While writing I had thought for some reason that Edgeworth was promoted before Turnabout Succession instead of after, but as fixing it would derail half of this, I've elected to not care.
Also I do not and will never understand how chess is played.
When he speaks to Miles, Ray often feels more like a vessel for Gregory Edgeworth than a man in his own right. The ghost lurks behind every conversation. What would he think of what his son had said? What Ray had said to his son? What they were thinking and doing and wearing and eating and what their lives had become? Gregory's voice is in his head at all times, of course, and Ray assumes the same of Miles. But when they meet…the weight of it comes down on him.
Often he prefers it to being himself. Of course he does! Ray couldn't trust a man who wouldn't.
They've met only a handful of times since the Grand Tower case. Miles has been around the world in his ravenous pursuit of justice; there's been a certain void in the defense trade that Edgeworth Law has been hard pressed to fill. But they have a moment now. Miles has come back home to become the Los Angeles Chief Prosecutor.
It's worth a word of congratulations in person.
He's shown in and Miles is at the window. The kid turns and nods politely.
"Mr. Shields."
Ray opens his arms with a grin and beckons. "Hug."
Miles has long since learned to pick his battles. He jerks his head in resigned acceptance. Ray wraps him in a bear hug and pats his back.
"Congratulations, kiddo," he says with one last hearty slap. "Doing good?"
"Very much," says Miles, with as dignified a gratitude as he can muster. Little dweeb.
"Of course, everyone could see this coming a mile away."
He's turning a little pink now in spite of his best efforts. "I'm sure that's an exaggeration. And—your office has been well?"
"As well as we can be," says Ray, which means very little. There is a zero tolerance corruption policy at Edgeworth Law. In today's courtrooms this means a low win record and difficulty finding clients. He won't lie and say he's never been tempted, and if the office was under his own name he might have stooped to playing dirty. But it isn't his honor he's working with here. The wrath of the deceased isn't something Ray wants to dick with.
Miles, of course, understands what he's getting at. It looks like he spends a second trying to think of encouragement, but gives up and just gives Ray's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.
"Who cares?" Ray says. "Change is getting close. I feel it."
He lifts the standing chessboard and carefully hauls it over between the desk and the couch without spilling the pieces. He sets it down and takes a minute to look around Room 1202. Couch still maroon, jacket still framed, bookshelf still necessitating a ladder. "The top job and they're not giving you an even bigger office?"
"I'm fond of this one," says Miles.
"I guess you prosecutors all have offices it's easy to be fond of." Ray can't imagine doing any work this way, but there's sure a hell of a view.
"If you're interested in joining us, I'd be only too happy to facilitate." To one who knows how to look for it, the amusement is clear in his tone.
Ray replies with a jovial laugh.
Miles's fussy tea service is arranged on his desk. Ray takes his proffered cup with a chuckle and a facetious pinky out. It's been a while since he had a hot drink that didn't come in a cardboard cup. The thought of Miles trying to hack it in the no-frills Edgeworth office—the fond vision Ray's quietly harbored ever since the kid turned down the position—amuses him yet again.
He takes a seat on the couch and props his ankle up on the opposite knee. He begins to straighten the red pawns. "You're blue."
This is another, even pettier, battle that Miles has learned not to pick. Couch stain prevention is not. "Please find a more stable place for your saucer," orders Miles as he looks over the blue pieces.
Ray sets down his tea on the floor instead of the cushion. "Yes sir, Chief."
Miles makes his first move. Ray leans forward, resting his chin in one hand to think. This is something he also likes about arguing the defense: reaction rather than action. "Seems like a shame, is all," he says as he plucks up a pawn. "That you're just keeping on like it's business as usual. Why don't you change up your look to celebrate? Try a new color?" Miles at least seems more inclined toward those than Gregory had ever been."Maybe a nice teal?"
"I'm content with my current wardrobe," says Miles shortly. He doesn't chat much during chess games. Ray, therefore, chats just to bother him, which Miles considers adjacent to cheating, but he's putting up with it today. Ray thinks he's become more wont to turn the other cheek with age.
"Or how about a hat? I've always thought you should get a hat."
Miles's hand drifts instinctively to smooth down his painstaking coif.
Ray laughs and draws his fingers through the matted curls at the nape of his own neck. "Of course, you've got hair that doesn't need hiding. But it's a wasted opportunity. Like your glasses." He preferred a strong, striking frame, the opposite of the unmemorable semi-rimless pair Miles had chosen.
"If you were just going to insult my dress sense," says Miles, "you were free to do that over the phone."
"Ah, but then I couldn't see your adorable face while I did."
"…If you must."
Of course he must.
