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The first clues were as scattered and subtle as loose evidence in an investigation. “I’m working late tonight. Don’t wait for me,” Edgeworth had said. With a wave and a quick kiss, he was out the door, leaving Phoenix with no plans and nothing to do.
Phoenix hadn't meant to pry, had harbored no ill intentions whatsoever. He’d simply chanced upon a free afternoon, and what better way to spend it than watching his favorite prosecutor in action? He'd dropped by the courthouse, and just happened to see that Edgeworth’s trial had wrapped up neatly the day before.
He'd noted his surprise and documented it with a photo—just for reference, one never knows when court minutiae would come in handy—and filed it away in the only storage system he had on hand, the court record.
Then he promptly forgot about it, or would have, if new evidence hadn't kept emerging. There was that non-matching handkerchief he'd found in the laundry, the linen a bit coarser than Edgeworth's usual silk, the edges embroidered in a dainty purple thread that did not match Edgeworth's burgundy at all. There was that newspaper photo, grainy and blurred, seeming to show Edgeworth and an unidentifiable figure at a French café. There was that odd scent wafting off Edgeworth now and then, reminiscent of incense, lofty mountainsides, and the moon.
Each piece in isolation was easily explained away, but together it was a suggestion: a faulty premise, an overlooked truth. It tugged at Phoenix, lurking in the corners like an unscratched itch. His unease grew, and his court record swelled.
For once in his life, Phoenix was gravely injured in a commonplace way: just him, his bicycle, and a moment of distraction. The first few hours were a flurry of activity: his leg was set in a cast, despite his spirited objections and determination to walk it off. Phoenix puzzled over his paperwork, skipped half his medical history, and left his insurance form blank, and then had it all corrected by a sighing Edgeworth. Maya and Pearl brought him burgers and left him the customary stack of Steel Samurai DVDs.
Then, visiting hours ended, leaving Phoenix bored out of his mind. For the first time, he was alone in the hospital, with nary a case or a deadline in sight. Nothing to research, nothing to investigate.
Phoenix sighed loudly, got out his laptop, and Googled himself.
No results found for "Phoenix Wright", the laptop cheerfully informed him. Did you mean "Pheonix Trite"?
Phoenix groaned and closed the search window. He reached out to snap the laptop shut, when an old habit stole into his mind. He froze, hand hovering in midair, poised over the laptop.
Fingers flying like a well-practiced tune, he typed in Miles Edgeworth.
Of course the search engine recognized Edgeworth right away, filling the screen with pages and pages of results: the man was Chief Prosecutor, after all. Phoenix tried not to feel offended. On the top of the list were the most recent announcements: news of his promotion and recent cases. Further back were snippets of his cases abroad, and further back still lay the aged and dated pages of his Demon Prosecutor years.
Near the top of the list was Edgeworth's Wikipedia page. Long ago, Phoenix could have recited it word for word. Now, he idly clicked into it, curious to see what had changed. He yawned widely. Just a bit of light reading, and then he'd go to sleep.
Edgeworth's biographical information had been filled out, doubtless from the revelations of that lifechanging case. In the eyes of the public, he'd gone from feared Demon Prosecutor to misunderstood, tortured tragic antihero practically overnight. Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is the son of the late defense attorney Gregory Edgeworth and the acclaimed archaeologist Dr. Mina Edgeworth, neé Montgomery. Gregory Edgeworth and Dr. Montgomery met when he defended her in the famous AL-9 case. . . .
Phoenix paused in his reading. His father was his mother's attorney? His mother was his father's client?
His Edgeworth had once defended a client.
All tiredness forgotten, Phoenix sat upright and clicked into Gregory Edgeworth's page, and then his father's. The night ticked away, and when the sun rose, Phoenix emerged from his laptop in a restless, agitated haze.
Without fail, every Edgeworth before him had married a defendant. It was as predictable as a prophecy and just as unlikely. And one thing Phoenix had learned from his years in court was that no detail was ever a coincidence.
The last straw came in the form of a crumpled tax document. "Why is your tax bracket lower than mine?" Phoenix mused, a wastebasket in one hand, Edgeworth's crumpled accounting sheet in the other.
