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This is foolishness, Miles Edgeworth thinks.
It’s also approximately the fourth time he’s caught himself thinking it in the last twelve to fourteen hours. He’s starting to sound like Franziska. He imagines her reaction all too easily and resolves never to inform her of the thought.
Behind him, the cab pulls away, sending a gust of lukewarm February air swirling around his ankles. The weather here is nothing compared to where he’s been, which only serves to further highlight how out of place he feels. Not to mention the jetlag, which hasn’t hit him yet but is going to be hell. Foolishness indeed.
The automatic doors slide open as he approaches them. The Hotti Clinic has not changed in the year Edgeworth has been gone, save—thank god—that there’s actually someone sitting behind the reception desk for once and the fake director is nowhere in sight. Edgeworth can only pray he stays that way. At least the patient he’s here to see should be of no interest to the fake Hotti. Although after everything that’s happened since last night, Miles wouldn’t put it past the man to show up just to spite him.
Edgeworth moves toward the reception desk. The woman behind it looks frazzled. The way she’s flipping through charts and glancing between computer monitors all with the phone jammed between her ear and one shoulder suggests that she’s trying to handle at least two or three different tasks she doesn’t have much control over at the same time. Miles can relate.
He waits until she has hung up the phone before he actually steps close enough to warrant her attention. She looks up, and he catches a brief glimpse of oh-god-what-now before a well-trained customer service face hides it from view.
To save himself the time and her the trouble of asking, he speaks before she can. “I’m here to see Phoenix Wright. I believe he’s a patient here.”
“Sure thing.” The woman punches a few keys. “Wright… Room 214. Head upstairs and take a right, then follow this hallway.” She reaches forward and traces the route on the laminated floor guide taped to the counter. Her short fingernail taps on the ward at the end of the hall. “214 will be in here on the left. Just follow the signs for the ICU.”
“The ICU?” Edgeworth repeats stupidly. Larry had said Wright’s life was in danger, but as Miles had assured himself repeatedly on the plane, Larry is prone to exaggerate. Whatever Miles’s being on the plane in the first case might indicate, he’d told himself, he hadn’t actually thought…
“He’s going to be all right.” The receptionist’s voice startles Edgeworth out of his stupor. The practiced customer service face she’d put on before has softened. “At the very least, he’s out of danger. His record says he’s due to be moved to a regular room as soon as one is available. We’re full up right now.”
“...I see,” Edgeworth manages. He doesn’t even know what face he’s just made, but he must truly look the fool now. Franziska would be having a field day if she could see him. “Right. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. The elevator’s right there, and the stairs are across from it.”
“Thank you,” Edgeworth says again. Shoulders squared, he strides in the direction indicated, determinedly ignores the elevator, and enters the stairwell.
As promised, the ICU is well-signed—Edgeworth could easily have located it on his own. He finds number 214 without issue. The door is closed. Edgeworth hesitates before rapping his knuckles twice on the door. He waits. No response. With a quiet sigh, he gingerly turns the handle and opens the door just enough to lean inside.
“Wright?”
Again, no response. After another moment’s trepidation, he hears footsteps in the hall behind him. Edgeworth steps inside before some nurse spots him loitering.
Wright’s room is quiet. It must be past noon by now, but the curtains are pulled so that the room is in semidarkness. There are no get well cards or flowers or even one of those Blue Badger plushes Gumshoe insists on handing out at every possible opportunity—just a small pile of Wright’s personal belongings next to the cup of water on the bedside tray, an IV drip, and Wright himself.
Wright looks… wrong in a hospital bed. As Edgeworth knows him, Wright exists in a constant state of manic energy, at least when it comes to court cases. Here, silent and motionless, he looks as out of place as Edgeworth feels. Purplish bruises mottle his face and arms. The rest of his body is covered by sheets that are damp with sweat. Where Wright’s skin isn’t bruised, it’s flushed with fever. His creased forehead makes him look as though he is either in pain or worried about something—probably both, Edgeworth reasons. At least his breathing is steady, if a bit wheezy now and again. And- Edgeworth blinks. His eyes are now adjusted enough to the semidarkness that he realizes what he’d first taken to be rumpled bedding is in fact some sort of bizarre, ornamented headpiece that Wright is wearing. This situation is making progressively less sense.