"Speaking of adorable faces, how's that dashing attorney of yours?" Ray has been calling Phoenix Wright variations of this for years now. It's something of a betrayal of his mission statement, as Gregory had almost certainly been far too polite to tease, but he is in charge now and considers it his fatherly duty to indulge himself.
Miles impassively sips his tea. "He remains none of those things, Mr. Shields."
"That remains a damn shame. Check."
Miles blocks him and they play on. It takes him another minute to continue. "But, if you must know, he's…busy putting together an experiment." He nudges his rook forward. "Regarding the implementation of a jury."
Juries. Ten years ago Ray would have said involving the public was a crapshoot, and he had never been an entirely comfortable gambler. But now… The legal system is already a crapshoot, and frankly there's little that could hurt it any more. Ray raises his teacup in a toast. Miles's dashing attorney has his blessing to try anything he wants.
Your father would have liked the idea, at any rate.
"This is to be kept to yourself," says Miles, sounding faintly embarrassed at this lapse of prosecutorial discretion. "In all honesty, I shouldn't have said anything." He places a captured red piece next to the others in their neat row next to the board. "But—I value your opinion, Mr. Shields, if you have one to offer."
Ray doesn't take his eyes off the chessboard. "Knock yourselves out," he says with a noncommittal wave of his hand. "Yeah, it'll be a pain to adjust, but everything's a pain as it is. If it might help change public opinion it's worth looking into." He takes one of Miles's pawns. "Hey: Vox populi, vox dei."
"Vox populi, vox diaboli, others say," replies Miles with a quirk of his head.
Ray shrugs. "People are human, who knew? Check."
Miles blocks him a second time. They keep playing.
Eventually, Ray asks, "You been to tell your dad you got the job yet?" To the gravesite, he means.
"No."
Ray nods vaguely. It had been a silly question. Miles hasn't seemed to like talking to dead people as much as he does. "Maybe I will, then."
Miles gives a quiet, rueful snort. "Chief Prosecutor. I hope it isn't too much of an insult to his memory."
"What?"
It is obvious, of course, why this might worry Miles. What with it being as far as he could have gotten from his youthful promises. What with all the shameful rage Ray himself had built against him as a grieving child. When Miles had come to understand his mistakes, he hadn't undone them—he'd kept following the path they set him on, but with a new set of convictions. There was nothing disgraceful about that. But when laid against the unshakable morality of Gregory Edgeworth, any life looked disgraceful.
Dead or alive, Gregory's shadow is a rough place to make a living. Though Ray misses him dearly, he'll admit that.
But even in that shadow this is nothing. He shakes his head thoughtfully. "You know what? There's actually nothing better you could have done." Ray had taken on Gregory's practice, his hat, and the dispensation of his fatherly advice, but Miles has come closer than he ever will to carrying on Gregory's mission. "He could only have dreamed of a Chief Prosecutor like you. That's honoring him, kid."
In the von Karma years, justice from both sides had seemed like a pipe dream. Here in the post-Wright Dark Ages, justice at all had become a pipe dream. Though Ray had been doing his part as best he could, he was no leader. He was no Edgeworth. Miles is. If anyone can do a number on the system, it's these kids, who've done one before already.
Miles gives him the closest thing to a smile he's offered this afternoon, and bows his head respectfully. "Thank you, Mr. Shields."
Despite the deep, burning pride in his stomach, Ray gives him another shrug. "Just calling it like I see it."
They play in silence for another couple minutes before Miles breaks it again. "Checkmate."
Ray looks down at the board, and then back up to Miles, whose eyes are glittering in triumph behind his affected calm. "Well, well. So it is."
The pride crackles out of his stomach and floods into every inch of him. He sips his tea through a grin.
When he finally stands to leave, Miles allows him to give another hug. "You'll come and see Uncle Ray more often now that you're sticking around," he asks. "Right, kiddo?" He realizes as he says it how much he needs him to. Miles, after all, is a vessel when he speaks to Ray too. Though they've nothing in common but love for a dead man, it includes the vital work of keeping that love alive in each other.
"I'll see how busy they keep me," says Miles. To one who knows how to look for it, it has the sound of a yes.
Miles is fast approaching the age of his father's death. As Gregory has remained frozen in time, in memory, his son has grown up to meet him. Ray has watched their spirits fight and flutter and blur together. It's surreal to him. Back then, he'd grieved not being allowed to attend the channelling. These last few years he's been watching one in heartbreaking, heartwarming slow-motion.
He's read the police transcripts. My son—Miles! Is he okay?!
He is.
Ray pauses in the doorway to tip Gregory's careworn old hat. "Give 'em hell from us, you hear?"
Miles silently lifts a hand in reply.