.

“Great! It’s forgotten.”

(It is not forgotten.)

They’re still being drenched by the rain like this, so Phoenix tries to pick up the pace. Neither of them says another word during the walk back to the house, as the light rapidly drops around them. It’s probably for the best. Unfortunately, a side effect of the silence is it gives Phoenix the opportunity to really process what just happened.

It only makes matters worse, now that he has to suffer in the knowledge of what it might be like to kiss Miles Edgeworth. His lips really do kind of hurt, too, from the harshness of their collision. And every throb of pain is its own reminder. It doesn’t mean he’s not angry from the conversation that preceded it, though. It’s just something he knows he can’t fully deal with at the moment.

Phoenix at least resolves to see this case through.

Stepping back inside the house makes him want to instantly quit again. The warmth that hits him at first, when they enter, is quite comforting. Though, with the rainwater dripping from their clothes, Phoenix feels awkwardly destructive, like he may as well be breakdancing in a glassware shop. As if it couldn’t get any worse, Franziska von Karma stands right there in the foyer as witness.

Franziska’s eyes sweep over them both, trained on Phoenix with all of her suspicion. “Who is this?” She demands with the flick of her whip.

“Uh, me?” Phoenix tries to brush some of the wet hair away from his face. “Phoenix Wright?”

Her brows knit closer together like she doesn’t actually believe him, after which she half chuckles. “What on earth happened to you?” She gestures. “You look more… foolish than usual. Hmph.” Then, her eyes train on Edgeworth. “Look at you both, dragging in mud like a pair of common swine. Is this what you call an investigation? Presumably foolishly wandering the grounds like aimless fools?”

“Franziska,” Edgeworth ignores her taunts, “what’s the current status?”

“Your ‘Freund’ is shivering,” she says instead of responding to the question. “I will have them bring towels and tea.”

“No tea,” Edgeworth says immediately, the sharpness of his voice even taking Franziska by surprise.

(Given we suspect poison, I definitely don’t want to consume anything else in this house either.)

“Yeah,” Phoenix adds, “I think we’ll pass.”

Franziska’s eyes narrow again. “Are you implying something?”

Edgeworth looks at her seriously. “I expect you will also maintain your upmost caution with anything you eat or drink.”

The air between them all turns thick and heavy, before Franziska’s lips press into a thin line. “Fine. You will change your clothes at once, before you cause any damage to the furniture.”

Some instinctual part of Phoenix kind of wants to rebel against the order, but his clothes are cold and wet, so he’s in no mood to argue. Neither is Edgeworth, thankfully, as they remove their coats (which aren’t doing much at this point) and head up the staircase. In stark contrast to the earlier flurry of activity, the house seems eerily quiet.

“We should probably leave,” Edgeworth finally says once they enter his childhood bedroom. “If we’re to avoid the risk of being stuck here another night.”

(Admittedly I’d also prefer sleeping back in the mausoleum than sharing a bed with him again after everything.)

Phoenix nods immediately. “Yeah, good plan.” But then he hesitates. “I’m not sure about leaving Franziska… and the others here. Given we don’t know for certain who…”

“There will still be some Interpol agents here,” Edgeworth says quietly. “It’s an unavoidable risk, even if I dislike it. We would be woefully unsuccessful in any attempt to convince her to leave, regardless.”

Phoenix sighs at that. “You’re not wrong there...”

Edgeworth stills for a moment. “Do you have something dry to change into?”

It turns out that travelling light does have a few disadvantages. He has his sweats, but not much else that’ll be helpful in the cool November weather aside from one spare button-up shirt and his grey hoodie. For some reason, Phoenix finds himself checking his bag anyway as if it’ll reveal a hidden secret outfit, but it’s no use.

“I guess it’s better than being wet,” Phoenix says, replacement outfit gingerly in his arms.

He doesn’t wait for instruction, heading off into the attached bathroom. It briefly occurs to Phoenix that maybe this is a bit weird of him. If he’d been with Larry or anyone else, Phoenix wouldn’t hesitate to just strip off then and there. His discomfort in doing so, though, isn’t just out of annoyance. Phoenix frowns to himself. Well, he knows Edgeworth values his privacy more than most, so maybe he’s just being mindful.

It instantly feels better to get the wet clothes off, so he can’t complain there. Combined with a regular button down shirt, though, Phoenix knows he looks a little ridiculous. Briefly, he wonders if Edgeworth might yell at him for not tucking the shirt in, but doing that with sweats of all things just feels wrong.

What Phoenix doesn’t expect, when returning to the bedroom, is to be affronted by Edgeworth’s… butt?

It’s pretty much all he can see, as Edgeworth stands there, casually hanging his suit in the wardrobe like he’s not currently indecent. Well. It’s not like he’s naked or anything, but he may as well be! There’s fabric, there, but it’s so skin-tight it’s not obscuring much of anything. Actually, it may even be accentuating.

“Go ahead,” Edgeworth says cooly. “Laugh, if you must.”

Phoenix sets his jaw tight. “I’m not laughing.”

Edgeworth turns to face him and scowls, and Phoenix makes a concerted effort to keep his eyes trained above shoulder level only. “I didn’t have many clothes here,” he says. “When I first took up my position as prosecutor, most of my belongings came with me, and I only returned here on a few occasions following that.”  

The explanation makes sense. Phoenix never actually saw Edgeworth in the flesh, back when he was a rookie prosecutor, but it’s reasonable to assume that he’s filled out a bit since he was twenty. Especially with climbing twelve flights of stairs to his office every day… Objectively speaking, Edgeworth’s outfit looks a little ridiculous, standing in thermal leggings and an eggplant toned, long-sleeved compression shirt (and a V-neck cut, of all things). Phoenix can't help but wonder if it's difficult to breathe properly in shirt, considering how it allows him to easily map out the features of Edgeworth's chest in alarmingly precise detail.

“Feels like I’ll have to be careful about you Hulking out on me,” Phoenix quips, though the delivery is killed by the unanticipated dryness of his throat.

(I’m not even sure if that was meant to be a compliment or some kind of joke. Ugh.)

Edgeworth’s frown remains. “Hang up your suit here, it’ll be taken care of.”

Phoenix bites back any remark he might have wanted to make about the killer washing it in poison somehow, complying with the order as he tries to avert his eyes from Edgeworth’s collarbone. Perhaps it’s a result of being in a bedroom, but Phoenix starts to feel a lot of pent-up exhaustion. Given how he hadn’t had the smoothest of sleeps the night before, Phoenix is about ready to call it a night. He tries to be relatively quick, then, about securing his bag in preparation to head out.

Franziska, still waiting downstairs, actually laughs upon seeing them. “You cannot be serious.”

Edgeworth folds his arms. “I want an update on the situation, Franziska.”

“Reiner Rotfisch is still unofficially detained,” she says, not doing much to hide the annoyance in her tone. “The prosecutor’s office is already aware. The victim had no immediate family and nobody living with him, allowing us some leeway on timing. No formal arrests will be made until the return of the autopsy report. The agreed approach was to minimise any spectacle.”

“If you wanted to avoid a press leak, you shouldn’t have called for so many agents.”

*CRACK*

Franziska’s whip hits against the floor, which she can’t be too concerned about damaging. “I have done what was necessary. Can you fools say the same? Hah, I wouldn’t bother coming back here, unless you wish to embarrass yourself further.”

“Goodnight, Franziska,” Edgeworth says curtly.

Despite still being soaked through, they both grab their coats, making for the car at a brisk pace through the ongoing downpour. Admittedly, Phoenix has never been happier to be in Edgeworth’s fancy sports car. Once seated, Edgeworth strips off the coat again, mumbling some complaint about the condition of his seats.

“…Didn’t you literally have a dead body in here once?” Phoenix wrinkles his nose. “A bit of water can’t hurt.”

“Yes,” he says, “and the cleaning bill was roughly a third of my monthly salary.”

(…which is probably twice my current net worth.)

Phoenix ignores the twist in his stomach as they finally pull away from the house. “I’m kind of surprised Franziska hasn’t rushed to make an arrest yet,” he thinks aloud. “Are things really different over here, or is it some kind of personal growth?”

“Franziska has been around crime scenes since kindergarten age,” Edgeworth says. “And there’s a reason she instructed extensive luminol tests. I’m certain she would have noticed the same contradiction with the blood splatter as I did.”

Phoenix rubs his temple. “So we’re basically on the same page.”

His comment just hangs in the air, like that, and he doesn’t make much of an effort to push forward. Mercifully, the drive to the hotel doesn’t take that long, though Phoenix feels like he’s in half a dream. The town they drive through is relatively small, though to him it looks more like a quaint theme park than a place people live. The hotel is easily the biggest structure around, making him think of some kind of fancy ski resort.

(Not that I’ve actually been to any.)

Phoenix is dazed, as they head inside. Although it’s already dark outside, a younger woman is still working behind the reception desk. Phoenix finds himself standing behind Edgeworth, feeling weirdly coy as the two converse in German. If she has any thoughts about their strange outfits, or the fact that they’re dripping over the lobby, she has no tells he can read. Though, the desk is high enough she probably can’t see the full extent of Edgeworth’s leggings… With that thought, Phoenix makes an effort to maintain his focus on the receptionist, rather than the distracting attire.

“Room 221,” Edgeworth suddenly turns, pressing a key card into his palm.

He just keeps it in his hand. “How about you?”

For some reason, Edgeworth pauses in his motion briefly. “220.”

Without even really thinking about it, Phoenix starts to head in the direction of the stairs, rather than the elevators placed more centrally in the lobby. “Really? Not taking the penthouse suite or something? …Unless you also got me a fancy room, in which case-“

“They’re standard,” he says. “Even if that confounds you, Wright, I’m not unnecessarily frivolous.”

Phoenix decides it’s best to hold in any remarks he might have about that. “How many floors is it?”

“Only the second.”

Truthfully, Phoenix doesn’t mind all that much. He marches on ahead, making a conscious decision, for his own wellbeing, to be the first one up the stairs. There are certain angles it would be too dangerous to view Edgeworth from… For his own sanity. Despite all this, it’s not like Phoenix isn’t still more than a little ticked off, but somehow that just makes the knot in his stomach even tighter.

“Are you in a rush?” Edgeworth questions.

(Ugh. Red-handed.)

“Uh,” Phoenix tries to think quickly, “I just don’t think we have much time left. In fact, there’s some evidence we didn’t really get a chance to look over, so I want to do that as soon as possible.”

Edgeworth appears to consider it for a moment. “Good idea. Let’s use your room and summarise all that we know. Are you alright with room service?”

(Major backfire!)

“More than!” Phoenix says a little too fast, though Edgeworth doesn’t question him on it.

Chapter Text

The hotel room turns out to be a little nicer than what Phoenix might have considered as ‘basic’. That is, it’s clean with windows and a large double bed. Instantly, all Phoenix really wants to do is fall down onto that bed and nap for the next three to five business days, but Edgeworth wastes no time in setting some of the files out on a surface that seems designed to double as a desk and vanity.

At least the room service menu has English subtitles.

Phoenix does his best job at keeping calm and completely normal as he lets Edgeworth handle the ordering, for some reason noticing how the inflection and tone of his voice shift when he speaks German. As a result, Phoenix doesn’t even care too much about the pointed look of judgement he gets for opting for a pizza. It’s not that Phoenix isn’t interested in cultural immersion or anything, but considering their dinner yesterday all he wants is something plain, simple, and reliable. Preferably, with no added risks of poison.

“We should start by reviewing our strongest leads,” Edgeworth stands over the desk, looking at the array of documents like one big puzzle board. “Such as the murder itself. If the method is poisoning, combined with everything else, then the household staff would have had the greatest opportunity.” But then he frowns. “However, you said Frau Falschen didn’t create any psycho-locks?”

Accepting that taking a nap is a pipedream, Phoenix decides to join him.  

“I don’t think she was being completely honest, though,” Phoenix’s eyes dart over the notes of her earlier statement. “She said she was in the kitchen or pantry all evening, and only spoke to the butler. I’m confident those things have to be true. You only asked what she was doing from 7pm onwards, so she could have set something up in advance. Especially if she was alone before that, it wouldn’t have been difficult to slip something into the wine.”

“She couldn’t have enacted the rest of it, though.” Edgeworth says flatly. “Assuming her testimony regarding the remainder of her night is the truth, then she did not enter the study, and I doubt she could have rigged the crossbow from the other side of the house.”

“There was something weird with the way she spoke to us,” Phoenix thinks. “It’s like she knew not to lie to us, somehow. Or she was just being really careful with her words.”

Edgeworth hesitates. “There are… methods for instructing a witness to withhold certain information without undermining the process by committing perjury.”

(Yeah, I know. You’ve used that trick against me on multiple occasions.)

“She doesn’t have the best motive, either. Neither does the butler. Maybe I’m remembering wrong, but didn’t you say Franziska would inherit most of the estate?” Phoenix pauses for a moment. “The way things sounded, wouldn’t that just be ideal for them? And even if it wasn’t, I don’t see what killing an estate lawyer would achieve. With what we know about the wine glass, it’s not like he could have been an accidental target…”

“Whichever way you look at it,” Edgeworth nods, “Reiner Rotfisch has the strongest motive. This amount of debt…” he picks up the accounting sheet Phoenix found by chance earlier, “it must have been a serious situation for them. Not to mention their spat during the reading.”

“But the magatama didn’t react when he said he didn’t kill Stiltskin,” Phoenix points out.

Edgeworth stills for a moment. “Did he say that exactly? You said that the locks may not appear, if the speaker is vague enough.”

He shakes his head. “Even if the actual words they use aren’t specific, I think the meaning behind them overrides that.” Phoenix takes his own glance down at the financial records. “I hate to say it, but if attending the dinner isn’t an alibi at all at this point, shouldn’t we consider Hildegard as an equal possibility?”

Before Edgeworth can answer him, a knock at the door announces the arrival of food, which is a welcome break. The pizza is perfectly mediocre, which is exactly what Phoenix needs. Edgeworth has a dish he doesn’t recognise, clearly something that could be considered ‘fancy’, but maybe heartier than expected from someone like him.

“Are you suggesting Hildegard because she was hard on you?” Edgeworth asks, partway through their meal, breaking their momentary lull.  

Phoenix shrugs. “If the motive is the most convincing reason to suspect Reiner, then it would apply to her too. Maybe even more, since there’s more personal stakes involved…” He trails off, hesitating for a moment. “Sorry. I understand she’s like your sister.”

“Not really,” Edgeworth says, mostly confidently. “Not in any meaningful sense beyond a technicality.”                                                   

Phoenix nibbles thoughtfully at the pizza crust. “You mentioned she was kind of cut out of the will, or something?”

Edgeworth puts his own finished plate aside, before opening up his laptop and typing something in at almost frightening speed. “There’s a translated version here, if you need to see it.”

If Phoenix had happened to have taken a sip of water at that moment, he would have spit it out. “This is over four hundred pages?!”

“As I explained,” Edgeworth looks at him sideways, “there were complications which led to this process being delayed for so many years. This document also includes some of the associated filings and annexes, the body of the will itself is closer to one hundred.”

Phoenix’s eyes still almost pop out of their sockets, as he does a cursory scroll through the file. “I-I tried my best to help Maya understand things, when…” he swallows the lump in his throat “…when it was Mia’s. I’m pretty sure estate and inheritance stuff fell straight out of my head after passing the bar, so even back then I couldn’t follow all of it, but this is something else.”

Edgeworth is almost deadly silent for just long enough it starts to get uncomfortable. “I can summarise it. Aside from the issues related to potential gains via criminality, there were some major areas of contention. The first involved sets of changes made in the months and days preceding his arrest. During the litigation, it was uncovered that he’d begun to revert certain sections of the will, mostly replacing my name with Franziska’s. I can only conclude those actions correlate to the time he started to set his plans for Yanni Yogi in motion. Unsurprisingly, my name was removed entirely, following a final edit made days before he took his life.”

“What?” The gears spin in Phoenix’s head. “So, he was going to make you his primary heir and just changed his mind?”

Edgeworth makes no attempt to hide the disgust on his face. “Not primary, exactly, but… certain parts were elevated, affording us a broadly equal status I suppose. I can’t pretend to know the reason. I’m not entirely sure I want to... I was surprised to learn that he even named me directly in the first place, though I suspect breaking my perfect win record triggered my removal.”

Phoenix scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Jeez… I’m sorry, I guess?”

“Don’t apologise.” Edgeworth’s head turns quickly. “I could have contested the changes as made without the correct procedural validity, or else lacking the appropriate mental capacity. I had no desire to make these arguments.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “So you didn’t end up inheriting anything in the end?”

“Not quite,” Edgeworth frowns, forehead creasing deep. “Manfred von Karma’s assets are spread across multiple jurisdictions. Some of those, such as Germany for instance, are bound by forced heirship laws. All children are entitled to a certain share of the estate, regardless of the will’s instruction. Even with no remaining references to my name, I am still permanently bound to that man by the law.” Clearly agitated, Edgeworth wraps his arms around himself and squeezes. “I could hardly stand to read reports of the hearings. Every time they referred to me his son made me sick to my core.”

“Oh,” Phoenix realises, “of course. Adoption is basically unreversible outside of exceptional circumstances… which gets even more difficult if one or more of the people involved are dead.”

Edgeworth looks a little surprised. “So you have picked up a legal textbook or two after all, in recent years.”

“I did it for her.” As always, everything and anything for his daughter. “Trucy was so young when she turned up in my office... still is. I didn’t want her to be stuck with a lifelong decision like that, in case she ever changes her mind, so I tried to make sure she’d always know what the options are even if there aren’t many…” He thinks about it, then. “I-I think you could go for some kind of fraud argument, if the DL-6 incident doesn’t count as disingenuous, then I don’t know what does.”

“I have made a peace of sorts with it, even if that was driven by circumstance. No amount of paperwork or legal technicality will ever make him my father,” Edgeworth practically spits, but then he pales. “Wright, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

Phoenix holds up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry. I knew what you meant.”

It really is the truth. Nothing about the legal process of it all has ever made him feel more like a parent. Admittedly, Trucy’s insistence on calling him ‘Daddy’ got him used to the idea quick enough. It had made a surprising amount of sense, at least to Phoenix. They’d both lost pretty much everything in the same fell swoop, so in a way they were already sort of kindred spirits. Introducing Trucy as ‘his daughter’, or otherwise not correcting anyone who asked, made things less complicated anyway. Without Phoenix even consciously thinking about it, ‘daughter’ eventually started to feel like his own baseline.

The real incident that triggered him to go the official route was when Trucy developed appendicitis around a year ago, and the hospital refused to perform the surgery without a whole court order giving him the permission to make her medical decisions in Zak Gramarye’s continued absence. That day was probably the angriest and most terrified he’s ever been, and it’s not like he has a shortage of terrible days for the comparison. Phoenix is just… lucky that he knows at least one lawyer who doesn’t have him on a blacklist, even called him friend enough to help him on such short notice at the time. Formal adoption was the only solution, to make sure her life would never be endangered by paperwork again.

Trucy hadn’t even batted an eyelid at the suggestion, though Phoenix had tried his best to convey how serious of a decision it would be. Trucy had just stared at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and stated confidently that ‘first Daddy isn’t coming back’. And before Phoenix could even begin to feel chilled by the degree of certainty and indifference coming from a nine year old, Trucy had grinned from ear to ear and asked if it meant their names would finally match, so that she’d also get to be ‘always Wright’. Phoenix woefully failed to hold back a tear or three when she said that, nor hide them from her. He just hopes she doesn’t end up hating him for it as she grows up and starts to rationalise things more.

“It’s horrific of me to feel this way,” Edgeworth says, causing Phoenix to realise he’d been lost in thought, “but… my mentor wasn’t cruel. Strict, certainly, but hardly unfair. He never asked that I see him as a father… though I think he treated Franziska in much the same way as me. In some ways he may have treated me even more favourably, since I got to accompany him more often.” His closed fist falls on the desk, then, but not hard enough to make a significant sound. “I know I received a comparatively privileged upbringing, but sometimes I find myself wishing that he had treated me poorly. Maybe then I wouldn’t have become so brainwashed-“

“Hey,” Phoenix cuts him off, as sternly as he can manage. “None of that. You were a kid.” He hesitates, then, not sure what to say without making it worse. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s so bad of you. I mean, I can’t say ‘I get it’, how could I, right? But…” Phoenix closes his eyes, and tries not to think too hard about crowns of red braids and pill bottles, or the glint of a chilling gaze behind glasses. “It can be confusing, to find out someone is capable of doing such terrible things, when they treated you well otherwise. Like… even with all the evidence right there, you still can’t really accept it?”

“Why am I even telling you this?” Edgeworth mutters, moment of openness reigned swiftly back in. “My thoughts have little bearing on the will, anyway. Regardless, I will inherit a portion of the assets… There were some further ambiguous sections, where ‘children’ and ‘descendants’ were referred to broadly. It was decided that language also included me, whatever opinion on the matter. There was also a difficulty regarding the previous divorce settlement with Hildegard’s mother… ultimately my portion has ended up larger than hers. It’s not as though I wouldn’t just give it to her, but her anger is also at the principle of the matter… Furthermore, Franziska has remained in favour of accepting the will as it is, naturally, which makes arguing it difficult for me.”

“I see,” Phoenix says, almost on autopilot. “So you’re kind of between a rock and a hard place. If you take Hildegard’s side then she gets whatever inheritance she thinks she deserves, but that would be like saying you want nothing to do with the rest of the family.”

Edgeworth’s lips press thin. “Well summarised. What would your advice be?”

“As a disbarred attorney with no expertise in this field?” Phoenix quirks an eyebrow.

He huffs. “No. As… you.”

(Whatever that’s supposed to mean???)

“Uh…” Phoenix tries to think about it on the spot, as well as ignore any temptation to answer ‘take the crazy money, obviously’. “You should do whatever you think is right?”

Edgeworth deadpans. “This is hardly the time for one of your puns.”

“I wasn’t– oh!” He realises what it sounded like. “I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose! I just meant… You usually have a good idea about the best thing to do. So, you’re probably better off trusting your gut. And even if you do end up with… more money than I can imagine, probably, I know you’ll find something good to do with it.”

Sighing, Edgeworth’s posture finally relaxes a little. “Such as?”

“You could always open a luxury yacht cruise business,” Phoenix thinks of the first ‘rich people’ thing he can. “You could even work with Emmerich Fibber and make it murder mystery themed… fictionally, that is.”

Edgeworth gapes. “Don’t be absurd!”

It makes Phoenix crack a smile, though. “Thinking too big? Hm, how about buying out Global Studios… then you could get as much exclusive merch as you want.”

“…Wright.”

“Oh, I know! Open up a neckwear museum! People all across the world can come admire your collection. You could have cravats from every era, every culture, maybe even a wing dedicated to your personal favourites.”

Edgeworth rubs his temples and sighs. “I feel like he would actually enjoy that.”

Now Phoenix is really grinning. “So you want something that’d tick von Karma off instead then? How did he feel about theatre? You could commission a whole musical about his downfall– and hey, I could even play myself!”   

“Who says I’d hire you?” Edgeworth says, a small smile finally gracing his lips.

(His lips… His lips which touched my lips earlier. They’re really nice, as lips go.)

(I wonder if they’d feel different now we’re warm and dry?)

Phoenix can’t help himself. “There, see, a lawyer smiles no matter how bad it gets.”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “What motivational poster did you learn that from?”

“Mia Fey,” Phoenix answers honestly. “There were a few things she used to say like that... I don’t know how I’d have passed the bar without her.”

Edgeworth hums. “I should find something useful to do with the money… whether that ends up being something like a charity or pro bono fund. Or even to start somewhere, supporting promising talent through education…” He tilts his head. “I don’t suppose Trucy could do with a dedicated university fund?”

Something in Phoenix’s chest squeezes tight. There’s an instinctual part of him that wants to react, to tell him absolutely not. On the other hand, Edgeworth is talking about Manfred von Karma’s money here, and anything in the spirit of making that man turn in his grave… especially if it ends up benefiting Trucy... Though, once Phoenix gets past the instant reject stage, a weird and tingly warmth spreads across his torso.

“Edgeworth-“

He raises a hand in protest. “Before you say no, I assure you it would be a most logical use of the funds. It would be my greatest honour.”

Phoenix finds himself leaning down on his elbow, cupping his own chin in the palm of his hand. “I wasn’t going to say no. I was going to say ‘thank you.’”

He swears he sees Edgeworth’s cheeks darken for just a moment. “Yes, well…”

There’s a silence that hangs between them, though it’s not quite uncomfortable. Phoenix feels lost, though, like he’s completely forgotten what they were talking about in the first place. He wishes he could say something else. But maybe this is the best they can do, clamming up in silence whenever the topic gets too heavy.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says then, his voice dragging heavy. “About earlier…”

(Sirens! Sirens! I thought we weren’t going to bring it up?!)

Edgeworth clears his throat. “I feel I owe you an apology. I know I overstepped, and bringing your daughter into the discussion was unacceptable.” He meets his eyes with all of his severity. “I’m sorry, for that. But you must know, I have never attempted to manipulate you.”

Somehow, Phoenix had forgotten he was angry after everything, so the apology causes a fresh wave of it to rush over him. Though, the sensation is soothed quickly, as he processes the words. He can tell when Edgeworth is being genuine. Phoenix is also grown enough to admit to himself that he’s not blameless either.

Phoenix can’t look Edgeworth in the eye like this, so he turns his gaze out the window.

“Maybe you already know this, but I wrote a few letters to you, around the time you became a prosecutor. I could never get through when I tried to call, and you didn’t have a public email address, so it was kind of my last resort,” he admits. “I don’t know if you ever read them… I kind of hope you didn’t. But, to give you the gist, I probably said worse things in those than you did today, so.”

“…I don’t recall,” Edgeworth says. “I’m sure I would have opened them. At least if I saw your name...”

Phoenix’s shoulders slump, but he nods anyway. “I figured. I don’t exactly remember what I wrote, but I’m sure most of it was invasive and inappropriate.” He huffs out a half chuckle. “I definitely demanded that you answer for yourself... Bit over dramatic in hindsight. Probably would have given you fuel for a restraining order, which would have hampered my whole ‘courtroom faceoff’ plan. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It worked out in the end.”

“…Are you saying I ought to become a professional poker player to get you to listen to me?”

Phoenix turns back at that, and the light laugh that tumbles out of him is far less restrained. “Hm, I’ll definitely give you a game if you ever come to the Borscht Bowl, on the house. I’m undefeated, you know.” Phoenix sighs again. “What I’m saying is I get it. But I don’t need saving, okay?”

A lot of emotions flit across Edgeworth’s face. He’s usually an easy read, tells so obvious he may as well write them across his forehead. Like this, though, Phoenix has no idea what he’s really thinking. Like muscle memory, he pats at his pocket, but he finds it empty. In his desperation to get out of his wet clothes, he must have left the magatama back at the von Karma estate.

“Edgeworth…” Phoenix tries anyway, “you trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Edgeworth responds automatically, and then, “I trust that you’ll get there in the end.”

Phoenix leans on his hands and elbows again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have brought up… your note. That was a low blow.”

It’s Edgeworth’s turn to shift away. “On the contrary, you had every right to.”

“It was years ago now,” Phoenix says carefully. “There’s got to be some kind of statute of limitations on that.”

“No criminal offense was ever committed, but I would imagine somewhere between five to ten years, depending on the jurisdiction.”

Phoenix resists the temptation to roll his eyes. “Okay, High Prosecutor Edgeworth.”

“Speaking of which,” Edgeworth says, “we have been neglecting the case.”

“Ah,” Phoenix looks at all the evidence spread out over the desk. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He’s not really sure if he feels any better or not. Maybe it’s one of those times where they just need to let the dust settle. Phoenix tries to affirm himself about that, thinking he won’t come to regret their conversation, even if right now he feels raw around the edges. Sleeping it off might even do the trick.

(And falling asleep sounds really, really good right now…)

Edgeworth leans over the desk, looking at something or other in close detail. Under the room’s warm lamplight, his scrutinous eyes seem fierier than usual. Though Phoenix had been idly scratching at his chin in his own thoughts, he realises at some point he’s started tracing a finger across his lips. The longer he looks at Edgeworth like that, following the uninterrupted trail of skin from collarbone to ear tip as he leans, the harder Phoenix ends up pressing down.

It’s not like Phoenix has zero self-awareness. He knows these aren’t… new emotions. Well, some of them definitely are. Edgeworth has at least never kissed him before now. Accident or not. Of course Phoenix knows he’s an attractive guy. His eyes are, after all, functional. Even without the usual burgundy and frills getup, Edgeworth exudes this kind of refined charm that comes off equal parts enthralling and unobtainable. At least when he’s not glaring at people.

Fortunately, most of the time, studying Edgeworth in any kind of detail is the least of Phoenix’s worries, so he doesn’t have to think about it too much. There may have been some… particularly low moments, back when he was in his early twenties and admittedly more prone to an emotional meltdown. His unconscious mind had dreamt up some interesting versions of their eventual reunion. That hadn’t meant anything, though. It could happen to anyone. One time he even had a particularly horrific dream about Larry of all people, and that one is definitely… no.

And then they actually did meet and it turns out it’s pretty hard to daydream much about a guy when he immediately indites you for murder. Phoenix has never really held a grudge against him for that, not really, but even back then he’d had other priorities. All he’d really cared about was saving him. Shortly after that, well, then there was the note and the oblivion in Phoenix’s chest that came along with it.

Sure, maybe Phoenix might have thought about it a little bit… For a couple of weeks at most. When he’d woken up in an ICU to Edgeworth who somehow looked even more unsettled than he’d been during his own murder trial, Edgeworth who had apparently chartered a jet, and needed to… well, Phoenix still isn’t entirely sure what possessed him back then. Edgeworth might be easy to read, but understanding him is a different thing entirely. His reasoning hadn’t mattered, of course, not with Edgeworth holding his hand, lecturing about self-preservation as Phoenix lay in a hospital bed. So there were a few weeks after that where, yeah, he thought about it. Allowed himself to notice without swallowing it back down again. But it was still hopeless fantasy, even then, given the ocean between them. Made even more hopeless once Phoenix lost his badge.

(So why now?)

“Wright,” Edgeworth snaps, “did you hear a word of what I just said?”

(I wonder what that brow crease of his really feels like?)

“Sorry,” Phoenix tries to sit up properly. “I’m listening, promise.”

Edgeworth scowls. “I was talking about this crime scene photo. Do you see the will, here? It’s open to a different page from where we left off.”

“I don’t know,” unfortunately he can’t stop himself from yawning. “Stiltskin could have done that himself, couldn’t he?”

“Hmph,” Edgeworth says. “Any further attempts at theorising tonight are clearly going to be counterproductive.”

Right then, outside, Phoenix hears a rumble of thunder. The soundproofing in these hotel rooms seems to be a lot less effective than the von Karma house. Concern ends up taking over pretty much any other emotion. Edgeworth clearly hadn’t been in a good state, last night. Though Phoenix is pretty sure Edgeworth doesn’t have a chronic fear of thunderstorms, maybe they shouldn’t chance it. He’s not entirely sure what to do about it, though. He could suggest Edgeworth just crashes here, but Phoenix can’t think of a way to say it that won’t result in just making him angry.

“I can keep going,” Phoenix tries, “just give me a minute-“

“Ridiculous,” Edgeworth mutters, gathering most of the papers again. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Phoenix blinks, and the next thing he knows, Edgeworth has his own bag in hand and paces for the door. “You’re really heading out?”

Edgeworth pauses, then, his grip on their investigation files briefly tightening. “Goodnight, Wright.”

“Night, then,” Phoenix waves off, and tries to avert his gaze from the grip of those leggings as he leaves.

For a moment or two, Phoenix just sits there as the room falls silent except for the patter of raindrops against the window. He quickly realises there’s a danger of him actually falling asleep like this, so he finally tries to muster the will to get up and get himself into bed already. He stands, then, wincing as he stretches out his muscles.

At the very least, he doesn’t need to worry about his lack of pyjamas anymore. He decides to multitask, stripping off his shirt as he makes his way over to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Even glancing at himself in the mirror, Phoenix can tell how tired he looks. The days where he could pull off all-nighters feel like something out of a distant memory.

He wiggles out of his pair of sweats, falling down ungracefully onto the bed in just his boxer shorts. At least the bed is comfortable, if decidedly less fancy than the one he slept in last night. By all reasonable accounts, then, Phoenix should have been able to just shut his eyes and fall asleep once he turns the light off. While he gets most of those tasks done, his mind still turns out to be frustratingly awake.

Phoenix squeezes his eyes tighter, as though it’ll somehow help him. He’s found it hard to sleep in the middle of a case before, head swirling with ideas and potential scenarios. This time, though, he’s not really thinking about the case at all. No, instead, it’s just storm-grey eyes and stupid V-neck shirts and his lips on a loop.

“Get it together,” Phoenix says to himself, rubbing his face with both hands.

It was fun, he considers, in a way that’s less weird if he ignores the surrounding murder. Even if he hates that Edgeworth may have had a point, battling things out with him even in a fake courtroom really did make him feel the lightest he has in a while, thinking back at it. Right there in court, it’s only them and the truth and everything else in the world may as well fade out of focus.

But there’s no way to have those thoughts without the bitterness that follows. A crushing heavy sensation lowering down onto his chest. Any echo of the memory just reminds him, tenfold, of everything lost. And right on schedule comes the buzzing, like tinnitus, which he’s found only ever really shuts up after a glass of wine or five. At least that way, it’s more like floating than drowning. His fingers tremble, as he considers phoning up room service, but he’s pretty sure the bill will show up on the room tab.