Miles allows himself a quiet exhale and a slight smile. Larry had, of course, been exaggerating. Wright is out cold, but he certainly isn’t at death’s door. And really, even Wright has enough dignity not to die wearing that ridiculous hood.
After a moment, Edgeworth seats himself in the room’s lone chair. He’d like to speak with Wright before he leaves—even in this state, Wright can probably give him a more coherent version of events than the Butz—but he truly does need to get down to the detention center as soon as possible. Whatever trouble Larry has gotten himself into, there likely won’t be much time before the court case. The legal system in this country is nothing if not efficient. Edgeworth glances at his watch. Ten minutes, he decides. He can give Wright ten minutes, and if he hasn’t woken by then, Edgeworth will have to return later.
Less than a minute in, it occurs to Edgeworth that he hasn’t considered the awkwardness of sitting for ten minutes at the bedside of a man he hasn’t seen in a year in a room where it’s too dark to read or do much of anything other than stare at the man in question, who is currently oblivious to the world and certainly to Edgeworth’s presence. Not to mention that Edgeworth is likely the last person Wright wants to find waiting patiently at his bedside when he does wake. Or that Edgeworth has very little interest in watching Wright sleep. As if this weren’t already weird to begin with, thinking about it just makes it worse.
Another minute passes. Miles shifts uncomfortably in the chair. Surely Wright will be able to tell him something that Larry can’t or stupidly won’t—like what Edgeworth is supposed to be doing here, although he has enough self-respect not to ask that outright. Larry thinks Miles can help, but if Larry is in detention, Miles isn’t sure what use a prosecutor could possibly be to him. Unless Miles’s knowledge of the legal system could be beneficial? He could have given that over the phone. Then again, Larry’s logic is typically questionable at best. He probably thinks Edgeworth can defend him. How moronic.
Three minutes. Sometimes, Edgeworth reflects, it’s difficult to believe it took Einstein to realize that time is relative. An oversimplification, perhaps, but even so. These may be ten of the longest minutes of Edgeworth’s life, barring the elevator (which Miles determinedly doesn’t think about) and a handful of court cases. Wright’s defense of Miles himself comes to mind—it felt long at the time, but now it’s mostly a blur. Had that really been two years ago? Time is relative indeed.
Yet (four minutes) he can’t help but feel that he owes this to Wright. Not because of that case necessarily, but because of, well, everything. It’s sentimental and Miles knows it, but he doesn’t feel the need to purge every ounce of sentimentality from his being, not any more. It’s taken him a while to reach this point—he doubts he’ll ever reach the level of Wright or the infamous Butz—and he supposes he has Wright to thank for this, too. It was von Karma who had instilled in him that emotion is the enemy of perfection and empathy is a sign of weakness. Over the past several years, Wright has shown him otherwise. Edgeworth wonders idly what Franziska’s view on the matter is, or what she thinks it is. However much she tries to hide from it, Franziska has always been emotional. So was he at nineteen; he just hadn’t been willing to admit it.
Five minutes. Wright fidgets in his sleep, then settles back with a raspy sigh. Miles wonders again about the strange hood. It doesn’t seem to be serving any medical purpose apart from absorbing sweat—which is possibly more detrimental than beneficial at this point if Edgeworth is to hazard a guess. His knowledge of fevers induced by forty-foot falls into ice-cold rivers in early February is sorely lacking. He supposes it can’t be much of an issue if the hospital staff have allowed him to wear it. Edgeworth can’t imagine it being hospital-issue. It makes Wright look like the world’s oddest nun. Or perhaps someone’s particularly poor attempt at creating a ghost costume for Halloween.
...Okay, maybe the jetlag is hitting him after all. He really ought to have gotten some coffee on his way out of the airport. There is a chance they have some in the lobby here, but Miles isn’t so desperate that he cares to risk whatever disgusting cheap variety the hospital might leave out for hours on end. He can stop somewhere on the way to the detention center if it comes to that.
Six minutes. The only sounds in the room are Wright’s hoarse breathing and the ticking of Edgeworth’s watch. He wonders which will drive him insane first. It doesn’t really matter, because if this doesn’t push him over the edge, trying to get a straight story out of Larry surely will.
Seven. This is most likely pointless. He is definitely not just putting off talking to Larry.
Eight. He is absolutely just putting off talking to Larry.
