Work Text:
Summer
Miles has an office. Miles has a very nice office. An office he earned through nearing two decades of dedication, blood, sweat, tears - never his own, he will always maintain - and two rather tumultuous migrations back and forth over the Atlantic. The office is decorated with painstaking care, from the wallpaper and the blinds, down to the gilt frames on the light fixtures and the handles on his mahogany desk. It is a fitting office for the Chief Prosecutor and the Chief Prosecutor is very fond of his very fitting office.
The Chief Prosecutor hardly ever uses it.
It’s convenient, he would argue if pressed, that when he drives to the Wright Anything Agency to drop Phoenix off at work and inevitably pops upstairs for a coffee with his partner’s proteges, he picks up whichever case files he has leant out for study and reference, and that while he’s there he may as well assist Phoenix with compiling his latest defence, answering any possible questions Miss Cykes and Mister Justice may have. It’s simply common sense for Miles to settle down on the sofa and accept a second cup of tea from Justice because he is the only one in the office who knows how to correctly steep the beverage, while he peruses the files that were already in his briefcase.
It’s necessity, after that, which dictates Miles should set up call-forwarding to his work cell. While he’s already here, he may as well add his own lunch order to the list when Miss Cykes offers to call through for everyone because the morning has already disappeared in a relaxed haze of quiet companionship that Miles does not get to experience in his office, sequestered away from the rest of the world.
Necessity. Convenience. Miles tells himself this for roughly four months without anyone calling him on it. And then no one does call him on it, but when he and Phoenix step into the office on an unseasonably warm September morning, there is a new desk sitting where Phoenix’s own once sat. This one is wider, with chairs on opposite sides and enough space for two people to work at comfortably. Cykes and Justice say nothing, neither does the spiky culprit, but Justice wordlessly hands Miles a fresh cup of Ceylon once he’s hung his coat up.
So Miles now unofficially works at the WAA. He has his own desk with drawers amidst the mess that a full-grown man and two exuberant young adults cannot manage to keep in order no matter how hard Miles tries to coax them into cleanliness. The décor is lacking, far less refined than Miles' actual office.
He rather likes this one better.
What he doesn’t like, will insist to the death that he hates, is the fact that Phoenix is the one sitting opposite him while he works. While Miles works. Phoenix does whatever it is that he does, long legs stretching out under the desk to trap Miles’ ankles between his own, tapping his pen irritatingly atop the wood, playing solitaire on his computer instead of using it for Westlaw with the subscription Miles bought for him because he was tired of sharing his login with the entire WAA. Miles works and Phoenix shirks and it is entirely frustrating because Phoenix is going to win all his cases anyway and it’s been fifteen years but Miles is still a little sore about the disparity in their win/lose ratio.
It’s the worst, attempting to work whilst sat opposite his partner. Because his partner is his favourite thing to look at and that’s the kind of distraction Miles doesn’t need while he’s attempting to organise performance reviews.
“Need a divider,” Miles mutters and Phoenix hums delightedly.
“What a wonderful idea,” he says, leaning back and stretching like he’s not been neglecting the mountain of paperwork that has been steadily increasing in size for the past week. “Oooh, I have so many photos I could stick aaaaall over it. Athena, have you seen my keys?”
“Why would I have seen your keys?”
“Big jangly set with a blue pompom on them? I leave them around all the time.”
“Which is why you always get locked out of the house,” Miles tells him.
“Anyways, it has a thumb drive on it--”
“Phoenix.”
“Got all the good photos on there. I’ll order a divider and print the photos off.”
“Phoenix.”
“Some from our trip to Paris which probably wouldn’t be appropriate for the office, but I’m sure I could artfully cut round--”
“You promised you’d delete those.”
“Printer’s out of ink,” Justice says and Miles sighs in relief.
“Damn,” Phoenix says, frowning. “For how long?”
“Like a year?”
“Well, can you order some? Charge it to the expense account.”
“We don’t have an expense account.”
“Oh,” says Phoenix. Then, “hey, Miles?”
