Summary: Done for the kink meme, before DD's release. 4-3. Phoenix is seriously ill, but Edgeworth comes to his rescue.

I figured it was time I started claiming some of my work from there... Please excuse any medical inaccuracies!

EDIT: Derp. I forgot the prompt:

Hobo!Phoenix is sick and he doesn't want to worry Trucy or Trucy is too busy investigating w/ Apollo or Trucy is too small to take care of him and he still have to work in that cold Russian eatery so it gets worse. Edgeworth finds him (preferably by accident) and take care of him!

Phoenix had a secret.

No, not the MASON System and the Jurist crap. That was a different, mostly unrelated secret.

Actually, he was terminally ill.

Liver cancer. Trucy hadn't noticed, as she had been living with him for years; the change had been very gradual, and he'd been careful to hide any pictures of himself from when he was still healthy. He'd been careful to stay away from anyone who knew him long enough to notice, too, using his disbarment as an excuse to push everyone away. He didn't want anyone to worry about him.

It had been fine, when it had first started out; his stomach had been hurting like crazy, so at Trucy's behest, he finally had it checked. Turned out he had a tumor in his liver. It had been relatively benign, though, so in an effort to save money, he'd refused an operation and tried simply taking medication, being careful not to let Trucy see so she wouldn't worry.

It seemed to have worked, for the most part. The pain went away, and the tumor didn't look much bigger from visit to visit.

Oh, how wrong he'd been.

The painkillers did less and less; the pain spread up and down, mostly down. He began to rapidly lose weight; he found himself unable to eat anything more substantial than noodles or oatmeal. His skin began to yellow; his palms reddened; spider-shaped veins made themselves visible in quite a few areas of his skin. Day by day, he felt more and more tired; it was often an effort to stand, let alone put on a show for his daughter and go to work.

On his next visit, the doctors found that his cancer had developed oddly. It spread vertically more than horizontally, causing him to appear as if he had only lost a little weight, as the swelling around his abdomen was not nearly as pronounced as in more common cases. The cancer was still mostly benign, though; it could be fixed without surgery, and the cancer was not expected to metastasize or kill him in the near future.

Well, it was killing him now.

On his recent unplanned visit to Hickfield Clinic, spurred by a sprained ankle resulting from a hit-and-run, it had been made official. The tumor wasn't getting any bigger, and almost seemed to be receding, thanks to the medicine, but his liver was still failing. He'd probably survive and recover if he got a liver transplant. He'd definitely die if he didn't.

His luck failed him when he needed it most. He didn't have the money for the necessary operation, and there weren't any compatible donors right now anyway.

Trucy and Apollo were going to be at a Gavinners concert all night; technically, he could slack off and get his much-needed bed rest and no one would know any better until his paycheck came in with less or lower digits than usual.

Alas, those digits were more precious now than ever before.

And so, here he was, haphazardly attempting to make it sound as if he was actually trying to play the piano before him and just happened to be terrible at it rather than as if he was in too much agony to play well.

"Excuse me, but would you play something else? It's clear you can't play whatever it is you're trying with any semblance of efficiency." Phoenix froze, fingers jerking and pounding out a jarring chord in his shock. He didn't need to turn to know whose voice that was, even though he hadn't heard it in years.

(What's HE doing here!?)

He swallowed imperceptibly, refusing to look at the other man. "Heh heh... Sorry, I don't take requests."

"Hm... Not even a request for information?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Phoenix Wright."

He stiffened.

"I heard he works here. When is his next shift?"

(He doesn't recognize me...?

... I guess it makes sense. I've lost weight, and my skin's a different color now... Not to mention I dress like a hobo. I probably wouldn't recognize myself if I put a picture of me seven years ago by a picture of me now...)

"Sorry. I don't know when his next shift is." (Which is true because I'm hoping to catch an extra shift tomorrow after I get a few things settled for the Jurist System, but I don't know if I'll have time. Hey, money's money.)

Phoenix shivered slightly and sneezed rather violently, somehow somewhat dislodging the hat on his head; a minute ago he'd been fine, but now the familiar cold of the Russian restaurant was seeping into his aching bones. Great.

(Go on and remind me why I have to work so much overtime, why don't you?

Ugh... And that sneeze hurt, too...)

"Gesundheit."

He sniffed lightly. "Thanks.

So was that all you wanted to know?" Phoenix turned his head to look at the other man. His newly dislodged beanie chose that moment to fall off. While his hair seemed to be limper than it had been in his attorney days, due in part to his illness and in part to his new habit of wearing a beanie all the time, it was still recognizable as the trademark hairstyle of Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney.

Said other man's eyes widened and he started in shock. "Wh— Wright!?"

Phoenix blinked and looked down, having noticed the sudden absence of his hat. He reached down and retrieved it before answering, purposely avoiding his once-rival's eyes.

"Yup. Long time no see... Edgeworth."

He heard more than saw the prosecutor step closer and kneel to his level. The man gently grabbed his chin and forced Phoenix to look at him, at the same time putting his other hand on Phoenix's shoulder.

The past seven years seemed to have done better to him than they had to Phoenix; the man's face, despite still having matured somewhat, was comparatively younger than his father's had been at that age. And speaking of Mr. Edgeworth, Edgeworth seemed to be taking after him, now donning a pair of half-rimmed glasses and a trenchcoat, which was arguably a bit pinker than his old suit.