Nine. He’s waited this long. He may as well see it through. Not that anyone else knows his self-prescribed timetable. Miles pointedly doesn’t follow that thought any further.
Finally, the ten minutes have elapsed. Miles finds himself vaguely disappointed. Not only because Larry is now his only source of information, but also because an uncomfortable little part of him had hoped to see confirmation that Wright is okay with his own eyes. As it is, he’ll simply have to trust the receptionist’s reasoning and Wright’s tenacity. That, at least, he has little reason to doubt.
Edgeworth stands and picks up his briefcase. If there’s time, he can return after seeing Larry. “Wish me luck, Wright,” he mutters under his breath. He turns and moves toward the door.
He’s reaching for the handle when Wright’s steady breathing hitches. Edgeworth waits for it to settle before he opens the door, but it doesn’t. Instead, Wright coughs, shallow at first, and then he launches into a fit of deep, loud hacking.
Miles Edgeworth is not the type of person to panic, and he doesn’t now. He turns around and steps back toward the bed. He isn’t sure what he’s planning to do—there isn’t much he can do in this sort of situation—but it seems wrong to just leave. He hesitates. All of a sudden he realizes that Wright’s eyes are open. Wright takes a shuddering breath, and this time the ensuing coughs are shallower. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy, roam the room, finally landing on Miles.
“...geworth?” Wright tries, only to have the th get caught in another round of coughing. Miles sets his briefcase down and reaches for the cup on the bedside tray. He holds it out to Wright when the coughs momentarily subside.
“Here.”
Wright finally seems to notice the cup in front of him and takes it with stiff fingers. Edgeworth sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat. Wright swallows, coughs again, and takes another sip of water. He looks back at Edgeworth, and the crease in his forehead deepens. It’s the sort of look that Edgeworth would mock ruthlessly if he saw it on Wright’s face in the courtroom, but here, it just puts him on edge. Wright swallows again. “Why… What are you doing here?”
“Larry called me.” When Wright only looks more befuddled, Miles elaborates. “He didn’t say precisely what happened. When I called him from the airport he said you were here.” The look Wright gives him is blank. Edgeworth feels his chest tighten. Oh god. This isn’t the first time Wright has woken up, is it? Miles is not prepared for this. Dammit, Larry. “You do… do you know where you are?”
It takes a second longer than Edgeworth would like, but finally, Wright nods. “Hospital,” he rasps. Then, “Doctor said I’d need at least two days of bed rest.”
Relief floods through Edgeworth’s system. Wright knows where he is, he’s talked with the doctor, and the prescribed treatment suggests that his injuries—whatever they may be apart from the bruising and this bug he seems to have caught—are minimal. Good. Next, then. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Wright looks off into the darkness. “I fell,” he says.
Edgeworth waits, but apparently no more is forthcoming. He nods anyway and picks up with what little he knows from the airport phone call in the hopes it will jog Wright’s memory. “Forty feet into Eagle River, apparently. Larry said you tried to cross a burning bridge.” Wright doesn’t respond, so Miles adds, “And here I thought he was the idiot.”
Still no response, even to the light jab. Worry is starting to crawl up the back of Edgeworth’s throat when Wright jerks into motion. Without thinking, Edgeworth lunges forward and forcibly tilts the hand holding the cup of water upright before Wright can pour it in his own lap. “Calm down, Wright. You’re going to pull your IV out.”
Wright ignores him. “Maya,” he says. “Is she okay? Have they gotten to her yet?”
“Calm down,” Miles repeats while he calls up the memories of his short conversations with Larry. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Maya Fey as far as Edgeworth can recall. He hesitates, then answers as honestly as he can. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything.”
Wright groans and falls back against the pillow. He throws his free arm over his eyes. Miles takes the opportunity to set the half-full cup safely on the tray beside the bed. “It’s my fault,” Wright mumbles. “I shouldn’ve let her go. Should’ve all just stayed home…”
Edgeworth doesn’t know how to answer that. Wright saves him by lurching upright again. Edgeworth almost has to make a grab for the IV line, but luckily it stays in place. “What about Iris?”
“Iris? Wright, I don’t-” he stops. Wright is the type of person to panic, and it certainly looks like he is on the verge of it. Miles takes a deep breath and sits down in the chair. Stay calm, he thinks. Not that he isn’t calm. It’s just the jetlag. And the travel fatigue. And hearing that one of his closest friends had fallen forty feet from a burning bridge into an icy river in midwinter and is now in the ICU.