“Absolutely not,” says Miles, already opening a new tab. He really is the worst kind of enabler. Miles abhors having his photo taken. He’s stiff and awkward and more often than not the flash catches on his lenses and makes it look like he has glowing white squares for eyes. Every single official photo he has ever had taken of himself has made him look like some kind of wooden mannequin painted specifically to look like it’s in pain. This is the case for all photos, except the photos Phoenix takes. In those he looks actually happy, arm in arm with his partner and their daughter and their dog, or blushing wildly because Phoenix had decided some specific moment fit all the criteria to be a perfect opportunity to yank Miles close by his jabot and kiss him soundly on the cheek.
Miles orders enough ink to keep the office stocked for at least five years. He does not mention this to anyone.
“Alright,” Phoenix says, pushing away from the desk. “Break time.”
“It’s eleven.”
“Exactly. Break time. Come on, people, coffee orders. Shout them at me all at the same time so I miss them and end up inevitably ordering the wrong things.”
“I’ll text you,” Cykes and Justice say together. Phoenix nods approvingly and snatches his wallet and phone off the desk before striding out of the office.
“He left his keys,” Cykes says, glancing to the blue pompom on the table by the door.
“I’m not letting him in,” Justice says, “unless he gets my order right.”
Autumn
Syncing up vacation time is a lot less hassle than Miles anticipated. Phoenix’s reputation had soared after he re-passed the bar which surprised no one except the attorney himself. Miles had seen it coming a mile off; the disgraced attorney wrongfully accused, the underdog rising up again like a - no pun intended - phoenix from the ashes. He’s attained something close to mythic-status, again in keeping with his namesake, and he is not wanting for clients. He’s still selective about the clients he takes, tending to opt as always for the hopeless cases, the untouchables and the unwinnable, and delights in the impossible turnabouts he presents with flourishes his daughter has somehow inherited despite the absence of hereditary genetics.
Miles in turn is able to delegate, so when Phoenix has a lull in his workload, it’s no hardship for Miles to free up some time for himself as well. They walk a lot. That’s not something Miles ever pictured them doing, but they walk at least once a day during their lunch breaks that they always take at the same time. This is not unusual save for the fact that lunch breaks had not been something Miles ever really allowed himself before now. He never had cause to move away from his desk and interrupt the productivity of his workday, but now if he doesn’t eat a pastry from his favourite bakery that is situated a convenient five minutes away from the office and eat it while he and Phoenix take a slow meander through the park, he gets unbearably cranky.
Vacations, too, are a relatively new experience all round. Phoenix had never really been able to afford them and Miles despised the institution on principle, but now he has reason and desire enough to break from work because when he does he gets an uninterrupted week of Phoenix in return and Miles is very much a fan of that exchange.
They don’t go abroad often because they both have a severe case of FOMOW that they will never admit to, but there is still something wonderfully novel about checking out of reality for a few days and sleeping in a bed that isn’t their own. Blissfully uninterrupted by proteges and dogs and daughters and idiotic co-workers who are one devastating peer review away from unemployment.
Paris, Venice, Germany, are all memories Miles cherishes, few enough that he can recall them all with perfect clarity. The weekends away are more common and easily attainable, and those have all begun to blend together into an amalgamation of hazy fondness that Miles’ mind drifts to whenever his workload edges towards stressful. Which is Often with a capital ‘O’.
So vacations are manageable enough. Trucy had kept begging for Disneyland the way all children do, even though she’s edging closer and closer to adulthood in a steady progression that is turning Phoenix prematurely grey. A few years ago the idea of a family holiday would have brought Miles out in hives, but there is now one of those amusement park commemorative photo sleeves on the mantelpiece that he smiles at fondly whenever he passes it. Phoenix is positively green but Trucy and Miles are shrieking with delight. Miles likes rollercoasters, it turns out. Who would have thought?
Miles is aware that no matter how many vacations he and Phoenix spend together, there is going to be one that will eclipse them all. It has yet to happen, but Miles is certain that it will, has made concrete plans to ensure that it does, no matter how daunting the concept had seemed at first. He has no idea what the destination or duration will be, only that no matter where they end up, it will be different and it will be better to enjoy a break with the added glint of gold on their fingers.
