professeurdeloi: (The Ghosts of my Life)
The corridor is dark and bare; the walls painted that sickly green that hospitals use. "It's calming" he'd once been told, and the smell of disinfectant and floor polish fills his nostrils until he almost chokes, leaning against the wall for a moment and listening to the drip-drip-drip of a pipe in the distance until he can gulp in some clean-tasting air.

The silence is absolute save for that drip-drip-drip and the sound of his heart beating in his ears. He doesn't know how he got here and when he looks down he's wearing his old court suit - as perfectly tailored as it ever was - shirt and jabot crisp and white, the faint scent of lavender still trapped in the wool. Pushing away from the wall, he walks - because he doesn't know what else to do. He walks, despite the emergency lighting flickering and his pulse with it, the fear of an earthquake sparking each time the lights dim. He walks, and always forward, forcing himself to take step after step until he reaches the end of the hall.

...And at the end there is nothing - just a blank wall. He stares at it for a moment, disbelieving, and swallowing hard against the rising sense of unease as the lights flicker more vividly and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his pulse quicken in response. Finally, he runs his hands over it, nails seeking any crack or seam, but it mocks him with its solidity until he gives in, resting his forehead against the paint, the coldness of the bricks beneath pressing hard against his skin.

He turns to retrace his steps but only takes one before he realises this is not the corridor he entered. Still green, still dark, still lit by that strange flickering blue glow – but now it has telescoped in on itself, a mere few feet between him and the other end. And at the other end there is a sliding door, an illuminated arrow and a button beside it; the unmistakeable outline of a bullet hole in the reinforced glass.

The terror is instant, choking the breath out of him and freezing his limbs, and he takes that one step back again, almost a stumble, pressing himself back against the wall, shaking his head unconsciously, too numbed by the horror of it to think or to speak.

He looks away, down, anywhere except at the door, and he blinks. Suddenly the burgundy wool of his suit is frayed and shredded; the jabot ripped from his throat; his shirt and vest torn - missing buttons as if he'd been fighting for his life, or as if someone had been fighting him. He doesn't want to move, but something propels him forwards, a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder, large and strong, jovial laughter echoing in his head as a finger reaches out to press the button.

The door slides open and the stench hits him immediately - death and terror and stale air and sweat and blood. The blinking light from the emergency sign lighting up the scene and shining on the polished metal walls. Panic seizes him and he tries to turn, to scramble away, but that hand on his shoulder becomes a hand on his back, shoving him forwards until he stumbles, the door sliding closed behind him.

And he stands there, the fear and the revulsion making him shudder and almost fall to his knees, he finally finds the resolution to at least raise his head. And then he sees it, that thing he knew would be here all along.

The body is slumped in a corner, half-turned away and drenched in blood. His spectacles are laying to one side; frames bent and lenses fractured; the blue neon reflecting from the shattered glass and on the pool of blood that encircles both him and them. It looks almost black, gleaming in the unnatural light, thick and viscous. The metallic scent catches in the back of his throat like the smell of his hands when he had covered his face, the tang of warm gunmetal still lingering on the skin.

His legs finally give out then at the sight of it, and he sinks to his knees on the floor - the blood still warm as it soaks his pants and seeps through to the skin, almost hot against his hands when he crawls forwards, the smell and the sensation of it making him sick to the stomach.


But when he reaches out a hand slick with blood and places it on a shoulder to turn the body towards him, it's not his father that he sees, but the sightless face of Kristoph looking back at him, his throat slashed neatly across the jugular and his hair slicked dark with his own blood. The scar on his hand stands out in stark relief against skin paler than he ever remembers it and lips so faint a blue as to be almost white.

The shock is enough that he gags, then, the smell and the fear and the sight of it too much for him – the thought that he is covered in Kristoph’s blood – that it is on his hands and on his clothes and in his hair, that he can taste it on his tongue…

His head swims and he would have fainted, were it not for that baritone laugh that breaks the silence behind him, freezing him to the spot, the vomit caught in his throat and a fresh fear creeping up his spine.

When he looks up he knows exactly what he'll see, but he doesn't get the chance. Before he can move his head, long, strong fingers deliberately twine in his hair and jerk his head around, the pain of it forcing him to move on his knees, his bloodied hands reaching up and gripping the hem of the blue wool jacket, nails catching on the brocade almost in supplication as he is dragged to face in the opposite direction.

And then he sees them - the others.

