Author's Notes: A prompt on the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme requested post-Turnabout Memories College!Phoenix learning to let go of Dahlia Hawthorne. I find this aspect of Phoenix's life fascinating; it's one of the events that led to him becoming a lawyer, after all.
Miss Fey opened the door.
"Here we are." She gestured to the sitting area of the Grossberg Law Offices. "Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Wright."
Phoenix followed in after her, his feet dragging on the floor. He held a hand to his face, coughing into it despite the fact he was still wearing his surgical mask. The last thing he wanted to do was to get Miss Fey sick, after all she'd done for him.
She gestured to the couch, expecting him to sit down. "Would you like something to drink?" She sighed. "You've had a rough day."
He dropped his gaze to the floor, his face still a little pale. "Do… Um, do you have any hot chocolate?" It was an office of law; she probably didn't. Still, it was worth a try.
She smiled. "You know what? I think we do. Let me take a look for you."
As Miss Fey's heels clacked away into the distance, Phoenix took a deep breath. It had been two or so hours, but the trial was finally over. Not that he had really wanted it to begin, in the first place, but he hadn't really had a choice.
It didn't make sense — Dollie had wanted him there this morning. Miss Fey told him he was under arrest, but he wasn't quite sure what he'd done. Was pushing someone onto an umbrella against the law? The umbrella had broken, after all. Maybe he'd pushed Doug harder than he thought?
But the trial hadn't been about that. Doug couldn't press charges against Phoenix for shoving him, because he was dead.
…And apparently Phoenix had killed him. But there was no way any kind of shove could have been that disastrous. People got pushed around all the time, right? It wasn't like Phoenix had really meant it, either, but Doug had said really unkind things about his Dollie, and he had really deserved that shove.
Well, maybe not.
For a while, a long while, Phoenix had trusted Dollie. He'd given his all to her from the first day; he remembered the feeling of embarrassment that followed after they had met, and he'd told himself a girl as beautiful and smart as she would never be seen dead around him. But she'd called him later, and through messages passed in the hallways and afternoons spent at the park, they had fallen in love. Or, at the very least, he had.
But he really had trusted her, and not just any sort of trust, either. He'd promised her everything he could give her, had tried to keep those promises. And even when he hadn't, she'd chuckle and kiss his cheek and tell him that everything was okay, that the only thing he ever needed to give her was his love.
Well, at first, it was just his love. Dollie's interests had later switched to the golden bottle.
…Which, now that he was thinking about it, might be better off in his stomach than around his neck. It had been quite a heavy necklace, straining the back of his neck a little, leaving little chain-shaped indentations on the skin there which he found when he took off his clothes to shower after a long day. But he'd put up with it, because for Dollie he'd have done anything. It wasn't he who came first, but her.
Miss Fey seemed to think otherwise. It was clear from the start that she didn't think very much of Dollie, going as far as to even call her a cold-blooded murderer. Phoenix had hated her for saying it then, although now he supposed she was right.
And Miss Fey had told Phoenix that he was the one she was worried about, not Dollie. That he was the one they all were on edge about, because he was a pretty foolish idiot who didn't know a wolf in sheep's clothing when he saw one.
He shook his head furiously. No, Dollie wasn't a wolf in sheep's clothing, she was beautiful, and she was pretty, and she was clever, and she was a delicate flower in cashmere and satin, not a beast covered in wool. She had a smile that brought Phoenix's senses alive, that made his heart beat as though he was running a sprinting race. Wolves could never smile like that. No, they definitely couldn't — the best they were capable of was a carnivorous snarl.
Phoenix took out his sketchbook and pencil, scratching into a fresh page, this time sketching up a wolf with long, straight hair and two braids, like Dollie's. He sketched in the nose, the ears, the mouth — a wicked snarl, just as he'd imagined — and the eyes. But it was all too much, he couldn't imagine Dollie to look that way, not now, not ever, and he ripped out the page, scrunched it into a ball, and threw it onto the floor. Already it was beginning to uncrumple, but he didn't want to see that horrible picture again, so he jumped to his feet and stomped on it, flattening it to the ground.
It wasn't supposed to look like her. And, though the drawing was on the floor and ruined beyond repair, the image had seared itself into his mind, and to his shock, it looked more like her than he ever expected.
Now that he was angry, he turned to his sketchbook again and his face reddened at the pages upon pages of pictures of Dahlia. They were horrible, she was horrible, she didn't belong there anymore! Not in his sketchbook, not in the one place he turned to for inspiration and freedom.
In fact, Dahlia was the very opposite of that.
He wasn't holding back anymore — his emotions hit him with force and he angrily tore into the pages, pulling them out one by one and dropping them to the side. As he ripped his sketchbook apart, he didn't realise that he was holding his pencil too close to his sweater, and without warning, the sharp, pointed lead poked into a stitch and pulled at the material.
There was a clatter as Phoenix dropped the sketchbook, his hands rushing to the pulled thread to even it back in, but it really was no use. Now that the stitches had been unravelled, the yarn wouldn't go back in without an inevitably messy fight.
