Chapter Text
Something seems not-quite-right about Wright. It’s not hard to pinpoint, despite its subtlety - the harsh rasp on the edge of his voice as he shouts an objection, the slight shake of his hand as he strikes his trademark pose - he is still in recovery from that endlessly foolish stunt with the bridge, Miles reminds himself, no matter that the hospital deemed him fit enough to leave. And then he’d immediately spent half the day at the top of a snowy mountain, with one of the most insufficient coats Miles had ever seen.
He squints over the edge of the gallery box, looking for symptoms, concerned that Wright may just make himself ill enough for another emergency stay. A little weak on his feet, leaning almost imperceptibly on the defense bench; a constant drooping of his shoulders not characteristic of his usual bluster; his volleys to Godot’s serves just that little bit slower than usual - and did he just flinch at the sound of his own hands slamming down on the bench? And then Iris speaks up, and all of a sudden, Miles is nine years old again and watching his very best friend hold his shoulders tall, and his back straight, while a teacher passes him a failing grade and tells him that he needs to focus more in class, Phoenix; I suppose your mother will be very disappointed . He’s nine years old again and flapping about origami cranes, entirely inconsequential, and while Phoenix was crying just seconds ago about something much more important, he is suddenly dry-eyed and smiling and softly stroking the back of Miles’ hand in tiny circles, whispering about how it’s okay, Miles, look - you haven’t ruined it at all; you just have to fold the head up like this and then it’s perfect!
This seems worse, though. This isn’t the hastily constructed walls of a prepubescent boy, trying to comfort a friend. This isn’t Wright at nine, trying to hide his fear; isn’t Wright at twenty-four, stumbling over himself to save the ghost of a child he once knew - no, this is harsher, hardened. All of the mannerisms that Miles has been cataloguing seem to vanish into thin air as Wright’s - ex-girlfriend? Is that what she is to him? - lays bare her sister’s plans, and her own part in them. He still stutters, a little, and his brow still shines with sweat, but he holds himself straight as Iris tells the whole court how she betrayed him, played him; how closely he was consistently brushing with death for six whole months - Miles forces his fingers to disengage from their death grip on the chair’s arms, shaking out his hands and struggling, as always, to refrain from the urge to continue the movement, to help quell some part of this overwhelming wave of emotion. Wright, ever the paragon of justice and self-sacrifice, of strength in the face of overwhelming odds, still stands tall - but Miles watches his shoulders begin to tremble, just a little; hears his voice waver ever so slightly as he tells the woman who led him astray, “I still believed in you.”
Miles feels his blood run cold - Wright always did believe too hard, too brashly, for his own good. He marvels, just for a moment, at how that belief was lent to himself, and at how he wasted it - lost himself in a fumbled suicide attempt and fled the country before anyone could ask any difficult questions. At the anger of Wright’s reaction upon his return, and at how quickly it was glossed over, a box taped shut and lost amid the swirling seas of the Engarde trial.
The judge declares his verdict. It’s over. Wright doesn’t slump even a little in relief over his victory. He lingers behind the bench, before pressing his palm into the wood as if to push off - and then he retreats to the lobby.
Franziska catches his eye as they pass each other, and she must catch the glint of panicked worry that lies within, because she gives him a measured, calculating look before glancing at the door through which Wright has just disappeared. She says nothing, just turns on her heel and stalks towards the lobby, but Miles can see the twitch of her fingers towards her whip, her safety blanket at her hip, and - oh. If she hadn’t noticed what Miles had during the trial, then she at least knows something is afoot now.
In the lobby, Wright is speaking to… well. Despite being rather soundly hammered over the head with the occult in recent days, Miles still isn’t sure how to respond - is it Maya? Mia? Some spiritual amalgam of the two sisters? It doesn’t much matter, anyhow - a flicker of features, and the apparition is no more, leaving Maya, bubbly as ever (and isn’t that concerning in the same vein) in her place. A few moments of vulnerability, no more, and then Franziska lets loose her whip, and Wright’s eyes glaze over once again.
