Written for the following prompt on the Phoenix Wright kink meme:

Post-AJ. All is well, except for that Nick is still broke. He goes to the bank to take out some meager funds, only to find that he suddenly has a buttload of cash. Turns out that the last thing Kristoph did before execution was move all of his funds to Phoenix's account.

Inheritance

The red light blinked on the answering machine at the Wright Anything Agency.

Phoenix stared it for a minute, hoping that it would be a prospective client and not the credit card company again. When he finally had the courage to answer, it turned out be neither: "Mr. Wright. This is Richard Savings III from the Japanifornia Citizens' Bank. I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. This is...rather delicate, so I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone. Please come to the bank at your earliest convenience and ask for me. I've asked my assistant to clear my schedule for the next few days."

As he listened to the other man rattle off an address and phone number, Phoenix's anxiety grew. He supposed this was about the loan that he'd been trying to take out for some time.

Just last week, Trucy had developed acute appendicitis and had needed to be taken to the hospital for emergency surgery. It had been the scariest night of his life as a parent. And it had been all the more terrifying, because Phoenix genuinely did not how he could afford the medical expenses on top of the already overdue bills littering his desk.

Naturally, Edgeworth had offered to help and oddly enough, so had Ms. Von Karma, but Phoenix simply could not bear to take charity from former colleagues. Even when the money was proffered under the guise of a loan that they had to know Phoenix may not ever be able to pay back.

Japanifornia Citizens' Bank was his last hope, as three other banks had already turned him down. He needed this money to help Trucy-Trucy and the two bright, idealistic young lawyers Phoenix had recently taken under his wing. Heart pounding in his chest, Phoenix grabbed his jacket and his bicycle helmet and headed for the door.

A short, well-dressed man with a round, red face and kind eyes stood by his desk as Phoenix entered the bank president's office. "Ah, you must be Mr. Wright."

Phoenix walked over to the other man and tentatively shook the offered hand. "And you must be Mr. Savings." He attempted to force a smile, but given his nerves, could only manage an awkward twitch of the lips.

"Please, call me 'Rich.'"

"I'm sorry...Rich Savings?"

The other man chuckled pleasantly. "Blame my parents and the boys at school who teased me when I tried to go by 'Dick.'" He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit down."

Phoenix did so, and the man moved back to his own seat behind the desk.

Mr. Savings cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm not...that is to say...I was wondering...would you...happen to know why you are here."

"I...I think so. It's about the loan isn't it? About your turning me down for it? I'm sorry, but I can't...I just can't let you do that… Trucy ...that is my little girl . Well she was sick, and I was desperate... and I will pay you back someday; I swear it."

"Mr. Wright, I'm not sure you…"

"No, you don't understand…" Phoenix slammed both hands down on the desk. "I need this money; she needs this money. If you knew her...you would help me, I'm sure of it."

"Mr. Wright, I really can't...:"

" I don't have much to offer as collateral-just some autographed Steel Samurai merchandise from a past client. But they have to be worth something... And this locket…" Wright pulled it from his neck and handed it to the other man. " I've never had it appraised, but I think it is solid gold. Right now, there's a picture of Trucy in it, but I can take the photo out...and you can…"

"Mr. Wright, please!" Savings raised his voice, and Phoenix fell silent in surprise of how much of a change suddenly came upon the mild mannered banker.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted," Savings added pleasantly a moment later. "I just needed to get your attention somehow. This isn't about the loan."

"It's...it's not?"

" No, it's not. As long as I am president of this fine institution, the bank would be happy to take on your loan-no collateral required," Rich Savings said. He handed Phoenix back the locket, and Phoenix placed it in his breast pocket.

"Oh, Mr. Savings. I can't believe. Thank you! You won't regret this, I swear."

Rich Savings held up a hand in caution. "Now hold on, Mr. Wright. I haven't finished. As a shrewd banker, I'd be happy to finance your loan, but as a parent myself...I'd advise you to hold off making your decision. Or at least, to wait until you've had a chance to review your latest bank statement."

Savings handed Phoenix a piece of paper, and Wright studied it carefully. "This...This can't be right. There must be some mistake," Phoenix squinted at the paper again just to ensure that he had not read it wrong. "Just last month, my checking account was overdrawn..."

"Oh I can assure you that this is correct figure. Believe me, we investigate deposits this large thoroughly, and were it a mistake, I never would've called you in here."

"But how?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. Client confidentiality-something that I am sure that as a lawyer, you are quite familiar with. Suffice it to say that there was a bank transfer...a very substantial one...that was made into your account by a third party…"

"But who?"

Miles. It had to be. But still...even Phoenix doubted that Edgeworth-even well-off as he was- had this much money to give away-even to a nearly bankrupt childhood friend. Unless he'd pooled his resources with Franziska? Or maybe Will Powers or one of Phoenix's other grateful former clients.

