[Fic - P/E]
Feb. 3rd, 2008 11:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwyneddTitle: To Each A Time, Or; 33 Manifesto
Rating: PG, though I wish I could give this a higher rating just for the angst :/
Characters: Edgeworth, Phoenix, Trucy cameo
Warnings: Angst. Loads of it. GS4 Spoilers as well.
Long-winded and rather pointless A/N: I suppose there is a time in ever authors career/life when they write something they can be truly and utterly proud of. This fic is my time. I've nitpicked every single detail, every word, every idea in this until it worked right, and god damn, but I'm proud of it - though truth be told, it never would have gotten this far without my wonderful hivemind beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nebulaqueen. She owns a lot of the details here.
I'm releasing this before GS4, just because it would break my heart if I had to re-write it to better fit with canon (because I'm a stickler for that). So, basically, this is my head-canon manifesto of E/P, before and after.
On the top shelf of Edgeworth's bookcase is a box with all the letters Phoenix ever sent him, unopened. He didn't look at them until after his trial, when the writhing emotions were still raw within him and his entire past had been shattered but for those small slips of paper.
Ever since the mock court in 4th grade, Phoenix has been afraid of crowds. Not like Miles is of elevators, of course, but they make him feel clammy and trapped all the same.
The letters are a raft, and it is only through them that Miles stays afloat. Wright gave him all the answers years ago.
In court, where Phoenix is matched word for objection for turnabout, he feels reduced to hands and eyes and voice, and the only thing in the room that ever seems remotely real is Edgeworth. His universe becomes naught but a condescending stare and the unstoppable will behind it.
Edgeworth has never had any interest in people as more than acquaintances. Until Wright, he was contentedly asexual. Phoenix is once again the exception to how he defines himself, and that terrifies him as much as elevators, as guns, as that scream.
One day, Miles wakes up and realizes he is everything Von Karma called foolish and weak. He looks down at his shaking hands, incredulous, and feels proud of himself for the first time since DL-6.
Gradually, elevators don't seem so frightening anymore.
Edgeworth knows Wright has changed him for the better and saved him from self-destruction. There is ever a small part of him that wishes to weep in gratitude, but it is erased by his renewed determination to fight ever on. Miles' thanks is mirroring Phoenix's damnable persistence for the truth. It's the least, the most he can do.
Dahlia taught Phoenix the dangers of naiveté and blind devotion. Every time he trusts his gut instinct, her voice whispers dissension in his ear.
She is always quiet when he thinks of Miles.
Phoenix can't help but get nervous in the push of people after court is over, but Edgeworth will discreetly stand beside him. Their shoulders brush and Nick grabs his hand instinctively, glad for its solid warmth. He breathes.
Europe was not an escape – it was a landscape unmarred by the doubts that so pervaded him back home. He stayed until he was strong enough to return.
Edgeworth trusts Wright beyond a shadow of a doubt. He doesn't trust himself, though, to always think rationally and or control these unfamiliar impulses. He is so very frightened of hurting Phoenix.
Endlessly, Phoenix is amazed by the dualities in Edgeworth – his hair is gray and his face lined, but when he truly smiles, his expression radiates a primal and uncertain joy. It is as though he cannot cope with its brilliance.
After Wright disappears, Miles moves back to Europe indefinitely. His eyes are sick with grief.
Phoenix feels two-dimensional and shallow whenever they speak seriously. He sees Miles as composed of infinite layers, each perfect in its delicacy. Every time one peels away, the scars upon them lessen and fade. Edgeworth grows more pure and whole and Nick is terrified of falling behind.
Phoenix has a quiet confidence in himself that he doesn't recognize. Edgeworth sees it, and knows he would be lost without it there to buoy him up.
The worst part of it all is in the moments before he fully wakes up. He wonders why the bed is empty, then curses himself for remembering. The ache is almost unbearable.
Edgeworth wrote him twelve letters, spaced over two years. Phoenix opened only the first and wept, then shoved the others away as soon as they arrived and tried to avoid the searing pain each one brought him.
Miles is both proud and cowardly; scared and resilient. Three years after, when his presumptuous hope finally wears out, he thinks once of ending himself, but disregards it immediately – the determination Wright fostered in him burns even now, driving him endlessly. It never allows him to give up, never lets him rest.
For in rest comes the quiet moments where he thinks of what is and what was. His face ages years in a month and the days blend together in a listless haze, but he remains to watch their passing.