All right, so perhaps Edgeworth is the slightest bit Not Calm. But at least one of them needs to be calm, and it certainly isn’t going to be Wright. So be it. Calm is what Edgeworth does, possibly to a fault. But now, it’s what he needs—what they both need. He closes his eyes and lets the role settle over him the way he does before a particularly dicey court case. One step at a time. Gather information; locate evidence. Seek out the truth, and do what must be done to protect it.
Edgeworth looks up. Wright has removed the headpiece, revealing a mess of spiky hair that lacks its usual exuberance. He clutches the hood in one trembling fist. Edgeworth recognizes the look on his face: rage, fear, exhaustion, self-loathing. The expression, and the underlying emotions, are all too familiar.
“Wright,” he begins, and Wright starts like he’s forgotten that Edgeworth is there. Miles continues, unfazed. “At present, I know very little about the current situation. I received a call from Larry last night in which he claimed there was an emergency and that you were near death. While I am grateful to find you alive and… relatively unharmed, considering the circumstances, I require more information if I am to be of any sort of effective assistance.”
Wright gives him another blank look and a few shallow coughs. Calm, Edgeworth thinks. He leans forward and tries again. “Wright. I need you to tell me what happened. Otherwise, I don’t know how I am to help.”
This time, Wright seems to latch onto the last word. “Help,” he repeats. “You… you want to help?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Miles says dryly. The look Wright shoots him is half-confused, half-annoyed. More like himself. Edgeworth will take it.
“But you’re…” Wright stops. Miles isn’t sure he wants to hear what comes next. You’re a prosecutor? You’re the enemy? You’re Edgeworth?
“...you were in Europe,” Wright finishes slowly, watery eyes narrowed as if he’s making an accusation. Edgeworth almost laughs, but instead he leans back in his chair and lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Clearly, I’m not in Europe at the time being.” As to why he isn’t presently in Europe, they can deal with that—or not deal with it, Edgeworth wouldn’t particularly mind—at a later date. Edgeworth still isn’t entirely sure himself. Regardless, he is here now, and there is work to be done. Wright’s expression hasn’t changed, so Miles resumes his usual posture and continues. “But what matters right now is taking care of whatever situation you and Larry have gotten yourselves into.”
After a moment, Wright flops back down onto the pillow, shutting his eyes again. “Didn’t get ourselves into it,” he says. His voice sounds even more tired than before. “It just… sort of happened.”
“Tell me what happened, then,” Edgeworth replies. Wright coughs a few more times, but he nods.
“We were at the temple,” he says, and Miles hates that he’s already going to have to stop him for clarification.
“Who is ‘we’?” Edgeworth asks, as gently as he can.
Wright doesn’t seem too bothered. “Me and Maya, and Pearls.”
Pearls—Pearl Fey, Edgeworth remembers after a brief moment. Maya Fey’s young cousin. Wright is already continuing.
“And then we ran into Larry, and there was this picture book author Pearls likes—Elise Deauxnim. And-” he pauses, coughs- “a couple nuns who run the place.”
No mention of the mysterious Iris whom Wright had been so concerned about. One of the nuns, perhaps? It seems the logical conclusion. For the moment, Edgeworth decides not to push.
“After dinner, Maya went over to train.” Over where and to train for what, Wright doesn’t say. It probably has something to do with her spirit medium nonsense. The what likely doesn’t matter so much as the where in this case.
“Where did she go?”
Wright licks his lips, dry from coughing. “The training hall.” His voice is taking on a raspier quality. “‘Cross the bridge.”
He breaks into another coughing fit. Miles hands him the cup. Things are starting to come together—at least, why Wright would attempt to cross a burning bridge shortly after a murder is somewhat apparent if Maya Fey were on the other side. The rest is still fairly unclear.
When the coughing subsides and Wright has taken another sip of water (Miles privately hopes the IV is taking care of Wright’s fluid intake, because he really ought to be drinking more), Wright hands the cup back to him and Edgeworth places it back on the tray. Tempted as he is to prompt Wright to continue, he waits for Wright to be ready. With another rattling breath, Wright goes on.
