Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright and Detective Gumshoe don't belong to me; they belong to CAPCOM. The plot, however, is mine. :^)
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A/N: This story is not connected to "All's Fair In Love And War" so to avoid confusion for those who have read that story first. :)
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The moment of truth has arrived. After three year's absence, Miles has returned to the place-and the people-he once ran from. He isn't sure how this will be received but an even bigger question looms and one that fills him with dread: how will Phoenix react and, once he learns of Miles' deception, can Phoenix forgive him?
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Chapter 12 at last! Wow; writer's block can be such a nuisance! Sorry that this is late and I hope that you will all enjoy the latest chapter! :^) Long chapter ahead! [Note: The emotional confrontation is set for chapter 13 since, when I started writing the bridge, it took off naturally in that direction so I'm going with it. Just so you know why this ends on a cliffhanger. Also, Miles' and Phoenix's inner voices are in bold text and enclosed within :, as Mercedes lackey does in her Valdemar novels when using Mind-Speech.]
I've also tried to depict what I think Miles would be going through at this point. What he did was wrong, definitely, but it makes much more sense when you look at what he, himself, is going through. [The bits about the "nightmare that he wasn't quite sure was a nightmare" and that Miles had a drinking problem in the past are taken from my AU fics, In Vino Veritas and Luctor Et Emergo, in case there were some questions about where these tidbits of information came from. :^) Also spoilers for Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney.] To be fair, Miles didn't have an easy time of it, either, but he still should have stuck with Phoenix and faced his demons head on instead of running away; there really is no excuse for that. Silly Miles... that's what happens when you try to tackle a very emotional problem yourself when you're already reeling from a number of emotional shocks... You really should learn to trust Phoenix.

On another note, the next chapter will be awhile in coming since I'm doing my beta reading myself and I tend to take forever to get it to the way I like it. Just to let you know in advance. :^)

Thanks to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

Special thanks to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Any and all comments will be appreciated and are enthusiastically welcomed! :)

Rated NC-17, male/male relationships, Phoenix & Edgeworth
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November 20th
Outside Phoenix Wright's Residence, At The Master Bedroom Window
5 A.M.

Miles Edgeworth stood outside on the lawn in the pre-dawn hours, his hand pressed forlornly against the window pane of the house's master bedroom (his former residence, in fact), his fingertips curling as he touched the glass. His eyes traveled over the familiar confines of the bedroom that he and Phoenix used to share, his heart tightening with pain as that came back forcefully to him.

:You were the one who left him,: his conscience nagged relentlessly, the corner of Miles' mouth twitching with barely concealed annoyance, :so you have no one else except yourself to blame.: The voice went silent for a moment and, before Miles could open his mouth to respond, it came back with, :You could have been inside with him now if you weren't such a coward but no. You had to run away and leave him alone, shattered and hurting.: The voice sniffed disdainfully, its words dripping with undisguised scorn and venom. :Honestly, Miles, you really are pathetic.:

Miles snapped his mouth shut, wincing painfully as the barbs hit home. He couldn't argue with the sentiment, much as he would have liked to, since it was nothing more than the plain, unvarnished truth. He had been a coward then and he had run away from everything, including his beloved Phoenix, an action he had been regretting every day for the past three years. His journey into despair had begun when he was flying back to Germany, his heart in turmoil as he thought of what he had just done. Unable to bear the tumultuous emotions released in him at the resolution of the DL-6 case, he'd written a note, packed as many of his personal items that he either needed or could carry and left that night for the airport, catching the first flight to Germany he could.

It had become apparent to him-after a horrible nightmare that he, to this day, wasn't convinced was a nightmare at all and whose memory still made him shudder-what a fool he'd been in running away instead of facing his demons head on and, in the process, abandoning the one he loved more than anyone else in the world. To his shame and despair, this realization had come too late and he'd cursed himself every day since, a fate he felt that he thoroughly, and unabashedly, deserved. He'd stopped drinking since the nightmare-he didn't know what else to call it which was all to the good, as far as he was concerned-and had struggled to put the pieces of his life back together although his courage, up until a few months ago, had begun to wane and he wasn't sure if this crazy idea would actually work.

Matters, he well knew, could not be left in this way, unfinished and tormenting him relentlessly, giving him neither respite day or night. After two years of very painful soul searching-the first year he'd been in too much psychological pain and had tried to bury his unhappiness in the bottle-he'd decided to come back to the place-and the one-he had run from. He resolved to do three things: to face his own personal demons, to try and make things right with Phoenix and to put to rest, once and for all, the ghosts of his past of DL-6. He took his time, going over the pros and cons of action vs. inaction in his mind; this was too important a decision to take lightly for it would affect the direction the rest of his life would go. It took him four months of very often painful searching but, in the end, he'd made his decision: he would go back to his home, to the place he'd once run from in order to try and make things right with those he had left behind. He didn't know exactly what would happen, if anything, but he resolved to try. it was the least he could do.

