Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Two

Phoenix didn't know exactly what answer he'd expected from Edgeworth upon his invitation, but it hadn't been this long, painful stretch of silence. He shifted his weight on to his other foot as he waited, seconds slowing down to hours.

Edgeworth's non-response seemed to come in stages. First, a blank stare, as though he had failed to register what Phoenix had just said. Then his eyes slid to the direction of the exit behind the defense attorney, as though he wanted to escape the awkward situation entirely. Finally he returned his attention back to the court files still in his arms—a different sort of evasion.

By this point Phoenix was sure the other man was trying to come up with a better excuse than 'filing paperwork'. While Phoenix appreciated the sentiment, he was entirely capable of understanding if Edgeworth wanted to go home, pour himself a glass of wine, and lounge around in a fluffy pink bathrobe—or whatever he did to relax.

It's not like I have a gun to his head, Phoenix thought. Just as he was about to rescind the invitation and cut his losses, the other man came to a decision.

"All right," Edgeworth finally said.

"If you don't want—huh?" Phoenix swallowed the rest of his sentence, not quite sure how to respond. The only thing that sprang readily to mind was asking 'are you sure?' which didn't seem to be the proper sort of reply—and made him wonder why he'd put forth the invitation in the first place if he was so sure Edgeworth would turn him down.

So now it was his turn to go through the three stages of awkward silence as Edgeworth waited. If Phoenix had suddenly become tongue-tied, it seemed as though Edgeworth had found his voice at last.

"Where did you have in mind?"

Good question. Phoenix really hadn't thought beyond the spur-of-the-moment overture. This was difficult. He knew all the hamburger joints (there were seventeen) within walking distance because of Maya's influence, but it was hard to imagine Edgeworth wanting to eat at "Joe's Burger Shack". There were also problems inherent in letting Edgeworth choose the restaurant; Phoenix didn't relish the thought of paying approximately the same for a plate of food as he did his monthly electric bill.

He wracked his brain for a few more moments—Mexican didn't really appeal tonight; he'd heard there was a decent Russian restaurant in the general vicinity, but he couldn't remember where it was supposedly located—before admitting, "I don't know. Why don't we just see what's in the area?"

The slight frown on Edgeworth's face told Phoenix the prosecutor was once again questioning how good an idea this dinner really was, but it didn't seem Edgeworth had any alternatives to offer, so he gave a short nod and hefted his files slightly. "Let me put these away in my car. I'll be right back."

"I'll meet you outside." Phoenix said, motioning to the exit. He assumed Edgeworth had parked in the underground lot available to attorneys instead of the public parking garage out front.

Edgeworth nodded again before turning around and walking away. His quick footsteps seemed loud against the marble floor; by this point in the evening the building had mostly cleared and the low hum of voices no longer filled the lobby.

Phoenix watched him until he took a sharp left at the first hallway and disappeared out of sight before exiting out the front of the building. It was late enough in the evening that the heat of the summer day had mostly dissipated along with the setting sun, leaving a chill in the air. Phoenix settled against one of the thick, Corinthian columns that held up the overhanging eaves of the courthouse and waited.

As he leaned and watched, people came trickling out of the courthouse. At first it was mostly men and women in neutral, dark suits, badges proudly affixed to their left lapel, but as time passed they were mixed in with more ostentatious people in brighter colors or stranger clothing.

A girl that looked about sixteen bounced by, dressed in a navy blue jumper dress and white blouse, hair done up in a French braid. He was sure she was someone's daughter until he caught sight of the telltale badge glinting in the failing light. He shook his head. ...must be from Europe.

"…no, looks like the trial is going to run later. I'm on, uh, recess…" a man in a teal suit said loudly into a cell phone. He waved to a woman waiting down near the end of the sidewalk, "I've got to go, they're letting people back in."

Phoenix checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He turned his focus back on the people walking by.

One vaguely familiar blonde woman, wearing a slinky, form-fitting red dress and elbow-length silk gloves, looked like she had gotten lost on her way to some Hollywood party—back in the 1940s. Prosecutor, Phoenix wordlessly labeled as she stomped past him and down the wide courthouse steps, shoving aside anyone unlucky enough to get in her way. Whichever she was, it didn't look as though her case had gone very well.

A flash of black caught his peripheral vision; he heard someone complain on the other side of the pillar, "…I can't believe that idiot scheduled practice after my testimony. Some of us work full days and need to sleep…"

But red dresses, teal suits, slashes of black, and braids alike, none of them were wearing a maroon suit and ruffles against their neck. He felt nailed to the spot, watching as the courthouse slowly emptied and its occupants moved on to their people to see and places to go. Phoenix found his head turning towards the exit every time the doors swished open—still no sign of Edgeworth.

Phoenix glanced at his watch again. What's taking him so long?He tried to drum up some good, self-righteous indignation over being made to wait for more than half an hour, but the heavy, sick feeling in his stomach was too distracting. It was hard not to feel conspicuous and vulnerable as everyone walked past.

Just as he was about to go in and look for the other man—or verify that his car was gone—Edgeworth appeared out the front doors, scanning the area. Relief washed through Phoenix, quieting the knots twisting in his stomach. When their eyes met, Edgeworth raised his hand in an awkward half-wave and walked over to where Phoenix stood.

"Sorry," he said before Phoenix could open his mouth. The prosecutor's brows were knit in frustration, but Phoenix didn't think it was directed at him. "Are you ready?"

Phoenix nodded and fell into pace beside him.

"So, which way?" Phoenix asked as they walked down the steps together, feeling not only relieved, but also unaccountably lighter at Edgeworth's reappearance.

Edgeworth slowly surveyed the options in both directions. "Should I flip a coin?"

