Finery

By: Muhsaysthecow

Rating: T

Warnings: ramblings, angst, language

Summary: Everyday, Miles Edgeworth dresses up in all of his finery. Oneshot drabble.

Disclaimer: Phoneix Wright and Miles Edgeworth, that shmexy-est man alive who wears a lace collar, belongs to their respective owners. I own nothing, except the right to wish one of the bonuses of finishing the game was to see a picture of Edgeworth in just his collar. ;3

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I was never the person who held a high self-esteem. It was, perhaps, because I was always thought of as 'the snappish man dressed in odd clothes', and ever sence a child I was stayed away from. Or maybe, it was because that sence the day I killed my father, I thought of myself as nothing but something that deserved to die in the most painful way. And even though it could have been that frazzled young man that was also with us, neither were convicted. The persecution wasn't strong enough. They were too damn weak. I hated them- and myself- knowing they were too damn weak to convict this wonderful man's killer.

May it be me or Yani Yogi.

When I became older, a fledgling persecuter, I started to dress in fancy clothes. The bills would ring up: $1540, $654, $976. I would buy three-hundred dollar collars, a pair of five-hundred dollar shoes. Everyday, I would dress up. I looked into the mirror in vain as I straightened my collar, smoothed back my hair and brushed off lint from my purple coat. I should see a dignified indivisual, someone who looks like my father. The same hair, nose, face.

I stared angerily at that mirror in my finery, for all I saw was a killer. Murderer. A bastard who had killed his father, and suffered no reprucusions other then a stupid dream that struck me every night whilst the moon hung high in the sky. I can say with truth that the guilt of knowing I was not given capital punishment may be worst then whatever they could possibly give me. Yes, this aching, bitter yearning of wanting it to end I get everytime I look into a mirror or crush a young lawyer beneath my thumb like a bug is worst then any punishment that could be given.

(I see what I could have been in these lawyers. These new laywers, in cheap suits and brown ties and spikey god-damn-I-hate-his-hair.)

I am known as the most ruthless, skilled persecutor of my time, next to gods such as Von Karma. I am seen as a demi-god in this profession.

Yet all I see is a broken little boy in an over-sized suit of silk and ruffles, blood on his hands. I let myself fall into these fineries, in an attempt to make myself as proud and kind as my father was in his humble two-piece suits.

I am only a murderer. I deserve not the recognition of being my father's son. Dressed in these fineries, I look at Phoenix. The DL-6 incident. I am ready to confess to my misdeed, and shed these vain attempts at masking who I really am. Like a butterfly, I will break free of the cocoon.

Only to be caught right in the spider's net.

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bribe If I get three reviews, I'll write a phoneix/edgie fic. /bribe Yoou knnnnooow you waaaaanntt tooooo. o-0 The smell of slash-pairing-that-is-to-be lures you into doing it.