(It’s better if Edgeworth doesn’t find out about that…)

Phoenix rolls over to his side, now facing the window. It wasn’t really a kiss, earlier. Their faces had just hit each other at an unfortunate angle. Anyone else and they’d have just laughed it off. He knows this, but apparently that doesn’t matter. Apology or not, he’s still a little mad about their argument anyway. Collectively, none of this should have resulted in him…

(Stop. Thinking. About. Him.)

Hopelessly, he tosses himself onto his back again. He’s usually good at dealing with things he doesn’t want to think about. Locking everything in a box and swallowing down the key… It’s practically second nature. Why does Edgeworth of all people have to be like some kind of jack in the box?

(Actually, that’s a pretty hilarious thing to imagine.)

More sounds of thunder roll across the distance. Phoenix’s heart starts thudding so hard he wonders if he might be the one with some kind of phobia. It’s like the more he tries to just lie here and ignore it, the worse it gets. None of that makes sense, even with his somewhat limited medical expertise. Clearly, then, sleep is a lost cause.

Surprisingly, Phoenix finds that getting up to pace laps of the room is actually helpful. Even with his mind active, his body is still exhausted and sluggish. He doesn’t bother to turn the lights back on, so his ‘circuit’ ends up being kind of limited in an attempt to avoid crashing into the furniture. It’s a good enough outlet for his energy overall, as he finally finds some solace in counting his steps.

He’s not even sure how long he does it, before feeling calm enough to lie down again. It’s still not enough for him to fall asleep, but it feels just a little less like he’s going to explode out of his skin. Without being fully unconscious, he can still rest up a little like this, which is better than nothing.

Just as he finally starts to drift, there’s a series of hard knocks banging against the hotel room door.

For just a moment, Phoenix lies completely still, convincing himself it could easily be from something getting damaged outside. The knocks sound out again, though, clearer now he’s listening out for them. He stumbles his way out of bed, pulling on the sweats he’d discarded in an unceremonious pile earlier, and tries not to trip on his way over to open the door.

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix blinks, the harsh hallway light a shock to his vision, “what are you-“

His eyes are like a manic wildfire. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Phoenix doesn’t get a chance to respond. The moment Edgeworth says it, he strides right across the threshold, so close Phoenix can feel his breath, before shoving him back hard against the closest wall, and then kissing him for real. Hardly processing the shockwave, Phoenix’s functions are reduced to automation, clutching back at Edgeworth like an anchor as he only barely registers the sound of the door swinging closed behind them.

Chapter Text

When Phoenix opens his eyes, the space beside him is cold and empty. He’s forced to swallow down the brief bitterness he feels, but he really doesn’t find it surprising. Slowly stretching out, Phoenix realises he’s cold in general. Huddling under the covers as he tries to blink in the morning light, he notices the window has been pulled slightly ajar, letting fresh air into the room.

(Good thinking, Miles. Meticulous as always.)

…It feels weird to try and go back to thinking of him with any kind of formality, now.

Phoenix finally rubs his temples, staring at the ceiling like it might just cave in and bury him alive. And maybe he even wants it to. Lying here isn’t helping. There’s this inexplicable itch, crawling around underneath his skin, and it just keeps growing and growing. It’s enough to spur his willpower to shift his legs out and over the edge of the mattress, at least.

Hotel room showers are never the most reliable, and sure enough when Phoenix tries it, the water comes out scalding hot. He steps underneath the spray anyway, letting it wash over him. It doesn’t do much to burn away the phantom echoes of Miles’ touch. Nor does scrubbing his skin almost red raw, even when he’s certain no physical evidence remains. By the time he finally shuts the water off, the mirror is too fogged over to afford him a good look at his reflection. He considers it to be a good thing, probably, as he efficiently brushes his teeth to get the sour taste of morning out of his mouth.

Phoenix is surprised to find that the clothes he’d carelessly discarded across the floor last night have been neatly folded and placed on the desk. Maybe it’s weird, but that thought makes him feel a bit better. Even if he isn’t thrilled about Miles deciding to slip out in the dead of night, Phoenix can deduce that he’s probably not angry or upset with him.

That still leaves a lot of other options though.

As he thinks about that, it’s a stark reminder that he left his suit at the von Karma estate. In some ways, he should have brought a better back up plan. When it comes to Miles’ Europe invitations, he’s learnt the phrase ‘just the weekend’ should never be taken at face value, at least not when there’s an investigation at stake. Phoenix holds his sweatpants up to the light with scrutiny, deeming them suitable to wear once he concludes there aren’t any concerning stains. His grey hoodie, which he’d been intending to wear as a return flight comfort, will have to do as his upper layer.

These days, this is pretty much his outfit of choice anyway, and putting it back on after being confined in his old suit is like night and day. He can already predict the disapproving looks he might get, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure how much he cares. It’s not like he needs to impress anyone.

Technically, he’s ready to face the day. He doesn’t really want to, though. Maybe, he considers, if he stalls for long enough, there won’t be any time for a confrontation. Before he can think too hard about it, he picks up his phone and dials the first number from his recent contacts.

“Well, well, well,” Maya’s voice comes through the speaker as soon as the call connects, “finally decided to check in, huh? Been busy cozying up in that remote hotel after all?”

Phoenix winces, bracing himself. Of course Maya’s going there already. “I spent most of last evening getting a lecture in German inheritance law, actually, if that meets your definition of ‘cozy’.”

It’s not a lie. Technically.

Maya just hums. “You mean there weren’t any late-night bratwurst bonding sessions?”

(She’s far closer to the truth than she can possibly realise… And I think I’d like to keep her from getting any warmer.)

“It’s- We were working on a case. That’s all.”

She starts laughing, quite clearly. “You sure? You didn’t get all pretzeled up? Or was it more of a loose twist kind of evening?”

“Maya!” Phoenix says, maybe too quickly.

A beat passes. “You sounded a little bothered there, Nick! You know I’m only kidding. And maybe a little hungry right now.”

Phoenix laughs nervously. “It’s not like that, Maya. I swear, chatting legal theories with Miles is nowhere near as exciting as you make it sound.”

“Oh,” Maya says, “since when has he been Miles? Don’t tell me you actually…”

(Shit.)

“It’s not-“ he feels heat rise to his face. “Nothing like you’re thinking, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” she sighs. “Don’t think I’m done grilling you, though. You don’t understand, Nick, the gossip is so dry in Kurain. The only juicy stuff comes from channelling for clients, and I don’t even get to hear it! Your little European holidays are my best source of entertainment!”

“I’m glad my personal life means so much to you,” he says dryly.

Maya pauses for a moment. “Nick… I’m here, you know? If you do want to talk about anything. All jokes aside.”

“I know,” Phoenix even nods as he says it. “Actually, it did get kind of crazy yesterday. It’s a long story, but we found the estate lawyer dead.”

“Wait… what? What do you mean?”

Phoenix swallows. “He was murdered, the night before, probably sometime when everyone else was eating dinner. In the morning, Franziska needed something from the study, but it was locked from the inside. I ended up bashing the door open, and then we just found the body. He was shot through the heart with a crossbow, but we – me and Edgeworth at least - think he was poisoned before that.”

Maya hums in thought. “Why would someone shoot him with a crossbow if they’d already poisoned him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Phoenix scratches the back of his head. “Though it’s easier said than done. Franziska called in her Interpol agents immediately after we found him, and she hasn’t let us anywhere near the actual crime scene.”

“So you’re investigating it with Mr Edgeworth?”

A grimace grows on his face. “The man she accused is innocent. We have to solve this case, before it’s too late. I- I can’t let this go to court.”

There’s a pause. “You’ll work it out, Nick. If anyone can, it’s you two.”

“I hope so,” Phoenix squeezes the phone absentmindedly. “I’ll try, at least.”

"Good. Now, go get coffee before your brooding levels get too high, you hear me? You sound like you need it."

He lets out a weak chuckle. "That obvious, huh? It’s not too late to talk to Trucy, is it?”

“I’ll go get her.”

Phoenix could really use the morale boost. If there’s one person in this world who can pull him out of the depths and mind fog no matter what, it’s certainly Trucy. As much as he’s generally focused on the case right now, he can’t wait until he gets to feel the warmth of one of her hugs again.

“You’re late, Daddy!”

At least it sounds more like an observation than an accusation.

“Sorry about that,” Phoenix smiles properly now. “I guess I still haven’t really got the hang of time differences. Did you have a good day, anyway?”

“Ahuh,” Trucy affirms. “One of the village elders was teaching us how to knit. Pearls is better at it than I was, but I still made you something!”

“Oh yeah? What did you make?”

“That’s a surprise! You’ll have to wait.”

He finally feels most of the tension in him dissipate. “Another surprise? You’ve gotta be careful there Truce, too many of those and I might end up having a heart attack when I see you.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re getting old, Daddy-o?”

(That’s at least thirty hit points of psychological damage right there...)

“I’m not even middle aged!”

“But,” Trucy says purposefully, “think about it from my perspective. You’re almost three times my age. That’s old!”

“…You got me there,” Phoenix admits. “Anyway, if I didn’t know any better, I’d guess you’re trying to bribe me to come back home sooner.”

There’s a moment of silence. “…You are coming back soon, though?”

It’s a bit of a sore spot, no matter how much she tries to hide it and put on a brave face. Even though Phoenix tells her over and over that he’ll definitely come back to her whenever he needs to go anywhere for more than a few hours, he knows there’s a part of her that doubts him. All he can really do is keep proving it to her.

“I miss you so much,” he says honestly. “There’s no place I’d rather be, I promise.”

“Oka~y.”

Phoenix thinks for a moment. Usually, he can’t lie to Trucy whether he’d like to or not, so he’s used to being completely honest with her. She can hardly read his tells over a phone call like this, though. Still, he doesn’t want to lie to her. Thinking it over, she’d probably be more upset over that, than what he needs to say.

“Actually, something kind of unexpected happened,” a sigh slips out of him. “I really hope it doesn’t happen, but there’s a chance I have to stay here for a few extra days.”

“…Did you get arrested?” Trucy gasps.

His eyes narrow. “Where did you get that idea from?”

Trucy hesitates. “I could tell Auntie Maya was worried about you before she handed me the phone… but, if you did get arrested, why are you using your phone call on this? I don’t think we have enough money in the talent agency accounts to cover a bail fee! Can’t Mr Edgeworth pay for it?”

Phoenix can’t stop himself from laughing a little. “Slow down, Truce, nobody needs you to post bail. Though, I feel like Edgeworth would be more likely to put me in jail in the first place, than to help get me out of it.”

“He wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Well,” Phoenix falls back flat on the mattress, then, allowing his legs to dangle off the edge, “maybe you should ask your Auntie Maya about that. She can tell you all about it.”

Trucy, though, doesn’t miss a beat. “But when we last met him, he looked like-“

“Anyway,” he feels a little bad about cutting her off, but he’s a coward who probably can’t handle what Trucy might have to say about her Miles observations. “I’m not arrested for anything. Though, I guess you’re not far off. We accidentally ended up investigating a crime, but it’s a tough one. I just wanted to tell you now, in case I end up being forced to give witness testimony or something.” Phoenix lets out a sigh again. “Maybe I really am out of practise. Heh. I’m sure you could solve it in no time.”

“I can try my best,” she says with determination. “What are your clues, Daddy?”

(Well, it can’t hurt?)

“Alright,” Phoenix nods, “I humbly request your expert consult, Miss Wright. Do you accept?”

She inhales dramatically. “I accept.”

He puts on his best impression of some kind of commentator voice. “The victim was an estate lawyer with no known enemies. He was left alone in the study of a fancy estate house during the evening, and discovered the following morning – murdered - with a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. The door had been locked and jammed from the inside. No other known exits. But the plot thickens, because it turns out he was probably poisoned before he got shot in the first place.” Phoenix drops back to a normal tone again. “We figured out some things. The crossbow was hidden in an air vent, and rigged to fire remotely. I’m also pretty sure there’s some kind of hidden entrance to the room, though I haven’t proven it yet. But you see? None of it makes sense, right? If the killer could poison him, why go to all the trouble of setting up such a complicated crossbow system? And why go into the room to lock it in the first place?”

“Hmm,” Trucy emphasises dramatically. “Looks like you’re in a pinch, Daddy.”

“Yeah,” he half laughs, “you can say that again.”

“Sounds like some good old-fashioned misdirection, though.”

Phoenix sits back up again. “What do you mean?”

Trucy hums like she’s hardly thinking at all. “Misdirection is magic and magic is misdirection.”

“…And the less cryptic version?”

“It’s the second golden rule,” she actually sounds a lot more serious, like she’s really focusing. “Everyone understands the basics. Y’know, like in the ‘cups and balls’, whenever I use my hands and gestures to distract the audience and make them look the other way, while I do the real sleight of hand to make balls vanish and reappear. The performance is just as important as the trick.”

His mind whirls. “So your theory is the killer set up the crossbow to distract everyone from the poisoning?”

A moment of silence passes. “Maybe. Or, it could be something more advanced. Sometimes the best type of misdirection is when you tell the audience you’re doing one trick, but then you reveal you were doing a whole other trick all along.”

“In other words,” he thinks aloud, “the murder itself happened because the killer wanted us to waste time investigating a red herring, rather than the real crime?”

“Well, if I was going to kill someone, I would-“

“Trucy,” Phoenix grips his phone tightly, “for my sanity, please don’t finish that sentence.”

He thinks he can hear her pout, somehow. “Anyway, that’s the best I’ve got.”

“If you’re right,” Phoenix thinks, “I’ll take you for ice cream when I get home.”

“I’m always Wright, Daddy,” she tuts. “Now you have to pay up, no matter what.”

Phoenix smiles. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“Just like you always do!”

“I have to go and solve the case for real now,” he says, though the reluctance weighs heavy in his heart. “And you sound like you had a busy day, anyway. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“I love you Daddy,” Trucy says, though he can hear the slight tension in her voice.

“Love you even more,” he responds.

She cuts the line, after that, which is fine. There’s not much else he could say to Maya, anyway. Now he really does need to go and face the day. No excuses. There is a case to solve, after all. Besides, he thinks as he stands himself up again, the sooner they do, the sooner he can go home.

(Misdirection, huh?)

Not that it even surprises him all that much, but Trucy might just have a point. Every other theory he can think up is so filled with holes it may as well be Swiss cheese. Still, Phoenix can’t really think of a crime that would be worth murdering someone to cover up… not that trying to understand murderers is always a useful exercise.

He scans the room for anything he might be missing. His wallet, for example, which he catches out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he’d been in a bit of a rush, tossing it carelessly on the floor. Right beside it, a torn wrapper- the most incriminating evidence yet. He picks it up, fully intending to dispose of it in the bin like a normal person, but something makes him hesitate.

Phoenix doesn’t know for certain what he’s about to face, today. But he does know Miles pretty well. Allegedly. On the balance of probabilities, he can reasonably guess that Miles probably won’t want to acknowledge that anything unprofessional happened between them. That means that the only proof that it really did might be limited to Phoenix’s own memory. But this? Tangible, solid evidence? At least it’ll prevent him from convincing himself that he just had a crazy, vivid dream. It’s not much of a rational reason, but Phoenix impulsively shoves the wrapper to the bottom of his bag instead of tossing it, and tries not to think too much harder.

Phoenix frowns, then, feeling the distinct scratch of his stubble growing in. He doesn’t feel much like shaving, for some reason. Either way, he decides to take one last look at himself in the bathroom mirror, now that the steam has cleared out. Maybe he’ll even give himself a pep talk or something.

And then he’s faced with his reflection.

(Oh. Oh, no.)

Chapter Text

(What is he, part vampire or something?!)

Phoenix leans over the sink warily, glaring at the mirror like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Well, objectively it’s simple. A series of ridiculously huge, obnoxiously bright bruises, high enough on his neck that there’s no way his hoodie will cover them. Or, more precisely, a series of hickeys. Hickeys which may as well be replaced with a neon sign that says ‘Miles Edgeworth was right here’.

“Oh, come on,” he complains to his own reflection, as his forehead hits against the mirror with a clear thunk.

(So much for no solid evidence…)

Phoenix presses his fingers at the worst offender, like somehow he’ll be able to will it out of existence. No luck there. He tilts his head, trying different angles, hoping – or more like praying – that it’s just the lighting making it look worse than it is. Nope. In doing so, he actually notices a second cluster, slightly lower but equally as damning.

He can’t go out like this…

Though, he doesn’t have a choice, does he? He has to go out like this. It’s not like he has any makeup, or a turtleneck… Is there really no other way? Is he seriously going to have to walk into the vipers’ nest that is the von Karma estate looking like he got mauled by a particularly amorous vacuum cleaner?!

(Miles, I hate you.)

Though, that’s not quite the truth. Come to think of it… Miles is nothing if not precise. He’s not careless. So. Why, then, is this thing so obvious? It’s not some faint mark Phoenix might be able to cover with his shirt collar… Miles pretty much left him with a full-blown crime scene on his neck.

Phoenix’s stomach does a little flip.

It’s the worst kind of thing to read into. It contradicts all the other evidence. He knows, full well, that if Miles actually wanted to acknowledge anything between them, he wouldn’t have snuck out in the middle of the night. So why, then? It’s going to be painfully obvious that he’s the culprit, so it can’t just be some sadistic attempt at causing embarrassment. Possessiveness? Phoenix wrinkles his nose at the idea. It doesn’t seem like something Miles would do.

(Then again, ambushing me with his lips last night wasn’t exactly high up on that list either...)

As he continues to scrutinise himself, his stomach growls, reminding him of his general human needs. Simply dwelling on potential motivations isn’t really getting him anywhere, anyway. Besides, he has half the mind to march across this hotel and demand Miles submit to cross examination. It might be the only way of getting to an answer. That or the magatama.

The magatama… which Phoenix swiftly remembers he doesn’t have at the moment.

There’s nothing to do but face the music, then. Even if that leads to him pacing down the hotel corridor with his shoulders hunched, which he thinks does sort of work to hide the hickeys, though not without making him look suspicious in a different way. His back is also unlikely to forgive him for keeping the awkward posture up for too long.

(Another sign I’m too old for the walk of shame, isn’t it?)

Like a blessing sent from the heavens, he notices a gift shop attached to the hotel lobby. And it has fabric. Phoenix immediately transforms into a man on a mission, stalking over to the place at once. It’s clearly one of those tourist traps, based on the novelty beer steins, overpriced keychains, and suspiciously dusty snow globes. Though, the shop is laid out in a way that makes it seem like it’s cosplaying as a more upmarket boutique.

Phoenix tries to ignore the way the cashier, a bored looking woman roughly in her fifties who seems like she would benefit from an espresso or two, raises an eyebrow at him. The more important thing is the gift shop sells scarfs. Sure, it’ll be incredibly suspicious, but it’s probably the best he can do. He would much rather people assume the worst, than broadcast it loud and clear himself.

Unfortunately, the shop only has one variant of scarf. It’s anything but subtle. The words ‘I ♥ DEUTSCHLAND’ lie emblazoned over strips of black, red, and yellow. Phoenix might not be a fashion expert, but he does know ugly when he sees it. Either way, at least it’s long and thick and should definitely do the job of covering his neck.

(Why does Germany have to have such an obnoxious flag?!)  

He beelines for the counter, with only the judgemental looking woman standing in his path. Her nametag reads: Berta. Her gaze says: I know exactly what you’re doing, you shameless disaster of a man.

“First time in Germany?” Berta asks.

Phoenix forces a laugh and tries not to look her in the eye. “No, actually, but I’ve never been to this region before… Nice place.”

She looks down at the scarf on the counter. “A gift?”

“Sure,” Phoenix says. She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him. The entire nation of Germany doesn’t believe him. “I’m just…” he gestures like that’ll help matters, “embracing the culture.”

Berta remains unimpressed, eyes pointedly drifting to his jugular. “Embracing something.”

“Uhm…” it starts to feel incredibly hot in the room, “do you take credit card?”

“Forty euros,” she says, and then reaches under the counter in the most condescending move possible to produce a matching beanie. “Fifty, with the hat.”

It’s a trap, and they both know it.

“…Fine.”

Berta hums knowingly, as she rings him up. “Viel Glück.”

At least he knows now what his dignity is worth. Not that the scarf is much of an improvement, but he feels a little better regardless, wrapping it around himself immediately. The beanie isn’t strictly necessary, but he puts it on anyway. There’s a chance wearing the complete set might divert attention from just the scarf.

(This feels like penance for my sins.)

Breakfast is still being served, thankfully. This hotel isn’t too obnoxiously fancy over all, so all he needs to contend with is a continental style self-service buffet. None of the other guests pay him much notice, so it seems like the outfit change was worth it. Phoenix would much rather play tourist, than anything else. None of this new confidence stops him from pouring himself the strongest, blackest coffee he can, without posing a health risk.

Phoenix is a little surprised, to spot Miles sitting at a table across the room, nonchalantly reading some kind of file. He’s not wearing his usual suit, but he honestly may as well be. A part of Phoenix hates that he can actually tell it’s slightly more casual, at least by Miles’ standards. Either way, he still looks pretty much the same as usual, even down to the cravat. He must have a spare.

All Phoenix can do is take a seat across from him and brace for impact.

Miles glances up to acknowledge his presence, but then wordlessly looks back down again at whatever he’s reading. Somehow, even though Phoenix fully expected this, living through the reality still stirs up his annoyance. At first neither of them says anything, and it’s all Phoenix can do to gulp down his coffee, even though it burns his tongue.

Then, without looking up, Miles says “…why are you wearing that ridiculous scarf?”

Phoenix almost chokes.

“What?” He tries to clear his throat. “It’s winter. And hey, it’s not that ridiculous. Maybe I like it.”

Miles finally sets down the papers and squints at him. “You like that?” He scoffs at the idea. “Why are you wearing it inside?”

For a moment, Phoenix just gapes at him. “You know why,” he practically hisses, hoping nobody can overhear them.

“I rarely have any idea why you act in the way you do, Wright.”

(Is he actually playing dumb?)

“Really?!” Phoenix, despite his better judgement, yanks down the scarf with a sharp tug, displaying the dark hickeys in all their incriminating glory.

To his credit, Miles’ reaction appears to be genuine, or at least too subtle for Phoenix to pick up on. He blinks, staring at Phoenix’s neck with a near perfectly blank expression. Then, his brow furrows, like he’s somewhere between confused and mildly concerned.

“…What happened to you? Did you injure yourself?”

Phoenix’s brain short-circuits on the spot.

(Does he seriously not realise?!)

(This is literally your fault, Miles! Take some responsibility!)

“You-“ Phoenix flounders. “I- you seriously don’t-“

Miles just looks at him expectantly, like he’s seeking a genuine answer.

He forces himself to calm down a little from the shock. There aren’t that many options, and Phoenix decides to throw out the crazy ones, such as a temporary bout of amnesia. There’s also no way, if he’s being rational, that Miles somehow doesn’t know what a hickey is… right? The only other possibility is some kind of point he’s trying to make. In fact, that’s the most likely outcome. Feigning complete ignorance. It’s a clear message, then, a cue that they’re not talking about it. They’re going to pretend that last night didn’t happen at all.

(Oh.)

(Okay, then.)

(If that’s how it is.)

(Fine.)

(Cool.)

(Just peachy.)

Phoenix lets out a measured exhale and pulls the scarf back up. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

He still needs to play this one carefully. Miles is practically famous for his flightiness. Breaking the new silence could backfire in an instant. At the same time, though, a man is dead and his killer could have over a full day’s head start on the run at this point. They’re going to have to talk at some point. There could also be a chance that Miles is simply waiting for him to make the next move.

What Phoenix means to do is muster the full extent of his few years of poker experience and watch Miles closely, trying to sus out his overall psyche, scanning every inch of his face as he casually sips his morning cup of tea.

(Hard to concentrate now I know what he looks like under those clothes...)

What Phoenix actually does is narrowly avoid stabbing himself in the hand, during his attempt to butter a slice of toast. Such is the danger of overwhelming thoughts.

“We should probably continue yesterday evening’s discussion,” Miles says out of nowhere.

(…Huh?)

“Yeah,” Phoenix sits up properly in his chair. “Yeah, okay, we can do that.”

Miles purses his lips. “I have poured over the evidence some more. First, the blueprints. On reflection, that suspicious looking void likely was the start of a passage that connects the wine cellar with the old press house. Except, the house has been renovated on multiple occasions over the decades, and any entrance was certainly removed. I know for a fact the press house is blocked off and disused, which is why I didn’t suggest investigating it yesterday.”

Phoenix tries to swallow the disappointment he feels, though thankfully the case details are enough to fill up the voids in his brain. Miles lays his folder of evidence out on the table at least, which is generous when it comes to him.

“So, you think it’s a red herring?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Miles says honestly. “I concede, someone must have left that study alive by some other means than the door. But there’s nothing to suggest that the study connects to the passage, and even then, it couldn’t exit anywhere particularly useful for making an escape.”

Phoenix’s eyes scan the plans. “Then we need to investigate the cellar.”

“Quite,” Miles says. “Though, not for any passage entrance. At this stage, our primary focus should concern evidence of poisoning, especially as it would have been administered through wine.”

“Got it.”

He pulls out the crime scene photo. “The question of the will-“  

“I’m still eating breakfast here, you know!” Phoenix complains.

Miles’ eyes narrow. “Then eat faster. You were already late down.”

“I’m trying!” Phoenix takes a bigger bite from the croissant on his plate than he can really handle, as if to prove it. He tries to say ‘I was talking to my daughter, you asshole’, but it comes out like more of a garbled mess with the pastry in his mouth.

“The will.” Miles continues. “It’s technically possible that the victim was reviewing a different page himself, but why this one?”

Phoenix tilts his head. “I still don’t read German, you know? Do you still have that copy on your laptop?”

“The specifics are unimportant,” Miles says, “the core issue is that it’s unrelated to any administrative matters. There would be no reason to turn back to it, I concluded. That leaves only our mystery suspect.”

“So someone was trying to read the will? Why?”

Miles stares at the photo like he’s trying to burn a hole in it. “In truth, the motive is still unclear to me. Furthermore,” he slides the page of crime scene notes across the table, “Franziska is diligent. She had them dust every inch of the scene for fingerprints. There were precisely none found on this page of the will.”

“So Stiltskin definitely didn’t change the page after all,” Phoenix rationalises. “He wasn’t wearing gloves or anything. Though, gloves don’t narrow it down much. Anyone could have put some on and then disposed of them.”

“Hmph,” Miles sounds, taking a sip of his tea. “I’m surprised you didn’t jump to a conclusion there. Perhaps you’ve grown.”

(Knowing Miles, he might not even intentionally mean to come across in such a backhanded way by saying that…)

Phoenix ignores the comment. “But wait. You have a copy of the will yourself. If other versions exist, why would anyone need to look at the physical one?”

Miles squints at him directly. “The fact that you’re asking me that question… You think this detail is truly significant?”

(Didn’t you bring it up yourself?)

“It’s a weird thing to do, isn’t it?” Phoenix says, eyes dropping to the table. “It’s not like they were trying to clean up other evidence, besides the wine glass we’re missing. Taking the time to stop and look through a document… Why would the killer do that in the middle of committing a crime, unless the will was already important to them?” He looks up again, and sees Miles staring at him expectantly. “…You knew all of this.”

“As it happens,” Miles sets his now empty teacup down on the table, “the will would not have been available to all. While some international jurisdictions release wills as a matter of public record, most of von Karma’s assets fell under systems with greater privacy. With the number of complications faced up until now, the will was sealed even in those countries which may have otherwise released sections. Of those present in the house at the time of the crime that I’m aware of, other than the victim himself only Franziska, Hildegard, and I would have had our own access to the document digitally.”

Phoenix tries his best to comprehend the point, though estate law has never been a subject he really gels with. “Then we can dismiss Reiner for sure, right? Wouldn’t it be easier to just log into his own wife’s computer or something?”

“…If the will is related to the murder at all.  Which reminds me. With any luck, they may have already received an autopsy report. It should either confirm or exclude the involvement of poison, as well as the time of death. Those are the factors I’m most interested in. We shouldn’t delay.”

It’s pretty clear that Phoenix doesn’t get a say in this. Not that he particularly wants to hang around the hotel for much longer, either. It may not have been in the way he might have hoped, but at least the conversation has shifted his head back into gear. They’re still solving a murder, after all. All Phoenix can really do is follow Miles outside to the car, which can’t be helped. He is kind of Phoenix’s ride, after all.

(…Heh. In more ways than one.)

(Wait no. Stop. Absolutely do not think about that.)

(Focus!)

“Wright-“

Phoenix almost immediately trips over his own feet, catching his hand on the roof of Miles’ car by sheer luck more than anything. He attempts to realign himself, pulling it off like a casual lean.

“-Ready to go!”

Miles looks sceptical, but doesn’t comment. And when Phoenix thinks he detects a slight wince of discomfort as Miles lowers himself into the driver’s seat, he decides to repay the favour by also not commenting. In fact, it’s a ‘no comments’ kind of drive overall, which is mercifully short enough that Phoenix isn’t even particularly tempted to look anywhere other than out the window.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the house seems eerily calm, almost like the sound of the engine as they pull up to the entrance is cutting through something. The door isn’t locked, which reasonably suggests the level of activity is the same as yesterday’s… but the lack of people or noise makes a pit of dread grow in his stomach.

He’s never felt more relieved to hear the telltale clacking of high heels.

“Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska half yells, before launching into a tirade of aggravated sounding German.

 Phoenix, of course, doesn’t really know what she’s saying, though the expression on her face reads more as stress than anger. Looking at Miles doesn’t help much in terms of following the conversation either. His jaw is visibly tightened, but he mostly stands steady and patient, waiting for her to finish. Not that he immediately says anything when she does.

“Uh,” Phoenix chimes in awkwardly, “good morning to you too?”

Franziska whirls on him. “Stay out of this, fool!” Then, she blinks. “And why are you dressed like some pathetic, lost tourist?!”

“Never mind that,” Miles says. “You don’t mean she’s here?”

“…Fortunately not,” Franziska scoffs. “Which you would know, if you looked at your phone!”

Phoenix shifts on his feet. “Uh… who are we talking about?”

“The Chief Prosecutor,” Miles’ eyes close as he rubs his temple. “She wishes to speak with me.”

“But,” Phoenix frowns, “you’re not actually prosecuting this case, are you?”

“Look, Wright, I really must go.” He looks off to the side. “Franziska, will you-“

“Hmph,” she lets out. “Who said I was willing to babysit?”

Apparently her willingness isn’t all that important, because Miles strides off down the hallway like he has serious business to attend to. Phoenix figures it must just be a phone call, then. If the alternative is something like Miles being forced to whiz off to the local precinct, though, this is probably the better option. Not that Phoenix has any idea what’s going on in the first place.

“Bye, then?” Phoenix says, to nobody in particular.

Franziska seems to stare at him with even more scrutiny. “What is that monstrosity wrapped around your foolish neck, anyway?” 

(Ironic, coming from a von Karma.)

“Uh,” he tries to think of a decent deflection on the spot, “it’s surprisingly comfy, actually? Keeps me warm.”

She clearly doesn’t buy it. “You’re still wearing it inside.”

 Phoenix figures he may as well bite back. It’s not like he has anything better to do. “Is there a problem with that, Franziska von Karma?”

“That thing,” she looks at him in disgust, “is like an insult to everything this country stands for! It’s as if the very soul of Germany has been turned into a cheap tourist gimmick for fools like you! What else, Phoenix Wright? Will you be wearing lederhosen and swinging a beer stein around? Or maybe you’re planning to break out into some foolish dirndl dance next? I can practically hear the sound of the oom-pah band!”

(I guess I can expect to never receive an invite to Oktoberfest from Franziska.)

He rubs his forehead. “It really bothers you that much?”

“Of course it does!” She says, clearly exasperated. “It’s not even correct! It should say ‘Ich ♥ Deutschland’! Do you know nothing about the language?!”

Phoenix almost gapes at her. “What?”

“Yes, what, Phoenix Wright? You’re a foolish fool foolishly walking around wearing a disgraceful misuse of the German language and foolishly calling it a ‘souvenir’!”

“I didn’t have much of a choice-“

“Take it off!”

He begins to freeze up reactively, realising the chances of her dropping it are slim. “Look, Franziska, I promise. You really, really don’t want me to do that.”

Almost immediately, her disgust shifts to intrigue. “Why is that? What are you hiding?”

(Shit.)

“Uh,” Phoenix takes a physical step backwards. “I’m exercising my right to remain silent?”

*CRACK*

“Hah! Tell that to my whip!”

“Why are you so interested in my clothes, anyway? Don’t you have a case to be focusing on?”

Franziska cocks her head to the side. “Your foolish attempts at deflection won’t work on me, Phoenix Wright. Spit it out. Your behaviour is as transparent as the foolish criminals I obliterate in court.”

“I’m just standing here,” Phoenix protests, spreading his arms in mock innocence. It’s too late to fall back on his cool, breezy, poker persona. He can try his best, though. “How is that suspicious?”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m not sweating!”

“Yet.”

Phoenix sighs. “Do you really need to turn this into an interrogation?”

“When you insist on behaving like a guilty party, yes!” Franziska snaps.

“I’m not guilty of anything!” Phoenix protests, taking another step back.

Her gaze narrows, though, piercing him like a dagger. “Prove it, then. If you have nothing to hide.”

He figures he may need to try a different tactic. “What, exactly, do you think I’m hiding anyway?”

Franziska falters, her whip freezing mid-twitch. “I…That is…” she scowls, then, clearly caught out of position. “Well, it’s obviously something humiliating! A stain on your shirt? A rash? A- a pathetic injury, perhaps?”