Don't get too enthusiastic, Edgeworth. I might think you actually want to be here. Despite the sarcasm, the grin on Phoenix's face never wavered. No matter how dour Edgeworth's attitude, Phoenix was vaguely surprised to find he was genuinely looking forward to the evening more than he had anything in a long time.


The first set of blocks that stretched east from the courthouse were acutely familiar to Phoenix; Maya had dragged him in this direction fairly frequently in the immediate aftermath of a trial, as that happened to be the general locale of her favorite burger joint. He'd long lost count of how much money he had spent appeasing his assistant's apparently bottomless stomach; for a moment he almost dared to hope that this excursion would prove a little easier on his wallet. Then he remembered who he was actually with, and the brief flicker turned to ash as soon as it had sparked.

Beyond the scope of Joe's, however, was mostly uncharted territory. While sitting in a booth with Maya, and occasionally Pearl, Phoenix remembered that a few of the places he could see in the distance from the window seemed fairly ritzy—he supposed that what had compelled him to choose this direction to take Edgeworth, who had been mostly silent since they had begun to walk.

Truth be told, it was a strange feeling. He couldn't recall a time when he and Edgeworth had moved calmly, side by side, not facing each other from opposite ends of a courtroom or rushing across gravel to break into a celebrity's house and rescue hostages. Edgeworth's stride was as brisk as when he walked out of court, and Phoenix had to step up his own pace to keep up.

"Have you been in this area?" he asked.

"Once or twice," Edgeworth said.

Try being a little more succinct, Edgeworth. It could do you some good.

Still, he pressed on. "Anything down here?"

"A few places."

More specific, too, while we're at it.

Still, with that in mind, he let Edgeworth take the lead, content—he supposed—to follow beyond his footsteps and eyes trained on the back of his head. The silence had once again taken its rein, despite his best efforts.

His eyes scanned the line of restaurant names and establishments that they passed; most of them were places he himself would have been more than happy to stop in for a quick soup and sandwich, but judging from the way Edgeworth's footsteps didn't even slow as they passed, they didn't register so much as options in the prosecutor's mind.

Phoenix stopped—one particular building had caught his eye. Edgeworth made it a few more paces forward before realizing that his shadow had abruptly disappeared; he glanced backwards and then turned around to join Phoenix.

The rich, dark color alone stood out from the other buildings, with the bright décor and neon signs apt for casual diners—the way it loomed, the balcony protruding outwards from the second floor, the carved wood highlighted against the dim light of the streetlamps a few yards out, brought to Phoenix's mind the image of rich wine and—dare he say it—maybe even wealthy prosecutors in cravats. But more than any of that, the thing that had caught Phoenix's attention was how familiar it seemed.

It puzzled him—then it clicked. The polished wood carving and the feel of something ancient and unmovable reminded him of the old library from Ivy University, where he had spent countless days and nights poring over legal books, amongst a few other things.

"Hey, Edgeworth. Do you know this place?"

"No," Edgeworth said. "I don't remember this being here last time I was in the area."

It really has been years, huh. Funny how it had slipped his mind so easily.

Phoenix leaned forward slightly, squinting at the sign outside the door. To his surprise, the specials listed to draw in potential customers were actually affordable, even if he could barely pronounce them. He tried to sound out the unfamiliar name. "Freunden Fressen. That's..."

"It's German, Wright," Edgeworth murmured. His voice was surprisingly free of disdain.

I guess you'd know, wouldn't you? Personally, Phoenix still couldn't hear the word 'Germany' without forcing down the instinct to duck and cover for any potential whip attacks.

They lingered outside. Phoenix stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced at Edgeworth; he wasn't sure he wanted to be the one who suggested the place outright. But Edgeworth met his eyes; one of his eyebrows flicked upwards in an expectant sort of well?

Phoenix shrugged, and pushed the doors open. It seemed to be as firm a consensus as they were likely to come to.

Entering was like stepping into a cave paneled entirely in dark wood. Age and quiet care gave it a warm sheen in the low light; this was clearly a place well traveled over the years. Directly in front, there was a staircase leading up into what Phoenix assumed was the main seating area of the restaurant. Over to the right, Phoenix noticed a bar with a few patrons silently nursing their drinks.

"Do you have a reservation?" someone said, traces of a German accent clear in his intonation. Phoenix started; in the dimness he hadn't noticed the headwaiter there over by the stairs.

Before Phoenix could speak, Edgeworth replied, "No, we don't, but we're hoping you still have seating available."

The man made a slight production out of pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up and checking the bound book in front of him, before looking back to the two men and saying, "It seems there was a cancellation earlier this evening. There's a booth open. It's close to the kitchen, though."

"That's fine," Phoenix said quickly. At this point he didn't care if they had to eat in the kitchen; he was hungry.

The headwaiter led them up the stairs, which creaked and moaned under their feet in a way that brought to mind old, turn-of-the-century houses. They made their way past several occupied booths and tables. Perhaps it was because of the atmosphere—maybe all that wood soaked up sound like a sponge did water—but even the boisterous laughter at one of the large tables tucked into a corner near the head of the stairs seemed muted, as though from very far away.

When they reached their booth, Edgeworth slid in first, then Phoenix on the opposite side. Both took the proffered menus and spent the next several minutes silently studying their options. Phoenix was inwardly relieved to note the regular entrées, while not as cheap as a night at "Joe's Burger Shack" by far, were still reasonably priced, even if he couldn't pronounce any of their names. At least the descriptions were bilingual, so he didn't have to play Russian roulette with his food.

Well, if he could find something that looked good. The menu was cramped and, for some reason, he was having trouble focusing, everything seemed to blur together in endless strings of nonsense consonants and vowels.

"If you're having trouble deciding, I would recommend the Schweinsbraten."

Phoenix looked up. That's right, he'd be familiar with the food too. But Edgeworth was staring at his own menu like he'd never spoken in the first place.