“I went to bed… it was cold.” The arbitrary detail comes as a surprise, but Edgeworth doesn’t interject. He does think, just to himself, that Wright is much too used to the mild Los Angeles climate. “I couldn’t really sleep. And then… I dunno what time it was. Eleven, maybe? Midnight?” Wright stares down at the hood in his lap, eyebrows scrunched together as he tries to remember. It isn’t important, Edgeworth wants to say, but odds are that it is. He needs as much information as he can get, which means as much as Wright can recall. He says nothing, and at last Wright shakes his head.
“I can’t remember. It’s all so blurry… but then there’re parts that’re just so clear…” He rubs his forehead, then looks helplessly at Edgeworth. It isn’t a look Edgeworth has often seen from Wright. Anger, confusion, surprise, desperation—he’s seen all of these in the courtroom, but not helplessness. He hasn’t seen that since a year ago, in that heart-stopping moment when it had seemed that Maya Fey was lost for good. It isn’t the sort of expression that fits Wright, least of all directed at Miles.
“Understandable,” he finds himself saying. “It’s quite possible you’ve sustained a mild head injury.” More like a miracle he doesn’t have a major one, but Miles keeps that to himself. “I’d imagine your memory will recover in due time as your body heals.” He certainly hopes that will be the case, anyway. “Tell me what you do remember. You said some parts are clear, correct?”
Wright’s eyes search Edgeworth’s face, or perhaps the air around his head. The fever is clearly making Wright’s mind somewhat hazy. Eventually, he adjusts his position with a grimace of pain.
“I heard a scream,” he says abruptly. “Sounded like it was coming from the temple courtyard. I ran out to see what was going on.” He frowns. “I think… I think I just about stepped on the head nun.”
That one might be the fever talking, but Wright looks so intent on remembering that Miles decides not to mention it. Wright is silent for a long moment, gazing off into middle distance with unfocused eyes. Edgeworth is beginning to wonder whether Wright is going to continue at all when, still staring, Wright speaks.
“She was dead.”
“The head nun was dead?”
Wright shoots him a sudden glance. “What?”
“The head nun,” Edgeworth repeats, mystified. “You said she was dead.”
“No, not her. The author. Elise Deauxnim.”
Forgive me for not being inside your fever-addled brain, Edgeworth thinks. Perhaps it’s a bit unfair of him, but it’s hardly the afternoon and already he’s had a long day. “Ah,” he says instead. “I see. Do you know how she died?”
“Stabbed,” Wright replies almost immediately. “With this huge branched sword. Some kind of ceremonial thing, I think.”
The picture of Larry’s emergency is truly becoming clear. Edgeworth has a rather unfortunate feeling that he knows why Larry is at the detention center. “Was anyone else around?”
Wright shakes his head. “No. The head nun asked me to call the police.” A pause, cough, swallow. “The nearest phone was all the way by the bridge, so I ran there.”
“You didn’t use your cell phone?” Edgeworth asks.
Wright’s face somehow managers to flush even further. “I forgot it.”
How very… well, Wright of him. “Regardless. You ran to the bridge,” Miles prompts.
“Yeah. When I got there, it was already burning.”
“And that’s when you tired to cross it?!” The incredulous question bursts out of Edgeworth before he can check it. Wright is a madman. A reckless, foolish, utterly ridiculous madman.
Wright doesn’t have the dignity to look even remotely ashamed of himself. To Edgeworth’s further disbelief, his response is, “Not right then. I ran into Larry first.”
“You-” Miles stops himself. As much as he’d like to tell Wright off for his wanton disregard for his own safety, it isn’t going to be beneficial at present. Edgeworth quickly collects himself. “You met Larry at the bridge, then.”
“Yeah. I told him to call the police and report the murder. And then I…” Wright’s gaze drops to his lap. He coughs again.
“That’s when you fell,” Edgeworth finishes calmly. Wright nods once without looking at him. Edgeworth sighs. “Wright, I-”
“I had to,” Wright interrupts. He looks up now, meeting Edgeworth’s gaze with fever-bright blue eyes that implore him to understand. “I had to try. I knew it was dangerous and stupid of me, but-” He breaks off to cough. “If I didn’t-” He’s trembling again. “If I didn’t, Maya would- and now she’s-” Wright is crying now. He thrusts his head into his hands, body shaking even harder as he sobs.
