Nick hadn't realized he had slipped off into sleep until the phone was ringing right by his ear. For a moment he blearily wondered why, exactly, he had decided that the top of his threadbare couch was a good place for his cell phone. His head seemed as sluggish and full as his stomach. Not that he didn't appreciate the fact that Pearl and Maya had seemed determined to drag him along and have a 'proper Christmas dinner', even if the ham and the bauble-studded tree seemed out of place at the Fey manor, but he had dozed all the way back on the train before promptly collapsing on his couch. He never knew that digesting was such a huge chore. And they had sent him home with leftovers. All of the leftovers. He was probably going to have to invite Larry over to help eat them, just in case he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of ham.

But…

He had to smack his mouth, his tongue dry and rubbery from snoring, before he could answer. "Hello?"

"Wright."

"Edgeworth?" His brow furrowed a moment before he gave a relieved laugh at the other man's easygoing tone. "If you're calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, you're a couple days late."

"No, no. Not quite like that. I'm just calling to let you know I'm going on a trip, that's all." He sounded incredibly calm, even cheerful, and it made Nick smile reflexively.

"A winter vacation, huh? Renting a private island or something?" He teased gently.

"Something, yes. I just didn't want you to worry, since you won't be seeing me again."

The good mood that had been settling in around him froze in Nick's throat. His smile slid off his face as his brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, no longer relaxing against the back of the couch. "…What?"

"I've given it careful consideration, and it is absolutely the best solution. And I'm calling you directly to let you know. I don't want a repeat of the… ambiguity with the note I left a few years ago." Nick knew the one. Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death. Reference to it was not making him any less nervous. "I've left a few things for you at my apartment. Feel free to pick them up at your leisure. I'm sure you have the address."

"…Miles, where are you going?" He was careful to use the other man's first name instead of his last.

"It's not very important, Wright. It's just the best decision for this situation. And I called because I didn't want you to worry."

"I'm not kidding, Miles, you need to tell me - what is all this about -"

He still sounded so damnably calm. There had always been some tension in his voice, some nervousness, an edge that he could sharpen to a point. Nick had heard it time and time again, using that timbre in his voice as a knife to eviscerate a witness on the stand and even make him tremble. But it simply wasn't there anymore, instead replaced with outright relief.

"Like I said - you don't need to worry. Things are going to be perfectly fine. Goodbye, Nick. And thank you."

"Miles, wait -!"

The dial tone hummed back at him. He drew the cell phone away from his ear to stare at it blearily, pressing the end call button and returning its display to the general default screen. Time, date, the usual…

He squinted for a moment. Wait. Date.

It was December 28th.

The lump of ice in his stomach waited for his head to catch up, shuffling through mental filing cabinets before finally seizing on why that date made him nervous. It clicked together, and when it did, he cursed at his cell phone, scrambling up and grabbing his coat as quickly as he could.

Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong.

He kept up the mental chant as he stared out of the taxi cab window, tapping his foot out of nervous energy. In fact, it took the second time before the cab driver's question reached him.

"Hey, buddy, you still back there? …I was askin', ain't you that attorney fella?"

"Me? Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm a defense attorney. Phoenix Wright."

"You are that fella! Yeah, your name's been all in the newspapers lately. About that big case awhile back. The one with that pompous-lookin' german guy."

"Oh? I, uh…" He looked to his cell phone again. It was ringing quietly before getting yet another message forwarded to voicemail. He hung up and tried Edgeworth's number yet again. "I've been visiting, uh, relatives lately, so I haven't been keeping up. Was there a new development or what?"

"Nah, they just did a retrospective. True crime rag I read had a whole spread on it, an' a commemorative cover, since they finally knocked off the german lout a few days ago. But I bet you know all about that, yeah?"

He blinked solidly, actually looking away from his cell phone. "Actually, I, uh, don't. I've been busy with other work lately. …The death sentence actually went through?" He'd heard hints about it, of course, given von Karma's confession. But he had expected it to be tied up for decades at least, given Germany's declaration of the death sentence as inhumane, and von Karma's status as a German citizen. To be perfectly honest, the thought of von Karma rotting in a cell while officials argued about extradition until he died of old age was something that sat quite well on Nick's conscience. He didn't know quite what to do with the other possibility.