"Thanks," Phoenix finally said. Edgeworth gave no indication he'd heard the reply, so Phoenix bent his head to locate the dish the prosecutor had mentioned.

There it was, in the corner. He would have missed it entirely if it hadn't been pointed out to him. Even in print, the name didn't ring any bells. Apparently it was roasted pork of some kind.

Eventually Phoenix's eyes got tired of pretending to navigate the endless umlauts of the German names.

He'd long since decided on the entrée Edgeworth recommended anyway. He put his menu down and focused his attention on the man across from him.

The shadows from the dim light were long against Edgeworth's face as he continued to study his own menu like it was a vital piece of court evidence. In fact, Phoenix noticed, he was even holding it the same way.

Of all the habits to carry over... Phoenix swallowed a chuckle, but apparently something in his expression showed, because Edgeworth suddenly glanced up. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if daring Phoenix to laugh. Oh honestly, why is he so on edge tonight?

Edgeworth sighed, folded his menu, and put it on the table, as though to say 'you win, Wright'. What Phoenix won, he wasn't really sure—by no stretch of the imagination was trying to make small talk with Miles Edgeworth some sort of fabulous prize. He struggled to think of something to discuss; talking to his friend could be like navigating an emotional minefield.

Finally he decided on something (hopefully) neutral: the case Edgeworth had just finished.

"So, the trial…" Phoenix said, voice sounding unnaturally loud and stiff to his own ears. "I'm still not sure how Black's brother played into it. I know he threw in reasonable doubt, but…"

Edgeworth paused. Phoenix could practically see the mental drawbridge being raised, before the prosecutor seemingly remembered Phoenix hadn't been his opponent, and even if he had, the trial was over.

"The first day we focused mostly on the blood work, " Edgeworth finally began. "Things were going well, all of the contradictions pointed out were minor and easily explained." His expression grew sour as he drummed his fingers against the table. "Then Black told us he had a twin brother with a criminal record, and he lived in the same building."

Phoenix's eyebrows raised. "How did you miss that?"

"You'd have to ask Detective Gumshoe that question," Edgeworth replied, gaze growing distant, as though calculating the exact amount an error of that magnitude should cost the detective, in more ways than one.

Urk. Sorry, Detective, Phoenix inwardly apologized. Let's try to get off this subject.

"So, it was more like blind luck on that defense attorney's part," Phoenix said.

"Oh, Trevor Greene?" Edgeworth's bitter grin curdled even further. "Yes, I was…congratulated by several of my fellow prosecutors for scoring the 'easy win' this time."

"He's known for that sort of thing?" Phoenix was hardly surprised, judging by what he'd seen in court, but he thought it better for Edgeworth to focus on the defense's failings than Gumshoe's.

"Yes." Edgeworth nodded. "Supposedly he waspromising at one point, and then he blew a huge case about a year ago. He hasn't won a case or even lasted more than a day in trial since then."

Why do people keep on hiring him? Phoenix shook his head. And then he breaks his 'one day' streak with Edgeworth. I can't imagine that went over well at the Prosecutors Office.

"It wasn't that bad." Edgeworth's expression didn't change. "Not as bad as the reaction to my first loss."

Phoenix desperately wondered what was taking their waiter so long.


Where were you ten minutes ago? Phoenix couldn't help but ask as the waiter made his way across the floor in their direction—clearly they didn't train their wait staff in the "law of good timing" here. At least he looked suitably apologetic.

"My treat," Phoenix said, before the waiter got there. He wasn't sure if his client would prove to be a deadbeat or not, but he was the one that had invited Edgeworth out in the first place, and it was supposed to be a celebration—which seemed to mean plundering his wallet was expected.

Edgeworth's stare was unreadable.

Their waiter finally made it over to the end of the table; he opened his mouth—no doubt to recite the specials—but Edgeworth cut him off. "Separate checks, please."

Is he doing this on purpose? Phoenix shifted irritably, but held his tongue. He wasn't about to say no to a night out where he didn't have to pay for anyone aside from himself for a change.

The waiter blinked, ducking and scratching the back of his head as the awkward silence hovering around the booth claimed another victim. "That's fine," he ventured, looking to Phoenix.

"I'll have the…" Phoenix trailed off. "This one." He pointed to his menu.

Edgeworth had no difficulty giving the name of his entrée.

Showoff.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?" The waiter seemed to have regained some of his composure now that the atmosphere had smoothed.

Edgeworth reached for the wine list. Upon reading, his eyebrow quirked in a familiar, small show of appreciation. "If you can guarantee it's from a fresh bottle, I'll take a glass of the Vin-Soulier," he said.

Phoenix reached for the list when he was done. His eyebrows raised for an entirely different reason; somehow the thought of paying more than half his entrée price for a single glass of wine didn't appeal.

"I'll… just have water."

Edgeworth glanced at him briefly. "Another glass of the same, please."

Phoenix blinked, but before he could say anything, the waiter had already nodded and bid a hasty retreat.

"I don't really know much about wine," Phoenix admitted, not wanting to fall back into the pit of quiet suppression. "But I guess that's pretty good?" If we're going by price, it must be the equivalent of fillet mignon.

"I'm more familiar with French vintages than the more local ones," Edgeworth said easily. "But wine from the same vineyard is what we usually have at our district office parties. It's very good."

My tax dollars at work, Phoenix thought. "How has it been, coming back?" he asked.

"It's about what I expected," Edgeworth said.

That's nice and vague. Phoenix didn't dare give voice to what he really wanted to ask—why Edgeworth had come back. But with the conversation going this smoothly—relatively speaking—the last thing Phoenix wanted to do was bring it to a screeching halt again. "No problems, then? That's good."

"Those that liked me still do, those that don't…well, their opinion hasn't changed either." The expression on Edgeworth's face seemed to flicker briefly; it could have been the lighting. "It's almost like I never left."