Edgeworth sits frozen in his chair. He doesn’t know what to do. He should say something. Or shouldn’t he? Comfort is not his area of expertise—quite the opposite. But just sitting here feels wrong. Perhaps he ought to find some tissues…? A quick glance about the room reveals that there are none in sight. Useless.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Wright sniffles loudly and takes a rattling breath, which immediately becomes another fit of deep, hacking coughs, punctuated only by a few short gasps. Miles realizes abruptly that Wright can’t breathe. His sinuses must be in such poor condition that he can only breathe through his mouth, but he also can’t stop coughing long enough to get a real breath.
Miles glances about near the bed, but the call button is either not in an obvious spot or nonexistent—damn this poorly run hospital. Edgeworth picks up the cup of water. He leans forward, placing one hand tentatively on Wright’s shoulder and holding the cup in Wright’s line of sight with the other.
“Wright, you need to calm down so you can breathe.” He doesn’t know where he’s going with this. Stay calm. He just needs to give Wright whatever reassurances he needs to hear. Preferably ones Edgeworth can actually follow up on. Empty platitudes won’t work with Wright any more than they would with Miles himself.
“If the head nun or the police have an ounce of sense in their bodies, they’ll have already organized a rescue team and called for an airlift.” If they haven’t, Edgeworth will soon be having some very choice words with the police and their HR department. “It’s highly likely they are on their way to retrieve Miss Fey as we speak. And until they arrive, there is no doubt in my mind that Miss Fey will look out for herself. She has proven herself to be quite resourceful in the past, and I only know of one person who is her equal in tenacity and sheer force of will. I am sure it won’t be long before she comes storming into this room demanding you buy her a cheeseburger.”
He’s rambling now and he knows it, but Wright’s shuddering gasps are getting longer, like they might actually be getting some oxygen into his sticky lungs, so Miles lets the words plow onward. “I imagine Detective Gumshoe will have things well under control by now. Well, not exactly under control, but he certainly is dedicated to getting the job done.” Maybe this isn’t helpful. Edgeworth tries another tack. “Getting the necessary information ought to be simple enough if he is in charge. And even if he isn’t, I do know several other detectives on the force, so it shouldn’t be any troub-”
Wright’s fingers close around the cup in Edgeworth’s hand. Edgeworth jerks back. He catches himself in time to prevent the water from spilling. Even after the cup is safely transferred from his grasp to Wright’s, Miles’s hand hovers next to the cup until Wright has raised it to his lips. Miles can feel the tremors coursing through Wright’s body with the hand still on Wright’s shoulder.
His hand is still on Wright’s shoulder. Edgeworth does jerk back this time. His hands flail in front of him. By the time Wright finishes draining the cup, Edgeworth has settled for gripping the sides of his chair. He’s reasonably certain Wright has been too preoccupied with trying not to hack up his lungs to notice.
Wright coughs again, but then he takes a good, clear breath, and Edgeworth feels simultaneously relieved and incredibly awkward. He looks down. His eyes land on—of all things—the call button, right there at the side of the bed. Because of course it is.
“I- I’ll refill that,” Edgeworth says and reaches for the cup. Wright lets him take it. In the room’s small bathroom, Miles runs the tap until it’s as cold as it will get. He fills the cup to just below the brim. On second thought, he pours a bit out to reduce the chance of spilling. There are no tissues in here either, so Edgeworth retrieves a roll of toilet paper. Wright’s face is an absolute mess.
When he returns, Wright doesn’t meet his eyes. Edgeworth holds out the meager offerings with stiff arms. “I couldn’t find any tissues,” he says by way of explanation.
At this, Wright does look up. Edgeworth, standing there with a styrofoam cup of tap water in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other, suddenly feels scrutinized. This time, Miles is the one to look away. Is this what it feels like to be on the witness stand during one of Wright’s cross-examinations, with everyone looking at you, deciding whether you’re worth listening to?
Wright makes an odd, almost choking sound, and before Miles can do more than look up in alarm, he realizes that Wright is actually laughing. He stands nonplussed until the laughter turns quickly into more coughing. Edgeworth holds out the cup again, and Wright takes it.
“You’ll forgive me if I fail to see what you find so funny,” Edgeworth says when Wright has his coughing back under control. Despite his best efforts, he doesn’t quite manage to stop a hint of bewilderment from creeping into his voice. He does manage not to flinch when Wright uses the hand with the IV attached to reach for the roll of toilet paper, which Edgeworth hands over in exchange for the cup.
