Chapter Five
In stark contrast to the Prosecutor's Office, in all of its towering glory, Phoenix liked to think that the sight of Wright and Co. was built to inspire a feeling of reassurance. Whether or not that actually coincided with the reality of his practice was a judgment he preferred to keep a safe, professional distance from. Either way, the incoming sight of the patterned brick and worn door felt welcoming. It also probably helped that his movements no longer ached with tension thick and distracting enough to cloud his vision as he walked.
The glow of the office light was still visible from the window. That didn't necessarily mean Maya was still there–it wasn't uncommon for her to forget to turn off something or another as they closed down for the night, usually at the expense of the monthly electric bill. But, Phoenix noted, with the lingering, acrid taste of guilt beginning to creep back into his mouth, he found he couldn't exactly blame her if she really had decided to leave.
He apologized to Maya internally, hoping that hastening his usual rush up the stairs would at least be a symbolic start towards making it up to her. He had to twist rather awkwardly to avoid colliding into someone heading the opposite direction, earning him an irate glare, but he ignored it. The door leading into the offices was unlocked, and Phoenix felt his shoulders set with confirmation; although Maya occasionally forgot to take care of lights or the television when heading out, he couldn't remember a single instance where she hadn't at least made sure the door was locked behind her.
Pushing it open, he peered around the entranceway. “Hey,” he called–not quite a whisper and not quite normal speech. “I'm back.”
He blinked when he received no reply and leaned further in; the receptionist's desk was empty. A glance upwards told him that the door to the office proper was slightly ajar, and he was fairly sure he could pick up the faint sound of the television filtering through it. He kept walking.
"Maya, are you there?"
He gave a start when he stepped through. To his surprise, the chaos he'd left the office in as he'd rushed to leave was rearranged into relatively neatly stacked piles–not exactly filed, but probably a lot easier to manage. There was the scent of pine in the air; he noticed that the filing cabinets and the windows had been freshly wiped of dust and grime. Even the surface of the television screen was set with a sparkle Phoenix couldn't recall seeing in the past several months.
Maya was sitting in his chair, taking meticulous–meticulous no doubt referring to the samurai doodles in the margins–notes. Her head shot up first at Phoenix's entrance, followed by the rest of her body, making her hair beads bounce almost comically off her shoulders.
“Nick!” she exclaimed. “You're okay!”
Well, it's not like I was carried out of here on a stretcher...
Despite that, he managed a weak smile that he hoped was good enough for affirmation.
Maya made her way out from behind the desk; she hung back briefly, trying to get a better read of his demeanor–whatever she saw seemed to reassure her, as she quickly went on to return the grin and pull him into a quick hug. “It looks like you're feeling better,” she said, peering up at him and giving the side of his face a chiding tap. “Thank goodness. I'm really relieved.”
Relieved?
"Yeah," Maya nodded, drawing back. "You should have seen your face when you charged out of here.” She formed circles around her eyes with her thumb and forefinger for emphasis. So I looked like an owl? Phoenix mused. “It must be what all of those guilty witnesses see flash before their eyes right before you tighten the noose around their necks, huh?"
You are definitely asking the wrong person that question.
“Though,” Maya said, on further consideration, “I guess it was kind of cool, in a scary sort of way. Just...” She hunched her shoulders, considering. “Doesn't really fit you at all, you know? When you think 'Phoenix Wright', cool just isn't the first word that comes to mind. I'd rank it about... hm, seventeen, actually.”
Dare I ask what the first sixteen are?
“And 'scary' is probably around twenty-one,” Maya supplemented.
What's scary is the amount of thought you seem to have put into this. But the smile on his face had broadened. He looked at his assistant fondly.
“Sorry,” he said. He meant it.
“Hey, as long as you made it back, that's what matters,” Maya chirped. She turned her head, gesturing towards the desk. “A lot of calls came in when you were gone, so I put down all the important details--” she pointed to the pad of paper she had been scribbling on, “there, so you should take a look when you get a chance, okay? I think a couple of them sound really promising.”
Phoenix nodded absently. He began pulling his jacket off, but as the first sleeve came off, the rush of startlingly cool air against his arm made him give it second thought. It was late–late by his measure, anyway–and given the emotional rollercoaster this day had been, he had severe doubts about his ability to concentrate on paperwork anyway. There was a familiar mental fog lying in wait at the borders of his mind, precluding any attempts at being productive.
“I'll take a look tomorrow,” he promised. “Why don't we close up for today?”
“Pffft,” Maya chided, but she didn't look particularly surprised. “You're so lazy, Nick.”
“I know, I know.” We'll have to really hit these files hard tomorrow, I guess...
Even as limited as Maya's attention span was, and Phoenix's own lack of motivation, closing the office was by now such a practiced ritual between the two of them that they usually managed to take care of it within the span of twenty minutes. Phoenix briefly settled in at his desk to give the paperwork an obligatory final shuffle, skimming the notes Maya had laid out for him. None of them really caught his attention. The note about the murder case bulleted with the notations stuffed duck, tea kettle, bookcase gave him brief pause, but not in any way that constituted interest in further involving himself with that mess. He reached up for where he kept the address roll.