"I've heard…" Phoenix hesitated for a moment.

Edgeworth seemed to understand what he was about to say. The corner of his mouth curled in a short, mirthless grin. "The office has been having difficulties?" He paused, and suddenly something seemed to collapse within his frame. The circles under his eyes Phoenix had noticed earlier now seemed not just from lack of one night's sleep but from countless late nights. "It's a mess."

Phoenix didn't know how to respond, so he was silent.

Edgeworth continued, quietly, almost like he was talking to himself, "If I hadn't been warned…" Then, louder: "It's been hard keeping prosecutors. And the ones we do have on hand are almost uniformly inexperienced, incompetent, or both."

Phoenix nodded slowly. He hadn't thought of it much at the time, but considering the recent crop he had been dealing with while Edgeworth had been away... Say what you will about the von Karmas and Mr. Armando, at least they could get through their opening statements without hitting themselves in the face...

Edgeworth continued. "And you've probably lost count of the scandals making the news. Right now there are too many things fundamentally broken about how we're operating—we've largely lost the trust of the public, it seems."

A grimace came to Phoenix's face. That news didn't exactly surprise him.

"And yet the higher-ups would rather use propaganda to sway them instead of getting to the root of the problem." The disgust practically dripped from Edgeworth words, pulling Phoenix from his thoughts. The defense attorney had to suppress another small smile, knowing it would be taken the wrong way. Edgeworth used to get that same—Larry had called it "preachy"—edge to his tone all the time when they were children.

Propaganda, huh? In this case, Phoenix wasn't sure what he was talking about specifically, but the idea itself wasn't shocking. In other words, typical politicians.

Phoenix was about to answer when Edgeworth quickly, and clumsily, changed the subject, obviously not wanting to continue on this line of discussion himself. "What's been going on with you, Wright?"

"Uh, the usual…I guess," Phoenix said. "Taking cases and getting by. Even if things are slow, Maya always finds something or other to keep us busy." For a brief moment, he considered bringing up the particularly convoluted case his assistant managed to get them embroiled into near the end of last year-but Edgeworth seemed eager to move on from the topic of his office's troubles, so that probably wasn't the best option.

As though affirming Phoenix's decision, Edgeworth tilted his head and smirked. In a way, it was almost a relief to see. Anything was better than the weary man sitting in front of him a few moments earlier. "Yes, I did see your name in the papers a few times. You should be more appreciative of her efforts. It's thanks to them that you're becoming infamous even overseas."

He could have left it at "famous"…

Phoenix had never even been out of the state; it was strange to think of people over in Europe talking about him with Edgeworth. It was even stranger to envision Edgeworth conversing with people—his coworkers. Edgeworth didn't have much good to say about the people he worked with here; Phoenix wondered if it was different when he was overseas. Had Edgeworth been more social; did he have regular dinner dates, meet people for drinks? Did he have office friendships, smile when he talked to people instead of furrowing his brows in irritation?

It was hard to imagine. Edgeworth in any language was still Edgeworth, Phoenix decided. If things had been so much better over there, then he wouldn't be frowning across from Phoenix right now.

As long as the topic had been broached, there was one person Edgeworth had probably been in regular contact with that they both knew. "Speaking of Europe, how's—" Phoenix stopped, trying to think how he should address her. Simple was probably best, he decided. It wasn't like she was here to whip him for his disrespect. "—Franziska doing?"

"As far as I know, she's doing well," Edgeworth said.

"As far as you know?" Phoenix parroted, frowning slightly.

"I haven't seen her since I last faced her in court."

But that was a year and a half ago! Phoenix blinked. First the year in between the Engarde trial and Iris's trial, and now nearly another two years without face to face contact. He understood it was difficult to keep in touch when you lived halfway across the world, but when they were in the same general area?

But then Edgeworth's expression softened slightly. Phoenix stared, not sure he had ever seen a look of such unguarded affection on the prosecutor's face before. "She calls me whenever she wins," Edgeworth said. "Which is quite often."

"She's on another winning streak?" Phoenix asked.

"That I don't know," Edgeworth admitted, a faint hint of a wry grin tugging the corners of his mouth. "She doesn't call when she loses."

That sounds like her, all right. It was almost sweet, until he remembered that perverse von Karma pride had been responsible for whipping him unconscious at one point. Phoenix pitied the defense attorneys that had to face her after a loss.

"You two are considered quite the rivals over there," Edgeworth said.

"What?" Phoenix boggled. What exactly did those newspapers report? He knew the coverage of his cases had been wider the second year he'd been in practice, but that was just strange.

"I will admit, it's a bit surprising she didn't seek you out during the times her work carried her back to your area." The way Edgeworth folded his hands in front of his chin seemed to punctuate his light amusement. "One young woman I worked with was desperate to know when you two were going to have a rematch."

'Rematch'? They're trials, not tennis matches. Before Phoenix could respond to the first part of Edgeworth's remark, their waiter arrived with a small loaf of bread—warm, no doubt—cutting board, plates, and two glasses of water in tow. He set the spread down, glancing at their faces as he did. What he saw seemed to relieve him, because he lost some of his stiffness and ventured, "I forgot to ask, did you want your wine with the meal or right now?"

Edgeworth's eyes had narrowed slightly at the waiter's stare—Phoenix was lost as to what could possibly be annoying him this time, but with Edgeworth it didn't take much—before he shook himself out of whatever was occupying his thoughts and said, "Now is fine."

He looked to Phoenix for additional confirmation. Phoenix nodded, inwardly shrugging. Might as well leave it to the expert.

As their waiter went to get their wine, Edgeworth took the knife and sliced himself the heel of the bread. He buttered it in a quick, easy motion, then took a bite. "Nm," he considered, swallowing. "It's not bad." High praise, coming from Edgeworth.