Miles offers up a congratulation, an olive branch, an, “Excellent work, Wright,” hoping for his voice to carry what he means, far more than platitudes. Wright looks past him, goes through the motions of conversation, withstands light-hearted ribbing with no complaints, redirects, redirects, redirects . Maya leaves, to search for her child cousin, and Miles cocks his head to the side.
“...Wright. You seem to be uncharacteristically puzzled,” he says, but the glazed-over far-off stare doesn’t relent. “I suspect you are wondering how Maya can be so cheerful despite all that has happened?”
“Yeah…” and oh , his voice is hollow, emptier than it was with Maya - Miles stops the spiral of how much of this is my fault before it can begin.
“To be honest, I can’t understand it either,” Franziska mutters, fingers flicking towards her whip again, her gaze following Maya’s search through and out of the lobby. Interesting, but perhaps a revelation for another time. A belated flash of something - guilt, maybe, even if tragically misplaced - flashes through Wright’s expression, a raindrop in a glassy pool, before it settles again.
Drawing parallels, trying to speak around the topic of Wright’s wellbeing, particularly in mixed company. Not that they’re particularly emotionally honest with one another when alone. They’ve both buried themselves in hellish cages, fire and brimstone wrapped around iron bars - if they get too close, they’ll both be left devastated. No, best to tip-toe around the problem, and never face it head-on.
“I think I understand how she feels. Maya is a much wiser person than she appears, and I think she realizes something…” His mouth is dry. He swallows, and presses on, “Now is exactly the time when she needs to be as strong as she can.”
Franziska’s head whips round from where she has been staring at the door, worry just barely shining in her icy eyes. “What- What do you mean by, ‘Now is exactly the time’…?”
Wright. Wright’s glassy stare. Wright’s stubborn determination to be a shoulder to lean on, to part the seas and save everyone, to sacrifice himself to save the day. “Maya wasn't the only one that was badly wounded by this incident,” you know you’re not the only one hurting, “In fact, there was someone that was hurt far more deeply than she. I believe it's for that person that Maya is trying her best not to cry,” I know, I understand, but please don’t break yourself to hide it all away .
The haze lifts, for just a moment. It’s like dominoes, Miles realises - all of them trying to protect one another, and all of them almost falling down from the stress. Wright-Maya-Pearl - you could probably tack Edgeworth to the beginning, and not be incorrect. “Edgeworth…” a breath, a sigh, “I think I'm starting to understand, too.”
Miles can’t even begin to read into that before Franziska’s whip lands again, and pulls Wright back into his courtroom persona, all moral strength and quivering resolve, shattering whatever tenuous understanding they were verging on. Always an almost. It’s Pearl , of course, the child with the weight of this whole tragic case on her shoulders. She’s missing - Miss Fey returns, and Wright swoops away to help her ( again, again, again ), and Miles is left with his sister, the detective, and Larry Butz, milling around.
He breathes in, folds his arms across his chest, taps his finger against his creased elbow as he thinks - an acceptable way to self-soothe, even if von Karma’s words still echo around his head with every touch. The sound of conversation washes over him - too loud, too bright, too much after everything - and he’s swept to the exit, where the scents and lights and the goddamn traffic can add to the oppressing weight. He breathes in. He taps his finger. He breathes out. He locates his car (the same as when he was twenty-four, a crime scene abandoned upon his disappearance and remaining in the States as an anchor, a reminder to return and fix what he has broken ), slides in beside Franziska (his sister , a reminder of his mentor, his torment, but his sister all the same), fastens his seatbelt, and drives .
What right does he have to step in here? What is he worth to Wright, who has saved him time and again? After all, all Miles has done is betray, and leave, and run when it gets too hard to handle; when the monsters crawl out from under the floorboards and scream until he can no longer hear himself think; when he is too human and not human enough and just right . A not insignificant part of him wills him to keep driving , to start a new life in another European city, to stop coming back . When he was watching from the gallery, far enough from Wright to not be consumed in his own spiralling thoughts - too close too close not close enough - he could see the toll of the last few years writ across Wright’s face; could see his disappearance in his sunken eyes, Maya’s kidnapping in his strained smile, Mia’s death in the way his resolve wavered - did he ever process that? Did he process any of it? Did he even have the chance -?
