Shadows Passing, Parts 1-4/20 [Phoenix/Edgeworth]
EDIT: peppereverlong did fanart of Edgeworth as described in the first part which you can find here and it is amazing and I love her forever for it. Happy happy joy joy! <333
First kink meme fic I will admit to? :D
Title: Shadows Passing
Pairing: Phoenix/Edgeworth
Rating: PG
Summary: Written for the kink meme. The prompt: Post GS3 (like way after), Phoenix and Edgeworth meet up with each other (possibly in a new workplace or something), but neither of them recognize each other, and they don't talk so they never get the other's name. After a short while, the two of them fall for each other but don't want to admit it because each still feels dedicated to his old lover. Eventually one caves and so on...
Author's Notes: This is a bit of a long read, with twenty parts and over 22,000 words, so... yeah, just warning you. Finding a reason as to why they wouldn't recognize each other was extremely difficult and ends up being the crux of the story. Also, I got a lot of inspiration from the movie Memento; if you haven't seen it, basically there's a color sequence and a black-and-white sequence that alternate throughout the movie. One sequence goes forward in time while the other goes backwards. Keep that in mind for the flashbacks. 1-4 spoilers; disregards the events of Apollo Justice.
FF.N Link (if you are so inclined): http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4184728/1/Shadows_Passing
Parts 1-4 | Parts 5-8 | Parts 9-12 | Parts 13-16 | Parts 17-20
Edgeworth, Part 1
The café is miles away from the school, but it’s the only place he can find that sells bubble tea, and even though he knows that it’s unhealthy, he cannot help but indulge himself. After all, he has found precious few things that have comforted him in the past three years.
He tells the woman at the counter his order, then sits down at a booth, his hand reaching up automatically to adjust his cravat as he does so. There is nothing there, of course, but the collar of his black button-down: three years, he thinks to himself, and he still hasn’t broken the habit. When will he finally accept it? Gone are the cravats, the magenta suits. Gone are his days as a prosecutor.
And gone are his nights with Phoenix Wright.
He trembles as he sets his briefcase on the table and opens it. Another habit he cannot break-thinking about the past.
Foolish, he tells himself angrily. But even that word brings back memories.
Before he can lose himself in his thoughts again, he takes out a stack of papers and begins to look them over, casually making marks with a red pen as he does so. A waitress comes with his bubble tea. He takes it from her, thanks her. The idea of a grown man drinking something from a straw has always embarrassed him, but as he sits here, chewing on the tapioca, he finds himself not really caring. The minutes pass by as he goes through the papers, flicking an elegant X across any wrong answer he sees.
Half-an-hour later, grading quizzes on American bureaucracy is as boring as ever, and to his dismay, he finds his mind drifting. No, focus, look at the paper.
The Pendleton Act of 1883 was instated because…
It’s no good. The question does absolutely nothing to hold his interest.
He remembers everything.
-
“My head hurts,” Wright said, tossing a case file onto the desk. “That witness testimony made no sense. I feel like I’m getting dumber every time I read it.”
Edgeworth smirked at him. “And we can’t afford to let that happen.”
“Ouch,” the other replied, but he was smiling. “Anyway, I’m going to take a nap. I’m exhausted. Don’t steal anything.” He collapsed onto the couch, eyes closed.
The prosecutor picked up the file Wright had dropped and looked at it. He was right; in addition to the numerous contradictions, there seemed to be random mentions of various supernatural events-perhaps the witness was high? He placed the report back on the desk before turning to look at the sleeping man. Funny how he could look even more innocent like this, when he was already wore his heart on his sleeve.
He listened to the sounds of Wright’s breathing: slow and even. He had already fallen asleep. On a whim, he decided to approach him, to kneel down by the couch and gently take one of his hands.
There was so much to say to him, but he could never find the words.
“Wright,” he whispered, so softly it was nothing more than a breath. And then he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead.
To his surprise, there was something holding him when he was done: Wright was now gripping his hand in return.