Phoenix reached for the knife himself. With some small difficulty he managed to hack off a small slice—doing it without grasping the rest of the loaf was harder than Edgeworth made it look—and put it in his mouth.

He almost spit it back out.

Phoenix supposed sourdough bread was lost on him. If given a choice for bread with his meal, it was right down there near the bottom, alongside hardtack. As far back as he could remember he'd disliked that sour flavor and the aftertaste it left on his tongue. He took a large gulp of water, resisting the urge to swish it around in his mouth like mouthwash to get rid of the remaining traces.

But as he watched Edgeworth reach for the loaf again, knife in hand, some perverse impulse caused him to pop the rest of the piece in his mouth and chew. Edgeworth looked at him, seemingly amused.

"I see you haven't changed," Edgeworth said, pausing in buttering another slice.

Phoenix swallowed. Come to think of it, wasn't the first time I ever had sourdough bread at his house?


Phoenix couldn't remember how the Edgeworth home had looked, overall. His dim memories were of a two-story house and long hallways with wood flooring; a large, open kitchen; and a vague feeling of being impressed. It was the first time he'd ever been invited to spend the night at Edgeworth's house.

Larry was supposed to have been there too, but he hadn't been able to make it—probably grounded.

They had been up in Miles's room, playing. It was getting late when Miles suddenly turned to him and asked, "Are you getting hungry?"

"Yeah, kinda," Phoenix admitted. Truthfully, his family usually ate dinner a couple of hours previous, but he hadn't wanted to say anything.

"All right, I'll go get my dad," Miles said.

"No, that's okay! I'm not thathungry!" Phoenix protested, remembering how serious Miles had been when he'd greeted Phoenix at the door and told him that his father was working so they'd both have to be quiet. He'd somehow gotten the idea that interrupting Gregory Edgeworth was like asking a superhero to stop saving that woman in the burning building and order him a pizza instead.

But Miles shook his head. "If I don't remind him, he'll probably forget."

Forget what? To eat? Phoenix thought.

Miles stopped at the door and admitted, "I'm hungry too."

Phoenix watched from the safety of Miles's doorway as his friend padded down the hallway and rapped sharply on the door to his father's study. A few moments later, the door cracked open and out stepped Gregory Edgeworth.

He looked almost disappointingly ordinary to Phoenix, who had been expecting someone akin to Superman in a business suit. He wasn't even wearinga suit. Instead, he had on a pair of dark slacks and a white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows; he pushed one up in a distracted motion as he regarded his son.

Then he smiled. "Sorry, I must have lost track of the time."

Miles nodded sagely. "That's what I thought," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to just order something?"

"No, no," Mr. Edgeworth said. "I've been looking forward to this all day." He turned towards Phoenix.

"You must be Phoenix. I've heard a lot about you from Miles."

Phoenix walked forward. As he approached, Mr. Edgeworth held out his hand; Phoenix tentatively offered his own and Mr. Edgeworth took it firmly, like he was meeting someone important, instead of his son's nine-year-old friend.

About that time, Phoenix decided Miles's dad was pretty cool, even if he didn't look like Superman.

"All right, let's go make some spaghetti," Mr. Edgeworth said.

Phoenix followed the two of them downstairs and into the immaculate kitchen. Upon entering, Mr. Edgeworth instantly took charge. Rolling his sleeves up even further, he told Miles, "I need you to get me the ground beef and eggs out of the refrigerator."

Miles walked to the large, stainless steel monstrosity and tugged the door open. Standing on tiptoes, his fingers caught the edge of the package on the back of the top shelf and he pulled it out. In the meantime, Mr. Edgeworth had retrieved a stack of mixing bowls of varying sizes from the high cabinets running above the countertops.

Phoenix shifted from foot to foot, unsure of whether he should be helping or if he'd just be getting in the way. As if reading his thoughts, Mr. Edgeworth suddenly smiled and said, "Why don't you help Miles get the spices we need, Phoenix?"

He then recited a list; it might as well have been in Greek to Phoenix, but Miles nodded and motioned him over to the walk-in pantry, where he pulled himself up onto the shelves—Phoenix couldn't help but think his mom would have a field day with that. Bracing himself with one foot against a large bag of flour, Miles began searching through and handing down a variety of small glass bottles. Phoenix eventually gave up trying to hold them and used his shirt as a makeshift basket.

"Take those over to my dad," Miles said, as he jumped down and bent over to retrieve a heavy, long, stainless steel pot.

When Phoenix made it back to Mr. Edgeworth, he said, "Thank you. Why don't you wash your hands, and then help me roll the meatballs?"

Phoenix washed and dried his hands—too slowly for Miles, it seemed, who was waiting with the pot in tow and making impatient noises in the back of his throat. After Phoenix was done, Miles hefted the pot into the sink and turned on the faucet. Phoenix took a place to the right of Mr. Edgeworth, and, a short time later, Miles took a spot to Phoenix's right.

They rolled in silence for a few minutes, Phoenix only stopped when the raw meat grew too cold for his fingers and he had to flex them to make the feeling return. Then, Miles took a glance at Phoenix's pile.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, sounding almost personally affronted by Phoenix's inability to adhere to the proper standards of meatball rolling. At Phoenix's questioning look, Miles continued, "They have to be the same size, otherwise they won't cook evenly. That one—" he pointed to one of Phoenix's meatballs, "—and that one—" he pointed to the one beside it, "—are completely different sizes."

"Really?" Phoenix asked. They didn't look that different to him.

There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter to Phoenix's left. Mr. Edgeworth leaned down close to Phoenix and whispered, "He used to have the same problem."