His father, shot through the heart and spreadeagled on the floor, his head at an odd angle against the wall, glasses reflecting the blinking emergency light blankly. Blood still seeping from the wound and mingling with Kristoph’s on the floor, the two finding each other and binding like drops of mercury into a pool. Beside him there’s a gun, its safety off, the smell of gunpowder hangs on it, and when he looks down at his own hand he can see the imprint of the handle in the blood.

And Phoenix, his skull crushed by something heavy and blunt, features almost unrecognisable save for those wide, blue eyes that had once held so much life but that now gazed sightlessly in shock back at him. Blood spray covers the wall behind him, pieces of brain and skull visible on the base of a heavy bottle that rolls of its own volition from side to side just out of reach of that dead and grasping right hand. Inside, he can see a hand of cards – two black aces, two black eights, and the five of hearts.

Klavier, then. Slumped in a pool of his own vomit, lips blue and eyes wide in pain and fear as he’d died. His left hand is claw-like, the raking marks of fingernails leaving livid trails from jaw to heart as if he’d tried to tear out his own throat as he died. His clothes are torn, filthy, and the fingers on his right hand broken, casting twisted shadows in the blue flickering light.

He struggles against the fingers in his hair but the hand presses down, forcing him to stay on his knees, to look at the bodies, preventing him from turning his face away or up. But he doesn't need to - that soft chuckle, warm and deep, recognisable to him from years of hearing it - tells him all he needs to know.

I won't let them have you, Miles. You'll always be mine.

He can’t answer – just sobs incoherently in response, ashamed of himself even as he does but lacking the will to do anything else, And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure is gone, the fingers untangled from his hair. He sucks in a breath of relief, his only thought to get out of this place, but before he can get up from the floor, they're on him again - hands encircling his throat, thumbs pressing relentlessly against his windpipe.


He tries to struggle to his feet but he can't, shoes and knees scrabbling at the floor, unable to find traction in the wet blood, hands slippery with it, too slippery to grip those wrists or pull away those fingers that dig ever deeper into his skin, and he chokes on his own fear and on his own blood while that rich and quiet laughter builds into something more manic and high pitched.

Finally he looks up, desperation forcing him to plead for his life…. but it's not Manfred's face, serene and smiling, demanding his obedience and his perfection, nothing more and nothing less. Instead, it's Kristoph's face looking down at him, his eyes full of rage - those same eyes that had looked at him with such hatred and such disgust in the dungeon; Kristoph's hands around his throat, and Kristoph's laughter that echoes from the metal walls of the elevator.

His lungs burn as if they are on fire, and rational thought slips away when the panic overtakes his mind and his body and his vision begins to fade, the sound of his own pulse in his head slowing almost to nothing.

If he could draw a breath, he would scream. But he can't. All he can do is die.
professeurdeloi: (Nightmares)
Word Count:: 872
Rating: 15/R for themes
Warnings: Slash
Characters: Kristoph Gavin and Miles Edgeworth (AU)
Author: [ profile] llamaramauk 

Epilogue to this thread.

Awake, a dream. In the distance, a scream.... )
professeurdeloi: (The Ghosts of my Life)
The night sky is visible in an oblong above, a hand silhouetted against the moon.

Fingers open, he can see it, he can feel the soil falling over his head.

He can't move, he can't speak.

"I'll bury you with my bare hands."

I'm not dead.

I'm not dead.

Faint laughter - deep, musical and baritone.

"Of course you're dead, Miles. I killed you."

The rustle of silk and wool, the passing scent of lavender.

"Don't you remember?"

Hands around his throat, manicured thumbs pressed hard to his windpipe.

"Don't you remember the dying of the light?"

Fingertips soft as silk against his skin and goosebumps blossoming where they touch.

He remembers, now.

Fingers long and boney, nails digging in to his flesh.

Tightening fractionally, inexorably, after every breath - each one becoming harder, shallower, more desperate.

It's a slow death. Agonising. He knows it will take days, weeks, months, years.

And yet he does nothing but kneel and bare his throat.

"You gave yourself to me freely, Miles. You always did."

He doesn't even close his eyes, or try to beg for mercy.

He remembers the dying of the light.

He remembers the dimming of his vision, the narrowing of his focus.

He remembers the slowing of his heart, the feel of his pulse fluttering,

He remembers the loss of hope, the gradual erosion of his consciousness.

And finally his hands on those hands, wordlessly begging for it to be over, to please kill him, to stop the pain.

And that laugh again.