His eyes quirked upwards when his hand hit empty desk. The rolodex was absent from its usual position, re-stationed next to the telephone and skewed diagonally to face the desk occupant.
Skye, Lana was listed on the top card, followed by a row ten numbers, its date of entry four years prior.
“Maya,” Phoenix started, swiveling in her chair to face her, but she had returned to her station outside, taking care of whatever she usually did there. He caught the faint sound of her familiar hum, oddly in tune with the snapping of disappearing lights.
Phoenix tossed a few papers haphazardly into his briefcase before clicking it shut, and moved to join her when he heard the bustle come to a stop, replaced by an impatient tapping of sandals against floor. As he moved out–Maya pressed close on his heels–he remembered suddenly that he didn't have the key. Maya rolled her eyes, pushed him aside, and locked the door herself.
As they went down the stairs, Phoenix opened his mouth to ask about any particular calls she might have made while he was out–but Maya seemed to have something else in mind.
“So...” Maya hesitated. “You went to see Mr. Edgeworth, right?"
"Yeah.” They made their way outside and past the parking lot. “You really were worried, huh?"
“Well...” Maya said, slowly. She came to a stop as her feet hit sidewalk, turning back to face him. Her head flitted from side to side, giving the distinct impression that she was rolling her intended words around on her tongue. “It's just that... I was thinking about what Mr. Edgeworth was talking about last night.”
"Last night?" Phoenix's brow furrowed. What is she talking about?
“Yes, last night. Geez, where were you, Nick?” Maya rolled her eyes, but was fortunately willing to set aside her teasing long enough to elaborate. “You know, with Lana, and the Prosecutor's Office, remember? About how things had been really rough over there lately...”
“Oh, yeah.” Phoenix said, vaguely. It was surreal to think about it as last night–if it had seemed distant when he had first stepped into Edgeworth's office, it felt a million years away now. “Hm.”
Maya folded her hands behind her back. “Just... it's really true, isn't it? When you stop and think about it...” She shook her head, and began counting off on her fingers. “That is, their top prosecutor–Prosecutor von Karma, I mean–you went and proved that he was a fraud and a murderer on top of that! And then the same thing with the chief of police, just a few months later...”
Hey, don't say it like it's my fault! They really were murderers...
“And then the other Prosecutor von Karma was only there for a year. And the year after that, what with Mr. Armando...” Maya bit her lip. Her hair slid over her eyes, half-framing them in shadow.
I hadn't thought about it that way, Phoenix had to admit. It did seem pretty grim in context. And as mixed as his emotions still were about the series of events surrounding the last incident, he imagined it must be much harder on Maya, even now.
Maya took a deep breath, collecting herself. “I guess what I mean is... Mr. Edgeworth really must be going through a hard time. So, I think it'd be even worse for him if you two had another falling out. He looks up to you an awful lot, Nick.” She flashed him a knowing grin. “You can't be in a rivalry by yourself, after all!”
A rivalry, huh...?
“So,” she repeated, head tilting slightly with a smile, “I'm really glad you made up from... whatever.”
“I am, too.” I really am.
Maya spun on her heels, as though shaking off any troubles that could have ever been weighing on her shoulders as easily as it was to discard a shawl. “All right! Now that that's settled, why don't we celebrate?”
Celebrate what, exactly!?
“I already ate up my leftovers, so I think I'm long overdue for a helping of burgers!” She winked at him, balancing the palms of both hands against the crown of her head. It was as much of a private, comfortably worn joke as an actual request.
The more things change, Phoenix thought, but he couldn't pretend he wasn't grateful. No matter what else seemed to turn upside down in his world, Maya would always be Maya.
Phoenix had always disliked the smog of the train station. The noise and the crowds never did much for him, either, dotted every few feet with the quiet rumblings of meetings and partings; tangles of fingers and other limbs crashing into each or being forcefully wrenched apart. With as uncharitable his feelings towards the whole of it, it was slightly disheartening to find himself here so often, and he found that he only wound up resenting it more with each subsequent visit.
“Pretty fast five days, huh?” Maya asked, adjusting the strap of her carry-on bag. “They really need me back there, though.”
Has it really been five days? It seemed off no matter how he considered it. He wasn't sure if it actually felt like Maya had only been here for five minutes or for five years–but either way, he thought, looking at the waiting train, it would have been nice to have five more.
“It feels like you just got here,” he said, feeling for all the world like a petulant child.
“I know. You can't do a thing if I'm not here to keep an eye on you.” She gave her usual smile, but Phoenix thought–maybe he was projecting–he could see a hint of something bittersweet along its edges. “Next time I get a couple of days free, I'll be right back.”
“Sure thing.”
“I'll give you a call when I make it there,” Maya said, as the attendants loaded her things–mostly newly purchased Steel Samurai merchandise, yet another month-long deficit she had insisted she needed to compensate for–onto the train. “Just so you don't lose any sleep worrying about me, Nick.”
What do you think I am, a mother hen?
“I'll bring Pearly next time, okay?” Maya promised. “She's really been wanting to see you again, too.”
“She's not the only one,” Phoenix said.
