trace (vestiges)
"Your suit looks nice, Mr. Edgeworth, sir!" Detective Gumshoe says cheerily, his grin stretching from ear to ear despite the fatigue in the bags under his eyes. He squints against the blaring headlights illuminating the early morning, clearly still half-asleep. As he turns the car onto the highway, he murmurs, "So, big business trip, huh?"
Miles chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, anxiety welling up in his heart. He has said nothing to Detective Dick Gumshoe, his plans remaining a secret till the bitter end. The guilt in his soul is unbearable; he did not think it would have hurt this much to hold his true plans within, but he finds that it causes his heart to ache in a strange, unfamiliar way as he continues to play pretend to this idiotic man who has followed him with such brilliantly blinding faith, even in his darkest hours, that Miles has almost learned to believe in himself, too.
They rest in silence for a while, the contented, almost goofy grin upon the large, burly man's face lighting up the car. As they turn off the highway and onto the road leading to the drop-off at the main terminal, however, Gumshoe murmurs, "By the way, Mr. Edgeworth, you seem really tired today. Are you feelin' alright?"
He swallows dryly. "…I'm fine, Detective," is the succinct reply. "Just tired."
"Catching a red-eye is never fun," the other man hums in agreement.
Miles bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting the detective, for a red-eye would have left long before the dawn creeping over the horizon; instead, he sighs, massaging his temples and murmuring, "Indeed. You can drop me off out front."
As Gumshoe pulls into the roundabout drop-off zone at the main international terminal, his brow suddenly furrows. "Sir, you've got a little something," he says, pointing to his neck.
Confused, the prosecutor pulls down the mirror from the overhead shield, blanching as his eyes catch sight of the darkening purple mark left upon his neck, barely visible over the top of his otherwise-immaculate ascot. Miles had gotten dressed in the dark, too worried about waking Phoenix to actually turn on the lights as he readied himself for his departure. When did Wright-
"Didja hit yourself while you were sleeping, pal? Take care during your trip, okay?" the other man says, completely unaware of the truth behind this bruise- this hickey- bared for all to see.
Miles then flushes, clearing his throat and opening up the door. "I'll send you a message when I'm done my… business," he says quietly. "…look out for Wright for me, alright?"
Gumshoe gives him a clumsy, cramped salute in the little space he has in this tiny car. "Sir, yes sir! I'll never forget what he did for you at the end of last year, pal!"
Despite his irritation with the detective's mannerisms, he cannot help but smile and chuckle ruefully. "Alright. I'll be off."
"See you soon, sir!"
He closes the car door, ignoring the detective stepping out of the vehicle and waving to him until he is within the glass doors of the terminal. There is no reason to tell Detective Dick Gumshoe that this international job has no end date- that he is not sure when he is coming home. All he knows is that he has been kept under Manfred von Karma's shadow for so long he does not recall the light beyond it, and if he stays here… he might drag Phoenix in with him.
He wants to be a light for Phoenix. For that, he needs to grow.
When his plane lands in Frankfurt many hours later, the pages of the Steel Samurai comics he had brought with him to read secretly are damp, clinging together. He spilled his drink, he tells himself. His eyes are red only because of the long, sleepless flight, that's all. His heart only aches because of the narrative, nothing more.
…he hopes Phoenix is alright. His housekeeper has been given instructions to give Phoenix the keys to his home in the morning. One day, when he comes back to LA…
Phoenix is home, he thinks. He cannot wait to return to it.