This fic takes place a few weeks after the events of GS3, and contains spoilers for all three games.
One of Every Color
Thursday, May 23rd, 2019.
Miles watched the pair from a safe distance. Despite having been invited to attend that evening he still felt an uncomfortable stirring of guilt, as if he were witnessing some event not meant for him. There were plenty of strangers moving along the train platform, and many of them glanced in the direction of the man and woman standing face to face. But to them the scene would have only appeared to be a parting of two lovers like any other that had been repeated countless times at this very spot in this very station. It was because Miles understood the significance that made it feel sinful to watch.
Miles finally diverted his
gaze, instead watching the slow current of moving bodies across the
platform. He didn't look up until he
heard the train whistle; by then Ayame was on her way home, and
"It's fine," Miles replied easily, giving his suit coat a slight tug to straighten it. "I didn't have any real plans for tonight anyway."
"It can wait." Miles had to admit that if it had been him, he wouldn't have wanted to come alone, either. He turned. "Come on--I'll give you a ride home."
The evening was unusually
chill even for May, and the two men walked close together back to Edgeworth's rented car.
In the aftermath of Ayame's trial he had spent
the last several weeks back in
Ayame was returning to Hazakurain. Miles
hadn't intended to ask
"It's probably the best
thing for both of us right now,"
Miles pursed his lips; dealing out romantic advice wasn't exactly his strong suit. "Awkward," he filled in. "It's understandable, after everything you've both been through." Hoping to maybe lighten the mood--and lift him from any advisory obligation--he added, "That tiny apartment of yours might have reminded her too much of prison anyway."
"So." They reached
the car, separating to their respective doors.
But instead of unlocking it Miles paused, watching
"Don't know what to
do?" Miles echoed. His tone was
"It's not that,"
Miles clicked the automatic door lock on his key chain. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is, it's
He looked up abruptly, meeting Miles' eyes at last. "I don't know if I can be for her what I was back then, or if that's even what either of us wants now. Do you know what I mean?"
Miles' fingers curled stiffly around his keys, digging small, tooth-like indentations into his palm. He was quiet for a long time before facing forward. His own voice was noticeably less confident as he started the car and gave his answer.
"I know exactly what you mean."
Forty minutes later
The key he had picked up that morning needed a little wiggling to fit into its intended lock, and the hinges creaked something awful, raising the small hairs on the back of Miles' neck as he finally stepped inside what had once been his childhood home. It was his first time crossing that threshold in nearly fifteen years. Though the house had been in his name for all that time, having been left to him at the time of his father's death, he had never been compelled to use it. He had lived with the Karmas in their estate, and after that his own luxurious condominium downtown, closer to the Prosecutor's Office. By the time he was old enough to inherit the property it had lost its meaning for him.
Miles walked slowly down the front hall, which opened first into the kitchen. Most of the furniture was still present, and when he drew two fingertips across the surface of their old kitchen table he left a pair of streaks in the fine layer of dust covering it. Fifteen years ago he had sat at that table eating the scrambled eggs his father had prepared for breakfast before they would head to court together. He remembered quite clearly, because he hadn't finished them all--a stubborn child's protest at being told he couldn't bring his new Red Time Force Ranger to his father's work, even though it could have been concealed perfectly in his pocket. It had sat alone on the table all through that fateful day.
Driven by curiosity he moved out of the kitchen, past the living room and through a side door into a small room by the stairway. It was a bedroom, with a single box spring mattress and lines of shelves set low on the walls. Several plastic packing bins were stacked in the far corner. He was drawn to them, and upon opening the lid found the old toys of his youth, most of which were bent and scuffed from having been hastily packed. He lifted the red action figure out from among them, turning it over in his hands as he recalled the familiar texture of cheap plastic.
Miles stood in the center of the empty space for a long time, taking in the musty smell, idly polishing the toy with the cuff of his jacket. Slowly, he took a seat on the edge of his old mattress. Bit by bit memories returned to him: the Saturday mornings he'd spent arranging his figures on the shelves, his father tucking him into bed at night, even the faint sound of his mother's voice floating in from the kitchen as she packed his lunch for school…
Miles continued to stare down at the figure in his hand, rubbing it with his thumb, as he tugged his cell phone out of his coat pocket and dialed a familiar number. "Detective, it's me," he said as soon as the call came through. "I'm sorry to call so late, but I wanted to know…"
He sighed, briefly closing his eyes. "Do you know if the Prosecutor's Office is still interested in taking me back?"