I technically haven't even finished the first game and there's probably at least seven other fics with this premise already but I liked the idea too much and I cried several times while writing this so here have this thing my brain spat out
This has to be up there on the weirder things he's done, Miles Edgeworth thinks as he watches Maya settle into the chair across from him, eyes closing in meditation.
"It usually only takes a minute with Mia, so it'll probably be a couple before anything happens," she reassures him. "And like I said, I'm not conscious during it so it'll be a totally private conversation." In any other context, she would have clasped her hands together and smiled at him, but in this case her attitude was extra somber.
"Understood." After a minute of silence, he shifts on the couch so his head is in his hands, elbows propped up on his legs. Why did he agree to this?
The spirit medium had cornered him after the events of their trial against Von Karma. After a good deal of stammering, she offered to contact his father for him, saying that she wanted to help after seeing everything he had gone through.
"I still need to finish up my training, but," she pulled at the edge of her robe, "After that I should be fine to actually call people, and I thought, well, you seemed-" She stared down at the floor, wringing her hands. "It seems to help Nick, with Mia, and I would have liked to- if I could- um,…" A heavy exhalation. "You don't have to if you don't want."
His initial instinct had been to turn her down. He had no evidence to believe that it was possible to speak with the dead, and logic told him that it was therefore impossible. And the fact that there was suddenly a part of him that desperately wanted it to be true was only further argument to say no because does he really want to live with the heartbreak of having the hope of seeing his father again being crushed before his eyes?
He said yes anyway, the fool, he thinks now as the seconds tick on maddeningly and he waits for Maya's voice to cut in and end this charade. Stupid, foolish child, he-
"Miles?"
He freezes, the grip of his hands in his hair suddenly tight enough that he'd be surprised if he wasn't pulling some of it out. Because it can't have been-
"Miles?"
And his breath is coming in slow, shuddering bursts as he's frozen on the spot, mind willing his body to move but not wanting to because what if he's wrong, if it's just a trick. But then he finally inclines his head just enough to look up, and it's a miracle he can even get a word out through how tight his throat has become. "Father?"
His father looks just like he remembers. Perched on the edge of the couch, as if debating whether to get up to move closer or not, the specter of Gregory Edgeworth watches his son as though he could disappear at any moment. As he brings one hand to close the distance between them, Miles notices the slight delay between the movement of the ghost and Maya's body, which, now that he's looking for it, he can barely see under his father's almost-opaque form. He can tell, too, when the hand comes to rest on the side of his face, smaller than it should be.
There's a solid minute where the two of them just stay there, struck by the enormity of it all. Then Miles shifts back, breaking the connection. He looks up at his father. "I'm sorry." This isn't what he wants to bring up, but he can't lie to his father. "I know I always said I wanted to be like you when I got older, to help people. When you died-" The sentence cuts off as his body shudders a few times before he can get it under control. "I-I…"
"I know." Lightly, slowly, ever so gently, he places a hand under Miles's chin, turning his gaze up to meet him. "I've been there almost from the moment I died, watching you grow up…" The sadness in his eyes is almost tangible as he regards his son.
Miles freezes up, on alert for the slightest change in body language that might let him know when his father will decide to shift his disappointment to anger, to berate him for his choices, for becoming almost indistinguishable from that which his father had fought so hard against.
"…I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Can you ever forgive me?"
"But-" He starts when his father sighs, dropping the hand to rest on his knee. The ghostly image clips ever so slightly through his material form, and the warmth from Maya's hand feels foreign and out of place. When Miles looks back up, his father is turned away. Realizing how he has interpreted his son's reaction, his stomach drops. "You died; there's nothing to forgive! You couldn't have known what would happen, and unless you had known, there's nothing you could have done. It was my decision to become who I am, not yours."
At the first sentence, his father had perked up, the same sadness evident as he moved back towards him. But by the time Miles finished, there was a clear undercurrent of anger that made him want to crawl into some dark place and escape the fact that he had reminded his father of the monster he had become.