It might have taken him some time to decide in which direction to go but, once his mind was made up, he acted quickly and decisively. Late one September evening, he had put all of his affairs, both business and personal, in order before hurriedly packing and catching the next red-eye flight to the United States later that evening. As he drove to the airport, his heart was pounding with barely concealed excitement which didn't abate once he had boarded the plane. Even as the aircraft taxied down the runway, his fingers tapped nervous, staccato rhythms on the arm rest which earned him a dark look from the passenger seated beside him.

Flushing with embarrassment, Miles apologized to his seat mate and stilled his nervous digits, curling his hand into a fist and cupping his other hand tightly around it. He tried to get his whirling thoughts under some kind of conscious control but it was impossible to do; he was going home to everything he had once run from in order to try and make things right with those he had left behind. Behind the excitement there lurked an apprehension he couldn't quite get rid of. How would his friends take his return? How would Phoenix?

Once they were airborne, he settled down to the long flight and spent the next eight and a half hours sitting quietly, his thoughts tumbling over one another excitedly. He wasn't sure when his feelings took a darker turn but, near to the end of the flight, he was suddenly pummeled with a feeling of dread, anticipation warring with anxiety as to what would happen once he arrived in the US.

Now that he was back on familiar territory, he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to get back on the plane, fly back to Germany and never come back. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the very real feeling that he would be stirring up a hornet's nest and that things would go badly for him in the process. He'd shrugged off these feelings and set about re-establishing himself in California, renting a small apartment in West Los Angeles. He'd also contacted Detective Gumshoe who had greeted him enthusiastically with great joy though tinged, at least at first, with dazed confusion. Miles explained the situation to him, Gumshoe nodding in agreement and sympathetic understanding. Miles asked him to keep his return a secret for now since he would reveal himself when the time came for him to do so and this the good detective had immediately agreed to do.

Now, he fearfully wondered if that had been the right thing to do. Shouldn't he have come clean to Phoenix when he first arrived in California instead of staying hidden as he had? He knew that Gumshoe was happy to see him but...

:Well, what exactly did you expect?: the taunting, snarky voice in his head asked him, jerking Miles firmly back into the present with an unpleasant jolt. :Did you expect a warm welcome or were you expecting to see that nothing has really changed at all and that everyone that you once cared for, particularly him, has gone on with their lives and have no further need of you?:

Where that particularly noxious thought had come from exactly he was never sure but, as the days wore on and he felt his resolve to seek out his beloved slipping and unnamed terror beginning to overwhelm him yet again, he began to wonder if it would be better for all concerned if he stayed "dead."

:Perhaps... perhaps not. No matter; in the end, Miles Edgeworth, you were, and still are, a fool. Why others think of you with affection is beyond me.:

Miles winced at the harsh and unforgiving words but he couldn't deny their terrible accuracy. He had been a fool then and he readily admitted as much; after all, it had been three years since his "death" and all of the people he had once known and been close to had gone on with their lives. What purpose would it serve, could it serve, other than to soothe his own guilty conscience, to return to the place that haunted him in his nightmares and to the people he had so callously left behind in his flight?

It was a temptation that his entire being screamed out at him to partake in, his tortured mind begging him to bury these emotions once and for all, to be done with the places, and people, connected with his past and slipping silently into the shadows, never to see the daylight, or them, again.

They don't need me, he thought forlornly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, waves of recriminating self-pity sweeping over him. They don't even know that I've returned. What place do I occupy in their lives now, what am I to them except possibly a distant, painful memory best forgotten? What right do I have to burst back into their lives after all this time?

He opened his eyes, swallowing hard over the lump in his throat, sighing deeply. What right do I have to upend their lives by announcing that I was never dead but had only run away from my demons?

He knew, beyond question, what uproar would result when he revealed himself and he dreaded the reaction of Phoenix most of all. How could he possibly ever hope to repair the damage he'd done to him by his flight and disappearance all those years ago? Miles didn't know... and that, perhaps, was the worst torture that he had had to endure in his life; the pain of not knowing, thoughts of what might have been had he only had the courage to face the trauma of his past, the endless "If only's"...

Phoenix would have been right there beside him, he knew that without question but, still, when push had come to shove, he'd chosen flight over fight and abandoned the one person he loved in the world to a heartbroken and lonely life.