"It will never be over, Miles. You'll always be mine."
professeurdeloi: (Chilling)

It had been fifteen months.

To be precise - and Miles Edgeworth was nothing if not precise - it had been fourteen months and twenty-two days.

Today he stood on his apartment balcony, hair wet from a recent shower, jeans half-buttoned, loose white shirt un-tucked and un-ironed. Resting his elbows on the wrought iron balustrade, he sipped a glass of wine, the sun warm on his face as he looked across the Paris rooftops towards Notre Dame. August’s heat baked the tiles, creating a haze that softened the edges of the distant buildings and left behind warmed concrete that felt pleasant under his bare feet.

Fourteen months and twenty-two days since Miles had last heard his voice. Fifteen months and nine days since he’d last seen him, touched him, tasted his lips; smelled his hair, his cologne. Miles’ heart fluttered slightly and his mouth set in a thin line as he remembered that stilted goodbye at the airport. The unsaid words, the formal handshake, the constant looking at the clock. He remembered walking through the gate, forcing his feet forward while his heart pulled in the other direction. He frowned. If he’d known then that it would be the last time, he would have listened to his heart.

A soft rustle of movement from the French windows at his back made him glance over his shoulder.

“As-tu bien dormi?” Miles smiled softly and the other man shrugged, before joining him on the balcony, mimicking Miles’ pose against the balustrade and gazing down to the street below. He wore just a sheet wrapped loosely round the lower half of his body, right hand securing it at his waist while the rest trailed behind him. The whiteness of the bed linen contrasted sharply with the warm brown of his skin and his black, tousled hair. He had a cigarette in his mouth and he lit it, half-closing his dark eyes against the brightness of the sun.

They didn’t speak. Miles watched out of the corner of his eye as the other man smoked, slim fingers touching his lips lightly, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek, inhaling with soft breaths, unconscious of the sensuality inherent in such mundane actions. But, Miles reflected, that was one of the things he found most attractive about Samir - he just had no damned idea how sexy he was. The smoke from the other man’s cigarette drifted undisturbed in the windless air and the scent of it caught temptingly at the back of Miles’ throat.

“Veux-tu?” As if he could read Miles’ thoughts, Samir casually offered the cigarette without looking up. Miles took it, letting his fingertips brush and linger on the other man’s hand unnecessarily as he did so. That elicited a knowing smile, although Samir still didn’t look up. Miles chuckled lightly in return. “Merci.” The other man pushed away from the balustrade and disappeared back inside the apartment – moments later, Miles heard the bathroom door close and the sound of running water.

They’d met in June, at a reception for the Paris Summer Institute and where Miles had given a lecture to PhD students that Samir had attended. Conversation about the law had been followed by eye contact held just that fraction too long, smiles that were just a fraction too intimate, and eventually dinner at Lapérouse.

He was just a distraction, of course. Miles knew that. Samir knew that. At the end of the summer he’d be leaving anyway, going back to Morocco. But in the meantime, it was a pleasant way to be distracted. Miles put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled and relished the taste of it – dark, bitter, unfiltered - with the flavour of black coffee. He held the smoke at the back of his throat for a while before exhaling.

It was a habit he’d given up years ago – concerned about his health and his professional image when he started working in Los Angeles. But in the past fifteen months he’d stopped caring so much. A pack of Gitanes and the bottle of vodka he kept in the freezer had helped him through many sleepless nights. Phoenix would no doubt be appalled. A bitter smile curved his lips at that thought, and he took another slow drag on the cigarette, watching it glow brighter in response. He still didn’t smoke often enough for the nicotine not to have an immediate effect, and he suddenly felt light-headed.

He couldn’t remember a day that had passed in the last fifteen months when he hadn’t thought about Phoenix in one form or another. Sometimes it was to wonder where he was, worry about what he was doing. At other times it would be more mundane – he’d see something in a shop, a restaurant, a street and find himself making note of it to tell Phoenix later. But of course there was no later, and instead those mental notes made their way into letters that never elicited a response. He had no idea if they reached their intended recipient or whether, if they did, they remained unopened. A box of unopened letters in his own wardrobe inclined him to the pessimistic view, but he still kept writing. He couldn’t stop.

For weeks he’d fought the urge to call, to fly home; reminding himself that Phoenix had asked him not to, had made it clear that he didn’t want Miles around for whatever he had to do. Miles suspected revenge was involved, but he didn’t know against who, or what form it might take. He’d wrestled with the temptation to call Gumshoe, get a private investigator, to try and find out. But whenever he’d started to dial a number he could hear Phoenix’s voice, clearly. “Don’t try to find me. Please.” And so he never had.