Miles makes that decision one windy night in October.
He isn’t expecting such life-altering revelations to occur when he’s halfway to dozing on the couch, but the wind is howling outside and their home is cozy with heat to stay the October chill and the television is a quiet murmur in the background. Miles’ feet are propped in Phoenix’s lap and his palm is a comforting warmth on the bare skin of his ankle and all of this is acting as the most pleasant soporific.
He doesn’t stir when a shadow falls over him, too relaxed to even consider moving, but his ears perk up anyway when he hears Trucy whisper “is he asleep?”
Phoenix hums an affirmative. “Everything okay, baby? Hope you don’t need me to do anything that involves getting up. You know how it’s illegal to move a pet when they’re asleep on you?”
“I would never dream of disturbing the elusive sleeping Edgeworth.”
“Mm. Let sleeping prosecutors lie and all that. You okay, though? Thought you’d gone to bed.”
“Can’t sleep.” The shadow moves away and when she speaks again it’s from somewhere near Phoenix. “What’re you watching?”
“Not a clue. The remote’s on the coffee table and I can’t reach. I think it’s a documentary on… I want to say candles? Maybe toothbrushes?”
“Those are in no way similar.”
“Yeah, well, pass me the remote, then.”
“Mmm, nah, I think I want to learn about candles and/or toothbrushes.”
Phoenix laughs softly and absently strokes Miles’ ankle. The touch is firm enough not to tickle and light enough not to disturb, and Miles is sleepily moved that Phoenix knows how to touch him. It’s a simple thing, but for someone as averse to touch as Miles is, it means more than his lethargic mind can currently articulate.
“You okay, Daddy?”
“Me? I’m grand. Why?”
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
“Do I? Guess I’m just thinking.”
“You wanna share with the class?”
Phoenix sighs quietly. “It’s nothing bad. Just… thinking about wasted time, I guess.”
“Oh, Daddy…”
“No, not in a bad way. Like I said. I just… I don’t know, I’m just happy we got here eventually.” His hand strokes up over Miles’ shin, squeezing gently in a gesture that is reassuring to both Miles and likely himself.
“But…?”
“Hey. No perceiving your father.”
“Can’t exactly switch it off, Daddy-o. So spill it. What’s got you all in your head?”
“What is this, therapy hour with Trucy? You’ve been spending too much time with Athena.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Please don’t. She’ll start talking about my unresolved trust issues with poison ivy or some crap.”
“...Like the character or the plant?”
“Both, probably. Batman and Robin was the catalyst for my bisexual awakening. As for the plant… well. Let’s just say a field trip in third grade went horribly wrong.”
Trucy’s quiet laughter is soft and sweet. “You were talking about wasted time?”
“Jeez, nothing gets past you, does it? And yeah, I… Took a long time to get here, you know? And I’m happy, I really am, but…”
Trucy makes a sympathetic sound. “You wanna lock it down but can’t figure out how to ask?”
“I said no perceiving--”
“You need to learn how to google engagement rings on incognito mode. I keep getting targeted ads.”
“...Shit.”
“Don’t worry about it too much,” Trucy says soothingly. “You guys have always gotten where you needed to be in the end. Just trust that you're where you need to be right now. Everything else will happen as it should.”
“Damn, Truce, when did you get so wise?”
“Oh, I stole that one off of Polly’s inspirational desk calendar.”
They laugh quietly and Miles’ last coherent thought before he succumbs fully to sleep is that he is absolutely going to marry this man come hell or high water.
Winter
Christmas is still difficult. Miles has no doubt that it will ever be easy, but it is no longer as painful as it once was, not when he is part of a family that ensures by silent agreement that they will always do everything they can to make the occasion as comforting as possible.
Miles has spent two Christmases now as part of the Wright family and each year has been rather full on which helps to distract him from the usual pain of the season. The Wright household is a busy one during the entirety of December, with visits from Maya and Pearl and Franziska and the occasional drop-ins from various friends and colleagues alike. This year is their quietest by far, with everyone preoccupied with their own lives and while usually appreciates the calm, this year the distractions are absent so Miles has too much time to think.