Not a day goes by that Phoenix doesn't think of calling Edgeworth or regret abandoning him. He feels like he has abandoned himself as well, but his shame is too great to confront so proud and untouched a man as Miles.
During one of her cleaning sprees, Trucy finds the letters. She reads only the first and says nothing, merely looking up at her Papa with a gaze that is empathetic and frighteningly mature. Phoenix feels his resolve, his facade, shatter. He stands before her smiling, utterly helpless, perplexed at the small, wet, droplets dotting his daughters' lap below.
In early November, Miles sees an ominous blinking on the answering machine. The voice is deeper than he remembers, thicker - he can hear stubble and an empty bottle of bourbon. None of the words make any sense.
Not that sense had ever mattered when Wright was involved.
“I forgot what you look like. I woke up this morning and couldn't see your face anymore and I thought- I knew I was drowning.” (A shaky sigh) “Oh, God, I was- it was so much worse than that letter. Edg- Miles....I'm” (Phoenix's thoughts race audibly. Their sounds come through as a hitched breath, a scrape of teeth against dry lips) “ready. I finally understand. I'm so utterly stupid, so lost. You gave me the answers years ago. You've always known what to do, how to cope. You were always the stronger one always always always always always-” (Wright's voice dissolves into harsh mutterings that crackle through the phone like static.)
Edgeworth listens to it again. And again. And again. He can't hear anything.
///
They look at each other cautiously, fearing it is another dream, another nightmare that won't hurt until they wake and realize why. The airport swirls around them, hazy, dissatisfied, abridged.
Nothing about him is the same, but then their gazes meet for the first time in years and he knows.
Phoenix is nigh unrecognizable, with that stupid hat and the young girl standing inexplicably beside him. Instantly, Edgeworth understands she is what grounds him, what stops him from disappearing again.
Miles is thinner, his face drawn. Except for the glasses, he looks like a Hellenistic sculpture; exquisite, beautiful, sorrowful, real.
There is a scar on Wright's jaw that Edgeworth does not know - he wants to touch it, to learn it, to feel the familiar forgotten crackle of unshaven skin beneath his fingers.
He moves towards the stranger with Phoenix's eyes and his steps seem to shake the earth beneath them. Everything else melts away.
Rating: PG, though I wish I could give this a higher rating just for the angst :/
Characters: Edgeworth, Phoenix, Trucy cameo
Warnings: Angst. Loads of it. GS4 Spoilers as well.
Long-winded and rather pointless A/N: I suppose there is a time in ever authors career/life when they write something they can be truly and utterly proud of. This fic is my time. I've nitpicked every single detail, every word, every idea in this until it worked right, and god damn, but I'm proud of it - though truth be told, it never would have gotten this far without my wonderful hivemind beta
nebulaqueen. She owns a lot of the details here.I'm releasing this before GS4, just because it would break my heart if I had to re-write it to better fit with canon (because I'm a stickler for that). So, basically, this is my head-canon manifesto of E/P, before and after.
On the top shelf of Edgeworth's bookcase is a box with all the letters Phoenix ever sent him, unopened. He didn't look at them until after his trial, when the writhing emotions were still raw within him and his entire past had been shattered but for those small slips of paper.
Ever since the mock court in 4th grade, Phoenix has been afraid of crowds. Not like Miles is of elevators, of course, but they make him feel clammy and trapped all the same.
The letters are a raft, and it is only through them that Miles stays afloat. Wright gave him all the answers years ago.
In court, where Phoenix is matched word for objection for turnabout, he feels reduced to hands and eyes and voice, and the only thing in the room that ever seems remotely real is Edgeworth. His universe becomes naught but a condescending stare and the unstoppable will behind it.
Edgeworth has never had any interest in people as more than acquaintances. Until Wright, he was contentedly asexual. Phoenix is once again the exception to how he defines himself, and that terrifies him as much as elevators, as guns, as that scream.
One day, Miles wakes up and realizes he is everything Von Karma called foolish and weak. He looks down at his shaking hands, incredulous, and feels proud of himself for the first time since DL-6.
Gradually, elevators don't seem so frightening anymore.
Edgeworth knows Wright has changed him for the better and saved him from self-destruction. There is ever a small part of him that wishes to weep in gratitude, but it is erased by his renewed determination to fight ever on. Miles' thanks is mirroring Phoenix's damnable persistence for the truth. It's the least, the most he can do.