That prompted a sour look from Miles, who didn't seem too thrilled at his authority being undermined—Mr. Edgeworth really did chuckle at that—but he didn't say anything to his father. Instead, he turned back to Phoenix. "Here, let me show you how to do it."

Eventually, Mr. Edgeworth left them to it and began puttering around in the background. The sound of pots sliding on to burners and things being opened and shut filled the air. Once they were done rolling, Mr. Edgeworth rescued their piles of meatballs, popped them in a skillet and the aroma of frying meat and bubbling sauce was added to the overall mixture of sight and sound.

"It'll be ready soon," Mr. Edgeworth told them, apparently amused at the pair of eager eyes perched over his shoulder, watching their combined efforts come to fruition.

When the timer went off for the spaghetti noodles, Miles motioned Phoenix over to a drawer and handed him three sets of silverware before retrieving the pasta bowls and water glasses stacked on the counter. He gathered all six of the items up, bringing them over to the kitchen table. Phoenix followed in his wake, glancing nervously at the way the glassware trembled with each step Miles took.

Once there, Phoenix got a lesson in table-setting etiquette as Miles corrected nearly everything he set.

"The fork goes on the other side," he said easily, squinting at a glass. "Dad, this one has spots, can you get me down another one?"

Phoenix's family went by the 'as long as we have utensils to eat, who cares' rule, but it was impossible to get too annoyed with Miles. It was like getting mad at a cat for being a cat.

"All right, boys, it's done," Mr. Edgeworth pronounced. "Bring your bowls over and I'll start serving."

By this point, if Phoenix thought he'd been hungry before, the time it took to prepare the food—not to mention the smell of it as it cooked—had left him starving. He heaped his plate generously, and saw Miles doing the same. They sat down at the same side of the table, across from Mr. Edgeworth, who passed out a small, individual sized loaves of warm bread before settling down himself.

He resisted the urge to forego the neatness and just bite into it, and carefully picked up his knife to try to imitate simulate Mr. Edgeworth's good manners. Not a small bit of effort—and several crumbs scattered his plate and tablemat—later, he eagerly bit into a slice—and nearly choked.

It was bitter and curdlinghe didn't even know he knew that word—in his mouth.

Maybe it's gone bad?

He glanced quickly around the table. Neither of the Edgeworths seemed to be sharing his distress; Mr. Edgeworth, in fact, was buttering his third helping by now.

He poked through the center of his slice in what he hoped was discreetly—but peering closely, he couldn't see any green flecks or other signs of mold.

When he looked back up, father and son alike had their full attention on him. Mr. Edgeworth's fork, loaded with spaghetti, was halfway to his mouth.

"S-sorry," he stammered out, dropping the damaged slice of bread as though he had been caught red-handed at a crime scene.

"It's sourdough," Miles said. "You've never had sourdough before?"

"Sour?" Phoenix blurted out. "Why would anyone want their bread to be sour?"

Mr. Edgeworth paused, with a pensive frown on his face. "Miles, could you get the other loaf from the cupboard, please?"

"All right." There was a screeching sound against the tiled floor as Miles pushed his chair back to get up.

"It's okay," Phoenix said quickly, feeling his face grow hot. "It's not that bad. I mean... it's good!"

"It's a defense attorney's job to pick out the lies from a witness," Miles said, pointing his fork in Phoenix's direction. "And," he added, as an afterthought, "You're a terrible liar."

"H-hey," Phoenix protested, weakly.

"That's a good thing," Mr. Edgeworth said. But at least, to Phoenix's relief, he was smiling again.


"I remember," Phoenix said.

"It's hard enough to forget the scowl on your face as you tried it," Edgeworth noted. "I suppose it would be worse for the one doing the scowling."

"I had a good time, though," Phoenix said. "Even washing the dishes. Your dad was really ni-"

It was like a door slamming in his face. Edgeworth's jaw set and he glared down at the remnants of his bread as though they had suddenly committed a personal affront to him by triggering an unwelcome mention of his father's memory. "…you really haven't changed," he murmured, nearly too low for Phoenix to hear.

He still hates talking about how it was back then.

An odd, icy lump formed in the back of Phoenix's throat—he wasn't sure whether he should apologize or simply change the subject, when the dark shape of the waiter swept in beside him once again, carrying two platters of food.

"Schweinsbraten?"

"Uh, here," Phoenix said. I think that was what I ordered…

"Very good, sir," the waiter said, and set it before him. He began to say the name of Edgeworth's dish, but Edgeworth cut him off with a wordless raise of his hand. A storm cloud might as well have gathered above his head, for all the pleasantness of his expression. The waiter served him his food, clearly perturbed, and quickly removed himself from the scene, leaving them to themselves once again.

The prosecutor immediately busied himself in attending to his food—Phoenix didn't even have a chance to get out his intended looks good, doesn't it?which was apparently too whole and bulky for his tastes. The cutting knife sawed mechanically into the red meat. His mouth was still drawn into a closed line.

Phoenix opened his mouth to speak, not sure of what he could say, but not wanting to leave things like this either.

"How has Maya been?" Edgeworth asked, abruptly. Phoenix lifted his head, but Edgeworth's eyes were locked on his food; he could barely make out the shape of his mouth moving along with his words. "After the incident at Hazakura...?"

"She's been good," Phoenix said. He was just glad that the silence had finally ended, and that he hadn't been the one who was forced to break it. "She was officially named Head of Kurain not long after you left again. She doesn't tell me that much about it, but it sounds like a lot of responsibility."

"I imagine it would be. She's been charged with overseeing an entire village."

I hadn't really thought of it that way, but I guess it's true. "She usually seems to be able to make time to manage the offices, though. But yeah, I don't know how she does it."

"She's always been strong," Edgeworth said. "If there's anyone I know that could handle it, it'd be her."