Their home is sparsely decked save for a wreath on the door and a modest tree because Trucy loves decorating it and they have a tradition now that they put a Blue Badger plush on the top in lieu of a star or an angel. While Christmas is inescapable everywhere outside, within their home the only reminder is the tree and the slowly growing pile of presents beneath. Phoenix also begins flavouring his patented Wright family recipe hot cocoa with cinnamon as soon as December hits, but Miles’ sweet tooth will never let him turn down a cup, even if the spice usually brings up sense memories he doesn’t particularly want to unearth at this time of year.
This year’s yuletide season is already proving to be somewhat…. Tense. Something about it weighs heavily in Miles’ heart and he cannot explain it, but in the week running up to the 25th, he feels like he is a hair’s breadth away from what promises to be a panic attack of epic proportions. It’s frustrating because he had been getting better and last year had even been enjoyable, bar the nightmares that had plagued his subconscious each night no matter how tightly Phoenix held him.
This year, his nightmares are conspicuously absent and Miles is fairly certain that is because the harrowing images that normally permeate his dreams have spilled over into his waking hours instead. He sees it, every time he closes his eyes, the elevator and the dark and the bright spark of a gun firing in the gloom and an unheard scream so loud Miles’ ears ring with it.
Miles wants nothing more than to hibernate until the new year. It’s not an option, but still he wants. As it stands he is now on leave until January 3rd, but after dinner Phoenix tosses the car keys to him and tugs his coat on, standing by the door patiently until Miles haltingly reaches for his own coat.
“Where are we going?” Miles asks warily. Phoenix just smiles and loops Miles’ scarf around his neck for him, pulling him close with a gentle kiss to his cheek. A few moments later Trucy comes into the hall, bundled into her own coat and scarf. There is a delicately wrapped bouquet of sunflowers and chrysanthemums in her arms, cradled against her chest like the most precious cargo.
“Oh,” says Miles.
Phoenix says nothing, just keeps smiling that gentle smile and opens the door to shepherd them all out into the cold. They pile into Miles’ car and Phoenix turns the dial up for the heat as high as it will go while Miles has a mild breakdown at the steering wheel.
“We don’t have to go,” Phoenix finally says, quiet in the dark of the car. Miles is about to tell him that, no, he doesn’t want to do this, no matter how false the statement may be, when Trucy leans forward from the back seat to lay a gentle hand on Miles’ shoulder.
Miles starts the car.
He remembers the way, even though it has been a shameful number of years since he last made the journey, when he was younger and angrier and had nothing he was proud of and precious little to say to the cold headstone that marks his father’s grave. The drive is long and quiet, though a surprisingly comforting one. Phoenix and Trucy know Miles well enough to recognise when he needs a moment of quiet to organise his thoughts and they don’t press unduly, but Trucy still leans forward as far as her seatbelt will allow, keeping a hand on each of her fathers’ shoulders, the bouquet secure in her lap.
Miles has a brief, spiking moment of panic when they park that breaks through the roiling mess of unease that has been steadily building since the month began, that he cannot remember where his father’s grave is marked amongst the silent rows of gravestones belonging to the countless others similarly laid to rest. His steps falter as they pass through the gate but Phoenix does not slow, turning down the left path and turning to Miles with a hand outstretched.
He knows. Of course Phoenix knows.
Miles takes his hand.
Gregory Edgeworth’s gravestone is black marble carved into the shape of a book, laid in the shadow of an old white alder. It reads his name, the span of his years, and a simple epitaph that just says taken from us too soon. Phoenix and Trucy stand a respectful distance behind while Miles stares at it for a long moment, at the words etched eternally into marble that is now almost as old as the man whose ashes lie beneath, before he takes a deep breath and kneels down before it.
“Hello, father,” Miles says quietly, ashamed. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
Miles has only visited his father’s grave three times before and one of those had been during the funeral itself. Each subsequent time he had been too angry, too hurt, too tangled up inside, to feel as though he deserved to be there. He’d always believed if he couldn’t pay the proper respect that was due, then he had no business visiting the grave of the man who would be so disappointed in the man he had become.