Phoenix pulls off his best nonchalant shrug. “Interesting theories. Keep going.”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t mock me, Phoenix Wright! Whatever it is, you’re going to tell me.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you don’t actually know,” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just making a big deal out of nothing.”

Franziska pauses for a moment before responding. “…Perhaps you’d rather I ask my little brother about this foolish accessory?”

Phoenix flinches before he can stop it. “What? Why would you do that?”

“Oh, please,” she says with a smirk. “The two of you looked tense when you walked in this morning, like a pair of cats who brought home a dead mouse. Something happened after you left yesterday evening.”

“Nothing!” Phoenix finally blurts out. “Nothing happened, okay!”

A lot of things seem to happen at once. What Phoenix is most focused on, though, is the look of intense horror on Franziska’s face as the colour drains from her body. He feels a certain kind of weight settling in the air around him, a tight pressure almost like it’s constricting him, though he can’t see anything.

Franziska lets out a noise that might be mistaken as a yelp, along with a word he thinks might be some kind of German curse. “What in hell is this?!”

“Franziska?”

One of her hands digs around in her pocket frantically. “You’re- How-“  

Phoenix can’t hold back his deflated sigh. “More importantly, what are you doing with my magatama?”

“This thing?” She pulls it out, holding it steady in her palm. “It was found amongst your clothes before they were cleaned. Why is it hot?!”  

“Out of interest,” Phoenix asks, “how many locks are there?” 

She still, naturally, looks horrified. “Three. Don’t you see them?!”

(Damn. That’s not nothing...)

“I don’t, actually,” he decides it’ll be easier to just explain at this point. “You need to be holding the magatama to do that.”

“I’ve seen these before,” Franziska seems more like she’s just talking to herself. “Years ago, in Hazakura Temple… Those trick locks.”

Phoenix nods. “Yes, they’re called psyche-locks. They represent secrets. The magatama lets you see them.”

She looks down at the glowing rock in her hand, and then back at Phoenix. “You lied to me.”

“…I did.”

“This is about Miles Edgeworth,” she realises.

“Franziska-“

She seems to clutch the magatama harder, squeezing it. “The chains are shaking. What secrets do you have concerning my foolish little brother?!”

“Woah,” Phoenix says. “Be careful! If you ask the wrong questions, you could do some serious spiritual damage to yourself. We’re… really kind of far from Kurain, so I don’t know if there’d be any way to get you help if you drain your energy.”

Franziska’s eyes narrow. “You lied to me just before. How do I know you’re not lying now?”

“More locks would pop up if I was,” he explains. “Look- I’ll talk, just put the magatama away. You really might end up hurting yourself if you keep presenting it at me like that.”

Her glare is hard, but after a moment of consideration, she slips it back into her pocket. “Are you happy now?”

“I mean, ‘happy’ isn’t the word I’d choose…”

“I’ll bring it out again, if you keep resisting my questions.”

Phoenix really tries to keep calm. He knows that Franziska is, in her own strange von Karma way, just trying to look out for Miles. Actually, he can take a solid guess that whatever she’s currently thinking might be objectively worse than the truth, which at this point he’s hiding more out of mutual embarrassment. Of the people on this planet that Phoenix has any kind of desire to discuss his love life with, Franziska is probably among those at the bottom of the list, especially when it literally involves her own brother. In fact, that’s kind of the rule in situations like this, isn’t it? It’s not Phoenix’s secret to tell at all.

“You know when I’m lying to you now, right?” He tries. “So you can trust me. Hand on heart. I promise you, you don’t want to know.”

She, unfortunately, remains headstrong. “How bad can it possibly be?”

Phoenix kind of wishes they weren’t on the ground floor of the house, so he would be able to consider tossing himself out of a window. “Look, if you really need to know, then talk to your brother about it!”

“…Did the fool do something to upset you?”

“No-“

Franziska winces, from what Phoenix can only assume are psyche-locks. A slightly worrying realisation definitely, but not one he wants to think too hard about at this moment in time.

“If it was something trivial…” she mutters, then looks at him with a different kind of scrutiny. It’s like the cogs in her brain are turning, before morphing to something like disgust. It’s not clear what she’s figured out, probably not the extent of it, but it seems to be enough. “I will be forwarding you the invoice from any future therapist sessions I require. Do not speak a word about this.”

Phoenix folds his arms. “Thank you. Now, can I have my magatama back?”

She looks down at her pocket, like she’s fully debating it with herself, before finally handing it over. “Hmph. Fine. Only a fool would have need for such a trinket, anyway. My skills are far superior. Unlike you, I don’t rely on luck or mysticism to solve my cases. Now!” She pulls the whip taut. “Change the subject. At once!”

(You’re the one who brought it up!)

“…Any idea what the Chief Prosecutor wants?”

Franziska, predictably, doesn’t look particularly pleased about their current circumstances. “And why should I tell you? We are at a critical point of this investigation.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “You know you don’t actually have to babysit me?”

“And what?” She raises an eyebrow. “Leave you to snoop around at will? Please.”

“Well,” he slides his hands down into his hoodie casually, “if you’re going to insist we spend time together, I’ll just keep asking and asking, so you may as well just get it over with.”

Phoenix is almost a little surprised, when she doesn’t immediately whip him.

“If I must spell it out for you. The Chief Prosecutor is furious about this case. We should have had everything taken care of, by now. A clear culprit and a charge ready for the press to feed on like vultures. We’re already out of time, nothing can be done to hold them back.  The murder of a high-profile estate lawyer like Rüdiger Stiltskin, is already perfect fodder for their headlines.”

Phoenix feels a wave of annoyance wash over him. “Really? The media is your biggest concern right now?”

*CRACK*

“Of course, fool!” Something in her face makes her look more lost than anything. “The von Karma name has meant perfection in the German justice system for decades. Until,” she falters briefly, “certain events… It’s poisonous now.”

“They can’t blame you or Edgeworth for that?” Phoenix says, but almost immediately knows how stupid it sounds. He knows full well that being reasonable is the lowest of the press circuit’s priorities.  

Franziska, of course, maintains her wound up expression. “If Miles Edgeworth had any sense, that fool would have left this investigation to the proper authorities instead of dragging himself into it. And now you’re involved, the Chief Prosecutor is convinced this case is going to blow up into a full-blown scandal.”

“Why should I matter?”

“Hmph. Maybe that river you foolishly fell into years ago froze over your fool’s brain.” Franziska full out glares. “You add even more fuel to the fire. It’s true that here, your name is mostly just associated with Papa’s case. But how long before they drag up your foolish disbarment? And that two of the country’s top prosecutors let you get involved-“

“You weren’t letting me,” Phoenix counters. “You banned us from even looking at the crime scene.”

Franziska seems to grit her teeth. “Which is why Miles Edgeworth, rather than I, is the one speaking to the Chief Prosecutor.”

A much needed silence lulls over them. Phoenix feels sick to his stomach. It’s not really his fault. Is it? Even if he was the one to stand up for Reiner, yesterday… Miles didn’t tell him no. Despite that, a dark spiral of guilt sets in. He doesn’t want Miles to get into serious trouble, just through associating with him…

“You were going to arrest an innocent man,” Phoenix finally says.

She lets out a humourless laugh. “And that’s exactly what the Chief Prosecutor wants us to do. She wants charges, charges to satisfy the vultures. Reiner Rotfisch is the obvious suspect: the unhappy relative. She would rather write it off as family in-fighting.”

“Wait,” it’s almost like his ears prick, “it sounds like you disagree.”

For just a moment, Franziska seems to hesitate. “My principles require the perfect evidence and the perfect arrest, Phoenix Wright. We don’t have much time left. If this case isn’t solved cleanly, then expect the von Karma name, Miles Edgeworth’s, and yours to be smeared across every foolish headline in Europe.”

“…Yikes,” Phoenix says.

“Stop standing around like a fool and do something useful!” Franziska snaps. “I have the autopsy report. Perhaps even you can manage to comprehend it.”

He takes it from her gingerly. “Well, probably not if the whole thing is in German-“

It turns out he spoke too soon, though, because the report is also annotated throughout. A part of Phoenix is wonders if the report might have come that way anyway, maybe due to the involvement of Interpol, but he still considers for just a second if Franziska might have done it for his sake.

New evidence added

The time of death, at a range from between 7 PM to 12 AM isn’t particularly helpful. Franziska had already deduced as much yesterday, and to an even tighter range. Phoenix glosses over what looks to be a lot of scientific detail, and focuses on the conclusion, which reads:

‘Cause of death: Tetrodotoxin (TTX) poisoning, leading to respiratory failure, exacerbated by a drug containing barbiturates.

Manner of death: Homicide.

Note: The presence of a crossbow injury is noted, however this was inflicted after the time of death, as evidenced by the lack of haemorrhage and other typical signs of a live wound. This suggests the victim had already succumbed to poisoning before being shot. Therefore, the crossbow injury is not a contributing factor to the cause of death. Further investigation into the source of the tetrodotoxin and the circumstances surrounding the ingestion of both substances is recommended.’

“Your foolish crossbow theory was wrong after all,” Franziska says, as his eyes scan the page.

“Not really,” Phoenix responds. “I mean, it all did happen. We know it was fired, even if Stiltskin didn’t die that way.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You seem unsurprised by this.”

He nods. “Edgeworth and I figured most of this out yesterday. Though, it just leads to more questions than answers… They found two types of drugs?”

“Tetrodotoxin, or else referred to as TTX, is a potent neurotoxin,” her eyes are sharp, kind of like she’s thinking about using it on him. “Even a foolish fool like you should have heard of it. It interferes with nerve impulses, paralysing muscles in the respiratory system. It’s highly toxic, even in small doses. About a thousand times more deadly as cyanide.”

*CRACK*

Phoenix does his best not to flinch.

“However,” Franziska continues, “the amount detected in the victim’s system wasn’t potent enough to cause immediate death on its own. Combined with the barbiturates, likely in the form of sedatives also powerful enough to suppress the nervous system, the victim would have lost his ability to breathe even faster. His death was likely within minutes of ingestion.”

“So,” Phoenix thinks as he closes the autopsy report, “I guess we’re looking for poison?”

Franziska, though, suddenly looks quite smug. “We already found it, of course.”

(Well, at least she’s efficient.)

“…A wild guess says it’s nothing to do with Reiner.”

“Hmph,” she looks away from him. “We found prescription medication containing barbiturates in Liesel Falschen’s personal room.”

“What about the… TTX?”

Franziska shrugs. “We ate it.”

“What?!”

“You are a foolish fool,” her lips press in a thin line. “Lethal amounts of TTX can be found in pufferfish. That is why they must be prepared with the utmost care by a skilled chef. The victim didn’t eat the fish, when it was served to us during dinner, so the poison must have been extracted ahead of time.”

“…I’m still stuck on the fact that you fed me poisonous fish?!”

*CRACK*

“Have you foolishly developed some kind of foolish ear deficiency? It is safe, if the chef knows how to handle it.”

Phoenix tries his best to refocus. “So Liesel is your suspect now?”

“She’s being questioned as we speak,” Franziska says. “Her possession of the medication alone is enough to arrest her. But we will find more perfect evidence.”  

(I’m actually kind of surprised she’s not already in jail.)

Right there, Phoenix remembers something. Miles had been surprised, yesterday, to find out Liesel still worked for the estate. That implies she’s been here for quite a while. And Franziska… spent most of her time living in Germany growing up, at least as far as he knows. It’s just a hunch, but they might actually be close. If that’s the case, then this must be hard for Franziska, especially given the whole circus is also related to her father’s death, after all.

“You’ve known her for a long time, right?” He’s sure he’s on the right track somehow. “I mean, she’s worked for your family for years, hasn’t she?”

To her credit, Franziska manages to supress most of her reaction. “Hmph. Personal sentiment has no place in an investigation.”

(That’s not a denial.)

“But do you really think she would-“

“If Frau Liesel is guilty, then she is guilty. The evidence will prove it,” her voice falters briefly, just a little. “I will see the truth uncovered, no matter what it is.”

Phoenix thinks for a moment, observing Franziska carefully. There’s definitely some hesitation underneath her resolve. He knows where to give her the credit she’s due, Phoenix doesn’t doubt her ability to put her personal feelings aside for the sake of an investigation. That means there’s something else going on.

“You don’t sound so sure,” he notes.

Franziska’s expression hardens. “I never thought my Papa was capable of murder either. And yet, he was.”

There’s a twist of guilt in Phoenix’s stomach, even if he’s not strictly the one who brought it up. “…I’m not that sure about Liesel either, actually. The magatama,” he pats his pocket, “it didn’t react yesterday when we questioned her. She said she only went between the kitchen and the pantry all night.”

“She didn’t need to, obviously,” Franziska says. “The poison would have been ingested through the wine that the victim was served just before dinner.”

It’s the same conclusion he and Miles reached. But, it seems like she hasn’t thought through everything else wrong with that idea. Phoenix can’t help a slight grin from growing on his face. The thrill of catching a contradiction out never gets old.

“Except there’s about three things wrong with that. Unless one of your Interpol guys stole it themselves, there was no wine glass to be found in the study, and nobody could have taken it away since the door was locked from the outside. If he died within minutes, there’s no way someone could have taken it away in time. We know Stiltskin was served wine, so where is it?” Franziska opens her mouth, but Phoenix keeps going. “Besides, even if it didn’t kill him, that crossbow was set off somehow. Liesel couldn’t have pulled all of that off without leaving the kitchen. You’ve seen it now for yourself, the magatama would have reacted if she was lying about it.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t get whipped, though Franziska looks away from him. “Then explain the pills in her room. Or did they magically place themselves there?”

Phoenix scratches the back of his head. “They could have been planted.”

Franziska scoffs. “On what basis?”

“She wasn’t lying,” he reemphasises. “And even if she was behind this, she did a really bad job of covering her tracks. Almost too bad. And even then, she can’t have been working alone, so there’s another party we have to think about… which could also explain why you managed to find pills.”

(I just said that naturally without really thinking it through… but it seems like a really solid possibility. Miles had better get out of that phone call soon.)

Franziska taps her fingers against her arm, though there appears to be some conflict within her expression. “That… artifact of yours is not admissible in a court of law, Phoenix Wright. Even a fool like you knows that.”

“Sure,” he nods. “But it’s a lead like any other, isn’t it?”

“Then who do you suspect?”

Phoenix exhales slowly. “I don’t know if he’s a suspect or not, but I think we need to question Lambert Wolfe.”

Franziska’s eyes narrow. “Really? ‘The butler did it’?”

“I didn’t say that,” he defends. “But think about it! He’s the one who delivered the wine that night. That alone makes him worth questioning. Even if he’s completely innocent, maybe he can explain why the glass went missing.”

She frowns slightly. “It’s true that he made himself scarce for much of the initial investigation, yesterday.”

“Isn’t that a little weird?” Phoenix considers it.

“Fine. If you’re insistent, then let’s get it over with. But if this is a waste of time-“

“I know,” Phoenix finishes for her, “you’ll whip me into next week. Wait,” he pauses. “You’re coming with me?”

Her eyes are sharp. “Of course. You are not running around this house unsupervised. Now hurry up!”

Phoenix knows better than to complain about it. In fact, he doesn’t really have a problem with Franziska being here. If anything, it’ll probably speed things up, if she’s also kept in the loop. He follows after her, only looking back over his shoulder momentarily. Miles will just have to catch up to them later, since it seems Franziska really meant ‘hurry up’. They poke into a few rooms briefly in the search, before they finally step into the so called ‘trophy room’.

Lambert Wolfe stands facing the wall, methodically wiping down one of the sabre style swords affixed there with a cloth, his every motion deliberate and well-practiced. He barely glances up at them as they enter the room, though his posture straightens up slightly in acknowledgement.

“Herr Wolfe,” Franziska starts.

He turns properly, bowing lightly with his head. “Frau von Karma. And…” he looks over in Phoenix’s direction, “Herr Wright. May I assist you?”

Phoenix studies him carefully. There’s nothing immediately off with the man, but then again, most people don’t walk around with ‘I’m a murderous psycho’ stuck to their foreheads. Everything about Wolfe seems measured and calm. Though, that might just be part of his job description.

“You have not provided a formal statement regarding the murder,” Franziska starts.

Wolfe doesn’t show much on his face. “I had many duties to attend to.”

“A murder took place here, in a house you’ve lived and worked in for a while,” Phoenix can’t help but point out, “you didn’t think you’d be questioned?”

“Given this morning’s discovery,” Franziska cuts in, when Wolfe remains silent, “it has become more pressing.”

Wolfe just shrugs. “We can speak now, if that suits you best, Mein Frau.”

“Alright,” Franziska nods. “We will be quick.”

“-Though,” Wolfe suddenly cuts back in, “I have a request. I understand that Herr Wright has no formal role in the investigation, and I would much prefer to conduct a statement for the record in my native language.”

Franziska raises an eyebrow at that. “I have no objections.”

She looks at Phoenix then, as if a challenge. At a surface level, it seems like a pretty normal request, though Wolfe hasn’t appeared to struggle with language until this point. Either way, Phoenix knows Franziska is capable of questioning a witness thoroughly, and in a case like this, he doesn’t think she’ll withhold anything from him.

When Phoenix doesn’t say anything, Franziska just launches into her questions. Other than the names, Phoenix can’t follow much of the detail to their conversation, so he just does his best to observe Wolfe carefully, a hand curled tightly around the magatama in his pocket. Not that he gets much from it. Wolfe’s answers remain calm and steady, and if he has any tells, they’re far too subtle for Phoenix to pick up on, even if he concentrates to his fullest.

(If only Trucy were here to help out…)

 “That’s all,” Franziska says eventually, and it takes Phoenix a moment to register that she switched languages. “You may carry on, now.”

Wolfe lowers his head. “I am always happy to assist you, Frau von Karma. I can repeat for your benefit as well, Herr Wright,” his gaze remains downturned. “I did not murder Herr Stiltskin.”

Though Phoenix holds his breath, nothing happens. Unless Franziska somehow broke the magatama whilst it was in her possession, then Lambert Wolfe isn’t lying. Though, it’s not like there aren’t loopholes. Just because Wolfe didn’t kill Stiltskin, doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t have been involved in some other part of the plan. Even if the magatama didn’t activate at any other point during the conversation…

“Well?” Franziska asks, when they step outside of the room.

“…No locks,” Phoenix admits. “Uh, actually. I want to test something. Lie to me, in German.”

She scoffs at him, and says something with one of her premier death glares. Sure enough, the moment it leaves her lips, chains fill his vision, and a single red lock appears right in front of her chest.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “So it’s not language sensitive.”

For some reason, Franziska looks ever so slightly surprised. “He was being honest, then?”

“Seems so. Did he say anything interesting?”

Franziska shrugs. “Nothing we didn’t know through other means. I doubt I’ll bother dragging him to trial as a witness. Frau Liesel acted slightly irritated that day, but Herr Wolfe only saw her as he went back and forth to the kitchen between courses during dinner, and then briefly afterwards. Then he apparently carried out the rest of his duties, before going to bed.”

“What did he mean by ‘his duties’, exactly?”

“It’s not a cross examination, Phoenix Wright,” her eyes narrow. “I asked the questions I needed to, no incessant pressing. Now, I would like to focus on the real investigation, not this foolish distraction.” Her lips press together for a moment. “Ah, good timing. I am released.”

Before Phoenix can even ask what she means, she turns on her heel and takes off, as though she’d like nothing more than to get several miles away from him in the opposite direction. Speaking of which…

The sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind him.

Chapter Text

“I assume you’ve been keeping yourself busy?”

Maybe Phoenix should be a little alarmed at the deep relief that pumps through his veins, when he turns around.

“Depends what you mean by ‘busy’?” Looking him over properly, Miles seems at least a little unnerved, his deep brow ridge on full display. “How did the call go?”

Miles exhales slowly, stepping further away from the room into the open hallway. “As expected. The Chief Prosecutor made it abundantly clear that she would rather I- or we, I suppose- stay out of this matter.” The irritation under his tone is clear as day.  

“That bad, huh?” Phoenix winces. “…Franziska filled me in.”

“Well,” Miles’ jaw remains tight, “in translation, her exact words were that it would be ‘best’ if I distance myself from this case entirely.”

He can’t help but snort. “I bet you took that well…”

“Hmph,” Miles crosses his arms. “I pointed out that the prosecutor’s office has a fundamental duty to pursue the truth. Without a lick of evidence, any case brought against Reiner would collapse the moment it reached court. Rushing out a charge might shut the press up momentarily, but the problem would be tenfold later if it looks like a cover up. Naturally, she found my concerns… inconvenient.”

He almost wants to roll his eyes. “Yikes. And nobody’s even trying to pay them off… Unless?”

Miles shakes his head. “Hildegard may have questionable morals, but even if she would do something like this, attempting to indict her own husband for murder would hardly benefit her. No, the von Karma name is so intrenched in this country, these things were already set in motion regardless of how anyone feels about it. Anyway,” his posture straightens, “did you manage to learn anything whilst I was occupied?”

“Yeah, actually,” Phoenix says, handing the file Franziska had given him over. “Updated autopsy report and all. Long story short, we were right. The cause of death was poisoning, and it happened before he was hit by the crossbow. Only weird part is they found two different kinds of poison.”

“…why the other drug?” Miles half mutters as he reads the papers over. “Tetrodotoxin can be lethal even in small doses. Though, this really is a microdose. The two must have worked in combination to kill the victim.”

Phoenix sighs. “There’s more. Franziska told me that Interpol found medication containing barbiturates in Liesel’s bedroom. It’s the best direct evidence to a suspect they’ve found so far, so they’re treating her as the primary suspect now.”

“It’s flimsy. Even if they’re not as commonly prescribed nowadays, they’re still used in insomnia and migraine medication. She’ll struggle to defend an objection to that unless she can relate it to the murder specifically,” Miles seems more like he’s talking to himself than asking for opinions. “Assuming Frau Falschen gets herself a half decent attorney, that is. Perhaps that kind of circumstantial evidence would fly before a jury, but she’ll have no such luxury here. Hmph. She’ll want a confession, I imagine.”  He purses his lips for a moment. “Frau Falschen can’t possibly have acted alone in this, if your magatama is to be believed.”

Phoenix nods firmly. “That’s exactly what I said!” He’s pretty happy they seem to be on the same page. “I also pushed her to question Wolfe. Not that I got a lot out of it, but he backed Liesel’s alibi. He also told me directly, he didn’t do it.”  

Miles, though, raises an eyebrow. “Did he say anything else?”  

“Not much,” Phoenix admits. “Assuming Franziska told me everything. He insisted on being questioned in German, for some reason. He didn’t lie about anything at least.”

“…You’re infamous for picking up on minute details in testimony, Wright. Of course he wanted to avoid it… Which suggests he could have something to hide.”

“Even if he did, the magatama-“

Miles’ brow furrows further. “Didn’t you say, just yesterday, it can be imprecise depending on the question? Lambert Wolfe hasn’t been part of this household as long as Frau Falschen, but certainly long enough to become well versed in von Karma’s methods. He would surely be unsurprised by any of the questions, particularly if there’s no decisive evidence against him.” He seems to make his mind up at the thought. “We won’t be able to question anyone else at this point, so we had best press on.”

A half smile creeps onto Phoenix’s face. “Didn’t you say the Chief Prosecutor herself banned you from investigating the case?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant. Come along, we have a wine cellar to examine, hopefully before Interpol get their own bright ideas.”

Phoenix can’t help himself from breaking out into a full grin, as he follows Miles easily. Sure, the guy might look like a straight-laced stickler for the rules outwardly, but he sure does have a bit of a rebellious streak, at least when feels like it. Phoenix supposes that has something to do with Miles’ resolve nowadays, being more concerned about what’s actually right as opposed to what’s strictly with the word of the law. Phoenix can’t help but worry about him walking a dangerously thin line, though, even if he does have complete faith in Miles.

As it happens, they pass a few Interpol agents on their journey through the kitchen, though none pay them any direct notice. They all seem preoccupied with combing through the kitchen itself for any further clues. It does seem like the best place to look, given the evidence in the autopsy report. He and Miles, however, have a slightly different goal in mind.

Much like everywhere else in the von Karma estate, the wine cellar turns out to be… creepy. Not that Phoenix could have expected any different at this point. Even when Miles turns on the light switch, it remains dim, casting shadows which do nothing to help ease the eerie atmosphere. The room is filled with a sort of musty scent, which may or may not be from the wine itself. Rows of wooden racks line the stone walls, some of the bottles covered with a layer of dust.

“This place is freezing,” Phoenix says.

Miles hums, as he steps down towards one of the racks. “Proper wine storage requires a controlled environment.”

Perhaps, in different circumstances, Phoenix wouldn’t mind this turn of events all that much. The wine cellar is quite small, after all, though that’s probably more due to the number of racks crammed inside than the size of the room itself. Miles primarily occupies himself with carding through them, likely looking for the bottle of wine supposedly swapped around last minute. With his back turned, Phoenix takes a brief look at the blueprints, tracing the wall of the supposed passage with his finger.

(Any entrance would be…)

He turns to face the correct wall. Sure enough, there’s a slightly different texture to the  brickwork, which definitely adds to the theory that it was patched up at some point. Sure, he wasn’t expecting a super obvious doorway to just appear. If an entrance starting from the study is hidden, it makes sense that the other end of it would be as well.

Without much else to go off, Phoenix tries groping a few of the bottles, as though one might be fixed into place as a secret lever or something. Unfortunately, all lift up from the rack like normal bottles. He wonders if he should also try the bottles closer to the floor, though somehow it’s hard to picture Manfred von Karma crouching...

Without warning, Miles’ voice comes from very close to him. “…What are you doing?”

As Phoenix twists, Miles is indeed right there, though it’s not like he has much choice, given Phoenix is almost wedged in the corner between the wall and one of the racks. “Investigating?”

Miles looks down at Phoenix’s hands with a glare. “Are you actually looking for something? Or are you simply touching things for the sake of it?”

Phoenix lets out a huff, fiddling with the bottle he’s currently holding. “Fine. I was making sure there weren’t any hidden switches or something. This is still the best lead we have left, for the point of entry.”

Miles just pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wright, you do realise some of these bottles are worth a small fortune?”

Phoenix suddenly finds himself statue still. “…Define some?”

He sighs. “That particular vintage? A minimum of twenty thousand.”

It’s not like he specifies the currency, but either way it’s more than Phoenix can afford. He immediately slides it back in, yanking his hand away once it’s secure.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll leave the wine alone…”

“A wise decision,” Miles quirks an eyebrow at him, like he’s more amused than annoyed at least.

Even though Phoenix only twisted to put the bottle back, he’s suddenly even more aware of how close they are. Or, more specifically, how close he is to Miles’ stupid, unreasonably well-proportioned face. It’s not like any of this is new information. He knows what Miles looks like. Phoenix just seems to have lost his ability to tune out the reality of how attractive Miles is, particularly his sharp jawline and the slight downward tilt of his mouth.

(His very nice mouth...)

Phoenix makes the executive decision that he needs to put a bit more distance between them, though there’s not much space behind him. Still, he takes a small step backwards. Or, at least, he attempts to. His foot lands on something that rolls out from underneath him, and all of a sudden his centre of gravity is completely off, and he’s falling back.

Thankfully, Miles reacts quickly, grabbing him by the hoodie so that he doesn’t end up crashing into the priceless wine collection. Miles twists them both into the one part of the wall that isn’t covered in bottles, breaking the momentum. Unfortunately, the manoeuvre does have the side effect of resulting in Miles full body pinning him against the wall, panting in exertion and now much closer than they were standing before. One hand is on Phoenix’s chest, still clutching his hoodie, but the other is braced near his head, which probably prevented them from totally slamming into each other during the initial stumble.

(This position is becoming weirdly familiar.)

“Wright.” Miles starts.

(Does his voice always sound so deep?)

“Sorry! I didn’t-“

Miles’ steely eyes narrow. “Is something the matter with you? You’ve become unusually clumsy recently. Should I be concerned about some neurological condition?”

His breath is warm, in contrast to the rest of the room, and Phoenix thinks he can detect a hint of cologne. It’s surprisingly sweet, and definitely not overpowering. He’s certain Miles didn’t have that on yesterday, though maybe it got washed away with the sudden downpour… Phoenix swallows, trying to think of an answer, but it turns out to be quite difficult to do so as heat begins to stir low in his abdomen.  

(No. Absolutely not. This can’t be happening.)

(…Unless?)

(No! Bad thoughts! I need to snap out of it! Stat!)

Pinned as he is, there’s only one thing he can do. Phoenix closes his eyes, and mentally transports himself to Kurain Village. Not just the village itself, no. Rather, he’s standing underneath a freezing cold waterfall, unflinching in meditation as he clasps his hands together. It’s almost like he can really feel the water crashing over him, unrelenting, soaking his robes and numbing his skin.

(That’s it. Feel the ice. Become the ice. There is no desire. There is only a waterfall.)

Above him, the waterfall roars away, a merciless torrent carved straight from the mountain’s heart. It pours over him, the pain fading to something like a comfortable pressure, cleansing him of all earthly weakness. The cold spray seeps into his bones, rendering him weightless.

(Let go. Do not acknowledge the devastating attractiveness of Miles Edgeworth, who is currently pressed against me.)

(Detach from the self. Release all thoughts of how close he is.)

(How warm he is...)

(His breath fanning my cheek-)

The water pressure doubles, frigid and brutal. The wind howls through the trees in the distance. The sun has long set behind the cliffs. It is just him, alone with the waterfall, as all enlightened beings must be. No, not enough. He must become the waterfall itself.

(The body is nothing. The self is nothing. The soul is pure. There is only frigid mountain water and tranquillity.)

At last, Phoenix is at peace. Serene and unshakable.

“…Wright?”

Phoenix cracks an eye open, returning to the mortal world. He’s vaguely aware that he’s now standing almost perfectly motionless, his new calm laced across his expression. Now aware of his mortal body again, he shifts to regain his footing properly, which prompts Miles to let go of him and give him some room.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says, crouching to the floor in an attempt to locate the suspect object. “See?” He stands up again, once he finds it. “I accidentally stepped on this.”

“A torch?” Miles looks down at it.

“Now that seems a little out of place,” Phoenix scrutinises it, flicking the light on and off again. It’s quite small, with some stickers of cartoon characters he doesn’t recognise lining the handle. “Looks like a child’s.”

New evidence added 

Miles’ brow furrows. “If the battery is still working, it can’t have been down here for a long period of time.”

“Hm,” Phoenix turns it back on again, angling it downwards so he can inspect the rest of the floor.

The lighting isn’t great in the room, so there’s almost no chance he would have seen it otherwise, but there’s a small gap in the wall. It’s definitely part of the actual architecture, he realises as he crouches down again to look. Like some kind of built-in shaft or drain… In fact, it sort of reminds him of a sewer entrance, though there aren’t bars. Whatever it is, it’s definitely seen better days.

“Any clue where that goes?” Phoenix asks.

Miles doesn’t hesitate to join him on the floor. “We’re below ground level, so not just outside. We know a passage existed here previously, so it wouldn’t be surprising if it’s a ventilation channel of sorts.”

Phoenix looks down at the torch in his hand, scuffed from use. “I mean, that gap looks pretty small, but I think a child could fit through that. I’m sure I’ve even seen Trucy squeeze into tighter spots.”

Miles’ head whips around. “You cannot possibly be suggesting-“

“No!” Phoenix says immediately, almost dropping the torch. “I’m not accusing- Of course not!”

“Good,” Miles exhales after a moment.

“Look,” he pulls himself back to a stand again, cringing at the pain in his back. “What I was going to say, is that it looks like Greta or Hans might have been down here at some point. They could know something.”

Miles just frowns, though, like he’s running through something in his head. “Eureka!” He yells it out of nowhere, almost surprising Phoenix enough to make him fall against the wine rack again.

“Agh?! What was that for?”

“There’s a contradiction,” he explains, completely matter-of-factly. “Certainly, they could have been down here at any time, for any reason. But why abandon a perfectly good torch? It doesn’t make any sense. Unless… they may have been shocked or scared by something. Whatever it is, I want to know.”

(Sure, but did he really need to shout?)

“Okay,” Phoenix says. “We should ask them, then?”

Miles nods curtly. “Agreed.”

As they make their way up from the wine cellar, Phoenix can’t help but glance at Miles out of the corner of his eye. His posture remains stiff, tension coiling up in his shoulders, and there’s a clear effort on his part to school his expression to neutrality. Phoenix has known him long enough, though.

“…You’re worried,” he says.

Miles scoffs. “I’m forward planning.”

Phoenix hums. “I know the idea of them being involved isn’t exactly comforting, but-“

“If they were truly in that cellar,” he cuts in, “then we have no choice but to question them.”

Phoenix doesn’t miss the weight in his voice.

They eventually find themselves back in the hallway, and it seems Miles has a good idea of where the kids are, walking with his standard determined gait. Phoenix wonders how many guests Manfred von Karma would have over at any one time back in the day, given the weird number of sitting rooms there seem to be. Though, maybe it makes sense if none of the guests like each other much...

Unfortunately, an incredibly bored looking Interpol agent stands outside the door, missing all the fun. “Official personnel only,” he says, mostly looking at Phoenix.

Miles just folds his arms. “Isn’t this excessive?”

The agent’s eyes cast to the side. “We were under strict instructions to split everyone up for the ongoing investigations… sir.”

“Tell me,” Miles tilts his head. “Do you genuinely believe there is any risk of two children absconding from a heavily secured property?”

“Well-“

It’s too late, though, his hesitation gives Miles all the fuel he needs. "And do you believe it is reasonable to keep two minors locked away under strict supervision, when they are already distressed, frightened, and likely confused about what has happened within their family’s property?”

