Chapter Text
People have been telling Phoenix to go to therapy for a long, long time.
Probably more than he’d like to admit.
When he first got acquitted for the murder of Doug Swallow, he was… Not in a good place. He had been absolutely heartbroken that his Dollie would do that to him, and it fucked him up good (It still fucks him up, if he’s being honest. There are moments where he can’t eat anything cause he’s afraid it might be poisoned. And a lot of the time, he can’t even bring himself to eat crunchy things either. He still has the glass scars in his mouth.)
Mia had suggested getting professional help after the trial, to which he’d immediately shrugged her off. He was fine. He didn’t need therapy. Besides, he had other things to worry about. Like changing his major and helping a friend.
And he was fine!
…For a while.
Then Mia died, and he had to defend Maya, and Edgeworth was nothing like his old self, and suddenly he was being accused of Mia’s murder, and then Edgeworth got accused of murder, and then the man had gone and died. And blah blah. Maya gets accused of murder. Blah blah. Edgeworth has a SISTER? Blah blah. He has to care for his best friend and a 9-year-old. Blah blah. MAYA GETS FUCKING KIDNAPPED. Blah blah. Edgeworth comes back from the dead. Blah blah. He leaves again. Blah blah. Godot. Blah blah. DAHLIA LOOKALIKE? Blah blah. MAYA AND MIA’S MOM? Blah blah. MIA, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE? Blah blah. DAHLIA AGAIN? Blah blah. Forged evidence. Blah blah. I HAVE TO CARE FOR A 9-YEAR-OLD AGAIN? Blah blah. Kristoph. Blah blah.
But then he’s fine. He gets acquitted. He becomes a lawyer again. He gets his life back, and he’s fine. Obviously. Everyone tells him he needs therapy, apparently it’s the hottest topic around his group of people. But he doesn’t need therapy. He’s perfectly fine stewing in his own problems and traumas, thank you very much.
…And then Trucy finds him slumped over the toilet one day, forcefully trying to vomit his lunch out because he is sure someone has poisoned it, and she starts sobbing and begs him to go get help, and the next thing Phoenix knows, he’s in a nostalgic feeling waiting room sitting on a very comfy couch.
The therapist's office is in a house that looks like it used to be someone’s home once upon a time. The floors are wooden and creaky, and the walls are lined with old bookshelves. There are coloring pages and broken crayons littering the coffee table, along with some magazines. It’s quaint and probably supposed to make him feel welcomed and calm.
He does not feel welcome and/or calm.
In fact, he’s nervous out of his goddamn mind. He’s never liked talking about his problems, not if he can help it. It’s better that way, so that he’s not bothering people with his issues and so that he can keep his cards close to his chest so as not to get hurt. And it’s worked!
…At least for a little while.
“Phoenix Wright?” He startles out of his thoughts as his name is called, and the defense attorney glances up to see an older woman by the stairs leading up to what he assumes to be the offices. “Are you ready?” Phoenix sighs.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He gets up off the couch, back cracking in a horrifying symphony as he stands and starts walking towards the woman.
She holds out her hand when he gets there, and he grasps it. “I’m Thera Phist. It’s very nice to meet you. Mr. Wright.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” He responds. She leads him up the stairs and into one of the rooms. There’s a rolling chair and a desk covered in papers and framed photographs. He spots one of those classic fainting chairs in the corner, and he immediately goes to sit on it. Edgeworth has one at his place, but he’s never allowed on it because “It’s antique, Wright. I can’t have a clumsy buffoon on my fainting couch.” But what is a fainting couch for except catching clumsy buffoons who fall over themselves? (And also prosecutors dressed as Victorians, but that’s neither here nor there.)
His therapist sits on the rolling chair and faces him, grabbing a notebook and pen from her desk. “So, Mr. Wright. What brings you in here today?”
He’s feeling like shit, so he says. “Therapy.” And she chuckles.
“Yes, but why exactly? Was there a sort of event, or did you just decide you needed it?” He presses his mouth into a fine line and sinks into the couch.
“…My daughter found me forcefully throwing up my food because I thought it was poisoned.” He confesses. For some reason, she doesn’t look even a little bit surprised by the fact and just nods, looking sympathetic. It makes him feel a little better. At least it’s not pity.
“And why did you think your food was poisoned?”