"Yeah…" If the Engarde trial hadn't proven her strength, the circumstances of Hazakura had. "But I guess things have been getting busier for her lately. She couldn't make it to this last trial."

"I see."

The defense attorney didn't have to be a psychic to hear the implied question in those two words. I guess it has been a little bit lonely…

Phoenix chewed quickly around a bite of meat; swallowing its mostly solid mass was slightly painful, but he was eager not to let the flow of conversation derail into awkward silence again. "Pearls has been doing really well, too. She sort of had a growth spurt the last year, you might not even recognize her..."

"Oh, yes." Edgeworth's brow furrowed and the hand maneuvering his knife paused as he visibly struggled to match the name to the memory of a face. "She was... Maya's cousin, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. Maya says she even goes up to Hazakura on her own now and then. To see her sister-Iris, I mean." Phoenix had managed to swallow two more bites before he realized he was still waiting for a response that had yet to come. He glanced upwards; Edgeworth's eyes skirted briefly across his, and the prosecutor almost looked disoriented, as though he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts to the point of forgetting that he'd been in the midst of a conversation with another person.

"Edge...?" he began, but Edgeworth had already collected himself and was speaking.

"What about you, Wright?" There was a certain heaviness to Edgeworth's words, like they were being forced out of his mouth against his own will.

"Huh? Have I been up to Hazakura?" Phoenix's strongest memories of the temple were of bitter, biting cold and a very long drop from that bridge. Even Maya's pouting hadn't convinced him to go back to try to another full course training session yet, no matter how much she insisted he'd be the 'better lawyer' for it.

"Have you been in contact with Iris?" Edgeworth's gaze remained firmly anchored to his plate as he spoke.

Phoenix nearly dropped his silverware. His tongue felt like it had somehow tied itself into knots, thick and heavy. Where did this come from all of a sudden?

"Yes, we've…been in contact," he managed. His face felt hot. "Mostly through the phone, and letters. She likes those."

Edgeworth took a long sip of wine. A trick of the light made his hand almost appear to tremble, however, when he spoke, his voice was firmer than it had been all night. "So things are going well."

Phoenix thought of that low, soft voice, close in his ear when he called her sometimes after work. So similar to the one etched in his memories, but no longer tentative, heavy with the staggering weight of guilt and secrets. And you're partially to thank for that, Edgeworth.

"Yes." He was surprised to find his lips curving into a smile. "She's doing fine."

Edgeworth stared at Phoenix with an intensity usually reserved for his witnesses on the stand before abruptly turning back to his meal. He seemed to re-absorb himself completely in the process of cutting his meat into meticulous, bite-sized pieces.

"How's your food?" Phoenix half-blurted out. Something had shifted in the air; he suddenly felt strangely light-headed and was at a loss to explain why.

"Fine."

Phoenix hesitated. Edgeworth had moved onto the vegetables; the way he set about slicing them into perfect green and yellow squares almost depressed him. "You know," he said, feeling foolish but plunging on anyway, "I've... never had this kind of thing before."

"I imagine not." Phoenix waited for the dry remark about his lack of culinary knowledge outside the wonders of fast food, but it never came. The loudest noise Edgeworth seemed willing to make was the clattering of his silverware against his plate—in fact, it was so conspicuous that he wondered if he wasn't actually doing it on purpose.

Phoenix's gaze dropped back to his own plate. He was quickly running out of meaningless questions to ask, and it was becoming very apparent that Edgeworth didn't seem to be interested in playing along regardless. That awkward sense of treading on one another's toes was gone, and in its place, a feeling of distance. Watching Edgeworth calmly dissecting his food, even though he sat not two feet away, it seemed he might as well be sitting on the other side of the restaurant.

Phoenix preferred the awkwardness, honestly.

A loud giggle skittered across Phoenix's consciousness and he turned to stare at the table across the way, where a young woman in a low cut, black ensemble cozied up to an older man that was obviously her date—or her grandfather. Has it always been this loud in here? he wondered. It didn't seem like it had; the couple hadn't been here much later than he and Edgeworth.

Their own quiet now seemed even further highlighted by the conversations seeping in around them.

"...so drunk last night, I had to drag him back to the apartment..."

"...barely made it! If we'd have arrived two minutes later, the concert would have been sold out!..."

"Come on, the show's tomorrow, you can do this… 'he claimed he wanted to cut all ties'..."

Phoenix glanced over his shoulder, trying to place the sound of the last voice. Its source seemed to be a frazzled-looking young man, ignoring his plate of cold-looking food in favor of a loose-bound book that Phoenix supposed was the script. More surprising than the sight itself was how familiar the line still was to Phoenix, and an odd nostalgia swept across him.

He realized that Edgeworth was looking at his expression, eyebrow just slightly raised. Phoenix's head swiveled fully back to where his companion was sitting.

"It's a play I knew," he explained, a heat of self-consciousness rising through his collar, "back from college..."

"Mm."

"You like plays, Edgeworth?" Phoenix asked, still feeling slightly foolish. I don't remember him feeling strongly about them one way or the other when we were kids.

"I don't know I'd say that I love them," Edgeworth said. "But I've seen my fair share. Manfred von Karma wasn't exactly an advocate of Saturday morning cartoons."

Television, men's fashion beyond the 1800's, due process of law… von Karma didn't seem like much of a fan of anything aside from his perfect record. The details of the case from—has it really been four years?-floated to the surface of his mind. And his revenge.

"I'm surprised you knew it, actually, Wright. You don't exactly strike one as the type to be interested in that kind of thing."

"It's called The Empty Room," Phoenix said. "Someone I knew treated me to a showing."

"And you went?" Edgeworth quirked an eyebrow. "I always pictured you to be more the 'glued to the couch' type on your days off."

Hey, I'm not that bad! Phoenix inwardly protested. At least I don't lounge around in pink bathrobes.