Maya bent a little closer, cupping her hands in a parody of a conspiratory whisper. “Though, I'd better give you fair warning. it's like she's taller and taller every time I turn around. You're going to have to help me chase off all of her suitors, Nick–they're going to be coming in packs...”
He must have betrayed the odd stab of discomfort at that notion somehow, because Maya let loose a delighted sort of cackle as she straightened into her normal posture.
He felt a little stupid having to ask, as though he couldn't function without knowing. “So do you know how long this time...”
“Hmm,” Maya said, thinking, chin tilted upwards toward the sky. “It's hard to say. It depends.”
Depends on what, exactly?
But she didn't seem particularly inclined to fill him in on the details. Phoenix handed over her last bag, and she balanced on the edge of the platform a moment longer before stepping up to board herself. The door shut behind her, and Phoenix was about to start walking back when her face suddenly appeared in one of the windows near him. She stuck her tongue out.
The whistle blew, signaling its time for departure. He watched her wave at him from the window until he lost view of her face, and then the entire train as it sped towards it destination.
So he was here now by himself.
He hadn't bothered to open the office this morning at all; rather, after seeing Maya off, he'd sulked rather impressively back to his apartment where he spent most of the day dividing his attention between the blank expanse of the ceiling, the blank expanse of the wall, and the blank expanse of the television screen. He and Maya had managed to clean up the last of the paperwork the night before it was time for her to leave, and he didn't feel particularly enthused about dealing with a new client, especially with her absence. It always took him at least a few days to shake off that particular fog, weighing heavily around his shoulders, in the immediate aftermath of her departure.
Charged with overseeing a village, huh.
That was jarring to think about. No matter how he tried, he couldn't quite get his ideas of 'Maya' and 'village overseer'--basically a softer version of 'government official', really–to line up. It was a little easier to scorn the reason his apartment was barren of her cheerful presence if it was an inherent paradox.
But even when Maya was with him, he had to admit that there were discrepancies, small cracks in the usual picture of Wright and Co.'s operations, even if he tried to turn a blind eye. Especially in the last few days when they had actually managed to set about working at a relatively steady pace, the sound of Maya's cellphone firing, and the subsequent sound of her voice talking about things like 'disciplinary action' or 'training regiment' or even 'budget balancing', became more and more common. Even more disconcerting was the low, somewhat weary edge with which she spoke, that he was accustomed to hearing from Edgeworth–but never from his assistant. Whatever Maya had to say about the workings of Kurain and the charming quirks of the acolytes that trained there, he was hard-pressed to find a way to sell himself on the idea that she was enjoying her newfound duties.
But I guess it wasn't really her choice. Kind of harsh, being born into such huge responsibility–I guess Edgeworth would understand what that's like a little bit better than I would. I don't imagine von Karma gave him much free choice in his career, either.
But we all had our reasons for becoming the things we did...
He tilted his attorney's badge, cool and light between his fingers, so that the sheen of the light hit it at that certain angle that highlighted the symbol of the court engraved into the center.
The truth was that he had never really thought about it. It had seemed like the obvious decision to make at the time–after months of unanswered letters and phone calls, the question of whether entering law was something he wanted to do was irrelevant.
He always did have a strange habit of disappearing from my watch.
Phoenix knew better than to put much stock in the reliability of his own memory. Varying case details swept in and out easily, usually, he figured, for the benefit of his own sanity–but there were the moments and images that stayed with him, even through the mundane passage of years and decades. Maya's tear-stained face and outstretched hands, not quite willing to touch Mia's body. Dollie's fury on the witness stand as she was exposed as a killer. And a single empty desk from fourth grade, followed by another, identical in all the ways that mattered–this time left at the prosecutor's office, leaving him with a hollow emptiness in his chest and a meaningless chunk of metal decorating his lapel.
The same feeling from back then resurfaced like a flood if he considered the possibility that Edgeworth might eventually take off again. To Europe, or anywhere else.
That won't happen.
With a sense of distant surprise, Phoenix realized it was the assumption that Edgeworth would be back that had allowed him to smile and wave as Edgeworth left shortly after the Engarde trial, and then again after Diego Armando had been tried and sentenced.
But telling himself 'he'd be back someday' didn't do anything to assauge the unease that came with the hypothetical now.
He wasn't sure when it had stopped being enough. Maybe after they had talked in his office–or a month earlier when Edgeworth had met his eyes and said ‘yes’ to a friendly dinner...
Phoenix closed his fingers around his badge. The beer stain next to the chair from last week stared up him–his attempts at scrubbing it away had proven fruitless.
We really have been through a lot together... saving Maya and Iris, exposing Gant... but it's always worked out because we were both there, hasn't it? He knows that, too.
Even yelling at each other in an office, Phoenix noted. That had been new.
But even that that had turned out all right. Because we were both...
Phoenix blinked, abruptly jerked out of his own stream of consciousness. It was Tuesday.
He still hasn't called.
His watch, reliable as always, informed him that it was slightly past noon.
It can't be that hard to find a decent restaurant, can it?
Then again, it was Edgeworth.
There was a sudden icy stab Phoenix felt all the way to the blackest depths of his bank account and possibly beyond.