Like so many people who have the misfortune of facing Miles when he wants something, the agent looks like he’s about to make a guilty plea. “It was an order. I don’t feel good about it, really! They’ve been kept apart from their parents this whole time too…”

Miles taps his foot impatiently. “I’m their uncle, aren’t I? And surely qualified as official personnel.”

With a begrudging sigh, the agent bites his lip for a moment before nodding and stepping back. “Fine. I’ll step out for a break. But don’t interfere with anything.”

Miles simply nods, as though this had been the reasonable conclusion all along. Meanwhile, for his part, Phoenix can’t help but gape a little. It’s not like Miles’ antics surprise him anymore, but he has to admire the artistry of it all. Miles hadn’t lied at any point, just presented the situation in a way that made it inconvenient to oppose him.

(And I guess Franziska hasn’t blabbed about the Chief Prosecutor’s instructions either…)

(…We won’t have long, it seems. We have to make this one count.)

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, for two kids largely confined to a single room for two days, they look bored. Greta is in the middle of scrutinising a book, at least, but Hans is swinging his legs, which dangle from the ornate sofa. Phoenix the dog, at least, seems to be taking a nap. At the sound of the door, they both turn their heads in immediate curiosity.

Greta slams her book closed. “Uncle Miles… what’s happening?”

She’s straight to the point, almost catching Phoenix off guard with it.

“The investigation is still ongoing.” Miles sits down opposite them, his tone just as even and measured. “The full autopsy report for the victim has been received, and new evidence is being examined.”

At Greta’s side, Hans leans in with interest. “What was in it?”

Miles hesitates. “Well, it was detailed…”

Hans just grins, though. “Come on Uncle Miles. We never get to go to real crime scenes!”

“…Aunt Franzi uses her notes to test us when she can,” Greta chimes in. “We’ve been so bored. You could at least keep us up to date.”

Before Phoenix can suggest maybe they ease into this a little, Miles meets both the kids in a sharp stare. “Very well. The cause of death is suspected to be poison. Perhaps you can remind me, Hans, what kind of information would make that suspicion more than just a theory?”

(Did I just stumble into a pop quiz?)

“Toxicology results,” Hans immediately sits up straighter.

Miles nods, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have with children. “Good. And? What would those results need to tell us, exactly?”

Hans lets the question hang for just a moment. “They’d have to decide the type of poison… and when it entered the system?”

Miles’ expression remains neutral. “Why might that second detail matter?”

“Because,” Hans says more confidently now, “in cases where the method isn’t obvious, you can use other evidence to work out how it was taken. For example, if the victim ate or drank anything at the time.”

Greta rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Indeed.” Miles tilts his chin up. “Greta, supposing the poison was introduced via an alcoholic beverage, how might that effect the examination?”

She almost perks up at the question. “Alcohol changes how quickly things are absorbed in the body, depending on weight, sex, tolerance…”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “And why would that matter to a medical examiner?”

“Because it would mess with the timeline,” Greta says. “They’d have to figure out what got absorbed first, and how fast.”

Hans, apparently not one to be outdone, jumps in. “Which means they’d have to look at stomach contents and blood alcohol levels to compare what’s left and guess when the poison was taken.”

“Interesting,” Miles says lightly. “And how reliable would that conclusion be?”

Hans glances at Greta, unsure. “Depends on the poison?”

“Depends,” Miles repeats, “on multiple factors. Testing methods, victim metabolism… And yes, the properties of the poison itself. Now, if a suspect is accused of administering the poison, what kind of legal questions do you need to ask?”

For his part, Phoenix can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Sure, as a parent himself now, he’s pretty used to the idea of kids being surprisingly capable and smart. But even so, this kind of questioning is giving Phoenix unpleasant flashbacks to his own law classes. He’d been subjected to this exact style of quizzing back then, and his main takeaway had been that he never wants to experience it again.

(Rot in Hell, Socrates…)

“Whether there was intent,” Hans finally offers.

Miles’ expression doesn’t change. “Meaning?”

“Whether they wanted the victim dead, or if it was an accident.”

“It also depends on the jurisdiction,” Greta says, after a moment of thought. “For example, in British law, intent is required to establish murder over manslaughter-“

“But in German law,” Hans cuts in, “intent can be found based on the circumstances of the crime.”

“Not always,” Greta shoots him a look. “German law distinguishes between Mord, Totschlag, and fahrlässige Tötung.”

Miles has the nerve to look pleased. “So, given that poison is typically a method that requires planning, would that automatically escalate the charge?”

“Not if it was given recklessly but without the specific intention to kill,” Hans says easily like he isn’t literally eight years old. “Such as if they didn’t know it was poison.”

“Impressive, both of you,” Miles says sincerely. “Your skills are sharp. Yes, the report concluded that it was a homicide by means of poison.”

Hans frowns. “But, our Papa-“

“He has not been arrested yet,” Miles responds evenly, though there’s some clear tension behind his eyes. “At this time, the investigation is still considering all possibilities.”

Greta holds his gaze for a moment longer before finally nodding, apparently satisfied enough. “By the way, what are you wearing, Mr Nick?”

(Why is everyone so bothered by my fashion choices today?)

“It’s, uh, a lot colder here in Germany than it is back where I’m from,” Phoenix deflects as smoothly as he can.

She wrinkles her nose and looks at Miles. “Do you always let him dress like that?”

Phoenix balks. “Hang on, ‘let’ me?!”

Of course, Miles stays stone cold and deadpan. “Frankly, I prefer not to acknowledge it.”

(What’s that supposed to mean?!)

“We’re here for a reason,” Phoenix decides to prompt. “As fun as this conversation is for me.”

“Indeed,” Miles also relents. “We have some questions to ask, regarding your whereabouts on the night of the incident.”

Greta immediately frowns. “We went to bed straight after dinner. Mama said goodnight to us about an hour or so later, but nothing else happened. Isn’t that right, Hans?”

At his sister’s question, Hans fidgets on the sofa, but nods.

Phoenix doesn’t even need the magatama, he’s seen this kind of thing dozens of times before on his own daughter. Not that she ever really misbehaves. Trucy was a lot worse when she first came into his life, constantly walking on eggshells like she was afraid he’d send her away. The first time she did something even remotely punishable, Phoenix had actually celebrated the event. Nowadays he thinks she’s more comfortable, but her wrongdoings are still more or less limited to minor incidents like accidentally breaking things during her magic rehearsals.  

In any case, Phoenix knows what ‘I did something I wasn’t supposed to’ looks like on an eight year old. Unfortunately, the whole sense of parental authority thing is one of his weaker points. With Trucy, it usually suits him just fine to talk to her on a level playing field, but not all kids respond to that.

“Are you sure about that, Hans?”

Rather than cracking under the pressure of being questioned, it’s like he finds new resolve. “Yes, I didn’t leave the room all night.”

Of course, chains dance across Phoenix’s vision, and two locks slide into place over the boy’s chest. Somehow, it’s a bit of a relief. The smaller the secret, the better. Phoenix knows he can easily prove that Hans was in the cellar, but that feels like it might only be good enough for the one lock. It seems even more likely that he witnessed something else.

Phoenix’s hand encloses around the magatama as he pulls it from his pocket. “Sorry, Hans, but I think you’re hiding something. We’re not here to get you in any trouble for leaving the room, promise, we just want to know what happened.”

Still defiant, Hans turns his head. “No comment.”

“Alright,” Phoenix nods, and finally presents the small torch to him. “Then you don’t recognise this?” The chains start to rattle, when Hans looks at it.

“It’s his,” Greta confirms when he doesn’t immediately fess up, folding her arms. “What?” She directs towards her brother, who’s staring at her in betrayal. “They’d figure it out eventually.”

“We found it down in the cellar,” Phoenix continues. “Now, since Interpol have kept you cooped up this whole time, we know the only chance you could have had to go down there was the night of the murder. So unless someone else took it-“

Hans perks up momentarily. “I mean, they could have!”

Miles scoffs at the suggestion. “Have you forgotten that this house is the centre of an active murder investigation? You know we could have this torch dusted for fingerprints within minutes.”

One of the locks shatters, as Hans’ shoulders deflate. “Fine! I- I woke up during the storm, and I was kind of hungry, so I went downstairs into the pantry. I couldn’t find any snacks I wanted, and then I heard some really loud thunder, so I came back upstairs after that.”

“The pantry?” Phoenix thinks aloud. “That might make sense, but it doesn’t explain why we found the torch in the wine cellar. It’s not like there would have been food down there.”

“He’s probably too embarrassed to say, Mr Nick,” Greta swings herself off the sofa, like she’s truly abandoning any kind of natural alliance they may have had, “but Hans is really scared of storms. Any time there’s a big one while we’re here in Germany, he curls up and cries like a baby in the cellar.”

Hans doesn’t actually say anything, but his face turns slightly red as he grits his teeth.

Phoenix shoots Miles a look. “One to go.”

Hans squints at them. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Miles says carefully, “that there’s still something you’re not telling us.”

There are a few ways to go about this. Phoenix doesn’t really have anything else in the way of evidence. He could try and press at Hans’ story, but there’s no guarantee he’ll slip up. Considering Phoenix had warned Franziska about it earlier, he’s also conscious that he’s pretty far away from Kurain, if he gets something wrong. And he’d rather not risk permanent soul damage.

“I know I’m not supposed to wander around here at night,” Hans looks at the floor. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Miles leans forward, though, his grey eyes almost lighting up. “Let’s review your movements. You woke up and went into the pantry via the kitchen, torch in hand. At some point, you were startled by a clap of thunder, and ventured into the wine cellar. You turned the overhead light on, and headed for a tight spot behind one of the wine racks, which is where we discovered your torch. I don’t doubt your reasoning for this, it’s natural to seek a confined, secure space if you were afraid of the storm. Do you agree with this version of events so far?”

Hans looks at him hesitantly. “I didn’t touch the light in the room, since I still had my torch. The rest is the truth.”

A kind of recognition flickers in Miles’ expression, but he keeps pressing on smoothly. “So far, your actions are logical, but there’s a problem: the fact that your torch was abandoned.”

“I don’t know,” Hans grips his own sleeve. “I probably just forgot it or something.”

Miles, though, casually reclines and tuts as he waves his finger. “Unlikely. You entered the cellar with the torch, yet left without it. There doesn’t seem to be a clear reason you would put it down willingly, especially if you were relying on it as your light source. That suggests something must have spooked you.”

“I told you,” Hans says. “I didn’t like the noises. It got really loud at one point! T-there was a small cubby hole right next to where I was sitting, so I ended up putting the torch down and crawling into it. The noises calmed down for a bit, so I took the chance to run back upstairs. I didn’t have time to pick the torch back up.”

“That’s interesting,” Miles raises an eyebrow. “Considering the reason you went into the cellar in the first place was to hide from the noises. According to your sister, this is your standard response. If anything, you were already in your ideal location. That suggests something else scared you, enough to override your fear of storms.”

“I-I just wasn’t thinking straight.”

Hans almost looks on the verge of tears, provoking a natural reaction in Phoenix to want to stop this, now. But they’re so close.

“There are some other flaws in your story,” Miles leans back in again. “I have seen where you claim you hid. The old ventilation shaft. Even if you were scared, crawling into such a confined, unnatural space is an extreme response. Furthermore, and even more damming, is your story about the lights. I was surprised when you said that you didn’t turn the overhead lights on, but I believe you, which means you were navigating by torch light. However, the torch was turned off when we discovered it, and the batteries clearly haven’t run down. That would mean that you left the cellar in complete darkness. What possible reason could you have for doing such a thing?”

His hands clench into small fists on top of his knees. “It’s just like I said. I couldn’t use it when I went into that shaft, and I forgot pick it up again when I left the cellar.”

“Hmph,” Miles rubs at his temple smugly. “I’m afraid you’re in a checkmating net, Hans. Even if I could accept your decision to retreat to that shaft as an irrational moment, it doesn’t explain why you would also turn off the torch. Both of these actions taken together suggest one thing only: you were hiding.” Miles maintains his serious glare, only letting it hang for a moment. “Furthermore, your position in the cellar was essentially tucked behind a wine rack, with no direct pathway to the stairs. As you don’t deny that the torch was turned off, you surely wouldn’t have been able to see anything. In your circumstances, it would have been impossible to find your way out of the cellar quickly, not without running into one of the many wine racks. And if you took the time to carefully feel your way to the exit, it almost certainly would have occurred to you to simply go back for the torch. The only conclusion is that, by the time you exited the room, the overhead light was instead switched on. Hans,” he says, gearing up for the final blow, “the only logical explanation is that another person was present.”

Hans’ eyes widen in terror, almost like he’s reliving the memory, as the remaining psyche-lock fizzles away. "I... I didn’t mean to lie." His voice is small, shaky. "I just-"

To Phoenix’s surprise, beyond Han’s revelation, Miles blinks like he’s snapping out of something. “Don’t… get upset-“

Hans rubs at his nose, looking down at the floor. "I-I knew I should've said something when they found Herr Stiltskin. But I got scared. I didn’t see who it was… and then when they said my Papa was missing during dinner, I-“

(The poor kid thought his dad might’ve actually done it…)

After a bout of hesitation, Miles puts a hand on Hans’ shoulder and squeezes. “I am not… angry with you. But I need to know the truth.”

Hans shudders. “I didn’t want to make anything worse for Papa! And… when I thought about mentioning it, I kept feeling like it was too late.”

“I understand your fear,” Miles says after a deep exhale. “But, if you truly want to pursue law in the future, you must understand the importance of a full and clean testimony. A prosecutor’s duty is not to win, but to seek the truth, no matter how difficult it may be."

“I messed up,” Hans frowns.

“A mistake,” Miles says evenly. “But one you can still remedy. You must tell us the full truth.”

After a moment, a certain kind of calm drapes itself over Hans, and he nods fiercely. “Okay. I already told you everything that happened at first. And… I really did hear a loud noise down there. But then the wall started to move.”  

“Hold on,” Phoenix can’t help himself from jumping in, “move?”

Hans chews on his lip. “I-I think so? I also heard footsteps, so I panicked and turned off the torch, and crawled backwards into that shaft... just so I could keep a look out. I couldn’t see much from that angle, but I’m sure someone came out from the wall. Like a ghost! It was really dark, so I couldn’t see anything about them. They stayed in the cellar for ages, so I tried to crawl backwards in case they came near me, but then I think the tunnel ended, because my feet were dangling off the edge of something. I had to go back the way I came and wait there. The light in the room was turned on at that point, but I still couldn’t really see whoever it was, other than them going back into the wall again. A-at that point I just ran away as fast as I could.”

Miles’ jaw is tight. “So there is an entrance after all?”

“I don’t know,” Hans shrugs. “I didn’t actually see it. But, I guess there must have been. Ghosts aren’t really real. And…” he seems to think something through, “I bet that shaft goes through to the other side. I could go and check it out!”

“Absolutely not,” Miles says firmly.

Hans pouts. “But, I can definitely fit! I crawled all the way through it before, remember?”

“It’s not that we think you can’t do it,” Phoenix tries to be gentle, “but it could be dangerous. We have no idea how stable this tunnel is, and you could risk getting trapped on the other side.”

Miles looks vaguely offended at the idea of it even being considered. "Hans, your involvement in this case is over. You will not be putting yourself in danger."

Hans frowns. "But-"

"No."

While a part of Phoenix is vindicated by the news, it’s definitely concerning. Hans most likely almost ran into the murderer that night, and Phoenix doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t managed to run away. With the kids not an option, though, it’s hard to imagine how they’re going to ever investigate the entrance, considering they found no trace of it earlier.

After a moment of consideration, Hans slumps. “Fine. But I did offer!”

(Well, at least we don’t need to worry about him sneaking off to do something dangerous. Hopefully.)

(…Wait a minute.)

It suddenly dawns on Phoenix that a certain voice had been remarkably silent, during that questioning.

“Uh,” Phoenix tries his best to be subtle. “Did Greta go somewhere, by the way?”

Hans spins his head in confusion. “But she was here just a second ago?”

Miles tenses in realisation, and immediately goes to his feet. “We need to find her. Now.”

Chapter Text

Phoenix follows right after Miles. “You don’t think-“

“I sincerely hope not,” Miles says, breaking into a speedwalk pace. It’s pretty obvious that he’s not sure, though.

Phoenix isn’t spared from feeling that pit of terror coil up within him. He hadn’t noticed when Greta disappeared, but it’s definitely possible that it was after Hans mentioned the ventilation shaft. If she acted on that information… While this feeling isn’t new to Phoenix, since kids can be super slippery sometimes, it doesn’t stop the panic sensation. Objectively, he knows he’s managed to lose Trucy within the tiny domain of his apartment more times than he likes to admit, and always finds her eventually. Though, there are definitely more dangerous nooks and crannies in a huge mansion like this.

“Greta!” Miles almost immediately shouts as they storm back down into the wine cellar.

Approaching the suspected wall, mercifully a voice sounds out almost immediately. “Is that you, Uncle Miles?”

The man in question almost slumps in relief. “What do you think you’re doing?! Come back at once!”

“Too late!” Her voice echoes. “I’m already nearly through!”

“This is highly reckless!” Miles complains, approaching the ventilation shaft with a certain kind of scrutiny, like he’s debating whether he can somehow fit into it himself.

“…Do you see anything, at least?” Phoenix tries. The damage is already done, at this point.

“I think so! Hold on, I’m dropping down!”

Miles’ jaw tightens. “Dropping?!”

A few seconds later, there’s a loud, mechanical creaking noise. Phoenix instinctively jerks back as the wall groans, shifting outwards. A small portion of dust unsettles from between the cracks. Sure enough, impossibly slowly, the wall starts to come open– wine racks and all. On the other side, Greta stands victorious, hands on her hips.

“Hmph,” Greta says, “that was pretty easy, actually.”

Phoenix is almost beyond words. Though he’d been sure an entrance had to exist down here, seeing it in practice is a whole other thing. He studies the ‘door’ as much as he can possibly process in the moment, noting that it still doesn’t appear like there’s a way to open it from the cellar side. It must be a one-way system by design.

Miles looks at Greta squarely. “You are to never do something like that again.”

Greta just blinks at him. “But it worked-“

“This is a non-negotiable. If your mother finds out about this-“

Somehow, Greta has the nerve to roll her eyes. “Well, it’s not like I was going to tell her!”

“Uhm,” Hans says, standing sheepishly behind them, “I won’t tell anyone either.”

Miles mutters something in German which Phoenix is pretty sure isn’t completely child appropriate. “Just- return back upstairs.”

Hans tilts his head. “Are you going in there?”

“Yes,” Miles folds his arms. “You will not be accompanying us, and don’t even think of trying to crawl through that vent again.”

Greta hesitates. “What if you get stuck in there?”

Phoenix takes a deep breath. “Well, at least you know where we are, right? Hans,” he gestures with his torch, “do you mind if I hang on to this a little longer?”

“You probably need it more than me,” Hans says. “We’ll go back upstairs, promise!”

Miles exhales sharply and, with clear reluctance, turns his back on the children. “Come on, Wright. Let’s make haste.”

With one final glance at the kids, Phoenix flicks on the torch and steps into the passage after Miles. Wordlessly, Miles pulls the door only part shut behind them. Admittedly, that sets Phoenix’s nerves on edge a little, because the killer probably wouldn’t be happy to see their secret tunnel exposed, but he also understands the logic. The door can’t be too complicated, since Greta managed to get it open easily, but it’s probably a better idea to avoid the risk of trapping themselves down here.

There’s a small platform immediately from the entrance, but it quickly gives way to a small set of steps. Phoenix flashes the torch around, looking to gain a sense of direction. The dark passage seems to branch out in two ways, one straight ahead, and one doubling back underneath the steps.

“If there’s an entrance to the study,” Miles says, “it’ll be in this direction.”  

Phoenix nods, following his lead as they head off straight. The air, as they move further away from the shaft, turns thick and stale, carrying the scent of aged wine and damp stone. There’s a hint of something oily and chemical underneath it, but Phoenix can’t quite think of what it reminds him of. The passage is narrow, though not quite enough to force them to single file. Still, it’s definitely cramped, their shoulders practically bumping with each step, trying to avoid scraping into the uneven stone walls. The torch illuminates a few marks and scratches along the floor, hinting at past use.

“Go ahead,” Miles says all of a sudden, his voice echoing off the walls slightly. “Get it out of your system.”

“Get what out of my system?”

“Your gloating,” he doesn’t look at him. "I can practically feel you vibrating with it. Just do it now and spare me the slow, painful buildup."

(I wasn’t even thinking about that!)

Phoenix tries not to grit his teeth too hard. “Considering you brought it up, it kind of sounds like you want to hear it.”

“Nghk! I just want you to get it over with.”

He considers it for a moment, before clearing his throat and straightening his posture. “Well, Edgeworth, in that case I’ll graciously accept your admission that I was, in fact, right about there being an entrance all along. I know how hard it is for you, to accept being proven wrong.”

“Objection!” Miles interjects sharply, though it doesn’t even cause Phoenix to flinch. “I said that the entrance should have been blocked off. That is a completely different statement from saying it never existed.”

Phoenix stops in his tracks, a smirk growing on his face. “I think I just heard you strain a muscle from backpedalling so hard.”

Miles grips himself momentarily, brow creasing like he’s in pain, before relaxing again. He says nothing, turning back around to continue down the passageway. Unfortunately for him, Phoenix is the one carrying the torch, so it’s not like he can actually storm off very far.

(The silent treatment, then, is it?)

(…Even though you’re the one who asked for it in the first place.)

“This passage is creepy anyway,” Phoenix tries to change the subject. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t purpose built for creepy mansion reasons. I wonder what it was for…”

Almost immediately, Miles takes the bait. “Since we investigated the mausoleum thoroughly, I doubt there’s a connection there. Had we travelled the opposite direction, based on the blueprints, it should connect to the disused wine press house, though it’s blocked off to a degree that would have prevented an escape that way. This tunnel was likely for something as simple as conveniently transporting wine casks. Not that any has been produced here for at least the last century, as far as I’m aware… Or that it explains why it continues in our current direction.”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix hums, “I’m starting to feel like you might offer me some fine Amontillado any minute now.”

It’s Miles’ turn to stop, staring at Phoenix with a level of scrutiny like his face is a crime scene. “I never pegged you for a Poe fan.”

“Well, fan might be a stretch…”

He still looks sceptical, though. “You.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Phoenix can’t help but feel a little offended. “I read things.”

It shouldn’t be that surprising. He was firmly into the theatre kid niche in the early 2000s, which had its crossovers with other subcultures. Of course he had a ‘phase’, which may have involved a few poems and short stories here and there. It’s why he still reflexively shudders at the sound of the G5 note. Phoenix decides to keep this information to himself, though, realising with a deep twist of fear that Larry might actually have photos of it somewhere, should Miles think to look into it.  

“Hmph,” Miles folds his arms. “Every time I visited your office, the books were noticeably dusty. Though, perhaps your apparent dedication to gothic literature explains your abysmal knowledge of legal precedent.”

(Two can play at this game.)

“You’re one to talk,” Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Like you don’t secretly stash volumes of the Steel Samurai manga in your case files.”  

Miles’ eyes widen. “Wright! When did you go through my things?!”

Honestly, Phoenix practically chokes on his laughter. “Hold on. You know that was a bluff? You actually-“

“Nghhh,” Miles lets out, pained. “I’m not answering that. But for the record, I don’t ‘stash’ anything.” His fists clench tight, as his face turns a certain shade of pink. “…I should have seen that coming.”

“Well,” Phoenix says, “I do kind of do this professionally, nowadays. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“…As opposed to doing this unprofessionally in court, previously?”

“Touché.” He looks at him sideways. “Pretty lucky guess, though.”

“Wright.”

He grins. “Look, as long as you’re not planning to start bricking me up down here, we’re all good.”

“Don’t tempt me!”

It’s kind of fun, riling him up like this. There can be a fine line, when it comes to Miles, but he doesn’t seem like he’s actually upset. In fact, deep down, Phoenix is pretty sure he enjoys this kind of ribbing. It’s not like Phoenix is ever going to say no to ruffling Miles’ feathers a little, especially if he’s going to offer himself up on a platter like this.

(…this is heading into dangerous territory.)

All of those thoughts are drowned out, though, by the appearance of a large metal door built right into a carved out section of the stone walls. It’s soundly shut, with an old-fashioned keypad lock bolted right beside it. Unlike the rough, far older stone around them, it looks surprisingly well maintained.

“That’s not an original feature,” Miles says.

Phoenix bites back any comment about stating the obvious. “I guess that’s our ticket into the study?”

Miles’ expression darkens. “No. Surely we’re too low down for that. This is something different.”

“What was the deal with von Karma anyway?” Phoenix voices aloud, in sheer amazement more than anything. “Seriously? I know the guy was corrupt, but a secret villain’s lair under his house? That’s something else.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Miles says, though there’s no venom. “Neither of us know what lies beyond this wall, yet.”

Phoenix flashes the torch towards the keypad. “Speaking of which, you don’t happen to have any fingerprint powder on you, do you? None of the numbers look all that faded with wear or anything. But maybe the killer left some trace behind if they used it recently. I’m not sure they’d bother to wipe it down if they didn’t think anyone would find this entrance in the first place…” No immediate response comes, so Phoenix looks at Miles directly. “Edgeworth? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he turns his head away, looking off to the side. “That was just… insightful.”

Phoenix really does roll his eyes then, guessing that Miles is just being snippy from his earlier embarrassment. “What? I picked up a thing or two. It’s not all luck and bluffs, you know.”

“I don’t have any powder,” Miles responds simply.

It’s not all that surprising, but Phoenix feels like a certain weight is pressing on him. He’s not ready to accept another dead end in this case. “Maybe we can try and work out the code, then? Though I guess it won’t be something obvious like Franziska’s birthday…”

Something appears to wake Miles out of his brief daze. “Allow me.”

He stands in front of the keypad for a moment, before quickly punching in four numbers. Almost immediately, there’s a beep, and a clicking sound like locks sliding comes from the door.

“Huh,” Phoenix says. “What was it?”

Miles’ voice comes out stiff. “Simply, 1111. A lucky guess.”

He does the honours of pulling the door open, still straining under the effort. A harsh, white-toned light comes on automatically, revealing what would usually appear to be a relatively basic storage room. That’s all it really is, a few rows of shelves which are lined with boxes and files, though there’s a desk in one of the corners, and a stepladder in the other. It is, however, impossible to ignore the amount of chaotic mess. There are loose papers scattered everywhere, boxes toppled, like the entire place was ransacked.

“Well,” Phoenix says, “I guess we can say the killer was in a rush, if they left this way.”

Miles squints, as they step into the room properly. “This isn’t just a clumsy escape. They were looking for something.”

His eyes rake around the room, something catching his gaze near the stepladder. An air vent is built into the wall right there, curiously hanging open. The more he looks at it, the more aware he becomes of that oily, chemical-like scent permeating the room. Phoenix takes a step closer, lightly registering a bit of dampness under foot.

(A leak from the storm?)

“Look over there,” he points, “what are the chances that vent’s related to our crossbow mystery?”

Miles seems to follow his eyes. “Likely. Can you climb that ladder and take a look?”

Phoenix automatically steps closer, getting his hands on it, before Miles’ true words register. “…Actually, this is a ‘step’ ladder.”

“They’re the exact same thing.”

A familiar burn of annoyance flares up. “I’ve come to accept this kind of thing with Maya, but from you?”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Miles frowns. “A ladder is fundamentally a structure used to ascend or descend from a height. It doesn’t matter if it’s a stepladder or any other kind of ladder. They’re functionally the same.”

Ordinarily, Phoenix wouldn’t bother to argue, but Miles lives by a creed of logic, unlike Maya’s occasional hot takes. “They’re definitely different. A ladder needs to be leaned against a wall. A stepladder is sturdier, and can stand on its own.”

Miles has the nerve to look smug. “Hmph. The fact that you’re defaulting to something so pedantic tells me you have no real argument. A stepladder is just a variant of ladder. The function is the same, so the definition is the same.”

“You’re missing the point!” Phoenix bites back. “Definitions are everything. If we just go around lumping things together because of technicality, then you risk losing nuance.”

“A ladder is a ladder, Wright. You’re just nitpicking.”

Phoenix feels oddly calm. “If you define a ladder as ‘something you can use to climb’, then a step stool would be a ladder too, by your logic?”

“Clearly not!” Miles looks annoyed. “A step stool isn’t designed around-“

He leans forward. “But you said ‘a ladder is anything that helps you ascend or descend from a height’. A step stool helps you climb, so - by your own definition - it’s a ladder. Or why stop there? Maybe that chair over there would work? Who needs a real ladder when you have any old furniture?”

Miles turns his head away, teeth gritted. “You’re being deliberately obtuse. A ladder is a tool designed for climbing safely. A chair isn’t built for that.”

“Ignoring the fact that you’re adding new rules to your definition,” Phoenix quips, “it doesn’t really help your case. Anything can be a tool if you think of a way to use it. How about a pile of books? That’s even got steps, depending on how you align them. Might not be the sturdiest, but it still helps you go up. How about it, Edgeworth,” he toes at some of the files that are already scattered on the floor, “behold! A ladder!”

“Don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re winning this debate,” Miles says. “Especially when you’re just wilfully ignoring what I said. Which, I remind you, was not that anything that helps you climb is automatically a ladder.”

He can’t wipe the grin from his face, not even caring too much about being the ‘winner’ anyway at this point, he just wants to push Miles’ buttons a little more. “I suppose I could climb a tree if I needed to. Trees are basically ladders, right? Hey, I could even climb you, Edgeworth.”

Miles makes a choking noise like a dying cat, and then Phoenix realises exactly what he just said. There’s a part of him that knows he could try and defuse it, make it clear that he didn’t mean anything weird. But another part of him is just about curious enough to leave the ball firmly in Miles’ court.

“Just… climb it. You’re being… ridiculous, and we’re wasting time.”

Phoenix does actually need to concede that point. Without further comment, he climbs up the stepladder, which brings him face to face with the open vent. Though he’d been expecting something, the sight of burnt matches almost catches him off guard. It’s the exact kind of blatant, physical evidence they’ve really been missing.

“Matches,” he says. “I guess this confirms… a lot of things, actually. Do you have gloves or anything?”

Miles hands them over without question, also producing a small sterile looking bag. Perhaps, in his less experienced days, Phoenix might have just grabbed them without thinking about it. At least he has the forethought now to do his best to avoid destroying potential forensic evidence. Assuming the killer touched them directly.

New evidence added

“This makes the timeline clearer,” Miles observes. “The killer travelled here from the study, ignited the rig to set off the crossbow, and eventually left the scene through the passage. Though, not without combing through these files first. We should investigate what they were after.”

Phoenix carefully climbs down from the stepladder. “Just a hunch, maybe,” he starts, “but you don’t think these are those records you mentioned you wanted to look into when we first got here? The ones you said might be kind of incriminating for von Karma?”

Miles picks one of the pages from the floor, squinting as he scan reads it. “This certainly seems to be a reference to one of his trials.”

A sudden alertness comes over Phoenix, the axis of his mind twisting itself over, and it’s like a bunch of pieces sliding into place all at once.

“…I think I owe Trucy an ice cream.”

“I’m sure you do,” Miles says nonchalantly, thumbing through some of the files still on the shelf, “but I fail to see how that’s relevant currently.”

Phoenix shakes his head. “She was right. Of course she was right. This was all just… misdirection.”

“Hadn’t we established that already?” Miles turns to look at him properly. “The killer set off an elaborate mechanism to divert the investigation away from the poisoning at first, also potentially framing others, and casting the entire timeline into doubt. Or perhaps they didn’t know we’d be able to detect the poison, or even attempt to look for it.”

Phoenix exhales, his mind whirling in a rush. It’s difficult to even get the thoughts straight, to explain them in a way that makes sense. Trucy had told him, hadn’t she? Sometimes the best type of misdirection is when you tell the audience you’re doing one trick, but then you reveal you were doing a whole other trick all along.

“All of that’s true,” he starts, “but it’s deeper than that. The motive itself, Edgeworth. We agreed, it’s hard to come up with a strong enough reason to explain why Stiltskin was killed. Even if the goal was to access von Karma’s will, right? That’s what you suggested earlier. But… from the autopsy report, we know that one of the drugs involved in poisoning him could be used as a sedative. If the killer just wanted to get a look at the will, or even steal a page, why wouldn’t they just knock Stiltskin out instead? They clearly had the means to do it… So, none of it explains why Stiltskin was murdered. In fact, without the murder, they might have gotten away with sneaking into the study without anyone finding out about it at all. Which means that murder must have been part of the end goal, too, and they wanted a spectacle. What if, all along, the murder itself was just meant to be misdirection. To keep everyone distracted from investigating their real goal.”

(…Not that I’m fully there with figuring out what that is yet.)

An almost rigid quiet goes over Miles, as he considers it. It lasts long enough that Phoenix starts to doubt himself. Maybe everything he just spewed out was just deluded madness. Though, it doesn’t feel wrong. The buzz working through him is almost exactly like he’s about to lay down a royal flush against an opponent who went all in.

“…People have certainly killed for less,” Miles says eventually.

“Then it’s something to do with von Karma’s records,” Phoenix thinks, “There must be something here worth killing for.”

Right then, Miles seems to spot something out of the corner of his eye. “Eureka! There.  On the desk. Those papers are laid out much neater than the others.” He practically marches over to it, grasping a page like some kind of trophy. “Wright, this is a page from the will. You… I can hardly… I believe you’ve solved it.”

“Don’t thank me,” he shrugs. “I guess Trucy figured it out immediately...”

Something in Miles falters. “…Indeed. Why were you discussing an active murder investigation with your ten year old daughter?”

Phoenix fiddles with the end of his scarf sheepishly. “She just… sees things differently. Sometimes. I didn’t give her that many details.”