"Again, I'm not at liberty to say," Savings reminded him. Then he handed Phoenix white envelope with his name on it. "But I think this should explain things...It's actually the reason why I called you here in the first place."

Phoenix studied the envelope. He ran his finger across his name written in that light, graceful, familiar handwriting.

No. Anything, anyone, but him. He couldn't...he wouldn't.

But of course, he would've. He'd have delighted at the opportunity to smirk at Phoenix from beyond the grave. Why should a little thing like Death stop Kristoph Gavin from having the last word?

Rich Savings cleared his throat awkwardly. "You know...I think I could use a cup of tea? I think I'll go over to the break room and put a kettle on. Would you like some as well?"

Wright recognized this immediately for what it was-a flimsy excuse to grant Phoenix some much-needed privacy while he read the letter. "Sure, thanks."

Mr. Savings left the room, and Phoenix silently wrestled with himself. But eventually he gave into his impulses and opened the envelope.

The letter was long. Well that wasn't surprising. Gavin had always considered himself poetically-inclined, far too enamored with his rich vocabulary and the sound of his voice for anyone's good.

What was surprising was that the light, graceful script flowed across the entire page. Correct and fastidious as he was, the man Phoenix Wright had known would never have done something so gauche and amateurish as writing outside the page margins. And yet, he'd done so here.

Perhaps prison had lessened some of Gavin's trademark severity, or perhaps he'd merely needed all space possible to express his thoughts?

Whatever the reason, Phoenix found his curiosity prickling, and so, he took a deep breath and began to read.

Phoenix,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. It is that certainty alone that gives me the courage to pen this letter. Do not continue to read looking for an explanation for the deaths of Zak Gramarye and Drew Misham for you will find none.

Drew Misham was a liability that I had intended to liquidate long ago. That it took seven years for the trap I'd set to be sprung is both a great blessing and a great misfortune. As for Gramarye, I cannot give the answer you desire. I do not know it myself.

Sometimes, I like to toy with the idea that I had nobler motives. That I was ensuring your protection should Gramarye decide to take revenge against you for your unwitting part in his downfall. And sometimes, I think it was merely possessiveness. I knew that I would lose you forever, if Gramarye took Trucy away, and that I simply could not bear. More likely, it was an act of pragmatism-a loose end that I knew I needed to be tied up.

Or, perhaps, it is as they say, that I am a sociopath after all. That I'd always secretly yearned to know what it felt like be God, to cut the threads of another's life purely for my own amusement. But that is neither here, nor there.

You would also be wrong to read this letter thinking that it contains anything resembling an apology for all that transpired. Or worse still, a plea for forgiveness. I have few regrets for what I did, and if were I given the opportunity to do it over, I do not think I would do anything differently.

Yes, it brought me ruination, despair, and even death. But it also brought me you, Liebste. Even if by accident, even if only for a brief moment. It brought me you, and that is all that matters.

You must be growing impatient to discover why then I am penning this letter. Do not let your vanity sway you into thinking that I simply needed to tell you in painstaking detail that you were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me. (Though you were.)

I have but four possessions of value in my life: my dog, my violin, my father's watch, and my finances. The first three I have already willed away to Klavier, who I trust more than anyone else to take care of them.

But the fourth-my fortune-is another story entirely. Seeing as Klavier inherited an equal share of our late father's estate-and between his music and his legal career-will grow on to be a far wealthier man than even I was, it seemed impractical to bestow this too on mein kleiner Bruder.

You were the obvious target for my last beneficence-and not only, given your dismal financial situation. This bequest is not given out of any sense of guilt or revenge or obligation-for we've established that I do not feel those emotions toward you. (Though, I do experience the most charming schadenfreude when I think of your face at the enormous inheritance tax you shall have to pay this year!)

If it eases your conscience, you may think of this as a long-deferred payment on a loan. Specifically for the loan of your heart, which you lent to me when I most needed it. You likely never expected to see a return on this particular investment. But a Gavin always honors his debts, and for all that I am a murderer and liar-I remain a Gavin to the core.

Not, of course, that you have any real choice in the matter in of accepting my money. I've had my lawyers go over the terms of my will, and I am sure that not even the Turnabout King can find any loopholes.

I've also taken certain precautions to ensure that you do not attempt to give my fortune away at all once. There is a cap that I've set on annual charity donations and on regular spending. (Although, I cannot expect that someone who prefers cheap grape juice and noodles to champagne and caviar will ever come close to exceeding the generous annual allowance I've set for you!)

There are two additional stipulations of your inheritance. I have set up a generous trust fund in Trucy's name. She will receive what remains of it when she turns twenty-one. In the meantime, control over the fund rests with you, and I advise you to use some of it to cover Trucy's university expenses.

There is also a second fund that is delineated to be used for emergencies only. If Klavier or Apollo ever find themselves in difficulty, I trust you will draw from this fund to assist them in whatever they require. However, you would be wise not to reveal the source of your generosity, as Apollo for one, would never accept the money if he knew it came from me.