His mouth presses into a fine line. He really doesn’t want to talk about it, but he’s also paying for this, and he doesn’t wanna pay for nothing. “My girlfriend tried to poison me and framed me for murder.” It’s like he’s eating glass again, airing out his baggage to a stranger. But it’s better than the alternative (Burdening his friends and family with his problems). She at least has the decency to look surprised instead of sad. Bewilderment is way better than any form of sadness.
It’s the tiniest bit easier to talk after that, as he tells her the whole Dahlia story. It’s nice in a way he hadn’t really expected. He mostly talks about his fucked up love life, and how everyone he’s ever had an intimate relationship with has been some kind of crazy (Miles wasn’t crazy per-say, and it’s not like they were ever in a real relationship. But he feels like it counts.) it gets hard at points, and he has to stop for a minute to build himself back up, but Ms. Phist doesn’t scold him for it. She just sits patiently and waits for him to continue.
“Mr. Wright, I’m very happy you came in when you did. It seems like you have a lot of trauma that you’ve been holding in for a long time, so I’m glad you felt safe enough to share this with me.” Phoenix gives her a shaky grin. “Would you like to do this regularly? No pressure, of course, but-“
“Yes.” He finds himself saying. Because that had felt good. He feels lighter than he has in years.
Ms. Phist smiles lightly. “Good.”
And he does start going regularly, about every week, and it really helps him. (And he gets to hang out with Edgeworth because the prosecutor drives him a lot of the time, so that's a huge plus.)
…He’s three weeks in when he gets homework.
Phoenix blinks, taken aback. “You want me too… What?”
His therapist looks at him with a kind smile. “I think writing letters to your ex-loves would be a good outlet for you. You’ve said that your love life has been horrible and has given you trauma, and I’m inclined to agree, so I think it would be a good idea for you to write letters to the people that you love for some closure.”
Therapy homework? He doesn’t really… Want to think about this stuff outside of therapy. Phoenix opens his mouth, then closes it. He sinks further into his seat. “…I don’t have to send them, do I?” She chuckles softly and waves her hand.
“No, of course not. It would merely be a way for you to categorize all your emotions regarding those you’ve loved.” She reaches into a drawer at her desk and pulls out a couple of pieces of paper. “Here, to help you get started.” He grabs the pieces of paper, feeling a little numb. “At our next session, I’d like you to tell me how you felt while writing them.”
And that’s what has led him to this moment, sitting on the squeaky chair of his kitchenette’s breakfast bar and staring at a blank piece of paper with a blue pen in his hand and heart in his mouth. Trucy had already gone to bed a bit ago, trying to get some extra sleep for a birthday party she’s booked tomorrow, so he’s thankfully completely alone.
…He takes a breath, swallows hard, then puts the pen to paper and writes.
It’s many hours later when Phoenix lets the pen fall out of his hand and rolls his wrist, wincing at the ache. He feels some wetness surrounding his eyes and wipes at them, letting out a breath. He looks at the clock hanging over the living room and grimaces at the time. He’d started writing at… 7? Right? Jesus, He really needs to get to bed. He has so much shit to do tomorrow.
The spiky-haired man stands up from his seat and stretches, reaching over to grab the letters and envelopes he’s supposed to put them in. It actually felt really nice to air out all his feelings like this, especially the ones for his terrible romantic endeavors. But the whole thing has made him feel so very tired, emotionally and physically.
Phoenix writes the addresses on them, too tired to think about it. Not like he’s ever going to send them. He tosses them onto the countertop and yawns, sluggishly trudging back to his bedroom. He kicks the door open and promptly plops down onto the bed, where he’s out like a light.
The next day, with the chaos of getting Trucy to her birthday show, a murder occurring at said birthday show, and the subsequent case that follows, he completely forgets about the letters.
A week passes and he’s back at the therapists office again.
“So, did you write your letters?” Phoenix blinks.
Huh?
“…What letters?” He asks. She raises an eyebrow.
“I asked you to write letters to your past romances, remember?”
He blinks again and then lets out an “OH!”
“Right! Yes, sorry. I wrote them and…” He trails off, not really sure where to go. “It… Helped, I think. I don’t think I feel as… Bad. Anymore.” Maybe? He feels a little hollow, but definitely better.