Should I call him? I could name about five good, affordable places off the top of my head...
Then again, it was Edgeworth.
Financial anxiety aside, a strange tightness rose in his throat; he shifted position awkwardly in the chair in a vague attempt to eliminate it. That still wasn't any reason for the other man not to call. When Edgeworth promised something, he always put his utmost effort to keep his word. Even back when Phoenix had asked him to defend Iris, when it had been obvious he felt uncomfortable doing it.
The memory suddenly gave way to another–the way Edgeworth had affixed his eyes to the gravy-stained scroll, so pale he'd almost gleamed luminescent in the cave's scanty light. And then afterwards when they had lit, this time with panic, as Phoenix faced him in the courtyard, before nearly stumbling in his haste to make a retreat towards the men combing the place for clues.
It was a completely different story when Edgeworth was afraid.
But why would he...
The same reason he had taken over half an hour to rejoin Phoenix outside of the courthouse the first time they had eaten together.
Phoenix's head fell back over the chair's headrest, staring at the ceiling.
Same old, prideful Edgeworth.
And with that–distantly, and almost comically, he realized he must have seen it coming–the familiar hitch in the back of his mind, like the spark from a malfunctioning wire, told him he wasn't being completely honest with himself, whether or not he chose to admit it from there.
It was really hard for you, wasn't it.
How long has it been this way?
Edgeworth had turned his head to the side, looking at him with a smile that was mingled with the unmistakable traces of a faint grimace.
Partner.
The badge fell from his hands, skittering dangerously against the chair's armrest for a few seconds before slipping off to bounce twice along the floor. Phoenix ignored it; he was too busy leaning forward to dig through the pockets of his discarded jacket for his cell phone.
When his search turned up nothing but lint–he must have left it in his room–he stood and headed for the landline anchored in the kitchen. The feel of the cool plastic against his skin was oddly jarring.
What am I doing?
Thursday was still a few days off. He was being downright paranoid, not to mention presumptuous. He stared down at the phone, resting benignly in the palm of his hand.
You'd think that fifteen years of running would be enough. For both of us.
He dialed.
The phone rang several times, and Phoenix wondered, tongue wedged nervously between his teeth and knuckles rapping against the counter, if this would be the day he would finally hear Edgeworth's voice mail message for the first time. Then there was a click on the other line that told him that wouldn't be the case, but when the other man's voice filtered through, he seemed to be completing a rather harsh thought aimed at someone else entirely. “...bother coming in if you're not going to work–”
In spite of the agitated edge to his voice, hearing the prosecutor's voice against his ear seemed to solidify the ground beneath Phoenix's feet, just a little. “Edgeworth?”
In answer to his prompt, the sound abruptly became muffled, enough so that although Phoenix could hear more conversation on the other end, he couldn't make out what was actually being said. A moment later Edgeworth spoke more clearly–presumably he had dismissed whatever company he had been entertaining and stopped blocking the receiver with his hand. He didn't bother with any greetings.
“What is it, Wright?”
“Hey,” Phoenix said. “Sorry. I was just... checking in.”
Pause. “...Checking in?”
“Yeah. You know, seeing how the, uh, arrangements were...” He honestly had planned on just asking about his availability after dinner on Thursday, but heard–and felt–himself fall short of actually doing so; tumbling into a familiar abyss of hesitant, searching silence.
“Actually...” He fidgeted with the edge of his collar with an index finger, frowning. “I wanted to ask if you were free.”
“I don't know yet, Wright,” Edgeworth said, slowly–testing invisible waters with each syllable. “I'll let you know on Wednesday how things stand. This week has been...”
“No, no,” Phoenix hastily clarified. “I meant now. Do you have some free time now?”
There was a short pause, then, somewhat incredulous: "What?"
“Do you have some free time now?” he repeated.
When Edgeworth spoke, he sounded fairly convinced that Phoenix had been struck with some kind of mental illness. “Wright, you can't seriously expect me to just drop what I'm doing and...”
“Sorry,” Phoenix said quickly. He suddenly found himself wishing he had paid more attention when covering improvisation skills in his old theatre classes. “I didn't mean–now, as in now. Today. At some point. In the near future.” He hesitated. “If you're free.”
Pause.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“I suppose I can wrap things up for the day within about three hours.” Cautiously: “...Where did you want to go?”
Yet another snag. “I, uh–actually didn't have anything specific in mind.” For once, though, it was fairly easy to come up with a proposal on the spot. “What about dinner?”
Pause.
“I haven't made any reservations for today,” Edgeworth answered shortly.
We don't need a reservation to find a place to eat, Phoenix thought, but something about the slightly flattened tone of Edgeworth's voice told him that for some reason, the prosecutor wasn't particularly taken by the idea of dinner tonight.
Then what is he interested in?
“What about a play?” he suggested. “Like we talked about?”
“No, that's not going to work, either.” Edgeworth spoke with such certainty as to be suspect. “There's nothing worthwhile showing today that's not already sold out.”
Is he trying to be difficult? On further consideration, Phoenix revised that thought. Does he ever not try to be difficult?