"Oh, yeah! I mean, there was a little fuss, but I guess there always is in cases where they get sent to the chair, ya know? They finally fried the rat bastard a couple days ago. Christmas Eve, I think. Kinda funny timing, but I ain't gonna argue the result." The taxi driver grinned toothily at him. "You must be pleased as punch, bein' the one who figured out the truth behind the whole thing, yeah?"

"Uh…" His voice shook a little. "Sure. …hold on." His cell phone chirped at him, and he brought it to his ear. "Hey, Larry. …Yeah, he called me too, about fifteen minutes ago. …So he called you first, then me? …I'm just wanting to make sure I've got the times right. Yes, I think it's serious. No, Larry, you don't need to start driving or anything. I'm going to check it out. I mean, I could be wrong." He turned his head to stare out the window as they drove deeper into the thick of the city. It was pretty enough, he supposed. Everyone's Christmas decorations were still up, festive yet out of place, pinpricks of glimmer from lights reflecting through ice and in muddled puddles of half-melted snow. The holidays were over and everything seemed tired in a way he hadn't noticed before. "…Yeah, I'm still here. I'll call you back when I figure out what's going on, ok? Promise."

He was silently thankful that the taxi cab driver seemed to recognize he was not in the mood to talk.

Edgeworth's residence was something Nick didn't quite have a word for. After all, calling it an apartment felt like an insult, since that meant grouping it with his own meager two-bedrooms-one-bath-half-kitchen. Sure, Edgeworth had neighbors, but the building also had a footman. And there were definitely smaller houses that a family of four fit in than this one man's apartment.

There really was some difference between a prosecutor's salary and a defense attorney's, he mused darkly.

101, 102… He jogged down the richly carpeted hallway, trying to not catch too many glares from the footman. 103. There it was. Mr. M. Edgeworth on the little golden plaque and everything. He sighed before reaching out to buzz the doorbell - no answer, like he expected. It was going to take some convincing to get the front desk to use the master key, but -

His hand on the doorknob slipped easily, and the front door opened. Oh. It was unlocked.

Another wave of dread hit him like cold ocean water.

The foyer was very tastefully decorated, well-polished dark wood and marble tiles on the floor. It looked less like a home that someone lived in and more like some interior designer's dream, everything put just-so in exquisite neatness. Tinny violins came from somewhere up the spiral staircase. He could barely hear the voice sing.

I say I'll move the mountains, and I'll move the mountains…

The singer continued to croon, and he vaguely placed the voice. Some old jazz standard. Maybe part of him had assumed that Edgeworth would play stereotypical opera music when alone, but this seemed to suit him more.

The difficult I'll do right now, the impossible will take a little while…

"Edgeworth?" He called out, and received no answer. "Miles? …Hey, Miles, are you here?" Again, no answer. He did, however, see a spread that had been laid out on the kitchen table. Neat envelopes on good stationary. One addressed to him, one to Larry, one even to Inspector Gumshoe and Franziska von Karma, and one to an unfamiliar name - a Kay Faraday. They were clustered around a bottle of wine that looked painfully expensive, and a much larger envelope laid underneath them on the table.

The song ended, switching to something slightly more upbeat, and Nick couldn't help but tap his foot to it out of instinct.

All of me, why not take all of me?

He moved a few more steps to the kitchen, squinting at the largest. It certainly looked official in its creamy envelope. Part of him expected it to be sealed with wax, given that it seemed to be Edgeworth style. There were definitely words written on it, at the bottom, in neat and fluid cursive. Now if he could just figure out what they said -

Oh, your goodbye has left me with eyes that cry…

'The Last Will and Testament of Miles Edgeworth.'

Nick yelped out a few choice curses. The atmosphere of the house had demanded him to be quiet and respectful, even in a relaxed way, and now he officially did not give a damn as he ran back into the living room and made an expensive set of vases tremble on the mantle. "MILES!" The music was still floating down, slithering down the staircase with trembling jazz piano and swaying tempo. That'd be his first place to start. "MILES, WHERE ARE YOU?!" He took the spiral staircase's steps by twos, gripping the ornate rail tightly, out of breath by the time he reached the top.