"You were a child!" The outburst is like nothing he'd ever witnessed; Gregory Edgeworth was not a man easily angered, and even when he had been frustrated with his son, he had never shouted or lost his temper. Setting his shoulders back, he slides off the chair and kneels in front of him. "A child," he repeats, reaching up to grip his shoulders. "Bright and perceptive and precocious, yes, but still only nine. You were lost and scared and what you needed more than anything else was compassion and guidance." He stares Miles down, eyes gentle but refusing to waver from him. "And instead, for years, you were put under the control of a man who knew nothing but cruelty and perfectionism and used that to try to shape the son of a man he hated into an unfeeling monster like himself."
Gregory watches his son flinch away from him again, and a stab of regret hits him for being a reminder of those times. He gets up from the ground and settles down next to Miles. "A child," he whispers, "and all that hardship, and that's still not the man you've become."
"I was." Stiffening, he crosses his arms. This is the problem, of course. As much as neither of them would want to admit it, Miles knows that the evidence all shows that the things he'd done had not been the deeds of a good man. "Cold and calculating and with no regard for anything but victory at any cost. You've seen it."
"On the surface, maybe, for a while. But not at heart." He leans over and puts both hands over one of his son's, internally cursing at how the physical sensation refuses to exist for him. "The moment you broke free of Von Karma's influence, when you realized what he had done to you and myself, when he was gone and you had the chance to do anything, you chose to grow past it." He pauses. "Miles, look at me, please." The wait is agonizing, seconds stretching to feel like hours as his son finally gives in. It breaks his heart, how stiff his posture still is, face struggling to be kept impassive. One hand still in place, Gregory slides the other across his son's back in a half-embrace. "Miles. It's not easy to break free of a reputation like that, but I've watched you decide again and again that that's not the person you want to be. You chose to become someone who cares about finding the truth, regardless of whether that would mean victory." He chokes on his words, and manages one more sentence before he is overwhelmed. "And I am so proud of you."
All the doubts, the arguments he had lined up in his head that his father was only saying these things because of a familial bias, the walls against emotion and expression of weakness he'd carefully practiced for years and put up against even this – it all collapses with that one sentence. A choked sob escapes him, and Miles simply throws his arms around his father before collapsing into him, crying freely for the first time in years. His dad is still proud of him, and nothing else matters in that moment.
All sense of time is lost, but the next thing he is cognizant of is the sensation of fingers running through his hair and an arm wrapped around him. "Dad?" he manages after a moment of trying to get his breathing under enough control to make any comprehensible sounds.
"I'm still here Miles." Gregory does his best to keep the majority of the sadness out of his tone. More than fifteen years of being only able to watch, never interact, and he's finally able to just hold his son in his arms again, even if he can hardly feel the physical sensation in his ghostly form. He makes small soothing noises as he feels Miles tense up again "It's alright; I'm here."
"I- I miss you." His voice is small, muffled by the fact that his face is buried in the fabric of Maya's cloak.
"…I do too. I'm sorry." Shushing his son's protests, he continues, "Sorry that things happened like this, that beyond this, there is nothing that can be done." He allows them to sit for a while longer, trying to commit every bit of it to memory. "I believe I'm going to need to leave in a moment."
Miles shoots up out of his father's grip, ready to protest, beg him to stay longer. But the movement shifts his vision enough to catch a glimpse of Maya's body under the ghost, and he recalls her saying she could only hold onto a spirit for so long. There's a catch in the back of his throat as he fails to force down a sob.
His father reaches for him again, pulling them close one more time. "Ohh, it's okay. It'll be alright."
"I love you, dad."
"I love you too Miles." He tightens his grip as he feels his control of the spirit medium loosen. "No matter what happens. And I will be here for you, watching over you, always."
Miles watches until the ghost of his father fades completely. "Thank you," he whispers into the empty air as Maya slowly stirs into consciousness. "And I will keep on being someone you can be proud of. I promise."