“All right... then are there any places you like going? I don't know...” Phoenix floundered. “Things you like to do?”
“I...” Edgeworth trailed off, voice descending into an odd hum. It was like hearing the other man's puzzled concentration made manifest.
Phoenix bit back the sudden urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of their predicament. Do you do anything for fun? He paused, then rubbed his temples with a grimace. Actually, come to think of it, do I?
Not wanting to dwell on his own lack of a social life more than he had to, he noticed that Edgeworth's contemplative hum had fallen into an odd, sullen sort of silence. “Edgeworth?”
“Sometimes,” Edgeworth offered, tentative, “I golf.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
“I haven't bowled in years,” Phoenix noted, offhand.
“I've never bowled,” Edgeworth said, voice smart with annoyance, “At all.”
You don't sound particularly eager to start, either. Phoenix stuck a finger through his blinds for a better glance outside, and nearly jerked them back as the patch of sunlight burst through. If he angled his head the right way, he could make out the shape of Wright and Co. Offices, though it was still mostly obscured by the Gatewater Hotel–beyond the nearby park, dotted with children flying kites and a few couples pressed against each other on the benches.
“Look, Wright,” Edgeworth finally said, voice stern, “I appreciate the offer, but I can't afford to waste any more time chattering about nothing on the phone when I have cases to deal with.” He hesitated, then added, somewhat softer, “But on Thursday...”
“The park,” Phoenix blurted out, cutting him off.
Edgeworth was startled. “What?”
“Park. The park. Meet me there.” The words came out haltingly; he was only half-aware of them before they came spilling haphazardly from his mouth. But he had a feeling that if he stopped to think, he probably wouldn't manage to get them out all.
There was a short stretch of silence on the other end.
“Which park?” Edgeworth asked, with the slow, slightly disbelieving lull that Phoenix tended to associate with the prosecutor's interactions with Detective Gumshoe.
Which park? Phoenix registered, simultaneous with Detective Gumshoe.
“Uh,” a momentary fumble, then, nearly incoherent: “Exposé.”
“...Exposé?” Edgeworth repeated. It was obviously unfamiliar to him.
“Yeah. The place with... you know, where Maggey got into trouble that one time.” He realized two seconds too late that Edgeworth had been missing when that particular incident had taken place, but Edgeworth was already ahead of him.
“Wright, I haven't a clue what you're--”
Phoenix grit his teeth. “I'll see you there, okay?”
He hung up the phone. The receiver came very close to sliding right back off its hook; he reached back a second time to steady it before it could fall.
I have absolutely no idea what just happened.
It occurred to him that he could have just invited him here if it was for the park. That probably would have been several times more convenient. But he lacked both the nerve and the energy to call Edgeworth back after that spectacular display. Crash and burn would probably be a more accurate way to put it.
The phone safely secured, he exhaled deeply. There was no point in dwelling on it now that it was done.
He just had to find a way to kill a couple of hours.
The evening was cooler than Phoenix thought it would be. It's still August, he thought. Still summer. You'd think the chill could at least hold off for another month or two...
He felt a little stupid–he hadn't considered the size of the park, and had no real arranged meeting spot with Edgeworth, so he found himself wandering aimlessly for the first several minutes, eventually lingering in the general area near the parking lot. He was tempted to sit down on one of the benches–but then he might have a harder time seeing me...
He blew into his hands for warmth, casting another glance at his surroundings. The grass was browning in several places from neglect; weeds dotted the ground; he could hear the sound of birds–and occasionally children, he noted, as a boy managed to slip off the branch of a nearby tree and began screaming for his mother–as evening approached.
He checked his watch again, for what felt like the tenth time in the span of ten minutes. It was past seven, and no still no sign of Edgeworth.
It crashed around him, the insanity of all of this, that he had been valiantly holding at bay through the span of a phone call and two hours of watching thought-numbing television specials.
What am I doing? Of course he's not showing up. I probably wouldn't, either.
All he'd managed to do was make an idiot of himself and, by all indications, convince Edgeworth that he had lost his mind.
Dazed and feeling slightly sick with epiphany, Phoenix dug in his pockets for his wallet. Do I have money for a return taxi?
He didn't have time to find out; the moment his fingers came in contact with coarse leather, a flash of pink drew his attention from the corner of his eye–his head jerked up so quickly that his bones gave an uncomfortable pop in protest. The pink was complemented by a head of greyish hair and the unmistakable sight of ruffles tucked at the base of a man's neck.
Edgeworth's eyes met his, and the prosecutor began to change direction. Then he seemed to pivot strangely, as though catching his own action a second too late. Phoenix didn't give him a chance to decide if he'd rather stay or turn and leave–he closed the distance between them as quickly as he could without breaking into an outright sprint.
As he approached, his arm began to raise automatically–what, to shake his hand?--and he did his best to cover up the momentary, and rather embarrassing, disorientation that followed by turning the motion into a short, awkward wave. Thankfully, Edgeworth didn't seem to notice.
"Hey," Phoenix greeted.
Edgeworth nodded curtly. Both of his hands were tucked into the pockets of his trenchcoat.
"Where did you park?"