Franziska clears her throat. When he glances to her, in the passenger seat, she is holding her whip with a death-grip rivalling his own on the wheel, wide-eyed with panic. He’s driving far too fast, in the wrong direction, the highway being devoured beneath the tyres - he presses down on the brake, metal hitting stone hitting metal as he pulls the car off the side of the road. When did his chest start heaving, when did he - ?
The engine ticks over. He rips the keys from the ignition and throws them into Franziska’s lap without looking at her.
“Kleiner bruder…”
“Nein- n-no. Wait a moment, bitte, just-”
His hands are shaking as he lays them back on the wheel, wraps his fingers back around the leather and lets the texture soothe him. He breathes - in, shudder , out, shudder . He is Miles Edgeworth, internationally renowned prosecutor. He is Miles Edgeworth, inhuman prodigy in law. He is Miles Edgeworth, demon prosecutor , protégé of- no, no, no-
Franziska leans over the central console, begins to unstick his fingers from the wheel where they have tightened enough to leave deep imprints in the fabric. With each one, she whispers an admonishment, a simple fool , or dummkopf , or bruder, nicht schon wieder. He cannot respond beyond letting her take his hand in both of her own - smaller, she is still a teenager, why did you let yourself forget . She rubs light circles -
He is nine years old, and Phoenix is whispering, it’s okay, Miles! It’s okay! Look, we can clean the mud off, good as new!
“ Bruder… tell me this is not-”
“ Franziska ,” he pulls his hand back, opens the car door for air, where did the air go, you’re stealing my air- “Would you mind driving? I- I find myself... mildly indisposed.”
The silence lasts only a moment - he watches the cars whizzing past, people everywhere who find the world so much easier to deal with, who spare no thought for this fully grown man and his teenage sister, both overdressed, standing at the side of the highway. The passenger door slams, and then Franziska is next to him, resolutely not looking at him, thank you very much.
“Du bist ein dummkopf , Miles Edgeworth.”
He blinks and turns to her. Her face is stone, but her eyes shine with something like concern, or sympathy , and he doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all.
“Is this what it was like?” Her voice is smaller, quieter, than her usual harsh tone - it’s subtle, but they’ve always been good at picking apart the insubstantial - and she watches the cars. “When you- when you left, is this what it was like?”
He breathes - a bark of an almost-laugh, a world-weary sigh, both held by iron locks within his chest. “Not quite, liebe schwester. Similar, I suppose, but less… urgent.” A breath. If explaining himself will help her forgive him, will soothe any part he played in her own suffering - she lost her father , her world-view shattered , and then her brother ran off to play dead and soul-search. What a pitiful excuse for a man he is. In a smaller voice, as if she were a young child again and prone to being scared away, he admits, “I didn’t want to hurt you, Franziska. I hardly thought you would care.”
She turns to face him, then, hurt flashing through her features as she grasps for her whip - and then lets it go, as if something in his face makes her think better of it. “How- Why would you-”
“I- I thought it would be easier. For you, that is. For everyone , really. If I were to just-” He rolls the words in his mouth, picks at them carefully between his teeth and tongue, bites hard enough on his cheek to taste blood. “Your father… Herr von Karma , he was-”
“-a flawed, selfish, foolish man, and a beyond terrible father. To both of us. Scheiße , little brother, you could have- you should have spoken to me, not-”
“We do not speak much, Franziska. Not pertaining to matters like these.”
Her breath shudders as she lets it go, her hands reaching for his again. “Perhaps we should. You are not- you are not well , kleiner bruder. I cannot- I refuse to stand by and watch you… watch you…”
Extricating himself from her soft grip, he closes his eyes and turns from her to stare out at the horizon, beyond the cars filled with happy families and sane businessmen and all the normal, not-broken people. “We should go. I believe Detective Gumshoe is waiting on us at that awful French restaurant.”
“Bruder…”
“Will you be driving, Franziska, or shall I?”
She studies him, for a moment, before steeling her resolve and returning to the passenger side door to retrieve the keys he’d thrown at her mid-episode. It’s not a panic attack , he reminds himself, nor a meltdown. It was all just a little too much . “Get in the car, Miles Edgeworth. Your driving is terrible.”
And they drive.