Surprisingly, Miles lets out a half chuckle. “Then I suppose I should be requesting her assistance next time I’m stuck on a complex case, rather than yours.”

“Fine by me,” he grins, trying to mask a bit of his relief. “I’d still have to come with her, so what? A free trip, and you’d be babysitting? Sounds like a dream.”

“Should I be concerned about your willingness to foist your work off onto your child?”

“Maybe, if it wasn’t Trucy,” Phoenix says. “That kind of thing would be better than summer camp to her, really.”

A wry smile grows, just subtly, on Miles’ lips. “Then I’ll consider it.”

“What does the will say, anyway?” Phoenix’s mind drifts back to the case.  

Miles’ eyes rake over the page quickly, his expression replaced by a concerned frown. “The matter of the legacy shall be handled accordingly, per the directives established within the estate. Those stored below which remain unworthy shall return to silence, specifically those requiring post-trial amendment. As for the disciple, the final weight must not be borne. Cut away what must be cut away, according to existing protocols. Ensure the rest of my affairs remain in order.”

New evidence added

Phoenix blinks. “That… made barely any sense.”

“It’s written in German,” Miles scowls. “I can only translate so well on the spot.”

He tilts his head. “And? Is it clearer in German?”

“No.”

(Trust von Karma to be difficult.)

“I guess it’s some kind of instruction?” Phoenix starts. “‘Those stored below’ could mean the records in this room.  Something he wanted to happen involving his records, then, which he couldn’t do himself from prison...”

Miles thinks for a moment. “It stands to reason that he wanted some of his records destroyed. Though not all of them, for his ‘legacy’. I’ll bet my hat they’re related to his… tampering with evidence.”

Phoenix looks over at the stacks of records, some still in place on the shelf, and kind of wishes that von Karma had subscribed to the Dewey decimal system. Almost by silent agreement, he and Miles start to take a look through them, as though that’ll give the will page more context. Despite the mess, he can tell that what’s left on the floor wouldn’t be enough to fill up the whole shelf.

Phoenix decides to focus on one of the areas that doesn’t appear to have been carded through, scanning the codes marking their sides for anything that resembles a pattern. Some hauntingly familiar letters quickly catch his attention.

As discreetly as he can, he pulls out a record with the code ‘DL-6 PTA’ emblazoned on the side. Phoenix knows for a fact that von Karma had no direct involvement with the prosecution of that case, though given everything else he’s not so surprised to see records of it here. Without thinking hard about it, he quickly shoves it between some of the other paper evidence they’ve gathered. He doesn’t want to tell Miles about it now though, not with the risk of really throwing him off from the current investigation, but he might want to see it someday.

(We’ll have to report this to Interpol, obviously. And I can only see them confiscating everything...)

New evidence added 

Having stashed the file, the one sitting behind it is revealed, this time again with the acronym ‘PTA’ running up the spine.

“Hey, I think I found something,” he calls, brandishing the file.

“Post-trial amendment,” Miles spells out. “Whatever it stands to mean, it looks like he wanted these gone.”

 Phoenix rakes through a few more documents, until he sees another one. “There are more labelled like that over here.”

Miles frowns. “Yet there are none, in the sections the killer clearly searched. Perhaps they were interrupted during the process somehow. It looks like they may have absconded with the other records.”

“At least there are some left,” Phoenix tries.

“I can only hope what remains produces a traceable pattern,” Miles says, through a half grimace. “Though that’s wishful thinking. In any case, this room should be considered an extension of the crime scene, which can be examined in detail later. We should get the rest of the investigation squared away.”

Phoenix nods, starting to feel a little lightheaded. “So, are we going with the Liesel theory?”

“She fits the profile,” Miles responds calmly. “Her continued loyalty to von Karma is apparent. She had the best opportunity. Not to mention the evidence discovered in her own room. But you don’t agree?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Nothing here would explain why the magatama didn’t react, when she said she didn’t leave the kitchen that night.”

“I can’t put my whole faith in an occultist object which may be unreliable,” Miles points out. “And it does nothing to help the case in a court of law.”

“I don’t think she’s innocent,” Phoenix says. “At least, she’s probably guilty of something. But I don’t think she acted alone, either. There are too many holes in it.”

 Miles folds his arms. “But we’re lacking in other likely accomplices. Unless you believe Herr Wolfe to be involved.”

Phoenix swallows. “The magatama didn’t react earlier either, when he was questioned. According to Franziska, he said something about carrying out his duties that night… which could mean following von Karma’s instructions. But he also directly said that he didn’t commit murder.”

It’s like Miles’ eyes glaze over for a moment, lost in his own mind as he works it through. “He wouldn’t have,” Miles says, almost hesitant, “if he’s only responsible for some of the elements. We don’t know that he dosed the wine. The only elements that required leaving the kitchen were the crossbow and file theft. And the victim would already be dead. Anything after that point indeed wouldn’t be murder, perhaps by a layperson’s understanding.” But then he shakes his head. “At the very least, let’s confirm this room’s connection to the study for definite.”

Phoenix nods, glancing toward the second door at the far end of the room. It’s not hidden like the passage they entered through, just a solid, kind of standard door. Phoenix can’t help but feel a little nervous, considering they don’t know for sure where it leads. Technically they’re still at or slightly below the basement level, so the secret villain lair could be possible.

“Guess that’s the way out… or in?”

Miles steps towards it, hand stilling on the handle. “It makes sense. Von Karma wouldn’t have wanted to leave sensitive files accessible only through a cellar tunnel. Though, that exit probably ensured a quick escape route if needed.”

The door opens easily under Miles’ grip, revealing a narrow, well-kept staircase leading upward. Unlike the basement’s rough stone, the walls here are polished wood, seamlessly blending with the refined decor of the house above. There’s even a well-placed ventilation duct running along the ceiling, splitting off into both the rooms on either side of the staircase.

“Seems like a proper route,” Phoenix says. “Not just a secret tunnel.”

Miles nods as he starts his ascent. "It was likely designed to be functional. If someone needed to retrieve or dispose of files discreetly, they could do so without being seen using the main doors."

"Right. So, y’know,” Phoenix thinks, “completely normal and not at all suspicious estate design."

Miles ignores him, his focus on the top of the stairs, where another door stands flush against the wall. Unlike the one below, this one is subtly reinforced, the kind of design that wouldn’t budge without the right mechanism.

Phoenix tilts his head. “Locked?”

A couple of steps above him, Miles presses a hand against it experimentally, then shifts his weight forward. A faint click sounds out as a latch disengages, and the door swings open smoothly, revealing the study. Phoenix follows Miles out quickly, as they both emerge from the space previously occupied by one of the built-in bookshelves.

Chapter Text

Last time Phoenix saw this room in person, he was pretty distracted by the shock of the dead body. But even in hindsight, he doesn’t think he would have noticed anything suspicious about the secondary entrance they find themselves in, which seems to be part of the built in bookshelves. A part of him can’t even bring himself to care about how, precisely, it’s opened up from the study side. He’s just kind of relieved to be above ground again.

Phoenix exhales. "Well. That settles it."

Miles looks back at him like he’s about to say something, but quickly stops before he can even open his mouth.

“Well, well. Look who actually figured it out.”

Automatically, Phoenix spins towards the source of the voice. There, seated with perfect posture on one of the sofas, is Liesel Falschen. There’s nobody else in the room supervising her, which seems a little concerning, but at least she’s handcuffed. For someone in her situation, she looks far too relaxed.

She tilts her head, but looks otherwise uninterested. "Congratulations, I suppose. You two are officially doing a better job than Interpol."

Miles blinks, caught off guard. He steps forward sharply, eyes narrowing. "Why are you here?”

“They moved me here during questioning,” she says flatly. “Tried to have me explain how this room could be accessed when the door to the hall is locked. Given your discovery, it seems their efforts were a waste of time.”

Phoenix can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “They just left you alone in here?”

Liesel shrugs, as much as she’s able to with the cuffs. “Maybe they’re incompetent. I am surprised, that you figured it out as dozens of their agents flounder outdoors.”

Miles, clearly unimpressed, folds his arms. "What’s truly surprising is that Interpol would be reckless enough to leave a primary suspect unsupervised at the crime scene itself.”

Liesel hums. “Supposedly, they’ve swept this room multiple times and found nothing further,” she looks over towards the desk. “Shame about the blood stains. I will not be able to remove it easily.”

“Cleaning should be the least of your concerns,” Miles says.

“A shame,” Liesel says. “You always did show so much promise. Last time you walked away from this house, you were still every bit the perfect protégé,” she tuts. “And now… Well, you turned out to be ungrateful after all.”

Miles' posture tenses slightly, but his voice remains even. “What precisely is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me,” Liesel replies. “After everything Manfred von Karma did for you. After he took you in, gave you a future, made you the prosecutor you are… You just turned your back on everything as though it was nothing.”

Miles’ composure tightens again, but his voice remains measured. “I hardly think von Karma’s ‘mentorship’ absolved him of… everything else.”

“Of course you’d say that. You enjoy being the noble little defector, don’t you? You wouldn’t even have a career if it weren’t for him!” Liesel snaps. “Everything you are, he made you.”

Miles slams a hand down on the nearest surface, which happens to be part of one of the bookshelves, hard. Liesel doesn’t flinch.

“You’re wrong about that, in more ways than one… You never used to be bitter like this. I understand some resentment, but why do you hate me so much?” Something in Miles’ expression flickers, even more frustration creeping into his voice. “You were never unkind to me, before. Even when I first came here… You used to make strudel.”

“That was a long time ago,” Liesel responds, exhaling sharply. “Before you publicly denounced everything.”  

That’s something that catches Phoenix off balance. “Wait, what?”

Liesel’s eyes flick to him. “Oh, he didn’t tell you?” She lets out a dry chuckle. “Of course. Why would he?”

Phoenix ignores her, looking at Miles directly. “Denounced what, exactly?”

Miles looks away, jaw tight.

Liesel’s lips press thin. “After his dramatic return to prosecution in Germany, of course. He made his disdain a point. What was the question that court reporter asked again? Something about how the unflappable Prosecutor Edgeworth aimed to differentiate himself from those who came before him, and everyone else who stands in court today? By abandoning the ill-advised pursuit of victory and following only the truth,” she sneers, “that’s what he said.”

Phoenix feels like he’s missing something. “…And how is that bad, exactly?”

“…The question was a little more pointed than that,” Miles finally says quietly. “Some within the legal sphere interpreted it as a personal sleight, by implication that they were behaving in the opposite way. ‘Too many prosecutors have mistaken their own egos for justice’. I did not mention anyone specifically, though.” He re-trains his eyes on Liesel. “And even Franziska wasn’t as angered by my stance as you seem to be.”

(Okay, honestly, pissing off a bunch of German lawyers isn’t that surprising for Miles.)

Thinking about it, there really has been a change, at least as far as Phoenix knows. Even if Franziska hasn’t made anything like a public statement, it’s clear enough that she dropped the ceaseless pursuit of perfection a long time ago, even if she pretends otherwise for the sake of her bravado. He saw signs of it, during the case at Hazakura Temple, and it’s been two years since then. Maybe it wasn’t always the case, but Franziska and Miles seem to be in a good place now at least.  She’s not holding some kind of grudge against Miles for abandoning the principles they were raised to follow.

(So why does Liesel Falschen care so much?)

Liesel scoffs. “Please. Everyone knew what you meant. You also said there was no legacy worth preserving. There you were, suddenly preaching about truth over victory, justice over perfection. Ever above it all. As if that wasn’t a direct condemnation of the man who made you what you are.” She leans forward, eyes burning. “Do you have any idea how much you humiliated him? After everything he did for you?”

Miles meets her gaze without wavering. “You mean after everything he did to me.”

Objectively, Phoenix knows this isn’t going anywhere at this point. No matter how well Miles can outwardly keep his cool, the cracks are starting to show. Too much more of this kind of poking, and Miles might just shatter. Phoenix isn’t entirely sure what that would look like, but it’s definitely not good. Phoenix knows it’s not his place to get involved in this. But even though he knows Miles is capable of fighting his own battles… he shouldn’t always have to.

“I still don’t get it,” Phoenix cuts in. “What exactly do you think he owes von Karma? The man was a criminal.”

Liesel’s glare shifts to him. “You say that so easily.”

“Because it’s true!” Phoenix feels heat bubble in his chest. “He was convicted on two counts of first-degree murder.”

(Plus a couple of assault with a taser charges for good measure. Thanks for that one, von Karma…)

He almost misses it, but something flickers in Liesel’s eyes, then. Some kind of discomfort, at least. Phoenix can’t read her entirely, so he’s going to have to do a bit of guess work, but her unease doesn’t seem to be guilt. It’s a risk, but…

“…You didn’t know, did you?” The way she tenses tells him he’s on the right track. “You were just as surprised as everyone else, to find out the truth.”

Liesel looks away from him. “Why would I have known?”

Phoenix shrugs. “You worked for him back then, didn’t you? Besides, based on your reaction earlier… you weren’t surprised about the secret path out of this study, which even von Karma’s own daughter didn’t know about. Who knows what other things you might have seen or heard, over the years?”

For the first time, her confidence really seems to waver. “I knew about the bullet wound,” she mutters. “Of course I did. He returned to Germany injured, furious, and with a child who didn’t speak a word of the language clinging to his side. He didn’t leave the estate for months.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “And you didn’t question it?”

 “The less I knew the better,” Liesel says tightly. “It was an… ugly affair.”

(Understatement of the century.)

It ignites a whole other kind of suspicion within Phoenix, though. Stiltskin’s murder had been in cold blood, just to buy time, if Phoenix is right about the motive. Yet Liesel… even if she clearly has some loyalty to Manfred von Karma, following his ways and doctrine for decades… she seems uncomfortable with the idea of murder. She’s definitely not in complete denial, but it seems like she’s clinging onto something.

He'll only know by pressing forward.

“Then I guess you never really believed in him the way you thought,” Phoenix bluffs. “If you were willing to accept everything about von Karma, you wouldn’t be reacting like this.”

Liesel glares at him. “You know nothing.”

“No?” He peers at her curiously, tilting his chin. “Then why don’t you tell me?”

She’s back on guard, though. “Please. What good does it do you, anyway? It’s not like anything I say to you in here could ever be used as evidence. I know how hearsay works. Hah. In fact, I can say anything I want in here, and it means nothing. Even ‘I killed Herr Stiltskin’. Is that enough to satisfy you?”

Phoenix can’t quip back immediately, because he’s choking on heavy, cold air. Tendrils of chains swirl around them, practically growing out of Liesel’s cuffed hands, as five psyche-locks slam into place across her chest. He’d been starting to suspect as much, but… seeing it so clearly is another thing.

(If she’s innocent, then she’s still hiding something big for that many locks.)

“You know what?” He tries his best to retain a more casual demeanour. “I’m not convinced you did.”

That statement finally snaps Miles back into it. “Wright, you can’t be-“

Phoenix ignores him. “You might be a lot of things, but a murderer? I don’t buy it.”

There’s a hint of confusion across her expression. “What ever do you-“

Before she can finish her sentence, Phoenix pulls out the magatama, its soft glow pulsing in the room. Already, he thinks he’s beginning to see all the strange, jagged puzzle pieces for what they are. But he still needs to put everything into place, and Liesel might just be able to help him fill in the remaining blanks.

(First things first, I should start with the basics. I already know part of her story is impossible.)

“We took some notes yesterday,” he says, presenting Liesel’s previous statement from their questioning. “And you said yourself, you didn’t leave the kitchen area all evening. That doesn’t really give you much of an opportunity to commit a murder.”

Liesel scoffs. “If that’s your best, I’m disappointed, Herr Wright. Herr Stiltskin’s death was set in motion before the dinner even began, I had no need to leave my post.”

“That would work,” Phoenix says, “except for the glaring elephant in the room. The door was locked from inside, so whoever killed Stiltskin was in here with him. And even if Stiltskin had locked the door himself for some reason, we know some items like the wine glass were removed from the scene. No, the only explanation is that somebody else went into the study, and it can’t have been you.”

The lock rattles, but doesn’t break, as Liesel remains poised. “Hmph. Of course I was careful with my answers when we spoke yesterday. You were questioning me like a suspect. I said I also went into the pantry, yes? Well, you know where the exit to the passage is now. And the wine cellar is definitely something I consider to be an extension of the pantry!”

Phoenix shakes his head. “It makes sense that you would go into the wine cellar at some point that evening. But you still couldn’t have entered the study that way. We already figured out that it’s a one-way system.”

“I have no idea how you managed to get in yourself, come to mention it,” her teeth are gritted, now. “Fine, then. Who’s the say I didn’t set things up beforehand and leave the door open? It’s not like anybody else would have accessed the cellar.”

He holds her gaze, as the lock shakes desperately behind her. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t explain the inconsistency in your statement. You might have thought of the wine cellar as part of the pantry, but this study definitely isn’t.”

“It’s like a pantry,” she shrugs. “For books. But I concede. My previous statement was true. But… you never asked me about what I did in the morning. I had all the time I wanted, to come and go from the study that day.”

For just a moment, Phoenix feels a sinking sensation in his chest, but he shrugs it off quickly. He already knows he has the evidence to counter that possibility.

“That doesn’t work either, because we know the entrance into the passage was shut last night,” Phoenix gestures, presenting her with the torch. “At least, until young Hans snuck down there and witnessed someone come out of the passage with his own eyes. Face it, Liesel, there’s no way around it. You couldn’t have been at the scene of the crime, which means that there was definitely someone else involved.”

Mercifully, a lock shatters, and Phoenix takes the opportunity to catch a breath. The magatama doesn’t usually cause him any damage when he asks the right questions, but if she keeps resisting everything as hard as that, he has a suspicion it might start draining him anyway.

Liesel doesn’t meet his eyes, practically turning her body away. “I never denied it.”

(I can make a solid guess about her accomplice. Lambert Wolfe is the only one who makes sense. Except, he directly said he didn’t commit murder either...)

(With all those locks left, there has to be more to it.)

“It’s not like there are many real options left,” Phoenix voices. “The only accomplice that makes sense would be Lambert Wolfe. Besides, he’s the one who delivered the poison.”

There’s a beat of silence. Liesel doesn’t react, no shift in her expression, not even a flicker of surprise. Instead, she just exhales slowly, as if she’s waiting for him to get on with it. The locks remain silent and still, too. Phoenix has half the mind to stop the questioning at this point, surely they have the grounds to pursue Wolfe before it’s too late. But she’s still hiding so much…

(I wouldn’t want to play poker against her, not without my own lucky charm…)

Phoenix inhales sharply. “That’s it? You’re not even going to deny it?”

Liesel remains calm. “Why would I? You’re right.” Somehow, she manages to look smug. “No need to look so distraught, Herr Wright. What, did you think I was going to help you?”

None of it explains the psyche-locks. “If you’re so willing to admit he was involved, then what was his role in all this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She shrugs. “He was doing what he always does. Serving the von Karma family.”

(She’s giving me just enough to confirm what I already figured out. But she’s not explaining why. Plus, there was something bitter in her tone just now. Which means…)

His eyes narrow. “You’re still holding something back.”

“Am I?” She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“How about your motive?” Phoenix grips the magatama tight as its heat practically sears against his palm. “Manfred von Karma’s records room was left in a mess, and some of the files were missing. You were looking for something, and it was based on this page of the will,” he presents the page clearly. “That was the reason you had to steal the page in the first place.”

To his surprise, Liesel looks at him again dead on and sits up straight. “Yes.”

“…Yes?”

Her head tilts. “What is it, Herr Wright? I have nothing to hide. I needed to know what was written in the will, to receive my final orders. It’s not as though Herr von Karma could have made a telephone call, with the police listening to his every word. So, he wrote it into his will instead, a communication he could guarantee would leave that prison without immediately causing suspicion. A will is a vessel for instructions and orders for managing property by design. It was a perfect solution.”

The locks don’t even quake. Yet, Phoenix doesn’t exactly feel himself get weaker, either. That means his evidence wasn’t completely wrong. That doesn’t make sense though, if von Karma’s orders aren’t a big aspect of her secret. He considers, for a moment, if this really is just a case of a servant doing her duty right until the very end. Something still seems off, though.

(Maybe I should think about this another way. These were von Karma’s records that were kept in a room that even Miles and Franziska didn’t know about.)

(…So why did the household staff know about it?)

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix turns over his shoulder, “what did the instructions say again? Uh, the part about the records, and post-trial amendments?”

Miles, who had just been watching in near perfect silence apparently, finally stands by Phoenix’s side and looks over the document. He clears his throat, before reading it out in German carefully. Phoenix remembers it well enough, so it’s mostly for Liesel’s benefit. Those stored below which remain unworthy shall return to silence, specifically those requiring post-trial amendment. From the small questioning look Miles gives him, Phoenix is pretty sure they’re not on the same page with this yet.

“Pretty weird, right?” Phoenix says anyway. “You’re a housekeeper, not a paralegal as far as I know. So why would you know about something he was keeping so secret within his legal records in the first place?”  

Liesel scoffs. “I should hate to see the state of your shelves, if you don’t think that documents require cleaning and maintenance. Herr von Karma simply hated dust.”

“That’s not it, though, is it?” Phoenix thinks. “These are pretty specific instructions. Even if you did have access to the room for cleaning purposes, that wouldn’t necessarily mean you’d know what’s in the documents. But this,” he taps at the will page, “it’s written like he expected you to understand exactly what he’s referring to. I think you know more about these records than you let on.”

Her lips press tight. “So? What does that matter? I already told you, I was willing to handle them as I was ordered to.”

“Heh, I don’t think I would have figured it out, if you didn’t react that way earlier,” Phoenix sits himself on the arm of the chair, fiddling with the magatama casually. If this were a game of poker, he’d be shuffling his chips. “But you see… I just don’t think you’re much of a natural criminal. Wasn’t that why von Karma started forging evidence, anyway? Because he hated criminals that much? Even if he turned out to be a hypocrite. Or maybe it was really just ego the whole time.”

“I don’t know Herr Wright,” Liesel says smoothly, “why did you do it? What was your motive?”

A grin grows on Phoenix’s face, though. “There you go again. You tried to change the subject earlier, too. You’re really uncomfortable with this… And sure,” he continues, “I’d say that’s a pretty normal reaction. Most people would be a little freaked out by their boss turning out to be a murderer. But you keep insisting you’re still loyal. Why, then?”

“…von Karma lived with a bullet in his shoulder for fifteen years,” Miles finally speaks up again, lowly. “Just so he could avoid creating a witness. Forgery is a lesser crime than murder, but nonetheless, he would not have taken unnecessary risks.” It doesn’t feel like a counter to his theory, though, which Miles confirms almost immediately by training his glare on Liesel. “…Which is why your loyalty would have to be guaranteed.”

(Bingo.)

A lock finally begins to vibrate again. It starts to make a bit more sense, as he pictures how the events could have played out. Though, even if Liesel stuck around and followed orders for years on end because von Karma had some sort of blackmail on her… Phoenix still can’t wrap his head around getting to the point of committing murder herself. Especially since, even if the instructions von Karma left are cryptic, it’s not like they mandared killing anyone. Assuming Phoenix’s theory is right, about that crime being one big misdirection, that would be going above and beyond. Since it sounds like her loyalty, in spite of the killing, might have been a forced one…

“It doesn’t matter,” Liesel says, her voice far quieter than before. “None of it matters. It still changes nothing.”

It feels like she’s close to cracking, but even though her motive might be crucial to whatever she’s hiding, there’s no clear path ahead. Phoenix considers he might need to go with a different angle entirely, such as why she would be careless enough to be caught with evidence out in the open given how elaborate the murder plot was.

(Well. I think I know how Liesel feels about murder, but Lambert Wolfe might not have been as bothered by it.)

(Wait a minute…)

Even though Phoenix has a pretty good idea of the answer, he has no evidence to prove anything outside of Liesel’s own actions. She may have confirmed a few parts of the story, but they weren’t actually related to her locks. The more Phoenix considers it, the closer he comes to the realisation that he might not be able to get her to admit to anything she cares about hiding by bluffing alone. Maybe, if he could somehow steer her into trapping herself in a corner…

(…Miles is much better at that kind of thing. But it’s not like I can just call a time out and explain that I need him to tag in. Well… I may not have pulled off a totally convincing impression of him yesterday, but I’ll just have to try my best here in the field.)

“There’s something else I don’t understand,” Phoenix tries. “I mean, I get your plan. And you were careful not to implicate yourself…” He presents the autopsy report to her. “You used a poison called TTX, according to this report. Says here that we should investigate the source. But of course, it’ll be impossible to find any evidence, won’t it?” One of the locks shakes a small amount, and Phoenix pulls out the dinner menu, pointing to the pufferfish carpaccio listed plainly as the fish course. “Because you fed it to us.”

“Hmph,” she shifts again, and notably no locks shatter. “Of course. Try and prove it in court all you want, as you say, there’s no evidence left. I made sure of that.”

“You were deliberate about that kind of thing,” Phoenix says. “Which you just confirmed. Except, the reason Interpol detained you isn’t related to that poison at all. There was a second poison, and they found drugs containing them conveniently in your bedroom.” She grits her teeth, looking away. “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like you wanted to get caught, you just made that clear. The only explanation is that you didn’t leave them there at all. You were set up.”  

(…This feels satisfying. Now I kind of get why he always looks so smug in court, whenever he pulls it off.)

Her eyes snap up with hatred, as another lock finally shatters. “…You think you’ve unravelled some brilliant truth? Well, congratulations. In the process, you and your little investigation destroyed the only thing keeping him from turning on me.”

Phoenix blinks. “…Huh?”  

Liesel lets out a humourless chuckle, shaking her head. “Perhaps you do not think, before you throw your accusations around. Lambert Wolfe already had a scapegoat in mind, but a more natural option worked out in the end. Reiner Rotfisch was perfectly lined up to take the blame, after he excused himself from the dinner table. But then you fools started digging too deep, and the whole thing fell apart.”

“Hold it!” The words come out of him before his mind catches up fully. “There’s something wrong with that.”

Liesel’s voice raises in frustration. “Of course, he realised his setup for Herr Rotfisch wouldn’t hold up. So what did he do? He switched targets. He made sure I would take the fall instead.”

“I apologise profusely for any inconvenience,” Miles responds, completely deadpan.

Phoenix shakes his head. “That’s not it, though. You said you planned this whole thing out… And you needed a scapegoat. But you couldn’t have predicted that Reiner would want to leave dinner early, which is what left him with no alibi in the first place. You just said Wolfe had a target in mind. Who else, then, if not Reiner?”

Miles inhales sharply, eyes narrowing as he seems to play the question back in his mind. “…Us,” he says, voice quiet but decisive. “Most probably.”

Phoenix blinks. “Us?”

Miles doesn’t elaborate, but his gaze is steady, fixed. There’s something like an itch, at the back of Phoenix’s skull. It’s a sensible conclusion, by process of elimination, but then he thinks he remembers something. Phoenix tries to mentally retrace their interactions with Lambert Wolfe.

(He’d been pretty insistent about us not leaving the house on the night of the murder, hadn’t he…?)

“…He said he brought our bags inside because of the storm, when we tried to leave. Something about it being dangerous to drive in the wind,” Phoenix realises.

Miles frowns. “If I remember correctly, he also said he’d checked the forecast when the weather got worse after dinner. Though, I would have thought Reiner had already shown himself to be a better option by that point.”

For a moment, Phoenix rakes his eyes across the evidence binder, about to scan read their notes on Liesel’s first statement again because he can’t help but feel like there’s something there, when he catches a glimpse of the newspaper page that’s slotted in behind it. The thoughts rush to him immediately.  

“Because it was already set up,” he realises. “This is what you told us before,” he presents the news article to Liesel, who doesn’t look entirely impressed. “You said Wolfe checked the forecast in the newspaper each day… you even told us you’d argued about it while you were cooking. So… he would have known the storm forecast all along, since that morning. Which means, he might have put things in motion before we even got to dinner.”

Liesel, for her part, raises an eyebrow. “The phrase is something about two birds, no?”

“You planned for us to be stuck here overnight,” Miles summarises. “Without Reiner complicating things, the investigation likely would have assumed the murder happened at some point during the night when everyone else was asleep. We had to be here, to be considered viable suspects.” He frowns, brow creasing. “That’s not the only aspect of the plan that changed, though. There’s another contradiction here.”

Looking over at him, Phoenix can recognise a light glint in his eye. Not that he knows exactly what, but it seems like Miles might have figured something out. Phoenix does his best job at gesturing subtly, inviting him to take the floor. First, though, Miles looks over at the autopsy report.

“It’s not as though the presence of two poisons would have significantly fooled or hindered the pathologist, if ‘misdirection’ was your overall goal. Strangely however, neither of them appear to be in strictly lethal doses. This level of sedation with the barbiturates would be just enough to incapacitate the victim if that, rather than murder, was your aim. But that would entirely negate the need for the toxin. Even when considered in the reverse order, if the goal was murder all along, why bother with knocking the victim out if you already had the means to poison him in a single sip?”

It falls on Phoenix all at once.

“…Because you didn’t, did you?” Phoenix looks at Liesel directly. “You weren’t trying to kill Stiltskin at all.”

All remaining locks shatter.

Chapter Text

Liesel looks like at least some of her tension dissipates, but she starts mumbling something in angry German that’s incomprehensible to Phoenix.

Phoenix looks at Miles, hoping for some kind of translation help.

“You don’t want to know,” he supplies.

“He knew,” Liesel finally bites out. “He knew that those records would be the first things to surface, once that will was read. Everything left behind… there was no way investigators wouldn’t want to see the entire collection for themselves. And we couldn’t let that happen.” Her arms tense in her cuffs, then, and she looks at Miles. “Even if you’ve spent your career spitting on everything Herr von Karma stood for, I assume you understand why those records were a problem.”

Miles doesn’t respond, but Phoenix catches the way his fingers tighten around his own arm.

“So,” Phoenix tries, “you and Wolfe planned to go into the records room and remove whatever von Karma asked you to before anyone got the chance to find them?”

“That was the plan,” Liesel confirms. “Herr Stiltskin was a long-time associate of Herr von Karma, we understood how he liked to work. We originally assumed that he would retreat to the study with a glass of wine after dinner, but that was only a minor adjustment,” she pauses for a moment, before lowering her eyes. “The plan on the night was this: I was supposed to slip a sedative into Herr Stiltskin’s wine. While all our guests were preoccupied with dinner, Herr Wolfe would simply step into the study, retrieve the page of the will which set out our instructions, and let himself back out through the passage that connects to the records room below.  He was to leave the entrance from the wine cellar open, and slip back in after dinner service was complete. Herr Stiltskin would have a gentle nap, and the records would be dealt with before any questions were even asked about them.”

“But something changed,” Phoenix supplies.

Her lips press tight again, and she hesitates for just a second too long. “I knew I couldn’t trust him. At first, I thought we had an understanding. Just follow the orders… no unnecessary risks. But then Herr Wolfe seemed unnerved whenever we discussed our plans,” she shakes her head. “He started to doubt. He didn’t think that simply knocking Stiltskin out and retrieving the will would be sufficient. Our motive would be too obvious, it would only be a matter of time before someone pieced it together. We had no idea how complicated Herr von Karma’s organisation or instructions might be. There was no time. He felt that the records weren’t the only problem, either, and Herr Stiltskin himself was a loose end. I considered backing out entirely then.”

Miles grits his teeth. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Liesel responds sharply. “Not when I had seen how Herr Wolfe planned to deal with his loose ends. I faked Herr Stiltskin’s death instead.” She says it like some resounding weight should follow, but it barely hangs in the air.

“Well,” Phoenix says, “he looked pretty dead to me.”

Fury burns in her eyes again. “Obviously it didn’t go to plan! Either way, I knew Herr Wolfe was going to act. If I didn’t do something, Herr Stiltskin would be dead either way. So… I sourced a poison, in the only way I could which wouldn’t immediately alarm Herr Wolfe, or leave any evidence behind. I switched the sedative we planned to use for the pufferfish, and made sure the dose was below the lethality threshold. I understood it to be a neurotoxin which would cause a degree of paralysis. I’d hoped it would be just enough to make it look like Herr Stiltskin was already dead. Herr Wolfe was supposed to take the will and follow through with our shared plan... By morning, someone would have found Herr Stiltskin, and called for help in time. The plan would have failed, but it would not appear as though I had betrayed my part of the agreement.”  

Phoenix can’t help but blink, somehow feeling his own body go slightly numb at the explanation. “You tried to save his life?”

“Don’t make her sound noble, Wright,” Miles chimes in. “She wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of her heart. And whether she meant kill or not, she still dosed the victim with a highly dangerous toxin. No matter how you look at it, it’s recklessness at minimum.”

“But what about the other drug?” Phoenix asks. “If you’re saying you only added the toxin to the wine in the end… but we know he was also given a sedative from the autopsy report.”

Liesel scoffs. “Clearly, Herr Wolfe didn’t trust me either. We have not discussed any elements of our plan since they happened, so everything here is only my own assumption. Herr Wolfe must have thought I would betray him by lacing the wine with nothing at all, and added his own sedatives once he’d taken the glass from me. I know now that my plan wouldn’t have worked anyway, though. Rather than accepting that his own plans were no longer necessary upon discovering Herr Stiltskin dead, Herr Wolfe must have seen an opportunity. I suspect he already had that ludicrous crossbow set up prepared well ahead of time, and all I’d done is handed him with a way to escape responsibility.”

There’s barely a moment to even begin to process Liesel’s confession, before a jolt of interruption. The door to the study swings wide open, letting in a chill as a couple of Interpol agents step inside, their expressions nearly unreadable. But it’s the woman standing smugly behind them that draws most of Phoenix’s attention.