How, he wondered now, could he have thought for one moment that Phoenix would have forgotten him, and all the memories of their life together up until that point, and gone on with his life as if he hadn't existed? Who, exactly, was Miles trying to convince: Phoenix, or himself?

He clenched his hands into fists, recrimination washing over him in a poisonous wave. How could he ever hope to atone for that? He wasn't even sure that Phoenix could forgive him for what he'd done and wouldn't it be better for all concerned if he just stayed in the shadows, alone with his memories of happier times, atoning as best he could for the damage he'd inflicted? Maybe it would be for the best if he...

Miles bit his lip, giving his head a violent shake. I... can't do that... I... can't abandon him again! I have to make things right or at least try to; I know that Phoenix isn't going to take this well and that's an understatement if I ever heard one! He sighed with mingled unhappiness and regret as he once again stared at the ground, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. He looked up again, a painful longing racing through him as he peered through the window, watching the prone figure as he slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the large bed that seemed so big with only one person in it, soft moans slipping past tightly pressed lips. He also noted that a large handful of the comforter was squeezed tightly in his clenched fists which was another indication that all was not well with the sleeping man.

Whatever dreams he had, they weren't pleasant ones, that much was abundantly clear and Miles felt his heart constrict once again that he should be the cause of his distress, equal parts of shame and anguish filling him as he continued his lonely sentinel in the predawn darkness.

Miles slowly pressed his forehead against the chilly window pane, his left hand reaching up and pressing against the glass on the other side of his head and closed his eyes, breathing softly in and out, his breath misting the glass in front of him.

"Phoenix..." he murmured softly, feeling tears prick his eyes, his fingertips curling slowly into tight commas. "I'm so sorry that I've done this to you... I wish that I hadn't run from you or our life together; I regret it now more than you can ever know."

His jaw clenched, his mind fixed and with purpose. "I promise you, here and now, that I'm through running. I was wrong to abandon you three years ago and I've learned from my mistakes; whatever terrible memories I would have had to face, I wouldn't have had to face them alone since you were always there for me. I know, and accept, that now in a way I couldn't have then."

After a few moments, Miles lifted his head, looking at the still tossing and turning figure in the bedroom as he was assailed by nightmares, his lips twitching as a lone tear silently rolled down his face. How he longed to touch him at this moment! "I don't know if you can ever forgive me for what I've done but, if you can find it in your heart to do so, I swear I'll never leave you again, no matter what happens!"

He watched for a long time, unaware that the sun was slowly beginning to rise in the East, lost in his own memories...

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November 20th
Phoenix Wright Residence
7 A.M.

When the digital radio went off at seven o'clock sharp, it barely registered on my slowly awakening consciousness. I groaned as I turned over, pulling the brightly colored comforter over my head, trying to block out the incessant and highly irritating beeping. In vain, I might add, since I couldn't ignore the damn thing no matter how hard I tried.

I lay still for a few moments more before, with a huge sigh, I blearily stirred, my half-open eyes feeling gummy and sore. I rubbed them, half-heartedly, with my knuckles and was soon able to see slightly better than I was before and, with a quick smack, hit the snooze button on the radio before turning it off, resisting the urge to sink back down under the comforter.

I sighed with feeling. It was going to be another one of those days, I could feel it. Which, on the whole, really didn't make me feel too eager to get out of my nice warm bed in order to face another day.

If I could stay in bed all day it would be a blessing, I thought fuzzily, blinking my eyes quickly and stifling another yawn, but, as I well know, I can't do that; I have a job to do and I need to get up and get to it. I sighed with regret, looking down at my bed once more, the urge to stay home becoming almost overwhelming. Pity. I could certainly have used the day off since I really didn't have a good sleep last night but, as they say, duty calls.

With a sharp shake of my head, I took a deep breath, slowly exhaling and promptly followed by a large yawn that nearly propelled me backward onto the bed, catching myself just in time so I didn't take a tumble onto the floor. I hadn't been expecting that! With an embarrassed chuckle, I slowly sat upright once again, making sure that I had a firm grip on the bed spread and that my feet were planted firmly on the floor before I moved so I wouldn't have another near tumble.

I yawned once again a few moments later as I stood up, lifting my arms above my head and stretching briefly before I let them fall to my side, absentmindedly scratching my shoulder. I yawned once again as I turned and made my way over to the window, drawing the thick, heavy curtains to one side, parting them down the middle. I fiddled with the curtain clasps for a few minutes as I slowly and carefully drew back the thick curtain to the left, wrapping the clasp around the gathered fabric and slipping the ring over its hook, letting the fabric gather in controlled folds that hung gracefully to the floor.