Dahlia taught Phoenix the dangers of naiveté and blind devotion. Every time he trusts his gut instinct, her voice whispers dissension in his ear.
She is always quiet when he thinks of Miles.
Phoenix can't help but get nervous in the push of people after court is over, but Edgeworth will discreetly stand beside him. Their shoulders brush and Nick grabs his hand instinctively, glad for its solid warmth. He breathes.
Europe was not an escape – it was a landscape unmarred by the doubts that so pervaded him back home. He stayed until he was strong enough to return.
Edgeworth trusts Wright beyond a shadow of a doubt. He doesn't trust himself, though, to always think rationally and or control these unfamiliar impulses. He is so very frightened of hurting Phoenix.
Endlessly, Phoenix is amazed by the dualities in Edgeworth – his hair is gray and his face lined, but when he truly smiles, his expression radiates a primal and uncertain joy. It is as though he cannot cope with its brilliance.
After Wright disappears, Miles moves back to Europe indefinitely. His eyes are sick with grief.
Phoenix feels two-dimensional and shallow whenever they speak seriously. He sees Miles as composed of infinite layers, each perfect in its delicacy. Every time one peels away, the scars upon them lessen and fade. Edgeworth grows more pure and whole and Nick is terrified of falling behind.
Phoenix has a quiet confidence in himself that he doesn't recognize. Edgeworth sees it, and knows he would be lost without it there to buoy him up.
The worst part of it all is in the moments before he fully wakes up. He wonders why the bed is empty, then curses himself for remembering. The ache is almost unbearable.
Edgeworth wrote him twelve letters, spaced over two years. Phoenix opened only the first and wept, then shoved the others away as soon as they arrived and tried to avoid the searing pain each one brought him.
Miles is both proud and cowardly; scared and resilient. Three years after, when his presumptuous hope finally wears out, he thinks once of ending himself, but disregards it immediately – the determination Wright fostered in him burns even now, driving him endlessly. It never allows him to give up, never lets him rest.
For in rest comes the quiet moments where he thinks of what is and what was. His face ages years in a month and the days blend together in a listless haze, but he remains to watch their passing.
Not a day goes by that Phoenix doesn't think of calling Edgeworth or regret abandoning him. He feels like he has abandoned himself as well, but his shame is too great to confront so proud and untouched a man as Miles.
During one of her cleaning sprees, Trucy finds the letters. She reads only the first and says nothing, merely looking up at her Papa with a gaze that is empathetic and frighteningly mature. Phoenix feels his resolve, his facade, shatter. He stands before her smiling, utterly helpless, perplexed at the small, wet, droplets dotting his daughters' lap below.
In early November, Miles sees an ominous blinking on the answering machine. The voice is deeper than he remembers, thicker - he can hear stubble and an empty bottle of bourbon. None of the words make any sense.
Not that sense had ever mattered when Wright was involved.
“I forgot what you look like. I woke up this morning and couldn't see your face anymore and I thought- I knew I was drowning.” (A shaky sigh) “Oh, God, I was- it was so much worse than that letter. Edg- Miles....I'm” (Phoenix's thoughts race audibly. Their sounds come through as a hitched breath, a scrape of teeth against dry lips) “ready. I finally understand. I'm so utterly stupid, so lost. You gave me the answers years ago. You've always known what to do, how to cope. You were always the stronger one always always always always always-” (Wright's voice dissolves into harsh mutterings that crackle through the phone like static.)
Edgeworth listens to it again. And again. And again. He can't hear anything.
///
They look at each other cautiously, fearing it is another dream, another nightmare that won't hurt until they wake and realize why. The airport swirls around them, hazy, dissatisfied, abridged.
Nothing about him is the same, but then their gazes meet for the first time in years and he knows.
Phoenix is nigh unrecognizable, with that stupid hat and the young girl standing inexplicably beside him. Instantly, Edgeworth understands she is what grounds him, what stops him from disappearing again.
Miles is thinner, his face drawn. Except for the glasses, he looks like a Hellenistic sculpture; exquisite, beautiful, sorrowful, real.
There is a scar on Wright's jaw that Edgeworth does not know - he wants to touch it, to learn it, to feel the familiar forgotten crackle of unshaven skin beneath his fingers.
He moves towards the stranger with Phoenix's eyes and his steps seem to shake the earth beneath them. Everything else melts away.