“And what did I tell you?” Hildegard Rotfisch looks to the agent on her left. “There they are.”

“H-how?” The other agent protests. “We had eyes on the door the entire-“

Hildegard tuts. “Well clearly, as you can see, they entered this room somehow.”

The agent on the right folds his arms. “Herr Edgeworth, Herr Wright... I understand that you have directly disobeyed your orders to stay away from this case, including interfering with the crime scene without permission.” He lets out a clearly frustrated sigh. “Step away from the suspect and come with us.”

Phoenix spares a glance at Liesel, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. Miles is already moving on command, like he knows resistance is futile. It seems they have no choice. Phoenix steps away from Liesel, and out of the room. He can’t help but wince as the door clicks shut behind them, sealing her inside.

The agent wastes no time. “Explain yourselves.”

Phoenix suddenly feels a spike of urgency. “In our defence-“

 “In your defence?” Hildegard glares coldly, her gaze locking onto them both in turn. “I would love to hear your defence for child endangerment.”

“Wait- what?”

The agent grimaces. “There have been… concerns raised.” He clears his throat, shifting a little. “Frau Rotfisch has reported that you took her children down into the wine cellar and forced them to crawl into an unsafe tunnel.”

Miles barely flinches. “Naturally.”

“Look,” the agent stares down at the floor, “I don’t like this any more than you do. But she has already filed an official complaint, and with everything else… You’re making this difficult.”

It’s probably taking all of Miles’ years of practice with the ‘cool, calm, and collected’ thing to keep as neutral and composed as he is. “You mean to say that despite your years of working alongside me, you are allowing yourself to be swayed by a frivolous accusation?”

“It’s not that simple-“

“Of course it is,” Hildegard cuts in, turning fully to Miles. Her gaze doesn’t falter, sharp as a blade. “You had no right to involve my children in this charade. They even tried to lie to me about it! Me, their own mother!”

Miles meets her gaze evenly. “I did not force them into anything. They had valuable information. They entered that cellar of their own volition, which I have no doubt they will have already told you.”

“They are children, Miles!” Her voice raises. “Though of course you have no concept of how reckless this was, with no family of your own to speak of.”

As her words bite out, Phoenix feels himself go rigid almost on instinct, like a slap. Miles himself doesn’t have any kind of outward reaction, though, at least not one that Phoenix can get a read on.  

The second agent clears his throat. “Let’s not make this personal. I understand the situation is complicated. The fact remains that this all looks very bad for you. Not only directly defying orders, but potentially tampering with the crime scene, and interfering with the primary suspect. There will be consequences, I don’t know how serious.”

(I don’t like the sound of that at all.)

“You’re making a huge mistake!” Phoenix finally says. “You still have the real murderer on the loose! You need to hear us out-“

Hildegard stamps her foot loudly. “The only criminals running loose right now are the two of you!”

One of the agents hesitates. “Did you… uncover anything?”

“Plenty,” Phoenix says, “and it points back to Lambert Wolfe!”

Hildegard squints. “Seriously? The butler. At least try to be original with your outlandish claims.”

Beside him, Miles exhales sharply. “I understand how it sounds, Hildegard. But if you could put aside your grievances with me for a moment, you would see that there is something bigger at play here!”

She just smiles thinly. “You always did like to act above it all, didn’t you? Pah. I don’t even care about the fallout anymore. I say just arrest them both, I’ll be sure to enjoy every moment.”

(We don’t have time for this.)

“You have no idea what Wolfe is capable of,” Phoenix tries again. “If you don’t arrest him now-“

“We don’t have any grounds,” the agent rubs his temples. “But, we do need to detain the both of you.”

A deep spike of panic runs through him. “But-“

“Wright,” Miles finally says beside him, teeth gritted. “We don’t have evidence.”

The other agent clears his throat again. “Given the circumstances… we’ll have to hold them here until Frau von Karma arrives.”

That seems to catch Miles’ attention. “Franziska? Where is she, if not here?”

They don’t get an answer, though, as two more Interpol agents arrive, half manhandling them away from the door. There really doesn’t seem to be much hope in arguing their way out of it or resisting, though, so Phoenix goes willingly. Not that it appears they’re moving far at all. Literally, just to the next door along. It feels like they’re practically shoved inside, the door slammed shut, and a lock clicked before he can even raise any kind of objection about it.

And now Phoenix is trying to avoid eye contact with Manfred von Karma’s creepy, taxidermy deer yet another time this weekend.

“Must be running low on handcuffs,” Miles comments, looking down at his wrists, like he’s surprised they’re not bound with something. “We could consider that fortunate.”

Phoenix frowns. “That’s it? Edgeworth- there’s no way we’re not on the same page about this, right?” He starts to pace, taking short strides and tight turns. “Wolfe definitely did it, and he’s still just walking around out there! If he was willing to murder Stiltskin just because he was a loose end, then what’s to say he won’t hurt someone else if he thinks they’re on to him?”

Miles’ shoulders tense up. “What would you have had me do? Resisting Interpol agents would not have earned us any favours, and likely undermine our credibility. Lambert Wolfe has made no attempt to flee so far… on account of the remaining records, most likely. I do not like this situation either, but we must put our faith in Franziska.”

“Right,” Phoenix stops mid-turn, “because she’s always reasonable.”

“She may not be agreeable, but I don’t doubt her commitment to perfection,” Miles responds flatly. “If there are still unanswered questions here, she would have to be dragged away from the investigation kicking and screaming before dropping it. Even if she has to tear the building apart herself to do it.”

“That’s a big if,” Phoenix says. “You really think she’ll listen to us, after Interpol have us under arrest?”

Miles shoots him a pointed look. “We are detained, Wright. There is a difference.”

“We’re locked up either way!” Phoenix speeds up his pacing, though it’s not doing much so far to help him think.  “It’s not like Liesel isn’t guilty, anyway. You’ll stick her with murder, no matter what, right?”

Now in place somewhere behind him, Miles sighs. “Do you disagree?”

“She believed her when she said she didn’t mean for anyone die,” he thinks, finally standing still to turn around to face Miles again. “If it even really is her fault. According to her, Wolfe is the one who added the second drug to the glass when it was already out of her hands, which is what really led to Stiltskin’s death in the end. That has to count for something…”

Miles just folds his arms. “Whatever her actual intent, she dosed a man’s drink with a toxin she knew was lethal. That alone was reckless and negligent, which has consequences in the eyes of the law. You have to look at the whole picture." His head turns to the side. “Not to mention that she certainly acted as a co-conspirator, regardless of her own direct actions.”

“Sure, but,” Phoenix bites his lip momentarily, “don’t you think there could be duress and necessity?”

Pausing before responding, Miles raises an eyebrow. “And perhaps her attorney will attempt such an argument in court,” it comes out sharply. “Though, that would likely have more weight on sentencing, than establishing her guilt.”

Miles stands with his ever-familiar good posture, as silence grows between them again,  jaw set and eyes focused anywhere but Phoenix. Phoenix can’t help but wonder if he’s doing that on purpose or not. The quiet between them feels brittle. A tiny, tiny whisp of thought tugs on Phoenix about last night, but he gulps it down again. Even if this is the first breather they’ve had since arriving to the estate in the morning, it’s definitely not the time. Though maybe there really is never going to be a time. No, professional conversation only.

“…You could at least offer her some kind of plea deal.”

“Wright!”

He looks Miles in the eye dead on. “What? I don’t need a badge just to state a fact. It’s not like you need to listen to me.”

"Regardless of what I ‘listen to,’ the issue is about the necessary evidence– or lack thereof. And frankly, we don’t have much,” Miles says. “Which, incidentally, is the exact same problem we have with Wolfe. All we have is hearsay, and coming from the prime suspect no less. And I remind you again that the magatama is not admissible in a court of law!”

(We know he’s guilty, but what do we actually have to prove it?)

Phoenix finds himself slumping a little. “Even if the magatama confirmed what she was hiding… I don’t get it with Wolfe.”

Miles’ brow furrows. “…You mentioned this before.”

“Just now, when we confronted Liesel, she had psyche-locks all over her,” he tries to ignore the shudder that goes over him. Maybe he’s been using it too much over these past few days. “The magatama reacted because she was hiding the truth. But this morning Wolfe outright said he didn’t murder Stiltskin, and nothing happened. Maybe that could be true, if he just found the body. But according to Liesel’s story, he was definitely involved with the poison as well.”

Something crosses Miles’ face. “It only detects what’s true from the perspective of the target, correct? For example, if I were colourblind and said that these walls were painted grey. Objectively, that’s false, but I wouldn’t know that.”

(Is it just me, or does something seem kind of off in this room?)

“Yeah,” Phoenix nods anyway, “it wouldn’t react.”

“Then, as far as Wolfe’s concerned, all he did was dose the victim with a sedative. That act in isolation was not intended to cause death. Regardless of the crimes he committed later, it makes sense that the magatama wouldn’t activate as though he was lying. Now, the question is-”

“Wait,” Phoenix cuts him off, wrinkling his nose. “Do you smell that?”

Miles raises an unconcerned eyebrow. “Smell what?”

It’s faint in the air, just on the edge of recognition. “I don’t know. Kind of like smoke, maybe?”

“Hmph…Maybe it’s just the generators of your own brain overloading as you try to keep up.”

Phoenix elects to ignore the snarky comment. “I’m not sure Wolfe’s statement helps that much, anyway. Everything else we have is circumstantial.” Phoenix starts to pace again, as his mind wanders. “I guess if he’s connected to everything else, like activating the crossbow, it’ll prove that he was at least involved in the premeditation. But they already checked for fingerprints… He was wearing gloves anyway, so I guess that’s a dead end.”

(I’m probably just imagining things...)

“Actually,” Miles interrupts, “that kind of assumption often leads to criminals being caught. The presence of DNA at a crime scene can be just as damning as a fingerprint, under the right circumstances.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “But isn’t that also stopped by gloves?”

“Think about it, Wright,” he says. “How do you usually put gloves on in the first place?”

It feels a bit like a weird game of charades, but he tries to picture the way he put a pair  on earlier to pick up the matches, before realising the issue. “You’d still have to hold them in your bare hands.”

“Indeed. And in doing so, that DNA can still be transferred to anything those gloves touch. It can be a key tool, if all you need to do is confirm a suspect was present at the crime scene.” Miles frowns, though. “Unfortunately, that won’t be useful here. This is Lambert Wolfe’s residence, and there are ample explanations for why he may have touched that crossbow previously, so it would be no smoking gun.”

Phoenix scratches at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the scarf still covering him. Somehow, it feels like the room is getting hotter. “To prove he was involved, we would just need to show he was in that records room, right? I picked up those matches earlier… There would be no other reason for him to touch those.”

Miles tenses slightly. “That might actually-“

Before he can finish the thought, however, he’s cut off by a low, distant boom.

Chapter Text

As a violent tremor rattles through the house, a few things happen all at once. Instinctively, Phoenix ducks, as the light fixture above them sways. Objects around the room topple and clatter, as the walls seem to groan with the movement. He just about manages to dodge one of the ornate plaques which detaches from the wall, though he drops their evidence binder in the process.

(What the-)

(An earthquake? I thought those were pretty rare in Germany.)

(Oh no-)

The rumbling only lasts a matter of seconds in reality, but it doesn’t really make a difference. Miles is pale as a sheet, already slumped over on the floor, body completely limp.

“Edgeworth?!”

Phoenix drags himself to Miles’ side immediately, and sure enough he’s definitely unconscious. Briefly, Phoenix feels a spike of fear that Miles might have been hit by one of the items which fell down during the tremors, but there doesn’t appear to be any obvious sign of an injury to his head. Unfortunately, this is far from the only time he’s witnessed Miles pass out during an earthquake, or at least something he perceived to be one, but Phoenix isn’t sure how long he typically stays under. At least, from the rise and fall of his chest, he’s definitely breathing.

Once his initial concerns for Miles’ safety are quelled slightly, Phoenix makes a few observations in quick succession: first, that didn’t feel like a normal earthquake; second, and related, given the noise that came with it he’s pretty sure something must have exploded; third, if he wasn’t certain about there being smoke before, he can definitely smell it now. In conclusion: They need to get out of here, and fast.

Unfortunately, being locked into a room complicates that. Though he was able to knock open the door to the study before, he’d been trying to enter from the hallway side, pushing against the locking mechanism with the natural momentum of the door, and even that had required a lot of force. Doing it in reverse might not even be possible.

There’s also a more immediate problem. Although Phoenix is very much aware of that Miles can’t control whatever it is that triggers his trauma, and he needs to just work through the episode, they really don’t have that kind of luxury with time. Phoenix also sincerely doubts his ability to carry Miles any kind of distance, if it comes down to it.

(Maybe I should consider going to the gym in my free time…)

(…Though that’s not important right now!)

“Edgeworth, I need you to wake up,” he says, and tries shaking him a little by the shoulders, but it doesn’t do anything. “…Maybe a shock will work?” He considers it aloud, for a moment, before wincing. “Look, I am sorry about this.”

Phoenix slaps him as hard as his conscience will allow. Unfortunately, Miles doesn’t even so much as twitch, though that side of his face turns a deeper shade of pink. He’ll just have to yell at Phoenix for that later… Looking down at him like this, Phoenix can’t help but wonder if that cravat he wears so tightly every day is restricting his windpipe at all.

He hesitates for just a moment, before deciding to tug at it. Just another thing Miles will have to forgive him for later. The knot makes very little sense to him though, and for maybe the first time ever he kind of wishes he’d let Larry talk him into joining the boy scouts when they were kids.

(How does he even get this thing off normally anyway? It’s like a noose!)

Phoenix considers using one of the weapons which had toppled down from the wall display to literally cut it off him. Though, he quickly decides that waving any kind of blade near Miles’ neck while he’s unconscious is probably a bad idea. The cravat wins, then. At the very least, he thinks he manages to loosen it just a little, relieving some of the compression around his neck.

Vaguely, Phoenix thinks he remembers reading something about elevating a person’s legs. He looks around the room for anything that might help. He figures that propping Miles up over a small, toppled chair will do just about fine enough, since it doesn’t require too much to move it. As deadweight, however, Miles’ legs aren’t the easiest things for him to lift, though he does manage it.

(Just how muscular is he?)

(…Also not the time.)

Bracing himself, Phoenix takes a step back and eyes the window, which he figures are probably the same deal as in the study. A few days ago, he couldn’t hear the raging outside through the glass at all. That probably means, what, triple-glazed? He knows smashing them is going to be nightmare, but it might be his only option.

He scans the room for something heavy enough. Maybe an actual trophy? A plaque of some kind? There has to be something. Just as he takes a step towards a fallen bronze statuette however, the sound of metal turning in the lock makes him stop in his tracks.

 Unfortunately, any relief he feels dies immediately.

"Well now," Lambert Wolfe steps inside, surveying the room. "Looks like I arrived just in time."

The door shuts behind Wolfe, as he turns the lock with a deliberate click before Phoenix can reach his position. There’s something about the way Wolfe moves, slow and measured, like he’s rounding up on his nearest prey. His posture is surprisingly relaxed, with one hand in his pocket, but Phoenix knows not to mistake it for carelessness. This is a man who has planned his moves so far.

(Maybe if I can keep him talking, I can throw him off somehow…)

(At least until Miles wakes up…)

“So,” Phoenix tries to keep himself equally steady. “I mean, we know you did it.”

Wolfe tilts his head in mock amusement. “Define ‘it’. I’ve been very busy.”

“Killing a man,” Phoenix starts, “trying to cover it up. Now setting off a bomb, apparently? You know, the usual.”

“I actually believe that was the old boiler,” Wolfe chuckles, shaking his head. “Must have burst under the excessive heat from the fire. I’m sure all that wine helped to pack a punch. An unfortunate side effect, really, it seems to have caused quite the panic.”

Phoenix tries to meet his eyes head on. “Arson, then. Have it your way.”

“You’re oddly casual about this, Herr Wright. I expected more outrage.”

“I’m plenty outraged,” Phoenix shifts his stance, trying to put a bit more distance between them. “Just, trying to figure out why? I mean, you went to all that effort to follow von Karma’s orders. And now you’re just burning all his records anyway?”

Wolfe sighs dramatically. “It’s tragic, but you have forced my hand with your meddling. I would have had it all taken care of that night if not for you in the first place.”

“I’m not following.”

Eyes flitting across the room, Wolfe bends down and picks up some kind of fancy looking sabre from the floor, and uses it to point at the room’s air vent, which looks almost identical to the one in the study.

“I was nearly finished. The orders from the will had been secured, I had made good progress with most of the files. And then, suddenly… voices. I couldn’t take the risk of discovery, so I was forced to flee before it was done. I thought I’d be able to complete the job later, but this house has been crawling with agents, and then I came across the open door in the cellar. Hmph, since you’d uncovered the room and could have worked out which files were missing, they all had to go.” He tuts, taking a step forward. “I would  have left you in here to get smoked out, but I noticed that one of the files had been removed, and not by me.”

Phoenix feels his pulse spike. He tries to school his face into neutrality, but his mind races. He needs to figure out if this is a bluff or not. There were so many files skewed all over the place, so it’s hard to imagine that Wolfe knows exactly what’s missing. Though, on the other hand, it wouldn’t make sense to risk approaching them like this, unless Phoenix took something genuinely important.

“And you think I have it?”

Wolfe shrugs. “Who else? You’re the only ones who have been snooping around in there.”

(If it’s that important to him, then I definitely can’t give it up.)

“Hate to break it to you,” Phoenix says, “but we didn’t find much. The will, obviously, but we already had our own copy of that.”

Wolfe’s smirk sharpens. “Then you won’t mind handing over whatever you do have.”

He notices it a few seconds too late. But Wolfe just moves so suddenly, with fast precision. All Phoenix really sees is a flash of metal, before Wolfe has him, deceivingly strong arms pinning him awkwardly in place, and that sword pressed right against his throat. If not for the scarf, he might have actually sliced him across the jugular. Even if Phoenix might stand a chance at matching his strength, he doesn’t want to risk trying anything with the weapon so close.

“Let’s not make this difficult,” Wolfe murmurs. “No need to be so tense, Herr Wright. I just need those files.”

Phoenix forces himself into a dry chuckle. “Yeah? You’re not exactly making it easy to relax.” By the looks of it, his best chance is still probably stalling for time here. “Even if I did have them, what’s your plan? You know there’s a bunch of Interpol agents right outside. Surely killing me isn’t worth the prison sentence?”

(Especially if he doesn’t think there’s a chance they’ll charge him with murder, even if he is implicated for Stiltskin’s death…)

“Hmm,” the tone of his voice drops to something almost gentle, which is somehow worse. “Truthfully, I would rather not kill you. Not unless you make it necessary.” The blade presses slightly harder onto Phoenix’s throat.

(Maybe I need a different angle.)

“Necessary this, forced to do that… So what, you think you’re the victim here?”

There’s a slight falter, just a quiver at the wrist. Though Phoenix can’t see Wolfe’s expression, he can tell from the way the blade shakes.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” Phoenix tries to maintain his casual tone. “Come on, Wolfe. Don’t you think it’s the least you can do? If you’re gonna kill me, you can tell me why. Humour me.”

There’s another second of hesitation. “I should have expected this from you. After all… you destroyed something I cared about once.”

His brow creases in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Wolfe increases the pressure on Phoenix’s throat again. “Manfred von Karma.”

As if the ghost of the man himself is summoned by the words, Phoenix sees the now obvious smoke starting to pour out of the vent from the corner of his eye. They likely have minutes, before it goes from inconvenience to life threatening. Though, it’s hard to worry about it too much, with the more immediate threat nearly digging into his neck.

“You,” Wolfe continues lowly, “you’re the one who put him in prison. Who ruined him on his own stage. And because of that,” he breathes sharply, “he’s dead.”

The weight of the words clamp around Phoenix’s ribs, making him queasy. “All I did was bring the truth to light,” he says carefully. 

Wolfe laughs humourlessly. "You, a pathetic little nobody, came into his world and tore everything apart. You cost him everything. He was the greatest prosecutor of our time- and he deserved better than hanging in that prison cell!"

Phoenix’s jaw clenches tight. “He killed a man in cold blood. We proved it.”

“He was forced into a corner,” Wolfe’s tone goes low again. “And it was meaningless, in the end. Fraudulent defence attorneys like you have a way of twisting the truth to suit your own needs.”

(Talk about pot calling the kettle black…)

“To be honest,” Phoenix says, “I’ll actually take it as a compliment, if you think I’m good enough to plant a fake bullet in a man’s shoulder. C’mon, Wolfe, you know he confessed to it himself.”

"I know that you humiliated him,” Wolfe replies through clenched teeth. “I know that he lost everything he worked for, for forty years! I know that he rotted in a cell until he decided death was the only way out. And it was all because of you.”

Phoenix knows that arguing back and aggravating him probably isn’t the best plan, but it’s hard to bite his tongue. He just about manages it, though, as he desperately tries to come up with any other angle out of this. It’s almost funny. In a game like poker, where luck can matter just as much as skill with some hands, one of the clearest marks of being a pro is knowing exactly when to fold.

“Let him go.”

The voice cuts through the tension sharper than any blade. Firm. Commanding. Familiar.

Wolfe turns their bodies around, his grip unfaltering. “Ah, finally awake, are we? Good. I was hoping to have an audience.”

Miles stands opposite them, gaze fixed with something between his usual focus and some kind of wild menace. He looks a little dishevelled, cravat askew, and still uncomfortably pale. While not the most pressing concern, he also has a sword of his own gripped tightly in his hands.

“You don’t want to do this,” Miles says coolly.

“No?” Wolfe scoffs. “Seems to me like I very much do.”

Miles barely shows a reaction in his expression, taking a step forwards. “This isn’t going to get you what you want.”

“And what is that?” Wolfe squeezes Phoenix tighter with his other arm. “I never thought I’d get a chance like this. But fate has a funny way of correcting its mistakes, doesn’t it? Finally, justice will be served."

The look that Miles gives Wolfe then is like a smug shrug, which Phoenix has had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of many times. “If you truly believed in justice, you wouldn’t be holding him unarmed. Whatever grudge you have, it’s with me, anyway. Not him.”

(Oh for the love of-)

Before Phoenix can yell at him for trying to pull off that kind of move, Wolfe laughs properly. “Oh, Miles Edgeworth, don’t sell yourself short. Believe me, I have plenty of reasons to hate you. But I think I’ll start with him. Make you watch. Maybe then, you’ll finally understand what it feels like to lose.”

Eyes unrelenting, Miles unsheathes the sword, which Phoenix registers as the katana he showed him a few days ago. “Alternatively, you could try facing someone without holding an advantage. Though, my mentor’s victories are so marred with rigged games I suppose I can’t expect you to understand the difference.”

“You know,” Wolfe lifts his own blade just slightly away from Phoenix’s neck, “that’s exactly the kind of arrogance I always despised.”

Without any warning, he shoves Phoenix back, hard. Given how much he’d been tensing his body still so as to not end up decapitated, Phoenix loses his balance immediately, stumbling over something that must have been knocked over in the explosion. Before Phoenix can even think about trying to stand, Wolfe twists quickly, kicking over one of the cabinets to block any kind of escape route.

“If you insist,” Wolfe says. “Let’s see if you’ve got any fight left in you, Mein Herr.”

“A duel, then?” Miles still manages to sound calm.

(Is this some kind of insane bluff?!)

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, “you can’t seriously-“

Apparently he can, as Wolfe makes his first move, and Miles barely manages to parry in time. The katana looks unnatural and a little awkward in his hands, and the strain is obvious even from a distance. Phoenix remembers Miles mentioning that he did a bit of fencing back in his teenage years, but he’s pretty sure those skills can’t be too helpful in a situation like this. Wolfe doesn’t seem like a skilled swordsman either, his swings pretty clearly erratic, but that hardly matters if he only needs to connect once.

(Miles is going to get himself killed!)

“Just keep your distance,” Miles finally responds. “And think!”

(Keep my distance? Not sure I have much of a choice.)

Rather than sitting there in a stupor, Phoenix tries to make himself useful by attempting to free himself. He’s lucky, with the way the cabinet fell, that his legs didn’t get crushed underneath. Meanwhile, Wolfe slashes again, and Miles narrowly dodges the blade with a sidestep. He’s on the defensive, and Wolfe isn’t giving him much breathing room.

Metal clangs hard against metal, the sound of it echoing around the room. For just a moment, Phoenix is mesmerised by the whole thing. Impossibly, it’s like Miles has adjusted from his initial, reactive defence. Almost like a trick of the light, he stands there, katana wielded in both hands, managing to appear like some kind of seasoned samurai duellist. The exact image of a noble warrior.

Phoenix sees something else, too, in Miles’ stance. It hits him like a flood, and suddenly it’s twenty years ago and they’re not in a frigid mansion that might be actively burning down, but a classroom full of staring eyes. The gleam of the sabre becomes the glint of the teacher’s glasses as she prepares to declare him guilty. The looming threat of rising smoke is the crushing weight of accusation that Phoenix just couldn’t fight alone.

 And there he is, rising to his feet and yelling ‘objection!’ like the fate of the world depends on it. The ground that had been just about to swallow Phoenix whole, and then Miles, ready to catch his hand. Like a real-life knight in shining armour. And now here he is again, all these years later, sword in hand and standing between Phoenix and probable death like doing so is as natural to him as breathing…

(Even after everything we’ve been through, he’s still the same.)

It’s the same sensation now as it was back then too, like his ribs are twisting to prod directly into his chest. The kind of feeling that makes his throat ache every time he tries to swallow a breath. Two decades ago, Phoenix hadn’t known what to call it, had only understood that when Miles stood by his side, the world felt bearable again… but also somehow confusing and dizzying in different way. Now he has the words, but using them, even giving shape to them within his own mind, feels just as dangerous as the edge of those blades.

(I’m not just a helpless kid this time around, though. I have to help too. Somehow.)

The truth of the ‘duel’ becomes less obscured, as Phoenix manages to focus on freeing himself again. Wolfe’s lunges are still clumsy, and Miles is clearly relying on some kind of cocktail of theoretical knowledge with a side of pure adrenaline as he tries to block. It’s not truly the graceful, lightning-fast riposte of a blade master. His movements are much more ‘I’m trying extremely hard not to get killed’ than ‘skilled swordsman’. The heavy katana seems to force him to adopt a wide, awkward stance that makes the improvisation obvious. Meanwhile, Wolfe strikes again and again with the aggression of someone who has nothing to lose.

(Because he doesn’t.)

Phoenix can’t help but hiss sharply, at a sudden pain in his hand. There’s smashed glass all over the floor, and from the sight of blood running down his palm, he’s just sliced himself on it. Considering it for a moment, he picks up a larger shard carefully. It might be helpful, but he’s not sure how yet.

The air grows thicker as the heat presses in, a haze coming across the room like an ominous reminder of the fire somewhere else in the house. Not that the fire is even their most immediate danger, they’ll likely die of smoke inhalation before it can even reach them. They’ve already run out of time.

Phoenix can see something, though, in each of Miles’ steps. He’s not just fighting, he’s trying to think. Preferably, a way out of this that doesn’t end in death. Finally, Phoenix manages to get himself free enough to stand up, but he’s not sure how to actually help here. There’s another near miss, as the sabre cuts through the air just inches from Miles’ face, almost giving his hair a trim in the process. Phoenix can’t help but flinch, as Miles twists at the last second, bringing the katana up in a defensive arc.

Even in the middle of a fight to the death in all but name, there’s still something maddeningly calm about Miles. His capacity to shut everything out is beyond human comprehension, with the way he can just focus and become something untouchable. Then something shifts, like there’s a sharpness in Miles’ expression. Phoenix sees it immediately.

He has a plan.  

“You’re quite skilled,” Miles says, breath heavy with exertion. “But your reliance on aggression is palpable. If you don’t think ahead, you’ll back yourself into a corner.”

Wolfe practically growls, pressing forward. “This is a fate you deserve. The so-called ‘protégé,’ who had to go and stab him in the back."

(Why would Miles risk his focus just to throw out a taunt?)

Phoenix can only hope he manages to get the right idea. Miles isn’t speaking to Wolfe, he thinks, not really. ‘Think ahead.’ ‘Back yourself into a corner.’ Phoenix looks down at Miles’ feet, and then he gets it. As much as his skill allows him, he’s not just fighting, but manoeuvring. He’s trying to position Wolfe closer to something. But what?

Miles steps back, pivoting slightly. “Tell me,” he continues, deflecting another strike, “is recklessness really all you have? Even von Karma knew the importance of-“ he blocks another blow, “- nghk! Strategy.”

(That sounds pointed.)

“After all,” Miles goes on, shifting his stance again, “a proper strategist knows when to… pull the rug out from over his opponent.”

The wrongness of the phrase immediately captures Phoenix’s focus. At the same time, Miles’ eyes flick, just briefly, towards the heavy tapestry that’s still attached to the wall behind Wolfe. Actually, it’s one of the only objects still fixed there after the tremors… Phoenix’s eyes trail across it, and he notices a heavy cord stringing it up.

(I have to admit it, his genius is extremely annoying when he uses it against me, but right now I’ve never been more grateful for it.)

(Besides, if it means ridding the world of that hideous tapestry, I’m more than game.)

Phoenix forces his limbs into motion, practically scrambling towards the wall. The swordfight is capturing all of Wolfe’s attention, so he doesn’t react as Phoenix moves. There’s no point in running for the door, since Wolfe locked it, so he just has to hope that Miles’ idea works. The smoke is getting thicker by the second, and his eyes are starting to water.

Wolfe swings the sabre down viciously, which Miles just barely dodges. “You can’t talk your way out of this one, Demon Prosecutor.”

 “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Miles returns, though he’s clearly straining.

Time to get to work. And fast. Thankfully, Manfred von Karma seems to have favoured (questionable) style over substance, because the cord starts to fray immediately as he begins cutting at it. Phoenix doesn’t really get a chance to stop and think about it, he just has to hope that Miles has managed to keep Wolfe in the right position.

With a cutting whoosh, the tapestry comes crashing down on Wolfe heavy and fast, smothering him in fabric. The sheer weight of it is enough to make him lose his footing, dropping the sabre at the same time as he falls back with a heavy thud. Miles doesn’t hesitate for even a second, kicking the sword aside in one swift movement, sending it skittering across the floor and well out of Wolfe’s reach.

Wolfe, for his part, struggles hard under the thing, though in his panic it looks like he’s just getting himself twisted up, head only just poking out to glance at them as he coughs and groans. Breath ragged with exertion, Miles glares down at the struggling man, and holds the katana to his throat. If it wasn’t missing its tip, it may have cut right into him.

“Justice always prevails, villain,” Miles says, voice crisp as always. Then, straightening, he lifts the katana in both hands with the smooth precision of someone who seems to have practiced such a move in front of a mirror at least a few times, and slides it back into its sheath.

(Did he seriously just quote Steel Samurai at a time like this?)

(…Of course he did.)

A laugh almost bubbles out of Phoenix, at the absurdity of it all, as the glass shard falls uselessly out of his own grip. It might be one of the dumbest, most needlessly dramatic,  Miles Edgeworthiest things he’s ever witnessed, actually. Miles… Miles who just duelled a man with a sword, now standing a little scuffed up and breathless in front of him and–

(Damn it all, who gave him the right to be so stupidly attractive like this?!)

Phoenix swallows hard, trying to find a balance given the new weakness in his knees. He’s relieved, frankly surprised to be alive, and pumped full of adrenaline. He’s also  moments away from swooning into Miles’ arms like some kind of movie damsel.

“Wright-“ Miles starts to say.

(Fuck.)

“Yeah?” Phoenix blinks, and then coughs awkwardly. “You rang?”

“You-“ He looks down though, squinting for a moment before his brow creases. “You’re hurt.”

Phoenix looks down at his hand, remembering the sting. “Oh. I guess. I’ve had worse.”

Miles isn’t buying it, though. “You’re bleeding,” he says plainly, focusing on the injury. He reaches out, then, but his hand falters mid-air, dropping before he can actually touch him.

Although he tries to deflect with a cocky smirk, Phoenix thinks the smile on his face might have turned out a lot softer. “You’re not.”

“Somewhat miraculously,” Miles quips.

Phoenix shakes his head. “Nah, I’m pretty sure that was all you. No miracles necessary.”

In reaction, Miles cocks his head to the side, and Phoenix admires his flush for a moment. He’s not sure if the colour's from the exertion, or from anything else. For just one, dizzying second, Phoenix almost does it. To hell with it all, consequences be damned. With the relief he feels in the moment, every fibre of his body screams out that it would be the most natural thing in the world to just pull Miles in and-

*BANG*

The door bursts open, its lock snapping off cleanly as it’s kicked inwards. An Interpol agent stumbles awkwardly with the momentum, making way for Franziska von Karma to stride in with a surprising amount of nonchalance for someone standing in an actively burning building.

Her eyes quickly assess the scene, taking in the smoke, the wreckage, and the haphazardly restrained Wolfe on the floor. “What in all hell is going on in here!?”

“Franziska,” Miles unfortunately puts some distance between them, “took you long enough.”

Chapter Text

Franziska takes in their relative positions around the room, and immediately starts to bark out orders. “Restrain him, now!”

At the crack of her whip, the previous Interpol agent, plus one other who seems to have joined, surge forward to restrain Wolfe more securely. The man lets out a muffled curse, still trying to wiggle free from his tapestry prison, but it doesn’t do him much good under the quick hands of the agents, who manage to get him cuffed with ease.

“Get up!” Franziska yells, contempt clear across her face as Wolfe is hauled to his feet. “And evacuate at once!”