“‘s nothing,” Wright rasps. He tears off a length of toilet paper and begins to clean the mess off his face. He sniffles fruitlessly. “Think I used all the tissues up already.”
“I see,” Miles says, even though he doesn’t. He sets the cup down and puts his hands in his pockets. After a moment, he sits down. Wright rips off more toilet paper and wads it up to make a frankly pathetic attempt at blowing his nose. He drops the used paper off the other side of the bed, where Edgeworth suspects that if he cared to look, he would find a trash can full of mucus-ridden tissues—a bit of evidence he has absolutely no intention or desire to find.
Wright grunts in pain as he shifts himself. He lets out a long breath which, predictably, turns into a cough. He seems entirely spent. Miles sits in uncertain silence, listening to his watch tick beneath Wright’s labored breaths.
“Did y’ mean it?”
Wright’s voice is so hoarse that Edgeworth almost misses the words.
“Did I mean what?” he asks.
Wright rolls his head to the side so he can look Edgeworth in the eye. “That you want to help.”
Edgeworth raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
Wright looks at him for a long moment. Edgeworth meets his gaze. Even red-rimmed, half-lidded, and glassy with fever, Wright’s eyes are as piercing and determined as they ever are behind the defense’s bench. At last, he reaches toward the bedside tray. Edgeworth goes to hand him the cup of water, but Wright waves it away. He gestures toward the small pile of items next to it.
“I took some notes about the temple. And there’s that magazine, too. Might be helpful to you. That’s it,” he adds when Edgeworth extracts a small notebook from beneath Wright’s jacket, which someone has been kind enough to fold. Miles flips the notebook open. A few photos and other odds and ends—a map, an old newspaper clipping, even what might be part of an outdated autopsy report—are stuck between the pages. Wright’s handwriting is only slightly less impossible to read than it was in the fourth grade, especially in the semidarkness. Dark as it is, however, the sketches stand out. Edgeworth can already tell that they’re done with careful attention to detail and will be more beneficial in better light.
He closes the notebook and sets it aside. The magazine is folded open to an article about a temple, presumably the scene of the crime. He’ll glance through it on the way to the detention center, along with Wright’s notes. There is one other thing he ought to ask the man himself, though. “Has Larry been in contact with you? I would assume you’re the person he would be most likely to ask to recommend an attorney for him in your absence.”
“An attorney?” Wright blinks slowly, either thoughtful or on the verge of falling asleep. It would probably be more accurately categorized as passing out in this circumstance. Miles would prefer Wright wait until he answered the question, but such thoughts are a pointless frivolity. The confused look Wright had upon realizing Edgeworth was not in Europe returns. “Why would Larry need an attorney?”
Now Edgeworth blinks. “To defend him, I would imagine. Isn’t that why he’s at the detention center? Because he’s under suspicion?”
“Dunno. Don’ think there’s much reason to suspect him.”
Well, Edgeworth thinks, this changes things. “If not Larry, who would be the primary suspect?”
The look of discomfort on Wright’s face could be because of the pain or fever, but something about it makes Miles wonder if it’s because of the question. “‘m not sure. If it isn’t Larry… and he’s at the detention center…” His voice falters. “‘s probably the other nun. Iris.”
Edgeworth doesn’t miss the way Wright’s demeanor changes—Wright has never been one for subtlety, and Miles doubts he currently has the presence of mind to try. This is not about his injuries. There is something about the possibility of suspicion falling on this nun, this Iris, that bothers Wright. It’s more than his usual unwavering faith in his clients’ innocence. Beyond that, Miles can’t say, and it doesn’t seem that Wright is willing to.
At length, Edgeworth breaks the silence. “Is there anything else?”
Wright coughs and reaches for the bedside tray. He gropes about until Edgeworth pushes it closer. The jacket falls out of its neat folds as Wright takes it. He fumbles through the fabric and then holds something out in Edgeworth’s direction. Miles extends his hand. Two objects fall onto his palm: a smooth, green, faintly glowing item shaped somewhat like the numeral 9; and, of all things, Wright’s defense attorney badge.
“Might need this too,” Wright says, and he drops the ornamented hood onto Edgeworth’s lap before he can interject. Delicately, Edgeworth places it next to his briefcase and resolves to wash his hands—thoroughly—at the next possible juncture.