"I didn't," he answered. "As it turns out, my apartment isn't far from here." In spite of the apparent convenience, he ended the statement on a sour note and a pointed glare; Phoenix had to keep himself from visibly wincing.
“Well,” he said, lamely, “I knew that.”
Edgeworth shot him a shrewd look that told him in no uncertain terms that they were both in on his obvious–and rather pathetic–lie.
“By the way, Maya went home,” Phoenix said, flushing briefly and fumbling for a change the subject. “Back to Kurain. The village needs her there most of the time, so...”
“Yes,” Edgeworth said. “I assumed.”
“She wanted to see you again before she took off,” Phoenix continued, “But the way things went...”
Edgeworth shifted somewhat uncomfortably; neither of them had to verbally acknowledge that the incompatibility of their schedules was laid mostly of the feet of his frenzy of case work after the incident last Thursday.
Phoenix mentally hit himself. That was an effective way to kill any chance at natural conversation.
They stood there, faces angled conspicuously downwards, towards each others' shoes. In the background, Phoenix could hear the shrill laughter of a young boy chasing his dog, clutching a frisbee high above his head.
Now what?
He was pretty sure the thing that was usually done in parks was walking–an activity that Phoenix felt reasonably confident in his ability to perform. He chose a random direction, and then stopped to glance over his shoulder. Edgeworth was hanging back, expression forcibly neutral–but the subtle line of tension against his jaw gave him away. When their eyes met, and Phoenix gave a small jerk of his head to the side, Edgeworth moved forward alongside him.
If you're asking me what I have planned, I don't know, either.
He found himself wondering again why Edgeworth had turned down dinner; now that it wasn't tense with the anxiety of waiting, his own stomach gave a rather displeased rumble. At the park by his office, there were at least hot dog stands dotting the area, but a few minutes of searching only turned up a rather shabby place that offered overpriced beverages. It looked like the kind of station Phoenix remembered his high school offering to the patrons of its football games.
Phoenix turned his head, making a vague gesture towards the stand. “You want anything?”
Edgeworth shook his head. “I'm fine.”
He felt an irrational clench of irritation. Would it kill him to just humor me, for once?
“Well,” he said. “I do. I'll be back in a second.”
The vendor was a bleary-eyed teenager, and based on what he had already seen Phoenix could only guess at what kind of customers he was used to entertaining at this place. He hoped he presented a comparatively ordinary figure in contrast.
“Have anything warm?”
The vendor gave a quick glance to the menu posted above him. “Coffee,” he said. “And cocoa. Apple cider. Packets, not homemade.”
“That's fine,” Phoenix said. “Two coffees.”
As he totaled up the bill, Phoenix counted out the change in his wallet. It turned out that the output was even more depressing than he'd originally feared--and no amount of scraping at the bottom of the leather pouch managed to procure any more coins.
Urk.
“Make that one coffee and one water,” he amended, face burning. The vendor shrugged and switched the order with a deftness that suggested to Phoenix that a customer deciding against accepting a proffered hot drink was probably to his advantage.
A beverage in each hand, he returned to where Edgeworth was waiting. He shifted his hold on the bottle of water, and held out the aluminum can towards him.
“Here.”
“Wright--” Edgeworth began.
“Don't worry about it,” Phoenix said, shortly. “My treat.”
“Wright, I said...”
Phoenix tilted his head in the direction of a nearby garbage can. “If you don't drink it, it's going to waste.” At that, Edgeworth took it, with a final exasperated shake of the head. Phoenix watched him throw back a swallow. At the very least, he wasn't spitting it back out, so that was a relatively good sign.
“Warming,” Edgeworth allowed.
I wish I could say the same. But it wouldn't do much good to complain, after he had practically forced it on him.
They stood there for a minute, containers in opposite hands, sipping occasionally and observing a line of clouds above their heads. A familiar knot tightened in Phoenix's chest once again; the strange pull of obligation to do or say something. Even if he had no idea what.
Right. I guess there's always more walking...
It wasn't what anyone would describe as the ideal version of a leisurely stroll. On a relatively fresh patch of grass, an exhausted-looking mother was futilely attempting to control her rowdy children long enough to have something resembling a picnic. They had to swerve to avoid several packs of drunkards.
Phoenix gave a sympathetic wince as a well-meaning elderly man's aim went slightly askew, causing some of the birds to squawk in pain and shake the assaulting seeds from their feathers. He knew exactly how hard those things could hit.
Edgeworth was studying his expression. “What's the matter?”
“Bad memories of a case, is all,” Phoenix said. Just be glad you weren't there. He found it surprisingly easy to imagine Edgeworth's expression at being confronted with the likes of the head chef of Tres Bien. Somehow, he sincerely doubted that the High Prosecutor would have been able to maintain his composure as well as Diego Armando had managed.
They passed several more minor distractions–a girl fooling around with an array of hats, several squirrels running for their lives, a young man warbling painfully on what looked like an old guitar worn with age and overuse–but nothing that prompted any more snatches of conversation. Phoenix felt a brief burst of irrational annoyance that the residents of the park weren't making things any easier for him, either.
