#forgive me for taking liberties i kno the restraining bolt trope isn't supposed to Be Like This

[krisseycrystal]

rated: g+

fandom: Ace Attorney

prompt: “Restraining Bolt” + Wrightworth

requested by: @moominquartz (& myself)

sooo “Case 2-4: Farewell My Turnabout” absolutely slaps?? when was somebody gonna tell me? luckily, my husband, who has been playing through the original AA trilogy with me, has a giant-ass brain and so we figured out what to do with the only BTH Bingo prompt that had yet to be requested

enjoy a dramatic reading of Case 2-4...from Edgeworth’s POV 

- o - o - o -

So Heavy [Read on AO3]

- o - o - o -

There is, admittedly, several years’ worth of a gap in Edgeworth’s knowledge of Phoenix Wright but even so, there is nothing that can explain the brazen man’s even more brazen behavior on the other side of the courtroom.

Wright acts and speaks in a way true to his name: like a man on fire. His moments of cool composure are few and far in-between. He has always been something of a force of nature, but now, he is a wildfire. There is burning desperation in him in every biting word as he reaches for any scrap of kindle he can get his hands on.

The Edgeworth of a year ago, admittedly, would have written his behavior off with a shrug and condescending tsk.

But the Edgeworth now—somehow, the same Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth who self-purportedly chose death—has in the same day, dragged a shot Franziska von Karma to the hospital, taken her place in the prosecutor’s stand, and come to the very alarming conclusion that while the verdict of Matt Engarde’s guilt in the murder of Juan Corrida should be cut-and-dry, somehow, thanks to Wright’s wild back-and-forth, it is everything but.

He cannot believe the morning has dragged out as long as it has.

He knows full well that Wright has, as of this late March day, a perfect record. For every client he has taken in the past two years, he has successfully won their innocence. 

(Somehow. For all of his mad lucky bluffing, hearsay, and guesswork.)

And Edgeworth is familiar with the needy drive of marless perfection, but Wright isn’t. He knows he isn’t. Wright is already too imperfect in all of his broad-shouldered blunder to be hungry for such a thing as a spotless record. Surely, he is humble enough to see his client’s guilt as easy as anything else.

So why does he insist on fighting tooth-and-nail for a not guilty verdict?

(Are his actions born of anger at Edgeworth? He wouldn’t put it past Wright. Wright had drawn a clear line in the sand when he vehemently expressed what he thought of seeing his face again.)

“Why don’t you just say what it is you want, Wright?” Edgeworth demands and means so much more than just, say you’re accusing Adrian Andrews so we can get on with this. There’s also: What aren’t you telling me? 

(Why do you brace your shoulders as if you are carrying a burden so heavy?)

As soon as the Judge has his gavel in hand and the words fall off his tongue, “Now then, we shall set Ms. Andrews’ testimony for tomorrow…”, Edgeworth sees it.

The terror in Wright’s face.

“You must pass a verdict today!” Wright shouts and it’s stupid. It’s so stupid; why is he running around in circles as if his life depended on this case? Why is he fooling himself chasing a lie? Is this his characteristic stubborn-hearted, resolute faith in his client rearing its spiky head, or is this something else? Something deeper?

He could have sworn that earlier, Wright’s mouth had soundlessly spoken, “Then Maya…!”

And maybe he still is a fool, but he is not the same fool he was a year ago, and that is all the difference.

“Your Honor,” Edgeworth says and does not move, does not flinch, or laugh or smile to break the important threadline of his eye contact with Wright’s, “I request that you please continue with today’s trial.”

He knows he is not imagining the relief that floods Wright’s face across the courtroom.

- o - o - o -

The calling card with that damn shell on it, spinning idly and harmlessly in Adrian’s fidgeting hand, makes everything clear. 

(Almost everything.)

Admittedly, some part of Edgeworth’s case relies on the information Wright tells him the next morning when they cross paths at the hospital. The man is a fool to have brought tulips, however thoughtful he may have thought he was being for Franziska; anyone knows daisies or peonies would have been a much clearer message of well-wishing.

Yet Edgeworth cannot think to find it in himself to hold that against him when Wright loosens his tongue and admits, “Maya…she’s been kidnapped.”

The ground reminds him that it exists when his legs feel weak.

“K-kidnapped? What does the kidnapper want?!”

“An acquittal.”

And suddenly the weight on Phoenix’s shoulders has a name.

“I see,” Edgeworth murmurs, “I had no idea.” And it feels so little, so underwhelming compared to everything else he wants to say but does not have the composure for. Anger: you fool, Wright! You should have told me this from the beginning! Fear: another life is in danger and we must all dread carefully here because it was mercy that took the blood off my hands last time; it will not be so if this goes wrong. Clarity: this explains why Wright was so desperate yesterday. Dread: this confirms the defendant is indeed the assassin’s client and, in fact, guilty.

To…something else, entirely. Something touched.

(Is this what trust feels like?)

“I will prepare a rescue team as soon as possible, and resolve this by tomorrow,” Edgeworth promises.

He doesn’t expect Wright’s cooperation. The spitting anger that Wright throws in his face immediately afterward is more than just a year-long in building. Wasn’t the very reason he became a defense attorney to see Edgeworth again? And here Edgeworth turned his back on that and abandoned him for months on end.

Well.

The Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth truly will choose death before abandoning him now.

(No one ever said you must bear the weight of your burden alone, Wright.)

- o - o - o -

The instant Wright has his arms around Maya again, the world is as it should be. Maya is weak and she is starved and she is pale and dirty, but she is alive and smiling and in one piece and it is all they have hoped for.

The three of them sink to the floor in the middle of the courtroom lobby: Wright, Maya, and Pearl. They clutch each other like the patchwork-quilt family Edgeworth knows they are.

There are two more soundless words Wright mouths to him over Maya’s tangled hair: “Thank you.”

They are needless. Edgeworth was only returning the favor Wright did him a year ago; he was not working to be thanked. But with grace, he crosses his arms over his chest and reluctantly accepts it anyway.