I smiled, admiring my handiwork for a little bit, running my fingertips gently over the thick fabric. Who was it that had said that I was hopeless when it came to hanging floor-length drapes properly? I smiled crookedly. It was Maya, I believe, who had made the first of many and sundry running commentaries about my lack of skill in 'domestic affairs,' not that she, herself, had had much more experience than I, wishing fervently that she could have been here to witness my triumph in overcoming the dastardly drapes! I couldn't help but laugh at that and the silly mental image it conjured up in my mind which did help to repair my mood. I supposed it also didn't hurt that I was finally waking up, my first, sleepy moments being gently eased aside in favor of wakefulness.

I had reached over and was about to gather together the second set of drapes together when my hand froze in midair, my eyes widening with equal amounts of shock and fear. There were two sets of hand prints this time on the window and a larger print that I couldn't quite identify in the middle between the two. I stood stock still for many moments, frozen to the spot. How long had it been since those prints had first appeared on my bedroom window? A month, maybe more? Now they were back and with an extra one where there hadn't been one before.

My mouth dry, I slowly backed away from the window, nearly tumbling over the chair in the haste to put as much distance between myself and the window as I could. My hand shook vividly as I clutched at the back of the chair a few seconds before my legs gave out and I fell into it, my heart hammering in my chest, gasping for breath.

I thought that I was done with this... I... thought that... it was all... in my imagination... my mind chittered fearfully, my legs trembling so much that the chair vibrated noticeably on the floor, what... who...someone is watching me! Why? Why is someone watching me? Who could it be? What... who... why...? Why is someone watching me? For what purpose?

I had to get a grip on myself; I could feel my mind teetering on the brink of fear and that wasn't something that I wanted to have happen at this point in time. Something weird was going on and I had to be on the top of my game in order to figure it out.

I closed my eyes for some time, taking deep breaths and slowly exhaling. I found this to be calming and helped me to get my thoughts in order when I needed to do some serious thinking. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes and began to go over the possibilities of who it might be that had stood at my bedroom window last night. While I didn't know who exactly was watching me, the very fact of the reappearance of the hand prints on my bedroom window was enough to convince me that it wasn't my imagination at all but that I really did have someone watching me. Which brought up another question: why? I couldn't think of any reason who might be stalking me and wondered if it had anything to do with the Carstairs' murder case.

That might be it, I thought, boxing my hand underneath my chin as my heartbeat returned to normal, my eyebrows furrowing, that's the only thing it possibly could be! I looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, chewing on my lower lip thoughtfully, my mind turning over all the possibilities. There's also something else: could I have ruffled the perpetrator's feathers enough that he's coming after me, perhaps watching me to get an idea of my daily routine before he makes his move? If so, then why is he always appearing at my bedroom window? I would have thought that he would be following me everywhere I go but he never goes any further than the bedroom window. It doesn't make any sense...

There was always the possibility that there could be another person involved but that really didn't seem likely to me. The hand prints had turned up randomly and then disappeared for over a month before they returned so it didn't seem to be part of a larger plan. It could be but I really didn't think so; it just didn't have that pre-meditated feel to it and I'd been an attorney long enough to know that a gut feeling was something you didn't ignore.

So let's see: this doesn't feel pre-meditated but, rather, it feels more like a random occurrence, something that was done on the spur of the moment for some reason. I frowned. What I can't figure out is the why of it. Why did someone stand there, hands pressed up against the window? Why were they watching? And there's the question of the third print: what is it, exactly, and why did it appear this time but not the last time? I closed my eyes, uncurling my hand and lifting it to my forehead, rubbing it tiredly. Does this have something to do with the Carstairs case and, if so, what? I made a face. I can't really see this as being connected to it although it's just too random to be coincidental.

I sighed as I stood up, hurriedly drawing the right hand curtains together, tying them quickly and hooking them to the curtain ring, shaking out the creases with a trembling hand. I quickly dressed, grabbing the clothes I'd discarded the night before on the floor and hurrying out to the kitchen to get a quick bite, all the while trying not to look in the direction of the window. The prints had looked to be relatively fresh and, though I didn't care to admit it, the prints on the window shook me more that I wanted to acknowledge.