She smiles. “That's wonderful, Mr. Wright. I’m really glad it’s helped you. Now-“ but he isn’t really listening anymore because WHERE THE FUCK DID HE PUT THOSE LETTERS?
She keeps talking, and he’s… Responding? Maybe? The next thing he knows, a complete hour has gone by, and he’s walking down the creaky stairs to the rack where his bike is. Edgeworth hadn’t been able to drive him because of a case, which was kind of a godsend, because Phoenix couldn't even think at the moment, his mind so clouded with worry that he absolutely knows Edgeworth would start interrogating him about what was wrong. He unlocks his bike, kicks off the stand, and pedals home faster than he means to.
‘The last thing I remember… I put them out on the kitchen counter… Oh God, I hope Truce didn’t accidentally mail them out… She wouldn’t have… Right? At least Kristoph's wouldn’t have sent. Trucy would never let me send a letter to Kristoph… Hopefully.’
He skids to a halt in front of his building and hops off the bike, quickly locks it, and sprints up the concrete stairs to his apartment. He fumbles with the lock in his hurry and almost trips into the living room as he runs toward the kitchen island.
“Hi, Daddy- Whoa!” Trucy exclaims as he wizzes past. Phoenix slams his hands on the countertop and sifts through the mountain of bills, receipts, and random knick-knacks. His heart immediately drops as he realizes he can’t find them.
It’s not time to panic (Yet), but it is fucking terrifying. How in the world could he have forgotten such an important thing? And how could he have just left them on the counter?
Screw you, past Phoenix!
Maybe it got put in a junk drawer or something? He pulls open the drawer and scours through old mail, trinkets, magic props, and other random stuff, trying to see if it was just trapped under something, but there’s nothing.
The letters aren’t anywhere to be found.
…So it means there’s only one possible conclusion, as much as he hopes it’s not true.
“-addy! Daddy! Daddy!” He jumps and turns towards his daughter, who looks a bit nervous. “Is everything ok?”
“…Yeah, I-“ He takes a deep breath and prays. “Did you see any letters on the counter recently?”
“Oh, yeah. But I already mailed them, so you don’t have to worry.” She says, waving her hand. His heart drops even lower.
“M-Mailed them?” He questions. Oh God…
“Yeah,” Trucy answers. “I was looking for stamps to mail out my letter to Polly when I found your letters, so I just mailed them with mine. I sent them out a couple of days ago, so they should have gotten delivered by now.” ‘Shit.’ His hand passes through his hair. “Don’t know why you’d wanna send a letter to Mr. Gavin of all people, but I’m glad you’re talking to Aunt Iris again! And I’m sure Uncle Miles will love to get a letter. He’s so old-fashioned. “ She smiles. “You’re welcome!”
He stands there as she explains, facing the giant pile of junk. “…Daddy?” She asks worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
He sighs, already resigned to his fate. “You know the therapist I’ve been seeing?” She nods her head slowly. “One of her exercises involved me writing unsent letters to… Certain people.” Trucy’s eyebrows furrow, then widen.
“Oh no! Daddy, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize!” She apologizes. “If I had I’d-“
Phoenix shakes his head. “No, no Truce. It’s ok, you had no idea.” He pulls her in for a hug. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” She squeezes his middle tightly, grounding him to the present. He really, really needed this. They stay like that for a comfortable minute before the Steel Samurai theme blares out from his phone and has them both flinching.
He reluctantly lets go of Trucy and pulls out his phone from his pocket, raising a brow at a number he doesn’t recognize. Phoenix answers it.
“Hello, this is Dee Tention from the Los Kyoto Detention Center. An inmate named Iris wants to contact you…” Phoenix’s mouth goes dry, and he ends the call.
Shit…
“Daddy?” He grimaces as another call comes through. The defense attorney hesitantly answers it.
“Hello, this is Jayel Cell from the Los Kyoto Prison. An inmate named Kristoph Gavin wants to contact you…” He presses the end call on that one hard.
Damnit…
He gulps as the Steel Samurai theme blasts through the apartment again, with Miles Edgeworth’s name in bold letters.
He doesn’t even answer it this time, and lets it go to voicemail. A voicemail pops up a second later. Phoenix presses play.
“Wright-“
He pauses it. Then silences his phone.
It’s quiet for a moment.
“…Daddy, what was in those letters?”
He slams his head down on the countertop.
Fuck.