Phoenix glanced at Edgeworth to gauge his mood. The other man was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Although he didn't seem to be loathing the experience as much as Phoenix had feared, it still wasn’t very comforting to see him focusing on something Phoenix couldn’t, probably miles away.
His thoughts cut off with a loud and slightly painful clunk as he felt his feet collide metal; he blinked and readjusted his line of sight to what was in front of him. His hands were pressed against rusted guard rails, overlooking, directly below, a phone booth and an ancient clock, and somewhat further than that the outstretchings of a beach, leading into a surprisingly pristine view of the nearby lake.
I guess there had to be some reason this park is still around, asides from serving as a resting ground for the homeless.
Edgeworth moved next to him, forearms propped against the railing, taking in the sight as well. Phoenix turned his head slightly to look at him more closely; it was a strange paradox, seeing the prosecutor framed against such a serene, natural backdrop. He seemed oddly out of place–the very idea of Edgeworth relaxing at a picturesque beach seemed downright bizarre–and yet, at the same time, Phoenix found himself wishing that it was something he had been able to witness much earlier.
It was a comfortable silence. There was nothing in particular that signified the shift, but Phoenix felt his shoulders relax and the water settling a little less frigid in his stomach.
“I heard you're taking on a lot of cases.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Edgeworth allowed. “But there were a lot of cases to be taken.”
They hadn’t even been assigned yet, Phoenix thought. He held his tongue; if even obliquely mentioning the toll it had taken on Edgeworth’s already non-existent leisure time had killed the earlier conversation, Phoenix could only imagine what discussing the reason behind his sudden flurry of activity would do.
“It's hard for me to imagine–must be pretty tough...” Phoenix said instead. That was the understatement of the century; whenever he thought about the logistics of what Edgeworth seemed to consider a standard workload, his head throbbed. I barely take four cases a year on average, let alone seven at once...
“It's nothing I can't handle,” Edgeworth replied. He paused, frowning slightly, and then continued. “And it's not like the workload is carried by myself alone. It's the forensics team and the other investigators that perform most of the difficult tasks. At best, for most of the time invested into any single case, a prosecutor just functions as an overseer. The cogs of a bureaucratic establishment can't really be compared to the responsibilities of an independent attorney.” A thin smile flickered over his lips. “That's something I learned rather keenly about a year and a half ago.”
But you did fine, Phoenix thought; there was an unfamiliar, alien sort of tightness within his chest, recalling the memory of watching the newsfeed of Edgeworth standing in his place, attorney's badge on his lapel as though it had never belonged anywhere else. More than fine. I can't even imagine how things would have turned out if you hadn't been there...
“At any rate,” Edgeworth said, eyes falling to a particularly conspicuous indent in the sand, “One of them was just wrapped up today, at trial.”
“So you were prosecuting?”
Edgeworth shot him a scathing look.
Uh, right. “So how did it go?”
“It was all right,” Edgeworth said. "It was standard procedure, more or less. Though this may be difficult for you to fathom, the courtroom does usually hold some level of sanity in its conduct when you aren't present.”
How many times to have to keep telling people that that isn't my fault?
Edgeworth took a sip of his coffee. “Lana was on the defense. This was our first time facing each other, as a matter of fact.”
That would have been something to see. He must have been pretty nervous, though. “So... did you win?”
“No,” Edgeworth answered, voice level. “I didn't.”
“Oh,” Phoenix said.
For a minute or two, the same quiet fell upon them again.
Phoenix stole a sidelong glance. The breeze was tugging at the ends of Edgeworth's loose hair–making his bangs tumble over themselves in uneven clumps. He didn't seem to mind, although the uncharacteristically ruffled appearance made it look like the prosecutor had just woken up and rolled out of bed.
“What are you smiling about?” Edgeworth asked, a touch irritably.
“Nothing,” Phoenix said.
Edgeworth snorted.
The sunset swirled amidst the clouds, striking them alight with vivid color and reflecting unevenly off of the distant surface of the water.
"It's a nice view," Phoenix noted.
"Mm," Edgeworth agreed.
“Can't imagine it really compares to the sights and sounds of Europe, though.”
“I wouldn't say that,” Edgeworth said, shaking his head. He still seemed lost amidst the depths of the lake. “This is...” He considered, gazing out into the waves. “It's nice,” he finished a bit helplessly, echoing Phoenix.
Phoenix had never even been in a plane. Or out of state, come to think of it. The most experience he had with anything overseas were limited to glimpses of television dramas, and the specialized foods he tried now and then on his days off when he was feeling relatively adventurous.
“You must have seen a lot of things.”
“Hmm, how should I put it,” Edgeworth said. “Most of my time is taken up with work, of course, but... yes, I did try and see what I could as long as I was in the area.”
“So what kind of things?” Phoenix tried to imagine what he thought would capture Edgeworth's attention the most, prosecuting duties aside; it depressed him slightly when the first thing that popped into mind was still a courthouse. No, maybe a museum... old libraries. Something dusty that would give any sane person a splitting headache.
“The historical sites,” Edgeworth said, “were fairly interesting. After a while the castles just start bleeding together... but it is a rather different experience to stand somewhere where some of the most critical events in history have taken place. But the natural sights were fairly impressive, too. And the foreign experience isn't just limited to that, of course. Eating different kinds of foods, hearing the music... being plunged into a different culture is something that engages the full range of a person's senses.”
