boxolawyers | (no subject)

Who: Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth
What: Non-canon AU; Edgeworth mourns the loss of his friend, Phoenix Wright, who died several weeks ago. (OR DID HE?)
Where: Edgeworth's home, deep in the south
When: Night time, late 19th Century

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Phoenix was well aware that he shouldn't be there. He'd been told several times--warned, even--to forget the life he'd had before, that even if he sought the people who once knew him, nothing would or could ever be the same. What they didn't understand, however, was that Miles Edgeworth was not a man one could so easily forget.

It started three nights ago. Phoenix had stood outside the other man's window, trying to drum up the courage to face him, even at the risk of being reviled, possibly pursued. Such a gamble, he reasoned, was as much for Edgeworth's benefit as Phoenix's own, selfish desire to see his old friend again. Edgeworth had had one too many people unexpectedly ripped from his life with little to no closure; Phoenix decided he would not be another.

So it was now, on the fourth night, that the once defense attorney stood outside Edgworth's window, staring at the drawn curtains on the other side of the glass. He didn't know if the window was locked, and he didn't intend to find out through any underhanded means. Instead, he lifted his hand and knocked four times at a very practiced, specific tempo. Hopefully, Edgeworth would remember the code from their younger days.

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The boy's bed was warm, inviting. The quilt seemed to cling to him, a balm against the winter chill that lurked outside his window. Dragging himself away from it seemed an insurmountable task, and with every familiar tap that echoed from the glass, he pulled the covers in tighter around his head.

"Go back to bed!" he grumbled into the pillow, but the rapping continued, insistent, finally driving him from the comfort of the pillows and the quilt. Climbing down carefully from the high (impossibly high, it seemed to him) bed, he trundled over to his window, blinking blearily as he threw open the blinds and the window in a few practiced movements.

The night beyond his window was empty, as was the lawn below. The boy blinked and leaned out the window, a growing note of panic clear in his voice as he started to cry into the night, "Hey! Hey, I'm here! ...Don't be foolish, come on out!"

His cries became more frantic as they went on, the high, shameful wails of a frightened child, but he was helpless to quell them himself. The rapping continued, echoing over the fields beyond the house, somehow growing louder and more distant at the same time, building to a crescendo that served as a sharp counterpoint to the name that was ripped from the boy's lips.

Edgeworth woke with a startled cry, shooting up in bed and staring blindly around the bedroom. The curtains were still closed, and the blackness that surrounded him swallowed his labored panting, leeching his tension and leaving him drained. As his breathing slowed, he rubbed weakly at his bare arm then lay back.

He hadn't quite made it to the pillow when the rapping echoed hollowly through the darkness again, filling his head with the sound and everything that came with it. Bare feet padded along a smooth floor; he was across the room before he realized he'd moved, and in moments he was standing before the window, his outstretched hand tangled in the curtain.

Fear gripped him, staying his hand for a tense moment. He knew only too well what he’d see if he opened it. The gesture would serve no constructive purpose, would in fact be detrimental. The only sensible response would be to ignore the sound, obviously a lingering remnant of the dream he’d been entangled in, and to go back to bed.

After hesitating a few moments more, he slid open the curtain. His hand stopped on the catch of the window, frozen as he stared, unblinking, at the sight beyond the glass.

Phoenix stood before him. He looked pale in the moonlight, perhaps even a shade paler than Edgeworth might have remembered him, but he was there all the same, solid and whole and real. He looked uncertain but, after a moment, lifted his hand in an awkward greeting, smiling in a way that was characteristically him.

The behavior erased Edgeworth’s doubts, if only long enough to send his fingers flying on the catch then the jamb of the window. He flung it open, as if desperate to remove the barrier between them, then leaned heavily on the windowsill while he stared out at his friend, his lips working soundlessly.

“Wright?” he finally managed, brokenly, searching his friend’s features as if in disbelief that they were there before him.

"It's me," Phoenix said, his voice sounding no different than it had weeks ago. He dropped his hand to his side and averted his gaze, unsure of how to proceed now that he'd finally made contact.

Edgeworth’s mind finally rebelled against the unfathomable familiarity, reminding him with brutal clarity that it wasn’t him, it couldn’t be. He said as much, in fact, in a tone that said he was trying very hard to convince himself of a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“It’s not, it…it can’t be.”

Phoenix brought his gaze back and, with no small amount of hesitancy, reached for Edgeworth's hand on the window sill, to let him know he was no illusion.

"It's me, Edgeworth," he repeated, a note of desperation in his voice. He really was a fool, wasn't he? "Please... listen for a minute."

Wright’s hand was chilled but solid, real. Edgeworth’s hand curled into a fist underneath it, while a shudder passed through him, forcing him to close his eyes. The darkness behind his lids called up horrible images, and he opened his eyes again with a start, giving his companion a pained look.

“We were wrong. You weren’t…oh God, Wright…”