On the bespectacled man's visage was a concerned expression as he asked, "Wright... What happened to you...?"

Phoenix jerked his head out of the other man's grasp, but otherwise stayed in place on the piano bench.

"Nothing much, besides the obvious." He didn't need to look to know Edgeworth was raising an eyebrow at him.

"By the obvious are you referring to the ludicrous claims that you've been disbarred for forging evidence or to the jaundice visible on your skin?"

He smirked bitterly in response, somehow still managing to find an angle that cast shadow over his eyes.

"..." Edgeworth sighed, seeming to come to a decision. "I'm not going to ask about your badge. What's done is done, and I trust you've done your best to rectify any wrongs related to that situation.

However... You look ill, Wright. The last time I saw you, your skin wasn't quite so yellow, and you didn't look almost anemic."

(I AM anemic,) he thought with a mental eye roll. Though, Edgeworth didn't know that.

"What's wrong, Wright...?" Some other time, he would have snickered at the unintended pun. Now, he just closed his eyes.

He wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to tell his best friend and rival, who he had neither seen nor spoken to in seven years, when he'd tried so hard to keep the truth hidden for so long.

"I'm dying." But he did.

Edgeworth's grip on his shoulder tightened, then relaxed. Phoenix didn't want to clarify, but Edgeworth urged, "Go on..."

He hesitated, but obliged. "I... My liver's failing," he said, leaving out the underlying cause for the moment. It wasn't really necessary to explain his predicament, anyway. "I need a transplant... But... There aren't any compatible donors. Even if I had the money for the operation... I still wouldn't get it."

"Blood type?"

Phoenix blinked at the abrupt inquiry. "Uh... Huh?"

"Your blood type, Wright. What's your blood type?"

"O... negative..." he responded slowly, carefully. "What are you—" Then it clicked.

(Oh... Oh. Oh!)

"... Edgeworth...?"

The prosecutor finally stood once more, releasing his shoulder.

"Wright."

"Where do you normally go for medical treatment?"

"... Hickfield Clinic. It's cheaper for me."

Edgeworth nodded once, firmly.

"Go there tomorrow. You'll have your donor. And your operation will be paid for."

Phoenix felt lost. "Wha... How are you going to get a donor on such short notice?"

Edgeworth turned sharply on his heel and began to walk evenly out of the freezing cold eatery. "Don't worry about it."

Phoenix felt mildly guilty for leaving Apollo and Trucy alone on the first day of trial, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. Between work on the Jurist System and the promised rendezvous with Edgeworth, he was reasonably sure he wouldn't get home before the wee hours of the next morning.

Plus, there was a chance Edgeworth had really found him a donor. And since he was paying... maybe the revival of the jury trial would not be the last big thing on the career section of his bucket list.

Speaking of which, he was rather grateful Edgeworth had never specified a time to meet him; it had taken a bit more time than expected to cajole certain people into helping him.

Noon had passed hours ago, and now he stood in the Hickfield Clinic's waiting room, not entirely sure what he should be doing or where he should go.

Phoenix jumped a little as his phone suddenly rang, the Steel Samurai theme filling the air, only to abruptly cut itself off, signifying either a shy caller who hung up before even the voicemail could pick up, or a text.

It was the latter; Phoenix had no idea how on earth Edgeworth had sent it with such impeccable timing, but apparently he was waiting for him in one of the hospital rooms already. He shrugged, put away his phone, and wandered over to the room specified in the text.

He was surprised to find Edgeworth sitting upright in the bed, wearing a hospital gown, and his doctor standing at the foot of the bed.

"... Edgeworth...?"

The man glanced at him, then beckoned him over.

"Ah— Mr. Wright! What a coincidence; I was just about to call you," exclaimed the doctor excitedly.

"This man here has donated part of his liver. So far, it seems like a perfect match; if all goes well, we can use it for your transplant. You can live."

He didn't notice his eyes widening and his jaw dropping. He whirled around to face Edgeworth, who was smirking at him like the smug bastard he often was.

"You..." His mouth kept moving, but no sound came out; he was speechless.

(You just... dropped everything and donated half your liver for me? Even though I haven't seen you... have been pushing you away along with everyone else for the past seven years? Just like that...?)

The smirk seemed to soften, just a little bit, into a smile. "You're welcome, Wright."

Phoenix socked him in the face.

"Ow! What was—!" Phoenix cut him off by hugging him, tightly.

"Idiot... Donating organs is risky, you know...! Don't just do something like that out of the blue, not ever again, for anyone, even me!" He squeezed his friend tighter, trembling slightly.

"That being said... thank you. So much... Oh my God... thank you...!" The last part was choked out in a sob. He cried into the bedridden prosecutor's shoulder, all sorts of happy and relieved and grateful and oh, God, he was going to make it. He wasn't going to die... He had more time... He... He could see Trucy graduate... Could actually teach Apollo something, instead of just leading him into situations and hoping he got what he needed to get out of it... Could wait out his sentence and retake the bar in three years, if his name wasn't cleared sooner...

He was going to live, and it was thanks to this surprisingly reckless prosecutor in his arms, right now...!

He felt a set of arms tentatively rise to reciprocate the embrace.

"Anytime."

It helps that Nick's skin tone in AJ really is a yellower shade than his trilogy colors xD