“I’m sorry,” Edgeworth blurted out, losing his composure as blue eyes flickered open to meet gray ones. “I-I just-”
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, and before he knew it, Wright’s other hand was on his neck, pulling him closer.
And when he put it that way, he couldn’t be.
---
Phoenix, Part 1
He is a drifter.
But he doesn’t know how he became one. All he has are a throbbing head, covered now by a blue beanie and a pair of sunglasses, the clothes he’s wearing, and two pieces of paper. One has a single sentence written on it in a handwriting that is not his own. The other is messy, ink-stained, worn. The only thing that has not been crossed out on it is “He’s in D.C.”
And so this is where he finds himself. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now, though. He parks the car in a place where it’s bound to get towed-it’s pretty battered and nearly undrivable by now, and since he doesn’t have a driver’s license on him, he figures that he should probably avoid being seen driving it. In any case, he’s in the capital, so maybe his journey is almost ended. Maybe he’ll find the man he’s looking for. But there is so little to go on.
He takes out the first sheet of paper and looks at it.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.
There is an eerie familiarity about the statement, but he cannot put his finger on it. Not that he can put his finger on very much at the moment, not even his own name. Ridiculous.
His memory has been coming back, though. Very slowly, just a little bit at a time, and only recent things-what he ate for dinner yesterday, how the car made a strange wheezing noise as he set out the next morning. But it’s frustrating like nothing he’s experienced before. Time, he thinks. Give it time.
But how long has he been searching? How long does he have left?
He realizes that he has been wandering the city aimlessly as his thoughts clatter around his head and finds himself in front of a small café. Well, he’s thirsty, so he might as well go in. He makes his way to the far corner of the room, aware of the attention he’s attracting, what with the sunglasses indoors and all, but it doesn’t matter to him. All he can really do is find a seat and put his head in his hands, wondering what is wrong with him.
He remembers nothing.
-
The dim lighting of the store was a welcome relief from the glare of the sun, but it was still entirely too bright for him. He looked around, unsure of what he had come in for, then remembered. There had been blood on the back of his head. He had to cover it up before anyone noticed.
There was a display of beanies near the counter, with most of them featuring touristy slogans such as “Virginia is for lovers”-not quite what he wanted, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He chose a blue one, feeling himself drawn to the color, then, as an afterthought, selected a pair of sunglasses as well. Maybe they would help make the brightness more tolerable.
He paid in cash and slipped on both the beanie and the sunglasses as he stepped outside. The sunlight made him flinch, but at least he wasn’t getting dizzy anymore.
“Red car,” he mumbled to himself as his eyes flicked around the parking lot. There it was. It looked like it had once been very nice and very expensive, maybe the type someone would have driven around in just to show it off, but now the bumper was missing and there were dents and scratches everywhere. God, what had happened?
It didn’t matter, he supposed. If he was in Virginia, as his beanie seemed to indicate, then he was close.
He brought out the two sheets of paper in his pocket as he slid into the front seat.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.
He’s in D.C.
He wasn’t sure what this meant. Who was in D.C.? Was it Miles Edgeworth? But apparently Miles Edgeworth was dead, whoever he was. What if the two notes weren’t even connected?
There was nothing he could do, he figured, but to go there and find out for himself. It wasn’t as if he could go home, anyway-he didn’t remember where home was. He didn’t remember who he was.
He caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror as he pulled out, recoiling a little at how unfamiliar his reflection looked. Blue beanie, sunglasses, stubble on his face. Somehow he had the feeling that he had never quite looked like that before.
The steering wheel shook slightly as he lifted one hand to touch his cheek. Coupled with the uneasy lurch his stomach had given when he had turned on the engine, he couldn’t help but think that something was terribly amiss.
Well, of course, he told himself. A man with memory problems and driving issues was searching for some other man whose name may or may not be Miles Edgeworth. There were so many things wrong with that picture that he couldn’t even begin to explain.
He closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out, feeling the miles fly away beneath the wheels. If he ever found this other man, he was sure he would have all the answers. Maybe. Maybe.
The car continued to pelt down I-66, and before long, the highway had disappeared behind him and he was driving down Constitution Avenue. The Washington Monument loomed in the distance.
Here he was. Somehow, in the capital of the nation, he would find him. And then his life would return to normal.
Maybe. Maybe.
---
Edgeworth, Part 2
He glances up, along with everyone else, when the man with the beanie and the sunglasses walks into the café. He continues to stare when the man slouches down at a table in a corner of the room, looking-sad? Angry? It’s hard to tell when the sunglasses are still on him. Strange, wearing those indoors.
The two other people in the café have since lost interest in the newcomer, but he finds himself unable to look away. There is something about the man that holds his gaze. Maybe it’s the sunglasses. Maybe it’s the beanie. Maybe it’s something else. In any case, he finds himself realizing that I must talk to him.
His eyes dart back and forth between the man and the quizzes he’s grading, trying to seem inconspicuous but probably failing. The man, he notices, is now feeling the fabric of his hat thoughtfully, as if he has just come to some sort of realization about it. Every move he makes is enthralling. He wonders why he can’t look away.
And then he knows. It is because this man looks to be as broken as he is, and he finds himself drawn to the pain he is practically radiating. Certainly an excellent reason to be interested in someone.
Nevertheless, it’s been a long time since he’s talked to another person openly. Three years, in fact. Now is probably a good time to change that.
“I’ll take his tab,” he says to one of the waitresses, pointing at the man, who looks up, surprised.
He smiles at him.
The man smiles back.
A flurry of raised eyebrows and hand motions passes between the two, and then the man walks meekly over to his table. “Hi,” he begins, and for some reason his voice brings a lump to his throat. It just sounds so… familiar somehow. “I couldn’t help but notice you offered to pay my bill. Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” he answers. “You seemed like you-you needed it.” He sticks out one hand. “Evan Morgan.” The name slides out easily now, but as he’s had three years to stop tripping over Miles Edgeworth, it’s not a surprise.
The other man accepts, but he looks somewhat hesitant. “Beckett,” he says finally. Edgeworth’s knee jerks a little as he realizes that for some reason, he was expecting the man to answer with Phoenix Wright. But that is impossible. Phoenix is in California. Phoenix thinks he is dead. Phoenix hates him.
He realizes that the two of them have been idly shaking hands for several seconds now. “No first name?” he replies at last, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
“Ah-I’m like Cher, I guess. Just the other way around.”
And so they begin to talk. Edgeworth tells him about his job as a government teacher at the local high school, his interest in law, the walks he takes around the National Mall when the weather is nice. Beckett is amiable with his replies, but he has little to offer himself-he’s not from around here, but he plans to stay for a while; he wears sunglasses indoors because he is sensitive to light. Neither talks about his past. Edgeworth is curious, because he wants to know more about why the man seems as broken as he did while sitting alone at the other table, but he doesn’t press. After all, he himself is not willing to divulge his own history.
There is a certain amount of comfort Edgeworth takes from the conversation. It’s a slight change from the discussions he would have with Wright-the other man was more talkative, more willing to fill in the silences. It’s the other way around now, but he finds that he doesn’t mind so much; their conversation flows so easily that it almost seem as though he were talking to an old friend.
Like Phoenix, he keeps on thinking, but he cannot allow himself to dwell on that. Besides, Phoenix would have recognized him, fake name or not. This man doesn’t.
An hour slides by, then another. He remembers that he needs to plan the syllabus for his next class. “I’ll be here at the same time tomorrow,” he tells Beckett. “I-I hope you will be as well.”
Beckett nods and pulls out a piece of paper that’s nearly covered with scribbles of black ink. “I’ll see you then,” he says. “Thank you again.” And he leaves.
