I own nothing. I repeat: NOTHING.
It wasn't until he entered his apartment and locked the door behind him that Godot's façade slipped. His hands were numb, his fingernails blue and his body was beginning to tremble from the cold; he had spent the entire night stuck on a freezing mountain, keeping an eye on Maya… and murdering her mother.
He cursed, flinging his keys aside and ran his hand through his hair. He had lost control. After all his patience and all his planning… he had screwed up. Nobody was meant to get hurt in all this. He had only meant to keep her safe. He shook his head furiously and slid down to the ground, his back leaning against the door, his head in his hands. It didn't matter now. He had failed to protect her. Maya Fey was missing, presumably trapped in the unstable Sacred Cavern, and Misty Fey was dead by his hand.
What had he done?
He felt something warm trickle down his cheek. For a moment, he thought his body had betrayed him; after all, it wasn't over yet. But when he slipped a finger beneath his visor to wipe it away, the texture of it made him doubt it was a tear. It was when he was unable to see the mysterious substance on his fingertips did he remember the injury he had sustained during the night. He was glad it had chosen now to bleed and not before. How would he have explained it to anyone else? Especially that inquisitive attorney…And as his thoughts turned to him, Godot's blood began to boil, like it always did. He bolted to his feet and marched off to the kitchen. At times like this, it was only the dark bitterness of coffee that could dull the ache of his emotions.
Phoenix Wright.
The source of all of Godot's trouble. It was because of his ineffectuality that Godot was forced to take such drastic measures in order to guard Maya. It was because of his incompetence that Godot had woken up to a world devoid of meaning. It was his uselessness that had led to Mia's death. If he had had a shred of awareness, had he not been so damn ignorant, Godot would not exist. Methods such as he had used would not have been needed to protect Maya – her sister would have outwitted anyone Maya needed protection from. And Diego would have helped her – not Godot. Yes, Godot thought as gulped down his coffee, it was Phoenix Wright and his ineptitude that were to blame for the whole sorry affair. His face darkened as he stared into the depths of his coffee and his fingers tightened around the cup in his hand. He knew that some, who knew his history, wondered why he had changed everything from his name to his profession and yet continued to drink coffee with the same fervour that Diego Armando had. They did not understand that it had been a cup very much like this that had sent him to the hell he could not escape from. The bitter beverage was a reminder of the poison he had consumed, what he had lost… and the demoness that had taken it all away from him. It kept it alive in his veins; the venom he needed to carry out what needed to be done.
Not that he really needed a reminder. His body was scarred by Dahlia in more ways than one and his lips thinned as his imperfect vision rested upon his scarred fingers – the result of that trial… when it had all started. When, in his rage, Diego had crushed the cup with his bare hands slicing his palm and fingers in the process. These scars only marked the beginning. She'd gone on to destroy his hair, his vision and his soul. And now he had one more scar added to his ravaged body… but what was one more scar? Nothing really. He had nobody to impress. But that it was Dahlia who had managed to harm him once more filled him with a rage that belied his claims that red did not exist in his world. It did – and now, the red mist of fury was clouding his already flawed vision. He would pay for the crime he had committed – he was not like her – but he would not reveal himself until he was sure Maya Fey was safe. He would keep his cover until he had found a way to punish a dead woman. That dead woman.
He was filled with a hatred that was beyond what he had believed possible and it fuelled the fire that raged at his very core… and his need to extinguish that inferno became his motivation. His inhuman hatred stemmed from an equally intense love. He had loved Mia in ways he could not explain; he hadn't just loved her for her sweet innocence or her fiery principles. It wasn't just the way her eyes burned with determination or how she held her head up high that had filled him with respect for her. Though he admired all these qualities in her, they were not the foundation for his love; such things did not always last. Whether by the decay of time and change or death, they would be gone and the love would journey to the forgotten recesses of a mind allowing one to move on. But Godot could never be granted that release because he had loved Mia Fey because she deserved to be loved with devotion. She was the only one he had ever lowered his head for. He had loved her for love's sake and it was because of this that he could never forget. It was why he could never heal.
And that's why he would never forgive.
He and Mia had become one being – whilst she lived he had lived, despite being in a coma for so long. She and he had become entwined at the roots of their being. Even when the madness of falling in love had subsided, they had found themselves so irrevocably united that there was no unwinding. If it was true that love was two souls inhabiting one body then that vessel had been Mia. With her death, the love that had been founded upon meditation, humbleness and tolerance had been replaced by a love that fed off loss, regret and sorrow.