Eyes fixed on the page, Phoenix didn't notice when Edgeworth's hand twitched, his shoulders going tense and still. "What are you doing with that?" Edgeworth asked, his voice clipped.
"Just my overwhelming impulse to rummage through every bin I walk past. Bad habit from my investigations." Blithely, Phoenix prattled on. "What are you doing to get a tax break like that? Are you committing tax fraud?" he joked. "Based on the percentage, maybe you're married filing jointly—ow!"
A wave of heat and light burst from his pocket, interrupting Phoenix mid-thought. He dropped the paper and the wastebasket, crumpled papers spilling from its overturned top, and yanked the magatama from his pocket.
Edgeworth's hand was now fully on his elbow. Phoenix stared back at him in shock, while a single lock materialized before him.
The seconds passed. Phoenix's mouth opened and then shut again. Neither said a word.
After a tense minute, Edgeworth looked away. ". . . I'm married, Wright," he said softly.
"Uh. Um. Congratulations?" Phoenix stammered. His voice came out as garbled as his thoughts, while a million questions tumbled through his mind. When? How? But the question that made its way out, in a strangled croak, was "To whom?"
"To Miss Iris," Edgeworth answered without hesitation, and the single lock dissolved away.
"This can't be happening," Phoenix groaned from the floor where he'd sunk down in despair. "I knew it was too good to be true. I knew we were too good to be true."
"Wright, I can explain," Edgeworth was saying. Phoenix ignored him.
"I thought I knew you! The real you! And you've been hiding a whole marriage from me? I don't know you at all!"
"Wright, if you would just—"
"Cheating on your wife, Edgeworth! How could you? Iris is a sweet girl! She deserves better!"
"Listen to me, Wright—"
"It's the. . . curse, or fate, or whatever it is, isn't it?" Phoenix wailed. He pointed a trembling finger at Edgeworth. "All the Edgeworths in your family marry their defendants. I never had a chance! Once you defended her, it was all over!"
"Objection!" Edgeworth shouted, and that seemed to finally break through Phoenix's tirade. "Phoenix Wright! If you would stop moaning for just one minute, I'll tell you everything! I married her for conflict of interest!"
". . . What?" Phoenix stumbled on the unexpected words, finally falling silent.
"Yes! Of the people present in that courtroom, where I so brazenly and illegally impersonated a defense attorney, Miss Iris is the only one who could be compelled to testify. The judge's brother recognizes neither of us, and Franziska is not under Japanifornian jurisdiction. You and I cannot be compelled to testify against ourselves. Our marriage creates a conflict of interest and rules Miss Iris out as a witness, and we will remain married until the Statute of Limitations expires on my crime.”
". . . Oh," Phoenix said, and then— "Huh, fate had to work hard for that one."
"Wright, what are you talking about?" Edgeworth asked blankly.
"Your father, and your grandfather, and your second cousin twice-removed. . . every Edgeworth marries their former client. Why didn't you tell me that we'd never work out?"
"Why would I have known?" Edgeworth countered. "If it's true—which it's not! Speaking hypothetically, if it were true, my father would have better sense than to tell me such a thing! Would you tell Trucy something that could so drastically bias her interactions?"
"Yes!" Phoenix declared emphatically.
Edgeworth crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, looking extremely unimpressed. Phoenix withered under his glare.
"Alright, my track record does not inspire confidence there," Phoenix admitted.
"Quite the understatement," Edgeworth huffed. Still, he allowed a small smile as he crouched next to Phoenix and took his hands. "Now, I have a question for you. What would it change? The Phoenix Wright I know stares down impossible odds and defies the most frightening people in existence. You never give up on clients, and you won't give up on us."
"Right. I've faced undead spirits, what's the hand of fate compared to that?" Phoenix said shakily.
"I defended you once, remember? Or have you forgotten?"
Phoenix managed a wobbly smile. "Does that really count?"
Edgeworth shrugged, a knowing little smirk tugging at his lips. "The statute runs out in three years. Why don't you try it and find out?"