That sounds like an incredibly good idea, as more smoke starts to billow in from the vents, thickening the air. The distant sound of fire crackling below is unmistakable now, and the heat pressing into the walls is getting more intense. Instinct is about to carry Phoenix straight out of the front door, until he remembers it. The binder.

After all of the fuss, Phoenix is still convinced those files might have something important. All that evidence… he can’t just leave it to burn. It might be the last information they have from von Karma’s collection. Phoenix doesn’t think it through, really, lunging across the room to roughly where he dropped it. Thankfully, it’s not buried under much, and he’s able to pick it up with ease since he knows what it looks like. It’s completely intact, despite Wolfe’s best efforts.

“Wright!” Miles yells, with some unmistakable desperation.

He doesn’t need telling twice. The rest of the house, that Phoenix can see anyway as the race for the door, isn’t quite at inferno level yet. But the intensity of the heat grows as they make it into the hallway. Phoenix is in no mood to hang about and find out for himself, following along until at last, the front doors burst open, and cool air slams him in the face. They stagger out with little grace onto the driveway, flames illuminating at least one part of the mansion behind them.

Phoenix stumbles, clutching the binder like a lifejacket. Now that he’s out, he barely manages to stay upright as he takes in desperate gulps of fresh air. His lungs hurt, and his eyes are definitely watering, but at least he made it. As if on cue, the fire spirals even further out of control, plumes of smoke now billowing into the sky. They must have been uncomfortably close to getting trapped inside.

Somewhere to his side, Franziska snaps out something in German, her whip coiled tightly as she scans their group. Phoenix’s head is spinning. He sees Liesel, out of the corner of his eye, arms still bound behind her back. She looks shaken, but unharmed, her eyes fixed in horror at the burning building. Amongst a group of other agents, he also catches sight of Hildegard and Reiner Rotfisch, along with the kids and the dog. It’s a relief to see them out, and seemingly unharmed.

“All personnel are accounted for,” one of the Interpol agents confirms to Franziska.

Phoenix can’t stop coughing, like his throat feels rawer by the second. He would have thought that Miles would be in the same kind of state, but he’s eerily silent beside him. Phoenix twists his head to consider him properly, and Miles looks like he’s seen more than just a few ghosts. Whatever adrenaline had perked him up before seems like it’s crashed out, leaving Miles in what looks like a state of shock, grip still locked tight around the katana. Phoenix knows how he gets after earthquakes, but he’s never seen it this bad.

(I want to hold him close right now. But what if that makes it worse?)

Phoenix doesn’t get the chance, because all of a sudden harsh siren sound fills his ears as emergency vehicles skid onto the scene. Like a blur, firefighters jump into action, shouting orders as they unspool their thick hoses and begin their assault on the flames, which have stirred up even more. For a moment, Phoenix wonders if it’s just the emanating heat or whether it’s already sunset with a richer tone of red than usual.

Before he can fully register what’s happening, he’s being half-dragged, half-assisted into the back of an ambulance by a masked woman wearing an aggressively orange outfit with the word ‘RETTUNGSDIEST’ embossed in equally aggressive capital letters. A firm hand on his shoulder pushes him to sit down, but he can’t really do much to resist anyway.

“W-wait,” he tries to say. “I’m fine- I just need to- Miles-“

The masked woman looks at her colleague, a man who looks to be about six and a half feet tall with the muscle mass to match, and mutters something Phoenix doesn’t understand.

(Right. Still in Germany.)

“Uh,” he twists awkwardly, trying to get some kind of view on the situation, but it’s no good. “Where is-“

The man puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You first.” He shines a harsh light into Phoenix’s eyes. “Look.”

Phoenix squints on reflex. “I am?”

The medic nods in approval as his eyes follow downwards, and he taps at his own chest. “Pain in heart?”

Phoenix’s eyes train away from the ambulance, where he still can’t see anything. “Yeah, but probably not for medical reasons...”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

 “What?”

“I didn’t mean-“

The woman returns, an intense look in her eyes. “If you don’t answer seriously, we sedate you.”

 “Wait, what?”

The man clicks his light again. “No talking. Open.”

Phoenix obeys, though he still wants to ask questions. The man, at least, is efficient as he tilts his head back and looks into his throat. Phoenix figures, from his expression, that he’s not too worried. Still, he can’t help but feel a little awkward, as the man moves to checking out his nostrils. Despite giving Phoenix a satisfied nod, the man still slaps an oxygen mask over his face, while the woman slides something onto his finger.

“Deep breath,” the woman instructs, brandishing a stethoscope.

Phoenix forces himself to stay as still as possible while they continue their checks on his pulse, blood pressure, and possibly other things he’s not really sure of. Though, he can’t really keep himself from getting antsy, the longer he’s forced to sit here. Especially as his scarf is unravelled, and the man starts pressing at his neck.

“Seriously,” Phoenix tries to get out, though it’s muffled with the mask obstructing him. “Miles Edgeworth. I need to know if he’s okay.”

The man’s fingers on his neck pause, and he looks over to the woman and mutters something that sounds like it might be a question. Whatever it is, it causes the woman to lean in, squint, and then let out a half chuckle before responding.

A full conversation starts to unfold, though Phoenix has no idea what they’re saying. At one point, he’s pretty sure he catches Miles’ name, though. The woman’s eyes widen like she’s just discovered something, which causes the man to suddenly clap, looking relatively happy about whatever it is. Then they say Miles’ name again, and Phoenix thinks he catches something that sounds like the word ‘friend’.

“Yes,” he nods urgently. “Miles! My friend. Where is he?”

Both the medics exchange some kind of glance, before engaging in their conversation again. The woman steps away for a moment, and Phoenix finally feels some relief at being understood. Or at least, he hopes the reason she stepped away is to go look for him.

After around half a minute or so, she returns, radio in hand. “Do not worry. We understand. You care very much about Miles. He’s here, ja?”

(Finally.)

“So he doesn’t need to go to hospital or anything?”

“Your breathing is good. No wheezing. You stay still, you can see Miles soon.”

“Deal,” Phoenix nods obediently.

She gestures to his scarf, a somewhat pitiful look in her eyes. “You can put back. Loose, though.”

The man, though, clears his throat. “Hand.”

With everything else going on, Phoenix had temporarily forgotten about his injury. At least now his main anxiety point is gone, he slips right back into his ‘be quiet and do what you’re told’ mode, trying not to flinch at the sting of the wound being cleaned. It can’t be too bad, though, since they only dress it with a bandage, rather than stitches. They even remove the mask once they’re done, which seems like another good sign.  

“Phoenix Wright!”

Eyes scanning him like she’s looking for injuries herself, Franziska surprisingly doesn’t start insulting him. Instead, she turns to the medics, and begins to fire off a number of questions, which Phoenix has to assume are about his general condition. Even if Phoenix felt up to objecting to it, he doesn’t actually mind too much. In a way, it’s nice that she seems to care.

“What in the world were you thinking, fool?!” She snaps back to him without warning.

(…Maybe I assumed too soon.)

“I was thinking,” Phoenix keeps his expression flat, “that it would be nice to check if I still have lungs before you start whipping me.”

“Hmph,” she folds her arms. “The only reason I am not is because you are currently in an ambulance.”

Despite it all, he manages to grin. “Guess I’m stuck here for my own safety, then.”

“Your lungs are fine,” Franziska answers. “There’s no plan to take you to hospital, either. You are supposed to stay here for a few more minutes, but then you will be released. And before you ask, my little brother is in a similar situation.”

(She clearly knows more!)

“Is he-“

“Physically? He is fine. Mentally?” Her expression tightens, as she glances towards the flurry of activity behind them. “Questionable.”

“There was an explosion,” Phoenix gets out. “And then those tremors... I even thought it was an earthquake for a second there.”

Franziska lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “There will need to be a full investigation, but we know the fire began at the basement level. Obviously arson is suspected.”

“It was Lambert Wolfe,” Phoenix confirms. “He… well, it’s a long story. He’s the one who set up the crossbow, and escaped through a secret passage which let out in the wine cellar. It also connected to a room full of Man- your father’s old trial records. He… decided to destroy everything in the end, when he realised we were onto him.”

“I see,” she says calmly. “The fool will be punished, naturally.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “And you?”

“I was called to an urgent meeting,” she shrugs. “Irrelevant, now, with this fire. I returned shortly after the explosion. Once I saw the smoke, I ensured the perimeter was secured, and that everyone was out of the building. That foolish fool Hildegard was in foolish hysterics about locking you fools in there... You should pretend to be a ghost, when she next sees you, her reaction will be hilarious.”

(Guilt? It’s possible, Hildegard hardly seems like a killer...)

“…Are you okay?”

Franziska scoffs. “Am I- what a foolish question. This is hardly about me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I mean, this is your home, right?”

“It’s just a pile of brick and stone,” she shrugs, and surprisingly the magatama keeps silent in his pocket. “We should be talking about you, Phoenix Wright.”

Phoenix blinks. “Me?”

She maintains her promise not to whip him, but she does prod him in the shoulder with her finger. “Yes, you. Your actions contradict your foolish words. You refuse to defend yourself, when you’re called a fraud. You say that your life as an attorney is in the past. Fine. But then you foolishly rush to a suspect’s defence, interfere with an investigation after being told not to multiple times, put yourself in danger…” Her eyes narrow. “What are you trying to achieve?!”

He tries to ignore the deep pit in his stomach. “You accused an innocent person of murder. I don’t see why you’re complaining, anyway. We basically solved the case.”

“If you like solving cases so much, then start with your own, foolish fool!”

 “That’s not-“

*CRACK*

She whips the ground. “Who did this to you, Phoenix Wright?! I know that you know something. You do not give up on investigations, even when it’s forbidden. Your actions just now have proved that beyond a doubt.”

It’s like a ringing in his ears, transporting him right back there. The sinking feeling, heavy like his pockets are stuffed full of rocks. The same cycle, week after week. Trying to find some crack, some flaw, only to come up with this gnawing emptiness. Suspicion and doubt aren’t enough to act on, but every wisp of a lead turns out to be a dead end. It was maddening back then, like every time he turned a corner he was caught chasing his own shadow. And the abyss just kept getting wider and wider.

Deep down, in his gut, Phoenix knows it's not about him giving up. No, it’s about keeping his head above the water. He can’t tell Franziska this, though. Can’t even speak the truth of it out loud to himself. Back then, in the thick of it, Phoenix hadn’t even recognised it at first, how every frustration kept weighing him down deeper still. Every time he’d get lost, not knowing what to do next, it came with the creeping feeling of panic, and hopelessness and fear.

He'd spent entire days staring at the blank, empty walls of his apartment… trying to come up with something, anything. Those days went on forever, but they were also over in an instant. And then suddenly that was a week gone, then two, and then a month with no progress. None of it mattered. Nothing helped. The only reason he could even begin to find to make himself roll out of bed at all was because he’d taken on responsibility for a whole, small person who needed food and attention and love. She’d already been through more trauma than any kid ever should.

Naturally, it had occurred to him at some point that anything that isn’t strictly related to Trucy’s wellbeing should be secondary. Actively seeking answers, knowing the sure-fire result will just drag him back into that hole again… it’s more than just off putting. It’s selfish. So he hasn’t given up… it’s just that different things matter to him now.

Phoenix is silent for too long, apparently.

“Hand over your magic rock. Now.”

“Franziska-“

She stands firm, though. “Or don’t. Your refusal to do so is an answer enough.”

Natural instinct to challenge bubbles within him. “What, haven’t you heard of the right to remain silent?”

Franziska instantly bristles. “You… are very lucky to be in Germany right now. Not all countries have such foolishly generous, blanket laws.”

“Not that you’re questioning me as a witness anyway,” Phoenix hums. Maybe deflection will have to do.  “Haven’t you considered that I might actually be guilty?”

“Of course I have, fool!”

Phoenix is almost knocked back, by the sudden chains that spring into view, coiling around Franziska’s body until they eventually click into place, a shiny red lock settling across her chest. Even without the extra help, Phoenix would have been able to read it on her face well enough on his own. There’s a slight, involuntary twitch to her left eye.

(If there’s a lock, she’s lying. Then that means…)

He pulls the magatama from his pocket. “Forgetting something? Funny, since you just asked for it. I’ll ask you something, then, as a prosecutor?”

“…What?”

“What would you do, if there was no evidence?” When she doesn’t respond immediately, he leans in closer. “Let’s say you have everything pointing to someone, but you have no hard evidence to back it up… what would you do?”

Franziska’s face immediately twists. “What kind of foolish question is that?! There’s always evidence.”

“Is there?” Phoenix shoots her a questioning look. “I mean, it’s not impossible, is it? Some criminals are smart.”

“There’s no such thing as a perfect criminal,” her tone is clipped. “The truth always comes to light. That’s how justice works.”

He just shrugs, though. “Ideally. But you’ve seen it yourself, haven’t you? How far some people go to hide the truth. It’s not impossible, that you could deal with someone who knows exactly how to cover all their tracks, and no matter how hard you try, the evidence just isn’t there. There’s nothing left to find. What then? Do you just let it go? Put it in front of a judge anyway, and hope for the best?”

“That’s not-“

“Is that even right in the first place?” Phoenix keeps going, on a roll somehow. “Imagine, you have no evidence at all to back you up, so what then? It’s down to how the judge feels about it? They’re still just one person.”

He can see the tension in her, the way her mind races to find a counterpoint. But she’s struggling. The posture remains, even when the medics finally shoot him a thumbs up, and he’s free to go. Not that his viewpoint outside is much better, with all the chaos of activity around them. Franziska doesn’t just stand and seethe in her spot, though, apparently deciding to stroll beside him.

“This is a waste of time,” Franziska finally says. “There is always something.”

A humourless laugh falls out of him. “You act like this is so unrealistic, but it’s happened before. The police, the prosecutor’s office… half the justice system looked at the same question and thought, do we just give up and let the criminals walk free? Or, why not just create the evidence? And they did. All of that was exposed like dirty laundry, even if the District Police Chief ended up taking most of the fall for it personally.” Suddenly, though, he feels like he might be going in a bit too harsh. “I’m not accusing you. But it’s the truth. Even the people who are supposed to protect the law can break it too.” He leans in again, directly challenging her. “What then? What happens when the system fails?”

After just a moment, she folds her arms. “You should know the answer to that better than anyone, Phoenix Wright.”

He blinks, definitely caught off guard by that kind of response. “What do you mean?”

She scoffs. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not defending any system. The truth is not the system. It’s merely a tool, which can be wielded in many different ways. You say there’s no evidence, no trace left behind? I think you’re just making a foolish excuse.” Despite the difference in their heights, it feels more like Franziska is looming over him. “Or was it someone else, who uncovered the bullet my Papa carried for fifteen years in his shoulder? And I refuse, Phoenix Wright, I refuse to believe that whoever’s responsible in your case is a better criminal than my Papa. Everybody… even I… was fooled by his so-called perfection,” she sneers. “Yet you found the truth then. So tell me- how can you cling to that excuse?”

The air, which he had been gulping down desperately just a little while ago, suddenly feels toxic around him. Everything he feels is like an unpleasant nausea. As though somehow, Franziska has crawled into his brain and yanked the cotton wool out from the source, blood and all.

But even during that trial, even though he’d managed to claw his way through every lie, he’d been hanging on by the skin of his teeth. What if Miles hadn’t accidentally hit Manfred von Karma with that stray bullet, all those years ago? If von Karma had just been a little less unlucky that day… he could have walked. Sometimes, he draws a royal flush and wins on the spot. It feels good when it happens, but it doesn’t have much to do with skill.

As if she smells the weakness, Franziska presses on. “You can stand there, foolishly spouting all the foolish philosophy you like about the failures of the legal system. But you can’t change the facts, that you peeled the truth out in the end. So tell me, Phoenix Wright, why is it that now – when it is you who has been wronged – you’ve decided to do nothing?”

Phoenix opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know. Or maybe somewhere deep down he does, and he just doesn’t want to admit it.

Franziska clicks her tongue. “Pathetic. My little brother, too. Both pathetic, foolish fools,” her eyes dart across the crowds of people.

Phoenix follows the direction of her glance, to finally set his eyes on Miles, sitting at his own ambulance, his oxygen mask still firmly in place. Just like earlier, Phoenix’s chest lurches in a non-medical kind of way. It’s not just Miles and a couple of medics, though. Some older woman in a formal suit seems to be in the middle of a scolding. Miles does appear to be listening, though his posture looks stiff. It’s clear whoever she is, she isn’t happy with Miles.

“…Is that the Chief Prosecutor?”

Franziska hums in agreement. “Her phone call this morning was an insufficient warning. Miles Edgeworth’s actions have made this necessary. He was a fool for disobeying orders. And nobody is a fan of reckless heroics.”

“…He’s not going to get fired or anything?”

The question rewards him with an eyeroll. “Desk duty, probably. She is… what’s your foolish phrase? All howl, no teeth.”

“…Yeah,” Phoenix says, “something like that.”

Before Franziska can retort, one of the Interpol agents approaches. “Prosecutor von Karma, we need your input on a matter concerning the suspect.”

She exhales sharply, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “Very well. This had better be worth my time.”

For some reason, Phoenix feels this odd, pulling sensation. He’s not ready, somehow, to be left alone in his thoughts just yet. But that’s the thing. Without his badge, he has no right to be anything other than a witness. A sitting duck, in some ways. It’s just not him. ‘Idle’ has never truly been something Phoenix can pull off.

“Wait,” he says quickly, “what you said earlier…”

Franziska turns over her shoulder, considering him. “What?”

All Phoenix can do is hope she understands the severity in his look. “You’re doing your own investigation, right? That’s why you took in Emmerich Fibber. Whatever you’re looking for… Misham. You should keep an eye out for that name.”

For a moment she just stands there, looking long and hard. “Tch. Fine. But you’d best not be wasting my time with foolishness.” She strides off without another word.

Chapter Text

Actively talking about the Gramarye trial, or at least something related to it, hardly feels like a weight lifted from Phoenix’s shoulders.  To the contrary, it’s like he can hear the roar of an approaching avalanche in his ears. For once, he hopes that’s just a psychological reaction, because the alternative would likely be carbon monoxide poisoning or something. Though, Phoenix is pretty sure he’s been cleared of that. Not to say that he’s not susceptible to hallucinations, though, because right then he notices Reiner Rotfisch approach. If the man had a tail, it would definitely be between his legs.

“You’re officially cleared, then?” Phoenix notes the lack of Interpol agents accompanying him.

Reiner nods. “So it seems. I-” he hesitates, before clearing his throat, “I thought I should thank you, for believing in my innocence.”

(Don’t give me too much credit. It’s not like I never doubted you. If you were actually my client, Mia would be rolling in her grave.)

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Well, at least you’re grateful.”

He can’t help but glance towards where Hildegard stands, far away from the action as a few emergency workers rush around her in their attempts to quell the fire. She looks rigid, arms firmly crossed, as she keeps a protective eye on her children with the dog obediently sat to heel. Even now, there’s an unspoken barrier between her and everyone else outside the burning estate.

Reiner winces. “Well…”

“Your wife had us locked in that room,” Phoenix says. “If Franziska and the other agents hadn’t bust in, we could’ve been burnt alive.” He gives Reiner a sidewards glance. “So, don’t be surprised if this is the last time I help clear your name.”

“I know,” Reiner exhales, sounding genuinely tired. “She wasn’t thinking straight. Hilde… she has always found it hard to trust. It’s become worse, these past few years, after… you know. She probably thought she was protecting our family.”

Phoenix almost laughs. “By letting her sister throw you in jail?”

“She knew I was innocent,” he says it firmly, though Phoenix can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to convince himself. “Even if that meant a temporary discomfort. The truth would have been clear, eventually.”

(That’s one way to describe pre-trial detention…)

Phoenix clicks his tongue. “Speaking of which. I found out about the debt. And your phone call with Emmerich Fibber.”

Reiner stiffens for a second before his shoulders sag. “Of course you did.”

“Can’t say I agreed with your plans in good conscience,” he says, “but I respect the ambition to give that house a makeover. It needs it. Or, well,” Phoenix looks at the smoke pluming into the sky, “less now, I guess.”

Surprisingly, Reiner chuckles, before looking away as though gathering his words. “I didn’t want Hilde to find out. She’s already been through enough.” He sighs, almost wistful. “The scandal itself, the damage to the von Karma name, losing her father… Even the time we were told Miles had left a note-“ he shakes his head, not completing the thought. “I didn’t want to add anything else. The last thing she needed was to feel that she has to support our family on her own. It felt like I could maybe take something off her plate and resolve my own… problems. But now…”

“It’s up in flames?” Phoenix finishes.

“Quite.”

A moment of silence dwells between them. Frankly, Phoenix still doesn’t like the guy. The desire to protect his family, Phoenix definitely gets, but… Well, it’s not something he can put his finger on exactly. Maybe Reiner has good intentions, and maybe his choices even make sense if Phoenix tries to look at them a certain way, but it still feels like a lot of excuses.

“…Look,” Phoenix starts, “I can’t claim to know much about marriage, but if she really has trust issues, hiding something like this from her probably won’t help.”

There’s a stretch of silence where Reiner seems to mull it over, looking out at Hildegard and his children. “…I’ll think about it.” He gives himself a nod of affirmation. “Where is Miles, by the way?”

Phoenix blinks, caught off guard momentarily, before glancing back at the ambulance. This time, though, the Chief Prosecutor is nowhere in sight, and the vehicle doors are firmly shut. A spike of panic rushes through him, before the hit of rationality. If Miles was in danger, the vehicle would be gone too.

(It’s fine. Miles probably just got sick of being chewed out and walked off to brood somewhere.)

The logic doesn’t stop his pulse from picking up.

(…But it’s not like he was completely unscathed. Has anyone even asked if he’s okay?)

Phoenix turns, moving towards the small crowd of people without really thinking about it, though Reiner doesn’t say anything about his question going unanswered. An ache is finally starting to creep across Phoenix’s body, but somehow he keeps going until that familiar burgundy colour crosses his vision, weaving through the other people far too quickly.

Miles stops dead in his tracks, meeting Phoenix’s eyes. His entire frame seems to lock up for a moment, his characteristic composure nowhere to be found. Briefly, Phoenix has enough presence of mind to notice that his cravat is missing- probably at the behest of the paramedics. That’s all the time Phoenix gets to think, before he realises that Miles is actually charging right for him.

“Wright!” Miles’ breath comes too fast. “You- I saw-“ His voice catches, broken at the edges, and he coughs hard. Looking him over properly, his eyes are blown wide and frantic.

As though by instinct, Phoenix reaches out in an attempt to steady him. “Hey, you need to breathe-“

But Miles jerks away, and shakes his head. “No, I- those tremors.” His body shudders with it, just under the force of his breath, fingers twitching at his sides. “You were-“ he swallows like he’s choking on the words themselves. “I heard him threaten you. And I- I couldn’t do anything.” His breath hitches sharply, face twisting itself into something that looks like grief. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop him from- he was going to kill you- I-“

Somehow, Phoenix himself feels frozen, helplessly watching Miles break down. He’s shaking, resembling a lost child far more than a man nearly in his thirties. It’s somehow different, from the haunted look he’d worn after waking up out of a nightmare a couple of nights ago. There, he’d appeared to be more in a confused daze of memory.

Then it hits Phoenix in full.

Miles has been here before. A tremble in the ground, being trapped in a locked room, finding it hard to breathe… witnessing an attack, and the desperation to do something, anything. Except this time, it wasn’t a nightmare. It all actually happened, in real time. This goes beyond tearing open an old wound.

(Oh, Miles…)

Without thinking, Phoenix reaches for Miles again, catching him by the wrist, and then presses the hand flat against Phoenix’s own chest. “See?” He says, his own voice faltering a little. “Still beating.”

After a long, tense moment, Miles shudders out a breath. His fingers twitch, almost like they want to curl into a fist or grab hold of something, but they stay planted firm against Phoenix’s sternum. There’s something glassy in his eyes, like all Phoenix needs to do is poke a little and he’ll just shatter completely.

Phoenix looks at him straight on, and makes a show of exhaling, placing his own hand on top of Miles’. It takes a moment, but Miles nods, following his lead. Just like the other night. Steady breaths, in and out like clockwork. Sure enough, he sees the tension in Miles’ shoulders start to ease.

“I’m fine,” Phoenix affirms.

Though he doesn’t start up with a fresh wave of panic, Miles shakes his head again. “I was incapacitated. Again.” His head turns away, like he’s ashamed. “I froze. I let it happen.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Phoenix’s hand bears down a little, pressing him closer, like he needs to keep feeling. “You didn’t freeze when it counted. You were there, M-“ he swallows, “Edgeworth. I think you saved my life.”

Miles doesn’t respond to that, not verbally, but then something shifts. The cold chill of situational awareness easily overtakes the warmth and weight of Miles’ palm resting above his heart. He sees it immediately, the flicker of realisation in Miles’ expression, only to shift into a sharpness in his eyes as it fully registers.

They step apart in perfect synchronisation.

Miles tugs his hand back, smoothing down his coat. A beat of silence passes.

“Are you okay?” Phoenix asks. “With the smoke, I mean.”

“I’m fine,” Miles straightens his posture, gripping at his own wrist.

For some reason, he wants to press, but he decides to let it slide. “…What happened with the Chief Prosecutor?”

Miles lets out a small scoff. “A stern conversation. She was unhappy, with my decisions. The fact that we were able to uncover so much is likely the only thing that spared me. I am required to deliver frequent reports, for the coming weeks, and I am barred from investigations,” Miles makes a noise of irritation.

Before Phoenix can respond, a voice cuts through the space between them.

“Fools.” Franziska looks over at Miles with scrutiny. “I expect a full explanation, by the way. Such as why I found you, Miles Edgeworth, holding the suspect at sword point.”

Just about then, Phoenix realises that the katana is still actually strapped to Miles’ hip, sitting easily kind of like it belongs there.

 “To be fair,” Phoenix says, “Wolfe was actually holding one at my throat first.”

Franziska looks pleased at that. “Good. Then I can throw more charges at him. With an additional attempted murder, he will never walk free again.”

Miles looks at her curiously. “I don’t suppose there’s any update on the situation?”

“Lambert Wolfe is in custody, obviously, along with Liesel Falschen,” she nods curtly. “Reiner Rotfisch has been cleared of all suspicion. Fire crews are focusing on containment rather than salvage. The estate is…” she glances back momentarily as the glow illuminates her face, “not expected to last much longer.”

Of course, Phoenix can still feel the heat tickle against his face. In some ways, it’s a little mesmerising, watching the flames curl their way into the upper floors. The sun is dipping lower now, giving way to the cooler tones of twilight. Different to the stormy weather for the two previous nights, the sky would have been perfectly clear, if not for the smoke wisping up and away like the final gasping breath of something that should have died a long time ago.

“Are they sure they can’t put it out or save any of the building?” Phoenix asks, finding himself morbidly curious.

Franziska assesses the scene with clinical precision. “Doubtful. Much of the internal structure was furbished with mahogany panelling, lacquered over. The wood burns hot and steady once aflame, and the finish has likely led to flashovers. On top of that, the complicated ventilation system spans the entire estate. It is nearly certain that the flames reached it, which only accelerated the spread.” She tilts her chin, as if in thought.

Phoenix maintains his gaze for a moment, still finding it hard to really take it in. “You’d think for a man so obsessed with his perfect legacy, von Karma wouldn’t have lived in such a flammable house…”

Right then, Franziska turns to stare at him, and it occurs to Phoenix that he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He braces for the whip, but he’s caught even more off guard by her sudden laughter. In fact, Phoenix is sure he hasn’t heard Franziska laugh in a way that isn’t a brief scoff or through sarcasm before, so he’s not even completely sure it’s laughter at all, at first.

(Was what I said really that funny?)

Apparently it was, because Franziska doubles over, pressing a hand to her face, though it does little to supress the laughter as her shoulders shake. At her side, Miles exhales too, so sharp it’s like he’s been punched, and they both crack apart. They lose themselves in tandem, pouring out like something dammed up for years.

“Flammable,” Franziska wheezes, clutching at Miles’ sleeve for support.

(…Or maybe I’m watching some kind of psychotic break unfold in real time. Should I call a medic over?)

“The unshakable foundation of the von Karma creed,” Miles recites, nearly tearing up, “undone by mahogany.”

Franziska shakes her head, wiping her eyes. “Do you remember when I first received this whip, and accidentally grazed those foolish panels during one of our debate games?”

Miles nods. “How could I forget? Just that single mark, and he was furious. I attempted to cover for you, but he saw right through our ploy.”

“And then when Papa punished us both, and he made us-“ she snorts again, “made us refinish the entire wall again by hand with the same lacquer.” Franziska gestures towards the building. “Tell me, Miles Edgeworth, do you see those panels?”

After briefly miming a glance to survey the scene, Miles smirks. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

Franziska nods solemnly. “Then it was a foolish exercise.”

“Redundant,” Miles agrees, “though it may have added to the fuel.”

The comment elicits a further cackle. “Part of the cinders, now.”

Miles holds a hand to his heart in mock reverence. “It’s as he always said. If something is not perfect, then it may as well not exist.”

“Tch,” Franziska scoffs. “I still believe in those words, even if you do not. All it proves is that this place was not perfect.” She looks at him directly again. “A von Karma does not fail.”

“No,” Miles agrees, “but it appears they may burn.”

Their laughter picks up again, as they grip each other. There’s something almost feverish about it. Whatever they’re both seeing, it’s certainly not just a house. Phoenix can tell, this isn’t something that he’s supposed to get. It’s not his to understand. Honestly, he can’t bring himself to be anything other than a silent observer, and even there he feels like an interloper.

“You do have my condolences,” Miles says once they’ve calmed a little from the hysteria. “It was your property at this point after all, along with everything inside.”

“Please,” Franziska rejects. “I’m not concerned about foolish objects.”  

Miles hums as though it doesn’t surprise him. “In that case, what about this?” He unfastens the katana from his side, pulls it from its sheath, and presents it to her like she’s some kind of feudal lord. “It’s yours, by mandate of the will.”

Her eyes rake over him in consideration. “Some samurai toy?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “the great sword Karuma, from which the von Karmas got their name. Though, it’s not in the best shape, and I must admit that my actions today may have degraded it further…”

Franziska looks over it, the metal casting a reflection of the flames. “Keep it.”

Miles raises an eyebrow at this. “Are you certain?”

Though she looks like she’s being dismissive, Phoenix can see the hint of a smile creeping through. “I have no use for such foolish things, as I said, and you clearly know more about it. I already have the name, therefore you may wield the blade.”

(I just hope that’s a metaphorical thing- one prosecutor brandishing a weapon in open court is already more than enough.)

“Very well,” Miles says, securing the katana at his side again. “I can’t say I’ll mourn anything else in that house. Though, it’s… unfortunate, about the records. If we had access to all those case files and his personal logs, there could have been solid progress in tracing his past forgeries and unlawful dealings.”

Franziska’s lips press tight, and her voice comes out a little softer. “You know that the statute of limitations is already passed on many of those cases, little brother.”

“Nghk,” Miles grips himself by the arm. “Perhaps in a court of law. The court of public opinion has no such expiry date.” He glares at a part of the burning building again. “It bothers me that he still got what he wanted, even if it was at a cost.”

Suddenly, the weight of the evidence binder that Phoenix still has in his possession feels like heavy lead, as his awareness of its existence kicks in again.

“Uh, actually,” Phoenix shifts on his feet. “About that…”

Both Franziska and Miles turn to look at him immediately, expectant.

Phoenix swallows. “Remember when we found that records room earlier, and we were trying to figure out what files were missing?”

Miles narrows his eyes slightly. “…What is it, Wright?”

He slides the file out from the evidence binder, feeling sheepish. “I may have taken one.”

Naturally, Franziska doesn’t hesitate to reach for her whip. “Fool! You withheld evidence!”

“Technically speaking,” Phoenix says, “I didn’t really have much of an opportunity to turn it in yet.” He passes the file directly to Miles, before figuring he may as well surrender the rest of the evidence binder to Franziska. Though, even if it’s been two years since he was an attorney, it still feels unnatural to just hand over that stuff to a prosecutor.

Evidence binder surrendered to Franziska. 

Miles is still scrutinising him, rather than the file itself. “Why wouldn’t you mention this to me?”

Phoenix can’t hide his wince. “I… I saw the name on the file and figured you might want to look at it eventually. We were focused on the rest of the investigation, and I didn’t want to throw you off. I didn’t even read any of it myself.” He swallows, letting it hang for a moment. “I was going to tell you, once we wrapped up with everything.”

Opening the file carefully, Miles’ expression immediately shifts. “…DL-6.”

Phoenix nods. “Yeah. I was surprised to find it, I guess.”

Franziska leans over, taking her own glance over the contents. “Hmph. So he did keep his own records on that trial.”

“That’s what confused me, actually,” Phoenix admits. “I don’t know if it’ll have anything related to your investigation, but I guess it was important enough for Wolfe to risk everything to come after it.”

Miles flips through the pages. “…It’s a start. You still shouldn’t have taken it without saying anything, but… I’m grateful.”

“Well, isn’t this cozy?”

They all twist to the voice. Hildegard Rotfisch approaches their group, her expression unreadable, though there’s something sharper and more unsettled in her gaze than usual. Despite this, she still carries an air of self-importance, her shoulders squared and poised. 

(Oh great. Here we go.)

Chapter Text

Hildegard stops a few paces away from them, staring up towards the still-burning estate. “…It seems the house is lost.”

Franziska scoffs. “Any fool can see that.”

Miles’s own expression cools into something that’s difficult to read. “What do you want?”

“Why must you assume I want anything?” Hildegard’s eyes narrow. “Is it a crime now, to make conversation?”

Phoenix can’t help himself. “I don’t know, could have pinned you with manslaughter, seeing as you locked us up and left us even after we told you we knew who the killer was. We could have burnt in there.”