He no longer feels that way.
“Where to start?” Miles murmurs and the tears flow freely. “So much has happened since the last time I came to see you. I feel as though you would finally be proud that I managed to find my way at long last. But as you can see, I didn’t do it alone.”
Miles is dimly aware, the longer he kneels there and talks, that Phoenix and Trucy are creeping closer until they too are kneeling on either side of him, their hands clasped around Miles’ own. They listen quietly as Miles talks to his father, smile softly when Miles tells him that he is happy and that he is loved and better than he was before. Phoenix laughs, a gentle, wet sound through tears of his own, when Miles asks if Gregory remembers the little boy who spent more time at their home than his own. Trucy, in turn, sniffles softly when Miles calls Gregory a grandfather and declares that he would have adored her with his whole heart, the same way that Miles does.
They lay the bouquet against the open pages of the cold book that marks a life unfinished, and Gregory’s living relatives embrace each other in fond memory of him.
The nightmares do not stop, but there is relief to be found in their infrequency.
Spring
Miles would never be so foolish to label his life as perfect. That would be setting himself up for frequent and damaging disappointment. His life is better than it ever was and he feels complete in a way he is still not used to, but it is far from perfect and that’s okay. He is still a product of his upbringing no matter how many sessions he spends with his therapist and he will be unlearning behaviours from that time for the rest of his life, but there is peace to be found in the gratifying progress of change.
He and Phoenix argue because that is what they’re good at, but each new disagreement is settled quickly and without lingering resentment. Phoenix is clumsy and sometimes thoughtless, can be tactless and distrustful no matter how big his heart is. He is headstrong and opinionated and so thoroughly irritating that sometimes Miles cannot help snapping at him in anger.
Miles, in turn, is stubborn and sarcastic, is rude and brisk even though it no longer comes from a place of cruelty. He has a temper, can be cold and distant and has a wide mean streak that, while significantly tempered by the compassion of others and his own ceaseless efforts to be better, sometimes cuts through despite his attempts to the contrary.
There are times when Miles will snap and Phoenix will bite back twice as hard, voices will be raised and doors slammed, but every harsh word is always inevitably followed by soft apologies and gentle kisses that soothe away the majority if not all of the hurt incurred.
So no, life is not perfect. But it is as close to perfection as Miles will ever be able to attain. And he is so very happy with that.
It had been a drastic shift in his reality to allow not one but two Wrights into his life on his return to the States and Miles had taken longer to adjust to that than he had been expecting. It probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, given that most of his life had been lived in self-imposed solitude. It’s not pleasant to open up one’s heart that has long been frozen over against intrusions, but he manages it with difficulty, though it’s testament to Phoenix’s sunny disposition that the ice thaws a lot quicker than Miles could manage on his own.
Parenthood is not something Miles ever considered for himself, a possibility never entertained for how outlandish and unattainable it seemed. But when Phoenix was disbarred and left out in the cold with nothing except a lost child and the tattered remains of his reputation, Miles had been acutely disinclined to abandon him.
It hadn’t been entirely altruistic. There had been a part of Miles that had wanted to assist Phoenix in his care of the girl because Miles wanted to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that von Karma’s influence had truly died with him and that Miles, when his heart was tested, would not be found wanting. He decided he would let the cycle break with him and that this child without a father would know nothing but care and affection. A laughable notion when Miles had little experience with both.
But Trucy was and still is a remarkable child. When she was eight and still a relatively new feature in Phoenix’s messy life, he’d been wary simply because he had no experience with children. The only thing they had in common - though Miles had not at the time yet admitted it to himself - was an enduring love for one hapless attorney. But the more time Miles spent in her company, the more he saw the sparkling facets of her personality shine through - a vibrant, compassionate young girl whose qualities were only amplified by the tender care afforded her by her adoptive father.
By the time Phoenix had been reinstated, Trucy had wormed her way right into Miles’ heart and had dubbed him Papa long before he had even taken Phoenix on their first date. It might have seemed sudden to outsiders looking in, but Miles’ decision to adopt Trucy after he and Phoenix had only been officially together for three months was one nearly seven years in the making.