Edgeworth feels a pang of guilt as he hears the door shut. This is it, then. He’s finally moved on. He’s finally maybe found someone to fill in the hole Phoenix left behind.
But does it really count when this other someone is so much like Phoenix himself?
-
He had been living in paradise for six months. Wright was extremely blunt about it after that kiss-“I think we should start dating”-and so they had.
He had, to his surprise, no regrets, not even when Maya had found out and made a big fuss about it, or when the tabloids had created a minor stir by writing about the “Romeo and Juliet” of lawyers. Just which one of them was Juliet, anyway?
But then the letter came.
There was a return address, but he recognized it as the burned-down electronics store a few blocks away, so he knew it was fake. A hate letter, maybe. He had certainly put enough people away to warrant one.
If only it were a hate letter.
One sentence, but it sent shivers down his spine: You seem to have gotten quite friendly with Phoenix Wright.
He couldn’t explain why it made his fingers tremble or his stomach churn. This was common knowledge, after all. Edgeworth and Wright, gay lawyers extraordinaire. But there was something sinister about it, something dangerous.
It was still in his hands when Wright opened the door, a bag of something under one arm. “I brought dinner,” he announced cheerfully. “I know you were busy today, so I thought I would drop by with something. What are you looking at?”
Edgeworth quickly folded the note and tossed it carelessly aside. “Just junk mail. Thank you, Wright.”
Wright paused, as if sensing that something was wrong-had the Psycholocks appeared?-but he was courteous enough to let it go.
And as they bantered over the dinner table that night, discussing philosophy and the Steel Samurai and God-knows-what, Edgeworth kept on chanting the same thing in his head, over and over again: it meant nothing. It meant nothing. It meant nothing.
It meant something.
---
Phoenix, Part 2
The sudden recollection sends his mind reeling. Will it be like this every time another bit of his past reveals itself to him? It’s better, he supposes, to have these flashbulb memories blind him temporarily than to not have them exist at all.
He lifts his head from the table and touches the back of it gingerly with one hand. So he had been bleeding there for some reason. That would explain the hat. The glasses he’s not so sure about, but if they’re a new purchase, then it would seem as though his light sensitivity is recent. Strange.
Not quite as strange as the man who keeps on glancing at him, though. It’s impossible to tell his age-his face looks young, but his hair is silver and there is a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Probably surprised that there’s a hobo in his café, he thinks, and is surprised by the bitterness of his thoughts. He ignores him.
That becomes impossible when he hears the other man offer to pay his bill. He stares at him, confused; the feeling is only intensified when he receives a warm smile. But there is something so earnest in the man’s face that he cannot help but smile in return. And not just earnestness, either-there seems to be need.
He can’t imagine why this man would give him a look like that. But there’s only one way to find out. “Hi,” he says as he approaches his table. “I couldn’t help but notice you offered to pay my bill. Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” the other replies, and his voice is low and compelling. “You seemed like you-you needed it.”
Not surprising, since he probably seemed pretty miserable while sitting there with his head in his hands. Oh, and he looks like a hobo, too.
The man is now introducing himself as Evan Morgan, and he realizes with a flutter of panic that he doesn’t have a name, but he needs one right now unless he wants the other to get suspicious. Think, he tells himself as he accepts Evan’s hand. For some reason, the names of playwrights and authors parade through his mind-whoever he is, at least he’s well-read. “Beckett,” he blurts out at last: one of the most famous writers for the theatre of the absurd. He’ll be damned if his life isn’t unfolding like some sort of absurdist play right now.
He feels the other man’s grip tighten. Is it really that bad of a name choice?
No, Evan is smiling. “No first name?”
He can’t be assed to think of one in time; and he is already becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of going by something he thought up in about eight seconds. He knows he has a name. He wants people to call him by it. All he has to do is to remember it first. This temporary one will work; it’s just a half-name. Not the real thing. This isn’t who he is. It’s okay for now. “Ah-I’m like Cher, I guess. Just the other way around.”