And now that business is concluded, I trust that you will not mind if I move on to other subjects?

There was an editorial that was written about me following Vera Misham's full acquittal. It is now years old, but I have only become aware of it only recently and find myself coming back over and over again to the opening line:

" A six-foot-four, Teutonic Iago in spectacles, Kristoph Gavin is just the sort of man Shakespeare imagined when he advised us to 'kill all the lawyers.'"

Though Ms. duPlume's prose is undoubtedly purple in the extreme, I can't help but feel amused by her description, especially considering I am not quite six-foot-three. But as flattering as her description is, she is wrong in thinking me Iago. Or at least, of thinking me only Iago.

When it comes down to it-or at least when it comes to you-I am Othello. Driven by jealousy and reputation to destroy what he loved best, and in doing so, could only thereafter destroy himself. As I keep my penultimate vigil, I think of the tragic Moor's last speech and dare to hope that you will honor his-and my-final request.

"When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well"

One who loved not wisely but too well. Who loved and still loves you, Phoenix Wright. You- "my only love sprung from my only hate," to borrow Juliet's words. (I'd always found her impossibly foolish and impulsive and insipid, and I still do. But I see now that I am little better-and perhaps even more flawed in that respect than she.)

I told you once that I did not believe in life after death. And at the time, that was the truth. But now I am no longer sure. There is little to do on death row, apart from reading and thinking. And I've done my share of both these last few weeks-particularly on the subject of my imminent mortality.

Personally, I find the idea of reincarnation the most intriguing. And I dare to hope that in some other time and place, your soul and mine will find each other again. Even if I cannot see how it might end any differently for us. But despite my wishes to the contrary, I am not particularly convinced in the idea of reincarnation. So I must also weigh other options.

We both know that I have little chance of winding up in Purgatory and even less of winding up Heaven. So I suppose it must be Hell for me after all, if it exists. At least, it will be warm; you'll remember that I get cold easily.

But if there is nothing after the end but silence, I can draw my last breath in some comfort, knowing that my last thoughts will be of you-of you, and of Trucy, and of Klavier. Of the family I deluded myself in believing was and could be mine. The family that I could never have deserved, even were not the man I was. The family I was ready to destroy and myself along with it, because I simply could not bear the thought of anyone but me having it.

But I suspect I will think of you most of all, Liebste.

Of the way you laughed and talked. Of your hair and your eyes and that smart, vile mouth of yours that drove me mad in every way imaginable. Of that hideous sweatshirt and even more hideous wool hat.

Of holding you closely the last time we made love, right before everything fell apart. Although I genuinely had no inclination at the time that Gramarye had returned, I nevertheless had a strange sense-a vague premonition, if you will-that this was the final night we would spend in each other's arms. I expect that was why I was particularly attentive and amorous on the occasion. I know it is why I waited to cry until I was sure you were asleep.

Does that surprise you to read, Liebste? I hope it does. And it may surprise you still to learn that it was not the first time I've been brought to tears over you-over loving you and hating you and hating to love you. Nor will it be the last. I've always said that evidence is everything, and I suspect when I read over this letter again to look for errors, I will be provide you with lachrymal evidence in excess.

I imagine that my final final thought will be of the first time we kissed. I am not even entirely sure you remember that night-for we never spoke of it again, and we'd both enjoyed rather a lot of "grape juice" with dinner. (And honestly, who did you ever think you were fooling with that ridiculous euphemism? "Grape Juice!" Honestly, Wright?)

The event in question took place a few months before our "friendship" took its permanent, inevitable turn into something more complicated. Something beautiful and terrible-something that I knew would damn me, even as I dared to hope it might redeem me as well. Even if you do not remember that night, I do clearly, vividly, hauntingly.

Of feeling the pulse in your neck pounding-just as mine was- as I cupped your face in my hands. Of the rough scratch of your unshaven chin against my own. Most of all, the way my every pore ignited as my lips gently grazed those of a firebird. The way, it triggered a slow combustion from within-one that continues to this very moment.

I'd like to think you burned alongside me. That the flame consumed you as it did me. But I know better. Even if it did, the phoenix always rises from the ashes, and you have always been a credit to your name, Firebird.

I hope this thought-that I face death armed only with your name on my lips and in the heart they all say I do not have-brings you comfort, and I hope it brings you pain. For despite all we've been through, I never really stopped hating you, and I never hated you more than when I first realized I loved you.

Yours in love and in hate; in death and in life,

Kristoph Gavin

Post scriptum: I trust that you will grant me a final wish and destroy this letter after you have finished reading it. Even from beyond the grave, I still have a reputation to maintain, as do you. Such excesses of emotion from men of our age and of our profession are unseemly.

Wright stared at the letter. Gavin could take his pretentious "post scriptum'"and shove it up his now-decaying ass. Phoenix had no intention of destroying this letter. Instead, he folded it and placed it beside Trucy's locket in the pocket over his heart.