The stereo was one of the most elaborate he had ever seen. And he could catch a glimpse of the cover, set off to the side of the record table - Billie Holiday's Greatest Hits (so THAT was her name, now he remembered!). The record itself spun lazily, pushing music out through the speakers. At least this room looked slightly more lived-in, though not by much. Nightstand, dresser, bed… Edgeworth laying on the bed….

Good morning heartache, you ol' gloomy sight…

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit -" Edgeworth was the most quietly calm Nick had ever seen him. His face was relaxed into almost a dreamy smile, even though he apparently had neatly made the bed before laying on top of it. "Miles? MILES!" He was limp as Nick shook him by the shoulders. "Come on, wake UP -" Nothing, not even a flinch. He slapped Edgeworth's cheeks lightly, shouted in his face. "Wake UP!" Nothing. Just quiet calm.

Good morning heartache, sit down…

Phone, where'd he put his phone? He fumbled in his jacket pockets before flipping it out and finally taking the time to look at the nightstand. A picture of Miles, very small, with his father smiling at the camera. Franziska and Miles on some vacation, with him smirking around a glass of wine and her grinning at the camera while raising her shiraz in salute. A glass of water. Mostly empty. A large bottle of prescription medicine. Completely empty.

"Hello? - Yeah, I need an ambulance, um - Magnolia Rise apartments, I don't know the address, but it's apartment 103, top floor." His mouth was running awfully dry, and his voice was trembling, but he kept talking. "My - my friend - he called me about a half-hour ago, I came over to his place, and - he's, um, he won't wake up, he's swallowed an entire bottle of…" He picked up the bottle and turned it around in his hands. "Sop… Sopoziol? It says on here it's for, um, muscle cramps. I think."

Stop haunting me now; can't shake you nohow…

"Is he what? I, uh - I don't know. Hold on." He juggled the cell phone in his hands again, ending up pressing it between his shoulder and ear. His hands probed softly, against Miles' chest, before deciding that the layers of cravat and vest and shirt were too much to deal with, then hovering by his face, waiting to feel a lick of moisture and warmth. Nick gulped reflexively as he pressed two fingers against the other man's neck, trying to feel for something he hoped was there. "I don't think so. I don't think he's breathing, I mean. I can't feel a pulse, either." More gulping. His head was swimming, thoughts buzzing too fast for him to grab ahold and wrangle into coherence. "No, I've never been trained. I watched a video once, though, so I know - I remember, I mean, I remember how - fifteen to one? Okay. I can do that." He was aware of how his voice was shaking, but powerless to do anything about it. "I'm okay. I'm calm. …They'll be five minutes? That's - that's good. Thank you."

Everything seemed to be happening all at once yet also excruciatingly slowly. Out of reflex, he pulled the cell phone away from his ear and pressed the end call button. The operator was just pouring more words into his ear to make his thoughts more clouded, anyway. He had to concentrate. What had the video said, exactly? Maya had made him watch it - that seemed decades and decades in the past, now - something about workplace safety - both hands, on top of one another, about there - that seemed right - of course his damn cravat would fall in the way, wouldn't it, but he couldn't waste any more time - one, two, three -

Behind him the record spat out a moment of static between songs. Then the snaky trombone and crooning started again.

Don't know why there's no sun in the sky; stormy weather…

No, he told himself firmly. Focus on the details. Focus on the beat you were given, focus on striking just the right place, focus on trying to mimic that old video from years ago. If he stopped to think… thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… Oh, I'm so weary all the time…

Fifteen to one. Or was it fifteen to two? His head was still swimming. In either case it was time for a breath, that was how this worked, and he knew that much. As long as he kept thinking in the abstract, he could do this.

But it was very hard to look at Edgeworth's face and stay in the abstract.

No, this was the man Phoenix Wright had spent so much of his life chasing. The one he gave up airy dreams of being a painter for and picked up heavy law books for. The one he had dedicated many long nights in the library to. He could still see the same face of the little kid who had stood up to defend him in grade school, only to disappear away to Germany after tragedies. And he could definitely see the face he had stared down in court time after time, only to save him from false allegations.

Now he was so quiet and still. Peaceful. Nick knew what he had to do, but seeing the look on Edgeworth's face - serene - happy - made it feel like a betrayal, and he didn't know why.

He pushed Edgeworth's lips open and forced a breath between them anyway.