In the end, the frustration had led to anger. It was the anger he most remembered. Irrational, occasionally violent, in his mind its target fluctuated constantly between whoever was responsible for the falsified evidence, Phoenix, and his own stupidity.

"You have a life in Europe. You have to live it and leave me to live mine.”

I don’t have a life at all without you. That was what he had wanted to say, what he should have said. But he hadn’t. And Phoenix knew that he wouldn’t. That was really what hurt, what he resented the most. Phoenix knew Miles was incapable of saying those words, then. He knew that no protest would be offered. Miles had made it easy for him, and Phoenix had taken advantage of that weakness and dismissed him as a complication. He suspected that the other man would never know just how deeply those words had been felt. He barely trusted himself to say Phoenix’s name out loud, now. He hadn’t even talked about it to Franziska when he’d visited her at Christmas, although he was aware she knew something had happened.

The forgotten cigarette suddenly reminded him of its existence as it started to burn his fingers. Hurriedly, he stepped over to the table and stubbed it out in the ashtray, taking a swig of his wine as he did so. He could still hear the shower running in the apartment, so he didn’t need to dress for dinner yet.

Miles had given up his old job in the end, to ensure that he never had to return to Los Angeles. If anything was worse than being five thousand miles away from Phoenix now, it was the prospect of being in the same city under the same circumstances. He’d been offered a job lecturing at the Sorbonne and had taken it, immersing himself in his work, and studying in his spare time. He had made a life in Europe, of sorts, but it was a hollow one.

The hardest times were still those first few moments after waking, the memory of warmth and happiness that was always there, before reality rushed in and reminded him of what he had lost.

Sometimes Miles thought he saw his face, or his suit, or his hair - in a crowd on the Metro, or in a gallery, or a restaurant. It was as if his subconscious was punishing him constantly for his failure to act or speak. He’d learned to deal with it, over time, but he couldn’t prevent the slight leap of his heart whenever it happened, no matter how irrational he knew it was.

Even now, after fifteen months, he sometimes woke in the middle of the night and reached out for someone that wasn’t there. Sometimes he reached out and touched warm skin, or woke with an arm across him and imagined for a moment that it was Phoenix lying there, next to him. Those were the most miserable nights, and they inevitably ended with him laying awake and unmoving until daylight, or spending the rest of the night on the sofa with Pess and a bottle of vodka for company.

“Then don’t say anything. That’s usually how it is.”

The worst thing about it was that Phoenix had been right. And for that, he would never truly forgive himself.>

professeurdeloi: (Angst)
“… Wright? Fuck … do you know what time it is here?” Phoenix could picture him – sleepy, grey hair tousled, small lines deepening on his brow just like they always did when he was irritated. Two months ... but I wanted forever with you.
“This can’t wait”.
“Did something happen?”  Awake now. Worried.
“You could say that. They disbarred me.”
A second’s pause. “WHAT?”  Shock. Anger. “I’m coming back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Phoenix. This whole situation is….”
“I presented forged evidence in court, Miles. You can’t fix this.”
“But not deliberately!”
“That’s what I said to you, once. But it didn’t make any difference then, either, did it?” Christ, I still sound bitter.
Silence. That hurt him.
“I’m coming back anyway. I want …I should come back. I’ll get a flight today.”
“No. I don’t want you to do that, either” Liar.
Slight pause. “Have you been drinking?”  Suspicion.
“Yes, but ... that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then why are you calling? I’m not very good at these sorts of guessing games, Wright.”
 “I’m going away.” I just needed to hear your voice. Just once more.
“Away? What are you trying to say, Phoenix?”  Anxious.
“I’m saying I won’t be here. If you come back. I won’t be at the airport; I won’t be at my apartment. I won’t be here.” Eyes closed tight. Determined. I can do this.
No response. I know he’s there. I can hear him breathing.
“It’s over, Miles.”
“You’re obviously upset, but …”  Denial.
“I don’t want to discuss it, Miles. You have a life in Europe. You have to live it and leave me to live mine.” That was cruel.
“Is this about my work, again?” Annoyance? Weariness?
“No. Not you. It‘s about me. Just me. I have … things to take care of now. I don’t need any added … complications.” Words like ashes in my mouth.
“You’re serious, aren’t you, Wright?”  He knows.
Inhale. “Yes.”
“I am.” Coldly.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Phoenix.”
“Then don’t say anything. That’s usually how it is.”  Please hate me.
Silence again.
“Don’t try to find me. Please.” 
“Wright …”
Phoenix couldn’t picture him, afterwards. Too much pain. No tears. Just emptiness and loss.
Then he remembered Klavier, looked at the small photograph of Trucy. I have things to take care of now.