"Of course I did," Phoenix said. "He was the lead, and…it brought back good memories. He must have sent invitations out to half our old college troupe—it was almost like a class reunion."

"Class reunion? You studied theatre?" Edgeworth looked genuinely surprised. "I wouldn't have expected that from you at all."

"Oh, yeah?" There was something satisfying about catching Edgeworth off guard, somehow, even outside of court. "That was my major, actually. I was hoping to be a theatre actor, maybe in Europe or something... far-fetched dream, huh?"

"If you had asked me which I thought were more far-fetched, you as a stage actor, or you as a defense attorney..." Edgeworth trailed off. He swallowed heavily, like something too big to say had gotten stuck in his throat, as it always did when this topic was broached.

It was back. Like being plunged into a pool of water, every individual molecule of air around them abruptly grew heavier, dampening all noise.

As he watched Edgeworth choking on whatever he wanted to verbalize—Phoenix was never quite sure if it was a thank you, an apology, condemnation, or something else entirely—he suddenly felt very tired.

This evening had been a textbook example of why he usually didn't make socialization overtures towards Edgeworth. When it was just the two of them, their combined history weighed like a noose against their necks, strangling any attempts to reconnect on a comfortable, easy level. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing they had in common at all was a shared childhood, and even that was a time Edgeworth appeared more than content to forget.

"Were you in any performances?"

Phoenix looked up, startled. Edgeworth's eyes pinned his, and, for once, Phoenix was the one that broke contact first. He was sure that hadn't been what Edgeworth was trying to say, but an odd flash of vulnerability had seemed to surface on his old friend's face, before it vanished in a blink.

He's trying too, Phoenix realized.

"A…a couple. Just bit parts, though," he began. It became easier. "The director always said he didn't trust me with the leads, or any role that involved a lot of prop coordination, or... most anything that involved much other than standing there."

Edgeworth chuckled. Something around them seemed to break. To Phoenix's surprise, he felt his own laughter beginning to bubble in his chest.

"I didn't do so bad," Phoenix defended, but it was with a smile on his face. "I even have evidence."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he said. The jolt of the recollection hit him—he had actually forgotten about it up until now. "I still have an old copy of a tape someone took of one of the performances somewhere. You could check it out for yourself if wanted."

"If I wanted?" Edgeworth's eyebrow raised. "Borrow it, you mean."

"Sure," he said. "Why not?"

Edgeworth paused, then seemed to relax. The atmosphere settled down into that fragile air of familiarity.

"I see enough of you making a caricature out of yourself in court, Wright," he finally said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

You could have just said 'no thanks', Phoenix thought, but his own smile had returned.

"I'm just glad Maya hasn't found it. She does enough without having to know what I look like in costume..."

Edgeworth nodded as Phoenix continued to speak, chin resting lightly against the knuckles of his right hand. His fork lay still and motionless against the side of his plate.

This is how it should be. The thought came unbidden to his mind, but the more it lingered, the more Phoenix was certain it wasn't unwelcome.


Phoenix set his utensils on his cleaned plate. The brief clang it made against the ceramic had a distinctly satisfying ring to it.

"Are you finished?"

He nodded.

Edgeworth signaled the waiter for the checks. Edgeworth signed his without so much as a blink, but it was in Phoenix's habit to check just how much money he had managed to frivol away before signing anything.

Not crippling. He supposed, as he wrote out the check, he couldn't ask for much more.

Edgeworth retrieved his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, tucking it inside the little black folder. That's… a lot more than twenty percent, Phoenix noted, but then figured their poor waiter deserved it for putting up with the schizophrenic table for as long as he had.

They rose simultaneously from their seats.

The walk back was slower in pace, but seemed to go so much faster.

The sun had already begun to set as they left, but now it was completely dark out. In the distance, office buildings were checkered with the occasional lit floor or office. Phoenix wondered, had he not invited Edgeworth out tonight, if the prosecutor's own twelfth story office would be one of them.

Edgeworth seemed content to match Phoenix's meandering walk. Alongside them, the occasional car's headlights made the streets and surrounding buildings melt into blurs of light. They passed a couple on the way, both talking furiously and walking at a steady clip—it was only in hindsight Phoenix realized they'd been holding hands. Other than that, there was no one going or coming their way. The only other sounds were the distant screeching of horns blocks away.

Phoenix glanced over at Edgeworth, opened his mouth, then shut it. For once the quiet was comfortable instead of thick. He saw no reason to break it.

Eventually, as the courthouse loomed ahead, it seemed less like a destination and more like an end of something Phoenix didn't want to finish, not quite yet.

Instead of walking around to the front, they bypassed the façade and took a left where the sidewalk branched to the entrance of the underground lot. The attendant—it was late, this was probably the final shift—stared at them dully before going back to slowly turning the pages of his magazine.

Phoenix's shifted from one foot to the other and stole a glance into the mouth of the lot.

"Can I walk you to your car?" Right after the words left his lips, Phoenix realized they sounded a little strange.

"This isn't a date, Wright," Edgeworth replied, almost before the words were out of Phoenix's mouth. It seemed that response had been harsher than Edgeworth intended, because it was punctuated by a frustrated sigh. He continued. "Thank you, I'll manage."

Then, to Phoenix's amazement, the corners of Edgeworth's mouth lifted in a brief, but sincere smile. "It was... fun," he admitted.

Phoenix was surprised that 'fun' was a good word to describe how he felt too. And he wanted to do it again, though with hopefully less overall discomfort and more actual conversation.

As Phoenix watched Edgeworth walk away, the chill night wind tugging at his cravat, he suddenly yelled to the retreating figure, "I'll call you!"

He didn't care how it sounded.

Edgeworth paused, like the words themselves had frozen him in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder and gave a short wave, then kept on moving.

Phoenix smiled.