It was almost funny that Trucy was the first to become Edgeworth-Wright after such a short time when her fathers had been slowly approaching that conclusion for nearly two decades. Speedrun, she’d called it, much to Justice and Cykes’ amusement.
And it is a foregone conclusion. Both Phoenix and Miles know that they’ll end up there eventually. He’d been privy to that conversation where Phoenix had mentioned wasting time and that had cemented Miles’ belief that they would eventually tie the figurative knot. But the more he thought about the actual act of proposing, the more daunting the prospect became and the more time passed with that heavy question unasked.
He’s a little frustrated about the fact that Phoenix gets there first. Just a little.
“Trucy?” Phoenix calls from the hallway. “Have you seen my jacket?”
“Which one?” Trucy yells back from the kitchen, almost startling Miles into dropping the plates he’s taking down from the cupboard. She throws him an apologetic smile and heads out into the hallway to talk to her father.
“I have like two jackets, Truce, the blue one.”
“Yeah, they’re both blue, Daddy.”
“The bluer one, then.”
“Not helpful. And I have no idea, where did you last see it?”
“I was wearing it earlier. After that, no idea.”
“Did you leave it at the office?”
“Ahh, maybe. Damn it.”
“Why do you need it?”
“There’s something in the pocket I need.”
“Oh!” Trucy exclaims, all sudden and inexplicable delight. Phoenix quickly shushes her which makes no sense but the pan on the stove starts attempting to bubble over so Miles isn’t paying much attention. “I can go get it!”
“Oh, would you? You’re an angel.”
“Yeah, no problem.” She sticks her head back round the kitchen door. “Papa, can I take the car?”
Miles narrows his eyes at her. She widens her eyes and unleashes the full force of her patented Trucy Wright puppy-dog eyes that Miles is weak to no matter how hard he tries to rest. “Fine,” he relents and she beams. “Straight to the office and back, no pit stops.”
“Thanks, Papa!” Her footsteps thunder down the hall. “Back in five!”
“No speeding!” Miles yells after her just as the door slams. “Damn it.”
“Oh, don’t worry so much,” Phoenix says, coming to lean in the doorway. “She’s a better driver than you.”
“I taught her how to drive, Phoenix. That’s just testament to the fact that only one Wright listens to what I say.”
Phoenix hums, grinning. “You need any help?”
“Set the table?”
“Sure, sure. See? I listen.”
“Will wonders never cease?”
Trucy returns just as Miles is dishing up and her hair is hilariously windswept which means she’d absolutely floored it with the top down. Miles doesn’t berate her for it, mainly because he’d done the exact same thing the moment he’d purchased the car, and he has more faith in her driving ability than his own. She tosses Phoenix’s jacket to him and he pats down the pockets with a frown that eases when he locates whatever it is he so sorely needs.
Dinner passes comfortably and then Trucy is kissing them both goodbye and heading off to the Wonder Bar before Phoenix retreats into the kitchen to wash up and Miles retires to the couch to watch television until they inevitably fall asleep. And because Phoenix is quite possibly the best, he brings Miles a glass of wine when he comes to join him, leaning down to kiss his cheek as he passes. It’s not the most riveting way to spend an evening, but feeling so relaxed and in such delightful company, Miles wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Also the Steel Samurai movie is on at eight and Miles wants to watch it. He already owns it on DVD - special edition, of course - but he’s hardly going to pass up the opportunity to watch an old favourite when made so conveniently available. Phoenix rolls his eyes when Miles changes the channel but doesn’t protest, settling down with his sketchbook of all things. He doesn’t draw often and he’s incredibly cagey about his artwork so Miles has only been permitted to see a very select few pieces. Miles doesn’t mind that Phoenix is strangely private about it, but he does have a sneaking suspicion there are more than a few drawings of himself in there that he would quite like to see.