(Originally written for the [profile] gyakuten100 community)
professeurdeloi: (Default)

Three years later, that trial still haunted his dreams.

A respected defence attorney murdered; only two people at the scene, no report of an intruder.  No apparent motive, some evidence that led nowhere. Of the two suspects, one was a relative, the other a colleague.

Manfred had assigned him the case, handed him the file without comment - but his mentor must have known. The way his fingers had lingered on it for a second, the unspoken challenge in his gaze when their eyes met, the tension in his shoulders when he turned away.

But he hadn’t seen it then. He’d been alone in the darkness, suffocating under the weight of his own guilt, aware every day that his life was a sham, and hating himself for it even as he marked the victories on the record of his own perfection.

In court, all he could feel was the room closing in, the air growing thin, and the cold metal of the gun in his hand. Maya Fey, Phoenix Wright – they were nothing to him but names on the docket. All he knew was that one of them had to be a murderer. He knew. And that had driven him on, relentlessly, regardless of evidence and testimony. He’d never even paused to consider any alternative.

You did it. You killed her. You’re lying.  I won’t let you get away with it again. You have to be punished.  Someone has to pay. You’re a killer. I know you murdered him. I remember it all.

He was sure now that if he’d ever truly been close to losing his reason, it had been during that trial.  In the back of his mind for three days had been the echo of that scream that had wrenched him from sleep for fifteen years, and the burning self-hatred that was his constant companion, then.

And all the time, it had been right in front of his eyes. Redd White had been the answer to everything: the fourth man, the evidence that didn’t make sense. Manfred had seen it, waited for him to see it, waited for him to make the connection to his father. But the guilt had blinded him, and the indoctrination had been too complete. He had been unable to find his way out of the darkness, and Manfred had known then that unassisted, he never would.

He had hoped once that he might be rescued from the dark and from the horror; that a familiar hand would pull him into the light, that a familiar voice would tell him it had all been a dream. And in reality, losing that case was what had saved him, in the end.

But in his nightmares, he always won.

In his nightmares, when the gavel slammed down, the light and the hope were extinguished forever.

(Originally written for the [info]gyakuten100 community)



professeurdeloi: (Sad Glance)

Miles Edgeworth didn’t exactly remember when his feelings about Phoenix Wright had started to change. He would have found it difficult to answer if you’d asked him to pinpoint a time and a place when he’d stopped viewing the other solely as an old school friend that had saved his life and starting seeing him as… Well, he wasn’t quite sure what he saw Wright as now, but he did know how the man made him feel.

He had brooded over it many times since he returned to Europe, but was no closer to an answer than he had been when he had walked away from Wright and the Fey girls at the airport.  Away from those sparkling blue eyes that wrinkled at the corners when he laughed, from that ridiculous grin that made Miles feel warm inside, and from that expressive voice that he could hear whenever he closed his eyes.

Maybe it had been during Lana Skye’s trial when things started to change. That was when those deep blue eyes had faced him across the court, trusting and trusted; giving him the strength to continue the case even in the face of threats, scandal and intimidation.

Maybe it had been that year in Europe, when he’d thought of Wright almost every day, regretting the stupidity of leaving that note and the ingratitude he’d shown for everything the defence attorney had done for him. When it had hurt him beyond measure to hear that the man would no longer speak his name — even if that was exactly what Miles deserved.

Maybe it was when he returned and saw Wright again for the first time; saw the hurt in his eyes - the betrayal, the shock, the relief, the anger - and that look had cut him straight to the heart.

He didn’t remember for sure. But the simple fact was that now he couldn’t think of Wright without his heart skipping a beat and his pulse speeding up a little, in what during his more self-critical moments he considered to be a deeply embarrassing and unsuitably teenage manner.

It wasn’t just that the man was disconcertingly appealing, with his high cheekbones, his perfectly proportioned features, and those eyebrows that should have been ridiculous but that somehow managed to be endearing. Phoenix had always had those, even when he was a child. It just seemed that somehow, in the last two years, either Phoenix had changed or Miles had, and what had been commonplace now seemed sublime.