 She glares at him with the full extent of her sharpness. “Hmph. Playing prosecutor now, Phoenix Wright?”

“Weren’t you?” Franziska cuts in. “I was informed that you had no problem ordering agents around, barking foolish demands when it suited you. And now,” she looks at Phoenix, “forcing me to take the same side as this fool.”

Hildegard’s lips press into a thin line, and Phoenix tries to ignore the insult. “Don’t be ridiculous. Someone had to take control.”

Miles somehow manages to appear completely calm. “And look how that turned out.”

It definitely strikes a nerve, Hildegard’s fingers twitching at her sides, before she exhales deeply and tilts her chin up. “Believe it or not, I came to apologise.”

Phoenix blinks. “That was an apology?”

Her eyes cut towards him. “I said I came to apologise. I haven’t actually done it yet. I… admit that I was mistaken. It appears that you were correct in your theory. However, you are alive. The matter is settled, and I don’t see the need for further theatrics.”

Phoenix meets her head on. “That was an apology?”

“My actions were not entirely unreasonable. I assumed you had ulterior motives,” she says plainly. “That you were manipulating the situation to suit yourselves.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says. “Me, I get. I’m the famous forging attorney, don’t trust me all you want. But him?” He gestures at Miles. “Really?”

“Wright,” Miles cuts in. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, you don’t have to let her-“

Miles’ expression is still almost completely neutral. “She made a mistake, and she regrets it. She should have stopped to consider all the available evidence, before assuming the facts. However, she had no way of anticipating that Wolfe would set the building on fire. And now, she will never make that error again.” His brow furrows into a glare. “Am I correct?”

Something flickers in Hildegard’s expression, just slightly. “An astute summary.”

Miles’ eyes remain fixed on Hildegard. “Who’s to say, whether I should be afforded some implicit trust. Your own father upended every principle he told you he stood for. There’s no guarantee I wouldn’t do the same, as his pupil. You should know that I felt that betrayal as well, among everything else that was inflicted on me.”

“I never did understand it,” Hildegard says tightly. “What was so special about you. The only explanation I could fathom was that you were a punishment.” She tuts. “Such pitiful naivety. I was unaware, at that time, that my failures were already so absolute that I wasn’t even worth receiving a penalty. No, Father’s glancing affection for me was limited to my status as the womb that sheltered his grandchildren in the end, nothing more.” Her stare shifts to the house, then. “Now I wonder if it was ever actually my doing, or if it’s because I looked too much like Mother.” Strangely enough, Hildegard smiles. “You know, when I first became engaged to Reiner, I even asked Father what he wanted me to do about the name... given how the concept of pride as a von Karma had been drilled into me when I was young. He couldn’t, however, fathom why I would bother asking such a question in the first place. I chose to shed the von Karma title then, but I suppose I still clung to the spirit of it. In any case, I think I shall burn it away in full, now. Regardless of that, Franziska, you are a sister by blood. And Miles… our tie is a legal one. These are factors beyond any of our control. I see it now, though. To each other, you have become siblings by choice.”

For a long moment, nobody makes to add anything, and there’s only the crackling of the fire behind her.

“…We don’t need to be strangers,” Miles finally says.

Franziska, for her part, nods curtly. “Would you care to join us in watching Papa’s legacy go up in flames?”

“No,” Hildegard responds almost immediately. “Reiner and I plan to depart to one of our properties in London imminently. The children have already missed a day of school coming here, I don’t wish to waste another.” She lingers for a moment. “…I will speak with you again, perhaps in less unhappy circumstances.”

“Is that so?” Miles muses.

She inclines her head, just slightly. “If you wish.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Franziska exhales a breath. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”

Phoenix’s eyes follow her motion, though, back over to her family. He can’t help but feel for the kids. Even though they’re both clearly capable, this weekend would be a lot to go through for anyone. At the very least, they’ll probably get an interesting show and tell out of the experience.

(Shit.)

“Oh no,” he voices.

Miles, who had been watching the fire with a distant expression, immediately turns to him. “What is it?”

“School night,” Phoenix groans. “I was supposed to be on my flight home around now.” It’s not like there’s much he can do to get around that, though. “I’ll have to give Maya a call, get her to fake Trucy sick or something-“

“No,” Miles’ tone is sharp.

Phoenix looks at him, a flood of disbelief rushing in. “No?”

Miles straightens. “You are not having Trucy miss school because of this.”

“It’s not so bad,” he justifies, feeling defensive for some reason. “Really. Sure, it’s not ideal, but she can with Pearls to her tutoring. The bigger problem is getting in trouble with her school, but it’s not that big a deal.“

“Yes it is.” Miles looks down. “I was the one who asked you here. Though neither of us could have predicted that this would turn into a murder investigation, I won’t allow your daughter’s education to suffer as a result. And,” he folds his arms, “you still have time to make your flight.”

“…I mean, yeah maybe, it won’t have taken off yet, but-“

“Then we’re leaving,” Miles is already turning away, mind made up, decisive stride kicking in.

Phoenix blinks. “Hold it! Are you even okay to drive?!”

Miles doesn’t slow his pace. “Of course I am.”

Desperate, Phoenix glances at Franziska in a plea for help, but she just shrugs. “Goodbye for now, Phoenix Wright.”

(Well. That’s that, then.)

Phoenix has to half jog, to catch up with Miles. “You do you remember you got knocked out maybe an hour ago? Inhaled some smoke? And, I don’t know, went all Steel Samurai on a guy with that sword?”

Miles exhales sharply. “I was there, if you recall.” He gives his own arm a squeeze, before his shoulders lose their tension. “I assure you, Wright. I am fine. Besides. While I appreciate your attempt at empathising, I did nothing of the sort. The Steel Samurai’s primary weapon is a spear, not a katana. If there had been such a weapon available, that entire match would have been over far sooner.”

(Yeah. Okay. He’s right as rain.)

They’re already at his car, by the time Miles finishes speaking, and Phoenix is out of objections. As soon as he settles into the passenger seat, he has to admit the exhaustion hits him hard. Miles wastes no time turning the key in the ignition either, weaving between the series of emergency vehicles positioned the property effortlessly.

Phoenix doesn’t try to make conversation, as they drive in the direction of the hotel. Not that Phoenix is always qualified to know the difference, but Miles really does seem fine, mostly. Focused and steady enough that there’s no clear danger of him crashing the car off the road. Still, Phoenix sees no reason to distract him unnecessarily.

He’s a little surprised, when Miles also steps out of the car after parking it outside the hotel. Phoenix only needs to grab his bag from the room, after all, but questioning it is probably the lowest of his priorities. He paces across the hotel lobby briskly, which is relatively busy with activity, and heads straight for the stairwell automatically.

Miles, though, stops in place in front of the elevators.

Phoenix can’t help but ask. “…Are you going to wait here?”

After a moment of tension, Miles’ shoulders relax. “This way is quicker,” he says, pressing the call button.

“You don’t have to-“

Miles inhales sharply. “No. I passed out from mere tremors today. If circumstances had been any worse, that reaction could have cost someone their life. I’ve existed this way for nearly twenty years now... How many minutes have I lost, I wonder, to these extreme reactions, even just marching up and down stairwells?”

As badly as Phoenix wants to reach out, he manages to keep his hands to himself. “Edgeworth,” his voice lowers, “that wasn’t your fault earlier. And there’s no statute of limitations on trauma.”

The firm look of conviction in Miles’ eyes doesn’t waver, as the lit-up number above the elevator doors begins to descend. “Regardless, the fact remains. I will not allow Manfred von Karma’s crimes to keep dictating my life, even after his is over. The elevator is quicker, Wright, and I will not waste another second of time.”

The doors ding open, and Miles strides inside before Phoenix can respond.

Miles’ shoulders stay squared as the doors slide shut behind them. In any case, Phoenix watches him carefully, not missing his wince as they begin to move up. They’re only on the second floor, so it’s not like they need to go far at least. Miles remains nearly statue still, jaw tight as he stares straight ahead. He’s clearly uncomfortable, but he’s still doing it. It’s not like he needs to hold Phoenix’s hand for moral support or anything like that, but Phoenix still stands closely at his side. Though not too close, just enough to let him know he’s there.

When the doors open again, Miles can’t truly mask the look of relief, but other than that there’s no giant celebration as he strides out into the hall. Phoenix follows in a kind of awe. His natural instinct is to say something, positive reinforcement being important and everything, but he figures it’s better to leave it.

(Miles doesn’t want this to be a big deal. Most people don’t even think twice about taking an elevator.)

They reach his hotel room quickly, with Phoenix fumbling for his keycard momentarily before shoving the door open. It’s not like he left it in a complete mess that morning, but a few things are still strewn over the place. It feels a bit weird with Miles lingering at the doorway, kind of like he’s getting some kind of room inspection, but he still moves efficiently at stuffing everything loose inside his bag, even taking the time to make sure his passport is right on top and easy to reach. Phoenix can’t help but pause, though, staring at the amount of empty space left inside. It feels… off. Like he’s definitely missing something.

Then, it clicks.

“Oh, damn.”

“Is something wrong?” Miles asks, still not crossing the threshold.

“I didn’t pick up my suit, since we left them at the house yesterday after we had to get changed.” Phoenix gestures to the window, where the smoke from the estate is actually slightly in view, like it’s part of the landscape. “I was wondering why my bag felt so light.”

A moment passes, before Miles looks at him deadpan. “A mercy, really.”

“Huh?”

Miles just shrugs. “That suit was cheap and tacky. The fabric had a terrible sheen, and frankly I’m surprised it even held together as long as it did. Besides, the cut did nothing for you,” he makes a vague gesture towards Phoenix’s torso. “It was ill-fitted at best.”

(…I’m too taken aback by him apparently paying attention to the way my clothes fit to be offended.)

“It was the only one I owned,” Phoenix says mournfully.

“Obviously,” Miles states. “Should you have need for another, it’ll be replaced, courtesy of the von Karma estate.”

Intentionally or not, the comment hangs a bit heavy in the air. In fact, the entire atmosphere feels off, and Miles is still just lingering at the door. Just, there. Like there’s some kind of unseen barrier keeping him out. Then, as his mind whirls for an explanation, Phoenix suddenly becomes very aware of what happened the last time Miles crossed that threshold.

(Right, that. The thing we’re apparently not talking about.)

Phoenix snaps his bag shut a little too forcefully, exorcising the ghost of the memory of Miles’ tongue in his mouth.

(Explains this awkward tension, at least.)

“Anyway,” he swings his bag over his shoulder. “Guess we should head out before we cut it too close.”

“Verily,” Miles nods. “I just need to drop something off first.”

It piques his curiosity. “Like what?”

Miles steps aside, allowing Phoenix to exist before moving to the opposite door of his own hotel room. He doesn’t bother stepping inside, and instead simply removes the sword from his waist and props it up somewhere behind the door carefully before he locks it again.

“Right,” Phoenix says, “the katana.”

“…I can hardly bring a bladed weapon inside an airport.”

(Yeah, probably wouldn’t go down well…)

“Okay,” he nods, “let’s head off.”

Chapter Text

The second elevator trip goes a little smoother than the first, though Miles still doesn’t look all too happy about it. Whatever the case, though, it seems like his new determination might work out for him. Phoenix can’t deny his own nervousness, though, at the initiative. He’d read up on some things, when he first got Trucy, and a lot of the advice geared towards taking very small steps and absolutely not rushing headlong into discomfort.

Despite this they make it out in one piece, and Miles seems completely at ease behind the wheel of his car, barely allowing Phoenix time to get his seatbelt on before the engine purrs to life. The drive is completely normal, as they pull away from the hotel, but then they reach a proper stretch of the remote winding road, devoid of other cars and flanked only by looming trees.

Miles doesn’t bother to give him a heads up, before deciding that apparently this is his cue to accelerate, the whole vehicle humming with power as he steps on the pedal. The forces practically pin Phoenix down hard into the passenger seat, and he automatically clings to the door handle for fear of his life as the speedometer shoots up to numbers he’s not wholly convinced are legal.

Predictably, Miles seems to look somewhere between pleased and actively smug, his fingers loose on the wheel like this is a simple hobby.

“Edgeworth, I swear to god-“

“Hmm?” His gaze flicks briefly to Phoenix before returning to the road, completely unbothered.

Phoenix’s grip on the handle tightens. “Is there a reason you’re driving like we just took a wrong turn into a NASCAR race?”

Miles barely quirks an eyebrow. “We’re on a time crunch. I don’t intend to risk the possibility of missing your flight.”

“That’s great and all,” he says, “but we have to actually make it there in one piece first.”

“My driving is perfectly safe,” Miles says, taking a hairpin turn as the forest whips around them in a dark blur.

(I’m pretty sure I just experienced multiple Gs with that bend, which I wouldn’t call perfectly safe.)

“I think I’d rather take my chances with the burning building…”

“You’re just being melodramatic, Wright.” Miles hums casually, then tilts is head. “If it helps, your reactions are highly entertaining.”

(I have no idea how that could possibly help?)

Feeling petulant, Phoenix sinks into the chair and turns his head to look out of the window, folding his arms. “Glad to be of service.”

“Suit yourself,” Miles says, and then turns on the radio.

The radio is not much of an improvement. In fact, Phoenix shudders with extreme displeasure once he recognises the song.

‘Ah… Only hate me
 For my crimes
 Bitte, just one more time…
Won’t you consider not prosecuting me?
 Let me say this one last time
Won’t you consider not prosecuting me?
Hard time for love (Ja!)
Now my probation is ov-‘

Phoenix reaches over and twists the radio off, ready to face whatever punishment may come his way for messing with Miles’ car. There’s only so much Gavinners he’s willing to tolerate. To his surprise, though, Miles doesn’t raise an objection. Possibly because he’s having enough fun driving like some kind of lunatic speed demon.

Finally – and mercifully – the road starts to straighten out, the headlights of other cars visible through the trees. As soon as they appear, Miles eases off the accelerator, if only slightly, which gives Phoenix a chance to breathe again.

“I must say,” Miles says out of nowhere, “this is the smoothest drive I’ve had in weeks.”

“Felt more like mortal danger to me,” Phoenix mutters, before sitting up properly again. “What’s your plan from here, anyway?”

Miles’ eyes remain, thankfully, firmly on the road. “I assume you’re referring to what I intend to do now that this case is, theoretically, behind us?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re technically banned from the case, right?”

“Firmly,” Miles responds dryly.

Phoenix raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Will that actually stop you?”

“Franziska still has full control on the prosecution’s side of things, but I suspect she will make use of an extra pair of eyes if offered, particularly when it comes to incorporating our evidence. I’ll assist where I can, though I’ll have no official capacity. Otherwise, I will be going through the records you took as a top priority…” he’s silent for a beat. “I appreciate that you saved them.”

“Least I could do,” Phoenix shrugs.

Miles hesitates. “I’ll also help Franziska handle the house, I suppose. Since Hildegard doesn’t appear to be sticking around.”

Phoenix looks over at him curiously. “I still have no idea what to think about her.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You forgave her pretty easily, though?”

Miles’ hands flex on the wheel. “There’s nothing left for her to hold onto, in terms of that legacy. She spent her whole life standing in von Karma’s shadow, and now all that’s left is ashes. It can be… a lonely experience.”

Phoenix can’t help but stare. “And you think that’s enough? I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel bad for her at all, but…”

His grip tightens. “I think she’s lost more than she ever expected to, and she has to live with that. There’s nothing to be gained by clinging on to desperate words.” A moment of silence passes. “It’s probably easier to understand, having lived it. This was practically von Karma’s modus operandi… Precisely seeking out a person’s weakness, and twisting it somehow to his favour. Hildegard, for instance, was clearly prone to feeling abandoned. The more he ignored her, the more desperately loyal she became. With Franziska, it was her competitiveness, and it was easy enough to cast himself the referee in all things. He would often decide who got to act as intern on a case through minor contests… She would get a dose of winning or losing as he deemed necessary. Eventually, of course, he would stop informing us whether a contest was active or not in the first place.” 

Phoenix swallows, and the question tumbles out before he can stop it. “And you?”   

The momentary silence is sharp and prickly. “…Affection, most likely. That’s what I used to respond to strongly... Trust. A natural tendency to… hold on when people showed kindness. Von Karma hardly had to do a thing at all, in truth. I already knew what it was to truly lose everything, all he needed to do was step into the void and refocus the subject of that fear. Most of the time, he really was good to me, but there was always that edge that reminded me just how thin the ice I stood on was… When I started to gain the natural independence of adulthood however, he began pulling back, I think, so that I would crave it.”  Miles’ knuckles are nearly white. “He made sure I excelled, and praised me when I did. Even with hindsight now, there are so many times it felt… real.”

It takes almost everything in Phoenix to beat down his urge to tear up, eyes already heavy with it, as he pictures the scene all too vividly. There’s also a bubbling discomfort within him, because somehow von Karma sounds a little like a certain defence attorney he knows. He doesn’t know what to say. But he has to say something. Miles being this open about something like this is such a rarity, and Phoenix doesn’t want him to end up regretting it.

“But it wasn’t.”

“That’s the problem,” Miles admits, a harsh edge to his voice. “I don’t know how much of it was genuine, or whether it was all part of some wider strategy to twist my mind. I was not- even back then, I wasn’t blind. I doubted, but perhaps that was intended. The ultimate cruelty of denying me the ability to wholeheartedly hate him. It lingers… even to this day. Even beyond him.”

“So, it’s hard for you, to let people close?” Phoenix summarises, any better response ideas fading from his mind. “That… seems exhausting. If you’re really second guessing even the good things like that.” He hesitates again, for a moment. “I, uh. I hope you know with me, at least, you don’t need to worry about that kind of thing. You do… know that, right?”

It immediately feels like he said the wrong thing, somehow, though he can’t pick out exactly why.

After a moment, Miles spares him a glance. "That I don’t have to doubt you?"

"Yeah."

Miles nods. “Of course I trust you, Wright. With anything.”

He speaks with such conviction, without any lingering on the statement, that Phoenix wouldn’t ordinarily have any kind of suspicion that he’s not telling the truth. None of his usual tells are visible. And yet, suddenly Phoenix’s stomach twists as a series of thick, unrelenting chains start to curl around Miles, his magatama practically burning in his pocket.

Like a coward, Phoenix turns away, afraid to look at how many locks there are. With something like this, even one is bad enough. But if there are more?

(He doesn’t trust me.)

(But why would he lie about something like that?)

He feels sick, and then somewhat guilty. The case is solved, now. And Phoenix doesn’t generally like to carry the magatama around with him unnecessarily. Getting to the truth of a murder seems like it’s really serving the greater good, but being able to look into a person’s heart, without them even knowing, through supernatural means is nothing short of invasive.

Of course, Phoenix wants to get to the bottom of it. But how can he? As much as he hates it, it’s not like he has some kind of right to be trusted. Nor any right to be bothered by it. Pressing Miles for information would probably also do him the opposite of winning any favours in that department…

So fine. Miles doesn’t trust him. His chest aches with it, something raw and bitter and wrong.

Phoenix lets his gaze flicker, just for a second, back toward Miles once enough silence has elapsed for the chains to disappear again. His profile is sharp in the passing headlights, gaze steady on the road ahead, completely oblivious to the fact that Phoenix’s world is quietly crumbling apart beside him.

For a moment, he lets his mind race. It’s possible, of course, that the statement could mean something else. Besides, does it really make sense that Miles doesn’t trust him, given all the counterevidence? Such as the fact that he’s even willing to have this conversation in the first place? A big part of Phoenix burns to reach over and crack those locks, to drag the truth right out to the surface.

(I can’t.)

He lets the rest of the drive remain in silence, instead. When he reaches for a notepad in his bag, Miles doesn’t comment on it. Miles also doesn’t seem to notice Phoenix palming the magatama and transferring it to his bag either. From there, Phoenix keeps his head down, the pad balanced against his knee as his pen scratches against paper as he writes and writes at a steady rhythm that also serves as something to ground himself with. Clear, objective facts. It’s the only thing he can focus on. The strategy works, somehow, maybe even a little too well as the next thing he knows, they’re pulling up to the terminal.

Phoenix hesitates for a moment or two once they come to a stop, before handing the paper to Miles. “Here,” he says.

Miles takes them, eyes raking across the first page. “What are they?”

“Statements,” Phoenix says. “Signed, dated, the whole thing. I figured, if you need them for the trial… Especially if Franziska is serious about going for an added attempted murder charge. Plus, if it keeps me from having to fly all the way back out here for witness testimony, then all the better, right?”

Miles’ expression is nearly unreadable at first, eyes continuing to scan over the page, but Phoenix manages to catch a flicker of something… disappointment? Hurt? He’s not sure, because it vanishes almost immediately.

“…I see,” Miles murmurs.

Phoenix frowns at that. “What?”

Miles just shakes his head, though. “Nothing. It’s useful. Thank you.”

With that, the two of them step out of the car, and Phoenix grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. Somewhat irritatingly, they’re actually here with enough time that Phoenix doesn’t need to consider actively sprinting across the airport to make the flight. He doesn’t want to give Miles any kind of affirmation for his speed demon ways, though, so he chooses not to mention it.

And then next thing he knows, the security gate looms ahead. The final checkpoint before departure. The airport is relatively small, and surprisingly calm. It probably won’t take him long, to get to his gate. Phoenix adjusts the strap of his bag again, as they stand before it. He’s not sure why he does it. It’s not slipping or anything, but it’s like he needs something to do with his hands.

“Well,” he says, “I guess this is me.”

“Yes,” Miles responds evenly. “It would seem so.”

Neither of them move, though.

Phoenix shifts his weight on the spot. “You’re, uh… going to be fine handling everything, right?”

Miles folds his arms. “I believe we’ve already established this.”

“Right. Just checking.”

“I assume you’ll be contacting me upon your arrival?” Miles asks smoothly.

“You ‘assume’?”

He huffs in annoyance. “Fine. I expect you to contact me upon your arrival.”

Phoenix manages to smile slightly. “Yes, mother.”

It earns him a glare. “It is standard practice to inform others when one has successfully arrived at their destination.”

“Okay, worrywart.”

“Wright.”

A pause comes then. Neither of them make any kind of attempt to step away.

“You should, uh,” Phoenix shifts the strap of his bag again, “make sure you actually get some rest, when you get back. Those case files aren’t going anywhere.”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “Now who’s worrying?”

“I know how you get, Edgeworth,” Phoenix tries to pull off stern. “Just don’t overwork yourself, okay?”

“I’ll try my best,” Miles says, though his expression softens a little.

For some reason, they’re still at a standstill. In spite of all the rush to get to the airport itself. It’s like he can’t even lift his feet, tied down by… something. As the moment of silence keeps going, Phoenix finds himself studying Miles’ face intently, searching for a hint, or a path out of here. They’re just delaying the inevitable, though, locked in some kind of stalemate.

(…but I don’t want to say goodbye yet.)

(If I do, will we ever even talk about…)

A cold weight settles on Phoenix’s chest. Though he’s sure he convinced himself earlier to just let it go, there’s still a chance, isn’t there? Somehow, Phoenix just knows. Getting on that plane really will close the book on it for good. The feeling of Miles’ hands on him, nothing but a distant memory. He can see it now, weeks and months passing and just going back to their normal rhythm. Never acknowledging. Right now, though, they still stand in limbo.

(I could kiss him right now.)

Forcing the issue might be the only other option. It would be easy, to just reach out like this and close the space. Even only for a second. Phoenix doubts that Miles would anticipate it, giving him a near open target. Also, it would be impossible for Miles to ignore.

(Do I even want that?)

Phoenix’s fingers twitch at his side. He doesn’t know, if he’s honest with himself, not beyond just wanting to address it somehow. But realistically, he only has minutes to spare before getting on an international flight and they’re still standing in the middle of a public airport. Hardly the time for any kind of meaningful conversation.

And then he remembers the psyche-locks.

(Miles doesn’t even trust me.)

Phoenix clenches a fist briefly, before letting his hand fall back to his side. If Miles notices anything off about him, he doesn’t mention it.

He forces a tight smile. “Alright. I should…” he gestures vaguely towards the security line.

After a moment, Miles nods. “Yes, you should.”

They both stand their ground.

“Okay. Seriously. I’m going now.”

“Understood.”

Another beat passes.

Miles narrows his eyes. “Wright.”

“Got it. I’m off!”

“Safe travels,” Miles says flatly.

This time, Phoenix really does force himself to turn, actually walking right up to the start of the line to enter security. Even though his legs feel shaky all of a sudden. He almost feels like running back. Just one step further, and he turns back over his shoulder, somehow hoping-

There’s nobody there.

Phoenix mulls it over for a moment, gives himself a nod, and hands over his boarding pass.

Chapter Text

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Subject: Update

Wright,

I thought it might be appropriate to send a brief update on the Stiltskin case, since you were, regrettably, embroiled in the matter from start to finish. I also had my doubts about you paying attention to the German press cycle, and so it may be news to you that the trial has now concluded.

First and foremost, I should extend my gratitude for the witness statements you provided. As I’m sure you can imagine, Franziska handled the proceedings with her usual precision. Liesel Falschen ultimately accepted a plea bargain for a lesser sentence, which required her to testify against Lambert Wolfe. The court proceedings remained tense throughout, but the judge determined him guilty on all charges. He is still awaiting sentencing, but I doubt he will receive much leniency.

Franziska is already working again, of course. Naturally, she threw herself straight into a racketeering trial before the ink on the verdict was dry. I’m told this is healthy. Apologies for the vagueness, as I cannot provide sensitive details over email, but you may be pleased to hear that our other investigation is also progressing, though Franziska remains unimpressed by the key witness.

As for Hildegard and her family, they appear to be finding their footing. With the von Karma assets finally starting to clear, I understand them to be in a better situation overall, and I am assured Reiner has no plans to make further, risky property investments. They elected to host a dinner, which went as well as you might expect – that is to say, a mostly uncomfortable affair. I am however pleased to report that nobody was murdered in the days that followed, so it can still be considered an improvement. However, young Hans appears to have decided that the path of a defence attorney is now most appealing to him. I’m sure you can imagine how that landed. Greta, at least, seemed thrilled by the idea of facing her younger brother in court someday. The family dog also remains in good health.

My enforced desk duty has finally been lifted, and I suspect I’ll be expected in court again come January. I confess I am less keen on this than anticipated. My time spent out of action has given me an opportunity to reflect. While I enjoy my lifestyle here in Germany, there is little that tethers me here anymore. As fulfilling as I find investigation work, there is something appealing about a quieter predictability. I sometimes catch myself wondering what, precisely, I am here for.

All of this to say, I have decided to resume my studies on international legal systems. I am unsure whether you have kept yourself informed on such matters, but there’s plenty of commentary on the need for legal reform in Japanifornia, exacerbated recently by the outcry following the UR-1 incident a year ago.

There are several novel ideas, of course. Implementing a jury system, in line with much of the rest of the world, appears to have gained the most academic support. I should like to concentrate my studies on this, perhaps.

This email has become much longer than intended, so I will leave the updates there. I hope you and Trucy are well. This morning, it occurred to me that it is nearly Christmas. It’ll have been twenty years, this time. I suppose that should feel more significant, somehow, but this emotion has yet to materialise. Perhaps an indication that the so-called importance we ascribe to certain numbers is merely an arbitrary result of our base 10 system. Did you know they use a base 27 system in New Guinea? But I digress.

In lieu of any formal gift exchange, I’ve sent something small via attachment to this email. It is a yearlong membership pass to a local mansion turned art gallery named Zodiac Hall, dedicated to housing the works of Paul Halique. The location itself may have a somewhat unfortunate past, but the art itself is pleasing enough. I thought it may appeal to Trucy, and has the bonus of educational value. Before you object – I assure you that the cost was entirely reasonable. I recall you told me once that it’s the thought that counts. Ergo, my thoughts.

Do not feel obligated to respond to this email. Though, I would not mind hearing from you, if you’re amenable.

Regards,

M. Edgeworth

“Daddy,” Trucy stands with her hands on her hips across the other side of the desk, “you’ve been staring at the screen for ten minutes now. I’m starting to get worried.”

Phoenix snaps out of his stupor almost immediately. “Sorry, Truce, didn’t mean to scare you.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “You’ve been like this ever since you came back home from Germany.”

He frowns. “I haven’t been acting like anything.”

“Your shoulders got all tense when you said that,” Trucy says, her voice so light and breezy that it almost covers up the tone of accusation.

Phoenix sighs. “I’m still not very good at masking that one, huh? Look, Trucy, I guess I’ve probably been a little stressed lately.” He leans his elbows on the desk in front of him. “It’s really not something you should be bothered about though, promise. Just, ah, boring grown-up stuff.”

Trucy blinks at him for a moment, before suddenly twisting away. Though Phoenix is well used to her tricks at this point, the appearance of a relatively large wooden doll from his young daughter’s side with no warning still makes him jump a little. Nothing much can be done about that, though. He’s always known that Trucy and Mr Hat are a package deal.

“If you can’t tell me,” Trucy begins, still not facing him, “then you can speak to Mr Hat.”

He can’t help but soften. “Ah, uhm, hello, Mr Hat...”

“That's right, it's your friendly neighbourhood hat, at your service!” Says Mr Hat.

“Let’s see,” Phoenix thinks, “I’m not sure I’ve ever asked how old you are, Mr Hat. But Trucy here seems to think you’re already an adult.”

Mr Hat lifts up his top hat. “I’ve simply aged like fine mahogany, Mr Wright.”

“Ahuh,” he finds himself smiling. “Well, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a bind. You have to understand, my daughter turned out to be one of the kindest girls I know, and I’ll never not be proud of her for that, but that means she’s always worrying about other people. Not only that, but she’s probably the smartest girl I know, so even when her old Dad over here tries to stop her from worrying, she’s so observant she just ends up doing it anyway.”

There’s a long pause.

“Maybe,” Mr Hat says, voice starting to wobble slightly, “you should just tell her what’s wrong. T-then she’ll know if it’s really a big deal or not.”

“…And that’ll really help Trucy feel better?”

Mr Hat bobs. “Absolutely.”

Phoenix lets out an exhale. “I received an email from a friend, is all. It didn’t say anything bad. Just, I didn’t expect to receive it at all, I guess. And I haven’t heard from this person in a while, so I got a little lost trying to figure out what everything meant.”

“…Did you and Mr Edgeworth get into a fight?” Trucy looks back at him in her own voice, slowly packing Mr Hat away.

“How did you-“ but of course, it’s already too late to backtrack. “Not really. We’ve been friends for a very long time, okay? But sometimes, that’s been kind of on or off. That’s pretty normal, especially when you’re an adult and not forced to sit next to someone in class all day and make it up when you disagree about something. We’re just kind of off right now, at least I think. But we still…” Phoenix hesitates, before affirming it to himself, “still care about each other no matter what. It’s, ah, tricky. I don’t know what to say without making it worse, when it comes to him. He even snuck in a Christmas gift like it’s some kind of contraband…”

Trucy side steps around the desk, looking at him inquisitively. “You’re upset he sent you a gift?”

Phoenix pulls her into his side in a half hug. “Actually, I think it’s more like he sent you a gift ‘cos he knows you’re my weak spot,” he pokes her in the cheek and tries to smile. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, if anything. This is the first time I’ve heard from him in a month, Truce.”

“Maybe he just wants to talk to you,” Trucy hums, leaning her weight against Phoenix’s arm.

I would not mind hearing from you, if you’re amenable. Phoenix thinks it sounds half like reaching out would cause Miles some kind of inconvenience. Just as impersonal as expected. Yet, he can’t deny that by Miles’ standards, some of that email seemed more like a runoff of his deeper thoughts. Trying to figure out what Miles really means at any given moment is a fool’s errand, though, and Phoenix knows this well.

“Well, then maybe he should’ve actually said that instead of burying it in a bunch of dryly worded legal updates and weird trivia about New Guinea!”

Trucy giggles lightly. “Is the gift at least nice?”

“Well,” Phoenix thinks, “I guess I can’t tell you that until Christmas. Rules are rules.”

“Are you gonna email him back?”

Phoenix eyes his computer, before shutting it off and looking back at Trucy. “…Nah. Not today, at least. We’ve been at the office long enough, anyway. And I seem to remember you and I have a cookie appointment.”

“Well that’s what I came in here to remind you about,” Trucy complains, “but you were all zoned out!”

“Hmm,” he stands up with a stretch. “I think you deserve at least five bonus gumdrops as compensation for that one.”

“Hmm, actually Daddy,” she taps her chin, “I think I should get seven this year, since you’re banned from baking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Trucy sets her hands on her hips. “Since the last time you mixed up cumin and cinnamon. Those cookies were yucky, no matter how you look at it!”

Phoenix feigns deep offense. “That was an honest mistake!”

“Face it, Daddy - you’re better off with a frosting bag than a mixing bowl. That’s why I’m putting you on decorating duty!”

Phoenix sighs, defeated but amused. “Fine, you win. I’ll play to my strengths and make the snowmen look all cute and sprinkly.”

“Snowmen and magician hats,” Trucy adds quickly. “I got a new hat-shaped cutter! We’re going to have the most magical cookies ever!”

He thinks they might be intended as Santa hats, but he doesn’t mention it. As Trucy chatters excitedly about sprinkles and food colouring, Phoenix finds himself falling into step beside her, listening with half an ear while his mind tugs back to the email sitting unanswered on his computer. He’d spent too long already staring at that email, willing the words to come. But all he’d managed was a blinking cursor and a growing headache.

(Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.)

Phoenix chuckles, ruffling Trucy’s hair. “Let’s go home, then. These magic cookies won’t bake themselves.”

Together they step out into the hallway, the office door clicking shut behind them.