Miles leaves the hood be for the time being and holds up the items Wright has just deposited in his hand. “Wright, what is this?”
“A magatama. It lets you see into people’s hearts.” Wright has definitely lost it now. “Use it if you see any Psycholocks. People will usually tell you what they’re hiding if you can prove they’re hiding it.”
Wright is making no sense whatsoever. Miles has a sinking feeling that asking for clarification will only make it worse, so he leaves the magatama or whatever it is alone. Wright still hasn’t explained the other item in Edgeworth’s hand. “And why am I holding your badge?”
Wright looks at him like he’s the moron. “You asked if there was anything else you might need.” He says it as though it’s an explanation, which it isn’t, and as though it makes perfect sense, which it doesn’t.
“If you’re asking what I think you are, Wright, I don’t see how I’m supposed to-”
He breaks off. Wright’s hand, IV and all, has closed Miles’s fingers around the badge and magatama and is holding them there. “Edgeworth, please,” he croaks. “Please. Take care of Maya, and Iris. You’re the only one I can trust with this.”
Several thoughts flit through Edgeworth’s head at once. Surely Wright has other colleagues, other defense attorneys he knows who can handle this. Edgeworth still doesn’t know what’s so important about this Iris person or even what’s happened, really. He’s tired, jetlagged, confused, and above all, a prosecutor. He is quite possibly the most unqualified person Wright could ask to do this, save the Butz. And perhaps Gumshoe. All right, Miles can think of a few other people less qualified than he is. The point still stands.
Even so, he sits there, Wright pressing the badge into Edgeworth’s palm with trembling fingers. Wright’s eyes, feverish and painfully earnest, bore into Edgeworth’s. Miles may not be a defense attorney, but he does have a law degree and significant influence with both the police and the prosecutor’s office. He knows this court perhaps better than anyone. He is—maybe, in his own way—just barely qualified.
“All right,” he says before he can second-guess himself. “I’ll do whatever I can. I only hope to prove your trust is not misplaced.”
Wright’s fingers tighten around Edgeworth’s for a fraction of a second. He lets go and leans back against the pillow. His eyes close. “It isn’t,” he says.
That remains to be seen, Edgeworth wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands and slips the badge and magatama into his pocket. “I’ve troubled you long enough. You ought to be resting.”
“‘m resting,” Wright protests. It’s hoarse and half-hearted. He does expend enough energy to give Edgeworth a half-lidded glare. “‘n’ you’re not… trouble.” He pauses to cough. “If anything, I’m the one troubling you.”
Edgeworth collects his briefcase and the various items Wright has handed off to him while he formulates his response. “Let me be the judge of that,” he says finally. “Besides, if anyone is presently causing me trouble, it’s Larry.”
Wright gives a loud sniffle that may be an attempt at a snort. “Y’re not a judge. Y’re an attorney.”
It takes every ounce of Edgeworth’s willpower to keep from giving in to the very, very strong urge to roll his eyes at Wright’s self-satisfied smirk. Miles can already tell that Wright is no longer fully awake, so he settles for shaking his head and saying, “Rest, Wright. I’ll keep you informed.”
Wright’s only response is a short hum. His eyes have fallen closed, and he lets out a long, raspy breath. The hand without the IV is still loosely grasping the roll of toilet paper. When enough time has passed that Edgeworth is fairly certain Wright is entirely asleep, he reaches over and slides the toilet paper out of Wright’s grip. Miles sets it next to the cup of water on the bedside tray, which he leaves within reach of the bed. Wright’s jacket is lying in a crumpled heap across his knees, so Edgeworth sets his briefcase down long enough to hang the jacket neatly on the back of the chair. He picks up the briefcase and turns to go.
“Edgeworth.” The drowsy whisper stops him. He turns around. Wright’s eyes are still closed. “...thanks.”
What is he supposed to say to that? I’ll do my best? Don’t thank me yet? I’m only returning the favor?
Miles takes a breath. “You’re welcome,” he says.
He waits briefly, but Wright does not respond. Edgeworth doesn’t particularly expect him to. A thin shaft of light falls across Wright’s blanket-covered legs as Miles slips out into the hallway.
Edgeworth closes the door with a soft click. He squares his shoulders.
There is work to be done.