When they’re settled and the movie starts, Pess makes herself known and jumps up onto the couch to sprawl across their laps. Phoenix huffs and rests his sketchbook on her back which is going to end up badly when she inevitably moves and jogs him, but Miles’s attention is too focused on the movie to comment. That is, until he realises he’s being rather intently stared at.
“Are you drawing me?”
“No.”
Miles glances over. Phoenix has turned fully to face him, eyes flickering between Miles’ face and the sketchbook as his pencil scrawls rapidly across the page. “Something - and I could be wrong - but something tells me you might be lying.”
“Shh, watch the movie. And stop moving.”
Miles rolls his eyes but does as he’s told. “Will you let me see this one?”
“Mmmaybe.” Phoenix scowls at the page and flips his pencil round to scrub the eraser over whatever part of the sketch has offended him. “Could you, like, move your left hand a little? The angle’s weird.”
Fortunately for Phoenix, Miles is feeling rather indulgent. He shifts his grip on the wineglass and Phoenix hums in approval, pencil zipping across the page with renewed vigor. He keeps drawing well into the movie, only straightening up from his appallingly hunched over posture when the second ad break comes round and Miles gets up to refill his glass.
“Finished?” Miles asks, curiosity piqued. Phoenix nods, hesitating for a moment before holding the sketchbook out to Miles who takes it somewhat reverently. He’s honoured to be allowed to view something Phoenix is normally so private about so he turns the lamp on so he can see it better.
Phoenix has quite possibly done Miles too much justice. Miles has absolutely no technical knowledge of art, but he can appreciate talent, something Phoenix has in spades. In another life he would have made a wonderful artist and still has even if he doesn’t pursue it any further than purely recreationally. His shading lends the picture a soft edge and even in greyscale he’s managed to capture the light illuminating Miles’ face from the television. It’s rather romantic, actually, and Miles has difficulty swallowing.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.” Miles smiles at him, touched. “May I keep it?”
Phoenix heaves a put-upon sigh, dragging his fingers through Pess’ fur, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, okay. I guess it’s only fair.”
“Seeing as I was your unwilling muse.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, give it back.”
“Absolutely not.” Miles sniffs, affronted, and moves the sketchpad out of possible snatching distance, looking back at the drawing with great admiration. Phoenix’s attention to detail really is second to none. The curve of Miles’ fingers around the wineglass are artfully rendered, the reflection in the glass, the shadows of Miles’ cheekbones, the--
Miles pauses, bringing the page closer to his face to get a closer look at the added detail. He taps the page, tilting it towards Phoenix. “What’s this meant to be? On my finger here?”
Phoenix leans forward with a questioning sound. “Oh, it’s your ring.”
Miles gives him an odd look. “I’m not wearing a ring.”
“Right, right, of course you’re not.” Phoenix shrugs with an easy smile, leaning forward to pluck the book out of Miles’ hands. He closes it and drops it onto the floor beside the couch, but when he straightens up again he’s holding something different out, cradled gently in his palm. With a flick of his thumb he lifts up the lid of the little black box and Miles’ lungs promptly forget how to work.
“Would you like to?” Phoenix asks softly. Hopefully.
Miles stares at the-- the ring that’s sitting so innocuously inside the box, glinting in the low light. He stares at it for an incredibly long time - too long, judging by the nervous tremor in Phoenix’s hands - brain working furiously to catch up to the frankly disarming fact that Phoenix is proposing to him.
“I,” Miles says stupidly. “Are you asking me if I want to wear the ring or are you a-asking…?”
Phoenix smiles, eyes creasing. “Both, technically. But for the sake of clarity, Miles Edgeworth, will you marry me?”
“Ngh,” Miles says. Oh, he absolutely cannot form words right now and even attempting to is going to result in tears. Instead of a verbal response he just nods frantically and Phoenix gives a little sigh of relief that is both endearing and ridiculous as he leans forward to lift Miles’ shaking left hand into his own, slipping the ring onto his finger where it fits perfectly.
“Been meaning to ask you that for a while,” Phoenix admits quietly, head bent low over their joined hands. “Always lost my nerve. No idea why.”