Phoenix was gasping audibly; he tugged on the sides of the jumper, trying to get the yarn back in line. Unwanted tears were slinking down his cheeks — why was he still upset about this? He wanted to let it go, to move on, to forget Dahlia and all the artefacts she'd left him with. And yet, his shoulders were trembling, and the tears he hadn't allowed himself to cry fell down anyway. Try as he might, he couldn't not be unhappy about the sweater, it was their sweater, it was the one thing that had kept him warm when he was cold, brightened the world when it was gray.
But now, it was falling apart - all his pulling had only caused a bigger hole to appear. His hands were trembling, his thumbs almost ached as he kept pulling and pulling, no, the sweater couldn't come undone, it couldn't, it was his sweater, it reminded him of happiness, and dahlias, and Dollie, and colds, and rejection, and poison, and lies, and pain.
…Maybe it wasn't that great a loss, after all. Still, it didn't stop him from tugging it off, and crying quietly into it a moment later.
She found him on the floor almost ten minutes later, his face muffled into what remained of the pink jumper, torn pages lying on the floor around him.
"Phoenix," she said, too startled to refer to him by his surname. "What—"
Phoenix looked up, his eyes red and muddied with tears. Miss Fey placed the cup of hot chocolate on the coffee table, and knelt down next to him. She pulled a packet of tissues from her pocket.
He lifted his surgical mask up. "Miss Fey," he said, with a sniffle. "Sorry about the mess."
She frowned, glancing behind him to see the papers on the floor. "It's— It's alright," she sighed. "It shouldn't take long to clean up. Are you feeling okay?"
Reluctantly, Phoenix shook his head. "I don't feel well." Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was because his heart had been ripped apart in no less than half a day. Of that, Phoenix wasn't sure. But he did feel a little better as Miss Fey wrapped an arm around him and dabbed at his watery eyes with a tissue.
She didn't say very much, but just having her beside him seemed to calm him down. Phoenix didn't really want her to say anything, either. He'd heard enough talk today — from everyone — and wasn't up for any more.
Miss Fey passed him the mug of hot chocolate, apologising for the long wait. The mug was warm in his hands, and he couldn't stop a smile from appearing as he breathed in the chocolate aroma.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"That's the last of it, I think," she said with a chuckle. "Might have to buy some more when I do the shopping tonight."
Phoenix climbed back up onto the couch and took a sip, as Miss Fey sat down beside him. He let out a contented sigh; it was delicious. "Um…" He looked down at his mug, moved his fingers comfortably under the handle, and cleared his throat. "Thank you for today. I— I know I said it before, but…" He wasn't very good at this. "…Thanks."
She smiled warmly. "You don't have to thank me, Phoenix. I had a perso—" She shook her head, abandoning that line of thought. "It's what I do." She shrugged. "What about you? You said you liked law, too, right?"
Only then did she notice the sketchbook on the ground, a single page remaining. "Oh?" She picked the book up and read it over; Phoenix almost wished he hadn't left the sketchbook in broad daylight — it might have been better off in his bag. But Miss Fey acknowledged it, placed it back down, and asked Phoenix, "Is this your friend?" She gestured to the photo in the newspaper clipping he'd stuck in.
"Y-Yeah." He curled his lips into a smile; one she didn't return, but he supposed she had her reasons for it. "He's… We were friends back in grade school, but… he kinda disappeared after that."
She raised an eyebrow. "So, he's the one you want to help? You know, he's probably gonna need all the help he can get." Phoenix saw her bite her lip like she had in court today; did she do that when she was nervous, maybe?
"Do you know him?" asked Phoenix, looking up from behind the mug.
"You could say that, I suppose." And then, "Funny how she was there, too…" Miss Fey trailed off. "So, these pictures, you don't want them anymore?"
He shook his head. "N-no, I don't. It's probably for the best that I don't keep them."
She glanced down at the floor. "You draw well," she said, encouragingly, patting his back. "You really like art, don't you?"
Phoenix didn't say anything; it wasn't like Miss Fey knew he hated the pictures now, not like she understood that he didn't really want to talk about them. She seemed to let the matter go after that, to his relief. He took another sip of his drink.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that."
He gulped the rest of the hot chocolate down and stared at her. "Go through—?"
"—With Miss Hawthorne today." She looked straight ahead, her arms crossed tightly against her body, one leg folded over the other. "Nobody deserves that. I'm— I'm sorry."
Phoenix drooped, not unlike an injured puppy. "I really thought that… that she loved me."
Miss Fey must have disagreed with that, the way she suddenly stiffened. "In my line of work, I've learnt that people can't always be trusted. Especially those you'd think are the most trustworthy."
Phoenix trembled again, blinking furiously to keep his eyes dry. "But- but-" He creased his eyebrows. "I thought—"
"It doesn't matter." She rose to her feet, took the cup of hot chocolate from Phoenix's shivering hands, and left for the kitchen in the other room.
She probably didn't mean to be so cold, Phoenix thought — it was no secret that there was something about Dahlia that Miss Fey just didn't like. At least she wouldn't have to worry about Dahlia anymore.
Nobody would, Phoenix realised, because Dahlia was gone.
And somehow, he wasn't sure if that made him feel better, or worse.