He couldn’t call those bright blue eyes to mind without marvelling at their beauty, and the disarming way that they expressed every thought and emotion in the man’s head. They never lied - and that, he reflected, was a rare beauty in and of itself. He found it difficult to look away from them whenever Phoenix was in the room and usually found his attention wandering to wherever they were. He could follow any conversation Phoenix was having now, even from a distance, just by watching the expression in those eyes.

He couldn’t think of that jet black hair without wanting to touch it and run his fingers through those damnable spikes. Not that he ever had, but it didn’t stop him imagining it all the same — its softness, the lingering smell of whatever shampoo it was that Wright used that was uniquely a part of his scent, just like that cheap cologne that one could recognise from the other side of court.

He had even started to think that the cheap blue suit was attractive, not that he would have admitted that to anyone, especially Phoenix. The way it brought out the colour in those eyes and hung in a particular way that accentuated the muscular shoulders and long legs it concealed.

He tried very hard not to think about those broad hands that he had started to find himself studying when Phoenix gestured extravagantly in court or during their conversations, as he often did. He tried very hard not to think about those lips that he could now watch forming shapes for hours as they sat opposite each other across a desk or a restaurant table.  Considering either of those at any length tended to lead to thoughts that he found slightly shameful. It really was quite ludicrous.

But Miles Edgeworth knew that none of this was the real problem. The real problem was how he felt about what was below the surface, the Phoenix that no-one else ever saw or if they did, they didn’t appreciate. That loyalty, courage, passion and honesty that sent a thrill through him every time they spoke, every time they faced each other in court.  That trust that they had shared since fourth grade, despite the years and the setbacks. The way that they communicated without words; that Miles could know instinctively what the other was feeling, to feel in return that Phoenix understood him, even if he didn’t have the words or the courage to explain it himself. It took Miles’ breath away and it left him feeling vulnerable and more than a little ridiculous.

At least here, in Europe, he didn’t have to risk making a fool of himself. He didn’t have to risk seeing Phoenix constantly, half-hoping for what could never be and fearing the day that the man would appear in his office with a starry look in his eyes and a woman’s name on his lips, asking for advice on classical poetry, good wine or violin concertos. Two years ago that would have been a humorous thought and a scene that he would have relished, but Miles knew that if it happened now, he would die inside.

He’d heard about the posting in Europe while conversing in the Prosecutor’s Lobby at the Court. That someone was needed to carry out a study of foreign judicial systems as the first step in a path towards reforming the whole system of law in the state. A quiet word in the right ear and a few strings pulled had secured him the position, and he’d escaped that impossible situation and the constant, underlying feeling of dread. Now he could immerse himself in work, safely away from the danger and the impossibility, and the beauty.

“Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over.”  He smiled wryly. He’d read that quote years ago, somewhere - in a poem, a newspaper, on a web site, or maybe even on a t-shirt.  When he’d filed it away in his mind like he did so many other snippets of information, every hour of every day, he’d probably never expected to recall it again. He’d probably never considered that it was the kind of thing that Miles Edgeworth would ever need to say or think until Phoenix Wright had held out his hand, unwavering, and pulled Miles from the brink; showing him that he was no demon but just a man like any other. It was as if Phoenix had given Miles Edgeworth permission to live on that cold day in December - and for Miles that was the most extraordinarily beautiful thing of all.

professeurdeloi: (Sleeping)
Phoenix Wright stood at the window of his darkened apartment, a bottle of beer in his hand, watching the fireworks that brightened the sky right on the stroke of midnight.
I did it. For a moment he imagined that the myriad showers of light were just for him. He remembered the trial. He remembered the confetti in the courtroom when the not guilty verdict was announced. He remembered Edgeworth smiling in the lobby. He remembered Edgeworth earlier that evening, joking over a drink in a bar as if nothing had happened.
Happy New Year.
He thought about Edgeworth, smiled, and raised the bottle in a toast.
Miles Edgeworth sat at the desk in his empty apartment, a cup of tea cooling rapidly at his elbow, working his way through a stack of case files. From outside, there was the sound of an explosion, and it jerked him out of his study.
I did it. For a moment, he imagined that the sound was a gunshot. He remembered the hum and flicker of electricity. He remembered the stench of gunpowder and sweat. He remembered that scream and the photographs of his father’s body. He remembered sitting opposite Wright in the Detention Centre; the shame and the fear and the guilt.
Happy New Year.
He thought about Von Karma, closed his eyes, and put his head in his hands.


professeurdeloi: (Default)

June 2013



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