Shrugging once more, I grabbed a quick cup of coffee, drank it down without really tasting it and grabbed my briefcase, hurrying out the door and down the two blocks to the bus stop and waited, literally trembling with mingled excitement and dread. Luck was with me this morning since the bus arrived a few moments after I'd reached the stop-usually, I had to make a mad dash in order to catch it before it left-and I boarded quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. I was very glad to be going to work this morning, even if I were exhausted from my lousy night's sleep; to get out of the house for awhile and away from the mysteriously appearing hand prints was a relief and, once away from there, I could think more logically.

As I sat and watched the scenery pass by, I realized that there was something I hadn't thought of in all the excitement in discovering the hand prints on the window and it brought a deep sadness that time hadn't been able to heal: today was the third anniversary of Miles' death, the thought of which brought a stab of pain into my heart as I sat watching the world through the bus window.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. It's been three years since he's passed on; you'd think that I would have been used to it by now! I opened my eyes, a lone tear trickling down my cheek that I quickly wiped away with shaking, impatient fingers and turning away from the window to stare at the floor, hoping that no one had noticed.

It's going to be a lovely day. I can tell. I looked up at the overcast sky, my brow furrowing as sorrow and anger raced through me in equal measure. I wonder why it's always overcast on this day in particular since it always has been for the past three years. I chuckled mirthlessly, swallowing over the lump in my throat. Funny how that always happens...

The rest of the trip passed in silence, with only my gloomy thoughts and overcast skies for company.

November 20th
5 P.M.
Meadow Gardens Cemetery

It was cold and cloudy later that afternoon when I went to visit Gregory Edgeworth's grave. It was much the same as it had been when I'd visited the year earlier, the cold chilling me to the bone as I blew on my fingers, the crackling gold lamé paper sounding like a rifle shot in the perpetual stillness. I jumped at the sound, giving an embarrassed laugh as I realized that the source of the sharp, staccato sound was only the lamé that was wrapped around the bouquet of tulips I carried. I quickly opened the metal gate and stepped inside, heaving a giant sigh of relief as I did so.

It hadn't been as easy day and the walk to the flower shop was even worse than it normally was. I didn't know which bothered me more: the fact that Miles had committed suicide or the pitying looks the flower shop assistant gave me as she wrapped up my purchase. Shaking my head in an effort to clear it, I turned and walked quickly down the path cloaked by potted plants and turned to the right, heading toward Gregory Edgeworth's grave... and stopped dead in my tracks, my eyes widening in surprise.

Standing sentinel at his grave was a figure, half obscured in the gathering darkness, it's head bowed, hands clasped in front of it in a wordless gesture of respect. To my amazement, I found that there was something... familiar, somehow... in the manner in which it stood.

Memory raced through me as I recalled the only person who ever stood like that.

Miles? I felt my heart start to beat faster. Could it be...? No... it can't be but... I took another long look at the figure, biting my lip in consternation as I did so, memory after memory crashing into me. It's the only thing it could be! No one else I know stands like that!

My breath came in hard, ragged pants as I forced my barely functioning legs into a run, racing down the path, dropping the bouquet of tulips on the muddy ground sometime in my mad flight. I hoped beyond hope that the figure wouldn't leave before I had a chance to reach the grave site.

I groaned aloud as the figure turned and began to walk slowly toward the bridge and I quickened my pace exponentially, flying past the graves on both sides of me and came to a screeching halt at the base of the bridge, doubled over and panting loudly, trying to get my breath back, hoping against hope that the figure wouldn't disappear into the darkening gloom. I didn't know who this person was but I aimed to find out although I doubted that I could get a good look at him in the gloomy shroud that had settled over the cemetery. Still, I resolved to try.

At least maybe one mystery might be able to be solved...

When I straightened up, I could see the figure still standing on the bridge, looking down at the raindrops striking the water in the stream below.

"Miles...?" I said quietly, my voice full of desperate pleading, "is that... you?"

Please let it be you! It would be too cruel if this was only a phantasm in my own mind... Please let it be real; you owe me that much for all I've been through!

It seemed like an eternity before the figure sighed and lifted it's head, turning slowly to look at me. I gasped as a shaft of moonlight shone on the figure's face, its silvery rays softly illuminating the sad, rugged face of Miles Edgeworth. Time seemed to stand still as we stood there, rooted to the spot. My breath caught in my throat as we stared at each other, both of us seemingly at a loss for words. My heart pounded double time in my chest as we looked across the years, our eyes speaking volumes as they locked onto each other.

The corners of my mouth twitched as realization swept over me. He was alive. Alive and well. Which meant that...

Miles Edgeworth was alive!

He'd never been dead. He'd been alive... all this time...

The bouquet lay forgotten on the ground, rain splattering against the delicate petals, tearing them from the stems and scattering them in the mud.