Godot shook his head with a frustrated sigh and banged his cup on the table and walked to the living room. Here he could feel her presence the most while also feeling her absence. He swept the room with his gaze taking in everything that furnished it. He noticed it first – the settee Mia had often reclined in as she discussed legal issues with him and the table before it was where she had sometimes rested her feet in an uncharacteristic show of cockiness. Just behind the settee was the mirror she had gazed at her herself in, critically or glanced in when she was rushing to work after spending the night. Godot moved to touch the frame and caught sight of his reflection. He was still as he studied himself. His mouth was a straight line, not a hint of a smirk… until he saw his hair. It was ironic really. His hair was snow white – almost as an icon of his strange situation. It was as though it symbolised that he had lived his whole life and was now living on borrowed time. And finally, his eyes rested upon his visor. He hadn't seen his own eyes ever since he had awoken. He could not see them beneath his visor… and he could not see them without it. Maybe it was Fate's one kindness granted to him – who knew what he might see reflected in them? And he smirked again. Those around him wondered why he was so cryptic, why he could not explain anything without metaphors; how could he be anything else when everything about him seemed to be metaphorical. His hair, his eyes, his scars… his visor.
Behind his reflection he saw the old leather sofa where he had spent countless evenings comforting her in the aftermath of her first trial. She had lain in his lap, encircled in his arms, silent. Godot – no, Diego – had simply held her and reminded her it had not been her fault despite his initial reaction, that he did not blame her and neither did anyone else. He'd tried to convince her to return to the courtroom to resume her defence of the innocent but it had been no use. He'd always found her stubborn streak endearing but after weeks of torturing herself, he had finally snapped; he had realised there was only one way to exorcise Mia of the demon that had a grip on her – by bringing it to justice. He turned to look at the sofa and moved closer his face turned downwards as he gazed upon the black leather; here was where Diego Armando had laid out his plan for Mia. The plan that had led to his death… and hers.
He no longer sat there; it only highlighted the absence of her weight and warmth in his arms. If he was honest, all of it was a sham – his furniture served no purpose except to embellish but it was not the objects themselves that were the decoration. No, it was the knowledge that they had all been touched by her. It was all he had left of her. The only thing that had captured her essence and retained it was the only other companion he had left besides coffee. The corner of his mouth lifted in a shadow of his smirk as he neared his piano. The contrast between his two 'companions' amused him. He sat on one end of the bench leaving space for someone else – no, not for someone else… only for her. Just as he always had before he had been put to sleep for 5 years. She would sit by him while he played for her. His fingers flitted over the keys without really touching them and he remembered the last time he had played for her…
She was staring out of the living room window, absent-mindedly fiddling with the scarf at her neck. He neared her without making a sound and slipped his arms around her waist and her hands instinctively went over his. She had jumped when he did it the first few times but she was used to it now. He kissed her shoulder and she smiled.
"What are you thinking?" he whispered in her ear.
She didn't answer and he thought there was something familiar about this silence of hers – he had a hunch she was mentally chastising herself for the many ways she could have prevented Fawles' death and hadn't. He waited for her response hoping he was wrong.
"Nothing," she finally answered, confirming his suspicions. He turned her around so that she was facing him and looked into her eyes… and for the millionth time, his heart almost stopped when he saw the sorrow and regret lurking behind failed attempts at masking her feelings. He didn't know what to say to her that he hadn't already said and besides there was a time and place for it and he knew it wasn't now. But inside him a voice vowed: 'tomorrow, I'll get her, Mia… tomorrow I'll end it for both of us'. For now, he would set aside his impatience and anger… for her. She was staring up into his eyes patiently and he stared back, his hand coming up to rest against the silkiness of her cheek. His finger ran down to brush her lips.
"Come on, I have something for you." A quizzical look shot to her eyes but he simply smiled taking her hands and led her to his polished, grand piano. He beckoned for her to sit on the bench while taking his place by her side. Her eyes swept across the 88 keys of black and white and once again she looked at him. "This one's for you, kitten." He said, winking at her once before letting his fingers dance across the keys to unlock the melody that had been fighting to break out of him since the day he had met her. Silence was conquered by music. Her head snapped in his direction but he kept his eyes down afraid he would lose momentum, that he would forget the notes if he looked at her now and his feet pressed down upon the pedals as his music continued. He glanced sideways at her but she was staring at his hands now, a stunned expression on her beautiful face. He smiled inwardly having just been rewarded for weeks of hard work. He had spent every conceivable moment composing this lullaby for Mia and judging from the look on her face, it was time well spent.
Her hand rested tentatively on his arm and he finally looked at her, his fingers almost stumbling on the keys. The usually calm and professional look in her eyes had been replaced with a tempest of emotion. She was not crying – she rarely did – but the firestorm of love in those twin pools of chocolate brown said more than a thousand tears could.
"Thank you," she mouthed unwilling to disturb the harmony and he smiled, his gaze fixed on hers.
"I love you," he mouthed back.