From there, conversation flows easily. He learns that Evan is a government teacher with an interest in law, and though he doesn’t let it show, he realizes upon hearing the other’s words that lurking in his brain with the names of authors and playwrights are famous court cases as well. Knowing he has this information for some reason almost makes him laugh.
He wants to tell him a little about himself, but it’s hard, considering there’s almost nothing to go on, and at this point, he is wary of letting slip his memory problem or his mission here. So he offers what he can. When Evan asks him why he doesn’t go to a doctor about his eyesight, he replies that it’s just a temporary thing. Or so I hope.
Something in the back of his mind whispers that he shouldn’t dawdle, that he should continue with his search. But it’s not like he really can, can he? He’s already in D.C., and unless he wants to ask random people if they know a Miles Edgeworth, there is nothing he can do but wait for himself to recover his memories.
Besides, it’s good to have a friend in the meantime.
Before he knows it, the sky is dark and Evan is muttering something about planning his next class. They arrange to meet here again tomorrow; he writes it down on his second sheet of paper to make sure he remembers-he is fairly certain now that he can keep any new memories he forms, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. “Thank you again,” he tells him, and means it. And then he leaves.
He wanders the streets for a while before stopping in front of a seedy-looking motel and checking himself in for a month. He has no idea how long he’s going to stay, but he figures it’s probably going to be for a while, especially because he has no car anymore-and of course, the rate is cheaper this way. The wad of cash in his back pocket is still thick, but it needs to last.
The bed is comfortable as he collapses onto it, and he idly wonders if he’s spent the past several days sleeping in the car. Absurd, absurd, absurd.
He closes his eyes, pushes thoughts of Evan away, and tries to remember a little more.
-
God, his head hurt. Why was everything so bright?
He opened his eyes tentatively, shielding them from the rays of sunlight filtering into the car with one hand, and couldn’t believe what he saw.
There was a tree right in front of him.
“Shit,” he muttered, realizing now what had just happened. He’d driven into a damn tree. His hands flew over his arms and legs, making sure they were okay. At least he was still in one piece.
Except, perhaps, for his head, which seemed to be throbbing for more reasons than one. The brightness of the light was making him dizzy, and…
He looked at his hand, which had been feeling the back of his skull. There was a light coating of blood on his fingertips. Well, that was great. Just great. It didn’t seem too bad, though; there hadn’t been that much of it.
He checked himself out in the rearview mirror, squinting in the hopes of keeping the sun out of his eyes. His hair was matted and dark, so the blood wasn’t too visible, but he’d have to get a hat or something to cover it up since he didn’t want anyone to possibly notice it and ask questions. A quick check of his pockets revealed that there was no ID on him, so he couldn’t very well go to a hospital.
And there was more than ID missing, he realized suddenly.
He couldn’t remember who he was or why he was here.
Good job, driving into a tree and messing with your head. Idiot.
He looked at what he did have in his pockets, praying that something in there would give him a clue. There was only one thing, scribbled messily on a sheet of paper, which seemed even remotely helpful: He’s in D.C. It was underlined and circled multiple times, so it must have been important.
D.C. it was, then.
Of course, he needed to make sure the car was still drivable. He stumbled out of it, cursing the sun and his own clumsiness as he did so, and surveyed it from a distance. It certainly looked… worn. There were scratches everywhere, which told him this wasn’t the first time he’d run into vehicle-related mishaps, and the bumper was now lying on the ground. He decided he would ditch the car as soon as he reached his destination. He had no idea where he was right now, but maybe if he kept on following the road he’d get onto a main highway and go from there.
“Okay. Okay,” he repeated to himself as he got back in. He had a purpose. He had a means, to a certain extent. First, a store where he could get a hat. Then D.C. Then… que sera sera.
He drove off into the sunset.
---
Parts 1-4 | Parts 5-8 | Parts 9-12 | Parts 13-16 | Parts 17-20