“The same,” Miles says when he can form words again, then clears his throat and tries again because that didn’t actually make any sense. “It was the same for me. I… The timing never seemed right.”
“You were going to ask?” Phoenix’s head shoots up, eyebrows climbing high. “For real?”
“...Stay,” Miles says, scrambling inelegantly off the couch. Phoenix’s soft laughter follows him as he hurries into the bedroom where he digs through his bedside drawer for the box he’s had hidden away for months. He pauses with it in his hands, staring down at the ring now adorning his finger and he absolutely cannot help what happens next.
He starts laughing. Full-bodied, deep, gasping laughter that he cannot hope to stop or contain. Phoenix, disobedient to a fault, has not stayed put on the couch like Miles told him to, and he slips his arms around Miles’ waist from behind, resting his chin on Miles’ shoulder while he waits for the laughter to stop.
“This is ridiculous!” Miles gasps when he can drag enough air into his sore lungs. “Absolutely ridiculous. All this time I was planning-- Trying to work up the courage to ask you and you just had to beat me to it.” He turns in Phoenix’s arms, leaning their foreheads together. “You are so wonderful,” he murmurs, looping his arms around Phoenix’s neck. “It’s utterly ridiculous, how happy you make me.”
“Yeah, well,” Phoenix says thickly. “Same. So, you gonna give me the ring, or leave me hanging?”
Miles pulls back, nodding and opening the small box to show Phoenix the ring inside. There’s a long moment where Phoenix stares at it like he can’t be certain it’s real, then he nods decisively, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. Perfect. Knew it would be, I mean it’s from you.”
He lets Miles slide the ring home and that’s when the tears come fully, and then they’re both crying and laughing and hugging in the middle of their bedroom like the ridiculous, hopeless idiots that they are and Miles has never felt so right in all his life.
“If I didn’t know that Maya would never forgive me, I’d drag your ass down the courthouse tomorrow,” Phoenix says, peppering kisses over Miles’ damp cheeks. The sentiment is entirely mutual, but Miles fears greater reprisals from his own sister, who would call down upon him a wrath so fierce he’d never recover if he dared to wed without her present.
They try to kiss, they really do, but they’re both too giddy and giggling too helplessly to achieve the coordination necessary to manage it. They eventually make their way back to the sofa and Pess gets an entire seat to herself because neither of them are willing to have even an inch of space between them. That’s how Trucy finds them a little while later, Phoenix with his back pressed to Miles’ front, left hands tangled together, blissfully happy. True to form, her gaze zeroes in on their joined hands and she lets loose a shriek that would rival Apollo’s chords of steel.
She throws herself at them tearfully and they wrap her up into their already tangled embrace and Pess absolutely refuses to be left out, clambering on top of them and sending them all tumbling off the couch onto the floor in a laughing mess of limbs and fur.
“I’m so happy for you!” Trucy says, tears streaming down her face. Phoenix ruffles her hair, wiping his nose on his sleeve which Miles will allow tonight only because he is in an exceptionally good mood. “God, Auntie Maya’s going to flip.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a hell of a conversation.” Phoenix winces. “My eardrums may never recover.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Trucy says vehemently. “You are not telling her over the phone. Daddy! You have to tell her in person!”
“Oh, Christ,” Phoenix says with feeling. “I would actually like to live long enough to get to marry your father.”
“Spare some sympathy for me,” Miles adds. “I have to tell Franziska.”
“Oh, swapsies?” Phoenix asks hopefully.
“Really? You want to be the one to tell my sister the news? My sister, the one who voluntarily and violently carries a whip around?”
“Yeah, I reckon she’ll go easy on me now that we’re practically family.”
“...”
“...Will she not? Miles? Will she not?”
“It’s cute that you think familial ties mean anything to a whip.”
“I could tell her,” Trucy offers because she’s an actual angel.
“No, you know what?” Phoenix says, shaking his head. “I changed my mind.”
“Oh?”
“Hell yeah. I’ve been waiting to marry your ass since I was nine years old, you bet I’m going to be screaming this from the rooftops for the next week.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Miles tells him, because he is. He is absolutely ridiculous. Miles is so very in love with him.