Godot was staring at the vacant space beside him. He had given her a CD with the song. She had played it all night on repeat saying the composition made her feel like she had consumed a star – burning her throat but leaving her dazzled. He had simply held her and they had drowned in each other with something akin to desperation. It was as if on a subconscious level they had both known it was their last night together. Every time he closed his eyes he relived those last few precious moments with her, when he could shed all his sorrows and regrets and lose himself in the memories. And so, Prosecutor Godot lifted his hand to unhook the mask from his eyes to give way to Defense Attorney, Diego Armando. The clarity of his world gave way to hazy colours. Blood trickled down his face and as soon as he wiped it away, more trailed down his cheek. He supposed he should have cleaned it up, maybe even bandaged it but he didn't care. Let it run, he thought lifting his hands to the piano. Maybe this marks the end of something. His fingers stopped short of the keys as this thought hit him and he frowned. He searched around for answers to such a perplexing notion but found none and as he bought his hand back down to rest on the bench, it knocked against his visor which fell to the floor. He cursed. He wouldn't be surprised if the next time he put it on it wasn't working. First Dahlia had knocked it clear off his face, scarring him and he was lucky that he had been able to find it and in working order too. And now it had fallen yet again. Godot was not a clumsy man… but he was one to believe in signs – his life had been full of them ever since he met Mia and when he searched for his visor on the ground, he was reminded once more of last night. Had that, too, been a sign? If he wanted to look deeper into the matter it felt as if Fate had warned him to discard his Godot persona and re-embrace his life as Diego before he hurt someone… but even as his mask had flown off his face, if this thought had occurred to him, it would not have changed anything – he had murdered Misty Fey. He had failed to keep an eye on Maya and now he wondered if shielding her from harm had really been his sole purpose. It seemed more and more like it had been a front for his only desire – revenge on Dahlia Hawthorne. And as this possibility hit him he cursed Fate again. He had thought the inability to look into his own eyes had been Her kindness but now he realised it was a curse… because it was this blindness that had led to the events at Hazakura Temple. Had he looked into his own eyes he might have seen the man he had become. He might have seen what really lay at the core of his actions and he may have been able to prevent it but now he had taken away Maya's chance at a reunion with her mother… the very mother Mia had set out on a legal career to find.
He had killed the woman that had given birth to Mia Fey.
What had he done?
He threw his visor with all his strength and heard it hit the ground with a resounding crash but he didn't care. He hoped he would have to search the floor for it on his knees; that's what he deserved. He hoped when he found it, it would be broken leaving him blind and helpless.
But for now he would play her song… and he would remember. His fingers swept across the keys like they had that night so many years ago. As always, when the music danced upon the loneliness surrounding him, he shut out the obscure blurs of colour and… Ah. There she was again. Behind the darkness of closed eyes, her face floated into view. Her warm, coffee-brown eyes sparkled with passion and strength that he had never seen in anyone else. Her glorious mane of brown hair swirled about her face, the tresses framing it in the most seductive and endearing manner, some of the strands caught on the cream scarf she had always kept wrapped around her neck. It had meant the world to Diego to have been the only man to have seen her neck, the only man she had allowed to touch it, to kiss it… Her luscious lips lifted into the most serene smile – as if she had discovered the secret to life. In the refuge of his mind, Diego took her hand and pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair breathing in her sweet scent like a starved man and she was murmuring his name. He let the silk of her voice envelop him and lift him to a higher plane of passion and intensity. The sound of the music mingled with the sonance of her voice was setting a fire deep inside him… she was staring at him, searching his soul and taking him apart. He shook, afraid of what she would find and the condemnation he would see flash in her stare, but her fingertips grazed his cheek and he gave himself over to the feel of her skin against his. She leaned in till her face rested against his chest, against his heart... and he held her.
He played her melody, dropping notes like stones in the deep water of stillness and leaving ripples in the quiet. He was lost in a world of his own, the safe haven he had created to salvage what was left of his own broken soul. In the descending darkness of the night, the man he had once been fought to survive against the man his grief had made him. Diego Armando did not stop playing when his fingers turned red and numb from the pain; he did not cease when his wound bled and dripped onto his clothes and the keys; his battle lasted until first light of dawn broke out across the shadows of night and while for most this radiance symbolised hope, for Diego Armando it did nothing. The prosecutor emerged and took over – the music ended and, with it, his time with Mia Fey. His head bowed and his hands resting, Godot felt the same desperation he had on the last night he had spent with Mia. Perhaps it was just paranoia, he thought to himself as he moved across the floor slowly in a bid to find his discarded visor. Perhaps it was just the aftermath of all the memories he had relived overnight, he told himself as he found his visor, wiped his blood, hooked it back onto his face and turned it on – it was working. He checked the time – he needed to clean up his wound and ready himself physically and emotionally for the day ahead. He wanted to visit Mia's grave before the trial to gain the strength he was sure he would need. After all, who knew what Fate had in store for him?
"With the kindness She's bestowed upon me, how can I doubt Her?" Godot muttered, smirking, but there was no humour in his voice. He turned to go to the bathroom where he proceeded to clean his injury and dress it so it would not bleed all over his face; it wouldn't do for someone to know about it. Finally, ready and dressed, Godot picked up his keys and walked to the door pausing for a moment as his eyes swept the apartment once more. He could feel blood seeping into the dressing and the sense of desperation within him was increasing. Perhaps the hell he carried inside was finally starting to take its toll on him.
Or perhaps he knew this trial would be his last, Godot thought as he stepped out and locked his door behind him. Perhaps he knew that today… something else was ending.