“Yeah...”
In other words, of course a run-down park in the city can't compare.
Edgeworth caught his gaze out of the corner of his eye. The warmth of the fading sunlight met the cool grey of his eyes.
It opposed all common sense, but for that second Phoenix thought he might really be able to believe that Edgeworth would rather be here, with dying grass beneath his feet and cheap coffee in his right hand, surrounded by shrieking children and senile old men, than any of those other places with all of the luxuries they had to offer.
Phoenix found that he felt the same way.
Because...
“Can I assume you've been here before?” Edgeworth asked.
“Nah.” Phoenix shook his head. “When I was in the mood for parks, there was the one by my offices.”
“The 'mood for parks'? You?” Edgeworth raised both of his eyebrows. “In other words, that would be...”
The couple of times I locked myself out of the office, Phoenix thought, but he wasn't about to voice that particular confession aloud. There was a hint of a wry, knowing quirk to Edgeworth's lips anyway, and Phoenix quickly set about finishing off the contents of his water bottle.
Edgeworth's head drooped abruptly; a second later his shoulders began to tremble violently. Phoenix turned towards him, alarmed, before realizing that he was shaking with suppressed laughter. Phoenix stared, and then felt it bubbling in his own throat, inexplicable and slightly insane.
Why fight it?
The sound of their conjoined mirth was enough to draw a few stares, but by that point Phoenix was too consumed to care. He found himself blinking back tears from the force of it.
Edgeworth fell quiet first, shaking his head. His hair once again fell unnaturally against his head, supported by the wind; lopsided to the right side of his face. Ignoring it, he crushed the empty coffee can in his hand and gazed down at the crumpled tin. It glowed a faint gold under the light of the sunset, illuminating Edgeworth's features, the curve of his face, just that little bit more.
“Hopeless,” Edgeworth murmured.
I know, Phoenix thought. His fingers closed slowly against his palms; he unclenched them again after a long moment. It did nothing to ease the odd, unnatural feeling of weightlessness just beneath his skin. I know.
“I'll walk you back,” Phoenix offered. “You said it wasn't far, right?”
Edgeworth pursed his lips, expression caught between vague irritation and something else Phoenix wasn't able to define, but he didn't protest. He picked a direction–the opposite side from the parking lot, Phoenix observed–and started walking. As they made their way through the city blocks, a few of the surrounding street lamps began to light around them.
He lives pretty close to the Prosecutor's Office, Phoenix noted.
Edgeworth slowed to a stop outside a sleek apartment complex. It was considerably more impressive than the hovel Phoenix lived in, but that wasn't anything he hadn't already expected. He hesitated half a step when they approached the building entrance, but something pushed him forward to continue alongside him, up the three flights of stairs where Edgeworth's actual living quarters waited.
Edgeworth pulled out his keys, moving forward. Phoenix stepped aside.
“I had a good time,” Phoenix said. “Thanks.”
“A good time of doing nothing?” Edgeworth asked, skeptically. But muted warmth was coloring his eyes–maybe lingering remnants of the sunset, long gone from the sky itself.
“Yeah,” Phoenix answered. A part of him was surprised at how easily it came. “A really good time.”
Edgeworth glanced back at him, then turned his attention back to unlocking the door. Even the jangle of keys seemed terse; Phoenix couldn't help but think that the sheer amount of effort Edgeworth seemed to be taking to turn the key into the lock was rather unusual. But eventually, the door gave way. Edgeworth took an automatic step forward, and lingered awkwardly in the thin boundary between his home and the world outside.
Edgeworth's eyes were still distant, lost amidst some new uncertainty. Finally, he seemed to settle on an unseen decision, and nodded to Phoenix.
“Well, then,” Edgeworth said, hand still on the doorknob. “Goodnight.”
Phoenix nodded. Raised a hand in farewell, and began to move to leave.
Edgeworth turned away, leaving only the frame of his back facing him. The familiar sight jarred something within Phoenix, making him stop.
Whether it was impulse, decision, or some strange amalgam of both, Phoenix had no idea. The wave shifted into an awkward fumble for Edgeworth's sleeve, somehow managing to get a decent grip on his forearm to pull him forward. It was clumsy, uncoordinated; their noses came dangerously close to colliding against each other. Edgeworth managed half of a surprised sound.
But Edgeworth's eyes still widened as Phoenix felt his own fall shut. Edgeworth’s lips were warm, stark in contrast to the chill of the descending evening, even stiff and unmoving against Phoenix's own.
After a long moment, he pulled away, breathing heavily. A faint mist lit the air between them. Edgeworth was still staring. He seemed frozen to the spot, as though unable to process what had just happened.
"Goodnight," Phoenix answered. There was a giddy, fluttering sort of thrill twisting in impossible knots amidst his chest, maybe in time, he thought dazedly, with the beating of his heart.
He turned and began to make his way back. The last he saw of Edgeworth, the prosecutor was still left standing in his doorway, struck into dumbfounded silence.